The Council of Justice, Edgar Wallace [english novels to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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fired the shots.
In an instant the place was a pandemonium.
‘Silence!’ Falmouth roared above the din; ‘silence! Keep quiet, you
miserable cowards—show a light here, Brown, Curtis—Inspector, where
are your men’s lanterns!’
The rays of a dozen bull’s-eye lamps waved over the struggling
throng.
‘Open your lanterns’—and to the seething mob, ‘Silence!’ Then a
bright young officer remembered that he had seen gas-brackets in the
room, and struggled through the howling mob till he came to the wall
and found the gas-fitting with his lantern. He struck a match and lit
the gas, and the panic subsided as suddenly as it had begun.
Falmouth, choked with rage, threw his eye round the hall. ‘Guard the
door,’ he said briefly; ‘the hall is surrounded and they cannot
possibly escape.’ He strode swiftly along the central aisle, followed
by two of his men, and with an agile leap, sprang on to the platform
and faced the audience. The Woman of Gratz, with a white set face,
stood motionless, one hand resting on the little table, the other at
her throat. Falmouth raised his hand to enjoin silence and the
law-breakers obeyed.
‘I have no quarrel with the Red Hundred,’ he said. ‘By the law of
this country it is permissible to hold opinions and propagate
doctrines, however objectionable they be—I am here to arrest two men
who have broken the laws of this country. Two persons who are part of
the organization known as the Four Just Men.’
All the time he was speaking his eyes searched the faces before him.
He knew that one-half of the audience could not understand him and that
the hum of talk that arose as he finished was his speech in course of
translation.
The faces he sought he could not discern. To be exact, he hoped that
his scrutiny would induce two men, of whose identity he was ignorant,
to betray themselves.
There are little events, unimportant in themselves, which
occasionally lead to tremendous issues. A skidding motor-bus that
crashed into a private car in Piccadilly had led to the discovery that
there were three vociferous foreign gentlemen imprisoned in the
overturned vehicle. It led to the further discovery that the chauffeur
had disappeared in the confusion of the collision. In the darkness,
comparing notes, the three prisoners had arrived at a conclusion—to
wit, that their abduction was a sequel to a mysterious letter each had
received, which bore the signature ‘The Four Just Men’.
So in the panic occasioned by the accident, they were sufficiently
indiscreet to curse the Four Just Men by name, and, the Four Just Men
being a sore topic with the police, they were questioned further, and
the end of it was that Superintendent Falmouth motored eastward in
great haste and was met in Middlesex Street by a reserve of police
specially summoned.
He was at the same disadvantage he had always been—the Four Just
Men were to him names only, symbols of a swift remorseless force that
struck surely and to the minute—and nothing more.
Two or three of the leaders of the Red Hundred had singled
themselves out and drew closer to the platform.
‘We are not aware,’ said Francois, the Frenchman, speaking for his
companions in faultless English, ‘we are not aware of the identity of
the men you seek, but on the understanding that they are not brethren
of our Society, and moreover’—he was at a loss for words to put the
fantastic situation—‘and moreover since they have threatened
us—threatened us,’ he repeated in bewilderment, ‘we will afford you
every assistance.’
The detective jumped at the opportunity.
‘Good!’ he said and formed a rapid plan.
The two men could not have escaped from the hall. There was a little
door near the platform, he had seen that—as the two men he sought had
seen it. Escape seemed possible through there; they had thought so,
too. But Falmouth knew that the outer door leading from the little
vestibule was guarded by two policemen. This was the sum of the
discovery made also by the two men he sought. He spoke rapidly to
Francois.
‘I want every person in the hall to be vouched for,’ he said
quickly. ‘Somebody must identify every man, and the identifier must
himself be identified.’
The arrangements were made with lightning-like rapidity. From the
platform in French, German and Yiddish, the leaders of the Red Hundred
explained the plan. Then the police formed a line, and one by one the
people came forward, and shyly, suspiciously or self-consciously,
according to their several natures, they passed the police line.
‘That is Simon Czech of Buda-Pest.’
‘Who identifies him?’
‘I.’—a dozen voices.
‘Pass.’
‘This is Michael Ranekov of Odessa.’
‘Who identifies him?’
‘I,’ said a burly man, speaking in German.
‘And you?’
There was a little titter, for Michael is the best-known man in the
Order. Some there were who, having passed the line, waited to identify
their kinsfolk and fellow-countrymen.
‘It seems much simpler than I could have imagined.’
It was the tall man with the trim beard, who spoke in a guttural
tone which was neither German nor Yiddish. He was watching with amused
interest the examination.
‘Separating the lambs from the goats with a vengeance,’ he said with
a faint smile, and his taciturn companion nodded. Then he asked—
‘Do you think any of these people will recognize you as the man who
fired?’
The tall man shook his head decisively.
‘Their eyes were on the police—and besides I am too quick a shot.
Nobody saw me unless—’
‘The Woman of Gratz?’ asked the other, without showing the slightest
concern.
‘The Woman of Gratz,’ said George Manfred.
They formed part of a struggling line that moved slowly toward the
police barrier.
‘I fear,’ said Manfred, ‘that we shall be forced to make our escape
in a perfectly obvious way—the bull-at-the-gate method is one that I
object to on principle, and it is one that I have never been obliged to
employ.’
They were speaking all the time in the language of the harsh
gutturals, and those who were in their vicinity looked at them in some
perplexity, for it is a tongue unlike any that is heard in the
Revolutionary Belt.
Closer and closer they grew to the inflexible inquisitor at the end
of the police line. Ahead of them was a young man who turned from time
to time as if seeking a friend behind. His was a face that fascinated
the shorter of the two men, ever a student of faces. It was a face of
deadly pallor, that the dark close-cropped hair and the thick black
eyebrows accentuated. Aesthetic in outline, refined in contour, it was
the face of a visionary, and in the restless, troubled eyes there lay a
hint of the fanatic. He reached the barrier and a dozen eager men
stepped forward for the honour of sponsorship. Then he passed and
Manfred stepped calmly forward.
‘Heinrich Rossenburg of Raz,’ he mentioned the name of an obscure
Transylvanian village.
‘Who identifies this man?’ asked Falmouth monotonously. Manfred held
his breath and stood ready to spring.
‘I do.’
It was the spiritue who had gone before him; the dreamer with
the face of a priest.
‘Pass.’
Manfred, calm and smiling, sauntered through the police with a
familiar nod to his saviour. Then he heard the challenge that met his
companion.
‘Rolf Woolfund,’ he heard Poiccart’s clear, untroubled voice.
‘Who identifies this man?’
Again he waited tensely.
‘I do,’ said the young man’s voice again.
Then Poiccart joined him, and they waited a little.
Out of the corner of his eye Manfred saw the man who had vouched for
him saunter toward them. He came abreast, then:
‘If you would care to meet me at Reggiori’s at King’s Cross I shall
be there in an hour,’ he said, and Manfred noticed without emotion that
this young man also spoke in Arabic.
They passed through the crowd that had gathered about the hall—for
the news of the police raid had spread like wildfire through the East
End—and gained Aldgate Station before they spoke.
‘This is a curious beginning to our enterprise,’ said Manfred. He
seemed neither pleased nor sorry. ‘I have always thought that Arabic
was the safest language in the world in which to talk secrets—one
learns wisdom with the years,’ he added philosophically.
Poiccart examined his well-manicured finger-nails as though the
problem centred there. ‘There is no precedent,’ he said, speaking to
himself.
‘And he may be an embarrassment,’ added George; then, ‘let us wait
and see what the hour brings.’
The hour brought the man who had befriended them so strangely. It
brought also a little in advance of him a fourth man who limped
slightly but greeted the two with a rueful smile. ‘Hurt?’ asked
Manfred.
‘Nothing worth speaking about,’ said the other carelessly, ‘and now
what is the meaning of your mysterious telephone message?’
Briefly Manfred sketched the events of the night, and the other
listened gravely.
‘It’s a curious situation,’ he began, when a warning glance from
Poiccart arrested him. The subject of their conversation had
arrived.
He sat down at the table, and dismissed the fluttering waiter that
hung about him.
The four sat in silence for a while and the newcomer was the first
to speak.
‘I call myself Bernard Courtlander,’ he said simply, ‘and you are
the organization known as the Four Just Men.’
They did not reply.
‘I saw you shoot,’ he went on evenly, ‘because I had been watching
you from the moment when you entered the hall, and when the police
adopted the method of identification, I resolved to risk my life and
speak for you.’
‘Meaning,’ interposed Poiccart calmly, ‘you resolved to risk—our
killing you?’
‘Exactly,’ said the young man, nodding, ‘a purely outside view would
be that such a course would be a fiendish act of ingratitude, but I
have a closer perception of principles, and I recognize that such a
sequel to my interference is perfectly logical.’ He singled out Manfred
leaning back on the red plush cushions. ‘You have so often shown that
human life is the least considerable factor in your plan, and have
given such evidence of your singleness of purpose, that I am fully
satisfied that if my life—or the life of any one of you—stood before
the fulfilment of your objects, that life would go—so!’ He snapped his
fingers. ‘Well?’ said Manfred. ‘I know of your exploits,’ the strange
young man went on, ‘as who does not?’
He took from his pocket a leather case, and from that he extracted a
newspaper cutting. Neither of the three men evinced the slightest
interest in the paper he unfolded on the white cloth. Their eyes were
on his face.
‘Here is a list of people slain—for justice’ sake,’ Courtlander
said, smoothing the creases from a cutting from the Megaphone,
‘men whom the law of the land passed by, sweaters and debauchers,
robbers of public funds, corrupters of youth—men who bought ‘justice’
as you and I buy bread.’ He folded the paper again. ‘I have prayed God
that I might one day meet you.’
‘Well?’ It was Manfred’s voice again.
‘I want to be with you, to be one of you, to share your campaign and
and—’ he hesitated, then added soberly, ‘if need be, the death that
awaits you.’
Manfred nodded slowly, then looked toward the man with the limp.
‘What do you say, Gonsalez?’ he
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