Title: The Kahm SyndicateAuthor: Aidan de Brune* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1700931h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: Sep 2017Most recent update: Oct 2023This eBook was produced by Terry Walker, Colin Choat and Roy Glashan.Proofread by Gordon HobleyProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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THIS book is a product of a collaborative effort undertaken by Project Gutenberg Australia, Roy Glashan's Library and the bibliophile Terry Walker to collect, edit and publish the works of Aidan de Brune, a colourful and prolific Australian writer whose opus is well worth saving from oblivion.
A SMALL room, with a single narrow window, onthe fourth floor of an old-fashioned building in MacquarieStreet, Sydney, a few steps from Queen's Square. Along the wallswere glass-enclosed shelves extending to within a couple of feetof the ceiling, dirty and discoloured. The glass-enclosedshelving extended under the window, and a single shelf ran acrossthe top of the door. The floor was laid with an old, greyingcarpet-square, on which stood a big, flat-topped desk, coveredwith papers neatly tied in bundles. There were only two chairs inthe room, one on each side of the desk.
In one of the chairs, a well-padded arm-chair, aslightly-built, partially-bald, young-old man was seated, staringthrough heavily rimmed spectacles towards the window. His lefthand, resting on the blotting-pad, held a sheet of notepaper.
Few who visited the building, on the fanlight of the door ofwhich was inscribed "Crown Law Office," knew of the small chamberon the top floor, or of the man who occupied it. Very few ofthose who worked in the building knew exactly what positionOliver Manx held in the organisation. It was rumoured that heheld some obscure post under the Public Prosecutor, yet no papersbearing his autograph, or initials, filtered into the generalbusiness of the offices. It was definitely stated that he hadnever been known to hold any communication with any official inthe building.
Punctually as the city clocks struck nine each morning, OliverManx descended from a tram in Queen's Square and walked the fewyards to the Crown Law Office. Invariably he was dressed in afaded blue lounge suit, and wore a cap—a cap that the chiefmessenger of the department looked upon with distinct disfavouras lowering the dignity of a Government Office to that of anordinary business or factory. Once the cap had been oflarge-check-patterned cloth, but many rains and suns had fadedthe design to a nondescript greeny-grey. In his right hand OliverManx grasped a heavy bloodwood stick, and from his left fingersdangled a light attaché case. Just as punctually as he arrived,Manx descended the stairs at five o'clock and passed out into thestreet. During the seven hours' interval no-one in the departmentheard or saw him.
There was a telephone in the small office, but the instrumentwas not connected with the switch-board in the department, norwith the general exchange that serves all the New South Walespublic offices. The number was not listed in the telephonedirectory. More peculiarly, the instrument did not possess abell—the only sound that came from it, when connection wasdesired, was a distinct click, at half-second intervals.
In all, Oliver Manx was a mystery—not to the generalpublic, who were in entire ignorance of his being, but to theofficials surrounding him during the work-day hours. He was morethan a mystery—he was one forgotten. If a caller hadvisited the building, asking for him, he would have been met witha blank stare; then a distinct effort of memory; and finally thedirection: "Straight up the stairs to the top floor—thedoor opposite the head of the stairs." Fortunately for theofficial memory of messengers, Oliver Manx had no callers.
Yet Oliver Manx was not entirely forgotten. In variousGovernment offices, high potentates held in their memories thedial-number of that strange telephone instrument. Certain highpolice officials were so well aware of the number that theydialled it automatically when they wished to communicate withOliver Manx. Gentlemen of record in the Darlinghurst,Woolloomooloo and Surry Hills district would have given largelyto have learned that number—and its connection withManx—a personality they both hated and feared.
With a sudden grunt Oliver Manx came out of his reverie, letthe letter he held fall to the desk, and snatched up a newspaperfrom the floor. Swinging his chair round, so that the light fromthe window illuminated the page, he folded the sheet to show asingle double-column heading:
ANOTHER GANG KILLING
Oliver Manx smiled strangely as he re-read the headingand the stagger sub-heads that followed. When he turned to thereading matter beneath the headings his lips had set in a hard,straight line. He read:
Just before nine o'clock last nightConstable Knight, attached to the Darlinghurst Division, foundthe dead body of a man in Horton Street, Darlinghurst. The flyingpatrol was quickly on the spot, followed by the hospitalambulance, but the man was past help.
Inspector Darin, in charge of the flyingpatrol, stated that when he arrived on the scene the body wasstill warm, and that the doctor had stated that death hadoccurred within a quarter of an hour. He identified the man as"Babe" Shaver, a member of "Gunner" West's gang, and a dangerouscriminal, well known to the police. He added that Shaver had onlybeen released from gaol during the previous week, after serving athree years' term at Goulburn for robbery with violence.
Shaver had been killed by three bulletsfired into his chest at close quarters. Dr. Hunder, who had beensummoned by Constable Knight before the flying patrol arrived,states that all three wounds were mortal, and that the man couldonly have lived a few seconds after the first shot was fired.
This is the fifth killing in theDarlinghurst Division during the past eight days, and so far thepolice have failed to make an arrest. In every case the victimwas of criminal repute and, peculiarly, had recently beenreleased from gaol.
There is no doubt—
And so on. Oliver Manx smiled wryly as he laid thenewspaper aside. The police department were in for apress-chastisement. Gang killings had become too common of late,and to the gentlemen who occupied editorial chairs even the deathof a gangster had to be followed by swift police reprisals.Oliver Manx mused. In his private opinion it would be more to thepoint to draw a cordon about the infested area and allow thecrooks to exterminate one another at leisure.
He turned to the desk and picked up the letter he had held afew moments before. It bore no printed heading and wastypewritten, single-spaced, and with very narrow side-margins. Awell-worn purple ribbon had formed the impressions—a ribbonso well-worn that it concealed many of the clues showing inordinary typing. The page was headed: "To all it may concern."The letter had been forwarded to him from Police Headquarters bya plain-clothed constable who required no directions to find thelittle office under the roof of the Crown Law Department.
The letter stated:
Gang killings have been far too numerous oflate, yet gang-killings serve a useful purpose in that theyremove from society those who are a menace to it.
Darlinghurst has obtained an unenviable notoriety for these gangvendettas. The district has become a menace to the city ofSydney, and to Australia as a whole. It is possible to believethat the police in the district are incompetent, or are hand inglove with the underworld of the district. This must cease.Darlinghurst, Surry Hills and Woolloomooloo must be cleared ofthe undesirable elements that have flocked there from all overAustralia.
We, the undersigned, charge the policeofficials of the Darlinghurst Division with malfeasance. Undertheir protection the gangsters of these districts work withimpunity. Very definitely we charge the police officials of thesedistricts with accepting bribes from known criminals, and otherswho infringe the laws in lesser degrees. Darlinghurst, inparticular, is a hot-bed of starting-price gangsters, openlyplying their trade, and sly-grog houses just as openly conducted.Prosecutions are rarely instituted, and then only when graft isnot forthcoming in sufficient amounts.
For the information of those in authoritywe definitely charge: That cheap bookmakers openly operate intheir homes, with their street-doors wide open for their clientsto enter. Every street in these localities has one or moresly-grog shops. That so-called billiard saloons in thesedistricts are little more than places where illicit liquor can beobtained after the official closing hours. That 'clubs' areestablished everywhere, in rooms as small as ten by eight, wherethe sole business is the selling of liquor. That drug-running isa recognised trade in these districts, and is openly sold acrossthe counters of so-called respectable shops. That many of thelarge blocks of flats in the Darlinghurst district are littlebetter than brothels, and that the owners, claiming to bereputable members of the community, have turned out tenants ofgood repute to make room for prostitutes, who are willing to paya far larger rent. Hold-ups are of nightly occurrence in thesedistricts; the cat-burglar flourishes. Intimidation and terrorismis fast growing—the average, law-abiding citizen is warnedto close his eyes to flagrant infringements of the laws, underthe penalty of violence.
Only one line is drawn by the police; thatis, when gangland commits a crime that is so outrageous that itattracts interstate attention. Then an arrest is made. Weinstance the recent hold-ups of Government officials carryinglarge sums of money through the streets. In the first case noarrest was made, as neither of the victims was injured—onlythe taxpayers' money was taken. In the second case one of theofficials was permanently blinded. Then an arrest was made asquickly as possible—as a victim had to be found to appeasepublic indignation.
We, the undersigned, declare that thepresent impossible conditions can no longer be permitted toexist. If properly constituted authority cannot deal with theseevils, then private individuals must combine for their ownprotection. We hereby give notice that unless the present reignof terror in Darlinghurst and the adjacent districts is ended,and the criminals concerned scattered or imprisoned,
We, the undersigned, will take actionagainst both police and gangsters within three days.
THE KAHM SYNDICATE.
Oliver Manx again dropped the letter on the desk andturned to stare out of the window with expressionless eyes. Fromwhere he sat he could see the top storey and roofs of thegrey-stone building that had once housed the Sydney Mint. Beyondthat was only blue sky. In his mind's eye he pierced the greywalls that blocked his view, looking to the distant heights ofDarlinghurst—the tall buildings lining the steep ridge, andbelow, in the hollow before the huddle of low, dilapidatedhovels of Woolloomooloo.
The Kahm Syndicate! Who were the Kahm Syndicate? He wonderedwhat standing had they in the community? Who were its members?Why were they seeking to usurp duly constituted authority?
Oliver Manx mentally admitted that the Syndicate had greatreason in their charges. Darlinghurst had become a hot-bed ofcrime that the police appeared incapable of cleaning up. Dayafter day, night after night, since the Police Department hadreceived the first warning from the Kahm Syndicate that theplague-spots must be removed from the boundaries of the city ofSydney, he had wandered through the named districts, noting,analysing. He had learned that the Syndicate had good reasons forits statements. He had seen police officers talking atstreet-corners with well-known gangsters, calling, and beingcalled, in terms of familiarity and friendship. He had seen menand women admitted into the big hotels of the districts duringthe late night hours—he had seen men and women emerge fromthese hotels in the early hours of the morning, staggering underthe influence of drink they could only have obtained by directviolation of the licensing laws. He had seen brawls start aftermidnight on the very doorsteps of these hotels, by men under theinfluence of liquor—and the police using a patience andrestraint evidently inspired by well-greased palms.
He had spent hours loitering before the doors of importantblocks of flats in Darlinghurst—to see victims led withinby highly painted women. He had seen furtive men lounging againstposts and walls, apparently of no occupation, accosted byapparently respectable citizens—and to witness the secretexchange of money for small white packages of sinistersignificance. He had seen these men shuffle off at the approachof a patrolman, with a grin and a sly nod of understanding.
He had bought sixpenny packets of cigarettes inshops—packets that contained a single row of cigarettes atthe front, and a folder of white paper behind. A banknote on thecounter and an understanding nod had been all that was requiredfor the purchase. He had walked the streets during the daytime,noting the men, well-dressed and apparently flush of money, whoappeared to have no business save to lounge at street-corners, tonod familiarly to constable and police officer, exchangingcomments on weather and sport in tones that tokened entireunderstanding. He had wandered through the back streets, notingthe houses where the street-doors stood wide open—andwithin, a man seated at a small table with a telephone at hiselbow, a wireless loudspeaker blaring out the running of horsesand the results of the afternoon racing.
Such was Darlinghurst—a city in itself where work seemedunnecessary and foolish—where everyone was well-clothed andfed—a city where crime and graft reigned, and the laws madein Macquarie Street and at Canberra were derided with foul oaths.He had made report—a voluntary report—of all that hehad witnessed. There had been no need for the Police Departmentto forward on to him this last letter from the Kahm Syndicate;the officials had every detail set out therein in the reports ontheir files, signed with the queer monogram of strokes andcircles they knew to be his sign-manual.
The Kahm Syndicate! Oliver Manx nodded his head vaguely. Whatwould they do? Would they carry out the threat openly stated inthe letter on his desk, and take measures to clean up thisplague-spot on the national left? Then, what would happen if theytook the action they thought necessary? His shoulders went up in acharacteristic jerk. There would be trouble—much trouble.Days and weeks might pass before authority again gained the upperhand—and during those days the Kahm Syndicate and ganglandwould fight a bitter battle—a battle of death anddestruction.
The Kahm Syndicate! The name seemed strangely familiar. OliverManx turned to the desk again and ruffled the leaves of thetelephone directory. He came to the letter "K" and ran hisfinger down the columns. Yes! He had not been wrong. There was aKahm Syndicate—and with offices in Alford House, PittStreet. That was strange! Why had he turned so automatically tothe telephone directory? He knew that he had remembered. Againhis eyes sought the Mint roofs. He had remembered, yes—butwhat? The Kahm Syndicate! But no body of men who intended toplace themselves outside the laws would dare to take offices inthe centre of the business quarter of the city—in bolddefiance of the authority they declared corrupt and venial!
Oliver Manx smiled; then stood up and stretched. He wentacross the room and drew back a section of the shelves. Behindshowed a big cupboard.
He bent the door back until the click of a spring told himthat it was held. On the inside of the door was a large,full-length mirror, so arranged that it reflected a strong lightfrom the window. Over the mirror was a powerful, shaded electricbulb. He switched on the light and lowered the shelf before themirror, fitting it into place across the glass. From the cupboardhe brought out a filled suit-hanger.
A few moments and he had changed. The round-shouldered,young-old man who had entered the Crown Law Office two hoursbefore had disappeared. In his place stood a middle-aged man,upright and dignified, with thick, greying hair and well-filledruddy cheeks, well dressed and with the appearance of a goodsocial standing.
A last glance at the mirror and Oliver Manx switched out thelight, folded up the shelf, and swung the door shut. For a momenthe remained lost in thought, flicking from one hand to the othera pair of new, light-coloured gloves. Presently he withdrew froma waistcoat pocket a heavy silver card case and opened it,running the cards out on his palm; staring down at the nameengraved oh them.
Thaddeus Keene, retired stockbroker and member of the CircleClub, Melbourne, Victoria, was about to interview the KahmSyndicate.
THADDEUS KEENE was well known in Melbourne;Oliver Manx had seen to that detail. Keene was a great traveller,and had no relations, few friends, and a host of acquaintances.He travelled widely. Acquaintances are rarely inquisitive. Theyask questions when met, some of their questions bordering on theinquisitive; but with absence comes forgetfulness on theirpart.
Certainly it was strange that with Keene's re-appearance inMelbourne social life, Oliver Manx made one of his frequentabsences from Sydney.
Oliver Manx had found Thaddeus Keene useful. Yet he was onlyone of quite a number of unattached Australians who roamed theircountry, turning up at infrequent intervals in the cities andtowns they call "home." None of them claimed to have relations,friends, or intimates. They held only one likeness. Whenever oneof them appeared in public in any city, the others, includingOliver Manx, were absent from their home towns, on private andunobtrusive business.
A final glance about the small office and Oliver Manx left theroom, closing the door behind him. The spring lock held the doorfast against intrusion, for in spite of the fact that thebuilding was invaded by a host of cleaners each evening, therewas only one key to that lock. Turning towards the head of thestairs Oliver Manx passed leisurely through the building. On thestairs and landing he passed many officials of the Crown LawDepartment, and visitors. None of them recognised him, althoughmany were familiar with the appearance of the slight,round-shouldered man who occupied the room at the top of thehouse.
In the vestibule of the building, once the reception hall ofone of Sydney's first houses, Oliver passed the hall-porter, aresplendent individual with the air of an English duke. Theofficial stared for a moment, then turned away. His manner showedthat he took the man passing him to be some casual citizen whohad dared to invade the sacred precincts of the department.Certainly, he puzzled, for he did not remember so obviously animportant person entering the building.
On the street pavement, Oliver turned towards Queen's Square.In King Street he nearly collided with a hurrying newsboy,shouting unintelligibly in the jargon of the street. For a momentthe boy halted:
"Paper, sir?"—and Oliver caught sight of the yellow andblack bill draping the small figure. The big, black type asked aquestion:
WHAT IS THE KAHM SYNDICATE?
Oliver dropped coins into a grubby hand and took theloosely folded newspaper. He sighed; so these people who intendedto take the law into their own hands could not keep theirintentions secret? Moving close to one of the shop windows, to beout of the hurrying throng, he opened the newspaper. As he hadguessed, the statement he had received from the police thatmorning was printed in full.
Who are the peoplecomprising the Kahm Syndicate?
asked theStar in shrieking streamers.
What purpose have they? Arethey defying the
police, as well as the gangsters who infestour city?
These, and other pertinent questions were prominent instagger-sub-heads. Even the almost stereotyped editorial on thesins and virtues of politicians had been "lifted" into anobscurity for the issue. In place of the usual politicalpropaganda—carefully ignored by the average reader—amember of the editorial staff wrote learnedly on the "KahmSyndicate;" at one time comparing it to a heavenly visitantundertaking the work of cleaning up a grossly immoral and viciouscity, in other phrases declaring it to be another phase ofcriminal intrigue to which the country had become accustomed. Allthis in accordance with the policy of Sydney's one eveningnewspaper to balance carefully on the top rail of the fence forthe moment.
Oliver folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm. For amoment he was thoughtful, a little frown-pucker showing betweenhis eyes. If the newspapers were going to boost the KahmSyndicate his task would be doubly difficult. He strolled on toPitt Street.
Alford House is one of the most important buildings in thecity of Sydney. Very new, and with elaborate appointments, verycorrect porters and discreet lift-attendants, it had recentlybeen opened by a clever-advertising insurance company. In thevestibule Oliver paused a moment, scanning the long index oftenants. The Kahm Syndicate occupied a suite of five offices onthe third floor. He strolled on to the lift and entered, givingthe number of the floor he required in a cool, precise voice.
Almost opposite the lift-stop were large, double, full-glassdoors, inscribed in gold with the words "The Kahm Syndicate." Thelettering carried no indication of the business being carried onin the offices. Beyond the doors stood a solid, expensive-lookingcounter, and beyond the counter, in dignified employment, morethan a dozen clerks. As Oliver approached the doors they swungopen before him, automatically. He passed on to the counter.
"Mr. Kahm in?" asked Oliver Manx.
"Mr—who?" The girl who had come to the opposite side ofthe counter raised plucked eyebrows. "There is no Mr. Kahm."
"Sorry." The tall, dignified, very straight form bentslightly. "I should have said, your manager."
"Your name, please."
Oliver Manx produced the heavy silver card-case and took outone of the slips of pasteboard. The girl accepted the cardgravely and passed it to a diminutive page-boy, who suddenlymaterialised at her side. The boy went to a door, knocked,listened a moment, then entered the room. He returned to sightquickly and, lifting a flap in the counter, invited Oliver Manxto enter. Lowering the flap, the boy entered a room, motioningthe investigator to follow him.
Purposely, Oliver slackened his pace as he set foot in thehandsomely furnished office, staring keenly at the chubby-faced,bald-headed man seated behind the big desk. He was puzzled. Fromthe moment he had entered Alford House he had been in awilderness of surmises. In these offices he had seen noindications of the business carried on by the Syndicate—andnow he was called upon to state his business with the firm.
And he had none. For a full half-minute he stood in thedoorway, scanning the man behind the desk, the page-boy at hiselbow waiting to close the door on him. The man behind the deskwas waiting, a smile of expectancy on his full, over-redlips.
Secretly Oliver smiled. Here was a game he could play perhapsbetter than the man before him.
"Mr. Thaddeus Keene?" The man behind the desk spoke atlength.
"Of Melbourne," Oliver murmured. "I have thepleasure—"
"Archibald—Maurice Archibald." The stout man beamed."Will you not sit down?" He indicated, with a jerky motion of hisright hand, still holding a heavy golden fountain-pen, the chairbefore the desk. Oliver bowed, and made rather a ceremony ofseating himself. He was waiting for the lead that did not appearlikely to come.
"I was expecting to see a—a Mr. Kahm," he ventured.
"There is no Mr. Kahm." Archibald spoke slowly. "That is thename of the syndicate."
"Ah—the syndicate." Oliver nodded understandingly. "Iused to know a Mr.—er—Kahm in Melbourne. Ithought—"
"Then this is a social call." The stout man smiled brightly."I am most pleased—and disappointed. Pleased that there isnot a Mr. Kahm—in Sydney and—"
"Disappointed that you are not interviewing a businesscustomer," interjected Oliver. "Perhaps one day, when I haveknowledge of your business—"
"So? I forgot!" Again the man turned a beaming face for amoment on Oliver, then bent to one of the desk drawers. "This isa social call."
Almost magically a silver humidor appeared on the desk andopened. Archibald pressed some spring, and one of thecompartments came up, holding inviting-looking cigars.
"A social call! Hardly that." Oliver carefully selected acigar. "I am interested in Melbourne newspapers."
"Ah, a Sydney representative of one of the big dailies in oursister city?"
"If I may claim that." The investigator drew forward thestand-lighter. "Have you seen this afternoon's newspaper, Mr.Archibald?"
Instead of answering the question, Archibald pressed abell-stud on the desk.
"Don't trouble," said Oliver, unfolding the newspaper he hadcarried into the office. He spread the sheet on the desk facingArchibald.
"Ah! The Kahm Syndicate!" The stout man read the big displayheadings carefully. "So that is the reason for your call, MrKeene?"
"I am interested."
"Professionally?"
"Shall we say, a mere matter of curiosity?"
"Very bad! Very bad! Curiosity—"
"—is human." Oliver Keene smiled. "Darlinghurst is aninteresting district."
"M-m-m-m!" The play of air between the man's lips was longdrawn. "So you connect my syndicate withthis—er—"
"With this—er—" repeated Oliver.
"I really don't see the connection." A hint of sharpnessunderlay Archibald's suavity. "The coincidence of names, yes! Bythe way—how did you discover—us?"
"Curiosity, my dear Mr. Archibald." The special agent's voicewas very bland. "I happened to look in the telephone bookafter—er—readingthe—er—newspaper—and—" he paused. "May Iinquire your business?"
"We are Systematists, Mr. Keene."
"Systematists?"
"We systemise—everything."
"Even—Darlinghurst?" Oliver smiled quietly. "I thoughtthat had been already accomplished."
The man on the opposite side of the desk lifted his lighteyebrows.
"By the gentlemen of the so-called underworld," explainedOliver.
"Is that sufficient?" Almost a defiant note sounded inArchibald's smooth voice.
"I believe the police authorities think different."
"And you agree with them? Are you—or—connectedwith the police, may I ask, Mr. Thaddeus Keene?"
"The police do not require assistance from private citizens,"the special agent countered. "If they asked myco-operation—"
"Which, undoubtedly, they will do?"
"For what purpose?" queried Oliver, apparently much surprised."Beside their trained experts—" He shrugged. "Really, Mr.Archibald. I came here as a matter, of curiosity—todiscover if my old friend, Charlie Kahm—"
"Two and four!" The stout man leaned forward, pointing firstat himself and then at Oliver.
"Two and four? I do not understand."
"K-1, A-2, H-3; M-4," spelt the man; "Shall we agree that I amthe second letter—then you must be the fourth.Understand?"
"'A' for Archibald; 'M' for—"
For a moment the eyes of the two men met and held; thenArchibald started to laugh, wiping, his eyes with a veryimmaculate handkerchief drawn from his cuff. He rose from hischair indicating that the interview was at an end.
For a moment Oliver was nonplussed. Had the man recognisedhim? Very few people knew him in any manner. Very few peopleconnected the Oliver Manx of his daily life, with the Crown Lawofficial who spent so many hours of his life in the top room ofthe Macquarie Street building. Two men only could connectThaddeus Keene with Oliver Manx—and neither of those menwould utter one word of betrayal.
In some way this man, conventional in appearance and manner,had penetrated his disguise. Oliver sighed. He had rather fanciedthe identity of Thaddeus Keene. He had spent years perfecting thecharacter, giving it a history and surroundings that could not bechallenged. Thaddeus Keene had served well, particularly indealing with rogues in the higher walks of life. Now ThaddeusKeene had to disappear. He had to die—to pass out of thisworld convincingly. That would be a trouble, requiring carefulpreparation and work. There must be no link left to connect himwith any other manifestation emanating from the little office inthe attics of the Crown Law Department.
"Going, Mr Keene?" Archibald came round his desk, handoutstretched. "So sorry there is no Mr.—er—Kahm towelcome his old friend, Thaddeus Keene, to these offices. If ifyou should chance upon him, I trust you will convey to him mysincere regrets. You will, I hope tell him I did my best tosubstitute for him—er—efficiently?"
"You shall have the best testimonial I can give,Mr.—er—Archibald." Oliver Manx moved to the door."Sorry to have troubled you unnecessarily. Perhaps at our nextinterview—"
"A business one, Mr. Thaddeus Keene?" The man spokeironically. "Still, I'll be pleased to see you any time." Hehesitated. "If by any, chance—"
"Yes?" Oliver turned, at the door, suddenly.
Archibald, in turn, hesitated. "I was only going to suggestthat police work is sometimes rather difficultfor—er—amateurs."
Before he could think of a satisfying retort, the door hadopened, and Oliver Manx found himself in the outer office, thedoor, closing behind him. For a moment he paused, staring, aboutthe big, well-appointed room, at the clerks busy at theirdesks.
What business were these people engaged upon? What, exactly,was the business of the Kahm Syndicate? The KahmSyndicate—Systematists—Systematists! To systemiseDarlinghurst—the crook gangs who had usurped authority inthe district—to clean up the underworld that had grownalmost all-powerful during the past few years?
He shrugged, moving towards the big glass doors. There wasstill time. Archibald had shown his hand almost plainly. He haddenied nothing—and therein had shown his undoubtedcleverness. Yet—
A word from him and this place would he raided by the police.But, what would they find? Nothing—he was sure of that.There would be a quantity of books—showing a properlyconducted business, operating in a perfectly legitimate manner.The Kahm Syndicate would reveal its membership, men of undoubtedstanding and probity. There would be apologies for them;troublesome questions for him and the police to answer; claims toinvestigate; uncomfortable interviews with theMinister—quite an amount of work and worry—AndArchibald would be everywhere, with his infernal smile and suavespeeches—
Very leisurely, Oliver Manx, still in the person of ThaddeusKeene, of Melbourne, left the offices and descended in the liftto the street level. Full of thought, he strode out of thebuilding. On the threshold he paused, feeling for his cigarettecase. Something splashed on the wall of the building, close tohis head. A soft, sinister "plop" sounded through the din oftraffic. Again came the soft "plop"—and Thaddeus Keene fellheavily to the pavement.
"Here! What's up?" Official blue thrust through thefast-gathering crowd and bent over the prone man. "What'shappened to him?"
"Wounded. Someone shot me." Oliver Manx struggled to a sittingposition, secretly scooping up one of the splatters of lead andnickel on the ground almost under where he had lain.
"Wounded? Where?"
The constable knelt beside Oliver, trying to force away thehand the secret agent pressed to his side.
"Quick! You fool! A taxi! Get me into it without loss oftime!" Then in a whisper that only the patrolman heard. "Policebusiness."
For a moment the constable hesitated, his mouth opening as ifhe were about to ask a question, Oliver struggled to hisfeet.
"Quick!" The secret agent had his hand on the constable'sshoulder, his mouth but an inch from the man's ear.
"What's the matter, Joe? What's up with him?" Anotherconstable materialised; at the edge of the crowd, pressing a waythrough.
"Clear those rubber-necks away, Tom." The first constable wasnow recovered from his surprise; visions of promotion dancingbefore his eyes. He straightened. "Here, give him room to move,you! Pass on there! Can't have the street littered this way! Passon!"
"Can I be of assistance?" A slender, dark man paused at theconstable's side. "I am a doctor."
"Don't think it's serious, sir. Just a fall. I'll get him tothe hospital as soon as possible."
A taxi had drawn to the curb. Pushing through the curiousonlookers, the constable supported Oliver to the door andwrenched it open. Pretending excessive weakness, the secret agentallowed the two constables to help him into the vehicle. Theconstable jumped in and closed the door.
"Feeling bad, sir?" The man spoke as the taxi turned intoMartin Place. "Won't be many minutes before we get there."
Oliver Manx had twisted on the seat, looking out of the littlerear window. So far as he could see there was no-one followingthem. He turned to face the police officer.
"Missed me by a hair's breadth, constable." The secret agentsmiled. "Damned bad shots! Still, don't forget, I'm seriouslywounded. You'll assist me into the hospital—and I've got tolook a real serious case. Insist that I'm taken at once to theoperating room—and then leave the surgeon to me. I'llhandle him. Your job is to get on the telephone, to the AssistantCommissioner, Mr. Ramsay! Don't forget. You're to speak to himonly. Report that Mr. Thaddeus Keene was shot and seriouslywounded in Pitt Street."
"But, sir—"
"There's no 'but' about it. You do as I say, or you'll loseyour chance of that stripe. Don't say on the telephone a wordmore than I've told you. The Assistant Commissioner willunderstand. Then you'll wait at the hospital until he comes. Tellhim I want a watch placed on Alford House—the offices ofthe Kahm Syndicate, and particularly on Maurice Archibald, themanager. He's to be shadowed everywhere. Get that? Good! He'llwant the telephone then. Stand by him and when he's finishedbring him to me, wherever I am. I shan't leave the hospital untilI've seen him."
The taxi swung through the narrow gateway into the SydneyHospital drive-way, and pulled up before the accident ward door.Feigning intense weakness, Oliver allowed himself to be liftedfrom the taxi and carried into the building. In the casualty wardhe recovered quickly, putting aside the intern who hovered abouthim.
"Just one thing more." Oliver Manx included the two men inhis speech. "There will be inquiries—No, don't worry me,I'm not injured. Listen to what I say. There'll be inquiries. Youwill report that Mr. Thaddeus Keene, of Melbourne, was shot andseriously wounded before Alford House, in Pitt Street, thisafternoon. The assailant is unknown. Mr. Keene had just come fromthe Kahm Syndicate offices, where he had been on importantbusiness. Get that, both of you? I want the newspapers to havethat at once. If you've got any questions, keep them forAssistant Commissioner Ramsay, He may answer them."
Oliver Manx paused and looked at the two men with him. Theconstable showed perplexity on his face, but nodded. Herecognised that here was something he could notunderstand—but the name of the Assistant Commissionersatisfied him. The intern looked grave.
"I don't know that we can support such an imposture, even ifI—"
"Sorry, doctor." Oliver Manx smiled frankly. "You'll find thatMr. Ramsay will take all responsibility from your shoulders. Now,please, will you take me to a private room and detail a verydiscreet nurse as my attendant. She's not going to have a verybusy time, for I expect to be out of here soon after dark. By theway, doctor, you know my name; may I know yours?"
"I am Ralph Murray," the young man answered slowly. "I amafraid, Mr. Keene, you're running foul of a lot ofregulations."
"Sorry." Oliver Manx held out his hand. "This is an emergencythat has to he met by complete disregard of all rules andregulations. You will find that you have the police and the CrownLaw office behind you, so—"
The telephone bell interrupted shrilly. As Dr. Murray turnedto answer it, the secret agent caught him by the arm. "That callis about me," he stated emphatically. "You know what to answer.Don't hesitate, man. A lot you don't understand depends onyou."
For a moment the intern hesitated, then turned to theinstrument. He listened for some seconds, then covered themouthpiece with his hand and faced Oliver Manx.
"A Mr. Kahm wishes to know how his friend, Mr. Thaddeus Keene,of Melbourne, is progressing. He also wants to know if he cancome and see him?" Oliver nodded, then shook his head in answerto the second question.
"I'm too dangerously wounded to be seen by anyone," he stated."I'll see him—sure; but at my own time—and in my ownmanner."
IMMEDIATELY Dr. Murray replaced the receiver onthe telephone hook, Oliver Manx repeated his request to be shownto a private room. At the door he turned suddenly to stare at thenurse who had been a puzzled witness of the late scene.
"I forgot you, nurse." For a moment he hesitated, carefully,scanning the girl's face. "Yes, you'll do. You can keep a stilltongue! Anyway, you're elected—my nurse during my long anddangerous illness." The secret agent grinned widely. "You won'tfind your job onerous—just to shoo away all visitors." Heswung round on the doctor, waiting in the corridor. "Get anothernurse here, doctor, and let—" He paused.
"Nurse Torrens," completed Dr. Murray.
"—Nurse Torrens attend on me," concluded the secretagent. He walked to the door, to follow the doctor, as if thematter held no dispute. For a second the intern hesitated, thenshrugged. This young-old man, evidently carefully disguised, hadassumed complete command of the situation. He claimed to havecomplete police backing—and was certainly backed by theconstable in the room, who raised no objections to his demands.There could be nothing wrong. Yet he paused for thought beforegiving the orders Oliver Manx waited to hear.
"All right, nurse," he said resignedly. "Will you ask NurseThorne to take your place in the reception room? I am putting Mr.Keene in room 79; you will follow when you are finished. Tellmatron I would like to see her in a quarter of an hour, and thatroom 79 is engaged."
He paused, looking at the constable questioningly.
"Constable Harris has his orders," said Oliver Manx,interpreting the intern's unspoken question. "Mr. Ramsay will hehere within a few minutes, and will take charge—until thenI want Constable Harris about here, to prevent unauthorisedvisitors."
"Unauthorised visitors?" Dr. Murray lifted his brows.
"Just so. Mr. Ramsay, when he comes, will tell you what weare up against. I should not be at all surprised at yourreceiving quite a number of callers—all most anxious tohave just one glimpse of Thaddeus Keene."
In a long corridor on the second floor, Dr. Murray opened adoor and switched on the lights. Oliver Manx entered the room andhesitated, looking at the window.
"Switch off the light a moment, doctor. I want to have a lookoutside."
Mechanically the medical man obeyed. The secret agent went tothe window and threw up the sash; he put his head out and peereddown the wall to the court below. With a little grunt ofsatisfaction he brought his head into the room again and closedthe window, pulling down the blind.
"Sit down, doctor; if I may take the privileges of a hosthere." A quiet smile bent the secret agent's lips at the sight ofthe medical man's astonished face. "We may as well be comfortablewhile waiting for Mr. Ramsay's arrival. Smoke?—or is thatagainst the rules?" Oliver Manx leaned forward, open cigarettecase in his hand.
"Well—" Dr. Murray leaned forward, laughing, and took acigarette. "—you've fractured so many rules during the pasthalf-hour, Mr. Keene, that one more—"
"Hospitals mend fractures—that's their business." Thesecret agent flicked a lighter to flame.
"Of course, you want to know what all this commotion is about.Well, I'm going to tell you—Of course, you understand, thatsecrecy is essential?"
With a few well chosen words he told the history of the KahmSyndicate as then known to himself and the police, their publicdeclaration of war against the gangs trying to dominate Sydneysuburbs. He frankly doubted the bona-fides of the Syndicate,stating that he believed the real motive to be the organisationand monopoly of crime. As he proceeded in his recital he appearedto forget the intern listening absorbedly to his words, and spokeas if reviewing his case for personal elucidation. He had justfinished his recital when a knock came at the door, and, inanswer to the intern's permission, Nurse Torrens came into theroom. She glanced inquisitively, and somewhat amusedly, at her"patient."
"Assistant-Commissioner Ramsay has arrived," she saidquietly. "He is busy at the telephone at the moment, but says hewill come up here directly he has finished."
"Good!" Oliver Manx placed a seat for the girl. "Sit down,nurse. We may see a good bit of each other before this adventureends, so it is well to get acquainted. Going, doctor?"
"There are other accident cases besides yours." Dr. Murrayspoke gravely. "Perhaps not as serious; yet—"
Oliver Manx laughed. "Well, I can't expect to turn the Sydneyhospital right upside-down," he said. "I will certify that youhave done your best in the short time at your disposal, sofar."
The doctor laughed.
"One thing more." The secret agent halted the doctor at thedoor. "How long does it take a man suffering from asevere—almost fatal—bullet wound to recover?"
"A month—often longer."
"You're not going to stay here a whole month, Mr.—" thenurse asked quickly, with some astonishment.
"Oliver Manx." The secret agent supplied his name at thenurse's pause. "No such luck! I expect to leave here shortlyafter dark."
"But—what am I to do then?" asked the girlperplexedly.
"Keep to this room, just as if you had a realpatient—read a book, do some sewing—anything youlike, so long as you pose as a nurse attending to a dangerouslywounded man."
Phyllis Torrens laughed; then made a move. "Won't that beterribly dull?"
"Sorry." Oliver grinned. "You'll have the recompense ofknowing that your boredom is in the interests of yourcountry."
"I prefer an invalid." The girl laughed.
"Is that a compliment?" Oliver Manx coloured slightly, trying,to look very innocent. "If so—"
The door the room was jerked abruptly open and a tall,soldierly man of about fifty years of age entered. He stared fromthe man to the girl for a moment.
"Hullo, Manx. Hope nothing serious is the matter?"
"Not a thing, Mr. Ramsay." The secret service man shook handswarmly with the Assistant Commissioner. "I hope Constable Harrisput you wise to the arrangements I have made?"
"He told me there was nothing the matter withyou—except, perhaps, a scare." Assistant CommissionerRamsay laughed. "Let's have the talk."
He found a chair and looked questioningly at the nurse asOliver Manx, without preface, commenced an account of the latehappenings at Alford House.
Nurse Torrens went to leave the room, but the secret agentstopped her.
"It is just as well that Nurse Torrens should know all thereis to know, Mr. Ramsay," he said. "She's got a difficult part toplay during the coming days. Sit down, nurse, you're in this,right up to your neck."
Assistant Commissioner Ramsay listened intently to the secretagent's report. At its conclusion he made no comment, merelyasking:
"What comes next?"
"Thaddeus Keene will be in hospital, unable to see anyone. Iwant Constable Harris' clothes," he added. "I've got to get outof here unseen—and fortunately he's about my size. You canget someone to bring a suit of clothes here for him to get awayin."
"What about those you're wearing?"
"Too distinctive." Oliver Manx shook his head. "No, when hegoes out of hospital there'll be someone on the watch. They'drecognise those clothes, and perhaps take a pot-shot at him."
Assistant Commissioner Ramsay nodded. "I guess so. What'sgoing to happen to you?"
"I've got a burrow I can duck into—more than one infact. For the next month or so I'll disappear. When I show upagain at the C.L.O—"
"Exit the Kahm Syndicate?" laughed the AssistantCommissioner.
"—and most of the Darlinghurst gangs, I hope," addedOliver Manx.
For more than an hour the two men remained in consultation,Nurse Torrens passing in and out of the room as if in attendanceon a patient. A deep colour had invaded her pretty cheeks atknowledge of the big and exciting man-hunt she had becomeinvolved in.
Whenever she entered the room she glanced at the secret agentcuriously. What sort of a man was he really? She could not placehim, as she was accustomed to placing the men she met. That was,she believed, because he was still in his disguise. She liked hisvoice, his manner—both she believed were real and so vastlydifferent from the grave, dignified man his outward appearanceindicated. And—he was going to leave the hospital toventure alone into the big world, to fight the organised crimewhich had grown up in the city.
"Well, that's settled!" Assistant Commissioner Ramsay stood upand held out his hand to the secret agent. "I'll send ConstableHarris to you, Manx. By the way, how do I communicate with you inthe future?"
"You don't." For a moment Oliver Manx looked very grave. "Yetwe've got to keep in touch. I'll find a way—looks like thebest thing will be for you to have me picked up for questioningnow and again. You can stage a police magistrate's hearing if youwant to make things very real, but you mustn't detain me with anylong sentence. Yes, and that will be wise, it'll do megood—the appearance that I'm under suspicion, and that thepolice can't get anything on me. That'll do. I'll get a name toyou, and an address."
"Joining one of the gangs?" Ramsay nodded understanding.
"I've got to be with them. Fact, I'm one of a gang at themoment—have been for quite a time."
For a moment the Assistant Commissioner hesitated, thenreturned into the room and shook hands gravely.
"Well—take care of yourself, Manx. There's a lotdepending on you."
He turned abruptly and left the room.
Phyllis Torrens watched the door close, fascinated by thethought that lay behind the police officer's words. She turnedand stared at Oliver Manx openly.
"That will be very dangerous," she said faintly.
"What? Oh, I understand." The secret agent came out of deepthought. "Well, so is your work, nurse; you've nursed dangerousinfectious cases?"
"Of course. But—"
A knock sounded on the panel of the door and she went toanswer it. Constable Harris came into the room, a look ofperplexed wonder clouding his big face.
"Good!" Oliver Manx came to his feet. "Now, if you will excuseus, nurse. I have to change clothes with Constable Harris."
Nurse Torrens left the room. The secret agent turned to theconstable. "The Assistant Commissioner has told you what you'reto do?" he asked. "Good! Now strip. You can put on these things,or get into the bed, until they bring you other clothes."
"Yes, sir." The constable spoke dazedly, loosening hisbelt.
While the two men were exchanging clothes, Oliver Manx wentvery carefully over the actions he required the constable to makewhen he left the hospital. At the conclusion of his instructionshe repeated them briefly.
"Understand. You'll remain in this room for an hour after Ihave left. Then you'll walk out of the hospital, into MacquarieStreet. I am certain you will find someone at the gates,examining everyone who comes out of here. Don't worry; let themhave a good look at you. Light your pipe and let the light ofyour match well illuminate your face. Get that? They've got to becertain you are not me in disguise; they've got to be certain Iam still in here, very seriously ill."
"Yes, sir."
"Right, then." Oliver Manx pulled the official belt tighter."Assistant Commissioner Ramsay wants you at Headquartersto-morrow morning. Put this night's work over right and there's astripe for you, if not more. Now, use what wits God gave you,man. You're in something big—understand? You'll never getanother chance like this. I'll get your uniform back to yousomehow." He held out his hand, gripping the constable's fingersfirmly. In the corridor, outside room 79, he found Nurse Torrenswaiting.
"Good-bye, nurse. I'll see you again shortly."
"Why?" The girl showed her surprise. "Why, I thought you werethe constable. You've got his walk and manner—"
"Bit of an actor, eh?" Oliver Manx laughed. He turned when hehad proceeded a few steps down the corridor.
"By the way, nurse, you've arranged your relief and all that?Remember, you're in the State's service now."
"And you're my commanding officer—"
"—and patient," supplemented the secret agent.
"Yes, sir." The girl saluted smartly and mockingly.
Yet, as she stood watching the tall, lithe figure walking downthe corridor, there came a little choke in her throat. It waslike watching a man—men—marching to a big battle; buthere was just one man, walking from safety into the unknown tobattle with organised crime.
Oliver Manx walked down the corridor and entered the lift,telling the man to take him to the ground floor. Outside thereception room he halted for a moment, then shook his head andproceeded through the door into the driveway. He had sought toseek Dr. Murray and bid him farewell, but that would be unwise.Some exclamation might come from the intern—someinvoluntary word that might have indicated to an onlooker thatthings were not just what they seemed to be.
He went quickly to the big gates bordering Macquarie Street.Two or three men were on the pavement, evidently waiting forsomeone visiting the hospital. He scanned them carefully, tryingto discover if any one of them had been put on guard over thesupposedly wounded Thaddeus Keene. He could not decide that anyone man was acting in a suspicious manner; yet he was certainthat the hospital was closely watched. He was certain that thehospital would be closely watched until some definite news ofThaddeus Keene were obtained by the man who had ordered hisdeath.
He shook himself impatiently. It was dangerous to leave thehospital in that manner—dangerous for himself and for thosehe had left to guard his secret. The gangsters would have nocompunction in taking revenge on those they believed had assistedhim to deceive them. Dr. Murray—NurseTorrens—Phyllis—
Oliver Manx shrugged and turned southwards. What other coursecould he have taken? He could not have remained at thehospital—a seriously wounded man. To have walked out of thehospital as Thaddeus Keene would have been foolish. He might justas well write to—to the Kahm Syndicate—togangland—informing them he was on their trail, and knewenough to make them feel uncomfortable—yet not sufficientat the moment to place them behind bars.
As he came alongside the tall iron railings of the Mintgrounds, he glanced up at the top storey of the Crown Law Officeacross the road. If he could get into that building! A moment'shesitation and he crossed the road. He was the policeman onpatrol duty—there could be nothing suspicious in him goingup to the doors of the house. If opportunity offered, he mightslip his key into the lock—a matter of moments, and hewould be in the building and the door again closed—
With his hand on the wood of the door, glancing back on thestreet in search of watchers, he paused.
There was no possible reason why he should go to his office;he had other places already prepared for hisreception—places where everything was prepared for hischange from the personality of a constable to any other characterhe chose to assume. He turned from the door carelessly andrecrossed the street.
In shelter beside the tall posts of the District Courthouse,in Queen's Square, he waited again, keenly scanning thepassers-by. He did not believe he had been followed; he believedthe watchers at the hospital gates had believed him to be theconstable who had carried Thaddeus Keene into the hospital. Yet,if there had been any suspicion in the watchers' minds—thenhe must know at once, for here started the most dangerous phaseof his flight to sanctuary.
A full quarter of an hour passed before he felt he couldsafely move. With apparent carelessness he walked toward St.Mary's Cathedral. Here he was on dangerous ground—thejoining of two patrolmen's beats. And still more danger layahead. He had to get into Woolloomooloo—into theDarlinghurst Police District. Watching around with the greatestcaution, he turned down by the cathedral and crossed the narrowneck of parkland into Cathedral Street.
Again he found refuge in a dark doorway, watching keenly forsigns that his movements had aroused suspicions. His progress wasbecoming still more dangerous. He was a policepatrolman—and he was seeking a gangster's shelter; he was alone patrolman walking through a district where his comrades onlyventured in pairs.
Again satisfied that he was unwatched, he came out of hisshelter and moved eastwards. Cathedral Street was well filled,for the night was warm and the houses ill-ventilated and close.As he passed crossroads he saw that they, too, were well-filled.Men and women sat or lounged in the doorways; children playednoisily in the streets. Every one of these men and women, eventhe children, were potential menaces. Once the view-halloo wasraised—and one dirty, sharp-eyed brat might raiseit—and his life would not be worth a minute's purchase.
Yet he moved on, keeping in the shadows so far as hecould—yet the many wells of light streaming from shopwindows had to be passed, and they were continued menaces. Once awoman looked towards where he was standing, waiting, and a shiverran down his spine. Without thought he moved forward, slightlyincreasing his pace. Had she seen him? She had not raised analarm!
He moved forward faster; he had to find sanctuary beforegangland awoke to his presence in their territory—andsanctuary was still far away! Hugging the shadows, he turned intoBurke Street. Here the menace of discovery was more acute. Womensat on their doorsteps, talking in shrill, argumentative tones;the pavements wore littered with dirty, shrieking, squallingchildren; men lounged in dark alley-ways and shadows, talkingfrom corners of their mouths, spitting, voicing fouloaths—their language a jargon almost unintelligible to theaverage person.
Oliver Manx went on, keeping as fast a pace as he dared,believing that he would pass unnoticed with speed—thatslowness and hesitation would bring suspicion.
Two hundred yards from the end of the street, where itdebouched on to the wide, open street bordering the wharves,Oliver Manx again paused. He had to cross the street to a narrowroad opening on the other side. He glanced around him; the streetseemed full of eyes—and every eye was fixed on him withdeep suspicion. He glanced back along the path he hadcome—and thought all the children in the street appeared tobe concentrated in a mad charge to where he stood. Almost inpanic he darted forward, abandoning strategy for speed.
Then came a cry from up the road, near Cathedral Street, andwhile heads were turned in that direction he went leisurelyacross the road and was swallowed in the shadows of the ill-litby-way. Now the tension that had held him was relaxed. He wasalmost in safety. A few yards along that byway a narrow alleyopened, bordered on both sides by broken, high wooden fences. Aquick glance back and he slipped into the heavier darkness.Suddenly he flattened against a fence bounding a yard. Three menwere coming down the alley, talking in low, tense whispers.
Oliver Manx whipped the distinguishing police cap from hishead and crushed it between his body and the fence. In thedarkness the men might not notice the uniform—they mighttake it for an ordinary suit. If there was darkness; if one ofthem did not strike a light, showing the reflections of buttonsand belt; if some lodger in a room overlooking the alley did notmake a light that would stream on him through uncurtainedwindows.
He waited, almost a lump of terror rising in his throat. Themen came nearer, and the secret agent froze to immobility. Now hecould see the dim outline of their round, bullet-shaped heads,crowned by rakish caps. Gradually their bodies formed a strongerdarkness within the surrounding darkness, almost against him.Another couple of seconds and the outside man almost touched him.They had passed—
"Wot th' 'ell!" One man had halted, turning with the quick,defensive gesture of the hunted animal. The lighted cigarette,dangling from his lower lip, firmed and glowed as the man pulledon it. Oliver Manx could see the whiteness of the expelled smokeagainst the surrounding darkness. Again the man drew on thecigarette, leaning forward until the faint glow reflected on thebuttons of the uniform.
"A blarsted fuzz!" A man spoke in dispassionate tones. Fromthe hands of another man a match spluttered and flared.
"A cop! Where's 'is mate?" One of the trio spoke eagerly, hissmall eyes darting from side to side of the alley-wayinquisitively. "Blarst! Th' tike's alone!"
For a moment there was a hesitation, then in ominous silencethe three men drew closer. Oliver tensed himself; almost hesensed the death menace in their slow, poised, movements. Again aman struck a match—now close to the secret agent'sface.
"A gig—an' lonesome." A harsh laugh came from the group."Look at 'is buttons—an' 'is belt!"
Now Oliver Manx knew what had betrayed him to the keen eyes ofthe gangsters. Some flicker of light had illuminated eitherbuttons or belt. Mechanically he moved a step to oneside—and the three men moved with him, in silence.
"Wot a lark—A bull bum alone!" The man who had struck hematches giggled. A shrill whistle rent the night air. From fardistance it was immediately repeated. The 'Loo was awakening, andto a copper-hunt, the rarest enjoyment they could mentalise.Suddenly Oliver Manx lashed put with his fists, striking rightand left, thrusting himself forward with the added impulse of afoot against the fence. The men, taken unawares, gave ground. Hefelt the impact of fist against flesh, and heard a disgruntledgrunt. One of the men fell backward suddenly, across thealleyway, swearing foully. Into the opening in the ranks he leftOliver Manx drove fiercely. He was free for the moment, thethreatened attack disorganised. Wheeling sharply, he ran up thealley-way in the direction from which he had come.
Turning into the narrow road, he collided heavily with arunning man, and staggered back. Again he drove forward, hittingheavily with flailing fists. The rough, slight of build, gave waybefore his rush. Immediately Oliver Manx sped on through thenight.
Shrill whistles were sounding on all sides now. Woolloomooloowas awake for the chase. He heard heavy boots pounding thepavements, the slither of slippered feet. Below the shrillness ofthe whistling he sensed the low hum of voices, the subtlerumbling of the hunters.
He came into Pelton Street—wide and well-filled withhumanity, dodging from the pavement into the roadway. A shoe,flung by a woman lounging in a doorway, caught him under his ear,staggering him for the moment. As he faltered, a shrill whoopeebroke the hum of voices. A youth, little more than a lad, dovefor his legs. He countered with an upthrust knee that connectedwith his assailant's chin, rolling him, cursing, into the filthof the gutter. As he lunged forward again sinewy arms wrappedaround his throat.
He had failed; here was the finish. For a second he relaxed,then all fighting instincts, returned with renewed force. Hetensed, bent suddenly, taking the man unawares, and pitched himclean over his head.
His own sudden movement sent him staggering forward, almostonto the fallen man. He jumped, barely missing the outflung handsclutching for his legs. For a moment the road before him wasclear, yet he realised that the human wolves were closing fast onhim. He sped forward, elbows pressed to his panting sides, fixeddetermination in every tensed muscle.
He swung to the right, into Lant Row, to find it strangelyempty. Fifty yards along he came to the entrance to the alley inwhich the gangsters had surprised him, and turned into it. Pastthe brick wall of the flanking house he came to the wooden fence.His fingers brushed over the slats, counting the doorways. At thethird he halted and looked back. There was no-one in sight. Hepressed closer against the woodwork, feeling for a length ofstring that worked the latch. For a second there was a lighteningof the darkness before him; then he swung the door shut, leaningagainst it in utter exhaustion.
The house before him was in darkness. Picking a careful paththrough the rubbish that littered the yard, the secret agent cameto the house wall. A few moments and he found the door. It gaveunder his hand, and he slunk into the dark passage. Steppingforward slowly, his fingers trailing on the left wall, he came toa door. A key from his pocket opened it. The door closed behindhim, with the click of a spring lock. He had found sanctuary!
For long minutes he leaned against the door, allowing hissenses to dull again from the frenzied excitement of the pastminutes. Then he pulled a box of matches from his pocket and litthe gas bracket, hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Thesudden flare of light blinded, him for the moment, yet swiftly hecommenced to strip the uniform from his body. In thewall-cupboard he found a gaudy suit of pyjamas and donned themhastily. When in them the upright, drilled aspect of theuniformed man fell from him and in its place came the likeness ofa slouching, evil-faced gangster.
On the dressing-table, composed of an old packing-case coveredwith faded-patterned cretonne, was a twist of tobacco and somepapers. Steadying his jumping nerves, Oliver Manx rolled acigarette, and, with it dangling from his loosened lips, went tothe bed. He slipped between the coarse sheets as sounds of bootscame from the passage without the door.
"YER there, Joe?"
The shuffling footsteps had halted at the door of the room.Oliver Manx sensed the presence of more than one man outside thedoor. He remained silent. A drumming of fingertips came from apanel of the door. Again came the question:
"Yer ther', Joe?"
Still the secret agent made no reply. He knew the voice camefrom Mart Deeling, the tenant of the house, and his landlord.Mart owned the shop that faced on to Wellsome Street—a shopthat was a place of strange lumber, covered with the dust ofyears. Mart was a fence, one of the cleverest in the city. Onlyonce, many years previous, had he been in the hands of thepolice. Now he protested with voluble regrets at the lapse of hisearlier years; yet carried on his illegal trade amid opensuspicion that never formulated into evidence.
"'E ain't ther'." Mart's voice sounded through the thin panelsof the door. "Cum t' thing o' it, I ain't seed 'im fer days. Gornover th' 'ills, maybe."
Another voice rumbled. Oliver Manx could not distinguish thewords. "I tells yer, 'e ain't," protested Mart shrilly.
"Open the door," a third voice commanded abruptly. "I want tosee this Joe Kline—get me?"
The secret agent started, rolled restlessly on the scantypillow, tossing with his feet the thin covers. He had to make itappear he had been in bed for some time.
"Joe won't like it," protested the old fence. "If'e—"
"Who matters—this Joe Kline or I?"
Oliver Manx wondered. Who was this man who dominated sothoroughly the old fence. His speech showed signs of education.Had he ever met the man. From the words used he believed not, yetsomething in the tone seemed familiar. The "Unknown" wanted tosee him! Well—he wanted to see the "Unknown." His curiositywas well aroused.
The soft click of metal on metal sounded at the door. Oliversmiled secretly. Evidently Mart Deeling owned a key to his room,although when he had rented it the old man had protested volublythat he was handing over the only two keys that fitted the lock.For a long time the secret agent had suspected that the fencecould enter his room when he chose. He cared little for that.There was nothing there that could betray him, except—
Except that sliding panel in the wainscoting which he hadspent days constructing—the panel behind the bed. There laythe clothes and makeup of Joe Kline—And on the chair in thecentre of the room was the constable's uniform. Oliver Manxcursed himself for a fool!
"War's th' matter?" he growled sleepily, on impulse. "Who'sther'?"
The key, almost connecting the wards of the lock, was hastilywithdrawn.
Again came Mart's oily voice.
"Yer ther', Joe?"
"Wot ov it?" Oliver grumbled. "Carn't a man 'ave 'is sleep artwi'out sumun rousin' th' place on 'im?"
"Sorry, Joe." The fence's voice was ingratiating! "Thought yerwasn't in!"
"Well, I is in! Wot ov it?"
"'Ere's a gent as wanta see yer."
"'E can want. Getter 'ell out ov it!"
He forced a great creaking of the bed, as if he turned,composing, himself for slumber again.
"Here! Wake up, Kline! Open this door!" The third man spoke,commandingly.
"W'oos yer?" the secret agent grumbled. "Wotya want?"
"I want you. Tumble out there, or I'll burst the door in."
Oliver Manx was thinking quickly. What was he to do? If heopened the door the man would come into the room. They could notmiss seeing the patrolman's uniform on the chair. They wouldconceive suspicions, ask questions. He could not afford to havesuspicion directed against "Joe Kline," "snow" addict, pettythief and underworld degenerate.
Yet, if he refused to open the door, this unknown man wouldburst it in. Then the men—he believed there were many inthe passage—would stream into the room and search it. Thatwould be still more dangerous.
"Youse ther', Mart?" He yawned loudly, stretching until thebed creaked protestingly. "W'oos th' big noise wi' yer?"
He was out of bed now, groping for the secret panel in thewainscoting, and the safety that lay behind it. Now he had thepanel open, and his fingers clutched the bundle of rags thatformed the outer covering of Joe Kline. He dragged them out,loosened the cord that held them together, scattering them on thefloor. Again he reached into the cavity behind thepanel—for the tin box he knew was there.
"Never mind about Mart Deeling," the masterful voice spoke."You're dealing with me—and I don't appreciate being keptwaiting."
"Kinder boss, ain't yer!" Oliver Manx spoke derisively. "Ah!I'll 'umor yer! 'ol' yer kick till I get m' bloomers on."
The red towselled wig was now on his head and the coarse, worntrousers in his hand, pulling them over his pyjama'd legs.Fumbling forward, he reached for the matches he had left on thedressing-table. He struck a light, knowing well it would reflectinto the passage under the ill-fitting door—anddeliberately allowed it to go out; at the same time seizing theconstable's garments and jerking them under the bed. Again hestruck a match, and this time applied it to the hissinggas-jet.
As he lurched towards the door he stumbled into the chair andsent it hurtling in the direction of the bed.
"Now—Hurry up there!" The big voice spokeimpatiently.
Oliver Manx turned the knob of the lock and drew the door opena couple of inches. In the passage he could see the dim forms ofmany men. Standing close to the door, and partially illuminatedby the light from the room, was a big, massive man, dressed in adark suit and with a bowler hat set at a rakish angle on a roundbullet head. From between the thin lips protruded a cigar, theend glowing redly.
"So you're Joe Kline." The big man thrust his head forward,peering at Oliver Manx. "Joe Kline! I don't remember you!"
"Why sh'ud yer." The secret agent spoke aggressively. "I don'trun 'yer lay."
"What's my lay?" The red of the cigar jerked sharply.
"Dunno. Don' care!" Oliver Manx let the door slip slightlymore open, lounging against the doorpost in the gap.
"Wotya wan'?"
"Just to make your acquaintance." The big man laughed harshly."So you're Joe Kline! I've heard of you."
"'Ave yer." The secret agent spat carelessly into the passageat the man's feet. "Nuffink goo', I serp'se. Yer kin' wouldn't.Wot are yer—a nark?"
The big man lurched forward suddenly—aggressively; thenstayed the hand he had raised. He laughed shortly. "Not veryhospitable, are you?" he taunted. "Thought you'd ask a visitor inand give him a chair."
"I likes vis'ters at vis'tin' times," Oliver Manx grumbled,still watching the man carefully. "Nine o'clock."
The big man jerked, his raised arm so that the light of hishard-pulled cigar illuminated the dial of his wrist watch.
"You're early to bed?"
"Wot ov that?" The secret agent drew back reluctantly. "Comein, if yer wanta. Say, wanta pack wi' yer? Arl ov yervis'tin'?"
The big man had pushed into the room, glancing about himinquisitively. He turned at the secret agent's question.
"Get out, Mart—and you, too, Bill. I'll talk to thisbird alone."
Reluctantly the old fence, half-way through the door-way,withdrew, muttering some unintelligible protest. Oliver Manxflung the door shut and went to his bed, grumbling in anundertone. The big man picked the overturned chair and seatedhimself.
"Well, wot's th' gab?" asked Oliver.
"Just visiting—as you put it." The big man paused."What's that, under the bed?"
The secret agent looked down. From under the bed protruded theleg of the trousers of the constable's uniform. With an effort herepressed a start, then kicked the garment carelessly.
"Me other suit."
"And you keep it under your bed?"
"Mart don' run t' fancy trimmin's in 'is rooms." The secretagent laughed shortly; yet his heart was thumping wildly. Had theman noticed the official blue of the uniform? He thought not.Lolling back on the pillow, he added: "I keeps it und'r me bed'cos I didn' put it in th' war'robe. Any objecshuns?"
"None whatever; if it pleases you. Now, what's your lay?"
"Meanin'?"
"You know what I mean; Cough it up quickly."
"Why sh'ud I? W'oor yer?"
"Alec Grosse is my name. Heard of me?"
"Nope."
"Then you don't work hereabouts?"
Oliver Manx did not answer.
"You don't work about, here, then?" repeated Grosse. "Got atongue?"
"I works w'ere I likes," grumbled the secret agent angrily."Wot's that t'yer?"
"Just what I choose it to be." The big man paused. "What'syour lay?"
"Wot's yers?"
"Ask Mart; he may choose to answer. I'll tell you this much;it'll pay you to answer my questions."
"I ain't no runner."
"No; you're a sniffer. Where do you get it?"
"I ain't tellin'."
"Then you'll get no more round the 'Loo, or elsewhere. Getthat?"
"So yer ses."
"And what I says goes." The big man rose to his feet. "JoeKline—if that's your name—"
"An' wot's it ter yer if it ain't?" demanded Oliver Manxaggressively. "Them as asks queshuns roun' 'ere—"
"I know all about that," interrupted Grosse. "Now, just youask a few questions of Mart, and others—and then see meto-morrow morning, at ten."
"Where?"
"That's one of the questions you can ask Mart—andothers. I'm not difficult to find—to those on the up andup. Maybe I'll have a job for you."
"I ain't lookin' fer tricks."
"That's my lookout, not yours." Grosse went to the door, thenturned suddenly, "Seen to-night's paper?"
"Nope." Oliver Manx shook his head.
"Then you know nothing of the shooting in Pitt Street thisafternoon?"
Oliver Manx's heart missed a beat in surprise. For a moment hestared blankly at the man. Had he chanced on a clue to hisassailant? Then—to his mind flashed the story of thekilling of "Babe" Shaver he had read that morning. Had thisman—? No, he was not the cold killer type; he was thedirecting brain:—not the Hand.
"Wotter yer?" The secret agent sprang to his feet, feigningterror mingled with anger. "Yer not a—a—Yer nota—Johnny Law?"
Grosse laughed.
Oliver Manx sprang to his feet, calling loudly for MartDeeling. He believed the old fence was not far away. Grosse tooka couple of quick steps across the room and shoved him back onthe bed, a big hand against his chest.
"Mart! Mart!—A dick—'ere!'—'elp!'elp!"
"Shut your trap." The man's big fingers, came up, closingrelentlessly over Oliver Manx's lips. "I'm no sugar-cop."
"Then wota yer?" Oliver Manx squirmed from under the man'sloosened grip. "'Ere. I've no truck wi' yer. Yer' ain't'onest!"
Again Grosse laughed; more good-humouredly this time.
"You're getting it straight, Joe; and you've got your orders.I'll look out for you to-morrow at ten. Understand? If you don'tturn up—I'll—send—for—you."
A sinister threat lay behind the closing words, and a shiverran down the secret agent's spine. Before he could voice aquestion, the man passed out of the room, closing the door behindhim. For long minutes Oliver Manx lay on the ground close to thedoor, listening to the man's footsteps receding along the passagetoward the shop. He heard the sound of voices in the distance,but could not catch the words. Then came the closing of adoor—he believed it to be the shop door, and silence.
The man had gone, and without one word to explain the reasonfor his visit. There only remained the order for the nextday—an order backed by a threat unspoken that made himshiver.
Alec Grosse. The secret agent ran over the names of those heremembered to be under suspicion. Carefully he detailed thephysical points of the man. He could not connect him with anyonewho had come into his work. Yet the man was a crook. There couldbe no doubt of, that. He had subtly reacted when Oliver Manx hadforced on him the fact that he was a crook—a straightcrook.
He stood up, reaching for the knob of the lock. He almostturned it, to go in search of Mart Deeling. The old fence knewthis man, Grosse, well, that was certain. He had not come to theroom when he was called—and the man denounced as apolice-spy.
And he was to see the man on the morrow. For what reason?Grosse had said that he had work for him, but he had not saidwhat kind of work. He had spoken of the shooting that afternoon!What did the big gangster know of that?
Had he stumbled, by chance—while a fugitive fromgangland—on the very man he had searched for, long andvainly, through the ordinary investigation channels? He believedso. He believed that Grosse was one of the heads of theorganisation that was fast binding the gangsters of Darlinghurstand the surrounding districts into an organised body for thelooting of the city. One of the heads, only. The dome-like baldhead of the man in the Pitt Street office rose before the secretagent's mental eye. Archibald—Maurice Archibald appearedmore likely to be the supreme head. Yet—
What had he on the manager of the Kahm Syndicate? Only that hewas the visible head of the mysterious, strangely-namedsyndicate, occupying magnificent offices in the heart of thecity; conducting a business he could not fathom.
His suspicions were nebulous; his facts on which they werebuilt mere conjectures. How had he placed the men? Archibald, thebrain, lurking amid luxury in a city office; Grosse, theorganiser, directing the working of the schemes Archibaldevolved, in the heart of gangland. Yes, that was a reasonabletheory. But he had to connect the two men—at the moment hehad no evidence that they were even acquainted.
Grosse and Archibald! Archibald and Grosse! And—he hadan appointment with Grosse for the next day. What was he to learnthen? Grosse had only made the appointment when he was convincedthat Joe Kline was a crook, a drug-addict—that he was acrook that would serve some unrevealed purpose.
Filled with thoughts, chaotic and illusionary, Oliver Manxcrept into bed. Then he remembered. Almost he had destroyed, by amoment of carelessness, the work of months spent in building upthe character of Joe Kline, crook, "snow" addict, and acceptedmember of Sydney's underworld.
Crawling out of bed he withdrew from behind the secret panelthe tin box containing the Joe Kline makeup. The lid of the boxopened to show a fine mirror. Setting the box on thedressing-table, he sat before it and carefully fixed the red wig.Very carefully he worked on his face. A few lines and wrinkles,meticulously drawn, a little stain colouring; more than anythingelse, a change of poise and that inner thought that reflects onthe whole physical aspect—and Joe Kline lived again.
While he worked his thoughts were busy. Grosse had seen himwithout make-up, only the flaring red wig perched on his head.Throughout the interview Oliver Manx had been careful that themaster-crook should not get a square look at his face. Would herecognise him again—recognise him as the man he had visitedin the dingy lodging house? He believed he was safe. The disguisewas slight—yet all sufficient.
Very carefully he restored the tin box to its place in thecavity, behind the secret panel. Tying up the uniform in acompact bundle, he thrust it into the cavity. He would have toget rid of that the next day; either return it to Headquarters ordispose of it—outside of Woolloomooloo. It was dangerous toretain it. Already the tale had spread through thequarter—that a flattie had ventured into the heart of the'Loo alone. For days every man, woman and child in Woolloomooloowould be on the watch for that man.
Another very careful search of his room, for evidence that hewas not the crook and drug-fiend he posed to be, and Oliver Manxcrept into his scanty bed. For long minutes he lay pondering themany problems that crowded his mind—and at every turn ofthought he came up against the massive, aggressive figure of thegangster Grosse; the large, ruddy, pugnacious face, the coarseskin almost scraped from it by the unmercifully wielded razor,the small, keen eyes, the pointed, discoloured teeth grippingwith brutal violence the large, rank cigar. AlecGrosse—Alec Grosse—Who was Alec Grosse—and whatpower did he wield in that underworld that he, Oliver Manx, wasdeputed to investigate and destroy. Alec Grosse—
The sun was streaming into the small, dirty room behindthe junk shop occupied by Mart Deeling when Oliver Manx, aliasJoe Kline, awoke the next morning. He awoke quietly, instantly,with the stillness and alertness of those lone hunted. For longmoments he lay inert, peering from under half-closed eyelidsabout his room—and no watcher could have declared themoment when consciousness came. He lay watching long after he wasconvinced that he was alone; watching the play of the sunlight onthe floor from the big, burning globe just peering over the tallbuildings lining the ridge of Darlinghurst, streaming overWoolloomooloo. He watched the closed door, held by a spring lock,through which his strange visitor from those who ruled theunderworld had passed the previous evening. His eyes, unclosing alittle more, passed from article to article of the furniture ofthe room and came to the bed, searching idly the tumbledcovers.
Oliver Manx sat up suddenly, his breath catching in histhroat, his eyes staring down at the grey-whiteness of thecounterpane. Someone had been in his room the previousnight—after he had closed the door on the gangster. Someonehad been there unknown to him—and he, who prided himself onhis alertness, asleep or awake, had not heard them.
On the counterpane was pinned a letter. Again the secret agentstared at it incredulously. Slowly he reached out a hand to it,then withdrew it. Careful not to disturb the covers, he drew uphis legs and, raising the bedclothes on one side—slippedout of bed. Almost without any disturbance of the bedclothes, hewas on the floor.
The chill air of early-morning clasped shivery fingers on hisbed-warm flesh. Yet he did not notice the cold. His wholeinterest was centred on that scrap of paper in the envelopepinned to his cover. Bending over the bed, but careful not totouch it with any portion of his body, he scanned the envelope.It was addressed to him. He turned sharply and went to thedoor.
The lock-bolt was shot home and the catch up, as he had leftit the previous night. No one could have come in that way; ofthat he was certain. Yet, why certain? Mart Deeling had a keythat would fit the lock; that had been proved the previous night.But the catch was up, holding the lock-bolt in place. That couldbe managed by one who understood locks. He knew that trick!
A shrug, and he returned to the bed, unpinning the envelopeand again examining it carefully. It was addressed to "JoeKline," and the last word was followed by an exclamation mark.Then the person who had addressed that envelope had known it wasan assumed name. Did he know his real name—or, was it awoman who had written that letter? That was possible! Oliver Manxdid not profess to be a handwriting expert, but he thought thewriting more feminine than male.
Dropping the letter on the bed, unopened, Oliver Manx went tothe wall cupboard. From a top-shelf he brought a small box andplaced it beside the letter on the bed. The box open, he drewfrom it a small, powerful magnifying glass and scanned the letterfor fingerprints. There were none! Then, how had the letter beenpinned to the bed-clothes; surely it must have been handled.
A few specks of white paper on the dinginess of thecounterpane caught his eyes. The secret agent examined themthrough the glass carefully. Suddenly he smiled. The letter hadbeen covered with a piece of paper while it was held for pinningto the bed-clothes. The paper had been caught by the pin and tornaway, leaving a few fragments under the letter.
He picked up the letter and withdrew the contents, handling itcarelessly. He was dealing with someone who knew the value offingerprints. There would be none on this letter. In the envelopewas a single sheet of paper. It bore no address or date, and buta few lines of writing. Oliver Manx whistled softly as he readthe words:
Dear Joe Kline! (again the exclamationmark).—You are really interesting—almost asinteresting as Alec Grosse, whom I believe you are to interviewat ten o'clock to-day. I shall be at the corner of Maling andWilliam-streets, on the north pavement, at noon, to receive yourreport. Please do not fail me, or—You know Mr. Alec Grosseis very anxious to learn your real history.
The letter was signed twice, once with a remarkablyclever drawing of a cat's head, and the second time in words:"The Grey Cat."
WHO was the Grey Cat? For long moments OliverManx sat on his bed pondering the question. The Grey Cat knew ofthe interview between himself and Alec Grosse, in that room theprevious evening. The Grey Cat knew his real identity—theexclamation marks after his name were far too suggestive for hiscomfort.
A little shiver ran down the secret agent's spine. He hadreceived orders to interview the master-gangster that morning,possibly in reference to some devilry for which the manconsidered him particularly adapted. He had now received ordersto meet the Grey Cat at noon, to make a report of his interviewwith the master-gangster.
Who was the Grey Cat?
Again Oliver Manx bent over the single sheet of notepaper. Thebig, angular characters were suggestive of a woman; still moresuggestive were the exclamation marks.
Exclamation marks, were not common signs for an averageletter-writer to use. They are far more the marks in use bycreative writers—even the journalist, who is in main fact,more a recorder than a writer, makes little use of them. Againthe secret agent studied the handwriting. Now he was certain thatthe note had been written by a woman—and one with more thanaverage education.
Who was the Grey Cat? With tense concentration Oliver Manxwent over the names and personalities of those he had met in hissearch for the rulers of Sydney's new underworld. Although manywomen were under his suspicion of being affiliated to the neworganisation, he could not pick one to whom he could attributethis letter.
Replacing the letter in its envelope he stowed both away inhis pocket; then devoted his attention to recreating thecharacter of Joe Kline. He realised, that before him during thenext half-dozen hours lay the 'supreme test' of his disguise. Ifhe passed muster with Alec Grosse, he might penetrate far towardsthe solution of the problems before him. He thought he couldsatisfy Grosse; the Character of Joe Kline, snow-addict and cheapcrook, had been built up with much care and thought. Except inconnection with this episode of the Grey Cat, he believed hisimpersonation to be impregnable.
If he satisfied the master-gangster and won for himself aplace in the organisation for the control of the underworld hebelieved was being constructed in the Three Districts, he stillhad the Grey Cat to deal with. How could he contend with her? Hedid not believe she would be satisfied with anything less than acomplete account of his interview with Grosse, supported by whatproofs she chose to demand.
Oliver Manx finished his dressing and stood before the smallmirror perched precariously on the packing-case that served for adressing-table, surveying his handiwork. It was good, he admittedthat to himself. Then he turned to his pockets, noting thateverything he was likely to need while he was absent from hisroom was in place. Next he turned to the room itself; going overit scrupulously, packing into the secret receptacle behind thebed, anything that might give cause for suspicion, if the roomwas searched in his absence. Searched it would be, he was certainof that. He believed that Mart Deeling, or one of his associates,would go over the room carefully immediately he left it; that afull report of all it contained would be in the master-gangster'shands, before even he interviewed him.
At length, satisfied that he had safeguarded everythingpossible, he went to the door and examined the fastenings. Againhis brows wrinkled in thought. The door was safe—no onecould have passed into the room through the doorway during thenight. Yet the Grey Cat had been in his room and had pinned anote to his bedclothes.
A sudden thought came to his mind. Very carefully, he passedover the walls of the room, moving out the furniture into thecentre of the room so that his inspection could be the morecomplete. Nowhere could he find any signs of a secret door. Yet,with that note on his bed, there must be some way into that roomthan through the door—unless, and that was the onlypossibility, the Grey Cat could claim the confidence andassistance of Mart Deeling.
Again he frowned, swearing to himself that before anothernight passed he would hold the secret.
Again he examined the door carefully before opening it.Lurching into the passage he called impatiently for Mart Deeling.He heard a querulous voice muttering in one of the front rooms,and grinned. The old fence did not like being disturbed at thathour of the morning. Yet it was for that purpose, for the purposeof awakening Mart Deeling out of his sleep and questioning himbefore his senses were fully alert, that Oliver Manx had risenearly.
"Mart! Mart! Where th' 'ell are yer?" The thin, irritatingvoice of Joe Kline, rang through the passage. "Wother 'ell d' yerkeep a bloke waitin' fer?"
An unkempt, dirty head poked from a door some way up the dingypassage. Two suspicious eyes gleamed in the semi-darkness.
"Wot's bit yer, Joe? No, I ain't gotner sniff. Get backterbed, can't 'yer?"
"Don't wanner sniff." Oliver Manx stimulated the manner of aman who had had his morning dose. "Yer got yer orders. Wottergrousin' abart?"
"Wot orders?" The shaggy head came forward into the passage,followed by a long, goose-flesh neck. "Wot th' Big Boy sed, blastyer!" The secret agent lurched down the passage aggressively."Wotter yer keepin' me waitin' fer?"
"Ther's lots'r time," grumbled the old fence. His eyessearched the man in the passage suspiciously. "Wotter yerknockin' so early fer?".
"Cut it!" Another lurch brought Oliver Manx close to the door.He stretched out his arm suddenly, fastening his fingers on theback of the out-thrust head and dragging the fence into thepassage. He released him suddenly and leaned back against thewall, roaring with uncontrolled laughter.
"Wotter sight!" he chortled, and his laughter was real, notassumed. "Mart's gotter nightie on—a real tart's nightie.Lor', Mart, wot's yer fancy got—one leg o' yer 'jamas?" Heturned to the stairs, bellowing up them. "Hey, boys! Cummon! Seeall th' sights an' nuffin' ter pay—Mart's in a skirt'sfancy frills, an' showin' 'is 'airy bussum! 'ere! Cummon, an''ave a wink!"
Again he lurched on, this time catching the fence in fullflight to his room and driving him along the passage. There wascause for Oliver Manx's merriment. Mart Deeling was clad in arobe that had once graced the night-chamber of a society dame.Now dirty and torn, the low-cut neck and ornately ornamentedbodice and sleeves were supremely ridiculous on the fence'sscraggy figure, surmounted by his thin, straggling, grey beard andwhiskers. The full train of the robe swept the filthypassage-floor, at times revealing the malformed toes of the oldman.
"Chuck it, Joe!" Mart Deeling huddled the voluminous folds ofthe robe about his scanty figure. "Yer shot full, y'are. Take arest or it'll bring yer t' trouble."
"Wot if I is shot?" The secret agent turned sharply on the oldman, his hand slipping to where his gun hung in the shoulderholster under his left arm. "Wot's that t'youse?"
"Nothin', Joe." The fence spoke placatingly. "Nothin', me boy;only I don't want yer in trouble."
"Who'll trouble me?" The gun was now in Oliver Manx's fingers,wavering under the old man's fascinated gaze. "I—I'll shoo'th' dam'd cows—I—I'll—"
Deeling suddenly turned and bolted into his room, turningswiftly and slamming the door shut. The secret agent heard thekey turn in the lock.
Keeping up the pretence of being drug-mad, he lurched to thedoor, and hammered on the panels with the gun-butt.
"Cum outer ther'," he shouted. "Cum outer ther', or I'll shootth' —— lock orf!"
"Put th' gun away, Joe." The old fence's quivering toneshardly penetrated the wood of the door. "I ain't goin' ter besho' up w'en yer 'op-headed."
Oliver Manx smiled secretly in the darkness of the passage. Hehad Mart Deeling just where he wanted him. With the first wordsthe old man had spoken that morning he had understood that he wasnot to be given Alec Grosse's address until just before the hourfor the interview. At this moment the old fence was stalling fortime, yet terrified out of his wits. The old man had to be forcedto speak, and at once. It did not suit the agent's plans to haveto hang about the house until Mart thought it was time to pass onthe instructions he had received.
Oliver Manx wanted time to survey the surroundings in which hewas to interview the master-gangster—time to plan for anyeventuality that might occur.
"Cum outer ther'!" he shouted, hammering anew at the panels ofthe door. "Blast yer, won' yer under-stan'? I gotter int'view agen'lemun an' I wanter 'is address."
"Ther's 'eaps o' time, Joe." The quivering accents camethrough the door.
"Ther' ain't!" Oliver Manx laughed shrilly, keeping up acontinual drumming on the door. Already other boarders were onthe stairs, all interested in an impersonal manner in the comedybeing played out in the passage. The secret agent sensed thatthey would not interfere. Mart Deeling was not too popular,especially among his roomers.
"Watch it, Mart; I'm countin' ten an' if I don' get th' layoutthen I'll blow th'—" He finished the sentence with a streamof profanity that showed how earnest a student he had been ofWoolloomooloo customs and speech.
"Alri', Joe." Mart Deeling capitulated. The key gratedreluctantly in the lock, yet the door did not immediately open."Put away yer gun, Joe; yer don' wan' it, an' it'sdangerous."
"Alri'!" Oliver Manx spoke as one making a big concession."Yer show up an' par' wi' wot I wan' an' ther'll be no trouble.See?"
It was a signed and sealed armistice. The door reluctantlyopened. Mart Deeling's head came into the secret agent's view,peering suspiciously through a crack barely wide enough for thetwo eyes.
"Yer oughter be careful, Joe." The door opened a fraction morewhen the old fence saw that the gun was no longer in sight."Ther's 'eaps o' time for yer; w'y, it ain't nine yet—An' Iwos just goin' ter cook yer a nice steak affore yer went t'Alec's. Now, be a good boy an' go an' lie down fer 'arf-a-'ouran' I'll get yer brekfust an' then tell yer th' lay-ou' fer th'mornin'."
"Cut it!" Oliver Manx's hand moved suggestively towards hisarmpit. "I don' wanner yer steak—I can buy wot Iwan'—see." His hand dove into his trousers' pocket, comingout clutching a handful of silver. "I buy me brekfust w'er' itwon' choke me. Get that? Now, choke up!"
For a moment the old man's eyes were steady, then wavereduncertainly. Oliver Manx smiled to himself. The man was about togive way to his insistence; too scared to longer hold out againsthis fixed, drug-strengthened importunity. Again he lurchedforward, moving in an ungainly manner, yet too swiftly for theold man to avoid him. He caught the fence by his throat, forcinghim back into his room; then kicked the door shut.
The secret agent glanced about him curiously. The room wassmall and without a single window. On one side was a door, partlyopen, and beyond it he could see the interior of the shop, thefront door and the fanlight above it, still tightly closed. Theatmosphere of the room almost choked him, the foetid stench ofstale humanity, fostered through the long night hours, made himretch.
Against one wall of the room stood a narrow iron cot, verysimilar to the one in his own room. On the opposite side of thechamber was a bare kitchen table, liberally bespattered withgrease. On it stood a small kerosene stove, and around the edgesof the table hung from rusty nails a strange collection ofdecrepit cooking utensils. In the corners of the room were piledtall collections of wearing apparel, and apparently from one ofthese heaps old Mart had garnered his present night apparel. Fromthe centre of the blackened, peeling ceiling depended agas-bracket, ending in a single jet, now lighted and emitting afeeble glow and hiss, as if at protest at being alight at thathour of the daylight. So far as Oliver Manx could see, the onlyarticle of value in the room was a solid steel safe, before whichlay a high pile of clothing and other linen. From the position ofthings it was apparent that most of the time the safe was hiddenunder the cast-off goods.
"Well? Spit it out!" The secret agent advanced further intothe room, the old man retreating hastily before him, until hestumbled over the tail of his night-robe and fell sprawling onthe bed. "I ain't got all th' day fer yer."
"Th' Big Boy sed as I warn't ter tell yer till aquar'r-t'-ten," mumbled the old fence, feeling his throattenderly.
"An' I ses—" The secret agent made a motion towards hisgun.
"'E'll kill me!" Mart Deeling lay on the bed whimpering. "Joe,I dare-sent.'E'd kill me!"'
"'E ain't 'ere;" Oliver Manx laughed, trying to appear fullyshot with the dope. "An' I'm 'ere—an' wi' a littlepers'ader as yer know orfs. Get me, Mart?. Yer ain't 'oldin outon me. I ain't fergot las' ni', an' th' key as yer swore yer'adn't—An' ther's them abart as 'ud wanter know—" Thesecret agent's voice dropped to a lower and threatening tone."—ther's them in t'is 'ouse as 'ud like ter knows as t'erdoss is search'd w'en they isn't in." He paused a moment, thencontinued: "I don't say as I've missed anythink, bu' I migh''ave—an' if I tells th' boys abart th' keys an'—"
Behind his front of intense drug-egotism, Oliver Manx had beenwatching the old fence keenly. He had seen the small, cunningeyes wander to the head of the bed when he mentioned the keys tothe various lodgers' rooms. Suddenly he dived for the bed,throwing the old man roughly aside. From under the dingy pillowshe brought out a large bunch of keys and pitched them on thefloor in the middle of the room.
"An' yer can' say as yer 'aven't got 'em," he concluded. "Yer—— nark!"
"I ain't," wailed Mart Deeling, almost crying, a patheticfigure of humour as he squatted on the foot of his bed, wrappedin the once-white discarded night-robe of some fashion dame. "Yerwon' giv' me away to th' boys, Joe?"
"Wot's th' Big Boy's 'ang-out?"
"Yer won' git ther till fiv' min'tes ter ten, Joe?"
"I ain't givin' yer away."
Mart Deeling leaned forward whispering, his eyes darting fromside to side, in mortal terror of being overheard. Oliver Manxnodded.
"An' yer won' tell th' boys abart th' keys, Joe," continuedthe old fence.
"W'ere's mine?"
Cringingly, the old man brought the keys to the bed anddetached one from the bunch. He held it out, hesitatingly.
"I ain't used it never, Joe, 'onest, I ain't."
Oliver Manx slipped the key into his pocket and turned to thedoor. There he hesitated, half turning. Was it safe to leave theold man free? It was probable that, once he had left the roomMart Deeling would take some means to communicate with AlecGrosse, informing. him of the scene in that room. But would themaster-gangster accept, any explanation the rascally fence choseto make for disobeying his instructions not to reveal the addressof the meeting-place until close on the appointed hour?
Oliver Manx did not think so. He believed that the Big Boywould turn on the old man angrily for disobeying definiteinstructions. He would not care one iota if the old man had hadto take a beating up in defence of the instructions he hadreceived—all he would understand was that he had beendisobeyed.
He could not strike down the old man in cold blood, yet hisfingers strayed to the butt of the gun in the shoulder-holster,beneath his vest. He could threaten, but would those threats haveany effect when he had left the old man. Would not Mart Deelingconsider what effect his statement would have on themaster-crook, and act accordingly? If he thought he could getaway with some tale that would put "Joe Kline" in bad, withoutbetraying himself, surely he would consider some revenge for thebullying he had sustained that morning.
Still, there was another way. Suddenly he turned on the oldman sitting, on the edge of the bed in his grotesque costume,furtively watching him.
"Git over ther'!" Oliver Manx pointed to the kitchen tableagainst the opposite wall.' "Git 'ol 'ov that pen an' a piece ovpaper. Now write. Quick, I ses! Writ' as 'ow yer've search'd th'boys' dosses an' that yer've got spare keys ter th'r''rooms,—w'en yer sed as yer 'adn't; Git on! Writ', yertoad! Quick!"
"I daresent, Joe! I daresent!" the old fence wailed; yet hewent across to the table and drew out the chair before it.
"Yer'll writ', or—" Suggestively the secret agentallowed the butt of his gun to peep from under his vest. "Writ',I ses; damn yer! Quick!"
Still Mart Deeling hesitated. Oliver Manx brought the gunfully into sight, reversing it in his hand, to use as a bludgeon,and handling it suggestively.
"Don't, Joe. I'll write." The old man was trembling withterror. Hastily he scrawled a few lines on the paper and backedfrom the table. Oliver Manx stepped nearer as the old manretreated, and scanned the writing. "Alri'." He caught up thepaper and backed to the door. "Now, keep yer trap shut, an' Iwon't say nuffink. Blab a word an' th' boys'll fin' thisan'—"
He opened the door and glanced into the dim-lit passage. Themen who had congregated on the stairs were not there now. Anotherglance at the old fence, watching him furtively, and he suddenlyslammed the door shut.
For a moment he considered. It would be unsafe to carry thepaper on him through his visit to Alec Grosse. More than likelythe old fence was now crouching at the door of his room, intenton learning what he proposed to do with it. If he took it withhim, it was probable that Deeling would send some tale to themaster-gangster that would cause him to be detained and searched.The paper would mean nothing to Grosse.
He must hide the paper; put it in some place where it would besafe for the time, but where a whispered word would carry to thathouse, to the man in the room upstairs. He must put it where theycould find it without much difficulty. Thoughtfully he went downthe passage to his room and stared about it thoughtfully. Hecould place it in the secret receptacle behind the bed; but hedared not allow anyone to go there; that place contained too manysecrets dangerous to him. Then, where? He glanced round the room,puzzled. Then sudden thought came.
He went to the wall opposite the door and pinned the paper,writing facing the dingy wall-paper to the wall. Then, with acrayon he wrote some words on the back—a simple name andaddress, fictitious, but sufficient to satisfy anyone's curiositywho entered the room—if the old fence still possessed a keyto the lock. A moment's reflection and he nodded, satisfied. Thepaper would be safe there. It would be easily found, if he had tobetray the old fence for his personal security, or inrevenge.
Again he searched his room for any signs of his presence therethat would betray his identity as Joe Kline. He could findnothing amiss. He glanced at the paper on the wall again. Alreadyit had blended into part of the dismal room.
Listening at the door for a moment, he slipped out into thepassage and went to the door leading into the yard. There hepaused, glancing up at the face of the house. So far as he couldsee there was no-one at any of the windows watching him. He wentto the yard-gate and listened. He could hear no sounds from thealley-way on either side. Lifting the latch, he slipped furtivelyinto the alley, and, before closing the gate, again glanced up atthe windows.
He was free of the place. No-one had watched him go out of theyard from the windows, so far as he had seen. He had watched,more as a general precaution, for he had not thought that MartDeeling would go up to any of the roomers' rooms to watch him;for the time he would keep to the shop and his own room, untilthe events of the morning had faded from onlookers' recollection.Now, before him was his great adventure—the adventure hehad begun to believe would lead him to the heart of the mysteryhe had set out to uncover.
The mystery—the uncovering of the new crook kingdom thatwas being set up in the Three Districts. Who were its rulers, andwhat were their objectives? For the present he could onlyguess—he knew nothing. All he knew for certainty was thatorganised crime was on the increase, and a hundred times moredangerous than hitherto, in the Three Districts. He guessed thatthe Kahm Syndicate was in some measure mixed up with the neworganisation, and that Alec Grosse was one of its agents. AndAlec Grosse had come to him, seeking him for some unknownpurpose.
Alec Grosse had come to him! Why? In the light of day hediscounted the thought that the master-gangster had come to himbecause of the turmoil of the previous night. The man'sappearance in the fence's house had been too opportune for that.No, Alec Grosse had had some definite purpose in seeking out JoeKline. What could that purpose be?
Another element had entered into the maze of theories thatcluttered his mind—The Grey Cat! The woman who signedherself "The Grey Cat." Who was she, and for what purpose had shebeen watching happenings in Mart Deeling's filthy hovel. She hadwarned him that his secret belonged to her—that his safety,his very life, depended on his obedience to her orders. Were theGrey Cat and Alec Grosse connected in any way in the maze of theunderworld? That might be, but from the tone of the note he hadfound on his bed that morning he believed they were inopposition.
At his one meeting with Grosse the master-gangster had notmentioned the Grey Cat—yet the woman had shown her opencuriosity regarding the gangster. For a second he paused,standing on the edge of the pavement, staring abstractedly up anddown the street. He felt himself wandering in a maze, and hecould not even guess which of the avenues before him would leadto the solution he sought. He had to blunder on, marking eachpoint as it came under his observation; walking blindly along atrack abounding with dangers on every side, knowing that deathstalked beside him, grinning from a bare skull, waiting for themoment when he might slip, to reach out a hand of dry bones andgather him into the kingdom of the lost.
"Say, Joe! Wotter yer lookin' at?" A shrill voice sounded athis elbow. He looked down at the diminutive larrikin standingbeside him. "'Ere!" The boy thrust a dirty scrap of paper intohis hand.
"Yer tart sen' yer that."
With a shrill whoopee the youngster sped across the road intothe mouth of a narrow lane, and disappeared. Oliver Manx lookeddown at the roughly folded paper in his hand. Before he saw thebig angular writing he guessed the writer—the Grey Cat!
"At the corner of Maling and Williamstreets—noon."
And underneath the words the bold outline of a cat's head!
A SHORT laugh of aggravation came from thesecret agent's lips. The Grey Cat again! In some manner she hadtrailed him from Mart Deeling's rooming-house that morning. Shehad watched him pass through the streets, and had picked out thaturchin to bring him a fresh warning that he was under herobservation—at her commands! But—Had she watched him,or had she only acted on guesswork? If she knew Grosse—thelocality where the man would interview him thatmorning—then it would be easy to pick out some boy of thestreets, bid him follow a certain distance and then deliver thenote. That was the more probable method employed.
There came the thought: Why the second reminder? Had the GreyCat believed her first letter, pinned to his bed, not sufficientto bend him to her will? Or, was the woman pandering to somesense of the dramatic? Her assumption of thenom-de-plumeof "The Grey Cat" was dramatic, almost bizarre.
Against that theory he had the instinct that had risen in hismind when he had seen the first note that morning. The few, firmstrokes that formed the cat's head were not the work of a personwho allowed a sense of the dramatic to overlord practicability.He was certain that behind the two messages lay some definite,well-considered purpose.
For long he stood on the pavement considering, but failed tocome to any determination. Fate must order his decisions when hecame face to face with the Grey Cat that day at noon.
The smell of cooking food from a nearby shop awoke him to thethought that he had not broken fast that morning. He went up toWilliam Street and entered one of the eating houses. As he seatedhimself at a table, he glanced at the cheap nickel clock on theshelf behind the pay-counter. The clock marked half-past nine. Hehad not much time to spare!
At ten minutes to the hour he arose from the table and paidhis bill. On the street he turned up the hill, towardDarlinghurst. Now he was getting into better surroundings. Heglanced down at himself, his clothes, and grinned. He was thetypical hobo, a no-account waster. In Woolloomooloo he had mergedwell into the general surroundings; here, mounting the long hillto King's Cross, he felt himself more conspicuous.
He passed Maling Street and glanced right and left in searchof someone he could identify as the Grey Cat. Many people wereloitering on both pavements, but he could see no-one he couldpossibly identify with the mystery woman.
He passed on slowly, coming at length—almost as the mainroad debouched to the Cross—to Unwin Street, and turnedinto it. A couple of hundred yards towards the harbour and he sawon his right a big garage. On a panel set midway up the wall, andacross the width of the building, he read the name: "Grosse andCo.—The Better Garage."
So Alec Grosse used his own name, or the name he was known byin the underworld, for his public business. Almost a respect forthe master-gangster came to the secret service man. Grosse was,in his own way, almost a great opponent.
Oliver Manx waited some little distance from the buildinguntil the clocks of the district chimed the hour; then wentboldly into the garage and asked for Alec Grosse.
A man, tinkering at one of the many cars on the floor, lookedup inquisitively, took some time to stare at his questioner, thenjerked his head toward the door at the back of the building onwhich was lettered "Offices".
"In there, buddy."
Oliver Manx nodded his head in thanks for the information andwent to the door. He opened it and saw before him a narrow,counter barring a medium-sized office. A girl, seated at a deskfacing the counter, looked up inquiringly:
"Yes?"
"Mister Grosse, pleas', miss. Mister Alec Grosse 'e tol' meter call at ten."
"Come through." The girl pointed to the flap of the counter."You'll find him in there." She nodded to a door at the side ofthe room. "Another of those bums," she added, partly under herbreath. "They'll skin the last cent off that poor man."
Oliver Manx smiled slightly as he crossed the office. So thatwas the reputation Alec Grosse had built up in his office. He wasthe generous benefactor of out-of-works! It was a good disguise,matching the well-conditioned garage filled with signs of payablework and a thriving business.
Who would suspect that the "generous" and "wealthy" AlecGrosse was the king-pin around which circled a gang of crooks andoutlaws threatening the law and order of the State?
Assuming an air of diffidence he did not feel, the secretagent knocked at the indicated door. A big voice he wellremembered bade him enter. As he stretched his hand to the handlethe door opened smartly, framing a slight, well-made girl,obviously Grosse's personal secretary.
Oliver Manx drew aside for the girl to pass. For a moment shelooked at him, in silent thanks, and the secret agent felt athrill run through him. She was red-haired and—her eyeswere green, with small, delicate pupils—the eyes of a cat!An abrupt motion from the master-gangster and the secret agententered the room.
For a moment the eyes of the men met, and held. "So you'vecome." The big man broke a short silence. "Well, anything tosay?"
"Wot abart?"
"Drop that talk—that isn't you." Alec Grosse spokequickly.
"Why not?" Instinctively Oliver Manx reacted to the command inthe man's voice. "I talk as I like."
"In Woolloomooloo, perhaps—not here." The big man leanedback in his chair, tapping his front teeth with the end of afountain-pen. "Here you talk as I wish."
"And if I don't choose to?"
"Then—" For a moment the man's ruddy face was suffusedby a sudden rush of angry blood; then he laughed. He pointed withthe pen-end to a chair.
"Sit down." Again Oliver Manx obeyed automatically; yet hefelt he should rise again to his feet. Every fibre of his beingwas opposed to this man's arrogant manner—his assumption ofcommand.
"Want work?" Alec Grosse spoke after a few minute'ssilence.
"I've got me own lay," answered Oliver Manx aggressively.
"Not much good, is it?" The big man's hard glance swept theworn-out garments of the supposed crook. "But you'd a better suitunder the bed last night. Why didn't you wear that to-day?"
Oliver Manx's heart missed a beat. What did this man know? Hadhe seen more than the trouser-leg of the constable's uniform?
"Look here—" The secret agent started to his feet withassumed anger. "I ain't askin' yer fer any-think, am I? T'en keepyer remarks ter yerself. I don' wan' em."
"Cock-o'-the-walk, aren't you?" the big man sneered; thenburst out laughing and held out his hand. "Shake! I like a fellowto have a bit of spunk in him."
The man radiated power. Almost against his will Oliver Manxplaced his fingers on the big palm; to have them crushed as if ina vice. For a moment he almost winced, then set his teeth andstoically bore the pain, returning the pressure to the best ofhis ability.
"You've got pluck." Grosse spoke as if he had been applying atest. "I like that. Well, want a job?"
"I ain't sed so." The secret agent's face was blank. It wasnot to his interest to show willingness. "Wot job? In th'garage?"
"Think you'd like that? Know anything about cars?"
"A bit. I can drive."
"And keep your engine running silent? Anything else?"
"I'm not talkin'."
"No?" Again came the big laugh, "You're certainly not talking,so far as I can hear. Well, a still tongue goes down with me allright. What's your lay?"
"What's yours?"
"Garage proprietor—and philanthropist." Alec Grosseleaned back in his chair and laughed again. "What do you think ofthat?"
"Good cover."
"That all?"
"If yer've got th' guts ter back it wi' sumthink real."
"Such as—"
"I dunno."
"You're looking for easy money, then?"
"I ain't sed so."
"I'll take it that if it was offered—perhaps?"
Oliver Manx did not answer. For some seconds the big manbehind the desk was silent, staring intently at the secret agent.A slight smile was flecking the hard lips, creeping up to thewrinkled corners of the hard eyes. Oliver Manx felt uneasy. Hewondered if he had overplayed his part?
"Where have you come from?" asked Grosse suddenly. "Wait amoment, you needn't take the trouble to lie to me. It's quite atime since I first heard of you, and since then you've been awayfrom that dump in Rumble Street. Where have you been?"
"Over th' 'ill."
"In the Big House?"
"Yep."
"For how long?"
"Eighteen moons."
"What for?"
"Bunny work."
"Where's the boodle?"
"Fenced."
"With Mart Deeling?"
Oliver Manx made a gesture of disgust. Grosse noddedunderstandingly. After a moment's pause he asked suddenly"Gangster, eh?"
"Like a shot, sumtimes."
Suddenly the master-gangster leaned forward across the desk,the pen in his hand pointing straight at Oliver Manx's face. "Cutthat out," he said. "Understand, I don't stand for dope.You—cut—that—out!"
"I'm n'working fer youse."
"Is that all you know?" The big man laughed heartily. "Well,I've made up my mind that you are. Get that? I almost made up mymind last night, but thought I'd have a look at you by daylightfirst. Now, that's settled. You'll do what I tell you—"
"Blast—" The secret agent came to his feet with assumedindignation. "—of all the—"
"Sit down." The command was quietly spoken, yet held a threat."I've told you—you're working for me now, and you'll do asyou're told."
For a full half-minute the two men, both now on their feet,stared into each other's eyes, then Oliver Manx allowed his gazeto fall. Alec Grosse gave a self-satisfied little laugh.
"It's no good, Joe Kline." There was almost a kindliness inthe deep voice. "You haven't a chance in the Three Districtsunless you fall in with my wishes. You say you've been away forthe past eighteen months—in the Awful Place. Well, duringthat time there's been some changes. Men who knowthings—who have the ability to do things—have takencharge. They've cleared out the little fellows, and organisedthose they thought worth-while, properly. We're out for business,big business, and we won't have lone wolves butting in andbulling things up."
He paused a moment, and when he continued speaking thehardness had returned to his tones.
"You mayn't like it at first, but you'll have to accept it. Wedon't like opposition and we don't get it or—" he pausedsignificantly "—or those who think of opposition manage tofind their way back—over the hill—and it's a damnedtall mountain by that time—or—some of them find itawkward—walking on air."
The last words, significantly spoken, sent cold shivers downthe secret agent's back. He well understood the allusion. Heunderstood the offer that was being made to him. He was offered apart in the gang organisation, and if he did not accept thatoffer he had the choice of getting out of the State—ormeeting the ultimate end. Now Oliver Manx understood much thathad been only guesswork with him during the past months.
He had guessed that crime had been organised on a big scale inthe Three Districts. He had known that many crooks who in dayspast had spent their freedom around Sydney had taken suddendesires to travel. He had studied police reports stating thatother crooks who had been indexed "unreformable" had suddenlystarted to lead irreproachable lives—so far as policeinformation went. And—he had wondered.
Now he knew; he knew that those amenable had been gathered inunder the leadership of men who knew how to organise for mutualprotection and aggression. He knew that Sydney, and indeed thewhole State, was threatened by a strong organisation containingmen who could plan logically and successfully—men who hadat their command powers and information he could only guess at.Who were these men?
Instinctively, his thoughts went to the well-appointed officesin Pitt Street; to the rotund man with the shiny, bald head andthe plausible steel-like manner. Yet he could not connect themwith this man—Alec Grosse—who stood before him,glowering down on him, awaiting his pledged word to obey hiscommands.
"You've got my meaning, I see." The master-gangster spokeagain. "You're sensible. I've given you rope to say what youthought because I believed you'd be useful to us—andbecause you didn't understand what you were up against. You'llget no second chance, and you haven't long to make up your mind.Now, what are you going to do? Come in with us, or take it on therun—after twenty-four hours."
Take it on the run! Oliver Manx well knew what lay behindthose few words. He knew that he would be allowed to leave thatgarage in safety—to get back to his dingy room in MartDeeling's rooming-house unmolested. Yet word would have spedbefore him that he was to be watched. From that moment he wouldnever be unobserved. Eyes would follow him wherever he went. Hemight double and dodge—and those eyes would still followhim, for they were too many for him to dodge. Behind those eyeswould be the untiring brains, forecasting and anticipating hisevery movement; grinning lips below, in grim amusement of hisfutile evasions. A time would come when he would make a slip,find some avenue in his defences unguarded—and someonewould find a poor, broken body by the wayside, in a field, in aroom—all that remained mortal of Joe Kline, drug addict andcheap crook.
"You don't give a chap a chance," he muttered, his lidsclosely veiling his eyes, in fear they might betray his triumphin penetrating into his enemy's camp.
"What chance do you want—you'll get the chance of plentyof money; a decent life in respectable surroundings. What more doyou want?" The big man spoke quickly. "Up to the present you'veworked on your own, and a fine mess you've made of things; livingin Mart Deeling's doss-rooms, eating at cheap grub-joints,slinking about the streets in fear of flatties and narks, notknowing that when you turned the next trick some dick's handwouldn't fall on your shoulder and scoop you in rummy. You'reworth more than that, Joe Kline. Oh, you needn't stare at me.I've made inquiries and I know—"
Alec Grosse paused and came round the desk. "I hadn't heard ofyou when you went up for your stretch," he continued. "If I had,and had seen you, I'd have had you sprung. Don't look; I couldhave done it, and would have, for you're one of the men I want. Iknew of you! I knew what you went up for before you toldme—" he hesitated. "I thought Joe Kline went up for acouple of years and—"
"That's what the Big Boy said,", interrupted Oliver Manx,grinning. He was thankful that he had assumed the character of areal crook; assumed the character and even the lodgings of thereal Joe Kline. The real man was still in Goulburn—andwould remain there until he sent the word for hisrelease—and that would not be until he had succeeded in histask—or definitely failed.
"Yer fergit, ther's time orf."
"That's so," said Alec Grosse. "But I understood you forfeitedthat for misbehaviour. You didn't? Well, you won't go back. I'lltake care of that."
"Is that so."
"That is so. You obey orders and you'll be taken careof—and well paid."
"And—th' orders?"
Again came one of those long pauses in which themaster-gangster, seemed to indulge. For long seconds he staredfixedly at the supposed crook.
"These are your orders," he said slowly. "You'll come to mefor what dope you want—and you'll get damned little of it,for I intend to break you of that habit. Oh, yes; we sell it toothers; but they don't matter. You do; you're going to work forus—and that stuff don't help none. You'll come to me foryour orders in regard to your work; and you'll only come whenyou're sent for. I'll take care of the means to that end; all youhave to do is to obey when you get the word. Get that; you won'tcome when you choose, but immediately you're required. Andthere's no questioning what I say. Try it, and I'll disciplineyou. Don't think you can get away with it and sniff when you wantto. There's not a runner in Sydney who'll give you even the sightof the outside of a packet—and they'll let me know if youtry any tricks—" The big man stopped suddenly. "Got any onyou now?"
"A bit." Oliver Manx was thankful that he had taken theprecaution to always carry part of a packet. Alee Grosse halfheld out his hand then withdrew it.
"Keep what you've got, and use it carefully, for it's the lastyou'll get, unless you get too bad to do without it. As for yourwork—"
Again came the strange pause. The big man turned slowly on hisheels and went round his desk, seating himself. Presently hecontinued: "You'll come here at eight o'clock to-night. You'llfind me here and I'll give you your orders on your first job withus. It's a simple matter, but you'll do as you're told,implicitly. Understand?"
Oliver Manx nodded, rising from his chair. He thought theinterview was ended, and a twinge of disappointment came to him.He had hoped to learn far more. Yet, what more could he havehoped for. He had penetrated into the gang who were usurpingauthority throughout the underworld. If his luck held he might,in time, work his way into the inner, controlling ring.
"Where are you going?" The master-gangster stayed him with animperative motion of his hand.
"Home—till eight o'clock to-night."
"Where?"
"To Mart Deeling's. That's the only doss I've got."
"Deeling was told half-an-hour ago that you would not returnto his house. I sent him money to cover what rent you owed, andtold him he could have anything you had left in the room. Ireceived word from Mart that you have the only keys of the room.Where are they?"
Reluctantly Oliver Manx put his hand in his pocket. His brainwas in a turmoil. He wanted time to think. He was barred from theplace he had named his sanctuary—and sanctuary it hadproved to be on more than one occasion since he had come toWoolloomooloo. Time and again he had fled down the narrow alleybetween the backyards of the two rows of houses, to disappear inthe deep shadows from his pursuers, to find sanctuary in thatmean, dirty room. Yes, it had been sanctuary, and a pain grippedhis heart at the thought of being barred from it. He had to goback to that room.
There were things there that he dared not let be uncovered tothe eyes of crookland. There was the secret panel behind the bedwhich he had constructed with so much labour during the stillhours of the night. There were things in the hollow behind thatpanel.
He had to go back to that room. In the recess behind the bedlay the constable's uniform in which he had escaped from SydneyHospital. He had to get that away; he had to retrieve the letterhe had forced Mart Deeling to write from where he had placed iton the wall. It was the only hold he had over the old fence.Without it, Mart might speak of that interview in his room duringthe early hours of that morning.
In sudden anger he turned furiously on the big gangster.
"Wot th' 'ell—"
"Cut that!" The cold, dominant tones broke through hisill-considered words. "What have you there that's important?Swag? You told me you'd fenced your last haul. Then you'reholding out on me?" The deep light that blazed in Alec Grosse'seyes almost overawed the secret agent's poise. "Come clean, Isay, or—"
"I'm clean!" With his anger now in control, his nerves steady,Oliver Manx leaned across the, desk-top, facing the big man, hisfists clenched, his knuckles resting on the desktop.
"I'm clean—but I don't stand for anything you choose.Get that? I'm going back to Mart Deeling's house, and I'll staythere just long as I choose—and if you, or that gang oftoughs you boast you rule, try to get up to any tricks—toput me out—"
He laughed angrily. "Try it! Try it, I say! I'll put you andsome of them just where you belong—in the hottest hell thatman or devil ever thought of."
With a shrug of contempt, his fingers within a few inches ofthe gun in the shoulder holster under his left arm, he turned tothe door.
"STAND right there!"
Alec Grosse was again on his feet, his face suffused withanger. One hand was outstretched, the fingers pointing at OliverManx, the other rested on the lip of a half-opened drawer of thedesk. With his fingers on the door-knob, Oliver Manx turned andfaced the man.
He knew that he had reached the critical point of the longinterview; that if he now gave way to this man his mission, hisvery life was endangered. It was impossible for him to carry onhis investigations without a certain freedom of action, andGrosse had plainly showed that he intended to impose restrictionsthat would be tantamount to constant espionage.
"Well?" The secret agent spoke contemptuously. "Anything moreto say; any more orders to give? Bah!" He turned to face thegangster squarely. "What do you think you are—a damnedlittle tin-god on wheels. You turn me out of my doss; you tell meI shall live where and how you like! S'pose you'll tell me whatI'm to eat, and what I'm to wear—Where's this sort of thingto end? Who the hell are you?"
"By God, I'll show you!" The big man could hardly articulatefor passion. "You—you defy me?"
"Defy you?" Oliver Manx threw back his head and laughedloudly. "Who wouldn't—with that tripe you try to put over.I'll go further than defy you, you cheap skate. I'll tell younow, you're exceeding your instructions—that your bosseswon't stand for your so-called orders. Try! Tell them yourinstructions; tell them what I've said, and see what they say toyou then? They'll call you down, good and sharp—and theywon't be far wrong. What d'yer think yer are—a damnedLegree; slave-driver of men, free, white, and twenty-one?"
The little ornate clock on the desk, almost midway between thetwo men, ticked loudly through the long seconds of silence thatfollowed Oliver Manx's defiance. Gradually the red blood of angerleft Grosse's full, ruddy face, leaving it paler than wont, andhis muscles relaxed. He sat down suddenly, something in thenature of a ghost of a smile playing the cruel, firm lips.
"I've heard of you, Joe Kline," he said slowly, and the secretagent could see that he was riding his anger hard on the bit."They were right! Dope-head! Yes, that's right. You must bestoked right up to the neck to talk to me like that!"
"Takes dope to talk to you, does it? Perhaps it takes dope totalk to me." Oliver Manx laughed. He thrust two fingers into hiswaistcoat pocket and pulled out the little fold of cocaine,throwing it on the desk. "Here! Take a sniff yerself, and getsome real pluck in yer. Take a sniff, o' man, you needit—and you've sold enough of the stuff to others to deserveone sniff fer yerself! No? All right! Truth, it would be waste ofgood stuff on any think likes yer. Ta-ta! See yer' t'nigh'. Eighto'clock you said? Right! I'll be here—and then we'll talkturkey. S'long!"
Oliver Manx watched the big man for a moment; then, with ashrug, turned to the door. As his hand grasped the door knobGrosse spoke.
"You can't open that door."
"No? Can't I?" The secret agent caught at the knob and turnedit. The door held shut, controlled by some secret catch. Hetugged harder, but the door would not budge. Swiftly he turned toface the room again, his right-hand fingers caressing the lapelof his coat. "Open that door!"
"We'll talk first." Alec Grosse leaned forward, pointing tothe chair the secret agent had occupied. "Sit down, Joe. PerhapsI was a bit hasty, but I've a hot crew to drive!"
"You're not driving me."
"You've got to obey orders—if you come in. You knowwhat'll happen if you don't."
"Yes? All right! I sed I'd come-in—on terms."
"The only terms will be dictated by—" The big manpaused.
"By the men who're behind you," corrected the secret agent"Well, who are they?"
"That you'll never know." A graver note came in the gangster'svoice. "That is unless they want you to. Until, theydo—the only head you'll know is me. You'll take your ordersfrom me; I'll pay you for your work and look after you—butyou'll obey my orders."
"That's O.K. to me—for the work. Not the kind of ordersyou've tried to put over this morning, though."
"Then you go out—on your own." The big man leanedforward, a snarl on his lips, "God, man, you're still full ofhop! Quiet down, if you know what's good for yourself. Oh, getout, it's no good talking to you, as you are. Get out, the door'sloose now. Come here at eight to-night if you're coming in; ifyou're not coming in, keep going—fast. You'll havetwenty-four hours from eight to-night to get out of the State,then—"
"An' wot ov th' Rumble Street dump?"
"What are you so keen on that place for?"
"Just becos yer don't wan' me ter go back there." Oliver Manxlaughed shortly. "T'ink I'm stuck on ol' Mart's beds? Yer ain'tslept in 'em, or yer'd know sumthink. Gee! They're 'ot!"
"Go back if you want to." Alec Grosse threw up his hands, insurrender. "You're mad if you do, though. Lord, man, I'm offeringyou something far better. There's a flat in Newthorp Crescentwaiting for you—the swell place round here—with lotsof good tucker and good clothes, and—" The big man paused,his small eyes fixed on Oliver Manx's face. "Just listen to this,Joe Kline. I ain't in love with you—more especially sinceyou've been here; but I've got to obey orders, just as you'llhave to—if you want to stay in the Three Districts. There'sthose, however, who think you'll be useful—and they liketheir own way—But they won't stand back-chat from you, sameas I have."
Alec Grosse paused; into his eyes crept a harderexpression.
"Shall I tell you what would happen if you dope-chatted tothem? They'd have smiled at you—and talked softly andkindly—and—and you'd have gone out from the roomthinking what a fine feller you were—and all cockedup—and sniffing hard to keep up your pluck that'd 'ud justgone on singing and singing—And one evening th' flatties'ud have found you—And you wouldn't have done any talkingto them—You wouldn't have listened to what they sed. Getme? You'd have just lain there, with your face up to thenight-sky an' your feet in the gutter. An' the doctor 'ud havecome and knelt beside you and poked at the hole in yourchest—An' the flatties would have looked on, and told ofthe time when you were in Goulburn an' poked fun at thetalking-bloke—Yes, Joe, that's their funny little way ofdealing with big-mouths like you. They'd have listened like I'velistened to you this morning. They'd have watched you—asI'm going to watch you, Joe Kline—and the first slip youmake—"
The sudden curl of the big strong fingers lying on theblotting-pad spoke suggestively of what was in the big man'smind. A chill ran up the secret agent's spine. Grosse had no needto threaten. He knew the man was his enemy; had been his enemyfrom the first moment they had met. He wondered at the power ofthe concealed men who guided the destinies of the men they heldin their power. They were big—big—even though theywere criminals. Otherwise they could not have held this AlecGrosse, gangster and garage proprietor, to their bidding. God, ifhe could only lay bare their identities!
"I'm taking the job you offer, Alec Grosse." The secret agentforced himself to speak calmly. "I'm linking up with your crowdbecause I sees it'll pay me. You're boss, in work—otherwisewe don't mix and never would. I don't stand bullying from no man.That's final. If you doubt it—" He laughed suddenly,changing his tone swiftly. "You've got a gun in thatdesk-drawer—you've had your fingers on it for the past tenminutes; they're on it now. Yeah! You tried to fool me you heldthe switch that held the lock of that door—but I didn'tfall for that. Yeh, here's my hands—right here in front ofyou. You've heard of Joe Kline—an' that he can handle agun. Well, mate, take your time—Pull that gun and shoot, ifyou've got th' nerve. I'll go for the gun, my own way—an'we'll find out who's the better man. No? Haven't the pluck? Ithought so! Just remember that, if you feel inclined to playtricks. I'm no man's fool, least of all yours. We're going towork together—and you're to give th' orders. That goes wi'me, so long as those orders are on work—not my privateaffairs. Remember that, and there'll be no trouble."
Coolly he turned his back on the gangster, not troubling towatch the man unclench his fingers from the gun in the drawer. Atthe door, he paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"Eight o'clock, sharp—S'long, Alec!"
He swung, open the door and passed through, catching it closedbehind him. On the mat outside he nearly collided with thered-haired typist who had been in Grosse's office when heentered. Only his quick arm round her waist saved her from afall.
"Sorry, sister!"
"Is Mr. Grosse disengaged now?" The girl looked up at him, andhe thought there was fright in her eyes.
"I've done wi' 'im." Oliver Manx looked down at the girl,curiously. A sudden thought came to his mind.
Who was this girl? From her manner, her position in thatoffice, she had the impression of being Alec Grosse's personalsecretary. But was that all? Again he scanned her, this timeclosely.
A sudden flush mounted to the girl's face, as she sensed hisregard. She turned on her high heels suddenly, and with a swirlof skirts entered the inner office. As she closed the door sheturned and faced the staring secret agent—and somethingclosely resembling a faint smile parted her red lips.
Again the sudden thought hammered at Oliver Manx's brain. Wasthis girl the Grey Cat—the woman who had twice sent notesof command to him? He had reason for the suspicion. The girl wasin a position where she could know much of the big gangster'smovements; where she could spy on him, thwart his plans, if sheheld any antagonism against him.
The Grey Cat could not want a better opportunity, if she wasantagonistic to the man. Red-headed, and with grey-green eyes! Hestared at the blank face of the door long after the girl hadclosed it, still visualising those eyes—cat's eyes, henamed them—peeping round the edge of the door. Grey-greeneyes, with the pupils contracted in the day-light to merepin-points! The eyes of a cat!
A giggle from a girl seated at a desk close by where he stoodmade him aware that he was attracting attention. He turnedsharply and went to the counter, lifting the flap and passingthrough to the door. Something caused him to look back, and theeyes of the girl at the inquiry desk met his.
"Well, did your touch come off, big boy?" The girl smiledscornfully.
"Sorry, sister, that dinner'll have to be postponed. Th' touchdidn't come orf." He stared hard at the girl's mass of light,fluffy hair. "Y'know," he leaned on the counter, speakingconfidentially. "Gents allus prefer blondes. That's why I wasunlucky."
Before the girl, who had flushed scarlet at his words, couldfind an answer, Oliver Manx had passed through the door to thegarage.
As he lounged on toward the big street doors, the man who haddirected him to the offices, called: "Get yer job, mate?"
"Got ter cum back agen, later. Sed 'e'd see wot 'e cuddo."
"Good fer yer! Here's luck!"
"Dry luck, eh? Well, it'll 'ave ter do till I touches."
With a careless wave of his hand at the man's answering laugh,Oliver Manx went out on the pavement. Out of sight of the garagehe stopped and sighed with relief.
The late interview had strained his nerves to the utmost. Anearby church clock chimed. The secret agent counted threequarters. A quarter to—what hour? He glanced round and in ashop almost behind him saw a cheap clock on a shelf.
A quarter to noon! And he had been in Alec Grosse's officesall that time. A quarter to noon, and at that hour he was to meetthe Grey Cat—or she threatened to reveal his true characterto Alec Grosse! If she did that—And he was to meet the biggangster again that night! That meeting would not be pleasant.Alec Grosse already hated him. The feeling had beenmutual—the antagonism real—from the moment the twomen had first faced each other.
If the Grey Cat spoke there would be no hesitation in the bigman's mind, at their next meeting. If the Grey Cat revealed thatthe man known as Joe Kline was, in reality, the Oliver Manx,elusive and successful enemy of Sydney's underworld, then Grossewould act without seeking further proof. There would be others atthat interview at eight o'clock that night—men who wouldhave no hesitation in shooting down an enemy, and rejoicing atthe deed.
To his memory came the short paragraph he had read theprevious day in the newspaper, in that little room under theroof-trees of the old house that sheltered the Crown Law Office.He pictured the gangster, "Babe" Shaver, lying in the gutter of aby Street in Darlinghurst; the gaping holes in his chest wherethe three bullets had buried themselves; the sightless eyesstaring up at the night-sky.
What offence against the laws of gangland had the "Babe"committed? The answer to his question came to the secret agent'smind almost without effort. Twice Grosse had threatened him withdeath. At one time he had spoken of "holes in his chest!" Then,had the "Babe" been victim of the men who sought to link thecriminal activities of the Three Districts under their undisputedsway? There might lie the solution of the murder the police wereeven then investigating. Would that crime finally go into therecords of unsolved murders? There were far too many of them onthe State's list! Had the "Babe" been given the same choice thathe had been given that day? Had Alec Grosse spoken to him thesame words he had voiced that morning—"join up or getout?"
Some thought at the back of his memory clamoured to be broughtto light. Oliver Manx paused on the pavement, heedless of thebusy throng surging past him. What lay in his brain that he couldnot make clear? "Babe" Shaver and—Why, the "Babe" had beena member of "Gunner" West's gang! "Gunner" West! "Gunner" Westhad been one of the five recent victims of the supposed gang-feudrecorded in the newspapers!
Again the chimes of the church clock broke on his reverie. Helistened, counting the strokes of the bell. Noon! Then—
Automatically; his steps brought him to the corner of MalingStreet, but on the south side of the main road. He glancedacross the wide road. So far as he could see, no-one wasloitering on the north pavement. Waiting for a slackening in thesteady stream of traffic, Oliver Manx crossed to the oppositepavement. For some reason he did not trouble to analyse, he tookthe east corner of Maling Street. A busy "cash and carry" storewas located at that corner, a stream of laden women continuallypassing the wide doors.
For minutes he waited, lounging against the wall, apparentlycareless, but vigilantly alert. He could see no-one he couldimagine to be the Grey Cat—and shrugged. Still he waited,watching the passers-by and the stream of traffic in the roadway,from under half-closed eyes. Again came the clock chimes—aquarter past the hour! The Grey Cat had not kept the appointmentshe had, herself, made.
For a moment Oliver Manx waited, undecided, then turned on hisheels and strolled up the road. Again he paused, and retraced hissteps to the corner.
He wanted to see the Grey Cat. He was curious to see the womanwho alone, amid the thousands of that city, had penetrated thedisguise he had built up with so much thought and labour.
Who was the Grey Cat? What was her interest in him—inthe problems confronting him? What was her interest in AlecGrosse, and the men who moved in the shadows behind themaster-gangster?
Abruptly he turned up the William Street hill again. The GreyCat would have to make another appointment, if she still desiredto see him! Then he stopped again. Had she seen him? Had she onlydesired to bring him to that spot to see him, remaining, herselfconcealed? That might be! Then—by coming to the corner ofMaling Street at her unreasoned demand, he had betrayed that hefeared investigation.
Absorbed with the thought, he waited on the pavement—tobe suddenly enveloped in a surge of women coming out of the cashand carry shop. He stepped back to free himself from thecrowd—and something was slipped into his fingers. A pieceof paper.
He turned swiftly away, almost upsetting a short, stout woman."Look where yer're goin', yer big lout!" The woman shrilled. "Whydon' yer get work. Lazin' abart th' street, expec'ing yer coun'ryt' keep yer!"
"Yer ain't on th' dole, ain't yer, Mother Marsh. Naw, I don'think!" bantered a woman in the group. "Why, 'e's a good-lookin'bloke, mother; why don' yer make up t' 'im. He'd make a finefancy-boy fer yer."
"Fancy boys is stale ter Mother March," A third womaninterposed, "'ere, let's 'ave a look at yer, lovey. If yermeasures up, I might giv' yer a chance wi' me!"
A tall skinny woman, with a face marred with the imprint ofdrink over long years, caught him by the arm and swung hisround.
Oliver Manx cursed under his breath. These women, with theirbanter and fun, had destroyed all hopes of identifying the GreyCat.
"No good ter, me!" The skinny woman laughed, "'e ain't strongenuff. I likes 'em strong—strong enuff t' crush oneorful!"
With a sudden wrench the secret agent tore his arm from thewoman's hold and walked quickly up the street, their loud, coarselaughter ringing in his ears. Seeking a quiet doorway, he openedthe note he had held in his hand. There were only a couple oflines of writing:
Thanks, Joe. I only suspected before, now Iknow. You wouldn't have kept the appointment if you'd not hadsomething to conceal, eh? Be wary, Alec Grosse will give you ajob to-night that will take you far from Woolloomooloo. While youare away he and his men will search your room at MartDeeling's.
Search the dump at Rumble Street. He could not allowthat! If they discovered the secret panel behind thebed—
The panel had not been constructed to withstand a careful,methodical search. Almost certainly Grosse would find thespring—And within the space hidden by the panel lay theconstable's uniform. That would be accepted as damning evidenceagainst him. Within the hour the hue and cry would run throughthe Three Districts. "Joe Kline" would be proclaimed a spy! To bediscovered; to hear the "view halloo" behind him; to know that thepack were on his heels! To be chased down, in spite of all hiscunning; to be brought to bay!
Almost he could feel the final stinging blow on his head thatwould end any defence he could put up. He could feel the pavementcoming up to meet his sliding body; the impact of heavy boots onhis flesh; the final agony, and—
He laughed bitterly, almost hopelessly. How could he removethe uniform in the broad daylight? That would be impossible. Itwould be impossible to even get into that room. If the Grey Cathad informed him rightly, the place would be closely watcheduntil the master-gangster arrived to conduct the search.
He must get into that room—but he dared not go thereuntil after dark—and soon after nightfall he had to seeAlec Grosse, to go out on business for the gang he firmlybelieved would bring him in touch with those shadowy heads whoaimed at an autocratic kingdom in the Three Districts'underworld.
AGAIN the church clock chimed—the halfhour after noon. Again Oliver Manx turned, this time walkingquickly down William Street in the direction of the city. Hisbrain ached with thought, a wave of irritation had submerged fora moment his keen, analytical sense. He had hoped much from theinterview with the Grey Cat. Who was this girl who named herselfThe Grey Cat?
More, what knowledge had she of Alec Grosse and the men whoworked. behind him? He believed she knew much. If he coulddiscover what she knew. The girl in the garage office? No, nother, in spite of her grey-green eyes. Possibly for the moment hehad been startled to suspicion by the peculiar cat-like qualitiesof her eyes. That girl had no interests—other than toretain what appeared to be a comfortable, well-paid job.
Then, who was the Grey Cat? Rapidly he passed in review everygirl he had come in contact with during the time he had been JoeKline. There had not been many—and one by one he put themfrom his mind. Yet the thought hammered at his brain. Who was theGrey Cat? He shrugged. Time would have to answer that.
At the Bourke Street corner he again hesitated. Should he godown to Rumble Street—to old Mart Deeling's lodging house?With sudden decision he turned down the slight hill leading toWoolloomooloo. Yes, he would go to the place he had named hissanctuary. Grosse might be suspicious if he avoided the place. Hewould go there, as if he believed the master-gangster's promisethat he could still retain the room. Grosse was having the placewatched, he was certain of that. He might have him watched!Involuntarily, he glanced cautiously about him. Was there someoneon his trail at that very moment?
For long moments he loitered along the street, watching abouthim carefully. He could see no one behaving in any suspiciousmanner. Then, with a few tugs and touches at his clothing andface, he went on. Again he was "Joe Kline" known around RumbleStreet.
Sauntering along, inconspicuous in that area of crookdom, hepassed the narrow alley that led between the two rows of houses,and came to Rumble Street. The door of Mart Deeling's junk shopwas open, yet there was no one in sight within the shop. OliverManx expected that. Mart Deeling was rarely visible from his shopdoor; he preferred to lurk in the little, foul-air inner room,watching—always watching.
As he entered the shop the secret agent's careless, lurchingwalk became more pronounced. Just within the door he halted;swaying.
"'Lo, Mart."
The old fence materialised slowly in the gloom at the back ofthe shop. Oliver Manx had the impression that the man had seenhim from the moment he came within view of the door—hadbeen waiting for him—yet now he exhibited surprise, and evenanxiety.
"He-ha-he!" The old man came forward, rubbing his grimy clams."So y'cum back, Joe—An' yer seed th' Big Boy, eh?"
Oliver Manx did not reply immediately. His cold, keen eyes,under the lowered, artificially puffed lids scanned Deeling'sface intently. The old man had changed from the florid femalenight-dress to a pair of trousers too long in the legs for him,and a dirty, torn shirt. He wore no collar, and the missingbuttons of the shirt revealed a long length of scraggy, hairyflesh. Over the shirt was an ancient swallow-tailed coat, far toosmall for even the fence's narrow shoulders. He wore no waistcoat.
"Y-e-a-h! I've cum back." The secret agent swayed between thedoorposts. "Gi' us a sniff, Mart!"
"Heha-he!" The old man sniggered. "I ain't got none, Joe. DopyTaylor ain't been alon' this week."
"Yer a bloody liar." The secret agent spoke, dispassionately."Yer've got tons ov it 'ere, 'and it out! I got th' 'oof!"
"I'm tellin' yer th' trufe, Joe," Mart protested. "I ain't gotnone!"
"Blast yer!" Oliver Manx staggered, forward. "I wanter sniff!Go an' get it—an' don' be all th' blazing day abartit!"
"W'ere yer goin' Joe?" Mart Deeling's voice showed nervousnessnow. He tried to get between the secret agent and the innerdoor.
"The darn. W'ere d'yer think?
"Yer don' live 'ere now, Joe. Yer've fergotten—"
"I ain't fergotten—I lives 'ere. Get t' 'ell outerit."
"Yer don' live 'ere an' I've let yer room!" The old manshrilled. "Th'—Yer know—tol' me as yer w'udn't beback an' sumone wanted a doss, an'—"
"Yer bloody liar!" The secret agent shouldered Deeling aside."I lives 'ere an' yer knows it."
"Yer don'—true, yer don', Joe." Deeling was patheticallyeager. "Yer don', Joe—an' yer knows it. Didn't a bloke cumfrom th' Big Boy as yer sen' t'pay me wot yer owed me. Yer know'e did!"
"Pay yer wot I owes yer." The secret agent swung roundangrily. "An' wot was that? I don't owes yer nuffink."
"Yer did—" The cracked, gin-sodden voice quivered."I—"
"Cough it up." Oliver Manx caught Deeling by the neck,wrenching him round. "Yer don' cum none o' those tricks wi' me.Cough it up, I ses! Yer knows wot I got—th' screed yerwrote th' morning. Spring th' flats or I'll—
"Yer can't." The old man wriggled painfully under thetightening fingers. "Yer can't, Joe. Yer ain't got it no more. Ifoun' it an'—"
Impulsively the secret agent released the old man and divedinto his pocket for his keys. Then he remembered. That morningAlec Grosse had asked for them. Without thought he had producedthem and dropped them on the man's desk. He had left them there,in spite of his intention to retrieve them. Then—
"W'o's in t'ere?" He turned on the old man savagely. "None ovyer lies. W'o's in me room?"
"No one, Joe." Mart Deeling was fawningly obsequiously. "'Eain't moved in yet. Sed 'e'd be in t'-night."
His back against the door of the corridor Oliver Manx thoughtquickly. So Mart Deeling had been in the room. He had found theconfession wrung from him. Alec Grosse had wasted no time. Hisamiability at the end of the troubled interview had been false;his statement that "Joe Kline" could go back to Rumble Streetinsincere. Immediately he had been alone he had found the keys onhis desk and had despatched them to the old fence withoutdelay.
Mart was insistent that a new man was occupying the room. Hedid not believe that. He could not think that the master-gangsterwould allow anyone in that room before he had personally searchedit. Then—Then he had not sent the keys to Deeling; he hadretained them. The old man was again lying.
Before Alec Grosse had searched the room! The thoughtrecurred. Why should the master-gangster search the room? Whatsuspicions had he? Alec Grosse had told him that he wanted him tojoin the gang—that he knew his record and thought the gangcould make use of him! No, not Alec Grosse had thought that, butthe men who stood in the shadows behind him. They wanted him! Forwhat reason?
Then, what were the relations between the master-gangster andthose unknown men? Were their intentions toward himself entirelyamicable? The secret agent wondered. Again, did those shadowyrulers who claimed to be autocrats in the Three Districts fullytrust Grosse; did Grosse trust them? These were unanswerablequestions. All he knew for the present was that his room was tobe searched...For what? There was only one answer. Either Grosse,or the men behind him, had certain suspicions which a searchwould solve.
Then, what were those suspicions?
Oliver Manx was thinking quickly—keenly. Should he tryand force his way into that room? If he did—if he could getinto that room without the keys—what then? He could not goto the sliding panel in the wainscoting during the daylighthours. If he did that, then he could not remove the articlesconcealed there. No, to force a way into the room would be tocrystallise the old fence's suspicions, already too greatlyaroused. Mart would call for help; he could find himselfconfronted by enemies, overawed at the ire of Alec Grosse againsthim.
Almost he shuddered at the thoughts that crowded his brain.Oliver Manx knew what to expect, if his disguise was penetratedin that house. In the hovels and dens of Woolloomooloo tales weretold darkly, in veiled hints and coarse jests, of men who hadbeen deemed to be spies from those who ruled law and order. Therehad been no trials, no accusations, no defences. The meresuspicion, arousing the blood-lust of super-beast humanity, hadonly been assuaged by blood.
"Alri'." Oliver Manx grumbled. "I'll fin' a noo doss. Giv' usa sniff, Mart, affore I goes. I'm 'ungry for it!"
"I can't, Joe," Mart Deeling wailed. "I daresn't—'e sedI warn't ter. Yer t' 'ave no more—an' wot 'e sesgoes—yer knows that!"
"W'o sed?" Oliver Manx grumbled, disgustedly.
"Yer knows."
"I don', blarst yer." The secret agent simulated anger."Blarst yer! Cut a man's' doss' an' t'en 'is sniff. T' 'ell wi'yer! Outer me way!"
Thrusting the' old man aside so vigorously that he fell on apile of junk, Oliver Manx strode to the door. On the outer stephe turned:
"An' get this, Mart! I'll 'ave wot I wants 'n 'spite ov yer anth' man up there. Get that? In spite o' yer both and—" Hethrust his chin forward aggressively. "Watch yer step! W'en 'Slim'King comes out watch fer yerself!"
Catching the edge of the door, Oliver Manx slammed it shutwith such vigour that Mark Deeling, struggling up from the pileof junk on which he had fallen, fell again, bringing on his baldhead a fresh avalanche of the malodorous wreckage lumbering theshop.
Seven hours to go! Passing the narrow, dirty street, dodgingthe children playing in the gutter, answering the banter of menand women idling in the doorways, Oliver Manx went up to WilliamStreet. At the Boomerang Street juncture he paused and fumbled inhis pocket for a coin, to purchase a newspaper. Then he went on,into the Park, and found a seat under a shady tree.
For some time he scanned the columns of the newspaper, then asense of restlessness overcame him. He wanted to be doing, yet hebelieved he dare not venture. Always he had a sense of beingwatched. He looked around covertly, at the men lolling onneighbouring seats, but could not single out any individual whoappeared to be taking any special interest in him. At length, hisrestlessness overcame his prudence and he left the seat, makingfor College Street. Moving southwards, he came to the corner ofFrancis Street and turned into it. So far, he had not seen anyonetrailing him.
Turning the Young Street corner, he backed quickly into thedoor of an empty shop, and waited. For long minutes he stoodwaiting; watching openly now. No one followed him round thecorner. With a sigh of relief he went down the street, circlingback to Hyde Park. He had been mistaken, he was not beingwatched.
Again in College Street he went in the direction of Queen'sSquare. From the slice of wide pavement before the Court House hecrossed to the Macquarie Street corner, and paused. Why had hecome there? He could not have told. He glanced about him eagerly,again experiencing the sensation that hostile eyes were watchinghim. Suddenly he straightened and, quickening his pace, walkeddown King Street to Phillip Street. There he turned in thedirection of the Harbour.
Time and again on the bare half-mile he paused and turned,still believing that he was being followed, yet he could not seeanyone in his vicinity who was acting suspiciously. He came toCircular Quay and sought and found an empty telephone box. Thedoor tightly closed, he dialled a number.
"Q—R—S—A—" he said softly when a voiceat the other end of the line spoke. Then, without waiting for anyreply he proceeded to give a minute description of himself,finishing: "Have that man identified at the Quay, Watson's Baywharf, immediately, and followed. Discover who is shadowing him.When certain, arrest shadower for loitering, and take to CentralLane. Tell them to hold that person for furtherinstructions."
Receiving a bare acknowledgement of his message, Oliver Manxleft the booth and passed the next ten minutes staring over therailing on to the water of the harbour. Satisfied that he hadgiven sufficient time for his watcher to be on duty, he strolledin the direction of George Street. Still the feeling that alieneyes were on him persisted.
Very gradually he began to assume the pose of a man overcomeby drink. A few yards up the street he saw a patrolman comingtowards him. Waiting until the man was level with him, he lurchedviolently against him, throwing his arms around the man.
"Arrest me, quick! Quick, you fool!" he muttered, his facepressed against the uniform coat. "Police business!"
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and he was forced back.A quick glance at the man's face and he knew that hisinstructions had been heard and understood.
"'Ere! Wot's th' joke?" Oliver Manx protested. "I ain't donenuffink."
"That's the trouble with you fellows; you never doanything—and so get into trouble."
The patrolman's face was stern, but a twinkle lit in his browneyes. "Cummon!"
Putting up a semblance of a struggle, the secret agent allowedhimself to be pushed across the road and urged in the directionof George Street North Police Station. With apparent reluctanceand insobriety, he was thrust into the office and into the smalldock. As the patrolman was letting down the barrier, Oliver Manxmuttered:
"To be put in the cells for observation. Sergeant to visit mein ten minutes."
Less than a couple of minutes later Oliver Manx passedheavily-grilled gates into a concrete corridor, lined with cells.The constable, escorted by the station gaoler, escorted him intothe cell at the far end of the line. As the door slammed and thebolt was shot, the gaoler whispered: "Sing, damn you! Sing!"
Waiting a few minutes Oliver Manx broke into vociferous song.A few seconds and the gaoler returned, commanding silence.Disregarding warnings and threats, the secret agent shouted, atthe top of his voice. Expostulations came from other cells. Atlength, heavy steps sounded in the corridor and the desk sergeantappeared at the door of the cell.
"Shut that damned row!" The official voice was stern. Then inwhisper: "What do you want?"
"Q-R-S-A" Oliver Manx gave the key phrase that was known toevery man in the department. "The coffin been here yet?"
The sergeant looked at his wrist-watch. "Due in half-an-hour.Say, what's the joke?"
"No joke. I've got a clever shadow and can't shake him off.Book me for Central and tell the man with the coffin to tell themto put me in a cell for observation. They're to get me in clearat seven sharp. Understand?"
The sergeant nodded. He turned from the door.
"That's all right, Joe." He spoke loudly. "You'll get thedoctor when you get to Central. Have a doss till then. Your RollsRoyce'll call for you in a few minutes. Now, keep quiet, we don'tlike entertainments here."
Again Oliver Manx was alone. He stretched himself on the plankbed and closed his eyes, refusing to allow his brain tothink.
At the end of twenty minutes the cell door opened and thegaoler beckoned for him to come into the corridor. Withhalf-a-dozen men from other cells he was taken into the yard, andmounted the steps of a Black Maria. The door of the lorry closedwith a loud clang and a constable took position on the outerstep. The van moved with a jerk and rumbled out of the yard on tothe street. A quarter of an hour later Oliver Manx stepped intothe yard at Central Police Station, and was immediately marchedto a cell. Again he composed himself for slumber, wrappinghimself in the coarse blanket.
A hand on his shoulder aroused him. He opened his eyes,blinking at the electric light burning in a little barredenclosure. A gaoler was standing beside him, smiling. The mannodded, silently, and turned to the door. Oliver Manx followedhim, passing through many corridors until they came to a smalldoor. The gaoler opened this, and stood aside.
"Anything else, sir."
"No, thanks. Much obliged for the accommodation."
With a brief nod the secret agent stepped through the doorinto a narrow lane. A few steps brought him to Liverpool Street.He turned eastwards and went up to Pitt Street. At the corner heglanced at a clock. It was only a couple of minutes past thehour. Satisfied that he was working well within his time table,the secret agent continued on to Hyde Park. Crossing the park hewent down the slight hill into Woolloomooloo, making for RumbleStreet. It was not quite dark yet, but dressed as he was heattracted no attention.
He had to work fast for he was due at the garage at eighto'clock to interview Alec Grosse again—and it was fastapproaching half past seven. Yet he had not dared give himselfmore time. He had to get into the Rumble Street dump, into theroom he had occupied, and take from behind the secret panel theconstable's uniform and the make-up that constituted his danger.The uniform he would drop in some lonely spot in the 'Loo, ortake it and the make-up box down to the waterside and drop themin the harbour. At any risk the uniform had to be got from RumbleStreet immediately. He might be able to explain the make-up box,if necessity arose to leave it in the hide-hole.
He had run a big risk in leaving the things in the hide-awayduring the day, but he had not dared to attempt to remove themearlier. He wondered if the room had been searched yet. He didnot think so; Alec Grosse would not go there until afterdark—until after the appointment at the garage at eighto'clock; when means would be taken to keep him fromWoolloomooloo. One thing he had to chance: that Mart Deeling hadhanded the room to a new tenant. He did not believe the fence'stale of a new lodger. That had been an inspiration to bar himfrom the room until Grosse had surveyed it.
No, the room had not been searched; it would not be searcheduntil after he had seen Grosse and received his orders for thenight. The Grey Cat had said that Alec Grosse was sending him onsome errand that would be far from Woolloomooloo. No doubt thatassignment was only an excuse to dispose of him for a few hours;yet he wondered what the master-gangster had in mind.
Taking a devious route through the mean streets of thedistrict, Oliver Manx came at length to the alley between the tworows of houses. A heavy gloom had settled over the streets, yetit was not yet night. It was dark enough, however, for thepurpose the secret agent had in mind. Slipping into the alley thesecret agent slid along the line of fencing, carefully huggingthe shadows, until he came to the yard door. A touch on thelatch, and he stepped into the yard.
He had not the keys of the room, but that did not greatlyworry him. He took from his pocket a large clasp-knife, the bigblade of which had been ground to a fine thinness. Slipping thisbetween the sashes of the window, he forced back the catch. A fewminutes careful work and a slight click told him that he hadsucceeded; the window slid up. He glanced into the darkness ofthe room.
So far as he could observe without a light, the room had notbeen visited that day, except that the piece of paper bearingMart Deeling's confession had been removed from where he hadplaced it on the wall. Slipping a leg over the sill, he gainedthe room. As he straightened, a black shadow rose up before him.Something fell with tremendous weight on his head, and he slidinto unconsciousness.
A SENSE of slow drifting through immense space,into a region where intolerable irons thudded incessantly on thebase of his brain; the sudden acceleration of movement and ofpain, as thought was slowly reborn, and Oliver Manx came back toconsciousness. He opened his eyes, to close them again quickly,to shield them from the innumerable little darts of light thatstung his eyeballs—that seemed to even penetrate the fleshof the tightly-pressed lids.
A long interval of time, wherein the secret agent layquiescent, tensing his body to bear the pain that wracked everynerve. The terrible hammering slowed to a dull monotonous beatand the flecks of light before his eyes grew less numerous andpainful. He tried to turn, to move, and the joints of his bodycreaked with the protest of long disused machinery.
He opened his eyes again, to find himself in dense darkness.For a time he lay still, puzzling his still throbbing brain todiscover where he was—to understand what had happened tohim in the period before he had been buffeted intounconsciousness.
It seemed ages before he fully remembered. Very slowlyrecognition of his movements before unconsciousness came to him.He recalled his furtive approach to the lodging house facingRumble Street; his exultation when he had run the gauntlet of thestreets and found himself in the old lumber yard before thewindow of the room he had occupied as Joe Kline, crook and doper.He remembered forcing the window and his stealthy crossing of thesill; then—
Was he still in the room where, behind the secret panel, laythe constable's uniform that constituted his main danger for themoment? His mind signalled for his head to move, and pains ofhell shot through the muscles of his neck and back as they triedto obey the telegraphed command—pains as if his neck hadbeen disjointed and reset.
He could not move. A reluctant, cautious flexing of his limbstold him that they were confined. His head was free, but everymovement of it caused almost insupportable agony. He relaxed, andfor a period drifted into a semi-consciousness that held asoothing healing.
How long a period intervened before some latent thoughtsignalled warnings of danger he did not know. Again he moved hishead, stiffly and with effort, turning from side to side in vainsurvey of the room in which he lay. He could see nothing; everyportion of the room was in darkness. Yet he knew he was in aroom; through his clothing he could feel the floor boards beneathhim.
Now memory returned in full. He remembered every incident ofthe evening up to a point where some crushing blow had descendedon his head, beating him to the floor. He had no reason toanalyse thought. Alec Grosse had had his room in Rumble Streetwatched, and the watchers had seen him enter through thewindow.
Was he still in the Rumble Street room? That was possible,though hardly probable. Grosse would not leave him there,although the dump stood in territory he considered entirely hisown. No, he had been carried out of that house while unconscious.To where? That, he could not guess.
He was certain the gang had some sort of headquarters in theThree Districts. But where were those headquarters? Again herolled his head on the floor, seeking to pierce the darkness anddiscover what surrounded him.
He could not make out the outline of a single article offurniture. All he knew of his surroundings was that he lay onbare boards. At length he decided that there was a window to theroom—through what line of reasoning he could not explain tohimself, for he could see no light. And, through the sameundefined line of reasoning, he decided its location.
For long minutes he remained, his head bent at an awkwardangle, staring through the darkness. Presently he thought hecould distinguish faint light. He continued to stare and then,with much effort, moved his bound body so that he would watchwith better comfort.
He was certain, after a considerable time spent in watching,that he was facing a window. He believed that it was shuttered,or boarded up, yet through some minute cracks filtered a faintlightness on the all-enveloping darkness. Gradually the thoughtbecame a certainty—and a faint hope crept into the secretagent's breast.
Yet he was bound; tied so tightly that he knew that if he werethen released he would not be able to move a limb for some time.Relaxing every muscle, he tested the tension of the ropes,striving to give the blood in his veins room to flow through andovercome the deadly numbness in which he was held.
How long he lay on the bare boards, alternately tensing andrelaxing his muscles, he never afterwards remembered. At length,thought hypnotised his nerves to a belief that he could movewithin his bonds. Certainly his muscles moved less stiffly. Asudden effort and he rolled over on his face. Another effort andhe was on his back again, appreciably nearer the source of thepoints of light he believed came through cracks in the windowcovering.
Another double effort and he lay still, staring up through thedarkness. Now he was sure he was near a window. The lightenedstreaks in the darkness that had at first been mostly imaginationnow showed more distinctly. If he were right, then it was stillnight without that room. Another long rest, while he relaxed andtensed muscles to his utmost and he put every ounce of his energyinto an attempt to burst or release his bonds. He failed, and laypanting after the supreme effort. Yet hope did not forsake him.Another rest to regain energy and he commenced to muscle-worry athis bonds. For what appeared to be hours he worked, using everyidea that came to his mind in the contest with the stubbornropes.
Suddenly, through the darkness, he heard footsteps. They werefar away, or many doors intervened. Ceasing his struggles, he laylistening. He had heard footsteps and they were rapidlyapproaching where he lay; he could hear them plainly now. Theysounded in the passage, which he believed lay outside the door onthe other side of the room, approaching slowly, but regularly.Oliver Manx lay quiet, watching in the direction from which thefootsteps sounded. He noted, with some small satisfaction, thatthere was a furtive stealth in them.
The sounds of footsteps ceased, and Oliver Manx lay wondering.A long pause, and the sounds again, light as the pad of a mouse,pausing at irregular intervals, as if the person making them hadlistened for sounds of danger.
A sense of disappointment came over the secret agent. From thesounds, and the direction from which they came, and the faintlight he had discovered, he knew he was no longer in the RumbleStreet house. If he was interpreting the sounds about him aright,then he was in some strange place, and not on the ground floor ofa building.
Again the footsteps halted. Then came a series of sounds hecould not. immediately interpret. A loud click, which he believedto be the bolt of the lock being drawn back, and then he sensed ahuman presence near him.
For what seemed interminable time, he waited. The intruder wasmaking no sounds. What was he waiting for? Then realisation cameto the secret agent. Whoever had entered the room was seeking tolocate him without making a light. With sudden effort he liftedhis bound feet and let them fall with a thud on the floor.
Again came sounds of movement from the direction in which hebelieved the door to be located. He moved, rolling, scuffling,tapping, as well as he could, with his limbs and body stiff withrope.
Suddenly he sensed that someone stood beside him. He waited,and a presence bent to him; a woman's hands touched the ropesthat bound his hands. Fingers sought and found his wrists and,with a suddenness that shocked him to immobility, he was rolledon to his face. Again fingers caught at his bound wrists and hefelt the chill of steel between the butts of his hands—andsuddenly his hands were free.
Vainly he strove to catch at the hands moving slowly up hisarms. Now the cords that restrained his elbows parted—andhis fingers lingered on bare flesh. He had grasped a woman's arm.A faint gasp sounded through the darkness; then came a suddenwrench on the arm he held. His numbed muscles could not withstandthe strain and his fingers slipped. There sounded a flurry in thedarkness, as of skirts quickly swinging. Again came the faintclick of the lock. Running feet, light as dropping featherssounded at the door, receding swiftly into the distance.
He was free! But who had freed him? For a moment Oliver Manxdid not wait to think; yet to his mind came three words: The GreyCat. Had she come to him in that strange prison-place? How hadshe known of his danger; why had she risked herself amongGrosse's gangsters in an effort to give him a chance forliberty?
Prising himself to a sitting position he started to chafe hisblood to a normal coursing through his veins. Presently he leanedforward, pulling at the cords that bound his knees and feet. Afew moment's work and the knots loosened, and he stretched hislegs gratefully.
Yet more than ten minutes elapsed before he could roll overand struggle to his knees. More minutes passed before he couldbring up one leg and place a foot firmly on the floor. Nearlyhalf-an-hour elapsed before he was able to stand, waveringly,undecidedly, holding on to the adjacent wall.
A few tottering steps about the room and strength began toreturn quickly. Feeling before him, and with one hand trailing onthe wall, he started to circle the room, he came at length to thedoor and turned the handle. The door opened toward him. Passinground the door he found the door-posts and, bending forward,looked out on the darkness of the corridor. One hand fumblingbefore him, he stepped out of the room and turned quickly. Almosthe feared to leave the room in which he had lain bound.
He turned again to the corridor, leaving the door ajar, andfelt a way along the passage, keeping close to the far wall. Hecame to a window recess, and his groping fingers passed overrough boards. Now he understood why no light had shone into hisprison room; all the windows on that floor had been boarded up.He could feel the heads of the large nails driven through theboards into the window sashes.
Again he sensed the faint rays of light passing through thethin spaces between the boards. Standing facing the window, hesearched his pockets. As he half-expected, every article had beenremoved from them. He had only his fingers with which to attackthe strongly fixed boards.
Almost a sense of terror overcame him. He turned to the wallbeyond the window, groping along the dark corridor. What layfurther along that strange passage?
Alec Grosse would not leave him in an empty house—alive.Oliver Manx was certain that in that house were members of thegang, yet he could not hear a sound in the house. He groped on,trying to reason out some scheme of escape. He had been carriedto his prison room insensible—and the men who had beencharged to guard him were in some other part of that house;possibly waiting for orders how they were to finally dispose ofhim. Then he must make his escape before they returned to hisprison-room.
There were only that room, the passage—and the darkness.Again he hesitated, then laughed grimly. The "Grey Cat" had comethrough that darkness to release him. But—why had she notwaited to guide him to safety? She must be very familiar with thehouse to gain that room without a light!
A few moments and Oliver Manx moved forward, in the directionin which he believed the Grey Cat to have come, groping at thewall, slithering his feet on the floor. He came to a door andtried the lock. It was fastened and he moved past it. He came toanother door; also locked. And then another door. Now he knewthat so far as he had come there were three doors and a window,on that side of the passage. But—why the window between tworooms; that was certainly strange.
His foot slithered into space. For a moment he waited,regaining his balance by the friction of his fingers on the wall.Then he tested his foot forward again—and dropped to handsand knees. Reaching forward and downward, he found the tread of astairway.
Again on his feet, he groped for the banisters, and started todescend the stairs. He came to a newel post and, circling it,found new stairs. He came to a wide landing. A touch on theopposite wall informed him that a passage ran from the stairsinto the blackness. Still holding to the banisters, he continuedto descend. He came to another landing—and corridor; andyet another. Still the line of banisters continued downwards,following the line of stairs.
Of a sudden, below him, he heard voices. Gripping thebanisters, and moving with added caution, he continued todescend. The voices became louder; yet he could not distinguishwords.
Following the sounds of the voices, he passed into a corridor,immediately finding a door on his left. Still the voices werebefore him. He groped on, and came to another door. The men whowere talking were in that room. He bent his ear to the panel, tolisten.
A bell rang within the room. Oliver Manx slipped back, alongthe line of wall, and waited. The voices in the room were nowsilent. There came a tenseness in the darkness, as if the men inthe room, like himself, were waiting for something to happen.Sounds of feet in the house, below, passed over uncovered boardsand commenced to mount a stairway.
The secret agent retreated silently, and swiftly to the stairshe had recently descended. Looking over the banisters, he saw afaint light on the floor below. It became stronger and visualisedas a small circle on the stair-treads. The back-reflection of thelight showed a bulky form following up the stairs.
Oliver Manx waited, tensing himself. The man was now withinthree treads of the stairway from where Oliver Manx waited. Thelight moved up to the top tread, and waited. A man's form showedin full for a moment at the head of the stairs, almost withintouching distance of the secret agent. Suddenly Oliver Manxlurched forward, striking with all his strength at theaggressively jutting jaw.
The blow connected with a jar that sent a numbing shock up thesecret agent's arm. He sprang forward, catching the man's saggingbody. Silently he lowered him to the ground, catching at thelight-torch. For a moment he let the light play on the man'sface, then straightened and listened.
He had not been heard. The rumble of voices in the room alongthe passage had recommenced. Directing the light again on the manon the floor, Oliver Manx commenced to search him. From the man'ship-pocket he drew out a serviceable-looking automatic andslipped it into his own pocket with a sigh of relief. Again heturned to the man, transferring the contents of his pockets tohis own, without stopping to examine them. He noted that hebecame possessed of a couple of clips for the automatic, filledwith cartridges, a strong clasp-knife, and a roll of notes, aswell as some loose silver. Again he bent to the insensible man,bringing the light closer. Already, signs showed that the man wasrecovering. Pulling the automatic from his pocket Oliver Manxstruck with the barrel, coolly and callously. The man had toremain insensible for some time.
With his foot on the top tread of the lower flight of stairs,Oliver Manx halted suddenly. A door had slammed on the floorbelow. Then sounded footsteps of a man, accompanied by a low,breathless whistle. Turning quickly, the secret agent spedupstairs. The footsteps below started to ascend the stairs.
Hidden by the bend of the stairway, Oliver Manx watched thelight of a torch flicker from tread to tread. It came to the topstair and rested for a moment on the white face of theinsensible gangster.
"Wot th' 'ell," a deep voice rumbled. "Hey! Hey, boys! Here's'Quiz' taken a fall!"
A door opened and a stream of light illumined men passing fromthe lighted room to the dark corridor. Torches came to light anddanced weirdly in the enveloping darkness. Gradually theygathered about the insensible gangster.
"Musta bumped 'is 'ead inter th' banisters," said a voice."Gosh, 'e gotta 'ell ov a wale!"
"Looks like that." Yet there was a dubious note in theanswering voice. "I dunno—Looks ter me like th' mark agun'ud make. Wot ov th' bloke upstairs?"
"'E? Why, 'e's 'og-tied an' locked in th' room. Wot c'ud 'edo?"
"Dunno. Might've got loose."
"Don' be a —— fool. Go up an' 'ave a look at 'im,if yer wants ter."
"Think I will. Cummon, Fred."
Footsteps started to ascend the stairs. Silently Oliver Manxretreated up the stairs, in front of the ascending men. He cameat length to the room in which he had been confined. As he openedthe door his hand touched the key, still in the lock. Withdrawingit quietly, he passed into the room and closed the door, lockingit and withdrawing the key, and placing it in his pocket.
Steps sounded in the passage outside the door. They stopped athis door and he heard a fumbling at the lock, followed by amuffled exclamation, A long pause, during which the secret agentcould see the torch-light playing along the bottom edge of thedoor. They sounded steps retreating on the head of the stairs. Avoice shouted:
"'Ey; Duffy! Ringer! Rod. Who's got th' key? Th' door's lockedan' th' key's ain't there!"
FOR many seconds there was silence, so far asOliver Manx could hear. Then came the sounds of feet running upthe stairs.
"The' key not 'ere? Blast it! W'o's got it? I swear I left itin th' lock w'en I bumped 'im in!"
"Well, it ain't 'ere now. W'o's got it?"
The voices in the corridor accelerated into a series ofaccusations and denials, well bespattered with oaths. Within theroom Oliver Manx stood by the window and cursed under his breath.He had acted on impulse in coming to that room; and had runhimself into a cul-de-sac.
Taking the light-torch he had acquired from the insensiblegangster, the secret agent examined the automatic he hadacquired. There were seven shots in the magazine and one in thechamber. He shrugged. Still, he had a fighting chance, if hecould get out of that room into the open.
A low whistle of amusement came to his lips. The boards wereonly intended to exclude light. He felt in his pocket again,bringing out the gangsters large, stiff-bladed clasp-knife.Working as silently as possible he edged the blade between thetwo lower boards covering the window. A small pressure, and theboards creaked. Oliver Manx increased the pressure—and theblade broke with a loud snap.
The secret agent swore under his breath. Had he flung away, inhis haste, his best chance of success? He stood listening forsounds from the passage. All that came to his ears were lowrumbles of voices. Suddenly one voice came clear:
"Lis'n fellers! I believe th' cow's free. I can hear 'immovin' abart th' room!"
A volley of oaths broke the momentary silence that followedthe announcement. Suddenly a heavy body thudded against thedoor.
"Cummon, y'blokes. Break th' blarsted door down!"
Again came the thud of a man's body thrown against the door,followed by another, and yet another. The door shook on itshinges, but still held. For a moment the secret agent wasundecided. Should he wait for the door to fall, and then attemptto fight his way through the building to the street? Had hesufficient ammunition for that? Beyond the cartridges in the gunhe had a couple of magazines he had found among the otherarticles in the crook's pockets. Would that besufficient—he did not think so. The men on the other sideof the door were armed—he was sure of that.
He turned again to the window, almost despairingly. The lightfrom his torch showed that he had moved one of the boards out ofplace before the knife broke. He picked up the knife and examinedthe remains of the blade. He might be able to get sufficientpurchase with what remained of the blade. He could try; and if hefailed, or the crooks, broke down the door before he had freedthe window, he could still try to fight his way out of thehouse.
The door was shaking violently, under the gangster's continuedassaults, yet held. Flashing the light of the torch on it, OliverManx saw that the panels were splintering badly.
He turned again to the window. He could now wedge his fingersin the widened crack between the boards. A sudden jerk, usingevery ounce of his strength, and the bottom board came away.
"Naw then! All t'gether. Who-o-o!"
The door shivered violently, and one of the hinges startedfrom its screws. Again came the thuds of heavy bodies at the doorand one of the panels broke, falling into the room.
"Struth! Th' blighter's got th' window open!"
Oliver Manx glanced back. He could see a face showing amid thesplinters of the panel. A hand was working at the remainingfragments, tearing at them to make a way into the room. A handcame through the opening fumbling at the lock for the key.
The secret agent flung up the sash of the window and peeredout. As he had expected to find, he was on the top storey of atall building. The wall, from the window to the ground wassmooth, broken only by the window embrasures. He glanced uptowards the roof. A few feet above his head ran the guttering.Could he reach that? If he could, would it bear his weight?
A shot from the door hit the edge of the window, volleying outinto space. Another shot followed, the second unpleasantly closeto Oliver Manx's head. He waited no longer. Pushing the window ashigh as he could he crawled on to the sill and stretched upcautiously.
Very cautiously he straightened, holding on to the angle ofthe brick work. The guttering was still above his reach; so faras he could see, twelve or fourteen inches. Would that gutteringhold under his weight if he sprang up that small interveningspace?
He had to chance that. Crouching slightly Oliver Manx sprangup. His fingers caught and held the guttering. He swung clear ofthe window embrasure, and then back to it. As he swung out thesecond time a hand clutched at his ankle.
"Got 'im!"
A gasp of triumph came from the room. In desperation OliverManx kicked vigorously with his free foot. The man was pullingstrongly, trying to wrench the secret agent from his hold,indifferent if the result precipitated him to the roadway below.Would the guttering hold? Desperately Oliver Manx kicked out. Hisfoot met something that was not wall nor space. A man yelledfrantically and the secret agent was suddenly released. He jerkedhimself up quickly, getting his elbows on the guttering. Itcreaked protestingly, shaking ominously.
"Th' ——! I'll get 'im fer that!"
A fusillade of shots sounded below the secret agent. A few hitthe guttering, but Oliver Manx had already squirmed up on theroof. Furiously angry at the men's utter disregard for life,Oliver Manx thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew theautomatic. Peering over the edge of the roof he saw heads peepingout from the window he had just left, up at the guttering.Without aiming, the secret agent sent a couple of bullets towardsthe window.
A curse, loud and turgid, answered the shot. Again Oliver Manxpeered over the edge of the roof. The window was now vacant. But,how long would the gangsters allow him to keep them at bay in theroom below? If he moved away from guard over the window one ormore of the men would certainly attempt to gain the roof. Hebelieved they feared Alec Grosse more than the bullets in hisautomatic.
He could not stand guard over the window all night. To do sowould be to allow the gangsters some opportunity of gaining theroof by some other means. He squirmed round, facing the centre ofthe roof.
On the roof of the house! Curiously he scanned hissurroundings. From where he lay the roof rose in a somewhat steepslope for a few yards, then spread out into a large square flat.From where he was he could see no signs of a trap-door; yet theremust be one. In the case of repairs being necessary to the roof;it would be impossible to rear ladders from the street level tothat height.
From the roof territory the secret agent's eyes wandered intothe near distance. A short survey, and consideration, and hebelieved he knew where the house was located. He was inDarlinghurst. Away to the right he could see what he believed tobe the glare of lights from the Picture Palace.
One backward glance at the window front which he had escaped,and he crawled up the slope of the roof to the centre square. Hecared little now if any of the crooks tried to follow him. Thatwould be a mad act. He could pick them off at leisure as theycrawled up the slope of the roof.
Yet he had to watch the length of guttering above the windowfront which he had escaped. He sat down on the roof, away back onthe flat square but sufficiently close to the slope to command aview of the roof-edge. Something trickled warmly down his leftleg. Then he remembered; as he had drawn himself up on the roof apain as from a sear of red-hot iron had struck up his leg. Hepulled up his trousers. A bullet had grazed his leg, but thewound was not serious, although quite an amount of blood hadescaped. Winding his handkerchief round the wound, he set itfirmly in place with his garter. That would have to suffice for atime. As he pulled down his trouser leg, he glanced at theroof-edge.
A hand was groping over the edge. It paused, and grippedsuddenly. Another hand came into view. Waiting until it hadobtained a firm grip, Oliver Manx aimed carefully at it, andfired.
The sudden disappearance of both hands, a stream of luridoaths from the darkness, and a yell, told the secret agent thatthe shot had been effective. He had had little compunctions inshooting, believing that men were holding the climber from below.He listened; but the men in the room were now silent. Had thegangster been precipitated to the street below there would havebeen turmoil.
The silence lasted for some considerable time. Curious at itsduration, Oliver Manx slipped down the slope to the gutteringover the window and peered over the edge. There was no onelooking out of the window. So far as he could see, there was nota light in the room. Then where had the gangsters gone? What newtrick to recapture him were they preparing?
A sudden thought came. There were other rooms and windows onthat floor. Had the gangsters gone to those other rooms, with theintention of climbing up to the roof from different angles, andtaking him unawares? That was a possibility. Quickly he leveredhimself from the edge of the roof and clambered up to the flatsquare. Lying prone on the roofing, he scanned the edges ofbuilding. So far as he could see in the dark no attempt was yetbeing made by the gangsters to gain the roof.
For the time, he was safe. But how long would he beunmolested? For the moment he dominated the roof, but the gangheld the balance of the house. He had proved that it would beexpensive in lives to try and storm the roof. It would be suicideto return to the room and try and fight a way through the houseto the street.
Yet, surely they would not allow him to remain on that roofuntil daylight. That would be to surrender the victory to him. Hehad only to wait until the streets were full of people to attractattention. The rumour would soon spread that a madman was on theroof of the building, shooting with a gun at passers-by—andhe would make that sufficiently realistic—and the policewould come. That would scatter the gang.
Whoever was in charge of the gang would certainly think ofthat. Again Oliver Manx scanned the roof-edge. Moving as quicklyas he could, he passed from point to point, making sure, so faras he could, that no attack was developing from any quarter.
As he was crossing a section of the roof, to examine one ofthe slopes, he stopped abruptly. At his feet was a dark patch,slightly raised above roof level. Pulling out his torch, heflashed the light on it. He had found what he sought, thetrapdoor from the house to the roof. He wondered, did the gangknow of this? He thought not, or surely they would have longsince tried to force a way up through it.
Keeping a careful watch along the edges of the roof, OliverManx knelt and tried to lift the trap-door. It refused to move,evidently fastened on the inside. A series of embedded boltsshowed where the hasp lay. He tried to force them but they hadrusted into their places and resisted the poor tools he had towork with.
He could not open the trap-door and its presence on the roofwas an added danger to him. He wondered why the gang had notthought of a trap door to the roof. Or, had they known of it anddeliberately avoided using it until he came to disregard it as adanger spot? That might be possible, but he hardly gave thegangsters credit for such subtlety.
A sound of rending timber behind him made Oliver Manx turnquickly. A sheet of the roofing, over one of the rooms againstthe slope on the north side, was bulging ominously under somestrain applied from below. Standing over the trap-door the secretagent fired a few feet from the bulge into the iron of the roof.Immediately the iron subsided and there was again silence.
A shot came from the far end of the roof. Oliver Manx fired inthe direction from which the shot had come, but he could not seeanyone. Almost before his shot ceased to echo on the night air,another shot, from a different direction whizzed past his ear. Hedropped prone to the roof, beside the trap-door. He could notleave that unguarded to go and see what was happening on theslopes.
A few seconds and the trap-door creaked slightly. Oliver Manxput his hand to it; he could feel strong pressure being applied.Hardly had he withdrawn his hand when a shot passed through thewoodwork, and then another.
So they had found that entrance to the roof. For a moment hewondered; then, as another shot came through the woodwork, herealised that the trap-door was locked and the gangsters wereattempting to shoot off the lock.
The secret agent waited. Two shots came from the edges of theroof, but the secret agent paid no attention to them; a quickglance had shown him that the men were shooting to distract hisattention, and not preparing to storm the roof. Again thetrapdoor moved, rising slowly and silently. Waiting until therewere about three inches of space showing on the edge Oliver Manxthrust in the muzzle of his automatic and fired a couple of quickshots. He had to wrench his automatic from the quickly closeddoor. From inside the building came a loud cry and a volley ofoaths.
Something dark showed on the edge of the roof. Oliver Manxtook quick aim and fired. A click only sounded from hisgun—the automatic was empty. Flicking open the magazine thesecret agent felt in his pocket and brought out a magazine, heloaded the gun. Now only one more magazine remained in his pocket.When he had used that, he would have to surrender—if helpdid not previously come.
He looked up at the sky. There was a distinct lightening ofthe deep blue of night. Over to the east the light had turnedgrey. Now, if dawn came, and people came on the streets! But, hedared not go to the edge of the roof to attract attention. He hadto stay by that trap-door. So long as he remained here he wassafe; to leave the trapdoor was to have the roof stormed by themen who waited under it.
He had to be constantly watchful. His neck ached from thestrain of continually turning it to survey all part of the roof.Some sense told him that matters could not remain as they weremuch longer. A little coordination and the gangsters would stormthe roof from every side—and the trapdoor. It wasimpossible that he could shoot every man who came to the roof. Hemight shoot some, but eventually he would be captured—andcapture by Alec Grosse was unthinkable!
The sky was now distinctly lighter. That was in his favour,apart from the fact that it made his watch lighter. He could seethe surrounding houses, and the sky-line. Surely he was inDarlinghurst, as he had suspected earlier that night. At anymoment now he could attract attention from the street, or fromone of the surrounding houses.
For some moments he remained standing, pondering which was thebest course to pursue. If he dared to go to the edge of the roofand look down on the street, he might see an early riser, on theway to work. He could get his attention and signal for him tobring the police. Yet, to leave the trap-door, to get on theslope of the roof, was to forfeit the advantage of the centralposition he held.
He had to chance that. Moving as noiselessly as he could, hewent to the roof-edge and peered over on to the street. There wasno one on the road, as far as the line of vision went. He turned,and started to climb again the slope of the roof, to watch thetrap-door. As his head came over the rim of the flat part of theroof, a voice spoke briefly:
"Put 'em up, Kline! Drop that gun!"
For a moment Oliver Manx hesitated. He was showing little markto the man now lying beside the trap-door. He cursed under hisbreath. Why had he abandoned his point of vantage? The gang musthave been listening for some false move from him. They had heardhis footsteps on the resonant iron, and guessed his thought.Immediately they had heard him at the roof-edge, one of the ganghad climbed up through the trapdoor.
He was in an impossible position, on one slope of the roof.The gang commanded all the rest of the space. As he watched,another man came up through the trap-door; and away on theright-hand slope a man crawled up to the flat square.
He could hold out for a time yet, if he shot to kill. Butwould that serve him? Would the sounds of shots on the roofattract attention from elsewhere? That was more thanproblematical. Darlinghurst had become accustomed togang-warfare. The sounds of shots were now only an incentive tothe average citizen to get under cover—to proceed asquickly as possible on business that would take him outside thearea of disturbance.
Again, the roof of the building was high from the street. Ifanyone passed in the streets, they might heed the shooting, butwould they be able to locate the direction from where the soundscame. He turned to watch the men gathered around the trap-door,and froze. A man was bending to the opening, hauling somethingthrough it from the hands of men he could not see. A moment, andhe realised that he had reached the end of his tether. The gangwere bringing a sub-machine gun to the roof—and all he hadto contend, against that weapon were five shots in the automatiche held.
Desperately, Oliver Manx looked about him. There were no meansof escape now. With that sub-machine gun on the roof, and thenumber of men the gang had on guard, they could wait until hestarved into surrender or making some desperate efforts toescape, was shot to pieces. As he turned again to look towardsthe surrounding houses something lying on the gutter caught hiseyes. He slipped down the roof again and sought the strangeobject. It was only a short bar of iron. For the moment hewondered how it could be of use to him. He glanced down from theroof again. On the opposite side of the street, far below thelevel of the roof on which he stood, was a low house, and lightsglimmered in it and in the window of the single floor above theshop.
For a moment Oliver Manx waited. Then, turning and bracinghimself on his precarious foothold, he flung the iron bar outinto the greying dawn, aiming at the roof of the low house. Itstruck truly, and the loud clatter of iron on iron filled themorning air.
"Cummon, Kline! Yer can't do an'thin'! We've got yer set!Don't be a fool, man!" The voice came from the flat top of theroof—from a man he could not see.
The secret agent recognised the truth of the words. With ashrug of resignation he started to climb up to the flat roof-top.As his head came over the edging of iron half-a-dozen automatics,as well as the muzzle of the machine gun, were pointed athim.
"Careful, now!" A man standing a few steps before thetrap-door spoke sardonically. "We don' wan' yer to have a seriousfall, just yet. Yer may, later—'regret'ble accident an' allthat! But we wanter talk wi' yer befor' yer goes. Yer'vecertainly showed us the way, Joe."
There was a significance in the cold tones that sent a coldchill down Oliver Manx's back. For a moment he waited, almost outof sight of the men on the roof, and in that time put theautomatic into a secreted holster in the cuff of his sleeve. Twobullets remained in the weapon. If he could retain the gun, hestill had a chance; but the men would certainly search him whenhe surrendered. Would they miss the bulge under his cuff? If heraised his hands promptly, they might. They would pat his bodyand legs—would they miss his arms. That was possible. Heclimbed up the slope slowly and immediately he stood on the flatroof, raised his arms above his head.
"Good!" The voice that had spoken before, spoke again: "You'resure giving us trouble, Joe."
Oliver Manx straightened himself, glancing about the roof.There were at least twenty men gathered there, some about theedges of the roof, the majority about the sub-machine gun justbeside the trap-door. Then, through the trap-door came the bulkof Alec Grosse.
"Well, Joe, had yer bit of fun?" The master-gangster spokewith heavy good-humour. "You're sure some monkey. Now, what aboutcoming downstairs and having a yarn? Breakfast'll be ready. Itold 'em to get it when I heard you were up here. The earlymorning air makes a man ravenous, doesn't it Joe?"
The secret agent did not answer. For a moment Grosse stared athim stonily, then backed to the trapdoor.
"I'm going down now, Joe, and you follow me. Where's yourgun?"
"Didn't yer 'ear it?" Oliver Manx laughed. "Took th''am-an'-beefie across th' road on th' bean. Made a clatter, sureenuff."
"So that was it?" The master-gangster smiled slightly. "Nowwhat did yer think to do with that?"
"Wake th' bloke!" Oliver Manx spoke vindictively. "I sureroused 'em. Th' police'll be 'ere—an' wot'll yer dothen?"
"The police! they're friends of yours, then Joe." The man'scold eyes gleamed angrily. "I had quite a suspicion of that.Well, I won't stop 'em finding you. They shall—in the flatof a half awakened man with a revolver in his hand—and adead burglar, well armed, at his feet. You can't—they can'tcomplain of a man defending his property—and his life!"
WITHOUT speaking, Oliver Manx turned to thetrap-door in the roof. He had lost again in his battle againstthe crook organisation that was trying to dominate the ThreeDistricts; and this time he had no hope of retrieving hismistake. The smile on the master-gangster's face showed thatevery precaution had been taken to prevent either escape orrescue.
And to remain a prisoner for any length of time meant death.The secret agent had no illusions that the man was onlythreatening. The organisation could not permit him to live withthe knowledge he had acquired of their powers and objects. AlecGrosse would scheme some way whereby "Joe Kline" would die, andin such circumstances that the gang would not be implicated. Hehad hinted that he was to be a burglar, and shot by somehouseholder in defence of life and property.
At the scuttle on the roof a grinning face showed, beckoningto the secret agent. The face disappeared within the trap-door,and without hesitation Oliver Manx turned and started to backdown the ladder into the house. As his head came level with theroof he looked up. Alec Grosse was watching him intently, asombre look of malice on his face.
He found the passage below lit by lights from gangsters'torches. With an almost inaudible sigh the secret agent abandoneda half-formed plan, to slide quickly down the ladder on to theman who had preceded him, and escape in the darkness.
The gangster on the ladder reached the foot and stood asidefor Oliver Manx to come to the floor. As he did so the man thrustthe muzzle of an automatic into his back, bidding him turnquickly. The secret agent obeyed, and at the prod of the gun,walked a few steps down the passage. There he was commanded tohalt. A moment, and Alec Grosse, his full, ruddy face flushedwith triumph, passed him and led to the head of the stairs. Athrust from the gun behind him emphasised the command from thegangster to follow the chief.
Preceded by a couple of men carrying light-torches andilluminating the stair treads, Alec Grosse led the way to thethird floor of the building. He turned into a long passage andpaused before the door of a room. One of the men opened the doorand the gang-chief entered, beckoning for Oliver Manx tofollow.
The secret agent found himself in a comfortably furnishedroom, a big desk occupying the centre of the floor. Evidently theplace was used as an office by the gangster in command of thepremises. Grosse went to the chair behind the desk and sat down.The gangsters, crowding the room, thrust Oliver Manx forwarduntil he stood before the desk. For a moment the big gangsterlooked at his captive keenly.
"Anything to say, Joe?" The man asked after a long pause. "Oh,you needn't hurry, the day's young yet and Joe, the thief, won'tbe discovered until the householder gets up—somewherearound nine o'clock. Plenty of time, if you want to talk."
Oliver Manx held silence. He had nothing to say. Every thoughtin his head was centred on escaping from his presentpredicament.
"Nothing to say?" Grosse jeered. "Want a sniff, Joe?"
The secret agent unconsciously shook his head in negative.
"Not want a sniff?" The big man simulated surprise. "So JoeKline's reformed—given up the 'snow.' Well, well—" Hepaused and stared hard at the man standing before him. "Well, ifthat's so, what about Joe Kline passing out."
Again Oliver Manx refused to answer
"If he doesn't 'sniff' there ain't much use for Joe Kline, isthere?" Grosse continued. "Then—as we've got someoneunknown to us in this room, we'll have to give him a name. Can'tcall him 'You, there!' Wouldn't be polite. Any suggestions, boys?No, then—"
"Pardon me! Am I intruding?"
A quiet suave voice spoke from the direction of the door.Oliver Manx swung round, thoroughly surprised. A small man stoodjust within the door—a man he recognised at a glance. Hewas Maurice Archibald, the manager of the Kahm Syndicate. Hewould have recognised those hard, steely, green-blue eyesanywhere; the full, over-red lips; the dome-like bald head.Almost a feeling of triumph swept over him. In part he hadsucceeded. He uncovered the connection between the KahmSyndicate, of Pitt Street, Sydney, and the Grosse-gang of crooks,of Darlinghurst.
He turned to face the desk again, to find Alec Grosse on hisfeet; a smile of welcome on his lips; something like fear in hissmall eyes.
Maurice Archibald came slowly into the room, the gangstersfalling aside, fearfully yielding him a path. Withoutacknowledgement to any, with only a quick searching glance atOliver Manx, the man went round the desk. As he came to thechair before which Alec Grosse stood, the gangster stepped away.Without acknowledgement, or even recognition, the Kahm Syndicatemanager seated himself. For a moment he waited, staring down atthe virgin white blotting-pad before him, then glanced up, firstat Grosse then at the prisoner.
"You were talking to Joe Kline, Mr. Grosse," he said in hisdistinctively quiet and expressionless voice. "Poor Joe! So he'sdeparted to—er—some place where there is little hopeof obtaining the—the very necessary drug. Poor fellow! Butwe'll have to resurrect him again, I fear, unless—yes,unless you, Mr. Grosse—Yes, yes! There is that to consider.If Joe turns burglar and—dies—He must naturally fallinto the hands of the police. They will, with their well knowncuriosity, investigate—They will, with their well-knownthoroughness—horrid thought—use sponge and water onhim. Poor Joe! Water and sponge will—er—obliterateJoe Kline and—Who will they find? I wonder."
A little snigger ran round the group of gangsters looking onat the tragedy as the little man paused.
"Who will the police find?" continued Archibald, in his quiet,precise voice. "They will use sponge and water—and possiblyfind that Joe Kline is—How shall I put it—-is not JoeKline; for Joe Kline is still in Goulburn goal. Then, who willthey find behind the mask of Joe Kline? Shall Isuggest—Thaddeus Keene, of Melbourne—well knownretired business man, and traveller. Er—may I ask, of whatline of business?"
The snigger superimposed upon the air of the room developedinto a small laughter; a laugh of hard indifference, of callousenjoyment of the baiting of a human captive; a laughter that waslaced with the anticipation of the blood-scent coming on theair.
"Cut out the cackle!" Alec Grosse spoke sharply. "We all knowabout Thaddeus Keene—As much as we know about Joe Kline.Give him a name and end the matter. What about callinghim—Oliver Manx, the shadow man of the Crown LawOffice?"
A little gasp came from the men clustered in the room. Withoutturning, Oliver Manx could visualise the astonishment gathered onthe watchers' faces: The gasp developed into a faint chuckle, agloating whisper that rose and swelled into a volume ofsound—until the little man at the desk held up his hand.Then there was a deathly silence.
"So! that astonishes you, my good friends! But, why? We knew,long ago, that Oliver Manx was getting curious. Fortunately, Irecognised him when he came, as Thaddeus Keene, to investigateme. Almost he escaped me then. A clever trick, Mr. Manx. Icongratulate you—but not so clever to assume the name andidentity of a gentleman who is enjoying the hospitality of thisState at one of its—er—guest-houses. Did you think someanly of my—er—intelligence service, Mr. Manx, tosuppose you could put that over?" He paused. "You have nothing toanswer?"
Still, Oliver Manx held in silence. Maurice Archibald waitedsome seconds, then shook his head gravely.
"I am afraid Mr. Manx does not approve of me. I am sorry," hestated quietly. "That, for me, is a misfortune. I do mybest—and I do not receive appreciation." He looked up atthe big gangster standing by his side. "By the bye, Mr. Grosse,have you shown Mr. Manx this place of—er—finaldisposal?"
Alec Grosse did not immediately reply. He glanced down at thelittle man in the chair, questioningly. Archibald nodded,blandly.
"Why hesitate, my dear friend. I can assure you of Mr.Manx's—ultimate discretion. As you well know—the deaddo not gossip."
Without replying, Alec Grosse turned from the desk and went tothe wide fireplace. He touched some portion of the overmantel andpulled strongly. The fireplace came forward, working onwell-oiled hinges, revealing a dark hole in the wall.
"If you will be so good—" Maurice Archibald rose to hisfeet, thrusting the chair aside. "We cannot expect our guest toknow all our secrets. To venture into that dark aperture might beto risk his life. A misstep, a stumble, and I shudder to think ofthe consequences."
Alec Grosse grinned widely as he glanced from the little manto the prisoner. He strode into the darkness behind the fireplaceand for the moment was lost to sight. Suddenly light came in thedarkness, silhouetting the master-gangster's form. Lights sprangto life in some room beyond.
Now Oliver Manx saw that the aperture led into another room.At a motion from Archibald he went round the desk and through theaperture. He had to stoop slightly as he passed into the roombeyond, for the space was low. As he came to the point betweenthe two fireplaces he glanced up. Above him was the dividing wallof the two houses, cut away to permit the passage; and on eitherside of the wall were chimneys. In the further room the fireplacestood out, held by concealed hinges.
"A neat arrangement," commented Archibald, who had closelyfollowed the secret agent. "We are now in anotherbuilding—a building let out in the most respectable flats,to most respectable people. Not one of the persons living in thishouse has ever come under suspicion of the police. I can give youmy personal assurance on that. For instance, the gentleman andhis wife who lease this apartment from the owners of the house,are of irreproachable character. The gentleman is an accountantin the city, owning his own business. If you must know, he hasoffices in Alford House, on the floor above the Kahm Syndicate.No—There is no possible chance of him being connected withthe Syndicate in the police, or public, minds. Not that thatwould matter, for the Syndicate bears a most irreproachablecharacter. Mr. Lyne—I trust you will remember the name forthe short time remaining to you—is a fine shot with therevolver he has owned for some time. I assure you Mr. Manx, therevolver is fully licensed and registered. You know I would nothave you—er—terminated with an unlicensed gun That isnot my way—"
"Perhaps things are not your way at all, Mr. Archibald."Oliver Manx broke his long silence. "There may be others who willhave more to say in the matter than you."
The little man did not reply for a moment. He stared, withsome satisfaction, round the handsomely furnished room in whichhe, Alec Grosse and Oliver Manx stood. Suddenly he turned to thesecret agent.
"Youknow that?"
"I have guessed something."
"Then you are only guessing?"
"With some little knowledge in support."
"And—your knowledge?"
"I have no evidence—yet."
"You are very cautious, Mr. Manx. Is that wise, in thecircumstances? But—" He went further into the room,beckoning Oliver Manx to follow him. "Will you not sit down, Mr.Manx? As I informed you in the other house, we have some time towait before the last—er—act of—er—ourdrama, is played. Mr. Grosse may I trouble you to close thedoors?"
Alec Grosse hesitated a moment. "Better have a guard in," hesuggested.
"Nonsense, my dear fellow!" The little man grinned, seatinghimself in a comfortable chair. "Our friend, Mr. Oliver Manx isnot a fool. He recognises the inevitable. He is going to tell usall he knows. Confession before death, you understand.We—you and I—will give him absolution—if hetells the truth—before we arouse Mr. and Mrs. Lyne."
Alec Grosse nodded briefly. He went to the fireplace apertureand passed through, returned in a few seconds and closed thefireplace back in its place.
"Now, Mr. Manx, we are waiting for you. But, pardon me, I canassure you that chair is most comfortable. Please sit down. Thetime is a quarter to seven. A little over an hour before we stageour dramatic act. Mr. and Mrs. Lyne are late risers. We do notwant—"
The shrill tones of the telephone bell rang, muffled, throughthe room. Archibald frowned, then rose and went to a small tablein one of the corners. He lifted the lid of an ornate rosewoodbox and lifted out an American telephone. He spoke:
"Well? Mr. A. Lyne here!"
A look of astonishment came on the Kahm Syndicate manager'sface as he listened to the speech that crackled faintly on theair of the room. "Yes, he's here! Would you like to speak to him?Of course, anything you say. Hold the line a minute."
Archibald placed the instrument on the table and turned toface Oliver Manx. The expression of astonishment had faded fromhis face, leaving only lines of humour lurking about the cornersof his mouth.
"Mr. Manx, a gentleman wished to speak to you on thetelephone."
"To me?" For the first time since he had entered thatroom—the room that was to be the scene of hisdeath—the secret agent smiled. "A gentleman wants to speakto me?" Oliver Manx paused. "Do I want to speak to him?"
"That is for you to decide." The little man spoke suavely. "Ishould advise you to comply with his wishes."
"Then, he is—"
"He is—yes." Archibald mimicked the tones in which thesecret agent spoke.
"Very well." Oliver Manx went to the table. He lifted theinstrument and spoke his name. "Oliver Manx here."
"And—Thaddeus Keene?" A rather oily voice replied, avoice that the secret agent seemed to remember hearing before. Itcontinued: "And Joe Kline?"
"We are altogether." Oliver Manx stated gravely. "Who areyou?"
"Is my name necessary?" The silky voice was charged withlaughter. "You heard Archibald speak to me. If you wantadditional proof, then send Alec Grosse to the instrument. Butthat would be foolish. You want no proof that I speak withauthority."
"I will take the authority on trust." Oliver Manx smiledsecretly. "How am I to take the words you speak?"
"On trust, also." The voice at the other end of the line spokequickly. "Some little while ago Alec Grosse made you anoffer—when you were Joe Kline. I repeat thatoffer—not to Joe Kline or Thaddeus Keene—but toOliver Manx, secret agent of the Crown Law Office. He will bevery useful to us."
"I don't doubt that." The secret agent spoke drily.
"You fully realise your present position?"
"Entirely! I am to be shot, at dawn!"
"You are jesting."
"Why not? You are offering me what I cannot accept.Then—why not a jest in place of a sob?"
"You do not recognise the inevitable?"
"I believe I do—But you must excuse me. My time isshort."
"Time will stand still—if I bid it."
Without answering, Oliver Manx replaced the receiver on theinstrument and closed down the lid of the cabinet. Turning fromthe table, he found the two men regarding him curiously. Hewalked slowly to the chair he had formerly occupied, and satdown.
"Satisfied, Mr. Archibald?" he asked.
"You know who spoke to you on the telephone?" asked the littleman.
"I believe I can guess."
"You did not recognise the voice? But that does notmatter!"
"I did not recognise the voice—entirely yet. I havesuspicions—suspicions you are confirming."
Alec Grosse spoke suddenly:
"Don't be a fool man! You've had a good offer, why don't youtake it? You're at the end of things. Take what's offeredyou—and your measly salary from the Crown Law Office willlook like chicken feed to what you'll make."
"Now—do you know—" Oliver Manx drawled, staringsteadily at the big gangster. "I have an absolute passion forchicken-feed."
"You're mad!" was the only reply the big gangster vouchsafedto make.
"I am afraid he is." Archibald spoke quietly. "Manx would havebeen an asset to us, but—well, well! Get busy, Alec. Youknow what to do."
The big gangster took a pair of thin rubber gloves from hispocket and donned them, then rose from his chair. At the bureau,facing the fireplace, he forced the lock and scattered the papersit contained over the floor. He went to a wall-safe and, with afew turns of his wrist, unlocked it, taking out a packet of notesand placing them in his pocket. He then went around the room,apparently looting every receptacle that could have heldvaluables. Finally, he lifted a large suitcase from the cornerand placed this open on the floor; then he loaded into it most ofthe valuable stuff in the room. When he had finished the placelooked as if it had been gone over by a practised burglar in ahurry.
"Good enough?" Alec Grosse turned to the little man.
"The setting is remarkably effective," replied Archibald. "Westill have time to spare. May I suggest our friend entertains uswith an account of his activities regarding the Kahm Syndicate,and the conclusions he had drawn therefrom?"
He paused a moment, then continued:
"I regret to mention the subject again, but I have rememberedcertain important engagements I have for this morning. I fear Ishall have to depart—on a different road to that to betaken by Mr. Manx, at eight o'clock." He paused dramatically. "Ateight o'clock and don't forget, Alec, that Mr. Manx must donthose rubber gloves before—eight o'clock!"
EIGHT o'clock! Oliver Manx glanced at thereflection of the clock in the mirror opposite him. It was tenminutes past seven o'clock. Only fifty minutes to wait—ifArchibald did not change his mind again and advance the hour forhis execution. That was possible. And—during those fiftyminutes he was to entertain the gangsters with an account of hisinvestigations!
He had little that he could tell them; yet he had to saysomething. To keep silence for fifty minutes would beintolerable. The men were watching him keenly, alert for somesigns of breaking nerves—the one token of weakness thegangsters hold in supreme contempt. In their code, death is anincident, to be faced with aplomb—with disregard andsmiling lips.
Well, he could match them at that; and perhaps provide asurprise for them at the last moment. The automatic, a short,snub-nosed, powerful weapon, nestled in his cuff. The gangstershad not found it when they had searched him. As he had guessed,he had been ordered to hold his hands above his head, and submitto a series of pats about his body. They had not guessed that theweapon they sought lay hidden just above their heads. Possibly,they had been fooled by his last action on the roof—thethrowing of the iron bar on the roof of the shopopposite—and his suggestion that he had disposed of therevolver. Whatever the reason for their carelessness, he wasstill armed, and he would fight to the last, even with so littlehope of success.
Through one of the two doors of the room a man would come,holding a revolver "to shoot down the burglar." And—he hadbut two shots in his gun; for three men. He was determined thatat all costs Archibald and Grosse should accompany him into theland of shadows. If necessary for that purpose, the man appointedto be his executioner would have to be ignored. That meant, thatthe man would accomplish his task—shoot him down. He had torealise that! So far as he was personally concerned, he had todisintegrate the gang by depriving them of two of theirchiefs.
He had to remember that behind Archibald and Grosse stoodother sinister figures—men whose identity he could atpresent only guess at, despite his brave words to the gangsters.Who were these men? Of one of them, he had recognised a voice, inpart. He had known it—a familiar voice; yet for the presenthe could not place a name alongside it. Given time, and leisureto think—Time! He had no time!
Again he glanced at the reflection of the clock in the mirror.The larger hand was quickly approaching the quarter-past thehour. Three-quarters of an hour left—if Archibald did notagain change his mind!
"Well?" The expressionless, suave voice of the Kahm Syndicatemanager broke the silence. "Mr. Oliver Manx is not communicative.We had expected to spend a pleasant hour noting the lines of hisinvestigation. I am sure Mr. Grosse would have beenmost—er—interested!"
"Then—Mr. Archibald has nothing to learn?" asked thesecret agent sarcastically.
"My modesty is discreet." The little man smiled quietly. "MayI suggest that Mr. Manx commences his recital by informing us howhe came to connect Mr. Grosse with the Kham Syndicate?"
"Mr. Grosse was kind enough to inform me of the connection."The secret agent spoke carelessly.
"You lie!" The big man sprang to his feet angrily.
"Not necessary!" Archibald stared coldly at his colleague. "Itake it that Mr. Manx does not suggest that Alec Grosse isa—a traitor; only that hewas—er—indiscreet."
"Very indiscreet." Oliver Manx laughed slightly. "I had notbeen long in his company before I recognised that theorganisation he professed to control could not logically own himfor leader."
"You recognised the master-hand concealed?" suggestedArchibald, with a little conceited smile.
"That was obvious."
"A damned lie!" Grosse glowered at the prisoner. "I told himnothing."
"In words—no." Now Oliver Manx laughed outright,settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "But—"
"You suggest that Mr. Grosse did not easily fill the role of aleader," repeated Archibald.
"That was obvious." The secret agent caught a movement of thedoor on his right, and spoke quickly. His hands were lying,carelessly, in his lap, his right hand above his left and but aninch or so from the butt of the hidden automatic. "A leader doesnot have to bully!"
He noted the quick glance that passed between the two men,reading the antagonism that peeped out for the moment from behindthe curtains of their eyes. He had suspected jealousy—andnow his suspicions were confirmed. The Kahm Syndicate was rifewith jealousy as he had suspected. Grosse was jealous ofArchibald and the little man, although the superior, was irkedby assumption of authority the big man assumed. Both Archibaldand Grosse were full of jealousy of the men who stood behindthem.
Could he turn these jealousies to account? Already he had thetwo men before him almost at open antagonism. If only, throughthem, he could get a knowledge of the other men, still in theshadows?
"You are a keen observer." Archibald turned to his prisoner,his lips hard, a frozen smile on his face. "So you suggest thatMr. Grosse and I are jealous of each other—and ofothers?"
"That is obvious, my dear Archibald!" Oliver Manx crossed hislegs—and for a brief moment his fingers touched the butt ofhis automatic. "Quite obvious! The remaining deductions were alsoobvious. You showed that when you spoke to the unknown on thetelephone."
The secret agent was glancing from time to time at the door.It had opened slightly, yet only just past the jamb; yetsufficient to inform him that behind it lurked a listener. Whowas that listener? Friend or foe? It could not be the former;yet, somehow, he gained confidence.
If he chose to think obviously, then—he would believethat the listener was the gangster, Lyne, who had been appointedhis executioner. But his reason refused the suggestion. Thegangster would have boldly entered the room, confident that hismajor part in that morning's tragedy placed him, for the time, onan equal footing with the gang-leaders. Then—who was thelistener?
"Quite interesting," suggested the voice of the little man."But hardly informative. May I remind Mr. Manx that he came tothe Kahm Syndicate before he got in touch with Mr. Grosse."
"The Kahm Syndicate is too fond of writing letters," said thesecret agent, drily.
"Such as my letters to the police and the newspapers?"
"And to others." For a moment Archibald was silent, then:
"A letter was written to—er—a certainperson—"
"I read that letter," said Oliver Manx gently.
"So?" There was surprise in the gangster's voice."Then—"
"'Rid' Cann was not too successful in his mission," stated thesecret agent. "The letter was found on him when he wasunexpectedly arrested."
"He did not let you know," murmured Archibald, almost underhis breath. Oliver Manx caught the muttered words; perhaps he hadanticipated them.
"You will have to excuse him, Mr. Archibald; he did not knowthat we read the letter. Really you must give the police creditfor some subtleness. I believe Mr.—er—Cann thoughtthe police overlooked a very clever hiding-place. It was a pityhe slept so soundly the night he was detained at CentralLane."
"He had opportunities to destroy the letter," statedArchibald, unemotionally.
"There you are mistaken," the secret agent laughed. "Care wastaken that Cann should never be alone—before he slept. Heslept soundly—after a good supper. Then—when he awokehe had another meal—of paper. I can answer forMr.—er—Cann's honesty."
"I am glad to hear that." The little man's gloom considerablylightened. "I have a horror of mistakes."
"Such as 'Babe' Shaver made?" asked Oliver Manx.
"So you know that, too?"
"I am afraid my remaining time is too short to tell you allthat I know—and suspect." The secret agent laughed again."Iam afraid—"
"Please don't apologise." Oliver Manx spoke quickly.
His eyes were again on the door of the room. The crack was nowwider; now framing the muzzle of an automatic. He stiffenedslightly, and withdrew his eyes. Was he to be shot, with hismurderer concealed from his view? Yet his eyes instinctivelysought the door again. Now he saw that the automatic was notpointing at him, but towards the secret aperture in thefireplace. That told him nothing. From the direction in which thedoor opened it would be impossible for the concealed person toshoot at him until the door was still further opened. His handsslipped carelessly over his knees—until the fingers of hisright hand again touched the concealed weapon. He had made up hismind. If the gun pointed more directly towards him, he wouldchance a shot through the wood of the door, at the concealedgangster. Another shot would settle accounts with Grosse. Then hewould meet Archibald hand to hand and he had no doubt of theoutcome of any physical struggle with the little man. He couldeasily master him, beat him insensible, and escape before anyhelp could come from the next house.
Oliver Manx glanced at the clock again. It was now well pastthe half-hour, Only a little more than twenty minutes of liferemained—if he could not turn these minutes to advantage.Twenty minutes now. And—there was still hope!
"You read the message to Joe Kline?" asked Archibald, after apause. "That was clever. I suppose you assumed the character ofJoe Kline because of what you read?"
"Your intelligence department was at fault," Oliver Manxgrinned. "I was Joe Kline for many months before you wrote thatletter."
"Living at Mart's lodging-house?"
"Yes."
"That is strange—" Archibald pursed his lips, as ifregretting that he had spoken.
"Am I to give Mart Deeling a certificate of characteralso?"
The secret agent questioned ironically. "I believe Mart actedin good faith."
"With you?"
"With the organisation you control."
"How?"
"Joe Kline escaped from Long Bay. He was free for severalweeks, and re-arrested at Mart Deeling's dump, some fortnightafter he moved in there."
"Then the Joe Kline who was arrested was you?"
"Your intelligence department is becoming, quite—quiteintelligent," mocked Oliver Manx. "Have I to tell you that JoeKline never escaped—that my arrest was but a put-up job bythe police, at my request? Take that—and the fact thatafter his arrest Joe Kline was unquestionably accepted by MartDeeling."
"Then Joe Kline was never released—did not escape?"
"—the police considered that his health did not warrantexposure to—er—free air."
"I remember—" Archibald spoke slowly. "He received an'habitual criminals' sentence. Then he has been a prisoner allthis time?"
"If you had only realised that before," mocked the secretagent.
"Well; it's gained you nothing," Alec Grosse interjectedangrily.
"Only, a rather completer knowledge of your activities."
"Which you will regret you cannot make use of—now,"purred Archibald.
The big gangster's words seemed to have restored hisconfidence. "I am sure you regret that, Mr. Manx?"
The clock marked the quarter to the hour. Oliver Manx glancedswiftly at the door. The automatic had been withdrawn, but thedoor was now wider open.
"It's rather stifling in here," said Oliver Manx, allowing hisvoice to falter slightly on the words.
"You will find the air—freer—later," snarledGrosse; a grin of triumph momentarily lighting his big face.
"Do you think Mr. Lyne is awake yet, Mr. Grosse?" suggestedArchibald. "I believe he is rather busy in the city atpresent—and it seems unfair to detain him atDarlinghurst—if Mr. Manx has no objections."
"Not a single objection." Oliver Manx spoke lightly. "I wouldnot incommode Mr. Lyne for worlds."
"Then—" Archibald looked at the big gangstersignificantly.
"I'll see," said Grosse. He rose from his chair leisurely, andstretched himself.
"I am afraid you are tired," remarked Archibald, irony andvenom in his voice.
"Tired of you." The big man flared suddenly; then his moodchanged. "Mr. Manx kept us up late last night." He doubled withlaughter at what he believed to be a joke.
"Then—" A snarl lay in the little man's voice"—then, if you will suggest to Mr. Lyne—"
"All right!" Grosse moved to the door.
For a moment Oliver Manx's hands closed, and when they partedthe butt of the concealed automatic lay in his right hand. Hewaited until the big gangster had his hand on the door handlebefore he spoke.
"Put your hands up, Grosse! Right up! Stand still! Rightagainst that door! Archibald, your hands over your head—andsit still! I've two bullets longing to find rest-houses!"
The surprise was effective. Grosse stiffened at the door andhis hands went up slowly. Archibald made an involuntary movement,as if to spring from his chair, but the unswerving muzzle of thegun in Oliver Manx's hand taught him caution. His hands went up;and at the secret agent's suggestion, clasped on top of hishead.
"Two paces to the left, Grosse—taken sideways!"commanded Oliver Manx. "Now; you behind the door, come into hisroom!"
A moment's wait, and a hand came round the jamb of the doorholding an automatic which it thrust against Grosse's ribs. Thedoor swung still further open—and a woman slipped into theroom.
Oliver Manx gasped. The woman—she was only agirl—was heavily masked; a piece of black silk coveringevery feature of her face. With a suggestive gesture of herweapon she drove the big gangster into the centre of the room,lining him up beside the chair in which the Kahm Syndicatemanager sat.
"Who the—?" Archibald gasped. A quick motion from thesecret agent silenced him.
"I have the same curiosity as Mr. Archibald." Oliver Manxturned to the girl. "The Grey Cat, I presume?"
The girl laughed, musically, and dropped a mockingcurtsey.
"Mr. Oliver Manx appears to welcome the advent of—theGrey Cat—now. I believe he was rather doubtful of herhonesty, on a previous occasion."
"Life is precious," the secret agent grinned. "By the way, Ibelieve that is a .45 you are holding?"
"Even secret agents guess right—sometimes."
"And it is fully loaded?"
"Another good guess. Perhaps Mr. Archibald, or Mr. Grosse,would care to—er—experiment?"
Oliver Manx glanced from one to the other of the two menstaring in bewilderment at their captors; and smiled broadly. "Iam afraid they are not—er—inquisitive," heanswered.
"Then—" For the moment the girl's eyes searched theroom. "I can see very nice curtain ropes at the windows," shesuggested.
"Do you think either of our friends would want to argue if Ilowered my gun?" asked the secret agent.
"I believe they are being very careful of their health, atthe moment," the girl replied quickly.
Olive Manx nodded. A couple of minutes and he had the curtainropes free and was approaching the prisoners. Suddenly he turnedback to the windows; cutting the lengths of cord from theblinds.
Standing the two men back to back, one on each side of thewide, armed chair in which Archibald had been seated, Oliver Manxtook the thin cord and securely bound the four thumbs of the men,in pairs. Then he wound the rest of the cord about their wristsin such a manner that any attempt to free their hands would put astrain on their thumbs that would be great torture. He then tiedthe men's feet to the four feet of the chair and stood back tosurvey his handiwork.
Suddenly Grosse let out a loud bellow of alarm and rage.Immediately the Grey Cat thrust her gun-muzzle into his mouth,stifling his cries. He wrenched sideways, bringing strain on thebound hands, and Archibald let out a cry of surprise andpain.
"Clever!" Oliver Manx looked admiringly at the masked girl."Now our friends understood that only complete acquiescence toknown facts will serve them. To struggle is to inflict torture onthemselves. Understand, you two? Just the same, I think I shouldgag you both."
"Do you think the men in the other house will have heardthem?" asked the Grey Cat, nervously.
"No; I don't think so." The secret agent spoke reassuringly."There is quite a wide passage between the two houses—andif they heard any cry, they might have thought I had uttered it.No; our only danger comes from the man, Lyne. He was to have hadthe honour of—"
"I know," the Grey Cat interrupted. "For the moment I wasfrightened."
"I was hoping you would not faint," said Oliver Manx,doubtfully.
"What would you have done if I had?" asked the girl,curiously. "Removed my mask?"
"My curiosity is insatiable," replied the Secret agent with alaugh. "Yet it must remain unsatisfied. We have no time to lose.Come!"
A quick glance at the two bound men, standing one each side ofthe big chair, absolutely helpless, and the girl led to the door.When they were in the hall of the flat, Oliver Manxhesitated.
"What of the man, Lyne, and his wife?" he asked.
The girl turned to him with a little laugh.
"Look!" she replied, and opened the door of one of the rooms,standing. aside for Oliver Manx to peer in. On the bed, fullydressed, lay two people—a man and a woman—sleepingheavily. For a moment the secret agent surveyed themdoubtfully.
"They're drugged?" he questioned at length.
"The usual habit of leaving the morning milk on the mat israther careless, is it not?" suggested the Grey Cat. "Mr. andMrs. Lyne rose early this morning with an insatiable longing formorning coffee. The milk—"
"—was drugged," completed the secret agent, with aslight laugh.
The Grey Cat shrugged.
"Come," she said, turning to the hall door. "We must get awayat once."
With her hand on the latch, she stopped suddenly. A stress ofalarm tensed her slight figure. She looked back over her shoulderat the secret agent. "What is that?"
SOMEONE was climbing the stairs of the building,slowly and with evident effort. With the irregular fall of feetsounded the staccato "tap, tap" of a walking stick, the slightscrape between each "tap" indicating that the owner was leaningsomewhat heavily on it.
For the moment Oliver Manx tensed, his hand going to thegirl's shoulder. Then he laughed. It was eight o'clock and, evenin Darlinghurst blocks of flats, people are about and busy atthat hour. Yet his laughter was forced and insincere. There wasthat in the slow footfalls that drove to his sub-conscious mindwarnings of dangers and menaces. The secret agent shook himselfmentally, and reached past the girl to open the door.
With a quick movement the Grey Cat squirmed from under hishand and turned to face him, leaning her shoulder against thedoor, her left hand raised to his chest to push him back.
"Listen!" She barely breathed the word. "Listen! That step! Ifhe comes here—"
"Who?" The man spoke in bewilderment. The girl's mannerunnerved him strangely. He laughed forcedly. "Why, my dear? Whathas the man on the stairs to do with this flat and—" Hisshrugged shoulder indicating the direction of the room in whichthey had left the gangsters bound, finished his sentence.
"Then you don't know?" Through the eye-slits in the full maskOliver Manx could see that the girl's eyes were full ofquestions. "Haven't you heard that step before?"
The footsteps had reached the head of the stairs. For a spaceduring which one could count twenty there was no sound beyond thedoor. Then the monotonous "tap, tap" of the stick recommenced,now accompanied by a strange dragging sound. For the moment thesecret agent was at a loss to interpret what he heard—thenhe understood. The man outside the door was lame; one of his feetdragging at each second step.
"He may not be coming here." Oliver Manx unconsciously loweredhis voice to a whisper.
"If he is—" The Grey Cat hesitated. "If he is—Hemust be; he can't be going anywhere else, but—No, no! Wemust get away!"
"But—" Oliver Manx stood firm against the pressure ofthe girl's hand on his chest. "But—What of him? He's onlyone man—and lame."
His thoughts had turned to the two men he had left bound inthe sitting-room of the flat. They were men in the heyday oftheir strength and vigour—and he and the girl had conqueredand bound them. Outside the hall door was only one man—andhis footsteps tokened him old and lame. What had they to fearfrom him?
Tap!—Pause—Tap!—Pause—Slowly,draggingly, inexorably as Fate, the footsteps drew nearer andnearer to the door behind which the man and girl waited. The twowithin the hall of the flat listened, their breathing bated andsoft. Suddenly the secret agent thrust his hand over the girl'sshoulder, pressing down the safety-catch of the lock of thedoor.
"That only delays; gives us time," whispered the girl. "Hewill—Nothing we can do will make him stay."
The footfalls outside the door had halted; a hand pressedagainst the woodwork of the door. The pressure on the doorrelaxed and then followed a long pause; broken at length by theshrill ring of the electric bell, almost above their heads. Thesudden sound, coming out of an almost uncanny silence, made themstart involuntarily.
The girl's hand on Oliver Manx's chest tensed, pressing himback from the door into the hall. Slowly the man retreated. Againthe bell rang in double sets of sounds, the frequent, irregularshrilling of the bell indicating impatience.
"Should we have left the door on the latch?" asked the girl,her voice little above a breath. "But—If he had comein—"
"Who?" The secret agent strove to shake from him the elementsof fear the girl's tones had laid on him. "Who? The man outsidethe door? Who is he? What have we to fear from him? Let me openthe door?"
The girl shook her head negatively. Impatiently, Oliver Manxpushed her to one side. She resisted, suddenly bringing up thegun she still held, and thrusting the muzzle against hischest.
"Keep back," she whispered. "You can do no good that way.Stop, I tell you. I am not going to be sacrificed to yourimpatience! If only you knew—"
A key grating in the door-lock cut short her words. She turnedto face the door, the hand holding the gun dropping to her side.The safety-catch held, and the door was shaken violently.Crouching, so that no shadow of his body should fall on the glasspanels of the door, the secret agent crept forward and braced hisbody against the door, helping the latch to hold it against theintruder.
"Tap, tap, tap!" The stick in the hand of the man outside thedoor thumped the floor impatiently. Again the key in the lock wastwisted angrily.
"Come!" The girl's hand on his shoulder, her voice in his earso close that her breath fanned his cheek, made Oliver Manx lookup. She bent and caught at his hand, drawing him upright. "Come!I know a way!"
Reluctantly, the secret agent allowed the Grey Cat to draw himup the hall of the flat. She opened a door and drew him into aroom. It was a bedroom. When he had entered, the girl pushed thedoor close then stood, listening, against the slender opening shehad left.
On the hall-door of the flat sounded a strange, irregulartapping. Automatically, the secret agent counted the strokes ofthe knuckles beating against, the glass panel. "Tap, tap, tap;pause; tap, tap; pause; tap, tap, tap, tap."
Three taps, a pause, two taps, a pause, four taps; repeatedagain and. again. His brain registered the signal. Again andagain the taps came, always in the same sequence, never varyingin tone or tempo. Again and again the man counted them; theregular beat, the pause, drummed on his brain, creating a queer,hypnotic numbness.
"Grey Cat!" He spoke in a whisper. "This can't go on. We'vegot to do something. Think, girl! There's only one man outthere—and he's lame. Surely—"
"Listen!" The girl raised her hand for silence. The tappinghad stopped. In its place came a strange grinding sound. For themoment the secret agent was puzzled; then he understood. The manwas forcing the hall door with a jemmy.
Tensed, the two stood behind the bedroom door waiting. Amoment and the hall door gave with a slight rending sound. A longpause, and suddenly the Grey Cat pushed the door she held almostshut, turning swiftly and facing Oliver Manx with her backagainst the woodwork.
"He's forced the door," she whispered. "Now he'll findthem!"
Oliver Manx nodded. He listened to the "tap, tap," of thewalking stick now resumed in the little hall of the flat. Therewere no hesitations in the sounds; they came up the passagedirectly towards the room where the two bound gangsters stood,one on each side of the big chair. With a sudden movement OliverManx pushed the girl to one side and opened the door wider.
For a moment he listened, then opened the door still wider.Now he had recovered from the sense of futility the girl's fearshad cast over him. He had his plan fixed. He would follow themysterious intruder to the room where the gangsters were, andcapture him, tie him up, and with the help of the girl escapefrom the building. Then all that remained was to bring the policeto the place.
The "tap, tap" of the walking-stick suddenly ceased. Verycautiously Oliver Manx thrust his head through the opening of thedoor and looked into the hall. A man's bent form was standingoutside the closed sitting-room door. There the man waited for afew moments, then turned to the door opposite; the room where layLyne and his wife unconscious.
"Wait here." The secret agent spoke over his shoulder to thegirl. He did not want her with him in what he proposed to do,fearing a fresh access of terror of the intruder. "Wait here. Iam going to get that man!"
Before the Grey Cat could answer he had slipped through thedoor opening into the hall, drawing the door almost shut afterhim. Moving with the utmost caution, he went up the hall to theroom into which the unknown had disappeared. To Oliver Manx'srelief, he found that the man had left the door off the latch. Afew seconds and he had opened the door sufficiently wide to peerinto the room.
The man was at the bed, bending over it. When the secret agentfirst saw him, he was examining the man curiously. He lifted oneeyelid and bent lower to examine the eye-ball. A subdued chuckleand a nod, and the unknown turned from the bed and went to thedressing table. A short search and he found what he wanted;returning to the bed with a bottle of smelling-salts, in hishand. He held the strong aromatic under the man's nose.
Lyne moved uneasily—and the unknown moved the bottle tofollow the insensible man's nose. Presently Lyne sneezed, androlled over closer to the woman. The unknown straightened andchuckled again.
"Lyne! Lyne!" He called in a low, well-modulated voice. "Wakeup! What are you doing in bed at this hour of the morning?"
The man grunted; his body wriggled and tensed; but he did notmake any intelligible answer.
"Lyne! Jack Lyne! Wake up!" The voice, though low, held a firmcommand.
"E-er-h!"
The unknown man stepped back a pace from the bed and watchedthe semi-conscious man; leaning heavily on his stick, and atintervals chuckling lowly. Again he spoke:
"Jack Lyne! Wake up!"
The man on the bed strove for consciousness. Again the unknownspoke in that strange, low, commanding voice. "Jack Lyne! Youknow me? What are you doing in bed at this hour of the day? Whathas happened to you and Lil? You have no business to be idlinghere!"
The gangster on the bed opened his eyes, staring up vacantlyat the commanding figure standing beside him. He strove to situp, but fell back inert against the pillows. The unknown made noattempt to assist him.
"Where are Archibald and Morris?" the unknown demanded coldly."I understood they were to be here at seven o'clock—andhave with them that man—Oliver Manx."
That man, Oliver Manx! The words held so much malice andhatred that the secret agent shuddered involuntarily. Impatientlyhe waited for the man to turn, so that he could see his face.Something about him seemed familiar; yet he could not place him.He could not place the man—give him a name—yet nameand place were all but on the tip of his tongue.
If he could get a glimpse of the man's face—andrecognise it; if he could give him a name, then he would havemoved another step forward towards the solution of thebewilderments that had enfolded him during the past few days. Ifhe could identify the man, couple him with the two crooks whowere waiting for arrest in the sitting-room, then he believedthat the major part of his work of tracing down the gangsters whoheld the Three Districts in thrall was accomplished.
If only he could see the man's face! But the unknownresolutely kept his back to the door. Sooner or later he mustturn; then would be the moment for the secret agent to act.Instinctively, he glanced from the unknown to the bed. Neitherman was formidable, in a physical sense—and he had his gun,still with two bullets in the magazine! He would overawe them,bind them, and place them with Archibald and Grosse in thesitting-room, until he could bring the police to the flat.
He knew that if he acted rightly he should at once enter theroom and make the two men prisoners. That was his logical actionfor, at the moment, he had them at a disadvantage. Yet he waited;waited for something more to happen before he played his hand inthis game.
The man had spoken of Archibald and Morris. Morris! Who wasthis Morris? The man in the sitting-room with Archibald wasGrosse. Grosse and Archibald had been with him all that morning,from the time he had surrendered to the gangsters on the roof ofthe next-door building. Then, who was this Morris?
Morris! A newcomer in this web of crime, he was endeavouringto unravel. Morris? The unknown had spoken of Archibald—andMorris. He had not mentioned Grosse. Yet Grosse, up to thatpoint, had been an important factor in the mystery. Grosse hadcome to him at Mark Deeling's lodging-house; Grosse hadinterviewed him at the garage in Unwin Street; Grosse had trappedhim on the roof of the next-door house, and had brought himthrough the secret passage to this flat. In no way had any otherperson than Archibald intervened. Yet this unknown stranger, whospoke with authority, mentioned "Morris"! Who was this new man inthe problem?
Abruptly Oliver Manx turned his attention to the man on thebed. He was speaking.
"I don't—know—"
"You don't know?"
Another effort, and the man on the bed sat up. For a moment heglanced about the room, tiredly; then his glance fell on thewoman, still unconscious, beside him. He turned to herquickly.
"Lil! Lil! What's the matter? Lil!"
"Let her alone." The cool, level tones of the unknown stilledthe man's startled cry. "She's drugged; as you were. Who druggedyou?"
"I don't know." For a space Lyne stared up at the man standingbeside the bed. "What do you mean? Drugged?"
"That is obvious."
"But—There has been no one here this morning."
"Who was here last night?"
"Pat and Gerty—and 'Slim.' 'Slim' came in unexpectedly.Lil had asked Pat and Gerty to come up for a game ofbridge..."
"At what time did they come here?"
"Round about nine. 'Slim' drifted in close to midnight."
"When did they leave? I suppose you had plenty to drink?"
"That wasn't drugged." Lyne said from the bed and stood,weak-kneed beside it. He passed his hand, wearily, across his eyes,swaying uncertainly. "God, my throat!" He lurched forward, makingfor a table on which stood a carafe of water and some glasses, ona tray. Ignoring the glasses, he lifted the jug of water anddrank, thirstily. "The drinks weren't drugged," he declaredconfidently.
"No?"
"No." Lyne nodded affirmatively. "I know that. Y'see, Lil andI have been up this morning—"
"This morning? You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Lil and I got up this-"
"At what time?" The cool, commanding voice broke inimpatiently.
"Just after six. I woke first and my getting out of bed wokeLil."
"Well?"
Lil went into the kitchen and made some coffee. The mangrinned. "Y'see, we didn't want to eat—I had a rottenthroat."
"In other words; you were well shot last night."
"We had a drink or two." Lyne spoke sulkily. "Beer only."
"Until 'Slim' came—'Slim' doesn't appreciate beer. Whatdid he bring with him?"
"That's right. 'Slim' doesn't come visiting empty-handed. Hehad a couple of bottles of Scotch. I forgot them."
"Where are they?"
The man grinned again.
"We keep all defunct marines in the kitchen."
"So that's why you wanted coffee early this morning—andnothing to eat."
"We weren't shot, though. What's half-a-dozen of beer and aset of whisky among five?"
A long pause, during which the unknown remained motionless,leaning on his stick and evidently considering the information hehad extracted from the gangster. He spoke suddenly, as the manturned to the woman.
"Let her be. You say you were up at six, and that Lil madesome coffee. Where did you get the—White coffee, Isuppose?"
"Of course. Lil doesn't like black, unless after dinner."
"Where did you get the milk from?"
"Out of the bottle. The milkman leaves it in theservice-hatch."
"So your milk was drugged." The unknown pondered a moment. "Isuppose I have to consider that you're under suspicion—butwho from?"
"The milk?" Lyne considered the man standing by the bedgravely. "Drugged?"
The unknown did not answer; he did not even move his head inassent, For almost a minute he was silent, Lyne sitting on theedge of the bed, looking up at him, a bemused frown on hisforehead; almost fear in his eyes.
"What orders did you receive for this morning?"
"Grosse telephoned me last night that they'd caught Joe Klinein the Rumble Street dump, and were bringing him to—to nextdoor. He said they were arranging a fake burglary in myflat—that I was to go into the sitting-room at eighto'clock this morning where I'd find a burglar. I was to shoot, tokill—Say, why am I the goat every time? There they're usingmy flat—"
"Your flat? Do you know the time?"
Lyne swung round to look at his watch on the bedside table."God! It's after nine—and Grosse said eight o'clock!"
"Where is Grosse?"
"I don't know."
"Go in here—" The unknown pointed to a door, behindwhich was evidently the bathroom "—and put your head underthe tap. There's a lot we've got to find out—and at once.Something's missed fire. Hurry!"
Grumbling under his breath, Lyne turned to the door indicatedand passed through it. In a couple of minutes he returned, hishead wet and rubbing it with a towel. This he tossed on the bedand went to the dressing-table. Finding a comb he roughlystraightened his hair. The unknown waited, leaning heavily on hisstick. At length he spoke:
"Ready?"
"Yes."
"Have you a gun?"
"Of course." A sly grin came on the man's thin lips. "I don'tgo about without Joey. 'Tain't healthy!"
"Then follow me—"
The unknown turned slowly and faced the door—and OliverManx. The secret agent gasped his surprise.
THE man facing the bedroom door, leaning heavilyon a walking-stick, well-dressed, speaking in cool, level,educated tones, was Mart Deeling, the Rumble Street fence. Forthe moment Oliver Manx stared unbelievingly at the man.
There was no doubt! The man was Mart Deeling! The secret agentrapidly reviewed his memory of the lodging-house keeper. Yet thechange was marvellous, almost unbelievable. What a wonderfulactor the old man must be, thought Oliver Manx. He had known thefence for months and never for one moment had he believed him tobe other than what he showed—an old, miserly, ill-educated,deceitful scamp; a sly, snivelling, traitorous crook.
For a moment further he watched the pair in the bedroom, hisbrain troubled over the identity of the man with the old fence.The past few minutes he knew to be facts. As Mart Deeling turnedto the door the secret agent drew back and to one side in thepassage, watching; his automatic raised and ready, waiting forthe two men to leave the room.
"Wait!" The new voice of the Rumble Street fence camesuddenly.
"Lyne, what do you know of what has happened in this houseduring the past few hours?"
"Nothing." Lyne's voice was sullen. "You remember, you foundme asleep—drugged."
"I know that." Mart Deeling spoke softly, yet there was anundertone of menace in his voice. "I found you asleep; you toldme you had drunk coffee that was drugged—" The young-oldvoice paused. "You were drugged—or you and Lil could havedrugged yourselves."
"If you think that—" Lyne's voice held a desperatenote.
"I have not said I think that. You know you have not thecourage to use it against me. Put it away, man—The othermen in the house next door would burn you down if they knew youwere even threatening me. Besides—" Again the cold voicepaused. "Oh, Well—come on!"
The walking-stick thudded on the carpet of the room again andagain, Oliver Manx tensed. A hand appeared on the edge of thepartially opened door, pulling it open. As the old fence's formappeared on the threshold the secret agent stepped forward.
"Put up your hands, Mart! Quick! You there, Lyne; up with yourhands! Now, Mart—quick march—right forward across thepassage. That's right! Don't touch that door-handle! Keep yourhands up, I said!"
The surprise was complete. Mart Deeling stood before theclosed door of the sitting-room, facing it, his hands raised highover his head, the right hand still holding the walking-stick.Lyne stood beside him, his hands also high in the air, anexpression of puzzled bewilderment on his thin, vacant face.
"Drop that stick, Mart. You don't want it. You're notlame—I know that; and I should know. Keep still, Lyne.Thanks! I've wanted a full gun for quite a while. Good of you tothink of me!"
"What's this?" The gangster growled. "Who're you?"
"I'll give you all the time to ask questions of Martpresently. Just at this moment, I'm busy. Keep your hands up, Itell you. I'll shoot quick and explain afterwards; understandthat. Now, Mart; open that door and walk straight into the room.Straight in and keep going!"
The old fence started to lower his right hand, but the secretagent stopped him. "Left hand, please, Mart. I don't trust yourright—not till I've searched you. Thanks!"
Mart Deeling reached down and opened the door, thrusting itright back. Slowly he walked into the room. Oliver Manx pressedthe muzzle of his automatic into the gun-crook's back and urgedhim forward. The man moved sullenly.
Entering the room behind the two men, Oliver Manx had not atfirst a clear view of the interior. He thought, for a moment,that it was strange that Mart Deeling gave no expression ofsurprise, but considered that the man might possibly be holdinghimself in check against any show of emotion.
"Stop now!" The Secret agent commanded, when the two men werewell to the centre of the room. "Stand still!"
Half turning Oliver Manx called across his shoulder to thegirl waiting in the second bedroom:
"Grey Cat! Grey Cat!"
There was no answer. For a moment the secret agent waited,then shrugged. Possibly the girl had found something of interestand would follow him and his prisoners in her own good time. Forthe moment he had to devote all his attention to his prisoners.He moved to one side, so that he could see the room past the twocrooks.
An exclamation of surprise rose to his lips. When he had leftthe room Archibald and Grosse had stood one on each side of thebig armed chair. Now, the chair stood where he had left it, butof the two men he had tied to it no signs remained.
For the moment he stared amazed. What had become of the men?He glanced searchingly about the room; on the ground beside thechair. There were no signs of ropes or cords there. So far as theroom gave evidence to his eyes, they had never been there.
His eyes went quickly to the fireplace. The secret door to thenext house was closed and there were no signs visible that it hadbeen opened during his absence from the room. Yet the two mencould only have escaped that way. Was that right? He glancedabout him again. There was a second door to the room—and hedid not know what lay beyond it.
"Get a move on, Mart,", he said brusquely. "Up against thatwall, and turn your face to it. You, Lyne, line up against Martand keep your hands high; both of you."
He waited until the two men had moved into the positions hehad ordered; then spoke again:
"Put your hands on the wall—both of you. Keep themthere. Now move forward until your toes touch the wall; feettogether. Good!"
The men were now safe, in the position he had forced them toassume, for the time. It was impossible for them to swing roundquickly. They would have to step back and regain their balancebefore turning. That would give him the few seconds he wouldrequire to regain control of them. Stepping up behind the men,Oliver Manx thrust his hand into Mart Deeling's hip-pocket. Hecarried no gun there. The secret agent's hands swept quickly overthe old fence's body. As he had suspected, the old man wasunarmed. Passing to behind the gunman, he searched him also. Lynehad only possessed one gun.
Slipping the remaining gun he still held in a side pocket ofhis jacket, Oliver Manx caught at the collar of Lyne's jacket andpulled it down well over his elbows. He then returned to MartDeeling and treated him in a similar manner. Both men rocked ontheir heels as he handled them.
"I'm warning you two men to keep strictly quiet and obeycommands implicitly. You're under arrest—and for murder.I'll shoot—and enjoy pulling the trigger. Understand thatand you'll have a chance to defend yourselves in a court of law.Otherwise—Well, there's no defence against a bullet. Youknow that, or should—"
He stepped back a few paces, pulling out one of his guns andlevelling it at the backs of his prisoners. Still movingbackwards, he came to the fireplace, and turned. While he hadbeen a prisoner in the house next door, and in that room, he hadnoted the boss on the mantel Grosse had worked to operate thesecret door. A few moments of experiment and he had found thesecret. Thrusting his foot against the fireplace he worked theboss until he felt the door jar against his foot when the springreleased. A thrust of his hand and the door locked again. Thenstepping back to within a few feet of his prisoners, he swung achair into position and seated himself so that he could have menand fireplace under observation at the same time.
"Like to talk, Mart?" he asked softly. "Yes, you can turnround if you like. Not you, Lyne. Keep your hands flat on thewall, also. I'm taking no risks with you—you're a knownkiller."
The old fence turned slowly, facing the secret agent, hisusually pallid face now flushed and working with anger. He didnot speak.
"I asked you if you'd like to talk," suggested Oliver Manx."There's quite a lot of thinks we should discuss. Of course Iguessed a lot directly I heard your voice before and—and itwas only a matter of time. You turned then before Iguessed—but that didn't matter."
Mart Deeling did not reply. He stood, his hands above hishead, glowering at his captor.
Oliver Manx was worried. He had called the Grey Cat and shehad not answered. What had happened to the girl. At the firstmoment he had thought that she had found something of interestand was investigating it; that when she had satisfied hercuriosity she would follow him to the sitting-room. But by nowshe had had time to make all the investigations she couldwish—and she had not come to him! What had happened to her?She must have known by his call that he had captured the two menand would require her assistance to secure them. Then, why hadshe not answered his call?
The absence of his two former prisoners, Grosse and Archibald,was also alarming. He had left them securely tied in this, roombut half-an-hour before. He was certain that they could not havereleased themselves. Then, he could only suppose that the crookshad entered from the other house and released them. In that case,why had they not searched the flat? Why had they contentedthemselves with the release of Grosse and Archibald, and had madeno investigations regarding the Lyne—and himself? Thenagain, why had Grosse and Archibald not been curious regardingthe girl he had named the "Grey Cat"? She had been a big factorin their capture, and surely they would be inquisitive as to whoshe was, and to get hold of her.
His eyes wandered restlessly about the room, seeking someexplanation of the many questions that thronged his brain. In hisquest, his eyes rested on the second door of the room, andstayed. Was there someone waiting behind that closeddoor—waiting until the moment when he was off his guard? Ifso, then there was another means of communicating between theflat and the house next door—some means of which he was notaware. If he were right in his assumption, then who was behindthat closed door? Were the crooks planning to take him betweentwo fires—was the hidden gangster watching from the nextroom for the moment when he could successfully call in hiscomrades from the other house to take him prisoner and releasehis latest prisoners?
Grosse and Archibald, if they had been released by crooks fromthe house next door, would have told of the Grey Cat. Had thattheory any hearing on the absence of the girl? Now he rememberedthat the hall-door stood open, the lock broken by Mart Deelingwhen he forced an entrance to the flat. That left a third meansof approach to this sitting-room where he guarded his twoprisoners, Deeling and Lyne.
He wanted to search the flat; but he dared not for a singlemoment relax his watchfulness on his two prisoners. Even thoughhe felt himself more than physically equal in a fight to Deelingand Lyne, yet a hand to hand struggle might give some clue to thegangsters in the next house that he was off guard. Yet he mustmake some search, and at once; if he was to succeed in hismission and take not only the two men with him in that room, butthe gang in the next house, to Taylor Square police-station.
His eyes went again to the armed chair to which Archibald andGrosse had been bound. Nowhere in the room were signs of theropes and cords with which the men had been bound. If men hadcome from the house next door and released them, they wouldcertainly have not bothered to untie the complicated knots, butwould have cut the ropes with a knife. Normally, they would havelet the ropes lie where they fell. They had not done so; why hadthey taken the cords from the room?
Presuming again that the men had come from next door and setfree Archibald and Grosse, it was unlikely that either man wouldhave ordered the removal of the ropes. Their long wait asprisoners, standing in extremely uncomfortable positions oneither side of the chair would have aroused them to extreme fury.Their tempers would have been so high that it would have beenimprobable that they would have thought of the subtle touch ofremoving the ropes and restoring the room to its normalcondition.
No. Gangsters alone, from the house next door, had notreleased Archibald and Grosse. There had been someone "higher-up"with them; someone with a keen, cold, calculating, mind, who hadordered the room so as to puzzle, and bewilder him, if hereturned to it. Again, left to themselves, and in the probablestate of extreme fury, Archibald and Grosse would have certainlyordered an immediate search of the flat in the hope ofrecapturing him. More, they would have required to find Lyne; tocarry out the subtle murder they had planned.
The minutes passed and Oliver stared straight at his two newprisoners, his thought full of his two recent prisoners;pondering the questions that thronged his brain and caused him tohesitate. He had captured Archibald and Grosse. He had takenDeeling and Lyne prisoners. He believed that Deeling rankedhigher in the realm of crooks than either Grosse or Archibald. Ifhis conclusions of the past few minutes were correct, then he hadto believe that there was yet another person—at presentunknown to him—who held authority over any of the men hehad taken prisoners. To his mind came memory of the words MartDeeling had spoken to Lyne in the bedroom of that flat. He hadquestioned the gunman regarding someone named "Morris"! Who wasthis Morris? Was he the supreme chief of the gang who was aimingto dominate the underworld throughout the Three Districts? If so,was this Morris with the crooks in the house next door—incommand of them, and at present planning his capture—andDeeling's and Lyne's release? That was a logical thought, forsuch a man would be more apt to think calmly and plan subtly thanany of the crooks who had partaken in the events of the previousnight.
"Keep still, Mart," Oliver Manx ordered, rising from hischair. "I've got to have a look-see about this place. Rememberwhat I said; one false move from either of you, and I'llshoot—gladly."
Moving silently over the thick carpet, he went to the door ofthe room he had not yet searched. Turning the handle cautiouslyand silently, he stood to one side and suddenly thrust the dooropen.
There was no rush of gangsters into the room. For a moment hewaited and peered around the door-jamb. So far as he could seethe room was bare of occupants. It was the kitchen of the flat,rather disordered and dirty. On the small table, in the centre ofthe room, stood the cups and coffee-pot from which Lyne and hiswife had drunk the drugged coffee. Beside the coffee-pot stoodthe milk-bottle, only about an inch of fluid remaining at thebottom of the bottle.
"Nothing there," he muttered, glancing towards his prisoners.He turned swiftly. Mart Deeling was half-way across the room,going to the fireplace. "Stop there!" commanded the secret agentshortly. "Thought you could get away with a trick like that,Mart? Get back to that wall, both of you. Face it, Lyne, toestouching the skirting, quick! I'm just aching to shoot both ofyou and save the hangman his work!"
The two men sullenly retreated to their places against thewall. Oliver Manx hesitated a moment, then started to cross theroom to the chair he had formerly occupied. A thought came in hismind. There was a telephone in the room. It might be as well tocall the police to his assistance at once.
Carefully watching the two men against the wall, he went tothe table in the corner on which lay the telephone box and liftedthe lid. He took out the receiver and placed it on the table.Then he dialled a number, and waited.
"Police?" he questioned, when a voice came on the line. "Good!Q-R-S-A. You understand? Send a couple of cars of police to thisaddress. No, I don't know where I am. I've got a gang ofcrooks—the ones we want—lined up here, waiting foryou. How do you know where to go? Sure, a bit of brains issometimes useful. Suppose you get on to the Exchange—FX, Ibelieve—and see if they can help you. I'll leave this lineopen but not used. Make it smart. I've got the gang rounded up atthe moment, but how long I can hold them is problematical. Justbarge all the men you can spare into Darlinghurst—somewhereabout King's Cross I believe you'll find me. A back street, bighouse with boarded windows, block of flat next door. Almostopposite a ham and beef shop—a two storey place with aniron roof." He paused, and his eyes rested on the dial of theinstrument. "Say, I can give you a lead! The instrument here isnumbered FX0061. Got that?—FX0061. Right! Rush it! I don'tknow how much longer I can hold the fort!"
Depressing the hook of the instrument with the hand that heldthe receiver, he placed the instrument on the table again anddialled "Information." Lifting the receiver to his ear, he waiteduntil the Exchange answered.
"FX0061 speaking. Police business. Check the address of thisnumber and then ring Police Station, Taylor Square—ifthey're not already in communication with you. Give them theaddress of this instrument ringing. Do you understand that? Yes;police business—and I'll be extremely sorry for you if youdon't carry out my instructions. Now—get busy!"
He replaced the instrument on the hook and turned again tofully face the two men standing before the wall.
"That's your giddy end, Mart. The police will be here anyminute now. Inclined to talk before they come? Oh, don't make anymistake; you'll talk here—or at the big house in CentralLane; I'll see to that!"
"What do you want to know?" growled Lyne. Mart Deeling did notanswer. He was staring steadily across the room at the secretdoor in the fireplace.
"So, you're inclined to talk," answered Oliver Manxcheerfully. "Don't suppose you've got much to tell me that Idon't know. Yet you might have. Well, we'll start. Who's he?"
He pointed to Mart Deeling.
"You should know," the man sneered. "You've called him byname, more'n once."
"Mart Deeling, eh?" Oliver Manx hesitated. "Suppose it is abit uncomfortable, standing like that, but I'm afraid you're toodangerous for me to allow you any latitude." He paused. "So, heis Mart Deeling? And how does he stand with the gang? Don't know,eh? Well, I don't believe that. You know, right enough. You knowjust how Grosse, Archibald and Deeling stand—and you'lltell me presently. Now for another question. What about the KahmSyndicate? What's that got to do with you gang of crooks? And,who's at the head of it. No answers, eh? I thought you wanted totalk? Thought better of it, I suppose. You'll have another chancein Central Lane—and I'd advise you to think big before youget there."
"You won't be there to ask questions, Oliver Manx." A cold,hard voice spoke from the other side of the room. "Yet you'llknow—all you are required to know, and then poof!"
The secret agent swung quickly to face the kitchen door, fromwhere the new voice had come. That door was now open and in thedoorway stood a man, a gun in each hand, both levelled at hishead.
Oliver Manx cursed under his breath. He had forgotten that thekitchen held two doors—one opening into the sitting-roomand the other into the hall of the flat. The kitchen had beenempty when he had examined it; but his examination had been hastyand cursory. It was obvious that the man had entered it from thehall, after he had glanced in, and had been lurking there,awaiting some signal to reveal himself.
For a moment the secret agent hesitated, staring at the man asif astonished. Then the gun in his hand, resting on his knees,flipped round quickly and he threw a snap-shot at the man.
Luck held for the secret agent. The chance shot caught the manon the shoulder, spinning him round. The man had also fired, butthe shot had been a fraction of a second too late. His bulletthudded into the wood of the mantel. Oliver Manx sprang to hisfeet, his automatic levelled at the man on the floor; his lefthand searching his jacket pocket for the other gun there.
"Throw that gun from you," commanded Oliver Manx tersely."Both of them, I mean. You're too careless to be trusted withfirearms. Throw them out of reach—quick! Good!Now—"
The man strove to rise, but fell back on the carpet with agroan.
"Looks like I'm a better snap-shot than I thought," commentedthe secret agent. "No, Deeling, go to him and see if you can stopthat shoulder bleeding. No nonsense now! Kick those guns tome—no, I said kick, not pick them up. Good! Now, get onwith your job. We don't want that man to die."
Lyne moved from the wall, as if to accompany Deeling to helpthe wounded gangster, but Oliver Manx stopped him with a word.The man scowled angrily as he backed to his place against thewall. Suddenly he grinned, turning to fully face the secretagent.
"You don't really think you can get away with it, Manx?" Hedrawled. "Well, you can't, and won't, even though you'vetelephoned your beloved police. Oh, they'll come, never I fear,but they won't find you here. If you want to know why—takea glance behind you!"
Involuntarily Oliver Manx glanced over his shoulder. Now thesecret door in the fire place was open and through it streamedthe gangsters from the house next door.
THROUGH the group of men clustered before thefireplace thrust Alec Grosse. Following him, and under theshelter of the big man's form, came Maurice Archibald, the KahmSyndicate manager. Grosse went straight across the room and bentover the wounded gangster before the kitchen door.
"Sure I sent him in," boasted the big man. "Had to give Manxsomething to think about before we barged in at the secret door,or he'd have been able to pick us off one at a time. Well, Fred'sgot him—sorry, but it couldn't be helped."
"So you sent Fred in here alone—it was like your plan?"suggested the old fence. "Yes, you would do a thing like that,Alec Grosse!"
Grosse stared at Deeling in open contempt for a moment, thenshrugged and turned to where Oliver Manx still sat. The secretagent had not dropped the automatic, as he had been commanded todo, but sat with his finger on the trigger. Grosse stared amoment, then stepped quickly forward and twisted the gun out ofhis grasp.
"Don't trouble, Alec." Oliver Manx spoke easily. "The gun hasonly one cartridge in it—The last."
"Well, we've got a shot or two to spare," the big man laughedbreezily. "And we know where to place them. Get me?"
The secret agent shook his head. "Sorry, Alec, you're toolate." He hesitated a moment. "I've fired the last shot that willhe fired in this investigation—that is, unless you and yourmen are distinctly mad."
"Meaning?"
"That within five minutes the police will be here. Already theblock is surrounded by police; they're only waiting for the stormtroops to raid the houses. Then—" He shruggedsignificantly.
Archibald laughed. He strolled across the room, his handsthrust deep in his trousers' pockets.
"Am I to know the joke?" asked the secret agent quietly.
"Optimism always amuses me," said the little man.
"There we are in agreement," Oliver Manx conceded. "I gatherthat you are enjoying an optimistic joke?"
"Five minutes," explained the Kahm Syndicate manager.
"Ample time for you to supply me with the few facts I stillneed," suggested Oliver Manx.
"And then—" Alec Grosse laughed. His fingers exploded ina sound resembling a pistol shot.
"What do you want to know?" Mart Deeling had come across theroom. He was again leaning on his stick; one of the gangsters hadfound it and brought it to him. He limped realistically.
"Very little." The secret agent settled back in his chair morecomfortably. "I think I have your organisation sufficientlyreckoned up. One point somewhat puzzles me—"
"And that?" Archibald had drawn a chair up, facing the secretagent. "We don't mind you asking a few questions."
"Just how did you get on my track from the hospital to RumbleStreet?"
"Not K-A-H-M? You don't want to know about that?" laughed thelittle man.
"I was wrong there, I admit," said the secret agent. "For themoment I really thought I knew better—later."
"We never tracked you—or got on your track," boomedGrosse, anxious that the credit for the secret agent's captureshould not be taken from him. "I had known for quite a while thatyou were not Joe Kline. Mart Deeling told me of your arrival athis lodging-house—and I checked up and found that Kline wasstill in gaol. That was two and two—"
"And you made five of it!"
"Why all this talk?" Mart Deeling broke in abruptly. "Don'tyou men understand he's stalling for time. I heard him ring upthe police—that was half-an-hour ago. They should be hereat any moment. We've got to—"
Grosse nodded. "We've got a getaway that he knows nothingabout. Bump him off and then—" He swung round on the groupof men at the secret door. "Get back, you fellows. Into the otherhouse, but leave the doors open. Lyne, where are you?"
The gunman rose from a seat by the window and saunteredcarelessly across the room to the group around Oliver Manx.
"You know your job?" Alec Grosse continued. "The front door'sbusted. That's all to our good—show how he got it." Heswung round on Deeling. "Say, you didn't leave any fingerprintsthere? Maybe you have. 'Slim', go out the front way and wipe offany fingerprints on the door and other parts of the flat Deelingmay have been in this morning. Where's that jemmy, Mart?" He tookthe tool the old fence handed him. "Take this, 'Slim' and drop itsomewhere in the flat, after you've wiped it up. Mr. Manx's goingto wear rubber gloves, so he hasn't left any fingerprints aboutthe flat. Here they are." He fished in his pockets and broughtout the gloves he had worn while faking the burglary in thatroom, tossing them on Oliver Manx's knees. "Put them on, quick,you! We haven't all day to waste."
Mart Deeling nodded agreement gravely.
"The best way out," he acknowledged. "With Mr. Manx 'safe.' wemay be able to beat the rap, as he would call it. If wecan—"
"What's to stop us," asked Alec Grosse aggressively. "Backthrough the door, you boys. In the next house, make a getaway,or—No, fake a two-up game. That'll do, Hide all guns andhave plenty of money on the floor. That's it. If the police burstin they'll only find a game in progress. Of course they'll arrestyou for playing—but a fine won't hurt any of us. Betterthan standing for a bump-off, eh?"
"Splendid!" Maurice Archibald nodded beamingly. "If Mr. Lyneis ready—"
"He's got my gun," complained the owner of the flat. "Took itfrom me when he lined up Deeling and I—"
"A gun I believe." The little man stood up and went to thesecret agent, thrusting his hand into a jacket pocket thatbulged. "Yes, I thought so! Your gun, I believe, Mr. Lyne."
The man took the weapon with a grin of satisfaction andexpertly examined the magazine, then twirled it thoughtfully inhis hand. He eyed the secret agent banefully.
"Quite ready?" Alec Grosse watched the men file slowly throughthe secret door. "Don't forget, Lyne, that you and your wife weredrugged with the coffee—when you tell your tale to thepolice. Better let them come up and find the busted door. They'llbarge in here and find you overcome with horror at having killeda burglar. Your tale is that after you and your wife drank thedrugged milk you both went back to bed. Some noise awoke you andyou came in here. You found a burglar at your desk and shot athim. They can't blame you if you show signs of the drugging.You'd better have a sip or two of that milk, when you've obligedMr. Manx. Just to give you the doped air."
Lyne nodded. He went to the kitchen door and turned thehandle. The door held fast. He turned, with a startledexclamation to Grosse.
"Someone's locked the door!"
Grosse turned sharply. He strode across the room to Lyne'sside and shook the door vigorously. It held fast.
"When did you lock this door, Mart?"
"I didn't lock it."
"Someone did, and took the key." The big man's eyes fell onthe wounded gangster lying before the door. "Say, two of youcarry Pete into the other house—"
"You can't do that," broke in Archibald swiftly. "If thepolice raid it for a two-up school they'll wonder if they find awounded man there—and there'll be a lot of explaining todo. No, that won't do! Pete will have to take hismedicine—"
"What do you mean?" asked Alec Grosse sharply.
"There are two burglars in this flat. Lyne killsone—Manx, and wounds the other—Pete. Sorry we've gotto frame him, but—"
Grosse nodded. "We'll take care of him until he's done histime and can work again." He turned to the gunman. "Get thisstraight. There were two burglars—two—two—"
Lyne nodded. "What about you three?" he asked.
"We'll find a hide-away in the next house," suggested Deeling."More than likely we can get away with it. Anyway, if we're smeltout, we can only be supposed to have been at the two-up school,and have hidden from the police."
Grosse nodded. Suddenly he frowned. "Say, 'Slim,' why aren't youout of here by now?"
"This door's locked," replied the gangster, sullenly.
"Then try the other door," snapped Archibald, nodding to thedoor to the flat-hall.
The man went across the room and tugged at the door-handle.
"This door's also locked," he said. A look of fear came in hiseyes as he moved quickly to the secret door in the fireplace.
"Both doors locked!" Mart Deeling frowned. "Who locked them?"He waited a moment. "Looks like something's happened." He glancedat Oliver Manx, seated in the middle of the room and smilingquietly. "Say Manx, what do you know of this?"
"I told you."
"What?"
"I told you that the police would arrive in five minutes. Theyhappen to be on time—that's all!"
"Oh, is it?" Grosse thrust his ugly leering face close to thesecret agent. "Is it? What if we bump you off, and chance ourluck?"
"You wouldn't be so foolish." Oliver Manx showed no mentaldisturbance. "There's a lot of difference between circumstantialevidence regarding murder and the finding of the corpse and themurderer together."
"Damn you!" The big man was losing his temper. "Who lockedthose doors?"
"The police," suggested the secret agent equably. Then athought appeared to strike him. "Or—"
"Well?" queried the big man, his temper rising quickly. "Orwho, damn you?"
"Perhaps the Grey Cat."
"Who's the Grey Cat? That woman who—"
"The lady, whose acquaintance you made this evening when Itied you and your friend Archibald up. Don't you remember her,Mr. Grosse?"
"Stop that!" Exclaimed Mart Deeling as Grosse hit Oliver Manxfull on the mouth. "You're wasting time, Alec. Get through thedoor to the next house. We've got to try that two-up gamefake."
"And leave him here to show the police the way through thesecret doors—not likely," retorted Grosse savagely."I'll—"
"Then, it's your funeral," said the old fence. "I'm going,and 'Slim' and Maurice will come with me. We'll leave you here todeal as you wish with Mr. Oliver Manx."
"I'm coming too," stated Lyne emphatically.
The three men turned with one accord to the fireplace, MartDeeling leading the way. Just as Lyne, who was the last man toleave the flat, disappeared from view, he was thrust back by asurge of the gangsters.
"What the—?" Alec Grosse turned quickly. "What's thematter?"
Archibald, thrusting Lyne back with both hands, came throughthe secret door, quickly followed by Deeling.
"The police!" exclaimed the little man. "They've broken intothe next door house."
"Then out through the front!" Grosse swung on his heels andcharged for the room door. His heavy shoulder crashed on it, butit held fast. "Keep back there. I'll soon have this down. Someoneshut that fireplace door. What're you leaving it open for?"
As the big man braced himself to charge the door again, it wasthrust, sharply back and the Grey Cat stood on the threshold, hergun levelled threateningly at the big man.
"Hands up,!" she commanded sharply.
Immediately the girl opened the door, attracting attention toherself, Oliver Manx was on his feet A couple of quick steps andhe stood beside the gunman Lyne. His fist shot up, catching theman on the angle of the jaw. As the man fell, the secret agentcaught at the hand holding the automatic.
"Good girl!" he exclaimed. "Now, you men! Face this way! Quick!I've no time to waste arguing with you. Quick, I say!"
Bewildered at the sudden turning of events, the four men swungto face him. The Grey Cat stepped up behind Grosse and thrust hergun into the small of his back.
"Into the room, please," she said softly. "I should hate topull this trigger; it—the report might frighten me."
"Fine!" Oliver Manx nodded appreciation of the girl's work."So it was you who locked the doors—I was wondering whereyou had got to."
"I went to one of the upstairs flats, to telephone thepolice," explained the, girl, simply. "When I came down again, Isaw—"
"That the tables had been turned on me, eh?" The secret agentgrinned. "Well, we've got them now. When the policecome—"
A scatter of gangsters came into the room through the secretdoor. Oliver Manx backed quickly to the wall, ordering thenewcomers to line up, with raised hands. A few seconds and thegangsters were followed through the fireplace aperture by anumber of police. A uniformed sergeant came with them andimmediately took charge of the proceedings. "Check, and mate!"exclaimed Oliver Manx with a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Grey Cat,you've saved my life twice to-day. Now, if you will—"
He hesitated and stopped speaking as the kitchen door openedand a group of men entered, Assistant Commissioner Ramsay in thelead. The police officer came across the room to where OliverManx stood, his hand outstretched in congratulation. "OliverManx, you've accomplished wonders!" he said.
"With this young lady's help," said the secret agent. "I wasjust asking her to—"
"The Grey Cat regrets—" said the girl demurely.
"You'd better get those prisoners to headquarters, sergeant."The Assistant Commissioner turned to the officer in charge."Quite a good haul! Perhaps now the Three Districts will havesome peace—for the time, at all events!"
"One moment please, Mr. Ramsay!" Oliver Manx spoke after amoment's thought. "There is a question I would like to askMaurice Archibald before he leaves us. Regarding the KahmSyndicate—"
Archibald turned quickly, a mocking smile on his lips.
"K-1; A-2; H-3; M-4." repeated the little man, mockingly.
"Oh, that!" The Assistant Commissioner laughed; "Perhaps I canexplain better than Archibald. He might not tellthe—er—exact truth. Sergeant, get your prisonersaway. Gentlemen—" he turned to the three men who hadaccompanied him into the room. "—will you please be seated.I shall not detain you long."
The police sergeant saluted, a smile of satisfaction, at hisimportant captures, on his broad face. When the room was clearedof the gangsters, Assistant Commissioner Ramsay spoke again.
"You asked about the Kahm Syndicate, Mr. Manx," he saidquietly. "It is the matter of the Kahm Syndicate which brought meout here this morning." For a moment he paused, then continued:"I suppose you remember most of the events of the pasttwenty-four hours—you should," he smiled.
Oliver Manx nodded.
"Then you remember throwing a bar of iron from the roof of thehouse next door on to the roof of a house across the yard?"
"Yes." The secret agent spoke thoughtfully. "I had to come tothe conclusion that the owner of that shop was one of thoseDarlinghurst inhabitants who consider nothing concerns themselvesunless it affects them personally. Otherwise he would have donethis duty as a citizen and reported the occurrence to thepolice."
"He did just that," laughed the Assistant Commissioner. "Youmade it his business—when a bar of iron came from the skiesand destroyed a perfectly good piece of roofing iron. He got realmad—and rang up Taylor Square. They thought the bar of ironcame from an aeroplane, and communicated with headquarters. Atfirst, I thought the same—then I remembered you have beenout of touch with us for some considerable time, and began to beanxious regarding you."
"I've been out of touch with you for long times before. Mr.Assistant Commissioner," observed Oliver Manx drily.
"That, is true," assented the police officer. "But on thoseprevious occasions to which you refer I had not been in touchwith these gentlemen." He motioned towards the three men who hadfollowed him into the room.
Oliver Manx lifted his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Perhaps I should introduce them," said Commissioner Ramsay."Mr. Manx let me make you acquainted with Sir Eldon Kitton, Mr.Herbert Hendel, and Mr. Wilton Morris."
"Mr. Morris—" Oliver Manx swung on the man mentioned,quickly. "I believe I have heard you referred to before thismorning."
"Possibly." The Assistant Commissioner smiled slightly. "Hisname brings recollections, no doubt. But, Manx, have you gatheredthe significance of the presence of these gentlemen?"
"Quite!" The secret agent smiled slightly. "They, withMaurice, Archibald form the Kahm Syndicate—their initialsmake the syndicate name."
"Archibald! That scoundrel!" Sir Eldon, stout and dignified,exclaimed indignantly. "Trying to make us—"
"He made you, Sir Eldon," interrupted George Ramsay quietly."I see now that you have penetrated Archibald's scheme. It wasgood—really, from his point of view."
"Archibald came to me with a proposal to clean the ThreeDistricts from the present crime wave," explained the pompousproperty owner. "He—er—persuaded that the police wereunable to cope with the situation!
"And so induced you, and the gentlemen with you, to put him incharge of an organisation to clean up—you three gentlemenbeing the principal property owners in the Three Districts,"suggested Oliver Manx.
"And then used our organisation to promote a monopoly in crimein the Three Districts," exclaimed the knight indignantly. "Icould—"
"It must have cost you quite a lot of money, Sir Eldon,"suggested Oliver Manx quietly. "Very handsome offices, a largestaff, splendid appointments!" Sir Eldon preened, himself. "Imust say this for Maurice Archibald; that he was a most capableorganiser," he stated. "The costs were insignificant. I was quiteastounded to find how cheaply he was running the business when Iwent into accounts with him recently. He had managed to get quitenumber of citizens to work gratis for theorganisation—"
"Let me get that straight, Sir Eldon." Oliver Manx spokesharply. "Archibald obtained the services of a number of crooksto act as clerks to your organisation, paying them out of theproceeds of the crooked work he was organising under the shelterof your 'clean-up' organisation. He paid them from the proceedsobtained by his crook gangs. On the other hand he had the use ofyour names and with them could obtain information from even thepolice department itself.
"He fooled the government with the belief that you were at thehead of a perfectly straight organisation, and obtainedinformation from it. He fooled other State Governments in anexactly similar fashion. He wrote letters to the newspapers inyour name—and you and your confreres preened themselvesthat you were protecting your large properties at aninfinitesimal fraction of what it should have cost you. You werecontent that you were getting good publicity for your property,at a public cost, under the pretext that you were undertaking apublic work at large expense to yourselves—" The secretagent paused. "Cannot some of you people be even honest withyourselves?"
Sir Eldon wilted under Oliver Manx's denunciations, and histwo companions looked decidedly uncomfortable. CommissionerRamsay sat back, smiling, content that the secret agent shouldsay what had been in his mind but which was impolitic for him toutter. A few moments of silence and Sir Eldon in some measurerecovered his poise. He turned to the Assistant Commissioner:
"Of course, Mr. Ramsay, we are most grateful to Mr. Manx forhis admirable work," he said stiffly. "And I have no doubt myconfreres will join with me in showing some tangible appreciationin a suitable and—er—usual manner. Really, I hadforgotten the time and—er—I have a most importantengagement—If you will kindly excuse me—"
"Don't let me detain you, gentlemen," said CommissionerRamsay, smiling at the discomfiture of the men. "That is, unlessMr. Manx has something further—"
He glanced inquiringly at the secret agent.
"Nothing further, Mr. Commissioner," replied the secret agentcarelessly.
Sir Eldon Kitton and his two friends made a somewhat hasty andinglorious exit. The Assistant Commissioner hesitated a moment,then went to the door. He glanced back at the heavily maskedgirl.
"And this lady?" he asked inquiringly.
"One of my assistants, Mr. Ramsay," Oliver Manx explainedairily. "A Miss Torrens—Miss Phyllis Torrens."
The Assistant Commissioner bowed. "I did not know you employedassistants, Mr. Manx. In fact, I was under the impression thatyou always worked alone."
"You know me." Phyllis Torrens sprang to her feet, staring atOliver Manx in alarm. "Why—"
Oliver Manx ignored the girl's exclamation, turning to thepolice officer. "On this occasion I had to have assistance, andMiss Torrens has proved most remarkably capable—in fact,she has saved my life twice. I hope—I amcertain—"
George Ramsay, with a quick glance at the girl's flushed face,smiled and passed out of the room. Oliver Manx turned,complainingly, to the girl:
"I was only going to tell him that I hoped to see more of youin the future. I wasn't going to tell that I recognised you whenat the hospital—and that you recognised me—"
"Did you?" said the girl softly.
"Of course I did—little Phyllis who was quite a whalefor detective stories and swore that she would be the first ladydetective when she grew up—and then became a nurse. Why, Ieven knew you behind that mask."
"So you told Mr. Ramsay that I was your assistant."
"My very capable assistant and I said that—that I hopedto see of you—in the near future—Phyllis."
In spite of her lauded detective ability, the Grey Cat showedthat she had not forgotten her schoolgirl ability—toblush.