IX
The Four vs. the Hundred
Some workmen, returning home of an evening and taking a shortcut through a field two miles from Catford, saw a man hanging from a tree.
They ran across and found a fashionably dressed gentleman of foreign appearance. One of the labourers cut the rope with his knife, but the man was dead when they cut him down. Beneath the tree was a black bag, to which somebody had affixed a label bearing the warning, вАЬDo not touchвБ†вАФthis bag contains explosives: inform the police.вАЭ More remarkable still was the luggage label tied to the lapel of the dead manвАЩs coat. It ran: вАЬThis is Franz Kitsinger, convicted at Prague in 1904, for throwing a bomb: escaped from prison March 17, 1905: was one of the three men responsible for the attempt on the Tower Bridge today. Executed by order of The Council of Justice.вАЭ
вАЬItвАЩs a humiliating confession,вАЭ said the chief commissioner when they brought the news to him, вАЬbut the presence of these men takes a load off my mind.вАЭ
But the Red Hundred were grimly persistent.
That night a man, smoking a cigar, strolled aimlessly past the policeman on point duty at the corner of Kensington Park Gardens, and walked casually into Ladbroke Square. He strolled on, turned a corner and crossing a road, till he came to where one great garden served for a double row of middle-class houses. The backs of these houses opened on to the square. He looked round and, seeing the coast clear, he clambered over the iron railings and dropped into the big pleasure ground, holding very carefully an object that bulged in his pocket.
He took a leisurely view of the houses before he decided on the victim. The blinds of this particular house were up and the French windows of the dining-room were open, and he could see the laughing group of young people about the table. There was a birthday party or something of the sort in progress, for there was a great parade of Parthian caps and paper sunbonnets.
The man was evidently satisfied with the possibilities for tragedy, and he took a pace nearer.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶
Two strong arms were about him, arms with muscles like cords of steel.
вАЬNot that way, my friend,вАЭ whispered a voice in his ear.вБ†вАКвБ†вА¶
The man showed his teeth in a dreadful grin.
The sergeant on duty at Notting Hill Gate Station received a note at the hands of a grimy urchin, who for days afterwards maintained a position of enviable notoriety.
вАЬA gentleman told me to bring this,вАЭ he said.
The sergeant looked at the small boy sternly and asked him if he ever washed his face. Then he read the letter:
вАЬThe second man of the three concerned in the attempt to blow up the Tower Bridge will be found in the garden of Maidham Crescent, under the laurel bushes, opposite No.¬†72.вАЭ
It was signed вАЬThe Council of Justice.вАЭ
The commissioner was sitting over his coffee at the Ritz, when they brought him the news. Falmouth was a deferential guest, and the chief passed him the note without comment.
вАЬThis is going to settle the Red Hundred,вАЭ said Falmouth. вАЬThese people are fighting them with their own weaponsвБ†вАФassassination with assassination, terror with terror. Where do we come in?вАЭ
вАЬWe come in at the end,вАЭ said the commissioner, choosing his words with great niceness, вАЬto clean up the mess, and take any scraps of credit that are goingвАЭвБ†вАФhe paused and shook his head. вАЬI hopeвБ†вАФI should be sorryвБ†вАФвАЭ he began.
вАЬSo should I,вАЭ said the detective sincerely, for he knew that his chief was concerned for the ultimate safety of the men whose arrest it was his duty to effect. The commissionerвАЩs brows were wrinkled thoughtfully.
вАЬTwo,вАЭ he said musingly; вАЬnow, how on earth do the Four Just Men know the number in thisвБ†вАФand how did they track them downвБ†вАФand who is the third?вБ†вАФheavens! one could go on asking questions the whole of the night!вАЭ
On one point the Commissioner might have been informed earlier in the eveningвБ†вАФhe was not told until three oвАЩclock the next morning.
The third man was Von Dunop. Ignorant of the fate of his fellow-Terrorists, he sallied forth to complete the day notably.
The crowd at a theatre door started a train of thought, but he rejected that outlet to ambition. It was too public, and the chance of escape was nil. These British audiences did not lose their heads so quickly; they refused to be confounded by noise and smoke, and a writhing figure here and there. Von Dunop was no exponent of the Glory of Death school. He greatly desired glory, but the smaller the risk, the greater the glory. This was his code.
He stood for a moment outside the Hotel Ritz. A party of diners were leaving, and motorcars were being steered up to carry these accursed plutocrats to the theatre. One soldierly-looking gentleman, with a grey moustache, and attended by a quiet, observant, clean-shaven man, interested the anarchist.
He and the soldier exchanged glances.
вАЬWho the dickens was that?вАЭ asked the commissioner as he stepped into the taxi. вАЬI seem to know his face.вАЭ
вАЬI have seen him before,вАЭ said Falmouth. вАЬI wonвАЩt go with you, sirвБ†вАФIвАЩve a little business to do in this part of the world.вАЭ
Thereafter Von Dunop was not permitted to enjoy his walk in solitude, for, unknown to him, a man вАЬpicked him upвАЭ and followed him throughout the evening. And as the hour grew later, that one man became two, at eleven oвАЩclock he became three, and at quarter to twelve, when Von Dunop had finally fixed upon the scene and scope of his exploit, he turned from Park Lane into Brook Street to discover, to his annoyance, quite a number of people within call. Yet he suspected nothing. He did not suspect the night wanderer mouching along the curb with downcast eyes, seeking the gutter for the stray cigar end; nor the two loudly talking men in suits of violet check who wrangled as they walked concerning the relative merits of the favourites for the Derby; nor the commissionaire trudging home with his bag in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, nor the clean-shaven man in evening dress.
The Home Secretary had a house in Berkeley Square. Von Dunop knew the number very well. He slackened pace to allow the man in evening dress to pass. The slow-moving taxi that was fifty yards away he must risk. This taxi had been his constant attendant during the last hour, but he did not know it.
He dipped his hand into his overcoat pocket and drew forth the machine. It was one of CulveriвАЩs masterpieces and, to an extent, experimentalвБ†вАФthat much the master had warned him in a letter that bore the date mark вАЬRiga.вАЭ He felt with his thumb for the tiny key that вАЬsetвАЭ the machine and pushed it.
Then he slipped into the doorway of No. 196 and placed the bomb. It was done in a second, and so far as he could tell no man had seen him leave the pathway and he was back again on the sidewalk very quickly. But as he stepped back, he heard a shout and a man darted across the road, calling on him to surrender. From the left two men were running, and he saw the man in evening dress blowing a whistle.
He was caught; he knew it. There was a chance of escapeвБ†вАФthe other end of the street was clearвБ†вАФhe turned and ran like the wind. He could hear his pursuers pattering along behind him. His ear, alert to every phase of the chase, heard one pair of feet check and spring up the steps of 196. He glanced round. They were gaining on him, and he turned suddenly and fired three times. Somebody fell; he saw that much. Then right ahead of him a tall policeman sprang from the shadows and clasped him round the waist.
вАЬHold that man!вАЭ shouted Falmouth, running up. Blowing hard, came the night wanderer, a ragged object but skilful, and he had Von Dunop handcuffed in a trice.
It was he who noticed the limpness of the prisoner.
вАЬHullo!вАЭ he said, then held out his hand. вАЬShow a light here.вАЭ
There were half a dozen policemen and the inevitable crowd on the spot by now, and the rays of the bullвАЩs-eye focused on the detectiveвАЩs hand. It was red with blood. Falmouth seized a lantern and flashed it on the manвАЩs face.
There was no need to look farther. He was deadвБ†вАФdead with the inevitable label affixed to the handle of the knife that killed him.
Falmouth rapped out an oath.
вАЬIt is incredible; it is impossible! he was running till the constable caught him, and he has not been out of our hands! Where is the officer who held him?вАЭ
Nobody answered, certainly not the tall policeman, who was at that moment being driven eastward, making a rapid change into the conventional evening costume of an English gentleman.