The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace
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an hour; in the meantime I suggest that you do not leave your room,” he said.
Sir Philip followed him out to the anteroom, in which sat Hamilton, the secretary.
“I have had an uncomfortable feeling,” said Falmouth, as one of his men approached with a long coat, which he proceeded to help the detective into, “a sort of instinctive feeling this last day or two, that I have been watched and followed, so that I am using a car to convey me from place to place: they can’t follow that, without attracting some notice.” He dipped his hand into the pocket and brought out a pair of motoring goggles. He laughed somewhat shamefacedly as he adjusted them. “This is the only disguise I ever adopt, and I might say, Sir Philip,” he added with some regret, “that this is the first time during my twentyfive years of service that I have ever played the fool like a stage detective.”
After Falmouth’s departure the Foreign Minister returned to his desk.
He hated being alone: it frightened him. That there were two score detectives within call did not dispel the feeling of loneliness. The terror of the Four was ever with him, and this had so worked upon his nerves that the slightest noise irritated him. He played with the penholder that lay on the desk. He scribbled inconsequently on the blottingpad before him, and was annoyed to find that the scribbling had taken the form of numbers of figure 4.
Was the Bill worth it? Was the sacrifice called for? Was the measure of such importance as to justify the risk? These things he asked himself again and again, and then immediately, What sacrifice? What risk?
“I am taking the consequence too much for granted,” he muttered, throwing aside the pen, and half turning from the writing-table. “There is no certainty that they will keep their words; bah! it is impossible that they should — —”
There was a knock at the door.
“Hullo, Superintendent,” said the Foreign Minister as the knocker entered. “Back again already!”
The detective, vigorously brushing the dust from his moustache with a handkerchief, drew an official-looking blue envelope from his pocket.
“I thought I had better leave this in your care,” he said, dropping his voice; “it occurred to me just after I had left; accidents happen, you know.”
The Minister took the document.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It is something which would mean absolute disaster for me if by chance it was found in my possession,” said the detective, turning to go.
“What am I to do with it?”
“You would greatly oblige me by putting it in your desk until I return”; and the detective stepped into the anteroom, closed the door behind him and, acknowledging the salute of the plainclothes officer who guarded the outer door, passed to the motorcar that awaited him.
Sir Philip looked at the envelope with a puzzled frown.
It bore the superscription Confidential and the address, Department A, C1D, Scotland Yard.
‘Some confidential report,’ thought Sir Philip, and an angry doubt as to the possibility of it containing particulars of the police arrangements for his safety filled his mind. He had hit by accident upon the truth had he but known. The envelope contained those particulars.
He placed the letter in a drawer of his desk and drew some papers towards him.
They were copies of the Bill for the passage of which he was daring so much.
It was not a long document. The clauses were few in number, the objects, briefly described in the preamble, were tersely defined. There was no fear of this Bill failing to pass on the morrow. The Government’s majority was assured. Men had been brought back to town, stragglers had been whipped in, prayers and threats alike had assisted in concentrating the rapidly dwindling strength of the administration on this one effort of legislation; and what the frantic entreaties of the Whips had failed to secure, curiosity had accomplished, for members of both parties were hurrying to town to be present at a scene which might perhaps be history, and, as many feared, tragedy.
As Sir Philip conned the paper he mechanically formed in his mind the line of attack — for, tragedy or no, the Bill struck at too many interests in the House to allow of its passage without a stormy debate. He was a master of dialectics, a brilliant casuist, a coiner of phrases that stuck and stung. There was nothing for him to fear in the debate. If only —— It hurt him to think of the Four Just Men. Not so much because they threatened his life — he had gone past that — but the mere thought that there had come a new factor into his calculations, a new and terrifying force, that could not be argued down or brushed aside with an acid jest, nor intrigued against, nor adjusted by any parliamentary method. He did not think of compromise. The possibility of making terms with his enemy never once entered his head.
“I’ll go through with it!” he cried, not once but a score of times; “I’ll go through with it!” and now, as the moment grew nearer to hand, his determination to try conclusions with this new world-force grew stronger than ever.
The telephone at his elbow purred — he was sitting at his desk with his head on his hands — and he took the receiver. The voice of his house steward reminded him that he had arranged to give instructions for the closing of the house in Portland Place.
For two or three days, or until this terror had subsided, he intended his house should be empty. He would not risk the lives of his servants. If the Four intended to carry out their plan they would run no risks of failure, and if the method they employed were a bomb, then, to make assurance doubly sure, an explosion at Downing Street might well synchronize with an outrage at Portland Place.
He had finished his talk, and was replacing the receiver when a knock at the door heralded the entry of the detective.
He looked anxiously at the Minister.
“Nobody been, sir?” he asked.
Sir Philip smiled.
“If by that you mean have the Four delivered their ultimatum in person, I can comfort your mind — they have not.”
The detective’s face was evidence of his relief.
“Thank Heaven!” he said fervently. “I had an awful dread that whilst I was away something would happen. But I have news for you, sir.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir, the Commissioner has received a long cable from America. Since the two murders in that country one of Pinkerton’s men has been engaged in collecting data. For years he has been piecing together the scrappy evidence he has been able to secure, and this is his cablegram.” The detective drew a paper from his pocket and, spreading it on the desk, read:
Pinkerton, Chicago, to Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard, London.
Warn Ramon that the Four do not go outside their promise. If they have threatened to kill in a certain manner at a certain time they will be punctual. We have proof of this characteristic. After Anderson’s death small memorandum book was discovered outside window of room evidently dropped. Book was empty save for three pages, which were filled with neatly written memoranda headed ‘Six methods of execution’. It was initialled ‘C.’ (third letter in alphabet). Warn Ramon against following: drinking coffee in any form, opening letters or parcels, using soap that has not been manufactured under eye of trustworthy agent, sitting in any room other than that occupied day and night by police officer. Examine his bedroom; see if there is any method by which heavy gases can be introduced. We are sending two men by ‘Lucania’ to watch.
The detective finished reading. ‘Watch’ was not the last word in the original message, as he knew. There had been an ominous postscript, Afraid they will arrive too late.
“Then you think —— ?” asked the statesman.
“That your danger lies in doing one of the things that Pinkerton warns us against,” replied