A 1,000,161 SCORPIONS TRAIL 2 V WWW18 PITBUANIA ERONAUT AT SUMB ARTES SCIENTIA LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE Y OF MICHIGAN NIVERSITY OF MIG I ENDRUMURILETIN Muumiwa TUEBOR SIOURRIS PENINSULA CIRCUMSPICU OG 1111111 511111101 E html LOTUS MATHIEUWS T01TUTTUMISHI brim EMTI T UTUNTUNUTTUM MINUTULT BEQUEST OF ORMA FITCH BUTLER, Ph.D., '07 PROFESSOR OF LATIN TO OT . . 2 به 175 SCORPION'S TRAIL LKING On n a Walking on the burrows, Doctor Paul Hanson and his friend Lieutenant Marlow met a woman fleeing in terror from an old cottage. Considering it their duty to investigate, they stepped into the case and found themselves in a maelstrom of horror. Unwittingly they had entered the lair of The Scorpion, dreaded menace to society, whose crimes were distinguished for their subtlety and gruesomeness. Scotland Yard takes up the trail ... enters upon a grim duel of death. | SCORPION'S TRAIL is a masterly novel, skilfully interweaving romance and mystery and adven- ture, crowded with incident, and cul- minating in a climax as thrilling as it is unforeseen. PUBLISHED, 1934, BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA OF BUTLER BEQUEST 4-rs-40 CONTENTS . . • . . · . . · . . · DOR . . · . . · . . · . . · . o 4. - 29-40 · . . . · · 97 · CHAPTER PAGE I. AT THE CHURCH DOOR . . . . . . . II. TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS . . . . III. CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD. . . . IV. IN THE NIGHT . . . . . . V. HANSON RETURNS TO INSTOW. . . . VI. IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF GHOSTS . VII. AFTER THE INQUEST . . . . . . . VIII. CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS . . . . IX. THE VOICE ON THE 'PHONE. . . . X. AT "THE GILDED LILY”. . . . . XI. DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TROTTER REPORTS. . XII. THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. . . . . .. XIII. THE SECRET OF THE GARAGE . . . . . 108 XIV. FINGERPRINTS . . . . . . . . . . 115 XV. WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? . . . . . . 119 XVI. ANN PENHAYLE LEARNS SOME OF THE TRUTH . . . . . . . . . . . 131 XVII. IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF CRIME. . . 140 XVIII. SIMON WERNICK AGAIN . . . . . . 150 XIX. HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL . . . . . 155 XX. THE SNIPER . . . . . . . . . . 166 XXI. “KOTLAR'S CHARITY”. . . XXII. THE OPIUM SMOKER . . . . . 183 XXIII. THE SCORPION'S AGENT . . . . . . . 189 XXIV. WHERE THE SNIPER LAY. . . . . . . 198 · · · · · · 174 · · .... . · · SCORPION'S TRAIL CHAPTER I AT THE CHURCH DOOR sonorous voiceles instituted of God matrimony; "DEARLY BELOVED, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God. ..." The rich, sonorous voice of the white-haired clergyman resounded through the beautiful old church, impressive and inspiring even to the group of wedding devotees oc- cupying the rear pews. “... Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.” The slight little figure standing so stiffly erect by the tall, swarthy man began to tremble. But the benign old clergyman beamed reassuringly upon her as he continued with the service: “Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.” In the pause that followed there was no sound to break the solemn silence. The little man clad in rusty-black, semi-clerical garb, with a pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched rakishly on his large and very red nose, shifted restlessly in his seat under the shadow of a pillar. For a moment his black-gloved hands closed convulsively over the handle of his shabby umbrella. Then a smile flickered across his mouth, a mirthless, sardonic grin. In the pew behind he heard a woman whisper: 9 AT THE CHURCH DOOR 11 dwarfing the dainty bride who walked so unseeingly be- side him. The throng at the door parted and joined behind them again as they paused upon the steps to face a battery of press cameras. The Evening Comet reporter whispered to his camera- man: “Gad, boy, what a peach! But why the heck don't she smile?” “Not exactly bursting with joy, is she?” returned the cameraman and clicked the shutter. The reporters moved away, hats in hand, bowing, and the tall bridegroom smiled down at his bride. It was his last conscious action in this life. A second later his head jerked back and his hands shot out before him, groping blindly. He stood for a moment swaying, and then with a strangled moan he slowly collapsed upon the steps. The great bouquet of white carnations dropped from the nerveless fingers of his bride and fell upon his back. They hid the tiny stream of blood which oozed from the hole beneath his left shoulder blade. For perhaps twenty seconds the crowd stood frozen with horror; then it surged forward. The odd little figure seemed to melt through them until he was upon the outer rim. He waited long enough to hear the cry of “Mur- der!” and the shrill notes of a police whistle before he slipped silently away, totally unobserved in the general commotion. Ten minutes later he was gazing down upon Oxford Street from the deck of a westbound bus. His shabby um- brella was clutched tightly to his breast, an expression of benevolent idiocy upon his lined face. But the dark eyes veiled behind the tinted glasses were neither benevolent nor stupid. They glittered with a savage, unholy joy. CHAPTER II TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS THE COOL sea-breeze blowing across the burrows was both sedative and stimulant. Ann Penhayle paused to admire the beauty of the scene. To her left swept the bay where the two rivers met and the white breakers thundered over the treacherous bar, with the gulls wheeling and dipping above. The quaint little village of Appledore clustered on the steep hillslope, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the setting sun. Before her, across the river, lay the yellow sand dunes with the blue water rippling lazily over the beach. A scene of peace and restful beauty Ann felt the soft wind gently ruffling her fair hair in playful caress and, for the first time for many days, she smiled. Her marriage to Count Raoul du Buisson and his assassination at the church door seemed like some dreadful nightmare that had passed, leaving her bewildered and ex- hausted. Impossible to believe that by that ceremony, but dimly remembered, she had become the Countess du Buis- son. For the hundredth time she wondered what had made her do it. Why had she ever consented to marry him? He had swept her off her feet by his whirlwind, masterful woo- ing. And her guardian, the Reverend Elphinstone Clayton, had been so delighted about it. That more than anything had been the cause. She recalled the old man's round, benevolent face as he stood above them. Heard again his rich, sonorous voice with 12 TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS 13 its bell-like clarity resounding through the church. Of the words themselves she remembered few, but their solemn meaning had frightened her, filled her with a sense of panic. She would have given anything for the courage to have stopped the ceremony. The kindly, reassuring smile had lent her strength, but at the same time it had forced her to go on. She could not disappoint him. The appalling sequel had been, if possible, a greater shock for him than for her. When he had suggested this escape to the quiet North Devon village she had welcomed it. Any- where to get away from the awful tragedy. Ann possessed a quality of mind denied to most women. She could be honest with herself. She was shocked by the dreadful murder; so much so that she doubted if ever she would erase the horror from her memory. But in her heart she knew that her predominant emotion was one of pro- found relief. She felt like a person whose life has been re- prieved at the last moment. That it should be so troubled her greatly. She desperately wanted someone in whom to confide. Someone who would tell her that she was not heartless and ungrateful. Her mother she had never known. Her father, manager of the Paris branch of a London bank, had died four years previously while she was still a school- girl at a South Coast school. He had appointed the Reverend Elphinstone Clayton as her guardian. But the clergyman, Vicar of the English Church in Paris, had come infrequently to England, and she had scarcely known him until his re- tirement some months ago. Absent-minded and absorbed in his books, he was no com- panion for a young girl full of life. In the tragedy of her marriage he had failed to help her. The Biblical quota- tions with which he sought to bring comfort had merely irritated her. She could not accept his blind submission to what he believed to be the Divine Will. 14 SCORPION'S TRAIL puzzled and brought a smold Sam Fishenat Vainly endeavoring to find a solution to her problem, she walked slowly across the wild burrows toward the high river bank. Her path lay by the ruined cottage, standing battered and forlorn, slowly crumbling to decay. Curiosity prompted her to turn aside and glance within. As she entered the derelict garden she was immediately conscious of a changed atmosphere. An air of melancholy seemed to breathe from the old ruin. A subtle aura of gloomy foreboding, depressing in the extreme. Ann shiv- ered. A chill as of some unseen spectral presence seemed to pass icily over her. A horrible emotion without a name, cold and menacing. Her wood-violet blue eyes opened wide in surprise as she halted, puzzled and somewhat startled. Then the humor of some recollection brought a smile to her dainty, cherry-red lips. She had remembered Old Sam Fisher's yarn. That very morning the fisherman had told her that the cottage was haunted. Not by your ordinary ghost; this was a phantom horse. Ann liked horses almost as much as she liked dogs, and she was not unduly alarmed at the prospect of encountering an equine spirit. Not, of course, she told herself, that such a thing could be possible, espe- cially on a warm July evening. With a shrug of her small shoulders, half defiant, she stepped up to the window. The interior was in gray shadow, and her eyes, attuned to the sunlight, did not at once observe the ghastly thing which lay upon the floor. It was fully a minute before she saw it, and a gasp of sheer terror broke from her parted lips. She turned to flee, blind panic urging her on. Doctor Paul Hanson and his companion, Lieutenant Richard Marlow, R.N., walking out from Instow along the TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS 15 river bank, saw her running toward them and promptly halted. “One superior maiden in distress,” remarked Dick Mar- low. "And, if my eyes do not deceive, possessed of a most complete wind-up. Sir Sawbones, your lance. There's a fiery dragon to slay somewhere. Come on.” Ann looked up and saw them approaching. She stopped, conscious of a horrible dizziness. But taking a fresh grip upon herself she managed to quell the tumultuous beating of her heart. One man, she noticed, was very tall, with raven-black hair and a strong, serious face. The other was much shorter and younger. His hair was bleached to ex- ceptional fairness and his gray eyes were laughing. He moved with the effortless swing of the trained athlete. Both men were obviously gentlemen. She went forward to meet them. “There's a man dreadfully injured in the cottage over there,” she announced breathlessly. "I-I'm afraid he is dead.” Paul Hanson raised his eyebrows and glanced at his companion, who was regarding Ann with undisguised admiration. "I'll go and see, Dick,” he said, in a low voice in which the American accent was faintly discernible. "Frightful shock for you, eh?” observed Dick Marlow as Hanson hurried off. “I mean, finding bodies all over the place and that sort of thing. It's not nice, is it?” Ann looked up at the gray eyes and the tanned face and found them pleasant. His manner was free and com- radely, and her heart, aching for friendship, warmed to him. Instinctively she felt that he was a man who could be trusted. She smiled, and Dick Marlow felt "his pulse quicken. He was not a ladies' man—they rather frightened him- 16 SCORPION'S TRAIL but he had long carried his secret ideal. Never had he ex- pected to find his ideal realized. Yet here before him stood the living counterpart of that mental picture: dainty, adorable, far more wonderful than his mind's creation. “Jolly lucky old Paul is a doctor," he heard himself saying, and scarcely recognized his own voice. Paul Hanson, unconscious that Dick, mainly to cover his own confusion at the miracle, had begun a flattering and slightly inaccurate description of his friend's medical skill, hurried up to the ruin. His profession and five years as scientific expert to the New York Homicide Bureau had made him very nearly shock-proof. But the dreadful sight which met him as he stepped into the derelict cottage momentarily staggered him. Sprawled upon the floor, blood thickly streaking his ashen face and eyes staring sightlessly at the rotten beams above, lay the body of a well-dressed young man. Across his forehead ran a curved wale which extended over his temples in horseshoe formation. Hanson saw that the bone was crushed into the brain beneath. But it was not the injury which made the face so hor- rible to look upon. It was the expression of mingled terror and amazement which struck such a chill. In all the years of his experience he had never seen such ghastly fear frozen on a dead man's face. He dropped to his knees beside the still form and began a rapid examination. Presently he sat back on his heels, hands hanging loosely over his knees, and regarded the wound intently. “Damn, I knew it!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet and bringing his clenched fist with a loud smack against his open palm. His dark eyes flashed excitedly and his mouth set hard. His mind was working at lightning speed and along a new track. Lingering doubt gave way to firm TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS 17 conviction as he reviewed the matter from all angles. Im- possible as it had at first appeared, he was now convinced of the terrible truth. He turned impatiently as Dick Marlow jumped over the low wall. “Don't come in, please,” he requested curtly. “Genuine corpse?” queried Dick, eying him with frank curiosity. There was precious little which perturbed Paul; but something had now, and no mistake about it. “Come outside,” said Hanson, taking his arm and gently but firmly pushing him back. Ann Penhayle waited a short distance away and Hanson went to her. “You did not recognize him, I suppose, Miss ...?” “Ann Penhayle,” she offered, shaking her head in nega- tive reply. She had given her maiden name deliberately. The Countess du Buisson was a title she would never use. Hanson bowed, his grave eyes regarding her approv- ingly. "The poor fellow has been kicked to death by a horse,” he informed her. "We should notify the police at once. Do you know where the village constable might be found, Miss Penhayle?” “No, Doctor Hanson,” Ann replied regretfully. “I am merely a visitor, like yourself.” Hanson smiled as he turned to Dick. With that smile the whole character of his face altered, revealing the true man beneath the stern exterior which so often acted as a barrier between him and his fellows. «Then it's up to you, Dick,” he announced. “You had better escort Miss Penhayle and then inquire at the New Inn. But do it discreetly. We don't want a bunch of vil- lagers hiking along too. Come back to me here." “Discretion's my middle name. Rely on the Navy.” Dick 18 SCORPION'S TRAIL gave him a mock salute. “Are you fit, Miss Penhayle? Good! Then let's leg it in search of the law-and-order merchant.” Hanson watched them go, a smile upon his lips. He was thinking that Dick had wasted no time in establishing a basis of friendship. He must have told her their names almost at once. He wondered what else his impetuous friend had confided, and found himself hoping that he had refrained from reference to his own position as scientific expert to the New York police. Having recently completed a tour of Europe studying the various police methods, he was soon returning to America to take charge of the Department of Science. Though one of the leading au- thorities on medical jurisprudence, Paul Hanson avoided publicity. He detested it in any shape. But it was not this alone which made him hope that Dick Marlow had not talked too much. There were other and vastly more im- portant reasons. With a shrug of his shoulders he dismissed the matter from his mind and went slowly toward the place where the dead man lay. Before the blundering, untrained local police arrived he had work to do. Twenty minutes later, having completed his task, he arose to his feet, satisfied that he had missed nothing. He sensed rather than heard the slight movement behind him and turned swiftly. Framed in the window opening, regarding him intently, was a most extraordinary little figure. Clad in rusty black, vaguely clerical, and clutching to his narrow chest a dis- gracefully rolled umbrella, he stared with singular fixity through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses perched on a large red nose. From beneath his black, broad-brimmed hat straggled a few strands of dirty gray hair. Hanson swore TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS 19 softly. Here was a complication for which he had not bargained. "Oh, tut, tut!” beamed the stranger, wagging a black- gloved finger in mild reproof. “Pax vobiscum. I merely ask is anything wrong?” Paul Hanson thrust his hands into his coat pockets and, with shoulders hunched and jaw out, glared down at the diminutive intruder. If he was surprised his lean face be- trayed no sign. But his dark eyes were frigid and aggres- sively inquiring. The stranger nodded his head with a peculiar birdlike motion and beamed again, quite unabashed. He shifted his umbrella to the other arm and giggled. “My name is Wernick,” he announced. “Simon Wer- nick. I am a psychic investigator. Like the great Flam- marion, I would seek to lift the veil which shrouds the mysteries of the grave. But, dear me,” he added hastily after a pause, “I seem to have arrived at an unfortunate moment in which to pursue the path of science. May I come in?” Without waiting for a reply he placed one hand upon the sill and vaulted into the room. He stepped round Hanson, who had not moved, and stood viewing the body, head cocked on one side, thoughtfully scratching his chin with a thumbnail protruding through the glove. “Horribile visu!” he exclaimed. Then jerking around, he shot one swift glance at Hanson's cold eyes. “Strange how a horse may kick sometimes,” he remarked, with an irritating, inane titter. “Very strange,” agreed Hanson, staring speculatively at the bright, unwinking eyes behind the tinted glasses. For a long, tense minute they stayed thus, neither man moving. Then Wernick beamed approvingly and bowed as though acknowledging a compliment: 20 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Ah, so ingenious! Oh, so clever!” he murmured, hug- ging the umbrella to his narrow chest as if he were enjoy- ing himself immensely. “But, as my old friend Lafontaine used to say, 'repetition is apt to spoil a joke.?” He tittered again, the silly giggle of a half-wit. Hanson frowned. Simon Wernick was a problem to which he could find no ready solution. A false move now might precipitate that very thing he wished most to avoid. Though he fully understood the significance of the odd little man's remarks he feigned ignorance. Wernick had used Baron Lafontaine's name deliberately. That he should have known it at all was sufficiently disturbing. But that he should have mentioned it now, under the present cir- cumstances, was a calculated challenge. Hanson played for time. “I trust that your friend's sense of humor is not so mis- placed as your own,” he said icily. Wernick's bright eyes returned his frigid stare unwink- ingly. “But you admit the joke?” he insisted. “You must do that.” Hanson maintained an uncompromising silence, his dark eyes vainly searching the other's face for some clew to his identity, but it served only to strengthen him in his convic- tion that never before had he set eyes upon him. Who the devil was he? And why was he here now? Wernick's face contorted into an exasperating grin and his narrow shoulders shook as with secret mirth difficult to control. “And you came for a holiday! Oh, so very annoying, n'est-ce pas? All my sympathies are with you, for I am sure that the trail will be long. But what sport, Doctor! What a quarry to pursue!” The sound of footsteps without indicated the return of Dick Marlow. TRAGEDY ON THE BURROWS 21 “All O.K.,” he announced. Then, catching sight of the odd little figure: “What the heck- !” Hanson motioned him to come away and walked out upon the burrows with him. “Been collecting scarecrows in my absence?” asked Dick in a stage whisper. Hanson did not smile. If anything, his lean face re- vealed more than its habitual seriousness. "I've collected something,” he replied gravely; "and I'd give a whole heap to know just what it is.” "Something that's plain bughouse,” grinned Dick. “Candidate for the nearest loony-bin without the option. Where's he gone?” he added, looking back. Hanson swung round and with a muttered exclama- tion of annoyance strode swiftly to the ruin. He stepped inside, but Wernick was not there. With rapid strides he circled the cottage, without result. "Hell's bells!” ejaculated Dick in frank amazement. “Sure he wasn't a ghost, Paul?” Hanson thrust long nervous fingers through his raven hair. His mouth set in a grim, hard line. He knew that it would be hopeless to search for Wernick on the burrows. Inwardly he was filled with rage at his own folly, and, torn by indecision, he stood for several minutes staring out across the bay. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he glanced down at Dick. “A ghost did you say? A very unpleasant spook for somebody, I fancy. We shall hear of him again, Dick. Ah! Here come the police and half the damned population. Leave the talking to me. Understand?” CHAPTER III CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD BIG BEN was acclaiming the hour of four when Paul Han- son turned off the Embankment into New Scotland Yard. “I have an appointment with Chief Inspector Barnard,” he informed the constable on duty. Five minutes later he was ushered into the Chief In- spector's room, a bare, bleak apartment overlooking the river. A heavily built man with close-cropped, iron-gray hair, seated at a desk, glanced up as he entered. For a fleeting moment his cold, steely eyes gleamed and then his stern mouth relaxed into a smile of welcome. He rose and ex- tended his hand. “Pleased to see you again, Doctor,” he greeted in slow, measured tones. Hanson returned the firm handshake and seated him- self on a chair by the desk. Crossing his long legs, he leaned back, thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets. The other favored him with a questioning stare which most men would have found extremely disconcerting. “Barnard,” said Hanson quietly, “The Scorpion is in England.” Had it been his intention to startle the steely-eyed in- spector he would have been sadly disappointed. Barnard's face betrayed no more emotion than a stone image. Hanson, well acquainted with him, continued: 22 CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD 23 . “Last evening, by the merest chance, I struck his trail.” “So? Where?” “Instow, North Devon.” “Blast!” Barnard cursed with disgust. Hanson smiled. He understood the other's annoyance. “That is one of the defects in your British system,” he said. “If the county police do not seek your aid you are powerless to proceed. It spoils what is otherwise the finest police organization in Europe.” "It does,” agreed Barnard grimly. “Maybe it'll be altered one day. However, that's neither here nor there. This is murder, I take it?” Hanson nodded slowly. “Yes, it is murder. But it will never be recognized as such by the local police. Do you recall Baron Lafontaine's death? It occurred in Paris eight months ago.” “Lafontaine?” repeated Barnard thoughtfully. "Rich banker, kicked to death in a stable by his favorite horse. That it?” “That was the arranged official verdict, but it was not the truth. Lafontaine was murdered by a member of The Scorpion gang. At that time I was attached to the Sûreté and played a part in the subsequent investigation. The crime was cleverly conceived, but one little mistake was made.” “There always is if one can see it.” “Quite. That, of course, is the science of detection: to find the detail that has been overlooked. In this case the murderer was no horseman or he would have known that a horse kicks upward. On the Baron's forehead was the most perfect impression of a horseshoe, complete to nails and calkins. But, Barnard, this was the error. It was the wrong way up!” A fleeting smile crossed the Chief Inspector's stern 24 SCORPION'S TRAIL mouth Proving that the man had been killed by a down- ward stroke. A bad mistake that, Doctor!” Hanson leaned forward and stuck out a long finger. - “But one which was not recognized for nearly two days," he retorted. “You see, a real horseshoe had been used, wired to a length of iron rod. And, in addition, the blood splashed over the mare's shoe was human blood. It was clever and came within a hair's breadth of success.” "It was clever,” agreed Barnard. “So the same thing has happened again at Instow, eh?” “Yes, exactly the same. Except that no particular horse will have been bloodmarked. There were at least a dozen, all half wild, grazing on the burrows. What is more, two months ago a farm hand was savaged at that very spot.” “Thereby suggesting the method of murder?” "Possibly. There is the additional suggestion furnished by the fact that the cottage is reputed to be haunted by a phantom horse. The locals believe that with deep-rooted conviction.” “They would! Well, I must say he's tried to satisfy all tastes,” remarked Barnard with the nearest approach to humor he ever attained. “Tell me about it.” For fully ten minutes he listened with close attention. From time to time he made brief notes on the pad before him, but he asked no questions until Hanson concluded. He glanced over his notes. "H'm, so you think a woman committed the crime. It takes some muscular strength to smash a man's skull, Doctor.” “Unquestionably it does,” agreed Hanson readily. "But all the other evidence points so clearly to a woman that we must assume the necessary strength. He had been kissed by rouged lips shortly before he died. As he collapsed his fingers slid over a silk stocking and broke a thread. I CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD 25 found a tiny length caught in a thumbnail and preserved it for your inspection. Beside him in the thick, earthy dust was a woman's footprint trodden over a splash of blood. Moreover, it was made when the blood was first shed. The peculiar expression on his face indicates that his slayer was well known to him. When he saw death coming at her hands he was too paralyzed with horror and amazement to defend himself.” “H'm,” grunted Barnard noncommittally. “I suppose a man so rotten with dope would prove an easy victim, anyway.” For the next few minutes he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling as if he would draw inspiration from the grimy plaster. Then he leaned over the desk and, fixing Hanson with his cold and penetrating stare, asked: "Did you read in last Tuesday's papers of Count du Buisson's murder?” "I never read newspapers when I am on holiday,” smiled Hanson. “No? Then listen. Last Monday the Count was mar. ried. For All Saints' it was a quiet wedding, but never- theless attracted the usual crowd of habitual weddingites. As the bride and bridegroom came out of the church they posed for the press photographers. Immediately after- wards the bridegroom was shot through the heart by some- one in the crowd behind him.” “Yes?” prompted Hanson as the other paused. “Whoever did it used a silent-action spring gun, shooting a needle-pointed shaft four inches long.” Barnard's thick eyebrows came down in a scowl. He banged the desk with his fist and said earnestly: "Doctor, I've questioned every single member of that crowd, and do you think that any one of them could give me a clew? No, sir, not a damned CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD 27 reme Prophetic statement and efore this is through is go “Then I wish he'd selected his own country to do it in," snapped Barnard with considerable feeling. “There's go- ing to be merry hell to pay before this is through.” A prophetic statement and one which both men were to remember before many weeks were out. “Have you copies of the press photographs?” asked Hanson. Barnard opened a drawer and withdrew a number of unmounted photographs which he pushed across the desk. Hanson smiled as he recognized the handsome features of the bogus Count. But a moment later his expression changed to one of astonishment. He drew in his breath with a deep, resounding hiss as he stared incredulously at the picture. Hastily he scanned the remainder. Then rising slowly to his feet, he walked to the window as if he required more light. But he did not again study the photo- graphs. He looked out upon the broad boulevard of the Embankment, his mind at grips with this new and totally unexpected complication. Presently he turned to Barnard, who was regarding him through narrowed lids. “What was the bride's name?” he asked, and knew the answer before Barnard spoke. "Penhayle. Ann Trehawke Penhayle. Know her?” Hanson did not reply. He took a turn up and down the room, hands buried in his coat pockets, head thrust for- ward, thinking furiously. Returned to the desk he halted, and placing his two palms upon it leaned toward the in- spector. “Barnard,” he said quietly but impressively, “Ann Tre- hawke Penhayle is the girl who found The Scorpion's vic- tim at Instow.” “So?” murmured Barnard between set teeth. The pupils of his cold eyes became as pin-points and he nodded slowly, SCORPION'S TRAIL three times. Hanson sat down and brushed a hand a little wearily over his brow. He waited expectantly for the other to speak. Chief Inspector Barnard's lips twisted into a mirthless grin. He rested his elbows upon the desk and supported his chin upon his clenched fists. “Very interesting, Doctor,” he observed, with slow de- liberation. “Miss Penhayle will pay for closer study, I think. Curious how The Scorpion's trail crosses her own, is it not? And the murder a woman's crime, too! I wonder if the mysterious Simon Wernick would be such a great stranger to her.” Paul Hanson, who had looked into Ann's eyes with all the knowledge and experience to read the truth, knew that Barnard had jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Don't be too hasty,” he warned sharply. “Wernick, I freely admit, is a complete mystery to me. He is fully aware that Lafontaine was murdered and recognized the repetition at Instow. As this was a closely guarded official secret I can only imagine that he learned it through criminal sources, possibly from the actual assassin. Who he is and what his purpose I do not pretend to know. But of this I am absolutely convinced: Ann Penhayle is an honest woman.” Barnard raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Maybe,” he replied indifferently. “You should know.” His manner did not deceive Hanson. Ann Penhayle was under very definite suspicion and would form the subject of much painstaking inquiry in the near future. Scotland Yard would know as much about her past life as she did herself, and keep a watchful eye on her future actions. Failure to discover the murderer of the French crook had shaken the Chief Inspector. He was a man possessed of enormous confidence in himself. The blow to his pride was severe. The assassin, presumably, had been under his eyes CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD 29 Sealed in a pardonabitihe turn and he had failed to recognize the person. Someone very close to the crook had shot him with a silent-action spring gun. Not a large weapon. One which might easily be con- cealed in a bride's bouquet of white carnations. Barnard's suspicion was pardonable. Hanson did not like the turn events had taken. A new thought came to disturb him, and his brow corrugated in a frown as he foresaw the dreadful possibilities. Barnard pushed back his chair and stood up. "Well, Doctor, I suppose you are returning to Devon. I'll set about pulling the wires and be with you—um- in time for the inquest. Luckily the Devon people are reasonable.” Hanson pushed on his hat absent-mindedly and stood frowning at the shabby carpet. Suddenly he looked up. "Look here, Barnard,” he said forcefully. "If you think that Miss Penhayle has any guilty connection with either murder you are making a great and dangerous mistake. And I tell you frankly, right now, that I shall do all in my power to protect her.” “Have I suggested that she is a guilty party?” Bar- nard's voice was harsh and his steely eyes narrowed to mere slits. “You have not directly admitted it,” replied Hanson. “But I feel that you believe it. I have seen her, Barnard, and I know." The Chief Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Very well then, Doctor. Good enough.” He glanced down, gathered up the photographs and stood for a min- ute studying them. Then he leaned across the desk and said, very deliberately, tapping the pictures with a large forefinger: “If that young woman is, as you believe, an innocent party, then I wouldn't give a tinker's cuss for her life.” CHAPTER IV IN THE NIGHT THE SALOON bar of the “Ocean” is a popular rendezvous. Blue-jerseyed, merry-eyed pirates, of the stock that manned Drake's fleet, met dinner-jacketed visitors and, in the in- tervals of lowering large pots of beer, arranged to fleece them further on the morrow. It is a pleasant company. Usually the conversation turns mainly on the weather and the fishing prospects. But to-night the death on the bur- rows the previous evening formed almost the sole topic. For the dead man had been identified as the son of a local notable, Sir Ambrose Cleeve of Appledore. "Durned funny thing to me thet he should 'a' met ees death thet way," said Old Sam Fisher, emptying his tank- ard and wiping his bearded mouth with the back of a gigantic hand. "I mind ee well as a youngster. Thet wus long afore he went painting pictures up in Lunnon. Ee could manage a hoss then wi' the best o' 'em.” "Iss, you'm right, Sam,” agreed Bill Yeo, nodding his grizzled head emphatically. “'Twadden no flesh-and- blood hoss wot kicked ee.” The visitors looked at one another and then they laughed. But their amusement roused no answering smile on the faces of the local men. Sam Fisher shrugged his brawny shoulders. “ 'Ave it yer own way, maisters,” he growled. “It don't make a scrap o' difference to we.” Dick Marlow, sitting in the big bay window, listened to 30 IN THE NIGHT 31 the conversation, inwardly amused. They were all sadly off the mark. Tracey Cleeve had been murdered. But under a stern pledge of secrecy to Paul Hanson he dared not tell them so. He gazed out across the bay to where Crow lighthouse was winking. Dark thunderclouds overhung the bar, as if it were not sinister enough already! The long line of sand dunes looked, in the pale moonlight, like the realm of those ghosts in which the fishermen so firmly believed. His gaze wandered to the village opposite, nestling along the waterfront and up the hill behind. Old Appledore thrusting out her nose aggressively to the bar on which so many of her sons had found a watery grave. Somewhere toward Bideford the noise of a speedboat, new toy of a wealthy resident, shattered the heavy, oppres- sive silence without Dick glanced at the clock. Nearly closing time for the saloon. He rose and pushed his way through the crowd to the door. A couple of turns up and down the front be- fore retiring appealed to him. The threatening storm had driven the visitors within doors and he had the front to himself. As he walked along by the sea wall he was thinking of Ann Penhayle. Han- son's early morning departure for London had left him to his own resources. Ordinarily that would not have troubled him in the least. But to-day there was a queer restlessness upon him such as he had not known before. A disturbing sense of something about to happen; what, he did not know. He had spent the morning mooning around the dunes, half hoping that Ann might appear. In the afternoon he had decided that there was sufficient justification and had called at Ann's house, only to learn that she had gone with her guardian to Barnstaple. 32 SCORPION'S TRAIL Absorbed with his thoughts, he had crossed the railway bridge and gone half a mile on the main road without realizing that he had left the seafront. It was now only a matter of a hundred yards or so to the lane in which Ann's house was situated. With no particular idea in mind he decided to walk on and return to the village by the higher road. It was just as he was nearing the drive gates that he was suddenly roused from his reverie by a vivid flash of lightning which stabbed to earth almost directly before him. But it was not the lightning alone which startled Dick. In that moment of illumination he saw a man dart from the drive and run swiftly up the lane. It was but a fleeting glimpse he had caught, but it was sufficient for him to recognize the odd little figure of Simon Wernick. Seized with a sudden, nameless alarm, Dick started after him. So intent was he on catching his quarry that he did not see the man who pulled up abruptly by the gates and shrank into the deep shadows as he passed. Any sound which the newcomer may have made on the graveled drive was drowned by the loud crash of thunder and blind- drive was drow followed immediately;ck that his task It took ten minutes to convince Dick that his task was hopeless, by which time he had circled back to the village, wet to the skin. Swearing softly to himself and very uneasy in his mind, he slipped into the hotel by the side entrance, hoping to escape observation. In this he was unsuccessful. The land- lord happened to be crossing the lounge. "Hullo, sir!” he exclaimed. “You've caught it properly! Better have a tot of hot rum to keep out the cold. I'll send it up.” Dick, who felt in need of a stimulant, nodded. IN THE NIGHT 33 “Sure, but don't bother to send it up; I'll come into the kitchen.” He swallowed the hot rum and felt better for it. He wished the landlord "good night” and went up the stairs to his room, humming a popular tune. Opening the door, he switched on the light. The tune died on his lips as he stared incredulously, unable to trust the evidence of his eyes. Sitting in a chair by the window, looking more than ever like the preposterous creation of a cartoonist, was the grinning, bedraggled figure of Simon Wernick. "I hope that I'm not intruding,” tittered Wernick, squirming in his seat and rubbing his black-gloved hands together. "How the flaming hell did you get here?” ejaculated Dick. “Are you a ruddy ghost, or what the devil are you?” "Oh, tut, tut! What nautical language!” reproved Wer- nick, holding up one hand as if to stem a further flow. “Ecce signum. I am here. What matters how I came? But please come in and close the door. You stand in a draft, my young friend.” Dick closed the door very deliberately and stood with his back against it. “Now,” he said grimly. “What's the jolly little game? Speak up, or I'll twist your scraggy neck for you.” Simon Wernick cocked his head upon one side and re- garded him critically. “Yes, and I really believe you'd try, too! Dear, dear! Well, to be quite candid, my young friend, I came to see Doctor Hanson.” “Doctor Hanson is not here,” snapped Dick. “No, so I observe. He has gone to London?” Dick did not answer. He stood against the door, eying his unwelcome visitor aggressively, fast losing patience. 34 SCORPION'S TRAIL "Your silence tells me that he has. Most unfortunate! However, I am going to entrust this letter to your keep- ing. I must impress upon you that it is of considerable importance.” Wernick's hand slid into his breast pocket and produced an envelope, which he placed upon the pillow at his elbow. He looked up at Dick with an inane grin. "Now just fancy, all that trouble to obtain a letter. But men have died for less than a letter. Is it not so? Ah! You are young. You do not know.” “I know this much," snapped Dick, taking a step to- ward him: "that I'm very tired of this damned rot. Who the blazes are you, anyway?” Wernick's grinning lips suddenly hardened into a straight, bloodless line. He stared unwinkingly at the irate Dick, who stopped short, conscious that he was facing a new and totally different Simon Wernick. “Who am I?” Wernick's voice was low, but the slum- bering passion vibrated through its calm level. “Who am I? I am a dead man who has crept out of hell. Good night, my young friend.” Before Dick could recover from the shock of his words, uttered with such appalling bitterness, Wernick's gloved hand shot out toward the light switch hanging over the bed. Dick heard the click as the room was plunged into darkness. He made a leap forward, but his outflung hands found nothing. The door banged softly behind him and he whirled round. His fingers closed over the handle and he flung open the door, to bound into the lighted corridor. Simon Wernick rose from the floor at the foot of the bed, slipped like a wraith across the room, and silently opened the double windows. He stepped out upon the veranda, closed the windows, and ran lightly down the iron steps. Shielding his face against the blinding rain, he IN THE NIGHT 35 crossed the lawn. With the agility of a cat he leaped up and swung himself over the wall to drop upon the sand below. Dick Marlow returned to his room, chilled and raging. He looked under the bed and in the wardrobe. Then he noticed the rain spots and realized how he had been tricked. His face lit up with a smile of genuine admiration as he went over and securely fastened the windows. “Sink me, Simon,” he murmured, “but you're darned slick, whatever else you may or may not be!” The letter on the pillow caught his attention and he picked it up. The envelope was addressed to Tracey Cleeve at a place in Chelsea. Dick hesitated about reading the letter. He turned it over in his hand several times. The envelope had been torn across the back and the signature of the sender was visible on the paper beneath: Lola D. Then shivering in his sodden clothes, Dick thrust the letter into a drawer of the dressing table and hastily pre- pared for bed. But it was a long time before sleep came to him. Though tired he tossed and turned, striving hard to throw off a sense of disquietude which oppressed him. And when at last he did fall asleep that feeling still lingered. He dreamed that quite near to him hovered some vague shape which alternately assumed the features of Simon Wernick and the dreadful, battered face of the murdered Tracey Cleeve. Then, more disturbing still, he fancied that Ann Pen- hayle was calling to him, imploring his help. In his dream he was searching frantically to find her and all the while her voice was growing more and more agonized. He struggled back to consciousness, drenched in per- spiration, feeling physically ill. His first thought was that he was in for a dose of malaria as a result of the soaking. CHAPTER V HANSON RETURNS TO INSTOW PAUL HANSON returned the following afternoon. One glance at Dick's expressive face told him that something had happened in his absence. They passed out of the station and along the harbor road to the hotel. Dick, unable to suppress his information any longer, exclaimed: “Sink me, Paul, but things have been moving! Last night I had the most amazing experience of all my prom- ising career.” Hanson smiled at the excitement in the gray eyes and which somehow seemed to have communicated itself to the mop of fair hair as well. “Wait until we are alone,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder at a number of visitors who had arrived with him on the Atlantic Coast Express. Dick was too intent upon his own adventure to notice the action. “Now,” said Hanson, when they were alone in his bed- room. He listened with close attention to Dick's recital of the night's events. But his long, serious face gave no indica- tion of his reaction to the narrative. “You are quite sure that it was Wernick who came from Miss Penhayle's house?” he asked. Dick nodded emphatically. 37 38 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Absolute stone-wall cert, old boy. But how the deuce he got here before me licks creation!” “The explanation is probably quite simple. But it means that someone followed Wernick. Someone, I fancy, who knows a lot more about him than I do.” “You take it from me, sonny boy, Simple Simon isn't so darned soft as he looks. You should have seen the expres- sion on his face when he put over that bit of cryptic stuff about a dead man out of hell. He meant every word of that. I'd as soon have biffed a cobra as touched him then.” Hanson walked over to the window and looked out. The veranda ran the whole length of the wall, with the steps leading down to the lawn almost under Dick's win- dows. Opposite was the high sea wall, against which a palm grew. Anyone on the wall would have been able to see into the bedroom. That person had seen the letter and gone to great risk to obtain it. Who? Obviously some mem- ber of The Scorpion gang-perhaps The Scorpion himself. Therefore the letter contained either damning evidence or much coveted information. He was inclined to favor the former. Lola D. The signature conveyed nothing to him, but it suggested a number of possible lines for inquiry. How had Wernick come by the letter? Stolen it from some- where. It had not been in Tracey Cleeve's pockets when he searched the body. Of that he was certain. The more Hanson considered matters the less he liked the prospects. He took out his cigar case and extended it to Dick, who shook his head. “In his hand he bore the brand that none but he might smoke,” he misquoted, grinning. “No, thanks, I'll have a gasper. My tonsils are too young and innocent for any- thing but tobacco.” HANSON RETURNS TO INSTOW 39 Hanson struck a match and motioned Dick to a chair. “Sit down, Dick,” he said seriously. “I think I'd better go into more details than I have done." Dick obediently sat down, wondering what he was about to hear and conscious that he was feeling strangely excited. Hanson leaned back in the chair. “I have already told you that Tracey Cleeve was mur- dered. It was a crime having so many points in common with one which occurred in Paris, while I was attached to the French police, that I was immediately struck by the similarity. That crime was committed by a gang of crim- inals under the leadership of a mysterious being rejoicing in the sobriquet of The Scorpion. That none of his men betrayed him is plain proof of his tremendous power over them. Criminals generally are a faithless mob. They will double-cross and inform against their best pals if it is to their own advantage. In France, too, the police have methods of obtaining information which would not be tolerated in this country. However, there is evidence to suggest that Tracey Cleeve died at the hands of The Scorpion, or one of his agents.” Dick whistled between his teeth and then he laughed outright. "Paul, you're damned near as bad as Old Sam Fisher and his ghosts,” he protested. Hanson frowned. “Nevertheless, Dick, it is the truth,” he replied slowly and impressively. "Here in Instow is at least one member of that nefarious and very dangerous organization. What is more, he was in your room last night.” Dick Marlow. sat up with a jerk. His mouth opened and closed as he licked his tongue over his lips. He stared, goggle-eyed, at his friend. nad 40 SCORPION'S TRAIL Hanson smiled at the expression on Dick's face. He raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. “Quite true. I'm thinking that you were rather lucky to have remained asleep while he was stealing the letter." Dick blew out his cheeks and exhaled noisily. “It's the last time I come on holiday with you, any. way,” he declared. “You're a positive menace to have about the house. But tell me more about the jolly old Scorp. Who is he? He appears to have the makings of a bright little chap, if he's properly educated.” “He does!” agreed Hanson grimly. "His identity is known to no one, except possibly his more intimate fol- lowers. Even that I am inclined to doubt. In France he specialized in wealthy young fools of either sex, but mainly male. Filled them full of drugs, as he did young Cleeve, or otherwise got them into his power. He bled them white and, when there was nothing more to come, disposed of the body. Some were found; some are still missing, and probably will remain so. Dead men tell no tales' was his slogan.” "Untidy person!” commented Dick. “Littering up the place with unwanted corpses. Is Cleeve his first effort in England?” Hanson sent a cloud of smoke ceilingward. It was some moments before he answered. “That is something we have yet to discover. Did you read quite recently of the assassination of a French Count outside a London church?” "I saw the headlines, but I didn't read the account. Newspaper reporters have such fertile imaginations that I stick religiously to the sporting page.” “A very wise procedure,” remarked Hanson. "Well, Dick, that French Count was an impostor. Actually he was a Parisian crook, a trusted man of The Scorpion.” HANSON RETURNS TO INSTOW 43 kind of you to call yesterday. But so unfortunate that we were not at home.” Hanson let the error pass. Dick Marlow heard it and glanced down at Ann. She looked up at him, laughter lurk- ing in the corners of her adorable little mouth. "Mr. Clayton is terribly absent-minded,” she whispered. "Doctor Hanson will find him difficult, I'm afraid." Dick grinned. “Not likely!” he declared. “They are getting along famously. Old Paul's bedside manner has to be seen to be believed. It's the first thing they teach them in hospitals.” “Being the most important item of their training, I sup- pose," smileme Clayton bon them. It whan, as if sudaca Elphinstone Clayton looked up and, observing their smiling faces, beamed upon them. It was the first time he had seen Ann smile for many days. Then, as if suddenly recollecting something of importance, he turned to Hanson. “Yes, now I remember what I was going to ask you. Do you think it would be possible for Ann to be exempted from attendance at the inquest on that unfortunate young man? There will be an inquest?” "Oh yes, that is certain," replied Hanson. “And I'm afraid that Miss Penhayle will be expected to give evi- dence.” The old man's faintly lined forehead puckered. “So dreadful for Ann,” he murmured. “Coming so close upon the terrible- " He broke off, brushing his fingers nervously over his chin, and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Hanson waited, wondering if he would confide in him. But apparently he changed his mind, or his thoughts had gone off at a tangent. "I suppose that there is no doubt that it was an acci- dent?” he asked. 44 SCORPION'S TRAIL Hanson glanced at him sharply. “The verdict, I anticipate, will be one of misadventure,” he replied. “Ah, yes, misadventure. You know, Doctor Hanson, these village people are strange folk. It is difficult to under- stand the working of their minds. The man who does the gardening was hinting that it was not a horse which killed him. Really, I could not fathom what he meant to tell me. I think he must be a little-er-mental,” and Elphinstone Clayton touched his forehead suggestively. "Perhaps he was referring to the legend of the phantom horse,” said Hanson. "All the local people know and be- lieve it here.” The clergyman shook his head slowly and sighed. “Ah, yes,” he murmured, “old beliefs die hard in country places. One wonders sometimes if there may not be some founda- tion of truth in them. When I was—” He broke off as Ann came over, Dick at her side. "Have you asked Doctor Hanson to join us at dinner to-night, Uncle?" she asked, addressing him by the familiar name she found most convenient. “Dear me, no, no! I had quite forgotten. You will, eh?” “We shall be delighted,” accepted Hanson, with a side - glance at Dick. DIAC CHAPTER VI IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF GHOSTS It was after dinner when Elphinstone Clayton returned to the legend of the phantom horse. Ann and Dick were some- where in the garden and he was alone with Hanson in the large, airy dining room, from which a fine view of the distant sand dunes and the broad estuary could be obtained. Hanson was standing by the open windows smoking one of his long cigars and admiring the sunset as it lit the heavens in a blaze of flaming glory. He turned slowly to face his host. “Modern science places no ban upon supernormal phe- nomena, Mr. Clayton,” he replied, in answer to the clergy- man's question. “But those principles of reason to which science is pledged will continue to be outraged by the dreadful rubbish which emanates from so-called mediums and their half-witted followers." Elphinstone Clayton shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair. "Perhaps I did not explain my meaning,” he said, half apologetically. “My question was somewhat crude. What I meant was, how do you men of science explain the-er- supernormal phenomena? Take, for instance, this legend of the phantom horse which we were discussing this after- noon; there must surely be some basis of truth for it to have persisted so long." “So the devotees of spiritualism would have us believe," replied Hanson. 45 IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF GHOSTS 47 “Ah, yes, a third intelligence not present in the flesh. But what do you think yourself, Doctor?” “Personally I am of the opinion that telepathy is merely a non-vocal method of communication inherited from our animal ancestry and which still persists in a few individuals, often quite unsuspected by them.” “But you do not reject the possibility of a-er-super- natural agency?” asked Clayton, almost eagerly. "I noticed that you were careful to distinguish between mind and brain. You believe that mind may exist apart from matter, eh? Is that not the great proof of our glorious survival after earthly death? Mind and personality and memory go on living forever.” Hanson glanced at the other's eager face and felt a wave of pity for the old man. All his life he had been preaching the soul's survival. Yet it seemed that his own faith was seeking support, some definite, tangible proof. He was groping in the dark himself, wandering without the light of real conviction. To Hanson that was understandable. He believed that a progressive revelation of the Divine nature and purpose, whose range and character was at present be- yond human conception, was a reasonable expectation. But he confidently rejected as irrational those beliefs and dog- mas of the Church which to him were based on fear and a subtle selfishness. Clayton had come into close contact with many religions. He knew that each religion was the same in that it claimed the future for its followers and damnation for those benighted ones who would have none of it. His own faith had been sapped and his mind become confused. Like so many of his brethren, he stood in grave danger of mental collapse through long absorption with problems in- capable of solution. "Mind and matter have, in the past, been dealt with by 48 SCORPION'S TRAIL the psychologists and the physicists as separate subjects, Mr. Clayton," replied Hanson, as the old man moved rest- lessly in his chair. “There is much to suggest that mind and matter are not inseparable. When the two branches are combined the relation between them will be more clearly understood. We may then understand the transition of mechanical vibrations into sensation and emotion. There are vast fields for science to explore yet. Realms, I suspect, at the moment undreamt of.” “Oh yes, Doctor, I agree with you. I do. I do. When I was a missionary in China I witnessed some amazing things. It seemed to me that the soul might leave the body and wander far afield, returning with accurate knowledge of what was occurring in those distant parts.” “Traveling clairvoyance," murmured Hanson, watching the excited face. "It is but a vivid form of reciprocal telep- athy." Further discussion was interrupted by the advent of Ann and Dick, returned from a lengthy inspection of the garden by twilight. “Sitting in the gloaming, Uncle?” asked Ann. “Why-er-yes, my dear. We have been talking on- er-matters of science.” “Discussing ghosts,” added Hanson with a smile. “Ghosts! How thrilling!” exclaimed Ann. “But you don't believe in ghosts, Doctor Hanson?” “He ought to," laughed Dick. “Think of all the unfor- tunate people he experimented upon before he learned his trade.” “Doctor Hanson is not an unbeliever, my dear,” said Elphinstone Clayton. “Unlike so many of his colleagues, he does not deny the probability of discarnate intelligences around us.” “Not quite that,” corrected Hanson gently. “There are 50 SCORPION'S TRAIL "I say,” protested Dick, laughing, “this is all most fright- fully morbid. Let's have some music, shall we, Miss Pen- hayle?” But when later, after taking leave of their host, Han- son walked down the drive with Ann she returned to the subject. Dick, having missed his pipe, had gone back to the house. "Doctor Hanson,” she said in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper, “do you believe it possible for the spirits of the dead to communicate with the living?” Hanson glanced down at her, a swift, penetrating glance, but her eyes were averted from him. He knew that it was not mere curiosity which had prompted the question. Ann was troubled. “I do not know, Miss Penhayle,” he replied quietly... “You have had some recent personal experience?” For some moments she walked at his side in silence. Then looking up: “It is hard to explain—" she hesitated, “but just lately I have fancied that my father has been very close to me, trying to convey some message to me.” Two explanations flashed into Hanson's mind, but with his customary caution he voiced neither. Instead he asked: “You have seen nothing?” Ann shook her fair head. “No, not really. Once I thought I saw a gray shape moving at the foot of my bed, but it was gone before I could be sure.” “Where was this, Miss Penhayle?” “At Mr. Clayton's house at Twickenham.” “I see. And you have received vague impressions on several occasions?” “That my father was near me, yes. At all sorts of odd times I have felt it.” Hanson thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF GHOSTS 51 frowned at the twinkling lights of Appledore across the water. “One's imagination may play us some strange tricks, Miss Penhayle,” he said. "It is difficult, often impossible, to distinguish between the products of our own minds and those of outside influence. Have you mentioned this to Mr. Clayton?” Ann smiled a little wistfully. “Uncle would not under- stand," she replied. “He would not be very helpful, I'm afraid.” To Hanson her words conveyed a world of meaning. He realized how lonely she must be with no one to help or comfort her. The Reverend Elphinstone Clayton, admi- rable though he might be in his own sphere, was a hopeless companion for a young girl. Yet he found it difficult him- self to offer advice. He would have liked to have told her that it was nothing more than morbid imaginings resulting from loneliness, the domestic atmosphere, and, above all, the shock of her recent tragic experiences. But he was by no means sure that this was the true explanation. There might be another and much less simple cause. "I should wait for something more definite, Miss Pen- hayle,” he advised. “The probability is that your fancies are only fancies and nothing more. I would prescribe the company of young companions as a certain cure.” Dick's footsteps and cheery whistle cut short any further discussion. "Found the jolly old brier,” he announced. “Say, isn't it a glorious night! I feel like a ten-mile walk.” “Then you'll do it alone,” retorted Hanson, turning to Ann. “Good night, Miss Penhayle, and thank you for a most enjoyable evening.” He pressed her hand in a warm and reassuring grip; 52 SCORPION'S TRAIL then, with a side glance at Dick, moved slowly down the road. As he loitered along he was conscious of a chill of appre- hension at his heart. Dick stood to him very much in the position of a younger brother. The long-standing friend- ship of their families had commenced when Marlow senior was secretary to the British Embassy in the U.S.A. When Hanson himself was at Oxford he had spent most of his vacations with the Marlows. Though of antipodal natures, the one carefree to the point of recklessness, the other studious and methodical, they each recognized the sterling qualities of the other. Between them there existed a deep and sincere friendship. Hanson devoutly hoped that nothing would happen to erase that happy smile from Dick's face. And, hoping, knew how great were the odds against fulfillment. CHAPTER VII AFTER THE INQUEST As HANSON had predicted, the verdict at the inquest on Tracey Cleeve was one of misadventure. Ann had not been spared the ordeal, but the coroner had been very consid- erate, and she had borne up bravely. Hanson had seen nothing of Chief Inspector Barnard before the inquest, but he recognized his controlling influence in the carefully edited questions put to the witnesses. The grim business had not been without its humorous side, and the amazing verdict which the jury had attempted to bring had not so much astonished as amused him. Local men all, they had endeavored to find in accordance with their deep-rooted beliefs, and this had resulted in a tussle with the coroner. That patient official had, with great tact, pointed out to them that in these days it was not possible to try either a devil or a horse, and the only verdicts which could be returned were either murder, suicide, or misad- venture. Suicide being definitely ruled out, and there being no evidence to support murder, the only possible verdict was misadventure. Finally, and with great reluctance, the jury had found accordingly. Immediately it was over, Dick had left, accompanied by Ann and Elphinstone Clayton. The old man appeared to have taken a great liking to him, a fact on which he secretly congratulated himself. They walked along the road for some distance in silence, broken at last by Clayton, speak- 53 54 SCORPION'S TRAIL ing his thoughts aloud rather than addressing either Ann or Dick. "Extraordinary!” he murmured, shaking his head slowly. “And yet when I was in China I saw some strange things myself. But no-mystery and superstition belong to ignorance-unthinkable, senseless, like black magic and sorcery. A perversion of all rationality.” “You are thinking of the verdict which the dear old lads tried to bring, eh, sir?” asked Dick, smiling at the memory. Elphinstone Clayton nodded thoughtfully. “Yes-er- yes, I was. Do you now, Mr. Marlow, there are times when I wonder if there may not be something in it. Years ago I was a missionary in China, and I saw there some strange things quite beyond my understanding. Dr. Han- son has his scientific explanation, but ” “Oh, I say, sir,” protested Dick, “that sort of thing may happen out East, but not in Devon.” “But why not? Why should mere geographical position affect it? Why should the forces of evil be less powerful in Devon than in China?” While Dick was entering into friendly argument with the clergyman, Paul Hanson was reading a note handed to him by a constable. It was from Barnard, requesting him to meet him at the “Hare and Hounds” at Fremington. Evidently the Chief Inspector had deemed it wise to keep clear of the immediate vicinity. Hanson, wondering what he had discovered, lost no time in borrowing Dick's two-seater and motoring over. He found Barnard occu- pying a private room. With him was another, a man shorter than himself, with a round, cheerful face. This was Detective-Sergeant Trotter of the C.I.D., an officer much feared by certain of the criminal fraternity in London. The Chief Inspector introduced his subordinate and Hanson sat down. AFTER THE INQUEST 55 “Well, Doctor, we've got a bit further,” announced Barnard. “We've dug into Tracey Cleeve's life in town, and a pretty hectic career he had, too! He was something of an artist, but his taste seems to have run more to women than painting. Lola D. is probably a dancer in a night club which Cleeve frequented. Lola Demaine, she calls herself.” “A Frenchwoman?” queried Hanson. Barnard nodded. “Yes, but married to an Englishman; a con man, re- cently returned from the U.S.A.” "Name?" “Mike Cardon. Know him?" Hanson nodded affirmation. Mike Cardon, Red Mike, the man with the smile that had earned him thousands of dollars and the creator of numerous highly ingenious methods of swindling the unsuspecting. But of late things had been getting a little too hot for Mike and Hanson was not surprised to learn that he had returned to his own country. “Your central office cabled us that he was on his way over,” continued Barnard, “and an eye has been kept on him since. But apart from marrying this Lola Demaine, he seems to have been living on his capital. Either he gets a nice fat allowance from the woman or else he brought a lot with him. He's worked himself in with quite a number of the wealthy young bloods about town, and that means spending money. I'd like to know what his game is.” "Lola Demaine, by marrying him, of course, becomes a British subject.” Barnard grunted. “That's the old gag. They can't be chucked out of the country as undesirable aliens then.” "Isn't anything at all known about the woman?” asked Hanson. "Have you inquired of the French or Belgian police?" 56 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Not yet. I want a little more information before I do that. She's in with some pretty ripe crooks, but I don't know yet if they are her finding or Mike Cardon's. They're nearly all swell con men and, like Mike, they seem to be giving the mugs a rest. It ain't natural. They must be get- ting their money from somewhere." "Is it possible that they have pooled their finances in preparation for a big haul?” suggested Hanson. “Or per- haps found some other method of making a living?” "I've considered that,” replied Barnard, “and I don't think it probable. You know as well as I do that criminals are rigid specialists. If they have turned over to some other game it must be something big and easy; and that's what I don't like.” The Chief Inspector paused and fixed Hanson with his cold and penetrating stare. "I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I could get a man in with 'em. But it's hopeless with that crowd. They know every officer of the department as well as I do. I'd ask you to take a chance, but half those crooks know the States, and I'll lay long odds they know you. Now it occurs to me that your young friend, Mr. Marlow, would be a very suitable person for the job. What about it?" Hanson had guessed that the Chief Inspector had been leading up to this. It was something which had been in his own mind ever since his return to Instow. Yet he knew the risk, and shrank from exposing Dick Marlow to the certain danger if their plans miscarried. Dick was, he ad- mitted to himself, an ideal man for the job. He was acquainted with the circle in which these young bloods moved, though he did not get around with them. Easy enough for him to scrape acquaintance with Lola Demaine. “Well?” demanded Barnard impatiently. “I think that Marlow might be willing to help,” he re- AFTER THE INQUEST 57 plied. “Provided that he is not exposed to too much danger, I am prepared to ask him.” "Good!” exclaimed Barnard. “It ought to appeal to him, and there will be practically no real danger.” Sergeant Trotter glanced at Hanson, stuck his tongue in his cheek and stared at the ceiling, a smile hovering over his big humorous mouth. Barnard scowled at him, but sup- pressed the witheringly sarcastic remark which rose to his lips. It would have been a gross libel on a very courageous and efficient officer. “Well,” continued Barnard briskly, "the verdict was satisfactory. Let us hope it bluffs The Scorpion into a false sense of security. Now I'll just run over the plan I have mapped out, and if you have any suggestions to make I'll be glad to hear them.” Coming from Chief Inspector Barnard, this was a fine tribute to Hanson's reputation. For close upon an hour they were discussing matters. Sergeant Trotter, for the most part, remained a silent and apparently bored spectator. Dick Marlow was not in the hotel when Hanson arrived back but came in soon after. Hanson put the suggestion to him and found it eagerly accepted. “Sink me, old Sawbones!” he ejaculated. “It's what I've been wanting to do all my life! Lucky I've an- other six weeks' leave.” “Don't get too excited about it, Dick,” warned Hanson. “You may find assisting the police to be rather sordid.” “Oh, don't be a wet blanket!” protested Dick, laughing. “Anyway, do you think we shall nobble the jolly old Scorp?” Hanson shook his head. "That, only time will tell. I sincerely hope that we do not have to wait until the killer strikes again. Though I fear we shall.” CHAPTER VIII CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS CAPTAIN TERRENCE KILEY moved restlessly in his bed. The pneumatic drill was at it again. The cursed thing had been going all night. Gad, what an infernal din it made! Just outside his window, too! It was an outrage. He opened one eye, but promptly shut it again as the ceiling swooped down in an alarming bulge. Some fool had drawn the curtains and the sun was streaming in like liquid fire, scorching the inside of his head. He was aware that his tongue was at least three sizes too large for his mouth, despite the fact that it was as dry as old leather. Who the blazes was that shouting at him? “Your tea, sir.” Captain Kiley made a determined and heroic effort and opened both eyes at once. His man, Parker, stood beside the bed, a series of ripples going up and down his stocky body in a manner most irritating. “Keep still, Parker.” “Very good, sir. Your tea, sir.” - “What? Oh, tea! Fine!” He reached out and gripped the cup handle firmly. Carefully he conveyed the cup to his lips and sipped with keen appreciation. He sighed and glanced up at Parker, standing stiffly to attention. “How did I get home last night, Parker?” he asked. “Two gentlemen assisted you, sir." 58 CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS 59 "Two gentlemen! I don't remember any gentlemen, Parker.” “No, sir? One was Mr. Carfax, the other was a stranger to me.” Captain Kiley digested this information in silence while he drank the tea. “Was I very blotto, Parker?” “Never seen you worse, sir.” “Oh!” Terrence Kiley closed his eyes and lay back upon the pillows. Rummy how it had got him last night! Usually he could carry a skinful like an officer and a gentleman. Not a thick evening, either. Well, not very thick. Carfax had brought him home. He hadn't a lot of time for Carfax. Who the devil was he, anyway? The shrill note of the telephone cut short his medita- tions. He put his hands to his ears and groaned. “Shut off that damned thing, Parker!” Parker moved across the room with that noiseless tread peculiar to the well-trained servant. He picked up the re- ceiver. Captain Kiley waited impatiently. “Tell the fool I've gone to Scotland,” he ordered, guess- ing the nature of the call. "It's Mr. Marlow, sir. He says he is coming round to see you right away.” "Dick Marlow!” exclaimed the invalid, interested. "He's welcome.” Parker, having conveyed this information over the wire, hung up the instrument and prepared to assist his employer in the serious business of dressing. Dick Marlow found him toying with breakfast and grinned understandingly. “Hullo, old scout,” he greeted. “You look like the morning after the night before.” Captain Kiley made a weary gesture of protest. “Don't 60 SCORPION'S TRAIL talk about it. I feel positively bloodstained. But what brings you here at this unholy hour?” Dick helped himself to a cigarette and sat on the corner of the table, swinging one leg. “You know everybody in town, don't you, Terry?” he asked. “More or less, dear boy. All those sweet souls worth knowing,” admitted Kiley modestly. “Who is the alluring creature, sailor?” Dick laughed. “Hit it in one. Her name is Lola Demaine.” “What?” “Lola Demaine,” repeated Dick, wondering why his friend looked so startled. "Do you know her?” “Do I know Lola Demaine? Do I? My dear old Dick, I most sincerely hope that this is not your idea of a joke. Really, dear boy, I'm not strong enough to stand it this morning.” Terrence eyed him reprovingly and Dick made a gesture of repudiation. “No joke, Terry. I'd like to meet her, that's all.” “Jolly good luck to you, laddie. If it's of any interest to you, it was at a little affair given by Lola last night that I collected this perfectly foul head. Most amazing; quite staggers me. If I'd had a useful load I could understand it." Dick, who knew the gallant captain's capacity, wondered how much he had actually consumed. Some vague inkling of the truth dawned upon him, but he refrained from comment. “When are you seeing her again?” he asked. Kiley carefully buttered a piece of toast and considered the question. "Well, you know, dear comrade, I did think of popping CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS 61 around this A.M. just to discover what really did happen last night. Care to come!” “Yes, rather,” replied Dick, highly satisfied that the matter could be so easily arranged. “But look here, Terry, I don't want to appear too keen to know her. Under- stand?” "Oh, absolutely, dear lad,” agreed the expert on all things appertaining to "alluring creatures.” “Never let them get that idea in their sweet heads. They'll walk on your face if they do. Bless their little hearts, too!” Sixty minutes later Captain Kiley was so far recovered as to feel equal to driving his car as far as Westminster, where Lola Demaine's flat was situated. He had previously ascertained through the medium of a telephone conversa- tion with her maid that they might expect to find Lola risen and sufficiently advanced with her toilet to receive them. Dick had long since ceased to marvel that Terrence Kiley was still alive. The journey, however, was accom- plished without incident, except for a slight misunderstand- ing with the officer on traffic control at the Marble Arch and a taxi-driver as they skidded into Birdcage Walk. It was not without a feeling of excited anticipation that Dick passed into Lola Demaine's flat, admitted by a smart maid. Kiley appeared perfectly at home. He flung himself into a comfortable chair and breathed a weary sigh. “Spots before the eyes, dear one. I'm damned bad.” Dick, standing legs apart by the fireplace, looked down and grinned, but glanced up quickly as the door opened and Lola Demaine came into the room. She was taller than he had expected, slightly built, with jet-black hair protrud- ing, Bishareenlike, around her head. The vivid colors of her kimono emphasized her pale skin and dark eyes. About her there was a subtle suggestion of Oriental blood.. CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS 63 Kiley made a wry grimace as he drank the liquid. “Lola, what hell brew is that?” he demanded, setting the glass upon the table. “Gad, it's got an almighty kick in it!” Lola bared her small, even teeth in a smile. “Dat is something nice I make,” she replied. “You feel good now, eh?” The effect upon Kiley was plainly beneficial. In a matter of minutes he had lost the weary, haggard expression and recaptured his customary gay, debonair manner. Several times during the next fifteen minutes Dick glanced at him curiously. Terry's wit was positively spar- kling. A most amazing transformation in so brief a while. Lola Demaine clasped Dick's hand as they were leaving, and whispered softly, “You come and see me again, eh?” Dick smiled and nodded as if he found the suggestion very much to his liking. Lola suddenly reached up and kissed him squarely upon the lips. Then she sped lightly away. Kiley had walked out to his car and was standing by the door when Dick came down the steps. The feel of that kiss sent a shudder through him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. As he crushed the silk in his hand he noticed a faint smear of rouge. “What about some interior decorations, old lady-killer?” suggested Kiley. "I'm deuced peckish somehow.” “And that's more than you were an hour ago," grinned Dick. “No, thanks, Terry, I want to get back.” "Hullo, Kiley," hailed a genial voice, “how is it this morning?” Dick turned to see a figure, immaculately clad, complete with monocle and gold-mounted cane, standing beside him. 'Morning, Carfax," acknowledged Kiley, without par- ticular enthusiasm. “Many thanks for assistance last night.” 64 SCORPION'S TRAIL car moved stand that blighter, blokes on prin Carfax chuckled. “The blind leading the blind, Kiley," he said. “I was half seas over myself.” While these pleasant exchanges were taking place Dick had seated himself. Kiley got in beside him. “Chin, chin, Carfax. See you sometime.” Carfax's reply, if any, was drowned in the roar as the car moved off. "I can't stand that blighter at any price,” confided Terry. “I don't object to redheaded blokes on principle, but that ginger hound I cannot bear. Whither wouldst thou go, brother?” “Charing Cross, Southern,” replied Dick. "I'm due back for lunch.” They parted in the station yard, Dick being just in time for a train to Bexley, where he was staying with a maiden aunt, and Hanson with him. His learned friend listened with an attention which was flattering while he recounted his morning's adventure. He nodded approvingly when Dick concluded. “Good man!” he said. “Kiley was not inquisitive?” Dick grinned. "Not at all. He was too sorry for himself when I first met him and too elated afterwards to remem- ber to ask, I think.” Hanson frowned and walked to the windows leading to the old-fashioned garden which was Miss Marlow's pride. He stood for a minute gazing out, and then he turned to Dick. “I suppose you realize what actually was wrong with Kiley?” “Not quite. But knowing Terry's capacity, I'd say some- one doped his drink for some reason best known to them- selves.” Hanson nodded gravely. “Exactly. I think, my dear Dick, that Terrence Kiley will have good reason to be very grateful for your visit.” CAPTAIN KILEY ASSISTS 65 “Grateful! Why?” "Don't you see through the vile scheme?" asked Han- son, a trifle impatiently. “If Kiley had not visited the woman this morning she would certainly have called him on the 'phone and inquired as to how he was feeling. Naturally he would have told her and asked how drunk he was the previous evening and that sort of thing. Apolo- gized for being a nuisance, probably. She would then have invited him to come to her and sample her marvelous restorative. Result: one unsuspecting poor fool well on the way to being a drug fiend.” A look of horror came into Dick's gray eyes. “Sink me, Paul!” he exclaimed. “What a devilish plot!” "It is,” agreed Hanson grimly. “So simple, too. It is practically impossible for the police to do anything until it is too late. I don't know what it was she gave Kiley this morning, probably a very weak solution of cocaine. For å while he will feel wonderfully well, but when the effect wears off he will become depressed. Lola Demaine will be on hand with a further dose. And so it will go on until Kiley is ready to sell his soul for the stuff.” “Not while I can stop it,” said Dick with grim deter- mination. “Fortunately for Kiley there's not much harm done at the moment,” continued Hanson. "The grip of the cocaine vice is impossible to shake off, no matter how strong-willed the person may be. In addition, the victims of this habit seem positively to delight in recruiting others. You will have to go carefully, Dick.” “Here, damn it, Paul!” protested Dick indignantly. “You don't think- " Hanson smiled and slapped him upon the shoulder. "No, of course not. What I mean is that you will certainly have them endeavor to administer a secret dose to you. is too late, impossible for th grimly. “S. * 66 SCORPION'S TRAIL However, I can fix up a preparation which will enable you to furnish a realistic fake of a drugged man should it be necessary. What sort is Kiley really?” “Jolly good fellow,” replied Dick promptly. “By no means the complete fool he appears to be. Why?” "I was thinking that the time may come when we shall find it necessary to enlist his aid seriously. By the way, what was Carfax like in appearance?” Dick described the man as accurately as he could. Han- son smiled. “I thought so,” he murmured. “Do you know him?" asked Dick in some surprise. “Mr. Carfax's description seems to me to fit very neatly a gentleman I knew as Mike Cardon. I think, Dick, that you were privileged to observe a notorious criminal, a con- fidence trickster of a high order. Having made the United States and Canada too warm to be comfortable, he has now returned to his native country. I must look up his record. He is, by the way, Lola Demaine's lawfully wedded hus- band.” “Great Scott!” ejaculated Dick. “I didn't know they did that sort of thing!” “Just to make Lola a British subject, that's all,” smiled Hanson. “What's that on your handkerchief?” Dick glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand. He had been about to use it. “Rouge, I'd say,” he said in disgust. “That damned woman kissed me before I could stop her. I'd forgotten all about it.” Hanson held out his hand. “I'll take that if you don't mind, Dick.” CHAPTER IX THE VOICE ON THE 'PHONE Ann PENHAYLE allowed the novel to slip from her fingers over the side of the hammock and closed her eyes, swinging herself gently to and fro. The afternoon sun glared down from a cloudless sky. But under the leafy boughs of the ancient chestnut and with a faint breeze stirring along the river it was no more than pleasantly warm, inducing that feeling of lazy comfort of which daydreams are born. Elphinstone Clayton's house at Twickenham was an old Georgian residence, with a garden flanking the Thames bank. A delightful place, and Ann, who had spent most of her young life in boarding schools, loved it. When they had left Instow on the day following the in- quest she had been fearful lest returning to London would revive the full horror of her marriage to Count du Buisson. Contrary to her expectations, her predominant emotion was one of gladness to have returned to the old house. That was a week ago. Already the memory of those shocking tragedies in which she had been so intimately in- volved was fading into the background of her thoughts. Not entirely, of course. At times it returned with unabated force, especially at night and at odd moments during the day when she was alone. But another emotion was stirring, happy, healthy in its conception. One which gradually crowded out those mor- 67 68 SCORPION'S TRAIL bid fears and imaginings. Dick Marlow's tanned face and laughing gray eyes were never totally absent from her thoughts. Ann possessed to the full that intuition which is supposed to be wholly feminine. But she would have been blind in- deed not to have been able to read the message written large upon Dick's expressive face. Twice during the past week he had called to visit her. Each time on a pretext so lame that she felt that it would not have deceived even her guardian, who, as it so hap- pened, had been absent on both occasions. The sound of a footfall on the graveled drive cut short her reverie. She glanced toward the well-trimmed privet hedge and a moment later a man appeared whom she recognized as a Mr. Kotlar. He was the secretary to some mission or charity, the name of which, if she had ever known, she had forgotten. Though he appeared to be wel- comed by Elphinstone Clayton, she did not like him, and she imagined that her guardian received him more in his official capacity than as a personal friend. The old man was connected with numerous charities of one sort or another. Kotlar was a dark, sallow-skinned man, rather slightly built, with heavy eyebrows and a dark, drooping mustache which almost concealed his mouth. Ann loathed that mustache and his habit of continually stroking it. He came forward briskly on seeing her, an oily, ingrati- ating smirk upon his face. “Ah! Good afternoon, Coun- tess," he said, bowing and raising his bowler hat with an exaggerated sweep which possibly he believed to be courtly. “How delightful to commune with Nature in this old- world garden!” Ann forced a polite smile. “You wish to see Mr. Clay- ton, I suppose?” THE VOICE ON THE ’PHONE 69 Kotlar bowed again. “I have an appointment with him, Countess. Shall I go right in?” Ann watched him go up the path with his short, quick steps and breathed a little sigh of relief. Possibly it was uncharitable of her, but she really disliked the man in- tensely. Perhaps it was his peculiar eyes, which reminded her of a Chinaman's narrow eyes, or, more probably, his obsequious manner. For some unaccountable reason Ann found herself con- trasting him with the breezy Dick Marlow, and the ab- surdity of it brought a smile to her lips. She lay back among the cushions of the hammock and gently swung herself, humming a little tune which was running through her mind. A butterfly floated past, and as she turned her head to watch it she caught sight of her guardian at the window of his study. He appeared to be deep in thought, and presently turned with an angry ges- ture to someone within the room. It was so unlike the old man to be angry that Ann won- dered what had upset him. She felt convinced that Kotlar was imposing on him; maybe he had overstepped the mark this time. However, when a short while later they appeared in the garden together the old man was his usual placid, benevo- lent self. He walked slowly down the path, pointing out particular specimens of the roses, in which he took a great pride. Ann lay back and staged a fine imitation of the Sleeping Beauty until Kotlar was out of sight. The brazen notes of a klaxon shattered the warm, brood- ing silence and brought her very much to life. She rec- ognized the music of that particular horn. Elphinstone Clayton returned with Dick Marlow at his 70 SCORPION'S TRAIL side. They came across the lawn to her, Dick laughing like a schoolboy. “My dear,” said Clayton, "Mr. Marlow has asked my permission to ask you—to-to-request— What was it again, Mr. Marlow?” Dick grinned. “Well, my dear old thing, it's like this. I have two per- fectly good theater tickets going spare. So I thought per- haps you would like to blow along and have a spot of something somewhere and then slip on to this show of mine. Would you?” “I should love it,” replied Ann, glancing questioningly at her guardian, who, however, appeared to be lost in his thoughts. “Then that's settled,” exclaimed Dick. “Good egg! I'll be round for you in the old rattletrap six-thirtyish?” Ann nodded her agreement. Dick took her hand. "I'm really in the most fearful hurry,” he said. “A pal of mine has been making a silly ass of himself and I'm just breezing along to give him some fatherly advice. See you anon. Good-by, Mr. Clay- some fatherflf and I'm just mine has be ton.” The old man started and took Dick's hand mechanically. “What-er-going, Mr. Marlow?” he asked in slightly bewildered tones. He watched Dick stride off across the lawn and then he turned to Ann, a puzzled frown upon his face. “You know, my dear, I like that young man immensely, but really I wish he would be less stormy. Where is he taking you, my dear?” “To the Adelphi Theater, to-night.” “Adelphi? I–I thought he said the Athenæum.” Dick Marlow stepped on it from Twickenham to Kiley's rooms in Jermyn Street. He hadn't a lot of time to spare. THE VOICE ON THE PHONE 71 The soft-footed Parker admitted him with the informa- tion that Captain Kiley was suffering from a sick head- ache. This Hanson had told him to expect. Kiley did look sorry for himself as he lay upon the divan. “Curse it, Dick,” he growled. “I'm feeling like nothing on earth. I'd like to know what damned poison it was I drank last night.” “I don't know what you had then,” replied Dick, seating himself at the foot of the divan, “but I can make a pretty accurate guess at the dope you drank this morning. That, my innocent, was cocaine." “Cocaine! Don't be a perfect B.F.!” snapped Kiley ir- ritably. “People don't administer large doses of cocaine to their acquaintances when they call with fat heads.” "Ordinary people, no,” agreed Dick. “But Lola De- maine is by no means an ordinary person. Now just listen to me, Terry, and remember that you are a brand snatched from the burning. First of all take this pill. It'll help with that head," and he pushed a tablet Hanson had given him into Kiley's unresisting mouth. Many changes of expression crossed the sick man's face as he listened to Dick's narrative, but anger was the chief emotion registered. “By God, sailor!” he exclaimed, as Dick concluded, "I'm beginning to remember things now. I'm thinking I could name more than one poor devil who has been pushed over the hill by that ruddy gang. And by the Holy Cross, Mar- low, I'm with you and your Yankee pal!” The indolent, bored manner habitual to Terrence Kiley dropped from him like a cloak hurled aside, and for a brief while Dick saw revealed what he knew to be the true man. But Hanson had impressed upon him the absolute neces- sity for caution, and he hastened to add a warning. “No fireworks, Terry old lad. This is a job for quiet 72 SCORPION'S TRAIL scouting and subtlety stuff if we are going to put paid to their account. No change in manner-increasingly friendly, if anything. We want the lot when we get 'em.” Parker knocked and entered. “Mr. Carfax to see you, sir.” Kiley scowled, but Dick whispered, "See him.” “Push him along, Parker,” ordered Kiley, lying back upon the divan. “And don't forget that you still feel damned ill,” warned Dick. Carfax came into the room, a smile upon his lips and a humorous twinkle in his pale green eyes. Dick thought he had never seen a man with hair of such an aggressive red and could appreciate the apt name of Red Mike. Kiley nodded his head toward Dick. “My friend, Marlow,” he murmured without moving from his couch. "Most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mar- low," beamed Carfax, seizing Dick's hand in a hearty grasp. "Didn't I see you with the Captain this morning?” Dick agreed that he had, and Carfax turned to Kiley. “Well, you know, Cap,” he smiled, “if you don't look mighty tired! But Lord, I wish I had your head for the stuff. You're a marvel!” “You can have my head now and damned welcome to it,” growled Kiley. Carfax nodded sympathetically as he stood gazing down at the recumbent sufferer. He took out a gold cigarette case and offered it. "Try one of these, Cap. They're soothing. At least, I always find 'em so. A pal of mine gets them over from Turkey, and they're good.” “No, thanks, Carfax,” refused Kiley. “I'm off smoking.” THE VOICE ON THE 'PHONE 73 Carfax laughed softly and placed a cigarette upon the table. “Try one later,” he advised. “Well, Cap, what I called round about was a little suggestion for to-night. Ma Beau- mann is opening up a new show, 'The Gilded Lily. It's a dive off Noel Street and promises to be a right sporting entertainment. Feel equal to a bit of exploring?” Kiley glanced at Dick. Carfax intercepted the look, and for once in his career misinterpreted the meaning. “Bring Marlow if he'll come,” he said affably. “The more the merrier. Jimmy Montcrief and Sammy Lander are blowing in too. If you've got a date-well, O.K. But I thought you'd be interested.” “We'll come," nodded Kiley. "I'll probably feel more human by then.” Carfax left soon after, to all appearances a pleasant, hail- fellow-well-met man about town whose infectious smile and good spirits covered a certain coarseness which would otherwise have been more apparent. Dick rose to leave too. His glance rested on the cigarette and he reached out for it. “I'll take this back to Hanson,” he said. "He'll find more in it than tobacco, I expect.” Having arranged to meet his friend as soon after mid- night as possible he went out to his car. He had to hurry to be at Twickenham, change, and be ready by six-thirty. Hanson was out when he returned, gone, he believed, for another interview with Chief Inspector Barnard. He had nearly completed his change when the maid came to inform him that he was wanted on the telephone. Thinking that it was his learned friend calling, he hurried down. “Is that Mr. Marlow,” inquired a well-remembered voice, ending in an exasperating titter. "Ah, those maritime 74 SCORPION'S TRAIL oaths! Parce, parce, precor! I hope I'm not intruding, but I am filled with a desire to warn you to be very careful of the dark places to-night. Take heed of me, my young friend. You will, eh? There, there, I hope I do not offend.” Dick heard the click as the instrument was replaced at the other end of the wire. For some moments he stood frowning at the wall, biting his lip in perplexity. Who the devil was Simon Wernick? CHAPTER X AT “THE GILDED LILY" For Ann PENHAYLE the evening had been one of pure de- light. Homeward bound, the cool breeze upon her cheeks, she was conscious that she was tired but wonderfully happy. Dick glanced down at her, his eyes affectionately tender. “Tired, Ann?” he asked. She nodded, smiling up at him. Dick felt his pulse quicken as he gazed into those violet-blue eyes. He with- drew his left hand from the wheel and slipped it about her shoulders. The contact of her warm, soft body sent the blood racing through his veins and he was seized with a desire to kiss those cherry-red lips. But the loud, protest- ing hoot of the car behind as he swerved across the road jerked him to his senses. Thereafter, though he drove with one hand, he drove with due regard for safety. A light was visible in her guardian's study when they swung into the drive. “Uncle's late to-night,” exclaimed Ann in surprise. “He is usually such an early bird.” “Waiting to see his ward safely returned from the perils of London,” smiled Dick, as he assisted her to alight. They walked to the door in silence and halted under the old portico. Dick felt strangely awkward now that it had come to the point. He stood regarding the exquisite little face upturned toward him, and then with a sudden passionate gesture he stooped swiftly and caught her in his 76 SCORPION'S TRAIL arms. The red lips pressed upon his own in glad surrender. It was a very happy man who drove along the London road. The gods who protect lovers were busy that night, for Dick's driving was almost wholly an effort of the sub- conscious mind. He was too engrossed in his own delightful thoughts to observe the coincidence that the motor-cyclist who had fol- lowed so close behind his car on the outward run was still with him on the return. Ann's loveliness had gone to his head like wine. He was in love; drunk with the wild happiness which surged within him. He knew nothing of the man who had been a witness to his passionate declaration of love; the man who had pressed forward against the privet hedge listening, for Ann's reply as though his very life depended upon it, and who had stolen away, soft-footed as a jungle cat, when he had seen those fair arms around Dick's neck. It was not until he was in the traffic at Knightsbridge and had been forcibly reminded of his position by an outraged bus-driver that he really awoke from his dreams. Then he remembered “The Gilded Lily” and all it stood for. He wished he had not promised Hanson to go on with this beastly business. But having set his hand to the plow he certainly was not the kind to turn back. He was no plaster saint, but the thought of mixing with a lot of prostitutes and their men filled him with loathing. Kiley was waiting for him when he stopped in Jermyn Street. “Ah, there you are!” he exclaimed. “Was beginning to think you'd changed your mind. Leave the old flying bed- stead, dear boy. Parker will shove it into the rabbit hutch.” Dick was strangely silent as they walked toward Soho. Kiley glanced at him curiously and, being an expert on such 78 SCORPION'S TRAIL At the far end was an altarlike structure flanked by two huge Chinese idols and hung with silk worked in a daz- zling pattern presenting all the colors in a kaleidoscope. A number of bottles proclaimed it to fulfill the function of a bar. From some concealed place an orchestra was playing. A dozen or so couples were dancing, while a similar number occupied the tables. Kiley nodded approvingly. “A pretty conceit!” he ex- claimed. “Ma Beaumann has developed her imagination. I must congratulate her. A table, dear heart; let us lounge.” They dropped upon a low divan, and a waiter, clad in Oriental costume but plainly hailing from Stepney, took their order. Ma Beaumann herself, short and stout, of un- certain age, with little pig's eyes glittering from a heavily powdered face, crossed the floor. “Well, Terry,” she greeted familiarly, "how do you like my efforts?” The podgy hand which she swept out was loaded with rings. "It leaves me positively exhausted, Ma,” laughed Kiley. “Meet my dear old pal, Dick Marlow. One of the boys.” Ma Beaumann favored Dick with a friendly leer, but the feel of her flabby hand made his answering smile a real effort of will. "Pull yourself together, sailor," reproved Kiley in a forceful whisper as the woman waddled away. “Remem- ber what you're supposed to be. This is a fast night club, not a church meeting.” Dick was grateful for the warning when, a few minutes later, Lola Demaine came toward them. He had not seen her among the dancers, though he had looked for her when they first entered. The woman moved with the subtle AT “THE GILDED LILY” 79 grace of a gazelle and Dick had to admit that she was attractive. “Do not rise, my Terry,” she said caressingly. “I sit be- tween you, so.” She slipped into the space between them and, with head tilted coquettishly aside, regarded Kiley's face, a smile upon her full red lips. "How you feel now?” she asked. Kiley made a weary gesture. “My dear divine creature,” he drawled, “I feel posi- tively bloodstained.” Lola laughed softly. To Dick's prejudiced mind it seemed to contain a note of eerie, wicked glee, like some beautiful harpy laughing in hell. “Ah, my poor baby!” crooned Lola, nestling close to Kiley as she gazed into his eyes. “I give you something nice for dat. It was good stuff you have dis morning, n'est- ce pas?» Kiley roused himself to a display of well-simulated en- thusiasm. “Sweet one, it was marvelous! I demand the prescrip- tion.” Lola laughed again, a low, musical ripple, as she deftly opened the bag of chain gold swinging from her wrist. From it she extracted a tiny paper-covered pellet which she passed to Kiley between finger and thumb. "Dere, you swallow dat, so quick, my Terry. You feel good ver-ry soon.” Then with a movement full of lithe grace she turned to Dick and bared her small, even teeth in a dazzling smile. “You are so glum, my Deek,” she murmured, her dark, Oriental eyes flashing alluringly. “You try some, too? It good, oh yes.” Again she withdrew a pellet from the bag and passed it 80 SCORPION'S TRAIL daintily to Dick. He smiled and, holding the tiny pill in his palm, asked, “Paper and all, Lola?” Lola shrugged her shoulders expressively. “But yes. De paper, it is notting.” With a dexterity which would have done credit to a member of the Magic Circle, Dick pretended to slip the pellet into his mouth and went through the motions of swallowing with convincing realism. He made a laughing grimace of distaste and, lifting his wineglass, drained the contents. As Lola turned again to Kiley he slid the pellet into his jacket pocket. He wondered if his friend had contrived to do the same and glanced at his face. Lola's black, Eastern head was cuddled against his sleeve, and for a fraction of a second Captain Kiley's eye closed in a wink. Lola suddenly detached herself from his arm and with a light laugh jumped to her feet. "I go do a dance soon,” she informed them. “I see you again, eh?” This last to Dick. He smiled and nodded his head. She bent closer and whispered in his ear: “You come see me soon, eh? You nice boy, I like you." Dick watched her as she glided away. He had been con- scious of a most singular emotion as she leaned over him. An impulse to seize her slender body and crush a kiss upon those red, vampirish lips. By a mighty effort of will he re- strained himself, and it was with whole-hearted relief that he saw her go. He edged closer to Kiley, but before he could speak the smiling, redheaded Carfax materialized at his elbow. “So you came after all,” he greeted them. “What do you think of it?” "Oh, not too impossible," drawled Kiley. “Some pretty little works of nature floating around. Just at the moment I feel more like loitering in the offing." AT “THE GILDED LILY” 81 Carfax dropped upon the divan beside him and glanced about the room. “Sure they're nice,” he agreed. “But there'll be some real high-steppers along presently. Wait till it warms up, Cap. Say, what about a little flutter while we wait for 'em.” "Flutter?” asked Kiley in his tired voice. “What sort of a flutter? Not cards. I'm too exhausted for any gray- matter efforts.” Carfax chuckled. “Then, Cap, you can sure enjoy yourself without a lot of thinking. I guess you can stand in with any little old game they play at Monte Carlo. There's roulette, chemin de fer, baccarat-all of 'em.” Kiley moved languidly in his seat and glanced at Car- fax. “You seem to know a hell of a lot about this dive,” he drawled. “Are you, by any chance, on the board of di- rectors?” Carfax made a laughing gesture of repudiation and turned to Dick. “Suspicious devil, isn't he, Marlow? As a matter of fact, I got it from Ma Beaumann. Who else?” Kiley shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “The Lord alone knows. Anyway, I said no cards.” “But, damn it, Cap,” protested Carfax, “baccarat ain't a game to muddle your dome packing. It's about as simp as it can be. What about it?” Kiley rose slowly to his feet. “Oh, all right, Carfax. Anything to put a ray of light in life. Coming, Marlow?” Dick followed them from the room to the corridor where the gas jet spluttered. Carfax motioned them to wait and disappeared up the next flight of stairs. 82 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Just as well to see all while we are at it,” whispered Kiley. Dick nodded his agreement. He would not be returning to Hanson without useful information. At the same time he felt an utter loathing for the place and its patrons. The men were a mixed bag. Some were wealthy young fools, others were of the Carfax variety. The women-well, they were what he had expected them to be. Carfax reappeared upon the stairs signaling them to fol- low. They mounted and found themselves in a corridor similar to the one below. A door opened before them and they entered a large, thickly carpeted room. There were fully thirty persons present and, to Dick's surprise, mainly women. But of a very different class from those he had just left. These were moneyed, society ladies of all ages. In the center of the apartment was a roulette table with every chair occupied and other players standing behind, peering over one another's shoulders, occasionally bending to whisper in a friend's ear. Voices rose in a continual hum, broken by low laughter and mutterings. The rattle of the croupier's rake among the chips struck a harsh, metallic note. His bored voice chanted: “Le jeu est fait, messieurs et ’dames. Rien ne va plus.” Dead silence immediately followed, broken only by the ball clicking about the wheel. The atmosphere was tense as they waited for the winning number to be revealed. “Zero, messieurs et 'dames.” A woman's shrill laugh ruptured the strained silence and the babble of voices commenced again. A man pushed back his chair and got up from the table stiffly, with a flushed face on which little beads of perspiration glistened. A girl, scarcely out of her teens joined him, a twisted smile upon her delicate mouth. She made a careless gesture at lighting AT “THE GILDED LILY» 83 a cigarette, but the match trembled in her hand. They moved toward the curtained alcove at the other end where a group of men were drinking. “How's the luck, Jerry?” inquired Carfax, as they passed. The man shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. "Jerry's caught it to-night,” laughed Carfax. “Hullo, there's the old Chink. He's usually damned lucky at this game. I've seen him play at the “Vingt Deux.?” Dick looked across to the table and observed a fat, yellow-faced Oriental who reminded him of a big toad. As if conscious of his regard, the Chinaman turned his head slowly and stared at him through a pair of thick-lensed, horn-rimmed glasses. The croupier chanted his warning, and he turned again to watch the wheel. A woman smiled to Carfax and he crossed over to her, bowing low over her hand. He took out his cigarette case and offered it to her. She took one and he lit it with his gold lighter. Dick was watching her, and he saw the drawn, haggard lines fade as she inhaled the smoke. "Who is that?” he asked Kiley. "Lady Violet Barr. She knows all about the kind of dope Carfax smokes, eh, sailor?” "Does he smoke himself? I haven't seen him. Anyway, are we going to stand in? This is merely a playing room.” “With faked wheels,” agreed Kiley. “Let's see what is happening down below. Seems to me Carfax wanted to get us out of it.” When the redheaded confidence trickster bowed again over the hand of Lady Barr and strolled back to them, Kiley stretched himself and yawned. "Oh, I don't think we'll play, Carfax,” he drawled. “I feel better now, and those sweet charmers down below ap- peal more to me.” 84 SCORPION'S TRAIL Carfax favored him with a knowing leer. “Sure, Cap, they're nice. I'm hanging on here for a spell. See you later. Baccarat's in full swing, next room; that's my weight.” They nodded and moved toward the door. A tall, weak- chinned youth, with a glassy look in his eyes, stumbled past them, more than half supported on the arm of a gen- tleman with decidedly Semitic features. Dick recognized him as the son of a prominent politician. Kiley raised his eyebrows and winked expressively. Down below they found, as Carfax had said, that the dancing was warming up. A number of new arrivals were plainly intent on making things move. They were all young people of the "bright set,” a gaudy crowd, bright of plumage and excitable, with a slightly drunken look in their bold eyes. The concealed orchestra was crashing out a negro tune and the dancers were yielding to the sensual music with complete abandon. Dick drew Kiley into the shelter of a palm. “Put a dash of this stuff in your eyes, old lad,” he whis- pered. “It's some dope Hanson gave me and has pretty much the same effect on the pupils as cocaine.” “Sound scheme,” grinned Kiley. “Lola will be watching for that, I guess.” The truth of which remark was demonstrated within the next ten minutes. Kiley, who seemed to be acquainted with half the bright young things, was dancing. Dick was at one of the low tables when Lola Demaine came over to him. She slipped into the seat at his side and pressed his hand affectionately. "You no dance, Deek?” she smiled, gazing into his eyes intently. “With you, yes," returned Dick gallantly. AT “THE GILDED LILY” 85 Lola cuddled closer to him and again Dick was conscious of her dreadful fascination. He did not know that the wild urge to take her in his arms emanated hypnotically from her brain, but he did know the terrific effort it needed to prevent him making a complete fool of himself. The dancers passed them, getting more and more aban- doned as the music became faster. From the prostitutes he did not expect either regard for modesty or convention, but he did look to the others to observe, in public, some elements of common decency. He thought of Ann Pen- hayle, and his nausea for the place, reeking of wine, smoke, and perfume, increased. Lola squeezed his arm and gave a low, silvery ripple of laughter. “Come, my Deek,” she said, "let us dance too." Dick was not a good dancer, but Lola, light-footed as a fairy, was an ideal partner. He roused himself to a pretense of enjoying it. Hanson had said that he might find police work a trifle sordid. It was! But, mindful of his instruc- tions, he devoted himself to Lola, and to all outward ap- pearances he was little different from the rest of the dancers. An hour later Carfax returned from the gaming rooms. With him came a couple of young men, obviously more than half intoxicated. Dick was sitting out with Lola when Carfax came over. She excused herself and went to him. A few moments' low-voiced conversation and she glided back to Dick. “I go now, my Deek,” she said, a soft caress in her voice. “You stay, enjoy yourself. Monsieur Carfax he find you nice girl if you like. You come see me soon.” The two young men trailed after her as she crossed the room. Carfax sat down beside Dick and stifled a yawn. “Gee, Marlow," he whispered, "you should have 86 SCORPION'S TRAIL played. The luck was all against the house to-night. I've cleaned up a nice pile.” Dick murmured his congratulations and, lighting a ciga- rette, mainly to forestall an offer from the other, stood up. “Well, I'm going,” he announced, "I'm tired.” Carfax yawned again. “And I'm with you, Marlow. I'll get home before some fair dame gets me and my roll of bills.” Kiley met him at the door. “Going?” he asked. Dick nodded. “Yes. Lola's gone with a couple of blokes well under the weather. There's no object in staying longer. Coming?” Kiley shook his head. “Not yet, old lad. There's a young kid here either doped or drunk. I know her people, and I'm going to get her safely home before some hound helps her to a little trouble. My hat, what a crowd!” The cool night air was a welcome change from the poisonous atmosphere of “The Gilded Lily,” and Dick breathed deeply, filling his lungs to their full capacity. Carfax joined him, and they walked down Wardour Street together. A taxi came crawling along and the confidence man hailed it. "I'll drop you at Jermyn Street, Marlow.” “Thanks all the same, but I'd rather walk.” Dick had no desire for the crook's company longer than was neces- sary. “Oh, please yourself, Marlow. I'm not pressing you." Carfax got in and the taxi moved off. He heard a foot- fall behind him and saw one of the men who had been in the night club steering a somewhat erratic course toward him. The man hailed him and hurried up, but Dick turned AT “THE GILDED LILY” 87 his back, and was about to step off the pavement. Three things happened, it seemed, simultaneously. He felt a violent push in the back, a sudden cry of pain, and the roar of a powerful car. A fraction of a second sooner and unquestionably he would have been under it. As it was, he lurched against the rear wing and was flung into the gutter with a sickening thud as his head struck the ground. The big car raced on. A burly figure sprang from the shadows and seized the man from the night club as he staggered against the shop window behind. The round, cheerful face of Detective- Sergeant Trotter wore a grin as his muscular fingers bit into the shoulder of his prisoner. “Not quite slick enough that time, Sa mmy,” he taunted. “Here, blast your eyes, stand up!” But the prisoner's knees sagged, his head lolled for- ward, and Sergeant Trotter became aware of something wet and warm upon his hand. “Dog bite me!” he ejaculated, as he eased the limp body to the ground and, withdrawing a whistle from his pocket, gave three sharp blasts upon it. CHAPTER XI DETECTIVE-SERGEANT TROTTER REPORTS THIRTY YEARS' service in the Metropolitan Police tends to make a man as nearly shock-proof as possible. Chief In- spector Barnard's face betrayed no astonishment as he listened to his subordinate speaking on the 'phone from Vine Street station. He grunted once or twice, and then, with an “All right, Trotter, I'll come over,” he hung up the instrument. For several minutes he remained motionless at his desk, staring at the grimy ceiling, his big fingers caressing his chin. Then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, he rose slowly to his feet and, reaching for his hat, went out, lock- ing the door behind him. Descending a narrow flight of stone steps which led to a back entrance to Scotland Yard, he walked out to his shabby little car. Five minutes later he was inside Vine Street. He went into the Divisional Inspector's room without the formality of knocking. With the inspector was Trotter and another, whom he recognized as the Divisional Sur- geon. He nodded to them and sat down. “Well, Doctor,” he demanded, “what's wrong with the prisoner?” The surgeon adjusted his spectacles nervously. “It is a rather curious case, Mr. Barnard,” he replied slowly. “The man has been shot at fairly close quarters 88 TROTTER REPORTS 89 his headmanded Boss by now and the with a very strange projectile. A sharp-pointed length of circular metal about four inches long which entered his body just below the left shoulder joint. Though it caused considerable bleeding, the wound is not serious, and the man should have recovered consciousness by now." “Well, why hasn't he?" demanded Barnard bluntly. The surgeon shook his head. "I don't know. He has been drinking, but not enough for that to be the cause. You will probably ridicule the suggestion, but, really, I am inclined to believe that he is in some sort of hypnotic trance.” The surgeon glanced nervously at Barnard and reset his spectacles. He was both surprised and gratified when the stern-faced policeman nodded slowly. "Yes, and why not? Far from ridiculing your sugges- tion, Doctor, I am of the opinion that it is correct. How- ever, that's not going to help us at the moment. What of Mr. Marlow?” "Oh, just a nasty cut-a mere scalp wound. He will soon be quite fit to leave. But I can do nothing for Lander as yet. I have written up my report for you; here it is.” “All right, Doctor. Thank you,” acknowledged Bar- nard, taking the report. “Much obliged. Good night.” When the Divisional Surgeon had left, Trotter ex- claimed excitedly: "Dog bite me, Chief, it's the same weapon as killed the Apache, Jules Valiente.” Barnard favored his subordinate with a ferocious scowl. “Your deduction is marvelous,” he said with withering sarcasm. “Ain't it?” grinned Trotter, totally unabashed. “But not so blooming marvelous as how he was shot.” The Chief Inspector's steely eyes were mere pin-points as he nodded his head with slow deliberation. “That, Trotter, is going to take some explanation." He 90 SCORPION'S TRAIL glanced significantly at the Divisional Inspector, who, taking the hint, rose and left the room, a smile hovering on his lips. He loathed Barnard, and, though he felt that the imperturbable sergeant would not easily be brow- beaten, he was a little sorry for him. His sympathy, how- ever, was entirely wasted. Trotter was one of the few men in the service who could work peaceably with the Chief Inspector. Barnard's bitter words glanced off the armor of his habitual good humor, and were a source of secret amusement to him. Indeed, there were times when he had been guilty of deliberate baiting, though fortunately for him his chief never suspected it or he would have paid dearly for his perverted sense of humor. “Now then, Trotter," said Barnard grimly. “What the devil do you mean by it?” "Well, Chief, it's like this. I'd sent Rawlins off to trail the Demaine woman. She came out with a couple of drunks in tow and goes off in a private car. When Mr. Marlow came out with Red Mike and not Captain Kiley, I left Brett to watch and hiked along after 'em. At the corner, Mike hails a taxi and offers Marlow a lift to Jermyn Street, which he refused. I was standing in a shop doorway, waiting for Marlow to move, when along comes Sammy Lander, looking a bit lit up. He was wandering about the pavement as though he was half dazed. Then he sees Mar- low on the curb and shouts out to him. Marlow turns his back and makes to cross the road. Sammy was on him like a bird, all the dazed stuff gone in a flash, as you might say. At the same moment a big car came roaring down the street and Sammy goes to shove Marlow under it. It looked to me as if he slipped and didn't do the job properly. Mar- low staggered and hit the rear wing, going down a hell of a pelt in the gutter. Sammy sort of yelped and came floun- dering back against the window. I nabbed him at once, but TROTTER REPORTS 91 he just flopped out on the spot and I felt the blood running over my hand. All that happened in a couple of seconds." “Br-r-r,” growled Barnard. “Go on.” Trotter stifled a grin and continued. “I whistled, and let Sammy down on the pavement. Then I ran like hell up Wardour Street, but, dog bite me, Chief, there wasn't even a cat in sight! And you gotta be- lieve that, because it's true.” Not for one moment did Barnard doubt his sergeant. Trotter had his limitations, but he was a capable and expe- rienced officer. The man who had shot Sammy Lander was, in all probability, the same person as had murdered the bogus bridegroom. And he himself had failed to trace that person. How, then, could he blame Trotter? Why had Lander been shot? Obviously to frustrate his attempt on Marlow's life. An idea came to the Chief Inspector, but he dismissed it as being too improbable. Later he was to recall it with chagrin and secret rage. He cupped his chin in his big hands and stared at the sergeant. "I'm not doubting you, Trotter,” he said more amiably than was his wont. “But somebody shot Lander, and the doctor said he was hit at pretty close quarters. I don't know how he arrives at that conclusion, but he must be right. What is more, he judges from the way the shaft entered that it was fired more or less on a level with Lander's shoulder; slightly below, if anything. That argues a short man, because his victim is not tall. Exactly the same, you will observe, as in Valiente's case.” “But not such a good shot,” added Trotter as Barnard paused. Barnard glanced up sharply. “If I am correct, Trotter, a better shot. I doubt if there 92 SCORPION'S TRAIL was any more than the intention to wound. Just enough to prevent Lander doing murder.” Trotter blew out his cheeks and rubbed the back of his head in feigned helplessness. “Seems to me, Chief, as if we'd got a lunatic running spare. First he kills a man and then he stops another at the same entertainment.” Barnard hammered upon the table. "Don't you see it, Trotter?” he demanded. "No, of course you don't. Damn it! Call Jones and let me see Lander myself. No, stop, I'll have a word with Marlow first.” Dick Marlow, resting on a couch in the matron's room, his head encircled with a bandage, grinned cheerily to the Scotland Yard officer as he entered. The wraith of an ac- knowledging smile crossed the stern mouth. Barnard pulled out a chair and sat down by the couch. "Yours was a lucky escape, Mr. Marlow,” he remarked by way of opening the conversation. by way raised his eyebrow all mean, Inspe didn't he?” "Landert exactly does iws and nodded “What exactly does it all mean, Inspector?” he asked. "Lander tried to bung me under the car, didn't he?” “He did!” agreed Barnard grimly. “And nearly suc- ceeded. Do you feel equal to talking?” “Yes, rather. Fire away.” “Good! Well now, Mr. Marlow, tell me this. Did you notice, as you walked down Wardour Street with Carfax, a short, slightly built man, clad in dark clothes, with hat pulled down over his eyes and probably with his coat collar turned up so as to conceal most of his face?” "No," replied Dick without hesitation. "I saw no one at all.” “H’m! Well, I scarcely expected to hear that you did.” Barnard stared at the floor for a minute, then he shrugged TROTTER REPORTS 93 his shoulders and looked up. "Perhaps you feel equal to a brief account of The Gilded Lily,' Mr. Marlow?” he suggested "Why, certainly.” Dick gave him a detailed account of his experiences within the night club and answered those questions which Barnard put to him. He did not understand the significance of some, but knew that they were not idly asked. An ugly gleam crept into the cold eyes when he described the gam- ing rooms and the final scenes in the dance hall. Dick found himself being regarded with a fixity of expression not only extremely unpleasant, but difficult to meet. He felt glad that he was an ally and not an enemy of his vis-à-vis. “Good work, sir," commented Barnard as he concluded. “A pity it should have finished so unfortunately for you." "Oh, that's all right, Inspector. Anyway, it might have been worse.” “Yes, you might have been lying in the mortuary instead of here." "Cheerful blighter!” thought Dick. "I'm damned if he doesn't look disappointed that I'm not!” Barnard stood up and thrust back the chair. "I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Marlow. You are spending the night with Captain Kiley, I understand?” “What's left of it,” grinned Dick." It was not until the Chief Inspector had gone that he remembered his omission to mention Simon Wernick's warning given over the phone that afternoon. He half rose from the couch, but a sudden stab of pain across his brow checked his intention of recalling Barnard. He sank back again, conscious that the blow had shaken him more than he cared to admit. He ought really to pass on this piece of information, but somehow he felt a curious re- luctance to do so before he had consulted Paul Hanson. 94 SCORPION'S TRAIL Dick would have blessed that flash of pain could he have but foreseen the future. But not knowing, and feeling weary, he lay upon the couch and softly cursed it. Barnard returned to the Divisional Inspector's room. “Send a man round to Jermyn Street with Mr. Marlow and tell him to stay there until Captain Kiley arrives. You can have another to keep an eye on the place until daylight. He's been lucky once to-night. He may not be a second time.” Sergeant Trotter grinned behind his hand as he lighted a particularly foul brier. He knew that it was not considera- tion for Marlow which prompted the chief's action. It was a long shot in the hope that if Marlow's death was an ur- gent necessity to the gang, another attempt would be made without delay. Barnard glanced at him suspiciously. “When you've quite finished with that filthy pipe, Trotter, perhaps you would feel disposed to conduct me to Lander's cell." “Sure. I've been waiting for you, Chief,” replied Trotter, carefully extinguishing the offending pipe and placing it with loving care in his pocket. “Then get a move on," growled Barnard. Lander was lying upon the narrow bed like a man in a drunken stupor, breathing heavily and irregularly. His dark hair contrasted vividly with the deathly pallor of his skin. “Lord love us, he looks bad, don't he, Chief?” com- mented Trotter. "It wouldn't surprise me if he didn't pack up before the night's out.” Barnard ignored his subordinate's remarks and, bending over gently, lifted the eyelids. As he had expected, the pupils were contracted. He put his hand upon the man's cheek and found the skin clammy to his touch. TROTTER REPORTS 95 Posed the ch, stoopin cood for a fo examinati been remom Lander's outer garments and shirt had been removed when the surgeon had made his examination and dressed the wound. Barnard stood for a few moments staring down at him, then, stooping again, he opened the vest and ex- posed the prisoner's chest. Unlike that of Jules Valiente, it was innocent of tattoo marks. “So you are not a member of the gang," he thought. “Not a real inside man, anyway. You'd have The Scorpion on your chest if you were.” Then aloud to Trotter: "I'll see his clothes and the contents of his pockets.” Trotter locked the cell door and led the way to the Divisional Inspector's office. "In here, Chief,” he said, throwing open the door. “All laid out nice and neat.” Barnard ran his fingers through the pockets to assure himself that nothing had been missed and then turned his attention to the various articles which had been extracted. A small automatic pistol, fully loaded, a silver cigarette case, an expensive gold watch, twenty pounds in one pound notes and a few odd coins, together with a silk handker- chief and a visiting-card case containing an assortment of cards, made up the collection. One by one Barnard ex- amined the articles. He opened the cigarette case and sniffed its contents suspiciously. “Queer cigarettes those, ain't they, Chief?” remarked Trotter. “Foreign manufacture—Smyrna, I'd say.” "And you would probably be right, Trotter. I want them sent up for chemical analysis. Two will do. You can leave the others in the case. In addition, take the number and maker's name of this watch. I can't imagine Lander wast- ing good money on the purchase of such an article. Well, that's about all. Unless anything further turns up," he added, with a mirthless smile. "Good night, Trotter." “G’night, Chief.” tents suspicious ain't they, Chied say" 96 SCORPION'S TRAIL Trotter watched the Chief Inspector's broad back disap- pear through the doors. “And this is where I hop it to my little cot,” he grinned to the Divisional Inspector. "I guess you've earned it, Sergeant,” smiled the inspec- tor. A remark which met with Detective-Sergeant Trotter's entire approval. CHAPTER XII THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD was in an ugly mood. Though tired mentally and physically, he had not slept well, an unusual happening. He glared at his reflection in the mir- ror and commenced to strop his razor with more violence than skill. The result of his watch upon “The Gilded Lily” had not been barren of result, but he could come to no definite decision as to the value. He had a haunting sus- picion at the back of his mind that he might have shown his hand too soon. And yet he could not see how else he could have acted. If only Trotter had caught the owner of the spring gun! If he had— But, curse it, the whole in- fernal business bristled with "f's.” The telephone in his bedroom shrilled and he swore viciously. Putting the razor carefully upon the ledge, he dragged on his dressing gown and went in. It was a mes- sage from the Assistant Commissioner requesting him to come to Scotland Yard as soon as possible. There was an- other case which required immediate attention. Barnard shaved, bathed, and ate his breakfast without haste. His housekeeper, only too well acquainted with his moods, moved about the room soft-footed and silent of tongue. But when at last he arrived at the Yard his face was as expressionless as a mask. His interview with the Assistant Commissioner extended to over half an hour and cleared some of the thunderclouds 98 SCORPION'S TRAIL from his mental horizon. The promise of action was the breath of life to him. He returned to his room and had scarcely seated himself before a constable came to announce Paul Hanson. His first impulse was to refuse, but, changing his mind, he nodded to the waiting man. “All right. Show him along.” “Very good, sir.” Barnard stood up and glanced at his watch as Hanson came in. “'Morning, Doctor,” he greeted. “You're lucky to catch me. I was just going out.” “Hampstead?” asked Hanson with a smile. Barnard was surprised into ejaculating, "How did you know?” "I read a brief account of Stuart Sutherland's death in the morning paper.” Barnard nodded slowly but made no comment. Suther- land's death was reported in the papers as an accident, and as far as his information went, was one. It was not the actual death with which he was concerned. He sat down and motioned Hanson to do likewise. Hanson himself was somewhat puzzled by Barnard's manner. “Was it an accident?” he asked. “Yes; I understand so. Why?” Hanson took out his case and, selecting a cigar, carefully lit it. He did not offer one to Barnard, as the Chief In- spector rarely smoked. Leaning back in his chair, he blew a cloud of pungent fumes toward the ceiling. "I've just come from Kiley's rooms in Jermyn Street. Marlow, by the way, is none the worse. Kiley informs me that Sutherland was infatuated with Lola Demaine and frequently in her company. Curious, eh?” THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN 99 “It is, Doctor," agreed Barnard, in his slow, deliberate voice. “Very curious indeed.” “Methinks I see the shadow of The Scorpion,” smiled Hanson. “You were about to investigate the circumstances of his death?” “Not so much his death as the loss of a packet of uncut diamonds he was known to be carrying. Sutherland was a. Hatton Garden merchant, in partnership with his father and uncle. The old man is on holiday in Scotland, but the uncle was here pretty early this morning. He's a friend of the A.C., Sir George Campbell. Young Sutherland should have caught the boat train for Amsterdam last night. The diamonds were consigned to a buyer over there.” Hanson stood up. “I'd like to come with you,” he announced. Barnard agreed, almost eagerly. There was more in this than met the eye, and he would be glad of the American's expert opinion. Not, for one moment, that he would have admitted it. In addition, he wanted advice about the man Trotter had arrested the previous night, Sammy Lander. They went down to the shabby little car, a most decep- tive machine, which could, when necessary, do her seventy- five with ease. As Barnard drove he talked, furnishing Hanson with those details which were unknown to Dick Marlow. “How long is that trance going to last, Doctor?” he asked. Hanson raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “The post-hypnotic effect may last for days; in an ex- treme case much longer. It depends mainly on the extent of submission of the hypnotized to the hypnotizer. In this case he seems to be in the most abject submission. Hypno- tized persons usually resist really serious suggestions. The control which could make a man do murder, a normal 100 SCORPION'S TRAIL man, I mean, must be extremely powerful. Subconsciously Lander must have been in agreement, I think.” “He was a drug-taker,” declared Barnard. “I found some doped cigarettes on him.” Very probably the same brand as Red Mike carries. He left one with Kiley yesterday. What was it like-loosely packed with thick tobacco, paper ends folded over with dried leaves inside the tobacco? Rather peculiar smell?” “That's an exact description, Doctor. What's the drug?” “Cannabis Indica, hashish, bhang, the tender tops and sprouts of Indian hemp. In the East they eat the green leaves. But maybe this is the deadlier variety from South America and prepared for smoking.” Barnard nodded his head. “And the symptoms, Doctor?” “Extreme pallor, clammy skin, contraction of pupils, breathing heavy when moved, and hallucinations." “So that a man who had contracted the habit would be an easy victim for a hypnotist, eh?” “Unquestionably,” agreed Hanson. "Hashish alone will bring on acute homicidal mania. Hence the word assassin, derived from hashishin." “Thank you,” acknowledged Barnard. “It was one of the things I was up against. In this country the professional criminal avoids murder like the plague. He hates to carry any lethal weapons, because if he's caught with them it's a couple of years more on the sentence. Lander had a gun with him, a bad habit he acquired over in the States, I ex- pect. I wonder if he was going to use it.” “Probably yes. The suggestion was made to him that he had to kill Marlow within a certain time. In his nervous and mental condition he would certainly do it. The car accident was arranged, but, should that fail, he had his automatic with him. The unexpected intervention of the. THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN 101 the remainderat he has killed Mawill yield to treatme, spring-gun expert threw the hypnotic suggestion out of balance. Do you know, Barnard, I think that we can learn a lot from Lander.” Barnard grunted. “You won't,” he declared positively. "It'll take an hy- draulic jack to open his mouth.” Hanson smiled. The Chief Inspector was getting almost human. “In his present condition he will yield to treatment. If he believes that he has killed Marlow he will continue with the remainder of his instructions. In all probability he will return to the place where he was hypnotized.” « The Gilded Lily'?” "Possibly.” “That means the hypnotizer was there last night.” Barnard shot a side glance at Hanson. "Any idea who it might have been?” he asked. Hanson shrugged his shoulders. "I can only guess that it was The Scorpion himself.” Barnard lapsed into silence. He had a secret theory that the mysterious Scorpion was a son of the East. Many things pointed that way: the extensive and far-reaching trade in drugs, conducted with a cunning alien to the Western mind; the hold he had over his minions—surely someone would have squealed against him; the Oriental decorations de- scribed by Marlow, and the fat Chinaman who played roulette. He found himself filled with a desire to see that Chinaman. Hanson glanced at him and smiled. He himself was anxious to have a closer view of something. But that some- thing was Sammy Lander's automatic pistol. He had al- ready formed his own opinion of the fat Chinaman. "Can you perform on Lander?” asked Barnard pres- ently. 102 SCORPION'S TRAIL Hanson shook his head. - “No. I'll get Professor A. W. Barry to assist us. He is the leading authority in this country.” “H’m, all right, Doctor, that suits me. This is the first case I have had of this nature and, frankly, I do not like it. I'm beginning to wonder what may be the importance of hypnotism from our point of view. If we are going to get much of this sort of thing in the future, a new criminal code will be wanted. Strange we've never met it before.” "Possibly you have, Barnard, and not recognized it. The criminal importance has not been appreciated. In the past, hypnotism has been regarded more as a drawing-room en- tertainment than as a serious science. Some of the results which have been obtained by skilled men clearly prove the enormous power for good or evil which may be exercised. The influence of the will upon our daily lives in the or- dinary, normal state is great. Many a man is alive to-day simply through the strength of his will to live." “Autosuggestion stuff, eh?” murmured Barnard. “There's a lot more in that than people think.” “There is!” agreed Hanson emphatically. "How much more so, then, might the influence be increased under cer- tain conditions by the more powerful and trained will of another? Do you know, Barnard, that it is possible, through hypnotism, to bring about certain definite somatic phenom- ena?” “Temper the wind to the shorn lamb, Doctor,” protested Barnard. “What exactly does that mean?” “Somatic? Why, corporeal, physical phenomena." “Such as?” “Causing blisters to appear upon the body of a hypno- tized person by suggesting that a strong plaster has been applied, whereas it may be only a piece of wet paper. Or producing marks of strangulation upon the throat, or other THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN 103 evidence of bodily violence. If the truth could be told, numerous cases of serious illness, and even death, could be attributed to suggestion. The power of mind upon matter is, as yet, but dimly understood. The future is going to see some amazing developments in the study of mind and its present mysteries.” “So? It seems to me to be full of the most entertaining possibilities from the criminal standpoint,” remarked Bar- nard grimly. Hanson smiled. “The gifts of science fall, like the gentle rain, upon the just and unjust,” he replied. “The scope for the nimble- witted and the unscrupulous will be greatly extended, but the police will keep abreast of them.” Barnard shrugged his big shoulders. “I'm a plain man, Doctor. I know criminals and their ways as well as any policeman on earth. But I freely admit that this juggling with a man's brain is beyond me.” “Naturally, Barnard. It is not demanded of you that you should be an expert in every science-chemistry, medi- cine, ballistics, microphotography—or the uses of all the delicate apparatus of the specialist. Sufficient that you know just enough about them to tell the experts what you sus- pect, and to understand their subsequent findings.” Barnard nodded gloomily. “Yes, I suppose that you are right, Doctor. But I've got enough to put up with as it is, without any more funny stuff being added. The more I delve into this particular case the less it appeals to me. It's dirty, and it's slimy; there's nothing clean or straightforward about it.” They did not speak again until they were running up the hill to Hampstead. Each man was busy with his thoughts. It would have surprised them both to have learned how far apart those thoughts were. Barnard's mind was groping 104 SCORPION'S TRAIL in the present. Hanson's was reaching out to explore the future. He was convinced that the killer had walked again, and he was counting on obtaining information vital to the success of those plans which he had already made. And he was not to be disappointed. “This is the place," muttered Barnard, coming to a stop before a large house standing back from the road and pro- tected by a tall hedge. As they alighted the gates opened and a burly man stepped out. He saluted Barnard and stared at Hanson with unfriendly eyes. This was Detective-Sergeant Forster, who had preceded Barnard. "Well, Forster,” inquired the Chief Inspector, “any de- velopments?” “No, sir. Mr. Sutherland has gone to Hatton Garden. He requests you to see him there, if necessary. Otherwise there's nothing, sir.” “Body was moved, of course?” “Yes, they brought him into the house from the garage.” “They always do,” growled Barnard. “Mr. Tremain in- side!” “Yes, sir. He's with the doctor, waiting for you." Hanson followed Barnard into the library, where the Divisional Inspector was talking to the surgeon. Barnard got to business without any formal preliminaries, except to introduce Hanson. “Medical report first,” he said curtly. “I expect you're busy and want to get away.” The surgeon's report was brief. He had been called at five-thirty by the butler and had come at once. He found that the three servants had carried their young master into the dining room and laid him on a couch. Life, however, had been extinct from four to six hours. Death was due to carbon monoxide poisoning. There were no marks of . THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN 105 violence and everything was consistent with accidental death, deceased having been overcome by the fumes from the exhaust of his car discharging in the closed garage. Barnard asked a number of routine questions in his slow, deliberate manner. A casual observer would have believed him to be completely bored by the whole affair. He closed his notebook and placed it carefully in an inside pocket. “Thank you, Doctor," he said. “I need not encroach further on your time.” But the doctor ignored the obvious dismissal. He was rather curious as to the reason why a Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard should be interested in the matter at all. And he was anxious to have the expert opinion of the fa- mous Paul Hanson. Not, of course, that there could really be any doubt as to the cause of death. The garage must have been an absolute lethal chamber when they opened it. There was just one little thing which had somewhat puz- zled him, and that was the curious effect the fumes had had upon the butler. But that was nothing of consequence. Nothing, that was, to affect his opinion as to young Suther- land's death. Barnard was staring at him with frigid eyes and he real- ized that he had not replied. He hastened to repair the omission. “Oh, that's quite all right, Mr. Barnard. I'm not in any hurry. I'll stay until Doctor Hanson has seen the body.” “Please yourself,” growled Barnard. “Now, Tremain.” The Divisional Inspector rose with alacrity. “This way, sir." They followed him into a spacious, well-furnished room. Barnatd went over to the French windows and pulled the curtains aside. The sunlight streamed in upon the shrouded form on the couch. Hanson gently withdrew the sheet and, with hands 106 SCORPION'S TRAIL thrust deep into his coat pockets, stood looking down. A frown gathered upon his fine brow and he leaned over, his dark eyes examining the dead man critically. He took a double lens from his waistcoat pocket and studied the nos- trils and eyes minutely. Presently he straightened up and brushed long, nervous fingers over his raven hair. Then he turned to the local surgeon. “Are you familiar from practical experience with the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning?” he asked politely. The surgeon hesitated. “Er-yes—I am. But-er-I must admit that this is my first fatal case.” Hanson nodded understandingly. “A rare occurrence, of course. Would you expect the de- ceased person's face, and particularly the lips, to show a rosy color?” “Not necessarily,” replied the surgeon cautiously, with a side glance at the ashen face of the dead man. “Only when a minimum of thirty per cent of the poison was present in the blood. Considering all the circumstances of this case, for instance, though there is no color in the face, I have no hesitation in stating the cause of death. To me it is obvious. Do you-er-doubt it?”. "I do not doubt the obvious," replied Hanson quietly. "I merely wish to make sure that I know just what the obvious is. One cannot be too careful,” he added with a disarming smile. “Oh, quite, quite,” agreed the surgeon readily, his rising doubts at once allayed. Hanson replaced the sheet and nodded, almost imper- ceptibly, to Barnard. "All right, Doctor," said Barnard briskly, moving toward the door. “Much obliged to you, sir. Good morn- THE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN 107 ing.” Then to the local inspector: "Mr. Tremain, please have the servants ready for me. I'll be with you in a few minutes. Ask Forster to come in.” He closed the door upon them and swung round on Hanson. “Well?” he demanded. “That fool was wrong, eh?” “He was!” replied Hanson. “But you cannot blame him overmuch. The ordinary G.P. gets so very little oppor- tunity for first-hand observation of this sort of case.” Barnard snorted with disgust. “It's brains he wants,” he growled. “Well, what's your verdict?” “He was poisoned, but not by carbon monoxide. As a guess, I'd say it was diphenyl cyanarsine (C6H3)2 AsCN.” Barnard made a gesture of protest. “Good Lord, sir, spare me the formula! I'm a policeman, not a chemist. What exactly is this poison?” “Actually, it is a brand of poison gas introduced by the Germans in 1918 but not extensively used then. Breathed in the closed space of a garage it would prove immediately fatal. I should like to examine Sutherland's car.” “You think- ?” "I think that we have another highly ingenious murder on our hands, Barnard.” CHAPTER XIII THE SECRET OF THE GARAGE revert me. Iing pr “So?” CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD's eyebrows twitched and his steely eyes narrowed as he stared at Hanson. “The Scorpion's work?” he asked. Hanson made a smiling protest. “You flatter me. I'm not a wizard, Barnard. But the odds are-yes.” Barnard nodded his iron-gray head thoughtfully. For all his slow, deliberate manner, there was nothing ponder- ous about the working of his mind. Promotion goes mainly by seniority in the Metropolitan Police, subject to severe tests of fitness-a method which anchors the brilliance and enthusiasm of youth to the solid foundation of long prac- tical experience, and produces men worthy to hold the highest office. For thirty years Barnard had been at close grips with every type and variety of criminal, and had traveled the world over in pursuit of his duty. But the unpleasant con- viction was beginning to force itself upon him that the trail of The Scorpion was leading into some extremely troubled waters, and was likely to prove the most difficult case of his career. There is a proud boast of the C.I.D. that when a crim- inal is known he is caught, and that no known offender has ever escaped the police net. Very true, but—that mysteri- ous and sinister shadow, The Scorpion, was not known. 108 THE SECRET OF THE GARAGE 109 There lay the rub. He had successfully eluded the efficient, and not too kid-gloved, French Sûreté. Could he continue to do the same in the United Kingdom? Sergeant Forster knocked and entered. “You sent for me, sir?” “Yes. Give Doctor Hanson what help he requires. I'm going to question the servants. That suit you, Doctor?” Hanson signified his agreement and Barnard left them. “Now then, Sergeant, I propose to examine the garage while your chief is busy.” Forster was not very clear on Hanson's official position. “I've searched the garage, sir,” he said quickly. "There's no trace of the diamonds either in the car or the garage.” "I'm not concerned with the diamonds, Sergeant,” re- plied Hanson, in quiet reproof. “It will interest you to learn that Mr. Sutherland's death may not be the accident it at first appeared to be.” Sergeant Forster's frown changed to an expression of close attention. . “I'm not surprised, sir.” Hanson glanced at him sharply. “Oh!—and why?” he demanded. “Well, sir, it struck me as strange that he should have remained in the garage long enough to have been over- come by the fumes. It's a biggish place, and it isn't as if he was doing repairs or making an examination. Not likely at midnight, anyway. His yellow gloves are quite clean; so are his hands. Why leave the engine running all that time, and at that hour of the night?” “Why, indeed!” agreed Hanson enigmatically. "Let us investigate.” They opened the French windows and passed out into the garden. The garage stood away from the house across the lawn, obviously a much later addition. THE SECRET OF THE GARAGE 111 the bonnet, stood bending over the engine for several min- utes. Sergeant Forster came across and Hanson glanced up at him. “Don't put your hands on her at all,” he warned sharply. “Very good, sir,” acknowledged Forster, stepping back. "Don't touch anything," added Hanson, “unless I tell you." "Fingerprints?” queried Forster, interested. “Yes, but not that alone. Were you on active service during the war, Sergeant.” “Yes, sir. I served with the Royal Artillery,” replied Forster, wondering what possible connection his army serv- ice could have with this case. “Ah! Then you will be familiar with the various types of poison gas.” Understanding began to dawn in the sergeant's mind; but one serious objection arose immediately in his thoughts. He voiced it. “By gad, sir, is that what you think! But I've seen no end of gas casualties, and the effects were pretty obvious in a man's face.” “Unquestionably,” agreed Hanson. “But you overlook the fact that those men had inhaled gas diluted in its progress across No Man's Land to perhaps a millionth of its original concentration. A man who breathed a sudden discharge of that same poison in the confined space of this garage would die instantaneously. There would be little or no distortion of the features and his eyes would give the only visible indication.” Forster nodded, deep interest upon his face, and Han- son continued: “The gases used were of two main orders. Those that were persistent, in that they hung about for considerable 112 SCORPION'S TRAIL periods, and those that were nonpersistent. The latter quickly settle, and the amount of gas then given off is too small to have any toxic effect. Actually they are not gases at all. They are solids which, when heated, give off clouds of extremely fine dust in the air." “I see, sir," said Forster eagerly. "Sternutators we used to call them, mostly arsenical compounds, I understood.” "Exactly, Sergeant,” agreed Hanson with a nod of ap- proval. “Some of that dust is bound to have settled about this car and garage. You don't want it on your fingers and later, perhaps, in your mouth or eyes, eh? Now then, one of the many problems is how it was introduced. Obviously operated somehow by the heat of the engine. When those doors automatically closed behind Sutherland's car a cloud of the poison enveloped him. How?” "Maybe it was introduced into the oil or petrol,” sug- gested Forster. Hanson shook his head. “That occurred to me, but the particular poison I have in mind is a solid, and could not be successfully introduced into the fuel or lubrication. Yet it must have depended upon heat and concealment. It could not have been placed directly upon the external surface of the engine casing, such as, say, the cylinder head. Damn, I've got it!” “Yes, sir?” prompted Forster eagerly as Hanson stopped. “Introduced into the exhaust somehow, Sergeant. But how?» time, that 1. Have to cht blow Heut. Forster's eyes sparkled with excitement. “Easy, sir-given the time, that is. Unscrew the exhaust from the engine and push it down. Have to be done that way on the inside of the silencer or else it might blow out before it was meant to.” “Good man!” exclaimed Hanson. "I guess you're right. THE SECRET OF THE GARAGE 113 the first clew, sir?s be Forster. “May I asker without a But still, that presupposes the time necessary to the me- chanical side of it. And it means that Sutherland did only a very short journey back to the garage. Otherwise the compound would have vaporized before he arrived here." “Well, that we ought to be able to discover without a lot of trouble,” replied Forster. “May I ask what gave you the first clew, sir?” he added with some hesitation. “I feel certain you're right.” "Like yourself, I was struck by the length of time the engine must have been running to produce sufficient fumes to overwhelm a healthy man. Unless that man was ill or drunk he would have noticed the foul atmosphere long be- fore it could have fatal effects. So when I examined the body I looked for other signs, and I found them. The poison must have been a gas and the one I had in mind was an arsenical compound. There were some minute particles visible on the hair above his temple and on his eyebrows. Diphenyl cyanarsine or ethyl-dichlorarsine suggested them- selves to me. I inclined toward the former. That will be revealed by chemical analysis, of course. However, let us examine the exhaust pipe. There should be some traces left in the form of a gray deposit.” They passed round the high-powered sports car and Hanson bent down. As he had predicted, the gray deposit was in evidence. He straightened up and stood in thought- ful silence for a few moments. Then he reached over and grasped the rear number plate. It was loose and rattled as he shook it. He turned to Forster. "Do you know how to operate the doors from the in- side?” he asked. Sergeant Forster crossed over to the opposite wall and depressed a switch. There was a sound of well-oiled move- ment and the entrance doors slid into place. 114 SCORPION'S TRAIL “They can be opened by a switch in the house, too, sir," Forster informed him. “That was how the butler opened them when he came out.” “Giving a strong draft of air free play through here. Rather lucky for him, though the poison would have set- tled before that, I guess. Ah! Some more deposit on the doors. Well, Sergeant, I think we can be fairly sure of the manner in which Mr. Sutherland met his death.” “Yes, sir,” agreed Forster readily. “The poison, as a solid, was introduced into the exhaust, engine end, and was in full blast as a gas or mist of fine particles. That number plate had been deliberately loosened and was heard by deceased as he came home. He got out of his car to see what it was, left the engine running, and caught the full force of the gas as it struck the doors and sprayed back over him. He dropped as if he had been poleaxed, and that was that. Damned clever, if I may say so, sir.” “It was,” agreed Hanson grimly. By its very ingenuity it bore the brand of The Scorpion, though, as yet, there was no real evidence to connect him with it. Unless the criminal had hit upon some method to delay the action of heat upon the chemicals the last journey of the dead man could only have been a very short one. Tests with the car would determine exactly. But it came very near to being a perfect murder, from the criminal's point of view. How many more would there be, detected or undetected, before they laid the master murderer by the heels? This was one more link, a strong link, in the chain of evidence, but until The Scorpion's identity was known there could be no final check. CHAPTER XIV FINGERPRINTS “I'M GOING straight back to the Yard and pass this stuff in for chemical analysis. That'll be definite then which of the arsenical compounds was used. Forster can remain in charge. The photographers will be through in a few min- utes. Nothing more you want, Doctor?” “No, I'm satisfied. You can drop me at Vine Street.” Barnard raised his eyebrows questioningly. “I want to examine Lander's automatic,” explained Han- son. "It's still there, I suppose?” “Yes, it's still there.” “Has it been unloaded?" “No, the safety catch is on. Why?” Hanson smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Just to satisfy a whim I have,” he confessed. “Probably nothing in it.” The two men walked down the drive to the car. Forster accompanied them and received his final instructions. “When they've obtained a good picture of those prints I want it handed in for identification at once. There's noth- ing for the press. Understand?” Forster saluted and stepped back as Barnard switched on the engine. For the first few minutes he drove in silence. Then he said: “If those prints can be identified we've made a real move, Doctor. What a fool not to have worn gloves!” 115 116 SCORPION'S TRAIL “The overlooked trifle for which we so earnestly seek,” replied Hanson. “Probably one of the exhaust-pipe screws was difficult and he rested his hand upon the paintwork to get leverage. The glossy surface should yield some good prints. There was nothing of any use from the servants, I suppose?” Barnard shook his head. “Only a confirmation of the first report. Sutherland was understood to be going to Amsterdam and they retired early. One of the maids thought she heard a car come up the drive about eleven-thirty, but was plainly not sure about it. The butler was awakened at four o'clock through the high wind having blown the curtains across the dressing table and dislodged a glass candlestick. He got out to shut the windows and noticed the lights in the garage. He dressed and went to investigate. The garage can be opened by a switch within the house, and as he passed he automat- ically pressed it.” “Thereby saving his own life," murmured Hanson. “Yes,” agreed Barnard. “The draft through must have cleared the atmosphere considerably. When he reached the side door he looked for but could not see his master. The effect on his eyes and nose made him beat a hasty retreat. He hurried back to the house and wrapped a thick muffler around his face. Returning with this, he discovered Suther- land lying on the floor and dragged him out. He had time to see that his master appeared to be dead when he himself was overcome. However, he seems to have recovered quickly and roused the household. Lucky for him that he is no worse.” "It is,” replied Hanson. "If one of the persistent gases had been used he would have been very ill indeed. But, of course, it was an essential part of the scheme that the poison should be of a variety which rapidly dispersed without FINGERPRINTS 117 much trace. Ingenious, you know, Barnard. The product of a clever, if unbalanced, brain.” “Yes,” growled the Chief Inspector. “The kind of brain I'd prefer to see in a museum jar.” He did not speak again until they were in Oxford Street. “You might get Captain Kiley to make a few discreet in- quiries about Sutherland and his connection with Lola Demaine. According to Mr. Marlow, she was in 'The Gilded Lily round about midnight. But that proves noth- ing. This murder wasn't a woman's job.” «Why not?” questioned Hanson. “Poison is a woman's favorite weapon.” “Yes—but not this sort of poisoning,” retorted Barnard. At Vine Street he drew into the curb and Hanson alighted. Barnard followed him, determined not to miss anything. The station sergeant produced the various ar- ticles which had been taken from the prisoner. Hanson looked them over casually, and then he took up the auto- matic pistol. He examined it closely, and Barnard smiled his thin, mirthless smile. "Belgian made, fifteen rounds to a clip, smuggled into this country in hundreds. Nothing remarkable about that, Doctor.” “Oh, quite,” agreed Hanson, taking a silk handkerchief from his pocket and depressing the spring which operated the magazine. Very carefully he drew out the clip and laid it upon the table. For fully a minute he peered closely at the blue metal. “There's a print on this,” he announced. Barnard frowned. “Well, what about it?” he demanded. "Almost bound to be a print on it.” "As you say, Barnard. But whose print? Lander was a 118 SCORPION'S TRAIL confidence man; not the sort to carry firearms. Does it not seem possible that the man who hypnotized him might also have supplied the weapon?” Barnard swore softly to himself. “Very possible,” he agreed. “We can soon see if it is Lander's, anyway.” He slipped the clip into place again and wrapped the automatic carefully in the silk handkerchief. Placing it in his pocket, he looked up at Hanson. "If your surmise is correct, Doctor, there will be no rec- ord of a similar print in existence. Not even with the French Sûreté?” “No,” replied Hanson. "As far as I can say, The Scor- pion's prints have never been recorded.” CHAPTER XV WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? PAUL HANSON was disappointed. Professor Barry's experi- ments with Sammy Lander had proved a failure. He had been unable to rouse the crook to any responsive action. The man's mind appeared to be a complete void and the Professor had failed to bring even a glimmer of memory to it. Barnard, on the other hand, had obtained valuable evi- dence. The fingerprints found upon Sutherland's car had been identified as those of Mike Cardon, alias the debonair Carfax, alias a dozen other names. But of the print upon the magazine clip from Lander's gun the Record Office could give no information. Conclusive, then, that no known criminal's thumb had made it. Copies of the print had been issued to every police force in the world in the faint hope that it might be identified. After a day and a night of intensive search and inquiry Sutherland's movements on the fatal evening had been re- constructed and the gaps filled in. Kiley had assisted and, indeed, proved himself to be a veritable mine of informa- tion on the social set in which Sutherland moved. Not per- haps the type of society that a diamond merchant would have been expected to frequent, and one of which his uncle appeared to be in complete ignorance. Sutherland had dined at his club with Carfax as his guest. They had both gone to Lola Demaine's flat, and later left in a taxi, accompanied by Lola. The taxi had set Suther- 119 120 SCORPION'S TRAIL Erder. Month Lola and opinion t land down at a garage in Edgware Road and waited while he obtained his own car, which had been washed and polished while he was dining. Lola had then transferred to the car and Carfax had driven off to an address in St. John's Wood. This had proved to be the residence of Jimmy Montcrief, an acquaintance of Captain Kiley. By discreet questioning they had learned that Lola Demaine had taken Sutherland to a house in Highgate owned by a Chinese gentleman who possessed occult powers of a very advanced order. Montcrief had gone the same evening with Carfax and seen both Lola and Sutherland there. Kiley gave it as his opinion that Montcrief had fallen a victim to the dope habit. All very satisfactory information; but was it sufficient to support the arrest of Carfax and Lola Demaine? Seated now in Barnard's room at Scotland Yard, they were holding a council of war. Hanson was endeavoring to persuade the Chief Inspector to arrest them both and chance what information they could later get to justify the action. “That may be all very fine in the U.S.A.," said Barnard. “Over there you can get your information by torturing your prisoners. A piece of rubber piping, judiciously applied for a long enough time, gets a confession from somebody. It doesn't matter if it's the right man or not. If he's got enough money he can buy the judge. But things aren't so damned easy in this country. You've got to be nice and polite with suspects. Ask 'em if they'd mind confessing that they did the murder or stole the baby's milk. Br-r-r, I don't know why they want a police force!” “Yes, I know your difficulties, Barnard,” replied Han- son soothingly. “But there can be no harm done by ques- tioning them. And you can always bring them in for being in possession of drugs.” The telephone rang and Barnard answered. Hanson WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? 121 listened to the one-sided conversation and guessed it was a call from Sergeant Trotter, detailed to shadow Mike Car- don, alias Carfax. “Well?” he asked, as the Chief Inspector rang off. “Cardon has just gone into the Demaine woman's flat.” “Then, Barnard, now is the time to get busy before they arrange matters between themselves. Go and put them through it.” Barnard muttered something extremely uncomplimen- tary about Yankee methods and stared at Hanson with his cold, emotionless eyes for fully a minute. Then he leaned back in his chair and permitted his grim mouth to relax into a mirthless smile. "Is Marlow at Jermyn Street?” he asked. “Yes, he's still there.” “Then just have a word with him over the 'phone. Tell him to go at once to Lola Demaine's flat and push himself in somehow. Then I will get busy.” Hanson took the instrument without a word and called Kiley's number. From the sedate Parker he learned that Mr. Marlow had just come in. A couple of minutes' hurried conversation with Dick and arrangements were made. Then he turned to Barnard. “He's going at once. That should prevent them indulg- ing in much private conversation.” Dick Marlow, not without some inward thrill at the prospect, drove round to the Westminster flat and pushed the bell. The trim maid answered him, but informed him that her mistress was engaged. Dick said he would wait, and was shown into the same room as before. Presently Lola came gliding in. She ran up to him and · kissed him before he could prevent her. 122 SCORPION'S TRAIL “But, oh, my Deek!” she cried, disappointment in her voice. “What a peety dat you come now!” Dick looked down at her face upturned toward him. Again he was conscious of the dreadful urge to seize her in his arms and crush her to him in passionate embrace. He fought off the impulse and said in a voice, none too steady: “I'm not welcome this morning, Lola? You asked me to come, you know.” Lola made an extravagant, wholly foreign gesture of protest. “Oh, my Deek, my dear, silly boy!" she cried. “Why you say dat ting? It ees dat you are welcome-yes, oh yes, always. But it just so happen dis day dat I must go away. Not for long-one, two day, perhaps. I get good engage- ment for de dance-yes.” "Let me take you. Drive you in my car," suggested Dick with well-simulated eagerness, conscious that he must hang on somehow until Barnard arrived. Lola shook her dusky head regretfully and sighed. “No, my Deek. A gentleman, he take me. He find me de engagement, see? And it ees dat I must fly now. You come see me soon, when I come back, eh?” “Oh, but I say, Lola—" began Dick persuasively, when he was interrupted by a smart tap upon the door, followed by three more. Lola turned swiftly and then, pressing Dick's hand, murmured: “A moment, Deek.” She crossed the room, moving with a subtle feline grace and closed the door softly behind her. Dick waited for her to return, uncertain as to his best line of action. A few minutes later came the sound of a bell, and then the door opened and Carfax entered the room. He started in feigned surprise on observing Dick, but came forward with hand outstretched, smiling with apparent pleasure. WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? 123 12 “Why, Marlow!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Ah, like myself, waiting upon the divine Lola, eh?” Dick nodded. “She has just gone out. Didn't you meet her?” he asked, and fully expected the lie which came. “No, damn it; that's curious! But, of course, I've only arrived this moment.” “Quite; that's why I asked if you'd met her. She's only this moment left here." “Curiouser and curiouser,” laughed Carfax. “Hullo, what's the trouble out there?” The voice of the trim maid was raised in voluble protest. Carfax made a half motion to cross the room, and then leaned against the mantelshelf with a shrug of his shoul- ders, as though the matter really was none of his business. Dick glanced at him. The man was nervous, for all his gay, debonair manner. ' There came the sound of a slight scuffle, and a loud, cheerful voice exclaimed: “Why, dog bite me, if it isn't little Poppy Fredmann! Well, well! Got up proud, ain't she, Chief? Stand back, my dear, there's a good girl.” The door opened and Chief Inspector Barnard stood upon the threshold. He paused for a moment to survey them through the coldest pair of eyes Dick had ever seen, before he closed the door and advanced with deliberate tread into the room. Not a muscle of his face moved. Carfax eyed him. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of this intrusion?” he drawled, tapping a cigarette lightly upon his over- polished thumbnail. “Sit down, Cardon.” The inspector's voice cut like a whiplash. “And you, sir,” he added to Dick. Carfax made no movement. He stood regarding Barnard 124 SCORPION'S TRAIL through narrowed lids, a questioning lift to his eyebrows. With a languid movement he slipped his lighter from his vest pocket and applied the flame to his cigarette. "Are you not making a mistake, sir?” he asked with mock politeness. “My name is Carfax, as this gentleman will verify, if you so desire.” Barnard's face betrayed no sign of any emotion as he said with icy calm: “You're a bigger fool than I took you for, Cardon. Sit down.” Carfax, with a shrug of his shoulders and a good-natured smile upon his lips, dropped upon a chair and crossed his beautifully tailored legs. Barnard turned to Dick and said: “I am a police officer. Please give me your name and ad- dress. Then you may go.” Dick gravely furnished the required particulars and rose to leave. “Lucky fellow!” drawled Carfax. “Shall I see you in the club?” But Dick left without replying. His job was done and he was not sorry. He met Sergeant Trotter in the hall, looking a little less cheerful than was customary with him. The detective grinned, however, on seeing Dick. Then he drew him aside and whispered: “What's happened to the woman, sir? She ain't to be found.” Dick's forehead creased into a puzzled frown. “She was with me a minute or two before you arrived. Damn it, you must have met her if she went out!” “She didn't go out, sir. These flats are absolutely self- contained, no connection between 'em. And we've had a couple of men, front and back, all the time. No, sir, she ain't here and she ain't gone out. What you might call strange, ain't it?" and the burly sergeant grinned again. WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? 125 “But she must be,” protested Dick. “She's hiding.” “There's a couple of cupboards which are locked. I reckon she's hid up in one of 'em. Still, we'll soon get 'em open. Well, you don't want to stay, eh? Good day, sir.” Dick Marlow walked down the main stairs puzzling over the strange disappearance of Lola Demaine. As he reached the next floor the front door opened and a man wearing a morning coat and silk hat stepped out. As he turned Dick saw his face and found it vaguely familiar; especially the black, drooping mustache and heavy eye- brows. The newcomer glanced up at him and the light of recog- nition came into his dark eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Marlow,” he said politely. Dick remembered him now. Elphinstone Clayton had been taking leave of him when he had arrived to see Ann and had introduced him. “How do y'do, Mr. Kotlar,” he acknowledged. Kotlar smiled his ingratiating smirk. "I'm just off to Twickenham again,” he informed Dick. “I suppose you are not going that way?” The prospect of a drive with the oily Mr. Kotlar did not appeal and Dick shook his head. “I'm going past Waterloo, if that is any use to you,” he said. Kotlar gratefully accepted and together they walked out to Dick's car. The uniformed constable standing near the entrance to the block of flats, at a signal from the tall L.G.O.C. bus inspector on the opposite pavement, let them go unchallenged. While Dick and Kotlar were driving over the bridge to Waterloo Station Chief Inspector Barnard was having a heart-to-heart talk with the debonair confidence man, whose twitching lips gave the only visible sign of his inward trep- 126 SCORPION'S TRAIL . idation. He still smiled, but it was the fixed mechanical smile of a man very much in fear of the future. “Now then, Cardon. I'm here to get the truth, and the answers which you give will determine the action I shall take.” “My word, that's awfully kind of you," drawled Car- don, languidly blowing a smoke ring and watching it as it floated across the room. "You can cut out the humorous patter, m'lad,” replied Barnard without raising the dead level of his voice. “We are here alone, and my liver is none too good this morn- ing. A little exercise would do me good. Keep that in mind all the time.” The threat of physical violence had more effect upon the crook than anything else could have done. Red Mike, for all the promise of his fine figure and aggressively red hair, was a miserable coward at heart. He had had the never-to- be-forgotten experience of a night with the New York police, which had necessitated the replacement of three front teeth and a week's painful convalescence. Diplomacy was clearly indicated here. For while he expected no such drastic methods from the British police, one could never be too careful. Barnard leaned over the table and fixed him with his icy stare. “On Wednesday night you were in the company of Mr. Stuart Sutherland. You dined with him at his club and later drove to this flat. Your wife joined you and— ” Barnard broke off to stare harder than ever. For a smile of genuine amusement had crossed the crook's mouth. It occurred to Barnard instantly that he had made a mistake somewhere, and the thought disturbed him. He recognized that the action on Cardon's part was automatic and not in- tentional. WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? 127 “You were saying?” prompted the crook. “I was saying that the woman known as Lola Demaine accompanied you as far as Edgware Road and then drove with Mr. Sutherland to a certain house in Highgate. Later you brought Mr. Montcrief to the same house." "All of which is freely granted, acknowledged, and hereby confessed,” smiled Cardon, casually throwing his cigarette into the grate and lighting another. “What about it?” “Mr. Sutherland was carrying a packet of diamonds." Barnard paused, and his steely stare bored into the crook as if he would read his innermost thoughts. “Those diamonds are now missing." "Most distressing!” exclaimed Cardon, examining the end of his cigarette with interest, but avoiding the in- spector's eye. His tone was cool, slightly amused, but the fingers which lightly held the cigarette quivered. Then he looked up and laughed. “And so you believe me to be the thief?” he asked quizzically. "No," retorted Barnard sharply. “Not the thief, only an accomplice who was given the dirty work to do. Poor fool!” A flash of anger came from Cardon's eyes and a slow flush mounted to his cheeks. Barnard nodded slowly. “That is what you were, Cardon,” he jeered. “Now tell me. What do you know of the Chinese medium, Chan-Fu.” Cardon shrugged his elegant shoulders. "Rather less than you do, I expect.” “The truth, Cardon," warned Barnard, very deliber- ately. Cardon made a gesture of protest. “Damn it, I don't know much about him! Montcrief wanted to see the fellow and I promised to take him. He's 128 SCORPION'S TRAIL got some sort of medical skill which is supposed to be a regular cure-all. Montcrief's got something wrong with him which the doctors can't fix. Sutherland went because he was interested in this spook business. I fixed up both of them. Chan-Fu is only there at odd times and one can't al- ways see him.” "But you can, eh?” said Barnard quietly. "How did you first meet him?” “Sammy Lander introduced me some months ago," re- plied Cardon quickly. Barnard nodded, thinking: “Ah, you were ready for that one, m'lad.” Then aloud: “Where does Chan-Fu go when he is not at the Highgate house?” Cardon shrugged his shoulders again. “Search me!” he exclaimed. “I don't know.” “You don't, eh?” snapped Barnard grimly. “Give me your cigarette case.” Cardon hesitated for a moment before he withdrew his case from his vest pocket and dropped it into Barnard's outstretched hand. “Thank you, but that is not the one I want," said Bar- nard quietly. “That is the only one I have.” “Very well.” Barnard's voice was bored. He rose from the table and stepped backward to the door, which he opened, without for a moment lifting his gaze from the other. “Trotter!” he called Sergeant Trotter came in, a grin upon his face. “Search that man,” ordered Barnard grimly. “Very good, Chief. Hands above that flaming sunset of a head, sonny. Keep still, or I might be tickling you. Dog bite me, we have gold cigarette cases, too! And money! Lord, I wish I was a crook!” den - WHERE IS LOLA DEMAINE? 129 Sergeant Trotter's big fingers went rapidly over the un- resisting Cardon. As he laid each article upon the table he had some flippant comment to pass. Barnard, with consid- erable difficulty, kept quiet. “There you are, Chief,” concluded Trotter. "He's a portable drug store by the look of it.” Cardon shrugged his shoulders with an air of resigna- tion, and sighed: “A fair cop, Barnard. I suppose I'm in for it.” “You are!” declared Barnard with ominous emphasis. “That you are in possession of dangerous drugs is quite sufficient to warrant your arrest without the more serious charge being made.” “More serious charge?” exclaimed Cardon, making an unsuccessful effort to control the twitching of his lips and the tremble of his limbs. “Yes, a much more serious charge, Cardon,” replied Barnard in slow, deliberate tones which sent a dreadful chill over the frightened crook, and almost stripped him of the last vestiges of self-control. “Ever heard of diphenyl cyanarsine, Cardon?” Cardon licked a dry tongue over drier lips and shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He had never heard the name, but he guessed what was coming. Some ghastly mistake had been made and this devil of a policeman had discovered it. “H'm, I see you have not. It is an arsenical compound which when heated gives off a vapor so deadly that one little whiff breathed in the confined space of, say, a garage would kill a man instantly. Ever unscrewed an exhaust pipe, Cardon?” The face of the crook turned a ghastly gray and his under lip hung down, quivering violently, as he stared bulging-eyed with sheer terror at the accusing face of the 130 SCORPION'S TRAIL Chief Inspector. God, what a fool he had been! And now it was too late! He half rose from his seat, his fingers slid along the table edge, and with a strangled sob he lurched forward. Sergeant Trotter grabbed him by the collar and laid him upon the floor. “Br-r-r!” growled Barnard. “Have him taken away and bring me the woman.” Trotter raised his eyebrows and coughed. “We're looking for her now, Chief.” Barnard swung round on him with an oath. His jaw stuck out pugnaciously and his big fists clenched until the knuckles stood white against the tan. “What the hell do you mean, Trotter?” he demanded aggressively. “Well, the fact is, Chief, she ain't here.” “Not here!” exploded Barnard incredulously. “But, you fool, she must be!” “Oh, sure, Chief,” agreed Trotter hastily. “But, blimey, where?” Barnard thrust back his chair with considerable violence. “Get that man under lock and key,” he ordered in a voice distorted with suppressed fury, and hurried from the room. Sergeant Trotter winked at his reflection in a mirror and turned to the prostrate crook, face downward upon the carpet. He leaned over and shook him roughly. "Hey, rouse up, Mike.” Then, getting no response, “Damn it, do y'hear me?” Into the merry eyes of the Detective-Sergeant came an expression of astonishment. He went down on his knees to make certain, and a low whistle escaped from his parted lips. Slowly he rose to his feet and stood staring at the still form. “Blimey!” he breathed. “The blighter's dead!” , 132 SCORPION'S TRAIL Ann looked up with a little shake of her corn-gold head and smiled. She slipped her hand round his arm. “Oh, let's forget it, Uncle. It's just me being stupid, I suppose. Perhaps that dreadful mustache annoys me. Come on, let's see if we can spot any fish in the river. There's an old grandfather fish lays up under the bank every after- noon." Elphinstone Clayton allowed himself, mildly protest- ing, to be led down to the bank, where he sat on the gar- den seat and gazed dreamily at the water. Ann talked to him for a while, but it became obvious from his answers that his thoughts were far away, and presently she de- sisted. It was hot and she felt in a dreamy mood herself. Quite naturally her thoughts turned to Dick Marlow and dwelt in pleasurable anticipation upon the morrow. She sincerely hoped that the arrival of the objectionable Mr. Kotlar would not interfere with their plans, for they had arranged a run down to the coast, via the Ashdown Forest. The familiar note of a particularly compelling klaxon roused her. She rose from her seat and crossed the lawn toward the gate. Dick came striding up the drive, and with him Paul Hanson. The contrast in the two men was very striking: the one clad in a tweed coat and gray flannels, his laughing, tanned face emphasizing his exceptionally fair hair; the other, much taller, grave of mien, in dark, formal clothes and rather wide-brimmed black hat. Ann was surprised to see Hanson, but she greeted him with a smile of welcome and a warm handshake. “We were just having a tootle around,” explained Dick, somewhat vaguely. “So I thought I would drop in and see if all was O.K. for the morning. Hullo, there's the dear old padre, sound asleep by all appearances. I'll see.” Hanson glanced about the garden with admiring eyes. ANN LEARNS THE TRUTH 133 “I think an old-fashioned English garden, like this, is one of the most beautiful places on earth, Miss Penhayle," he said. "I love it,” smiled Ann. “Come and see the roses.” As they turned toward the house Hanson glanced at the windows. For a fleeting moment he caught sight of a man's face, before it was hastily withdrawn. Mr. Kotlar, then, was still there. His journey to Twick- enham had not been in vain. But Kotlar might prove very embarrassing for Ann. Hanson, with his usual foresight, had realized this. He glanced down at the exquisite little face upturned toward him. “You're in serious mood to-day, Doctor Hanson,” she chided laughingly. “Not like Dick, he's never serious.” “Oh, Dick has his serious moments too,” smiled Han- son. “This afternoon, for instance, when I told him about your marriage to the Count du Buisson." A slow flush mantled her fair face as she started away from him as if he had struck her. Tears welled suddenly into the violet-blue eyes so full of hurt surprise. Hanson took her arm in a friendly grasp and drew her out of sight of the house. "Miss Penhayle,” he said earnestly, "I know what you are thinking, but it is far better that I should have told him. For, you see, I know the truth, but you do not. Would it surprise you to learn that the gallant Count was really a thief and an impostor? And more than that, he was already married. The person who shot him was a pub- lic benefactor,” he added to himself. Ann caught her breath in a quivering sound of incredu- lity, her mind a riot of conflicting emotions. Though she wanted desperately to believe him, yet she dared not. It was too good to be really true. Things didn't happen like 134 SCORPION'S TRAIL that outside of books. Hanson saw and recognized the mental struggle. He smiled that rare, revealing smile and put his hand upon her shoulder. “Ann," he said, very quietly, “Dick is my best friend. You would have told him of your marriage very soon, I know. Until you did, it was the one cloud between you, and I was the man to lift it. Your marriage was a farce. It has no legal value and you are in the same position now as if it had never taken place.” “But, Doctor Hanson, I can't believe it is true! It—it is so impossible that 1-14 " Ann's voice faded into a whisper. “Nevertheless, it is quite true. Now, Ann, listen to me. You must promise me that you will not breathe a word of this to any living person, except Dick. Not even to your guardian. I have told you this now so that there shall be no secrets between you and Dick. I hope I have made it easier for you. Have I?” Ann's flushed face was answer enough. The tears hung perilously near in those blue eyes—tears of happiness and unspeakable relief. "You-you are absolutely sure?” she faltered in a husky whisper. Hanson pressed her small shoulders reassuringly. “Absolutely!” he affirmed. The finality in his voice left no room for doubt. “Oh, Doctor, it's all too wonderful to understand. I was going to tell Dick myself to-morrow. He's taking me for a drive down to the coast, and I had made up my mind to tell him everything. I almost wish I could have done,” she added, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. “Yes, Ann, but you see, my dear, you could not have explained matters to Dick as well as I was able to do. You did not love the Frenchman, did you?” ANN LEARNS THE TRUTH 135 Ann shook her head emphatically. “I have wondered many, many times why I was ever so foolish. When I look back upon that dreadful time it does not seem possible. I feel that I must have been some- body quite different, another personality, I mean. I cannot believe that I really and truly married him. It is all like a very nasty dream to me now. Whatever made me do it?” Hanson had a shrewd idea of the truth, but he was not prepared just then to voice it. Ann's description of the dreamlike quality of her memory was more accurate than she realized. “How did you first meet Jules Valiente?” he asked. "He was introduced to Uncle by Mr. Kotlar.” Hanson raised his eyebrows. He had not expected that. “Oh, indeed! Do you know how Kotlar became ac- quainted with him?” Ann thought for a moment. “Yes. It was through a Mr. Carfax, I believe. Count du Buisson- ” “Jules Valiente,” interrupted Hanson, quietly. Ann smiled and shrugged her dainty shoulders expres- sively. “Very well. Jules Valiente professed to be interested in one of Uncle's books dealing with the Chinese language. Kotlar brought him to see Uncle. After that he kept call- ing, and I know poor Uncle thought him a most charm- ing man." Hanson's lean face betrayed no sign of the surprise her words caused him. “Valiente was acquainted with Chinese?” he asked. “Oh yes. I believe he even corrected Uncle on one or two minor points. So he must have been quite a scholar, as Uncle is an authority on the subject.” Hanson nodded casually. Here was food for much 136 SCORPION'S TRAIL thought. Jules Valiente, Apache, self-educated wharf rat from Le Havre, joining issue with an authority on the most difficult language in the world, and keeping his end up with conspicuous success. Strange! Very strange! “So really he traded on his knowledge of Chinese to impose himself upon your guardian?” “More or less, I suppose,” agreed Ann. “But they had some mutual acquaintances in Paris. Jules Valiente must really have been a personal friend of Baron Lafontaine, for instance. Uncle knew the Baron quite well and wrote to him mentioning Count du Buisson.” "And received a reply from Lafontaine?” asked Han- son, scarcely concealing his eagerness. “Yes. Uncle showed me the letter. Jules Valiente in the character of Count du Buisson must have deceived the Baron. The letter praised him, well, extravagantly, I thought.” “And how long ago was this?” “Let me see—five months, not any longer.” Hanson nodded slowly and stared at the ground for several moments. Then he said quietly: “Baron Lafontaine died over eight months ago, Ann.” Ann started and looked at him in astonishment. “Died-eight months ago?” she exclaimed. “Quite true, Ann. He died a violent death and I was present during the investigation. So you will appreciate now that there has been some very curious work going on around you, eh?” Ann was frankly mystified. “But I don't understand," she protested. “Was that let- ter a forgery?” “It certainly was!” affirmed Hanson positively. "But how did Jules Valiente receive Uncle's letter to 138 SCORPION'S TRAIL must insist upon you keeping your knowledge absolutely to yourself. To protect him he must be kept in complete ignorance until such time as the danger has passed.” “Is there any real danger?” asked Ann quickly, alarm for her guardian showing in her face. “No personal bodily danger,” reassured Hanson. “Only financial danger. Mr. Clayton must be a wealthy man. That is where the danger lies, if any." "It is nothing to do with his life in China, is it?" “Why do you ask that?” “Because from one or two things he has let slip at odd times I think he must have often run great personal risk, and perhaps incurred the enmity of the Chinese tongs or one of their secret societies.” Hanson hesitated. For the first time in his life he stum- bled over a white lie. Ann's frank blue eyes, so full of confidence in him and anxiety for the old man, stopped the ready denial which rose to his lips. Dick Marlow's cheery face appearing over the hedge saved him. He crooked his finger in a beckoning signal. “Now, don't worry, Ann, my dear,” he advised, putting his hand upon her shoulder. "You know why I have told you all this. Not to alarm you, eh? Dick is helping me. You shall be our ally, too. Hullo, here comes Mr. Clay- ton! I'd better go and talk to him.” With a muttered word to Dick as he passed him he went out to intercept Elphinstone Clayton, who was cross- ing the lawn toward them. “Good afternoon, Mr. Clayton,” he greeted, extending his hand. The old man took it mechanically and blinked at him without the slightest sign of recognition. Hanson smiled and said: “I am Doctor Hanson, Dick Marlow's friend." ANN LEARNS THE TRUTH 139 The old man's eyes opened wide and he made a little gesture of annoyance. "Please forgive me, Doctor Hanson," he exclaimed. “Why, of course, of course. Now, what a curious thing that I should have failed to recall you! Tut, tut, you know, really, I fear sometimes that my memory is going!” Clayton shook his head regretfully and lapsed into a thoughtful contemplation of the grass. Hanson watched him with professional interest. CHAPTER XVII IN WHICH THERE IS TALK OF CRIME “This is indeed a pleasure,” smirked Mr. Mark Kotlar, bowing low as he took Hanson's hand. “I have read some parts of your monumental work on medical jurisprudence. Not all of it, of course. Much of it would be far beyond my poor comprehension. I congratulate you, Doctor Han- son. Truly the product of genius allied to vast learning.” “You are interested in criminology, Mr. Kotlar?” asked Hanson politely, ignoring the sickening effusion. Kotlar raised his black, heavy eyebrows and spread his hands in a gesture of apologetic repudiation. “Only as an amateur, the merest novice in the science.” “You see, Doctor Hanson, Mr. Kotlar's work brings him into close contact with the criminal classes,” explained Elphinstone Clayton. "He is interested in a charitable in- stitution situated in a very rough area. Yes, very rough indeed,” added the old man, slowly shaking his head at some painful memory. “Why, the last time I ventured there I was so molested that, but for the timely interven- tion of two policemen, I might have received serious hurt.” "It is not a healthy place for strangers, even now,” agreed Kotlar in regretful tones. “But we do our best, Doctor Hanson. It is not so much the men in which we are interested as their poor, unfortunate women and children.” 140 THERE IS TALK OF CRIME 141 “You conduct a mission for them?” asked Hanson. “A mission, yes,” replied Kotlar. “But we endeavor to make our Christianity practical, too. Personally, I am con- vinced, and Mr. Clayton agrees with me, that it is useless to preach the Gospel to these poor people when they are cold and hungry and bowed down by the dreadful burdens of their lives. So we run a soup kitchen for them and dis- tribute clothes among those who are in need of covering. The children we provide with pure milk sent to us from our own farms in Cornwall. When we are able we send a few of the children down there, too. Most of them have never seen the country.” “A very fine work, Mr. Kotlar," complimented Han- son. “But you must have some difficulty in raising the necessary funds for such extensive work. There seems to be so many charitable organizations crying out for help that one wonders how a comparatively recent institution ever gets a helping hand.” Mr. Kotlar raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "It is difficult, yes,” he agreed. Then, turning toward Elphinstone Clayton, he bowed, his lips creasing in an oily smirk. “But my dear friend here is an ever present help in days of trouble. I'm afraid that I must be a great nuisance to him sometimes.” Clayton, rousing himself, made an impatient little ges- ture and frowned. “Oh, nonsense, Kotlar! What small sums I am able to contribute I give gladly, knowing how well the money will be spent. You do yourself an injustice, too! Consider the manner in which you are always dipping into your own pockets for one thing and another. It is splendid of you." Kotlar's sallow face took on an expression of disavowal. He was about to reply when Ann came to the door. 142 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Are you folks coming to tea?” she asked, smiling. “Tea!” exclaimed Clayton in surprise. “Already! Why, bless my soul, of course, yes. Dear me, I'd almost for- gotten!” Hanson suppressed a smile, half expecting the old man to repeat his invitation, or perhaps reintroduce him to Mark Kotlar. But Kotlar, plainly used to the ways of the house, led the way and they followed him. It was not until tea was nearly concluded that Kotlar returned to the subject of his charity. “I think, Doctor Hanson,” he said, “that if one could wipe out the slums one would automatically reduce crime to vanishing point. Do you not agree with me?” "I cannot entirely agree with you,” replied Hanson, politely. “It is true that the environment of slum children tends to make them familiar with crime. Naturally they see it on every hand, in one form or another. But is it pos- sible to wipe out slums? It seems to me that where you clean up one slum area and remove the inhabitants to better housing, and more open spaces, it is only a matter of time before you have created another slum. While slums do, unquestionably, breed some future criminals, my own experience has been that a very large proportion of so-called criminals are demonstrably mentally defective. One might say that they are predestined to commit anti- social acts through their moral and mental shortcom- ings. They may have been born in slum tenements or in palaces.” Hanson's tone suggested that he was not particularly interested in the matter. In reality his words were de- liberately provocative, and Kotlar took the bait. Hanson was watching for just such a sign as he gave. Kotlar's black eyes flashed angrily and his brow came down in a THERE IS TALK OF CRIME 143 sudden scowl. Only for a fleeting instant was it visible before he was smiling once more his oily leer. But Hanson had seen and was satisfied. “So you think that all criminals are insane?” suggested Kotlar. “The question of insanity in its relation to crime is a vast subject, Mr. Kotlar. In the case of the habitual crim- inal it is almost always a case of degeneration in some form, a morbid deviation from normal humanity. I am not including all those many forms of abnormal behavior which the researches of Sigmund Freud and his distin- guished disciples have done so much to explain.” Kotlar listened attentively, and then, turning with a smile to Clayton, said: “I protest that Doctor Hanson is upsetting all my theories on crime and criminals.” Elphinstone Clayton roused himself from contempla- tion of his plate to glance with slightly bewildered eyes from Kotlar to Hanson. Kotlar repeated his words, his tone suggesting the hu- moring of a dull child. Ann, who had been in conversation with Dick, overheard the remark and frowned. The objectionable Mr. Kotlar was patronizing her learned guardian. Dick saw an opportunity to escape and took it. "If these good people are going to talk such creepy stuff I guess we'll leave them to it, eh, Miss Penhayle?” “I think we will,” Ann agreed, rising from her seat. Kotlar was on his feet in a moment, profuse in his apolo- gies, as though fearful lest he should have offended her. Ann, with a forced smile, motioned him to be seated. Hanson, watching, found Mr. Kotlar a most interesting study. Whatever else he may or may not have been, he certainly was a talented actor. THERE IS TALK OF CRIME 145 with childish eagerness. “A wonderful city, Doctor Han- son. I lived there for some years and I love it. I was ad- vising Kotlar to go over for a rest and a change. Just at this season it will be delightful.” Kotlar smirked and spread his hands, unaware of Han- son's keen interest in his fingernails. “Mr. Clayton, with his customary regard for others, thinks that I have been working too hard. Curiously enough, I have never been out of England in my life. A dreadful confession to make, is it not? You were engaged on official business in Paris, Doctor?” Hanson nodded affirmation. He had led the conversa- tion up to the point he wanted. “I was attached to the French police for instruction. An interesting experience which afforded me much pleasure.” "Did you come into contact with any outstanding crim- inals?” asked Kotlar. "It has always seemed to me that crime in Paris is—what shall I say?-more romantic than elsewhere. Or do I get my idea from the novelists?” “I think you must, Mr. Kotlar," replied Hanson. "I can assure you that I have found little enough romance in police work. All crime is sordid and ugly when it is stripped bare. Being the product of diseased minds, it can- not be otherwise. There is excitement, sometimes the thrill of danger and triumph, but mainly it is patient, plodding research which brings success. Fortunately most criminals are of such inferior mentality that they are quickly laid by the heels.” Kotlar leaned forward, eagerness in his shining eyes. “But did you ever meet a really clever criminal?” he asked. “A great master mind who baffled and defied the police?” Hanson sat back in his chair and thrust his hands into 146 SCORPION'S TRAIL his coat pockets. He appeared to be considering the ques- tion. "Only one,” he replied at last. “Criminals have slipped through the police net through want of evidence, brilliant legal defenders, and the like. But those men have been known to the police and sooner or later they are put under lock and key. I can recall only one instance of a criminal successfully concealing his identity and eluding the police indefinitely. To this day it is not known even if it was a man or a woman. Curiously enough, the matter reached its climax during the time I was in Paris.” "Oh, a French case, eh?” exclaimed Kotlar. "Do tell me all about it, Doctor Hanson. Who do you think it was?” Hanson shrugged his shoulders regretfully. “Unfortunately I came no nearer solving the mystery of his identity than my French colleagues. We never came within guessing distance. All we know with certainty is that he rejoiced in the rather appropriate name of The Scorpion.” “The Scorpion!” ejaculated Elphinstone Clayton, as if the name had violently touched a chord in his faulty memory. “Now let me think. I have heard that name be- fore. Now when was it? Um ... tut, tut, I ought to remember. Ah, yes! A very sad case! The young fellow came to me with a terrible confession. Good family, too! I knew his father well. Diplomatic service; highly placed official in Paris.” The old man paused, his brow puckered in an anxious frown. Then, as if reassured, he continued: “No, I am not betraying a confidence. The poor fellow is dead, by his own hand, and I shall not mention his name. What was I saying?” “A victim of The Scorpion came to you with the con- THERE IS TALK OF CRIME 147 fession of a crime he had committed,” prompted Hanson, successfully suppressing signs of the intense interest which Clayton's words had aroused. He glanced at Kotlar and noted the strained lines about his mouth and the fixed look in his eyes. “Yes, I remember,” continued Clayton. “This young man had become a drug-taker, and, going from bad to worse, he had spent all his own money to obtain the wretched stuff. Finally he forged his father's name to a check for a large sum. He came to me to intercede with his father. A terrible tragedy, gentlemen. His poor father forgave him, but within a week the son had thrown him- self in the river.” "Horrible!” murmured Kotlar, a shocked expression sitting oddly upon his sallow face. “But one of many such,” said Hanson. "Mr. Clayton, I shall not be asking you to betray a confidence if I ask you if that young man gave you any clew to the master crim- inal's identity.” Elphinstone Clayton blinked rapidly as he made the mental effort to recall. “Dear me, no! At least, I do not think so. Yet some- how I have the impression that he spoke of an Oriental whom he named The Scorpion. He did-yes, I am sure he did.” “But nothing else?” persisted Hanson. “No address or suggestion of where he might be found, or how he got in touch with him?" The old clergyman slowly shook his head and Hanson sighed. "It was always the same. The police failed utterly to trace him. Victims we found in plenty, but never a real clew to his identity. If you would care to listen I will tell you of some of his crimes.” THERE IS TALK OF CRIME 149 Kotlar, bowing and smirking. “For me it has been a delightful opportunity to gain first-hand knowledge from a world-famous expert.” “Well?” demanded Dick, ten minutes later. “How does Mr. Kotlar impress you?” "In the same manner, my dear Dick, as a fine culture of leprosy would impress an enthusiastic bacteriologist. Very interesting and very foul.” 152 SCORPION'S TRAIL of a motor boat came to her, and then she saw the streak of its wake as it flashed rapidly downstream. The tension was broken and she found time to wonder what it was all about. Hanson's warning came back to her mind. Was this the danger of which he had spoken? A figure moved in the shadows by the hedge and for one brief moment she had a vision of the upturned face of Mr. Kotlar. Something made her slip back from the window. Possibly it was the expression on Kotlar's face, contorted almost beyond recognition by mingled fear and rage, but mainly fear. As she stood pressed against the wall, her heart racing painfully with excitement, she heard his step on the path below and a snarling whisper came faintly to her ears: “I tell you it is him.” She waited breathlessly for the reply, but none came. Not daring to risk a peep, she returned to bed. It was not until she was between the sheets that she realized that the words were spoken in French and not English. Strange that Mr. Kotlar, who had never been in France, should have used that language! Very troubled in her mind, and not knowing what was the best thing to do, she got out again and, slipping on a wrap, went out to the corridor. Kotlar, clad only in his pyjamas, was standing in the hall below, explaining to the housekeeper and a startled maid that he had surprised a thief in his bedroom. The man had threatened him with a revolver, but he had seized it and turned the weapon against its owner. To Ann it was obvious that he was lying. He was still trembling and his eyes dilated by fear. Elphinstone Clay- ton stood by, shaking his head as though completely be- wildered. “Most extraordinary!” he said. “You are quite sure you were not mistaken?” CHAPTER XIX HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL “WELL, BARNARD, any news?” Chief Inspector Barnard shook his head and went on writing. Hanson sat down by the desk and lit a cigar. He waited patiently while the other finished the page and carefully blotted the neat, round writing. “No, Doctor,” said Barnard at last. “At least, nothing that gets us any further. Mike Cardon's death is a damned nuisance, I'll say that. If any of his posh pals get busy with the reporters there will be hell to pay. 'Man dies under examination by police. The sort of stuff the news- papers raise a mighty howl about, irrespective of the truth. And the blasted journalists rule this country! Lord, you can do what you like in the U.S.A. and nobody blinks an eyelid. They expect us to be a cross between Sunday-school teachers and wizards over here, and they pay us like farm laborers. Br-r-r!” Plainly the extreme liberty of the American police was a sore point with him; not that he had any sympathy with the disgusting third-degree methods of torturing prisoners. We But he did resent the hampering restrictions placed upon vaie the British police. Hanson nodded and said encouragingly: Careers “Mike Cardon's death was perfectly natural. No onen can dispute that he suffered for years with chronic arterio- ! sclerosis and hypertrophy of the heart. The shock of being lowed 1.. 155 156 SCORPION'S TRAIL charged with murder brought on an acute dilatation and he died. It might have happened at any time.” “Yes, so it might have, but the time it did happen was after I had questioned him. That's what makes it so pleas- ant for me." “The coroner will put that all square for you.” “Br-r-r!!” growled Barnard. “What evidence did you find in the flat?” asked Han- son quickly. Barnard was more than usually difficult this morning. “A lot of letters from men. Some might possibly be useful. Several from the man who was murdered at In- stow, Tracey Cleeve.” “Do they in any way explain his death?" “Make it quite clear, I think. Cleeve was out of funds and his father no good for any more. That was probably the reason why he went down to Devon. Finding that no money was to be obtained and craving, I suppose, for dope, he did a damned silly thing. He started to threaten the woman with exposure if she didn't continue the supply. I've got the letters here—you can see them presently. It doesn't appear from them that he knew very much about the extent of the traffic. Probably imagined that she was the actual importer. Anyhow, his last letter was plain blackmail and very ugly. Something had to be done, so she went down, met him by arrangement in a secluded place, I imagine, and finished him off by a means which had been found very effective previously and could be used again with equal chances of success. You said it was a woman's crime, and I fancy that you were correct. Though there is nothing in the letters to indicate what replies she made to his threats.” Hanson nodded thoughtfully. “Just told him that she couldn't supply any more with- HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL 157 out the ready money. Significant, you know, Barnard, that he should have threatened Lola Demaine. Evidently she must have been his sole source of supply. I wonder if he knew Mike Cardon.” “There's a lot of things I wonder myself,” said Barnard grimly. "But I can't find an answer to them. Why did the woman keep such letters? You'd have thought that she would have destroyed them before she vanished from the flat.” “Possibly because she did not expect to leave in such a hurry. And when there has been no preparation there is pretty sure to be a weakness in one or more of the details.” Barnard grinned sourly. “Never mind the details, Doctor. I'd be happy if I could make a guess at the main issue: how she escaped, and where she is now. I had my best men on guard there, and I'll wager my life that they never let her pass.” “You're somewhat reckless with your life, Barnard,” smiled Hanson. “If she is not in the building, then they must have let her pass. You have searched all the other flats?” Barnard made a gesture of impatience. “Searched them!” he exclaimed. “Pulled the damned place to pieces. And that's another thing I'll be on the carpet for. Some of the people were not too helpful and have complained. But, of course, it was a waste of time. Those flats are absolutely self-contained. There is no con- nection between any of them except the main stairway and the fire escape at the rear. I had men on both before I went in. Mr. Marlow is positive that she was speaking to him not more than five minutes previous to my entry. Cardon or the maid tipped her off that I was coming by giving that signal on the door. And don't tell me that there's some secret passage between those flats, because I've 158 SCORPION'S TRAIL any looked. And, in any case, that don't happen outside novels.” Hanson let the inconsistency pass. He might have said that there is no wild caprice or plot of any sensational novelist which cannot be paralleled and, indeed, far ex- ceeded by a study of foreign crime. There were reports of cases filed with the French Sûreté so fantastic and utterly improbable that no novelist would have dared to copy them in his stories. Barnard must have believed it possible or he would not have wasted time in searching. There was only one explanation, and Hanson had made a very accu- rate guess at it. But at the moment he wished to keep his knowledge to himself. It was not vanity which made him do so. It was his regard for Dick Marlow's happiness and Ann Penhayle's safety. Barnard's penetrating stare was fixed upon him. Anxious to avoid arousing the inspector's ever-ready suspicion, he asked a question: "Haven't you been able to extract any more informa- tion from the maid, Fredmann? Who is she, by the way?” “Poppy Fredmann is a dirty little blackmailing prosti- tute. She's been mixed up in half a dozen unsavory cases. One day I'll put her away so long that she'll be gray haired when she comes out. No, Doctor, she's as dumb as an oyster. Can't tell anything. Lies by the bucketful, but precious little truth, and nothing we didn't know already." Hanson got up from his chair and strolled over to the window. He leaned against the wall and stood staring out upon the river. “That's all the news I've got,” said Barnard. “Now what about yours?" Hanson raised his eyebrows and blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. 160 SCORPION'S TRAIL ities of The Scorpion and my part in the investigations. He pretended that he had never heard the name, but I knew that he was keenly on the alert the whole time. When I gave it as my opinion, and as that of the British police, that The Scorpion was dead and his gang scattered, he was secretly highly amused, and his tense attitude gradually relaxed. Of course, had I not been watching for just those actions I should never have seen them. Mr. Kotlar is an actor of great merit.” “Very interesting, Doctor," murmured Barnard with slow deliberation. "Please proceed.” “As you know, Kotlar runs a charity down in the Dock- land slums. If he does one half the amount of work he says he does it must cost him a very considerable sum of money. That he has persuaded Clayton to contribute pretty heavily is obvious. But unless he has been able to get others to do likewise he must put up a big pile himself. Now why does he do it? To cloak some other activity which makes the expenditure worth while.” “Probably," agreed Barnard. “Most conveniently situ- ated, too.” Hanson nodded. “Quite. The supplies must be smuggled in from abroad somehow, and the most likely smugglers are foreign sea- men. But would that guaranty the steady supply which must be so necessary to the success of the enterprise?” , “Certainly, if there were a sufficient number of men employed. To a skilled man it must be comparatively easy to smuggle small packages through the Customs." “Small packages, maybe. How often are seamen caught by the Customs officers?'” Barnard shrugged his broad shoulders. "Fairly frequently. Why?” “Because it seems to me that the ever-present danger HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL 161 of discovery and the ultimate tracing of the buyer would be a risk which The Scorpion would eliminate.” Barnard leaned back in his chair, his thick fingers gently drumming upon the desk. He was uncertain as to Han- son's meaning. “Most of the dope the sailors bring in is sold to their own countrymen over here. Chinese and Italian eating houses mainly. We have never been able to trace any big buyer in the business since Willie Wong Sing was put away. What had you in mind, Doctor?” “I was wondering why Kotlar goes all the way to Corn- wall for his milk supply. He told me that the Charity runs its own farm there.” “Oh, does it!” Barnard's voice was grim. “Nice place is Cornwall. Miles and miles of desolate coast, with isolated little bays, quite unprotected since the coast-guard service was reduced to a mere handful of men. That's the British government all over. Squander millions of the taxpayers' money on wildcat schemes at Geneva and go mad on sense- less economy at home. However, that's neither here nor there. The point is that Mr. Mark Kotlar's desire for Cornish milk for Limehouse children arouses my interest. I'll look into things, Doctor.” “From the Cornish end?” “From both ends and all the way up." “Good! That should yield something useful. Well, now, the next part of the story was related to me by Miss Penhayle this morning; that, too, is very interesting. Mar- low was booked to take her for a drive, but when she told him of her night's adventure he realized the seriousness of it and returned with her to me. Briefly it was this. Some time in the early hours she was awakened by a revolver- shot. She jumped out of bed and went to the window, as she heard a man running in the garden. It was a full moon 162 SCORPION'S TRAIL and a cloudless night. She had a clear view and almost im- mediately noticed the runner. From her description there can be no doubt that it was Simon Wernick. Kotlar, in pyjamas only, chased him, firing at him with what I be- lieve to be a Mauser. But Wernick escaped downstream in a fast motor boat, in which he must have come there. Miss Penhayle says that she heard Kotlar speak in French to a second person, unknown, to the effect that it was him, the other person presumably being doubtful of the iden- tity of the intruder.” Barnard slowly nodded his head and into his steely eyes there crept a gleam of excitement. Hanson continued: “Kotlar came back into the house alone. Clayton, the housekeeper, and a maid were in the lounge, very frightened.” "One moment,” interrupted Barnard. “Did Miss Pen- hayle leave her room? She must have, of course.” “Yes. She went out on to the landing where she could look down upon the lounge. Kotlar was already in when she did so. The racket must have started some little while before she was awakened, because they were all down in the lounge too. Miss Penhayle is definite that she heard neither the old man nor the servants pass her door, which they must have done to reach the lounge. However, the revolver in Kotlar's hand appears to have alarmed his audience.” Barnard allowed a thin smile to crease his lips. “How did the harmless charity secretary explain his possession of such a weapon?” P Harison smiled...inoly, I think. His Titely grappled "Rather unconvincingly, I think. His story is that he found the intruder in his room and immediately grappled. with him, disarming the man, and causing him to take flight.” HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL 163 “A damned thin yarn!” exclaimed Barnard. “Something plausible sacrificed for the sake of his vanity. He had to appear a hero before the women. An definite criminal char- acteristic. Anything more, Doctor?” “No, they all went to bed afterwards. Miss Penhayle pretended to have slept through the whole affair. She recognized that Kotlar was a liar and that there was some- thing very wrong somewhere. She decided to ask Mar- low's advice.” "Intelligent young woman," commented Barnard. Hanson looked across at the grim-faced policeman. “By the way, Barnard,” he asked, “do you still harbor those vile suspicions against the girl?” "No, Doctor, I do not. I'll admit that I had some in- quiries made, but the results satisfied me. However, that doesn't alter the fact that somehow she is a link with The Scorpion." “Unquestionably,” agreed Hanson. “But that connec- tion still remains obscure. Well, now, about Kotlar. I think that he should be kept under observation. I am convinced that he, at least, is a definite link with The Scorpion. I suggest that you get the local police to call and make some inquiries. That should be easy. They can state that the shooting was reported to them by a neighbor or some local resident-anything that is plausible. Kotlar can be asked for a description of the intruder and it can tally with that of a dangerous armed criminal for whom they have been watching. Play up to Kotlar's vanity and something may transpire of a useful nature. In any case it will serve as an excuse to have a man knocking about near the house." Barnard cupped his chin in his big hands and gazed at the ceiling. He was rapidly sorting out in his mind the numerous ideas which had come to him as Hanson's narra- ing the intrimal for HANSON MAKES A PROPOSAL 165 Barnard's face expressed no emotion as he replied in his slow, measured tones: “I can arrange that for you, Doctor. What exactly do you propose to do?” “Take a chance, Barnard,” replied Hanson. “A chance at bringing the case to a speedy conclusion. Suitably dis- guised, I shall cultivate the acquaintance of this friend of Kiley and get in with the distributors. I am counting on The Scorpion being able to supply every demand. Cer- tain types of drug-takers—opium smokers, for instance require some secret place where they can indulge the vice, without fear of interruption. If there is such a place, then it should yield all the evidence we require. It will be risky, doubtless, but worth while." Barnard drew in his breath with a deep inhalation. “You're a brave man, Doctor!” he commented. “We all have to die one day; but I wish you'd wait until I've finished with this business.” Hanson laughed and, throwing the half-smoked cigar into the empty grate, stood up. “I'll let you know when I'm ready.” He walked to the door and paused, his hand upon the handle. “And, Bar- nard, I'd have another look over Lola Demaine's flat if I were you." Barnard scowled at the closing door. CHAPTER XX THE SNIPER “AND NOW for the broad highway!” exclaimed Dick Mar- low, letting in the clutch and settling back into a comfort- able driving seat. “After all last night's excitement a change of scenery is the tonic indicated.” Few women look their best in the morning, but Ann's fresh young beauty would have passed triumphant through the most critical test. To Dick she was the very spirit and essence of all that was adorable. Sitting side by side in the open car, the joy of life written large upon their faces, they were the personification of that which is best in the British race. "I wonder who Simon Wernick really is?” mused Ann presently. "I don't know why, but somehow I like the little man.” “When you saw only his heels and his umbrella!” laughed Dick. "I'm glad you didn't see more of him!” “Yes, I know it sounds awfully silly to say it. But as I watched him running across the lawn I was dreadfully afraid that Kotlar would shoot him. He looked so in- offensive!” “Appearances are deceptive,” replied Dick. “Little Simon is a mystery to us all. But there is one thing of which I am certain: he's got a nerve of steel and, despite his lack of inches, he's a real tough customer. Kotlar didn't think him inoffensive, eh?” 166 THE SNIPER 167 Ann shook her fair head thoughtfully. “He was absolutely trembling with fear. His face was all twisted and horrible, reminding me of a cornered rat. Not that I have ever seen a cornered rat,” she added, laughing. "Like Mr. Kotlar, not a pretty sight,” said Dick. “I wish we could get rid of him, Dick. I'm sure he is not a real friend to Uncle.” Ann's face wore a troubled expression. Dick slipped his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer to him. “Let's leave it all to old Paul,” he suggested. “He's a wizard at clearing up mysteries. For to-day, at least, we will forget everything but our two selves, eh, darling?” And leaning over, he kissed those cherry-red lips smiling up at him. A wise decision, maybe, but one with which Fate was not in agreement. At the top of Crockham Hill Dick drew in and stopped for Ann to admire the beauty of the scenery—a view which he considered to be one of the finest in southeast England. Far below them the fertile valley, with its pleasant variety of color, swept out for miles. Though the day was un- usually warm, a soft breeze was whispering among the gorse and bracken. Ann, as she sat in the car, felt delight- fully dreamy, conscious of a sense of peace and security such as she had not known for a long time. So high up here, looking down upon the slumbering valley over which the light summer haze hung like a gentle benediction, she felt far removed from those dark mysteries which sur- rounded her. The disturbance at her guardian's house seemed an event of long ago. An unpleasant dream which had lost its potency with the coming of daylight. 168 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Jolly, eh?” smiled Dick, with an ell-embracing sweep of his hand. “Wonderful!” responded Ann drowsily, making an at- tempt to rouse herself. “And you are more than half asleep,” laughed Dick, pointing accusingly. "I'm awfully sleepy,” she admitted. “It must be the fresh air.” “Then, my dear little soul, take the chance of forty winks. I'll drive slowly until we come to the Ashdown Forest. There's nothing exciting in the way of landscape until then, but that really is worth seeing.” By the time they had descended the hill Ann was fast asleep, and many times Dick glanced at her, all his protec- tive instincts aroused. He marveled at the luck which had been his. How pale was that mental picture of his ideal woman compared with the living reality which was Ann Penhayle-here, beside him now! That was the wonder of it. Surely their meeting must have been predestined, resolved by High Heaven itself. He would not believe that a mere turn of chance was responsible. Chance could not work such a divine miracle. His thoughts reaching out into the golden future, bridg- ing with the optimism of youth the clouded present, Dick drove on through Edenbridge and Hartfield, scarcely con- scious of the passing of the villages. It was the familiar and conspicuous yellow sign upon the hill which roused him to the fact that he had reached the Ashdown Forest. Ann was still sleeping, and he decided not to waken her until they topped the rise, when the full beauty of the rolling downs would be visible. But Dick was forestalled in his intention. It was here that Fate stepped in. THE SNIPER 169 He was in the act of changing gear when the steering wheel kicked violently in his hands and a jagged splinter broke the polished surface. A split second later he heard the crack of a revolver. Amazing how swiftly the human mind can act, flashing its commands through the nerves to the muscles. Dick's left hand and foot operated gear-lever and clutch. His right hand swung back the wheel as the car swerved drunkenly and his toe pressed down the accelerator, a series of actions as near to being instantaneous as any human effort could be. His arm streaked out and encircled Ann's neck, bringing her flat down upon the seat beside him. Crouching low, he shot over the crest of the hill at sixty miles an hour, gaining speed at every turn of the wheels. Twice the revolver cracked, and the bullets came so perilously near that one plowed into the frame of the door at his elbow, and he felt the hot breath of the other as it pinged past his ear. Lucky for them that the car was capable of such rapid acceleration. Before the unseen marksman could fire again they were well under cover of the descending hill. Ann had awakened at the first report, and as Dick brought her down she realized the danger and lay still, her heart pounding painfully. In safety now she sat up and gasped: “Somebody shot at us, Dick?” Dick's pleasant face was no longer smiling. His eyes blazed with anger and his mouth was hard. He brought the car to a halt before he spoke. “Somebody sure did!” he said between his teeth. “And I'm just going to have a word with him,” he added with grim quietness. He swung open the door, but Ann grasped his arm. 170 SCORPION'S TRAIL “No, please don't, Dick,” she pleaded urgently. "Don't go back.” Dick looked into those violet-blue eyes, so full of fear for his safety, and his mouth relaxed. “But, darling,” he protested. “I mean, dash it all, the blighter might have murdered us! He came precious near it, anyway. I'm not taking that lying down!” Ann's grasp upon his arm tightened as he made to get out. "If he meant to murder us, Dick, he'll shoot you be- fore you even see him. Dick, for my sake, please don't go.” Dick hesitated; then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he smiled. “So be it, m’lady,” he sighed in mock resignation. “We'll beat it while the going is good. Nice gentleman! Shoots very well. It really is a shame to disappoint him!” Ann breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief as Dick restarted the car. Had they been the victims of an attempted holdup by road bandits? Or had the ambush been pre- pared for them alone? Though the former was the more probable, especially as numerous cases of highway robbery under arms had been reported in the newspapers recently, Ann believed the latter possibility to be the true one. "If it wasn't for the red tape and waste of time, I'd report to the local police," murmured Dick, speaking his thoughts aloud. “I ought to. A sportsman like that wants a little restriction put upon him. Curse the fellow! He's ruined a perfectly good-looking wheel!” "It might have been worse,” consoled Ann. “But why not wait and tell Doctor Hanson all about it? We don't want to be mixed up with the police if we can help it.” “Old Paul is up to his eyes in mystery now. We ought THE SNIPER 171 there on the dear sweet little soul, have known that we not to add to " began Dick, and broke off suddenly. “By gad, Ann, you're not suggesting- " “Yes, Dick, I am. I think that the man was hiding up there on the bank waiting for us.” “But, my dear sweet little soul, how could he have been? I mean, how could he possibly have known that we would be coming this way. For that matter, how could he know that we even existed?” "I can't explain how or why, Dick. I only know how I feel. I am sure that he wasn't an ordinary road bandit.” "Is this feminine intuition, I wonder?” laughed Dick. Then, becoming serious once more: "Perhaps you are right, old girl. But you realize what that would mean?” Ann nodded. "It would mean that somebody overheard us when we were planning the trip. And there is only one person whom I can suggest.” “Which is Mark Kotlar,” said Dick, with a little gri- mace of distaste. “Oh well, let's forget it, and be jolly thankful that we got off so lightly. What says that sign- post? 'Ten miles to Lewes.' Good! I know a topping place for lunch.” As they drove on Ann struggled to recapture her for- mer mood of gladness, but it eluded her mischievously. Her eyes kept wandering to the damaged rim of the wheel, and to the edge of the door furrowed by the bullet - constant reminders of the peril through which they had passed, and which might still threaten them. She tried to analyze her reasons for believing that it was a personal affair and found that she had none. It was so highly im- probable as to border on the impossible. Yet something told her that it was so. Perhaps it was, as Dick had laugh- ingly suggested, woman's intuition-perception of the truth without reasoning. 172 SCORPION'S TRAIL Why was it that she seemed to have become a magnet for violence and death? What possible connection could there be linking her with the dead man she had discovered upon the burrows at Instow, later identified as Tracey Cleeve? She had never, to her knowledge, set eyes upon the man before, nor could she recollect ever having heard the name. She tried to recall any little incident or word which might have induced her to go to the cottage on that particular evening. But she could remember none. It had been chance, and chance alone. Pure coincidence and noth- ing more. Idle curiosity had prompted her to look inside the old ruin, otherwise she would have passed it by. She had not even thought of the fisherman's ghost story until she was actually inside the garden. What was it Doctor Hanson had said about ghosts? They were caused by mental impressions received from another person's mind. Ann wondered if she might be an unconscious receiving agent for such impressions. Often, for no reason at all, she had anticipated what people were going to say next, even when the subject matter was a complete change, entirely different from that previously under discussion. Perhaps it was her Cornish ancestry which made her—what was it?—clairvoyant. Illy avoided to be his usu in his mind.oad, negotiata Lunch at the old-fashioned hotel which Dick selected from past experience did much to restore her spirits. Dick carefully avoided any reference to the shooting, and suc- cessfully appeared to be his usual light-hearted, gay self. But secretly he was very uneasy in his mind. From Lewes they took the Eastbourne road, negotiat- ing the rough track up to Beachy Head on the way, and then along the coast to Rye and the Romney Marshes. This was a modification of their original plan, which THE SNIPER 173 had been a westward journey to Arundel and Chichester. Though Ann readily agreed to the change of route, she knew the reason which had prompted the suggestion. It was with mixed emotions that Dick left her that night. He hated going, and leaving her alone. But Ann had assured him that no danger was likely to threaten her within the house. Nevertheless, it was with slow steps that he returned to his car. His peace of mind would have been more disturbed still if he could have known the interest with which three pairs of eyes watched him as he drove away, though their owners were animated by vastly different emotions. eturned to : Nevertheleger was liker CHAPTER XXI “KOTLAR'S CHARITY” ACTING ON the advice delivered as a parting shot by Paul Hanson, Barnard had conducted another search through Lola Demaine's flat. That the American had some definite idea in mind he knew, but strive as he might he failed to determine what it was. He had gone over the whole place again with the ut- most care without result. This time he had devoted more attention to the luggage lift, a shaft which traversed the whole height of the building and opened in the hall of each flat. It was, of course, just possible for a small person to crouch inside and operate the pulley ropes which con- trolled the lift. But that did not solve his problem. If Lola Demaine had escaped from her own flat that way it did not explain how she had escaped from the building. Bar- nard was positive that she could not have passed his guard. Curse them and lash them with his acid tongue as he might, he nevertheless had perfect confidence in them when it came to a job like that. There was too much mystery about this case. He hated mysteries. A difficult tangle to unravel-yes; he enjoyed that. Even a motiveless murder. But not this forever grop- ing in the dark. The Chief Inspector was not given to flights of imagina- tion, yet as he stood alone in Lola Demaine's flat he was 174 “KOTLAR'S CHARITY” 175 conscious of a confused and chilling sense of loathsome things moving, as it were, behind a veil. He felt that he was fighting some unnatural foe, a foul monster which had tainted the very atmosphere it had breathed. With a muttered oath he swung about and stamped from the room. “Bah!” he growled disgustedly. “I'm get- ting nerves!” To the detective on duty on the landing he gave addi- tional instructions. "If any luggage is sent away from these flats I want full particulars of its destination, at once,” he ordered. “Very good, sir. No news of the woman, I suppose?” -“You suppose correctly,” snapped Barnard, and strode away. “Thank you!” muttered the detective, scowling at the Chief Inspector's broad back. Barnard returned to Scotland Yard, hoping that some report may have come in during his absence. But in this he was disappointed. Lola Demaine had completely van- ished, and with her the Sutherland diamonds. There was nothing further that he could do. He was confident that if she had not escaped from the country he would get her. But that might mean months of patient labor, to which he looked forward with gloomy anticipation. Her descrip- tion had been circulated to every police force in the world, and details of the diamonds to all the buyers at home and abroad. In one respect he had been fortunate. Mike Cardon's death had aroused no storm about his ears. No one ap- peared to have the slightest interest in him. Thinking of the redheaded crook brought back to his mind the last interview. What was it Cardon had found so amusing? The man had been in deadly fear, yet he had grinned at that one thing, when he had mentioned his wife. That 176 : SCORPION'S TRAIL he had actually been married to Lola Demaine Barnard had verified. Possibly it may have been that he had al- ready half a dozen legally wedded wives distributed about the world. But that did not seem sufficient reason for so much humor that he had momentarily forgotten his des- perate plight. That they had never lived together, or been known as man and wife was, of course, part of the general plan for the entanglement of wealthy young fools. All that was plain sailing and quite understandable. Somehow he had made a mistake, and the memory rankled in his mind like the nag of toothache. As a heavy tread sounded in the corridor he glanced up. Detective-Sergeant Trotter entered, nodded cheerfully, and carefully pocketing his ancient brier, slumped down upon a chair. "Well, Chief,” he announced, "I've been down to Kot- lar's institute, and it seems to be a genuine O.K. concern. He didn't overstate the extent of his charity, anyway.” Barnard gave an almost imperceptible nod of his iron- gray head but made no comment. Trotter waited a few seconds and then, taking a deep breath, commenced to deliver his report. "I went along to the Limehouse station and got the lay of the place. Nothing known locally against it. On the contrary, believed to be performing a really fine bit of work among the poor of the neighborhood. And, blimey, work anonge poor Chief, there's a few of 'em! 'Struth it gets worse and me, ono ne, any worse every time I go there. In the old days when we- " "You can cut the personal reminiscences entirely, Trot- ter," interrupted Barnard icily. Trotter suppressed a grin. “Oh, sure, Chief,” he acknowledged cheerfully. "Well, after I had listened to Kotlar's praises being sung I walked “KOTLAR'S CHARITY” 177 along and had a look at the place itself. It's an old river- side warehouse, all done up fresh and inviting—made a good job of it! I hung about for a while just to see what was going on. Several kids went in and came out with bottles of milk, given 'em free. Then soon after a Rolls- Royce bowled along and handed in a big packet of stuff and some toys." "Whose car?” demanded Barnard, as Trotter paused. "Lady Fallon's. I got into conversation with the chauf- feur. It was a bundle of old clothes from her ladyship. She collects 'em for Kotlar and sends 'em along about once a week.” “She does not come herself?” “Apparently not, Chief. Sends the chauffeur each time.” “H’m! Do you know if the man was given a receipt?” Trotter shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, Chief. I didn't ask him.” Barnard felt in the drawer and produced a sheet of paper on which was written a list of names. He nodded for Trotter to continue. “The next kid who came out was due to have an acci- dent with her bottle, so I went in with her to explain that it was my fault. There's a man and his wife, by the name of Martin, in charge of the place. I learned that from the station beforehand. Local couple, ex-Guardsman, reputed to be most respectable. They look it, too! Nothing crooked about the Martins, I'd say." Barnard leaned back in his chair and, pressing the tips of his fingers together, favored his subordinate with a frigid stare full of scorn. “I wonder, Trotter,” he said slowly and deliberately, “when you will learn one of the first principles of your job?” “What's that, Chief?” asked Trotter brightly, totally unabashed by the withering tones. 178 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Just this: that you cannot judge a man's character from his appearance. Much less can you judge a woman's.” “Agreed, Chief. But, damn it, you can tell the old- fashioned, super-respectable folk. They don't want tabs on 'em!” Barnard drew a deep breath. “Of all the foolish remarks I have heard you make, Trotter, and they have been numberless, I think that is probably the worst yet. One of the most old-fashioned, super-respectable-looking men who ever lived was that notorious murderer, Charles Peace. However-proceed.” The Detective-Sergeant would have liked to argue, but observing the ominous gleam in his chief's eye suppressed the inclination and continued: "I got into conversation with Mrs. Martin. The milk comes up in churns from Downderry, in Cornwall, every evening. They've got two vans of their own which they use collecting the milk from farms down there and trans- porting it to town. She didn't tell me anything that I hadn't already heard from the station. Kotlar is irregular in his attendance. Sometimes he is there every day for a week; other times he might miss a complete week or even longer." "Did you see the milk come in?” "Sure. I hung about until the van arrived and unloaded the milk in the yard. The driver was a youngster with just about enough sense to drive the van and that's all. He went down the road to a coffee stall and I got on to him.” “A Londoner?” asked Barnard. Trotter grinned. “No, Chief. A real country bumpkin from Cornwall. One of the sort that's naturally suspicious of strangers and don't have much to say. It was hard work getting him “KOTLAR'S CHARITY” 179 to talk. He's been doing the run, up one day and down the next, for two months. The Cornish place is a new establishment, apparently. His cousin is the second driver." Barnard's big fingers drummed upon the desk as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the dirty ceiling. “Who is the farm manager?” he asked presently. “Did you discover that?” "Only that his name is Robinson and that he was sent down from town to start the place going. He doesn't ap- pear to have impressed the Cornishmen with his farming knowledge.” "H’m! Anything else?” “No, Chief.” "Right! Have a look at those names.” Trotter took the paper which Barnard slipped across the desk. His eyes opened in genuine surprise and he whistled softly. “Dog bite me, Chief!” he exclaimed. “How the devil did he rope in that little lot!” “Some very distinguished names there, Trotter." “There are that, Chief. Kind hearts and coronets to spare.” Barnard leaned over and, pointing to the name of a titled lady, asked: “Do you recall anything about that name, Trotter?” The Detective-Sergeant's merry eyes narrowed as he looked up at his chief. “Sure I do. She was the one who wrecked Willie Wong Sing's little business, though he never knew it.” “Which, maybe, is very fortunate, Trotter. Curious that she should be a patroness of 'Kotlar's Charity'!” "If it comes to that, Chief, it's damned curious that any of 'em are.” “KOTLAR'S CHARITY” 181 life as being much too short to be taken seriously. The chief's grim, official view of everything amused him. He looked upon the department as a soul-destroying machine which would cast him aside when he was finished. Barnard worshiped it. And yet, should it so suit the department, it would disown him, make him the scapegoat to be sacri- ficed upon the altar of public opinion. But of the two men Trotter was the better leader, though not the better detective. Barnard, cold and unapproachable, got no more than bare duty from his subordinates. But for the cheery ser- geant, sympathetic and understanding, they would work until they dropped, rather than let him down. Trotter waited patiently for the other to continue. He guessed what was coming. "Does anything strike you about that milk supply?” demanded the Chief Inspector suddenly. “Lord, yes! Half a dozen things!” “Such as?” “Sending it all that way when they could get just as good a supply from Essex or Kent.” “Quite!” Barnard brought his fine teeth together with an audible click. “That is why I am sending you down to investigate. The drugs come in from somewhere, and as they arrive in considerable quantities it is not through the usual channels. Most of those have been closed or reduced to such small proportions as to be negligible. You can take Brett with you. He comes from that way, and probably knows the district and the dialect, both useful assets. Do not, under any circumstances, bring in the county police. I've never had the misfortune to work with the Cornish- men, but doubtless they run true to type, farm laborers in uniform. That's all the orders I'm giving you. For the rest, you must use your own initiative.” 182 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Very good, Chief,” acknowledged Trotter, looking for- ward with pleasurable anticipation to the trip. “Just one other point, Trotter. If any of those persons whose names appear on this list visit the farm while you are there I want an immediate report. You understand? Very well. If there is anything further I want I'll 'phone you before you leave.” "Good enough,” agreed the sergeant, rising to his feet. “It'll be nice in Cornwall this weather. Always fancied I'd like to own a bit of land down there." “You might yet,” snapped Barnard. “Six feet of it!” “Six feet one," corrected Trotter, who could, when so minded, be a stickler for accuracy in detail. “S’long, Chief.” CHAPTER XXII THE OPIUM SMOKER Paul Hanson was fully aware of the risk he was taking, more so, perhaps, than Barnard. A man possessed of the diabolical accomplishments of The Scorpion would be a formidable enemy at any time. Now that the police net was closing about him he might be expected to exercise all his knowledge, cunning, and resourcefulness. That the mysterious master mind behind the drug and blackmail organization had been responsible for Sammy Lander's hypnotic trance he did not doubt. If Professor Barry con- tinued in his failure to rouse the man and lift the veil from his clouded brain there could be no other end for him than a criminal lunatic asylum. Disappointing for them that Lander had proved such a failure. He might have made this rather desperate experiment that Hanson contemplated unnecessary. But thoughts of his danger were troubling Hanson not at all as he carefully completed the disguise he was effect- ing. An artist at disguise, he knew that its value lay in simplicity. Yet at the same time he must make it one which would pass the closest scrutiny, for if his venture was suc- cessful it would certainly get it. Mainly he was concerned with his ears, the least sus- pected, yet the easiest means of identification. He had in- jected a solution which had increased the lobes to twice their normal size and completely altered the shape of the would pass the cheertainly get it... his ears, the 183 184 SCORPION'S TRAIL helix. His hair he had treated with a bleaching agent until it was coppery brown, and his nostrils widened by means of tiny silver springs, securely fixed and concealed. A complete alteration in his style of dress and Barnard himself would have passed him without a second glance. He set out to meet Kiley, confident in the perfection of his disguise. To the soft-footed and sedate Parker he pre- sented a card bearing the inscription: Colman P. Vander. This was the name by which he was to be introduced. Kiley received him with a look of incredulous admiration on his face. “By gad, Hanson!” he ejaculated. “I suppose it is you?” he added doubtfully, coming closer and sub- jecting the amused Hanson to a closer inspection. “Yes, it sure is me, Kiley,” replied Hanson in a harsh, nasal tone. "But say, you'll have to cut out calling me Han- son, even when we are alone. If you don't, you'll let it out unconsciously at some moment when we least want it.” “All right-er—Vander,” grinned Kiley. “But, damn it, it seems so daft! What I mean to say is, it's like getting to know a quite different person.” Hanson nodded. “I am a different person,” he replied. “Keep that in mind all the time and we're not likely to have any slips. Now, when do I meet Sir Roger Pilkington?” Kiley glanced at his wrist watch. “We'li bowl along to the club. He'll be pretty sure to be there now. Meet him casually, that's the idea, eh? No sort of running after him.” As Kiley had anticipated, Sir Roger Pilkington was at the club. As they leisurely ascended the wide staircase he saw him saunter into the smoking room and prepared to follow. At this time of the afternoon the room was almost empty, and Kiley had no difficulty in effecting an introduc- tion in the most casual manner possible. THE OPIUM SMOKER 185 Pilkington was very formal at first. Hanson, in his rôle of Colman P. Vander, did not impress him favorably. There was a little too much of the "one hundred per cent American” about him for the baronet's taste. But when Kiley mentioned that he had been in China, Pilkington was roused to polite interest. “Were you engaged in commercial enterprise, Mr. Vander?” he asked. “Not exactly commercial, Sir Roger,” drawled Hanson. “Though I guess most things are a matter of dollars when you get down to bedrock. I was with the American Geo- logical Survey up at Chou Kou in the Western Hills.” "Oh indeed. I was well acquainted with Dr. W. Sen, Professor of Paleontology in the Peking University. If you were at Chou Kou you will possibly know him, or at least have heard his name.” “Sure,” replied Hanson. "He was the Sinanthropus ex- pert. I did not meet him myself, but some of our party had some interesting discussions with him. You were up there too?” Sir Roger shook his head. “No, not so far north. I met him when he was in Hong- kong, fresh from the Tokyo Imperial University. I was then adviser to the Ministry of Agriculture and Com- merce.” For several minutes their conversation ran along such technical lines that Kiley scarcely knew what they were talking about. The stifled yawn needed no dissimulation on his part. He arose. "I'll leave you to it. Your passion for Messrs. Pithe- canthropus and Company leave me a little cold,” he #grinned. “Don't hurry, I promise to return." But Kiley had not been gone for more than five minutes before Pilkington visibly began to lose interest. His sud- THE OPIUM SMOKER 187 stone-wall cert that, but for your warning, I should have been caught.” “Unquestionably, Kiley. The simplicity of the plan as- sures its success. And by its very nature keeps it a close secret.” “But it's diabolical, man!” Kiley made a vigorous ges- ture with his clenched fist. "If you could have seen those young girls in 'The Gilded Lily' that night you would have been absolutely revolted. Decent, well-brought-up people, with highly respected fathers and mothers, abso- lutely lost to any sense of shame. By Heaven, I'm no puritan, but there's a limit beyond which I will not go!” Hanson nodded understandingly. “I've seen it, Kiley,” he replied quietly. “There are places in New York compared with which 'The Gilded Lily pales into complete insignificance. Since the introduc- tion of Prohibition the drug traffic has grown enormously. One of the worst aspects of the case is the increasing num- ber of high-school pupils who are falling victims to the habit-mainly, of course, girls. And once the habit is con- tracted by a woman it is quite impossible to break it. It is only a matter of time before they go down the hill, lost to all moral sense or honor. Death, often by their own hand, comes as a merciful release. One may place them in nurs- ing homes and similar institutions, but it is merely a tem- porary respite. I cannot recall a single instance in which a woman has successfully recovered from the habit once con- tracted. I have known a few cases of men making an ap- parent recovery, after a desperate struggle. But they were never the same as before and, in my opinion, unless closely watched, are likely to relapse at the first opportunity. The drug habit, unlike drink, has no redeeming feature. Al- cohol at least may claim the furtherance of good fellow- ship.” 188 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Oh, rather," agreed Kiley readily. “A drop of the right stuff never hurt any man, except a fool. Lord, I can take my tonic with the best of them, but it wouldn't be much hardship to cut it out of the menu entirely if I thought it necessary. Which I do not,” he added, smiling. Hanson nodded his agreement. “Therein lies the essential difference. There is hope for the drunkard but none for the drug addict. By the way, Kiley, what put you on to Pilkington?” Kiley thought for a moment. “Sort of putting two and two together, you know. He was very thick with Carfax, which was unnatural, Carfax being the type of hound he was. Then I'd heard rumors at the club. Nothing much, just whispers. Something wrong with Pilkington, sort of thing. Not the man he used to be. And then I watched for the signs as you suggested. Altogether I fancied I'd spotted a red-hot winner.” "Which you have,” agreed Hanson. "Let's hope it leads to something definite.” Hanson, with all his knowledge, did not realize just where it would lead him. But even if he had been able to foresee the future he would not have deviated one hair's breadth from the course he had set. A few lives might possibly have been saved, days of terrible anxiety avoided, but the ultimate result would have been the same. 190 SCORPION'S TRAIL “I-I'm all-right-now," he gasped painfully. Pilkington saw the purple fade until his twitching face was deathly pale and noted the dilation of his pupils, understanding beginning to dawn upon him. He poured brandy into Hanson's glass and held it to his lips. Hanson drank it eagerly and then lay back, smiling weakly. “Quite recovered, Sir Roger," he murmured, wiping the perspiration from his face into which some color was returning. “I am sorry to have—disturbed you." "Oh, that's all right, Vander,” replied Pilkington in a more truly friendly manner than he had yet displayed toward his guest. “What an extraordinary ailment! Are you subjected to attacks of this nature?” “Unfortunately I am. More unfortunate still is that I have no means of obtaining relief while I remain in Eng- land.” Pilkington shot a glance at him, half speculative, half questioning. "Indeed, that is curious! One imagines that England is able to provide everything.” Hanson slowly shook his head and sighed regretfully. “Not the thing which I require, Sir Roger,” he said, very quietly. Then, with an expressive shrug of his shoul- ders, he smiled as if he would dismiss the matter from his mind. But the other drew his chair closer and sat down regarding him with deep interest. “Tell me, I am curious, what is it you must have?” he asked. “What I must have, Sir Roger, is the product of the poppy-opium.” Hanson's voice was little more than a whisper. He averted his gaze from the baronet's face as if he was somewhat ashamed of his confession. “I acquired the habit when I was in China. Now, I cannot live long without it.” He sighed and looked up with a twisted smile. THE SCORPION'S AGENT 193 to control. Hessness which een Again Pilkington smiled wryly. “A matter of temperament, 'I suppose. Personally, I curse the day I ever tasted the damned stuff. I thought I should be master of myself; instead, I am its abject slave.” "Ah, but there is a slavery which is bliss, Sir Roger!” exclaimed Hanson with a far-away look in his eyes. "I do not regret it.” “You are lucky,” retorted Pilkington irritably. "I re- gret it more than anything I have ever done. I would give every penny I have to be free from the cursed toils. But I know that I never will be.” For the next two hours conversation lagged between them. Pilkington was possessed of a restlessness which he endeavored without success to control. Hanson feigned a weariness which was so obvious that it relieved Pilkington of the necessity for entertaining his guest. Both men were waiting for the opium agent. At ten o'clock he came. Hanson immediately recognized the oily Mr. Kotlar. Pilkington, making an excuse, con- ducted the agent to another room. Kotlar had given no sign whatever that he recognized Hanson. But the real test would come later. Very unlikely that anyone, under the circumstances, would have pene- trated the disguise. Hanson, though not surprised, had not expected Kotlar to be the agent. It rather pointed to the fact that The Scorpion's gang was smaller than he had anticipated. He wondered if Barnard's man had followed him from Twick- enham and if Kotlar intended returning there. Except for the hour, there would be nothing to arouse the faintest suspicion. Sir Roger Pilkington was a wealthy man, doubt- less interested in some charity or other. Hanson thought that Kotlar could not have adopted a safer means of cover- ing his real work. Everything The Scorpion did bore the 194 SCORPION'S TRAIL brand of intelligence and clear forethought in these smaller matters of his organization. Presently Pilkington returned. “I think I have arranged it for you, Vander,” he an- nounced. “But he insists on interviewing you privately. He is waiting in the room opposite.” Hanson's face bore an eager expression as he almost ran from the room. Pilkington shrugged his shoulders and drew his hand across his brow with a tired gesture. Mr. Kotlar greeted Hanson with an ingratiating smirk. For one horrible moment he was seized with a desire to plant his clenched fist between those black, slanting eyes. But, fighting down the impulse, he dropped upon a chair and stared questioningly at him. Kotlar's attention was at once attracted by the dilated pupils which seemed to possess something of the qualities of a cat's eye in darkness. “You can provide me with the panacea I seek?” asked Hanson, in a harsh, though slightly tremulous voice. Kotlar's smirk widened and he nodded his black head. “I think so, Mr. Vander,” he replied. Hanson breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank what gods there be for that!” he exclaimed fervently. “When?” “Provided that we can come to satisfactory arrange- ments, I think possibly on Wednesday night.” “Not before?” “Alas, no, I fear not. Shall we-er-discuss the arrange- ments?” Kotlar cocked his head on one side and studied him with interest. Hanson made a gesture of impatience. “You mean the price? Well, that is easily settled. I am prepared to pay.” Kotlar smirked again, that irritating, oily leer. Hanson THE SCORPION'S AGENT 195 promised himself that one day he would take one clean swipe at that provoking mouth. “The price is heavy, Mr. Vander. You will appreciate that in this country the police do not favor us. We have enormous expenses to meet. We must do all our service in secret; that all costs money. We do not — ” "Oh, cut it out!” snarled Hanson. “I know all that. How much?” Mr. Kotlar's sallow face lost some of its servile good humor. “Shall we say two hundred pounds?” he said softly, keeping his gaze fixed upon Hanson's twitching lips. “Two hundred!” exclaimed Hanson. “Say, that's hot.” Mr. Kotlar shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands with an eloquent gesture. "We do not cater for the poor, Mr. Vander,” he mur- mured. “Our clientele embraces some of the most famous and important persons in the country. We must keep it select. You would wish that, of course. And what, after all, is the price?” "A lot of money,” rasped Hanson. "But, curse it, you win. I must have it.” “Just so,” murmured Kotlar. "And that entitles you to three months' membership, you understand.” Hanson's forehead puckered. “Do you mean that I can— " “Oh, but yes, Mr. Vander. Ah, now I perceive! The fee I have named is not for one single journey into that land of bliss. Oh, dear me, no! You may come as often as you wish. You may stay all the three months.” Hanson rose suddenly from his seat and grasped the hands of the slightly startled Mr. Kotlar. “My dear friend!” he cried. “I was under a misappre- hension. I was doing you an injustice.” 196 SCORPION'S TRAIL Mr. Kotlar smiled with happy relief, an action which, if anything, made his face less attractive than in repose. “Oh, but no, Mr. Vander. You did not understand,” he protested. “Now, just one thing more before I go. Sir Roger tells me that you have not that amount of money upon your person. Naturally, I should not expect it. Will you then pass it to Sir Roger in the morning? Er-in one- pound notes, if you do not mind, Mr. Vander.” “A check would be more convenient,” suggested Han- son. “Sir Roger will guaranty— " Mr. Kotlar's sallow face assumed a hurt expression. “Mr. Vander,” he protested softly, “we do not doubt a friend of Sir Roger Pilkington. Oh no, it is not that. It is the police, you understand. We must be so careful. Our financial arrangements are not conducted through an Eng- lish bank.” “Quite. I understand,” replied Hanson, rising and ex- tending his hand to Kotlar as he rose, too. “Wednesday night! Relief at last! By the way, what is your name? In case I wish to get in touch with you at any time.” Kotlar shook his head and leered. “We have no names. We leave them behind us in this sordid world when we seek the solace of the poppy.” “But how may I find you again?” asked Hanson with a puzzled frown. “Sir Roger will always put us in touch. Or, if not, some other means will be found. Rely on us, Mr. Vander. We will never fail you." To Hanson there was a world of sinister meaning in his words. When Kotlar was gone he again thanked his host for the service he had done him. But Sir Roger dismissed it with a weary shrug. "If you are satisfied, Vander, I am happy to have helped. CHAPTER XXIV WHERE THE SNIPER LAY Dick MARLow was awaiting Hanson on his return to Bex- ley. One glance at his expressive face was sufficient to warn him that Dick's day had not been uneventful. “Hullo, Dick! Had a good day?” he asked casually, stilling a yawn. “Bet your sweet life on that, Sawbones,” was the prompt reply. Hanson crossed over to the divan and dropped upon it with a weary sigh. As he felt for his cigar case he glanced up at Dick, leaning against the mantelshelf, legs apart, en- deavoring to look unconcerned. “What's the trouble then, Dick?” he demanded sud- denly. "Trouble!” exclaimed Dick. “How the devil do you know there's been any trouble?” “My dear Dick, it's written so large upon your face that one cannot possibly miss it. Now, what can it be? The course of true love running smoothly, the boy sound in wind and limb, bank balance equally healthy, the source of annoyance can only come from some external source.” “Anything else?” asked Dick sarcastically. Hanson motioned him to a chair opposite. “Sit down and tell me all about it.” Then, as Dick obediently seated himself, “What's the bug that's biting you!" 198 WHERE THE SNIPER LAY 199 “A most inelegant expression from a celebrated medical whatnot!” reproved Dick severely. “Well, old thought- reader, the fact is that some misguided sportsman found great amusement in taking pot shots at us this morning, and very nearly scored a bull.” Hanson roused himself, the tired expression changing immediately to one of keen interest. “So soon!” he exclaimed. Dick's blue eyes opened wide as he stared at his learned friend. “What do you mean-so soon? You expected it?” "Not to-day, Dick. Sooner or later it was bound to come. But this unseemly haste is rather disturbing.” "You surprise me! So from now on I may consider my- self to be a walking target. Is that it?” “There is that possibility, Dick.” “Oh!” Dick sucked in his breath with a heavy sigh and his lips set in a determined line. "In that interesting case I'll carry my own artillery with which to return the com- pliment. But you might have warned me, Paul. He's prop- erly messed up my steering wheel and splintered the door. Damn the fellow!” Dick appeared to be much more concerned about the damage to his car than the threat to his own life. Hanson smiled. “An unforgivable offense, eh? Tell me all about it.” Dick leaned forward in his chair, pointing accusingly with the stem of his pipe. “Look here, Paul, there's a darned sight more in this business than you've told me. Why should I be shot at, anyway?” (Why was Jules Valiente murdered?” retorted Hanson. Dick's brow wrinkled. “Valiente?” “Yes, you've not forgotten him, have you?” 200 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Ye gods! Is it likely! But what possible connection have I with one of The Scorpion's crew? How the devil- ” Dick broke off, the puzzled expression deepening upon his face. “The attempt was made upon your life because you are the prospective husband of Ann Penhayle,” explained Hanson quietly. Dick commenced to fill his pipe with an air of resigna- tion. “Go on," he said. Hanson continued: “There can be only one explanation. Ann either is, or will be, on reaching her majority, possessed of considerable wealth.” “What!” ejaculated Dick. “Why, she hasn't a bean! She told me so herself!” “Quite. She does not know it.” A thought occurred to Dick, a knock-out blow for Paul's theory. “But Elphinstone Clayton must know. He's her guardian. What about that?” Hanson's lean face relaxed its severity. “Well done, Dick!” he cried. “I was wondering if you would think of that. A good argument but, unfortunately, full of holes.” “Holes! How?" “My dear Dick, there are half a dozen reasons which occur to me at this moment why Elphinstone Clayton may be in as complete ignorance as Ann herself. One particu- larly good reason.” "Damn it, Paul,” protested Dick impatiently, "you talk in riddles! I can understand some sportsman plugging the French crook for marrying Ann. He earned all that came to him, and more beside. But, dash it, man, I'm not a 202 SCORPION'S TRAIL “What, you mean- ” "Sure. Say at five o'clock. My eyes will be normal again by then. How does that time suit you?” Dick breathed a big sigh. “All right,” he agreed with mock resignation. "Fortu- nately I can drive in my sleep.” At four-thirty Paul Hanson roused him from deep slum- ber, and such was his power of persuasion that five-fifteen saw them speeding toward the Ashdown Forest at a steady sixty miles an hour. The fresh morning air, laden with sweet scents of the countryside, drove the sleep from Dick's eyes, and he was conscious of a thrill of excitement. How Paul proposed to discover the identity of the criminal he had not the re- motest idea. But such was his confidence in his friend that he fully expected him to do so. “Just cast your mind back and think of all the persons who could have known of your detailed plan of route," requested Hanson, speaking for the first time as they were approaching Westerham. "I have,” replied Dick. "I thought of precious little else all yesterday. We were going over it at tea while you were talking crime stuff with Kotlar and the old man. It was mentioned again when we were standing on the veranda and the housekeeper came and talked to us. Ann asked her if she knew the Ashdown Forest. She comes from around that way, I believe.” “Ah, yes, the housekeeper,” murmured Hanson. “I must not forget that interesting lady. You can think of no other person?” “Absolutely none, Paul. Ann says she had nothing more to say about it after we had gone. To me it boils down to Kotlar.” “It would seem so,” Hanson agreed thoughtfully. “But WHERE THE SNIPER LAY 203 it could not have been Kotlar himself who shot at you as he was at Twickenham the whole morning. Barnard's man interviewed him about the shooting affair of the previous night.” "Oh yes,” exclaimed Dick eagerly. “What was the re- sult?” “Barnard sent down a sergeant, specially selected for his knowledge of foreign criminals. He was rigged up as a constable of the local division. But the interview yielded negative results. Kotlar produced the revolver with which he stated he had fired upon the intruder. On examination it proved to be one of those dummy guns made for blanks only, the sort sold in thousands to schoolboys. Without re- vealing Ann's part in the affair the sergeant could not press the matter further. Clayton rather assisted Barnard by ask- ing the police to keep an eye upon the house at night. Kotlar was all for dropping the matter entirely.” “He would be!" commented Dick grimly. Hanson did not speak again until they were on the rise up to the forest. “Go as nearly as you possibly can at the same speed as yesterday and stop at the spot where the first shot was fired,” he ordered. He watched the speedometer needle flicker back as Dick eased the accelerator and a few moments later brought the car to a halt just under the crest of the hill. On the left the bank rose to a height of some ten feet, topped by gorse and tall bracken. It was an ideal place for an ambush. A car coming up the hill would be traveling at less speed at this particular spot than at any other place on the forest road. It argued either plenty of time to select the scene, or else an intimate knowledge of the locality. That it might have been a free-lance road bandit was quite possible, but it did not square with the usual methods 204 SCORPION'S TRAIL of such gentry. The element of chance entered too much into such an explanation, when there was every indication of a carefully prepared plan. Though the week-end traffic on this road to the coast was heavy, there was not a lot during the week days. It was a hundred to one against another car being on this stretch during the few moments necessary. And even if there had been, the whole affair would have been so sud- den that the following car would have attributed the ac- cident to a burst tire. Ample time for the murderer to make good his escape before the truth was discovered. "Here we are,” announced Dick. “What now?” “Sit here at the wheel while I go up the bank,” re- quested Hanson, getting out. “Very good, m'lord,” grinned Dick, touching his cap in mock salute. Hanson walked up the road a few yards before he as- cended the bank. Treading carefully, he approached the place above the car from the rear and immediately per- ceived some of those signs for which he was searching. Clumps of gorse at the edge of the bank hid a shallow de- pression just behind it. An additional screen was furnished by the stems of bracken growing between. The marks where a body had lain were plain for his ex- perienced eyes to read. For several minutes he stood look- ing down, searching for other signs than the crushed stems of young bracken and the indents of toes and elbows in patches of bare earth. Then, taking a tape measure from his pocket, he stooped and made a number of measurements, which he carefully noted in his diary. “Hey, don't forget that I've had no breakfast,” came Dick's voice presently. “An excellent practice to miss a meal occasionally,” re- WHERE THE SNIPER LAY 205 torted Hanson unsympathetically. “Don't move yet, Dick.” Having completed his first survey, he went down in the prone position and moved up the edge. From this angle he was still able to see a considerable stretch of the road, and was looking down upon the car, only a few yards away. Plainly it must have been overeagerness which had caused the hidden marksman to miss his man. If he had waited until the car was abreast of him he could not have failed. “All right, Dick,” called Hanson. “Come up if you like.” As he drew back, his hair was brushed by the gorse above him and ruffled forward. For a moment he stared at the bush with grave, speculative eyes. "I wonder?” he murmured. Dick found him apparently engaged in a minute exam- ination of the gorse. “Looking for butterflies' eggs, Paul?” he grinned. Hanson did not reply, but went on with his search. Two minutes later he gave an exclamation of satisfaction. He twisted about and looked up at Dick. "Not butterflies' eggs, but the hair of the dog who tried to bite you,” he said, taking a piece of white paper from his pocket and carefully folding within it the hair he had discovered. “Keep out of the hollow while I make a further search.” But fifteen minutes later he had made no additional dis- covery and, straightening up, he glanced at Dick, wearing a slightly bored expression. “So far so good. A clear footprint would be very useful, Dick.” Dick brightened up at once. A footprint was something which even he might recognize. “Sound scheme! We might find one in some of these 206 SCORPION'S TRAIL bare patches of loose earth. But how shall we recognize it? I mean, know that it is his?” “That's a chance we must take, of course," admitted Hanson. “But I think that if we find one with very pointed toes we may safely conclude that it is the right one. Bring up that case I left in the car, will you?” “The jolly old magic box of tricks!” laughed Dick, go- ing off to get it. Hanson went forward, searching the ground inch by inch. The criminal would have escaped as soon as possible, and it was highly probable that he had done so on his hands and knees. In this way he would have cover until he reached the ridge some two hundred yards behind. The country was quite new to Hanson, but he anticipated that under the ridge the land would slope steeply down to some sort of track or byroad. Here he expected to find traces of a car or motor cycle. Dick came up and rejoined him, carrying the case which contained a complete outfit of instruments and chemicals necessary to a preliminary investigation. “Walk behind me, Dick,” ordered Hanson, "and keep your eyes ahead for traces.” For the first hundred yards the short turf and heather yielded no results. Hanson was beginning to think that his hopes would not be realized when, in a bare patch, he dis- covered an impression—three small, oval-shaped dents in the soft earth. He sat back upon his heels and gazed long and thought- fully at them. Dick filled and lighted his pipe, vainly en- deavoring to determine the cause of the impressions. “Yes, I think so!” murmured Hanson at last, taking the tape rule and subjecting the prints to a series of exact measurements. WHERE THE SNIPER LAY 207 “And what's it supposed to be?” asked Dick, as the last entry in the diary was made. "Knuckleprints of his left hand,” replied Hanson, glanc- ing up at his companion's puzzled face. "Knuckleprints! But there's only three!” “Which really is very satisfactory. You observe how the prints were made?” “Sink me! No, I'm dashed if I do!” exclaimed Dick. “I can't even see that they are knuckleprints!” “They are,” affirmed Hanson, "and well defined, too! Our friend was moving on his hands and knees, fists clenched to miss the gorse prickles as much as possible. To avoid this exposed root he had to raise his knees, and in so doing took his weight upon his left hand. Fortunately for us he chose this soft, bare patch to do it.” “Yes, but why three marks only? Why not four all to- gether and the thumb mark at an angle to them?” asked Dick, still unconvinced. Hanson rested his clenched hand upon the ground and leaned his weight upon it. “Observe,” he said. “I take the weight upon the middle joints of the fingers and my thumb rests clear of the ground. The impression left is four ovals.” “Sure, four ovals,” agreed Dick. "Not three.” “Quite. But I have four fingers, whereas our man is minus his middle finger, as evidenced by the gap.” “By Jove, what absolute luck!” exclaimed Dick joy- fully. “Why, it ought to make identification easy!” “It may make identification easier,” corrected Hanson. “But only if he is an indexed criminal. If not, then it will be of no more use than fingerprints under similar circum- stances. They are only a means of identification of an un- known criminal after you have caught him. However, let us proceed on our voyage of discovery. I had a mind to 208 SCORPION'S TRAIL make a plaster cast of those impressions, but I think my measurements will suffice.” Careful examination of the ground up to the ridge fur- nished no further prints. Hanson looked down the slope, purple with heather, and, as he had expected, saw a cart track at the bottom. “With any luck, Dick, we ought to find traces of a car down there,” he said. “Come on.” Dick followed him over the heather, breathing with keen appreciation the delightful moorland air, laden with the dewy freshness of bracken and gorse in early morning. Away to his right the country swept down in gentle un- dulations to the pine woods, above which a pair of hawks were hovering. He looked at Hanson and smiled. There was something very hawklike about the hunch of those wide shoulders and the intent look upon that long, lean face, with its big nose and determined jaw. He was like some mighty bird of prey which had spotted its quarry and was going after it with grim concentration. Presently they came to the track, deep rutted, and muddy in places. Under a stunted oak they found tire tracks and, soon afterwards, a clear footprint. “Excellent!” exclaimed Hanson, with considerable satis- faction. “We will take a cast of this.” “Pointed toe, too,” observed Dick, studying the print. "It's our lucky day. But, dash it, Paul, it's too lucky!” he added doubtfully. “By no means,” disagreed Hanson. “The only luck is that he made prints for us to find. Considering the nature of this road over which he traveled, he couldn't very well avoid it, even if he had been endeavoring to do so—which is unlikely.” “Yes, but how do you know that this footprint belongs to the same man as made the knuckle marks up there?” 210 SCORPION'S TRAIL He watched as Hanson took from the case a rubber mix- ing bowl and a plaster tin, together with a water bottle and a piece of canvas with which to reënforce the cast. As he did not wish unduly to delay he mixed the plaster extra thickly so that it would set rapidly. Dipping the canvas into the mixture, he poured the remainder into the print and laid the canvas upon it. “There, we'll let that stay for a while,” he said, wiping the tips of his long, delicate fingers upon his handkerchief. “I like a good cast to deal with, it's so satisfactory and con- vincing. In town areas one seldom gets a chance, but in the country it is often the most important evidence arising in an investigation. What of the tire tracks? Ah, motor cycle, lightweight, Dunlop tires; went off in a hurry!” “How the devil can you see all that?” ejaculated Dick, staring helplessly at the tracks. “Look at it. The story is plain.” “To you, yes,” retorted Dick impatiently. "I can see that it is probably a motor cycle by the single track. But nothing more.” Hanson's eyes twinkled as he put a hand upon Dick's shoulder. “We shall never make a detective of you,” he said. “A heavy machine would have made a much deeper impression. Dunlop tires are revealed by the pattern. The incoming track on the left there is less sharply defined and has a shaky appearance where the front wheel wabbled occasionally, indicating slow going. The outgoing track is deep, sharp-edged and straight. The direction is indicated, apart from the side of the road, by the forward edge of the square pattern on the tire making a deeper impression than the rear edge. All clear now?” “Yes,” growled Dick in disgust. Hanson smiled at the tone of voice. WHERE THE SNIPER LAY 211 “Never mind, Dick. I guess it's every man to his own trade, eh? Well, the cast should be ready now.” Very gently he lifted it by means of the canvas and brought the brittle plate away safely. Wrapping it in a piece of soft cloth, he placed it in a slot and refastened the case. "And now, the investigation being over and the officer satisfied, let us make haste to do likewise for the inner man. I'm getting hungry.” ity in the U.Scope. Hansone proceeded The church clock at Bexley was announcing the hour of nine when they passed over the mill stream and drew up before Miss Marlow's house. Hanson breathed a sigh of relief as he stood upon firm ground. Driving with Dick in pursuit of his breakfast was not a restful occupation. Immediately the meal was concluded he retired to his room. Mounting the hair upon a slide, he proceeded to examine it through his microscope. Hanson was probably the leading authority in the U.S.A., and some of the results he had obtained had astonished not only the police but his fellow experts. As he studied this hair through the powerful lenses his mind was absorbing and tabulating all the evidence which it offered. It was, he found, light gray in color, but that it had in the medullary substance a large number of pig- mentary cells which were jet black. It belonged, then, to a dark man, probably under forty years of age, but who was beginning to grow gray. Later he would test the root in a solution of caustic potash and establish more definitely his age. The younger the man the more easily does the root dissolve; that of children doing so immediately, the time rising in relation to age; that of very old people re- sisting the action of the caustic potash for hours. 212 SCORPION'S TRAIL Amazing what knowledge may be gained from a single hair! Not only age and sex, but the exact portion of the body from which it has come; how it came to be detached; the characteristics of the person, from the manner in which he has treated his hair; and, from an examination of hair cut at the place where a wound has been made, the nature of the weapon employed. In post-mortem investigation it may be of the greatest importance, often furnishing the only clew to the identity of the deceased person. Hanson early in his career had recognized its importance and made it a special study. An hour later Dick Marlow came up to him. “Well,” he demanded. “What results?” Hanson picked up a sheet of paper on which he had been writing. “Here is your man, Dick,” he replied. "Five feet nine inches in height, slenderly built, with rather nar- row chest. Aged between thirty-seven and forty. Black hair rapidly growing gray and treated with a cheap preparation of paraffin, worn longer than is customary in this country, and probably brushed straight back from his forehead. Middle finger of his left hand missing. Fingers long and thin. Wears size nine in shoes and favors the thin-soled, pointed-toe variety. This suggests the East End type of criminal. Is in possession of a Webley pistol firing Mark IV flat-topped bullets. The weapon of a killer. How will that do you?” “Marvelous!” exclaimed Dick, and meant it. 214 SCORPION'S TRAIL The sergeant exhaled noisily. “Blimey!” he ejaculated with considerable force. “It ain't true! 'S’truth, your parents ought to be ashamed of themselves, inflicting that on a youngster! Where did they get 'em?” “They are family names, quite common in Cornwall.” "Family names! Lord love us, no wonder Barnard said you'd be useful with the dialect!” “The Cornish language ceased to be spoken well over a hundred years ago. There are very few people know much about it nowadays. You'll find the dialect no worse to understand than anywhere else. Not half so bad as I found the Cockney lingo,” added Brett, laughing. "Yeah, I've had some!” retorted Trotter. “The last time I was in the West was on Dartmoor, over that Kestrel House turnout, you remember. I listened to the locals talking in the pub, and didn't understand one blind word they said. Anyway, the people we want won't talk Cornish. Probably it'll be pure Whitechapel.” “You had a great time at Kestrel House, Sergeant,” said Brett, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "I wonder if this will be anything as exciting?” "I hate to disappoint you, lad,” replied Trotter, “but a bullet in the back is about all the excitement you're likely to get on this job. It's a damned dirty crowd we're up against this time.” “Most crime is dirty, Sergeant.” “No, lad, I don't agree. There's crime and there's law- breaking. Blackmail and dope and white-slave stuff is crime. Smashing banks and pinching the Duke of Mug- wop's gold plate is law-breaking. One is the slimy, dirty filth that rots the soul, for which boiling in oil is too easy a punishment. The other is just adventure gone barmy. There's lots of hard-case crooks who'd have made decent TROTTER GOES TO CORNWALL 215 blokes if it hadn't been for some fat-headed country magis- trate laying on the birch because they'd done something a bit wild when they was kids. Dog bite me, it makes me sick when I think of all the harm that's done to juvenile of- fenders by country magistrates. In our metropolitan area we don't get it. The magistrates are trained men, specially selected for the job, and they know better. But in the provinces they stick any blue-nosed old fool on the bench, just because he's got a bit of money or political pull. And they call that justice!” "Personally, Sergeant, I don't believe in flogging chil- dren for anything, no matter what they have done,” said Brett. “And I'm with you, lad, every time,” agreed Trotter. “There's some crimes where floggin's good medicine. But those offenses couldn't possibly be committed by kids. I know damned well that if I'd been birched when I was a kid I'd have grown up crooked. It ain't justice nor common sense. It's just sheer brutality.” Trotter wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Blimey! Here's me getting all worked up! That won't do. Cool, calm, and collected al- ways. Never let anything ruffle your temper, lad. It's bad in a policeman,” and Trotter commenced to whistle again louder and more out of tune than before. Brett, who was something of a musician, winced; but having a high regard for his breezy sergeant, presently relieved the discord with his own fine tenor voice. Nine hours later they crossed the stream and came up the hill to the little village of Downderry. They parked the car in the only garage accommodation which the village offered, and went down to the one hotel. But this being full they had to seek lodgings elsewhere, and finally found them in the old coast-guard station, abandoned as such since the curtailment of the coast-watching service. 216 SCORPION'S TRAIL Considering the nature and cause of their quest, this ap- pealed to Trotter's sense of humor. By discreet questioning of the landlady, Brett learned the situation of the place they were seeking. It lay on the other side of the village up the hill on the coast road to Tor- point. To the West Country native all strangers are “foreign- ers” and are regarded with a certain amount of suspicion until they are known-often a lengthy process. Barnard's foresight in sending Brett, a Cornishman, was speedily demonstrated. Whereas the landlady would have been on the defensive with Trotter and done no more than answer his questions, with reservations, she talked freely with Brett. He learned that the farm manager came down on most nights to the hotel, but so far he had failed to es- tablish himself with the villagers. Apparently he was rather a surly type of individual, inclined to be quarrelsome after a few drinks. Brett gave it as his opinion that a man who would dare to quarrel with the brawny fishermen was either a fool or a professional pugilist, an opinion heartily endorsed by the landlady. “Getting your hand in well with the old dame, ain't you?” grinned Trotter, as their hostess left the room. “Yes, Bert,” replied Brett, grinning too. “Shall we walk up?" The two policemen set out to climb the hill which wound up from the village and overlooked the beach until it turned inland on a hairpin bend. Below them the sea washed gently up the yellow sands, covering the long ridges of merciless rocks, exposed only on the falling tides. At the bend Trotter paused to light his pipe and admire the view. "Looks better than the Strand, don't it?” he re- marked. “Wonder where this path leads?” TROTTER GOES TO CORNWALL 217 “Up the cliff to the main Plymouth road, I should think,” replied Brett. "It wouldn't be a bad plan to try it.” “Just what I was thinking, lad. If that manager comes down to the pub most nights he'd take the shortest cut. We'd probably have a better chance of dodging him while we look him over on a path like this than on the road.” "Because he might recognize us again?” “Because he might recognize me before I get a good chance of casting my optics over him. He ain't likely to recognize you.” “So you think it possible that he is an old lag?” asked Brett in surprise. Trotter shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, who knows? Nothing like being on the safe side.” The path up the cliff was steep and rough, flanked by thickets of blackthorn and tangled masses of bramble. Rab- bits hopped across the path in leisurely manner, and a stoat spat at them as they interrupted him at his evening meal. "It ain't likely that he comes this way, lad,” said Trotter, after a while. "Just fancy steering through this stuff after you'd had one over the limit. Lord love us, you'd be down on them rocks before you'd done half this distance!” Presently they came to the top of the cliff, and as they pushed through the undergrowth they saw the farm build- ings across the next field. Trotter took out a pair of glasses and focused upon them. “Nobody about,” he observed. "Precious few cows, ain't there?” “Looks pretty dead,” agreed Brett. “We could get closer.” Trotter nodded his agreement and, pocketing the field glasses, commenced to move under cover of the hedge. Brett followed him until they had crossed the field, and 218 SCORPION'S TRAIL were now only some three hundred yards from the farm house. The sound of a motor horn came very clearly to them, and a moment later the door of the farmhouse opened and a man came out. He crossed the yard and went to the gate, looking down the road. Trotter brought his glasses into action once more. “Young bloke that, but I bet he ain't a local. Have a look at him, lad.” Brett took the glasses and regarded the farm hand stead- ily for a couple of minutes. “He looks to me to be a typical East-Ender,” he said at last. “That suit and cap were never bought in Cornwall. Hullo, here comes the motor!” A motor lorry swung off the road into the yard and came to a halt, clouds of vapor issuing from the radiator. “Boiling like hell,” observed Trotter. "I don't wonder at it. Some of the hills round here are wicked. But there's something wrong with the engine apparently.” The driver got down and, lifting the bonnet, stood scratching the back of his head in plain perplexity. The other came over and joined him. “He's had a nice trip down, I'd say,” grinned Trotter. “That's the lorry that's due for the run up to-morrow. Looks to me as if she won't be going.” The two men stood talking for several minutes and presently the driver went into the house. Trotter's glasses returned to his eyes as the driver came out again, accom- panied by a short, thickset man in breeches and leggings. “Dog bite me!” exclaimed Trotter with suppressed ex- citement. “Recognize him?” asked Brett, equally excited. “Blimey, lad! Do I recognize him? That's no less a per- scratching the car and joined him., y » grinned Trotter TROTTER GOES TO CORNWALL 219 son than Basher Vance! Take a good long look at his mug, so you'll know it again.” Brett did as he was instructed. He saw a flat, red face, adorned with a wide nose and a pair of large ears. Evi- dently the owner was angry, for he scowled at the driver and pushed him roughly aside as he went across to the lorry. “Yes, I'll know him again,” said Brett, returning the glasses. “Isn't he the crook who ran a gaming place down in Canning Town?” “That's him, lad. Basher Vance, one time middleweight champ, and as crooked as they make 'em. Unfortunately he knows me only too well. 'Twas me sent him down for a three-year stretch. He ain't been the same man since. Last time I ran across him he was in with a race gang, doing their dirty work for 'em. And now he's down here. Farm manager to a London Charity. He knows as much about farming as I do. Which is nix. Looks like we struck some- thing good here, lad!” “How do you know he's the manager?” asked Brett, and then wished he hadn't. “Use your common sense!” rapped Trotter sharply. “There's only two of 'em here, beside the drivers, ain't there? And that youngster ain't likely to be the manager, is he?” "No, of course not. But the landlady rather put me off by her description of him.” “There ain't one person in twenty who can describe an- other so as you'd recognize that person. Ask the average man the color of his wife's eyes and he's got to stop and think. Most likely he tells you wrong. Never bank too much on descriptions, lad,” advised Trotter. “Ah, Basher's going to see what's the engine trouble.” 220 SCORPION'S TRAIL They watched as the man leaned over the engine and then saw him turn with an angry gesture to the driver, who stood sheepishly by. "He's copping it in the neck,” grinned Trotter as the gestures became more violent. “Giving it up as a bad job,” he added, as Basher Vance swung round and strode back to the house. "Letting her cool a bit, I expect,” suggested Brett. "He seems very agitated about the breakdown, if it is one.” “There must be something wrong, surely, for her to boil like that when she's empty.” “Yes, but not necessarily anything serious. Some minor adjustment only. She can't want decarbonizing already." "Is that so?” murmured Trotter thoughtfully. "Ah! what now?" Basher Vance had reappeared. They saw him hold out his hand to the driver with the unmistakable gesture of a man passing money. The driver took it and, without wait- ing for more than a nod to the younger man, walked quickly out of the yard and down the road toward the village. “Sacked!” exclaimed Trotter. "Now I just wonder what the jolly little game is! Basher's got a wicked grin on his face. Dirty work going on, lad. If they've sacked that driver the youngster will have to do the run up to-morrow. That means he will be down again on Thursday night. And Thursday night is the one Barnard said to be careful about. It's the darkest for the whole month.” “What idea had Mr. Barnard in mind, do you think?” asked Brett. “Just this. If the dope is smuggled in along this coast, and it looks easy to me, the natural time to choose would be when it's darkest. Not that it's likely to be very dark for any night this month, if the weather holds fine.” TROTTER GOES TO CORNWALL 221 “What do you propose? To watch all night, every night?” “To watch every night when Basher gives the pub a miss,” replied Trotter. "And, if I'm not mistaken, he's off now." Basher Vance was walking out of the yard, and as they watched they saw him pause to give an order to the youth before taking the village road. “This is where we keep an eye on Basher,” said Trotter, moving down from the hedge. “If we nip down the path we'll be in time to see him go by on the road. If he gets a skinful at the boozer then it'll be plain that there's noth- ing doing to-night. You could scout around and find that driver, perhaps, and have a yarn with him. If he ain't any more intelligent than his cousin I wish you joy. Come on then, lad.” CHAPTER XXVI THREE-FINGERED JIMMY CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD put down the report which Hanson had drawn up for him. For a long minute he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Then, cupping his chin in his big hands, he turned his cold eyes upon Hanson. "I can think of only two men who would answer this de- scription, Doctor,” he said. “But the Record Office will help us to a definite decision.” He pressed a bell and to the uniformed messenger who answered the summons he handed the paper. “Get the R.O. report on that at once,” he ordered. The constable saluted and withdrew. Barnard turned once again to Hanson. "I don't know how you managed to learn all that about the man; but, however it was done, it was clever.” Hanson started. “You flatter me!” he exclaimed. Barnard scowled at him suspiciously. “I never do that!” he snapped. “If it's the man I have in mind I fancy you have discovered more than his mere identity.” “You think he is an indexed criminal?” “I do. I think he may be James Frederick Conway, otherwise known as Three-Fingered Jimmy." Hanson's grave face relaxed into a smile. “Very appropriate, but conveys nothing to me.” 222 “Very apo grave face relastingered Jimrederick Conway THREE-FINGERED JIMMY 223 Barnard leaned over his desk and said slowly and de- liberately: “Conway was at one time right-hand man to Willie Wong Sing. And Willie Wong Sing was about the biggest man in the drug traffic we've had to contend with. He's put away now. But Conway slipped out of it through lack of direct evidence. We knew all about him, of course, but it wasn't good enough to put before a jury. In your country that wouldn't have mattered. But over here we've got to present a case without any holes in it. However, what I'm coming to is this. The person who was responsible for Willie Wong Sing's downfall was Lady Violet Barr.” Hanson raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Who was in 'The Gilded Lily' night club when Dick Marlow paid his visit.” “And who is also a patroness of ‘Kotlar's Charity.” Hanson's eyes betrayed a gleam of excitement, but he made no comment. "A very distinguished company figure on the list,” went on Barnard, secretly well satisfied with the impression he had created. “Some, like Lady Violet Barr, we know to be drug addicts. Two, at least, had dealings with Willie Wong Sing. The Chink got a little careless when he was negotiating with these distinguished people. Probably thought we would not suspect them. Conway had no such illusion and saved himself when the crash came.” “What is Conway's record?” asked Hanson. “A bad one, Doctor. He'd be quite capable of doing the shooting. But he's wary, and we've only had him once, or perhaps twice, and those not particularly serious charges. It would be curious if he really was the man who shot at Mr. Marlow.” "It would!” agreed Hanson. “I think we should then understand how The Scorpion managed to build up such 226 SCORPION'S TRAIL "Nothing new. He's not been seen there since the last report. He's gone, and with him his pal, Basher Vance. A nice combination to have running loose, I must say! They'll give us trouble before they've done, Doctor." “One, at least, has made a promising start," commented Hanson, rising from his chair preparatory to leaving. Barnard rose too, and stood for a moment looking down at his desk. Then, glancing up: “You are still going on with that insane adventure, Doc- tor?” he asked. Hanson nodded his head in affirmation. “I am, Barnard. To-morrow night, I hope.” “Sheer folly!” growled the Chief Inspector. "I'll be used to inquests before this case is settled. Good-by." Hanson walked down to the Embankment, a smile lurk- ing upon his lips. He suspected that the other's concern on his behalf was not entirely devoid of personal interest. A newspaper boy passed, shouting: “Army general shoots 'imself! ’Orrible scenes!” Hanson bought a paper and, opening it, read the news. The boy in his enthusiasm had promoted the deceased army officer. It was not a general who had shot himself, but an artillery major, one Norman Milehouse, gas expert. Hanson half turned as if to go back to Scotland Yard. Then, reconsidering his intention, he walked toward West- minster Bridge. "I guess Barnard will learn about it soon enough,” he thought. CHAPTER XXVII POPPY LAND THE FOLLOWING evening Hanson held a long telephone conversation with Chief Inspector Barnard. Though the police net had been spread for Three-Fingered Jimmy, no news of his whereabouts had come in. Like Lola Demaine, he had disappeared. The only information received merely confirmed Hanson's report on the type of weapon used against Dick Marlow. Divisional detectives making a round-up had obtained a statement that the crook had recently purchased a Webley of this pattern. If Hanson had been able to discover a discarded car- tridge case at the scene of the attempted murder this would have been valuable information. The file marks on the breech shield of a revolver are imprinted on the case of every cartridge fired. As the breech shield is the one piece of the Webley pistol which is made by hand, the odds against the file marks of different weapons being absolutely identical would be millions to one. But no case had, unfortunately, been found, and the information was consequently of no great importance at the moment. Later it might be, if the weapon was used again. Barnard was not in a happy mood, and Hanson did not unduly prolong the conversation. He made arrangements to be shadowed when he commenced his perilous adventure that night. In this way Scotland Yard would discover the situation of the secret headquarters of the gang. 227 POPPY LAND 229 moved off. About the whole proceeding there was such an air of unreality that Hanson was conscious of a curious reluctance to break the silence. He could see no more than the bare outlines of his companion's form, and of the driver he could see nothing. He glanced out of the win- dow and at once made the discovery that they were cur- tained in some manner. He put out his hand and touched the glass. As if aware of what was passing in his mind, Pilking- ton murmured: “You will not be able to move the win- dows, Vander. They lock in the same manner as the doors and are made of black glass which one cannot see through.” “Do you mean that we are locked in this car?” asked Hanson in surprise. “Yes, I do. Just one of the many precautions that are taken. I think the police would be very lucky to break up this organization. Even if they do suspect a particular individual and question him, what can he tell them? Noth- ing. He does not know where he was taken, nor anything which could possibly assist them.” “Well, that's comforting, I suppose,” commented Han- son. “Though I must say I don't like riding shut up in a box.” “What does it matter, Vander?” drawled Pilkington in a weary voice. Conversation ceased between them after this, and Han- son made no attempt to revive it. He was endeavoring to form some idea of the direction they were taking. Once he heard the hoot of a ship's siren, and a few minutes later the car bumped over iron plating—two facts which sug- gested proximity to the docks and bridges. He became aware that the darkness within had increased, while the sound of other traffic became distorted and muffled. The atmosphere held a distinct odor which for some moments 230 SCORPION'S TRAIL baffled him. Then he understood. They were traveling through a tunnel, and immediately the Blackwall Tunnel came into his mind. By slowly counting he was able to form a rough esti- mate of the time taken to complete the passage. But there- after he was unable to obtain the slightest clew to the direction they were taking. It occurred to him that the driver was deliberately twisting and turning for that pur- pose. Unless the house lay some miles outside London it seemed probable that he had merely come down the north side and was returning along the south side of the river. However, it was impossible to know, and presently Hanson gave up the attempt. Only one thing there was which afforded a clew, and that was the tinkle of a tram bell a few minutes before they finally stopped. He heard the rattle of heavy doors being thrown open, and the car ran down a short but steep incline before it came noiselessly to rest. The door opened and Mr. Kot- lar's suave voice requested them to alight. Hanson stepped out into almost complete darkness. He had no time to note anything beyond the fact that he was standing on cobblestones in a closed space before Kotlar took his arm and led him forward. “Trust yourself to me, Mr. Vander,” he whispered. “I will guide you.” Hanson counted twenty steps before a door was reached which swung open at Kotlar's touch. He noticed that the stone floor had given place to a thick carpet, and a mo- ment later a light was switched on. Hanson wished that it had not been necessary to use belladonna again and so impair his vision. But he was able to see enough to realize that the room in which he stood was expensively furnished in Oriental style. POPPY LAND 231 "If you will be seated, Mr. Vander," suggested Kotlar. “Sir Roger, will you please step this way?” It was not without a feeling of excitement that Hanson found himself alone. At last he had penetrated to the stronghold. But he was much too wary to do more than glance casually around. It was highly probable that even now he was under secret observation. He moved rest- lessly upon the divan as if he was consumed with im- patience at the delay. His fingers twitched spasmodically as he drummed upon his knees and shuffled his feet upon the beautiful carpet. The silence of the place was astonishing. He might have been enclosed in a sound-proof vault. A subtle perfume hung in the heavy, warm atmosphere; a scent reminiscent of the East, but whose identity eluded him. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes dragged by in the eerie silence, and still no one came. And then a movement to his right attracted his attention. He swung round with an irritable, impatient movement, and half rose from his seat. A woman stood smilingly regarding him, a long cigarette held between her fingers. How she had entered he did not know, but he guessed her identity_Lola Demaine. She wore a magnificent, though scanty, Chinese costume, which emphasized the perfection of her figure. A large jewel flashed in her dusky hair as she inclined her head toward him, and a little ripple of silvery laughter escaped toward at red, alluring M'sieur, hein which affect “Oh, I startle you, M'sieur, hein?” Her voice was a soft caress, with a musical huskiness which affected Han- son curiously. “You wait so long; you tired, n'est-ce pas?” “Yes,” growled Hanson, “how much longer?” She glided toward him with a lithe grace, and placed one hand upon his arm. POPPY LAND 233 covered with a beautifully worked silk counterpane, and the luxurious fittings of the small apartment before a cur- tain slid back and a white-robed Arab stood bowing before him. The man made a sign for him to prepare and departed as silently as he had come. Hanson removed his collar and tie, wondering if he was expected to disrobe completely. He would have liked to explore the room first, but dared not risk it. Apparently the doors were of the variety which slid back into grooves at the touch of a spring. Very diffi- cult to open without the secret. Slowly he removed his shoes as if the effort was too much for him. Then, sitting down in the cushioned chair, he lay back and waited events. The Arab returned bearing in his hands a tray upon which he carried a small lamp and an opium pipe. He set them upon a table and looked expectantly at Hanson, who nodded wearily. The man stripped back the counterpane and from under the pillow took a suit of pyjamas. Certain now of his cue, Hanson began to finish undressing, and a few moments later was lying upon the bed watching with eagerness the preparations being made. Upon the end of a steel rod the Arab held a small piece of opium which he twisted about in the flame of the lamp until the gum ignited with a blue flame. He skillfully inserted it into the bowl of the pipe and handed it to Hanson, who took it in trembling fingers. The Arab watched him as he inserted the mouthpiece between his lips and, with tongue over the opening, pre- tended to inhale the fumes eagerly. Gradually his head began to nod and he became less eager. Once the pipe nearly slipped from his grasp, but he recovered it and went on with the well-acted pretense of smoking. The nauseating fumes of the drug were filling the room 234 SCORPION'S TRAIL and he judged it time to cease before they began to affect him in reality. He allowed the pipe to fall from his fingers as he finally lay back upon the pillows, mouth open and eyes closed, breathing heavily. He heard the Arab gather up the pipe and place it upon the tray, but he did not hear him depart. For a long time Hanson lay perfectly still, studying the place through the veil of his lashes. He had no means of knowing if he was under surveillance, but he was taking no chances. Barnard would not raid the place to-night. This was intended merely to establish its location. A second visit would be necessary after he had learned the geogra- phy of the place. The stagnant, nauseating atmosphere and the eerie, un- natural silence were beginning to affect Hanson oddly. He felt that he was alone and weaponless in some fan- tastic house of dreadful death. He was aware of a sense of having to stand and fight a host of strange, vile things creeping unseen around him. Was this, he wondered, the collective effect of all those evil thoughts which had been radiated in this room by drug-maddened brains? Or was this curious and disquieting sense of fear, this revulsion as from something unspeakably foul, the product of a single mind which, even now, was probing into his innermost thoughts and intentions? Hanson swore softly and took a fresh grip upon himself in a determined effort to shake off the influence. His im- agination was playing him tricks, juggling with his com- mon sense in a manner which he had never before expe- rienced. Of what use was all his knowledge and experience if he was going to allow himself to be impressed in this way? But was the impression a conscious effort on the part of some brain near him? Or merely the result of nervous F merely ous effort used in this 236 SCORPION'S TRAIL He lay perfectly quiet, simulating the absolute uncon- sciousness of the opium-drugged sleeper with masterly perfection. He knew this method of assuring the genuine- ness of the supposed coma, and he was prepared for it. Nevertheless, when the pressure had reached strangula- tion point he felt himself weakening. Another second, and he must breath. He stirred, the slightest movement only, and one con- sistent with the part he was playing. He heard the heavy breathing of the Chinaman growing fainter, and then, when all seemed lost, the fingers slid from his throat. For the next minute Hanson was too exhausted to do more than fill his lungs through his mouth, half hidden on his arm. But as he realized that the other was departing, he ventured a peep through the veil of his lashes. A thrill of excitement swept through him as, for the first time, he had a full view of the Chinaman's ears. Drawing the curtains apart with the sluggish movement of a glutted reptile was The Scorpion himself. The curtains fell into place once more, and Hanson was about to draw the deep breath of' profound relief, when the uncanny silence was shattered by a scream of terror which vibrated through the narrow apartment with the intensity of a shell-burst. There came to his ears the swish and rustle of silk, and then a torrent of oaths, mouthed in the vile argot of the Parisian Apache. 238 SCORPION'S TRAIL midnight! About time something happened. Basher Vance had not stirred from the house the whole evening. What the hell was he doing? Why the devil didn't he go to bed and let Trotter do likewise? All of which was very unlike the normal Trotter. But the rain had soaked him to the skin, and he was gasping for a smoke. His big fingers, affectionately caressing the ancient brier in his pocket, suddenly stiffened. The farmhouse door was opening. A second later the unpleasant face of Basher Vance peered from within. He surveyed the deluge for a moment and then stepped out, leaving the door wide open. The youth followed, carrying a bulky parcel under his arm, and together they crossed the yard and came into the field. Trotter crouched lower against the hedge and waited. He hoped that Brett had not been lulled by the long hours of inactivity to relax his vigilance. Basher Vance and his companion were making for the cliff path. He saw them climb the hedge and, like a very substan- tial shadow, he followed. The youth was smoking a ciga- rette and its light served the sergeant as a guide. Great banks of cloud blotted out the feeble moon and, for the time of the year, the night was about as black as it could be. Only with difficulty was he able to keep their dim fig- ures in sight. “What the blazes now?” he muttered, as he saw them halt some yards from the blackthorn thicket. Creeping as close along the hedge as he dared, Trotter peered into the darkness and at last made out the youth laying a number of objects upon the grass which defied his efforts to identify. He watched him retire slowly to- ward the thicket and crouch down. A moment later Trotter's eyes were dazzled by a sud- TROTTER’S UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT 239 den flash as a great arrowhead blazed from the ground and then shut off again. “'S’truth!” he gasped. “A landing signal for aëro- planes! That was bulbs he was laying out, and he's got the battery down there. Well, well, Albert, my boy, you're getting a bit slow in the uptake! Ah! so that's it! It's the sky we got to watch, not the sea! This is where Boscawen Borlace leaves his little cubbyhole.” Two minutes were sufficient to convince the sergeant that crawling through blackthorns was not a pleasant occu- pation. Fortunately the beat of the rain and the moan of the wind as it swept across the cliff drowned any noise which he might be making. In any case the two crooks were town men and unacquainted with the night noises of the country. Cursing softly but fluently, Trotter pushed and crawled through the thorny thicket, his face and hands scratched and bleeding. But presently he slithered down upon the path, accompanied by a minor avalanche of small stones and loose earth. Brett, only a few yards below, heard him and clenched his fists. Neither policeman was armed; for only in the most desperate circumstances, when considerable armed resistance is anticipated, are the British police issued with firearms. Trotter whistled softly and whispered Brett's name. Brett relaxed his tense attitude and came out of his hiding place to meet him. “Come on, m'lad,” said Trotter. “We've been making an all-fired mistake. Smuggling by sea has gone out of fashion.” “Aëroplane?” asked Brett. “Sure. They've laid out landing lights up there in the 240 SCORPION'S TRAIL field by the cliff edge. I crawled down through those damned bushes and I feel like I've been clawed by a bear. I think we might venture to return by the path. But go easy, m'lad, or you'll collect a bullet in your digestive organs. Basher Vance ain't particular.” “All right,” returned Brett. "I'm used to this sort of country. I was brought up in it.” “Umph! More than I was. Come on.” Silently they climbed the loose, slippery path to the top. Trotter halted a yard or so from the edge and crawled forward. He saw the glow of the youth's cigarette not more than fifteen yards away and pressed Brett's elbow as a warning for silence. Basher's voice came to them distinctly, a snarling com- mand: “Keep that ruddy battery covered. The rain'll muck it up.” "Rain can't get inside the box,” came the reply from the youth. “Blast your eyes, keep it covered!” Basher's voice rose ominously. Followed a silence for perhaps ten minutes, then the youth's voice again: “There she is!” Above the lash of the rain they heard the drone of an aëroplane engine approaching from the sea. The landing lights blazed forth for several seconds and shut off again. Basher Vance moved out into the field and was lost to view. "He stands a mighty fine chance of crashing if he lands here to-night,” whispered Trotter. “That field ain't any too smooth, and there's cows in it up the other side.” "Perhaps he will drop his load overboard and not land,” suggested Brett. "He seems to be circling overhead.” Again the lights blazed and this time stayed on for fully TROTTER'S UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT 241 a minute. They heard the roar of the engine growing louder, and the lights came on and stayed on. From the middle of the field a thin beam of light shot up and moved in a circle. “Basher's signaling with a torch, too,” whispered Trot- ter. “Here she comes!” The aëroplane materialized out of the darkness like some gigantic bird of prey and passed low over their heads. Something fell from it and dropped to earth be- tween the ground lights and Basher Vance's torch beam. The ground lights flashed three times in quick succession as the pilot brought his machine back over the field, circled once, and then flew seawards again. “Very neat!” commented Trotter. The whole incident had not occupied more than four or five minutes. At this time of night and in such an isolated locality the odds against anyone being a witness to the affair were enormous. The village policeman had long since gone to bed, even if he ever got as far as this on his beat; and there were no coast guards nowadays. “O.K.,” came Basher's voice. “Get a move on, kid.” They watched the youth roll up his lines and repack the bulbs. Heaving the bulky bundle upon his shoulder, he paused to light a fresh cigarette and then set off across the field to the farmhouse. “Come on,” whispered Trotter, starting up. “Let's see all we can.” But their efforts in this direction were doomed to dis- appointment. Within a few minutes of returning to the house the lower lights were extinguished and the upper lights went on. "Gone to bed. Nothing doing till the morning. Blast it! They've got a dog chained up outside the door. Better not risk any breaking and entering, I think. Well, m'lad, 244 SCORPION'S TRAIL Trotter grinned and lit his pipe. Brett edged away, un- decided which was the lesser evil. Two hours later the lorry returned. Brett breathed a sigh of relief, he was beginning to feel ill. Basher Vance got down and went into the house, to reappear with a parcel which he laid upon the running board. The youth rolled a churn to the edge of the tailboard and supported it upon its side. Basher Vance seized the end and com- menced to twist. “Blimey!” breathed Trotter, tense with excitement. “False bottoms to the churns!” The rim of the churn unscrewed like a cap, leaving a small cavity between itself and the actual bottom. Into this Basher placed an oilskin-covered packet, one of several contained within the parcel, and screwed the rim into place again. Fifteen churns were treated in this manner until the parcel had been emptied. The three churns not so treated were placed at the rear of the vehicle and the tailboard hitched into place. Then the two men went in to breakfast. “What now?” asked Brett. “I can't stick much more of this smell. I'll be shooting the cat pretty soon.” "Hang on, lad,” replied Trotter. "I must see it through.” Fifteen minutes later they were out again and the driver started his engine. “Don't forget to pack that girl in snug, Kid. You don't want to have her waking up and screaming the odds while you're passing through a town. That happened to me when I fetched along that Minter cove. Better they conked 'em out up there, instead of leaving Fritz and me to do the dirty work down here.” “I don't know, Basher,” replied the youth, chewing the TROTTER’S UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT 245 stub end of a cigarette. "Looks like a good scheme to me. Fritz drops 'em over in mid-Channel while they'm still breathing. So when they'm picked up, if they ever are, they died of drowning, which don't look like murder so much.” “Shut your trap!” snarled Basher, glancing fearfully around. “Who's talking about murder, you damned fool? Go on, git! It's time you were off. Nine o'clock you're ex- pected in to-night, not before. Understand?” “Yeah,” grinned the youth. “S’long, Basher.” The lorry swung out of the farmyard and turned down the Plymouth road. Basher Vance stood watching, an ugly scowl upon his flat face. And then an unfortunate thing happened. Sergeant Trotter shifted his weight upon the rotten floorboards. It was just the additional fraction necessary to crumble the moldy wood from the rusty nails. With a splintering crash, the whole forward section of the floor collapsed, and the two policemen shot to earth in a blinding cloud of dust, rotten sacks, and splintered wood. Trotter fell against Brett, and his elbow, coming into contact with the pit of his stomach, speeded up the effects of the abominable stench. Detective-Constable Brett's threatened illness over- took him well and truly. Trotter heard Basher Vance's steps without, and leaped to cover behind the ladder protruding rakishly through the derelict floor. One door was flung open and Basher stood in the sun- light, revolver in hand, glaring into the cloud of dust. He saw Brett, a sorry figure, smothered in dirt and almost helpless, supporting himself drunkenly against the wall. He made a very natural mistake in supposing that here was a tramp recovering from the effects of a drunk. helpless, supporting rural mistake in super drunk. TROTTER’S UNCOMFORTABLE NIGHT 247 lobe. A drop of cold water and a bit of plaster'll put that right. Come on, let's get that crook inside. We'll levy on his larder for a cup of tea; I can do with it. Then it's off and get a report through to Barnard. He might even be pleased when he hears! Pity we'll be missing the fun in town.” CHAPTER XXIX KIDNAPED! THURSDAY NIGHT; only one more night and she would be twenty-one. The thought thrilled Ann Penhayle as she lay in her bed, watching the white moonbeams making deli- cate tracery across the ceiling, reflecting the pattern of the lace curtains. On Saturday she would cease to be a child, officially, and very soon she would be married to the man whom she loved so dearly. The horror of that first false marriage did not disturb her now. Paul Hanson's explanation had erased almost completely those dreadful nightmares which filled her sleeping hours with fear. Yet somehow, to-night, she did not feel so secure and happy. Maybe it was the mysterious shooting on the Ash- down road which subconsciously was worrying her. Dick might still be in danger from the unknown assassin, though nothing had happened since to alarm them. Ann turned restlessly, wishing that she might fall asleep. But sleep had deserted her. She slipped out of bed and stood by the open window, looking out upon the lawn, with the river flowing gently at the bottom. She saw again the scene on that night when Kotlar had roused the house- hold: Simon Wernick running down the garden to the safety of his boat. Who was the little man? Why did she feel so charitably disposed toward him? Strange that he could arouse such an emotion within her! 248 250 SCORPION'S TRAIL ently sipped the glass he held to her lips. She sank back again, lapsing once more into unconsciousness. Three-Fingered Jimmy straightened up and, still leer- ing to himself, left the room, locking the door behind him. When Ann awoke the second time the dreadful pain had gone. She felt horribly weak, and her first impression was that she had been very ill for a long time. As she lay still she glanced about her, noting, without really compre- hending, the sordid surroundings. The ceiling cracked and filthy, the walls hanging in strips of rotten paper, and the bare floorboards, inches thick in dust. It was sight of her clothes, thrown in an untidy pile in a corner, which roused her to a realization of her plight. With a little gasp of astonishment she sat up and threw aside the blanket which covered her. She remembered now: the man in the black mask who had held that awful pad against her nose. So she had been kidnaped—that was it. Forcibly abducted from her guardian's house by the masked ruffian. Ann leaned against the wall and fought down the sud- den wave of panic which enveloped her. This time she was the victim, not Dick. Thoughts of Dick restored her as nothing else could have done. For his sake she must keep a bold heart, whatever the peril which threatened her. Perhaps even now they were searching for her. Paul Han- son had impressed Ann with a sense of unlimited power. She believed him capable of solving any problem. He would very quickly be on the trail, backed by all the might of Scotland Yard. No need for her to be greatly alarmed at the turn of fortune which made her a temporary prisoner with the masked bandit. As well for Ann that she did not know that Paul Han- son was even then lying in the lair of The Scorpion with 252 SCORPION'S TRAIL snack to keep your pecker up for the sea trip to-morrow. Loving friends are sending you over to your dear Daddy's country.” “Paris!” exclaimed Ann involuntarily, suddenly recall- ing that Kotlar had already gone there. “That's the place, my pretty. Nice town for little ladies. Lots of 'em there. Get outside this, then. I ain't got a lot of time to spare.” He placed the glass and plate at her feet and for the first time appeared to notice that she had dressed. “So you got your togs on again," he leered. “That's a pity! You look nice in your little pyjamas. I wonder what that sailor boy would think if he knew you'd spent a night with me in your pyjamas?” It was the dreadful leer that roused Ann's anger more, perhaps, than the actual words. Her nerves were strung to breaking point by her ordeal and the sickening anxiety. Before she could check herself she flamed out at him, wildly, hysterically: “The sailor boy knows what you are. He knows that you tried to murder him, and he knows your name, Three- Fingered Jimmy. Mr. Barnard knows, too, and to-night he has arranged to raid this place. Do you think that I would have stayed here so quietly if I did not know? Go now, while you have a chance, and never come near me again.” She buried her face in her hands and broke into a violent fit of sobbing. In the awful strain of the moment she had revealed her knowledge of the crook's identity, though the warning about Barnard was an inspiration only. She realized her mistake too late. Three-Fingered Jimmy sprang up, staring with min- gled fear and amazement. Self-preservation is highly de- veloped in the criminal fraternity. He was no exception to KIDNAPED! 255 upon wood and then the faint note of a police whistle. Easing the weight of his burden, he ran lightly down the stairs and climbed nimbly through an open window into a dark alley, at the end of which the oily waters of the Thames lapped grim and uninviting. Going more slowly now and keeping in the dismal shadows, he came to the end. From an iron ring in the wall he untied a rope and drew it in. The graceful out- lines of a motor boat materialized in the darkness, and with a sigh of satisfaction he stepped aboard. Very care- fully he laid Ann upon the seat and gently pushed off into the stream, drifting downriver with the falling tide until he came to the piles of a wharf. Standing in the bows, he piloted the boat from pile to pile until he was lost to sight in the blackness beyond. CHAPTER XXX THE RAID CHIEF INSPECTOR BARNARD was in a ferocious mood, and Sergeant Forster eyed him warily. Somebody was going to stop a nasty packet over this business. The chief was out for blood, but the sergeant intended to make sure that the unfortunate person would not be himself. It was, he admitted, extremely disappointing that the two men detailed to shadow Doctor Hanson had lost him at the entrance to Blackwall Tunnel. But even the chief could have done no better. He could not have prevented the steam wagon selecting that spot in which to break down and so block the road. Just a bit of pure bad luck, that was all. But Heaven alone knew where the Doctor was now, or even if he was alive. The registration number of the car had been faked, of course. He was aware of that when he took charge of the widespread and highly organized search which had immediately been instituted. So far it had yielded negative results, and the sergeant was not optimistic. . The Chief Inspector pulled open a drawer and, taking out a box, banged it upon his desk. From it he took a ciga- rette, and Forster became even more alert than before. When Barnard smoked it was a sure sign that he was ap- proaching the end of his tether. He glanced up at his subordinate from under scowling brows. “Get Marlow on the 'phone and ask him if he's heard 256 THE RAID 257 anything," he ordered, rising from his chair and thrusting it back with quite unnecessary violence. "If he's not with Kiley, try his Bexley number. I'll be back again in a few minutes. Go on, don't goggle at me, you fool!” But before Forster could carry out the order the phone tinkled. He lifted the receiver. “Trunk call, sir,” he announced, and then, a moment later, “Sergeant Trotter, sir.” Barnard reached out and pulled the instrument toward him. His face became almost animated as he listened to Sergeant Trotter's voice over the long-distance wire. His much abused subordinate had done a piece of such excel- lent work that he so far forgot himself as to congratulate him. If he could have seen the expression on Trotter's face at that moment he would not have been quite so lib- eral with his praise. He issued instructions in his slow, deliberate manner, to cover any emergency which might arise before the police car could arrive. He instructed Brett to remain in charge of the farm until further orders. Communication would be made to the county police after he had brought Basher Vance to London. Nothing should interfere with his plans now. For some minutes after he had rung off the Chief In- spector sat motionless at his table. He wished Hanson had returned. The raid on “Kotlar's Charity” might make things awkward for him. But that could not be avoided now. The American had gone at his own suggestion, and Barnard had done his utmost to discourage him. Unfortu- nate—such a learned man, too! About the best Yank he had ever met, but there it was! Barnard shrugged his shoulders and rose from his desk. “All right, Forster,” he said. "Don't bother about the 'phone calls now. Wait here for me.” He left his room 258 SCORPION'S TRAIL and walked down the corridor to knock upon the Assistant Commissioner's door. Half an hour later he came out again, having gained all his points, even those which may have been regarded as sailing distinctly over the official mark. He returned to his own room and held a long conversa- tion with the Limehouse Divisional Inspector. He was making sure that the raid should proceed with every chance of complete success. At last he was making a real move toward a definite conclusion. His man at Twicken- ham had reported the departure of Elphinstone Clayton and that Mark Kotlar had ended his visit, and was now at the institute. "You can walk round to see Mr. Marlow, Forster," he instructed. “If he is not there, do nothing further in the matter. Then go on to Limehouse and take charge until I arrive.” “Very good, sir.” Forster went out, not sorry to be on a job where more credit than abuse might be earned. For a long time the Chief Inspector sat at his desk men- tally going over the case, reviewing it from all its many angles. Was he, by striking now, acting prematurely? At the back of his mind he had a feeling that he might be. Yet the time had come when definite results were being demanded in no uncertain terms. He must strike now. Basher Vance was in custody and a consignment of drugs on its way to London. That inlet was closed to The Scor- pion forever. Who the devil was The Scorpion? Barnard frankly admitted to himself that, though he had some shrewd suspicions, he really did not know. Yet he felt convinced that Paul Hanson could name him-a very dis- turbing thought. His meditations were cut short by the telephone again. In answer to his growled “Hullo!” the voice of Dick Mar- low, very agitated, came over the wire. Ann Penhayle was acting prer Let the time hamind he had'a 260 SCORPION'S TRAIL “Because he asked Mr. Clayton to book him a seat on that train, and he left here yesterday to go.” "H’m! Very well, Mr. Marlow, we'll do what we can. No news of the Doctor, I suppose.” “None whatever,” replied Dick. "He's working with you, isn't he?" “Yes,” said Barnard slowly, "he is. And do you know, Mr. Marlow, I think that you could be of considerable use to me, too.” Dick looked into the steely eyes regarding him specu- latively, but said nothing. If he could do anything to help in tracing Ann he would do any job and take any risk. Barnard continued: “Mr. Kotlar did not go to Paris yesterday afternoon, Mr. Marlow. He went to his institute and slept there. Your suspicion is to some extent justified. I myself con- sider it curious that he should have found it necessary to lie about his trip to Paris. Well, Mr. Marlow, the job I'm going to suggest is very simple. I want you to come with me to Limehouse this evening, and go to Kotlar's institute about nine o'clock. I'll fix the exact time when we get there. I want you to inquire for Kotlar, and when he comes, appeal to him, as a friend, to help you in tracing Miss Penhayle. Will you do it?” “Great guns, of course!” exclaimed Dick. “Is that all you want me to do?” “I think you may find that quite difficult enough, Mr. Marlow,” replied the Chief Inspector, with a mere wraith of a smile. At three minutes to nine a motor-cyclist dismounted be- fore the Limehouse police station and hurried in. Chief Inspector Barnard met him. force Limehele line THE RAID 263 clatter of feet on the cobbles. Suddenly Kotlar gave a gasp and sprang back from the window, his face contorted into such an expression of mingled rage and fear that Dick leaped to his feet. Kotlar's hand streaked to his hip pocket, and Dick rushed. A revolver glinted as it flashed out, and the vicious crack as it was fired echoed through the room. Dick went low in a rugby tackle, but Kotlar was too nimble for him. He sidestepped and sprang backward with the ease of a springbok. A catch clicked, and when Dick recovered his balance he was alone. Mechanically he stamped upon the small hole begin- ning to smolder in the carpet and stared in astonishment around him. Kotlar was gone! No place on that side of the room where he could hide. The rush of heavy feet upon the stairs roused him, and he swung round as Barnard and Detective-Sergeant For. ster burst in. “Where is he?” demanded Barnard, his eyes rapidly glancing around. "Disappeared through a door somewhere,” replied Dick. "He must have seen your men in the yard as he stood by the window. He shot at me and, as I went low to tackle him, he sprang back and just disappeared.” Chief Inspector Barnard clenched his fists and his lips framed an oath. He turned to Forster. “Two men up with a crowbar or axes,” he ordered. “Where do you think he went, Mr. Marlow?” Dick pointed to the probable place, the end wall. Not a large area, but finding the exit might be a long job. Barnard, however, was not disposed to waste any time. If he couldn't find it himself within a few minutes the wall would be broken down. Two men arrived, one with an iron bar, and the other THE RAID 265 spasm shook him from head to foot, a horrible gasping rattle came from his throat, and a moment later Dick knew that he was standing in the presence of death. He remained staring down at the dead man for fully a minute before he noticed the left hand. Then he turned and went out upon the landing. “Come up here,” he shouted to Forster. But Barnard heard him as he came out of the room below and, brushing past the sergeant, mounted the stairs. “He died as I came in the door,” said Dick. "Did he speak?” “No, just groaned, and passed out. It's Three-Fingered Jimmy, isn't it?” “It is. How did you know?” "From Doctor Hanson's description. He's the man who shot at me on the Ashdown Forest.” A smile flickered across the hard mouth of the police- man. “Sort of poetic justice that you should find him. If I was a parson I could preach a sermon on that. Looks as if the devil himself had clawed his face. Ever seen any- thing like it before?” Dick shook his head. “No, I have not. What was it-barbed wire?” “Something more flexible than stiff wire, Mr. Marlow. I would very much like to see that weapon. One can learn such a lot from the weapon used. However, perhaps you would be good enough to tell Forster to explore the other stairway?” As Dick went to carry out the request, Barnard gazed thoughtfully around the room. He noted the pyjamas, the folded blanket, and the glass of water, and the sand- wiches upon the tin plate. He read aright the marks in the dust, and the thin trail of blood from the landing. 266 SCORPION'S TRAIL Going down upon one knee, he examined the body. A look of perplexity creased his brow, for the evidence of the wound was all against the other signs. Three-Fingered Jimmy was well known to be a vicious fighter, and the man who could have played with him before murdering him ought to have been abnormally big and powerful. But the position of the fatal wound suggested a very short man. Possibly the work of two men, but he did not think so. One thing was clear. Miss Penhayle had been kept a prisoner in this room. She was gone now, and the person or persons who had rescued her were responsible for the death of Three-Fingered Jimmy. Barnard shrugged his shoulders. Time enough for the mystery of Ann Penhayle. That could wait and take its chance of solution in the greater mystery of The Scorpion. He couldn't allow any side issues to divert his attention now. Evidently Marlow had not seen, or not appreciated the meaning of, the pyjamas and the blanket. So much the better. A man in love was always a fool. The Chief Inspector rose to his feet as Dick came back. “Will you go down and ask Mr. Fenner to come up here with a man, please,” he requested, “and wait for me yourself downstairs?” Again Dick went off to carry out the request, unaware that Barnard was deliberately getting rid of him so that he would not notice the evidence of Ann's occupation of the room. Five minutes later Fenner, the sub-Divisional Inspector, came up, accompanied by a constable. To the latter Bar- nard gave orders for him to follow Sergeant Forster. As the man saluted and departed Barnard turned to the inspector. THE RAID 267 “You've made a mess of this, Fenner,” he said sharply. “You assured me that the premises were surrounded.” "And I thought they were, sir. I had no idea that any- thing like that passage existed.” “You should have anticipated that,” snapped Barnard. The inspector flushed. “Do you know where we are now, sir?” he demanded. "In the next street, I suppose. That's right, isn't it?” “It is, sir,” admitted the Divisional Inspector gruffly. “Backs onto the river. I've got two men on the roof of the building, an empty warehouse, and I thought that was enough.” “Bah!” growled Barnard. “An empty warehouse! It ought to have suggested the possibility to you, Fenner. I suppose you did not even search the building?” "I searched the building myself, sir, and I found noth- ing but dust and rats.” The return of Sergeant Forster saved the local inspector from further censure. “Well?” demanded Barnard. "Not a trace, eh?” “Nothing that I can see, sir.” “A wise qualification, Forster. See what you can find in there and then get the photographers along. Mr. Fenner, I'll see the prisoners.” Barnard followed the inspector back to Kotlar's room and sat down at the desk. Dick Marlow was standing by the window and swung round as they entered. "It's not much use for you to stay any longer, Mr. Marlow,” said Barnard. "If I get any information about Miss Penhayle I will communicate with you at once. She's not here, of course, and you'd rather be going.” Dick accepted the obvious dismissal with good grace. It was not, after all, that he could do anything if he stayed. As he went down the stairs he met two constables escort- CHAPTER XXXI THE HOUSE OF CHAN-FU WHEN Dick Marlow left Kotlar's institute he took a taxi to Kiley's rooms in Jermyn Street and was fortunate enough to find the gallant Captain at home. "Well, sailor, what news!” demanded Kiley, reaching for the decanter and a couple of glasses as he saw the haggard lines upon Dick's face. "Have a spot of bother first and then tell me all about it.” Dick sank into a chair and accepted the whisky which Kiley handed to him. As briefly as he could he related the events of the evening and Kiley listened with keen interest. “So Kotlar escaped after all. Dashed bad luck, what?” he said, as Dick concluded. “And absolutely nothing further to help with Ann?” “Nothing,” replied Dick. "It's hopeless, Kiley. Barnard doesn't care a damn and Paul Hanson's still away. I hope he's not come to any harm.” “Don't worry about that, old lad. I guess Hanson can very well look after himself.” Parker's knock upon the door interrupted Dick's reply. He looked up as Kiley's man entered and announced: “Gentleman to speak to Mr. Marlow on the 'phone, sir.” Hoping it might be a message from Hanson, Dick hur- ried out. A well-remembered voice came over the wire, and Dick swore as he heard a little tittering giggle. 270 THE HOUSE OF CHAN-FU 271 "Oh, tut, tut, spare my poor ears! My dear young friend, I wonder if you are interested in Mr. Vander?" Dick frowned anxiously, for Hanson's alias was a secret known only to Kiley, Barnard, and himself. "Ah, I perceive by your silence that you are. I thought so,” continued the voice with another titter. "I think per- haps Mr. Vander might be in need of some assistance." “What do you mean?” asked Dick, alarmed by the sug- gestion. “Well, my young friend, it's like this. I cannot possibly assist Mr. Vander myself. I have my hands so full just at the moment, and I do not really know if Mr. Vander does require help. But I imagine that he must.” “What must I do?” “Mr. Vander will be found in the house of Chan-Fu, the Chinese gentleman who is so familiar with the spirits of the departed. You know it?” “Yes,” replied Dick eagerly. "I know it.” “Good. I think it would be best if you went alone. Do not attempt a police raid or Mr. Vander may suffer un- fortunate consequences. I cannot tell you more, and I must leave it to your own judgment. Oh, just one thing: do not worry about Miss Penhayle. She is quite safe.” “Safe!” cried Dick. “Where?” “Ah, that I cannot tell you. Nor can I say when you will see her again. Perhaps, soon, she will write you a letter. Good-by.” “Stop!” shouted Dick, but he heard the click as the line went dead. For a long minute he stood by the instrument, his mind a wild jumble of emotions. If only he could be- lieve what he had just heard! Then rousing himself he returned to Kiley, who glanced up expectantly and asked: “News!” 274 SCORPION'S TRAIL side, detached from the main building, were the stables and coach house. These, as Kiley knew, had been con- verted into a garage. An examination of the front revealing nothing, they passed round the side of the house to the rear, keeping well in the shadows. “If you ask me, sailor, I'd say that the birdies have left their little nest,” announced Kiley some fifteen minutes later. “Very careless people, too! I noticed a window open on the other side. What about it?” Kiley, having no knowledge of the real reason for the window being open, naturally drew a wrong conclusion. He regarded it as a spot of unadulterated luck, and was all for seizing the opportunity offered. "I'm going to establish something definite before I leave! here,” declared Dick. Kiley waved his hand in the darkness toward the fur- ther side of the house. “Then the road stands open for you, laddie,” he said. “One of us must pop in while the other keeps watch with- out. No sense in both going. They might return and be on us before we hear them. I think I'll slip in. It sort of appeals to me.” "No," retorted Dick firmly. “I am going. If I'm not out again in, say, half an hour, then get on to Scotland Yard, and tell them what's happened.” “And leave you alone to face the music! Not damned well likely, sailor. Anyhow, this is our show. We found it first, and we don't want a lot of fat cops blundering around and asking fool questions." "Don't be an ass, Terry,” said Dick sharply. “You'd stand about as much chance as a snowball in hell if they were waiting for you inside. You do as I say and I'll feel a lot more confident.” SERGEANT TROTTER'S LUCK 279 “Good way of disposing of unwanted bodies, eh, Chief?” grinned Trotter. "Drop 'em over from an aëroplane in mid-Channel at night. Why didn't they do in Tracey Cleeve that way?” “Because this is a new innovation. McKay informs me that three persons only have been taken over by Fritz Mannling." “And the fourth is to be the Penhayle girl,” nodded Trotter. “Well, maybe they won't send her now.” “They will have no chance, Trotter. The Penhayle woman was rescued from the gang by no less a person than the spring-gun expert. He shot and killed Three- Fingered Jimmy last night. And before he did it he appears to have lashed Jimmy's face with fishhooks.” "Gosh!” ejaculated Trotter. “Jimmy must have been off color. But what'll this bloke do with the girl?” Barnard shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say? Probably trade her off. She appears to have a certain amount of value attached to her. How- ever, that's a side issue, Trotter. I can't devote any time to her now. One woman, more or less, doesn't matter when so much is at stake.” Trotter did not reply. There were a few occasions when his chief failed to amuse him. This was one of them. Barnard shot him a look of cold suspicion before he continued. "Hanson has not turned up yet. If he does not appear to-night I shall regard him as lost.” "Pity for a man like that to go west,” commented Trot- ter. "He's clever!” “He's learned,” snapped Barnard. “But not clever. If he's dead it's his own fool fault. I warned him enough.” This struck Trotter as being particularly unsportsman- like, but he refrained from comment. He rose from the 280 SCORPION'S TRAIL chair and, reaching for his shabby bowler, stuck it upon his head. “I'll be getting along and see if Basset has anything to report. Pilkington's worth watching." Barnard nodded, and Trotter sauntered out. Luck unquestionably enters into a detective's life in no small degree. Not blind luck or coincidence, but the result of long experience and the knowledge of the most likely places in which to seek the information required. The luck consists in being in the right place at the right time. True it was Trotter's thirst which had caused him to enter the public house in the first place, but it was his knowledge of crooks and their ways which had led him to select this particular house. He had no definite idea in mind except to seek general information on certain matters. No need to hurry. Plenty of time to get round to Pilking- ton's house and obtain Basset's report. The longer the de- tective watched, the more he would have to convey. It was here that his luck came in. ' Why crooks should frequent this house so close to the home of their natural enemies is something which has never been satisfactorily explained. But when Trotter pushed open the doors and strode in, his roving eyes picked out half a dozen in the first minute. From the familiar greetings it seemed that the big sergeant was a general favorite. Had he accepted a third of the invitations to "have one” he would have been unfit for further duty that night. He waved them aside with a cheery grin and called loudly for a pint of bitter, which he paid for himself. Having by adroit questioning of two "knockers-off” dis- covered that the Daimler was unknown to them, and Lola SERGEANT TROTTER'S LUCK 283 neces Fifty yards from Montcrief's house the van stopped, and the driver got down to make a quite unnecessary examina- tion of his engine. A friendly constable strolled up and was told with more force than politeness to make himself scarce. He did, curs- ing himself for not recognizing the powerful police car. "Have a walk up the road as if you were looking for a brick,” ordered Trotter. “See what's doing in number twenty-two. There ought to be a car inside the gates. Un- less she is staying the night,” he added under his breath. This possibility, however, was eliminated some few mo- ments later. They heard a door close and then a woman appeared at the gate of Montcrief's house. She stood for a moment looking up and down the road and then, step- ping out, began to walk rapidly toward them, passing the driver of the police car, who did not even glance at her. Sergeant Trotter grinned with satisfaction. His judg- ment had not been at fault. He recognized the mop of dusky hair and the subtle grace of carriage which the long black cloak did nothing to hide. He moved with an agility surprising in such a bulky man. As Lola Demaine came abreast of the car he stepped out from behind it and accosted her. “One moment, madam.” Lola stopped and drew her cloak about her with a little cry of womanly fear. Then she made to pass, but Trotter barred the way. "I am a police officer,” he said in a low but forceful voice. "I want you, Mrs. Cardon.” Lola flamed up. “You make a mistake, sir. My name is not Cardon. Let me pass. How dare you molest— " The indignant tones were convincing. A less experienced officer might have been deceived, but not so Trotter. CHAPTER XXXIII WHY RED MIKE SMILED BARNARD WAS at Holloway Prison in conference with the M.O. when the message came through that Doctor Han- son was at Scotland Yard waiting for him. Promptly bring- ing the interview to a close, he hurried back. He found Hanson, rather worn and haggard, smoking a cigar in the waiting room. “Hullo, Doctor,” he greeted. “I'm glad to see you again. Just about reaching a state of alarm on your account. Come up.” Hanson smiled and followed him up the stairs to his room, where he dropped a little wearily upon a chair by the desk. "Well, Barnard,” he asked, “everything go as planned?” “Go as planned!” exclaimed the Chief Inspector, with a mirthless twist of his lips. “Those damned fools I put on to trail you got themselves tangled up in a breakdown at the entrance to Blackwall Tunnel and lost the Daimler. The number was a fake, of course. I did all I could to find you, without the smallest result. Trotter is out on the job now, as a matter of fact.” “Ah, so it was the Blackwall Tunnel!” mused Hanson. “I had no means of knowing, but I guessed we were going under the river.” “Do you mean that you are still unaware of the situa- tion of the place?" asked Barnard, plainly disappointed. 285 WHY RED MIKE SMILED 287 aed, and Hans he returned him then we had driven for a number of miles we finally came to rest in a covered place, floored with cobbles. I had abso- lutely no idea of where we had been or where we then were. We had been locked in the car and the windows screened. Not a pleasant ride, Barnard. However, our old friend Kotlar was there to meet us and piloted me into a gorgeous chamber. Pilkington went off with him then, and I have not seen him since. Has he returned?” Barnard nodded, and Hanson continued. “Soon after, Lola Demaine, all alluring charm and not much else, appeared and, after a display of affection, con- ducted me to the room where I was to smoke the opium. You know, Barnard, Lola is about the cleverest thing in London.” Hanson broke off to regard the Chief Inspector with a twinkle in his eye. "Go on,” growled Barnard. “They're all clever till we get 'em.” “You mark my words. You'll agree with me one day,” declared Hanson. Neither man realized how soon this prophecy was to be fulfilled. “When Lola had left me an Arab did the honors with the pipe and I went through the pantomime of enjoying the vile stuff until I was nearly sick. When he had satisfied himself that I was in a genuine coma—an unpleasant ex- perience, Barnard-he faded away. Later came a fat China- man and did likewise. “Apparently I passed the test, and for the rest of the night I was alone. But it took me all that time to discover the secret spring upon the door. I determined to stay longer and, as no objections were raised, I passed a second day and night in the place. All the doors work on the same secret principle, and once in we should have no 288 SCORPION'S TRAIL trouble. But the snag is that I could find no way out of the place.” “H'm,” commented Barnard. “I don't see that it was worth it, Doctor.” Before Hanson could reply the telephone rang and with a grunt the Chief Inspector unhooked the receiver. Hanson saw an expression of satisfaction flicker over the grim face, to be followed by one of annoyance. "Don't be a fool, Trotter!” he barked. “Curse the idiot, he's rung off!” “What news?” asked Hanson eagerly. “Lola Demaine is in custody. Trotter took her to-night. The fool seems to think it a joke.” Hanson laughed outright, and Barnard glared at him viciously. "You've overdone it, Doctor," he snapped. "A good rest is what you want.” “I know,” replied Hanson, jumping up from the chair. “But not before we've seen Lola. Come on, Barnard. You'll forgive Trotter his little joke.” Barnard swung round, scowling. He opened his lips as if to speak and then, changing his mind, reached for his hat and Aung open the door. Hanson followed him down to the car. No word of conversation passed between them until they reached the St. John's Wood station. “Now we will discover the cause of so much humor,” said Barnard sourly, striding in. Trotter was talking to the sub-Divisional Inspector as they entered. He was wearing a broad grin as he turned toward them. Barnard glared at his subordinate for fully thirty seconds before turning to the local inspector. WHY RED MIKE SMILED 291 with astonishing success. Do you know who he really is, Barnard?” Barnard shook his head. “An actor, of course.” “Yes. At one time he was a female impersonator, doing some clever turns in the French music halls. But he got into trouble eventually and served a short term. That ap- pears to have closed his career in the halls. When I saw him at Twickenham I recognized the mustache and eyebrows as false, and to be on the safe side I obtained a copy of his fingerprints. Lola's escape from her flat puzzled me at first, but when I questioned Marlow I began to get a glim- mer of daylight in the mental gloom. I sent the prints over to the Sûreté and found a telegraphed report awaiting me on my return to-night. I knew then that the sooner Mark Kotlar was in safe custody the better it would be. But I wanted the arrest to be made in the identity of Lola De- maine. Trotter forestalled me.” "Dog bite me, sir!” broke in the sergeant. “When that blooming wig came away in my hands I nearly fainted with fright. But, blimey, it takes a lot of believing, don't it? He makes a flaming good woman. A darned sight bet- ter specimen of a charmer than a man.” “Oh, sure,” agreed Hanson. “One of Dame Nature's freaks. Actually he is an Eurasian, born in Shanghai; which accounts for the Eastern charm and other accomplishments. By the way, Sergeant, have the diamonds been recovered?” Trotter grinned. “They have that, sir. Kotlar had 'em tucked away safely. Fetched 'em from Montcrief's house to-night, if you ask me. But, s'welp me, sir, it was a queer job searching him in that get-up. I couldn't make myself realize that it really was a man. And where I found those diamonds—well! Me such a modest bloke, too!” 292 SCORPION'S TRAIL Ha Plainly Monterumonds. Doubtless otlar, as Lola bred “That's enough of that, Trotter," barked the Chief In- spector. "I'll hear your report. And get that grin off your face. You get more and more like an ape every day!” “Then I ought to be promoted soon,” murmured Trot- ter, searching for his notebook, which he produced with a flourish. Hanson listened with keen interest to the sergeant's re- port. Plainly Montcrief had been the dupe who had taken care of the stolen diamonds. Doubtless he had no knowl- edge of the contents of the package Kotlar, as Lola De- maine, had given into his keeping on the night Sutherland had been murdered. That was why Mike Cardon had taken him to the house of Chan-Fu. Hanson determined to visit that house himself at no distant date. “You've done well, Trotter,” commented Barnard as the sergeant concluded his report. "Oh, thank you, sir,” replied Trotter. “You fill me with confusion!” Barnard ignored the remark and, rising from the table, glanced at Hanson. “Are you returning to Bexley, Doctor?” he asked. Hanson nodded. Barnard consulted his watch. “H'm, you've missed the last train. I'll drive you home.” “ 'S truth!” breathed Sergeant Trotter. “I ain't strong enough to stand any more surprises to-night. I'm going to bed.” 296 SCORPION'S TRAIL “There is no fracture of the vault,” he replied in answer to Hanson's question. “In fact he has had an astonishing escape from death. He is severely bruised, but as far as I am able to say now, there are no internal injuries or bones broken. The bullet grazed the bone and passed down the arm to the elbow, but the wound is clean and should soon heal. I expect him to recover consciousness very soon. You would like to see him, of course?” They followed the surgeon to the private ward in which Kiley lay, swathed in bandages and still unconscious. Han- son leaned over and, lifting the eyelids, peered into his eyes. He was satisfying himself that the surgeon's diagnosis was correct. Kiley stirred restlessly and Hanson held up his hand for silence. Kiley's lips began to move, muttering some words which they could not determine. Hanson leaned over him and presently he heard: "In Chan-Fu's house. Tell Hanson.” Kiley's eyelids flickered and his face twitched spas- modically. But it would still be some time before he recov- ered consciousness. “What did he say?" whispered Barnard. “Nothing sensible as yet,” lied Hanson for the benefit of the surgeon, to whom he turned and asked: “May I see the clothes he was wearing?” “Certainly. I will have them brought along.” “Well?” demanded Barnard, as the surgeon left the ward. “What did he say?” “In Chan-Fu's house,” replied Hanson. “And that's where we go in force to-night. Do you know, Barnard, that it would not surprise me if Chan-Fu's house is the place where I went on Wednesday night.” Barnard raised his eyebrows. “So?” he murmured. 298 SCORPION'S TRAIL As he approached Kiley's rooms, he noticed a smartly dressed, dapper little man, with something vaguely French about him, strolling in his direction. He was about to mount the steps, when the little man increased his pace and hailed him in a pleasant voice. “One moment, Doctor Hanson, may I speak to you?” Hanson paused and stared hard at him. Then he smiled. "I have long wished for that pleasure, sir. Perhaps we shall be able to talk in comfort here. Will you come up?” The little man bowed his acceptance and together they went up the broad stairway. Parker answered the summons. “Good morning, Parker,” said Hanson. "I have just come from Highgate Hospital. You will be glad to know that Captain Kiley is making a quick recovery.” Parker's face brightened at once. “Oh, sir,” he exclaimed, "I am glad to hear that!” “Yes, he will soon be quite out of danger. Well, now, I want to have a quiet talk with my friend.” “Why, certainly, sir. Please come in. May I get you something-a drink-or- ?” “You can get me some breakfast, Parker,” replied Han- son. “I seem to be rather hungry.” Then, turning to the little man: “This way, Parker will see that we are not disturbed.” While Hanson ate the breakfast which Parker had pro- vided, he listened to the life story of the man who had called himself Simon Wernick. Even to him it was a startling revelation. Truly had he spoken when he said that he was a dead man who had crept out of hell. WHERE THE TRAIL ENDED 301 a straight at the grinning head. But even as he sprang the hideous skeleton vanished. Something soft and clammy brushed across his cheek, but his outflung hands failed to seize it. With fists clenched and heart pounding against his ribs he stood in the darkness, sweat in great beads upon his forehead and a cold, crawling sensation creeping along his spine. This was the house of Chan-Fu, the man who could command the spirits of the dead. Dick had nerves of steel and he was not superstitious in the ordinary way. But as he stood in that nightmare void of dreadful blackness, he was conscious of his trembling limbs. What was that fright- ful vision he had just beheld? The slightest noise would have reassured him; the merest movement of something of flesh and blood which he could stand and fight, even though it destroyed him. Surely his cry should have roused some member of the household! In the eerie silence it had sounded to him like a full-throated bellow. The clock ticked on, regular, monotonous, but there was no other sound. No other sound! What was that he could hear; the faintest rustle of silk? He listened, head forward, hands clenched, ready to strike. Something was moving up there! Two tiny, slightly luminous spots, growing brighter ... brighter ... brighter! With a smothered oath Dick lurched against the rail, sucking in his breath with a shuddering gulp. From out of the darkness two monstrous eyes shone, cat- like, glaring down at him, malignant and terrible. They were living, moving eyes, from which poured an hypnotic emanation too hideous to describe. Dick felt his senses reeling. A dreadful lethargy crept over his whole body, and slowly he sank upon the stairs. 304 SCORPION'S TRAIL gazed at him from the other side of the table. They glowed as with internal fire, phosphorescent and hypnotic. Dick felt the awful lethargy descending upon him again and a numbed, hopeless feeling in his brain. He knew beyond the shadow of doubt that he was in the presence of The Scorpion himself. Though he made a desperate effort to keep hold upon his senses, they were slowly slip- ping from him, sapped by the terrible emanation from those piercing eyes. He was on the point of giving up hope, when suddenly the lights came up. The Scorpion turned with a bestial snarl of brute rage, and half rose from his chair, mouthing curses in a tongue unknown to Dick. From the corridor came the sound of run- ning feet, and the crash of firearms shattered the eerie silence. A man staggered into the room, flung up his arms in a wild gesture of despair and fell upon the carpet, groaning horribly. Dick had time to notice that he was in full evening dress when, as suddenly as they had come, the lights snapped off again, plunging the place into abys- mal darkness. He felt a movement at his side and saw the dim outlines of a white robe slip past him. Before he could move he heard a soft thud, followed by a gurgling moan, drowned in a cry of hideous triumph which shocked all the terrible inertia from his brain and brought him to his feet in a bound. Murder had been done in the black- ness within a yard of him. The voice of Sergeant Trotter came booming from the corridor and then somebody found the switch. Every light in the room blazed on, revealing a scene like the phantasy of nightmare. Sprawled sideways in his chair, the haft of a knife protruding from his back, was the Chinaman. Behind him, teeth gleaming and eyes flaming with an un- holy joy, was his murderer. There came the pounding of heavy feet and Sergeant 306 SCORPION'S TRAIL fumbled for a corner of the table and clung to it for sup- port, swaying upon his feet as he blinked incredulously at the dead man. He was going mad! Had gone mad! Des- perately he fought to keep a grip upon his sanity and with deliberate effort again peered into the dead face. “My God! It is Elphinstone Clayton!” he sobbed, and collapsed upon the floor. CHAPTER XXXVI THE MIND OF A MADMAN “FEELING BETTER, Dick?” Paul Hanson's voice was cheery, but there was an expression of concern upon his grave face. Dick Marlow made a weary gesture. “Oh yes, Paul, I'm all right now. But I suppose I'm not mad?” he added with a shudder as he sat upright upon the divan. Hanson placed his hand affectionately upon Dick's knee. “Quite sane, old fellow,” he assured him. “It has all been very bewildering for you, I know.” "It has!” agreed Dick with grim emphasis. “Did you say that Ann was safe, or did I dream that?” "Ann is perfectly safe and waiting impatiently for you,” smiled Hanson. “And Kiley?” "Had a slight accident with his car, but not seriously hurt. Shall we be going? There is nothing more for me to do here.” He put out his hand and assisted Dick, who rose unsteadily to his feet. Detective-Sergeant Trotter, a broad grin upon his face, saluted them as they passed him in the hall. “Some night, eh, sir?” he boomed. “We got the rest of the gang, dead and alive. Dog bite me, there's half the aristocracy of old England laid out down below there. Blimey, but won't they be happy when they wake up!” 307 308 SCORPION'S TRAIL "Which, my good Sergeant, is a pardonable exaggera- tion,” murmured Hanson. “What does he mean?” asked Dick. "He means that they have discovered upon the prem- ises a number of titled and important people under the influence of drugs. This was The Scorpion's headquarters, a temple of fabulous wickedness such as only the mind of a madman could conceive. By many subtle means—drugs, hypnotism, the cult of spiritualism, and by plain black- mail-he obtained absolute power over his victims and destroyed them, body and soul.” “But Clayton!” protested Dick. “I cannot believe it, Paul. Such a simple old man!” “It seems utterly impossible,” agreed Hanson. “Yet I have known it for some time.” They walked out to a waiting taxi and, giving an order to the driver, Hanson got in beside Dick. He lighted one of his long cigars. "I feel in need of tobacco," he said. “A bad habit for a doctor, eh?” “You've got a far worse habit,” retorted Dick. “And that's being so damned secretive.” “No, Dick, that's not quite fair. It was necessary, I as- sure you." “Sorry, Sawbones; don't take any notice. I'm all of a twitch. Tell me about-Clayton. How you came to know.” Hanson blew a cloud of smoke from his long cigar and leaned back upon the cushions. “It was, of course, a gradual process. I had two crimes to consider, each intimately connected with Ann. She might have committed both murders; and was, in fact, held in grave suspicion by Barnard.” “Blithering fool!” grunted Dick. “Yes?” Hanson's eyes twinkled as he continued. THE MIND OF A MADMAN 309 “But I had seen Ann and I knew that she was incapable of any crime. That was something on which I could lay a solid foundation to begin my investigation. Ann was inno- cent, but was intimately connected with The Scorpion's activities. I had long ago decided that The Scorpion was a madman, a brilliant intelligence come to grief. There was an indication, too, that he was either an Oriental him- self or closely connected with the East. He had, in addi- tion, used a woman as a decoy on several known occasions. “In dealing with the two murders I had this difficulty: the first appeared to be directed against The Scorpion, while the second was committed by The Scorpion. Ann was the connecting link. I set out to discover who else had been present when both crimes were committed, and Clay- ton was the only person I could identify. I saw at once how it might be possible to cast him in the rôle of the master criminal. Yet my mind revolted against the sug- gestion. That Clayton was in danger of mental breakdown was obvious. But that applies to so many clergymen of his age. I could not consider him as the criminal, but I did believe that the points of similarity were a very real reason for both Ann and himself being involved.” “Go on,” prompted Dick, as Hanson paused to puff at his cigar. “Then we come to the day at Twickenham,” continued Hanson. "On that day I realized the terrible truth. Jules Valiente, a gutter rat, according to Ann had come to Clay- ton as a man learned in the Chinese language and had been accepted as such. Clayton was an authority and could not, under any circumstances, have been deceived by an impostor. Something was very wrong. Either Valiente did know Chinese or Clayton was deliberately acquiescing in a lie. Then came the incident of the letter to Lafontaine. Clearly a forgery. If the letter had been posted in Eng- 310 SCORPION'S TRAIL land, how had Valiente obtained possession? Kotlar might have been responsible, but I did not think so. To me it was obvious that the letter never had been sent, but that the reply had been faked for Ann's benefit. Why? To induce her willingly to marry Valiente.” Hanson glanced at Dick, scowling in his corner. He knew just what Dick was thinking about the French crook. “I had that talk with Clayton and Kotlar,” he con- tinued. “The conversation I deliberately framed along certain lines. Clayton made a fatal mistake.” “What was that?” asked Dick, rousing himself and dis- missing Valiente to the hell to which he had undoubtedly gone. “Just this. The Scorpion's name was unknown to the public and but the merest whisper among the criminal fraternity of Paris. Not even that at the time of which Clayton spoke. None of his victims knew of the name, yet Clayton was foolish enough to mention it. From then I knew beyond doubt that, impossible as it seemed, I had discovered the identity of the dreaded criminal. I then set out to probe into his past life, and everything became clear. Clayton was an only child, reared in the strict atmosphere of a country vicarage. His father was a narrow-minded, strait-laced fool who frowned on laughter and crushed the boy's healthy, animal spirits. Now, any child brought up under such conditions is bound to become, at the least, furtive and vicious. At the worst, he develops into an antisocial brute, eventually guilty of the most atrocious crimes. "I learned, too, that on his mother's side there was a history of epilepsy. Clayton, then, was born with severe handicaps. His better nature appears to have prevailed and his other self remained dormant and unsuspected by any of his friends. At school he was a brilliant scholar, and THE MIND OF A MADMAN 311 when he entered the Church, at his father's command, a great future was expected for him. He had a natural gift for languages, but it was an evil day when he was sent as a missionary to China. The nervous organization of a genius is at once of the strongest and frailest quality and, that being so, is alarmingly apt to totter. “Clayton, already abnormal through the folly of his father, commenced his study of Oriental languages. He devoted years to their study. Years of intense mental con- centration, rigorously suppressing all his emotions, and the long inhibition and protracted mental application with- out normal relief, had its natural results. “Outraged Nature, to maintain the balance, produced the most grotesque reaction. The scholar, however bril- liant, who repudiates Nature's laws is nevertheless ame- nable to those laws, and must pay the penalty. Do I bore you, Dick?” “Unquestionably you do. But go on, there's a lot I want to know yet.” Hanson puffed at his cigar for a few moments. He was making his explanation as nontechnical as possible- rather a difficult task under the circumstances. He con- tinued: “Clayton, having lost faith in his own religion, turned to the religions of the East. An extended process, doubt- less, but gradually his Western civilization slipped from him, and his mind, already soaked in the languages of the Orient, developed the Oriental twist of thought. Unfor- tunately his mind, distorted in boyhood, readily absorbed all the evil of the Eastern knowledge without any of its truth and beauty. He learned the art of hypnotism, for one thing, and a total disregard for human life for an- other. He began to desire great wealth and power and developed an acute form of somnambulism. His mind 318 SCORPION'S TRAIL prisoners. Then had come the Arab, another victim of The Scorpion, and from him he had learned something of the truth. The Arab was a criminal, but he attached himself to his white brother in misfortune and proved a tower of strength. Thirsting for revenge, tortured by anxiety for Ann and desperate, he determined to risk all in an attempt to escape. With the Arab's help he was successful. Followed months of wandering in the jungle, months of torment almost as bad as that from which they had escaped, until at last they stumbled upon an old camp. The only occu- pants were the skeletons of the miners, dead of fever, but their collection of rubies was intact. To the fugitives it meant everything. Eventually they found their way into Brazil and with forged passports escaped to America. Plentifully supplied with funds, they returned to France, seeking revenge for their wrongs. The Arab worked his way into the gang and came with them to England. At that time they still had no clew to the real identity of The Scorpion. Penhayle adopted the disguise of Simon Wernick, a half-wit, and put into practice the many things which the Arab had taught him during their wanderings, notably the art of moving without attracting attention. He purchased a fast motor cycle and a motor boat and kept as much as possible near his daughter. Sup- plied with inside information by the Arab, he was able to counteract many of their moves. “But who killed Valiente and Three-Fingered Jimmy?” asked Dick presently, as Penhayle paused in his narrative. “That is a mystery we have yet to solve,” cut in Han- son quickly, staring hard at Dick, who immediately real- ized the mistake he had made. “Yes, it is all very confusing,” smiled Penhayle. “Some- body must have shot them. But doubtless he had very 320 SCORPION'S TRAIL of brown paper. To him it would ever be a prized souvenir. Ann's happy laughter floated up to him from the garden and he nodded his head slowly. “And this, my dear Barnard,” he thought, as he handled the parcel, “is the spring gun for which you so earnestly sought. If you possessed a little more imagination, I might be tempted to tell you some of the truth. But Simon Wer- nick is dead, and with you it would be dangerous to recall him. Thank what gods there be that you have no evidence against George Penhayle, for you do not understand the difference between exterminating vermin and murder.... I do.” As he put the parcel away in a drawer Dick Marlow came into the room. “Telegram for you, Sawbones,” he announced, holding out the orange envelope. Hanson broke the seal and read the message. A sigh of satisfaction escaped him and he smiled down at Dick's eager face. "It is from the Sûreté,” he said. “Mr. Penhayle has been granted a free pardon.” “Glory be to Allah!” cried Dick. “By gad, I'll tell Ann!” As Dick ran from the room Hanson stood for a moment rereading the message. Then he turned to the window and, with hunched shoulders and hands deep in his coat pockets, looked out upon the beautiful old garden. He saw Dick hurry up to Ann and his grave face relaxed into a wistful smile. He sighed and shook his head thought- fully. “Love is a wonderful thing, Dick,” he murmured. "May it live forever with you both.” THE END THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN GRADUATE LIBRARY DATE DUE MAY 19197 APR 51976 12 1989 SEP 28 19