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THE MIDNIGHT MAIL





HENRY HOLT
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Henry Holt, one of England's
leading mystery writers, joins
the Crime Club with his new-
est and greatest thriller -
the story of a strangler who
stalked London for his prey.
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
PUBLISHED FOR

THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.


PRINTED AT THE Country Life Press, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A.
COPYRIGHT, 1931
BY HENRY HOLT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TIRST EDITION


JOHN FARQUHARSON
Whose sincere friendship
and sound judgment have meant much
to me for many years





CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
II
97
1. Seventeen Minutes to Go
2. Scotland Yard at Work
Complications
4. Danger
5. Fragmentary Clues
6. Wanted!
7. Mrs. Elm's Fears
8. Silver Makes a Journey
9. A Mysterious Visitor
10. Another Enigma
II. The Man with Red Hair
12. Missing!
13. The Hunt for Sally
A Cable
15. The Spider's Web
16. The Diamond Raid
17. "Nothing Doing”
18. Tim's Revelation
19. In the Underworld
20. Deeper Mystery
21. A Secret
22. Sniffy's Story
14.
107
115
121
129
n
171
179
vi


viii
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
185
194
203
208
215
219
230
236
240
23. A Rendezvous
24. The Raid
25. The Sea Chest
26. “On Suspicion”
27. Edwin Clissold
28. Shadowed
29. Silas Ismay's Record
30. The Bait
31. The Girl Who Waited
32. The Chase
33. The Boat Train
34. The Mystery Cab
35. The Tables Turned
36. A Message from Sydney
37. At the Sign of the Three Balls
38. By the Rose Mary
39. The House of Secrets
40. The Chief Takes Charge
41. The Riddle in a Smile
42. The Last Trick
43. Afterwards
246
252
256
261
271
281
288
293
300
305
309
320


THE MIDNIGHT MAIL





CHAPTER I
SEVENTEEN MINUTES TO GO
IN HIS van next to the engine the railway guard put
down his newspaper as a fresh note crept into the roar
of the train—a high, clattering note which told him
she was passing over Pennystone Bridge.
He looked at his watch. They were dead on time. It
was seventeen minutes' run from that bridge to Lon-
don. Since the last stop, at Peterborough, the driver
had recovered lost ground.
The great train thundered on, with mails that were
due at King's Cross by the stroke of midnight. The
guard tapped the ashes out of his pipe, stowed it away
in a waistcoat pocket, got up, stretched and yawned.
Then he walked into the corridor of the next swaying
coach and slid back the door of the nearest compart-
ment.
"We're nearly there now, miss,” he said, putting his
head into the carriage, which was dimly lighted, the
shade having been pulled over the lamp.
But there was no answer. The guard stepped into
the compartment.
Three or four minutes later he emerged into the cor-
ridor once more, his face unnaturally white and pitted
with drops of sweat.
II


12
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
He peered along the corridor. At the far end of
that coach a man was standing looking out of the win-
dow, apparently immersed in his own thoughts and
gazing at the rushing night cinema of northern Lon-
don through which the train was now travelling. The
passenger started as the guard's hand touched his
shoulder. A powerfully built fellow with a nervous
manner and gold-rimmed spectacles behind which dark
melancholy eyes shone.
"How long have you been standing there?" asked
the guard, raising his voice above the noise of the
train.
"Why, I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe," the
man answered, staring apprehensively beyond the
guard up the empty corridor. “What's wrong?"
“Did you see anybody pass this way?" demanded
the guard, whose hands were shaking.
"See anybody?” the man repeated. "No, not since
I've been here."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so. What—what's the matter?"
The hiss of brakes could now be heard. The train
was slowing down perceptibly as the end of the jour.
ney drew near.
"You'd better wait there when we get to King's
Cross,” said the guard. “Something—something seri-
ous has happened, and I expect the police will want to
hear what you've got to say."
Then he hastily turned his attention to the other
compartments of that coach. Only two of them were
occupied.
As the huge panting engine drew up at the terminus
hear what youred, and I expomething so


SEVENTEEN MINUTES TO GO
13
the guard descended on to the platform and seized a
porter by the arm.
"Fetch the station master and the police quick-
quick,” he ordered.
The porter gave one puzzled glance at the guard
but reacted almost immediately to the urgency in the
man's voice and hurried away.
There were two or three hundred passengers get-
ting out of the train and some of them were already
streaming forward past the engine toward the exit.
With an imperative gesture the guard beckoned an-
other porter.
"Stand by the door of that compartment,” he said.
“There's been a- " The rest of his sentence was
lost as he darted forward. The man in gold-rimmed
spectacles to whom he had spoken in the corridor was
mingling with the rest of the homeward-bound crowd.
“No you don't!" declared the guard, barring his
way.
"What do you mean?" the other retorted.
"Didn't I tell you to stop here?” demanded the
guard sternly. “If you try to move away now I'll have
you arrested.”
"What's all this about ?” asked the passenger, visi-
bly agitated.
But the station master and a railway policeman
were approaching.
“What's the matter, Wilson ?" There was a sharp
note of authority in the station master's voice as he
addressed the guard.
"In that front compartment, sir," replied the guard.
"There's a girl ... I don't know whether she's been


14
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
murdered ... and keep your eye on this man. He's
already been trying to sneak away."
“Murder !” exclaimed the bespectacled passenger.
“I don't know anything about- ".
“If there's any doubt, my friend, you'd better stop
just where you are," said the station master with a
significant signal to the policeman near; and with a
slight twitching of the mouth he entered the compart-
ment about which an element of mystery was begin-
ning to gather.
A girl lay stretched on the seat. The station master
stooped over her, and held his hand near her heart.
“She isn't dead-yet,” he announced. There was
something about her appearance, however, which dis-
turbed him. “What's happened, Wilson?”
"I don't know, sir," replied the guard. “I found her
lying there about a quarter of an hour ago.” He drew
a thin blue cord from his pocket and held it out. “This
was fastened around her throat. And the outer door
leading down on to the track was open tool"
"Good Lord!" exclaimed the station master. “This
is a case for Scotland Yard, but first we must get a
doctor."
Hurrying away to give necessary instructions, he
pushed past a little cluster of passengers who had
gathered near the door scenting some unusual inci-
dent.
At the edge of that cluster stood a man with red
hair whose eyes had been roving the platform rest-
lessly, but of a sudden he turned away and became lost
in the disappearing crowd.


CHAPTER II
SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK
The girl in the railway carriage still breathed but was
unconscious when Dr. Guthrie, a police surgeon, ex-
amined her.
"She's in a pretty bad state," he announced pres-
ently as a lean and rather casual-looking man from
Scotland Yard arrived. "Hello, Silver! You handling
this job?"
Detective Inspector Silver nodded as his glance took
in the picture of the carriage and its inert occupant.
“What's wrong, Doctor?"
"Somebody seems to have failed in an attempt to
commit murder," replied Guthrie.
"She's not dying, then ?" the detective queried.
"Not at the moment. Seel” He pointed to the girl's
right temple. "She's had a nasty knock there, and she's
been half strangled! The quicker we get her to hos-
pital the better!"
Again Silver nodded as he stared down at the un-
known passenger, a smartly dressed girl of about
twenty-three, whose silk-clad legs stretched there
looked pathetically awkward and lifeless.
"Who took that off?” he asked, glancing at a small
hat which lay on the seat. A pair of gloves had fallen
to the floor.
15


16
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I did,” explained Dr. Guthrie, “to examine the
bruise."
"Anything else been moved ?" the detective added,
glancing at an attaché case which rested on the rack
above.
"Nothing," replied the station master. "Is it all
right to take her along to the ambulance now?"
“I don't want her any more," said Inspector Silver,
taking down the attaché case and opening the lid with
a click. The thing contained a notebook full of short-
hand, two pencils, a novel, a penknife, and a few ba-
nanas.
Standing out of the way as the girl was being lifted
on to a stretcher, Silver glanced around the carriage
again.
“If nobody's been monkeying with things, where's
her handbag ?” he asked. “They all carry something
like that nowadays—for their money, and powder
puff, and so on.”
“There was no handbag in the compartment when
I found her lying there," put in the guard. “I'll swear
to that. The carriage door was open though. There's
the string that was fastened round her neck. I wonder
who she is.”
The detective took the cord into his hand and ex-
amined it. The stretcher bearers were carrying the girl
along the platform now.
“Her name's probably Enid Mulholland,” said Sil-
ver.
From the attaché case he had taken the novel issued
by a well-known circulating library. Attached to it was


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 17
a "tab" or book marker on which the name of the sub-
scriber had been written.
“If you don't want me," came a petulant voice from
the platform, “I should like to be going home.”
Silver turned a pair of interested eyes toward the
man in gold-rimmed spectacles to whom the railway ·
police officer was still sticking closer than a brother.
"What's your trouble?" asked the detective, throw-
ing the book back into the attaché case and stepping
down to the platform.
“That man was in the corridor when I found the
body—or the girl, rather," explained the guard. “He's
tried to get away once, but I thought we ought to have
his statement."
Silver's fingers strayed to his waistcoat pocket from
which he took a packet of cigarette papers. He didn't
look very efficient or dangerous to criminals, this
youngish Scotland Yard man on whom Dr. Guthrie's
gaze was resting. The detective had such an easy-
going air. Questions did not invariably leave his lips
with a snap, and his eyes were not piercing. It seemed
almost impossible to visualize Silver as the man who
had just sent “Larry the Rat" to the gallows, at the
same time breaking up the most dangerous gang of
coiners the Yard had known for years. Guthrie, how-
ever, had worked with this detective before and knew
all the power that lay behind that casual manner. The
two men were on very friendly terms.
"And what's your name?" asked the C.I.D. officer.
"Victor Braintree. There's my card. I'm a commer-
cial traveller, as you see. I know nothing whatever
about this beastly affair, and I want to get to bed.”
that lay
friend
sked the I'm a


18
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"So do I, sir," said Silver, "and I've been on duty
since eight o'clock this morning, but somebody's got
to do something about it when one finds a pretty girl's
been half murdered on a train."
"Of course, but I- "
"Wait a minute. Guard, at what time did you dis-
cover this had happened?"
"About fourteen minutes to twelve."
“What was this man doing in the corridor?"
"Looking out of the window a dozen yards or so
away from the compartment where the girl was."
Silver's eyes were taking the measure of the be-
spectacled Mr. Braintree.
"And what can you tell me about this affair?" the
detective asked him.
"Nothing. You must remember it was difficult for
me to hear owing to the noise of the train.'
Silver was feeling in a pocket.
"And how long do you think you were standing there
in the corridor, Mr. Braintree?"
"About ten minutes or thereabouts."
"I see. And while you were there did anyone walk
along the corridor?"
The detective had a tobacco pouch in his hand now
and was beginning to roll a cigarette.
"I've got a hazy idea," said Braintree, “that as I
came out of my compartment someone was just going
down the corridor.”
“You distinctly told me nobody passed that way,”
put in Wilson.
"You'll be accusing me next of having tried to mur-
der the lady," said Braintree heatedly, glaring at the


20
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
fully accepting the case from the man's fingers and
placing it on the seat of the railway carriage.
"Now can I go?" asked Braintree.
“That's all right. Good-night I” Silver, however,
was already convinced that no man who knew he had
left incriminating fingerprints in that railway carriage
would have held the cigarette case quite so ingenu-
ously while handing it over to the police.
"Excuse me, Inspector," said the station master, “I
don't want to hinder you at all, but this train is block-
ing up the main arrival platform. If you've finished ex-
amining that compartment "
"I haven't begun yet," replied Silver. “Can't you
detach the whole coach and put it into a siding?"
“Yes, easily."
"And see the doors are locked too, please. Our pho-
tographers will get busy there, but meanwhile if any.
one starts poking about and interfering there'll be no
traces left of anything we want."
"Well, Silver," said Dr. Guthrie, as the station mas-
ter turned away, “I don't think I'll wait any longer,
but give me a ring, will you, if you find any interesting
development?"
"There'll be developments all right, Doctor," said
Silver. “It's my unlucky day. I just chanced to look in
at the Yard late to-night and this happened—the sort
of thing I would get landed for when I'm due to go on
my holidays. Good-night, Doctor. Now, Mr. Wilson,"
he added, turning to the guard, "we don't seem to
have got much forrader so far. I'd like you to tell me
the whole story."


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 21
The two men walked into the station master's
office where Silver perched his long form on the edge
of a table.
"Well,” Wilson began, "it was about a quarter to
twelve-
"Wait a bit, you'll have to start at the beginning,"
the detective interrupted. “Where did that train come
from?"
"Edinburgh," said the guard. “She brings mails
from the North. But I didn't join her till she reached
York.”
“What time does she leave there?”
"At 7:20 P. M."
Silver began to make a few notes in a pocket book.
"And the next stop?”
"She only pulls up once between York and King's
Cross. That's at Peterborough, where she's due at ten-
fifteen.”
“Very well," said Silver. “Now tell me how long
have you known this Enid Mulholland or whatever
her name is ?"
“I didn't even know that was her name."
“That isn't what I'm asking you." Nobody was ex-
empt from suspicion at this stage. “How long have
you known her?”
"I never saw her in my life before."
Silver was rolling another cigarette.
“All right. Go on."
“She got in at York and asked me if the train was
likely to be crowded. I told her it wouldn't be. Never
is on a Monday night. I don't know whether the lady


22
· THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
had any heavy baggage in the van, but she only took
that little attaché case you have there when she got
into the carriage.”
"What about her handbag? Girls never go across
the street without that sort of thing."
"I didn't take particular notice whether she had
one or not."
"Was that all the conversation you had with her ?”
"Why no, I was talking to her for three or four
minutes.”
"Did you observe any signs of nervousness about
her?”
"Not a bit. She was quite cheerful. A real pretty
girl, I call her. Very ladylike, but sort of friendly.
Told me she was tired, I remember."
"You didn't get the impression that there was any-
one about whom she might know?"
The guard rubbed his chin.
"After what has happened I'm not so sure of that.
I didn't think anything special of it at the time, but
while I was talking to her at York she had her head
out of the carriage window, and I was standing on the
platform. I seem to remember now that she kept
watching the people as they boarded the train. Run-
ning her eyes down the crowd on the platform, I mean,
as if she might have half expected to see somebody
she knew."
"But she didn't speak or nod to any other passen-
ger?”
"Not that I'm aware of, though I can't say what
happened during the last minute or so because I was
busy then giving the signal to start.”


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 23
Silver blew out a cloud of smoke.
“Can you tell me if she had that compartment to
herself all the way from York to London ?"
“Yes, she had. There was an unusually small num-
ber of passengers on the train. A little while after we
left York I had a word with her as I passed along the
corridor. She asked me what time dinner would be
served and I told her she'd just be right if she walked
back to the dining car then."
"How far from her compartment was the dining
car?"
"Some distance. The dining car was the sixth coach
from the engine.”
"When did you next see her ?"
"Not until the train was standing at the Peterbor.
ough platform. She popped her head out of the window
there and asked me if we should reach King's Cross
on time. I told her I expected we should though we'd
lost several minutes south of Grantham where the
permanent way was under repair owing to some coal
trucks having been derailed.”
"Are you certain there was nobody else in that com-
partment when you were talking to her at Peterbor-
ough?”
"Quite. She told me she was going to sleep and asked
me to be sure and rouse her a few minutes before we
reached King's Cross. That's how I came to find her
lying there unconscious."
“At a quarter to twelve, as you entered the corri-
dor on the way to her compartment, was that man
Braintree standing there looking out of the window ?”


24
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Yes. Besides, he admits he'd been there for some
time."
“Well, from the corridor could you see into the
compartment where the girl was?”.
"No. That door was closed and the blinds were all
pulled down. Also, the shade had been drawn over the
lamp. She'd fixed things as most people do when they
want to go to sleep on a night train.”
"I see. You opened the door leading from the cor-
ridor ?"
“Yes. And I spoke to her, but before the words
were out of my mouth I had a feeling that something
was wrong. She was lying on the seat but it didn't look
natural. One arm was hanging down and her legs were
sort of hunched up. The first thing I did was to pull
the light shade back and when I caught sight of her
face-well, you saw it yourself—I thought she was
dead."
“What did you do?"
"I lifted her head up a bit and then I saw this piece
of cord tied around her throat. The knot was in front,
under her chin. I tried to unfasten it, but my fingers
were shaky so I whipped out a penknife and cut it.”
“And then ?"
"I looked round, and that was when I noticed the
outer door was unfastened—the one down on to the
track."
"It wasn't unfastened while you were talking to her
at Peterborough ?”.
“No, I should have noticed that if it had been, as a
matter of habit."
“Well, go on."


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 25
"I shut the door and spoke to that man Braintree in
the corridor. By then there were only a few moments
left before we were due at King's Cross. I looked into
the other compartments along the coach. In one there
was an old clergyman with a white beard, fast asleep,
and in the other a man and his wife were gathering
their things together.”
Silver sniffed.
"White beard-fast asleep, eh?”
"He appeared to be."
“He would be if he's the man we're looking for."
The detective was regarding the severed bit of blue
silken cord in his hands.
"This can't have been tight or she'd have been
dead."
"No it wasn't. Not very tight, I mean. It was almost
as if she'd tied it herself."
"What do you mean?".
"Why, it just occurred to me, but I suppose she
didn't do it really.”
"Attempted suicide?" Silver sniffed again. “You
mean she opened the door, pitched her purse or what-
ever she kept her powder puff in on to the line, tied
this string round her throat, bumped her head hard on
the woodwork, and then lay down on the seat to die!
Ask yourself, how could she ?”.
"A bit of a puzzle, isn't it, Inspector? What do
you make of it?”
"We haven't got much to work on yet," replied Sil.
ver. "It all depends on that open door. Who unfas-
tened it? And why? Is it just a blind? At present it
looks to me as though someone had tried to murder


26
- THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
the girl, thought he'd finished the job, and then com-
mitted suicide by jumping out of the train. We shall
know more anyway if a body is found on the line. Or
at least,” he paused reflectively, "we might know.
Though why the murderer should take the girl's pow-
der puff and things with him when he committed sui-
cide beats me." He paused again. “Hold on, maybe
I've got it! Did the train slow down anywhere be-
tween Peterborough and King's Cross? I mean slow
down so much that a man might try to jump off with-
out breaking his darned neck ?”.
"The train must have been doing seventy miles an
hour most of the way," was the guard's answer.
“There are a couple of curves where she might have
slowed down to sixty, but that would be the minimum.
As a matter of fact we came along faster than usual,
because we were four minutes late on leaving Peter-
borough and we reached London on scheduled time.”
Silver regarded the red end of his cigarette.
“Then let's get this straight. You were due at Peter-
borough at ten-fifteen?”
“Yes, but we didn't reach there till ten-twenty.”
"And what time did you actually leave Peterbor-
ough ?”
"At ten twenty-four.”
“Good! Now we're getting at it. This attempted
murder took place, then, between 10:24 P. M. and
fourteen minutes before midnight. That gives a mar-
gin of one hour and twenty minutes. And during that
time the train was making a non-stop run of at least a
mile a minute."
“Yes, that's bound to be right.”


SCOTLAND YARD AT WORK 27
"Glad you think so. It shows you haven't had beau-
tiful simple faith crushed out of you. When I first
took on this job at the Yard I used to believe what
they'd taught me at school that two and two always
make four. But at school they didn't warn one that
there might be a catch in it sometimes. Well, Mr. Wil-
son, there's a nice comfortable bed waiting for me at
Streatham, and there's no more we can do to-night.”
The station master entered the room with an anx.
ious look on his face.
“A message has just come through, Inspector, from
the signal box at Harley Crossing. The body of a dead
man has been found on the line."
Silver blinked. Just what he had been expecting!
"Harley Crossing, eh? That's on the main route
from Peterborough."
"Yes, nearly thirty miles away from King's Cross."
Silver turned to the guard.
"What time do you figure the midnight mail passed
that spot ?"
"At eleven thirty-two or eleven thirty-three, She'd
be doing close on seventy miles an hour there."
“What have they done with the body?” Silver asked
the station master.
“They rang up just now for instructions. I told them
not to move it, thinking perhaps, as it appears to have
some connection with the attempted murder, you'd pre-
fer to "
There was a suspicion of a sniff from Silver.
"It looks that way!” he said. “I'll just have a word
on the telephone with the Yard first.”
Fifteen minutes later a fast Scotland Yard motor


28
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
car was rushing through the streets of London head-
ing north to the open country.
"It's a wonderful night for a run, sir," said the
driver, who looked like a naval man, yet wasn't.
"Rats!” replied Detective Inspector Silver, rolling
a cigarette. But the cigarette remained unlighted be-
tween his lips. In his waistcoat pocket was a button
which he had picked up from the floor of the compart-
ment where someone had tried to murder a girl ap-
parently called Enid Mulholland. He fully expected to
find it was missing from the clothing of the man now
lying dead on the track near Harley Crossing. But inci-
dentally he was still wondering where he would find
Enid Mulholland's powder puff and purse.
111


CHAPTER III
COMPLICATIONS
A GIRL of perhaps twenty-four emerged from the Pic-
cadilly Tube station and walked up Shaftesbury Ave-
nue. It was the hour when all London was hurrying to
work, but that did not prevent more than one pair of
eyes from turning admiringly in her direction. She was
smartly dressed, had a trim figure, and moved briskly
on as shapely a pair of legs as one was likely to see all
day.
Turning into a doorway, she climbed a light of
stairs and entered the offices of the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate, nodded to an office boy who had
intelligent eyes, a bright cheeky face, and a mouth full
of toffee, and pulled off her hat.
Putting down the ink well which he was cleaning,
and shifting the toffee to starboard, the boy sidled up
to her.
"I've got a cert. for this afternoon, miss."
“You gave me a cert. every day last week, Tim,"
she said, looking reproachfully at him, "and they all
went down."
"But this is special, miss. Cherry Ripe, in the three-
thirty race. I heard Mr. Ismay telling someone over
the telephone that it could do it on three legs."
29


30 - THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Mr. Ismay!" Her fine eyebrows rose a trife. There
was something almost indecent about associating
Ismay with the sport of kings. You would as soon
think of an archbishop eating peanuts on the top of a
bus. “All right, Tim," she added, opening her purse
and handing the youth a coin. “Put it on for me, but
I suppose this is where another shilling goes west."
Tim slid off as the door opened and the girl's em-
ployer came in. Lawrence Bruce was a wonderfully
keen, efficient business man, and she was his highly
capable secretary.
"Good-morning, Miss Marsh." Bruce was dark,
with crisp curly hair and steel-gray eyes that could
dance with humour but could harden until the pupils
seemed like pin pricks in those moments of stress when
a business man needed all his courage to keep the flag
flying. And such moments occurred. Nobody had a bet-
ter chance of knowing that than Sally Marsh, for Law-
rence Bruce was interested in several successful con-
cerns, but he had had to fight hard for some of his
victories. He was young for the position he had won
-about midway in his thirties—and his brain flashed
like lightning to a solution of minor problems; but
where bigger issues were at stake his judgment was
deliberate and sound.
Already he was running through a pile of corres-
pondence on his desk, picking out with unerring in-
stinct those letters which especially interested him;
and for a while Sally's pencil flew over her notebook
as Bruce dictated.
Suddenly he pressed a button, lifted a house tele-
phone receiver to his ear and listened. Then, glancing


COMPLICATIONS
31
at the little gold clock at his elbow, pressed the but-
ton once more, his eyes meanwhile racing through an-
other letter.
“What's the matter with the thing? Miss Marsh,
will you please see if Mr. Ismay is in his room? If
not, ask Miss Mulholland to come here for a moment
and take a message for him.”
His long artistic fingers were tapping the desk im-
patiently by the time Sally returned.
"Neither Mr. Ismay nor Miss Mulholland has come
yet, their boy says.”
Again Bruce's glance shot to the clock.
"Neither of them! Queer!" It was nearly half-past
nine. “Never mind, let's get on.” There was some-
thing dynamic about Lawrence Bruce, and this sort of
thing was not just an early-morning fit of energy. He
was always equally full of punch.
A quarter of an hour later as an athletic-looking in-
dividual entered the room he again pressed that elec-
tric button.
"Pardon me, Bruce," said the intruder, "but I'm
sort of anxious. Enid Mulholland telegraphed me
from York yesterday evening saying she was coming
back last night on the express which arrived at King's
Cross at midnight. But she didn't come. I'm sure of
that because I went to meet the train.”
“Naturally." There was a good-humoured twinkle
in Bruce's eyes. All the staff knew that this young
American who charmed everyone into liking him was
head over ears in love with Enid Mulholland. “Don't
worry, Peter. I think they must have changed their


32
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
plans at the last moment and spent the night at York.
That was rather a difficult job they had there."
Peter Irwin made a dissatisfied little gesture of as-
sent. It was almost unbelievable that Enid would not
have telegraphed again or at least written when she
knew her return had been delayed. She and he were
in that happy stage wherein it was difficult to think of
anything but one another.
And that was the moment when Tim, eyes still fixed
in a fascinated fashion on the card in his hand, ap-
proached Bruce. Ordinary policemen were as common
as blackberries, but to meet a real detective inspector
from Scotland Yard in the flesh was an experience.
Taking the card from the boy, Bruce glanced at the
letters which still had to be dealt with, almost said
“Ask him to wait," and then changed his mind.
"Fetch him in," he ordered resignedly.
A moment later Silver was standing there. A quick
smile of recognition came to his face as his glance fell
on Sally Marsh. He had met her before, when she was
working in another office. The cashier of the concern
had absconded, and was now making mail bags in
Maidstone Gaol. Silver had never seen Sally since, but
her personality had trailed across his memory many
times.
"Which of us would you like to arrest, Inspector?”
Bruce asked cheerfully, indicating a chair.
Silver bent in the middle, sat down, and put his hat
on the desk.
"I've come to see you about a rather unpleasant
business," he said.
“My God! It's Enidl" broke from Peter Irwin.


COMPLICATIONS
33
"Something's happened to her!" And his face went
white as he saw confirmation in the detective's eyes.
"You mean Enid Mulholland ?" asked Silver with
sudden interest.
"Quick, man!” urged Irwin, his hands tightly
clenched. “Is she all right?”
"I didn't know the lady had anything to do with this
office,” replied the Inspector, “but that simplifies mat-
ters. No," he hesitated, sensing Irwin's real interest in
the girl, "I'm afraid she's in hospital. The doctors
don't know yet whether she will recover or not, but the
fact is a deliberate attempt to murder her was made
last night."
There was a peculiar silence in the room for several
long seconds. Lawrence Bruce looked at the C.I.D.
man almost unbelievingly. Sally Marsh had sprung to
her feet, hands pressed to her breast, for she and Enid
Mulholland were the closest of friends. Peter Irwin's
face was grey and drawn. It was he who spoke first.
"Where-where is she?” he asked.
"King's Cross Hospital,” said the detective.
Irwin lurched straight out of the room without an-
other word.
"This is terrible news, Inspector," said Lawrence
Bruce quietly. "Who attacked her?”
"I can't answer that question,” replied Silver. "As
a matter of fact, it wasn't concerning Miss Mulhol-
land that I came here. It was about Mr. Silas Ismay
that I wanted to speak to you."
Bruce's face was troubled.
"Good Lord! Don't say anything happened to him!
He hasn't turned up here this morning."


34
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Mr. Ismay never will turn up,” said the detective.
"He is dead."
Again there was a weighted pause.
"I—I'm greatly shocked, Inspector," said Bruce,
with a visible effort at control. “Ismay-dead!" He
stared straight in front of him, endeavouring to grasp
this second dreadful truth. “How did it happen?"
“The attempt on the girl's life was made on the mail
train due at King's Cross at midnight," the detective
explained. “The man was found on the line over which
that train had passed.”
A voice cut cleanly across the silence.
"Did Ismay try to murder Enid Mulholland, In-
spector ?"
Both men swung around to Sally Marsh, who was
standing unsteadily, one hand holding on to the back
of a chair for support.
“You have a reason for saying that," came from the
Scotland Yard official. “Will you please explain ?".
After a second's reflection Sally spoke but her an-
swer was a disappointment.
"I only mean"-was there just the least touch of
hesitation in the way she said it?—"that if he com-
mitted suicide by jumping out of the train it looks as
though he had also tried to kill Enid.”
“But,” Lawrence Bruce put in quickly, “why should
Ismay have wanted to murder Enid Mulholland?".
Sally shook her head.
"I don't know," she said.
"Had there ever been any sort of love affair be-
tween those two?" Silver addressed his question di-
rectly to the girl.


COMPLICATIONS
35
Bruce was watching her face keenly in anticipation
of the answer. As far as he knew the dead man had
very little interest in women. Enid had been with the
Syndicate for nearly twelve months, and almost from
the first she had been drawn toward Peter Irwin. But
human beings were complicated creatures: you never
could tell what they might do.
"You can definitely cut out any such idea as that,"
was Sally's reply. Which was an interesting piece of
advice, but one that Silver was not yet prepared to act
upon.
"I understand that Miss Mulholland boarded the
mail train at York,” he said. “Where was Mr. Ismay
travelling from?”
"From York also," said Bruce. “They left London
on Sunday, to attend to important business in York
for the firm. Mr. Ismay went there, as a matter of
fact, to come to an understanding with—with a gentle-
man in regard to certain payments, and it was Miss
Mulholland's job to take a shorthand note of the in-
terview."
“Might I ask the name of that gentleman in York ?"
asked Silver.
"Certainly. He is Oliver Foss, of 11a Melton Lane,
in that city, a young Australian who came to England
this year and has engaged in various financial enter-
prises."
"Has there been any unpleasantness, any ill-feeling
between your firm and this Oliver Foss? I mean, from
what you say I gather that the trouble was to get
money out of him.”
Bruce picked up a paper knife and bent it to and fro.


36
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I see your drift, Inspector," he said. “We're get-
ting on to dangerous ground, aren't we?"
"There's no danger in my knowing the truth, Mr.
Bruce," said the C.I.D. man.
"Exactly," replied Bruce, “but though our relations
with Foss certainly became strained, I hesitate to tell
you anything which might give a false impression.”
The detective was going to say something else, but
checked himself, and made a note of the York man's
address.
"But surely," said Bruce, “Miss Mulholland will
make a statement, and her information should be of
the utmost service."
"Enid Mulholland is still unconscious, and shows
no signs of recovering," the detective replied.
Bruce's brows became crinkled.
"I can't for the life of me imagine what made Ismay
jump out of that train," he said. "His affairs were al-
ways in order, and his health was perfect. But of
course the brain plays curious tricks, though he seemed
sane enough."
“There is no evidence that he wasn't sane,” said
Silver.
"Excepting, of course," suggested Bruce, “that a
man is generally unbalanced in some way when he
commits suicide."
It was no use holding the real facts back any longer,
Silver decided.
“Silas Ismay," he said, "did not commit suicide. The
appearance of his body shows that it must have fallen
on to the track while the train was travelling very fast,
but there is no doubt that he was murdered. The doc-


CHAPTER IV
DANGER
A FEW moments later Sally Marsh was sitting on a
chair facing the C.I.D. man. With a gesture Silver had
induced Lawrence Bruce to retire into the next room.
"Wasn't that stupid of me?" said Sally, taking an-
other sip of water with a hand that shook slightly.
“Not—stupid,” replied Silver quietly, one half of
his mind concerned with the grim subject of murder,
while the other half was centred on the girl herself.
“What I said naturally gave you a bit of a shock."
“Yes, I suppose that was it.” The faintest of tre-
mors passed through her slender frame.
"And yet— "Silver broke off, regarding her with
a slightly puzzled expression.
"And yet what?" Sally's hazel eyes were fixed di-
rectly on his.
"I don't know," replied the detective in a kindly
voice. "If this had been just a case of attempted mur-
der and suicide the thing would finish there. As it is
well, the situation is different. This is not the end, but
the beginning, I am afraid. Miss Marsh, I want to ask
you a straight question."
She paused for a second. Then:
“What is it?"


DANGER
39
"Have you at the back of your mind any suspicion
against anyone in connection with this tragedy ?"
"If you mean do I know who killed Mr. Ismay, no."
She had intelligence, this curiously attractive girl.
For a reason which was not to dawn on him yet awhile,
the man stuck to his task with some reluctance.
“My question was, have you any suspicion ?" And
instinctively he knew that she would not lie to him.
Of a sudden she got up and shook her head as if
casting aside any lingering doubt.
"No," she said. “I have no reason to suspect any.
one.” And Silver, reading a little way into her
thoughts, gathered that her mind was made up, at
least for the present.
"Very well,” he said easily. "But I am bound to re-
mind you that the murderer is still at large. Someone
who had not the slightest scruple about taking human
life is not far away. I don't wish to alarm you unduly,
but until that murderer is caught,” he bit his lip, "there
may be danger for others.”
"You mean?"
“I mean this. Robbery apparently was not the
motive. Ismay's wallet was in his pocket, untouched.
Enid Mulholland's handbag, which contained more
than fifty pounds, was found on the track, a mile nearer
London than the body of Ismay. That means it was
not accidentally knocked out of the compartment dur-
ing a struggle. The murderer threw it a full ten yards
from the train at least a minute after Ismay was
pitched out. Why? Probably to lend colour to the idea
of robbery, though if the murderer had been calmer
he would have realized it would be found. What the


40
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
real motive for the crime was I cannot guess yet, but
I don't think I am far wrong when I say that there
may be danger for others.”
There was the faintest of smiles on Sally's face. She
believed this Scotland Yard detective was really con-
cerned about her welfare. The thought was not dis-
pleasing. She had always liked him.
"Then please do hurry up and catch the man," she
said.
“I am afraid it isn't going to be a very simple mat-
ter,” he told her. And then he said a queer thing.
"Miss Marsh, can I count on your help?"
Her eyes widened a shade.
“My help! Why, yes, but I don't see what I can do."
"Nor do I-at this stage. To be honest, I haven't
even formed a vague theory as to who committed this
crime nor why it was done. It may have been the work
of some homicidal maniac who happened to be on the
train and did not know either Enid Mulholland or
Mr. Ismay, but attacked them with no object except
the sheer insane joy of killing. That might be the case,
but somehow I doubt it. Such things do happen, but a
homicidal maniac would have finished the job properly
instead of leaving the girl alive."
“Then where do I come in ?" asked Sally.
"I don't know that you come in at all," he answered,
regarding her thoughtfully. “Miss Marsh, will you
make me another promise?"
“If I can. What is it?"
"You definitely stated that you have no suspicion
who killed Mr. Ismay. If you change your views on
-
1
-
IH
:
--'.
"


DANGER
41
that subject in the slightest degree I want you to let
me know immediately.”
"By all means," said Sally. “But how could I possi.
bly learn anything in connection with this business ?”
"You may not. On the other hand, if that murder
was not the work of a lunatic the chances are that the
culprit was personally acquainted with one of his vic-
tims-or both. In which case a vital clue might exist
here in the office of the Anglo-American Theatrical
Syndicate."
"I-I understand,” said Sally, in whose eyes an odd
expression flickered for a second.
"Right,” said the detective, who observed that fact,
but rose to his feet. “Please don't think that I want
you to lose any sleep over this affair. It's our job down
at the Yard to do all the worrying. And now I must
tackle Mr. Bruce. He's the man who may be able to
help most."
Sally nodded. Her faith in the managing director's
acumen was complete.
"If he can help you he will," she said. “Because the
death of Mr. Ismąy is a very serious thing for him."
“They were warm friends ?”.
"They got on well together, especially in business.
Mr. Bruce is a brilliant man, but Ismay was a genius.
As partners in business they made a wonderfully good
pair. To tell you the truth, I don't quite see how this
syndicate will be able to carry on without Silas Ismay.
He had a perfect flair for theatrical things. We al.
ways banked on his judgment of a show or a man. I
once heard Mr. Bruce say that if Ismay left the syndi-


DANGER
43
s thirdach Mr. Isma
cal to
"If you put it that way, yes, I suppose she did.”
“I am sorry to press you on a subject that you evi-
dently don't want to discuss, but I wish you would tell
me why Enid Mulholland disliked Silas Ismay."
"He was always very considerate, both to her and
to me," said Sally reflectively, "but have you never had
to rub shoulders with anyone who was inclined to give
you thè creeps for no apparent reason ?”
"I've arrested lots of 'em," agreed the detective,
"though to be truthful that was generally after I had
found out why they gave me the creeps. What I can't
understand, Miss Marsh, especially after your ex-
planation, is what Mr. Ismay was doing in Enid Mul-
holland's third-class compartment. And it is only logi-
cal to conclude that he was there."
"He might have walked along the corridor to ask
her some question—perhaps about the interview of
which she had taken notes."
"If so," said Silver, “that cost him his life. Was
Ismay given to sudden or violent impulses?"
“On the contrary. I have only seen him angry once
or twice and in my opinion he was quite justified on
those occasions. No, he was much calmer than most
people. Didn't show his feelings. It-it was almost un-
canny. I remember Enid once told me that he didn't
seem to be real flesh and blood. I believe it was that
which made him give Enid the creeps."
Silver sat staring at the inkwell in silence for a
space. Then:
"I'm much obliged to you for your frankness, Miss
Marsh. Now would you mind asking Mr. Bruce if I
can have a few minutes with him?"


44
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
As Jimmy Silver, Inspector of the C.I.D., watched
Miss Marsh cross the room, the emotions within him
were curious and contradictory. There was a whole lot
that he admired about the girl. He was no mean ex-
pert at reading human character, and the detective
knew she was straight as a razor edge. But somehow
he was not altogether satisfied.
That sudden question of hers as to whether Ismay
had tried to kill Enid Mulholland, and more particu-
larly the note in her voice at the time, still lingered in
his memory. It was obvious to Silver also that she had
had to think twice before declaring that she had no
suspicion. Moreover, though she was greatly dis-
tressed by the news about her girl friend, it was not
until he actually mentioned the fact that Ismay had
been murdered that she was bowled over. The last
straw, perhaps. That might be a reasonable explana-
tion, Silver told himself dubiously.


CHAPTER V
FRAGMENTARY CLUES
"Now Mr. Bruce, I want you to give me half an hour
or so," the detective began.
"I am entirely at your service for as long as you
like," said Bruce. He was grave, alert, and purposeful
as ever. "Nothing is as important as the terrible news
you have brought.”
“Well, to be frank," Silver declared, "I badly need
your help as I'm more or less up against a blank wall
at the moment.” He drew from his pocket the button
which he had picked up in the railway compartment.
“That, so far, constitutes the only tangible clue we
have, and perhaps it was lying on the floor even be-
fore the train reached York, in which case it has noth-
ing to do with the tragedy."
Bruce took the thing in his hand and examined it
with interest.
"Off a man's coat, isn't it?" he suggested. "Inter-
esting, but I'm afraid not very helpful.”
"And yet more insignificant trifles than that have
led to an execution," observed Silver. “As a matter of
fact, until I knew Mr. Ismay had been murdered I
quite expected to find it had come off his coat. But no
button is missing from his clothing."


46
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"There must be countless thousands of buttons like
that in the country," observed Bruce. “How can it help
you?"
"One can never tell. Things have a way of fitting in
which seems extraordinary, but which, as a matter of
fact, is really quite natural. The peculiar thing would
be if they didn't fit in, once you come to the heart of
a problem. For instance, you might have a similar
button missing from your coat now. There would be
nothing really incriminating about that. But if even-
tually we found other clear evidence against you, that
little button might turn the scales. It is the kind of
button used by the best class of tailor, which is as far
as I have got yet, but extensive inquiries are being
made, though actually I haven't much hope in that di-
rection.”
“Any clues in the railway compartment?” Bruce
asked thoughtfully.
“I'm afraid not. Until something crops up I fancy
this very office is as good a starting point as any for
my investigation. Forgive me, Mr. Bruce, because I
know it is all rather painful for you, but apart from
this Oliver Foss in York, can you think of anyone who
might be regarded as an enemy either of Silas Ismay
or of Enid Mulholland, or both? I want you to think
carefully.”
Lawrence Bruce was entirely calm now, and char-
acteristically efficient.
"As far as Miss Mulholland is concerned,” he an-
swered after a moment's reflection, “I can answer
definitely. I know of nobody who has the slightest
grudge against her. She is a very likeable girl, good at


FRAGMENTARY CLUES 47
her work and on the best of terms with everyone. She
is the last person in the world to have enemies."
“What about the American gentleman I saw here?
The one who dashed off to the hospital. Exactly how
does he stand with her?”
"Irwin? You can dismiss him from your mind in
connection with this unfortunate affair. He is genu-
inely fond of Enid. Besides, he couldn't possibly have
been on that train, because he and I dined together in
London last night.”
"Very well. Now what about the possibility of Silas
Ismay having enemies ?”
Bruce's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.
"Ismay's position,” he explained, "was rather dif-
ferent from that of the girl. He has fought some very
hard battles in the world of business, and though many
of those tussles were settled in a more or less friendly
spirit he naturally made some enemies, as we all do in
the scramble for a large bank balance."
“Did you ever hear Mr. Ismay express the fear of
being murdered ?”
"Never. I don't think the idea ever entered his
head."
Silver stroked his chin.
“He was never threatened by this Mr. Oliver Foss
of York' exactly thrfa had wor
“Not exactly threatened,” Bruce answered care-
fully. “They certainly had words. Some bitter things
were said, I understand, the last time they met in Lon-
don."
"Exactly what was this disagreement about ?" asked
the detective.


48
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"Foss undertook certain financial responsibilities and
when he was called upon to sign a check for about two
thousand pounds a week ago, here in London, he tried
to wriggle out of it. Ismay rarely lost his temper ex-
cept when he was up against a crook. There is the
whole thing in a nutshell.”
“This man Foss, then, is crooked?"
"He is what I should call very tricky. Turned yel.
low when it became necessary to face the music."
“Did anybody hear what was said at that interview
between him and Mr. Ismay a week ago in London ?"
"No, but Ismay told me afterwards that he had got
hot under the collar. Whether they had another row
or not in York yesterday I do not know."
"Fortunately there will be no doubt on that point
in another few hours," observed the detective.
Lawrence Bruce looked puzzled.
"I don't quite understand.”
“Enid Mulholland's shorthand is very clear," said
Silver. “Our expert is at this moment transcribing the
girl's notes of the interview."
"Ah! I'd forgotten about that possibility,” said
Bruce.
“Of course the most valuable evidence will be ob-
tained when the injured girl recovers consciousness-
if she ever does,” Silver went on. “The doctors are a
bit doubtful about her. That blow on her head was
serious. She might remain insensible for days, and
every hour gives the murderer a better chance to make
his getaway."
“Yes," agreed Bruce, “but even if he evades you


FRAGMENTARY CLUES
49
now you'll get him as soon as Enid Mulholland can tell
you who he is.”
Silver was thinking of the hazel-eyed girl whom he
had caught as she was fainting—a girl whose position
in regard to this midnight mail mystery puzzled him
curiously. He remembered a look in those eyes of hers
which did not fit in with all that she had said; which
did not tally with the detective's reading of her char-
acter. It was as if some form of fear lurked within
her. Was it fear for her own safety? With that new
thought Silver's brow furrowed. He sharply resented
the idea.
"Is Miss Marsh's work entirely confined to your de-
partment?"
"Not entirely," Bruce explained. “Sometimes she
would help Ismay if he was extra busy and if I didn't
need her. Similarly Enid Mulholland would occasion-
ally take a batch of letters for me if Ismay was away.
It was an elastic arrangement."
The detective's face was blank. Here, it seemed,
was the explanation of how Sally Marsh might have
come into possession of information which was now
causing her vague uneasiness. That she was uneasy-
he could not think of a better word—Silver was con-
vinced. When pressed for a frank statement she had
declared that there were no grounds for suspecting
anybody. Unless his estimate of her character was all
wrong that merely meant she was uncertain and hesi-
tated to express an opinion.
“But you think she couldn't know any more than
you or me about this murder?” said Silver.
“Oh, no, no," Lawrence Bruce declared emphati-
declara, When one of a be


50
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
of that sort, eved Silver quietly the murder
th And yet," from me thote Sally Marce
cally. "I'm afraid you're tackling this problem at the
wrong end, Inspector. Remember, she has been my
right hand in the office for eighteen months. That sort
of thing gives one an excellent insight into a girl's
mentality. She could not possibly be mixed up in any-
thing of that sort, even indirectly."
“And yet,” observed Silver quietly and deliberately,
"you can take it from me that when the murderer of
Silas Ismay stands in the dock Sally Marsh will prob-
ably be an important witness for the prosecution.”
"For the prosecution !" Bruce repeated the three
words and stared at the C.I.D. man. It was Silver's
job to understand this kind of thing, and though the
detective might be wrong he was not likely to make a
statement of that kind unless he was tolerably sure he
knew what he was talking about. “You astound me,
Inspector. May I ask why you say that?”
"Because if she doesn't exactly know who strangled
Ismay she knows something which will probably help
to send the murderer to the scaffold.”
"But what gives you that impression ?"
"It isn't always easy to put these things into words,"
said the detective. "I shouldn't like to try in this case,
but I think I'm right. You'll remember I told you this
office was as good a starting point as any. That's why
I have taken you into my confidence."
"I am glad you have. This is a nasty business, In-
spector, apart from the complications which Ismay's
death will create."
"Now I want you to put your wits at work, Mr.
Bruce," said the detective. “And I want you to speak
quite freely, without fear of incriminating an innocent


FRAGMENTARY CLUES
51
person. We must have something to start on. Can you
think of anyone in any way acquainted with Ismay
who might also have been travelling from the north
on that train yesterday?"
Bruce shook his head slowly.
"That question has been worrying me already,” he
said, “because we can safely assume that the murderer
was not in London yesterday. At least not in the after-
noon."
"I won't go quite as far as that," the detective cor-
rected, “though you're probably right. He might even
have joined the midnight mail at Peterborough.”
Bruce opened a drawer and took out a railway
timetable.
"That point we can settle immediately," he said,
turning over the leaves. "Here we are. The midnight
mail, I see, leaves Peterborough for London at 10:24
P.M. To pick that up one would have to leave King's
Cross at six thirty-seven.”
"That's a fair argument," agreed Silver, “though
I'm inclined for the present to think the murderer
may have travelled down from York.”
"Why?” Lawrence Bruce was beginning to take a
peculiar interest in that part of a detective's work
which involved clear reasoning.
"Well, in the first place the number of people in
London who could possibly have known that Ismay
and the Mulholland girl were on the midnight mail,
or would probably be on it, is extremely small.”
"Wait a moment,” Bruce put in. "Ismay might have
sent a telegram to someone in London announcing his
return."


52
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"A bright thought I" declared Silver, taking out his
pocket book and making a note. “We'll get the York
police to deal with that question at once. And by the
way, I must not forget to ask the American, Mr.
Irwin, if he informed anyone that Enid Mulholland
was returning on that train.”
"Meanwhile," said Bruce, "what about Sally
Marsh? I mean, in view of what you think, her posi-
tion is rather serious, is it not? I feel a certain moral
responsibility, as you can easily understand. I should
hate anything to go wrong so that she stood the
slightest risk of being accused as an accessory. You
see my point?"
“I see your point all right, Mr. Bruce. But leave
her to me. That girl will speak when she thinks the
moment has come, and if necessary I believe I could
persuade her to talk sooner. I have one or two cards
up my sleeve."
He had reached for his hat and was ready to go,
but paused, dallying with a question which he was
reluctant to put, though it was important to know the
answer.
"Sally Marsh never had an 'affair' with any man in
this office, did she?" he asked.
"Certainly not," replied Bruce with assurance.
“There is no question of it."
"You're dead sure?"
"Such a thing could hardly escape one's notice.
Yes, I'll swear to it."
"All right. I shall have to trouble you again on this
job, Mr. Bruce, I expect, but I must go now. By the


FRAGMENTARY CLUES 53
way," he paused on his way to the door, "who do you
know called 'Nobby'?”
Bruce's expression was blank.
“Never heard the name, Inspector, but it sounds
intriguing in the circumstances. Please tell me, is this
one of the cards you have up your sleeve?”
"Well, yes. Though I don't know yet whether it is
a card which will win a trick so I'd better leave it
where it is for the present."
"You almost make me wish I were a detective,"
said Lawrence Bruce with undisguised interest. “Look
me up again soon, will you? Meanwhile I'm going to
make a few inquiries myself, though I don't promise
any spectacular results."
"Anything you find out-anything, however trilling
-may help us tremendously. Good-morning."
Sitting on the top of a bus returning to Scotland
Yard, Jimmy Silver hummed as he rolled a cigarette.
It was an unconscious trick of his to hum that way
when his spirits needed jacking up. This case was
developing into the kind of mystery which fascinated
him, yet it was unsatisfying to know that the mur-
derer had twelve hours' start and could already be
on his way to some such place as Honolulu.
Then Silver stopped humming. He was coldly re-
viewing the fragmentary suggestions of clues that had
accumulated in twelve hours, clues which led off in
many different directions.


CHAPTER VI
WANTED!
The detective's first thought on entering Scotland
Yard was to read through the typescript which had
been prepared from the shorthand notes taken at that
interview with Oliver Foss at York.
It covered a dozen pages of foolscap. Silver settled
in a chair in his office prepared as a matter of duty to
wade through the record of a dull business talk. But
within two minutes his interest was aroused.
At an early stage the interview had degenerated
into a row. There had been no mincing of words by
either of the men.
Three times Silver read through the last two para-
graphs faithfully taken down by the girl who was
now lying unconscious in King's Cross Hospital:
Ismay: I shall not let you get away with this.
You are nothing better than a common little
twister.
Foss: Get out of here or I'll swing for you, and
by God I mean that!
On this pleasing note the interview had evidently
ended, for there the shorthand notes abruptly broke


56
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
tially level-headed girl. She would not leap to such a
conclusion without a definite reason. In one vital
second he had sensed that hidden truths lay behind
her eager query—truths which she believed concerned
Silas Ismay and which she had kept bottled up in her
soul.
The C.I.D. man smoked hard for ten minutes.
Already he had set a smart officer on the task of
digging up the real history of Silas Ismay. It might
take Sergeant Gorringe days to unveil the dead man's
past, and the facts that he unearthed might be of no
consequence, but it was one of those cases in which
surprises might crop up anywhere.
Then Silver drew from his wallet a single sheet of
paper. The letters which he had found in Enid Mul-
holland's attaché case were without significance, but
this one, of which you could not say the same, she
had kept in her handbag, that peculiar portable safe
of modern woman, which had been picked up on the
railway track.
He unfolded the sheet of paper, smoothed it out,
and propped it up in front of him. No wonder she had
not left it lying about in the attaché case. The letter
ran:
Wednesday.
Dear ENID,
If you don't want me to go to prison send me
fifty pounds. Borrow or beg or steal it, because
the police are after me and if they catch me I
shall get ten years' penal servitude.


WANTED!
57
I want to clear out of the country and go
straight. I mean it this time.
NOBBY.
On first reading this Silver had chuckled. It was
easy. Obviously a gentleman known as Nobby had in-
discreetly done something that had a ten years'
stretch attached to it and the police were aware of the
fact. There is a department of Scotland Yard which,
from the criminal point of view, has a much too effi-
cient way of handing out information in emergencies
such as this.
But for once the department's system hadn't
worked. There were “Nobbies" by the score in the
underworld, some of whom were at present behind
prison bars and some of whom would no doubt in due
course again earn that respite from the struggle for a
livelihood. But at the moment the Yard was not offer.
ing hospitality for a lengthy period to any particular
crook known in their records by that name.
The door of the office opened and Dr. Guthrie
came in. Silver, whose feet were comfortably planted
on the desk, nodded. The room was thick with tobacco
smoke.
"They don't supply you with enough cushions here,"
commented Guthrie dryly. "You can't be expected to
sleep properly like that."
"So you got my message, Doctor," the C.I.D. man
replied. “You'd asked me to let you know "
“What's the news ?" It was not in a professional
capacity that the doctor had come here to the Yard,


58
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
but because of his interest in this branch of police
work. Also he particularly liked to be behind the
scenes when Silver was on such a case. The reality of
it appealed to him infinitely more than did, for ex-
ample, the Aickering of shadows on a movie screen.
He liked to share with this capable detective the piec-
ing together of these human jigsaw puzzles.
Silver yawned. He had spent exactly one hour in
bed since yesterday.
“The police have obtained an important clue," he
said with mock solemnity, “and are expecting to make
an arrest immediately—or sooner- I don't think !"
"So it's as bad as that!".
"The machinery of Scotland Yard, Doctor, cannot-
er-cannot be hurried. It moves slowly but relent-
lessly. When it has once set itself a task the remorse-
less wheels— "
"I gather from your airy prattle that you don't yet
know who attacked the girl.”
"No, nor, as our American friends would put it,
who bumped off Silas Ismay."
"I never heard of him."
"Your education has been neglected, Doctor. You
don't read the evening papers.” He threw a midday
sporting edition across. “Improve your mind. They've
got the facts fairly correct there."
The doctor scanned the two columns of murder sen-
sation under splash headlines, then whistled softly.
"What,” the C.I.D. man asked, “are the chances
that Enid Mulholland will die?"
"Can't tell a bit," replied Guthrie, seating himself
on the table as the only other chair looked rickety. "I
sporting edition evening papers.elected, Doctor,


WANTED!
59
had a word this morning with Warburton, the house
surgeon, who is an old pal of mine. He says it's a
miracle she was still alive when they took her in. But
as she's hung on till now there's a sporting chance."
"Well, it will make quite a difference in my young
life if they fix her up so that she can talk for thirty
seconds. By the way," he handed over the letter that
had been propped up in front of him, "what do you
make of that?"
“Who is Nobby?” Guthrie asked, after reading it.
"I'll buy the best dinner in London for anyone who
can tell me," said Silver, and explained how the
records at Scotland Yard had failed.
"Perhaps Nobby is a plain liar," Guthrie suggested,
"who does not mind belittling his reputation in the glor-
ious and blessed hope of getting fifty pounds. Many a
man would do the same for ten shillings—or less."
"He came darned near to getting the fifty, too,"
said the detective. “She had borrowed it or got it
somehow for Mr. Nobby, you may be sure, but she was
hanging on to it, chewing the matter over, probably.
Wasn't quite decided about the chap. Fifty pounds is
a whole lot of money to a girl working in an office.
Observe that phrase of his: 'I mean it this time.'
She'd had some of that stuff before, evidently."
“Do you believe Nobby committed the murder ?"
asked Guthrie.
"Why not? He'll have to go through it once I get
my hands on him. If he can't prove he wasn't on that
train, and if that button is off his coat, he'll be a poor
insurance prospect.”.
“Wait a moment," said the doctor. "That handbag


WANTED!
61
journalist who, off his own bat, some months ago, had
hunted down the famous Ace of Spades, and had long
been recognized in the newspaper world as a shining
light at the crime game.
“What is it, Silver? The midnight mail case?"
Silver grunted assent.
“What do you make of it?” he asked.
"Bit of a teaser, isn't it? I was just thinking of
going down to Tiverton where there's been a gorgeous
bank robbery that looks like the work of the Spider's
gang, but this midnight mail thing seems more pro-
mising."
"It's a queer affair. Got any brain waves about it?"
the detective asked.
Andy Collinson was filling his faithful companion,
a briar pipe.
“I haven't seriously tackled the case yet. Hadn't
been at the office long when you rang me up. All I
know is what the Evening News says. A snappy ac-
count rushed into print for the first edition.”
"Well, who did the train job?”.
“What about the man who was standing in the cor-
ridor all the time?” asked Collinson.
“Suspect number one. Guess again. We're trailing
him, and if we can discover that there's one single
thing that has previously connected him with either of
the victims, in he comes for a quiet chat and he won't
get out again quite so easily.”
“Right. Well, there's Wilson, the guard,” the
journalist suggested. "He could have done it; only
railway guards, in England at least, don't strangle
their passengers and heave them out on the line. They


62
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
may in Mexico, but not here, unless they've suddenly
gone nutty with answering too many fool questions.
There's an idea for you, Silver. Personally, if I had
their job I'm sure I should do a few passengers in
just to relieve my feelings."
"Suspect number two," said Silver, sticking to the
point. “The guard is as sane as I am though that
may not be saying much. Cross him right out. Next?"
"Well, incidentally, there's no evidence, is there,
that the attempt to kill Enid Mulholland and the
actual murder of Ismay were the work of the same
person?”
The C.I.D. man screwed up his eyes.
“That's getting a bit complicated, isn't it?" he said.
“But still, go ahead.”
“It could easily have been a two-man job,” explained
Collinson. "For instance the girl had fifty pounds on
her. Ismay was aware of that and "
"Hold on. Fifty pounds would have been a drop in
the ocean to a man like Silas Ismay."
"If that's so he's a lucky bloke-or at least he was.
But are you sure?”.
"Lord, yes! At that game he and his partner
handled thousands as we look at shillings. No, Ismay
was a rich man. Your theory won't hold water."
"We'll agree, then," said Andy Collinson, "that it
wasn't her money he was after. Maybe his affection
was not appreciated.”
"She's in love with a very decent young American.”
"Fine! We're going ahead now. Ismay was crazy
for her ”


WANTED!
"I'm told he never showed any interest in women."
"We don't all wear our hearts on our sleeves,
Silver. Let's suppose for the sake of argument that he
was secretly longing to possess the lady, church
wedding included if you like, but she turned him down
flat there on the train. He couldn't stand the idea of
anyone else getting her, so resolved to make sure of it.
He hit her on the head and was in the act of tighten-
ing up that cord round her throat when some stranger
butted in, as any right-minded stranger would if he
saw a girl being murdered. How's that?"
“Quite fair. Go on.”
"Well, the valiant Mr. Smith-let's give our right-
minded stranger a name—in a fit of virtuous indigna-
tion enthusiastically strangled Ismay. Then, finding he
had gone rather further than was his original inten-
tion, to the point of being a murderer himself, he was
very properly embarrassed, as I myself should have
been in the circumstances. You agree it was rather an
awkward predicament for him, don't you ?”
The detective was listening intently, but said noth-
ing:
“A snappy idea came to Mr. Smith's rescue,” Andy
went on. “Why not bundle the corpse out of the door
while the train was rushing through the night and give
the verisimilitude of suicide? Right! Away goes the
late Silas Ismay, but Mr. Smith still has a touch of
cold feet. He sees the handbag, and having no idea
that it contains fifty perfectly good jimmy o goblins,
which would barely have been adequate recompense
for all his trouble anyway, he slings this away on to


64
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
the line also, to suggest the robbery idea. Then he
cleared out. I see one or two weak points, but how
about it?"
Silver thoughtfully straightened the blotting pad on
his desk.
"Maybe you're right, up to a point,” he agreed.
"Your idea's ingenious but it doesn't quite measure
up. Would your Mr. Smith have clutched on to
Ismay's throat long enough to cause death when all
he really wanted was to save the girl?"
"It's debatable,” said Andy Collinson. "He wasn't
used to strangling folk, so he didn't quite know when
to stop."
"But," the detective went on, “as Mr. Smith was
actuated by the highest of motives, would he, after
all, have walked away leaving the girl with a cord tied
round her throat? It would at least have been con-
siderate to have unfastened it.”
"That's true, but he didn't notice the cord. One is
never at one's best just after committing a murder."
"Your Mr. Smith certainly wasn't or he would have
realized that throwing the bag out on to the track
wouldn't even deceive a newspaper crime expert."
Andy grinned.
"Well, Sherlock, perhaps you'll give me some of
the real dope. One makes rotten bricks without
straw.”
Silver was still pensive.
"I'm not so sure that you haven't got somewhere
near the truth," he commented. “I'm not going to
turn your idea down entirely. However, read that
letter."


WANTED!
65
hat you rang memat. I don't waning vet. Under-
It was the communication from Nobby. Andy
glanced through it.
"That makes a difference," said the newspaper man
quickly. "I don't quite see how, at the moment, but
there might easily be some sort of connection. Was
this what you rang me up about?”
“No. And by the way, I don't want a hint about
that letter of Nobby's to appear in print yet. Under-
stand? Now, where you can help me is this. We've
just had a surprising statement from the York police
and I want to obtain the widest possible publicity for
it without delay.”
Silver continued speaking for a while and Collin-
son puffed away at his pipe.
Half an hour later tape machines were clicking out
the following message in every newspaper office:
A dramatic development has occurred regard-
ing the murder and attempted murder, already
reported, on the mail train due at King's Cross
at midnigomay, who to Lon
Silas Ismay, who was found strangled on the
line, was returning to London from York where
he had been having a business interview with an
Australian named Oliver Foss. Ismay left Foss's
house at 4 P.M. and caught the seven-twenty Lon-
don express.
To-day when a detective called at Foss's rooms
in York he was informed that the Australian had
not been seen since 5 P.M., that is to say, an hour
after he and Ismay parted. Foss was in a state of
considerable agitation when his landlady last


· 66
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
spoke to him, and she is anxious about his wel.
fare.
In view of the tragedy which occurred on the
mail train the police desire to make sure that
Foss has not also been the victim of foul play.
His description is as follows: Height about
five feet ten, age 32, blue eyes, dark hair, and
closely clipped moustache. Wearing a brown suit
and soft felt hat.
Any information concerning this man should
be given to the police without delay.
Sliding the tape through his fingers at the office of
the Daily Budget, Andy Collinson smiled oddly. That
delicate reference to the solicitude of the police on
behalf of Oliver Foss was his artistic effort.


CHAPTER VII
MRS. ELM'S FEARS
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR SILVER jumped off a bus in
King's Road, Chelsea, near Cheyne Terrace. Turning
into Welland Street, he knocked at the door of No. 17
and make a swift inspection of the woman who ap-
peared before him. A tired-looking faded, middle-
aged body who had obviously been crying.
“Mrs. Elm?”
“That's my name, sir,” she said in a low voice.
“I believe Miss Mulholland has rooms here. You
got a message from the police saying what has hap-
pened ?”
The woman winced visibly.
"That's right, sir."
“I'd like to ask you a few questions. I'm from
Scotland Yard."
“You'd better come in.” She opened a door. “This
is, or rather was, her sitting room," the woman added,
leading the way.
"I shouldn't distress myself too much if I were you,
Mrs. Elm," said the detective. “The girl may re-
cover."
"But that doesn't alter the fact that the poor soul's
been half murdered, does it?” the woman answered
with a touch of motherly fierceness.


68
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
repliedsos Mulholind, Had Shy life, too. her eyes. "
"She'd been with you a long time?”
"Over two years." Mrs. Elm dabbed her eyes. "As
nice a girl as I ever met in my life, too."
"So I understand. Had she many friends ?"
“Miss Mulholland wasn't a girl to go about a lot,"
replied the woman.
“But people used to come and see her here some-
times, I suppose ?"
"Young ladies she played tennis with occasionally.
Then," her eyes hardened a shade, which fact Silver
quietly observed, "there was her young man. He
called now and then during the last few months."
“You know his name?"
"Irwin. I say,” she went on eagerly, "you don't
think he did it, do you?”
"Do you know anything against him ?”
"No, I can't exactly say that I do. In fact I've
hardly spoken to the man. But I understand he's a
foreigner.”
"Well, anyway, he's American,” said Silver with a
reassuring smile.
“I don't trust foreigners, sir. That's why I asked
if you thought he'd done it.”
“As a matter of fact I don't," the detective de-
clared. “I have every reason to believe that Irwin
dined here in London with Mr. Lawrence Bruce on
the night of the tragedy."
Mrs. Elm looked relieved.
"I hope whoever did it will get caught, sir," she
said, bristling with loyalty.
"Now, Mrs. Elm, I want you to cast your mind


MRS. ELM’S FEARS
back. Is there any other man who has come here oc-
casionally ?”
"No, I'm sure of that.”
“You and Miss Mulholland often used to chat, I
suppose ?"
"Many a time.”
"Has she ever said anything which has now been
brought back to your memory by this outrage ?"
Mrs. Elm regarded the detective oddly.
"Well, nothing that she said, exactly."
“No, but there was something, wasn't there?" In-
spector Silver's tone was peculiarly smooth.
“I've noticed she's had a good cry sometimes."
“You mean, perhaps, after she had received a
letter?”
"It's funny you saying that, sir. It's just what I do
mean."
“And when did you last notice this ?"
"Let me see-yes, on Friday. I took her a cup of
tea and a letter before she got out of bed. And her
eyes were all red when she came down to breakfast."
"Did you happen to observe the postmark of that
letter?"
"I didn't think of looking, sir."
"Have you any idea who the letter was from?"
"No, sir.”
Silver could have relieved his feelings by swearing.
"It is a pity, Mrs. Elm, because that might have
been very useful.”
The woman leaned forward a little, and lowered
her voice.
“There was somebody Miss Mulholland knew who


MRS. ELM’S FEARS
71
He walked away from the house slowly. If Nobby
had committed the murder, why had Oliver Foss dis-
appeared off the face of the earth in such a strange
fashion? Were Nobby and Oliver Foss one and the
same? If so a strong chain of circumstantial evidence
against the man was forming.
That certainly was an interesting thought. Silver's
step quickened. He knew, however, the danger of
allowing imagination to run away with him. Letters
from Foss would be filed away at the office of the
Anglo-American Theatrical Syndicate. Nobby's writ-
ing was loose and rather sprawling. If, on being com-
pared, they were identical, several pieces of the puzzle
on which he was engaged would automatically drop
into place.
It was not entirely by chance that presently he was
sitting next to Sally Marsh in a popular restaurant
near her office. That, actually, was the third place
which he had explored before he happened to find her.
Here Jimmy Silver, confirmed a previous impression
that Sally Marsh was an extremely nice girl. Also that
she had brains. There was some attractive quality,
too, about her voice. He wondered what her hair was
like before she had allowed them to cut it off. Not
that a shingle didn't look smart in her case, but ...
Silver checked that train of thought reluctantly.
Peculiarly interesting though he personally found
them, such reflections had no bearing upon his business
of the moment.


CHAPTER VIII
SILVER MAKES A JOURNEY
By the time Inspector Silver again reached his own
quarters in Scotland Yard he was in a mood to shut
himself up and do a little mental stock taking. That
bright idea of his about Nobby and Oliver Foss being
one and the same person was apparently all wrong.
The letters from Foss which had been shown to him
at the office of the Anglo-American Theatrical Syndi-
cate were in small precise writing, utterly different
from that of Nobby.
Silver smoked cigarettes for a while, gazing at the
ceiling, with his feet in their usual place on the desk,
and reviewed the situation generally. One after an-
other he ticked off the people who had come under his
notice since the midnight mail case had been put into
his hands. Then, reaching for a scribbling pad, he
began to reduce his thoughts to black and white. That
proceeding sometimes had a clarifying effect. Jerkily,
his pencil moved over the paper as he wrote:
Motive. Apparently not robbery. When found, Ismay
still had a considerable sum of money and a valu-
able watch in his possession. The girl's handbag


SILVER MAKES A JOURNEY
73
had not been looted either. Revenge or jealousy
might have been the motive if Ismay and Enid
Mulholland had been conducting a love affair,
but there is no evidence that they were.
Peter Irwin. If jealousy was the motive he would have
been a suspect except for the fact that he dined in
London on the evening the murder was com-
mitted. And that seems to let him out.
Lawrence Bruce automatically ruled out, because he
dined with Irwin. Besides, Bruce has everything
to lose through the murder, Ismay being a vital
factor in their very successful business.
The Guard. Not worth considering, unless he is a
homicidal maniac. Must look into his family his-
tory.
Victor Braintree, the man in the corridor, had every
opportunity of committing the crime. Will pull
him in if I can trace any previous association
between him and the girl or the dead man. Didn't
act like a murderer, but that might mean nothing.
Might have been wearing gloves when he com-
mitted the crime, which would explain his indif-
ference about leaving fingerprints on the ciga-
rette case.
Nobby. Definitely a suspect. If he himself did not
commit the murder he probably was an acces-
sory. Must find him anyhow. This man was cer-
tainly after the money that Enid Mulholland had
in her bag. He might have got cold feet after
thinking he had killed them both, and threw the
handbag away in a panic. Probably he didn't
know Ismay had a wad of money in his wallet.


THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
If he sets up an alibi it will have to be perfect.
Any suspicion that he might have been on that
train may mean a hanging.
Oliver Foss. Most likely the culprit as far as one can
see now. The shorthand notes show that he
threatened violence. He was not seen after 5 P.M.,
and the mail train left York for London at
seven-twenty. His disappearance strongly sug-
gests guilt.
Sally Marsh. What is she hiding? And why is she
hiding it? What is the idea lurking in the girl's
mind?
asgust,
There Inspector Silver's pencil faltered. He bit on
the end of it contemplatively, hummed softly, and
carefully read through the whole of his analysis of the
situation. Then he pitched the scribbling pad on to his
desk with disgust.
It all looked very nice on paper but was, he knew,
full of laws, teeming with contradictions. For in-
stance, if Oliver Foss committed the murder as a
sequel to that heated interview in York, why had that
eminently sane young person Sally Marsh leaped to
the conclusion that it was the work of Silas Ismay?
Obviously it was not, for no man could strangle him-
self with his own hands.
Again, if the mysterious Nobby was the murderer,
it was difficult to see where Oliver Foss came into the
picture. Nobby could have had one of two motives—
robbery or jealousy. And the emotions of a crook like
Nobby in London were no concern of the business
man in York.


SILVER MAKES A JOURNEY
75
Silver's eyes strayed to the scribbling pad on his
desk. There was no earthly reason, of course, to de-
cide that the murderer was necessarily one of those six
men in that list.
Who, for example, was the supposed old clergyman
with a white beard, said to have been fast asleep in an
adjoining compartment just after the crime was dis-
covered?
And if the murder was committed before Victor
Braintree walked out into the corridor and stood
there, what of a hundred or more men who were also
on the train that night? Braintree had, in fact, spoken
of vaguely remembering seeing somebody pass down
the corridor. The odds were at least six to four that
that "somebody" was the individual who a moment
before had hurled Ismay to his doom and sent Enid
Mulholland to the threshold of death.
And always entwined in his thoughts was the prob-
lem of Sally Marsh's secret and the belief that some-
thing else not yet hinted at lay behind the tragedy.
Some outside influence of a much more sinister nature,
for on the face of things there was no rational ex-
planation of that which had happened. Moreover he
could never get far away from the conviction that in
Sally's mind was hidden the key which could be used
to get at the heart of the mystery. Perhaps even she
did not realize the truth of that.
Quite clearly she was not conscious of personal
danger. Silver, however, was less assured on that
point so far as Sally was concerned. Some man, 'deter-
mined, utterly ruthless, and probably desperate, was


76
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
at large, and an intangible link seemed to exist between
him and Sally Marsh.
The inspector was unconsciously tapping the end
of his pencil on the blotting pad now. Sally didn't
know—she couldn't know—the abysmal depths of
humanity as he had learned to know them. Common
sense would steer her clear of the hundred and one
ordinary dangers of living in a civilized community
like London, consisting of seven million souls, but it
was not one of those ordinary dangers which now
threatened her. She, like most of those seven million,
was lulled into a sense of security in the knowledge
that a big kindly policeman was to be found at most
street corners. Crime to her was a thing one only
read about: it was slightly interesting, even intriguing
at times when it occurred in an unusual form, but so
far as her world was concerned it was a thing apart.
The tapping of that pencil and the soft humming
went on. He would have to make Sally talk. In that
restaurant at noon he had come to understand her a
shade better, and had even gathered one or two facts
which might eventually prove helpful, but-he brought
his fist down on the desk with a crash-if she was
rubbing shoulders with death Sally Marsh must be
made vividly aware of the fact, and at once. Why
anyone should want to kill her was in itself a mystery,
but it was a mystery why Ismay was strangled and
why Enid Mulholland was half murdered.
Of a sudden the restless hand of the detective be-
came still. A moment later he fished in a drawer for a
timetable, turned over the leaves, then glanced at his
watch.


SILVER MAKES A JOURNEY 77
"What a priceless idiot I was not to think of that
before !” he said, putting on his hat.
With only a minute to spare he caught a fast train
from King's Cross to Peterborough.


80
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
think of anyone who might have committed the mur-
der ?
“What about Oliver Foss?" the clerk suggested.
“There was ill feeling between them,” Bruce agreed,
"but I should hardly have thought Foss would go to
that extreme. He is a twister and cunning-too
cunning, I imagine, to risk his own neck.”
"Do you know that Detective Inspector Silver
came back here to-day while you were out, sir?”.
"No. What did he want?"
“Asked to see any specimens of Foss's handwriting
that were in our possession.”
“Well?"
"I found his signature on several typed letters, and
there were one or two letters which Foss had written
with a pen. Silver examined them carefully, but he
didn't say anything."
“Do you honestly believe Foss might have been
guilty of this crime, Crump?”.
The clerk smoothed his hair.
“That's a difficult question to answer, sir. Who's
going to say what a man will do if he's driven hard?
Murder is rather a hobby of mine-studying other
people's murders, I mean. Very interesting. If you can
get a good seat at the Old Bailey it's better than all
your novels and plays. I've seen sentence of death
passed on two men and one woman. And in two of
those cases I'd have let the prisoner go on their face
value alone. You can't tell a bit, sir, who'd do a thing
like that and who wouldn't. Killing depends on your
point of view at the moment."


A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 81
"But, Crump, murder is—just murder," Bruce in-
terrupted.
“Quite, sir," said Crump. “I remember a padre we
had with us during the war. I'm not what you might
call red hot on religion, but I reckon he was the finest
all-round Christian I've ever struck. The sort of man
who'll have a special thick carpet laid for him at the
pearly gates when he goes up aloft. Well, there was
one afternoon in '17 when his point of view changed."
Crump paused for a space and stared blankly, see-
ing backward through the years.
"There was a raid," he went on presently, “and it
was a six-foot German who landed in our trench that
turned the padre into a killer. On the top of every-
thing else, the way that German was laughing while
he used a bayonet did it, I believe. Killing wasn't the
padre's job. We all saw and did a lot of things in
those days that are better forgotten, but I can never
forget the few minutes when the padre became a plain
murderer. That six-foot Jerry wasn't good to look at
after it was over. No, sir, you can't tell who'll do
these things when the pinch comes."
Bruce had listened with attention.
“I understand what you mean," he said sanely, “but
after all responsible business men do not murder one
another, and you know that is true. Foss," he raised
his eyebrows reflectively, "may have been the excep-
tion. We shall see. Meanwhile, Crump, I want you to
put your wits to the test. Can you think of anything
that has ever happened which now has special signifi-
cance? If the murderer knew Ismay before the crime
after things I listenen


82
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
was committed it is more than likely that we know
him now. You see what I mean?"
Crump smoothed his hair again.
"It's got me beaten, sir.” He paused, lips pursed,
eyes mere slits. "As we're talking just between our-
selves, and because business men, as you say, don't
strangle one another," he lowered his voice a shade,
"has it occurred to you that there is such a thing as
jealousy?”
"It has occurred to me, naturally, Crump," said
Lawrence Bruce. "Just what is in your mind ?"
"Well, anyone who didn't want to be blind has been
able to see for a long time that Mr. Irwin had no use
for Silas Ismay."
“Frankly, I wasn't aware of it," said Bruce. “Per-
haps my mind has been too occupied with other
things, but I thought those two were rather friendly.”
“Yes-on the surface. But Mr. Irwin is like most
people. He couldn't hide his real feelings all the time
when it came to the question of a woman. He hated
the idea of Enid Mulholland working for Mr. Ismay,
Hated her having anything to do with him."
"But why? Mr. Ismay was always very considerate
toward the girl," Bruce pointed out. "And as for-
well, as for his making love to her, I should say it was
entirely out of the question."
Crump opened his mouth, ejaculated “Ah!" after a
brief pause, then shut it again.
“You seem to doubt that," observed Lawrence
Bruce with some surprise.
"I'll put making love in the same category as mur-
der,” said Crump. “You never know who's going to


84
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"And there's nobody else you have reason to sus-
pect, Crump?"
"I've been racking my brain about it all day, sir.
No, I can't say there is.”
“You'll swear that?”.
“Yes, on a stack of Bibles if necessary," replied
Crump.
“Very well,” said Bruce, with evident disappoint-
ment, turning his attention to the correspondence on
his desk. “Send Miss Marsh in, please," he added
abruptly.
As Sally took her usual seat near him Lawrence
Bruce was forcing his attention upon that correspond-
ence, but the strain of the day's events had left its
mark. The letters he dictated lacked their usual
punch.
"Mr. Bruce," Sally put in tentatively during a
pause, “if there is nothing urgent wouldn't it be better
in the circumstances to leave some of this work until
to-morrow?”
"It might be easier, but," he replied with a faint
smile, “if you and I don't carry on now somehow
what's going to become of the Syndicate?”.
Later that evening Josiah Crump was sitting back
in his office chair with an expression of settled gloom.
The others had all gone home. He had stayed on
alone to catch up with certain arrears of work, but it
was as if someone had thrown a spanner into the
cogs. He could not concentrate. Vastly interesting
though murders were as a hobby, they had a quality
that was altogether too gripping when they happened


A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 85
on your own doorstep, so to speak. It seemed almost
impossible to realize that Silas Ismay had utterly
ceased to exist for ever.
And then footsteps coming along the corridor
reached Josiah Crump's ears. Perhaps it was because
he was nervy, but those steps sounded uncertain, fur-
tive. He sat up, eyes fixed on the empty door frame.
"Who's there?” he called out, an odd metallic ring
in his voice.
The figure of a man appeared. A fellow in his early
twenties, with a soft felt hat and a blue serge suit
that was beginning to look shiny and worn. But it was
not so much the dress of the man as his eyes which
caught at Josiah Crump's imagination. Big brown eyes
in the depths of which lurked smouldering fires. And
there was a certain ruthlessness in them as they burned
there before Crump. One of the man's hands hung
limply by his side, the other resting in his coat
pocket.
“What do you want?" the clerk demanded.
The man stood for a few seconds, his gaze darting
beyond Crump before it came back and settled on
that bolt-upright figure in the chair.
"Maybe I've made a mistake,” the visitor said,
moistening his lips with his tongue.
“Yes," agreed Crump readily, cloaking the horrible
uneasiness which this stranger for some reason had
caused in him, “I expect you have."
"I wanted to see somebody at the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate's office," the man explained.
"Ah!” exclaimed Crump. “Well, they've all gone


86
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
home." Then, as an afterthought, "Who do you want
particularly?”
Those strangay eyes l. The smouldering fires there
were almost extinct pow, but something sinister about
the man's expression remained. One might have
fancied that he was à degenerate—perhaps a cocaine
adas: ne nary wh
addict. He had very even white teeth, Crump noticed,
and the mark of an old curved cut near the left cheek
ch
bone.
"It doesn't matter," he said. “I'
H I come back
to-morrow.” Something was fanning that Atent flame
within him. “Yes," he added with a swift touch of as-
surance which puzzled Crump, "to-morrowl" And he
turned back along the corridor.
A moment afterwards, urged by some instinct which
he could not have defined, Crump was at the door call-
ing after the fellow:
“What's your name?"
The man paused only long enough to glance back
over his shoulder. He did not answer, but there was an
ugly smile upon his lips. Then he was gone.
Crump, resuming his seat, took out a large pocket
handkerchief and dabbed his forehead with it. Some
strange people called at the offices of the Syndicate
during a twelvemonth, and Josiah Crump was not of
the nervous order, but that creature with the burning
eyes seemed to have left an atmosphere behind him.
An unpleasant atmosphere which caused Crump to put
away his work, don his coat, go out, bang the main
door after him noisily, and mingle with the compara-
tively cheerful multitude on the footpath of Shaftes-
bury Avenue.
lips. meat, toorehead,


CHAPTER X
ANOTHER ENIGMA
As INSPECTOR SILVER swung into the entrance of
Scotland Yard that night he was weary but dogged.
Every step he took in this midnight mail affair in-
creased his curiosity.
The sight of Enid Mulholland lying injured in that
railway carriage had not stirred him unduly, because
such things often enough cropped up in Scotland Yard
life, and the later news that a man had been found
dead on the railway at Harley Crossing had for the
moment seemed the point where his enthusiasm for
the job would die altogether. But the startling discov-
ery that the body of Silas Ismay was thrown from the
train had stung to life that passion for probing mys-
teries which was this C.I.D. man's ruling instinct.
From there onward Silver's interest in the case had
steadily and rapidly quickened. With a button, a bit of
silk cord, a typed record of an interview in York, and
a hastily scrawled letter signed “Nobby" as clues, he
had found a new zest in life. That day had set hidden
pulses tingling within him. As yet he only appeared to
be on the outer fringe of the problem, but already he
had one or two more cards tucked up his sleeve.
And apart from the intriguing character of the case,


88
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
there was the factor of Sally Marsh. Sally of the trim
figure, the steady hazel eyes which he couldn't forget.
Silver knew now that he had been thinking about her
all day as much as about the train mystery. Funny how
things happened, he reflected. At this time yesterday
the name Sally Marsh would not have had quite so
much significance for him.
By sheer blind luck he had seen her again this eve-
ning. Returning from that quick trip to Peterborough,
he had called at the offices of the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate and found her pounding out the
last of a pile of letters. And it seemed to Silver that a
subtle difference had crept into her attitude towards
him. For one thing, she had grasped at last that some
danger was in the air: danger which might affect her
personally. And Jimmy Silver was aware that Sally
was beginning to look to him for protection.
Tomorrow he meant to have luncheon with her
again at the same restaurant, for two reasons, only
one of which was business. He intended that Sally
should then talk, even if it was only suspicion that she
was keeping bottled up within her.
"Mr. Briant wants to see you—at once, sir.” It was
a Yard messenger who had buttonholed Silver before
he reached his own room.
The Inspector doubled back, traversed a long pas-
sage, and entered one of the countless doors all of
which seemed alike.
"Oh, there you are, Silver!" Chief Inspector Briant
looked rather like a schoolmaster with a prominent
forehead until you spoke with him, and then inevita-
bly you became aware of something else. Black eyes


ANOTHER ENIGMA
89
which held you with a sort of fascination just so long
as the keen intelligence behind them willed. And then
if it suited his purpose, while he had you at that disad-
vantage, Briant's voice, harsh, unmusical, cut the truth
out of your heart in chunks. "Slip along to 23 Dudney
Row, Battersea," he said. “There's someone there
you'll be glad to see.”
And then, as though Silver no longer existed, the
Chief Inspector continued a conversation over the tele-
phone which he had momentarily suspended.
Dudney Row had the air of having struggled to pre-
serve its virtue as long as possible and then given way
under the strain. Once geraniums and kindred splashes
of colour had been flaunted from window boxes at its
upper stories, but Dudney Row was growing lethargic
where the beauties of Nature were concerned. In re-
cent years if ever a decaying window box fell into the
street it remained there until it was removed in due
course by some passing dustman, and that was that.
But there had been an awakening of sorts in Dud.
ney Row before Detective Inspector Silver arrived.
The spirit of drama was abroad. Men no longer
slouched along there in quite the same way. Women
with hands folded under slatternly aprons were
perched at doorways, tongues wagging. A crowd hung
about the portals of No. 23, the younger, eager ele-
ment pressing for a front view while older folk stood
a little way back, some talking and staring, some just
staring.
"Come back 'ere, 'Erbert," a stout lady was admon-
ishing her offspring as Silver arrived on the scene.
"You don't want to get your froat cut, do you?”


90
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
A stolid policeman guarding the entrance saluted as
Silver went in. The door of the nearest room to the
street was open. Within were a uniformed constable
and a plain-clothes man, who looked up quickly as the
Inspector entered. The place was a shabbily furnished
bed-sitting room. On the bed lay the still form of a
human being.
Silver's first glance went toward that which lay on
the bed.
“What have you got here?” he asked the officer in
plain clothes.
“Murder," replied Inspector Pearson. "Young man
been strangled. About an hour ago, according to the
doctor."
"Any idea who did it?"
"Not a hope, yet," said Pearson.
“Who is he?” Silver was looking closely at the swol-
len face, and still wondering why Briant had sent him
here.
“Gave the name of Carter, according to the woman
who runs this place," Pearson explained. “But she
knows precious little about him. He's been living here
for nearly three weeks. She's gone in to her next door
neighbour's house for a little drop of gin as a cure for
hysterics."
"Briant sent me down,” said Silver. “He seemed to
think—" the Inspector's eyes brightened—"here, I
know this chap! But the name isn't Carter. At least, it
wasn't last time we had him through our hands. Why
yes, of course, that's Foxy Hackett. He's only been
out about six weeks."
"Well, that's something to begin on," observed


ANOTHER ENIGMA
91
Pearson with relief. “I've been over every inch of this
room and there isn't a sign of a clue. What's his line?"
“Clever crook in a way, but he'd never have been a
high flier. Didn't have the right kind of head piece to
make a really good criminal. I've always believed
that's why the Spider kicked him out."
"Oh yes, now I come to think of it Foxy was one of
that gang, wasn't he?".
“The last job we sent him inside for had all the hall
marks of the Spider's organization,” said Silver.
"But Foxy didn't squeak.”
"He knew better," commented Silver.
“More than likely he'd have got off entirely if only
he'd given information that would have helped us to
land the Spider.”
"A fat lot of good that would have been to Foxy if
it also led to his being found in a dark passage with a
knife in his back. No, my son," Silver was no older
than his colleague, “there was only one good card in
Foxy's hand, and he played it. Did his twelve months
and tried to look pleasant. Besides, from what I know
about the Spider-and nobody knows much—it's
doubtful whether Foxy was even in a position to give
the Spider away. The Spider's a pretty dark horse.
He's pulled off some tremendous jobs since the Yard
first began to identify his artistic touch, and according
to Briant he'll be hanged in the long run as there is
evidence that he has murdered at least two people, in-
cluding a watchman in Bond Street some time ago, but
he's no fool. I dare say Foxy knew the Spider by sight
as well as I know you, but I doubt if he knew where
the Spider lives or what his real name is.”


92
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"By the way," asked Pearson, picking a folded sheet
of paper from a little collection of articles which had
been taken from the dead man's pocket, "are you sure
this man was known as Foxy?”
"I'm certain," replied Inspector Silver, turning over
the oddments—a penknife, a strong piece of bent wire,
ninepence in coppers, a booklet on the advantages of
emigration to Australia, and a shipping company's list
of sailings for Sydney. He took the sheet of paper
from Pearson, and the first two words that he read
seemed to send an electric shock through Silver's
frame.
Dear NOBBY,
I'll do my best, but what you tell me is terrible.
I did so hope that you were going straight at last.
It is enough to break my heart.
E.
Nobby! Inspector Silver's eyes narrowed. So this
was the next black chapter in the mystery which had
begun on that midnight mail when Silas Ismay went to
his doom. Hardly the sort of development the C.I.D.
man had anticipated, but all day the conviction had
been growing within him that there were bigger issues
at stake.
Silver's mind flashed across London for a moment
to a hazel-eyed girl who was only dimly conscious of
danger but was inclined to pin her faith on him to see
that nothing unpleasant happened. Unpleasant! He
glanced at the discoloured face of the man lying on the
bed, and repressed a shudder.


ANOTHER ENIGMA
93
"Foxy" was evidently a nickname which had been
applied to Hackett, or Carter, or whatever his name
was, by his associates in the underworld. Probably only
his intimate friends, more or less law-abiding folk,
knew him as "Nobby." That explained why the record
department of Scotland Yard had been unable to find
any trace of him.
Here was another subject upon which Enid Mul-
holland's explanation would be vastly illuminating.
That "E" at the foot of the letter was obviously her
initial.
Silver stood there frowning as he weighed up the
complicated possibilities. His first reaction had been
to think that this cleared Nobby of the murder of
Ismay. But on second thoughts, did it? Was this a case
of an eye for an eye? Somehow that didn't quite ring
right, yet there was always a chance that that might
be the explanation.
"Is anything missing from this room, Pearson?” he
asked suddenly. "Anything valuable, I mean."
Pearson stared.
"Oh, I see," he replied, understanding dawning. “I
hadn't thought of that. Stolen property, eh? Nobody
seems to know a darned thing about the man. Hello,
here's the woman back again. See what you can get out
of her.”
Mrs. Wiggins, slightly refreshed, but still far from
being her placid self after the unnerving events of that
evening, was standing in the passage wiping her mouth
with her apron.
"I'm not coming in there again !" she declared. “I'm
not, even if you was to give me a five-pound note."


94
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"That's all right, Mrs. Wiggins," said Silver reas-
suringly, leading her to the quarters known as the back
parlour where she had been usefully engaged with a
mangle up to the time of her disconcerting discovery.
"Now listen. There are one or two important ques-
tions I want to ask you."
"My Gawd!" she replied. "Haven't I told that
other flattie all I know about it?"
“Just the same I'm afraid you'll have to answer my
questions,” said Silver with the ring of authority in
his voice. "How long have you known this man?"
"Three weeks come to-morrow," the woman re-
plied, a little impressed. “Paid me the first week in ad-
vance but I ain't seen the colour of his money since.
Who'd ever have thought- ".
"Was that suitcase in the bedroom all the luggage
he ever had here?" Silver interrupted.
“It's all I've seen belonging to him."
“When did you first go through his suitcase?”
“What d'you take me for? Respectable woman, I
am. Think I'd interfere with "
“Mrs. Wiggins," said Silver sternly, "this is a case
of murder. You'd better tell me the truth. We're try-
ing to get at the motive. At present I'm wondering if
he had anything valuable in his possession."
"Oh, yes. 'E used to keep the Crown Jewels under
the bed, mister !” she retorted scornfully, and tossed
her head. “Borrowed a shilling off me last night, he
did. He could tell the tale, I'll say that. Anything val.
uable, indeed!"
"You looked through his belongings the first day he
came here, didn't you?"


ANOTHER ENIGMA
95
"Well,” she admitted, "you've got to be careful who
you have under your roof in a house like this. Besides,
'e didn't keep his suitcase locked. There was never
anything in it except two old shirts and a spare pair of
boots.”
Then robbery apparently wasn't the motive. Silver
had felt reasonably sure of that from the first.
"I understand you discovered the body," he went
on,
"That's right, sir," she replied. “I 'aven't got over
the shock yet. You see 'e'd promised to pay up to-day
and I went in to ask him for the money."
“What time was that?”
"About ten o'clock or a bit after."
"And when had you last seen him alive?".
"A couple of hours or so before that."
“Do you know if anyone came here to see him be-
tween eight and ten o'clock to-night?”
"Indeed I don't. I was doing the washing in this
very room, with the door shut. I never 'eard a sound.”
“Do you know whether anyone ever called to see
him during the time he has been staying here?”.
“Not as far as I know. Very quiet young man 'e
was. Borrowed my shilling, too, but when I saw him
dead it fair give me a turn."
Silver went back to the bed-sitting room.
"I suppose nobody was seen leaving this house after
the murder was committed, Pearson ?”.
"Not a hope," replied Pearson. “Two women were
standing at the door of No. 22, right opposite, but
they don't remember anyone entering this place nor
leaving. It was dark, though, and the nearest street


96
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
lamp is fifty yards away. Apparently there weren't
many people about at the time.”
Silver gazed down at all that was left of Nobby.
Crook though he was, one couldn't help being sorry
for him. If only the poor devil could speak, what a
difference that would make! And not merely in regard
to his own bad luck at the finish! For Nobby dead was
only another part of the enigma. But Nobby alive
would surely have been able to supply some sort of
explanation of the whole mystery.


CHAPTER XI
THE MAN WITH RED HAIR
"What about that Mulholland girl? Is she still un-
conscious ?" Andy Collinson of the Daily Budget was
with Inspector Silver in his office at Scotland Yard
next day.
"She hasn't opened her eyes yet and she's been there
getting on for thirty-six hours," replied the detective.
"Officially we're told that her condition remains un-
changed. You know what dumb birds these hospital
folk are. But I happen to know that she's in a pretty
groggy state this morning. Pulse feeble. Signs of col-
lapse, and so forth.”
"Any chance of her pulling through ?".
Silver's shoulders moved.
"About one in ten, I understand," said the C.I.D.
man. “And that makes all the difference to us. If only
we could depend on getting a statement from her!”
Andy Collinson picked up a bit of blue silk cord
which lay on the desk and examined it abstractedly—
the string that had been found fastened around Enid
Mulholland's neck.
“This cord doesn't tell us much," he said.
“We've traced the makers: that wasn't difficult," re-
plied Silver. “They say their factory turns out about
mai
97


THE MAN WITH RED HAIR 99
"I see two or three. What's yours?"
“Why," said Andy, “the diabolical cleverness with
which both murders were committed without a clue be-
ing left. I can't believe they were not both planned by
the same brain. Apart from the fact that the girl
wasn't killed outright-and the murderer may have
been interrupted—you've got to admit they were both
neat jobs. No bungling in making his getaway. I don't
fancy I should have done it half so well.”
The C.I.D. man took out his cigarette papers and
tobacco, but suddenly his hands clutched tightly upon
them. For once that easy-going surface of Silver van-
ished.
“Collinson," he said, turning to the newspaper man
with eyes that had changed strangely, "what is there
—what can there be behind this darned mystery? I
couldn't go to sleep last night for thinking there was
something bigger involved, something of which we
haven't got the faintest inkling yet. When I woke up
this morning I was more convinced of it than ever.
There's a cold bloodedness about the whole show that
—that I don't like."
"There certainly is a callous adherence to a set pur-
pose,” said Andy, “with plenty of gray matter at the
back of it.”
“Yes, and cool brains." The detective paused for a
moment. “Collinson, just between you and me I don't
like the look of things. I told Briant so this morning.
Maybe the way I put it didn't sound very convincing,
and I thought he was going to hoot at me. He's so
logical, you know, and so right as a rule. But he didn't
utter a bleat. Just stared in that funny way of his, and


THE MAN WITH RED HAIR
IOI
ing and looking at the paper when I saw the photo-
· graph of Miss Mulholland in the front page.” The
man paused as if to see how much impression his state-
ment had made. Silver was aching to shake him, but
curbed his impatience.
"Did you see her on the train ?” he asked.
"Yes, sir. And that's why I've come to see you. I
don't know anything about the murder exactly, be-
cause I was busy clearing up until the train ran into
King's Cross, but I saw a man talking to Miss Mul-
holland. And it wasn't Mr. Ismay neither, sir, judg-
ing by his picture."
"You mean you saw her in the dining coach ?” the
detective suggested.
Massey nodded.
"Miss Mulholland came along to dinner soon after
we left York, and I was talking to her there for a min-
ute or two. A nice young lady she was, sir. Very pretty
and not at all stand-offish. I'd know her again any-
where. That's why I spotted her photograph in the
paper. Well, there was a man took a seat behind her,
and I saw him turning round to look at her. After a bit
he got up and planked himself right opposite her."
“Can you describe him?"
“What I remember best is that he had red hair."
“Red hair, eh! That's something. Go on."
"He started talking to her. People sometimes do
get chatty in the dining car, and I thought to myself
he'd got off all right, especially as they sat there for
a while after dinner was finished and the other passen-
gers had gone. But it was no business of mine. I
shouldn't have paid any attention to it except for-
one. But was finisally as thought to


102
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
for what has happened. As soon as I saw her photo
this morning it struck me I ought to come and tell
someone about that feller."
"I'm very glad you did, Massey. Did you happen to
overhear anything of their conversation ?"
"No, sir. Not a word.”
“How long were they sitting together in the dining
coach ?"
"About an hour, or maybe a bit longer."
"Did you see them leave there?".
“I did, sir. That was some time before the train
reached Peterborough. She got up and walked away,
and as she went he sat there, his eyes following her,
with a curious sort of expression on his face. Maybe
I shouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't had a chat with
her myself, you see.”
"And then what happened?”.
“The man got up about three or four minutes after-
wards and passed along the corridor in the direction
of the engine.”
“Followed her, in other words ?"
“Yes, but I don't know where he went. That's the
last I saw of either of them."
"And there were a number of coaches between the
dining car and the engine. As far as you know he might
have gone straight back to his own compartment and
remained there?"
“That's right, sir."
"He might," commented Silver. “Then again he
might not. And nobody but him knows which is true.
About how old would you say this man was?”


THE MAN WITH RED HAIR 103
VIC
“Between thirty and forty, maybe. I'm not much of
a judge.”
""Was he a powerful sort of person ?"
"Fair. A bit on the thin side. But Mr. Ismay wasn't
a big chap, was he, sir ?”
Silver stroked the arm of his chair reflectively for
a few seconds. Was this a red herring? Or was it
where an entirely new avenue of investigation must be
opened up?
"No, not very big," agreed the detective, visualiz-
ing the scene which this young waiter had indicated.
"Nothing else you can tell me? Any trivial detail that
has come back to you since then? The girl seemed quite
calm when she walked away?”.
"I didn't see her face, sir. But the man wasn't what
I'd call quite calm. If you ask me, he looked like a chap
who'd thought he'd clicked and then found he hadn't.”
Silver picked up a pencil.
“If you'll describe that passenger as minutely as you
can," he said, "we'll see what we can do about it.”
It was just half-past ten that morning when John
Massey left Scotland Yard and Silver put through a
call to the offices of the Anglo-American Theatrical
Syndicate. He had every reason, afterwards, to re-
member the time.
"Is that Miss Marsh ?” he was asking over the wire
a few moments later. “This is
“I know," the girl answered in a cheerful way that
gladdened the heart of the man.
"You all right?” he asked. “It sounds like it any-
way. No news?"
"No, nothing has happened.”


104
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I'm glad," replied Silver, “there's something im-
portant I want to talk to you about.” He was thinking
of the youth now lying dead in a Battersea mortuary.
The whole story of the murder of Carter alias Hack-
ett had been printed in that morning's newspapers, ex-
cepting only the fact that the dead man had been
known in some quarters as Nobby. “I'm having rather
a busy morning," Silver went on, “but if I don't get
round there before you go out to luncheon can I count
on finding you at the usual restaurant? ... Splen-
did! ... Right, I'll be there."
He was just about to hang up the receiver when he
changed his mind.
"By the way," he said, "do you happen to have run
across anyone—a man—with red hair lately?”
To Silver it seemed that Sally was silent for quite a
long time.
"That's very strange!" she said at last. "What
makes you ask?”
"I–I can't explain very well over the telephone,
but I really have a particular reason for wanting to
know."
"Well, it is odd," came from the girl. “As a matter
of fact I know one-yes, two men with red hair, but I
haven't seen either of them for some time. But only
last night as I was leaving here there was a man stand.
ing on the footpath staring at the entrance to the
office. There was something extraordinary about him.
He looked at me very pointedly and it struck me at the
time that there was a furtiveness about him, because as
soon as I caught his eye he turned around and slunk
away. And he had rather vivid red hair."


THE MAN WITH RED HAIR 105
"You have no idea what he was up to ?”
"Not the slightest. But after your question that in-
cident naturally occurred to me."
"Can you describe him at all ?”
"I only had one quick glance at him before he turned
away. Somewhat tall, and slender. Clean shaven and
fairly well dressed as far as I remember."
"Would you know him again ?"
“I think so. Yes, I'm sure I should.”
"All right,” said Silver. "I'll talk to you about him
later. If I can possibly manage it I'll be at that res-
taurant as agreed.”
"But what's this about the man with red hair ?"
Sally asked. “I'm dying to know. Can't you tell me
now?"
“Not very well. I'm sorry. Good-bye.”
And then he hung up the receiver.
But luck was against Silver that day—against him
in more ways than one. The Battersea strangling case
and other things conspired to keep him up to the neck
with work. Instead of a tête-à-tête luncheon with Sally
Marsh, he had ham sandwiches miles away from the
West End, and it was three o'clock before the detec-
tive returned to Scotland Yard. Ten minutes after he
got there the telephone at his elbow rang.
"I want to speak to Detective Inspector Silver,"
came in a man's tones.
"Speaking,” replied Silver. "Who is that?”
“This is Lawrence Bruce." And even over the wire
the detective was conscious of a different note in the
voice. “I say, Silver, can you come round here at once?
I'm—I'm getting rather uneasy."


106
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Silver pressed the receiver hard to his ear.
“Yes, I'll come now. What's wrong?" For the sec-
ond time that day his eyes had changed in an instant.
The pupils had become like pinpricks.
"I don't quite know," said Lawrence Bruce, "but
I'm afraid something has happened to Sally Marsh!”


CHAPTER XII
MISSING!
Even before Silver's fingers had relinquished their
hold on the receiver his whole attitude toward Sally
Marsh had swiftly crystallized. Bruce's terse message
had come to him like a crashing blow, but for the first
time he realized exactly how much Sally meant to him.
And now "something” had happened to her.
Within three minutes a fast Scotland Yard car was
tearing through the traffic to Shaftesbury Avenue. In
it Silver sat dazed, aware only of some nameless fear.
A sword had been hanging menacingly over everyone
connected with the Anglo-American Theatrical Syndi-
cate, and "something had happened to the hazel.
eyed girl whom he had admired more than a year ago
and whom he loved now.
Unceremoniously he rushed into the surviving part-
ner's private office. Lawrence Bruce swung around in
his chair and rose. Emotion was beginning to leave its
stamp on him.
“Thank goodness you've come, Silver," he greeted.
“This suspense was beginning to get on my nerves."
When the detective spoke his voice was unsteady.
“What's wrong?".
107


108
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"That—that's the devil of it!" replied Bruce. "I
don't know. Sally Marsh has disappeared !".
Ominous though the words were, Silver was con-
scious of immense relief. The faces of the victims of
that unknown strangler had floated before him all the
way from the Yard. At least the fear to which they
had given birth was momentarily eased.
"How?” he asked quickly.
Bruce, immaculately clad as ever, passed a finger
uneasily along the inside of his collar.
"She may be all right," he said. “Let us hope so,
anyway, but—you understand—I'm getting jumpy."
"When did you last see Sally Marsh?” Silver's
words came ice cold and clear. If anything was wrong
—and evidently something was very wrong-every
moment was precious.
"At about twenty minutes to eleven this morning,"
said Bruce. “She arrived here at the usual hour and I
dictated several letters. She was perfectly normal: a
little more cheerful even than usual, perhaps. And
then she was called to the telephone. It was you, she
told me later, who had rung her up. Is that so ?”
"It was,” replied Silver.
"Immediately afterwards," Bruce went on, “the sec-
ond delivery of letters arrived. The office boy put them
in front of me on the desk and handed one to Sally
Marsh. I had been in the middle of dictating a par.
ticularly important letter, and was ready to carry on.
I glanced across at Sally and then saw that she was
hardly aware of my presence. She was looking at the
letter in her hand, evidently rather bewildered."
“Did she speak about it, or say anything?"


MISSING!
109
"All that happened,” replied Bruce, "was that she
folded it up again, put it back in the envelope, and
thrust the letter into her handbag. Then she got up.
“ 'I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Bruce,' she said, 'but there
is something very important that I must do at once.'
“It was disconcerting for me," Bruce went on, “as
there was nobody to take her place and I had an ap-
pointment at twelve.
“All right,' I said. “But how long will you be?"
“'Not very long,' she replied; and it was the last I
saw of her. She put on her hat and walked out. I'm
sure that was before a quarter to eleven. I kept my ap-
pointment at noon and returned here before one. Then
I was astonished to learn that Sally Marsh had not
come back. You see, she is a most conscientious worker,
and nobody could have known better how urgent it was
for her to be here, especially just now.
"I was growing a little anxious even when I went
out to lunch, though to be frank that was more on ac-
count of the inconvenience to me than her welfare, and
it never entered my head that she would not be back
by two o'clock as usual.
"By half-past two, however, I began to be distinctly
worried on her account, more particularly because it
has come so soon after that damnable thing which hap-
pened on the train and cost Ismay his life. We have all
tried to carry on as usual during the last two days, but
that tragedy is like some dreadful evil thing in the
background. It is there continuously. One can't get
away from it, can't forget it for a moment. And now
-Silver, perhaps I am a bit overwrought, but I begin
to feel as if this office is under some terrible influence.”


11ο
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
malms which hã that girl bf past three: That was
With a handkerchief Lawrence Bruce rubbed his
palms which had grown moist.
"Where can that girl be?” he went on more rap-
idly. “It is now nearly half-past three. There was no
mistaking her words. 'Not very long.' That was five
hours ago. As you know, a girl holding a responsible
position such as hers, and especially a girl of her type,
does not deliberately walk out and leave her employer
hung up for five hours at a critical time without at
least getting on to the telephone and letting one have
some sort of explanation.”
Silver had stood very still, drinking in every word.
"Has she ever gone out in this way before?” he
asked.
"I don't think so. I am not always in, of course, but
I have never known anything like this to happen."
“That letter-did you catch sight of the writing ?”.
"I'm sorry. No."
“Who handed it to her ?”
“The office boy, who came in here with the mail."
“Please call him.”
Bruce pressed a button, and the bright cheeky face
of Tim appeared, his mouth as usual not innocent of
toffee. But his gaze, drawn to the tall form of the
Scotland Yard detective, was filled with reverence.
"When the second delivery of letters came this
morning you brought them into this room?" asked Sil-
ver crisply.
Tim, a shade awed, silently signified assent.
“There was one for Miss Marsh," the detective
added.
“That's right, sir. I gave it to her."


MISSING!
III
“Now, my lad, just see if you can remember any-
thing about that envelope. The writing on it, for in-
stance."
His head raised toward the tall C.I.D. man, Tim
was now making a terribly hard effort to concentrate
on the problem.
"It was for her, all right, sir,” he declared after re-
flection. “Sprawly sort of writing," he added.
“From a man or a woman, do you think?”
Tim's lips had opened. This was trying him about
to the limit of his capacity, but he was game.
“Why, I should think it was a woman's,” he said.
“Can you remember anything else about the letter?"
"I b’lieve it was in a pink envelope."
“Did Miss Marsh seem at all surprised or agitated
when you handed it to her?”
“I didn't notice, sir."
"Who gives Miss Marsh her private correspondence
as a rule?”
“Me, sir.”
“Does she often receive letters at this office ?"
“Not very often.”
“Do you think you have ever before seen a letter
for her addressed in the same writing ?”
"I think so, sir, but I couldn't be sure."
Silver lost interest in the boy.
"By the way, Mr. Bruce, can you tell me anything
whatever about a tall thin red-headed man who may
be associated with this affair in some way?"
Bruce, who had sunk into his chair, sat there with a
slight frown for a few moments.


II2
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I can't place him. Not the remotest idea who you
mean. Tell me, Silver, do you really think some harm
has come to this girl ?"
The detective blinked. Not even to himself would he
admit the worst of his fears.
"It looks queer-distinctly queer," he said. “What
was she wearing?"
“Something dark,” replied Bruce. “She generally
wears a black frock in the office."
“But when she went out—her hat and things ?"
“I'm afraid I didn't notice that.”
Silver turned abruptly to that intelligent young office
boy who was obviously aching to butt in again.
“She had her black coat on, sir," he said. “It was a
bit parky out of doors this morning. The coat's got a
sort of furry gray collar."
"And her hat?"
“It was a little one-red."
Silver made a note of these details.
"You've got her home address ?” he asked Bruce.
“Luton Square, South Kensington. I can give you
the number in one moment,” replied Lawrence Bruce,
reaching forward briskly for a book. "Here it is—
thirty-one.”
“That's where I'm going next," said the detective
with decision. "Meanwhile you will remain here, won't
you?”
“I certainly shall."
“Good. Then if Miss Marsh comes back or if you
get any news of her, I count on you to telephone to
Scotland Yard immediately and leave a message there
for me.”


MISSING!
113
"You can depend upon that. And if you find any
trace of her— ".
"I'll let you know,” said Silver, already on his way
to the door. In the corridor he encountered Josiah
Crump. Considering that he made a hobby of mur-
ders, Mr. Crump felt he was decidedly out of the lime-
light.
"Excuse me, Inspector," he said. “I think I ought to
tell you about a most peculiar visitor who came here
last night.”
Silver pulled up abruptly.
“Eh, eh, what's that?” he jerked out.
"I was working here by myself after the others had
gone," Mr. Crump explained, "and a man against
whom I entertain distinct suspicion called. He would
neither give his name nor state his business clearly but
he seemed to want something here.”
"What sort of person was this?" demanded Silver.
"A man of medium height, about twenty-five, with
a slight stoop, big brown eyes, even white teeth, and I
noticed that he had the scar of an old curved cut near
the left cheek bone."
The detective looked at Josiah Crump intently.
"Here?” he said. “Last night?"
The portly Mr. Crump nodded and neatly tucked a
thumb into the armhole of his waistcoat. He was dis-
tinctly pleased with himself. It was something for an
amateur to be able to give tips to a regular detective
nething for an
" give tips to
"rom Scotland Y
"You're quite sure about that mark on his cheek?”
Silver asked.
“Yes, I noticed it particularly,” said Crump, "think-


114
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
ing that would be a useful means of identifying him if
necessary. I didn't at all like the look of the man, and
though I don't wish to implicate myself in any way
I must say, in view of what has happened to-day, that
in my opinion he might in some way be responsible for
Miss Marsh's disappearance."
"The only thing against that, Mr. Crump," said the
detective, turning away, "is that your man was found
strangled shortly after he left you.".


CHAPTER XIII
THE HUNT FOR SALLY
IT WAS with no illusions that Detective Inspector
Silver rang the bell at Sally Marsh's home in South
Kensington, nor was there any doubt in his mind that
it was Sally's mother who answered the door-a kindly
woman with graying hair and steady eyes like those of
her daughter.
"Is Miss Marsh at home?” he began, facing a deli-
cate task that was none to his liking.
“My daughter is at business."
If the detective had had any lingering hope here it
crash the desghter is no
"My name is Silver. I don't know whether Miss-
Marsh has happened to
"Oh, oh, of course. Sally was telling us about you
only last night. In fact she has often spoken of you.
Won't you please come in ?"
It was a long time since the C.I.D. man had felt so
uncomfortable. There was an air of calmness about
Mrs. Marsh which he dreaded to shatter. But also
there was something of courage etched on the
woman's face.
"I particularly wanted to speak to her," Silver said,
"but when I called at the office she had gone out. In
fact she had been out for some hours."
115


116
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Only by observing the tensing of her clasped fingers
did he see that the woman had vaguely sensed some-
thing of his errand. He could read her thoughts easily.
What had happened to bring a Scotland Yard official
here?
"Sally doesn't go out like that from the office very
often," said Mrs. Marsh.
"So I understand," he replied, but looking into
those steady eyes he was wondering whether her cour-
age would be equal to the coming strain. In any case
beating about the bush could serve no purpose. “That
is one reason why I came straight here, thinking you
might have some notion where she has gone."
The colour was draining from Mrs. Marsh's cheeks
and her lips twitched. The knowledge of that which
had befallen Enid Mulholland and, worse still, Silas
Ismay, ilashed into her mind, but she sat very still.
"I am afraid I have no idea where Sally can be."
She paused. “Mr. Silver, please don't keep anything
from me.”
“I expect your daughter will return here safely this
evening." Was that true? Silver wondered, even as he
said it. “But just now, naturally, one is a little more
anxious than usual. I am told she went out in the mid-
dle of the morning immediately after receiving a let-
ter. She said there was something important she had
to do. Does that suggest any possible explanation to
you?"
“None whatever," replied Mrs. Marsh.
“She has not mentioned anything to you lately
about her friends or her private affairs which could
have some bearing on this?"


THE HUNT FOR SALLY 117
"Nothing. What is more, Sally is not secretive."
"She has spoken to you about people in the office, of
course??'
“Sometimes, naturally.”
"Can you recall any comment she may have made
concerning Silas Ismay?"
"I don't think she liked him very much, but that's
about all.”
"Your daughter has said nothing that now suggests
Ismay might have made some attack on Enid Mul-
holland ?"
"Dear me, no. Nothing of that sort.”
The man gazed down at the carpet, his imagination
at work. One unnerving picture after another leaped
into his brain.
“Has she some friend who might be ill and sent for
her?” he asked.
“Such a thing could be,” Mrs. Marsh agreed, yet
intuition told her that the detective's fears were rooted
more deeply. "Mr. Silver,” she went on suddenly,
"what is it that you think may have happened to my
Sally?"
His eyes left the carpet and met those of the
woman.
"I wish I knew what to think,” he told her. "How-
ever, she may return at any moment and this uneasi-
ness would all be wiped out."
Again Mrs. Marsh's lips twitched.
“But you think there is the danger that she-she
may not return to-night.” It was more a statement
than a question.
Silver got up.


118 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I won't go as far as that," he said, jotting a tele-
phone number down on a card and giving it to her.
“But will you promise to let me know as soon as she
comes back?"
"Without fail,” she told him.
There was no trace of the old easy-going Silver in
the detective who returned to the waiting car at the
curb.
“Any news?" he demanded of the man at the wheel.
"I got through to Mr. Bruce three minutes ago, sir.
He says the girl hasn't come back yet.”
“All right," replied Silver brusquely. “Push off.
Straight to the Yard. And hurry."
At one minute to six o'clock that evening the eyes
of Josiah Crump strayed, for the fiftieth time, to the
clock. The atmosphere in the office had hourly been
growing more tense. Six o'clock, in the ordinary way,
was the hour when they all went home; and still there
was no sign of Sally Marsh. Another stenographer
had been temporarily engaged and the surviving part-
ner of the firm was in his private office dictating be-
lated correspondence to her.
To Crump there would have been something agree-
ably dramatic in watching that clock hand register the
last minute but for the fact that he also was one of
the staff at that office. This was only Wednesday eve-
ning, and since eleven o'clock on Monday night one of
those who earned their daily bread there had been ly-
ing in a mortuary, one was in hospital, and one had
been spirited away. Besides them the mysterious indi-
vidual with burning eyes and a scar on his cheek who


THE HUNT FOR SALLY 119
had called at the office the previous evening had also
been murdered.
As the clock hands touched the hour of six Crump
glanced at the two junior clerks and at Tim, the office
boy, all of whom were nonchalantly putting on their
hats. Would they, he wondered, be putting on their
hats to-morrow evening at this time? Would they?
Crump shivered slightly. He generally took his wife to
the local movies on Thursday nights. Inevitably a
question now flickered in his mind. If someone else
connected with that ill-fated office were wiped out,
would Josiah Crump still go to the movies ?
He gave a start as the door of Mr. Bruce's office
suddenly opened.
"If you get any news of Sally Marsh ring me up at
home, Crump," said Lawrence Bruce, slipping on his
overcoat. “If I'm out leave a message."
“Right, sir," said the head clerk.
“That new girl will take a couple of hours to finish
typing those letters," Bruce added, making for the
exit. “You'll stop and look through them before
they're posted, won't you?”
Crump felt unhappy as he heard the steps of the
surviving partner die along the corridor. Excepting
for the new girl in the private office whose fingers were
making a tyepwriter click, he was alone. He heard the
outer door clang comfortingly. Just beyond it was the
busy footpath of Shaftesbury Avenue, where a multi-
tude thronged past incessantly. But this office had be-
come a hub of death, and to make matters worse he
had dreamed last night about being slowly squeezed to
death by a snake. Was that an omen?


120 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
He stood there now thoughtfully for a few mo-
ments, then turned to a ledger with which he had been
busy. But his mind wavered from that task. Interest-
ing though he had found the study of crime in the past,
and especially the crime of murder, the thing was
vastly different when you were mixed up in it. ......
For once the newspapers of London next morning
agreed on what was the most interesting "story" of
the day. There was a rare piquancy about it from their
point of view: an air of suspense which was just the
thing to whip the jaded interest of readers.
When you could leave the public hanging over a
figurative precipice they liked it better. It gave them
something to discuss in trains, in offices, saloon bars,
and suburban homes. If this missing Sally Marsh had
worked in any office but that of the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate nobody would have made a fuss
about it, but a terrifying shadow had fallen on that
organization. Some hidden hand was stretching out
of the unknown and clutching human victims.
It was now admitted, even by Scotland Yard, that
Foxy Carter, or Hackett, who was strangled at Bat-
tersea, had been seen in the Theatrical Syndicate's
offices within an hour or so of his death. A hue and
cry had begun for the mysterious individual with red
hair who had talked to Enid Mulholland on the mid-
night mail and had since been seen lurking in front of
those offices in Shaftesbury Avenue.
But—and this was the thrilling touch that Fleet
Street played on with all its skill—what was the mys-
terious fate that had overtaken Sally Marsh?


.
CHAPTER XIV
A CABLE
THAT evening Andy Collinson found himself in the
house at York from which Oliver Foss had disap-
peared. Mrs. Piggott, the landlady, was a tall, angu-
lar woman with an immobile face from which two
dark eyes shone piercingly.
"I've got nothing more to say than what I've told
the police already," she declared.
"But,” suggested Andy, “if some enemy of his is
responsible for what has happened you would do any-
thing you could to help him, wouldn't you ?”
"I don't know that he had any enemies, but I'm sure
of what the detectives are trying to make out."
"Mrs. Piggott, I'm not a detective,” said Andy.
“I'm only trying to get at the truth, whatever it may
be. I don't want to alarm you, but you must know
there is a theory that Oliver Foss may have been the
victim of foul play. If so he must have had enemies."
"He never talked about his private affairs," replied
Mrs. Piggott.
“How long has he been in England ?"
"A couple of years or so."
“Has he stayed in your house all that time?"
“No. He came to me about ten months ago."
121


122
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“And before that?"
"I think he was in London for some time."
Andy regarded that odd waxen face wonderingly.
How much was hidden behind her expressionless ex-
terior?
“Did Mr. Foss often go away?”
"I never inquired into his ways, but he did leave here
frequently, sometimes for two or three days at a time.”
"Where did he go?”
"I never asked him and he never told me."
“He did not even mention whether he had been to
London ?"
"Not to my recollection.”
“Can you tell me anything about his career during
the two years or so that he has lived in England ?”
“You know as much as I do about it."
"Well, at least you know something about his busi-
ness ?”
"I don't. How should I? He always seemed to have
plenty of money and paid me promptly. That's all I
was concerned with.”
"I understand that Mr. Foss had no motor car?"
"No. He hated the things. Unless he needed a cab
he wouldn't ride in one."
"Had he friends who called here occasionally?”.
“A gentleman came once, about six weeks ago, and
stayed an hour or so. I could hear them talking, but I
don't know what it was about."
“They parted on good terms?"
“Quite. Shook hands when the gentleman left."
Andy Collinson was accustomed to interviews which
seemed hopeless, but experience had taught him that


A CABLE
123
the most surprising jewels of information lay hidden
where one would least expect to find them. One ques-
tion which had simmered in his mind all the way from
London remained unasked until he stood up and was
on the point of leaving.
"Well, I hope you'll have good news about him
soon, Mrs. Piggott. His disappearance must naturally
be very trying for you. I wonder why he stayed all this
time in York.”
For a second a different expression flickered on the
woman's face. Romance had perhaps long been crushed
out of her, but some degree of human interest re-
mained.
"He was born in Australia,” she said, "but I re-
member he told me once that his father originally
came from York. I expect that accounts for his want-
ing to see the place. I don't suppose he'd have stayed
here so long though, only according to what I hear he
met a girl.”
"Fell in love, eh?" put in Andy encouragingly.
"Well, that would make a difference. Some lady here
in York?"
The woman shook her head slightly.
“As a matter of fact,” she explained, "I'm not sup-
posed to know anything about it, and I only heard by
chance. Nor have I mentioned it to anybody, seeing
that it's none of their business. I come from Easing-
wold, a little town not many miles from here, and my
sister still lives there. I understand from her that Mr.
Foss has been seeing a good deal lately of an Easing-
wold girl there called Marian Blakeley, daughter of a
successful dairy farmer."


124
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Within ten minutes Andy Collinson was at York
station inquiring for the next train to Easingwold, and
in due course he stood face to face with a girl of about
twenty-seven who eyed him suspiciously.
“I am trying to help to find Mr. Foss," he said.
"Are you a detective ?”.
“No, I write for a newspaper."
"Have you any idea what has happened to him?"
she asked.
"That is what I came to ask you."
The girl looked at him in sullen fashion.
"How should I know?"
"When did you last see him ?”
"Not since last Saturday. He dined here and spent
the evening with me, leaving for York by the last
train."
"Did you notice anything peculiar about him then ?”
“Nothing," she replied coldly.
"He didn't give you the impression of being afraid
in any way?"
“Not at all."
“Forgive me for asking, but were you two en-
gaged?"
“We were not exactly engaged, but we probably
should have been by now—if this hadn't happened."
“And now?"
Her mouth quivered.
"I hope that when he returns he will give a satis-
factory explanation,” she said.
"He has talked to you about his life in Australia, I
suppose ?”


A CABLE
125
"Sometimes. I think he'd have wanted me to go
back there with him as soon as we were married.”
"Then he would have given up his business inter-
ests here, whatever they were?”
"He never talked much about business to me though
I believe he went in for a certain amount of specula-
tion."
“What part of Australia was he from?”.
"He seems to know Sydney best, but he has knocked
about the world a great deal and done all sorts of
things. I fancy he made most of his money out of pearl
fisheries. He has a quick temper but it's all over and
done with a minute later. Anyone who suggests that he
would have followed Ismay to murder him on the train
must be crazy."
“May I ask what reason you have for expressing
that opinion?"
“Well, for one thing he is much too cautious."
“Would you describe Mr. Foss as a particularly
courageous man?”
The girl regarded Andy oddly before replying.
"What makes you ask that?" she asked.
"I was thinking that a fellow who had gone in for
pearling and wandered everywhere was probably ex-
tremely capable of taking care of himself.”
There was the barest hint of hesitation about
Marian Blakeley's reply.
"Yes, but I do not think he would attack anyone.”
"He never spoke of anyone having uttered a threat
of physical violence against him?”
"Never."
"He hasn't many friends in this country, has he?"


126
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Very few. Oliver has always been such a rolling
stone. Besides, he's not the kind of man who makes
friends easily. It's as if he doesn't trust people: the
result of encountering so many shady types in various
places, I suppose."
“Did he go up to London frequently ?"
"Sometimes, like other people. I believe he very
often bought and sold shares on the Stock Exchange.
He often used to send telegrams about that even
when he was here."
“Did he ever tell you why he made those trips to
London ?”
"No, but I suppose it was business. Oh, and he must
have gone to see his mother occasionally."
This was indeed news to Andy.
"She lives in London, then ?"
“So he told me once, and I have no reason to doubt
it.”
“Do you happen to know her address ?”
"He never mentioned it.”
"Isn't that rather strange?"
"I don't think so. Not when you know Oliver Foss.
I fancy I understand him, though a good many people
may not. He isn't exactly communicative."
"He certainly isn't. Mrs. Piggott, the landlady in
whose house he has been living during the last ten
months, has definitely stated to the police that so far
as she knows he has no relatives living on this side of
the Indian Ocean.”.
There was a touch of scorn in Marian Blakeley's
face.
“Why should he have confided in his landlady?"


A CABLE
127
making progi down to bed rod in his proin
to be no getting Blakeley out andi. and yet when you
"Perhaps you're right. There does seem to be rather
an air of mystery about him, though, doesn't there?”
The girl rose as a signal that so far as she was con-
cerned the interview was ended, and the crime expert
of the Daily Budget walked back to Easingwold rail-
way station with a vague sense of irritation. He was
not making progress. This was all frills. There seemed
to be no getting down to bed rock on the story. He
had dug Marian Blakeley out and in his professional
capacity had her entirely to himself, and yet when you
boiled it down there was hardly a headline in all she
had told him. Now if only she had known where ...
He stopped on the footpath, smiled in the darkness,
and then walked on again with more spring in his step.
Perhaps after all he had made a little progress. If she
would talk, the one person who could give an excellent
story about Oliver Foss was his own mother. There
were millions of people dotted all about London, and
amongst them somewhere that woman might be found.
Andy whistled to himself as he walked on consid-
ering a fruity scheme. As the slow train conveyed him
from Easingwold to York he drew a pad from his
pocket and drafted out a cable. The Sydney corre-
spondent of the Daily Budget was a particular friend
of Andy's, and moreover a brilliant journalist who
could be relied upon in a situation such as this. If Oli-
ver Foss had made bags of money he must be rather
well known in Sydney. It was to this correspondent,
then, that Andy addressed his cable.
Cartwright, Daily Times, Sydney. Oliver Foss,
of Sydney, interested in pearl fishing, age 32, blue


128
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
eyes, dark hair, has disappeared here after a
murder. His mother is in London. Can you find
anyone who knows her address ? ANDY COLLIN-
SON, Royal Hotel, York.
“It seems a long way to go round," reflected the
Budget man as he read the message over, “but what
does that matter if it does the trick ?”


CHAPTER XV
THE SPIDER'S WEB
Down by the river in Wapping, Ikey Glockstein shuf-
fled along in a frock coat and bowler hat, both of which
had been intimate friends of his for many years.
At the corner of Old Ship Steps he paused, ostensi-
bly to light his pipe. But his dark, mournful eyes sur-
veyed the street in both directions before he was satis-
fied and, thrusting the empty pipe back in his pocket,
turned down the narrow passage.
At a doorway, after another glance to right and
left, he inserted two fingers in a hole which answered
the purpose of a letter box. Hidden there from an in-
quisitive world, was a bell push which he pressed
two short rings and one long. Presently the door swung
inward and Mr. Glockstein entered.
"Hello, Queenie !" was his greeting as he slid into
the gloomy entrance of a rambling old place. “Any-
body here yet?”
"There's several gents in the drawring room," re-
plied Queenie, pointing over her shoulder with a
thumb. She was about fifty, with jet-black hair that
owed little to Nature, and bright beady eyes.
Glockstein shuffled on, walking over bare boards
into a room where there were a table, a large map of
129


130 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
London pinned to the wall, and a few chairs on which
four men were obviously waiting for something to hap-
pen. Though their mothers had never called them by
those names, they were known respectively in this
stratum of society as Dale, the Duke, Joe Quirk, and
the Bishop. Four pairs of quick eyes shot to those of
the elderly Jew as he entered.
"Well, well,” said Ikey Glockstein, rubbing his
hands together, "quite a family party, eh? Thought
you'd gone over to Paris, Duke."
“I was just off when I got this call," replied a thin
aristocratic-looking individual, taking a cigarette from
a gold case.
"The only one who won't join our merry throng,
then," remarked Ikey, “is the Major. The Spider has
sent him up to Liverpool. He went this morning, di-
rectly he arrived back from Amsterdam.”
“What are we here for now?” queried Dale, a
youngish man of athletic build, who was perched on
the edge of the table. One could have sworn that there
was nothing of the criminal in his make-up. And yet
without the aid of a blow pipe those well-kept hands
of his could do marvellous things with any ordinary
safe. Given adequate tools, the job at which he
specialized was childishly easy, besides being more
lucrative and less monotonous than the career in medi-
cine which a doting father had mapped out for him.
“Lord above knows " commented the owner of the
gold cigarette case.
"Ikey," observed Dale in his amiable pleasant way,
"could you attend one of these gatherings disguised
as a rat catcher some day by way of a change, or even


THE SPIDER’S WEB 131
as a gentleman? It would be less trying to the human
eye if you removed that appalling hat.”
Looking puzzled, the Jew took off the bowler and
appraised it.
"I like that hat, don't you?"
"For the richest old fence in London, dearie," said
Dale, “your appearance is obscene. Tell me, straight,
how many rows of houses do you own in London ?"
The Jew's face crinkled merrily.
"I look an honest man like this, don't I ?” he asked.
“Business is business, and "
"Hst!” This sharply from a man who was now
standing with his head on one side, listening intently.
"I wish you wouldn't do that, Joe,” croaked Ikey
with a nervous start. “Enough to give one the jim-
jams. What's the matter, anyway?”
"Just fancied I heard a board creaking somewhere,”
said Joe Quirk in the accents of America. “Thought it
might be the Spider. Geel How do you guys figure he
gets in and out of this place when he doesn't use the
door?"
"Personally," replied Dale, “I have always believed
that he crawls up the brick walls outside, like Dracula,
clinging on with his eyebrows."
"It sure has got me buffaloed,” commented the
American. “We watched once, didn't we, Duke? And
he certainly didn't arrive through either door that
time. What do you think about it, Bish?"
The gentleman referred to removed his pipe from
between his teeth. He had a priestly, even saintly ex-
pression, hence the abbreviated nickname.
"I asked Queenie once," he observed, "and she


132
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
made it quite clear, as you'd naturally expect from
that lady. It seems he slides down into one of the win-
dows on a sunbeam.”
The Duke chuckled.
“You wouldn't get any change out of Queenie so
far as the Spider was concerned,” he observed. "She'd
cut the throats of the lot of us, I suspect, if she thought
it suited his purpose. Hero worship, I s'pose. She's as
tough as they make 'em and he's obviously had a uni-
versity education. People are like that with the Spider,
though. Nobody ever bows down in front of me and
offers to become my slave."
Until that moment the door had been closed, but it
opened now and the Spider stood there shaking his
head disapprovingly.
“Well, my children," he said, "when you grow up
and exhibit signs of having brains enough not to talk
indiscreetly I'll show the brightest of you our private
bolt hole from these premises." The quick-witted Ikey
cast his mournful eyes upon the walls and ceiling but
did not see how their conversation could have been
overheard. "If that secret ever leaks out," the Spider
added, "we may be caught some day like rats in a
trap.”
"Righteol" murmured Dale. “Little ones, consider
yourselves spanked by Papa. But don't forget, Spider,
if a bunch of flatties come hammering at the door I
shall expect you to take my hand and lead me to it."
The Spider came nearer and swiftly took the meas-
ure of each one in turn. He was oddly magnetic: a
born leader, whose judgment men instinctively trusted.


THE SPIDER'S WEB
133
All there were hand-picked experts. The game they
played with this ringleader was dangerous, but under
his guidance they played it well.
"You will remember, my friends," he said, “it is less
than ten days since that rabbit, Foxy Hackett, was
with us in this room. That it wasn't a particularly
pleasant scene I grant you."
A subtle change came into the expression of each
face before him. At last they had an inkling why they
had been summoned thither.
There was a peculiar stillness, which remained un-
broken until the Spider spoke again.
"As a team we have done pretty well, yet only be-
cause every cog in the machinery worked properly. At
one time Hackett was useful, but, as you all know, he
took to dope. I meant to finish with him early last
summer, but he got pinched just then through his own
stupidity while we were on that Park Lane job.
“When he came out of prison,” the Spider contin-
ued, "Hackett had enough money to set him on his
legs. I saw to that. But he blew the lot in and fol.
lowed you, Ikey, to this new meeting place of ours. We
have no use for failures. You will recollect that when
he last came here I put the thing up to him very clearly
and I should probably have seen that he didn't get on
the rocks, but the young fool showed his teeth. Threat-
ened us! I can see him now, pointing to you, Joe, and
recalling a few things that you must have mentioned
to him in confidence."
“Darned little skunk !" commented the American.
"He had you taped also, Bish, and as for Ikey, you


134 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
would have refrained from sin for many a long year
had he put half his facts before the flatties at Scotland
Yard."
The Jew's lips moved, and not in prayer. What he
muttered was inaudible.
“Dale,” the Spider went on relentlessly, "would
probably have broken Hackett's neck there and then if
he had had his way. Also the little dope fiend had
your record pat, Duke. Nor did Hackett spare me."
“Well?" It was Dale who put the question.
"As you must know quite well," said the Spider,
"Hackett is dead. Unless I am mistaken he was mur-
dered by someone who is now in this room.”
As was his habit in moments of distress, Ikey Glock-
stein stroked his scant beard, shrewd eyes darting rap-
idly from face to face. Bish smoked his pipe steadily
and stared at the ceiling after one quick glance at Dale.
The others hardly moved.
"Go easy, Spider,” said Joe Quirk. "Say, ain't you
handing out rather a raw deal ?"
"I don't need to be one of Scotland Yard's 'Big
Five,' Joe,” observed the Spider, "to realize that
Hackett was looking for trouble when he lost his head
in this room. My only concern is for the general wel-
fare of our organization."
"Hackett was killed last night,” said Dale. “At that
time I was— "he broke off.
"You were saying, Dale?” came from the Spider
encouragingly.
"Well, one doesn't drag a decent woman's name into
a tea party of this sort. Never mind where I was."
"Exactly. I don't say you did it, Dale. There's no di.


THE SPIDER'S WEB
135
rect evidence on the point. But you see the difficulty."
“Myself I was in bed," observed Ikey.
"And at your time of life," said the Spider, "you
ought not to be out so late as that strangling people.
But I doubt whether you can prove to our satisfaction
that you were in bed. As for the rest of us, we know
very little about each other's private life.”
"I always suspected the Duke of being a head waiter
in his spare time," commented Dale. "He wears eve-
ning dress with such a beautiful air."
“What are we going to do about this Hackett busi-
ness, Spider ?” asked the man known as the Bishop. “I
see your point. All the same, you may be off the rails.
According to the evening papers, the blighter seems to
have been mixed up in that Theatrical Syndicate mys-
tery."
"He seems to, Bish,” agreed the Spider. "I only
hope it is so. But do you believe that is how he came to
be murdered ?"
Bish looked round at the five faces near, all touched
with grimness now excepting that of Dale.
"I'm asking you, Bish, do you?" persisted the
Spider.
“My dear Watson," observed Dale in a tone which
cracked the growing tension, "can't you see he thinks
we're all as guilty as blazes but he's too polite to say
so? Personally I was not anywhere near London last
night, but I don't expect everyone to believe that."
There was a stilted pause.
“Very well,” came from the Spider. "Perhaps, as
you say, Bish, I may be mistaken. Let it go at that for
the moment. Now !" His whole manner changed as he


THE SPIDER'S WEB
137
"I wonder who really did murder Hackett," said
Dale.
There was a smile on the lips of the Bishop as he re-
plied.
"If I were the one person who knew the answer, I
suppose I naturally should not enlighten you."


CHAPTER XVI
THE DIAMOND RAID
SINCE midnight a thin fog had drifted over the streets
of London. The light filtered through it eerily from
the lamps in Hatton Garden. The swirling mist
seemed to take on grotesque shapes that lingered only
for a moment.
Near the brass plate of Messrs. Steinburg & Co. a
man paused to light a cigarette and at the same time
glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after half-
past two.
A helmeted figure loomed silently out of the gloom.
"Good-night, officer," said the man. "Foggy eh ?”
"And it's getting worse," replied the policeman.
“Good-night, sir."
They both passed on.
The policeman tucked the collar of his cape closer
under his chin. There was a nip in that damp driving
mist. He flashed the ray of his lantern on to the next
door, and the next, working his way methodically
along that side of the street. He moved with the lei.
surely tread of the night-duty police, but his mind was
on his job. Remarkable things could happen in a place
like Hatton Garden, especially in thick weather at this
time of a morning.
"All correct, Shaw?"
138


THE DIAMOND RAID
139
The constable heard a familiar voice just as he saw
the form of its owner.
"All correct, Sergeant. Everything's very quiet."
In less than half an hour P. C. Shaw's lamp again
illuminated the door of the Steinburg premises. Then
flickered from one window to another. The wavering
finger of light touched one particular pane of glass
and shifted on but, prompted by some automatic proc-
ess in the policeman's brain, was switched back.
Trifles such as that, which would be ignored in the
day, caught one's eye at night. A scrap of paper six or
eight inches across was fastened to the glass, and what
was infinitely more important, P. C. Shaw did not seem
to remember having seen it there before. Moreover
that bit of paper was just beneath the window fastener.
Between the constable and the window there was a
narrow area protected by railings. He listened intently
for a few seconds and then, throwing his cape on the
top of the spikes, climbed over. Hanging on to one
bar, and leaning over, he could just touch that paper
with the end of his truncheon. As he had half expected,
it gave to the pressure. A hole had been cut clean
through the glass.
A minute later he was back on the footpath and the
tranquillity of Hatton Garden was shattered. The offi.
cer had a whistle between his lips and three sharp
blasts rang out, followed by three more.
Two constables who hurried to answer the signal
found Shaw with his thumb jammed on the door bell.
“What's up, mate?" one of them called out.
Not removing his thumb, Shaw pointed to the win-
dow.


140
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Looks as if someone's broken into this place," he
said, noting with satisfaction that more police were
arriving.
But there was no answer to the pressing of that
bell. Which was all wrong, for Shaw was well aware
that a caretaker and his wife usually slept on the prem-
ises.
At that stage a sergeant arrived and took a grip on
the situation.
“Seen anybody hanging about ?” he asked sharply.
"Nothing to arouse suspicion," replied Shaw.
"Slip around to the back of these premises, some of
you, and keep your eyes skinned," the sergeant or-
dered. “Bannister, you're tallest. Get down into that
area. If we step on your shoulder we can just—that's
right, Bannister. Hold steady. Come on, my lads."
The window was not fastened. Thrusting it up, the
sergeant climbed into the room, others scrambling
hastily after him. He found the electric switch and
flooded, the room with light. It was a plainly furnished
office. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed there,
but the door was open. Putting his hand on one man's
shoulder, he pushed him toward a telephone.
“Ring through to the Yard for the Squad," he
barked.
With a swift glance at the edge of the door, he saw
that it had been forced from the inside. That door led
into a passage communicating with four other rooms,
in one of which the sergeant found an open safe that
had obviously been ransacked. The floor near was lit-
tered with books and papers that had been pitched out
in a rapid search.


THE DIAMOND RAID
141
"We're too late," growled the sergeant sourly.
“They've bolted.”
"But where's the caretaker and his wife?" asked
P.C. Shaw.
"Fast asleep in the basement, I expect," said the
sergeant, making for a flight of stairs at the back of
the premises. But he descended warily, truncheon in
hand. And then at the threshold of a bedroom he ut.
tered a curious sound and hurried forward.
Two eyes were staring at him and faint sounds in-
dicating a world of emotion reached his ears.
A man in his pajamas was sitting in a chair but re-
frained from rising because he was tied down securely
with sheets that had been torn into strips. Also he was
gagged.
Whipping out his knife, the sergeant set the man
free.
"You all right?”
During twenty-five years spent in the army, chiefly
as a non-commissioned officer, Dick Hawkins, the care-
taker, had acquired a certain fluency in expressing his
feelings. It came in handy now.
“Yes, yes,” the sergeant interrupted, “but what hap-
pened?"
"Blime, haven't you caught 'em ?" demanded Haw-
kins, his eyes bulging.
"There was nobody in the place but you when we
got here. What time did this occur?”.
"About half an hour ago; maybe less. You don't
suppose I clocked 'em in, do you? Can't understand
it. This place is wired all over with burglar alarms,
too. I was by myself fast asleep, the missus being away


142 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
for the night. The first thing I knew was a lamp shin-
ing right in my eyes and a voice says: 'Sorry to dis-
turb you, but don't move or I shall shoot! It was said
so polite you'd have thought butter wouldn't melt in
his mouth."
Hawkins ran his fingers through his hair, living
through that moment again.
"He had a revolver pointing straight at me," the
man went on, "and there was no chance to get at mine,
which was under the pillow.
“ 'Be quiet and obey orders, please,' says he, just as
polite, but you could tell he meant business. 'Now get
up.'
"He kept that light right in my eyes, but I could see
there were three of them in the room.
“ 'Truss him up,' he says to his pals. 'And hurry.'
"I had to stand there like a stuffed dummy-me
who'd been middle-weight champion in the Sussex
Artillery for years! Then they sat me down in that
chair and made a monkey of me with a rope. Polite as
a bunch of parsons with it all the time. Will you b'lieve
me that bloke apologized, when they'd finished, for
causing any inconvenience.
“ 'It is too bad to have spoilt your night's rest,' he
says, but you'll be able to get a nap later in the day
perhaps.'
"Think of it! The nerve! I expected they'd give me
a crack on the head before they pushed off, just to
make sure, but they didn't.”


CHAPTER XVII
“NOTHING DOING"
throughout the bhed across the top of the public in
SCOTLAND YARD had set to work the whole of its com-
plex machinery in the task of finding some trace of
Sally Marsh. Her description had been circulated
throughout the British Isles, and the news of her dis-
appearance, splashed across the top columns of every
morning paper, had turned millions of the public into
amateur detectives.
In its leading article the Daily Courier said:
In London alone many people disappear every
year, but there is no doubt that in the vast ma-
jority of such cases this vanishing trick is per-
formed voluntarily, often with some romance at
its root, but more often still for the purpose of
evading the law.
In this case, however, the circumstances are as
sinister as they are mysterious. It is almost in-
credible that here, with a police force which is
reputed to be the finest in the world, a girl can be
whisked away under the very eyes of her em-
ployer and not be traced.
We know that Sally Marsh walked out of that
office of her own free will. Whether she has
143


144
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
stayed away willingly remains to be proved, but
that does not seem at all probable, and the public
will watch with the keenest interest this peculiar
sequel to the inexplicable tragedy that occurred
just before the midnight mail reached King's
Cross on Monday.
When Detective Inspector Silver returned to his
task at the Yard after trying and failing to snatch a
little sleep following the discovery that Sally had van-
ished, his face was drawn and stamped with a new
sternness. The avenues for investigation seemed to
open out in many widely diverging directions and each
one for the moment seemed blocked.
The York police were at a complete loss to explain
the whereabouts of Oliver Foss. Silver had antici.
pated the possibility of that man having committed
suicide to escape arrest for murder, but now a doubt
inevitably arose-a doubt which gave occasion to ter-
rible speculation. Had Foss caused Sally's disappear.
ance? For the memory that she knew something, or
fancied she knew something, about that tragedy on
the train gnawed ceaselessly at Silver.
The murder of Nobby, otherwise Foxy Hackett,
had cut off for ever all hope of getting from him a
hint which might have led, if only as the finest thread,
to the root of things. That some such thread had
existed Silver was convinced.
The man with red hair who had been seen on the
train with Enid Mulholland was a vague and puzzling
factor in the situation. There were so many men in the
world with red hair, and if, as appeared obvious,


146
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
to put bracelets on the Spider, without the least
notion where to look for him.
That statement by Inspector Warren echoed in
Silver's brain-this big diamond robbery seemed to
have been the Spider's work. At the moment Silver
was in the mood to let the Spider or any other
criminal put half Europe in his pocket and get away
with it so long as Sally Marsh was returned safely to
her home.
Silver paced his office restlessly. Nobby was not
known to have associated with any crook or combina-
tion of crooks except those honey-tongued gentlemen.
The C.I.D. Inspector was almost prepared to give his
ears for the chance of a ten-minute heart-to-heart
chat with one of the Spider's crowd. Strange news
filters through the underworld. How that heart-to-
heart talk could help was problematical, but since
Nobby's death not a soul had come forward claiming
him as a relative, nor had anyone even admitted
friendship with him. In fact there was no known link
between him and anyone except the Spider's gang and
Enid Mulholland.
The caretaker at the Steinburg premises in Hatton
Garden shook his head sadly when Silver pressed him
that morning to give as full a description as he could
of the three men who had entered his bedroom.
“To tell you the blinkin' truth," Dick Hawkins said,
"I shouldn't know any one of 'em again. They kept
that flash lamp shining in my eyes all the time, and as
far as I could make out they had masks on.”
"But the man who did most of the talking—you
would know his voice again ?" asked the detective.


“NOTHING DOING”
147
"If ever I hear it," said Hawkins, "he'll get a thick
ear just to start with. Then I'll wring his neck round
seven times.”
Silver nodded sympathetically.
"Would you say definitely that it was the voice of
an educated man?”
“He talked like a toff, if that's what you mean,"
replied the caretaker.
"Not at all gruffly ?"
“If he hadn't been pointing a gun at my stomach
you might have thought he was at a mothers' meet-
ing."
"And the others ?"
“They didn't say much, but from what I did hear I
should say they were out of the same stable.”
"Could you give me any idea how tall the leader
was?"
"Maybe a bit above the average height, but not
much. Not so long as you, anyway."
Silver's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"And that is absolutely all you can tell me about
him personally ?”
"I never thought to ask 'em for their portraits as a
keepsake," Hawkins answered tartly. It seemed to
him that since three o'clock in the morning, he had
been asked more fool questions than any one man
ought to have to answer in the whole of his life.
And all the time he was fully aware that the sum
total of it was nothing to what he must expect from
the lady who shared his name and job when she re-
turned to the wreckage of her peaceful home.
Silver questioned the constable who had discovered
questioned the other peaceful hwhen she re-


148
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
the hole in the window. P.C. Shaw gave the Inspector
the gist of his official report.
"You have not noticed any motor car loitering
about?" Silver asked.
"Not loitering," Shaw explained. “There were a
few taxis passed, and maybe a private car or two, but
I didn't take special notice of them.” He paused re-
flectively. "By the way, now I come to think of it, a
gentleman did stop near Steinburg's offices while I
was on my beat. Just lit a cigarette and said 'Good-
night.' I'd forgotten him, but I've no reason to sup-
pose he was one of the gang."
Silver's interest quickened.
“How long was that before you raised the alarm ?”
“About twenty minutes."
“Not longer ?
"Twenty-five at the outside. Why?"
"Ah, they're wide awake, that crowd," commented
Silver. “Delicate work at the correct moment. You
probably don't remember whether you flashed your
light up at the window when you passed that time?"
"I expect I did," said Shaw.
"Of course you expect you did. But he timed his
remark just right to turn your attention off. It looks to
me as though they'd begun operations by then. What
sort of a man was he?"
"Well, I took him for a gentleman, sir," said the
constable. “He spoke like one, anyway."
“Would you recognize him again?"
"I didn't actually see his face clearly. He was wear.
ing a soft felt hat. Maybe the brim was turned down.


"NOTHING DOING” 149
The light was bad, anyway. Don't forget there was a
thick fog."
“And you didn't notice anything about him at all ?"
"He was a bit over the average height, and I
believe he was clean shaven, but I wouldn't swear to
that. Never thought of the man again until I was talk-
ing to you just now," Shaw went on. “I'd better men-
tion him in my report.”
"Eh? Yes, yes, I should," observed Silver, with
knitted brows. “Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm open to bet
that your gentlemen friend nipped in through the
window to join his pals as soon as your back was
turned. As likely as not it was the Spider himself.”


CHAPTER XVIII
TIM'S REVELATION
The cares of office sat very lightly on the head of Tim
Bateman. So long as he continued to lift the sum of
one pound each week for evading as much work as
possible at the premises of the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate, the rest of the world could go
and stand on its head so far as he was concerned. All
of which was a highly deplorable point of view, but
one which he shared with nearly every other healthy
young animal who has yet to assimilate great truths.
That one, for instance, about the abiding dignity and
beauty of labour.
For the moment, en route from Balham to Shaftes-
bury Avenue at half-past eight in the morning, he was
engaged in the absorbing if illusory task of endeavour-
ing to pick winners. His particular fancy in the way
of literature was the Morning Flash because of its
racing tips.
Tim's eyes were glued now on the sporting page of
that journal while the tram-car slid on toward the
Thames with its mixed assortment of workers. He
hadn't backed a winner for nearly two weeks, but
hope springs eternal in the heart of the punter. Hav-
ing decided that his masterly stroke for the day was
to have a shilling on Fairy Queen in the four o'clock
150


TIM'S REVELATION
151
rac
race at Lingfield, he placed a sticky piece of toffy in
his mouth, turned the pages of the Flash over, and
concentrated his attention on the chief news of the
morning because he happened to have a finger in that
pie.
It all looked very thrilling, this about the midnight
mail mystery, with the big headlines in black type.
Tim's eyes drifted automatically to the pictures in the
centre of the page. One of them stood out familiarly.
Sally Marsh! The photograph was just like her, too!
Tim wondered what had happened to her. The papers
seemed to be making a lot of fuss about it considering
that she might only have-only have—well, he didn't
quite know what to think. Anyway she was in the
office yesterday morning and couldn't have got far.
Near the portrait of Sally were two other pictures
of a man, one taken full face and the other profile, as
is the prevailing fashion when they are needed for the
rogues' gallery.
And those two pictures arrested the interest of Tim
Bateman. Even his attention to that large hunk of
toffee momentarily waned. He screwed up his eyes,
puzzled; then they darted through the printed matter
underneath:
The police are anxiously searching for infor-
mation about this man who was found murdered
in his lodgings at Battersea on Monday night.
His landlady knew him only by the name of
Carter, but that was probably an alias. Accord-
ing to the records of Scotland Yard, he was con-
victed last year on a charge of breaking into a


152
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
house in Park Lane, and at that time he was
known as Foxy Hackett. But he is believed also
to have been known in certain circles by the nick-
name of "Nobby.”
Anyone who can help to throw light on the
mystery of this man's identity or can assist the
police in tracing his associates is earnestly re-
quested to communicate with Scotland Yard
without delay.
And then those eyes of Tim's shot back to the pic.
ture. He was conscious of a curiously heady emotion
and the people round about him on the tram-car be-
came shadowy things. He was miles away, in Shaftes-
bury Avenue, on the stairs leading up to the offices of
the Anglo-American Theatrical Syndicate. . . . And
the police were now anxiously searching for informa.
tion. ... Tim nearly swallowed the toffee but
adroitly saved it at the last desperate second.
Then, the fate of Fairy Queen in the four o'clock
race entirely forgotten, he straightened the front page
of the Morning Flash and absorbed every line printed
under those heavy headlines.
By the time he arrived at the office Tim was hot
under the collar. That he alone should know the truth
was extraordinary, but when you came to think of it,
he reflected, when you remembered some of the things
that had happened, it wasn't quite so surprising.
First to the head clerk, Josiah Crump, and then to
Lawrence Bruce he told his story. Bruce cross-
examined him closely, but the boy seemed sure of his
facts.


154
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Tim drew a deep breath.
"It was last Saturday morning, sir. I was just com-
ing into the office at nine o'clock when I saw three
people at the foot of the stairs. There was Miss
Marsh, Miss Mulholland, and the man who was mur-
dered.”
"Had you ever seen him before?" Silver asked
smoothly.
"No, sir, never."
"Are you sure it was the same man?”.
"I'm positive of it, sir. He was having a bit of a
row with Miss Mulholland. At least I think so. When
I turned in at the doorway downstairs he was saying
something to her, raising his voice. Swearing a bit, but
I didn't catch on to what it was about. And Miss Mul-
holland held her finger up to stop him. Just then Miss
Marsh gave me a push in the back, sending me up the
steps as much as to say I wasn't wanted, see?"
The detective nodded.
"But I stopped halfway up the steps and listened,"
Tim went on. “Then I heard Miss Mulholland say:
'I'll try to, Nobby, just because you're my brother,
but-
Tim paused on the last word.
"Well, go on," Silver prompted.
"I didn't hear any more, sir. Exactly those words
and nothing else, because Miss Marsh was running up
the steps and I thought she was going to give me a
clip on the ear, so I hopped it."
"But did Miss Marsh say anything to you on the
subject afterwards ?”
“No, sir. She went straight to her desk.”


TIM'S REVELATION
155
"And Miss Mulholland?"
“No, neither of them said a word, sir, and I forgot
all about it until I saw that picture in the paper while
I was on my way here this morning."
"I see," observed Silver. “Now when you first came
into the doorway downstairs you heard Miss Mul-
holland's brother saying something and swearing. Are
you sure you don't remember in the least what he was
talking about? It might be very important."
Tim looked disappointed
"I particularly asked him that," put in Lawrence
Bruce. “But the boy really doesn't seem to have caught
anything except the word 'damned'.”
"Pity!" commented the detective, his memory flash-
ing back to another scene in that room, when Sally
Marsh had stood before him and he had read in her
face that she was hiding from him something which
she believed was connected with the tragedy on the
midnight mail. Was that just loyalty on her part-
loyalty to Enid Mulholland on account of her
brother? At that encounter near the foot of the stairs
had she heard some threat which later made her won-
der whether that rotter Nobby had attacked his sister
and murdered Ismay?
Silver rolled a cigarette contemplatively. But why,
why, why that sudden question of hers as to whether
Ismay had tried to kill Enid Mulholland? And why
had she been spirited away? What they had done to
her was a problem that he had not yet dared to set
before himself honestly. At the back of his mind there
constantly lived the hope that she had not only gone
out of the office voluntarily but had deliberately re.


156
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
frained from returning owing to some kind of fear.
And yet, he knew all the time, had that been so she
would at least have let her parents know she was
safe.
"Now that one knows they are brother and sister,"
said Bruce, looking at the picture of Nobby in a morn-
ing paper, “the resemblance is obvious, isn't it? All
right, Tim," he added to the boy, "trot along."
"And now that one knows some of the facts," com-
mented Silver, “it is obvious why Enid Mulholland
kept her precious brother in the dark. He was a
thorough wrong 'un."
"Is there any truth in his statement that the police
were after him again ?"
"Not a word. Even when we ascertained that he
was known to us as Foxy Hackett the record depart-
ment couldn't put their finger on any fresh crime that
he was supposed to have committed.”
"Then he was bluffing the girl!"
"Just that. Didn't care how he got money so long
as he got it. His sort don't.”
For a few moments Silver sat still and thoughtful.
His long legs were crossed, one knee resting on his
clasped hands. A neglected cigarette hung from the
corner of his mouth, and his eyes were half closed as
he sat striving to piece the tangled story together.
Suddenly he came out of his brown study.
"This case is a teaser, Mr. Bruce," he said, “because
the more one tries to think it out logically the more
one sees a jumble of nonsense. You know as much
about it as I do now. Who, in your opinion, killed
Silas Ismay?"


CHAPTER XIX
IN THE UNDERWORLD
WITHIN a stone's throw of Tower Bridge Police
Court there is a labyrinth of lanes, in the heart of
which nestles an establishment widely known as
“Sam's.” Nominally it is a coffee shop, and meals, of
a kind, are indeed served there until early morning,
but queer fish drift under that roof, and if those old
walls could speak they would tell strange tales.
And there was nothing queerer there than the
owner of the place. Sam Galleon-or for all ordinary
purposes just Sam. He was six feet high and heavily
built. He had a tawny beard and moustache flecked
with gray, a voice in which lurked the deep growl of
thunder, and a wooden peg in place of one leg, the
loss of which had long ago ended his career as mate
of a windjammer.
As he sat in his comfortable wooden armchair close
on midnight, smoking a long pipe, and talking to three
men, he recognized in one glance the figure of an in-
dividual wearing a cap who came in at the door.
"Clear out, quick," Sam's voice rumbled, interrupt.
ing the conversation; and in ten seconds the other
three men had slipped away like rats into the shadows
outside.
158


IN THE UNDERWORLD 159
"Sorry to disturb your friends, Sam,” said the visi-
tor.
The proprietor of the coffee shop waved a fat hand
to a chair.
"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Silver," he said. “Sit you
down."
The Inspector, producing tobacco and papers began
to roll a cigarette, Sam's eyes fixed on him, and for a
space neither spoke. A singular un 'terstanding existed
between them, even a certain frier idliness, which was
the more remarkable because no nimbus was ever
likely to sit on Sam Galleon's head.
His position in the underworld, was perhaps with-
out parallel. For thirty-three yea is he had sinned and
sold coffee in th at little place, but chiefly he had sinned.
His assets in the crooked business were threefold.
He could sum me.n up unerringly, he had a phenomenal
memory, and you could trust him as far as you liked.
He knew no more than a sti affed duck how to open
a safe, but for a consideraticin he could put you in
touch with the finest cexperts. He was far too astute to
handle stolen propertor counterfeit money though
he saw plenty of both, 1 Sut if you wanted help he knew
exactly who could attena? to such details for you.
In those thirty-three years a veritable river of crooks
had sought Sam's useful advice, and paid for it; and
because of his memory the man's accumulated knowl-
edge of the criminal world was extraordinary.
Three years ago, however, he had come within a
hair's breadth of becoming one of the Government's
guests for a lengthy period although he swore that
the police had made a blunder. By a fluke Silver dis-


160
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
covered that Sam was as innocent as an unborn baby
on that particular charge. As a result Sam was liber-
ated, and he was never likely to forget it was to
Silver that he owed his freedom.
Sitting there now, the ex-mariner tapped the ashes
from his pipe.
"Been doin'--er-a little business down in these
parts ?” he asked sociably, stroking a great cat that
had jumped on to his lap.
“Why, no,” said Silver, with a dry smile. “I just
came out for some fresh air.”
By Sam's side there was a cuspidor. Into this he
spat with precision, born of thirty-three years' prac-
tice. .
“I was readin' is the papers that crime's on the
decrease," he remarkied. “You fellers will be out of a
job soon if many mor e burglars take to singin' hymns.
'Course you'll always have a few murders to attend to.
That's only to be expected, isn't it, human nature
being what it is ?”
“Er-I guess so," saiu! Silver. He was burning with
impatience, but knew that if any good was to come out
of this interview it would have to be handled with the
utmost care.
"Yet killin' isn't always exactly murder," Sam added
after a space. “I remember once in Pernambuco—
he broke off. “But that's a very long time ago, and
he'd have got me anyw, ay if I hadn't been quick.”
"A long time since I saw you," said Silver.
"A matter of twj; elve months, isn't it?" observed the
old sailor, still stroking the cat with one massive
hand.


IN THE UNDERWORLD 161
The C.I.D. man continued to smoke for a while,
then, suddenly:
“I'm up against it, Sam.”
Sam tickled the cat's ear with a forefinger. It
purred loudly. The man did not speak, however.
There was a great dividing line between the two sec-
tions of society which he and Silver represented, and
the war between those sections was eternal. Still, the
old sailor was prepared to help this detective as far as
he could.
“What's your trouble, Son?”.
"I want to get in touch with the man known as the
Spider."
“Oh!" Something in Sam's expression relaxed the
barest shade. All sorts of unpleasant possibilities had
been racing through his brain during the last few
minutes, but there seemed to be no rocks ahead. "Is
there a copper in London who wouldn't go on his
knees to get the chance?”
Silver pitched his cigarette into the fire.
"I expect that's true enough," he said, “but they
haven't all got as big a personal reason as I have for
wanting a word with him. And," he looked straight at
the old pirate, “they haven't all got the right to come
to you once in a lifetime to help them."
Sam's fingers strayed to his heard. He toyed with
it reflectively for a moment.
"What you say is true enough, my lad," he agreed
presently. “I owe you something, don't I? And just
between you and me Sam Galleon may be no church-
warden, but he pays his debts. Still, it's gospel truth


162
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
that if the Spider walked in here now I shouldn't
know him from Adam.”
"What can you tell me about him?"
Sam pursed his lips.
"The Spider doesn't have any truck with the regular
crowd. Just works with a special bunch of his own
kidney."
"You know, of course, that Foxy Hackett was one
of his gang?” said Silver.
"The man who got bumped off last Tuesday? Yes,
so I've heard.” Sam Galleon glanced around him and
then lowered his voice. "Hackett was in here less than
a week ago."
“Alone?" asked Silver.
“Yes, and damn near starving if you ask me."
“What was he doing here?”
“Sat in that corner over yonder by himself all after-
noon. Seemed to be waitin' for somebody who didn't
turn up.”
"How did you know it was Hackett ?" asked Silver
quickly.
"A pal of mine who'd just done six months in the
same prison pointed him out."
The detective's fingers tightened.
“Sam, if I could only find one single person who
knows anything about Hackett it might begin to help
me out of my troubles.”
Sam Galleon gently pressed his hand on the black
cat's head for a moment before replying.
"It might," he agreed at last. "And then again it
mightn't. No man's goin' to talk if there's a chance of
се


IN THE UNDERWORLD 163
getting his neck stretched. Say, let me think this over,
Mr. Silver. I'm not makin' any promises, mind, be-
cause I'm not sure I shall be able to help you much,
but if this is where I can get square with you " He
broke off and gave the detective a significant look.
Silver's imagination began to leap. There were a
thousand channels of information open to this one-
legged old villain, channels which no emissary of
Scotland Yard could ever tap. By all the rules of the
game Sam Galleon, who had never yet been convicted,
would end up in prison, but although he was a crook,
there was a contradictory streak of straightness in
him.
"If you find anything out how will you let me
know?” asked the detective. "I'd better not be seen
around here too much.”
“Keep away,” said Sam, "until you get word from
me." He paused, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
Then, glancing at the great animal on his lap he added :
“I know! If you get a phone message at the Yard
saying you're wanted at the Black Cat, guess you
won't need tellin' what that means.”
A minute afterwards a tall man with a cap pulled
well over his eyes, both hands rammed in his pockets,
and the slightly rolling gait of a mariner walked away
from Sam's as inconspicuously as possible, but even so
there were prying eyes which slanted at that unfamiliar
figure in the darkness of Chicken Lane, where a hated
"Alattie" might so easily find a knife in his back. Some-
one barged into him.
"Sorry, mate!" the detective muttered, and slouched
on. But it was not personal danger that Silver was


164
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
concerned with. If anyone in this underworld jungle,
where news travels fast, knew what was afoot, that
thin thread of hope which had just come into existence
would instantly be snapped, and even Sam Galleon
might be found still and silent for ever.


CHAPTER XX
DEE PER MYSTERY
AFTER leaving Sam Galleon, Silver went straight back
to Scotland Yard with one thought hammering in his
brain all the time. Possibly they had heard something
of Sally Marsh! Possibly—but in his heart the C.I.D.
man dreaded the kind of news which might have come.
It was thirty-six hours now since she had vanished.
The hope to which he had clung persistently yester-
day had given place to terrible fear. A dozen things
might have arisen to keep her away until the evening,
but since then a night had passed, and another day.
The country was ringing from end to end with the
story of Sally's disappearance, because of the drama
in which it was enveloped. The hoardings of every
newspaper echoed the same thing. By now, unless
Sally had changed that little red hat and black coat
trimmed with fur, it would be impossible for her to
walk down the street of any remote village in the
British Isles and not draw attention. Also, that
miracle, the modern press, had scattered her picture
over the country in tens of millions. There could
hardly be a house in the land where Sally Marsh had
not been discussed.
But the Yard had no news. Silver heard that fact
with a stony expression.
165


166
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"You'd better push off to bed, my lad," said the
Chief Inspector on night duty. "We may have some-
thing to get hold of by morning, though. Had a re-
port from the sergeant at King's Cross Hospital five
minutes ago. That Mulholland girl shows signs of
recovering consciousness. Once we know her version
of what happened, the rest ought to be easy."
As fast as a taxicab could take him Silver rushed to
the hospital.
“Yes, you may see her," said the Sister in charge,
"but even if she speaks I dare not let you talk to her.
The doctor thinks for the first time that there really
is a chance the patient may recover. It is only a chance,
however. The slightest shock would almost certainly
be fatal.”
Silver bit back his impatience.
"All right, Sister. What you say goes. But if she
speaks—if you speak to her-remember we only want
some idea, some hint as to who attacked her. That
will make all the difference to us."
“I can promise you nothing," the Sister said, and
then after the briefest pause added, "but I will not
forget.”
In accordance with police regulations there had
always been an officer on duty near the bed since Enid
Mulholland had been admitted to the hospital. Silver
conversed in whispers with the C.I.D. sergeant who
was there now.
"She's got more colour at present, sir," the man
said. "Looked as white as a sheet last night. The
nurse once thought for a minute that she'd popped
off."


DE E PER MYSTERY
167
The strain was beginning to tell on Silver. He was
sitting on a hard wooden chair, glancing at the time
occasionally. The hands of the big clock in the ward
almost seemed to stand still. Then, as his head jerked,
the clock hands appeared to have shot on ten minutes,
and he saw the Sister bending over Enid Mulholland's
bed. She nodded slightly to Silver, but raised a warn-
ing finger to him just as the patient opened her eyes.
Enid looked straight before her for a little while,
in a perplexed fashion, then turning her head, met
the eyes of the Sister.
"Where am I?”
"You are quite safe," replied the Sister softly. "You
have been ill and must remain in bed for a while."
"Ill! I don't understand!” The girl spoke more
clearly now, so that in the still ward every syllable
reached Silver's ears.
"You must not talk," said the Sister. “I want you
to lie quietly and try to sleep."
"Yes,” said Enid. “But isn't that funny? I don't
seem to remember being ill at all.”
For a fleeting second the Sister's glance met that of
Inspector Silver. He had seemed so terribly anxious
and there was something about the man that she in-
stinctively liked; yet although the patient was calm
and astonishingly alert, the Sister dared not deviate
more than a hair's breadth from cast-iron rules.
“You became ill quite suddenly,” she said.
"Did I ?" exclaimed Enid. “Isn't that extraordinary!
The last thing I remember is dropping off to sleep on
a train. That does seem rather a long time ago,
though. I expect the guard looked after me. He was


168
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
very kind. Oh, dear! Where is my handbag? I had
quite a lot of money in it—all my savings, which I had
drawn out of the bank.”
"We are taking care of that," said the Sister. "Now
you really must not talk any more.”
But Enid's face had become troubled, and Silver,
watching intently, guessed in which direction her
thoughts had leaped when she recollected the fifty
pounds in her handbag.
"How long have I been here?" she asked. “There's
something I—I want to do. I must.” She raised a hand
to her brow. "My head aches, Nurse, and my throat
feels peculiar. It must have been a very sudden illness!
I remember quite clearly reading for some time in the
train. Then I made myself comfortable but lay awake
for a while listening to the sound of the train. After-
wards I suppose I fell asleep, and I don't remember
anything more."
The injured girl closed her eyes with a sigh. Again
the Sister flashed a lightning glance at the detective
and caught his look of thanks.
As Silver made his way home—it was three o'clock
in the morning-he realized that Enid Mulholland's
statement, instead of helping to solve the problem, had
only thrown further mystery upon the midnight mail
affair.
The injured girl's mind had seemed clear enough,
though the Sister had warned him it might be tricky
after that blow on the head. However, according to
her version of what happened the attack must have
been made on her while she was asleep. That in itself
could easily have been understood but for the knowl-


DEE PER MYSTERY
169
edge of what happened to Silas Ismay, and here
Silver found conjecture bewildering. She could hardly
have been asleep while Ismay was struggling for his
life.
There could be no question that Ismay was actually
murdered in that third-class compartment next to the
guard's van. As Enid was evidently alone when she
fell asleep, Ismay must have come from his first-class
section of the train and crept into Enid's compartment
while she slept. And for some reason which had not
yet been explained he must have delivered a murder-
ous blow on her forehead while she lay helpless. Then,
to make doubly sure of her death, he had begun to
fasten that piece of blue silk cord around her neck.
Yes, Silver assured himself, so far it was possible
to reconstruct the events of last Monday night. This,
indeed, fitted in with the theory which Andy Collin-
son, the newspaper man, had advanced, and which
had seemed reasonably plausible at the time.
But then there was a snag, and it was a bad snag.
Collinson's suggestion was that some stranger, see-
ing what was happening, entered the compartment
with the idea of protecting the girl, strangled Ismay
and pitched him out on to the track, afterwards dis-
appearing to save his own neck.
All of which appeared possible, but unfortunately
Collinson's suggestion then crashed. For since Mon-
day the complication of Nobby's death had arisen,
and also the disappearance of Sally Marsh. Whatever
other conjectures proved fallacious, there could not be
the slightest doubt now that a link existed between all
those events. And it did not make sense to suggest


170
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
that anyone who had merely acted on the spur of the
moment to save Enid Mulholland would subsequently
have strangled Nobby and spirited Sally away. Take
the man with red hair, for instance. Suppose it was he
who had caught Ismay trying to finish Enid Mul-
holland off. What earthly motive could he have had
for murdering an ex-convict in Battersea ? Or what
power would he have had to draw Sally Marsh away
into utter obscurity? And why should he have done
so?
These questions were going round and round in
Silver's brain as he lay in bed at last, and he was no
nearer a solution of the enigma when sleep came.


CHAPTER XXI
A SECRET
Colonel VenABLES, do you know a really nice bur-
glar? A clean one by preference.”
Lady Lenchester and a few others were having
drinks while the rest of her guests finished their bridge.
Venables, who had been friendly with his hostess since
she was a little girl wearing pigtails, regarded her
with a twinkle in his eyes.
"My department of Scotland Yard is the political
branch, Betty," he replied, “but of course that gives
me some pull. May I ask what you want of the nice
clean burglar?"
"I want to go a-burgling with him, of course," she
explained. “I lost seventeen hundred pounds on the
Stock Exchange to-day, and if Rand Mines don't go
up to-morrow I really shall have to break into a bank
or something."
In the most casual manner in the world the eyes of
two men met with a guarded touch of amusement
which went a very long way beneath the surface. One
was Jerry Kinlock, referred to in a certain select circle
as Dale; and the other was his bosom companion
Monty Bancroft, whose appearance was so suggestive
of a church dignitary that he was called the Bishop
by some of his acquaintances.
171


172
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
for me or than 8,” ac Pable. ;; "ody sa
antages.me your Betty.
“I know a Billingsgate fish porter who goes to
prison occasionally,” Jerry Kinlock suggested help-
fully. “He might be useful."
A girl with gray-green eyes, smoking a cigarette in
a long holder, came out of her dreams.
“But, Betty darling,” she said, "what you really
want is an introduction to the Spider. Everybody says
he is perfectly charming—and so capable."
"He sounds most engaging," agreed Betty Len-
chester. “Much sweeter than Jerry's fish porter. Can
you fix that up for me, Colonel ?”
"I don't want to seem a wet blanket, my dear, while
serious thought is afoot," he observed, “but I am led
to believe that as a profession crime has its disad.
vantages.”
"I hope your people will be kind to me when I go
to prison,” said Betty.
"One has quite a good time there nowadays, I be-
lieve," replied the Colonel. “I think, however, you
would be rather unfortunate in your choice of the
Spider as a partner. Especially just now. But," he
ended abruptly, “perhaps I ought not to talk shop."
"Please do, if it's about the Spider," said gray.
green eyes, whose name was Eve Crain. “Everyone is
interested in him. Especially those whose jewellery he
has taken."
"Well," observed the Colonel with a slight air of
mystery, “I expect that bright bird will be caged be-
fore long."
“Oh!" exclaimed Betty Lenchester encouragingly.
“Secrets of the police! Do tell us, please !''
"He can't because of professional etiquette and so


A SECRET
173
forth," said the irrepressible Jerry Kinlock. “But I
will. After sleuthing everywhere they have discovered
that the dear old Chief Commissioner of Scotland
Yard, a man who was universally beloved, leads a
double life. Cop by day and Spider at night. Most em-
barrassing position for everybody concerned. He'll
have to give up either one job or the other."
"Silence, Jerry," Betty ordered severely. “Colonel,
why must I not go into partnership with the Spider,
please? Now, of course, I'm dying to know."
The old warrior stroked his magnificant moustache.
“Well, I don't know that there is any reason why I
should not at least tell you," he said, "excepting that
the Yard does not exactly advertise. I can go as far as
this, anyway: the authorities are planning a big cam-
paign against that fellow and his gang. He will be
roped in presently. These spectacular criminals only
have their fun for a while. Sooner or later they are
run to earth."
“But what fun while it lasts !" commented the
smooth voice of Monty Bancroft from the depths of
an armchair.
"I wonder," pondered Eve Crain, fitting another
cigarette to her holder, "who enjoys the game most:
the rather weary police official or the thief who is
becoming rich and famous.”
"Possibly the crook, given the real criminal men-
tality," said the Colonel.
"Or a sense of humour," put in Eve.
"Crime is no joke," commented the Colonel. “And
to the Spider it is a deadly serious business. He's quite
brilliant at it, too, in a way, and up to now the man


A SECRET
175
Hard that you going to
to-night.” He sipped from the glass reflectively for a
space. “Monty, I have done some insane things in my
time, and you've done a few, but there are limits
which neither of us would pass. I didn't ask you last
night, but I'm going to now. Can you give me your
word that you didn't kill that poor little swine
Hackett ?"
Monty Bancroft, alias the Bishop, drained his
tumbler. Then:
“I did not,” he said.
"If it was one of our crowd,” Jerry went on, "I
hope he rots. You heard what that man Venables said
to-night! You see what it means !" He walked to the
window and stared down into the street, then came
back. “It was the craziest thing to do. We shall have
a regular nest of hornets buzzing about us now. Ac-
quiring other people's superfluous property is one
thing so long as you get away with it, but murder is
quite a different proposition. Those Yard flatties
know as well as we do that Hackett has been thrown
out of the Spider's gang, which is enough to make
the most thick-headed yob in uniform wonder if we
had any hand in the murder. But if Hackett ever
blatted to anyone about the way he threatened us all
the last time we saw him in Wapping it's going to be
damned uncomfortable."
The face of Monty Bancroft was calm and intel-
lectual as he sat looking into the fire. If some elusive
flaw marred that face at times, there was no sign of
weakness there now.
"Wait a minute, old son," he said slowly. "Aren't
you assuming a little too much ?”


176 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"In what way?"
“Are you-are you so sure it was one of our crowd
who strangled Hackett ?"
Jerry Kinlock came to rest on the arm of a chair.
“Nobody," he answered, “can be dead sure on that
point until some judge puts on a black cap and sen-
tences the murderer to be hanged. But just between
you and me I have very grave fears. So had the
Spider when he tackled us about it last night. And
he's nobody's fool."
"Unfortunately," pointed out Monty, "if the Yard
have got it into their heads that we are responsible
for Hackett's death, it makes no material difference
whether they're right or whether they're wrong.
What I mean is they won't give us a minute's peace.
Unless we all clear out of the country there's a good
sporting chance that those bloodhounds will get their
teeth into some of us. I'm not afraid of being hanged
for a crime I did not commit, but in any case I have a
prejudice against doing penal servitude. Still, my dear
lad, I doubt whether Hackett was bumped off by one
of the Spider's gang."
"Ah!" exclaimed Jerry. "I wish I knew."
"Well," suggested Monty, putting the tips of his
fingers together, “run through the list. Check 'em up.
You and I are eliminated, eh?”
"Agreed," said Jerry. "I was down in Dorking
with friends on Tuesday night. They could prove that,
but for obvious reasons I couldn't ask them to do so
unless the situation was desperate. Where were you ?"
"I," said Monty, "was with Betty Lenchester,
tête-à-tête.”


A SECRET
177
Jerry Bancroft's expression was blank. Everyone
knew Sir Peter Lenchester could see a red light so far
as Monty was concerned, but this was no moment to
ponder over such trifles.
"The Major didn't arrive back from Amsterdam
until the day after Hackett died.”
“Cross him off, then," agreed Monty. “What about
Ikey Glockstein ?" .
"He's too doddering—and too clever to make such
an ass of himself.”
"Very well. That leaves the Duke, Joe Quirk, and
the Spider himself. The Spider wouldn't do it. Take
your pick of the other two.”
"Exactly," replied Jerry. "I've gone all through
this a dozen times. And it invariably boils down to the
Duke and Joe Quirk. There I stick."
Monty Bancroft watched the flickering of the flames
for a space.
“You and I have rubbed shoulders with Joe Quirk
in some tight corners, Jerry," he said at length. “We
know what he's made of. But for the fact that he's
one of us, which might prejudice some people, I'd say
he was a white man all through. Do you remember
how he hung on at Park Lane, almost certain to be
caught, just to give us warning when the flatties were
after us? Whatever some judge may say about him
when his time comes to stand in the dock, old son, he's
brave, and I'd gamble a lot that he'd take a chance on
going to Dartmoor for a few years rather than com-
mit murder."
"I admit,” said Jerry Kinlock, "that it would amaze
me to hear that he killed Hackett. It doesn't tally with


178 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
anything I know of his character. But there you are!
Cross him out and you only have the Duke left. Now
I ask you in all seriousness, can you see our delicate-
minded Duke strangling Foxy Hackett in a Battersea
slum ?"
"I cannot," agreed Monty, pouring out another
whisky. “And as there aren't any more little nigger
boys to account for, perhaps you'll begin to agree with
me that whoever is hanged for that crime it won't be
one of our crowd. Pass me that soda siphon and let's
talk about something more cheerful.”


CHAPTER XXII
SNIFFY'S STORY
A WIZENED, elderly man, with a face that was strongly
suggestive of a ferret, made his way along Chicken
Lane. Almost unconsciously he shot a glance over his
shoulder occasionally, but this was sheer habit. He
turned into Sam Galleon's coffee shop, which hap-
pened to be almost empty, and sank into a chair at a
table near the one-legged proprietor who as usual was
smoking a long pipe with a cat on his knee.
"Hello, Sniffy !" There was an unwonted touch of
geniality about Sam's greeting. "What's the news ?”
The elderly man sniffed.
"I ain't got no news, Sam,” he said.
"Not been reading the newspapers, maybe?”.
"Me? No, can't say that I have. It's all lies, any-
way, what you read there."
Sam Galleon puffed away at his pipe in silence for a
few moments.
“D'you remember last time you were here, about a
week ago ?”
The elderly man nodded and sniffed.
“You pointed out a feller who was sitting over in
the corner, there.”
179


180
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“That's right,” Sniffy agreed. “Foxy Hackett."
“Maybe you haven't heard about Foxy ?” said Sam,
stroking the cat's head.
"Coppers got him?" asked Sniffy, his professional
interest gently stirred.
"No," said Sam, his eyes fixed on the man with
apparent unconcern. “He's been murdered.”
Sniffy put down his cup and turned his head toward
Sam Galleon with an expression that conveyed no
more than dull surprise.
"You don't say!" he exclaimed. “When was this?”
Sam repeated all he knew about the tragedy in
Dudney Row, Battersea.
“ 'Strewth !" commented the man with a sniff. “I
did 'ear that a feller had been croaked there, but I'd
no idea it was Foxy Hackett. I wonder who-
Sniffy broke off oddly.
Sam Galleon knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
began to thumb tobacco into the bowl.
"Didn't you tell me last time you were here, Sniffy,
that you'd seen Hackett somewhere down by the
river?”
Sniffy glanced over his shoulder with an added
touch of nervousness.
“Go easy, Sam! I don't want to get pinched for a
job like that when I ain't done it.”
“Don't worry. Nobody's saying you did. Only I
remember you telling me something about seeing him.
You needn't be frightened of talking to me. Ever since
I heard he'd been murdered I've been hoping my old
friend Sniffy would drop in so's we could have a chat.
It's dull sitting here all day same as I have to with a


182 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
there I could see 'e was trailing. It was an old Sheeny.
Regler persession, we made. The Sheeny 'ad no idea
Hackett was followin' 'im, an' Hackett 'adn't a smell
of an idea I was behind the pair of 'em."
Sniffy paused for a touch of appreciation.
"You'd make a high-class flattie," observed Sam.
“Well, go on. What happened?”.
“D'you know the riverside, Sam ?"
"Not like I used to when I was about on two legs."
“D'you know Old Ship Steps ?”
"I've not been that way for donkey's years, but I've
a fair notion where you mean.”
Sniffy glanced over his shoulder and then continued
in a still lower and huskier voice.
“That's where the Sheeny was makin' for. An'
that's where something happened, but I don't know
what it was all about. The Sheeny turned down the
passage, and Hackett stood with 'is nose round the
corner for a minute or two, watching. Then 'e fol-
lowed. By the time I peeped round the same corner
the two of 'em was arguin' at a doorway. It seemed
as if the Sheeny didn't want Hackett with 'im, but
Hackett wouldn't be shook off. Then the pair of 'em
went indoors."
Sam Galleon was stroking the cat and nodding oc-
casionally, but apparently not too deeply engrossed in
the story.
"And then what happened?” his voice rumbled.
“That's all I saw," said Sniffy. “There was nothin'
doin' for me."
“What sort of a cove was the Sheeny ?"
"Man about my age, as near as I could tell, with a


SNIFFY'S STORY
183
black beard. Wore a bowler hat and a frock coat.
Walked shaky as if 'e wasn't sure on his pins. Stooped
a bit."
"And when d'you say all this happened, Sniffy?"
"About a couple of weeks ago, as near as I remem-
ber."
"You say they went in a doorway down Old Ship
Steps. Did you notice which door ?”
"Course I did. It was on the left. There's only one
on that side. I looked after they'd gone in."
Sam Galleon's black eyes were half closed. He was
churning this story over while the ferret-faced old
man babbled on about other things. When at last
Sniffy got up and walked out Sam nodded absent-
mindedly.
A few minutes later he pushed the cat off his lap,
got out of his chair, put on a hat and overcoat, and
made his way along Chicken Lane.
At the corner the one-legged mariner turned right
and barged on like a ship in full sail until he struck
the fairway of traffic. There with his stick he hailed a
taxi.
“Charing Cross," he growled, then sank back.
When the taxi dropped him he made for a tele-
phone booth and presently was speaking to someone
at Scotland Yard.
"Is Detective Inspector Silver about? What, my
name? This is the King of Siam speakin'. ... Yes,
you heard me the first time.... Hello, is that Mr.
Silver? If you see that swab who works the switch
there tell him to wash his neck first, then I'll cut his
throat for him. Good as called me a liar over the


184 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
wire, he did. Mr. Silver, you're wanted at the Black
Cat, see? Yes, but hold hard a minute. There's a pub
just down Villiers Street called the Cap and Bells. I'll
be waiting for you there in the saloon bar. ...
News? Well, I dunno what to make of it, but if you
come along you can judge for yourself.”
Half an hour later Sam Galleon emptied his glass
and wiped his lips with the back of a huge hand.
"And that's all I can tell you," he concluded gruffly.
"Sniffy wouldn't admit even that much to a flattie. He
turned green at the very idea of bein'pinched on a
murder charge."
"An elderly Jew who stooped, had a black beard,
and was a bit shaky on his pins," repeated Silver
thoughtfully. “This is the first definite news I have
had of any person who has lately been associating with
Hackett."
The shrewd eyes of the ex-mariner flashed to those
of the detective.
“Don't forget, Mr. Silver, I never sat here in this
pub with you, and never breathed a word to you about
Hackett."
"It's a promise, Sam."
With astonishing activity Sam raised his bulk out
of the chair, set a course for the door, and was gone.
Silver watched the man's form disappear and then,
extracting a tobacco pouch from his pocket, slowly
rolled a cigarette. He was reflecting that Sam Gal.
leon's information might lead nowhere, but at least it
provided a new field for investigation.
A couple of minutes later Silver also rose and his
long legs bore him back to Scotland Yard.


CHAPTER XXIII
A RENDEZVOUS
As he swung into the entrance of the Yard, Silver was
handed a letter which had just been delivered by post.
Mechanically he ripped open the envelope, the ad-
dress on which had been typed.
A moment later he stood still in the corridor, his
attention riveted. The message within the envelope
also was typed. He read:
Dear Sir,
I believe I know something about the murder
on the train last Monday night, but don't want
my name brought into the matter in any way. I
have no desire to be murdered myself. That
might happen if I were seen at Scotland Yard.
So please meet me at the Grand Hotel, Went-
worth Street, at three o'clock to-morrow after-
noon. I don't want to be seen with you even there,
so go straight to room 137 which I have reserved
for this purpose.
I will try to be there promptly at three, but if I
am late please wait.
Yours faithfully,
185


186 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Either inadvertently or by design the writer had
omitted to sign the letter. It was more likely by design
on the part of this cautious soul, Silver decided, glanc-
ing at his watch. Anyhow that was a detail of no con-
sequence since the instructions were perfectly clear.
As usual when a case of special interest came before
the public, many people had written to the Yard of-
fering opinions and suggestions concerning the mid-
night mail mystery, but most of these had been the
footling efforts of amateurs who had let their imagina.
tions run loose. The letter in Silver's hand had a dif-
ferent ring about it, however. If those fears which
this wary correspondent expressed had the slightest
foundation in fact, such information unquestionably
would be of the utmost importance.
At exactly five minutes to three the C.I.D. man
entered the imposing hotel. A bland clerk at the
bureau eyed him sagaciously.
“I have an appointment in room 137," said Silver.
"Second floor, sir," replied the clerk, pressing a
button and so causing a page boy to appear magically.
"This way, sir," said the boy. On the second floor
he opened a door and the detective was ushered into a
private sitting room. His watch then informed him
that the time was precisely one minute past three.
He glanced round the room automatically, then sub-
sided into a chair, vaguely sensing that he was ap-
proaching the border line of a vital discovery. It cost
money to engage a private sitting room at a hotel like
this for an interview. The mysterious individual who
had summoned him was evidently in an extremely ner-
vous condition, but the probability was that he would


188
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
fro, pausing occasionally, both hands rammed deeply
into his trouser pockets.
Was it all a hoax, this unusual sort of rendezvous
at an exclusive hotel? If so—he was standing in front
of the window now—what object could there be in it?
Perhaps to get him out of the way while
Silver was in the act of moving impatiently aside
when a sound which could only be caused by one thing,
and a sharp sting like that of a wasp on his arm,
swept all other thought away.
Abruptly, like a man mortally wounded, he col.
lapsed to the floor, only to raise his head a moment
later when his eyes became fixed almost incredulously
on a clean-cut hole bored by a bullet through the win-
dow. Then his left hand went to the place where the
pain had stabbed, just below the right shoulder.
Silver could have laughed at the simplicity of the
trap into which he had walked. By now he would
probably have been dead had he not happened to move
aside while somebody out there was actually pressing
a trigger.
The bullet had done no serious injury to him, and
had buried itself somewhere in the far side of the
room. Keeping well out of sight, he crept round and
searched until he found the place where the thing had
lodged, six inches above the floor.
There was another hotel across the road and the
course taken by the bullet showed that it must have
come from a window there, probably on the fourth
floor.
Leaping to his feet, Silver rushed from the door,


A RENDEZVOUS
189
nearly bowled over a porter who was labouring with
a trunk up the stairs, and hurried into the road. A
policeman ambling along the edge of the pavement
caught his swift signal.
"Somebody has just fired a shot at me from this
hotel,” the detective explained. "I'm from the Yard.
Stand by the door and don't let anybody go out. I'll
take the responsibility for that."
Going inside, he made straight for the girl in the
bureau.
“Who has gone out of this hotel within the last
minute or so?” he demanded.
“I've been talking on the telephone, and I didn't
particularly notice," she answered.
“But someone did go out just now," Silver urged at
random. "Think! Who was it?”.
“Why, now you mention it, that's right. But what
do you want to know for?”
"There's been an attempted murder. In all prob.
ability the man who bolted is the one who has just
fired a shot from one of the front rooms."
The girl looked skeptical.
"I think there must be some mistake," she said. “I
could almost swear that only one person has gone out
of here during the last ten minutes or so. And that
was-er-No. 43, an elderly gentleman."
“Is 43 a front room?"
“Yes. On the fourth floor."
"Quick, give me a key that will open his door. I'm
from the Yard.”
Within four minutes Silver was regarding the win.


190 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
dow of 43 from the inside. It was open two inches at
the bottom. On a chair stood a handbag the contents
of which consisted only of old magazines.
Returning to the bureau, he again questioned the
girl.
“What makes you say the man in room 43 was
elderly?"
"Well, he looked it. He had rather long gray hair
and a large moustache that was nearly white."
"Did you notice the colour of his eyes ?” Silver asked
sharply.
"No, because he had on coloured spectacles."
"When did he take the room?"
"He came in yesterday and asked me to reserve it
for to-night."
"He went up to the room before he booked it yes.
terday?"
“Yes."
“Who went with him?"
"I did. The porter happened to be busy."
“Did he seem at all interested in the view from the
window?"
The girl hesitated thoughtfully.
“He didn't say so, but now I remember he went
over to the window and looked out. Then he said:
'This will do nicely.'”.
"He walked in a leisurely sort of way, I suppose,
then, as an elderly man would."
"Y-yes, rather.”
“Now cast your mind back, please, to the time when
you saw him go out of the hotel while you were tele-
phoning just now."


A RENDEZVOUS
191
The girl nodded.
“Was he walking slowly like an elderly man as he
approached the door?”
"It seems to me,” she admitted, “that he was walk-
ing much more quickly than I had seen him move
before.”
Two or three people were by now standing at the
entrance, barred by the policeman there. Silver strode
over.
“Our bird's Aown,” he said to the officer. "Let
these folks pass."
Then he went back to the bureau.
“Did this man, No. 43, sign the registration book?"
“No. He arrived about half an hour ago and said
he would attend to that presently. He did mention his
name though. Professor Stevens."
"Indeed!" observed Silver dryly. "How tall was
he?"
"Well, a little above the average, I should say. Not
very tall, though.”
And then the girl uttered a low cry, her eyes fixed
on Silver's hand, down which a thin crimson stream
was beginning to trickle..
"You—you've been hurt!”.
"Oh, that's nothing," replied the detective abruptly,
whipping out a handkerchief.
“Come in here," the girl urged, opening a door.
"You ought to have it bandaged, anyway. Take off
that coat."
Silver obeyed and with deft fingers she fastened the
handkerchief over the injury.
“Did did he do that?" she asked anxiously.


192
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"That, my dear young lady," replied Silver, rolling
his shirt sleeve down again, "isn't at all a fair sample of
what your elderly professor really can do when he gets
going properly. But don't judge a man's age by the
colour of his hair. I expect his is quite different by
now. However, don't be afraid of him. If there is
one hotel in all London where he will never be seen
again this is it. Thanks for the bandage. Now I must
be off.” He paused. “No, on second thoughts I par-
ticularly want to use the telephone. May I?”.
Having rung up a number and replaced the receiver,
he went across to the Grand Hotel and handed his
card to the bland young man in the bureau there.
"Was it you who reserved the private sitting room,
No. 137, for someone this afternoon ?” he asked.
“Yes."
"I want the fullest possible description you can give
me of the man."
The bland young clerk adjusted his tie.
"I'm afraid I can't help you there,” he said. "A
man who gave his name as Charles Winthrop tele-
phoned yesterday and asked if we could reserve that
particular room for an important business conference
this afternoon. He seemed to know exactly where it
was, so I presume he had seen it before. He agreed to
take it and this morning the agreed price-a guinea-
arrived by post.”
"How was the money sent?”
"A pound note and one shilling in stamps."
“May I see the letter, please?".
The clerk ran through a file of correspondence and
produced a typed sheet. As Silver expected, the name


A RENDEZVOUS
193
at the foot of the letter had been typed. He folded it
up and slipped it into his pocket.
"You had better bear these facts in mind,” said the
detective, “as they will be required in evidence.”
“Evidence ?" the bland young man repeated with
eyebrows raised, scenting unpleasantness of a kind not
courted by the management of such hotels as that.
"In a charge of attempted murder," Silver replied.
“Meantime give instructions that nobody must touch
the bullet embedded in one of the walls of room 137
nor the window through which the shot was fired."


CHAPTER XXIV
THE RAID
CROSSING the gray Thames, a boatman drew in his
oars beside a disused wharf at the foot of the alley
known as Old Ship Steps.
Hitching his mooring rope to a rusty iron ring, he
climbed ashore in leisurely fashion, as though he had
all to-day in which to do it, and to-morrow also if
necessary. Then, leaning against the nearest support,
he drew out a plug of tobacco, sliced away at it with
a clasp knife, packed the bowl of his pipe, and lighted
it.
The water gently lapped the sides of the boat and
the man smoked placidly, waiting. Occasionally, as is
the way of rivermen, he turned an expressionless face
to that ceaseless panorama of the Thames at Wap-
ping. A labouring tug, with a string of heavily laden
barges trailing astern, fretted her way up against the
tide. A big French steamer, her sheer gaunt sides red
as sunset, slid past jauntily. A disreputable-looking
coal boat, weighted down to the last inch of the law,
came upstream with her offering from the Tyne.
These and a hundred others were surveyed by the
boatman who smoked his pipe, thought his thoughts,
and waited, but from where he leaned against that
194


196
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
In a room with bare boards which was furnished
only with a table, a few chairs and a large map of
London pinned to the wall, seven men were assembled.
"You're sure nobody was hanging about outside,
Major?” Dale asked the one who had arrived last, a
man of some dignity whose personality was calculated
to inspire confidence. That as a matter of fact con-
stituted his chief stock in trade.
The Major looked at the others with some surprise.
There seemed to be an air of uneasiness in the party.
"I don't think so," he replied. “There was a boat-
man down on the wharf, that's all. Well, Spider, how
are you? Sorry I couldn't fix up that job at Liverpool,
but the odds would have been too heavy against us.”
Their leader, sitting on the edge of the table, was
nonchalantly swinging one leg.
"Never mind, Major," he said. “As a matter of
fact we seem to have other things to think about just
I couldn't fhat's all. Well was a boat.
now."
"The question is,” put in Dale, “do we bust up the
organization, or do we carry on?"
"I thought everybody seemed rather on edge," ob-
served the Major. "What's it all about?".
“For one thing," said the Spider, "we are growing
altogether too popular with the sensational press. In
other words, my dear Major, we are becoming famous,
which is the last honour any of us desired. Anything
about the Spider and his gang has become 'news.'”
“I've noticed the papers have been very chatty on
the subject lately," the Major agreed.
“ 'Photograph of Joe Quirk and the Bishop playing
golf at Sunningdale. They eat sun-dried oats and coke


THE RAID
197
for breakfast,'" put in Dale. “That's what we may
expect next in the society weeklies. Ikey, that hat of
yours will yet be the talk of two continents."
The Spider tapped his fingers on the table and all
eyes were instantly turned to him.
"Let us talk hard sense for a while," he said in that
low vibrant voice of his which so effectually carried
weight. “We've had a long run: considerably longer
than one could have expected. Twice it has been a close
thing, yet up to now we've played the game success-
fully. I couldn't have asked for a finer team. But luck
can't run our way for ever, and I don't want to court
disaster for the whole lot of us at the finish. I'd rather
we broke up the gang now and made sure.".
The Major was pensively cutting off the end of a
cigar.
"I quite agree with you, Spider," he said, striking a
match, "but, I'm sorry, I don't altogether understand.
What's wrong exactly?"
"When a wise man sees a red light, Major, he pays
due attention to it,” replied the Spider quietly. "And
there are several of 'em. There is no doubt whatever
that the police really are out to get us at last. We've
had the laugh all along, but we know well enough that
when they wake up they're pretty effective. And now
they're awake. There is nothing that would make Scot-
land Yard so cheerful as the knowledge that every one
of us here was safely under lock and key. A week ago
I heard that a serious campaign against us was afoot.
Now Dale and the Bishop have definitely confirmed
that. A Scotland Yard official made the flat statement
in their presence. It might be that they are setting a


198
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
trap for us in connection with any one of several jobs
I have been planning. If we cut everything out from
now we're safe."
“Business is business," murmured Ikey Glockstein,
blinking like a rather sad old owl.
"And skilly is skilly," observed the Duke.
"I don't think the situation would have been quite
so serious for us," the Spider went on, "but for the un-
fortunate fact that Foxy Hackett was murdered last
Tuesday night. I like to believe nobody here was in-
discreet enough to have done that."
“I told you I was in bed at the time, Spider," ob-
served Ikey, permitting his fingers to stray to the
inside of his collar.
"Anyway," the Spider continued, "that has prob-
ably been the last straw. Foxy is known to have worked
with us, so naturally we're in the limelight now. I want
you to decide for yourselves whether we are to carry
on or whether this is where we finish. I don't want to
influence you unduly either way.”
There was a brief silence.
“What about the Maharajah's jewels to-morrow
night?" asked Dale. “That's a big thing. The biggest
we've ever tackled.”
"And one of the easiest," agreed the Spider.
“Say, do you think they're fixing up that police trap
for to-morrow night?" asked Joe Quirk pertinently.
The Spider smoked on for a few moments before
replying.
"I don't see how that could be," he answered at
last. “We can't tell what the Yard men have up their
sleeves, but as far as I know they've no reason to sup-


THE RAID
199
pose we contemplate making a haul there. I've done
all the preliminary work for that case myself and I
don't see how anyone could have the least ground for
suspicion.”
The Major inserted his monocle, which always went
with a brain wave on his part.
"Listen to me, you fellows. The danger signal is up.
Prisons are nasty draughty places where the beds are
hard and the cooking is indifferent. I don't want to be
a wet blanket, but I suggest that we have one last shot,
to-morrow, at the gay old Maharajah, and then leave
well alone for a while."
"All right," agreed the Bishop.
The Duke and Dale nodded. With a movement of
his shoulders the American indicated that whichever
way the cat jumped he was willing to stand by the oth-
ers. The only really doleful face was that of Ikey.
“Of course I shouldn't like to see any of you young
gentlemen arrested,” he observed, “but- "
With a solemn expression the American extended
one large hand, placed it on top of the Jew's hat, and
pressed downward until only Ikey's nose and the back
of his neck remained visible.
“Very well," said the Spider. "I think in the circum-
stances it is a wise decision. It would be a pity to miss
to-morrow's fun with the Maharajah. A man who
carts over a quarter of a million pounds' worth of jew-
ellery around with him is asking for it, anyhow."
“I suppose it isn't fake stuff?" put in the Bishop.
"The Maharajah of Mydarah," the Spider ex-
plained, "is one of the wealthiest of all those Indian
potentates. They call him the spiritual head of the


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THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
people in his part of India, and that gives him just the
sort of pull that we in this room have hankered after
all our lives but are never likely to get. When he wants
more money he formally indicates that the taxes have
gone up, and what he says goes."
A sound that was almost a sob broke from Ikey
Glockstein.
"Don't talk any more about that, Spider, or I shall
dream of it,” he said. “I should die of shock to wake
up and find I wasn't this Majara—this Indian gentle-
man."
"Well,” the Spider went on, "he came over here for
a special Court function and brought with him the
famous Mydarah jewels. But that isn't all. A little
while ago the Duchess of Brentshire, who had one of
the finest collections of pearls in the world, decided to
put them on the market. They are worth an enormous
sum, and there was some difficulty in disposing of them
at the figure she wanted. They are now the property of
the Maharajah of Mydarah, and they will go back
with him to India to-morrow when he sails from South-
ampton. He has a suite reserved in the Garthania
which is due to sail at 10 P. M. He has arranged to
have dinner on board at eight o'clock, and he will
travel down by car. One cannot be quite sure what
time he will leave London, but I imagine it will be be-
tween three and five. The one thing however that is
certain is that all the jewellery will travel with the
Maharajah. He likes to feel it is safe under his own
nose.
“Now, this is a big thing, and I have made more
elaborate plans than usual so that if one scheme falls


THE RAID
201
through we shall have other chances. At present it
looks as though our finest opportunity will be while he
is on the road to Southampton. We shall have three
cars ready, all fixed with false registration plates in
case some bright soul takes the numbers.
"After dark one of these cars will get behind him
while he's running. The second car will pass ahead
and then slow down in front. The third will draw level
and we shall all stop with the Maharajah and his jew.
els closed in."
Ikey Glockstein sighed.
“It sounds too easy, Spider,” he pointed out. “Don't
forget there's a lot of traffic on that road."
“I am well aware of it, Ikey, but if each man plays
his part properly, obeying orders when the right mo-
ment comes, we shall be a good quarter of a million
sterling the richer when it's over. You may be quite
sure that I shan't take any foolish chances.
"Moreover, it won't be too late even if the jewels
get as far as Southampton. There will be another
good opportunity there.
“Now don't make any mistake,” he went on clearly.
“We all meet at the Clandon Street garage at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. When we get there I shall
not be able to stay with you many minutes, and I don't
yet know what changes may have to be made in our
programme. I am depending on everybody to act in-
stantly when it becomes necessary. I know I can count
on you.
"And so," the Spider added with a note of reluct-
ance in his voice, "this will be our last little affair for
some time. Well, we can't grumble. Some men look for


202
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
their plunder in the stock market and we've taken our
thrills another way. I don't know what Scotland Yard
will think when we retire from the field, but- "
The Spider's sentence was never finished, for at that
moment there came a loud knocking on the door in
Old Ship Steps.
Simultaneously all seven men arose. There was
something about that noise which had startling signi-
ficance. It was firm and insistent.
"S-sh!” Instantly the personality of the Spider
dominated everyone in that room. He crept towards a
chink at the window. Then returned quickly, as the
knocking came again, more loudly this time.
“It's the police!” he said calmly. “I can see a num-
ber of them just outside. They've probably got the
house surrounded." A faint smile Alickered about his
lips. “Now, my lads, follow me and be as quiet as pos-
sible."
By now the knocking on the door had become a
furious hammering.


CHAPTER XXV
THE SEA CHEST
When the door finally gave way several plain-clothes
officers, led by Chief Inspector Briant, with Inspector
Silver at his heels, rushed into the house, while others
remained on guard outside.
The rooms on the lower floors were searched first
and then the upper stories, the harsh voice of Briant
breaking out occasionally in brusque orders.
Five minutes later Briant was fuming in the base-
ment. Six men were reported to have entered by the
Old Ship Steps door. (The police had no means of
knowing that the party had consisted of seven.) Now
the building was apparently empty. But the doors and
windows were all fastened from the inside. Briant's
sharp black eyes roved the floor boards near him which
bore no sign of having been disturbed.
"This is a new one on mel” he grumbled. “We'll
go over the whole place again, room by room. Either
they're still here or or there's a way out," he added
rather obviously.
But another search revealed nothing fresh. The dust
on all the window ledges was in itself sufficient evi.
dence that nobody had escaped that way. It was a
rambling house, fast falling into a state of disrepair,
but it contained almost no furniture. There were a few
203


204
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
things in the kitchen, a room on the ground floor had
several chairs and a table, and in one of the bedrooms
there was a heavy wooden sea chest, the lid of which
was locked.
Declining to believe in miracles, Briant finally stood
near that sea chest trying to fit some possible solution
to the puzzle of the vanished six men. It looked as
though someone had blundered, and yet that explana-
tion was unsatisfactory. A detective, disguised as a
waterman, had kept the premises under observation,
and a river police boat, acting on prearranged signals,
had reported by wireless to the Yard that people were
arriving at the suspected premises.
From then onward the police had moved swiftly and
the disguised man on the wharf swore that nobody
had gone out of the house up to the time the door was
forced.
And yet six men could not creep through a keyhole.
There was one fanlight in an attic which gave on to
the roof. A minute inspection of that, however,
showed it had not been used for a long time. Briant
himself had pushed it open, but had to break the
rusted hinge in so doing. A few of the flooring boards
were somewhat loose, but a careful examination had
shown that no possible hiding place was concealed
there.
"This doesn't make sense," Briant declared irrita-
bly at last, “because if ever I saw an empty house this
is it. We're up against something unusual in the way
of crooks. There are brains at work here. When you
said you thought this might be the Spider's bunch, Sil-
ver, I wasn't very sympathetic. It seemed too much to


THE SEA CHEST
205
hope for. But this is just the sort of thing one might
expect of that crowd. It looks as though they've
cleared out. And yet- ” He broke off, looking
down into the curving street at the back of the prem-
ises. Half a dozen of his men were waiting there. The
building was virtually surrounded. “Damn it, they
haven't gone up into the air, and there's no place
where they could have burrowed underground. I don't
understand. If this is the Spider's work I want him if
it's only to learn how this vanishing trick is worked.”
Silver was feeling the weight of the old sea chest,
but he was unable to raise it.
"What d'you suppose they've got in there, sir?” he
asked.
“I've given up guessing for to-day," declared Briant.
He turned to one of his men. “Get a hammer or a bar
of iron or something. We'll soon find out. Look !" he
added in that alert way of his.
As everywhere, there was dust on the chest, but fin-
ger marks showed that it had been opened recently.
Briant's eyes began to sparkle. “Silver, I believe we're
getting somewhere. Where in blazes is that man with
a hammer!"
Heavy footsteps came racing up the bare stairs and
Briant shot a quick glance of triumph at Inspector Sil-
ver as he took into his hand a heavy spanner and a
cold chisel commandeered from the police boat now
moored at the wharf.
It took only a couple of minutes to force the lock
of the chest, and when the lid was lifted half a dozen
pairs of eyes peered within. There was curious silence
for a moment.


206
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
The chest was empty!
Briant let the spanner and chisel fall to the floor but
stood there still staring into the empty thing as though
he expected it to speak and reveal its own secret. Then
his glance slid across to Silver.
"See, it's screwed down to the floor," he said. “But
what have they had in it?”.
“Plant for counterfeiting, maybe," Silver suggested.
“You think so, eh !" muttered Briant, examining the
bottom of the chest with the aid of an electric torch.
“Will you kindly tell me how six men not only man-
aged to get out of this house, from which not even a
rat could escape apparently, and managed to carry a
printing press with them? Perhaps they swallowed it
as soon as we appeared on the scene."
"I say there is a trap door somewhere in the place,"
replied Silver.
"That's a dead certainty," agreed Briant, "and
we've got to find it too. But it's not under that trunk
or somebody would have had to stop behind to fasten
the trunk down again. If those darned newspapers get
hold of this they'll roast us alive. Go and get a screw-
driver anyway," he ordered one of his men. Then he
stood frowning over the chest. This was the one ob-
ject in the house that seemed to have any special sig-
nificance. He picked up the cold chisel and began to
examine the interior of the thing again.
Suddenly Briant gave a shout.
“The cunning devils !” he exclaimed.
The chest stood flush against the wall. Manipula-
tion of a spring caused the back panel to fall inwards,


THE SEA CHEST
207
revealing a gaping hole leading into the adjoining
premises.
There was also a spring lock on the chest's lid, which
could be opened either from the outside or from
within.
Already Briant was scrambling through the cavity.
It led into an old disused warehouse.
There the Chief Inspector stood ruefully gazing
down into the empty street at the back. The side of
that warehouse cut it off from the place where his cor-
don of men ended. The fugitives were well away by
now.


CHAPTER XXVI
“ON SUSPICION”
NESTLING comfortably between a church and a public
house in Foyle Street, Marylebone, there was a little
antique shop where you might buy anything from an
old brass frying pan to a grandfather clock that had
pegged away at its work for two hundred years.
As you pushed the door open a bell jangled and an
elderly man whose walk was slightly unsteady emerged
from a little back room. He wore a frock coat which
was far from being a perfect fit, and on his head there
rested eternally a hard felt hat which an earlier gen-
eration had known as a “derby." His faith you judged
immediately and infallibly. Moreover unless you were
one of those doubting Thomases who believe so little,
you soon came to the conclusion that he was a kindly
honest soul who dealt in antiques because he just nat-
urally loved them and gave you a square deal because
that was the way of him.
On this November evening two men jumped out of a
motor car, hurried across the sidewalk, and entered
the obscure little shop, but not with the air of those
who buy brass frying pans as curios. When the bell
jangled the kindly old man emerged from his nook,
rubbed his hands together, and gave these people an
automatic crinkled smile.
208


"ON SUSPICION”
209
"You are Ikey Glockstein ?” asked the taller of the
visitors.
"My name is Glockstein," said the vendor of an-
tiques, the extent of his smile diminished by not more
than ten per cent.
"I'm from Scotland Yard—Detective Inspector Sil-
ver."
"Well, welll” exclaimed the old man. “And what
can I do for you, sir?”
“Of course you've never left this place all day, have
you?"
The Jew looked faintly surprised and a little puz-
zled.
"I've been out most of the afternoon,” he answered.
“The shop has been shut up.".
“All right,” said Silver. “You're wanted at the
Yard, anyway."
“Mel" Ikey's head was a little on one side and he
was blinking with a sort of pathetic bewilderment.
“But what for?”
"You say you were out most of the afternoon.
Where have you been ?”
"This is ridic'lous," protested Ikey. "Can a man not
go where he pleases ?”
“Not always, and it depends what he does when he
gets there."
"I've done nothing wrong," said Ikey.
"You did six months before the war, anyway, ac-
cording to the records, so you can cut out the angel
stuff."
"That's a long time ago, Mr. Inspector," com-


210
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
mented Ikey reproachfully, lowering his voice. “I
should never be so foolish again.”
"Where do you say you were this afternoon ?”
“I went to see my brother Abe. There is no harm in
that."
"Where did you meet him?"
“Richmond, where he has a business. He's in the fur
trade. Doing very well, too, I believe.".
“How long were you there?".
“About two hours. I left Richmond at six o'clock."
"Well," put in Silver's companion, "how do you ac-
count for the fact that I saw you miles away from
Richmond at ten minutes to six ?”
Ikey regarded the man in perplexity.
"Mr. Inspector, who is this?"
“Sergeant Riley, of Scotland Yard,” Silver ex-
plained.
“Then there's some mistake," said Glockstein, push-
ing back his hat. “You must be crazy, Sergeant. Where
do you say you saw me?"
“Going down Old Ship Steps, in Wapping."
And then Ikey smiled broadly.
“I haven't even seen Wapping for thirty years or
more," he said, “and I don't even know where this
place is that you're speaking about.”
"Is your brother Abe on the telephone?" asked
Silver.
“Yes. You can speak to him, if you like. Richmond
4x0o.”
“Wait here, Riley," said Silver, and a few minutes
later he was listening to a voice that came over a wire
from Richmond.


"ON SUSPICION?
211
"... and Ikey left here at about six,” concluded
the voice. "What's the matter? Is he all right?”
Silver's eyes were narrowed as he hung up the re-
ceiver. He walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the
curio shop.
"That was smart of you, Ikey!" he said. “Got in
first, didn't you, to make sure of an alibi ? Where did
you and your brother spend those two hours while you
were at Richmond ?”
"In a little office at the back of his shop," said the
Jew glibly.
“Did anybody see you with him?'
Ikey considered the point for a moment.
"No, I don't remember anyone in particular," he
replied.
"And where was your brother when he said good-
bye to you?"
“In his shop,” explained Ikey.
Again Silver sought a telephone.
"Now listen," he said to Mr. Glockstein of Rich-
mond, "have you any witnesses to prove that your
brother Ikey was there this evening ?”
"What is this all about?" came the voice. “Witnes-
ses? Yes, weren't there two of my friends there all
the time! I can get plenty of witnesses."
"How did Ikey come back to London ??"
"By train.”
“How do you know?"
There was a doubtful pause.
"Well, I walked as far as the railway station with
him, anyway.”


212
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Facing Ikey again the Inspector was grim and more
confident.
"When you telephoned to Abe this evening," he
said, "you didn't think of everything. You're coming
with me now, detained on suspicion.”
"Suspicion !" Ikey echoed. “Of what?"
"Just suspicion," replied Silver. “That will do for
the moment.” He put his hand firmly on the man's
shoulder. “There's one question I'd like to ask you,
Ikey. And a good deal might depend on the way you
answer. Who murdered Foxy Hackett ?"
For the first time the old Jew was unable to control
that fear which had been clutching at his heart ever
since these two detectives had walked into his shop. It
burned in his eyes now, but only for a second.
"You're talking nonsense to me, Mr. Inspector. You
shouldn't try to frighten an old man like me. I don't
know nothing about any murder."
“But you knew a man called Hackett.”
Ikey's face became more crinkled.
"Now I don't even know what you're talking about,
Mr. Inspector. I don't, reely. And as for murder, you
give me the shivers when you ask such questions. I'm a
respectable citizen. It's true I had a bit of trouble
once, but I made a mistake that time. I don't have no
truck with crooks now. It doesn't pay."
Silver surveyed the Jew coldly. What secrets were
locked in that old man's brain ? For what purpose had
Foxy Hackett dogged Ikey's footsteps as far as that
house in Old Ship Steps? That it was the meeting
place of a gang of astute criminals had been made
clear by the abortive raid there less than two hours


“ON SUSPICION”
213
ago. Chief Inspector Briant was now more than half
convinced that they had at last got on to the track of
the Spider.
The Inspector caught his companion's eye and made
a quick movement sideways with his head. Sergeant
Riley strolled away and filled the doorway with his
broad form.
"Glockstein," said Silver incisively, “it's true, as
you say, that you're an old man. You haven't got so
many years left now. A long stretch would finish you
and I'm giving you a solemn warning that is precisely
what is staring you in the face now. As likely as not
you'll never live to see this shop again. Think of it,
every minute from now on until you die spent behind
prison bars! But I'll stand by you as far as possible if
you'll tell me one thing."
Ikey's hands, clasped behind his back, were writhing
within one another.
"I'll tell you anything I can, Mr. Inspector," he
said. “But you won't believe me. You're making a mis-
take."
“Where," asked Silver, "is Sally Marsh ?"
The pathos in the Jew's melancholy eyes was
enough to move even an executioner.
“You mean the girl—the girl the newspapers are
talking about, Mr. Inspector. I never saw her in my
life. I don't know any more than you do where she is,
so how can I tell you ?”
Silver shook his head slowly.
"Bluff won't carry you far, Glockstein. You're for it
now, but if you want a friend at court my offer still
holds good. I believe you're one of the Spider's bunch.


214 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
And I've got reasons of my own for suspecting that
crowd was mixed up in some way with Sally Marsh's
disappearance. If you don't know where she is you
can probably tell me who does know.”
The old man sank into a chair.
"You're all wrong, Mr. Inspector," he said. “You're
all wrong."
Silver's hand tightened about Ikey Glockstein's arm.
"You've got to go through it, Glockstein. Chief In-
spector Briant wants a word with you. I'm giving you
a friendly tip. Come across with this information and
you may live to visit brother Abe again. Be obstinate
and you'll get a belly full.”
Then Mr. Glockstein discovered that he was being
gently but firmly ushered toward the door and a wait-
ing motor car.


CHAPTER XXVII
EDWIN CLISSOLD
A DOOR banged hard and Mr. Edwin Clissold nearly
leaped out of his chair in the office.
"Why the devil can't people close doors silently!"
he exclaimed, with irritation which seemed a little ex-
cessive.
"You had left it open and there's a draught," com-
mented Clissold's partner, glancing over the top of his
spectacles. Anthony Fellowes and Edwin Clissold car-
ried on business in Aldersgate Street as carpet im-
porters. Fellowes was an ascetic-looking individual,
slow of speech.
"Well, don't glare at me like that. It gets on my
nerves," complained Clissold. He was a rather tall,
clean-shaven, slenderly built man whose hair was of a
pronounced red. Even the movement of his hands
showed that he was in a highly strung state.
“I wish you'd see a doctor, Clissold.”
"What do I want to see a doctor for?" the other
demanded truculently. “You've been nagging about
that all the week.”
Anthony Fellowes dipped his pen in the ink and
again regarded the papers on the desk before him.
There certainly was something radically wrong with
Clissold, and without question it dated from the pre-
215


216
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
vious week-end. In the ordinary way Edwin Clissold
was an amiable, level-headed business man, a little in-
clined to be irritable perhaps, but not unduly so. Peo-
ple with that colour hair often were touchy.
These two had been in partnership for a dozen
years and Fellowes reflected that he had nothing to
complain of. They had done well, and things were
more promising than ever. Clissold wasn't a bad sort.
It was known that if there was a fly in the ointment it
was due to the fact that his wife was an intensely jeal-
ous woman. And to do her justice that was largely
Clissold's fault. A pretty face or a neatly turned ankle
was fatally attractive to him.
Fellowes' eyes were fixed on the papers before him,
but for the moment he was unable to concentrate. Ac-
cording to the newspapers the police seemed inclined to
think that the person who had committed murder on
the mail train which reached King's Cross at midnight
last Monday was a somewhat tall, slenderly built man
with red hair. It was an undeniable fact that Edwin
Clissold answered that description and that he had
travelled from York by the train in question.
There might have been a dozen red-headed men on
that train, but it was significant that Clissold's nerves
had all gone to pieces during the week, and such a
thing had never happened before. According to his
story he had never been near the dining car on the
train, having taken some sandwiches with him. Also
he said he had read a book during the whole of the
journey.
And there were two odd facts that made one think.
Firstly Edwin Clissold had volunteered these state-


EDWIN CLISSOLD
217
ments though nobody had questioned him on the sub-
ject, and secondly Clissold loved his stomach so well
that he was one of the last men on earth to make a
scratch meal of sandwiches when he could get a good
dinner.
Of a sudden Fellowes threw down his pen.
"Look here, Clissold,” he said, "you've got to listen
to reason.”
"If you tell me again that I ought to see a doctor I
shall heave something out of the window !"
But Fellowes was not easily perturbed.
"Go ahead and do so if it relieves your feelings,” he
remarked, “but I'm not the only person who thinks
you ought to take medical advice.”
"What's that! What's that?" Clissold had a scared
expression now. “Do you mean to say that someone
else has had the confounded impudence to make per-
sonal remarks about me?"
"Yes," drawled Fellowes. "While you were out to-
day your wife rang me up. She's quite concerned about
you."
Clissold stared across at his partner.
"Did she say anything special?” he demanded
presently.
"Only that you seemed to have been strange all the
week."
Clissold fiddled with a stump of pencil. Then he
cleared his throat.
“That's funny !” he said solemnly. "Both of you, I
mean, imagining the same thing. And yet, perhaps I
have been a little restless. I'm sorry, Fellowes. Not
been sleeping very well lately."


CHAPTER XXVIII
SHADOWED
While his partner was still sitting there ruminating,
Clissold was pacing restlessly to and fro along the
Thames Embankment, with an occasional glance in
the direction of Scotland Yard.
• It was ten o'clock at night when finally he crossed
the road with sudden determination. A while later he
was shown into Inspector Silver's office.
The detective looked at the slip of paper before
him on his desk.
"Mr. Edwin Clissold ?" he read aloud, and met the
visitor's uneasy eyes.
“Yes-yes," agreed Mr. Clissold.
“Sit down, won't you," said the C.I.D. man, con-
trolling the growing excitement which the appearance
of this stranger had created within him.
Mr. Clissold sank heavily into a chair, fumbled
with his walking stick, and finally allowed it to fall
with a clatter to the floor.
"I feel myself in a terrible position, Mr. Silver," he
began awkwardly.
"What's your trouble?"
"It is the most embarrassing situation in which I
have ever been. At last I have decided that the best
219


220
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
thing I could do would be to come straight to the
Yard.”
"It often is." The red hair of this man had a curi.
ous fascination for Silver's eyes.
“May I ask if my name has been mentioned to you
by—by anyone?" the visitor went on, studying the de-
tective's face anxiously,
"Not that I remember.”
This seemed to occasion considerable relief to Mr.
Clissold.
“Then I am not too late!" he said thankfully,
“What for?”
"I suppose you don't know what it feels like, In-
spector, to imagine day and night that you may be ar-
rested on on the charge of murder?”
"I have no experience of it," said the detective.
“Won't you tell me just why you came here?"
The man moistened his lips. His hands were trem-
bling and either he was acting in a masterly fashion or
else he was in an appalling funk.
"According to the press," he began, "you are very
anxious to find a man who has red hair and arrived at
King's Cross by the midnight mail last Monday.”
Silver nodded and began to roll a cigarette.
"I was on that train, Inspector," Mr. Clissold
added.
"And," put in the C.I.D. man, “it was you who
talked to Enid Mulholland in the dining car?"
"How did you know that?" asked the man jumpily.
"I didn't. I'm asking you."
"It's true, Inspector."
The detective eyed him keenly.


222
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Silver got up and scrutinized the buttons carefully,
but made no comment.
"Did you know Sally Marsh ?” he asked abruptly.
“I never met the lady in my life," Clissold answered.
“In fact I never heard of her before, nor of anybody
else connected with this affair."
Silver resumed his seat.
"I see," he observed. "Did you ever hear of a Jew
called Ikey Glockstein ?"
“Glockstein? Glockstein ?" the man repeated
vaguely. “No, I'm positive I never did.”
“Very well," said the detective. "Now tell me all
you know about what happened on the train last Mon-
day."
Edwin Clissold drew a deep breath.
"I was coming south from Newcastle, where I had
been doing business for my firm," he began. “The first
time I ever set eyes on Enid Mulholland was when
she entered the dining car after the train had left
York. She struck me as an extremely attractive girl,
and-well, you know how one gets into conversation
at these meals on a train. Perhaps I'm a little too im-
pulsive in such matters. I would give anything now,
though, to feel that I had never looked at her a sec-
ond time. It has been very trying for me, Inspector."
“Yes, yes," said the C.I.D. man bluntly. "But tell
me what happened.”
“Well, we just talked.”
“For over an hour?"
“Possibly. Yes, I suppose it was as long as that."
“What was the conversation about ?"


SHADOWED
223
"I don't really remember. We were laughing and
chatting.”
"You mean to tell me that though you talked to her
all that time you have no recollection of anything that
was said ?”
Edwin Clissold was growing more hot and both-
ered.
"We talked about books—and London, I remem-
ber."
"Then you do remember some of the conversation!
Now I'm going to ask you a straight question, Mr.
Clissold, and remember Enid Mulholland is on the
road to recovery, so we shall have a statement from
her soon, I hope. Before you parted in the dining
saloon did you ask her to meet you again ?"
Fresh alarm swept across Clissold's face.
"Why, yes," he admitted. "Now you speak of it, I
did. But nothing came of that."
"Exactly what was said on the subject ?”
“Just as she got up from her seat in the dining car
I suggested that it would be a pleasure to renew the
acquaintance by taking her to the theatre some eve-
ning, but she turned the idea down flat.”
Silver's fingers tapped the desk before him.
“There is evidence," he said, "that you stayed in
the dining car for three or four minutes after she
left.”
“Yes, that's perfectly true. I don't quite know how
long I remained there, though. One is just killing time
on a train."
“You are the last person, so far as is known, to have


SHADOWED
225
yourself was particularly interested in Enid Mulhol-
land ?”
"Such a thought never occurred to me."
"After returning to your own compartment before
the train reached Peterborough did you enter the cor-
ridor again ?"
"Not for a moment. I never got up again until the
train pulled up at King's Cross."
“Was there anybody else in that compartment who
might corroborate your statement ?"
“Unfortunately no. I had the compartment to my-
self.”
“And you promptly forgot all about her?"
"I won't say I forgot. Actually when we reached
London I glanced through the crowd on the platform
but saw nothing of her. I happened to notice that the
guard and several others were gathering round the
door of one of the compartments of the front coach,
and of course I understood why next day, but at the
time it never dawned on me that she was involved."
Again Silver's fingers tapped on his blotter.
“Mr. Clissold, I am going to ask you a very im-
portant question and I warn you that evasion of the
truth now will not ultimately help you in the least.
Have you ever been in the office of the Anglo-
American Theatrical Syndicate ?”.
“Never in my life.”
"But you know where it is.”
“So do most people, in view of all that has hap-
pened recently."
“Very well. Now, tell me, where were you at six
o'clock last Tuesday evening ?"


226
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
The visitor regarded Silver dubiously.
"You mean Monday, of course?” he suggested.
"I mean precisely what I say. Where were you at
six o'clock last Tuesday evening ?”
The eyes of the detective were fixed relentlessly on
those of the other man. There was silence in the room
for the space of perhaps twenty seconds.
"Why, Inspector,” said Clissold at length, “it is
strange that you should ask me that. Because nobody
could possibly know except myself. I was in Shaftes-
bury Avenue. I had occasion to walk through there
from Piccadilly Circus."
“Well I"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
“At about six o'clock you were displaying peculiar
interest in the entrance to the office of the Anglo-
American Theatrical Syndicate. What have you got to
say about that?"
Edwin Clissold shuffled in his chair.
"The evening papers were full of the murder of
Ismay and the attack on Enid Mulholland,” he an-
swered. “I didn't know the name of the girl I had
talked to on the train, but from the description of the
injured passenger I couldn't help wondering whether
it was the same one. The paper said she had been em-
ployed by the Theatrical Syndicate in Shaftesbury Ave-
nue. As I passed there-well, can't you understand?
I suppose that in the same circumstances anyone would
have displayed what you call 'peculiar interest in the
place."
He paused for a moment, his mind reverting to the
scene in Shaftesbury Avenue.


SHADOWED
227
“A girl came out while I was standing there," he
went on, “and though it had never occurred to me up
to then that I might be mixed up in the midnight mail
affair, the way she looked at me made me feel queer.
I wasn't sure, however, that the girl I had talked to
was Enid Mulholland until next morning when I saw
her photograph in the papers.
"Even then I didn't see how it would help if I told
the police about my conversation with her on the train
between York and Peterborough. The murder was
committed hours after that. So I didn't communicate
with you. I didn't want my name dragged into it-you
quite understand why.
"But from the moment the newspapers printed that
long interview with the dining-car attendant my life
has been a living hell. I knew that suspicion rested 'on
the man with red hair, and I knew that by not coming
forward I was making the case against myself worse.
Then I began to fear that there was no way I could
possibly prove my innocence.
"Every hour I have been hoping to hear that the
real murderer had been arrested, and I grew to dread
picking up a newspaper lest I found some fresh sug-
gestion there about the man with red hair.
"My nerves were going to pieces and it began to
show. My wife has noticed it and whenever I've been
with my partner during the last forty-eight hours it
has been like a nightmare. He keeps looking at me as
if I was doomed to go to the gallows. That's what it
seems like, anyway. I don't know what he thinks, but
all the time I've been expecting him to send for a po-
liceman.


228
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"Now I've told you everything I know about the
affair and I feel about ten years younger," he con-
cluded.
Silver's fingers were playing with a small piece of
blue silk cord which had once been cut by a railway
guard. As he tossed it on to the desk in front of Edwin
Clissold the detective was watching his visitor's ex-
pression.
"Have you ever seen a piece of cord like that be-
fore?” he asked.
Clissold extended one hand but of a sudden drew it
back and a look of terror came into his eyes.
“Why-why do you ask me?" he demanded, his
face ashen hued. “It must be the string that was found
round the girl's throat. Does—does this mean you
still suspect that that I committed the crime?"
The detective ignored the question, but scribbled":
four words on a piece of paper and pressing a bell push
handed the note to the messenger who appeared.
Ten minutes later an agony of doubt ended for Mr.
Clissold when he was allowed to pass out of that build-
ing, and though the night was cool he wiped beads of
perspiration from his forehead. He decided to walk
along the Embankment and take train from Charing
Cross, but some instinct made him glance over his
shoulder. And a cold shiver ran through him as he
noticed a man strolling along casually some little dis-
tance behind.
Clissold stopped and leaned over the parapet,
watching the dark waters of the Thames glide past.
The man behind paused to fasten a shoe lace and then
also leaned against the parapet.


CHAPTER XXIX
SILAS ISMAY'S RECORD
DR. GUTHRIE, who had dropped into Silver's office at
the Yard for a chat, cast a professional glance at the
detective.
"This won't do," he said. “You look ill. What's
wrong?"
"I'm finel” replied Silver abruptly. “Never better in
my life." His face was drawn and about his eyes there
was that unmistakable look of a man who has hardly
slept for days.
Guthrie sat on a rickety chair.
“Glad to hear that," he said. “I had a talk with
Briant just now. He tells me you've been carrying on
a war of your own to-day and got pipped.”
“It's nothing," replied Silver. “Just a scratch on the
arm. You might loosen the bandage, though, while
you're here, Doctor. It's burning a bit.”
“Slip your coat off, then. By the way, I met one of
the King's Cross Hospital surgeons just now. That
girl Enid Mulholland is holding her own, and she's
well on the road to recovery, but she doesn't seem to
have the faintest idea what really happened on the
train."
"I wonderl" said the detective. “One gets cynical
230


232
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"All sorts of ways. He was not only clever, but also
lucky with everything he touched. He had five big tail-
oring shops going by the time he was twenty-four.
Then he sold out and went to Johannesburg, but we
haven't been able to trace his real history in South
Africa. There might be some link between that and
his death, though we've no definite reason to suppose
so. Anyway, they say he did some quick deals in prop-
erty there.
"He was back in London when the war broke out
and served four years in the army. Won the D.S.O.
but never talked about it. Linked up with the Anglo-
American Theatrical Syndicate soon after he was de-
mobbed and after that went ahead like a rocket. He's
left pots of money, the whole of which goes to hos-
pitals. Never got married. Lived by himself, with
three servants, in a house at Highbury. Hardly had
any friends, being a bit nervous socially, maybe be-
cause of his origin. He was as hard as iron in business
but gave away big sums to charities without making a
song about it. Never displayed the slightest interest in
women and from first to last everybody says he was
never known to do anything dishonourable. His own
partner, Lawrence Bruce, says Silas Ismay was as
straight a man as ever drew breath."
“Then how on earth did he come to be murdered?”
asked the doctor.
"You can make what you like out of it. That's all
we know about him. And yet there's a possibility that
he went to Enid Mulholland's compartment on that
train last Sunday night and was in the act of attempt.
ing to murder her when he himself was murdered.


SILAS ISMAY'S RECORD 233
What beats me is, why should he have attacked her ?”
Having rearranged the bandage on the detective's
arm, Dr. Guthrie resumed his perch at the corner of
the table.
“It's all too abstruse for me," he said. “Tell me
honestly, Silver, do you think you're any nearer the
truth now than you were when it happened four days
ago ?”
Silver pointed to a chair.
“Only half an hour since a man wäs sitting there
who may have committed the crime. If I allowed my
imagination to run riot I could picture a scene on that
train which led up to the murder. I could even make
out a very plausible story against the man. But that
would be sheer guesswork, and guesses aren't evidence.
We make mistakes at Scotland Yard: I've made tons
of 'em. But when it comes to a case of murder there
really isn't much room for doubt about a man's guilt
when we finally pull him in. Even then the murderer
is sometimes acquitted. It's one thing for me to be
certain that James Smith murdered William Brown,
but it's quite another thing for me to convince a jury
so completely that they'll send him to the hangman.
So much that comes to our knowledge and convinces us
of a man's guilt is not admissible as evidence in a court
of law."
“May I take all this to mean that you have some
sort of idea who committed the murder on the train ?"
asked Guthrie.
Silver looked at his friend intently for a moment,
as though he were aching to say something, but checked
the impulse.


234
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"I can give you a list of half a dozen people who
might be mixed up in the affair," he said finally, “and
I can't for the life of me see how I could be wrong in
every case. Yet that's possible. It's such a complicated
affair. There are loose ends hanging about in all direc-
tions and some of them are devilish contradictory.
Yes, we try to get the last nail for a man's coffin be-
fore actually making an arrest of this sort." He
paused, then added: “But, just between you and me,
we haven't got one single conclusive fact to put before
a jury.”
Guthrie tapped the ashes out of his pipe.
"I'm sorry, Silver. Because—well—this isn't quite
an ordinary case—for you personally-is it?"
Silver looked up quickly.
“What do you mean?"
“Why, maybe I'm wrong, but from what Briant said
I rather gathered that you and Sally Marsh- " He
broke off.
Silver got up and paced the office for a full minute
before he stopped in front of his friend.
"Briant told you that?” he demanded.
"Well, he gave me the impression."
There was a touch of amazement in Silver's ex.
pression.
“But how on earth did he know?"
Dr. Guthrie smiled.
“You may not be aware of it, my lad, but you're not
the only detective in Scotland Yard. Briant has had
quite a lot of experience too, I understand.”
Silver sat down again.
"I give you my word of honour I haven't mentioned


SILAS ISMAY’S RECORD 235
it to a single soul, Doctor, not even to Sally herself,
though she knows as well as I do. Yes, I'm in love with
her, and if ever she turns up again it won't be long be-
fore we're married if my guess isn't all wrong."
Dr. Guthrie did not reply immediately. He was
thinking of a conversation which he had had that eve-
ning with Briant.
“Any fool can see that Silver is sweet on Sally
Marsh," the Chief Inspector had said, "and I'm afraid
he'll be hard hit when the truth's known. In my opin-
ion the girl has been murdered."
Briant, moreover, was one of the shrewdest men at
the Yard.


CHAPTER XXX
THE BAIT
"The Home Office certainly would raise Cain if any.
thing went wrong,” said Colonel Venables, swinging a
monocle between finger and thumb.
"Do you wonder ?” replied Chief Inspector Briant.
“Especially as we suspect in advance that there might
be some attempt to steal the Maharajah's jewels.
However, I don't care a darn what happens once His
Highness gets safely away from the dock at South-
ampton, on his way back to India.”
"I'm afraid they'd care pretty considerably in my
department, though,” replied the Colonel. “Anyway,
the jewels will be locked in the strong room and
specially guarded as soon as they are taken on board
the ship. I don't think there will be much chance for
the most astute of thieves then.”
Briant puffed slowly at his pipe.
"Let's hope not," he said in a noncommittal fashion.
“What do you mean?”
The Chief Inspector blew a couple of smoke rings
thoughtfully before answering.
"We're not sure that any attempt will be made to
steal them, yet when there's a nice ripe plum like that
hanging ready to pluck, it puts ideas into the heads of
every crook in London. The little fellows' mouths may
236


THE BAIT
237
water, but they'll do nothing. Too much to bite off,
see? It's just the sort of plum that the Spider would
like, though. And if he sets his heart on those jewels
they won't be dead safe until the Maharajah has them
under lock and key in his own palace at Mydarah. .
Even then I wouldn't bank on their being all right.”
"It is quite possible, however,” said Colonel Vena-
bles, "that no attempt may be made to steal them.”
The expression of Chief Inspector Briant cracked
into one of his rare smiles.
“I should be very disappointed,” he observed.
Colonel Venables stared at him oddly.
"You don't really mean that?"
"I certainly do. As you know we've been planning
for some time to trap the Spider. Well, this is the trap."
"And the Maharajah's jewels are the bait?"
“Precisely. One little nibble from our friend and
we've got him. Just between you and me, I shall have
a good night's sleep for the first time in weeks when
that gentleman is locked up. We may get several of his
gang at the same time, but I'm not worrying about
them too much. They're nobodies compared with him.
He's the mainspring."
The monocle swung backwards and forwards from
the Colonel's fingers.
"Most interesting," he observed. “May I inquire
as to the details?”.
"There are exactly five men who know what our
plans are, Colonel.”
“And of those the Maharajah, I presume, is one?"
“On the contrary he hasn't the faintest idea yet that
his precious jewels are in the slightest danger. And that


238
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
is where you come in. My instructions were to explain
the whole situation to you now, and afterwards we go
together to the Maharajah's house in Notting Hill
Gate and persuade his nibs to fall in with our plans.”
“Where are the jewels ?"
“At his bank in Notting Hill Gate, as secure as con-
crete and steel can keep them. And there they will re-
main until the last moment."
The Colonel placed the monocle in his eye and re-
garded the Chief Inspector.
"I understand that the Maharajah himself takes
charge of his jewellery when he is making journeys
such as this which has been fixed for to-morrow."
"He does, and you couldn't pry him away from it
with a red-hot crow bar."
"I see," observed Colonel Venables. “Then of
course he will be provided with adequate police protec-
tion as far as Southampton. The crowning catastrophe
would be if he personally was attacked en route, and
-bless my soul, he might even be murdered!”
Briant puffed away at his pipe.
“We've weighed up the chances of that,” he agreed.
"And I don't mind telling you the Maharajah wouldn't
eat his breakfast with relish to-morrow morning if he
knew all we know or think we know."
"I take it, then, that as far as is humanly possible
you are making the whole thing fool proof for him."
“Just about. And I should say that both he and his
valuables still remain a good insurance prospect but
for one thing. A man whom we cannot trace is known
to have been making casual inquiries a few days ago
concerning the journey down to Southampton. You


THE BAIT
239
can have two guesses, the same as the rest of us, what
that amounts to. Possibly nothing: possibly quite a lot.
We have the man's description. He claimed to be a re-
porter on the Daily Courier, but the Courier editor
says he never sent a man on that job and they haven't
a man on their staff who answers his description.
Moreover the fellow was so polite about it that I can't
help thinking it has the flavour of one of the Spider's
tricks. Maybe he was disguised, maybe it was one of
his gang. Anyway we shall know a good deal more by
this time to-morrow evening."
"I'm bound to tell you, Briant,” said Colonel Vena-
bles, "that there is a decided undercurrent of anxiety
at the India Office concerning this matter. A vague
sort of rumour seems to have reached there that the
Yard is anxious about the Maharajah's welfare."
Briant's lip curled.
“You don't say so !” he observed. "It would be a
pity to disturb their placid slumber. Well, Colonel,”
the Chief Inspector got up, “it's late and I've made a
rendezvous with the Maharajah by telephone. He
isn't a bad old stick."
"I'm curious," said the Colonel, “to hear details
about the great trap for the Spider."
"I'll tell you all about that as we go along to Not-
ting Hill Gate," replied Briant, putting on his hat.
It was an hour afterwards when the Maharajah of
Mydarah, somewhat amused but by no means per-
turbed, agreed to the suggestion of these urbane offi-
cials from Scotland Yard.
“Though," he said as the interview ended, “I do
not see any necessity for such precautions."


CHAPTER XXXI
THE GIRL WHO WAITED
"I TELL you I'm right, Joe.” The girl was peering out
into the street from behind the curtain. "See, that's a
flattie at the other side of the road, if ever I saw one.
Please, please don't go out on that racket with the Spi-
der to-day, or you'll get pinched for certain.”
The American pushed aside his breakfast coffee and
stood up, looking over her shoulder.
“What, that little feller across there!” he said in
his big breezy way. “Why, he's waiting for a bus. I
guess you're dreaming, baby."
She turned to Joe Quirk.
"He's not little, Joe, and what's more important,
I'm sure he's a copper. You know that as well as I do."
"Well, he's getting plenty of fresh air out there.
Don't you worry, sweetness.".
"You only laughed at me when I said they were
shadowing you last night," she reminded him. "Don't
you see if they got you now it would be the end of
everything ?”
Only for a moment a hint of seriousness over.
shadowed Quirk's smile.
"Listen, honey. The day we got married I promised
you I'd cut all this out, didn't I ?"
Her fingers were toying with the lapel of his coat.
240


THE GIRL WHO WAITED 241
"You said that to make sure I'd go straight, Joe.”
Life hadn't been a bed of roses for Anne until this
man took her under his wing when she was down and
nearly out. He was the kind of man to give the coat
off his back to a blind beggar, but robbing millionaires
had been a game of his ever since Fate had landed him
one in the solar plexus.
"You're no crook, peaches," he told her. "I'm hard
boiled, but I've a reason for going straight now, and
you're it."
"You never did a dirty trick to anyone in your life,
Joe. And that—that's why-well, if anything hap-
pened—just when we're ready to begin all over afresh
in America together-Joe, can't you understand it
would break me right up!"
"I know the very place in New Hampshire where
we'll build that house, Anne. In the town where I was
a kid. You'll like it."
She had the steamer tickets safely in her handbag.
They were due to sail in two days. Only forty-eight
hours hencel And yet that seemed an eternity when
you remembered what might happen in any one minute
between now and then.
"Don't go to-day, Joe. The coppers have taken Ikey
Glockstein. How did they manage that? Why, one of
the flatties spotted him when you were all going into
that house down Wapping way, of course. And they're
shadowing you for the same reason. Maybe they're not
sure about you, but if you make any slip now that'll
be the end. They're like cats playing with a mouse. All
they want is some proof that you're linked up with the
Spider, and then you're finished.”
"I can't let those fellers down, honey,” he answered.


THE GIRL WHO WAITED 243
in her at that moment. The steamer tickets in her bag
and even her own future happiness were forgotten.
She was obsessed by fear for the safety of her man
and hatred of that ominous figure trailing behind him.
When finally they both disappeared she sank into a
chair and stared blankly before her.
If the blow fell it would come in much less than
forty-eight hours. The clock hands pointed to ten now.
By six that evening—or five or perhaps long before
then—the cops might have her Joe fastened up.
It was as if she could hear his laugh, the kind of
laugh that held no touch of unkindness but came al-
most startlingly at black moments and made you feel
that things never could be as bad as you'd thought
they were. He was the biggest thing that had ever
come into the queer adventure-ridden existence of
Anne Quirk, child of a famous forger who had died in
Dartmoor Prison by the time she was fifteen, leaving
that dubious memory as her only heritage. Since then
life had been an incomprehensible battle not only
against herself but against that rough-and-tumble
world into which she had been pitchforked too soon.
Then Joe Quirk had become her god, and instincts
which she had never analyzed before had created
vague yearnings within her for another sort of ex-
istence. It was weeks before she could express some-
thing of the kind to Joe. She had been afraid he would
laugh and that would have killed it. But to her aston-
ishment he didn't. Except in certain things Anne knew
she was no more intelligent than most folks, but al.
though Joe was as clever as anyone she had ever met,
he had a way of taking the girl so seriously at times
that it startled her.


THE GIRL WHO WAITED 245
ruthers, knowing the area well, was keyed up for sud-
den maneuvres on the part of the American.
Without looking round, Joe Quirk turned down
Gunpowder Alley. The detective hurried forward and
peeped round the corner. Then frowned. There was
nobody in sight. Quirk must have moved with amaz-
ing speed.
Carruthers raced down the short length of Gun-
powder Alley and at the bottom stared right and left
along Shoe Lane. He could see nobody even remotely
resembling his quarry, and, realizing that he had been
tricked, swore picturesquely.
For a space the detective stood at the nearest cor-
ner watching, but while his back was momentarily
turned Quirk emerged from a friendly doorway, and
under cover of a large van that was being trundled
along Shoe Lane, he made his way back to Fleet
Street. There he raised a finger to a taxi and was soon
bowling westward.
The taxi driver was a grumpy soul, so accustomed
to odd "fares" that if a pink elephant had signalled
him to stop and said “Pishl" his instinct would have
been to pull the flag down and reply "Where to?” All
things in his cab were just "fares."
But before he reached the Law Courts now that
hard-bitten old fellow glanced over his shoulder twice.
“ 'Strewth !” he muttered, “'e'll laugh 'is blinkin'
'ead off in a minute !".
Then, because nobody could resist the temptation
when Joe Quirk really got going, that disgruntled
Jehu permitted his face to develop the ghost of a smile
for the space of ten seconds. And this was in the nature
of a record for him.


THE CHASE
247
and erect while Smithers peered at him from various
angles as if he were a freak exhibit.
Briant glanced at his watch. He was popularly sup-
posed to be devoid of either feelings or nerves, but
there was a tinge of anxiety in his expression.
"Come on. I'll take you myself," he said, pushing
his chair away. A while afterwards they arrived at the
back entrance of a house in Notting Hill Gate and
were ushered into the presence of the Maharajah of
Mydarah.
The pince-nez of Mr. Smithers wobbled as he
scrutinzed first the handsome, slightly tinted features
of the Eastern potentate and then those of P.C. Blen-
kinsop.
"Yes, I think I can make a good job of him," ob-
served Smithers, putting down his attaché case and
rubbing his hands together.
“With your Highness's permission," said Briant,
“I'll get back to the Yard."
Wondering why Scotland Yard should want to cre-
ate a duplicate of this distinguished foreigner, Smith-
ers placed Blenkinsop in a chair near the window,
produced his make-up outfit, and carefully selected a
stick of grease paint.
"Blenkinsop," Smithers heard the Chief Inspector
add, "you'll remain here after he's made you up. Later
on you'll get your instructions. Mr. Smithers, put your
best into this, please."
"There's nothing more for me to do, Mr. Briant,
after I've finished his Highness—I mean the other his
Highness ?”
"No, you can go then. But not one word to a soul
outside, understand.”


THE CHASE
249
a similar case to that in which the jewels are kept.
This is what his Highness had originally planned to
do. The chauffeur, a man named Bates, is English and
has worked for the Maharajah here and in India for
years. Whether he has been got at or not we don't
know, but if you keep your mouth shut the odds are
that he won't know you're a fake. Anyway, two trust-
worthy members of his Highness's suite will travel
with you in the car, to make the whole thing look
more real.
"As you know, the Spider is as tricky as a trainload
of monkeys, and there's no guessing at what point he'll
try to pull this thing off. My guess is that it will be on
the quay at Southampton or on board the ship itself,
but the Maharajah's car, with you inside, may be held
up on the way from London. Don't mention it to any-
one, but I don't like that chauffeur Bates. He may be
as big a fool as he looks but it hardly seems possible.
Anyway a man like the Spider could twist him round
his little finger.
"From the moment you leave this house there will
be two Flying Squad cars in attendance though the
idea is to keep that a secret. In other words we want
the thieves to make an attack on the dummy mahara.
jah with his dummy jewel case."
"I see, sir," observed Blenkinsop. "I'm there to be
shot at, like.” A wonderfully interesting life police
work provided sometimes!
"If anything of the sort happens," said Briant, "just
forget that you're a policeman until we arrive on the
spot. If they smell a rat they'll be off like a rocket.
Hang on to the dummy jewel case and delay things a


254
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
man and thrust his head in the door with the air of one
committing sacrilege.
" 'Scuse me, but might I ask if there's been any
change of plans ?”
“There will be some changes at Scotland Yard if
the Maharajah misses this train,” replied Ali Khan
in a smooth voice which was laden with venom, as he
stepped out and glanced along the platform, then at
the inexorable clock.
Two minutes ! One! The train doors were banging.
Swiftly Ali Khan rushed over to the guard who was
standing ready to give the starting signal.
“Will you please wait for a little while? It is veree
important."
The guard glanced unmoved at the coloured face.
Keep the boat train back! That railway official didn't
even smile, but put a whistle to his lips and issued a
shrill blast.
Then as the train moved he swung on to it and stood
there staring back at the man who had made such a
peculiar request. One of that reserved Pullman crowd
who were evidently on their way back to India. What
did they think this was? a penny bus? He might have
held her back on his own responsibility for about a
minute for the King or the Prince of Wales in an
emergency, and he wasn't quite sure how he'd stand
even in a case like that.
The guard drew his head in and the boat train slid
away, leaving on the platform one aghast Secretary
of State, several of the Maharajah's satellites chat-
tering furiously in an alien tongue, and a little collec-
tion of Scotland Yard detectives who simultaneously
arrived at the same conclusion.


THE BOAT TRAIN
255
It was expressed adequately by the hatchet-faced
man in a hard felt hat who, quite unaware of what he
was doing, mumbled aloud:
"Blime! Now someone's going to get it in the
neck !”
At that moment Scotland Yard's hush-hush cars,
with the Flying Squad hidden within, were careering
along at forty miles an hour over the smooth country
roads toward Southampton, never too near, yet never
far from that dancing little red light ahead which
marked the progress of the Maharajah's expensive
limousine.
Once or twice when some monster roared past with
glaring headlights, Chief Inspector Briant's interest
quickened. The attack, if it came at all, would prob-
ably be from road pirates in a vehicle of that sort.
Guildford had been left far behind and the little
procession was rushing through Hampshire when the
man with ear phones clipped to his head rasped out
an imperative message that had darted from head.
quarters in London.
I TIL LUI


CHAPTER XXXIV
THE MYSTERY CAB
With his mind's eye fixed on a pretty colleen whom he
had left behind at Killarney only six short months ago
when he came to join the Metropolitan Police, Consta-
ble Maloney was patrolling Vesey Street, just off Not-
ting Hill Gate, when his material eye fell on a taxicab
that was ticking its heart out at the side of the road.
And he took as much notice of the thing as if it had
been any one of all the other taxis in London.
Sure it was a fine job that he'd tumbled into, re-
flected P.C. Maloney. In another six months, wid a
pinch of luck, he'd have Noreen over from Ireland,
and they would be married. Everything was all plain
sailing at last. On the whole it was a very pleasant,
peaceful world to live in.
"Hi, mister! Murder! Murder!"
Constable Maloney, who had strolled past the taxi,
swung around as if a snake had bitten him.
On the edge of the pavement there was a tousle-
headed boy gesticulating wildly, in an emotional ec-
stasy, with one dirty hand pointed at the cab.
The very existence of the lady in Killarney was in-
stantly forgotten as Maloney took a hasty step nearer.
"Look at 'em, mister I” implored the gamin, with
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ought to have seized a heavy spanner and, if neces-
sary, gone down fighting.
“Drive on to Southampton," said one of his pas-
sengers.
The chauffeur, not in the least understanding what
it was all about, gave a slight shrug of the shoulders
and drove on. Three years in the service of an Eastern
potentate had taught him that many strange things
may happen.
Briant meanwhile was well on his way back to Lon-
don and found that beneath the eternal unruffled calm-
ness of Scotland Yard an undercurrent of excitement
was at work. The India Office had kicked the Home
Office. The Home Office had kicked those who sit in
high places at the Yard, and they in turn were venting
their troubles on lesser fry. Even the doorkeeper
studying "form" in the Turf Guide felt the echoes of
those impacts.
But besides this there was gall and wormwood for
the Yard in the reflection that the very criminal whom
they had set out to capture had turned the tables on
them.
Briant was privileged to spend about three minutes
with the distinguished Chief Constable, and what Sir
Hector Froud managed to concentrate into words
during that brief period was as acid as it was memor-
able. Briant came out of the room with a white face,
set lips, and the explosive qualities of a ten-inch shell.
His first lightning rush was to the hospital where
the three victims of the cab outrage lay. Until now
the doctors had declined to permit anything in the
nature of an interview.
Inspector Nettlestone managed to give a concise


THE TABLES TURNED
263
account of the affair, but what he had to say about
maharajahs in general and his Highness of Mydarah
in particular was somewhat trying even to the ear of
Briant. As Nettlestone's voice rose and fell some of
his phrases drifted across the ward to the ears of a
very unhappy potentate sprawling in a commoner's
cot, with a head that felt as though it had been cleaved
with an ax, and a sense of utter desolation about his
jewels.
“We had it all planned, as you know," Nettlestone
began. “The Maharajah was to call at the bank per-
sonally for the stuff and we two were to accompany
him from there to Waterloo in one of his own cars
driven by one of his own men. The whole thing was
fool proof, short of an actual hold-up in the main
street with machine guns or something equally effec-
tive.
"Well, Inspector Wade and I arrived at the bank
and there we found his nibs had varied one detail of
the plan without mentioning it to us. As a matter of
fact he'd got into a horrible funk, I could see, and by
that time hardly knew what he was doing.
"His bright notion was that it might be too con-
spicuous to use his own car so he wished to go to
Waterloo in an ordinary taxi instead.
"There was nothing wrong about that in a way,
and he was footing the bill, so Wade and I agreed at
once, especially as there wasn't any too much time.
His blinkin' Highness accepted delivery of the jewel
case from the bank and as we walked out one at each
side of him he was carrying it.
“I signalled to a taxi on a cab rank just in front of
the bank. The driver had the bonnet up at the time


266
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
afternoon. We hadn't gone more than ten yards be-
fore I heard a peculiar hissing sound, as if a tire had
punctured in where we were sitting. And then almost
instantly I began to feel lifeless and couldn't breathe
properly.
"Before I lost consciousness I knew we were being
gassed and all I wanted was to get my fingers on the
throat of the man I'd asked to drive so carefully. But
I couldn't move a finger. I don't know what gas the
crook used but he chose it well."
"I'm told it was probably fluorine or something
very similar," put in Briant. “None of you would have
lived long bottled up in that atmosphere.”
The contents bill of an evening newspaper caught
Briant's eye as he left the hospital. It read:
MYSTERY
OF TWO
MAHARAJAHS
There was something about that which he did not
like. Secrets had been known to leak out of Scotland
Yard but this had been guarded with especial care.
He thrust a penny into the newsboy's hand and opened
the paper under a street lamp.
The taxi outrage was the one prominent thing on
the front page, displayed with great enthusiasm. A
vivid account was given of the dramatic incident in
Pembridge Gardens.
This is one of the most remarkable outrages
that has ever occurred in the streets of London
[the journal continued].


THE TABLES TURNED 269
form the gravest suspicions. To his knowledge
the Maharajah always made a point of carrying
his valuable jewellery with him and on reaching
Wallington he decided to take the bull by the
horns, so reported to the police that the Mahara-
jah had been kidnapped.
His opinion, he stated, was that the two
Mohammedans accompanying the Maharajah
were in league with the gang of roughs in the
delivery van, and his story was so circumstantial
that Sergeant Bullfinch, to whom he explained
the whole matter, immediately detained them.
Amongst the luggage in the car was that which
Bates believed to be the jewel case, because the
Maharajah had watched over it with the utmost
care when it was put into the vehicle at Notting
Hill Gate.
The odd thing is that when Sergeant Bullfinch
examined this case he found it was empty, and
this fact seemed to confirm the theory of Bates
that not only had the Maharajah been kidnapped
but that his jewellery had also been hastily ab-
stracted from the car.
One of the Mohammedans, who declared that
he held high office under the Maharajah's rule,
made an explanation which has not been revealed
to the press, but which caused the Wallington
sergeant to telephone immediately to Scotland
Yard.
What the Yard replied is another thing which
has been kept rigidly concealed, but the effect of
it was that Sergeant Bullfinch at once intimated


CHAPTER XXXVI
A MESSAGE FROM SYDNEY
1
As a newspaper man specializing in crime Andy Col.
linson was not primarily concerned, like Scotland
Yard, with hunting murderers and fetching them to
the gallows. His job was to write articles which would
interest the two million readers of the Daily Budget.
If he could inspire a thrill in the good folk of Put-
ney and Poplar or cause a bishop or a pickpocket to
drop a tear into the matutinal egg, the greater part
of his task was achieved. Though naturally it was a
still greater achievement if, in bringing about either
of those emotional crises, he incidentally led the way
for the police to make an arrest or answered some
riddle of the underworld which had intrigued the
British public.
Throughout that week while the Yard men had
wrestled untiringly with the intricate clues and hints
of clues concerning the murder of Silas Ismay and the
attempted murder of Enid Mulholland, Andy had
regarded the mysterious disappearance of Sally
Marsh and Oliver Foss as the most interesting themes
for investigation.
Even the discovery of the dead body of either of
those two would stir Putney and Poplar but such a
271


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THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
discovery would also be of immense help to the Yard
because any clue, even concerning the manner of their
death, might have an important sequel.
But so far as Sally Marsh was concerned the police
had been unable to form any sound theory or track her
movements a single yard. She had gone out of the
office into the swirling multitude in Shaftesbury
Avenue, and from that moment had vanished utterly.
Columns had been written in the daily press by
journalists with fertile imaginations suggesting this or
that explanation of the girl's continued absence, but
the unalterable fact remained that nobody had seen
her since about eleven o'clock last Wednesday morning
when she left the office of the Anglo-American
Theatrical Syndicate and not a soul could advance a
practical suggestion for the task of finding her. Mean-
while three days had elapsed.
The problem of looking for Sally Marsh, there-
fore, was a difficult one, and that of hunting Oliver
Foss was not much better, for all England had rung
with his name in vain, but the general fear by now
was that Sally had been murdered. On the other hand
the known facts indicated that Foss was a fugitive
from justice and the spotlight of public attention had
never for an instant been deflected from that Aus-
tralian.
A warrant had finally been issued for his arrest on
the strength of Enid Mulholland's shorthand notes. A
description of him had been circulated throughout the
British Isles, and the police of other countries were
on the look-out for him.
The consensus of opinion had been expressed with


A MESSAGE FROM SYDNEY
273
praiseworthy discretion by the writer of an editorial
article in the Morning Echo who said:
Whatever crime he may or may not have com-
mitted, and whether his ultimate fate is to be
acquitted or sentenced before a judge and jury,
one cannot refrain from hoping that if ever
Oliver Foss is arrested he may be able to throw
some light on the problem of Sally Marsh.
Very properly the law of this country does not
permit one to condemn a man in print before he
has been found guilty in the proper tribunal. Foss
has not come forward in spite of the fact that the
utmost publicity has been given to the case, but
one must not lose sight of the possibility that, like
Silas Ismay, he may have been brutally mur-
dered.
Even though he be entirely innocent, it is felt
that if he were found alive his assistance would
be of paramount importance, for it is but logical
to suppose now that there is some connecting link
between his disappearance and the many inex-
plicable events, some of them deeply tragic,
which have been associated in one way and an-
other with the Anglo-American Theatrical Syndi-
cate this week.
More crudely expressed, the view of Andy Collin-
son was that Oliver Foss, having threatened to mur-
der Ismay, had probably done so. There was nothing
whatever to show that he was innocent, and there were
at least two facts which suggested that he was guilty,
namely, his threat and his subsequent disappearance.


A MESSAGE FROM SYDNEY 275
named Michael Morgan Verrinder who died
there last year. Henrietta's address not known
here. Cheerio. How's things ? CARTWRIGHT.
Andy read it all through again, filled his pipe,
lighted it, then sank into a chair to do a little careful
thinking.
"Good old Bob Cartwright!” he muttered. “But
what has he handed me? A lemon ?"
In a way this message brought the crime investigator
very little nearer his real object, which was to get an
interview with the mother of Oliver Foss on the sub-
of that elusive offspring of hers.
Andy's first reaction on perusing the cable had been
one of intense disappointment, but a few moments
later he began to brighten. Henrietta was no longer
Mrs. Foss, and even her second husband was defunct,
but undoubtedly she remained Mrs. Michael Morgan
Verrinder, relict of a gentleman of that name who had
once dealt in rubber, unless remarrying had become a
regular habit of hers.
Yes, the Budget crime expert felt distinctly better.
In fact when he came to think of it this left only one
or two hurdles to negotiate and the thing was as good
as done. It wasn't as if Henrietta had mated the
second time with someone whose undistinctive name
was John Jones, of no occupation. The situation would
have been different then, but as it stood there was not
much in this little riddle that should tax the resources
of a newspaper man hot on the scent.
Andy looked up the next train to London, ate his
breakfast, and walked to the station.


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THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
Before boarding the train, however, he sent the
following wire to the news editor of the Budget.
Am returning immediately. Meanwhile please
put someone on to ascertaining the present ad-
dress of Mrs. Verrinder, widow of the late
Michael Morgan Verrinder, a London rubber
merchant.
COLLINSON.
Then with that exhilaration which fills a good
journalist when he senses an excellent story, he found
a corner seat in a railway carriage and smoked his
pipe.
It was already late afternoon when Andy stood in
front of a house in London and took from his waist-
coat pocket a slip of paper which had been handed
to him by the news editor on his arrival at the office
of the Budget.
“Marley Lodge, Addison Road, Clapham Road,"
he read. This was not the house where the late rubber
merchant had ceased his earthly troubles a year ago.
His widow had changed her home since then. Marley
Lodge was one of those severe stone abominations
that stand for dull respectability in suburbia, with a
small garden in which evergreens hold up a valiant
head in spite of their environment.
Andy opened the gate, walked up the path and rang
the bell. Nothing happened, so he rang it again, and
then the door was opened by a middle-aged woman
who had a touch of frost in her demeanor.
"I wish to speak to Mrs. Verrinder,” said Andy.
"That is my name," she answered tonelessly, but
about her there was the subtle air of a woman who,


278
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
He was watching those tell-tale eyes and caught the
quick reaction of renewed fear.
“My son is innocent," she said. “Of that I am sure."
“You mean he denies committing the crime?" asked
Andy.
“I know that if I asked him he would tell me he is
innocent," she parried.
“Your son has only to prove that he was not on
that train and he would have nothing to fear."
“Yes, but-but I know nothing about it.”
Andy bit on to his lip.
“Mrs. Verrinder, it so happens that the police are
not yet even aware of the fact that the mother of
Oliver Foss is in London. But when they do learn of
it I suppose you know what they will at once ask
you ?"
"I can tell them nothing," she answered with a
growing undercurrent of defiance.
"They will assuredly ask you, as I did, when you
last saw Oliver Foss."
The woman's expression hardened.
“I have answered you,” she replied coldly.
"But,” said Andy, “the answer you gave me will
not satisfy the men from Scotland Yard. Your words
were, 'It is some time since.' That means nothing."
"It is the truth," she said.
Again Andy bit on his lip.
"You will be asked to state precisely how many
weeks or days—or hours it is since you saw Oliver."
“Yes, I expect they will ask me that," she replied
in her old colourless tone. "And if they come I shall
tell them. I have not seen Oliver since the beginning
of last month. That was about five weeks ago.”
-
-
-


A MESSAGE FROM SYDNEY
279
What a grim business was murder, reflected Andy.
Here was a woman manifestly prepared to lie her
way through hell itself if necessary to save her son's
neck. Yet with all the courage in the world she was
merely a supremely pathetic figure, rather simple, un-
skilled in the art of telling untruths, and utterly un-
convincing. The Yard officials would see through her
in the first instant.
"Do you authorize me, then," said Andy, "to go
back to my newspaper and print the statement that
Oliver Foss came here to see his mother five weeks
ago but that she has not set eyes on him since the
night when Silas Ismay was murdered on the midnight
mail ?"
The alarm in her face quickened.
"I don't want you to say anything about it in the
paper."
“But sooner or later the police are bound to track
you down as his mother. They are making the most
searching inquiries in connection with this case and you
can take it from me they will not stop.”
The woman was now like some hunted creature
with her back to the wall.
“Before they come here," she replied, "they may
arrest the real murderer.”
This, then, was obviously her one real hope, the
thing to make sure of which she would willingly sacri-
fice her life. And one could not escape the inference.
But apart from that, a dairy boy delivering at that
house had already artlessly admitted to: Andy when
questioned that this woman who lived alone had been
taking twice her usual supply of milk all the week,
"for a stray cat," as she had carefully explained. A


280
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
stray cat! Mothers could be wonderful creatures, but
murder was a terrible thing.
He left the woman with a vision of her eloquent
eyes still before him. She was in torture. There were
times when Andy Collinson found his work joyless,
leaving an acrid flavour. And this was one of them.
A stray cat! And a mother who would rather die
ten times than tell the truth about one thing.
Andy looked about for the nearest telephone. Twice
since his return to London he had tried to get in
touch with Silver and each time had been abruptly
told over the wire that the Inspector was out. Now,
on getting through to the Yard he found himself
speaking direct to the Chief Constable.
"Very well, Sir Hector," said Andy, "this should be
Silver's pigeon really, but as he hasn't come back yet
I'd better explain to you."
Four minutes later a car, temporarily held up by a
traffic block at the Plough, Clapham, suddenly shot
forward, although the signal was against it.
The point duty officer, swinging around, only waved
it on, for a sign had blazed up on its wind screen-the
sign of the Flying Squad in full cry. The wireless
operator in that vehicle had just received an urgent
message from Sir Hector Froud.


CHAPTER XXXVII
AT THE SIGN OF THE THREE BALLS
MR. ROSENBAUM, who wore gold-rimmed glasses,
spats, and a permanent smile, stood twiddling a charm
attached to his massive watch chain, bright little eyes
fixed on a suit of clothes which lay on the counter.
“Don't believe anything that nobody tells you in
business, Isaac," he had frequently admonished his
son, “and keep in with the police even if it chokes
you."
Memory of his own advice came echoing back upon
him now. There is more in the science of making
money under the sign of the three balls than meets the
naked eye, and Mr. Rosenbaum was a pawnbroker at
the little upriver town of Shepperton.
At the very moment when Andy Collinson had
settled down to read his newspaper in the train at
York while on his way to London, and as one Mr.
Smithers, skilled in the art of theatrical make-up, was
still converting the appearance of Constable Blenkin-
sop into that of a maharajah, Mr. Rosenbaum decided
to telephone to the local police.
"Never give anything away unless you can make a
profit,” was another of his axioms. Well, he was giv-
ing next to nothing away, but the police would reward
281


282
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
him with a pat on the back as a zealous, honest citizen.
And the way of a pawnbroker was hard. He was at
the mercy of all crooks whom he could not beat at
their own game.
"If one of your officers could come to my shop,” he
said over the wire, using his free hand helpfully as a
semaphore, “I will be pleased to tell him something."
Mr. Rosenbaum's smile was slightly more pro-
nounced than usual when in due course one of the
Shepperton detectives entered the doorway.
“Good-morning, Mr. Pycroft," said the pawn-
broker. “I don't know if I done right to trouble you
gentlemen, because you're always so busy, but," he
pointed with a thumb to the suit of clothes on the
counter, “I thought maybe you'd like to look at this."
Pycroft turned the clothes over, then glanced at the
other man.
“What's the idea ?”
"Well, Mr. Pycroft, you're cleverer than I am at
your own profession, and I might be wrong, but it did
seem to me there was something peculiar about that
suit. For one thing it's in very good condition. Quite
a high-class suit, I'd call it. And yet all the buttons
have been cut off the coat and the waistcoat too."
The detective frowned.
"Well, what about it?” he demanded.
"I don't know whether you remember a man called
Pete Mellish who lives here at Shepperton. Thin,
long hair, spends most of his days fishing in the
Thames."
"I know him. Looks as though the sight of a day's
work would kill him. He's a bit soft, I think."
“That's right. Well, them clothes was brought here


THE SIGN OF THE THREE BALLS 285
"I s'pose there's no body been found?” suggested
Rosenbaum hopefully.
"Not in our district. But I'll make inquiries. We've
never had anything against this man Mellish, though
I've kept my eyes on him for some time. I guessed
we'd have him through our hands sooner or later. If
you'll pass me a piece of paper I'll take this suit along
with me.”
As the detective walked away the smile of Mr.
Rosenbaum wilted a little. When he had telephoned
to the police he had hardly expected that his imagina-
tion would carry him so far. He had paid ten good
shillings out, and now the clothes were gone. Perhaps
after all Pete Mellish had come by them honestly, in
which case all would be well, but an unpleasant doubt
on the point had arisen.
It was early that afternoon when Detective Inspec-
tor Silver answered the telephone at Scotland Yard.
"This is Detective Pycroft of Shepperton," came a
voice. “The sergeant here has asked me to ring you
up on a matter that I've been investigating. I don't
know that it's worth troubling you about, but— "
“Go ahead," said Silver. "What's wrong?".
"Well, sir, I can't exactly say, though there's some-
thing suspicious and I haven't got to the bottom of it
yet. And seeing you're on that midnight mail business
-what's that you say, sir ?"
“Never mind. I'm listening. Go on, please.”
"We've got a man here in custody on suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what?" came crisply over the wire.
"Well, larceny. A man called Mellish who lives
down this way.”
“Yes, yes, hurry up."


THE SIGN OF THE THREE BALLS 287
question I want to ask that firm over the telephone."
Detective Pycroft stood there for a while drawing
meaningless designs on a blotting pad before him until
he heard Silver speaking again, this time in a very
different voice.
“Hold that man at all costs,” the Yard officer said
peremptorily. "It is of vital importance. I'm coming
down to Shepperton myself as quickly as possible.”
Replacing the receiver, Pycroft turned to a veteran
of the force who was writing at a desk.
"That's tickled 'em up at the Yard, Sergeant," he
observed, throwing his chest out. “Shouldn't wonder
if this was a hanging job after all."
The sergeant glanced over the top of his spectacles,
pen poised in mid-air, then went on writing.
"A hangin' job, eh?” he remarked thoughtfully.
“Some people get all the luck!"
im


BY THE “ROSE MARY"
289
swered Mellish. “I've never been in clink an' you can't
put me there either. I know the law. I got ten shillin's
on that suit, and I ain't goin' to part with it."
“I don't suppose you'll have to,” said Silver. “Not
if you tell the truth, anyway."
"Well, they can find out, see?" retorted the man
impudently, his piglike eyes glittering. “What's mine's
my own and you can't say it isn't."
“That's quite true," replied the detective, burning
with eagerness and maintaining his casual manner
with the utmost difficulty. Somewhere hidden in that
lout's head might lie a secret on which everything
depended. Yet what that secret might be no man could
guess. Though nothing was known against Mellish
except that he had always been a wash-out, he be-
longed to a type that was dangerous. One never knew
in what direction such characters might break out.
"The trouble is," Silver went on, "you may not get
out of here as easily as you think, and that's a rotten
position when one is quite innocent."
Mellish emitted a sneering laugh.
“That copper said I looked like gettin' six months,"
he declared. “But I know! They can't put you in prison
if you haven't done anything wrong."
A change swept over Silver. He was getting the
measure of the man and though the detective's patience
held, he realized that his method of attack had been
wrong. One could spend hours in this way and not get
anywhere.
He rose and, standing over Mellish, spoke with a
new, menacing note in his voice.
"It won't be six months only if you are sentenced
for murder!”


BY THE “ROSE MARY" 291
“Maybe. Why didn't you say that at first, anyway?”
"Findin's keepin's, isn't it?" the man cringed, at his
last fence.
“Come on," thundered Silver. “Out with it."
"I looked in the pockets, same as anyone else would
have done."
"And what did you find ?"
"Ten pounds in notes, in the waistcoat," admitted
Mellish. “I've committed no crime and that ten quid's
mine. Nobody's goin' to get it out of me," he added
with a show of defiance.
So that was at the root of the man's obstinacy!
And it seemed likely that he was telling the truth.
“Never mind about the ten pounds," Silver again
changed his tactics. “You can keep that so far as I am
concerned. When did you find the suit?"
If he was not going to stand in the dock on a
charge of murder and if nobody was going to take the
ten pounds from him there was nothing else to worry
about! He still felt the jar of that awful threat, but
was beginning to recover.
"Why, it was one night early this week, sir.”
“What day?"
“Tuesday, I think. Yes, that was it."
"Whereabouts in the river did this happen?”
"Just at the old houseboat Rose Mary. There's a
deep hole there where I generally reckon on gettin' a
few fish. It was getting late—about half-past ten or
eleven o'clock, I s'pose. Moonlight, you understand.
There's a landing by the side of the Rose Mary, an'
I was sitting there by myself in the shadder when I
heard someone on the landing at the other side of the
houseboat. Didn't take no notice of that, but I saw


294
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
would be contending against the shrewdest of criminal
brains.
Of a sudden he strode off and in the falling darkness
came to the derelict houseboat Rose Mary. The water
lapped against the side of the hulk with a soft musical
note. It was a thing of the yesterdays, fast drifting
into decay. On the landing he looked at the dark flow-
ing Thames. Here, evidently, was the place where one
Pete Mellish spent idle hours fishing.
Silver found the doors of the Rose Mary securely
fastened with padlocks, but her windows were broken
and he could hear a melancholy swish within as the
sodden old houseboat swayed under his weight. She
was deserted: nearing the end of her days.
Much depended upon Pete Mellish's story being
true! Silver visualized the scene that was said to have
been played here last Tuesday night. There was a
landing just above the Rose Mary, with a footpath,
now overgrown with high reeds, leading down to it.
Along that path the man from the bungalow known as
Bending Willows must have come, bearing with him
the suit of clothes in a bundle. Everything could have
occurred just as Mellish had described.
Silver made his way back to the road and ap-
proached the bungalow. Not only was it in a curiously
secluded position, but also a tall fence surrounded the
building which, as far as he could judge in that bad
light, was no ordinary upriver shack. Putting his
hands on the top of the fence, he drew himself up and
looked over, surveying the place in this way from
each side. There was a light burning in one room at
the back, which he took to be a kitchen, but the blind
was drawn. Who was in that room?


THE HOUSE OF SECRETS 299
peared high up in a tree between the window near
which he stood and the garden gate.
Queenie had her back against the wall with one arm
behind her. Silver jerked the woman aside and ob-
served an electric switch.
"This place is a regular box of tricks, isn't it?” he
observed dryly, switching out the green light. “Per-
haps your Mr. Wilcox didn't get quite so far as Paris
after all. I fancy he won't now, anyway.”
Again he picked up the receiver.
"Give me the Shepperton Police Station," he
barked, "and make it snappy. ... Hello! This is
Inspector Silver. Send a couple of men round here at
the double-Mr. Wilcox's bungalow, Bending Wil-
lows. It's urgent. If they're not here in four minutes
I'll — What's that? Oh, finel"


CHAPTER XL
THE CHIEF TAKES CHARGE
THERE was an electric atmosphere in the office of Sir
Hector Froud. Several grave-faced officials, all men
who had spent a lifetime pitting their wits against the
wolves of the underworld, were gathered about him,
and it was not a pleasant party.
The Yard was so well organized that in the ordinary
way the Chief Constable never interfered with tried
men who were on their mettle, but for once he had
stepped on to the bridge himself. That quiet-voiced
Chief always spoke rather slowly, and never a degree
more loudly, but to-day each word was saturated with
gall.
Everything had broken down. His men had done
their best, but their best had not been good enough
against those wolves. The India Office was raging on
account of the indignity to which the Maharajah of
Mydarah had been submitted while visiting the
mother country, not to mention the loss of jewels
which would keep even a film star in luxury for a
twelvemonth. This in a measure accounted for the
fact that the Home Secretary had put on his special
kicking boots, and was making things uncomfortable
all round.
300


THE CHIEF TAKES CHARGE 301
Now and again there came a soft buzz on Sir
Hector's private telephone at his elbow. All calls
dealing with the big situation on hand were being put
through direct to this room. In answering them there
was a deadly directness in all that he said.
Messages came up frequently from the wireless
room. An army of the Yard's hush-hush cars was
scouring London. The Chief was in direct touch with
each one. At a word from him those squads could be
pulled up in any crowded traffic miles away.
Sir Hector picked up the telephone receiver.
"Well, Silver, what news have you?".
The Chief's gray eyes twinkled brightly as he
heard the Inspector's urgent call for the Squad.
"I'm at ” Silver got as far as that when silence
came.
“Hello—Silver !"
But there was no answer.
Sir Hector's face became stern. Using another tele-
phone, he spoke to the Yard switchboard operator.
“I was talking to Inspector Silver just now. Were
we cut off ?"
"No, sir,” said the operator. "You're still through,
apparently."
"Find out where he was speaking from and let me
know.”
Sir Hector turned to one of his men near.
"There's something queer going on, Briant,” he
said. “Get away, as quickly as you can, in the direction
of Shepperton. Silver is alone on the job there, and I
fancy he's found trouble. I'll let you know more by
wireless. Cut along !" Then as that officer was hasten-
ing away the Chief raised his voice for the first time.


302
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“Good luck, Briantl" That washed out nearly all the
gall.
"The Shepperton exchange reports that your line is
still connected with a bungalow there called Bending
Willows, sir," reported the Yard switchboard man a
moment afterwards.
Sir Hector wrote a few words on a piece of paper
and sent it to the wireless room. The driver of Briant's
Squad car had hardly got into top gear before those
instructions were delivered, and by then Sir Hector
had received another message from the Yard wireless
room. He glanced through it with considerable satis-
faction. The officer in charge of Squad Eight reported:
Have arrested Oliver Foss at his mother's
house and according to orders am now returning
to headquarters with him.
His story is that he travelled up to London by
the train on which Ismay was murdered but that
he does not know who committed the crime.
Foss asserts that his threat against Ismay at
York was uttered in a momentary temper, and
that he only remained in hiding after Monday
because he feared it might be impossible to prove
his innocence.
Sir Hector was not yet counting his chickens. Things
had begun to move at last but-
The door opened and an excited man was ushered
in.
"Mr. Peter Irwin,” said the Chief, glancing at the
written name before him.
Irwin looked round at faces all of which were
strange.


THE CHIEF TAKES CHARGE 303
"I want Inspector Silver,” he declared. "It's ter-
ribly important."
"Silver is out,” said the Chief quietly, sensing that
things were about to move still more.
"But I've got to see him," said Irwin. "It's about
Enid Mulholland. I've just come from the hospital.
Her mind has been affected by that blow on the head.
All of a sudden to-day while I was talking to her her
memory came back.”
Sir Hector leaned forward.
“Who murdered Silas Ismay?” he asked incisively.
At that moment a white-faced girl who had waited
for hours in a Kensington flat, with nerves strung
almost to breaking point, gave a jump as the telephone
bell jangled.
It might be anything-even a trick! Perhaps Joe
had given the cops the slip and they were trying to
get on to him again. They were up to all sorts of
dodges like that. She must keep her head. The girl
stood still until she was sure of herself while the bell
jangled, but her fingers were trembling as she raised
the receiver to her ear.
“Hello!”
And then her heart leaped as she caught the answer-
ing voice.
"Hello, sweetness! All alone?”.
“Yes,” she told him, but she was only concerned
with the shadow she had last seen at Joe's heels. “Is-
is your friend still with you?"
Conversation was held up for a few moments while
a sound came over the wire that made Anne Quirk
feel years younger.


304 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
“No, he's gone back to his home in some cheese,"
said Joe. “Listen, honey, we're taking no chances.
Throw what you're likely to need into a grip and leave
everything else behind. There's nothing there at the
flat that we want. Travel light. Make sure the coast
is clear, and hike out. Keep moving until you're dead
certain nobody is following, then make straight for
that hotel where we went after we were married. You
know where I mean. You'll find a no-good guy there
waiting for you, and take it from me, girlie, he'll see
no harm comes to you from now on.”


CHAPTER XLI
THE RIDDLE IN A SMILE
SILVER was alone. The only light burning was in the
hall. The two officers who had rushed round to the
bungalow from the local police station were already
on their way back to the lockup with Queenie. After
bundling them off Silver had put in one more quick
call to Scotland Yard and ended the conversation
with an abruptness which must have startled Sir Hec-
tor. All that remained now was for the big mouse to
walk into the trap at Bending Willows.
Queenie had gone with a mysterious smile playing
about her lips, the meaning of which Silver was unable
to fathom. Had she, after all, succeeded in leaving
some signal that would act as a warning? Or was there
some other snag in this house of tricks? A booby
trap? Perhaps. If so it would probably be a clever
one.
Ten minutes ticked away while the C.I.D. man
waited. A quarter of an hour! There came a ring on
the telephone, but he ignored it. It might be from the
Yard to explain that he was too late. It might-but
there were other possibilities.
Silver was standing just within a room on the left
of the hall. The main thing was for his quarry to get
305


306
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
inside the house. After that Silver could deal with the
situation somehow. His only weapon, however, was a
staff which lay ready in a hip pocket.
Twenty minutes!
Then came the sound of footsteps on the gravel
path outside. A key was fitted into the door, which
swung open.
And for a moment Silver felt the anguish of utter
disappointment. Instead of the man whom he expected
there had come into the place a typical elderly Lon-
don taxicab driver. And beyond a doubt he was ill.
“Queenie!" the cabbie called out, swaying into the
room opposite.
Silver's reaction at the sound of that voice was in-
stantaneous. He strode swiftly across the hall.
"Lawrence Bruce,” he said, entering the room op-
posite, "I arrest you for the murder of "
Bruce, who had sunk on to a chair by the side of a
desk, raised one hand. In it was a revolver. The
fingers of his other hand were closed round something
on the desk.
"Sally Marsh will be blown to atoms if you come
one step nearer," he said. “And so shall we both of
us.”
It was not the vision of that gleaming revolver
barrel which pulled the detective up sharply, but the
mention of the girl's name and a dreadful ring of truth
in the voice.
So there was, after all, another snag! A dozen feet
separated the two men.
“What do you mean?" demanded Silver.
"As you may observe, my left hand is on a switch,"
said Bruce. “That is connected with a large quantity


THE RIDDLE IN A SMILE 307
of dynamite-sufficient to reduce the whole of this
place to bits. You're too close to me already. Kindly
step back a little way."
Was this gigantic bluff? Beads of sweat stood on
the detective's forehead, but he held his ground.
"I've warned you," said Bruce menacingly.
"Where is Sally Marsh ?" Silver demanded
throatily.
The features of Bruce relaxed a fraction.
"Here under this roof," he said. “A little sleepy
perhaps, because it was necessary to keep her under
the influence of drugs, but otherwise she is perfectly
safe and unharmed. Evidently you haven't searched
the place properly."
“Then your story of her walking out of the office
after receiving a letter was all lies ?”
"On the contrary she did receive a letter, as the boy
explained, but I don't know that it was of any con-
sequence. It is true, however, that she went out at my
request. I invented some trivial excuse for sending her
here, and here she remained according to my instruc-
tions.”
"And now,” said Silver, "you propose to murder her
also ?"
"At least she would know nothing of it, my dear
Silver,” replied Bruce. “Have you ever seen a really
big explosion ? I had some experience of such things
during the war, though fortunately I was not too
close. Nothing could be quicker or more final. I have
often thought that there could be no easier way of
going out. An infinitesimal fraction of a second and
all is finished.”
“I suppose your friend Queenie knew about this in-


308
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
fernal arrangement?" said Silver, remembering the
woman's queer smile as she was taken away.
"Queenie? Yes, but as a matter of fact even she
never knew that I myself might end this way. It was
originally designed for the benefit of others-forgive
me for being personal, but I mean people like detec-
tives from Scotland Yard.”
The C.I.D. man's brain was racing. If Bruce had
not intended to die from the explosion he spoke of,
how would he be able to cause it and escape injury?
Was this all bluff? If so, Silver still had to reckon
with the wicked-looking revolver, but one could take a
chance on that.
He measured the distance between them with his
eyes. No use making a rush straight forward: that
would just be jumping to death. In any case if Bruce
was not bluffing-if, in fact, a huge mine lay in the
cellar of the bungalow awaiting the touch of a de-
tonator-a sudden attack might divert the man's
attention from the switch that his fingers were on.
Without moving a muscle Silver mentally braced
himself and then with a swerving movement leaped
forward.
He was conscious of a flash from the revolver and
of something striking the side of his head. That was
followed by confusion. He was hanging on to the edge
of a mighty precipice, the ground crumbling away
beneath him. In another second he would fall into a
yawning space so vast that the bottom seemed miles
away.
His feet were slipping. He was clawing frantically
at the air. Now he was falling ... falling. ...


316
THE MIDNIGHT MAIL
"It has been the one big fly in my ointment ever
since," Bruce went on. “I could never forget the dread
of being executed.
"As for Hackett, in such a crisis, it seemed the only
thing one could do was to kill him. To have murdered
him and left Enid Mulholland would have been alto-
gether too dangerous, so I decided to wipe her out
also. The idea of all this was unpleasant but that
seemed to be the only logical way out of the situation.
"I guessed there might be a chance to deal with the
girl on the train. And there was. That man Oliver
Foss, of course, had nothing to do with it. Enid Mul-
holland was asleep when I reached the compartment in
which she was travelling. I struck her on the forehead
with a knuckle duster and pulled out of my pocket a
piece of silk cord which I had picked up in the street
that day and preserved for the purpose. So you Yard
sleuths after all hadn't much chance of using the cord
as a clue, had you?
"While I was stooping over the girl tightening the
thing about her neck—as a matter of fact I thought it
was tight enough—Silas Ismay came along the corri-
dor and entered the compartment, probably to give
her some instructions or even dictate a letter.
"You can imagine what happened when he saw what
I was doing. And also, as you can easily realize, once
that racket started I had no alternative to finishing
him off. So I throttled Ismay and threw the body on
the line. Then pitched the girl's handbag after him
with some notion—which immediately afterwards I
realized was utter stupidity—of giving the impression
that robbery had been the motive for the crime.
"As for Hackett, the thing was simple. I had his ad.
and entered the Coeven dictate a lettes.caw what


THE LAST TRICK
317
dress. Nobody saw me either enter or leave the house
where he lived in Battersea. Even if they had, I
shouldn't have been recognized, for I was disguised.
"You remember thinking that Sally Marsh knew
something? Well, of course, she'd heard that conver-
sation between Nobby and Enid Mulholland. Enid
had evidently told her long before that Nobby was a
waster. It was loyalty that kept Sally silent. She only
feared that Nobby was mixed up in that train business.
But it was my fear that she might mention the name
Spider to you which caused me to keep out of the way.
"In your case, my dear Silver, there will be some-
thing of poetic justice about our going up together in
minute fragments. You would have handed me over to
that man with a rope without any compunction. I am
being more merciful to you. No long-drawn-out suffer-
ing. For quite a considerable period you fellows have
tilted a lance at me, and, well in the end I shall have
beaten you. It is no child's game that we have played,
my friend, and this is a fitting finale. Is there any other
point on which you feel curious before I pull this
switch ?”
Silver did not answer. All this time his ears had
been strained for sounds in the garden and now he
heard hurried footsteps. His last instructions to the
Yard were working.
"If there is only the light in the hall burning," he
had said, "keep well away out of sight. But break
straight in if you see lights in any of the rooms. You'll
be needed."
With a crash the window splintered and a hand was
thrust in through the cavity. The catch was being un-
fastened.


CHAPTER XLIII
AFTERWARDS
It was days later and Silver, his head swathed in ban-
dages, was lying propped up on a couch rolling a ciga-
rette, his eyes darting toward the door every few
moments. Even the news he had just received that the
Spider was likely to live long enough to be hanged
had been thrust into the background.
Then the moment for which he had been waiting
occurred. Before him stood Sally. This was the first
time he had seen her since the bungalow went up in
powder.
There were a dozen things that he wanted to say
to her all at once, but neither he nor she spoke. She
came closer, slowly, and the half-made cigarette
trickled from the man's fingers to the floor.
"I couldn't wait any longer, Jim," she was whisper-
ing at last, eyes and lips very near to his, "although
the doctor said "
But Jim Silver's arm was about her shoulder. He
was drawing her still closer. Sally was here, in the
flesh, alive and radiant. That wonderful fact was all
that concerned him.
her all at ombowly, and
a to the floorias whisper
THE END
320









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GRADUATE LIBRARY
DATE DUE
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JAN 27 1975
OCT 9 1982
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