The Rogues’ Syndicate: The Maelstrom. Frank Froest

unaffected, and discovering that there was a back entrance to the hotel, decided to make use of it, lest some pertinacious reporter might still be lingering in the reception-hall. He wanted to know something of what the police were doing, and a visit to Scotland Yard seemed the best way of finding out. In the background of his thoughts there was perhaps less concern that a murderer should be brought to justice than curiosity in regard to the lady of the fog.

      There is a way mostly used by tradesmen at the Palatial Hotel, which leads through a narrow alley for fifty yards on to the embankment. Through this Hallett sauntered. He was half way through when a tap on the shoulder caused him to wheel. He confronted a slim-built, sallow-faced man, of lank moustache and burning black eyes.

      ‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘Your name is Hallett?’

      He spoke silkily, and the extremely correct pronunciation of his words showed that he was neither English nor American.

      ‘Well?’ demanded Hallett, shortly.

      He feared that he had been run down by a reporter, after all.

      ‘You were at the place where this man was killed yesterday, eh?’ The man shook a newspaper under his face.

      ‘Well?’ said Hallett again.

      He had resumed his walk, but the other was keeping pace with him.

      A hand caught at his arm. The burning black eyes were within three inches of his face.

      ‘You know who killed heem, eh?’ The English had become a little less correct under stress of some excitement. ‘You have not told the pol-lice yet? You will not tell them?’

      Hallett shook himself free angrily.

      ‘Look here, my man,’ he said. ‘I don’t propose to answer your questions, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. Now git!’

      He clenched his fists.

      The foreigner’s hand dropped to his pocket. He did not remove it, but pressed something hard through the cloth against the young man’s ribs.

      ‘You are hasty, Mr Hallett,’ he remonstrated. ‘You don’t know what it is you say—what you’re up against. This is a pistol you can feel’—he pressed it close—‘and unless you listen quietly I shall keel you dead. Understand?’

      ‘Well?’ said Hallett, quietly for the third time.

      ‘You were at the house. You saw who killed the old man? You would know him again?’ The man did not wait for an answer. ‘You must keep your mouth shut. This is a warning. If you see him again you not tell, eh? There are many of us. You will be watched. And if you split—’

      A prod with the pistol finished the sentence.

      The theory that his molester was a reporter had long ago been abandoned by Jimmie Hallett. It was evidently thought that he had seen the face of the man at Linstone Terrace Gardens, and he was to be terrorised into silence. He had sense enough to reflect that, for all the audacity of the hold-up, the threat of surveilance was bluff—perhaps even the concealed pistol was bluff. Not that his actions would have differed much even had he supposed them real.

      He took a quick step backwards and sideways, and a bullet that tore its way through the cloth of the other man’s pocket told that that part of the story was reliable. Then Hallett’s knee was in his back, and Hallett’s arms were woven in a strangle-hold about his throat. The man collapsed gurgling.

      The whole business had occurred in barely two seconds of time. As they fell there was a third arrival.

      ‘Hold him down a minute, Mr Hallett. That’s all right.’

      The third man possessed himself of the squirming captive’s wrists and twisted them behind his back to Hallett. Then he methodically and quickly ran his hands through the prostrate man’s clothing, possessing himself of a still smoking Derringer and a formidable sheath-knife.

      ‘Thank you, sir. Now this gentleman might get up. We’ll run him along to King Street Station, and see what Mr Menzies has to say about it.’

      Then Hallett noticed that the man who had come to his assistance was the liveried functionary who had accepted his five-pound note to put off the pressmen less than an hour ago. But he no longer wore livery. He was in quiet, unassuming tweeds, and his manner was not exactly that which might be expected from a waiter to an hotel guest—even under such strange circumstances.

      He surprised Hallett’s look of inquiry, and smiled as he locked his arm into that of the prisoner.

      ‘Detective-sergeant Royal, sir,’ he explained. ‘I’ll let you know all about it later. What’s your name, my man?’

      He shook his captive slightly.

      ‘Smeeth—William Smeeth,’ said the man sullenly; and Royal winked at Hallett.

      ‘That’s a good old Anglo-Saxon name,’ he said. ‘Come along.’

      It was in the Criminal Investigation office at King Street, while they were awaiting Menzies, that Royal gave his explanation, with a certain apologetic tone.

      ‘It was this way, Mr Hallett. You see, Mr Menzies asked me to keep an eye on you when you were sent home yesterday. Of course, he thought you were all right, but it doesn’t do to take anyone’s word in our trade. This is murder you see, and, though it seemed all right, you might have forged or stolen the introduction you had. We could not be sure your name was really Hallett.’

      ‘And sand-bagged myself on the back of the head,’ interpolated Hallett with irony.

      Royal gave a shrug.

      ‘Mr Menzies doesn’t take any risks, sir. It couldn’t do you any harm. They know me at the hotel, and that’s how it was I was able to get into livery and walk into your room pretty well as I liked.’

      A new light broke upon Hallett.

      ‘I get you. I thought perhaps I was a bit fogged when I got up, and had forgotten where I put things. You’ve been searching my room.’

      Royal’s face never shifted a muscle.

      ‘I don’t admit it, sir. That would be illegal without your permission.’

      ‘Illegal or not, you did it,’ retorted Hallett. ‘I hope you’re quite satisfied.’

      ‘Oh, there’ll be no more trouble about that. Mr Menzies told me on the telephone just now that he’d cabled to the States, and they’ve put your reputation straight. Besides, there’s what I learned about you.’

      ‘I suppose you read my letters?’ ventured Hallett. ‘No; don’t worry to soothe me down. I’d probably have killed you if I’d caught you at it, but I’m quite calm now. By the way, there was a fiver—’

      A flush mounted to the temples of the detective and he shook his head in vehement denial of the implication contained in the broken sentence.

      ‘I had to take it, or you might have suspected something. I passed it on to the servants, and told them what to do. I never saw the Press people myself. Some of ’em might have known me. When you went down to breakfast I changed my clothes and slipped a ’phone message through to headquarters. They told me to hang on to you till Mr Menzies had seen you. You’d never have known a word about it if it hadn’t been for our bird down below.’

      He jerked his head in the direction of the cells.

      Hallett begun to appreciate some of the realities of detective work. Before he could make any comment, Menzies came in. He nodded affably to the young man.

      ‘Morning, Mr Hallett. Not much the worse for last night, I see. I’ve got a little job for you presently. Meanwhile, I want to see your friend down below. Like to come along?’

      He made no apology for the espionage he had set on foot, and Hallett did not think it worthwhile to thrash out the subject again.

      ‘William Smith’, it seemed,