The Council of Justice, Edgar Wallace [english novels to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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of the others.
‘I have received no letter,’ he said with an easy laugh—‘only
these.’ He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced two beans.
There was nothing peculiar in these save one was a natural black and
the other had been dyed red.
‘What do they mean?’ demanded Starque suspiciously.
‘I have not the slightest idea,’ said Bartholomew with a
contemptuous smile; ‘they came in a little box, such as jewellery is
sent in, and were unaccompanied either by letter or anything of the
kind. These mysterious messages do not greatly alarm me.’
‘But what does it mean?’ persisted Starque, and every neck was
craned toward the seeds; ‘they must have some significance—think.’
Bartholomew yawned.
‘So far as I know, they are beyond explanation,’ he said carelessly;
‘neither red nor black beans have played any conspicuous part in my
life, so far as I—’
He stopped short and they saw a wave of colour rush to his face,
then die away, leaving it deadly pale.
‘Well?’ demanded Starque; there was a menace in the question.
‘Let me see,’ faltered Bartholomew, and he took up the red bean with
a hand that shook.
He turned it over and over in his hand, calling up his reserve of
strength.
He could not explain, that much he realized.
The explanation might have been possible had he realized earlier the
purport of the message he had received, but now with six pairs of
suspicious eyes turned upon him, and with his confusion duly noted his
hesitation would tell against him.
He had to invent a story that would pass muster.
‘Years ago,’ he began, holding his voice steady, ‘I was a member of
such an organization as this: and—and there was a traitor.’ The story
was plain to him now, and he recovered his balance. ‘The traitor was
discovered and we balloted for his life. There was an equal number for
death and immunity, and I as president had to give the casting vote. A
red bean was for life and a black for death—and I cast my vote for
the man’s death.’
He saw the impression his invention had created and elaborated the
story. Starque, holding the red bean in his hand, examined it
carefully.
‘I have reason to think that by my action I made many enemies, one
of whom probably sent this reminder.’ He breathed an inward sigh of
relief as he saw the clouds of doubt lifting from the faces about him.
Then—
‘And the �1,000?’ asked Starque quietly.
Nobody saw Bartholomew bite his lip, because his hand was caressing
his soft black moustache. What they all observed was the well simulated
surprise expressed in the lift of his eyebrows.
‘The thousand pounds?’ he said puzzled, then he laughed. ‘Oh, I see
you, too, have heard the story—we found the traitor had accepted that
sum to betray us—and this we confiscated for the benefit of the
Society—and rightly so,’ he added, indignantly.
The murmur of approbation relieved him of any fear as to the result
of his explanation. Even Starque smiled.
‘I did not know the story,’ he said, ‘but I did see the
“�1,000” which had been scratched on the side of the
red bean; but this brings us no nearer to the solution of the mystery.
Who has betrayed us to the Four Just Men?’
There came, as he spoke, a gentle tapping on the door of the room.
Francois, who sat at the president’s right hand, rose stealthily and
tiptoed to the door.
‘Who is there?’ he asked in a low voice.
Somebody spoke in German, and the voice carried so that every man
knew the speaker.
‘The Woman of Gratz,’ said Bartholomew, and in his eagerness he rose
to his feet.
If one sought for the cause of friction between Starque and the
ex-captain of Irregular Cavalry, here was the end of the search. The
flame that came to the eyes of these two men as she entered the room
told the story.
Starque, heavily made, animal man to his fingertips, rose to greet
her, his face aglow.
‘Madonna,’ he murmured, and kissed her hand.
She was dressed well enough, with a rich sable coat that fitted
tightly to her sinuous figure, and a fur toque upon her beautiful
head.
She held a gloved hand toward Bartholomew and smiled.
Bartholomew, like his rival, had a way with women; but it was a
gentle way, overladen with Western conventions and hedged about with
set proprieties. That he was a contemptible villain according to our
conceptions is true, but he had received a rudimentary training in the
world of gentlemen. He had moved amongst men who took their hats off to
their womenkind, and who controlled their actions by a nebulous code.
Yet he behaved with greater extravagance than did Starque, for he held
her hand in his, looking into her eyes, whilst Starque fidgeted
impatiently.
‘Comrade,’ at last he said testily, ‘we will postpone our talk with
our little Maria. It would be bad for her to think that she is holding
us from our work—and there are the Four—’
He saw her shiver.
‘The Four?’ she repeated. ‘Then they have written to you, also?’
Starque brought his fist with a crash down on the table.
‘You—you! They have dared threaten you? By Heaven—’
‘Yes,’ she went on, and it seemed that her rich sweet voice grew a
little husky; ‘they have threatened—me.’
She loosened the furs at her throat as though the room had suddenly
become hot and the atmosphere unbreathable.
The torrent of words that came tumbling to the lips of Starque was
arrested by the look in her face.
‘It isn’t death that I fear,’ she went on slowly; ‘indeed, I
scarcely know what I fear.’
Bartholomew, superficial and untouched by the tragic mystery of her
voice, broke in upon their silence. For silenced they were by the
girl’s distress.
‘With such men as we about, why need you notice the theatrical play
of these Four Just Men?’ he asked, with a laugh; then he remembered the
two little beans and became suddenly silent with the rest.
So complete and inexplicable was the chill that had come to them
with the pronouncement of the name of their enemy, and so absolutely
did the spectacle of the Woman of Gratz on the verge of tears move
them, that they heard then what none had heard before—the ticking of
the clock.
It was the habit of many years that carried Bartholomew’s hand to
his pocket, mechanically he drew out his watch, and automatically he
cast his eyes about the room for the clock wherewith to check the
time.
It was one of those incongruous pieces of commonplace that intrude
upon tragedy, but it loosened the tongues of the council, and they all
spoke together.
It was Starque who gathered the girl’s trembling hands between his
plump palms.
‘Maria, Maria,’ he chided softly, ‘this is folly. What! the Woman of
Gratz who defied all Russia—who stood before Mirtowsky and bade him
defiance—what is it?’
The last words were sharp and angry and were directed to
Bartholomew.
For the second time that night the Englishman’s face was white, and
he stood clutching the edge of the table with staring eyes and with his
lower jaw drooping.
‘God, man!’ cried Starque, seizing him by the arm, ‘what is it—
speak—you are frightening her!’
‘The clock!’ gasped Bartholomew in a hollow voice, ‘where—where
is the clock?’
His staring eyes wandered helplessly from side to side. ‘Listen,’ he
whispered, and they held their breath. Very plainly indeed did they
hear the ‘tick—tick—tick.’
‘It is under the table,’ muttered Francois.
Starque seized the cloth and lifted it. Underneath, in the shadow,
he saw the black box and heard the ominous whir of clockwork. ‘Out!’ he
roared and sprang to the door. It was locked and from the outside.
Again and again he flung his huge bulk against the door, but the men
who pressed round him, whimpering and slobbering in their pitiable
fright, crowded about him and gave him no room.
With his strong arms he threw them aside left and right; then leapt
at the door, bringing all his weight and strength to bear, and the door
crashed open.
Alone of the party the Woman of Gratz preserved her calm. She stood
by the table, her foot almost touching the accursed machine, and she
felt the faint vibrations of its working. Then Starque caught her up in
his arms and through the narrow passage he half led, half carried her,
till they reached the street in safety.
The passing pedestrians saw the dishevelled group, and, scenting
trouble, gathered about them.
‘What was it? What was it?’ whispered Francois, but Starque pushed
him aside with a snarl.
A taxi was passing and he called it, and lifting the girl inside, he
shouted directions and sprang in after her.
As the taxi whirled away, the bewildered Council looked from one to
the other.
They had left the door of the house wide open and in the hall a
flickering gas-jet gyrated wildly.
‘Get away from here,’ said Bartholomew beneath his breath.
‘But the papers—the records,’ said the other wringing his
hands.
Bartholomew thought quickly.
The records were such as could not be left lying about with
impunity. For all he knew these madmen had implicated him in their
infernal writings. He was not without courage, but it needed all he
possessed to re-enter the room where a little machine in a black box
ticked mysteriously.
‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘On the table,’ almost whispered the other. ‘Mon Dieux! what
disaster!’ The Englishman made up his mind.
He sprang up the three steps into the hall. Two paces brought him to
the door, another stride to the table. He heard the ‘tick’ of the
machine, he gave one glance to the table and another to the floor, and
was out again in the street before he had taken two long breaths.
Francois stood waiting, the rest of the men had disappeared.
‘The papers! the papers!’ cried the Frenchman.
‘Gone!’ replied Bartholomew between his teeth.
Less than a hundred yards away another conference was being
held.
‘Manfred,’ said Poiccart suddenly—there had been a lull in the
talk—‘shall we need our friend?’ Manfred smiled. ‘Meaning the
admirable Mr. Jessen?’
Poiccart nodded.
‘I think so,’ said Manfred quietly; ‘I am not so sure that the cheap
alarm-clock we put in the biscuit box will be a sufficient warning to
the Inner Council—here is Leon.’
Gonsalez walked into the room and removed his overcoat
deliberately.
Then they saw that the sleeve of his dress coat was torn, and
Manfred remarked the stained handkerchief that was lightly bound round
one hand.
‘Glass,’ explained Gonsalez laconically. ‘I had to scale a
wall.’
‘Well?’ asked Manfred.
‘Very well,’ replied the other; ‘they bolted like sheep, and I had
nothing to do but to walk in and carry away the extremely interesting
record of sentences they have passed.’
‘What of Bartholomew?’ Gonsalez was mildly amused. ‘He was less
panicky than the rest—he came back to look for the papers.’
‘Will he—?’
‘I think so,’ said Leon. ‘I noticed he left the black bean behind
him in his flight—so I presume we shall see the red.’
‘It will simplify matters,’ said Manfred gravely.
CHAPTER V. The Council of Justice
Lauder Bartholomew knew a man
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