The Council of Justice, Edgar Wallace [english novels to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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‘Also in England,’ he said.
‘What is your name?’ she asked. By an oversight it was a question
—she had not put before.
The man shrugged his shoulders.
‘Does it matter?’ he asked. A thought struck her. In the hall she
had seen Magnus the Jew. He had lived for many years in England, and
she beckoned him.
‘Of what class is this man?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Of the lower orders,’ he replied; ‘it is astounding—did you not
notice when—no, you did not see his capture. But he spoke like a man
of the streets, dropping his aspirates.’
He saw she looked puzzled and explained.
‘It is a trick of the order—just as the Moujik says…’ he treated
her to a specimen of colloquial Russian.
‘What is your name?’ she asked again.
He looked at her slyly.
‘In Russia they called me Father Kopab…’
The majority of those who were present were Russian, and at the word
they sprang to their feet, shrinking back with ashen faces, as though
they feared contact with the man who stood bound and helpless in the
middle of the room.
The Woman of Gratz had risen with the rest. Her lips quivered and
her wide open eyes spoke her momentary terror.
‘I killed Starque,’ he went on, ‘by authority. Francois also. Some
day’—he looked leisurely about the room—‘I shall also—’
‘Stop!’ she cried, and then:
‘Release him,’ she said, and, wonderingly, Schmidt cut the bonds
that bound him. He stretched himself.
‘When you took me,’ he said, ‘I had a book; you will understand that
here in England I find—forgetfulness in books—and I, who have seen so
much suffering and want caused through departure from the law, am
striving as hard for the regeneration of mankind as you—but
differently.’
Somebody handed him a book.
He looked at it, nodded, and slipped it into his pocket.
‘Farewell,’ he said as he turned to the open door.
‘In God’s name!’ said the Woman of Gratz, trembling, ‘go in peace,
Little Father.’
And the man Jessen, sometime headsman to the Supreme Council, and
latterly public executioner of England, walked out, no man barring his
exit.
The power of the Red Hundred was broken. This much Falmouth knew. He
kept an ever-vigilant band of men on duty at the great termini of
London, and to these were attached the members of a dozen secret police
forces of Europe. Day by day, there was the same report to make. Such
and such a man, whose very presence in London had been unsuspected, had
left via Harwich. So-and-so, surprisingly sprung from nowhere, had gone
by the eleven o’clock train from Victoria; by the Hull and Stockholm
route twenty had gone in one day, and there were others who made
Liverpool, Glasgow, and Newcastle their port of embarkation.
I think that it was only then that Scotland Yard realized the
strength of the force that had lain inert in the metropolis, or
appreciated the possibilities for destruction that had been to hand in
the days of the Terror.
Certainly every batch of names that appeared on the commissioner’s
desk made him more thoughtful than ever.
‘Arrest them!’ he said in horror when the suggestion was made.
‘Arrest them! Look here, have you ever seen driver ants attack a house
in Africa? Marching in, in endless battalions at midnight and clearing
out everything living from chickens to beetles? Have you ever seen them
re-form in the morning and go marching home again? You wouldn’t think
of arresting ‘em, would you? No, you’d just sit down quietly out of
their reach and be happy when the last little red leg has disappeared
round the corner!’
Those who knew the Red Hundred best were heartily in accord with his
philosophy.
‘They caught Jessen,’ reported Falmouth. ‘Oh!’ said the
commissioner.
‘When he disclosed his identity, they got rid of him quick.’
‘I’ve often wondered why the Four Just Men didn’t do the business of
Starque themselves,’ mused the Commissioner.
‘It was rather rum,’ admitted Falmouth, ‘but Starque was a man under
sentence, as also was Francois. By some means they got hold of the
original warrants, and it was on these that Jessen—did what he
did.’
The commissioner nodded. ‘And now,’ he asked, ‘what about them?’
Falmouth had expected this question sooner or later. ‘Do you suggest
that we should catch them, sir?’-he asked with thinly veiled sarcasm;
‘because if you do, sir, I have only to remind you that we’ve been
trying to do that for some years.’ The chief commissioner frowned.
‘It’s a remarkable thing,’ he said, ‘that as soon as we get a
situation such as—the Red Hundred scare and the Four Just Men scare,
for instance, we’re completely at sea, and that’s what the papers will
say. It doesn’t sound creditable, but it’s so.’
‘I place the superintendent’s defence of Scotland Yard on record
in extenso.’
‘What the papers say,’ said Falmouth, ‘never keeps me awake at
night. Nobody’s quite got the hang of the police force in this
country—certainly the writing people haven’t.
‘There are two ways of writing about the police, sir. One way is to deal
with them in the newspaper fashion with the headline “Another Police
Blunder” or “The Police and The Public”, and the other way is to deal
with them in the magazine style, which is to show them as softies on the
wrong scent, whilst an ornamental civilian is showing them their
business, or as mysterious people with false beards who pop up at the
psychological moment, and say in a loud voice, “In the name of the Law,
I arrest you!”’
‘Well, I don’t mind admitting that I know neither kind. I’ve been a
police officer for twenty-three years, and the only assistance I’ve had
from a civilian was from a man named Blackie, who helped me to find the
body of a woman that had disappeared. I was rather prejudiced against
him, but I don’t mind admitting that he was pretty smart and followed
his clues with remarkable ingenuity.
‘The day we found the body I said to him:
‘“Mr. Blackie, you have given me a great deal of information
about this woman’s movements—in fact, you know a great deal more than
you ought to know—so I shall take you into custody on the suspicion of
having caused her death.”
‘Before he died he made a full confession, and ever since then I
have always been pleased to take as much advice and help from outside
as I could get.
‘When people sometimes ask me about the cleverness of Scotland Yard,
I can’t tell ‘em tales such as you read about. I’ve had murderers,
anarchists, burglars, and average low-down people to deal with, but
they have mostly done their work in a commonplace way and bolted. And
as soon as they have bolted, we’ve employed fairly commonplace methods
and brought ‘em back.
‘If you ask me whether I’ve been in dreadful danger, when arresting
desperate murderers and criminals, I say “No”.
‘When your average criminal finds himself cornered, he says,
“All right, Mr. Falmouth; it’s a cop”, and goes quietly.
‘Crime and criminals run in grooves. They’re hardy annuals with
perennial methods. Extraordinary circumstances baffle the police as
they baffle other folks. You can’t run a business on business lines and
be absolutely prepared for anything that turns up. Whiteley’s will
supply you with a flea or an elephant, but if a woman asked a shopgirl
to hold her baby whilst she went into the tinned meat department, the
girl and the manager and the whole system would be floored, because
there is no provision for holding babies. And if a Manchester goods
merchant, unrolling his stuff, came upon a snake lying all snug in the
bale, he’d be floored too, because natural history isn’t part of their
business training, and they wouldn’t be quite sure whether it was a big
worm or a boa constrictor.’
The Commissioner was amused.
‘You’ve an altogether unexpected sense of humour,’ he said, ‘and the
moral is—’
‘That the unexpected always floors you, whether it’s humour or
crime,’ said Falmouth, and went away fairly pleased with himself.
In his room he found a waiting messenger.
‘A lady to see you, sir.’
‘Who is it?’ he asked in surprise.
The messenger handed him a slip of paper and when he read it he
whistled.
‘The unexpected, by—! Show her up.’
On the paper was written—‘The Woman of Gratz…’
CHAPTER XI. Manfred
Manfred sat alone in his Lewisham house,—he was known to the old
lady who was his caretaker as ‘a foreign gentleman in the music
line’—and in the subdued light of the shaded lamp, he looked tired. A
book lay on the table near at hand, and a silver coffee-service and an
empty coffee-cup stood on the stool by his side. Reaction he felt. This
strange man had set himself to a task that was never ending. The
destruction of the forces of the Red Hundred was the end of a fight
that cleared the ground for the commencement of another—but physically
he was weary.
Gonsalez had left that morning for Paris, Poiccart went by the
afternoon train, and he was to join them tomorrow.
The strain of the fight had told on them, all three. Financially,
the cost of the war had been heavy, but that strain they could stand
better than any other, for had they not the fortune of—Courtlander; in
case of need they knew their man.
All the world had been searched before they—the first Four—had
come together—Manfred, Gonsalez, Poiccart, and the man who slept
eternally in the flower-grown grave at Bordeaux. As men taking the
oaths of priesthood they lived down the passions and frets of life.
Each man was an open book to the other, speaking his most secret
thought in the faith of sympathy, one dominating thought controlling
them all.
They had made the name of the Four Just Men famous or infamous
(according to your point of reckoning) throughout the civilized world.
They came as a new force into public and private life. There were men,
free of the law, who worked misery on their fellows; dreadful human
ghouls fattening on the bodies and souls of the innocent and helpless;
great magnates calling the law to their aid, or pushing it aside as
circumstances demanded. All these became amenable to a new law, a new
tribunal. There had grown into being systems which defied correction;
corporations beyond chastisement; individuals protected by cunningly
drawn legislation, and others who knew to an inch the scope of
toleration. In the name of justice, these men struck swiftly,
dispassionately, mercilessly. The great swindler, the procureur,
the suborner of witnesses, the briber of juries—they died.
There was no gradation of punishment: a warning, a second
warning—then death.
Thus their name became a symbol, at which the evildoer went
tremblingly about his work, dreading the warning and ready in most
cases to heed it. Life became a sweeter, a more wholesome thing for
many men who found the thin greenish-grey envelope on their
breakfast-table in the morning; but others persisted on their way,
loudly invoking the law, which in spirit, if not in letter, they had
outraged. The end was very sure, and I do not know of one man who
escaped the consequence.
Speculating on their identity, the police of the world decided
unanimously upon two points. The first was that these men were
enormously rich—as indeed they were, and the second that one or two of
them were no mean scientists—that also was true. Of the
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