Crow's Inn Tragedy Read online

  The inspector chartered a taxi; when they were both inside he turned to Steadman.

  “I believe I owe you my life, Mr. Steadman. But I think I shall have to defer my thanks until later—I am out to catch the Yellow Dog and I mean to have another try this morning before he has had time to get away.”

  “I am with you,” John Steadman said heartily. “And as for thanks, inspector, why, when we have caught the Yellow Dog we will thank one another.” The inspector had directed their taxi to drive to Scotland Yard, but half-way there he changed his mind and told the man to drive to the scene of their late experience.

  They got out as nearly as possible at the same place, but from there the inspector only went a little distance before he blew his whistle. It was answered by another and a couple of men in plain clothes appeared.

  “Ah, Murphy, Jackson,” said the inspector. “Well, what news?”

  The men stared at him in a species of stupefaction, then the one whom he had addressed as Murphy spoke with a gasp:

  “Why, inspector, we have been round the house all night—every means of egress watched. And yet—here you are!”

  “Umph! You didn’t see me come out, did you?” the inspector said gruffly. “Never mind, Murphy, you are not to blame. What have you to report?”

  Murphy saluted.

  “Nothing, sir. No one has come in or out since you were admitted last night.”

  “Good!” The inspector turned to Steadman. “Now, I think we will go in again by the front door, sir. And come out the same way this time, I hope. Murphy, bring six of your best men along, and post others all round the house. We shall probably have to rush it.”

  He and Steadman walked on, realizing to the full how stiff and bruised their limbs were as they went. Once the inspector spat out a couple of teeth. Steadman’s sides and back felt absolutely raw. His borrowed clothes chafed them unbearably.

  The cul-de-sac looked absolutely quiet and deserted when they entered it. The inspector’s thunderous knock at the door roused the echoes all round, but it brought no reply. In the meantime Murphy and his men had marched in behind them.

  The inspector knocked again. This time as they listened they heard lumbering steps coming down the passage. There was a great withdrawal of bolts and unlocking of locks and the door was opened a very little way, just enough to allow a man’s face, heavy, unshaven, to peer forth.

  “Now what is all this ’ere noise abaht?” a rough voice demanded.

  The inspector put his foot between the door and the post.

  “Stand aside, my man!” he commanded sternly. “I hold a warrant to search this house.”

  “Wot?” The door opened with such suddenness that the inspector almost fell inside. “Wot are you a goin’ to search for? We are all honest folk here. Anyway, if you was King George ’imself you will have to give my missis and the kids time to get their duds on, for decency’s sake.”

  This eloquent appeal apparently produced no effect upon the inspector. He stepped inside with a slight motion of his hand to the men behind. Four of them followed with Steadman, the others stood by the door in the cul-de-sac. The man who had opened the door backed against the wall, and stood gazing at them in open-mouthed astonishment.

  Meanwhile the inspector was looking about him with sharp observant eyes. He threw back the doors one on each side of the passage. The first opened into a small room with a round table in the middle, a few books that looked like school prizes ranged at regular intervals round a vase of wax flowers in the middle, and an aspidistra on a small table in front of the window, from which light and air were rigorously excluded by the heavy shutters.

  With a hasty glance round the inspector and his satellites went on, speaking not at all, but with eyes that missed no smallest detail. Not that there was any detail to be observed, as far as Steadman could see. This commonplace little house was absolutely unlike that other which had been but the threshold of the headquarters of the Yellow Gang—as unlike as its stupid-looking tenant was to the silky voiced slippery handed members of the Yellow Gang. The passage into which that first door of mystery had opened had been much longer than this, which was just a counterpart of thousands of houses of its type.

  The passage, instead of lengthening out as that one of Steadman’s recollection had done, ended with the flight of narrow stairs that led to the upper regions and over the balustrade of which sundry undressed and grimy children’s heads were peering. The barrister began to tell himself that in spite of the certainty the inspector had displayed they must have made a mistake. Doubtless in this unsavoury part of the metropolis there must be many culs-de-sac the counterpart of the one in which was the entrance to the home of the Yellow Gang. The master of the house began to rouse himself from his stupor of astonishment.

  “This ’ere’s an outrage, that’s wot it is,” he growled. “Might as well live in Russia, we might. No! You don’t go upstairs, not if you was King George and the Pope of Rome rolled into one.”

  This to the inspector who was crawling up the staircase as well as his stiffened limbs would allow. He looked over the side now.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, my man. I have no particular interest in the upper part of your house at present.”

  Something in his tone seemed to cow the man, who opened the kitchen door and slunk inside.

  The inspector beckoned to the man behind Steadman.

  “Simmonds, tell Gordon to come inside, then send a S.O.S. message to headquarters.” Then he hobbled downstairs again. “This grows interesting, Mr. Steadman.”

  The barrister looked at him.

  “It seems pretty obvious to me that we have made a mistake. And I can’t say that standing about in cold passages at this hour in the morning is exactly an amusement that appeals to me; especially after our experiences in the night.”

  The inspector looked at him curiously.

  “You think we have made a mistake in the house?”

  The barrister raised his eyebrows.

  “What else am I to think?”

  For answer the inspector held out his hand, palm uppermost. It was apparently empty, but as Steadman, more short-sighted than ever without his monocle, stared down at it he saw that in it lay a tiny yellow fragment. For a moment the full significance of that bit of silk did not dawn on John Steadman, but when he looked up his face was very stern.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “Wedged in between the stairs and the wall,” the inspector answered. “There is a larger piece higher up, but this is enough for me.”

  “And for me!” Steadman said grimly.

  “Gordon is the best carpenter and joiner I know,” the inspector went on. “We keep him permanently available for our work. He will soon find the way to the Yellow Room and then—well, some of the Yellow Gang’s secrets will be in our hands at any rate.”

  As the last word left his lips Gordon came in with another man. Both carried bags of tools. The inspector gave them a few instructions in a low tone, then he pointed to the staircase.

  “Last night that was not there. Where it stands an opening went straight through to the next house.”

  Gordon touched his head in salute.

  “Very good, sir!” He looked in his basket and chose out a couple of tools—chisels, and a strange-looking bar, tapering down to a point as fine as a knife, but very long and several inches thick most of the way to the other end. Then, apparently undeterred by the magnitude of his task, he walked up to the top of the staircase and sat down on the top step. His assistant followed with a collection of hammers ranging from one small enough for a doll’s house to the size used by colliers in the pits. They held a consultation together, and then Gordon inserted his chisel in a crack. The other man raised one of the mighty hammers and brought it down with a crash that rang through the house. It did not rouse the master of the dwelling, however. He seemed to have taken permanent refuge in the kitchen. There were no children’s heads hanging over the banisters now. The house might
have been absolutely deserted but for the inspector and his party. Presently the inspector went up to the couple on the stairs and after talking to them for a minute or two came back to Steadman.

  “The whole staircase is movable, Mr. Steadman. They have loosened it at the top. Stand aside in one of the rooms in case it comes down quicker than we expect. No doubt the Yellow Gang had some way of opening it which we have not discovered, but this will serve well enough.”

  “What about the children upstairs?” Steadman asked.

  The inspector smiled in a twisted fashion.

  “Little beggars! They will be taken care of all right. The parents were well prepared for some such eventuality as this, you may be sure.”

  Steadman said no more. He stood back with the inspector, while the others of their following went to Gordon’s help. There was more crashing, quantities of dust and a splintering of wood, and at last the staircase came suddenly away. Behind it a locked door the width of the passage blocked their way. To open it was only the work of a minute, and then the inspector and Steadman found themselves in the scene of last night’s exploits. The yellow room looked garish and shabby with the clear morning light stealing in. The chairs in which they had sat had gone, otherwise everything looked much the same.

  But time was too precious to be spent in examining the Yellow Room, interesting though it might be. The inspector was out to catch the members of the Yellow Gang; but, though, once the staircase was down, to get from one room to the other of the perfect rabbit warren of small houses which had been devised for the safety of the Yellow Gang and its spoils presented little difficulty, the inspector, standing in that room by the river, had to acknowledge that the Yellow Dog and his satellites had outwitted him again. The only member of the Gang that remained in their hands was the man who had opened the first door to them. Not a sign of any other living creature was to be seen. Even the wife and children had disappeared.

  But, as Furnival and John Steadman stood there talking, a tiny wisp of grey vapour came floating down the passage, another came, and yet another.

  “Smoke!” the inspector cried.

  And as the two men turned back, and heard the clamour arise, while the smoke seemed to fill everywhere at once, and over all sounded the crackling of the flames and the ringing of the alarm bells, they realized that the Yellow Gang was not done with yet.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  The Community House of St. Philip was en fête. Not only was it the name day of its patron saint, but its young Head had just been rendered particularly joyful by the receipt of a telegram from Burchester stating that at a further hearing the magistrates had dismissed the charge against Hopkins, and that he would reach the Community House the same evening. A special tea of good things for all members of the Community was in full swing in the Refectory. Mrs. Phillimore was presiding at the urn at the centre table, and friends of hers at the tables at either side. The delectable pork pies and plates of pressed beef and ham had been carried round by Todmarsh and a little band of workers comprising several of the clergy of the neighbourhood and several West End friends, Tony Collyer, who had been unwillingly pressed into the service, among the number.

  Now the first keenness of the men’s appetites seemed to be over. Down near the door they were even beginning to smoke and quite a thick mist was already hanging over the tables. The young Head of the Community was looking his best to-day. The rapt, “seeing” look in his eyes was particularly noticeable. The relief from the long strain he had been enduring with regard to Hopkins was plainly written in his face. The bright, ready smile which had been so infrequent of late was flashing, here, there and everywhere, as he greeted his friends and acquaintances. He alone of the members of the Confraternity was not wearing the habit of the Order. His grey lounge suit was obviously the product of a West End tailor, though in his buttonhole he wore the badge of the Confraternity with the words that were its motto running across: “Work and Service.”

  Just as the meal seemed about to end a telegram was brought to Todmarsh. He read it and then, with it open in his hand, hurried up the room to the platform at the end. As he sprang up, a hush came over the room; every face was turned to him in expectation.

  “Dear friends,” he began, “my comrades of the Confraternity. This”—holding out the telegram—“brings me very glad news. Hopkins, our friend and brother, has started from Burchester by car. He may be here almost any moment now. What could be happier than the fact that we are all gathered together in such an assembly as this in order to welcome our friend and brother home? Now, tonight, I want all of us, every one of us, to do all that lies in our power to give Hopkins a rousing welcome, to make him feel that we know he has been wrongfully accused, and that his home, his comrades, his brothers are only waiting and longing for an opportunity to make up to him for all that he has suffered.”

  It was not a particularly enthusiastic outburst of cheering that was evoked by this speech. For a moment Aubrey hesitated on the platform as though doubtful as to whether to go on, then he jumped down and turned towards Mrs. Phillimore. Tony intercepted him.

  “Well done, old chap,” he exclaimed, giving Todmarsh a rousing slap on the back.”

  “Jolly glad you have got old Hoppy back, since you are so keen on him. Shouldn’t have been myself, but, there, tastes differ.”

  Todmarsh winced a little. “You would have been as pleased as I am to have Hopkins back if you had known him as I do. The difference it would have made if I had been speaking of some one else and he had been among the audience. His face was the most responsive I ever saw—calculated to rouse enthusiasm above all things.”

  “Um! Well, in some folks, perhaps,” Tony conceded. “But he doesn’t enthuse me. I can never get over that pretty fish-like habit of his of opening and shutting his mouth silently. Tongue always seems too big for his mouth too. Seen him stick it in his cheek and chew it, as some folks do a piece of ’bacca.”

  Todmarsh looked annoyed. “What a thing it is always to see the worst side of people. Now, I try only to look at the best—”

  He was interrupted. A man came to him quietly. A car has stopped before the front door, sir, and I think—”

  “Hopkins!” Todmarsh exclaimed, his face lighting up.

  “I believe so, sir!”

  Todmarsh waited for no more, but hurried off. Tony looked at him with a grin on his face. Then somewhat to his surprise he saw that John Steadman had edged himself in by the door at the upper end of the hall, and seemed to be making his way towards Mrs. Phillimore and her friends. Tony joined him.

  “Didn’t know Aubrey had rooked you into his schemes, sir.”

  “He hasn’t!” Steadman said shortly.

  It struck Tony that there was something curiously tense about his expression—that he seemed to be listening for something.

  Meanwhile Todmarsh was hurrying to the front door. He opened it. A closed car stood just outside. He could see a man leaning back—crouching down rather, it seemed. Todmarsh waved his hand. “Welcome home, Hopkins!”

  Seen thus in the sunset light waving his greeting, there was something oddly youthful about Aubrey Todmarsh’s face and figure. Always slender, he had grown almost thin during his time of anxiety about Hopkins. His face with its short dark hair brushed straight back and its strangely arresting eyes looked almost boyish. Watching him there one who was waiting said he looked many years younger than his real age. But it was the last time anyone ever called Aubrey Todmarsh young looking.

  The car door opened. The man inside leaned out. About to spring forward, Todmarsh suddenly paused. Surely this was not Hopkins!

  At the same moment he was seized sharply from behind, his arms were pinioned to his sides, men in uniform and men out of uniform closed in upon him, and while he tried to free himself frantically, wildly, he felt the touch of cold steel upon his wrists, and Inspector Furnival’s voice rose above the hubbub.

  “Aubrey William Todmarsh, alias the Yellow Dog, I arrest you for the wilfu
l murder of Luke Bechcombe in Crow’s Inn, on February 3rd, and it is my duty to warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence against you.”

  Quite suddenly all Todmarsh’s struggles ceased. For a minute he stood silent, motionless, save that he moved his manacled hands about in a side-long fashion. The inspector’s keen eyes noted the long thumb, the short forefinger. At last, swift as lightning, Todmarsh raised his hands to his mouth.

  “Escape you after all, inspector,” he said with a ghastly smile that dragged the lips from his teeth.

  He swayed as he spoke, but the inspector did not stir.

  Instead, he surveyed his prisoner with an ironic twist of the mouth.

  “I think not. You may feel a little sick, Mr. Todmarsh, that is all.”

  “Cyanide of potassium,” Todmarsh gasped.

  “You would have been dead if it had been,” the inspector said blandly. “But your tabloids are in my pocket, and mine, just a simple preparation with the faintest powdering of sulphate of zinc, have taken their place in yours.”

  “A lie!” Todmarsh breathed savagely.

  The inspector did not bandy words.

  “Wait and see!” Then with a wave of his hand: “In with him, men!”

  Todmarsh offered no further resistance, nor was any possible, surrounded as he was. He was hurried into the waiting car and the inspector followed him, just in time to see him slip to one side with a groan.

  “Ah, makes you feel rather bad, doesn’t it?” the inspector questioned callously.

  The inspector heaved a great sigh of relief. “So at last we have been successful almost beyond my expectations. It had begun to be regarded as hopeless in the force. The men were getting superstitious about it—the capture of the Yellow Dog!”