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THE MAELSTROM


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THE MAELSTROM
—T
BY
FRANK EROEST
AUTHOR OF “THE GRELL MYSTERY” r
O
N E W YOR K
EDWARD J. CLO DE
PUBLISHER
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Tº º ji tº Yokº,
PUR}} HBRARY
82.3386
ASTOR LENOX AND
Tii-DEN FOUNDATIONS
R 1948 L
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CoPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
FRANK FR O EST
CopyRIGHT, 1916, BY
E. D. W. A. R. D. J. C. L. O. D. E.


THE MAELSTROM
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i
CHAPTER I
HALLETT blundered into an unlit lamp-post, swore with
fervour, and stood for a second peering for some iden-
tifiable landmark in the black blanket of fog that muf-
fled the street. Where he stood, a sluggish dense drift
had collected; for following the treacherous habit of
London fogs, it lay in patches. About him he could
hear ghostly noises of traffic muffled and as from afar,
but whether the sounds came from before or behind,
from right or left, was more than his bewildered senses
could fathom.
For the last ten minutes he had been walking in a
spectral city among spectres. A by-street had trapped
him and no single wayfarer had come within his lim-
ited area of sight. He lifted his hat and rubbed his
head perplexedly as he came to the conclusion that he
was lost. It was as though London had set out to
teach the young man from New York a lesson. The
fog had him beat.
“Guess I shall fetch somewhere, sometime,” he mut-
tered and strode doggedly on.
He had gone perhaps a dozen yards when from
ahead a quick burst of angry voices broke out. Then
there came a running of feet on the sodden pavement.
Hallett came to a stop, listening. The fog seemed to
thin a trifle.
[1]


THE M A E L S T R O M
“Alarums and excursions,” he murmured. “Won-
der what it’s all about?”
In nine and twenty years of life Jimmie Hallett had
acquired something of a philosophy that made him con-
tent to accept things as they were, save only when they
affected his personal well-being. Then he would sit
up and kick with both feet. His lack of curiosity was
almost cold-blooded. There was indeed a certain inof-
fensive arrogance in his attitude towards the ordinary
affairs of life. He was the sort of man who would not
cross the road to see a dog-fight.
Yet he always had a zest for excitement, providing
it had novelty. A man who has scrambled for a dozen
years in a hotch-potch of vocations retains little en-
thusiasm for commonplaces. When Hallett Senior
had gone out from the combined effects of a Wall Street
cyclone and an attack of heart failure, his son and heir .
had found himself with a hundred thousand dollars less
than nothing. Young Hallett went to his only surviv-
ing relative—an elderly uncle with a liver—and with
the confidence of youth rejected the offer of a cheap
stool in that millionaire's office. He believed he could
get a living as an actor—but a five weeks’ tour in a
fortieth-rate company, which finally stranded in the
wilds of Michigan convinced him of the futility of that
idea. Thereafter he drifted over a wide area of the
United States. Farm-hand, railwayman, cow-puncher,
prospector, and one very vivid voyage as a deck-hand
[3]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
on a cattle boat. It was inevitable that of course he
should eventually drift into that last refuge of the un-
skilled intellectual classes—journalism. Equally of
course it was inevitable that fate, who delights to take
a hand at unexpected moments, should interfere when
he showed signs of making a mark in his profession.
His uncle died intestate and Jimmie leapt at a bound
to affluence beyond his wildest dreams.
He had stayed long enough in New York after that
to realise how extensive and variegated were the ac-
quaintances who had stood by him in adversity. They
took pains that he should not forget it. And forthwith
he had taken counsel of Sleath, the youthful-looking
city editor of The Wire, who breathed words of wisdom
in his ear.
“Go to Europe, Jimmie. Travel and improve your
mind. Let the sharks forget you.” -
So Jimmie Hallett stood lost in a fog, somewhere
within hail of Piccadilly Circus, with an unopened pack-
age in his hand and the memory of a girl’s voice in his
mind. A less observant man than Hallett could not
have failed to perceive that the girl was of a class un-
likely to be involved in any street broil. The man
flattered himself that he was not impressionable. But
he retained an impression of both breeding and looks. .
He dangled the package—it was small and light—
on his finger, and moved forward till an electric
standard gave him an opportunity of examining it more
[4]


THE M A E L S T R O M
closely. It was closely sealed at both ends with red
sealing wax, but the wrapping itself had apparently
been torn from an ordinary newspaper. He hesitated
for a moment and then tore it open. He could scarcely
have told what he expected to find. Certainly not the
thirty or forty cheques that lay in his hand. One by
one he turned them slowly over, as though the inspec-
tion would afford some indication of why they had been
so unexpectedly thrust upon him. A bare possibility
that he had been made an unwitting accomplice in a
theft was dismissed as he noticed that the cheques were
dead—they all bore the cancelling mark of the bank.
Why on earth should the girl have been running away
with the useless cheques? And why should she have
so impulsively confided them to a stranger to avoid them
falling into the hands of her headlong pursuer?
Not that Hallett would have worried overmuch about
these problems had the central figure been plain or
commonplace. She had interested him, and his interest,
once aroused in any person or thing, was always vivid.
Keen-eyed, he scrutinised the cheques, in an endeavour
to decipher the signature. They were all made out by
the same person, and payable to “self.” The name
he read as J. E. Greye-Stratton. Whoever J. E. Greye-
Stratton was he had drawn within three months, in
sums ranging from fifty to three hundred pounds, an
amount totalling—Hallett reckoned in United States
terms—more than fifteen thousand dollars.
[5]


T HIE M A E L S T R O M
He stuffed the cheques into his pocket as an idea
materialised in his mind. An opportune taxi pushed
its nose stealthily through the wall of fog and halted
at his hail.
“Think you can fetch a post-office, sonny?” he de-
manded.
“Get you anywhere, sir,
fully.
“Find your way by the stars, I suppose,” com-
mented Hallett, the tingle of fog still in his eyes.
Nevertheless, the driver justified his boast and his
fare was shortly engrossed with the letter “G” in the
London directory. There was only one entry of the
name he sought, and he swiftly transcribed the address
to a telegraph blank.
“Greye-Stratton, James Edward, Thirty-four, Lin-
stone Terrace Gardens, Kensington, W.”
Shortly the cab was again crawling through the fog,
sounding its syren like a liner in mid-channel. All that
the passenger could make out was a hazy world, dotted
with faint yellow specks, which now and again trans-
formed themselves into lights as they drew near them.
Later the yellow specks grew less as they swerved off the
main road, and in a little while the car drew to a halt.
The driver indicated the house opposite which they
were standing, with a jerk of his thumb, as Hallett
descended.
“That's the place, sir.”
” assented the driver cheer-
[6]


THE M A E L S T R O M
It was little that Hallett could see of the house, save
that it was a big old-fashioned building, with heavy
bow-windows, and a basement, protected by wrought-
iron rails. There was no light in any part of the
house, not even the hall. Twice the young man wielded
the big brass knocker, arousing nothing apparently but
an echo. As he raised it a third time, the door was
thrown open with disconcerting suddenness, and he was
aware of someone standing within the blackness of
the hall. Hallett could distinguish nothing of his
features.
“I wish to see Mr. Greye-Stratton,” said Hallett,
and tendered a card.
The other made no attempt to take it. “He won’t
see you,” he declared with harsh abruptness, and only
a sudden movement of Hallett's foot prevented the door
being slammed in his face.
His teeth gritted together, and he thrust the door
back and himself over the lintel. He was an easy-
tempered man, but the deliberate discourtesy had
roused him to a cold anger. “That will do, my man,”
he said, clipping off each word sharply. “I want ordi-
nary civility, and I’m going to see that I get it. My
name is Hallett—James Hallett, of New York. Now
you go and tell your master that I want to see him
about certain property of his that has come into my
hands. Quick’s the word.” -
There was a pause. When the man in the hall spoke
[7]


THE M A E L S T R O M
again his tone had changed. “I beg your pardon, Mr.
Hallett. It is dark—I mistook you for someone else. I
am sure Mr. Greye-Stratton would have been happy
to see you, but unfortunately he is ill. If you will leave
whatever you have, I will see that it reaches him. By
the way, I am not a servant, I am a doctor. Gore is
my name.”
Hallett thrust his hand in the pocket that contained
the cheques. He had no intention of handing them over
without some information about the girl in black. And
he fancied he detected a note of anxiety in the doctor’s
voice, as though, while forced in a way to civility, he
was anxious for the visitor to go.
“I quite understand, Dr. Gore,” he said coldly, “I
will call at some other time. I should like to return
the property to its owner in person—for a special rea-
son. Good-night.”
“Then you will not entrust—whatever you have to
me?”
“I would rather see Mr. Greye-Stratton at some
future time.” He half turned to go.
“One moment.” The doctor laid a detaining hand
upon his sleeve. “I did not wish to disturb my patient
unnecessarily, but if you insist I will arrange you shall
see him. Will you come with me? I am afraid it is
rather dark. The electric light has gone wrong—
frightfully awkward.”
Hallett groped his way after his guide, his brain
[8]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
busy. It was queer that the light should have given
out—queerer still that no apparent attempt had been
made at illumination, either with oil or candles. The
place was deadly quiet, but that was only natural with
a sick man in the house. He wondered why some
servant had not answered the door. A man of less
hardened temperament would have felt nervous.
The doctor’s footsteps falling with ghostly softness
on the carpet in front of him ceased.
“Here we are, Mr. Hallett. Keep to your left.
This is the room. If you will wait here a second, I
will see if I can get a light. Where are you? Give
me your hand.”
Slim delicate fingers gripped Hallett's hand as he
followed the direction. He passed through a doorway
and for a moment his back was turned towards the
doctor. He heard something whirl in the air and a
blow descended with crushing force on his right shoul-
der. He wheeled with a cry, but there was no question
of resistance. A second blow fell, this time better
directed, and a million stars danced before his eyes. He
dropped like a felled ox.
[9]


CHAPTER II
PUNCTUALLY at half-past six, the little plated alarm
clock exploded and Weir Menzies kicked off the blankets.
Punctually at seven o’clock he had breakfast. Punctu-
ally at half-past seven he delved and weeded in the
square patch of ground that was the envy and despair
of Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting. Punctually at
twenty-past eight he left his semi-detached house and
boarded a car for Westminster Bridge.
There were occasions when the routine was upset,
but it will be observed that on the whole Weir Menzies
was a creature of habit. He had all that respect for
order and method that has made Upper Tooting what
it is. From the heavy gold watch-chain that spanned
his ample waist, to his rubicund face and heavy black
moustache, he wore Tooting respectability all over him.
It was a cause of poignant regret to him that circum-
stance prevented him taking any part in the local gov-
ernment of the borough. Nevertheless, he belonged to
the local constitutional club, and was the highly es-
teemed people’s warden at the Church of All Saints.
The acute observer, knowing all this, might have judged
him a deserving wholesale ironmonger.
And the acute observer would have been wrong.
Punctually at half-past nine, Weir Menzies would
pass up a flight of narrow stone stairs at the back of
[10]


THE M A E L S T R O M
New Scotland Yard into the chief inspector’s room of the
Criminal Investigation Department. From his button-
hole he would take the choice blossom—gathered that
day at Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting—place it
carefully in a freshly-filled vase, exchange his well-
brushed morning coat for a jacket of alpaca, place paper
protectors on his cuffs, and settle down on his high stool
—he preferred a high stool—to half an hour's corre-
spondence.
Mr. Weir Menzies, churchwarden of Upper Tooting,
was in fact Chief Detective Inspector Menzies of the
Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland
Yard. Not that he made any secret of it. There was
no reason why he should. It is only on rare occasions
that a detective needs to conceal his profession.
Although the residents of Magersfontein Road, Upper
Tooting, knew that Mr. Weir Menzies was an admira-
ble churchwarden, they had to take his reputation as
a detective on trust. And being constant subscribers
to circulating libraries, they knew him as an innocent
fraud. A man something over forty, with an increasing
waist-line and a ruddy face, was obviously against the
rules of all the established authorities. It was only
understandable because he was at Scotland Yard.
Everyone knows that official detectives are heavy, dull,
unimaginative fellows, always out of their depths, and
continually receiving the good-natured assistance of
amateurs, by whom they are held in tolerant contempt.
[11]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting, would have
smiled broadly had anyone remarked that Chief De-
tective Inspector Menzies held an international reputa-
tion—that he was held one of the subtlest brains in the
service; that he was a man who had time and again
shown reckless courage and audacity in bringing off a
coup; that he, in short, had individuality and a perfect
knowledge of every resource at his disposal in carrying
out any purpose to which he was assigned.
He looked a commonplace business man; he was a
commonplace business man with many of the traits of
his class. He hated the unexpected and protested that
he loathed with a fierce abomination those cases in
which he was engaged that meant a departure from the
ordinary routine. But yet those cases, when they
arose, there was no man more capable of dealing with
their baffling intricacies than he. He had a faculty of
adjusting himself to an emergency, of ruthlessly dis-
carding the superfluous that in twenty-three years had
carried him to within one rung of the top of the ladder.
It was shortly before midnight. He had returned
from a remote suburb where with a corps of assistants
he had made an entirely successful raid upon certain
pickpockets, who had been too well acquainted with the
resident detectives to give them any chance. It had been
a triumph of organisation and vigilance, and Menzies
had gone back to headquarters to arrange that the his-
tories of the birds he had caged should be ready before
[12]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
the police court proceedings in the morning. He was
struggling into his overcoat when he was summoned to
the telephone. He picked up the receiver irritably.
“Hello,” he said.
A musical buzz answered him, and Menzies allowed
himself an expression that should be foreign to a
churchwarden. Then far away and faint he caught a
voice. “That Mr. Menzies?” -
“Yes,” he answered impatiently. “Speak up. Who
is it? What do you want?”
A prolonged buzz reached him. He was conscious of
someone speaking, but only intermittently could he
hear what was said.
“Pretty done up—buz-z—come at once—buz-z—at
thirty-four—buzz-z—Gardens, Kensington—buzz-z.”
“Number, please?” said a new and distinct voice.
“Blast,” said Menzies simply, and put down the tele-
phone. This addiction to forcible language on occa-
sions of annoyance was a constant regret to him in his
more reflective moments.
Jimmie Hallett's first impression on awakening had
been that someone was swinging a sledge-hammer ir-
regularly on to his temples. He lay still for a little,
wondering why it should be. By and by he sat up and
tried to piece together the events of the evening. His
head ached intolerably, and he found consecutive
thought painful.
[13]


THE M A E L S T R O M
It was totally dark, and he could make out nothing
of where he was. Then the whole thing flashed across
his mind and he staggered rather uncertainly to his
feet and, steadying himself against, the wall, struck a
match.
The feeble flicker showed him a blue papered apart-
ment, furnished as a dining-room. He had been lying
just inside the door, which he now tried. It refused
to answer to his tug, and he realised how weak he was
as he all but toppled backwards. The match went out
and he struck another.
Then it was that he noticed an electric switch and
pulled it over. A rush of light flooded the room and
he tottered to one of the Jacobean armchairs at the
head of the table. The sledge-hammer was still swing-
ing at his temples and things swayed dizzily to and
fro before his eyes. He made a resolute effort to pull
himself together. His eyes roved over the room, and
he noticed a pedestal telephone on a small table in the
corner furthest from him.
“What was the name of the chap Pinkerton gave
me an introduction to,” he muttered, and drawing a
bundle of papers from his breast pocket, sorted them
till the envelope he needed lay at the top.
Chief Detective Inspector Weir Menzies,
New Scotland Yard, S. W.
[14]


THE M A E L S T R O M
Cautiously the man began to move across the hearth-
rug towards the telephone. Four shambling steps he
took, then something that had been hidden by the table
tripped him and he sprawled on all fours. He gave
a little gasp of horror, and steadying himself on his
knees, held his hands a foot in front of his face, gazing
at them stupidly. They were wet—wet with blood,
and the thing that had tripped him was the body of
a man. -
It is one thing to be brought in association at second-
hand, so to speak, with a crime, as are doctors, re-
porters, and detectives, but quite another to be so
closely identified with it as to be an actor in the drama.
Hallett had seen violence, and even death in his time,
but never had cold horror so thrilled him as it did now.
In ordinary condition, with nerves previously unshaken,
he would have been little more moved than a spectator
at a play—perhaps even less so, for real life tragedies
are rarely well stage managed.
Circumstances, however, had conspired to bring home
to him the last touch of terror. The sudden assault,
the locked room, and now the dead man, had played
the mischief with his nerves. He could have shrieked
aloud.
He wiped his hands on his handkerchief, but the stain
still remained. Carefully he stepped over the body
and made his way to the telephone. His imagination
was beginning to work, and he recalled cases where per-
[15]


THE MAEL STRom
fectly innocent men had been the victims of circum-
stantial evidence that had convicted them of hideous
crimes. The story of the cheques thrust upon him in
the fog seemed to him ridiculously unconvincing. Had
his mind been less overwrought, had he been able to
take a calmer survey of the matter, he would probably
never have given his own position a thought. He fin-
gered the telephone book clumsily and his mind reverted
to the coincidence that he should hold a letter of intro-
duction to one of the senior detectives of Scotland
Yard.
“Queer that it should come in so handy,” he grinned
feebly, and then weakness overcame him.
He gave the number. Hours seemed to elapse before
he got Menzies. In a quick rush of words he made him-
self known to the detective and recited the happenings
of the evening. He did not know that barely a dozen
disconnected words had reached him. His strength was
waning and he wanted Menzies to know everything be-
fore he gave way. As he finished the receiver dropped
listlessly from his hand, and for the first time in his
life Jimmie Hallett fainted.
At the other end of the wire Weir Menzies was left
with one of those harassing little problems that he
hated. It was an irregular hour—an hour when he
had reckoned on being safely on his way home. For
all the insistence of the voice at the telephone, it might
be quite a trivial affair. Menzies did not like losing
[16]


THE MAEL STROM
sleep for trivialities. People in trouble are apt to take
distorted views of the importance of their difficulties.
That is why private enquiry agencies flourish.
He was impatient with ambiguous messages. He
thought of his well-aired bed and sighed. But the fact
that he had been appealed to by name ultimately swayed ,
him.
In two minutes he had set in motion the machinery
which would reveal the point from which the voice orig-
inated. It needed no complex reasoning, no swift flash
of inspiration: merely to look up in the Kensington
directory a list of thoroughfares ending in “Gardens,”
and the names of persons who resided at the respective
thirty-fours.
“And get a move on,” he said to one of his men. “I
don’t want to hang about all night. Ask Riddle to
come up and 'phone 'em through to the local people as
you check 'em off. Tell 'em they’ll oblige me by send-
ing out as many spare men as they’ve got to ask at
each address if anyone rang me up.”
He adjusted his coat with precision, lit a cigar, and
sauntered over to the underground station opposite.
Barring accidents, the address would be ready for him
by the time he reached Kensington.
He was not disappointed. One of the advantages
which the Criminal Investigation Department has over
the individual amateur detective, beloved by Magers-
fontein Road, is the co-operation at need of a prac-
[17]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tically unlimited number of trained men. True, the de-
tective staff at Kensington had long since gone home,
since there was no extraordinary business to detain
them, but in this case a dozen ordinary constables
served as well. Nine of them had returned when Men-
zies walked in. There was only one who interested him.
He had reported that he could get no reply from Lin-
stone Terrace Gardens.
“Did you find who lives there?” questioned the chief
inspector.
The reply was prompt. “Yes, sir. Old gentleman
named Greye-Stratton. He lives alone. Had two
servants until last week, when he sacked 'em both be-
cause he said they had been bribed to poison him.”
“Ah!” Menzies nodded approval. “You’ve got
your wits about you, my lad. Where did you get all
this from? "
The constable flushed with pleasure. He was young
enough in the force to appreciate a compliment from
the veteran detective. “The servant next door, sir,”
he answered.
“That will do. Thank you.” Menzies rubbed his
hands with satisfaction as he turned to the uniformed
inspector by his side. “It begins to sound like a case,”
he muttered. All his petulance had gone. When it
came to the point, the man was an enthusiast in his
profession. “I’ll get you to come along with me,
inspector. It sounds uncommonly like a case.”
[18]


CHAPTER III
THE eminent Tooting churchwarden, perched on the
stalwart shoulders of his uniformed colleague, wriggled
his way on to the roof of the porch with an agility that
was justifiable neither to his years nor his weight. He
was taking a certain amount of risk, if there were no
serious emergency within the place, for even a chief
detective inspector may not break into a house without
justification.
He worked for a while with a big clasp knife on the
little landing window, with a skill that would have done
credit to many of the professional practitioners who had
passed through his hands, and at last threw up the sash
and squeezed himself inside.
“Wonder if I’m making a damned fool of myself,
after all?” he muttered with some misgiving as he
struck a match and softly picked his way along the cor-
ridor. He was peculiarly sensitive to ridicule, and he
knew the chaff that would descend on his head if it
leaked out that he had elaborately picked out and
broken into an empty house.
There would be no way of keeping the matter dark,
for every incident of the night would have to be em-
bodied in reports. Every detective in London keeps an
official diary of his work.
He burned only one match to enable him to get his
[19]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
-
- --
bearings. Noiselessly he descended the stairs into the
hall, and his quick eye observed a splash of light across
the floor. It came from under a doorway. He turned
the handle and pushed. The door resisted.
“Locked,” he murmured, and knocked thunderously.
“Hello in there! Anyone about?”
Only the muffled reverberation of his own voice came
back to him. Frowning, he strode to the doorway,
slipped back the Yale lock, and admitted the uniformed
Inan.
“If I had nerves, Mr. Hawksley, this place would
give me the jumps,” he observed. “There’s something
wrong here and I guess it’s in that room. See, there's
a light on.”
“That’s queer,” commented the other. “It could
only just have been switched on. I didn’t notice it out-
side.”
“Shutters,” said Menzies. “Shutters and drawn
curtains. Come on. I’m going to see what’s behind that
door.”
There was no finesse about forcible entry this time.
Half a dozen well-directed kicks shattered the hasp of
the lock and sent the door flying open. Menzies and
his companion moved inside.
For the moment the blaze of the electric light dazzled
them. Menzies shaded his eyes with his hand. Then
his glance fell from the overturned telephone down to
the prostrate figure of Jimmie Hallett. He was across
[20]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
the room in an instant, and made swift examination of
the prostrate man.
“Knocked clean out of time,” he diagnosed. “Help
me get him on the couch. Hello, there’s another of
‘em.” He had observed the body on the hearth-rug.
He bent over the murdered man in close scrutiny but
without touching the corpse. His lips pursed into a
whistle as he marked the bullet wound that showed
among the grey locks at the back of the head. He
was startled but scarcely shocked. -
He straightened himself up. “This looks a queer
business altogether, Hawksley. You’d better get back
to the station. Send up the divisional surgeon and
'phone through to the Yard. They’d better let Sir
Hilary Thornton and Mr. Foyle know. I shall need
Congreve and a couple of men, and you’d better send
for Carless and as many of his staff as can be reached
quickly. They’ll know the district.”
The faculty of quick organisation is one of the prime
qualities of a chief of detectives, and Menzies was at no
loss. The first step in the investigation of most great
mysteries is automatic—the determination of the facts.
It is a kind of circle from facts to possibilities, from
possibilities to probabilities, and from probabilities to
facts. But the original facts must be settled first, and
for any one person to fix them single-handed is an im-
possibility.
There are certain aspects that must be settled by
[21]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
which a great organisation possessed to gather together
into his hands the ends of the case, Jimmie Hallett
awoke once more. The throbbing in his head had gone
and he lay for a while with closed eyes, listlessly con-
scious of the mutter of low voices in the room.
He sat up, and at once a dapper little man was by
his side. “Ah, you’ve woke up. Feeling better?
That's right. Drink this. We want you to pull your-
self together for a little while.”
“Thanks. I’m all right,” returned Hallett mechan-
ically. He drank something which the other held out
to him in a tumbler, and a rush of new life thrilled
through him. “Are you Mr. Menzies?”
“No, I’m the police divisional surgeon. Mr. Men-
zies is in the next room. Think you’re up to telling
him what has happened? He's anxious to know the
meaning of all this.”
“So am I,’” said Hallett grimly, and staggered to his
feet. “Just a trifle groggy,” he added as he swayed,
and the little doctor thrust a supporting shoulder under
his arm.
The three in the next room rose as Hallett
was ushered in. It was Foyle who sprang to assist
Hallett and lifted him bodily on to the settee, which
Menzies pushed under the chandelier. The doctor went
out.
“Quite comfortable, eh?” asked Foyle. “Let me
make that cushion a bit easier for you. Now you’re
[24]


THE MAEL STROM
better. We won’t worry you at present more than we
can help, will we, Menzies?”
The three great detectives, for all that their solici-
tude seemed solely for the comfort of the young man,
were studying him keenly and unobtrusively. Already
they had talked him over, but any suspicions that they
might have held were quite indefinite. At the opening
stage of a murder investigation everyone is suspected.
In that lies the difference between murder and profes-
sional crime. A burglary, a forgery, is usually com-
mitted for one fixed motive by a fixed class of criminal,
and the search is narrowed from the start. A million-
aire does not pick pockets, but he is quite as likely as
anyone else to kill an enemy. In a murder case, no de-
tective would say positively that any person is innocent
until he is absolutely certain of the guilt of the real
murderer.
Hallett, whose brain was beginning to work swiftly,
held out his hand to the chief inspector. “Pleased to
meet you, Mr. Menzies. I’ve got a letter of introduction
to you from Pinkerton. That's how I came to ring you
up. My name’s Hallett.”
Menzies shook hands. “ Glad to know you, Mr. Hal-
lett. This is Sir Hilary Thornton—Mr. Heldon
Foyle.”
“And now,” said Jimmie decisively, when the intro-
ductions were done. “Do you people think I killed this
man, Greye-Stratton?”
[25 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The possibility had been in the minds of everyone in
the room, but they were taken aback by the abruptness
of the question. Weir Menzies laughed as though the
idea were preposterous.
“Not unless you’ve swallowed the pistol, Mr. Hal-
lett. We’ve found no weapon of any kind. You were
locked in, you know. Now tell us all about it. I
couldn’t hear a word you said on the telephone.”
They all listened thoughtfully until he had finished.
Thornton elevated his eyebrows in question at his two
companions as the recital closed.
“Where are those cheques?” asked Foyle. “They
may help us.”
Hallett patted his pockets in rapid succession.
“They’re gone!” he exclaimed. “They must have been
taken off me when I was knocked out.”
“H’m,” said Foyle reflectively. “Can you make
anything of it, Menzies?”
The chief inspector was gnawing his moustache—a
sure sign of bewilderment with him. He shrugged his
shoulders. “There’s little enough to take hold of,” he
returned. “Could you recognise any of the people you
saw again, Mr. Hallett? the girl, the man who was run-
ning after her, or the chap in the house.”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea of what the face of either
of the men was like,” said Hallett.
“But the woman—the girl?” persisted Menzies.
Hallett hesitated. “I-I think it possible that I
[26 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
might,” he admitted. Then an impulse took him.
“But I’m sure she’s not the sort of person to be mixed
up in—in 35 -
The three detectives smiled openly. “In this kind of
she-mozzle you were going to say,” finished Menzies.
“There’s only one flaw in your reasoning. She is.”
Wrung as dry of information as a squeezed sponge,
Hallett was permitted to depart. The courtesy of Sir
Hilary Thornton supplied him with a motor-car back to
his hotel, the forethought of Menzies provided him with
an escort in the shape of a detective sergeant. Hallett
would have been less pleased had he known that that
same mentioned detective sergeant was to be relieved
from all other duties for the specific purpose of keeping
an eye upon him. Weir Menzies was always cautious,
and though his own impression of the young man had
been favourable enough, he was taking no chances.
All through that night Weir Menzies drove his allies
hither and thither in the attempt to bring the ends of
the ravelled threads of mystery into his hand. No one
knew better than he the importance of a first hot burst
of pursuit. An hour in the initial stages of an investi-
gation is worth a week later on. The irritation at being
kept out of bed had all vanished now that he was on
the warpath. He could think without regret of a com-
mittee meeting of the Church Restoration Fund the
following day from which he would be forced to absent
himself.
[27 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
Scores of messages had been sent over the private
telegraph and telephone systems of the Metropolitan
Police before, at seven o’clock in the morning, he took
a respite. It was to an all-night Turkish bath in the
neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus that he made his
way.
At nine o’clock, spruce and ruddy, showing no trace
of his all-night work beyond a slight tightening of the
brows, he was in Heldon Foyle's office. The superin-
tendent nodded as he came in.
“You look fine, Menzies. Got your man?”
The other made a motion of his hand deprecatory of
badinage. “Nope,” he said. “But I’ve got a line on
him.”
Foyle sat up and adjusted his pince-nez. “The
deuce you have. Who is he?”
“His name is Errol,” said Menzies. “He’s a prodi-
gal stepson of Greye-Stratton, and was pushed out of
the country seven years ago.”
“Menzies,” said Foyle, laying down his pince-nez.
“You ought to be in a book.” -
[28 J


CHAPTER IV
WEIR MENZIEs fitted his form to the big armchair that
flanked Foyle's desk, and dragged a handful of reports
secured by an elastic band from his breast pocket.
Foyle snipped the end off a cigar and leaning back
puffed out a blue cloud of smoke.
“It’s been quick work, though I say it myself,” ob-
served Menzies complacently, “ especially considering
it’s a night job. This night work is poisonous—no
way of getting about, no certainty of finding the wit-
nesses you want, everyone angry at being dragged out
of bed, and all your people knocked out the next day
when they ought to be fresh.”
Foyle flicked the ash from his cigar, and a mischievous
glimmer shone in his blue eyes. “It’s tough luck, Men-
zies. I know you hate this kind of thing. Now
there’s Forrester—he's got nothing in particular on:
if you like—”
Menzies’ heavy eyebrows contracted as he scru-
tinised his chief suspiciously. Untold gold would not
have induced him to willingly relax his hold of a case
that interested him. “I’m not shifting any job of
mine on to anyone else’s shoulders, Mr. Foyle,” he said
acidly.
“That's all right,” said Foyle imperturbably. “Go
ahead.”
[29]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Menzies tapped his pile of statements. “As far as
I can boil down what we’ve got, this is how it stands.
Old Greye-Stratton was a retired West Indian mer-
chant—dropped out of harness eight years ago, and has
lived like a hermit by himself in Linstone Terrace Gar-
dens ever since. It seems there was some trouble about
his wife—she was a widow named Errol when he mar-
ried her, and she had one son. Five years before the
crash there was a daughter born. Anyway, as I was
saying, trouble arose, and he kicked his wife out, sent
the baby girl abroad to be educated, and the boy—he
would then be about twenty—with his mother. Well, the
woman died a few years after. Young Errol came down
to Greye-Stratton, kicked up a bit of a shindy, and was
given an allowance on condition that he left the country.
He went to Canada, and thence on to the States, and
must have been a bit of a waster. A year ago he re-
turned to England and turned up in Linstone Terrace
Gardens; there was a row and he went away swearing
revenge. Old Greye-Stratton stopped supplies, and
neither the lawyers nor anyone else have seen anything
of Errol since.”
Foyle rolled a pencil to and fro across his blotting-
pad with the palm of his hand. He interrupted with
no question. What Menzies stated as facts he knew
the chief inspector would be able to prove by sworn
evidence, if necessary. He was merely summarising evi-
dence. The inference he allowed to be drawn, and so
[30 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
far it seemed an inference that bade fair to place a
noose round young Errol’s neck.
“We have got this,” went on Menzies, “from people
in Linstone Terrace Gardens, from Greye-Stratton’s
old servants, from the house agents from whom he rented
his house, and from Pembroke, of Pembroke and
Stephens, who used to be his solicitors. Greye-Stratton
was seventy years old, as deaf as a beetle, and as ec-
centric as a monkey. I don’t believe he has kept any
servant for more than three months at a stretch—we
have traced out a dozen, and there must be scores more.
But it is only lately that he has taken to accusing them
of being in a plot to murder him. The last cook he
had he made taste everything she prepared in his
presence.
“He had no friends in the ordinary way and few
visitors. Twice within the last year he has been visited
by a woman, but who or what she was no one knows. She
came evidently by appointment and was let in by him,
himself; remained half an hour and went away. Prac-
tically all his business affairs had been carried on by
correspondence, and he was never known to destroy a
letter. Yet we have found few documents in the house
that can have any bearing on the case, except possibly
this, which was found in the grate of the little bedroom
he habitually used.”
He extracted from the pile of statements a square
of doubled glass, which he passed to Foyle. It con-
[31]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tained several charred fragments of writing paper with
a few detached words and letters discernible.
“J. E. Gre. . . . Will see . . . Id you . . .
ues . . . mother to her death . . . ous swine . . .
let me hea. . . .”
“Errol's writing?” queried Foyle.
“I haven’t got a sample yet, but I’ve little doubt of
it. Now here’s another thing. It was Greye-Stratton’s
custom to lock up the house every night at dusk, himself.
He would go round with a revolver and see to every one
of the bolts and fastenings, and no one was allowed in
or out thereafter. It was one of the grievances of the
servants that they were prisoners soon after four o’clock
each day in winter. And though he always slept with
that revolver under his pillow, we can’t find it.
“There’s another thing. Greye-Stratton had a little
study where he spent most of the day, and there was a
safe built in to the wall. It may mean nothing, or any-
thing, but the safe was open and there was not a thing
in it. Now we have been able to discover no one who
has ever seen that safe open before. It’s curious, too,
in view of Hallett’s story about the cheques, that we
have not been able to lay our hands on a single thing
that refers to a banking transaction—not so much as
a paying-in book or a bunch of counterfoils.
“The doctors say the old man was shot about three
hours before we got there. That would be about half-
[32]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
past nine. I don’t know how Hallett struck you, Mr.
Foyle, but according to his own account he must have
arrived at Linstone Terrace Gardens at nine.”
Foyle rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You mean he
may have been there when the shot was fired.”
Menzies made an impatient gesture. “I don’t know.
I own freely I don’t quite take in this yarn, and yet the
man struck me as genuine. He’s got good credentials,
and if he's mixed up with the murder, why did he 'phone
to me?”
“Search me,” said Foyle. “What about the daugh-
ter? You said there was a girl.”
Menzies stuck his thumbs in the sleeve holes of his
waistcoat. “That’s another queer point. She was
brought up abroad, and scarcely ever saw the old man.
Pembroke says she spent her holidays with an old
couple down in Sussex, to whom he had instructions to
pay three hundred pounds a year. When she left school
he had the allowance paid to her direct. She had a
taste for painting and was apparently quite capable of
looking after herself. For two years she has not called
or given any instructions about it. He wrote Greye-
Stratton, who retorted it was none of his business—
that the allowance would be paid over to his firm, and
that if the girl did not choose to ask for it, it could
accumulate. He did not seem at all concerned at her
disappearance. Take it from me, Mr. Foyle, we shall
run across some more damned funny business before we
[33]


THE M A E L S T R O M
get to the bottom of this. There's not even a ghost of
a finger-print. If only we can find Errol 92
Foyle was too old a hand to offer conjecture at so
early a stage of the case. Nor did Menzies seem to
expect any advice. Hard as he had driven the investiga-
tion during the night, the ground was not yet cleared.
Until he had all the facts in his possession it was useless
to absolutely pin himself to any one line of reasoning.
There was now one man who, on known facts, might
have committed the murder. But plausible as was the
supposition that Errol was the man, the detectives knew
that at best it was only a suspicion. And suspicion
nowadays does not commit a man. It does not always
justify an arrest. There must be evidence, and so far
there was not a scrap of proof that Errol had been
within a thousand miles of Linstone Terrace Gardens
on the night of the murder.
Menzies went away with his bundle of documents, to
have them typed, indexed, and put in order, so that he
could lay his hand on any one needed at a moment's
notice. He was in for a busy day.
Two advertisements he drafted in the sanctuary of
his own office. One was to check Hallett’s own account
of the evening before, and to identify, if possible, the
street in which the cheques had been forced on him.
“f 1 REWARD. The taxi-cab driver who, on the
evening of —, drove a fare from the
[34]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
West End to 34, Linstone Terrace Gardens, Ken-
sington, will receive the above reward on communi-
cating with the Public Carriage Office, New Scot-
land Yard. S. W.”
The other ran differently, and seemed to give him
more trouble. Several sheets of note-paper he wasted,
and discontentedly surveyed his final effort.
“If James Errol, last heard of at Columbus,
Ohio, U. S. A., will communicate—”
He crushed the sheet up, flung it in the waste-paper
basket, and lifted a speaking-tube. “Any newspaper
men there, Green? Right. Tell 'em I'll see 'em in half
an hour. Send me up a typist.” -
The newspaper press, if deftly handled, may be a
potent factor in the detection of crime. Moreover, the
ubiquitous reporter is not to be evaded for long by the
cleverest detective living. The wisest course is to meet
him with fair words—to guide his pen where there is
a danger of his writing too much, and put him on his
honour on occasion. Many a promising case has been
spoilt by tactless treatment of a pressman at a wrong
moment.
Menzies dictated an account of the murder, in which
he said just as much as he wanted to say and not a word
more. The conclusion ran:
[35]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“The stepson of the deceased gentleman, a Mr.
James Errol, left England for the United States
many years ago, and his present whereabouts are
unknown. The police are anxious to get in to touch
with him, in order that certain points in connection
with his father’s career should be cleared up.”
The chief detective inspector knew that the simple
paragraph would throw into the search for Errol the
energies and organisation of every great newspaper—an
aid he did not despise. It was not intended as an official
statement. The Criminal Investigation Department
does not issue bulletins officially. It was an act of cour-
tesy, and incidentally a stroke of policy to maintain the
good-will of the Press. The reporters might para-
phrase it as they would.
He received the newspaper men pleasantly, parried
their chaff and too adroit questions with unruffled good-
humour, and told them little anecdotes which had not
the slightest bearing on the murder or Greye-Stratton.
They read the typewritten sheets he handed them greed-
ily and cross-examined him as mercilessly as ever he had
been cross-examined at the Old Bailey. A clerk brought
a card to him and he read it without a change of coun-
tenance.
“In a minute,” he said to the waiting clerk, and put
the card in his waistcoat pocket. “Well, gentlemen,
you know as much as I do now. If there's anything else
[36]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
you want to know, just drop in and see me when you
like. Good morning.”
They accepted their dismissal, and he took another
glance at the card. “Miss Lucy Olney,” he read; and
underneath, written in pencil: “Peggy Greye-Stratton.”
[37]


- CHAPTER v
THE early evening papers were on the streets before
Jimmie Hallett rose, and the inevitable reporters had
established a blockade of his hotel. He cursed them
while he shaved. As an old newspaper hand himself,
he had little taste to be served up again all hot and
spiced for the delectation of a morbidly hungry
public. *
He surveyedra salver full of cards that had been
brought up to him*: Vivid recollections
came to him of the way in which he had himself dealt
in “personal sketches,” and “personal statements” on
big stories, and he began to conceive a certain fellow-
feeling for his long-forgotten victims. But his chin
grew dogged.
“I’ll see 'em in hell before I’ll talk. Go away and
tell 'em I’m dead.”
The liveried functionary who had brought the cards
gave as near an approach to a grin as his dignity per-
mitted. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly; “they’ll not be-
lieve it, sir.”
Hallett swung his eyes sideways to the man, and his
hand slipped to his trousers pocket. It was no use
getting angry. “Say, what are you getting out of this,
sonnie?” he demanded. “It’s all right. You needn’t
answer.” A bank-note crackled between his fingers.
[38]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“If you can clear out the gang below this is yours.
It’s more than they’ll give you.”
“Very good, sir. There’ll be no harm in telling
them you’re in a very critical condition, sir, I suppose?”
“Not in the least. If they’ve any bowels of com-
passion they won’t worry a dying man. It will stave
'em off for a while, perhaps.”
As a matter of fact, beyond a mild headache and
some stiffness, he felt scarcely a trace of the attentions
of his overnight assailant. He was uncertain whether
that was a tribute to the skill of the divisional surgeon
or to the hardness of his skull. He inwardly congratu-
lated himself that the injury was not a particularly
noticeable disfigurement. Indeed a skillful brushing of
the hair almost hid it.
He descended to breakfast with an appetite that of
itself was proof that his general health remained un-
affected, and discovering that there was a back entrance
to the hotel, decided to make use of it, lest some per-
tinacious reporter might still be lingering in the recep-
tion hall. He wanted to know something of what the
police were doing, and a visit to Scotland Yard seemed
the best way of finding out. In the background of his
thoughts there was perhaps less concern that a mur-
derer should be brought to justice than curiosity in
regard to the lady of the fog.
There is a way, mostly used by tradesmen, at the
Palatial Hotel, which leads through a narrow alley for
[39]


THE M A E L S T R O M
fifty yards on to the Embankment. Through this Hal-
lett sauntered. He was halfway through when a tap
on the shoulder caused him to wheel. He confronted a
slim-built, shallow-faced man, of lank moustache and
burning black eyes.
“Pardon,” he said. “Your name is Hallett?” He
spoke silkily and the extremely correct pronunciation
of his words showed that he was neither English nor
American.
“Well?” demanded Hallett shortly. He feared that
he had been run down by a reporter after all.
“You were at the place where this man was killed
yesterday—eh?” The man shook a newspaper under
his face.
“Well?” said Hallett again. He had resumed his
walk but the other was keeping pace with him.
A hand caught at his arm. The burning black eyes
were within three inches of his face. “You know
who killed heem, eh?” The English had become a
little less correct under stress of some excitement.
“You have not told the pol-lice yet. You will not tell
them?”
Hallett shook himself free angrily. “Look here, my
man,” he said. “I don’t propose to answer your ques-
tions, so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Now git.”
The foreigner’s hand dropped to his pocket. He did
not remove it, but pressed something hard through the
[40]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
cloth against the young man’s ribs. “You are hasty,
Mr. Hallett,” he remonstrated. “You don’t know what
it is you say—what you’re up against. This is a pistol
you can feel”—he pressed it close—“ and unless you
listen quietly I shall keel you dead. Understand?”
“Well?” said Hallett quietly.
“You were at the house. You saw who killed the
old man? You would know him again?” The man did
not wait for an answer. “You must keep your mouth
shut. This is for a warning. If you see him again you
not tell—eh? There are many of us. You will be
watched. And if you split ” A prod with the pistol
finished the sentence.
The theory that his molester was a reporter had
long ago been abandoned by Jimmie Hallett. It was
evidently thought that he had seen the face of the man
at Linstone Terrace Gardens and he was to be terrorised
into silence. He had sense enough to reflect that for
all the audacity of the hold-up, the threat of surveil-
lance was bluff—perhaps even the concealed pistol was
bluff. Not that his actions would have differed much
even had he supposed them real.
He took a quick step backwards and sideways and
a bullet that tore its way through the cloth of the other
man’s pocket told that that part of the story was relia-
ble. Then Hallett’s knee was in his back and Hallett's
arms were woven in a strangle-hold about his throat.
The man collapsed, gurgling.
[41]


T H E M A E H, S T R O M
The whole business had occurred in barely two sec-
onds of time. As they fell there was a third arrival.
“Hold him down a minute, Mr. Hallett. That’s all
right.” The third man possessed himself of the squirm-
ing captive’s wrists and twisted them behind his back
to Hallett. Then he methodically and quickly ran his
hands through the prostrate man’s clothing, possessing
himself of a still smoking Derringer and a formidable
sheath-knife.
“Thank you, sir. Now this gentleman might get up.
We’ll run him along to King Street station and see what
Mr. Menzies has to say about it.”
Then Hallett noted that the man who had come to
his assistance was the liveried functionary who had ac-
cepted his five-pound note to put off the press men less
than an hour ago. But he no longer wore livery. He
was in quiet, unassuming tweeds and his manner was not
exactly that which might be expected from a waiter to
an hotel guest—even in the circumstances.
He surprised Hallett’s look of enquiry and smiled as
he locked his arm into that of the prisoner. “Detective
Sergeant Royal, sir,” he explained. “I’ll let you know
all about it later. What's your name, my man?” He
shook his captive slightly. -
“Smeeth—William Smeeth,” said the man sullenly,
and Royal winked at Hallett.
“That’s a good old Anglo-Saxon name,” he said.
“Come along.”
[42]


THE MA E L S T R O M
It was in the Criminal Investigation office at King
Street, while they were awaiting Menzies, that Royal
gave his explanation with a certain apologetic tone.
“It was this way, Mr. Hallett. You see, Mr. Menzies
asked me to keep an eye on you when you were sent
home yesterday. Of course he thought you were all
right, but it doesn’t do to take anyone’s say-so in our
trade. This is murder, you see, and though it seemed
all right, you might have forged or stolen the introduc-
tion you had. We couldn’t be sure your name was really
Hallett.” -
“And sandbagged myself on the back of the head,”
interpolated Hallett with irony.
Royal gave a shrug. “Mr. Menzies doesn’t take any
risks, sir. It couldn’t do you any harm. They know
me at the hotel and that’s how it was I was able to get
into livery and walk into your room pretty well as I
liked.” -
A new light broke upon Hallett. “I get you. I
thought perhaps I was a bit fogged when I got up and
had forgotten where I put things. You've been search-
ing my room.”
Royal’s face never shifted a muscle. “I don’t admit
it, sir. That would be illegal without your permis-
sion.” -
“Illegal or not, you did it,” retorted Hallett. “I
hope you’re quite satisfied.” -
“Oh, there’ll be no more trouble about that. Mr.
[43]


THE M A E L S T R O M
Menzies told me on the telephone just now that he'd
cabled to the States and they’ve put your reputation
straight. Besides, there’s what I learned about you.”
“I suppose you read my letters,” ventured Hallett,
“No. Don’t worry to soothe me down. I’d probably
have half killed you if I’d caught you at it, but I’m
quite calm now. By the way, there was a fiver 29
A flush mounted to the temples of the detective and
he shook his head in vehement denial of the implication
contained in the broken sentence. “I had to take it or
you might have suspected something. I passed it on
to the servants and told 'em what to do. I never saw
the press people myself. Some of 'em might have
known me. When you went down to breakfast I changed
my clothes and slipped a 'phone message through to
headquarters. They told me to hang on to you till
Mr. Menzies had seen you. You’d never have known
a word about it if it hadn’t been for our bird down
below.” He jerked his head in the direction of the
cells.
Hallett began to appreciate some of the realities of
detective work. Before he could make any comment,
Menzies came in. He nodded affably to the young
Inan.
“Morning, Mr. Hallett; not much the worse for last
night, I see. I’ve got a little job for you presently.
Meanwhile I want to see your friend down below. Like
to come along?”
[44]


THE M A E L S T R O M
He made no apology for the espionage he had set on
foot and Hallett did not think it worth while to thrash
out the subject again.
“William Smith,” it seemed, had already been
searched with care and thoroughness. Royal explained
to his chief that nothing which would serve as a hint
to who he was had been found on him—nothing but
the pistol, nine cartridges, and some money.
“Have you looked for the name of the tailor on his
clothes—the brace buttons, the inside of the breast
pocket, the trousers band?” demanded Menzies.
“Of course, sir,” said Royal. He was a trifle of
fended that it should even be thought that he had
neglected so elementary a precaution. “There’s nothing
—nothing at all.”
Preceded by a uniformed inspector they went down
to the cells. Smith looked up sullenly from the bench
on which he was seated and met Menzies’ gaze squarely.
The detective chief was no believer in Lombroso’s the-
ories of physiognomy, but he studied the face intently.
In point of fact he was analysing the features to dis-
cover if he had seen the man before. He wanted,
too, to get some clue as to the manner he should
adopt—authoritative and official, or familiar and per-
suasive. *
“Well, sonny,” he said gently. “You’ve tumbled
into a mess. Attempted murder is a serious business in
this country.”
[45]


THE M A E L S T R O M
Smith glanced at him blackly over his shoulder.
Menzies went on: “Of course we don’t believe the cock-
and-bull story you told Mr. Hallett of there being a
gang of you 35
“You don’t, eh?” exclaimed the prisoner, wheeling
in sudden passion to face his visitors. “Then you are
—what shall I say—wooden blockheads.” He pointed
a long slender forefinger at each of them in turn. “You!
and you! and you!—I tell you, you will be marked. I
failed—but there are others who will not fail, if you
persist.” -
Royal turned away to hide a snigger. This kind of
melodrama failed to impress him.
“No doubt, no doubt,” assented Menzies soothingly.
He might have been calming down a headstrong ques-
tioner at a vestry meeting. “But there are a good
many police officers in London. It will take a long time
to kill 'em off. Now why don’t you be reasonable, Mr.
Smith?’” -
“Pah!” interrupted the prisoner. He spat on the
cell floor to indicate his contempt.
“You’ve shown you know something about this mur-
der,” went on Menzies. “The judge is pretty sure to
take that into account one way or the other at your
trial. I, of course, should tell him if you helped us.
It would probably make a difference, you know.”
The prisoner showed two rows of yellow teeth in an
unmirthful, contemptuous grin. “Go away, wooden-
[46]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
-
head. I shall not go to prison, but you will die. You
don’t know what you call—what you are up against.”
“Perhaps I’ve got an idea,” said Menzies. His voice
changed. “I don't know whether you're playing the
fool, my man,” he said sternly, “ or whether you really
believe that kind of wild talk. Perhaps your friend
Errol will be able to enlighten us.”
“Errol?” said Smith blankly. “I know him not.”
“I hear you,” said Menzies. “You think over what
I’ve said, my lad. Meanwhile, we’ll have a doctor to
look at you.”
[47]


*
****
CHAPTER WI
MENZIEs let an unparliamentary expression slip from
his lips as the cell door clanged behind them. It is
tantalising to have a piece of evidence drop into one’s
lap, so to speak, and then refuse to be evidence. He was
annoyed because his efforts to unlock the lips of the
prisoner had failed. He knew that if only the man
could have been induced to talk, days, possibly weeks,
of heart-breaking labour would be saved.
This fresh development had him guessing, as Jimmie
Hallett might have said. Who was “William Smith ”?
Why had he threatened Hallett, and even gone so far
as to try to carry his threat into execution? The hint
of an organised conspiracy to save the murderer of
Greye-Stratton would have excited his derision if it
had not aroused speculation. The secret societies in
England may talk murder at times, but they never seri-
ously plot murder or carry out a murder. A man who
perils his neck has invariably some strong, personal mo-
tive. And when others actively shield him they also have
some motive other than pure altruism.
. One person may commit an irresponsible act for no
reason; it is even conceivable that two people may act
in concert in some insane crime. But here were at least
three people concerned and possibly more—the woman
who had passed the cheques to Hallet, the murderer of
[48]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Greye-Stratton, and “William Smith.” What was the
link that bound them all together? That each was act-
ing from some powerful self-interest he felt confident.
It might be that there was a community of interest, but
he was sceptic enough to think that accidental.
The chief inspector checked his flow of thought with
a jerk. Speculation without materials spelt a fixed
theory—and to a detective too early a theory may be
fatal. He is apt to try to prove his theory rather than
the truth.
He laid a hand on Hallett’s arm as the gaoler inserted
a key in the big steel door that led to the charge room.
“Wait a minute. There are a dozen people the other
side of the door waiting for us. I want you to have a
good look at them when you go in. If you recognise
any of them I want you to go up and touch her.”
“Her,” repeated Hallett. His pulse throbbing unac-
countably faster. Menzies eyed him keenly.
“You said last night that you would probably know
the woman again who planted the cheques on you. I’m
relying on you, Mr. Hallett. You’re a man of the
world. Don’t run away with the idea that a pretty face
can’t be mixed up in crime.” -
“So you've run her down. Why didn't you tell me
before? Who is she? Does she admit passing the
cheques?”
Menzies shook a forefinger blandly at the young man.
“I’ll answer your questions some other time. Only play
[49]


THE MA E L S T R O M
the game, Mr. Hallett.” He was a shrewd judge of
men, and all along he had been doubtful whether Jim-
mie's chivalry would be proof against the test to which
he proposed to put it.
And Jimmie himself was doubtful. A week—a day—
ago he would have ridiculed the idea that a pair of blue
eyes, seen only once, could have swayed him in any de-
gree. He did not put his thoughts into form, but he
wondered what the effect to her of an identification
might be. Had Menzies any suspicion against her?
Jimmie found himself arguing illogically enough that it
was impossible. Menzies’ words braced him as they
were intended to—come what would, he would point her
out if she were in the charge room.
And then the door swung back. The charge room,
lofty and bare, was tenanted by a little group of women
seated in a row, at the lower end. Apart from them,
in the centre, by the inspector’s tall desk, were a couple
of officers. A third was leaning against the dock. The
chatter of voices ceased.
“Take a good look at these ladies,” said Menzies’
suave voice. -
Jimmie had not needed more than one glance. There
was a sufficient general resemblance among the army of
women, but she was unmistakable. She was the second
from the right. He had taken one pace towards her
when her gaze met his. There was nothing in it of ap-
peal. It was indifferent, cold, impassive. Yet Hallett's
[ 50 )


THE M A E L S T R O M
resolution wavered. He walked past her along the row
and back again. He felt himself a fool. There was not
the faintest reason why he should not identify her. She
was a stranger. She was at least indirectly responsible
for the unpleasant experiences that had beset him. She
was possibly concerned in a deliberate murder. And
then out of the tail of his eye he saw her moisten her
dry lips. That was the only trace of emotion she gave.
“It’s no good, Mr. Menzies,” he said quietly. “I
don’t recognise anyone here.” He had played poker in
his time and his face and voice were absolutely expres-
sionless.
Menzies tapped a forefinger thoughtfully alongside
his nose and smiled ruefully.
“All right,” he said, and Jimmie fancied there was
an inner shade of meaning to the words. “That will do,
ladies, thank you.”
The women—wives and daughters of police officials
for the most part—separated. Only the girl of the
cheques remained behind. As the room emptied she
walked towards Menzies.
“That's over, Miss Greye-Stratton,” he said cheer-
fully. “I am ever so much obliged to you. I want you
to know Mr. Hallett—the gentleman who first called
our attention to the death of your father.”
Jimmie concealed the surprise that the name gave him.
Although there was a certain touch of melancholy in
the oval face, there was none of that grief which might
[51]


THE M A E L S T R O M
have been expected in a girl who had suddenly learned
of the murder of her father. For a moment he was re-
pelled. He murmured some conventional phrase of sym-
pathy, but she swept it away as though aware that her
manner needed explanation.
“Yes, this is very dreadful, Mr. Hallett, but not
so dreadful to me as it might have been. You see I
scarcely knew my father. We were almost complete
strangers.”
“Miss Greye-Stratton called on me at the Yard as
soon as she heard of the murder,” interposed Menzies.
“I thought it as well in the circumstances that there
should be no ground for misunderstandings. You see
your story of the way the cheques came into your pos-
session is bound to make talk when you give evidence
at the inquest. I wanted-it to be definitely clear that
Miss Greye-Stratton was not the lady and she was good
enough to consent to this arrangement.”
Hallett wondered how the diplomacy of the detective
would have got over the difficulty if the girl had refused.
That she had consented showed nerve, for she had not
known that he would not identify her. He was curious,
too, as to what would have happened if he had picked
her out. Would she have been arrested on suspicion?
“If it had been Miss Greye-Stratton she would
hardly have sought you out,” he remarked.
“No, no, of course not,” said Menzies soothingly.
“I never thought for a moment that she was the woman.
[52]


THE M A E L S T R O M
One likes to save anything in the nature of scandal,
though. I remember a case where two elderly ladies—
sisters—living in a country house were attacked by
someone with a hammer. One was found dead, the other
unconscious—she remained unconscious for weeks. The
hammer was found in an outhouse a hundred yards away.
Now there was a considerable amount of gossip and
the theory was firmly held by dozens of people that the
living sister had attacked the dead one. They over-
looked the fact that to have done so she must have
walked to the place where the hammer was found after
her own injuries had been inflicted. That’s an example
of what I mean.”
The girl nodded. “I am quite sure you only meant
to save me possible future unpleasantness. Is there
anything else? You have my address.”
“There is no other way at the moment in which you
can help. As matters develop I may call on you. It
has been very good of you 39
She stretched out her slim gloved hand to Hallett.
But he was not inclined to let her escape so easily. She
owed him something, if only an explanation. “I am
going your way,” he said unblushingly. “Perhaps if
you don’t min 35
“You are very kind, Mr. Hallett,” she said
formally.
Menzies stroked his moustache and his eyes roved
sideways to his aide-de-camp, Royal, who, after an ab-
[53]


THE M A E L S T R O M
sence of two or three minutes, had now returned. Royal
nodded almost imperceptibly, and the inspector said
good-bye.
“By the way, you had better be at the police court
at two, Mr. Hallett. We shall charge this man Smith
today. I don’t expect you’ll be kept long. It will be
purely formal. We shall apply for a remand.”
Hallett and the girl went down the steps to the street. " …
He was conscious that though she appeared to be gazing
serenely in front of her that she occasionally scru- *
tinised him with curious eyes.
Not till they were a hundred yards away from the
police station did either of them speak again. Then
Jimmie ventured on the ice.
“Perhaps now you will tell me what it’s all about?”
“Oh!” she stopped and turned full on him with
the wide-open, innocent blue eyes of a child. “So you
knew all the time. I wasn’t sure.”
“Wasn't sure that I knew you as the girl in the
fog?” - -
“Yes. Shall we walk on? We might attract atten-
tion standing here. Why did you do it? Why didn’t
you denounce me?”
Jimmie twiddled his walking-stick. “Hanged if I
know,” he confessed. Her self-possession rather
daunted him. “I thought—that is—if you wanted to
you would have explained the incident yourself.”
“That’s no reason. You didn’t know me. There
[54]


THE MIA E L S T R O M
was no earthly motive. All the same I am grateful to
you, Mr. Hallett—sincerely grateful.” She sighed.
A porter with a parcel under his arm loitered three
yards behind them. Ten yards behind him a “nut,”
scrupulously dressed and seemingly conscious of nothing
but the beauty of his attire, swaggered aimlessly. Men-
zies, as has been said, was not a man who took anything
for granted. His arrangements for “covering ” Peggy
Greye-Stratton in the event of Hallett not recognising
her had been completed long before he had confronted
them in the charge room.
Hallett might have guessed—if he had thought about
it at all. The girl certainly did not. Jimmie caught
at her last words.
“You can prove that. Although we have only been
formally introduced in the last five minutes, we are not
exactly strangers. Come and lunch with me. Then we
can talk. There are several things I want to know.”
She assented, it seemed to him somewhat indifferently.
He hailed a taxi-cab and gave the name of a famous
restaurant. As she sank back in the cushions it was as
though a mask had dropped from her face. It had sud-
denly become utterly weary. She gasped once or twice
as if for breath. Only for an instant had the mask
dropped, but Hallett had seen and understood. The
girl was strained to breaking point, supporting her part
only by strength of will.
What that part was, and why she was playing it, he
[ 55]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
*-
was fixed in the resolution to learn. He spoke on indif-
ferent subjects till lunch was over and coffee was
brought. Then he leaned a little forward across the
table.
“I shall be glad if I can be of any help to you, Miss
Greye-Stratton,” he said.
A smile, palpably forced, appeared on the girl’s face.
She twisted a ring on her finger absently. “That is a
polite way of bringing me to the point, Mr. Hallett.
You have a right to ask.”
A sigh trembled on her lips, and her eyes became
absent. The man said nothing, but waited. Wery.
dainty and desirable did Peggy Greye-Stratton seem to
him then. Yet he would not have been human if he had
not had misgivings. Her wery reluctance to speak
aroused a little spark of suspicion which he deliberately
trampled under foot. A beautiful face, a high intelli-
gence, and courage—and all these he knew she pos-
sessed—are not necessarily guarantees against crime.
She appeared to come to a resolve. “I will tell you
what I told Mr. Menzies,” she said looking up.
“Knowing what you know it will seem incomplete to
you, but you”—she looked him full in the face—“are
a gentleman. I trust you not to question me too far.
There are—other people.”
He, too, had come to a resolve. “Tell me,” he said
levelly, “before you say anything else. Did you have
act or part in the murder of your father?”
[ 56 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
She stared at him whitely and half rose. Her shapely
throat was working strangely. “Do you think 99
she began. And then tensely: “No! not no * Her
voice fell to a strained whisper. “Why do you ask me
that—if I had known—if I could have prevented 39
She was rapidly becoming distraught.
He felt himself a cur, but he pressed home the ques-
tion relentlessly. “Do you know who it was that mur-
dered your father?” -
Her fair head fell to her arms on the table. Had
Hallett known, he could not have put his questions at
a time more likely to wring an answer from her. All
that morning she had borne herself before the keen eyes
of Menzies and his assistants, conscious that the slight-
est falter might betray what she did not wish known.
Her nerves were now paying the penalty. , She raised a
face torn with emotion towards Hallett.
“God help me,” she moaned. “I believe I do.”
[ 57]


CHAPTER VII -
HE had expected the answer, and yet it came to him as
a shock. She was regarding him with an expression,
half defiant, half appealing. His eyes wandered round
the room. He had engaged a table that stood in a
recess behind one of the marbled pillars and they were
thus separated from the general company in the room.
Their voices had been low, but he was afraid they
might have attracted attention. But no one seemed
to have observed them and he turned once more to
her.
Somehow she had repressed her weakness. He sig-
nalled to the waiter and ordered a liqueur. As she took
it he observed that her hand was perfectly steady. And
yet but a moment before she had been on the verge of
hysterics. -
“Tell me just what you like,” he said simply. “Just
as much or as little as you like. You can trust me.”
“Thank you,” she said: “you are very geod. Let
me think. . . . To begin with, you must know my father
was a very strange man. When I was quite a baby he
quarrelled with my mother and I was sent down into the
country, where I lived with an old gentleman farmer
and his wife named Dinward. I always understood that
I was their child until a few years ago—they never
spoke of either my father or my mother. Once—just
[58] *


T H E M A E L S T R O M
- -
- -
before I went to school—he came to see me. I, of
course, did not know who he was.
“I was sent to a convent school at Bruges, where I
was brought up, coming home for the holidays—home,
of course, being in Sussex. Occasionally I was brought
to London. I won’t go into all the detail of my life until
I left school—it wouldn’t interest you. All this time,
remember, I had no knowledge of any relations but the
Dinwards. When I left school I learnt for the first time
that I was not their daughter. Mr. Pembroke, a so-
licitor, came over to Bruges and told me very nicely.
But—acting on instructions, he said—he could give me
no clue to my parents. There would be three hundred
a year payable to me quarterly by his firm. I was no
longer to look to the Dinwards for support.
“Mr. Pembroke was very nice, but he had his instruc-
tions. I asked him what I was expected to do. “I pre-
sume,” he said, “that your benefactor intends that you
shall have enough to support you respectably. Think
over your plans to-night, my dear young lady, and we
will talk it over in the morning.” -*
“I did think it over. You may imagine that I slept
little that night. I have a certain facility for painting
and that seemed to me to offer an outlet to ambition. I
told Pembroke next day. He expressed neither ap-
proval nor disapproval. A cheque he said, would be
waiting for me at the offices of his firm on the first day
of every quarter. He offered to give me introductions
[59]


THE MIA E L S T R O M
- - -
- -
in London, but I answered that the only introduction
I needed was to my parents. He shook his head at me
a little doubtfully and that ended the conversation.
“I wanted to see the world a little before I settled
down in London. I went to see the Dinwards, but no
word could I get from them as to who I really was.
They would tell me nothing.
“The Dinwards were troubled about me—naturally.
Of course I promised to keep in touch with them... I
changed my name. I had been called Peggy Dinward.
I became Lucy Olney. That, by the way, Mr. Hallett,
is the name I still keep.
“The allowance I was to receive seemed a tremendous
fortune to me. I went abroad—to study art, I told my-
self. I went to Paris, to Rome, to Venice, and other
places. But the money did not prove so ample as I
expected. Perhaps I was extravagant. Anyway, in
about eight months I was in London, determined to make
my fortune—and I still thought that my art pointed
the way.
“You will guess that I had some troubles. Art for
art's sake is one thing, but I am afraid I haven’t the
true temperament. I wanted recognition, and though
I could have existed without the money I wanted
money as a proof that I was recognised. But no one
seemed to appreciate me as a genius. It was difficult
enough to get dealers to take my pictures at a price that
barely paid for canvas and paint. Then I drifted into
[60 J


T HIE M A E L S T R O M
magazine and book illustration work and in that I found
my metier. I earned much more than I really needed—
even without my allowance.” -
She fingered a serviette absently for a moment.
There was an abstraction in her eyes. Hallett waited
without interruption for her to resume.
“I have not told you that I have a step-brother,”
she went on. “Indeed I did not know it myself till two
years ago. He is my mother’s son by her first marriage
and is much older than myself. He was sent abroad
at the time that I was handed over to the Dinwards.
As I say, two years ago he traced me out—I believe he
got my assumed name and my address from the Din-
wards. It was from him that I first learned who I was,
who my father was, who my mother was. He told me
the whole terrible story of Mr. Greye-Stratton's—I.
can’t call him my father—break with my mother. He
swore that she was innocent—that it was a madman’s
fit of jealousy that broke up the home. I–I 33
Her throat worked and it was some moments before
she took up her account again. “My brother had only
recently returned to England, and he told me that his
first step had been to find me. He wanted me to go
back with him to Canada. “You’re my baby sister,’
he said, ‘I have a right to look after you. There’s only
you and I now.”
“I can’t express how I felt. My quick anger against
my father was less intense than his long-nursed hatred.
[61 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
We talked long. I refused his offer to go back to
Canada and told him that I would never take another
penny from my father. He was against that. He
argued that it was the least Mr. Greye-Stratton could
do for me. When he saw I was determined he pointed
out the possibility that I might be Mr. Greye-Stratton's
heiress, and that to refuse the allowance might embitter
him against me.” She flamed for a moment into pas-
sion. “As if I wanted anything—anything from that
man. -
“When he left me I scarcely knew what to do—what
action to take. I resolved to do nothing. After all,
when I was in a colder mood, I could see nothing that I
could do. I could not or would not attempt a recon-
ciliation with my father. I could not attempt the vindi-
cation of my mother. I renounced the allowance and
things went on as they were before—except that I had
my brother.
“He went back to Canada and the United States.
Now and again I had letters from him. He had a hard
struggle to make ends meet.”
Hallett nodded mechanically. Something in her tone
made him begin to see the brother in a less sympathetic
light. He blurted out the question on the spur of the
moment. “He bled—I mean he wrote to you for
money?”
She winced. “Yes. He wrote to me for money. A
little more than a year ago he was in England again.”
[62


T H E M A E L S T R O M
- -
- - -
Her words came more slowly. “He has stayed here
ever since. He called on Mr. Greye-Stratton and some-
thing happened—what I don’t know. I suppose there
were recriminations, but my brother told me little but
that he was now entirely without resources. Mr. Greye-
Stratton’—Hallett noted that she persisted in the
formal mode of reference—“had cut off all help from
him. I don’t know if Mr. Menzies has said anything
to you about my brother?” She flashed the question
at him suddenly.
“Not a word. This is the first I have heard of his
existence.”
“I ask because he questioned me closely about him.
My brother is a hard man, Mr. Hallett, and his outlook
on life is different from that of the ordinary person.
Circumstances have been against him. He was driven
to find a living as he could. I want you to remember
that if he was desperate he was driven to it. I helped
as far as I could, but he had heavy expenses. He signed
my father’s name to some cheques.”
“He committed forgery?”
“Yes. The cancelled cheques came into the hands of
—someone else who knew that Dick Errol was my
brother. He threatened to pass them on to Scotland
Yard and give evidence against Dick unless I paid.
Last night there was an appointment made at my flat.
The price he demanded was greater than I could pay.
When he went I followed him. I knew he had the cheques
[63 ]


THE M A E L S T R O M
on him and I hoped that I might find some way to get
them from him. Just before I met you I had appealed
to him again. He refused. He had the cheques in his
hand. I snatched them, and when I ran into you I
passed them to you on the impulse of the moment. That
is all, Mr. Hallett.”
“But there is something more,” he said; “something
you have not said.”
She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together.
“I have said all I can—all I dare. You helped me, Mr.
Hallett, and I have told you more even than I have the
detectives. It has been a relief ?”—she sighed—“to tell
anyone.”
Jimmie was silenced. Yet a score of questions trem-
bled on his lips. Trained to see the weak points in a
narration, he could not fail to realise that there were
gaps in the story—gaps that needed filling before one
could come to full judgment. She had passed no hint
of the blackmailer, the man from whom she had the
cheques. That he was closely linked with her in some
manner he felt confident.
And then speculation was lost in a rush of pity for
the girl who had been so unwittingly dragged into a
maelstrom from which he could see no way of escape.
That the man Errol was a scoundrel was certain on her
own showing. He glimpsed through her reticence the
fresh tragedy that his advent had meant to her life.
Wainly he tried to see for what purpose she was being
[64 )


THE MAEL STROM
with me to Menzies now. Understand me. I shall not
betray a word of our conversation without your per-
mission.”
She placed her elbows on the table and rested her
chin in her cupped hands, staring across the room in
reverie. Presently she stood up.
“I will think of it,” she said. “I will think of it.”
[66]


CHAPTER VIII
No effective detective organisation is dependent on one
man. Co-operation is the essence of all successful de-
tective work exactly as it is in the carrying on of any
great business. Scotland Yard will throw a score, a
hundred, ten thousand men into an enterprise, if need
be, and everyone of them from the supreme brain down-
wards will have an understudy ready at any moment to
pick up a duty abandoned from any cause. No indi-
vidual is vital, though some may be valuable. Every
fact, every definite conclusion arrived at is on record.
That is why Weir Menzies found time to cover the
case against the pickpockets he had captured the pre-
ceding evening and to return to headquarters to smoke
a quiet pipe and consider things in general. He stuck
his feet on a desk, leaned back in his chair, and began
serenely to go through the reports that had accumu-
lated from every point where information, however re-
mote, might have been gathered on the Greye-Stratton
affair.
He liked to have the salient facts of an investigation
clear-cut in his mind. That often saved time in an
emergency, as well as being an aid to definite thinking.
Presently he began to make his Greek notes with a stubby
pencil on the back of an envelope. Some of them would
have surprised Hallett had he chanced to see them:
[67 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Statement of P. Greye-Stratton clearly in-
complete. Knows much more than she says. Cer-
tain that Errol has been for many months constant
visitor at her flat in Palace Avenue. (Goulds re-
port interview with maid at her flat.) Yet she
denies that she has spoken to or been in communica-
tion with her brother for nearly a year. Lift at-
tendant remembers man calling on her the evening
of the murder. Left after short interview and im-
mediately after she went out hatless in a hurry.”
He commenced a string of question marks across the
paper. “I’ll see that lift man myself,” he murmured,
and continued:
“It was the maid’s night out. Lift attendant
does not remember having seen man before, but
he knows Errol. Description vague. Think pos-
sible P. G.-S. alarmed. Must handle cautiously
and keep under constant surveillance. If can in-
duce Hallett to cultivate her may learn some-
thing.”
A sharp tap at the door interrupted him. He
snapped an irritable “come in,” and, pencil in hand,
surveyed frowningly a young man with a badly bruised
eye. w
“Well, Jakes,” he demanded impatiently; “who’s
been decorating you? What’s the trouble?”
[68 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
-
“I got this from Hallett, sir. He-"
Menzies’ feet dropped from the table with a crash.
“What the blazes | Some muddle, I’ll be bound.
Where’s Gordon?”
“Down below, sir. We—”
“Then you’ve lost the girl?” He smacked an angry
fist down on the table. “Oh, damn your explanations.
I beg your pardon—you confounded idiot.” He sprang
to the door and roared down the green-painted cor-
ridor: “Royal Royal!”
That individual popped out of a door like a rabbit
out of a hole. “Come here, Royal. These two cab-
bages have let Miss Greye-Stratton dodge 'em. Take
Smithers and get along to her flat, No. 74 Palace
Avenue, and see if you can pick her up. She may have
gone straight home, or she may not. I’ve got to come
there myself presently, but I’ll hear what this dough-
witted jackass has got to say.”
Ordinarily Menzies was courteous to his underlings,
but when anything like stupidity interfered with his
plans he let himself go. “They remembered it and
it’s better than putting 'em on the M. R.,” he explained
once to a colleague, which was his way of saying that he
preferred a few hot words to putting the culprits on the
morning report for judgment and punishment. “Only
I sometimes wish that I didn’t swear so much at them.”
Royal had slipped away to carry out his instructions
with the swiftness of the well-trained man. Menzies
[69 |


THE MAEL STROM
turned with a snarl to the young detective, who was
trembling nervously and as ill at ease as any young
clerk “carpeted ” before his departmental chief for the
first time.
“Let’s have it,” he said shortly.
The young man squared his shoulders. “They
lunched at Duke’s in Piccadilly, sir. I went in with
them but could not get near enough to hear what was
said. The lady did most of the talking. When they
came out they walked towards Regent Street. I was
close behind. Gordon about twenty paces behind me.
They turned into Regent Street and then sharp back
along Jermyn Street. When they reached St. James
Street he said something to her and came back towards
me. I would have passed him, but he caught me by
the shoulder and asked what I meant by molesting a
lady. -
“I pulled myself free and told him I was a police
officer. She had turned the corner by this time. I
would have gone on, but he pulled me back again, and
Gordon came up—”
“And stopped to see what the matter was instead of
going straight on,” commented Menzies bitterly. “I
know. Go on.”
“He stopped to help me. Mr. Hallett was giving
me a fair rough house. It took the two of us to tackle
him properly. He kept it up for about three minutes
and then gave in.”
[70


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“And by that time the girl might have been in Tim-
buctoo. He put up a plant on you and you both fell
into it.”
“Yes, sir.” *
“Did you arrest him?”
“No. We thought it ought to be reported to you
before we did anything.”
“That’s the only gleam of common sense you showed
in the whole business. Go away. I’ll think it over.
And the next time you’re shadowing, young man, re-
member you’ve got to stick—if the heavens fall you’ve
got to stick.” -
He whistled softly to himself when the other had
gone. “I thought as much. She’s put the comether
on him—and Hallett is a brainy man.”
He revolved the matter steadily in his mind as he
walked to Palace Avenue. Hallett, if he could be per-
suaded, would be a valuable ally in discovering what
information Peggy Greye-Stratton had withheld. Men-
zies used the instruments to his hands; and there was
no reason why he should have scruples. If he had
troubled at all to formulate the ethics of the question
he might have argued that when a crime was committed
a person who deliberately withheld or evaded giving
information could not fairly object to any means
adopted to break her taciturnity. That the rôle he
proposed allotting to Hallett was actually that of a
[71]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
spy did not concern him. That would be Hallett's
own affair if he accepted the commission.
Royal appeared out of nowhere as he neared the
corner of Palace Avenue. “Not come back yet,” he
reported laconically.
“Well, there's plenty of time yet,” said Menzies
with a resignation that had been conspicuously absent
in his talk with the delinquent officer. “She’s bound
to turn up. You’d better 'phone for Gould to
relieve you and get down to the court to charge
Smith.”
He strolled on to the block of flats, sent his card in
to the manager in a sealed envelope, briefly explained
as much of his errand as was necessary, and was pres-
ently confronted with a weedy, pale-faced youth who
nervously twisted his cap in his hands as the detective
questioned him. His story varied nothing from the
statement Gould had put in.
“Now don’t get flustered, old chap,” said Menzies
with that suave air he knew so well how to assume.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t know the man again? Try
and think for a moment. Was he tall or short, fat or
thin P’”
“Just an ordinary-looking man,” said the attendant.
“I didn’t pay any notice.”
“No, of course not. Do you remember if he had a
beard or moustache, or was he clean-shaven?”
The youth wrinkled his brows, and after a moment's
[72]


THE MIA E L S T R O M
thought shook his head. “Couldn’t say, sir. I rather
believe he was clean-shaven.”
It was hopeless to try to extract a description from
him. Menzies had expected as much. Observation is not
often a natural gift; it is a matter of training, and many
and laborious are the hours spent in teaching recruits to
the C. I. D. staff the art. He switched to another point.
“When the man came out of her flat did he seem in
a hurry?”
“No, sir, not particularly. He rang for the lift.”
“Didn’t say anything?”
“Not to me. At least he had something in his hand.
He dropped it and when it rolled down the shaft he
swore. I offered to go and get it, but he said it didn’t
matter—it was only a halfpenny.”
“H’m * Menzies stuck his thumbs in the armholes
of his waistcoat and tapped his toe on the floor. “You
went and made sure it was only a halfpenny afterwards,
of course.”
The man’s eyes had hitherto not met his. Now they
were fixed boldly on his face. “No,” he declared. “I
didn’t think it worth while.”
A man may fail to look one in the face and be per-
fectly honest and truthful. But when such a man does
do so it is because he has become conscious that an
averted gaze may arouse suspicion. Menzies smiled
under his moustache and stretched out a hand. “Where
is it?” he added quietly. “Give it to me.”
[73]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The lift attendant flushed and drew back. The
directness of the demand had disconcerted him. “I
don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I haven’t got
anything.”
“That so?” said Menzies smilingly. And then,
with a swift change of voice: “Now, sonny, don’t let's
have any monkey business. You can’t play with me.”
Reluctantly, as though hypnotised, the attendant
thrust two fingers into his waistcoat pocket, slowly drew
something out, and placed it in the detective’s hand.
It was a plain, heavy circlet of gold—a wedding ring!
[74]


CHAPTER IX
JIMMIE HALLETT had run into Weir Menzies in the
police court corridor after the magistrate had formally
remanded “William Smith.” The detective threw up
his hands quickly in the attitude of one parrying a
blow.
“Don’t hit me, Mr. Hallett,” he implored. “I’ve got
a weak heart.”
Jimmie grinned a little shamefacedly. He had not
been quite sure how the detective chief would take the
assault on the shadowers of Miss Greye-Stratton. He
brazened it out. “Well, what are you going to do
about it?” he demanded.
Menzies caught him through the arm and pulled him
into a small room set apart for consultations between
lawyers and clients. “I suppose you know that men
have got six months for less than you did this after-
noon. You can’t knock police officers about with im-
punity, you know.”
There was an underlying current of seriousness in
his jocular tone which Jimmie could not fail to per-
ceive. He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll see
you,” he said, adopting the language of the poker table.
“What are you driving at?”
“This.” The detective laid a thick forefinger on the
palm of his left hand. “You’ve got sense, Mr. Hallett,
[75]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
and you’ve had experience. Now I’ve gone into your
credentials and I believe you’re straight. But I’m not
going to stand for any funny business. I’m investigat-
ing a case of murder and anyone that stands in the way
is liable to get hurt. Now don’t interrupt. Let me
finish. I don’t know whether you were putting up a
grand-stand play after lunch to win the girl’s confidence
or if she talked you over.”
He paused enquiringly. Hallett pressed his lips to-
gether firmly. “Go on,” he said.
“Right. You were butted into this at the start and
I’ve tried to treat you fairly. Don’t you forget mur-
der’s a dirty thing, however you look at it. I don’t say
Miss Greye-Stratton’s not straight, but she knows a
deuce of a sight more than she ought to—or than she’s
telling us. She’s got something up her sleeve. She’s
no fool, for all her pretty face. She seems to have taken
a fancy to you. Do you know why?”
The other shook his head, although he had a very
good idea what Menzies was going to say. His face
was impassive.
“For the same reason that the man we’ve got below
tried to get you this morning. You’re an important
witness. She wants to shut your mouth and to find out
how much you really do know.”
Jimmie laughed outright. “You’re wrong there.
She’s not asked me a single question. All the talking
was on her side.”
[76]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Then he realised that he had fallen into a trap.
Not that Menzies gave any obvious indication of tri-
umph. He merely stroked his moustache serenely.
“Well, I don’t know that I’m far wrong. She wouldn’t
be too quick. So she talked, did she? What did she
say?”
The young man was not to be caught off guard a
second time. “It will all be stale to you. She repeated
what she said she had already told you.”
“All the same, there may be something new,” per-
sisted the detective. “Let’s have it.”
“If you like to let me have a look at her statement
I'll tell you if there’s anything fresh I can add,” parried
Jimmie.
Menzies raised his eyebrows. “I think I see,” he
said. “I’d consider this a lot if I were you. Why, man,
can’t you see she's playing with you. Confidence for
confidence is an old trick. She has known you a matter
of hours, and here she is pitching a tale to you as
though you were an intimate friend. I trust you—you
trust me! That’s what it comes to. Now why not play
our game instead of hers. If she’s innocent you won’t
hurt her, but if she’s got her pretty fingers in the
tar 35 - w
Hallett became conscious of a smouldering rage at the
innuendo of the comfortable, ruddy-faced detective. He
did not realise that he was being deliberately provoked
[77]


THE M A E L S T R O M
for a purpose. Menzies wanted to discover without
doubt his attitude to the girl.
“Cut it out,” he advised curtly. And then more
quietly: “I think you entirely misjudge the lady. If
I’ve only known her for a few hours, I guess I’m a better
judge of her type than you.” w
“Bearings a bit hot, eh?” smiled Menzies. “It’s no
good getting angry with me. I’m clumsy, but I mean
well. I hate to see a man stepping into trouble. And
you’ll find trouble on your hands pretty soon, believe
me. If I were you I think I’d carry a life-preserver
or advertise that you didn’t see the man who killed
Greye-Stratton.”
Hallett had taken a quick turn or two about the
room, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He
came to a sudden halt. “What do you mean by that?”
Weir Menzies had a well-worn briar pipe in one hand
and a tobacco pouch in the other. He methodically
filled the pipe before answering. “Only from what I
have gathered the lady's in with a tough mob. I’ll know
more about ’em by to-morrow, but I don’t want you
laid out before I’ve picked up all the ends. I’ve warned
you. You must do as you like. Only don’t go believ-
ing she’s a little blue-eyed saint, that’s all.”
Jimmie's temper, held in till now, continued to rise.
Whether it was the implication that he was being made
Miss Greye-Stratton’s cats-paw, or the suggestion that
the radiant girl was the willing accomplice of a gang
[78 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
of criminals, he did not stop to analyse. He was wroth
with Menzies because he did not know by intuition what
was plain to him—that if she was acting a part it was
for the sake of someone else. He regretted now that
he was bound not to divulge anything she had told him.
“I guess you’re a fool, Menzies,” he sneered.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Menzies took the handle of the door. “You think so,
do you? Well, we'll let it go at that.” He swung the
door open. “I suppose the lady told you she was
married?”
He spoke casually as though by an after-thought,
but he was quick to observe the change that passed over
Jimmie's face. “That’s a lie,” he blurted out.
“You’ve got something at the back of your head.”
The detective swung the door to again and took some-
thing from his pocket. “Look at that,” he said, and
smoothed a sheet of paper before Hallett's eyes.
Jimmie read it over twice, unable at first to com-
pletely grasp its significance. It was an attested copy
of a marriage certificate between Peggy Greye-Stratton
and Stewart Reader Ling.
“She didn’t tell you about this,” went on the de-
tective levelly. “That may alter your idea that she
intends to play straight with you.”
Jimmie was struggling with a tangle of thoughts.
“Who is Ling?” he demanded.
“A crook of the crookedest. He ran a wholesale fac-
[79 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tory for forged currency notes in the United States
ten years ago. That was broken up and he did five
years in Sing Sing. He has been at the back of a lottery
swindle since he came out and Lord knows what else.
We'd lost sight of him till I happened to get hold of
this copy. That’s the kind of man who's the husband
of Miss Greye-Stratton.”
“How did you find this out?”
Menzies puffed reflectively. He had no intention of
completely exposing his hand. He was certain that
Peggy Greye-Stratton was the woman who had given
Hallett the cheques and that the latter had deliberately
refrained from identifying her. Moreover, he was also
convinced that she had told the young man something
at lunch, though whether she was, as he affected to be-
lieve, using him as a tool he was not in his own mind
certain. The more he considered the more he felt that
she held the key to the mystery if only she could be
induced to speak. With him, with any official of police,
she would be on her guard. Hallett, if he could be per-
suaded, was the one man who might win her confidence
without exciting suspicion. So long as his sympathies
remained with her he was unlikely to be persuaded.
Therefore, if possible, his sympathies had to be
alienated.
“Just common sense,” growled Menzies, “ordinary
common sense. I learned that she had a wedding-ring
—though she didn’t wear it—sent up to Somerset
[80 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
He pondered the matter as he drove back to his
hotel. Suppose he did accept Menzies’ version—and
he admitted to himself that there was a considerable
weight of probability in that point of view. He could
not see, however, why in that event he should become
an unpaid amateur detective. The thought of spying
on Peggy Greye-Stratton, adventuress or not, was en-
tirely distasteful to him. He had no interest in the
investigation. He had been dragged into the affair
entirely by accident. Let the police do their work
themselves.
It was in this mood that he arrived at his hotel and
repulsed the newspaper men who were still blockading
the entrance. He avoided the public rooms. He wanted
to be alone. He went up to his private sitting-room.
There it was that a note was brought to him. He
tore it open and glanced at it mechanically. But at
once his interest was aroused. It had been scribbled
in pencil, apparently in haste:
“I am in trouble. For God’s sake come and
help me. I don’t know to whom else to appeal.
Call at 140 Ludford Road, Brixton, as soon as
you can, but alone. Ask for me.”
There was no signature, but Hallett needed none.
He had never seen Peggy Greye-Stratton’s writing, but
the small, neat characters were beyond doubt to him.
[82 )


THE MAEL STROM
His resolution to stand aside was already being put to
the test. He held the note in his hand while he recalled
Menzies’ warnings. He was an important witness. Al-
ready one attempt had been made to secure his silence.
Was this a trap?
Yet, on the other hand, if the girl was being used
to secure his silence, she could not know that he had
changed his decision to stand by her. She must sup-
pose—the conversation at lunch would have made her
believe—that he had allied himself on her side. No,
the letter was certainly genuine.
He impressed the address on his memory, and tearing
the letter into little bits, dropped them into the waste-
paper basket. Then he searched in his kit-bag till he
found, at the bottom, a small automatic revolver and a
packet of cartridges. He loaded the weapon carefully
and dropped it in his jacket pocket.
He had no idea where Brixton was, but a study of
a street map gave him its location. He did not want
to have to ask questions. He had come to have too
much respect for Menzies’ methods in following up a
trail for that. For the same reason, when he went out
into the Strand he turned abruptly in his walk once or
twice.
The useful little book of maps issued by the Under-
ground railways helped him on his next course. He
went into a tube station and booked for Hampstead. At
Leicester Square he changed for Piccadilly Circus.
[83]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
There he changed for Kennington Oval. By the time
he emerged into the sunlight he was satisfied that if
there had been any shadowers on his trail he had thrown
them off.
He had selected the Oval Station because the map
had shown him that the district lay on the verge of
Brixton. He was about to hail a taxi when his eye
caught the label on one of the big electric cars swing-
ing by. He jumped aboard. -
Ludford Road proved to be a quiet road of small
houses buried away at the back of Brixton Town Hall.
It was a street that might very well have been inhab-
ited solely by moderate salaried city clerks—retired,
unobtrusive, and respectable semi-detached villas with
neat squares of gardens behind iron railings. It was
no street of mystery.
Hallett walked to the door of No. 140 and pressed
the bell. It opened promptly, revealing a plump, pleas-
ant-faced little woman with shrewd eyes and a strong
mouth. Jimmie, whose right hand had been gripped
round the automatic in his jacket pocket, removed it
hurriedly and lifted his hat.
“I wish to see Miss Olney, if I may,” he said.
The woman shook her head. “You have made a mis-
take. There’s no one of that name lives here,” she
said, and Jimmie's last shred of suspicion vanished. If
the note had been sent for a trap there was evidently
no anxiety for him to walk into it.
[84 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Pardon me. Miss Greye-Stratton, I should have
said. My name is Hallett.”
She smiled and flung the door wide. “Oh, yes. She
is expecting you. Will you come in?”
Jimmie passed into the narrow little hall and the
door shut.
[85 J


CHAPTER X
WITH the satisfied feeling of a man who knew he had
earned his salary, Weir Menzies betook himself home-
wards. As he boarded the Tooting electric car at the
corner of Westminster Bridge he automatically shut
out from his mind all thought of Greye-Stratton. He
had ceased to be Weir Menzies, chief inspector of the
Criminal Investigation Department. He was Weir
Menzies, Esq., of Magersfontein Road, Upper Tooting,
who, like other gentlemen of business, left his business
worries behind him at the office.
He ate his dinner, while Mrs. Menzies, a motherly
little woman who never asked questions, retailed the
latest domestic gossip. He added his own quota. He
was afraid that Browns, the new butcher in the High
Street, was not doing too well. As he pushed his chair
back and lit a cigar, Mrs. Menzies seized the oppor-
tunity to tell of a calamity.
“Bruin’s been in mischief. He dug a big hole under
that Captain Hayward rose today.”
This news roused Menzies. He kicked off his slip-
pers and began relacing his boots. “That da—shed
dog. I’ll bet he's ruined it. We’ll have to chain him
up. Ring the bell and ask Nellie for a candle, will you,
dear?”
Candle in hand, he led the way to the garden, mut-
[86 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tering discontentedly as he cast its glow on the damage.
He raised his voice. “Bruin, here, Bruin,” and a heavy
bobtailed sheep dog came lumbering over the lawn.
Weir Menzies regarded him sternly and pointed an ac-
cusing finger at the hole. “What do you mean by
that?” he demanded. “You wicked, wicked dog.”
Bruin sprawled with downcast head, his whole attitude
one of penitence and shame. “Where’s the whip?”
asked Menzies. “Go fetch it.”
Reluctantly, with slow step like a boy sent by his
school-master for a cane, Bruin recrossed the lawn, re-
turning in a few seconds with a dog whip between his
teeth. He cowered while Menzies administered a couple
of light blows—blows so light that they were rather
symbolic of disgrace than actual punishment. His
master slipped the whip into his pocket. “Now go and
see that the house is safe.”
The dog, now that retribution was over, slipped
away. Detectives, for all their profession, are no more
immune from burglary than ordinary mortals, but Men-
zies had little fear of his house being looted while Bruin
was abroad. To and fro over the house he trotted,
pushing open doors or whining till they were opened by
the maid, and inspecting windows and fastenings with
an intelligence almost uncanny. By the time he had
finished his inspection Menzies was in his own room.
The dog trotted in, sat on his haunches, and made a low
crooning noise in his throat.
[87 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“All correct, eh?” said Menzies. “Good dog. Go
to bed.”
He himself was asleep almost as soon as his head
touched the pillow. Yet it seemed to him that he had
not been asleep five minutes when the deep boom of the
dog's bark and an insistent ringing of the bell aroused
him. He looked at his watch as he slipped out of bed.
It was four o’clock. He had slept seven hours.
He shivered as he shuffled downstairs in his slippers
and opened the door. “Why, it's you, Congreve,” he
exclaimed. “What the devil is the matter? Come in.”
Detective-Sergeant Congreve (graded first-class at
headquarters) was too wise a man to say anything at
an open door with a taxi-driver within earshot. He fol-
lowed his chief into the dining-room and Menzies
switched on the light. “The lady's come back,” he in-
terrogated.
“No, sir. I wouldn’t have worried you for that.
It’s Hallett. He’s gone, too.”
Menzies muttered a little comminatory service—in a
low voice, because Mrs. Menzies was probably awake.
“That’s awkward,” he said at last. “I ought to have
him kept under observation, but I guessed I could rely
on the hotel people to let us know. I didn’t want to
have to arrest him for putting any more of our men
on the sick list, but I wish I’d taken a chance now.
He’d have been safer for us and safer for himself under
lock and key. What’s the point?”
[88 J -


THE M A E L S T R O M
“He came back yesterday afternoon, went to his
room, found a note waiting him, and went out without
saying anything. He has not come back. The hotel
people rang me up an hour ago and I went round there.
I found the note.” He shook an envelope on to the
table and a shower of torn fragments dropped. “I
didn’t wait to put it together. I came straight on here.”
The chief inspector became unpleasantly conscious
that his pyjamas were an inadequate protection against
the bite of the cold. “I suppose this means that I’ve
got to turn out,” he grumbled. “I seem to get all
the jobs where there’s no rest. It’s enough to make
a man turn it up and take a cottage in the country.
Have a go at that note, Congreve, like a good chap,
while I go and get some clothes on.”
By the time he was dressed Congreve had the note
ready for him.
“It looks as if the girl had got him,” he commented
as he passed the copy over to the chief inspector.
“Anyway, there's an address.” -
Menzies laid the copy down on the table. “That’s
something,” he agreed cautiously. “But it looks to me
as though we’re right up against it, old man. Some-
body’ll have to stand from under when the thud comes.
What do you make of it?”
“Empty house, likely,” said Congreve laconically.
“They’ve shut Hallett's mouth. If you’re right about
Errol, Ling & Co., sir, they’ll not stand on ceremony.
[89 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
They’re up to their necks already. We’ll find a dead
man in Ludford Road. They won’t let Hallett do any
talking.”
He spoke in the matter-of-fact way in which a sur-
geon might contemplate the result of a dangerous opera-
tion—not with the shudder with which the average man
would speak of a cold-blooded murder. The case with
which they were dealing concerned men who he believed
would be desperate now that one life had been sacrificed
in their efforts to cover their trail.
“I don’t know,” said Menzies thoughtfully. “They
might go to extremes if they were forced, but they won’t
make the pace too hot. We’ve got nothing concrete
against 'em yet—nothing even to suggest that one of
them was near Linstone Terrace Gardens when the old
man was killed. You bet they’ll have alibis all right,
all right. If we could lay our fingers on ’em this min-
ute they’d brazen it out.”
“You see,” he went on, “unless we prove these other
people accessories there is only one person whose neck
is in jeopardy. That's the actual murderer. He prob-
ably wouldn't object to save himself by another murder.
But the others are not going to that length if they can
help it. They intend, I imagine, to try and bottle him
up till Smith is discharged and the whole boiling of
them make a clean get-away.”
“But,” objected Congreve, “Royal's evidence alone
will convict the man.”
[90 I


THE M A E L S T R O M
“Maybe they don’t understand that,” retorted Men-
zies. “Anyway we won’t worry yet. I’m going on to
Ludford Road. I shall want you to go back and swear
out a search-warrant in case it’s wanted. Also have
that note properly done up and photographed. You
might get a paper merchant to examine a piece of the
paper. There's just a chance we might find out when
it was bought and who bought it. You can get an all-
night tramcar at the end of the road. Leave the taxi
for me. I’ll have to change again.”
An hour later a plump, ruddy-faced man, smoking a
clay pipe, and with his hands thrust deep in his trousers
pockets, slouched along Ludford Road. The loosened
shoulders, the shambling gait, the unpolished down-at-
heels boots (one of them laced with string), all told of
the practical vagrant. Yet Weir Menzies had not
disguised himself in the sense that disguise would be
understood by those whose knowledge of Scotland Yard
is derived from books and newspapers.
His face was untouched by grease-paint, he wore no
wig nor false beard. He was just Weir Menzies as he
might have been if fortune had made him a tramp. Yet
he bore little superficial resemblance to the Weir Men-
zies, Esq., churchwarden of All Saints, Upper Tooting,
or the Mr. Weir Menzies, chief inspector of the Crim-
inal Investigation Department. His hair had been
rubbed up until it looked as if it had not seen brush or
comb for a month, and was surmounted by a battered
[91]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Trilby hat. He had rubbed his hands on a doormat
and then on his face to prevent any suspicion of unnat-
ural cleanliness. His neat moustache had been combed
out till it hung down ragged and bristly. His clothes
were shabby and no two garments matched. They
might have been given him at different times by chari-
table householders.
There was nothing which could go astray and betray
that he had assumed a character. Indeed, any accident
to clothes or person would but increase the disreputa-
bility of his looks.
Twice he shuffled up and down the street, the second
time meeting a policeman, who paused and without say-
ing anything watched him out of sight. The two met
again a quarter of an hour later and this time the con-
stable was not so forbearing. He turned his bull's-eye
full on the tramp and surveyed him up and down. It
was at the back of his mind that he might have a
charge “loitering with intent to commit a felony.”
“What's the game, Isaacstein? What are you hang-
ing around for?” he demanded. And because he had
been trained not to take risks, his hand gripped the
greasy collar of the nondescript and administered a
slight warning shake.
One hundred and eighty pounds of trained policeman
took the pavement with a thud. He sat up ruefully and
with wrath. One does not expect a rickety, middle-aged
tramp to have a working knowledge of ju-jitsu. And
[92 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Menzies’ answer was to press the bell again. He had
no very definite plan in his mind. His was merely a
reconnoitring expedition. He wanted the door opened
and had no intention of carrying on a conversation with
the lady upstairs, whoever she was, at the top of his
voice. He was shielded from her sight by the porch
and he did not offer to step out.
The window closed with a bang and there were sounds
of someone moving. Presently the door opened, and
the pleasant-faced woman who had met Hallett con-
fronted the detective.
“’Ave you got a bite you could spare a pore man,
lidy,” he whined. “I’ve been walkin’ all night an’
nothin’’as passed my lips since yesterday.”
The pleasant-faced lady frowned. She had a dogged
chin and a wide mouth and was quite obviously not the
sort of person to be played with. “I’ve got nothing
for you,” she snapped, perhaps with excusable vicious-
ness for one who had been dragged out of bed by a
beggar. She flung the door to forcefully. Menzies’
foot, however, was a shade the quicker as he thrust it
in the opening.
“Why, Gwennie,” he said smilingly, in his natural
voice; “this is a nice welcome for an old friend. “Don’t
you remember me? I’m Weir Menzies.”
She gave a quick exclamation and pulled the door
back. Her face did not for a moment bear any very
noticeable expression of delight at the reunion. That,
[94 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
however, was only for a second. The next instant she
had thrust out her hand with a bright smile.
“Why, so it is. Who'd have thought of seeing you
here—and in a rig like that. Come right in, Mr. Men-
zies. I am glad to see you.”
“After you, Gwennie,” said Menzies politely but
firmly. “Lead the way. Never mind the door. I’ll
shut it.”
[951


CHAPTER XI
GwenNIE LYNE was a lady with a reputation—or with-
out one. It depended on the point of view. As far back
as Menzies could remember she had been a notable figure
in the little coterie of master criminals who know no
nation and to whom the world is a hunting ground.
Long, long ago, in the days when bank robbery in the
United States had been a profitable pastime, she had
organised and even played an executive part in exploits
any one of which ought to have made her fortune.
Menzies knew her record almost by heart, for she
was one of the very few “Classic * criminals who
brought to bear on an undertaking an ingenuity, enter-
prise, and audacity that had won her through in a score
of tight places. At ten years of age she had assisted
her mother to pick pockets in Philadelphia. At twenty
she had married Jim Lyne, bank burglar and gunman.
At twenty-one she had effected a particularly daring
escape from Sing Sing. At twenty-five she had held
a pistol to a watchman’s head at a bank in New Jersey
while her companions ransacked the vaults. At thirty
she had probably more experience in every grade of
professional crime—short of murder, which is not pro-
fessional crime—than any person of her own age, male
or female. Opportunely enough, her husband, always
too much of a swashbuckler for his trade, was shot in
[96]


THE M A E L S T R O M
a drunken brawl in Wisconsin at this time. Thereafter
she held her way undisputed, always ready to
become a partner in any department of the higher
walks of crime, from receiving, to organising a bogus
bank.
She had of course met with checks. There were few
civilised countries where she had not tasted prison for
longer or shorter periods. All that was in the day’s
work.
It is a myth that there is a distinctive criminal physi-
ognomy. Fifty years or more of crime had left
Gwennie Lyne untouched by any outward mark. Hers,
was a face which none could dream of distrusting on
sight—she had been a handsome and was still a comely
woman. The mouth was perhaps a trifle wide and it
curved downwards at the edges. Her hazel eyes were
shrewd, but with the apparent shrewdness of years, not
the cunning of the outcast. She spoke softly, with a
slight drawl, but her voice was the voice of a cultivated
WOman.
Menzies had recognised her with something of a thrill.
Her presence in the combination against him was sin-
gularly unwelcome, for he knew her fertility of resource
and her daring. On the other hand, the mere fact that
he knew she was with the other side was something
gained.
His right hand dropped to his trousers pocket as he
followed her, to make sure that the little baton he had
[97 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Aren't you a deportee, Gwennie?” countered the
man. “Surely my memory isn’t playing me tricks.
Wasn’t an order of deportation made against you—let
me see—six years ago now? You will remember a dia-
mond tiara in Bond Street.”
She faced him placidly. “You’ve got a good memory.
What are you going to do about it?”
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked. “Oh, nothing much.
I needn’t tell a lady of your experience it would have
been wiser to stay where you belong.”
“See Section 4, Wagrancy Act, 1824,” she laughed.
“That’s it, isn’t it. Oh, I’ve been there before. You
can’t alarm me any by talking.” And Menzies knew
the astute old lady was trying to make him lose his
temper.
He lifted his clay pipe from his lips. “I’ve always
admired your talents, Gwennie’—she rose and swept
him a mocking curtesy—“ and we’ve been pretty good
pals—business apart.”
“Lord bless the man,” she cried. “Is this a pro-
posal. I do believe he’s making love to me.” She shook
a well-manicured finger at him. “I warn you—I might
accept you.”
He grinned appreciatively at the thrust but shook his
head reprovingly. “I’m out for business, Gwennie.
Let's cut out the funny business and get down to hard
tacks. If you won’t listen I’ll have to take you along,
that’s all.”
[99]
. . . . . * * * * * *
*** * * * **śāj


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“And if I do?” she interpolated quickly.
“I’m making no bargains. Will you sit tight?”
“I’ll be as good as gold,” she promised, a demure
half smile still lurking about her lips.
Menzies was too old a hand to make the mistake of
despising such an antagonist. The woman knew every
trick in the game as well as he did. An experience that
went back to the cradle, and a cunning and brain power
by which the organised detective forces of the world had
often been defeated, had placed her chief among the
very few criminals who can plan and successfully carry
out great coups. On his side, however, Menzies had one
factor on which he placed hopes. There is no such thing
as honour among thieves. Sometimes there is a com-
munity of interest which forces them to keep faith one
with another, but very rarely will one run a risk to save
another. The detective had to stir Gwennie to alarm for
her own-safety—but whether she would allow herself to
be alarmed or not was a doubt in his mind.
“Where is Mr. Hallett?” he asked bluntly.
If a person, ignorant of the elementary principles of
arithmetic, was suddenly asked to solve a problem in
algebra he might have looked as Gwennie did then. Her
air of bewilderment was an education. Had Menzies
been less sure of his ground even he might have been
deluded. She stared at him blankly. “Mr. Hallett?”
she repeated. “I never heard of him.”
The man’s face set grimly and his eyes grew hard.
r
[ 100 I


THE M A E L S T R O M
“Or of Reader Ling, or of Errol, or Miss Greye-
Stratton, or William Smith?” he demanded. -
“I know Ling—some,” she said artlessly. “But
I haven’t seen him for two or three years. Why
don’t you tell me straight what you’re driving at,
Mr. Menzies? I’m always willing to help you if I
can.”
“I aim to take you to pieces and see what makes you
tick if you’re not careful, Gwennie,” he said. “You’d
better listen. You know of the murder at Linstone Ter-
race Gardens.” He tapped out the bowl of his pipe
against the heel of his boot and menaced her with the
stem. “I’m not saying you had anything to do with
it—but you know something.” She met his eyes stead-
ily. “You’re going down, Gwennie, don’t make any
error about it. But I’d hate to be hard on you. I
know you’ve never liked gun-play and I’m willing to
believe that it was an accident, so far as you were con-
cerned—that someone got out of hand. You know
we’ve got this chap—Smith he calls himself. He's likely
to get loose-lipped, you know.”
The last hint was sheer bluff, and Menzies saw it was
of no avail even before she replied. She was not to be
bamboozled into an acknowledgment that she knew any-
thing of Smith. “You believe I’ve had something to
do with the Greye-Stratton murder,” she answered.
“If you’ve made up your mind I’ll not argue. You’ll
have to find a better fairy-story than that to get me
[101 ||


THE MIA E L S T R O M
down to the Old Bailey.” She rose and walked over
to a seat nearer to the window.
“I should have thought a lady of your penetration
could have put two and two together from seeing me
here,” he remarked.
She looked through the window. “I want to know,”
she said indifferently.
“There was a note sent to Mr. Hallett, you know.
It asked him to come to this address. We have got
the note, which is quite enough for me to act on if I
want to charge you on suspicion of being concerned in
this murder.”
He thought that her cheek went a trifle paler but he
could not be certain. Mrs. Lyne was not a lady who
was likely to show her emotions by any physical change.
She seemed deep in thought. She watched through the
window for two or three minutes before replying. Her
white fingers played an imaginary piano on her lap.
Then she jerked her head abruptly as though she had
come to some decision. “Where do I come in?” she
asked. “I’m not admitting that I know anything, but
if I did, would it be worth my while to tell you? What
should I stand to gain, anyway? Let’s talk plain busi-
ness. You don’t expect something for nothing. As far
as I can see all you promise is your best thanks if I’ll
kindly supply you with evidence to get myself con-
victed.”
There was reason in her point of view. There are
[102


T H E M A E L S T R O M
countries where a certain amount of elasticity is al-
lowed to detectives in the matter of bargaining with
guilty persons. But Scotland Yard holds very strict
views on that point. The slightest resemblance of par-
tiality in its men is rigorously condemned. Menzies
was in a difficulty and knew it.
“There’s something in what you say, Gwennie,” he
argued easily. “Only don’t lose sight of this—I’ve
got enough to act on in regard to you.” He placed his
hands on his knees and leaned forward. “It isn’t as
if we weren’t bound to get the rest of our evidence
sooner or later. You would be only saving time. You
know if I put in a word for you at a trial 99.
She interrupted him. “I’ll climb down,” she said.
“You’ve got me docketed and I know when I’m beat.”
Her bright face relapsed into a momentary scowl. “I
was foolish to send Hallett that note. I thought he
might not take any notice of a verbal message. After
all I guess you’ll search this house, and you’ll be bound
to find him.”
“He’s here?”
She nodded. “He’s here. ‘He’s had a tiring night
if I’m any judge. If you’ll stand out of the doorway
we’ll get along and drag him up. We stowed him in
the cellar.”
He had too much knowledge of Miss Lyne’s resource-
fulness to take any chances. She had the reputation
of being a bitter fighter when hardest pressed and he
[103 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
was alert for any indication that she meant to throw
him off his guard. He gripped her wrist as he opened
the door. “I’m going to hold tight,” he warned.
“Oh, if you like it,” she retorted, and they passed
side by side into the passage.
In the semi-darkness by the kitchen door she stopped
and pushed open a cupboard under the stairs. “It’s
here,” she said. “Have you got a match? There’s a
trap-door.”
“We’ll have to do without a match,” he remarked.
“I like clinging to you, Gwennie.”
She made no answer, but he felt her stoop, and him-
self bent and groped on the floor. The fingers of his
right hand came in contact with a heavy bolt, which
he withdrew. She in turn flung back the trap-door
and both peered down into the square of blackness which
marked the opening.
“You there, Mr. Hallett?” he cried.
A muffled, inarticulate sound reached him. The
woman raised herself almost upright. “He’s tied and
gagged. We’ll need that match, after all, Mr. Men-
zies. There’s a ladder somewhere.”
He felt in his pocket with his free right hand and
passed her a box of matches. “You’d better strike it,
then. Hurry up.”
She fumbled with the matches clumsily enough, which
was only natural. There was a quick burst of flame
as the whole box flared up, and then Menzies gave a
[104 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
cry as she brought round the flaming box with all the
force of her left hand full in his face. His grip on her
wrist involuntarily relaxed and the moment she had
been waiting for arrived. She flung her full weight
sideways upon him and he collapsed down the open
trap-door.
She flung the door swiftly to, pushed home the bolt,
and daintily brushing the dirt from her dressing-gown,
withdrew, closing the cupboard door behind her.
[105 |


CHAPTER XII
WEIR MENzIEs, bruised in body but more battered in
his feelings, was on his feet in a flash. Only the need
for instant action kept him frºm expressing in un-
churchwardenly terms his opinion of the trick that had
been played him. A ladder which had made itself pain-
fully felt in his descent he now ascended with a rush.
He scarcely hoped that the trap was still unsecured,
but he was a man who rarely took anything for granted.
His fingers pressed against the rough surface of the
boards and he gave one futile heave. Then he sat
down on the top step to consider matters quietly.
It is an elementary principle continually dinned into
the ears of junior members of the service that never
in any circumstances must a prisoner upon whom hands
have once been laid be permitted to escape. A captain
who has lost his ship feels little more agony of mind
than a Scotland Yard man who has lost his prisoner.
It is always difficult to define the difference between
negligence and ill luck.
True Gwennie had not been technically under arrest,
but that was small consolation. He had intended to
arrest her and she had outwitted him. That was the
galling part—a part that could admit of little explana-
tion or extenuation when he came to submit his report
[106 ||


T H E M A E L S T R O M
that enwrapped it. He slipped his pocket-knife under
the bonds and the man moved stiffly, sat up, extracted
a gag from his mouth, and spat.
“That you, Hallett?” said Menzies.
“Yes.” The young man broke into a cackling laugh.
“They’ve got you, then, Menzies. If I wasn’t so sore
this would be funny.”
“You’ve a keen sense of humour,” retorted Menzies
grimly. “I don’t see anything funny about it.
Here—hold tight. Don’t go falling about yet.
I'll give you a rub-down and you'll be all right in a
jiffy.” -
He chafed the numbed limbs until Hallett groaned
with the exquisite agony of returning circulation.
“Matches are what I want more than anything else at
the moment,” he went on. “Do you happen to have
any?”
“I think there’s some—right-hand vest pocket,”
groaned Hallett. “Easy—you’re murdering me.”
Menzies extracted a small silver box of vestas and
struck a light. “You’ll do now,” he said. “Better
keep quiet for a little while I have a look round. We’ll
talk when there's more time.”
The light showed a low-pitched cellar such as is used
for the storage of coals in many suburban houses.
Hallett, indeed, had been lying upon a heap of coals
and almost immediately above was an iron plate which
Menzies supposed opened out on to the pavement. He
[108 |


THE MAEL STRO M
pushed it upwards and a slash of light showed that
he was right.
“By James!—I’ll do Gwennie yet,” he exclaimed.
“This hole was not built to fit me, but I guess you’ll
be able to wriggle through, Mr. Hallett. You’re
slimmer than I. Feel you'd like to have a walk about
now? Here, let me give you a hand?”
Supported by the chief inspector, Hallett took two
or three uncertain steps. His strength was rapidly re-
turning to him and by the time they had been twice
round the cellar he declared himself fit for the under-
taking. Menzies lifted him bodily and he wriggled
upwards through the manhole. It was a tight squeeze
and he sat gasping and exhausted on the pavement by
the time he was through.
“What next?” he asked.
“There should be a constable at the corner to the
right. Get him and break into the house if you can’t
do it any other way. Tell him to come and speak to
me if he won’t take instructions from you.”
The policeman proved amenable, and within ten min-
utes Menzies had the pleasure of hearing the bolts of
his prison withdraw and he heaved a sigh of relief as
he emerged into comparatively open air. “That's
better,” he declared. He turned sharply on the con-
stable. “Have you seen anyone leave the house since I
came in?”
“There was a lady and gentleman about twenty min-
[109]


THE MAEL STR om
utes or half an hour ago, sir. I could have stopped 'em,
but I didn’t know whether you might want me to. I
had no instructions. The gentleman was carrying a
hag and the lady asked me where they were likely to
find a taxi-cab.”
“Did you direct them?”
“I told them the town hall was the nearest rank.”
“Hump yourself down to that rank,” said Menzies,
“ and find out if they took a cab. Get the number and
hurry back, bringing a cab with you. Come on, Hal-
lett. We'll make sure that all the birds have flown
before we have that talk. And a wash wouldn’t be
amiss for either of us,” he added, surveying the other's
coal-blackened face.
“You’ve burnt yourself,” said Jimmie.
“That,” commented Menzies. “Oh, that's nothing
—only Gwennie's trade-mark. She’s a regular little
spit-cat, isn’t she?”
A room to room search of the house satisfied Menzies
that it was empty save for themselves. He postponed
a more detailed search until Congreve should arrive
and led the way to the room in which Gwennie Lyne
had received him. He dropped into a chair and looked
Hallett up and down.
“If it hadn’t been my duty to get you out of this
hole,” he said, “I’d have felt inclined to let your friends
stew you in your own juice. "You’re a little too inclined
to go off at half-cock for my taste.”
[110]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Hallett flushed a little. He remembered that but for
the detective he would probably have been still in the
cellar, and he had passed no word of thanks. He tried
to overlook the reproof in Menzies’ tone. “I’ll own I
blundered, if that will satisfy you.” He held out his
hand. “If it hadn’t been for you I'd have still been
sweating my soul out down below. I take it all back.
You’re a good man, Menzies.”
“The girl played you up, did she? You’re not the
first that’s been made a fool of by a woman, my lad.”
Hallett’s teeth gritted together. Menzies seemed to
have the faculty of invariably smoothing him up the
wrong way. “Can’t you leave that end alone,” he said
coldly. “You may be right or wrong, but you know
my opinion. Miss Greye-Stratton isn’t a criminal.
You’re judgment's warped.”
Menzies smiled and made a gesture as of one indulg-
ing a child's whim. “All right, my son. Have it your
own way. I know’—he cocked one leg over the other
—“if I’d been lured into this shanty by the lady and
bundled down to keep company with the coals, what I
should think. I’m not blaming you for jumping to help
a lady in distress—but if you'd gone to the Yard with
that note instead of playing knight-errant, it would
have been the sensible thing.”
“That note was forged. I’ll swear she had no hand
in it.”
Weir Menzies was whistling a tune softly to himself.
[111 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
He stopped in the middle of a bar. “My dear young
friend, for a man who's knocked about the world you’re
the most verdant sprig I’ve run across for a long
time.”
“How'd you know I was here?” demanded Jimmie.
“You left the fragments of the note in your room
and we put them together. That’s all. Suppose you
let me know what happened. We’ll want your state-
ment, anyway.”
Jimmie Hallett felt his unshaven chin absently. “It’s
no good explaining to you why I fell into this frame-up.
You wouldn’t understand and you can call me all the
names you like if it relieves you any. You’ve got to take
it that I felt I had to do something when I got back
to the hotel and found the note. That was how I came
out here. I guess I led any of your men who were
shadowing me a little dance. I hopped all over the old
village.”
“If you went to any trouble to avoid my men,” said
Menzies drily, “it was waste of time. There was no
one following you. If there had been you wouldn’t have
thrown them off. That doesn’t matter, though. Go
on.”
“Well,” said Jimmie, “there isn’t much more to it.
A nice, gentle old lady—it’s she who you call Gwennie,
I suppose—opened the door to me. I was on the look-
out for tricks, but she pretty well threw me off my
guard when she denied that she knew Miss Olney—al-
[112 |


THE MAEL STROM
though when I mentioned Miss Greye-Stratton’s name
she was as nice as pie and asked me right in—into this
very room.
“She asked me to sit down and went away—as I
supposed—to fetch Miss Greye-Stratton. She was
back in two or three minutes and she pitched me a little
tale—I suppose while things were being got good and
ready for me. She told me that she was an old friend
of Miss Greye-Stratton 39
“Didn’t that strike you as curious, seeing she hadn’t
recognised the name of Olney?” asked Menzies.
“It didn’t occur to me—then,” admitted Hallett.
“I never gave it a thought. As I was saying, she de-
clared that she was an old friend and that the girl had
sought her advice in her difficulties. You can laugh,
but I gulped it all down. Then there came a tap at
the door. “Peggy is ready to see you,” said she, and
we got up. I held the door open for her and passed
through close behind. The passage isn’t well lighted, as
you may have noticed, and as I half turned to close
the door after me someone dropped a bag over my
head and shoulders.
“I did my best but I didn’t stand a dog’s chance. If
I’d had my arms free I might have done something,
but that smothering bag prevented anything like an
. effective struggle. I had a gun but I couldn’t get at
it. There were three of them—Gwennie and two men—
and I was dragged back into this room and handled.
[113 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“At last the two men managed to get hold of my
wrists and held me while Gwennie drew the sack off.
Then I was lashed and gagged as you found me.
“‘Sorry to put you to this inconvenience, Mr. Hal-
lett,” said Gwennie, “but we just had to make sure of
you.’ I glared at her. Of course I couldn’t answer.
Laying as I was I couldn’t see the faces of the two
men—they seemed to be purposely keeping out of my
line of sight, but one of them struck in.
“‘Think yourself lucky that we haven’t put you
right out.”
“‘All right,’ thinks I to myself, ‘I know that voice.”
It was that of the man who let me in at Linstone Ter-
race Gardens.
“‘You keep quiet,” said Gwennie—she seemed to be
boss of the show. “Now just listen to me, Mr. Hallett.
You’ve been jolted into a business that is no concern of
yours, and we’re not the sort of people to allow our
plans to be interfered with. It’s up to us to keep
your mouth shut about what you’ve seen or know, but
you won’t come to any harm unless our hands are
forced. I'm afraid you’ll have to put up with some
discomfort for some hours, though, until we can make
arrangements.”
“They lifted me up and carried me down that cellar
—and anything harder than the coal they laid me on
I’ve never known. There was a clock I could hear
striking somewhere, so I was able to keep track of time.
[1141


T H E M A E L S T R O M
At about half-past ten last night Gwennie came down
and loosened the gag and gave me something to eat and
drink. She didn’t forget to put it on again afterwards,
though. After that I was left alone till I heard your
voices above the trap-door—though I never thought
then that she’d diddle you as she has done.”
“I’ve not finished yet, Mr. Hallett,” said Menzies.
“We’re going to play this game out. It’s one thing
gained to know that Gwennie Lyne’s in it Hello,
there’s a cab. That must be my constable back. Ah,
and there’s Congreve and a couple more men. It doesn’t
look as if we’d have stayed long in that cellar even if
there hadn’t been the coal-shoot. I’ll have to decide
what’s to be done.”
[115 j


CHAPTER XIII
THE only man who appeared at all hurried or excited
was the constable. He had gained not only the number
of the cab in which Gwennie and her companion had
driven away, but the name of the driver and the location
of his garage. He was visibly proud of his success,
though perhaps a little disappointed that Menzies
should accept it as a matter of course. Still there was
the thrill not often encountered in street duty of feeling
that he was at work side by side with one of the best-
known Scotland Yard detectives. It was none the less
felt, although he had little idea of what was happening
or what had happened.
His palpable excitement was in contrast to the im-
perturbable attitude of the detectives to whom the
routine was familiar. They waited while Menzies
swiftly scribbled a message to headquarters.
A definite stage had been reached in the investigation.
The motive and identity of the murderer of the old man
were still in doubt, but no longer was there any neces-
sity for questing a trail. The law holds every person
innocent until proved guilty, but common sense has at
times to reverse the rule. No experienced police officer
of any nationality would hesitate for a moment in form-
ing an opinion even had the facts against Gwennie
Lyne been much slighter than they were. Her mere
[116 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
reputation as an organiser of criminal coups was
enough.
It might be difficult to bring home any proof of com-
plicity in the murder, but there was now a legitimate
reason for holding her (once she was caught) in the
abduction of Hallett or even as a returned deportee.
A suspect under lock and key has few opportunities
of clouding a line of investigation. Menzies felt the
elation of one who had viewed his quarry and could
now run it down in the open. Once she and her friends
were under arrest it would be easier to piece together
the links connecting them with the murder.
He finished his despatch and folded and blotted
it methodically. “Take that along to the station
and have it wired off to the Yard at once,” he
ordered. f
So he sent a warning that within an hour or less
would reach each one of the six hundred odd detectives
of London, to say nothing of the watchers of the ports.
Not a single man of those six hundred going about his
ordinary business but would shortly carry a photograph
of Gwennie and be alert for any hint of her whereabouts.
It was to that relentless, unceasing vigilance that Men-
zies pinned his faith rather than to the wearying task
of following her up through the cabman who had driven
her away. The cabman would only be able to say
where he put her down, and she would have had
ample time to cover her tracks. -
[117 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
and cheerful, he looked more the churchwarden than
ever by contrast with his late appearance.
“No need to hurry. Congreve won’t have finished
yet awhile and a bit of breakfast won’t do any harm.
Let me introduce Mrs. Menzies. And here’s Bruin.
Shake hands with Mr. Hallett, Bruin.” He fondled
the dog for a moment. “He’s a rascal. Tried to
spoil my garden yesterday, didn’t you—you wicked old
sinner. Come and have a look at my patch, Mr. Hal-
lett. It’s not big, but I do fairly well with my
roses.”
“I never talk business when I’m at home and never
think of it if I can help it. I do all my worrying on
duty. Some men let a case get on their nerves. It
never does any good,” he said when they were seated at
the table.
The steady search of Mrs. Lyne’s house was still
progressing when they returned to Ludford Road. A
number of fresh detectives had arrived to help Congreve,
and they found Heldon Foyle stretched lazily out in
one of the horsehair chairs in the sitting-room. He
rose and shook hands with Jimmie.
“How are you, Mr. Hallett? . . . I got your report,
Menzies. Nothing much doing, so I thought I’d drop
down and have a look at things.” He drew the chief in-
spector a little aside. “I didn’t think you would have
let Gwennie get one in on you. She complicates things.
The Commissioner isn’t pleased.”
[119 J


THE MAE L S T R O M
“It’s against me, sir, and that’s a fact,” agreed the
other ruefully. He made no attempt at excuse.
“It can’t be helped, old man,” said Foyle more sym-
pathetically now that he had delivered his official re-
proof. “I’d have fallen into it just the same way.
Come upstairs. Excuse us a moment, Mr. Hallett.”
He led the way upstairs to a locked room and tapped
softly at the door. It was opened very slowly, just
wide enough to admit him. “Burnt paper,” he ex-
plained laconically. “Come in slowly. Don’t make a
draught.”
The chief inspector obeyed. There were a couple of
men within the bedroom, which reeked of oil from a
cheap stove on the washstand. The window was tight
closed and the chimney was blocked up. In the grate
were the blackened fragments of a mass of burnt papers.
The big bed, too, was a chaos of burnt papers which
had broken under the efforts of the two men to move
them intact.
The superintendent and the chief inspector halted by
the door. With infinite delicacy one of the constables
lifted a sheet of burnt paper from the grate and placed
it in a kitchen sieve. This he held over a steaming
kettle on the oil stove while his companion with a trans-
parent sheet of paper on which gum had been thinly
spread in his hand, waited anxiously. The burnt paper
softened rapidly and the gummed sheet was dropped
upon it. -
[120 1


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“That’s the last, sir,” commented one of the op-
erators. “The rest is too broken up to be handled.”
He indicated the grate with a gesture.
The chief inspector moved to the bed and took a
seat upon it. Heldon Foyle lit a cigar.
“There are two or three cheque-book counterfoils
not quite destroyed,” went on the man, and picking
them off the coverlet handed them to Menzies.
“Very well,” said Foyle. “Mr. Menzies and I will
go through these things now. You can come to photo-
graph them later on.”
As the experts vanished, Menzies gingerly turned
over the charred leaves of the cheque counterfoils.
“Gwennie made the most of her time,” he observed, “but
she seems to have been too much rushed to make a com-
plete job of it. These are on the same bank as Greye-
Stratton’s.” -
“Same cheques?” asked Foyle.
“Hallett may be able to tell us that. What are these
other documents?”
It is a peculiarity of burnt paper that it often shows
up quite clearly any writing that was upon it before it
was consumed. Menzies wrinkled his brows as he
studied the pasted-down portions that had been res-
cued. Some pieces were almost complete; some had
broken and twisted under the process of restoration
so that it was a matter of difficulty to follow the ec-
centricities of the writing which, in some cases, stood
[121 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
out dirty grey, in others brilliant black, and still again
pale black.
“Listen to this,” said Menzies. He read slowly:
“‘We are all right for the time being and if *—there’s
a piece missing there—“can be handled we shall be all
hunky. Couldn’t you square one of the bulls. You
know some of them and it might be worth a shot, as it
would simplify things. It’s no good tackling M. But
a couple of hundred with some of the others ought to
go a long way. You can dig the money out and *-
something else gone. “Hallett is most dangerous just
now. He absolutely must be settled if we are to pull
off the game. That’s up to you, as I’ll have to keep
below the water line.”
“‘Better not write to me, but if you can get wind
to Cincinnati pass me a word. Don’t trust C. too
much.” The rest of the letter's gone,” finished Menzies.
The superintendent sucked his cigar thoughtfully.
“That’s Cincinnati Red,” he commented. “You’ll
want to rope him in. He’s been in London for three
months or more.”
“I’ll have that seen to at once,” said Menzies. “The
rest of the letters can wait a little.”
Foyle stretched out his hand for , the blackened
epistle. “Pity the rest of it’s gone. The chap who
wrote this thinks a lot of you, Menzies. He thinks
you’re above graft. I wonder if Gwennie has been try-
ing to buy up any of our men.”
[122]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“The letter's probably been written this last day or
two. There's been no time yet. I’ll pass the word that
whoever is tackled is to bite.”
“There might be a chance,” said Foyle. “And I’ll
tell you what, Menzies. I’ll bet you a thousand pounds
to a penny that the gentleman who's so anxious to keep
his head under the water line is Stewart Reader Ling.”
“No takers, sir,” said Menzies smilingly.
[123 ]


THE M A E L S T R O M
that of an easy-going tolerant man of the world who
had no enemies and thousands of friends.
Now, an American millionaire with a Bohemian taste
for night clubs and a cosy flat where selected friends
of wealth may be invited for no-limit games of chance,
has small fear of the police. It is unlikely that a man
that has dropped a hundred or two over baccarat or
poker will squeal to the authorities, even though he sus-
pects that something more than luck has favoured his
charming host. Publicity does not appeal to him. And
for any other than legal contingencies Cincinnati Red
was prepared. It caused a bulge in the breast pocket of
his otherwise well-fitting dress coat, but that could
scarcely be avoided. There are few smaller reliable
pistols than the pattern of derringer he carried.
So it was with thoughts far removed from the sordid
commonplaces of crime that he pressed the bell and sum-
moned his man to help him on with his overcoat. He
made his way with dignity down into the street and
stopped for a moment on the curb to light his cigarette.
A couple of men sauntered towards him. The taller
of the two halted as they came opposite. “Isn’t your
name Tomkins?” he asked.
Cincinnati finished lighting his cigarette, dropped the
match and ground the light out under his heel before
replying. “No, my man,” he drawled, “you’ve made
a mistake. My name is Whiffen.”
He calmly ignored his questioner and held up a slim
[125I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
cane in his left hand for a taxi-cab. Someone gripped
his right wrist and he wheeled in wrathful surprise. As
he did so his other hand was caught. He made no
resistance. His attitude was one of dignified and lofty
indignation.
“What is the meaning of this? Leave me alone in-
stantly or I will call the police.”
“That's all right,” observed one of his captors
quietly. “We are police officers ourselves. Jump in,
Alf. I’ve got him. . . . Now then. . . . . All right,
driver. Scotland Yard.”
It was as though they were handling a bale of goods,
so neatly and impersonally was the whole thing effected.
Cincinnati Red had been for once taken off his guard.
He was more staggered than his manner showed. That
the police should know of his presence in London was
not astonishing. It was to be expected. That they
should know exactly where to lay hands on him was a
different thing. He thought he had covered his traces
effectually—that no one could guess that Wilfred S.
Whiffen, who lived unostentatiously and well at Palace
Avenue was Cincinnati Red, whose record occupied a
prominent place in the police registers of half a dozen
countries. What puzzled him still more was the mere
fact that even knowing him, the police should trouble to
arrest him. Since his arrival in England there was noth-
ing they could hold against him, as far as he knew. He
was as dead certain as he cared to be about anything
[ 126 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
that none of his victims had invoked the aid of the
law.
The only reasonable supposition was that this was
a sort of bluff that was intended to frighten him out of
the country. He resolved to sit tight.
“If you people really are police officers,” he declared
acidly, “this foolishness will cost you your positions. I
may tell you I am well known in the best circles both
here and in New York.”
His captors remained unimpressed. Cincinnati Red
had been “rubbed down" before and he recognised the
touch of efficient hands. One of the officers thrust a
hand into his breast pocket and produced the derringer.
“Handy little thing, Alf,” he commented.
“Will you answer me, my man?” said Cincinnati,
accentuating every word slowly. “Am I under arrest,
and if so, what for. I insist on being told. You will
hear more of this.” He was annoyed in reality and a
vague alarm was growing in his breast. -
“You keep quiet, old lad,” said one of his captors
with more familiarity than was consistent with the status
of Wilfred S. Whiffen, whatever it might be with Cin-
cinnati Red. “You’ll learn all about it soon enough.
Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“That isn’t the point. I insist upon knowing what
all this is about. I have an appointment with Lord
Windermere an 33
“He will talk,” interrupted one of the officers
[127 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
wearily. “Say, sonny, suppose you give it a rest for
five minutes. Lord Windermere will have to wait. Oh!
Here we are.”
Very few criminals are taken to Scotland Yard on
detention, whatever the reader of popular fiction is ac-
customed to suppose. And that fact gave Cincinnati
Red something to surmise upon as he was ushered into
the soft-carpeted room where Weir Menzies and Heldon
Foyle awaited him.
They both rose with the welcoming smile of old ac-
quaintances. His escort had vanished. “That you?”
said Foyle, beaming. “Say, I’m glad to see you, Cin-
cinnati. You’re looking top hole, too.”
“Sit right down,” added Menzies. “ Hope you’ve
not been put to any inconvenience. We told our chaps
not to alarm you.”
Cincinnati Red looked from one to the other, sus-
picion working behind his bland countenance. He had
in his time passed through the hands of both the de-
tectives and it was useless keeping up the pose he had
adopted with the younger men. Still this assumption
of friendliness was beyond him. -
“Well, you’ve got me here, gentlemen,” he said
suavely. “I didn’t invite myself and I’ve got business
to attend to.” He pulled off his gloves and dangled
them in one hand. “It’s rather rough on a man when
he has achieved a position for himself and is on the level
again 99
[128 I


THE M A E L S T R O M
“And you’re on the level,” said Menzies, rolling a
pen between his thumb and finger. “Well, I think it
is a shame to drag an honest workingman’—his eye
wandered meditatively over Cincinnati’s faultless even-
ing dress—“away from his job—especially as the night
clubs will soon be open. What line of commerce have
you established yourself infº
Cincinnati returned his glance more hurt than angry.
Foyle struck in before he could reply.
“Let him alone, Menzies. What’ll you have, Cin-
cinnatif I’ve got some of the real rye here—or would
you prefer anything else?”
It is unusual for an officer of the C. I. to work with
his desk flanked with a decanter of rye whisky. It is
still more unusual for him to profer hospitality to a
crook in the very headquarters of police. Cincinnati
became wary. He did not know what was going to
happen, but he wanted to keep his head clear.
“Nothing, I thank you,” he said.
“Just as you like. I thought you might like a drink
while we had a talk over things.”
Cincinnati knew as well as the men who faced him
that the whole proceedings were totally irregular. They
had no shadow of right to detain him while no charge
was hanging over his head. He would have been justified
in walking straight out of the building. Yet he knew
Foyle and he knew Menzies, and he knew, in spite of
their apparent friendliness, things might become un-
[129


T H E M A E L S T R O M
pleasant if he took a high line. He flicked a speck of
dust off his boots with his glove.
“Don’t be shy,” he urged.
“Where's Ling?” questioned Menzies abruptly. His
ruddy face had lost its good nature. He was leaning
forward with hard, fierce eyes barely a couple of inches
from the “con’’ man’s face. The quickness of the
question and harshness of his manner were all carefully
calculated to make an impression that would throw the
other off his balance.
Cincinnati seemed unperturbed. “So you’re hunt-
ing up Ling. What's he been doing? On my soul I
wish I could help you. I don’t like Ling.”
There was a moment's silence. Then Foyle twisted
his swivel chair and lifted one of a row of speaking-
tubes behind him. It was a simple, undramatic action,
but somehow the “con” man’s pulse beats quickened.
The superintendent paused with the tube in his hand.
“You’ve got a clean sheet, of course?” he asked, and
his voice, though quiet, was threatening. “Nothing we
can hold you for? Or shall I put a wire through to
Rome and Paris and New York?”
Now there had been incidents in Cincinnati Red's
career as in those of every professional crook wherein
the law had not claimed the penalty which was its due.
It sometimes happens that only the most grave of a
series of crimes is selected for definite legal punishment.
There were cases that still might be proceeded with
[130 J


T BIE M A E L S T R O M
against the “con" man if the blue-eyed superintendent
chose to induce his international colleagues to rake the
cold ashes together.
“Don’t rush a man,” protested Cincinnati Red, a
little less coolly. “I was saying that I’d help you if
I could.”
“Then get down to it,” snapped Menzies. “We’re
in a hurry.”
“The sweat box” is an institution unknown in Eng-
lish police circles. Nevertheless, the “con " man found
certain similarities in the conduct of the swift and re-
lentless examination of the two detectives. They gave
him little time for invention even had he been disposed
to mislead them. But like most of his type he put his
own skin first, even if it came to betraying an acquaint-
ance into the hands of justice. -
“Guess I’ll have a drink, after all,” he said. He
swallowed a draught Foyle handed him in a quick gulp.
“I’ll trust you not to let any of the boys know I have
said anything,” he declared. “I saw Ling about a
week ago and I’ve known he had something big on for
some months. You gentlemen know that I used to have
considerable dealings with him. He’d shoot on sight
if he guessed. . . .”
“You were one of the layers down in that forged cir-
cular note stunt of his,” remarked Menzies. “Yes, we
know all about that. Five years you got in Paris, wasn’t
it? »
[1311


THE M A E L S T R O M
“Three,” corrected Cincinnati. “You’d have
thought,” he went on with more bitterness, “that he'd
have let me in on the ground floor of any fresh job, see-
ing how I had the brunt of that. If it hadn’t been for
an accident we’d have made a pile. But no. He said
they were full up.”
The two detectives exchanged glances. Cincinnati
Red, clever man though he was, had always been viewed
with a certain amount of not altogether unjustified dis-
trust by his associates in the underworld. The phrase in
the letter warning Gwennie not to trust Cincinnati too
much occurred to them.
“A lucky thing for you, too,” observed Foyle. “Go
on.”
“Well, whatever the job is Gwennie Lyne is in it.
Ling said he might have to lay close for a bit, but there
might be a chance for me to sit in the game later on.
That was to sweeten me, you bet. He wanted me to keep
in touch with Gwennie—she lives down at Brixton
now. . . .”
“What address?” asked Menzies. There was noth-
ing to be gained by giving Cincinnati Red any sort of a
hint as to how far they were able to check his story.
He gravely wrote down the address—the correct one—
given by the “con’’ man.
“Well,” went on Cincinnati, “it’s no good asking me
what the job is, because, honest injun, I don’t know *—
he shot a sideways glance at them—“you’ll be more clear
[ 132 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
on that than I am. All I know is that it’s a big thing.”
“Do you know a Miss Olney—Miss Lucy Olney?”
Cincinnati shook his head. “Never heard the name
before.”
Two pairs of eyes were watching him closely. The
chief inspector gave a slight cough into his moustache.
So far the swindler had been convincingly plausible and
if he were more deeply involved in the mystery than he
appeared to be, he had taken a cunning line. “How did
you come to take a flat in Palace Avenue?” demanded
Foyle.
“Well,” said Cincinnati slowly, “I don’t know there
was any special reason why I should take it there more
than anywhere else 99
“Answer the question—quick,” demanded Menzies;
“don’t talk round it.”
“It was Ling who told me the place was to let.”
“Ah. And I suppose you got your references from
him?”
“That’s so. But don’t you run away with any de-
lusions, Mr. Menzies. I’ve paid my rent regularly and
honestly.” Cincinnati was plainly grieved at the re-
flection on his integrity.
“We'll take your word. But I thought you weren’t
very friendly with Ling. Why should he go out of his
way to do you a favour?”
Cincinnati shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, it didn’t
cost him anything, I suppose. He said he might want
[ 133 ]


THE MAEL STR O M
me to chip in sometime and it was handy for Gwennie
and him to know where I was. He used to run up and
see me sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”
“You haven’t said how you were to communicate
with Ling. Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he is. Last I saw of him was
when he used to take meals at the Petit Savoy—you
know that little restaurant in Soho. He hasn’t always
been there lately. Sometimes a chap named Dago Sam
used to come instead. If I got any urgent message I
was to post it to T. S. Charters, Poste Restante, Ald-
gate.”
“H”m.” Menzies wrote out the address and looked
questioningly at Foyle.
“That’ll do for the present,” said the superinten-
dent. “The point is what are we going to do about
you?” He shook his head at the “con” man.
“You’re an awkward problem, you know.”
“You can trust me, Mr. Foyle,” said Cincinnati.
“I know when to keep my mouth shut. Why, I might
be able to help you to get hold of Ling.”
“That's decidedly an idea,” said Menzies. “Wait
a minute.” He dashed outside and returned accom-
panied by the men who had captured Cincinnati Red.
“If you’ll go with these gentlemen, Mr.—er—Whif-
fen,” he said politely, “Mr. Foyle and I will talk things
over and see what is to be done.”
[134 )


CHAPTER XV
A HALF smile of triumph was on Menzies’ face as he
returned to his seat. “Ling is a judge of character,”
he said with a contemptuous jerk of the head in the
direction of the door. “That chap would sell his father,
and mother, and brothers, and sisters to save his own
skin. Pah!”
“Handle him easy all the same,” exhorted the su-
perintendent. “He’s a nasty man to get in a corner.
He had a gun on me once in a saloon and if I hadn’t
been a quick shot with a beer bottle—well, I wouldn’t
be talking to you now. Hello! Good evening, Sir
Hilary.”
The gaunt figure of the assistant commissioner had
entered the room, an open newspaper in his hand.
“Good evening. They told me you were here, Menzies.
Seen the Evening Comet? They’ve got a new clue
for you. Seems that Greye-Stratton was a defaulting
member of the Black Hand. It’s true, because its spe-
cial commissioner has found certain cabalistic marks
chalked on the pavement which no one is able to deci-
pher. Here's a photograph. Scotland Yard—that's
one of you two, I suppose—is extremely reticent and
would express no opinion when approached on the sub-
ject. Two columns.”
“So that tom-fool published it,” said Foyle, his eyes
[ 135 J


THE MAEL STROM
twinkling behind his glasses. “He found some boy
scout marks about a hundred yards away from the
house and came up here full of it. He wasn’t quite
sure whether it was the Black Hand or the High Bind-
ers, but he's certain he's on the track and he left a
photograph for you, Menzies.”
“Obliged, I’m sure,” said the chief inspector shortly.
“How are things shaping?” asked Thornton.
“Moderate, sir, moderate,” answered Menzies.
“We’ve just been talking to a gentleman who may be
of some use—but I’m not dead certain yet.” He fished
in his pocket and produced some notes. “We’ve brushed
away a lot of the fog at the beginning of the case and
we’ve got something to concentrate on. I never like
to be confident, but we’ve got heaps of suspicion to
bring against one or two people and the evidence may
come along. It makes it easier in a way that some of
them are known crooks.”
Thornton was standing in front of the fireplace, his
hands behind his back. He jerked his coat-tails to and
fro. “I don’t follow that altogether. I used to under-
stand that it was easier to run down an amateur than
a professional. Surely their experience will help 'em
to blind the trail.”
“That’s partly right,” agreed Menzies, “but it cuts
both ways. I can judge of my difficulties. Now I’m
not clear about a lot of things, but I’ve got ideas on
which I’ve not reported yet because they may turn out
[ 136 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
all wrong. The point on which we are clear now is that
robbery—at least straightforward robbery—was not
the motive of the murder. Revenge is a possibility.
Errol, Greye-Stratton’s step-son, hated him like poison
and it is clear that the old man dreaded some attempt
on his life—though that may have been pure mono-
mania with no foundation in fact at all. All the same
Errol is the pivot on which we have to work. I, at one
time, supposed him the actual murderer. I am not so
certain now. Errol—by the way, we haven’t found
what name he passes under yet—and his sister are liv-
ing in London apart from each other and apart from
the old man. She is sole heiress. She is quietly mar-
ried to Stewart Reader Ling—Errol’s pal. Do you
follow me, sir?”
“That's plain—and plausible as far as it goes,” said
Sir Hilary. “It supplies a powerful motive. But, to
be frank, it doesn’t do much else.”
“I don’t pretend it does,” said Menzies. “It would
be mighty thin to put before a jury by itself, as you
say. But now we come to Hallett. He hears a quarrel
in the fog. A woman pursued by a man rushes up to
him and puts a bundle of cheques into his hand. He
goes to Greye-Stratton’s house and is admitted about
the time of the murder and knocked out by a man whose
face he never saw. Twice he was brought into contact
with a man—or possibly two men—who must know a
great deal about the case. And yet he never saw them.”
[ 137 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“I thought you were convinced of his honesty,” said
Thornton. “I myself believe he's perfectly clear.”
“Wait a minute,” said Foyle.
“I think so, too,” went on Menzies. “But this is
significant. Does the man who was in the fog, does the
man who was in the house, know that Hallett never saw
his features? We get the attempt to silence him first by
threats, then by a pistol shot, then by abduction. This
part, at any rate, links up some evidence. The Greye-
Stratton girl's name is used to lure him to Gwennie
Lyne’s house. If she wrote the note herself—and,
mind you, we’ve no proof she didn't—that connects her
with Gwennie and the rest. I’m pretty positive in my
own mind that she was the woman of the fog and that
Hallett knows it—and she knows he knows. We carry
the linking up closer by one of the burnt notes we
found, which warns Gwennie Lyne that Hallett must be
silenced at all costs. We guess that’s Ling’s writing
and may be able to prove it. We’ve got collaboration in
some plot—whether it’s the murder of Greye-Stratton
or not—partly established at any rate.”
“But the cheques,” said Thornton. “How do you
explain the cheques?”
“I don’t. I’ll own they’re beyond me at the moment.
None of our enquiries have thrown any light on that,
though we found some burnt stubs which may be the
counterfoils in Gwennie’s grate. However, that may
be one of those things capable of a quite simple explai
[138


T H E M A E L S T R O M
nation at the right moment. Now there’s the man we’ve
just been talking to-Cincinnati Red. Of course, he’s
a crook and he wouldn’t show up well under cross-
examination if we should want to put him in the box.
But what he says goes to help my ideas. He points out
that Ling and Gwennie have had some big scheme on
about which they’ve been very close. I’ll not deny that
I may have built up the wrong theory—time will show—
but it’s got a framework of facts and I can’t see that
they fit any other theory.”
“How about Miss Greye-Stratton—Mrs. Ling?”
asked Foyle.
Menzies scratched an eyebrow. “She’s difficult,” he
admitted. Whether she’s deliberately in the game or
not it’s hard to say. She’s told Hallett something, too,
but she seems to have hypnotised him. He’s as tight as
a nut when it comes to her. I’ve got hopes that I may
make him see reason and then I shall have something
to go on from the inside.”
“You’re going out with Cincinnati: ” said the super-
intendent switching off the discussion. “I know you’re
prejudiced against guns, but if you are I think I’d put
one in my pocket. You want to take care with the mob
you’re handling.”
“I don’t know,” said Menzies casually. “I’d as
likely as not hit the wrong person if I pulled a trigger.
I’m taking Royal. He can have one if he likes. He's
out looking after Hallett just now. The pair of them
[ 139 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Savoy,” went on Menzies. “We might see that pal of
yours there.”
“Oh, come, I say,” remonstrated Cincinnati.
“That’s going a bit beyond it. If anyone saw me get-
ting around with a couple of police officers where would
I be?” He spread his hands in protest.
“It would get you into bad odour with the boys,
wouldn’t it?” said Menzies. “Kind of hurt your repu-
tation?”
Cincinnati Red was plainly alarmed at the course
events were taking. He was not a coward, but he never
asked for trouble. To give Ling away was one thing—
to seek him out barefaced in the company of detectives
was quite another. Apart from any danger which Ling
himself might threaten it would be advertising himself
to the whole of the underworld as a man definitely unfit
to be trusted. Although his present prospects were
favourable enough there might at any moment arise an
occasion for him to co-operate with acquaintances in
some fresh nefarious scheme.
“It isn’t that,” he explained. “If I was seen walk-
ing with you it would give the game away.”
The chief inspector twisted his fingers in his watch-
chain. He was as well aware of the course of Cincin-
nati’s thoughts as the “con’’ man himself.’ “Comfort
yourself, laddie,” he remarked. “We aren’t quite so
fresh as that. Mr. Hallett here will walk with you and
Royal and I will look after ourselves. If you meet Ling
[141 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
or anyone else in his mob all you’ve got to do is to
fiddle with the top button of your jacket. Savvy?”
“That’s all right,” said Cincinnati.
“And—just in case of accidents—Mr. Hallett’s
name is Mr. Green—Mr. Samuel Green.”
“Samuel Green it is. I understand, Mr. Menzies.”
Jimmie Hallett found the walk through the West
End streets not without interest. Had not the circum-
stances of the introduction told him that Mr. Whiffen
was a crook he would have had difficulty in arriving
at that conclusion. Cincinnati Red could be a delight-
ful companion when he chose. It was part of his pro-
fession. He had read widely and well, and his study of
human nature had been vast. As a student of the news-
papers he knew that Jimmie had been the first to raise
an alarm after the murder, but not until now had he
supposed that Ling had any connection with the crime.
He laid himself out to pump Jimmie, but with little
success. Hallett was willing enough to talk, but Cin-
cinnati speedily found that he was expected to provide
any loose information that might be floating around, in-
stead of obtaining it. He dropped finesse and tried the
point-blank method.
“This is a rotten business for anyone from across
the water to walk into just when they are expecting to
enjoy themselves. I’d just hate to be worried if I were
in your place. How’d it come about, anyway? Did you
know Greye-Stratton before?”
[142


THE M A E L S T R O M
“It’s a long story,” parried Jimmie warily. “What
about this Ling man? Known him long?”
“Some years,” said Cincinnati. “You must not
imagine, Mr. Hallett, that because of the circumstances
in which we’ve met I am just a crook. I’ve had mis-
fortunes. I made a mistake once and I’ve paid for it.
You know what the police are—they’re the same all
over the world. They don’t forgive men for rising
from their dead selves. I’ve come to this country to
start over again and my hands are clean. Yet here I
am pulled into this because I once knew Ling. You
saw the offensive manner of the ill-bred vulture
Menzies just now. I daren’t resent it.”
Jimmie had heard the same story before. Police
persecution is an unfailing text for the habitual crim-
inal. He scrutinised Mr. Whiffen with smiling incredu-
lity.
“Did you ever meet Ling's wife?” he asked.
“His wife?” ejaculated Cincinnati. “I didn't know
he was married.”
“I was wondering,” said Jimmie. “That’s all.”
He followed Cincinnati through the swing doors of
the Petit Savoy and a waiter glided forward to lead
them to a table. Cincinnati brushed him aside and
led the way through the throng of diners to a further
room. Jimmie Hallett had to seek the support of a
chair to steady himself. He heard Cincinnati Red
speaking as one far off.
[143 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Hullo, old man. How are you? Shake hands with
my friend here—Mr. Samuel G. Green from Mobile.”
The clean-shaven, keen-eyed man whom Cincinnati
had omitted to name was shaking hands with him across
the table. But Jimmie paid little attention to him.
For by his side, half risen from her chair, wide-eyed
and astonished, was Peggy Greye-Stratton.
[1441


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The police are immediately behind us. They are go-
ing to arrest him, and maybe you, too. You must get
away at once.” He signalled to a waiter. “Is there
another way out? Some people are coming in at the
front whom we don’t want to meet.”
A gleam of gold between his fingers transformed the
waiter into a quick ally. “If you will step this way,
sir—this way, madam.” He pushed forward half a
dozen steps and flung open a door. They descended a
couple of steps into a derelict side street, and Ling,
who had watched them with a puzzled frown, turned
to Cincinnati as they disappeared.
“What in thunder’s the game?”
“Blest if I know,” said Cincinnati. “Who’s your
lady friend? She seemed surprised to see my friend.”
He was fumbling with the buttons of his coat.
Suspicion sat black and lowering on Ling’s face.
His hand dropped to his jacket pocket and Cincinnati
had a little apprehensive thrill as he heard a faint click
and the bottom corner of the jacket pocket poked the
edge of the table. He longed to look round to see if
Menzies had entered the room, but he dared not turn
his head. A waiter glided to his side and as he picked
up the menu card, and with deliberation, gave his orders,
he felt Ling's menacing gaze still upon him. The
waiter moved away.
“There's some monkey trick on the board,” said
Ling in a low voice. “By God, I’ll plug if you
[146 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
don’t tell me what’s on. What are you doing with
Hallett? Why did you bring him here? Answer. If
you move or turn a hair I'll blow a hole through you,
you dog!”
Cincinnati was between the devil and the deep sea—
with the detectives behind and a desperate man in front.
“Easy does it, Stewart,” he said soothingly. “Easy
does it. I couldn’t help myself.”
Between clenched teeth Ling spat a vicious oath at
him. His eyes shot up and down the crowded aisles of
the restaurant, always coming back to Cincinnati Red's
face. There was a white scar an inch long above his left
eye which now showed crimson, giving him an indescrib-
ably sinister appearance. He withdrew his right hand
from his pocket, keeping it concealed with a serviette.
The serviette lay at last carelessly crumpled in front
of him and his hand was under it.
“See that?” he growled menacingly. “There's two
men just come in. Pals of yours, I guess. You’d bet-
ter get your thinking apparatus started, for if those
splits offer to come near me it’s going to be an almighty
bad time for you. You’d try to put it across me, you
tin horn' I tell you, if I go out of this place with the
cuffs on, you’ll go out feet first. Think it out quick,
you dirty squealer.”
Cincinnati Red was frightened, badly frightened,
though his face did not show it, save perhaps that it
was whiter than usual. The waiter placed a plate of
[147 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
soup before him and his hand was steady as he lifted
the spoon. Ling himself, in spite of his passion, had
lowered his tone and not a soul in the room beyond
themselves knew that they were within measurable dis-
tance of tragedy.
“That back door those others used,” he said quickly;
“slip out. I’ll hold the bulls back.”
The serviette stirred impatiently. “Not on your tin-
type, my son. You don’t pass on this hand. You’ll
stick closer to me than a brother. I’ll trust you—while
my finger's on a gun and the gun on you.”
Menzies and Royal had seated themselves three or
four tables away. Nothing seemingly was of less in-
terest to them than the two crooks.
“I can’t think of anything,” protested Cincinnati
sullenly.
“How much do they know?” asked Ling sharply.
“They raided Gwennie's shanty this morning.
They’re after her, but you mainly.”
“You seem to know a hell of a lot,” commented
Ling crisply. “I suppose you’ve arranged to give 'em
the office when they’re to pull me. That would have
been all right if Hallett hadn’t gone off at half cock.
Now the surprise packet is going to be mine. I’m
going to drink this liqueur and my attention is going to
seem to wander off you for a little minute—only seem,
mind you. There’s a menu card down by your hand.
You've got a pencil. Now write on that that I suspect
[148 ||


T H E M A E L S T R O M
nothing—that I’m going to take you round now to
the spot where the rest of the boys are. Then give it
to the waiter to pass to them.”
The astuteness of the move appealed to Cincinnati.
Ling was playing for time, to avoid immediate arrest.
If the detectives thought they would make a bigger haul
by postponing matters they would do so. The “con"
man had no conscientious scruples about tricking them,
but he was uneasy when he thought of the hints which
Foyle had given him. If he could have safely betrayed
Ling he would. Still, life was, after all, worth clinging
to—even if a certain proportion of it had to be spent
in prison. He followed Ling’s instructions docilely and
over his shoulder saw Menzies read the card and nod
without looking up. Ling drank his liqueur slowly and
there was a more complacent expression about his thin
lips. Now that he had obtained a respite he seemed
in no hurry to go. He regarded the “con * man with
a sneer. “You’re not fit for this sort of thing, Cincin-
nati,” he said acidly. “You ought to stick to parlour
games. A yellow streak doesn’t matter there.”
The other leaned back in his chair unmoved by the
insult. “I’m not silly enough to butt my head against
a brick wall,” he answered equably. “One of these
times we may meet on level terms.” His eye dropped
meaningly on the serviette.
“Not if I know it,” retorted Ling. “I like you bet-
ter as you are. You’ll never be on level terms with
[ 149 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
me. I wonder what I’ll do to you,” he went on reflec-
tively. “Did you ever hear how they used to treat
witches in the old days in Massachusetts? They used
to stick red-hot knitting needles through their
tongues. It always seemed to me that wouldn't be a
bad punishment for squealers.” He pushed back his
chair. “Get my coat, waiter. And this gentleman’s.”
They marched out of the restaurant side by side and
a little walk brought them into Shaftesbury Avenue.
Cincinnati had every nerve strained watching for an
opportunity to escape. But Ling’s vigilance never re-
laxed. “I’ve got very attached to you this last half
hour,” he explained in friendly tones. “I wouldn’t
lose you for anything. I want to hear you pitch a tale
when we get time. It’ll be a real pleasure to learn how
you’ve been working yourself to help us and how I’ve
been deceived by appearances into dealing with you
harshly.”
This tribute to his inventive faculties did not seem
to afford Cincinnati Red any pronounced gratification.
He grunted something unintelligible. Then: “If I
were you, Stewart, I’d take a taxi. We’ll never throw
these splits off walking.”
“Well, well,” exclaimed Ling in well-assumed sur-
prise. “It’s you’ve got the brains. Fancy thinking
of that. Never mind. The walk won’t hurt us, and
perhaps a little exercise’ll do your chums good.”
Cincinnati doubted it, but did not repeat his sugges-
[ 150 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
tion. He was very cloudy as to what his companion
proposed to do. The trick in the restaurant he had
supposed to be but a temporary expedient of Ling’s in
order to get away. Not to give the detectives the slip
now they were in the open seemed like playing with
fire. He knew Ling as a dare-devil, but for a man
whose neck was in jeopardy he was carrying things
jauntily.
It was in Bloomsbury that they swerved off the main
road into one of those hideous streets of tall boarding-
houses with iron-railed areas and forbidding front doors
of mid-Victorian era.
“Nearly home, Cincinnati,” encouraged Ling.
“Now you’ll be able to see things move. We’ll see if
there’s any knitting needles in the house afterwards.”
They ascended the steps of one of the most gloomy
looking of the houses and Ling inserted a key. He
carefully closed and bolted the door after him and or-
dered Cincinnati forward. There was a faint glimmer
of light from a gas lamp in the hall.
“The back room will do for us,” said Ling. “Get
along.”
A descent of a couple of steps led into a back sit-
ting-room. Ling pointed with his pistol—he was car-
rying it openly in his hand now. “There’s a chair.
Sit down. I want you with your back to me. That's
right. Now put your arms behind your back and keep
still.”
[151 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Cincinnati Red felt something encircle his wrists and
a lashing was dextrously drawn tight. An involuntary
cry escaped him. Ling finished the knot and, stepping
in front, swung a smashing blow at the bound man’s
face.
“That’s on account,” he said fiercely. “If you don’t
keep still you’ll get what's coming to you.” He thrust
his face, cóntorted with passion, close to that of the
“con’’ man and Cincinnati shivered. “I can’t do all
I’d like to,” he went on, “but I’ll pay the bill in full
some other time—you bet I will.”
He stooped and tied Cincinnati’s ankles to the chair-
legs as effectively as he had bound his wrists. Then
he lifted chair and all and staggered with it into the
front room. He placed it by the curtained window
and stood for a moment breathless. Cincinnati was no
light weight.
“Now listen to me,” he said incisively. “I’m going
to turn up the lights and draw the curtains back so
that your head and shoulders can be seen from the
street. Your detective pals will be in sight somewhere
and they’ll be pleased to see you. I shall be behind
the door and don’t forget I’ll plug you good if you
play foxy. You’ve got to shake your head to them—
see? Convey to them that everything isn’t quite ready.
You know how to do it. Lean a bit forward as though
you were talking to somebody they can’t see. It’s up
to you to keep ’em stalled off for a quarter of an hour.”
[152 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
He slipped the curtains back and retreated to the
doorway, out of the direct line of sight of anyone in
the street. Cincinnati cast a casual glance out on the
pavement and made a motion with his head as Ling had
directed.
He had a vision of Weir Menzies posed precariously
on the iron railings four feet away. There was a
smashing of glass as the detective leapt and the “con’”
man heard a vehement oath from Ling, followed by two
sharp reports in quick succession.
Menzies tore furiously through one of the broken
panes at the window fastenings. Presently he flung up
the sash and half leapt, half tumbled within. Congreve
stayed without long enough to put a whistle to his lips
in swift summons and appeal and then followed his
chief.
Cincinnati Red had fainted with a bullet wound in
his shoulder.
[ 153 ]


CHAPTER XVII
THE chief inspector hurled himself blindly across the
room. When a man is shooting at short range it is
advisable to get at him as quickly as possible. But
Ling had no intention of waiting. His plans had mis-
carried somehow—it was of no immediate importance
how. The chief thing was to get away.
He took the stairs three steps at a time and flung
up the landing window and cocked one leg through. The
back of the house looked sheer on to a builder's yard
twenty feet below. He poised himself, swore as he
found that a portion of his clothing had become en-
tangled in a nail in the window and turned momentarily.
Menzies saw his silhouette outlined against the window
for a second and the pistol flamed again.
“The back door, Royal,” he roared as he appre-
hended the pursued man’s purpose. “Get to the back
door.” - -
Then Ling leapt. It was a desperate feat in the dark-
ness, but the crook’s luck held. He fell heavily on his
feet and hands, straightened himself and waved a hand
lightly in the direction of the window. “Sorry I can’t
stop,” he cried. “Give my love to Cincinnati,” and
disappeared at a dog trot behind piles of bricks and
stacks of drain pipes.
Weir Menzies drew a long breath. There were pas-
[154 |


THE MAEL STROM
sages in the comminatory service which occurred to
him as doing justice to the occasion, but he maintained
an eloquent silence. Words were too feeble. He could
hear Royal striking matches and muttering softly to
himself, and the sound made him feel better. He de-
scended slowly.
“All right,” he said as he met his breathless subor-
dinate. “I know. There isn’t any back way, of course.
You can’t think of these things when you’re in a hurry.
The tradesmen’s entrance is in the basement in front.
He wouldn’t have risked his neck had there been any
other way.” -
“He got away, then?” said the sergeant. Menzies
remembered that he always had considered one of Con-
greve’s shortcomings a lack of tact. He answered
shortly:
“Jumped six or seven yards. Don’t look at me like
that. If I’d been a lightweight I might have followed
him, but I’m getting too old for such foolishness.
Who’s that at the door?”
“I blew my whistle, sir; I expect it’s the uniform
men. He can’t have got far. We might run a cordon
round the neighbourhood.”
“Oh, talk sense,” retorted Menzies sharply. “He
may be a couple of miles away before we can get the
men. Hello, what’s this?”
He held up his left hand. It was dripping with
blood. He walked closer to the light and examined it
[ 155 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
with dispassionate curiosity. “That's funny,” he
commented. “I must have got a rap across the
knuckles with a bullet.” He wrapped his handkerchief
around the injured hand. “Go and open the door or
those fools’ll have it down. I’m going to have a talk
with Cincinnati.”
The peril of capture in which Ling had been
placed had not been due entirely to luck. His fertile
resources had conceived a plan for a strategic retreat
and was intended to combine business with pleasure—
business in that Cincinnati was to keep the attention of
the detectives, while allowing him comparatively ample
time, to confound the active pursuit and pleasure so far
that he had turned the tool of the police against them-
selves.
There was only one flaw in this scheme and that
flaw had all but proved fatal—the supposition that the
detectives would have implicit confidence in the good
faith of the “con’’ man. To one unprejudiced or not
tensely strung up by an emergency it might have seemed
an unlikely hypothesis. Weir Menzies might use
a crook, but he never made the mistake of trusting
One. -
A doubt had crept into Menzies’ mind at the very
moment he arrived at the Petit Savoy and observed
that Hallett was no longer with the “con’’ man. How
nearly he had been to acting then in spite of Cincin-
nati’s dictated note no one but Royal knew. Against
[156]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
his instincts he had waited, but he had made up his
mind to afford little rope to Ling. So it was that he
had wasted no time when they had entered the house.
The latter part of Ling’s stage management had been
entirely futile. For once in a while the chief inspector
let intuition carry him on.
Able now for the first time to see Cincinnati’s pre-
dicament, he gave a grave nod of comprehension. Some
of the methods which Ling had employed became clear to
him. He cut the cords and slit away the sodden dress
coat at the shoulder. As deftly and gently as a woman
he examined it.
“A clean flesh wound,” he murmured. “Nothing
much to hurt there. An inch or two lower and there
would have been no need to hunt for evidence to hang
Ling.” - -
Royal had admitted a uniformed sergeant. “I
haven’t troubled about the cordon, sir. It seems that
a builder’s yard runs into a street backing on this. I
have sent a couple of men round there.”
“Right you are. It might as well be done as a mat-
ter of form. They’ll not see anything of Ling, though.
He’d got this all cut and dried and if we'd been a little
later getting in we’d not have had a ghost of a notion
which way he’d gone at all. If you’ve got a spare man
out there, sergeant, you might send for a doctor. This
chap’s caught it.”
Cincinnati Red opened his eyes and smiled uncer-
[ 157 )


T HIE M A E L S T R O M
tainly. “Thought Ling was a better shot,” he mur-
mured.
“Hello, you’ve come round, have you?” asked
Menzies. “Sorry for you, Cincinnati. How he came
to miss me at that distance is more than I can fathom.
I’m big enough.” -
The “con * man’s smile broadened. “Say, you don’t
know Ling, do you? He wasn’t shooting at you; he
meant it for me, all right.” He winced with pain as
he moved slightly. “He always pays his scores, does
Ling. I guess I’ll have something to say next time we
meet. If your people hadn’t taken my gun away!
He had me covered from the moment he saw me.”
“I suspected that,” said Menzies. “How'd you slip
Mr. Hallett? 22
“Me? Slip Hallett?” repeated Cincinnati.
“That’s what I said.”
“He slipped me, you mean,” retorted the other
querulously. “That’s how it was that the whole thing
started. There was a girl with Ling. Hallett knew
her and carted her away through a side-door just be-
fore you came in. I thought it was part of the pro-
gramme.”
Menzies lifted his hat and scratched his hair with
the brim the while he regarded Cincinnati with a steady
stare. Jimmie Hallett had spoilt things again. There
was some excuse for the bitterness with which his
thoughts dwelt on that young man, who seemed to have
[158 I


THE M A E L S T R O M
the faculty of making himself a continual stumbling
block to the investigation. Menzies had something of
a taste for romance—in fiction. He even had no ob-
jection to it in real life as a general rule. But he hated
it when it became entangled in his business, as it often
did. One can as little be certain of what a woman
will do as of what a man infatuated with a woman
will do.
The expression of chagrin on the chief inspector’s
face faded as quickly as it had arisen. “Well, not
exactly,” he said with nonchalance. “He didn’t do
quite what I wanted him to. Still, never mind. Here’s
something else I wanted to ask you.” He pulled a
photograph from his pocket—the inevitable official
full and side face. “Do you recognize this man?”
Cincinnati surveyed the photograph. “Sure,” he
answered. “That’s “Dago Sam ” that I told you
about—he's in Ling’s lot.”
“Thanks.” The detective put the photograph back
in his pocket. “I won’t worry you any more now. I’ll
leave you to look after things here a bit, Royal. I’ve
got several things I want to do and I mean to have a
night’s rest for once.”
Yet, in spite of his intentions it was well after mid-
night before he sought the repose afforded by Magers-
fontein Road, Upper Tooting. His way lay first to
the residence of a well-known coroner who lived in so
inaccessible a portion of North London that even a taxi
[ 159 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
driver had difficulty in locating his residence. Mr.
Fynne-Racton was a white haired, ruddy cheeked, little
man whose calling in no way corresponded with his ap-
pearance. Although his name was well known to
the general public his chief capacities were known
most fully in a more select circle—the Microscopical
Society.
He peered over his spectacles at the tiny fragment of
cloth and the single thread which Weir Menzies took
from an envelope. “Certainly, certainly, Mr. Menzies,”
he said. “I’ll do my best and let you know. I wish
you’d have come to me earlier. Of course I can guess
that these things are concerned in the case we’re all
talking about. I won't ask questions, though—eh?”
“I might want you as an expert witness,” explained
the detective. -
“And I might be asked if you gave me any sugges-
tion,” said Fynne-Racton. “Yes, yes, I understand.
I’ll do my best, Mr. Menzies. I hope it will be satis-
factory. Good-night, good-night.”
Menzies spent half an hour and a little longer at
Scotland Yard and so home to bed and slumbers that
did credit to his nerves. At breakfast the next morn-
ing one result of his labours stared him in the face as
he opened his favourite morning paper. A double
column portrait of “William Smith ” appeared on the
splash page and big letters in the heading propounded
the query:
[160 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“DO YOU KNOW THIS MANP IF SO, TELL
THE POLICE.
“The above is a photograph of the mysterious
prisoner now under arrest for a murderous attempt
on the life of Mr. James Hallett, who, it will be
remembered, is one of the chief witnesses in the case
of the murder of Mr. Greye-Stratton. He refuses
to give any account of himself and the police are
anxious to trace his antecedents so that the full
facts, whether for or against him, may be brought
out when he is tried.”
Menzies could be disingenuous when he liked.
Though even the omniscient reporter did not know it, he
had no longer much doubt on the subject of William
Smith, or “Dago Sam,” as he preferred to think of
him. The hint given by the “con" man, even if later
questions failed to amplify it, would probably prove
sufficient to dig out all the personal history that was
wanted. Nevertheless there was no reason for allowing
either Gwennie Lyne or Ling to know how much he
knew of their confederate. The apparently earnest
search by newspaper might help to blind them as to
how far the investigation had progressed.
He threw the paper aside and accompanied by Bruin
walked reflectively round the garden with a sharp eye
[161 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
l
for caterpillars. Ten minutes before his usual time, he
put on his hat and coat, flicked away an imaginary spot
of dust from his boots, kissed his wife, and caught the
city-bound car.
[1621


CHAPTER XVIII
HALLETT had not stopped to consider any complica-
tions that might arise when he had rushed Peggy
Greye-Stratton from the restaurant. Even had he done
so, his action would have been the same. In a flash he
had realised how the black cloud of suspicion already
formed against her by Menzies would be increased
should she be found in amicable association with Ling.
Even he himself held doubts, doubts which no reason-
ing could have stifled but which he ignored until there
should be more time to resolve them.
She obeyed him without question. He hustled her into
a taxi-cab and gave an order to the driver. He sat
by her side, his heart pumping hard. Outwardly,
though, he showed little indication of emotion. “A
close thing that,” he commented coolly.
She was trembling violently. Her face was half
turned towards him. “You said the police—the de-
tectives were there; why? What are they going to do?
How do they know?” A soft gloved hand lay on his
knee where she had placed it unconsciously in her
eagerness. He noticed that it was trembling. “I am
quite calm,” she insisted, although her bearing gave
the lie to her words. “You must tell me.”
“I am afraid,” he spoke gently, though his heart
was aflame, “that your friend will be arrested.”
[ 163 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Oh!” She dropped back against the soft cushions,
her fists clenched, her face as hard as stone. Then
suddenly she awoke to fierce life. “They mustn't. I
must go back, Mr. Hallett. Stop the cab. Why didn’t
I think at first. I must warn him. Let me alone. If
you are a gentleman you will do as I say.”
She was striving to open the door and he had to use
force to pull her back to her seat. “Sit still,” he said.
“You can do no good now. It is too late. You have
got to think of yourself. If you go back you will be
arrested. Will that improve matters?”
A fit of shivering shook her and she covered her face
with her hands. Jimmie watched her sombrely. To
him there was only one explanation of her agitation—
fear for the man who was her husband. In a little while
the fit passed. -
“I suppose you are right,” she said colourlessly.
“But "-her voice grew tense again—“you don’t
know what it means to me. You can’t know.”
“That's all right,” he said soothingly. “I can
guess. We will talk over all that later. Nothing can
be done until you are more yourself. If–if *—he
suddenly became diffident—“if money can do anything
to save him you must call on me. A loan, you know,”
he ended tamely.
He saw the blue eyes fixed keenly on him with a
curious expression that was hard to analyse. “You
think that that man Ling—is a murderer—that I want
[ 1641


T H E M A E L S T R O M
to save him,” she said breathlessly. And then, without
warning, she broke into laughter—laughter that was
akin to hysterics.
It was then that Jimmie Hallett did a thing which
in the ordinary way he would have deemed impossible.
He stood up, took her by the shoulders, and shook her
roughly.
“Stop that. Stop it at once,” he commanded
harshly. -
He had never had occasion to deal with a woman in
hysterics before and the treatment was instinctive. He
was relieved to find it effective. The girl quieted after
one or two convulsive sobs. “I’m-sorry,” she gasped.
“I am better now. Where are we going?”
“I told the man to drive to the Monument. I didn’t
know where you might like to go and the important
thing was to get away. One moment.” He pushed his
head out of the window. “Which is the nearest main-
line depot to the Monument?” he asked.
The man slowed up to answer the question. “Depot,
sir?” he repeated, puzzled. “Oh, you mean station.
You'll want London Bridge.”
“That will do.” He dropped back to his seat. “It
will be safer if we go a little way up the line and then
return,” he exclaimed. “They might try to trace you
through the cabman.”
She made a weary gesture of assent, and the rest of
the journey was accomplished in silence. A few rapid
[165 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
enquiries established that a train was about to start
for Sevenoaks, and chancing the possibility of a return
connection, Jimmie took two first-class singles. His
suggestion of a train journey was not entirely prompted
by the wish to blind the trail. That would have been
as satisfactorily achieved merely by entering a station.
He wanted to get at the bottom of the mystery sur-
rounding the girl, and though he was no admirer of the
compartment system of British railways, he recognised
the advantages that an empty compartment would af-
ford for a confidential interview.
The girl had rapidly regained her self-possession and
her abstraction vanished as the train started. She
flashed a half smile on him. “You will think
me very foolish to have given way like this, Mr.
Hallett. It’s been good of you to take such trouble
to serve a comparative stranger. I can’t thank you
properly.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for. I acted from
purely selfish motives. I wanted to satisfy my
curiosity—you remember I have only half your
story.”
She met his eyes steadily. There was still only the
faintest touch of colour in her cheeks. She had taken
off her gloves and was mechanically twisting them in
her lap. He leaned forward and possessed himself of
one of her hands. She tore it sharply away and a gush
of crimson swept over her face.
[166 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
“You mustn't do that,” she said hastily.
“I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “I forgot.
You are married.”
The crimson in her cheeks deepened and she took a
long breath. Her blue eyes took on a new alertness.
He had half expected, half hoped that she would deny
it. Even the marriage certificate had not convinced
him entirely, and her being with Ling that night had
scarcely affected his hope. Yet he was a man of more
than ordinary cuteness and common sense. He was
ready to believe that there had been some incredible
mistake. f
“I am married,” she repeated. “And you know.
How did you learn?” He could hear her breath catch
as she waited for his reply.
“I have seen the marriage certificate,” he answered
simply.
“And the police,” her words came incisively, “they
know? "
He nodded. “It was through them I learnt.”
A revulsion of feeling was coming to him. Somehow
her fresh manner had broken the spell. There was
something of calculation about it—of the fencer stand-
ing with weapon poised for offence or defence. Hith-
ertofore he had viewed her through a mist—content to
accept what she had told him as the truth, and with faith
that the inexplicable things would in time be made
clear and her innocence apparent. He had brushed
[167]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
aside the suspicions of Menzies as the natural tendency
of the police officer to put the worst construction on
everything.
Now he began to wonder if after all Menzies had
been right. Was she merely a cunning adventuress
who had all along deluded him and laughed at his folly
behind his back with her criminal confederates. Look-
ing at it coolly, he told himself, he could see a score
of reasons why it should be so. A couple of deep lines
bit into his forehead. He had helped her escape and
her first words had shown her solicitude for Ling.
Afterwards she had tried to dismiss the impression she
had created or erected by an assumption of the mys-
terious. Quite possibly her whole intention since they
met in the police station had been to use him as a
stalking-horse.
He had been gazing unseeingly straight in front of
him. A light touch recalled his wandering thoughts.
“What are the police doing?” she asked. “You have
not told me how they knew that Ling and I would be
there.”
His face hardened. She was taking it for granted
that she could pump him. “That is their secret,” he
answered bluntly, “as much theirs as your secrets are
yours.”
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered timidly. “You
think I am taking advantage.”
“I think, miss”—he corrected himself—“Mrs.
[168 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Ling, that there are several matters you should answer
yourself before putting questions to me.”
She winced at the stress he laid on the name and
drew herself together. “I am to suppose that you dis-
trust me,” she said haughtily.
“That’s a quaint way of putting it. Exactly what
reason is there that I should trust you?” He spoke
brutally. He felt the occasion was not one for delicacy
of language. “You have told me a story that I then
believed to be true—a story of devotion to a scalywag
brother. You said nothing about a greater motive for
loyalty to your gang—your marriage to one of the
most notorious criminals in the world. I shall see
something to laugh at in the way I’ve been strung–
sometime.”
Her lips were parted and her breast was heaving.
Undeniably pretty she was with her flushed face and
her eyes lighted till they looked like blue flame. There
was neither shame nor contrition within their depths.
“Why did you help me to-night, then?” she asked.
“Because—” He wavered. “Oh, because I was
a fool, I suppose. I thought there might be some ex-
planation. I see now *—he made a gesture with his
hand—“there can’t be. You vanished as soon as Scot-
land Yard got a hot scent. You were afraid I might
get dangerous and you played on me with a note to
get me into the hands of your pals. I fell for it all
right, all right.”
[ 169 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
dow. Once he surprised her watching him with an air
of wistfulness. “A consummate actress,” he thought
and shifted his gaze again to the window. To question
her would be only to invite another series of lies.
At London Bridge she took command, piloting him
to the Bank and stopping a motor bus with an im-
perative wave of the hand. They ran through into the
gloomy heart of the East End. “This is Shadwell,”
she said. “We get off here.”
It was hard to reconcile the dainty figure in the neat
grey costume with the slums and squalor into which
they entered. Through narrow, desolate streets she led
him, past here and there a drunken man or a riotous
group racing from one public-house to another. At
last she paused and tapped with her bare knuckles on
the unpainted door of a tumble-down house. He was
not without courage, but he hesitated.
“Are you going in there?”
“Yes. Are you afraid?” she taunted.
“I am,” he admitted. “I may tell you I am armed.”
Her lips curled. He got a vague glimpse of a slat-
ternly old woman with curious eyes staring at them,
and then the girl, without stopping to see whether he
would follow, led the way within. He followed, men-
tally calling himself a fool. The old woman closed the
door and they were left in darkness.
“Take my hand,” she said, “I know the way. The
fourth stair up is broken.”
[ 171 J


CHAPTER XIX
SHE faced him by the thin light of the cheap oil lamp,
her head defiantly tilted. He remained dumb, the pistol
dangling by his side till he became conscious of the in-
congruity and replaced it in his pocket. The sudden
spectacle of the sick man lying there in that miserable
hovel had shorn him for the moment of the power of
consecutive thought.
She lifted the lamp to examine the sleeping man and,
replacing it on the table, readjusted a pillow with ten-
der fingers. She rose and pushed forward a rickety
chair. He complied with the unspoken invitation.
“He is a fugitive from justice.” She spoke softly
lest the sleeper be disturbed. “Whatever he is, scoun-
drel though you think him, can I do less? But for me
he would have been helpless. Would you have me
desert him? Do you think?"—she made a gesture of
disgust—“that I like living in this place—these two
sordid rooms which are the only place in London I
could hide him in? Why, I daren’t even have a doctor
for fear of betrayal. And you thought that I was in
league with the people who brought him to this. Well
I am in league. They know where he is and a single
word would bring the police down here.”
The fire in her low tone challenged him to still con-
demn her. Once before he had reasoned out a theory
[ 173 ]


THE MAEL STROM
of her attitude—a theory that had partly been broken
down by the open scepticism of Menzies until the cul-
minating point had been reached when he found her
dining with Ling. At first the apparent significance of
that had been lost, but it had been borne upon him with
ever-increasing force that it was evidence that the letter
luring him to Gwennie Lyne’s house was no forgery but
deliberately written by her. Now again he had to go
back to the old line of reasoning. He wondered that
he had permitted anything to throw him off it. Why,
it was plain to the most dense intellect. Who so likely
to pay off the old score of hatred of his father by a
bullet than this mean, reckless waster, Errol.
“It was he-who killed Mr. Greye-Stratton?” he
whispered hoarsely. -
Her reply was inaudible. But the drawn face, the
twitching hands left it in no doubt.
Without warning the man on the pallet raised him-
self on one elbow, his features ghastly in the dim light.
“Who says I killed him?” he gasped in a cracked
voice. “It’s a lie—a lie, I tell you. Who's that you’ve
got there, Peggy? Damn this light. I can’t see. Tell
him it’s a lie—an infernal lie. I never laid a finger on
the old man—old man—old man—old devil!” He
gasped out the last word with shrill vindictiveness and
fell back breathless. -
She hurriedly lifted a small bottle from the mantel-
piece, poured a little of the contents into a glass, and
[1741


THE M A E L S T R O M
supported her brother's head while he drank, talking
soothingly to him the while. In a little while his regular
breathing told that he was asleep.
“I think you had better go now,” she said brokenly.
“I don’t know why I should have brought you here—
why it should matter to me what you think. You have
seen and you are at liberty to believe what you like.”
“Don’t let us talk nonsense,” he said briskly. “I
begin to see that I have acted like a blackguard, but
I can’t leave you like this.” He rose, crossed over to
her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You have
trusted me with the most important thing. Now you
must trust me fully. You need a friend and whether
you like it or not I am going to see this through.
Where’s the other room you spoke of? Let’s go in
there and talk.”
With a glance at her brother she lit a candle and
led him to the adjoining room, as poorly furnished as
the other. “I can’t offer you even a cup of tea, Mr.
Hallett,” she said with a feeble attempt at cheerful-
ness. “There is no gas and the fires are out.”
“I don’t mind defects in hospitality,” he said.
“They can be remedied some other time. Now tell
me how it all came about and we’ll see what’s to be
done.”
She paused as though to put her thoughts into form.
“You wondered why I never told you I was married,”
she said wearily. “It is true, all that you know. I
[ 175 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
am married to that man”—a shudder swept her slim
frame—“Ling. If there is any living thing that I de-
test, hate, and despise it is he. I want you to believe it,
Mr. Hallett, when I say that I am his wife only in
name. Never! Never!” he could see her face glow
with her vehemence in the candle light—“shall I be
anything more. He was a friend of my brother’s—he
had a hold on him, and to save him I consented to a
marriage. It was a marriage of form and we separated
at the registry office. Not even for my brother could I
do more.”
“This was before the death of your father?”
&&. Yes.”
“Then it was Ling who knew he had committed
forgery? It was he who held the threat of expos-
ure over your head. The price you paid was—mar-
riage?”
“That was part of the price. I thought it would
silence him to have me bear the same name as himself.
It was he who came to my flat the night of the murder
with the forged cheques in his hand and demanded the
full price of his silence—that I should take my place
as his wife.”
Jimmie bit his lip. He promised himself there should
be a reckoning if ever he ran across Ling again.
“Then the murder took place. It was not difficult
for me to guess what had happened when I read of it
and I spent a terrible hour. I knew that the detectives
[ 176


T H E M A E L S T R O M
would soon learn enough to put them on the track and
that at any moment they might seek me out. So I went
to them, partly because I was anxious to see what they
knew, partly because I knew suspicion might be aroused
if I seemed to avoid them. You know more or less
what happened. Then I was brought up for you to
indentify me and I confess I had an anxious few minutes
while you were walking up and down that line of women.
I knew you had recognised me and when you denied it
to the officers I could—I could have done anything for
you.
“I hadn’t a single friend in whom I could confide and
then you appeared. I told you more—much more than
I intended to and when you urged me to give the police
full details I was half tempted to comply. But it
seemed too great a risk to take. If there was any doubt
—if there had seemed any doubt about my brother.
How could I? To have told the police would have been
to betray him.
“I realised how desperate things were when I knew
I was being shadowed and you stopped the detectives.
I hurried back to my flat and outside in the street I
met Ling. I had neither the chance nor the desire to
avoid him. “I have been running great risks to see
you,” he said. “You must come with me at once. Your
brother is hurt.”
“I distrusted him and my suspicion must have shown
itself. He let me see plainly that he knew the truth,
[ 177 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
and he added that my brother was lying injured at a
house in the East End. ‘He is nothing to me,” he
added. “He can die there like a dog in a kennel or the
police can patch him up for another dog's death. There
is the address.” He pushed a scrap of paper into my
hand and went away without another word.
“If he had offered to accompany me I fear I should
not have come. He must have known that. He was
astute enough to understand that once I came here he
could see me whenever he wanted. I found my brother
as you have seen him. He was suffering from a knife
thrust in the ribs which he told me was due to an acci-
dent. He was in great pain and I did not question him
too much. Someone had bandaged it up, and the old
woman below—the landlady of this house—was watch-
ing him. He had been brought here by two other men,
she said. She did not know anything about him, how
he had been injured nor who the people were who
brought him. They had taken the two rooms and told
her a lady would come to look after him. She wasn’t
one to ask questions or to pry into other folks’ business
as long as they paid their rent regularly. You know
the kind of thing. It was then I wrote the note to you
and gave it to her with some money to have sent to
you.”
“The old Jezebel,” said Jimmie. “She must have
made it over to Ling, or Gwennie Lyne, and they had
the address altered.”
[178 )


T HIE M A E L S T R O M
-
place where you met us. I don’t know how long we
had been there, but we had practically finished dinner.
He would talk of nothing but indifferent subjects, but
there was something on his mind I felt sure. “Pleasure
first,” he said when I tried to pin him down. “We’ll leave
business till we have eaten.”
“Then when you came in I was bewildered. You
rushed me off my feet, and not till we were in the cab
did I realise what the arrest of Ling would mean. He
wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to betray my brother
if he learned he is himself suspected. If Mr. Menzies
has arrested Ling he will probably know all by this
time.” She glanced apprehensively towards the door, as
though she feared the immediate entrance of the police.
“Now I have told you everything, Mr. Hallett. Can
99.
I ask you now what—what
He understood her hesitation to frame the question
as he understood now her eagerness to extract informa-
tion from him in the train. But there was still some-
thing inexplicable on the face of her story. No reason,
no motive other than that of a sort of blackmail had
been given for Ling’s actions. The personality of Ling
as he understood it was entirely alien to any unselfish
action. So far as her story had gone the man had com-
mitted no crime—no legal crime—that would bring him
within the law. Why then the attempt on his life by
William Smith, why the attempt to make him a prisoner
[180 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
by Gwennie Lyne, why the apparent importance which
Menzies attached to the arrest of Ling?
He explained what had happened so far as he knew
it, and little puzzled wrinkles appeared in her white
forehead. “Now Ling isn’t an altruist,” he ended,
“any more than Menzies is a fool. The gang has not
been butting into this game merely to save your
brother. And Menzies isn’t red hot after them for no
reason at all. If the case were as you think it would
be simple enough. The hue and cry would be all after
him.” He made a motion of his hand towards the other
ItOOm.
“Ah!” She looked at him thoughtfully and then
walked slowly up and down the narrow confines of
the apartment. “It’s no good,” she exclaimed at
last.
“It may be as you say, but it’s all too complex for me.
Even if someone else is bound up with this crime, my
brother’s danger remains the same. That is all that con-
cerns me.”
Hallett found something to admire in the singleness
of purpose that actuated the girl, even though it was
to shield a man who was certainly a scoundrel and, in
all probability, a murderer. “There is yourself to be
considered,” he remonstrated. “You are in deep
waters.”
“I shall find a way out.” Her tone belied the con-
fidence of her words.
[ 1811


THE M A E L S T R O M
-
-
He scratched his chin. “The first thing to do is to
get your brother away from here—somewhere where
these crooks cannot get at him.”
She shook her head. “That is out of the question.
It might kill him to be moved. Besides, there is Mrs.
Buttle. She would tell Ling and he would find me some-
how.”
“Then there is only one other thing. This is no
place for you. You had better get decent lodgings
somewhere and I will stay here. You can rely I will
do everything possible for your brother.”
Again she shook her head. “That is quite out of the
question, though I am grateful for the offer. The only
chance of safety is for me to remain here.” -
He lost patience. “Hang it all,” he cried. “You
can’t. This house—this neighbourhood—why how can
a child like you stay here alone? If you won’t allow
me to take your place I must get rooms in the neigh-
bourhood.”
“I thank you very much, Mr. Hallett,” she said,
“but you will see it is impossible. Anything you did
would only attract attention to the house. You can
see that. I promise you, if you like, that should ever I
need you I will send for you. It will be a comfort to
know that I have at least one honest friend on whom
I can rely.”
He was still uncertain. “I don’t like it,” he grum-
bled. “Anything might happen suddenly. It would
[ 182 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
take an hour to fetch me even if you had a reliable mes-
senger.” Then, as she showed no signs of relenting,
“Wery well, it shall be as you say. Here’—he took his
automatic from his pocket and passed it to her—“ you
might feel safer if you have this. Do you understand
how it works?”
He explained the mechanism to her. She held the
weapon rigidly at arm’s length. “Like this?” she
asked.
“Great Jehosophat, no! That is how they do it on
the stage. Take your finger off the trigger. Never
put it there till you mean it to go off. And use the
second finger, not the first. Point your first finger along
the barrel. If you haven’t time to take aim, all you
have got to do is to point your finger and you will hit
whatever you are pointing at. Hold your arm more
loosely. That’s the idea. Now put it away. I feel
better to think you’ve got it.”
She held out her hand to him. “Thank you. And
now good-night, Mr. Hallett. I will write you—some-
time.”
He took her hand and held it. “Do you know that
I was just going without asking you the name of this
place? I might have something to tell you, you
know.”
She released herself with some confusion. “I will
write it down.” She scribbled for a second and then
passed him the address.
[ 183 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“A very interesting picture,” sneered a voice. “Mr.
Hallett, I presume—or Mr. Green, from Mobile?”
The girl gasped. Red-eyed and flushed, with a rent
in his jacket, Ling was regarding them from the
doorway.
[184 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
do. I’ll have to be seeing a lawyer about this. Lucky
I’m an indulgent husband, eh, Peggy?” His voice
changed. “You stand right where you are, Hallett. It
won’t be healthy for you if you take another step like
that. I hate violence—especially before ladies.”
The other man remained stock-still. He knew what
the hand in Ling’s pocket was gripping. His mind was
actively seeking for a solution of the immediate problem.
Ling held the doorway, the only exit from the room,
and he recognised perfectly well that this man, whose
friends had twice before made attempts to secure his
silence, was little likely to let him go again. If he had
not made over the gun to Peggy he could have felt on
more level terms.
“Sherlock Holmes would have carried it a bit fur-
ther,” he said. “Has it flashed across that limpid intel-
lect of yours that I’d take care not to put my head into
the lion’s jaws if I’d not taken precautions to keep
them propped open. If this place isn’t surrounded now
it will be in five minutes. Those friends you missed
won’t be put off a second time.”
Ling started. Then his features relaxed and he
laughed.
“Good bluff,” he said. “You nearly had me stam-
peded that time. But it’s no go. You’ve sent out no
message since you came in and if you’d given it before
the splits would have been here by now.” He spat on the
boarded floor. “Say, Mr. Hallett,” he went on with
[ 1861


THE M A E L S T R O M
the air of a man laying down a tentative business pro-
posal. “I’ve got you now cold. Suppose we come to
terms. I’m willing to overlook the compromising cir-
cumstances of your little jaunt with my wife to-
nigh 53
“That's enough,” ordered Hallett coldly. “If you
insult this lady again, gun or no gun I'll smash your
lying tongue down your throat.”
“Tut, tut!” The green eyes gleamed amusedly on
the young man. “I must be careful. I didn’t mean
to get your goat. We’ll call it off then. What I’m
aiming at is this. There’s no sense in making things
more uncomfortable than we’ve got to. If you put me
to it I’ve got to see that you keep out of mischief.
Give me your word that you’ll take the first boat back
to New York and never say anything about what you
may know and I’ll take it. That’s fair, and it isn’t
everyone who would do it.”
“You want to get me out of the way?”
“That's so. Stay out of England for a year and
keep your mouth shut.”
Jimmie stroked his upper lip. “That’s very obliging
of you, Ling. I feel flattered at your supposition that
I should keep my word. I seem to be an embarrass-
ment—though I don’t know why.”
“You are an embarrassment.”
“Why?” repeated Jimmie artlessly.
He had one hand behind his back and was signalling
[ 187 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
to Peggy. He hoped fervently that she would under-
stand what it meant and pass the pistol. Once he re-
gained that he could close the conversation when he
liked.
“Cut it out,” retorted Ling. “You don’t need tell-
ing. I'm making you a fair offer. Will you take it
or leave it?”
Hallett's concealed hand waved frantically. Would
she never understand? “My dear friend,” he said
airily. “Can’t you see I’m trying to make up my
mind. I haven’t your faculty of quick decision. My
wits move slowly. If you’d only tell me why. You’ll
forgive me, but I don’t quite see where you come in.
I could understand why some people should wish me—
er—disposed of, but although I dislike your appearance
and your ways, there’s nothing I could do would hurt
you. Why can’t you live and let live?”
Ling eyed him doubtfully. “This is funny, isn’t it?
I’m not going to stay here all night. I’ve sent for some
people who won’t be disposed to argue with you. You'd
better hurry and make up your mind.”
It was evident that the girl would never understand
the meaning of that signalling hand. Jimmie shrugged
his shoulders and remained in an attitude of thought.
A querulous voice came from the outer room.
“Peggy' . . . Gone away again.” The voice was
like that of a plaintive child except that an unchildlike
oath slipped out. “And she calls herself a sister . .
[ 188 J


THE M A E L S T R O M
leaving me here like this . . . alone with the old man
... all alone with the old man. . . . I tell you I
didn’t-I couldn't. . . . He’s a liar. . . . Peggy,
come and take him off. . . . Those long fingers—
long, lean scraggy fingers. . . . He'll strangle me.
. Blast it, why don’t you come and take him
off.”
The high-pitched voice rang out in shrill alarm. Ling
had taken a pace back into the other room, but he
was too cautious to take his eyes off Hallett. “It’s
Errol,” he laughed. “Gave me a start for a minute.
Make’s you feel as if someone’s walking over your
grave.”
“He’s delirious,” cried Peggy. “I must go to him.”
She raised her voice. “All right. I’m coming.”
“Not by a jugful you don’t,” said Ling. “He
won't hurt for five minutes. I don't allow anyone to get
behind me till Mr. Hallett here’s made up his mind—not
even you, Peggy.” -
The voice inside moaned and then burst into a series
of insane chuckles. “He’s going now. . . . He thinks
he's going to get away but he won't. . . . It’s no good
your hiding. . . . I can see you. I’ll get you this
time.”.
Through the open door Jimmie could now see him.
He had pulled himself off the pallet and, lamp in hand,
was advancing stealthily towards Ling, crouching as
he moved and still chuckling. Jimmie's hand fell calmly
[ 1891


T H E M A E L S T R O M
on the back of the chair nearest him. Things were
coming his way.
The changing shadows caused by the lamp-light told
Ling something of what was happening. His head
shifted to look over his shoulder for the fraction of a
second—just long enough for Jimmie to lift the chair
and bring it down with crushing force. Ling crumpled
limply and went down. -
“Ha, ha!” shrieked Errol. “That's got the old
devil. . . . Now we’ll burn him . . . we'll make sure
this time.”
Before either of them could anticipate his purpose
he had flung the lamp on the stunned man. There was
a smashing of glass and a bolt of flame shot upwards.
Peggy Greye-Stratton sprang forward with a horrified
cry, but already Jimmie had his coat off and spread
over the flames which had begun to lick at Ling’s body.
Luckily the reservoir of the lamp was of metal and
little of the oil had escaped. In a few minutes he had
the flames under.
He stood up, breathing hard. The girl was coaxing
her brother back to bed and he was still weakly shout-
ing in his delirium. Hallett went to her aid, but he
found his help unnecessary. Errol was as weak as a
kitten. He lay on his mattress panting.
“I can manage now,” she said. “You had better go,
Mr. Hallett. He said he had sent for help. Go-go
quick.”
[1901


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“I don’t know about that. It’s impossible to leave
you here alone now.”
Errol, exhausted, had fallen asleep once more. She
came over to Jimmie. “It’s no worse for me now than
it was before. Besides, what can you do. You will be
sacrificing yourself for no reason at all.” She literally
pushed him towards the door. “Please, please,” she
entreated.
A little thrill of delight passed through him as he
recognised that all her alarm was for him. There was
reason in her persuasions, too. Any danger that she
was in was not likely to be either increased by what had
happened or diminished by his further presence. He
would only be exposing himself to the needless risk of
being cut off by Ling’s friends.
“I suppose I’d better,” he said reluctantly,
“but first I’ll have a look at Ling. I didn't hit him
as hard as I might, but it would be as well to make
sure.”
She permitted him to return to examine Ling, and
as soon as he had reassured himself that the man was
only stunned he contemplated his work with some satis-
faction. Here and there the blazing oil had scorched
his clothes, but had done no further damage.
“Hurry,” said the girl. “Oh, do hurry.”
“Just one moment.” He hastily ran his hands
through the unconscious man's pockets. A few papers
from the breast pocket he stuffed into his own. In the
[ 1911


THE MAEL STRO M
right-hand jacket pocket he found a pistol, which he
also took possession of. He stood up.
“There, that’s done.”
“You are going now?’
“Yes, I’m going.” He caught both her hands in his
impulsively. “If things had been different, Peggy—
if-if 39
She released herself, flushing hotly. “You mustn't—
you mustn't!” she cried. “Oh, why don’t you go.”
“Good-bye,” he said abruptly and swung out on to
the dark stairs. As he fumbled for the latch of the
front door it was pushed open from without. He came
face to face with a woman on the step. He recognised
the slattern who had admitted Peggy and himself.
She gave a short ejaculation of surprise and then
brushed by him.
He moved thoughtfully out into the open street.
Something there was about her that seemed familiar—
it might have been the eyes, the walk, or her voice. He
had gone a hundred yards when he came to a sudden
halt.
“I’d bet a thousand dollars to a cent that that
woman’s Gwennie Lyne.”
The discovery half inclined him to return. The dark
figures of two men brushed by him and he walked quickly
on, turning as the sound of their feet died away. He
moved back till he was opposite the house and watched,
irresolute. No sound came from it and he turned away
[1921


THE M A E L S T R O M
again. It seemed hours before he had got clear of those
desolate streets into a main road and encountered the
comforting blue uniform of a constable. To him he
addressed a question.
“Taxi,” repeated the man, studying him with specu-
lation. “Lord bless your heart. You won’t get a taxi
here at this time of the night. Where do you want to
go? 95
His eyes opened wider as Jimmie named his hotel.
But he made no comment. “Keep straight on till you
get into the city,” he said. “Then you might get a
cab.”
It was three o’clock in the morning, before, wearied
in body and mind, he dropped thankfully into bed.
He was still in bed when the detective arrived at his
hotel and he sat up to receive him. His chin was jutted
out doggedly and there was a wary look in his eye. He
regarded the chief inspector, ominous that events which
concerned him were afoot but uncertain how much was
known.
“Come in, Menzies,” he said heartily. “I couldn’t
stop to see the fun out last night because I met a friend
and wanted to get her out of the way of any trouble.
How did it go?”
Menzies dropped to rest at the foot of the bed. “I
didn’t come up here last night,” he said solemnly, “be-
cause I couldn’t trust myself not to break your jaw.”
Jimmie's eyebrows shot up in ingenuous astonish-
[193 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
ment. “So! I didn’t know you allowed personal feel-
ings to interfere with your duty. You’re a pugnacious
brute, Menzies. There’s some cigarettes on the table
behind you. Help yourself and pass me one. Now”—
he sent out a blue ring of smoke—“tell me why you
want to smash me.”
His attitude was different from what Menzies had
expected. There might have been defiance, a blank wall
of obstinacy, but this touch of badinage, even though
the defiance and obstinacy might still be behind it, was
a little more difficult. Menzies’ opinion of Hallett went
up. He exhibited his bandaged hand.
“This is one reason. Cincinnati Red got another and
worse one. I don’t know how he is this morning, but
if he dies it's you who'll have to be thanked.” He had
no fear of the “con” man's wound proving fatal, but
Jimmie's chaff needed a little quenching.
Hallett's face grew more serious. “Gun-play, eh?
I’m sorry to hear that. Still, you bagged your man.”
“ Bagged hell,” said Menzies. “I beg your pardon
but even my vicar could forgive me in the circumstances.
Of course we didn’t. However, I didn’t come here to
satisfy your curiosity but my own. Where did you
leave that woman? Where is she now?”
Hallett lay back in bed and laughed. “I see now,”
he gasped. “That’s quite a natural mistake. You’ve
heard that I took a girl away and you think it was
Peggy—Miss Greye-Stratton.”
[ 1941


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Mrs. Ling,” corrected the inspector. “I don’t
think—I know.” He menaced the other with his fore-
finger. “I’m not going to fence with you. Out with
it.” ~
Jimmie frowned. “Don’t take that tone with me,” he
warned. “I’m about sick of being bullied. I tell you
for your own satisfaction that it was not that lady. It
was someone quite different, a friend of mine, who hap-
pened to be dining in the restaurant. I took her out
because I didn’t want her to be there when the trouble
arose. Now take that or leave it. I don’t care a
tinker’s curse whether you believe it or not.” His hand
sought the bell over his head.
“I should leave that bell alone,” ordered Menzies
curtly. “It won’t do to push me too far.” Hallett
dropped his hand. “You can tell the lady's name,
of course, and bring her to prove it?”
“I have said so,” said Jimmie coldly.
Something flashed for an instant in Menzies’ hand.
“Then you’re a liar,” he cried and his weight crushed
the other back on the bed. The detective's left hand
was not so badly injured as to be totally useless, and
Jimmie, taken by surprise and at a disadvantage, was
unable to put up any sort of a fight. In three minutes
his arms were round a bedpost and a pair of patent
self-adjusting handcuffs encircled his wrists.
It needed the physical tussle to make his equanimity
give way. He was angry—very angry, and the crown-
[195 ||


T H E M A E L S T R O M
ing indignity of the handcuffs chafed his spirit even
more than his wrists. The detective calmly extinguished
a smouldering spark that threatened the bedclothes and
tossed Jimmie's cigarette away. He might have been a
block of wood for all the notice he took of his passion
and his protests. He resumed his seat and went on
quietly smoking his cigarette with an air of placid satis-
faction.
Jimmie realised quickly that his most barbed epi-
thets were passing over the detective’s head. The first
spasm of wrath passed. He gulped something in his
throat. “If you haven’t gone mad,” he said, his voice
vibrating with the effort he made to control himself,
“perhaps you’ll be gracious enough to explain.”
“That’s better—much better,” said Menzies encour-
agingly. “You’ll soon be polite if you persevere.”
“Well”—Hallett choked again. “Tell me, what
are you arresting me for?”
“I’m not arresting you, sonnie. Oh, yes, I know.
I’m going to act in an even more flagrantly illegal
manner. I’ll take the risk of being broke. You can’t
tell me anything about that. You’ll have plenty of
chance to appeal to your ambassador. Or if you like
you can bring me before a police court for assault.”
He spoke with a certain bitterness that was not lost
upon his hearer. Weir Menzies had spent a lifetime in
the service of Scotland Yard and knew exactly what he
was risking. He was behaving, as he had said, with
[196]


T HIE M A E L S T R O M
flagrant illegality that could scarcely be justified even
on the suspicions he harboured. He had faced Ling’s
bullets more cheerfully than this, which, if anything
went wrong, would lead to inevitable dismissal from the
service.
Jimmie wriggled himself out of bed to a sitting posi-
tion. “This is a fool’s game to play,” he protested
more mildly. “What do you expect to gain by it,
anyway?”
“I don’t mind telling you now you’re more or less in
your senses. By the way, I apologise for calling you a
liar. It slipped out. But "--he brought his clenched
fist heavily down on the bedclothes—“I warned you
what would happen if you stood in my way. You
spoilt things last night—I’ll do you the credit to sup-
pose that it was without deliberation. Still you were
tacitly on your honour and it was treachery to me
when you did what you did.” -
Hallett flushed. “Easy, Mr. Menzies. You’d have
done the same in my place.”
“I wouldn’t,” denied the other. “I’ve been fair to
you all through and you’ve done your best to thwart
every scheme of mine because—” He checked him-
self suddenly as he saw the change on Jimmie's face.
“Then you insult my common sense now by telling me
that this girl was at the Petit Savoy—that it was
someone else.”
“You don’t know all the circumstances,” said Hallett.
[1971


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“No, but I’m going to. I formally ask your permis-
sion now to search your clothes. I warn you I intend
to do it whether you give me your permission or not.”
Hallett hesitated for a moment. “Oh, very well,
then,” he said at last. “Go on.”
[1981


CHAPTER XXI
It is easy to see a mistake after it has been made.
Jimmie recognised his with the first chill touch of the
handcuffs. He had merely dropped out of his clothes
the night before, not troubling to remove or inspect
anything. The least he should have done was to have
placed the address Peggy had given him in safety.
He raved helplessly. Weir Menzies sat on the end
of the bed and waited imperturbably. Jimmie did not
pick and choose his words.
“Bad language won’t help,” said Menzies, once again
the stern moralist. “Make up your mind quick; I
can’t wait here all day.”
Hallett suppressed the vitriolic retart that rose to his
lips. He was in no position to justify violent language.
“Say, this is a joke, isn’t it?” he asked.
“I don’t joke,” retorted the inspector grimly.
“Look here,” said Jimmie with inspiration, “you
own that you’re doing an illegal thing. Now I’ll tell
you what I’ll do. Unfasten these things and run away
for five minutes and when you come back you can
search all you want to. There’ll be ten thousand dol-
lars in it for you too.” Ten thousand dollars, he re-
flected, was a small price to pay for the preservation
of the secret he held.
Menzies’ ruddy face had taken on a deeper tinge of
[199]


THE M A E L S T ROM
crimson. “You’re wanting to bribe me,” he said
thickly.
“That’s a nasty word,” said Jimmie. “Illegal
searchings are not your duty—and how can it be
bribery if all I ask you to do is to keep within the
limits of your right. Come. I’m a fairly rich man
and I’ll make it fifteen thousand.”
A brawny fist was shaken within an inch or two of his
eyes. Menzies had for the moment let himself go and
was shaken with anger. “You dirty reptile,” he
blazed and then suddenly checked himself. “The C.
I. D. aren’t grafters,” he went on more mildly. “If
you’d been in London longer you’d have known that. It
isn't fair, Mr. Hallett”—he shook his head reprov-
ingly—“it isn’t fair.”
Jimmie observed him with some astonishment. He
did not know the scale of pay of English detectives, but
he imagined that fifteen thousand dollars would have
removed most scruples. “Don’t get in a tear about it,”
he said. “For a man who plays the game like this *—
he glanced at the handcuffs—“I don’t see what you’ve
got to complain of if you get insulted. You're not a
police officer now, remember. You’re a common or
garden burglar.”
Menzies had resumed his placid equanimity. It was
difficult to reconcile the placidity with which he was
now enveloped to the resentment that had shaken him a
moment before. “I suppose I am,” he remarked.
[2001


THE M A E L S T R O M
“That is if you won’t give me the permission I asked
for a while ago.”
“I’ll see you burn first,” retorted Jimmie.
“Then I must go on with it,” said Menzies, and
quietly began to possess himself of the scattered articles
of attire that littered the floor.
He went through the pockets methodically, laying the
articles in an orderly heap on a chair one by one as
he examined them. Jimmie saw him pause over a scrap
of paper on which Peggy had scribbled her address.
“Does your friend—the lady who isn’t Mrs. Ling—live
at Shadwell?” he asked. “That's a bit of a change
from Palace Avenue, isn’t it? I’ll use your telephone a
second, if you don’t mind.”
“Make yourself at home,” said Hallett. “Don’t
mind me.”
The detective lifted the receiver. “Give me a line.
. . City 400. . . . Is that the Yard? . . . I want
Royal or Congreve if they’re there. Yes, Mr. Menzies
speaking. Hello, is that you, Congreve? . . . Oh, gone
out, is he? . . . Anything fresh, Royal?”
The man at the other end of the wire seemed to
Jimmie to be intolerably loquacious. A grin slowly
stole over Menzies’ set features. “That’s darned
funny,” he commented at last. “So you’ve got it from
two ends. Curiously enough I’ve just run across the
same address here—that's what I rang up about. I’m
in Mr. Hallett’s rooms at the Palatial. He’s very an-
[2011


T H E M A E L S T R O M
noyed with me, Royal. . . . Eh! . . . No, they’d
better not do anything unless they spot Ling. Keep
close observation on anyone in or out. You’d better
come on here.” -
He turned to Hallett and tapped the paper in his
hand. “If this is all you’re upset about, Mr. Hallett,
you needn’t blame yourself or me. This address has
cropped up at the Yard from two other sources. Some
of our men are breathing the salubrious air of Shadwell
at this minute. If I hadn’t been in a hurry to see you
I’d have known it half an hour or more ago. Promise
me you’ll sit quiet and wait without interference while
I finish off and I’ll unhook you.”
“I don’t take back anything I’ve said,” declared
Jimmie, “but I’ll promise that. I’d like to admire your
methods in something more solid than pyjamas and
that’s a fact. Do you mind if I order breakfast?”
Menzies smiled as he shook his head. You’ll not
starve if you wait ten minutes till Royal comes. I’m not
going to take any chances of you sending a warning,
directly or indirectly. Not that it would do any good
if you managed to slip anything through. A mouse
couldn’t get in or out of Levoine Street now.”
It was a palpable hit. Hallett had hoped that the
entrance of a servant might give him an opportunity to
convey something to Peggy. His face fell as the other
exploded the plan. He stretched himself as Menzies
unlocked the handcuffs.
[202 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Yes, I guess I can hold out that long. I wish you’d
forget your profession sometimes, Menzies. I’d hate to
have to suspect a man of evil because he wants his
breakfast. Say, if it’s not giving away secrets, how
did Scotland Yard get on to the address?”
Menzies postponed his rummaging for the moment.
“There’s no secret about it,” he said. “It was only a
question of how long a well-dressed girl, obviously of
the superior classes, could live in a slum without at-
tracting notice—especially when she's being looked for
by the police. A report that she had been located by
our Shadwell people was received this morning. Then
again—you remember that note she sent calling you
over to Brixton?”
“Well!” said Jimmie.
“That was handed over to an expert for more de-
tailed examination than we were able to give it our-
selves. Royal hasn’t told me anything but the result,
though I can guess how it was done. Very few inks
are chemically alike. The expert must have applied
tests which brought out the fact that certain words in
that note had been written in a different ink from the
others. You follow me? The inference would be irre-
sistible and a properly skilled photographer would be
able to bring out the underlying words. All automatic,
Mr. Hallett—we were just bound to find her.”
“I suppose you were,” said Hallett, absently envelop-
ing himself in a big dressing-gown.
[203 ]


THE M A E L S T R O M
Jimmie started. “You don’t say?” he exclaimed.
“Why, I got it ” He paused.
“You got it from Ling,” filled in the detective.
“Quite so.” He broke it apart and squinted through
it. “There's three chambers been recently fired.” He
looked up enquiringly. “Go on.”
There was just the right touch of expectation in his
voice and manner as though he took it for granted that
Hallett intended to continue his explanation. But
Jimmie had no intention of doing so. He had been sur-
prised into half an admission, but he was to be drawn
no further. It might be that nothing he could reveal
could affect the course of events, but having given his
word to Peggy he intended to remain silent. He was
scarcely prepared to admit even what the lawyers call
common ground.
“You’re doing very well by yourself,” he commented.
“You don’t need my help.”
There had been little serious intention behind Weir
Menzies’ threat of arrest. On the face of things, as he
had explained, he could have justified the action. Nor
would he have hesitated had he believed that any real
good would come of it. He would have been as ruthless
of Jimmie Hallett’s feelings as he was of his own ener-
gies if thereby he could have gained a step. Of course
Hallett’s infatuation—that was Menzies’ private word
for it—had been a stumbling-block and it would be still
advisable to look after him. But to put him under lock
[206 |


THE MAEL STRom
and key would be to seal his lips utterly—Menzies had
judged his character aright in that—and if treated in
another fashion he might yet be useful. Nevertheless,
the threat was a bludgeon to be used if necessary.
He put the revolver aside and went on with his in-
spection. He hesitated over the letters and then, with a
muttered apology, opened one. There were four all told
and he steadily ploughed through them. “Ling must
be very fond of you,” he observed with heavy irony.
“Not only have you the pistol, but some of his personal
letters. Lord!” he burst out, “what game were you
playing last night? I’d give a lot to know. You cer-
tainly have the knack of dropping into the thick of
things.”
“Yes, there were some letters,” agreed Jimmie coolly.
“I haven’t had time to read them. Anything of im-
portance in them?”
“There are no addresses,” evaded Menzies, “ and he
doesn’t seem to have saved the envelopes, so we can’t tell
where he received them.”
A knock at the door heralded the appearance of
Royal, who nodded a genial good morning to Hallett and
then glided unobtrusively to a seat. Menzies twisted the
letters in his hand with an air of uncertainty.
“I’ve got two courses open to me,” he explained to
Hallett. “One, as I said just now, to arrest you. The
other is to take your word that you won't attempt to
leave your rooms here nor to send any message to any-
[207 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M º
one until I see you again. In that case I should leave
Royal here with you.”
“You’ve got an everlastingly cool nerve,” observed
Jimmie.
“Hang it, man, what do you expect?” said the other
impatiently. “The alternative is more than ninety-nine
men out of a hundred would offer you.”
Jimmie shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He saw
Menzies’ difficulty—saw also that the chief inspector was
determined at any cost to keep him out of the game.
Inwardly he writhed at his own impotence. If he could
only have got one word to Peggy Greye-Stratton. . .
Outwardly he was philosophic. “No cell for mine,”
he said cheerfully. “You’ve got the drop on me and
I’ve got to do what you say. I will pass my word,
though I’d take it kindly if you’d send on what news
you can. . . . Do you play piquet, Mr. Royal?”
[2081


CHAPTER xxII
UNLEss circumstances dictated haste Weir Menzies was
never in a hurry. In essentials he was a business man.
He was always ready to seize a fleeting opportunity—,
but for choice he preferred method and exactitude rather
than gambling on luck. There was nothing he could do
at Shadwell for the time being that could not be done
equally well by the men already on duty there.
The tactics of the moment were quite clear in his
mind. Peggy Greye-Stratton, by herself, was of minor
importance compared with the possibility of laying
Gwennie Lyne and Ling by the heels. The direct route
to that objective seemed to lay through her. Moreover
—though he would not admit it, even to himself—he
felt a certain personal animosity. Both Ling and the
woman had contrived to humiliate him professionally.
He wanted to locate them—and then . . .
He was perched on a high stool before his tall desk
in the chief inspector’s room. The dossier of the case
lay in front of him—reports, statements, photographs,
everything that had been gathered together by the elab-
orate machinery of the C. I. D.—neatly typed and
carefully indexed. Also he had his own Greek notes and
several facts not yet incorporated in the dossier.
He rubbed his hand through his scanty hair and
chewed at the end of a quill pen. For five minutes he
[209 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
allowed his thoughts uninterrupted flow and then there
came to him Foyle, spruce and alert with twinkling blue
eyes.
“Quite a dust up last night, I hear,” he observed.
“Some,” agreed Menzies. He got down off his stool,
reached for a tobacco jar and filled his pipe. “I was
coming in to see you, sir. I’d like to arrange to have
fifty men on tap. It’s likely I’ll want ’em to-night.”
Foyle polished his pince-nez. “As close up as that.
I heard that you’d got an address. But fifty men!
That means a raid. You’ll have the newspaper men
there.”
The superintendent hated unnecessary limelight on
the operations of the C. I. D. and he was not blind to
the effects of human nature. Among fifty men, however
carefully picked, there was sure to be some who had been
carefully cultivated by journalists and he knew that a
friendly hint would be passed on to Fleet Street before
many hours were over.
“I only want them available,” explained Menzies. “I
don’t know that I’ll use 'em. We may be able to do
things quietly, but if a house-to-house search is neces-
sary and there should be any more gun-play 22
“Right you are. I’ll see they’re at hand for a call.
Now about things in general?”
“I was just thinking it out,” said Menzies. “I
can’t just place things, though I’ve got more than
enough to act on.”
[210 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The other removed his glasses. “What you mean,”
he smiled, “is that you don’t want to commit yourself
to anything till you’re sure.”
“That’s so,” agreed Menzies. “You’ll remember
when we went over Linstone Terrace Gardens we
couldn’t find Greye-Stratton’s pistol. I came across it
this morning. In fact I have it here.”
“Hallett?” ejaculated Foyle with a lift of his eye-
brows.
“Hallett it is. I’ve just come from him. I did think
he was safe last night. He was out of my sight for less
than three minutes—and I’m blest if he wasn’t on the
warpath on his own again—or rather with the girl.
She’s got that young man absolutely dazzled. It seems
that they met Ling after he dodged me. Now where
she’s concerned you couldn’t make him talk, not if you
used a-a "–he wrestled for an illustration—“a can-
opener. And he now knows a deuce of a lot, too. If I
could draw it out of him I’d have the case pretty com-
plete or I’m a fool. Look here.” He ran through the
papers on his desk and picked out two. “I picked
these papers off him just now.” He read:
“‘Dear Stewart—I was right pleased to get
your letter and shall be glad when you come over
again. Teddy is just fine and says he would like
to see his dad again. It would be fine if only we
could settle down and you didn’t have to be sent on
[211 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
those long business journeys any more. As I wrote
you last time, the show has gone bust and I am
resting. So if you can spare a little money I would
be glad of a little cheque, though I hate worrying
you, specially when you are so full of business. I
wish sometimes you had a regular berth here. Of
course, the money would not be so big, but it would
be certain and we could all be together. But I
won’t worry you, old boy. Much love from Teddy
and from CHRIs.’”
“A woman,” commented Foyle. “You’d better burn
up the wires, Menzies.”
“That’s seen to. This is the other letter: “The
bulls have tumbled to me. Have just dropped one in
the cellar along with J. H. and am clearing in case his
pals turn up. Am coming straight you know where and
am sending this by messenger in case you are out. Come
along and see me.”
“There’s no signature to that. It doesn’t need one.
I’m wondering how Hallett got these things and the
pistol.”
“And I’m wondering,” said Foyle, “how you got
them from Hallett. Have you arrested him?”
Menzies met his chief’s gaze steadily. “No, sir,”
he said.
A ready smile broke over Foyle's face. It was not
always advisable that he, as head of the department,
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T H E M A E L S T R O M
should know exactly the methods by which a result had
been obtained. Men with the experience and sagacity
of Weir Menzies could be trusted not to endanger the
reputation of the C. I. D. He ignored the chief in-
spector’s lack of candour.
“Well, I suppose he’ll keep. If the evidence doesn’t
crop up elsewhere we’ll have to see what can be squeezed
out of him in the witness box. Don’t you wish this was
France, Menzies?” -
“I never held with French methods, sir. I call a
man down and take my chance sometimes, but the third
degree isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. I believe in
judicious firmness and mildness.”
“I expect that’s how you treated Hallett. Never
mind that, though. Ling wouldn’t have parted with
those things willingly. Your young friend must have
been fairly successful in handling him. How do you
figure it all out generally?”
“Well,” Menzies rubbed his chin meditatively.
“There’s money somewhere, though that’s to be ex-
pected. They're not folk who'd set out for a coup with-
out a stocking to draw on. They’ve been spending
money pretty freely for boltholes. There was Gwennie
Lyne’s house at Brixton. Then there’s this Blooms-
bury place into which Ling carried us last night. I’ve
just been reading the report of some enquiries Royal
made. Ling took the whole place furnished a month
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T H E M A E L S T R O M
ago under the name of Ryder. He's never actually
stayed there.”
He glanced under his heavy eyebrows at the superin-
tendent, who jingled some keys in his pocket, and re-
turned a look of interrogation.
“It’s solid, unpretentious, and central,” prompted
Menzies.
The superintendent gave his keys a final irritable
shake. “When it’s a jar,” he murmured.
“Just the place for a newly married couple to settle
down till all the legal formalities in connection with
Greye-Stratton's property were settled,” went on
Menzies.
“Oh! I thought it was a riddle. That’s just like
Ling. He’d have things cut and dried. Well, why
didn’t he-or they?”
“That’s what I want to ask the lady. Hallett's got
a glimmering of the reason, too. Personally I can think
of a hundred answers to the question. The only thing
is to know which is right.”
“Ling,” observed the superintendent with apparent
irrelevance, “ hasn’t the record of a man who'll handle
tar without gloves. He’s always up to now found his
tools to do the actual work. Gwennie Lyne’s the same
breed. That leaves two people to pick from-Errol
and Dago Sam. If it came to the choice I’d go nap
on Errol.”
Menzies smiled sardonically. He had a great deal of
[214 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
admiration for and loyalty to his chief, but he was
human enough to be pleased when he could register a
score.
“Then you’d be wrong, sir,” he said.
“You think that because Ling had Greye-Stratton's
pistol he—”
“Not altogether. There’s another little point,
though I only came across it yesterday. Did you no-
tice the fireguard in Greye-Stratton’s place—I mean in
the room where he was found dead?”
“A heavy brass thing, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I was having another look over the place yes-
terday when I found a thread had been caught in one
of the sharp edges. I didn’t speak about it because I
wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the case. It so
happened that, in his hurry to get away last night, Ling
tore a bit of his coat. I took 'em both along to Fynne-
Racton to have a look at under the microscope. He
now says definitely that they’re exactly similar.”
“That's useful, laddie,” observed the superintendent.
“A nice little bit of evidence to justify his arrest for
murder—but you’ll have to go further than that for
conviction. There’s going to be a big fight when this
comes on for trial. The pistol doesn’t count. You
haven’t even got Hallett’s word that it came from Ling
and if you had you can see the line of the defence. It’s
word against word and you can see what counsel would
do with Hallett.” He made a gesture as though ad-
[215 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
dressing an imaginary jury. “And this man, gentle-
men—this American, Hallett. He has sworn that the
pistol produced, was taken from the prisoner Ling.
Ling has denied on oath that he ever saw the weapon
before. You’ll not need reminding, gentlemen, of the
peculiar and extraordinary circumstances under which
this man Hallett became associated with the case. He
is found in a locked room with the murdered man and
he tells a confiding police officer—mark you I am not
saying a word against the police—an honest enough
detective whose intelligence perhaps runs in narrow
channels . . .”
Menzies eyed his chief ruefully. “Thank you, sir,”
he said drily.
Foyle's eyes twinkled genially. “Well. You know
that’s what they’ll say. It’s the obvious line of defence.
As for the cloth *—he snapped his fingers—“a com-
mon cloth sworn to by a dozen experts as being worn by
ninety-nine out of a hundred men. There’s heaps of
evidence of motive and no doubt you’ll be able to get it
in, but there’s gaps in your other evidence, Menzies,
and don’t you go forgetting it.”
Menzies tapped his pipe on the heel of his boot and
grinned. Foyle was indulging in no mere captious criti-
cism. It was not unusual for the weak links in an im-
portant investigation to be thus examined when it was
on the point of closing up, for the C. I. D. likes to be
prepared. The work of the department does not finish
[216 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
with the catching of a criminal. Every shred of rele-.
vant evidence has to be drawn up in lucid detail from
which the Treasury solicitors prepare a brief for
counsel. It does not do to take anything for granted.
Menzies could picture, too, the cross-examination of
an unwilling Jimmie and the conclusions that might be
drawn from it. -
“There's the girl, of course,” he muttered thought-
fully. “She’d be even better than Hallett in a way.
If we didn’t have to put her in the dock she might be
persuaded to tell what she knows.”
“Aren’t you forgetting she’s Mrs. Ling?” said
Foyle. “You can’t compel a woman to give evidence
against her husband.”
“Against her husband—no,” said Menzies.
[217


CHAPTER XXIII
THERE was no outward evidence that Levoine Street
was under any extraordinary police surveillance. Now
and again a blue-coated constable picked his way at
the regulation two-and-a-half miles an hour down its
sordid length. In the taproom of a dingy public-house
a couple of shabby loafers were playing dominoes with
a not infrequent casual glance through the open door
into the rain-sodden road. There was no public-house
at the farther end of the street, but two waterside la-
bourers had secured a “kip" in one of the few lodging-
houses in the street and through the dirty windows their
gaze also commanded the street.
These were, so to speak, Menzies’ advanced posts.
Not one of them had ever been stationed in that division
of the East End. A divisional detective, of necessity,
gets well known to the criminal fraternity of his neigh-
bourhood and as facial disguise is more common in novels
than in the ordinary routine of a detective’s work, it
is easier and safer to employ strangers in a locality
where the presence of a local police officer might arouse
undesirable speculation or comment. -
Not that the divisional detectives were idle. Half-a-
dozen or more were wandering with apparent aimless-
ness about the vicinity, though never by any chancé
showing in Levoiae Street itself. Yet it was scarcely
[218 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
likely that anyone leaving that thoroughfare would
escape the notice of this outer fringe of watchers. That
was what they were there for.
Twice that day had Mrs. Buttle journeyed into the
main street—once to the butcher’s, once to a post-office.
And each time, curiously enough, one of the waterside
labourers or one of the saloon loafers had lounged in-
differently in the same direction, dropping back after
three or four hundred yards, while the hard-bitten de-
tectives of the H division took up the unobtrusive escort.
It was monotonous work. All those taking part in it
knew that their vigil might go on for weeks, perhaps
for months, and then end without any result.
Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Congreve had routed
out a colleague in the division and was more actively
engaged. Together they walked along the Commercial
Road until they reached a corner shop. The lower half
of the big plate glass windows had been blackened and
staring white letters announced
DR. KARL STEINGURT.
Dispensary. Hours 8 till 10 A.M. 7 till 9 P.M.
The pair pushed their way into the room—bare save
for a cupboard and table and a series of hard wooden
forms. Women crowded the latter, some with children,
some without, and a shrill clatter of tongues died away
for the instant as they took stock of the newcomers.
[219 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Hugh followed. A dozen steps brought them to the
consulting-room and face to face with a swarthy little
man in a frock coat and dirty linen. Heavy circular
spectacles gave him the appearance of an owl.
“Doctor Steingurt?” asked Congreve. Hugh had
softly closed the door behind them.
The doctor glanced at them through his gold-rimmed
spectacles. “Wot's the matter with you, eh?” he de-
manded briskly. “Speak up, now. You see I haf a
lot of people waiting and as I only charge six-
pence—”
Hugh muttered something below his breath. Con-
greve cut in. “We’re not patients. You'll have to
give us a little of your attention without any fee this
time, doctor. We’re police officers.”
“Id is most ungonvenient that you come at this
time,” protested Steingurt. “I told the goroner”—he
waved flabby hands at them—“that I should not gome
again. I was legal—oh, I know the law. I am not a
jarity. The child would have died anyway and the man
which called me didn’t haf my fee. Why should I gif
up a night’s rest for nothing? Dere is the hospital for
paupers.” He grew more excited. “I tell you I vill
not gome to that goroner's court any more. I will see
my solicitor. I will not gome.”
Both detectives remembered the standing feud be-
tween the coroner of the district and Steingurt.
“It is most highly ingonvenient,” he repeated, “to
[221 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
to you. It will be worth your while.” So I went down
and opened the door on the chain.
“‘You must gome along with me at once,” she says.
“Don’t stand there gibbering like a monkey, but get
some clothes on and gome.” She pushed a folded bank-
note through the door and when I opened id, id was for
five pounds. “There’s four more of those flimsies wait-
ing for you,” she says, “if you hurry up and come and
keep your jaw shut.” “Where to?” I asked. “Never
mind,” she says. “Are you goming or must I get some-
one else?”
“So, of gorse, gentlemen, twenty-five pounds is
twenty-five pounds. So I went. The woman she said
nothing of where we were going, bud I knew the dis-
trict. She took me along to Levoine Street and let me
in to one of the houses with a latch key. “There’s a
man fell downstairs and hurt himself,” she says. “I’m
afraid it’s concussion.” I wondered what she knew of
concussion, but I says nothing and she dakes me up-
stairs. There was a man there. He’d hurt himself
pretty much, but it wasn’t concussion, and when I’d
bandaged him up. I told her he'd be all right if he was
allowed to lie still for an hour or two. She says sharply,
“Very well, then, that's all right,’ and counts out the
other five-pound notes and gives them to me. “You’ll
forget you’ve been here?” she says and I told her I
would. “Not that anyone’s likely to ask,” she goes on.
“And then, when she was bringing me down, she says,
[ 224 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“While you’re here there’s someone else you might look
at,’ and she knocked at a door and called out. A young
lady answered it—a real young lady—not a girl like
you mostly see around here. The old woman says some-
thing to her that I couldn’t catch and I went in. There
was a young man lying on a pallet in a corner. “What’s
the madder with him?” I asked. ‘God fooling round
with a knife or something and hurt himself,' said the old
woman. The girl didn’t say anything and I could un-
derstand I wasn’t expected to ask questions. The man
was pretty done up with a knife wound and it looked
like touch and go with him. There was a fever on him.
So I did what I could for him and the old woman volun-
teered to come and fetch some medicine. There, now,
you’ve got the honest truth, gentlemen.”
“Didn’t it strike you,” said Hugh slowly, “that
when you find a man with a knife thrust and another
with something like concussion—both accidents—that
you ought to have told the police? How do you know
one of 'em ain’t died?”
“It was none of my business,” protested Steingurt.
“I was paid as a medical attendant, nod as a detec-
tive.”
“Are you likely to be going back there again?”
asked Congreve.
Steingurt shook his head. “Not unless they send for
me.”
“It was dark when you were called out. Do you
[225 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
think any of those people would recognise you again?”
The doctor was doubtful.
“Would you recognise any of them? Give us a de-
scription.” -
Although the officers painstakingly took down the
descriptions it was plainly useless. The ordinary per-
son is always at a loss in attempting a portrait.
“Well, good-bye, doctor,” said Congreve. “We may
call again later on.”
Outside Congreve hustled his companion along the
wet pavement. “Come along,” he said, “I want to
telephone to Mr. Menzies. I’ve got an idea.”
[226 J


CHAPTER XXIV
ALTHough his right arm hung limp and the set of his
well-cut morning coat was somewhat spoilt by the bulge
of the bandages on his shoulder Cincinnati Red looked
almost as spruce and debonair as ever. He listened with
immobile face to Menzies’ expression of sympathy.
“I’m right sorry,” the detective was saying. “It
was hard luck on you. You didn’t guess he was wise
to the gag or it might have been different. I’d back
you against Ling every time.”
A whimsical, humourous smile lighted Cincinnati’s
features. “I get you,” he drawled. “You’re handing
out a soothing syrup dope. I’m on to those curves.
What you giving me?”
“Would you like to have another cut at Ling?”
The “con’’ man drew his shaggy brows together and
observed Menzies narrowly. “Will a duck swim? Wait
till my shoulder gets well. If you’re driving at some
more stool-pigeon business I’m not hankering after it,
but I might be tempted—if it sounded good.”
“Well,” Menzies crossed his knees and passed the
cigar box, “we’ve got Ling located to an extent.
You’ll be pleased to learn that he found a rough house
after he gave us his little show. He got manhandled
at a place in Shadwell and they had to have a doctor.”
Cincinnati rubbed his hands. “That’s all to the
[227 J


THE MAEL STRom
good, chief. Say, I’d like to buy the guy who did it
something.”
“It was only a knockout,” explained Menzies, “and
we unluckily did not get on to it till this morning. We
believe he got away in the night, but we’re not dead
sure. Anyway he can’t be far from the house we’ve
located and we know there are some other toughs in it.
Would you care to call on the house and see who's
there? There’ll probably be someone who knows you
and you'll be all right.”
“Yep,” said the other crisply. “Likely thing.
What chance would I stand walking into a wasps' nest
like that? It’s no bet. Call it off.”
“Why I didn’t think there was a yellow streak in
you, Cincinnati,” said Menzies. “I wouldn’t ask you
to do it if I thought there was any danger. There’ll
be plenty of my people on hand, and you’re not likely
to get into any trouble. Didn’t I tell you that Ling had
slipped out. I’d go myself or get one of my chaps only
it would be better if it wasn’t a stranger. I’m asking it
as a favour.”
The “con * man stroked his moustache in irresolution.
He was really bitter about Ling and would cheerfully
have contributed any effort that would add to the dis-
comfort or peril of his erstwhile colleague—so long as
he ran no avoidable hazard himself. He was under no
illusions in regard to Menzies’ efforts to persuade him.
He knew that the chief inspector had little bias towards
[228 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
him—that he regarded him merely as a crook—a crook
who happened to be useful and who might be coaxed into
helping the law by fulfilling an instinct of revenge. Not
that he had any compunction as to paying off old scores
that way. It was just the question of risk.
“You’ll let me have a gun, of course?” he asked.
Menzies shook his head. To use Cincinnati to achieve
a purpose was all very well. But a gun in the hands
of a revengeful man backed by the semi-authority of the
police was quite a different thing.
“There won’t be any need for a gun,” he said.
“We'll be at hand if there is any trouble—but there
won’t be any if you handle the job tactfully. Not that
I wouldn’t let you have a gun if I had my own way, but
you know how I’m tied down. Well, shall we consider
it settled? I won’t forget you acted like a white man,
laddie—some other time.”
After all, reflected Cincinnati, there was no reason
why he shouldn’t chance it. It would put him right with
the police and very likely, as Menzies said, there would
be no fuss. Until his shoulder healed there would be
little card-playing at his flat and if he refused the
police would probably become unduly attentive to any
other enterprise in which he might embark.
“I’m with you,” he said.
“Good for you, Cincinnati,” exclaimed Menzies. “I
guessed you would. I have taken the liberty of having
some clothes got ready for you. You can’t trail the
[229 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
theatricals. Start the boys off for me, will you. They
can report at Shadwell till they’re wanted.”
“Very good, sir,” said Congreve.
Night had long fallen when Menzies and Cincinnati
Red emerged from the underground station at Shadwell
and, with coat collars well turned up, struck off briskly
through the driving rain in the direction of Levoine
Street. They spoke little. The chief inspector paused
at last and nodded towards a shambling figure that was
hurrying a dozen paces in front of them.
“Keep your eye on that chap,” he said. “He’ll give
you the office when you get to the house. Remember
not to make any trouble if you can help it. We just
want to know what’s doing.”
“I get you,” muttered Cincinnati-and found that
he was addressing nothingness. For a substantial
churchwarden Weir Menzies had an astonishing faculty
on occasions of obliterating himself.
Yet he was nevertheless keeping a keen vigil on the
“con " man. It was as well to be sure and Cincinnati's
heart might yet fail him.
He emerged into visibility again under the light of
the corner public-house in Levoine Street. The two
loafers were still at their everlasting game of dominoes
and one turned an incautious look upon him. Menzies
was fumbling with his shoelace. He saw the “con’”
man's guide trip and lurch heavily opposite one of the
houses. A moment later Cincinnati was rapping at the
[231 J


THE MAEL STROM
door. It opened at last and he stood in colloquy with
someone unseen for a while. Then he stepped inside and
the door closed.
The chief inspector walked to the private bar and
ordered a Scotch and soda, which he drank slowly. Once
he looked at his watch and answered absently the bar-
man’s comment on the weather. In Magersfontein Road,
Upper Tooting, the apathy of one of its prominent hor-
ticulturists to weather conditions might have been set
down as an affected eccentricity. Something worse
might have been thought of a churchwarden who, with
bowler hat tilted at the back of his head, stood sipping
whisky and soda at the bar of the low class East End
public-house. But Menzies had forgotten that he was
either a churchwarden or a gardener.
Twice more he looked at his watch and a slight frown
bit into his forehead. Never too ready to put implicit
confidence in a crook, he was wondering if Cincinnati had
put the double cross on him.
There was in point of fact no justification for these
doubts. Cincinnati Red was feeling too sore with Ling
to dream of playing false with the police. The door had
been opened to him by no other than Mrs. Buttle her-
self, who stood determinedly in the doorway and scru-
tinised him with a stare in which there was no recogni-
tion. -
“Well?” she demanded with some asperity and an
unnecessary loudness. “What do you want?”. A
[232 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Cincinnati smiled pleasantly upon her and leaning
forward spoke in a low voice. “Is Mr. Ling in? No,
no "-he raised a deprecating hand as he saw a denial
forming on her lips. “I’m a pal of his. You tell him
that Cincinnati Red is here and wants to pass him a
word. Say the little trouble last night was all a mis-
understanding and I’ve come to clear it up and put him
wise to one or two things.”
She appraised him grudgingly for a while. “I don’t
know nothin’ of any Ling,” she grumbled loudly. “I’m
a honest, 'ard-workin’ woman and I ain’t no use for
blokes what comes talking riddles to me.”
She made as if to close the door and for the fraction
of a second her face was under the full rays of the
street lamp. His foot strayed absently over the lintel.
It was part of his profession to be a shrewd judge of
faces and in that respect there were few men, even at
the Yard itself, who could have taught him anything.
“So it’s you, Gwennie,” he said quietly. “I might
have guessed it. You’d better let me come in.”
She dropped her cockney accent instantly and a wry
smile showed on her face. “Yes, sonny, it’s me,” she
said. “How did you get on to it?”
“Your eyes,” he said succinctly. “Can I come in
now?”
She laughed. “Say, don’t you think you’ve got a
gall? Ling is gunning for you.”
Cincinnati went a shade paler. The recollection of
*
[233 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
of carrying his information back to Menzies. Did
Gwennie know or guess that the place was surrounded?
Did she think that this was merely a reconnoitring ex-
pedition or a reconnaissance in force? He had been a
fool, he reflected, to so weakly fall in with Weir Menzies’
suggestion. Of course, the police wouldn’t care what
happened to him. They were using him as a cat's-paw
to test the hot chestnuts before drawing them out of the
fire.
He had calculated on the readiness of his wits to ex-
tricate himself from any dilemma in which he might find
himself placed and now his blunder had exposed him.
He could only wait on events. He assented quietly and
she left the room.
There ensued a nerve-racking period of waiting. His
ears were strained to catch the slightest sound and he
could hear movements below. In that room where he
could meet anyone who entered face to face he felt com-
paratively safe. But his imagination played tricks
when he contemplated the possibility of creeping down-
stairs and so into the open street. On the dark stair-
case or in the gloomy passage Ling might be waiting.
His nerve was going and he dared not risk it. The
window looked out, as far as he could see in the black-
ness, on a bleak prospect of tiny back yards, and after
a sombre inspection he decided that there was no escape
that way.
The house grew unnaturally quiet and his waning
[235 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
courage began to return to him. There was a possi-
bility, after all, that his former friends had been as
badly scared by his arrival as a spy as he was by the
knowledge that they had penetrated his purpose. Very
likely Gwennie Lyne had left him there while she and her
confederate quietly slipped away. If so, they must have
already fallen into the hands of the police, and Menzies
and his detectives would be in the house at any moment.
He picked a candle off the mantelpiece and opened
the door. At once he became aware of a determined and
incessant rapping below. Somewhere near him he heard
someone stir, and promptly blew out the light and waited
with the door an inch or two open. There was a swish
of skirts on the landing and he heard light footsteps
descend the creaky stairs. Apparently the front door
had been very securely fastened since he had arrived,
for he heard the withdrawing of many bolts and the
rattle of a chain. Then a soft, guttural voice.
“Goot evening, miss. Iyoost thought I would come
along to see how my patient was brogressing.”
[236 )


CHAPTER XXV
It was not exactly what Cincinnati Red had expected.
Nor did he anticipate the low, musical voice that an-
swered. He had assumed that Gwennie Lyne was the
only woman in the house and somewhat impatiently he
waited for developments.
“Oh, yes. I wasn’t expecting you, doctor, but I am
glad you called,” he heard someone saying. “Will you
come up? He is asleep.”
He wedged himself against the crack of the door.
Who was asleep? Was it Ling? Why should he need
a doctor, anyway?
Apart from these problems he had a sense of relief.
Even if any designs were contemplated against him they
would scarcely be carried out with the doctor in the
house. What was to prevent him walking boldly out
behind the visitor when he went. He heard the woman
and the man pass by him on the landing. Then a splash
of light showed that they had entered the room op-
posite.
He crept gently out and stooped to the keyhole of
the room into which they had vanished. Within his line
of sight there came a vision of the back of a frock-
coated man stooping over someone laying beneath a
clutter of bedclothes in the corner. A girl was holding
a lamp to light the doctor’s examination. Cincinnati
[237 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
caught his breath as he saw her features and he remem-
bered her as the girl Hallett had rushed from the Petit
Savoy the previous evening.
The doctor stood up. “I will not disturb him now,”
he said. “He seems fairly comfortable. I will send
you some different medicine presently with directions.
Remember he is not to be moved on any aggount or I
will nod answer for his life. And now for my other
patient.”
She put down the lamp. Cincinnati raised his head
and sniffed gently, suspiciously. “There is no other
patient, doctor,” she said. “The gentleman you saw
last night is gone.” -
“Gone.” The doctor’s voice held unmistakable evi-
dence of disappointment. “He is gone? Where is he
gone?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I am only a
lodger here. Perhaps Mrs. Buttle—the landlady—
could tell you.”
A vivid bolt of flame leapt with appalling suddenness
up the stairway, illumining the whole place in a blaze
of light, and a hoarse cry came from Cincinnati. He
pushed the door open and flung himself in on them.
“Petrol!” he cried. “The murdering devils : For
God’s sake get out of this.”
The girl shrank back before the pallet as though to
protect the man lying there. Her eyes were fixed in a
kind of fascinated terror on the “con * man’s face. It
[238 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
was not the fire that terrified her so much as his appear-
ance there. When last they met he had been in associa-
tion with the police.
“Go away,” she shrieked. “You shan’t touch him.”
“They have set the place ablaze,” he repeated. “We
are trapped.”
The doctor was the only one who seemed unmoved
either by the fire or by the “con’’ man’s dramatic ap-
pearance. “Don’t be a mad fool, Cincinnati,” he said
quite quietly. “Here, stand aside and let’s have a look.”
He pushed Cincinnati away and glanced through the
open doorway. The smell of burning petrol was wafted
upwards and the first burst of flame had given way to
clouds of dense smoke through which he could dimly per-
ceive many coloured flames devouring the woodwork of
the stairs. The incendiaries had done their work well.
The whole bottom floor had been set alight as if by magic
and the dry, rotten flooring was blazing like tinder.
Although it had only been a matter of a few seconds
since Cincinnati Red had raised the first alarm it was
already plainly impossible to reach the street by the
stairs.
The doctor closed the door quickly and stepped back,
removing his spectacles as he did so. “The gov’ner will
be annoyed about this,” he commented. “It’s a good
move. They’ll have a fine chance to get away in the
confusion.”
The terror in Peggy Greye-Stratton’s eyes deepened.
[239


THE MAEL STROM
She laid a hand soothingly on his shoulder and held
herself under stern control. “You’ve been dreaming,
boy,” she said with a smile. “Lay down. Every-
thing’s all right.”
He resisted the soft pressure and pointed to the
wreaths of smoke now curling lazily under the door.
“That isn’t much of a dream, Peggy. Better go. I
know what I’ve got to do and you’ll only be in the
way.” i
Congreve poked his head into the room. “Now
then, miss, here’s a ladder. You first and then we’ll see
to your brother.”
She held back. “I’ll not go,” she declared. “I’ll
not let you arrest him.”
“We’ll see about that after we’ve got you both out,”
said Congreve gently. “Now come along like a good
lass and don’t argue.”
66 No.”
It was mere madness, but she was past logical reason-
ing. Even the genial Congreve almost lost his temper.
He started forward, but before he could reach her
Errol had risen from the bed. His face was grey and
drawn with pain, and those unnaturally bright eyes
shone fiercely out of their sunken pits.
“Do as the man tells you,” he said, and added an
oath. Excitement seemed to have lent him strength.
With a quick movement he lifted her bodily and stag-
[241 j


T H E M A E L S T R O M
and he gave a great breath of relief as he found himself
once more in the open air.
Congreve had returned to the door of the inner room,
which had swung to. He tried to push it open with his
foot, but to his surprise it resisted the pressure. “Now
then, Errol,” he shouted. “Come on. It’s your turn.
Open the door. It’s caught.”
The voice that replied was muffled, but it had a note
of determination. “It’s not caught. Look after your-
self, Mr. Policeman. I’m going to take my chance.
You don’t lay your hooks on me.”
The burly figure of Menzies squirmed its way through
the window and a couple of helmeted firemen followed.
“Hullo, Congreve,” he said casually. “Here’s a fine
old mess. What's wrong?”
His subordinate jerked a thumb towards the door.
“Errol in there,” he said shortly. “Door locked. He
won’t come out.”
The chief inspector raised his boot and smashed
with the heel against the panels. A mocking laugh
came from the interior. “Don’t do that again,” said
Errol. “I’ve an eight-shot automatic here. Don’t
you run away with the delusion that you’re going to
take me.”
“The deuce you have, laddie,” muttered Menzies.
“Here,” he wheeled on one of the firemen, “lend me
your axe. Pass the word to your people to send up
a length of hose. Congreve, you get out of this.”
[243 ]


THE MAEL STRO M
He struck with the axe at one of the panels, and as
the wood smashed and splintered the thudding report of
an automatic answered and an irregular hole showed a
few inches from where he had hit. He moved quickly
back out of the line of fire.
“He means business, sir,” said Congreve, who, for
once, had disobeyed an order. “You’ll never be able
to make a hole to turn the hose on him. We can’t save
him if he won’t be saved.”
Menzies made a helpless gesture. “Hang it all, man,
we’ve got to get him. He’s part of my evidence.” He
turned to one of the firemen. “What are the chances
of getting the fire under?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “The chief might
be able to tell you. I don’t reckon we’ll do much my-
self. There’s gallons of petrol been used and you can’t
put that out with water.”
The brow of the chief inspector furrowed. On a
larger scale he was faced with a similar problem to that
which is dealt with almost every day by the huge police-
man with a small but obstreperous drunken prisoner.
The policeman gets the aid of other constables as large
as himself, not because he cannot manage by himself but
because he might harm the man in custody did he exert
his full strength. -
Only by violence could Errol be saved, but the
probabilities were that in making the attempt several
other lives would be sacrificed. Menzies had no doubt
[244 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
that any of his men would risk that eight-shot auto-
matic, if need be, purely as a matter of course. He,
himself, for that matter, was willing to take his
chance, but his sober common sense told him it wouldn’t
do.
He climbed down into the street and engaged the
divisional officer of the fire-brigade—a heavy-jawed
young man in sea boots, his face begrimed and blood-
shot.
“Suffering snakes : * ejaculated that individual when
the position had been made clear to him. “I don’t see
what we can do. If there’s a madman with a shooter
locked in the first room it's for you police to deal with
him. Our job’s putting out the fire and I don’t see that
we can save the place anyway. All we can do is to
prevent it spreading. I’ve been in there *—he nodded
towards the door out of which a thick volume of smoke
was emerging—“ and I tell you they haven’t spared the
petrol. The house is doomed, Mr. Menzies, and if your
pal is going to shoot anybody who tries to get at him
he can roast for me.”
The detective concealed his annoyance. In the fire-
man's place he would have felt the same. He would
have to count Errol out of the game. He dismissed
him from his mind for a moment and put another en-
quiry. The divisional officer nodded his head ener-
getically.
“That's so. That’s so. Who ever set it alight knew
[245 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
what they were doing. It could have all been done in
three minutes or less. As far as I could see this is what
happened. It’s partly a guess, mind. Some old clothes
were soaked with petrol and thrown or placed on the
stairs and at the bottom. A washbowl full of petrol
was placed at the bottom and others with petrol in some
of the rooms. Some tape was soaked in paraffine and
laid from one to the other. A length carried to one of
the windows and a match applied to it from outside
would have set the whole place ablaze in ten seconds.”
He broke off to shout a curt order and Menzies, with
a word of thanks, moved away.
The fire had interfered with some of his arrangements
but he had by no means given up hope of laying his
hands on Gwennie Lyne and Ling and their confederates
that night. He was playing against astute antagonists
who were bound by no rules and who had the advantage
of working on the defensive. He appreciated the sig-
nificance of their move and lost not a moment in attempt—
ing to counter it.
Orders were given that no man was to approach the
fire and, getting on to the telephone, he sent a hurried
explanation of the new development to the headquarters
station of the division. To the subdivisional inspector
of the uniformed branch who had been lurking quietly
in the vicinity and now came at a run with his whistle
between his teeth, he had outlined certain ideas, and at
each end of Levoine Street detachments of constables had
[246 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
sprung up as if by magic and were lined across the
street.
All thoroughfares that entered Levoine Street were
similarly guarded and no one except police officials and
firemen were to be allowed to approach nearer than sev-
eral hundred yards. Above all, no one was to leave the
street. Menzies had determined that he would not allow
his purpose to be rendered impossible by the collection
of a big crowd. It was inevitable that there should be
some sort of gathering, for within the cleared area there
were two hundred or more houses, nearly all of which
were human ant-heaps. But that could not be helped.
In any case he had determined to sift the collection
individual by individual if necessary.
Within half an hour he had been promised reinforce-
ments of two hundred constables—more than sufficient
to maintain clear the area in which search was to take
place. More than that, every detective in London who
could be spared at short notice was hurrying to the
spot.
He told himself that all that was possible had been
done, yet he could not disguise from himself that in
spite of all the resources of intricate organisation the
odds were against him.
The double row of police at the end of the street
opened and a motor-car pushed through and ran silently
to a standstill. He recognised Helden Foyle and one
or two of the high administrative officials at Scotland
[247 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Yard. To them he briefly outlined what had occurred.
“There were plenty of men who’d have volunteered
to fetch Errol out,” he added, “but I didn’t feel justi-
fied in letting 'em take the risk.”
“You were right, Menzies,” agreed the superin-
tendent. “There'd have been the deuce of a howl if
any lives had been thrown away like that. Nothing
can be done but let the fire burn out. You’ve lost Errol,
anyway. I guess you did right in having the streets
blocked.”
“No need for secrecy now so far as Ling is con-
cerned,” commented Menzies. “Instead of making a
quiet house-to-house search it will have to be done pretty
publicly. That’s why I wanted more men. As soon
as the fire's over and the excitement died down a bit I’m
going through this district with a fine-tooth comb.”
“Miss Greye-Stratton?” said Foyle interrogatively.
“Yes, I’ve thought of her. She's in the ‘Three
Kings” at the corner there”—he indicated the public-
house—“for the time being. Half off her head. We
may surprise something out of her presently or she may
talk of her own accord. Errol being out of it may
make a difference, but I’ve sent to Royal to bring up
Jimmie Hallett.”
Foyle blinked. “Can’t seem to keep him out of it,”
he laughed. He dug one forefinger into the chief in-
spector's rotund waist. “You infernal old match-
maker,” he said.
[248 ||


T H E M A E L S T R O M
A sharp cry and a confusion of orders came from
the firemen. Brass helmets clanked and dodged ludi-
crously away from the burning house. The roof col-
lapsed like cardboard and a shower of sparks flew
upwards.
“Exit Errol,” said Helden Foyle calmly.
[249 J


CHAPTER XXVI
LIKE most detectives of experience Weir Menzies had a
certain cynical outlook on life. Yet at heart he had
most of the domestic virtues. Still it was part of his
professional code to use every possible means—which
included every possible person—to achieve his ends.
He slipped his arm in friendly fashion through that
of Jimmie Hallett, when that young man turned up in
a taxi-cab, accompanied by the watchful Royal.
“We’re on the same side of the game at last, my
boy,” he said genially. “I knew you’d hate to be out
of this show and so I sent for you. Errol’s done for.”
“So Royal told me,” said Jimmie coldly. “You’ve
got a knack of mucking things up, Menzies.”
The chief inspector accepted the gibe. “I’m not one
of those omniscient amateur detectives,” he said placidly.
“Don’t bear malice, Hallett. You’ll own you played. **
me up a bit before I started to get my own back. But
that isn’t what I wanted to talk about. Tell me now,
Errol was in this bad somewhere. Was it only to pro-
tect him that Miss Greye-Stratton was keeping her
mouth—and yours—shut?”
Jimmie lifted his shoulders. “You remind me of a
newspaper man I used to know. He once went to inter-
view a jeweller who, after heavily insuring his stock, was
found bound and gagged beside an empty safe. The
[250 J.


f :
/ -
º
T H E M A E L S T R O M
presently and we’ll probably get them. I don’t want—
I'll admit it—to have to rope this girl in as well, be-
cause I believe if she's done anything to bring her
within the law at all it was under a sort of compulsion.
If she still keeps silence she’ll force my hand. I don’t
only want to get Ling, I want more direct evidence
against him.” -
He had told Jimmie Hallett nothing that he did not
know, but he had adroitly side-tracked the demand for
information. They passed into the house. Peggy was
reclining in an armchair by the fire in a sort of shop-
parlour parted from the saloon bar by a glass partition
shrouded by lace curtains. The landlady of the public-
house was sitting with her. With a muttered excuse,
she rose and departed.
The girl was pale and an infinite weariness was in her
face. A flicker of interest was in her eyes as she nodded
to Jimmie. “You know? It was good of you to come.”
Jimmie crossed over to her and took her hand. “You
are all right?” he asked anxiously. “Not hurt?”
“Only tired,” she said.
“We have had a doctor,” explained Menzies, who
had taken another armchair and was extending his feet
to the cheerful blaze. “She’s perfectly normal, but
the shock has been rather trying. We shall soon have
you as bright as ever, Miss Greye-Stratton. There’s
one or two things I’m going to tell you now that may
cheer you up.”
- [252 |


THE MAEL STROM
“I thought you were going to round up Ling?”
interrupted Jimmie.
From the dissenting gesture which Weir Menzies
made one would have imagined that the capture of Ling
was a matter of trivial importance. His eyes twinkled.
“In a hurry to turn me out—eh? There’s plenty of
time for that. We don’t want a big audience for that
sort of thing. We’ll let the crowd get to bed. Now”
—he became serious, and placing his elbows on his knees,
leaned forward towards the girl—“I’ve talked to Mr.
Hallett here and I’ve come to a conclusion.”
Jimmie again interrupted. “Hadn't you better
leave that,” he said.
Menzies' ruddy face glowed benevolently. “Don’t
you chip in for a moment, Mr. Hallett. I know ex-
actly how Miss Greye-Stratton feels. If you only
knew it I’m her fairy godfather. Now listen, I’m
going right through this case with you and will see
where we all stand. I’m going to show you my hand.”
He paused for a moment, waiting as if for Hallett
to say something. Jimmie remained silent. He was half
suspicious of this new move, for he had learned that
Menzies’ candour was usually in the nature of bait.
In that he was right. A detective has often to employ
the weapons of the confidence man.
“We’ll begin at the beginning,” said the chief in-
spector, laying the stubby forefinger of his right hand
into the palm of his left. “Let’s make it supposition,
[253 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
shall we? Suppose now, Miss Greye-Stratton, you were
to come into a big fortune on the death of your father.
There’s the starting-point of the whole thing. Suppose
your brother to have fallen into the hands of a gang of
American crooks. Now I want to say nothing against
your brother, Miss Greye-Stratton—whatever he was
he has paid the penalty, but he was a weak man. We
can agree on that.
“Very well. Still supposing, we will agree that he
bragged a bit about his rich relatives. It is the kind
of thing he would do. The whole story would have been
twisted out of him in five minutes. Then the thing be-
came absurdly simple. There was little risk about it.
All that had to be done was to seek you out, marry you
to one of the gang, and wait for nature to take its course
with the old gentleman.”
Peggy, who had been listening apathetically, roused
herself to life. Her eyes were like stars.
“You, my girl”—he spoke with a kind of paternal
patronage—“can have little idea of the infinite pains
which really great criminals go to in organising their
projects—how they plan point by point, slowly, care-
fully, sometimes for months. Their first business was to
get Errol irrevocably into their clutches. That was
easy enough. He is wanted by the American police for
uttering forged Treasury bonds 35
“That is a lie,” broke in the girl impulsively. “He
assured me—” She cut off the sentence shortly.
[254 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
But the biggest fool that ever stepped could see that
you were holding something back.
“I confronted the pair of you by as near surprise as
I could work it, but you did me down. But the main
thing began to stick out as plain as a pike-staff. Ling
an adventurer, Dago Sam—whom I then only knew as
William Smith—a tough from Toughville, Errol a was-
trel, and you an heiress. The combination worked
itself out. Why should you deny that you had passed
the cheques over? Why should you have held back any-
thing when we had a chat? You were either in the game
yourself or you were doing it for someone else. Clearly
you were afraid of Ling and you had quarrelled in the
flat. It was clear too that you were not in love with
him. Why had you married? There had been com-
pulsion of some kind and the cheques were concerned or .
you wouldn’t have been so eager to get them away.
They were proof of someone’s guilt. I should say that
when we searched Greye-Stratton’s house we did not
come across a single thing that had reference to even
the smallest banking transaction. Clearly all bank-
books, pocket-books, and so on had been taken away or
destroyed.
“I thought I saw the outlines of the scheme. Errol
had forged his father's name and that had been used as
a lever to induce you to consent to the marriage. The
part not according to the programme was that Ling
wanted you to live with him, either because he had fallen
[257 |


T H E M A E L S T R.O M
in love with you or because he thought that it would
be easier to lift the fortune if he was your acknowledged
husband.”
“The murder?” she said eagerly. “You have not
spoken of that?” -
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked. “I can think
better with a pipe. Thank you. No, I haven’t dealt
with the murder yet. I was just coming to that.
Here’s a point I haven’t spoken about. Perhaps you
can help me though I don’t attach much importance
to it. A woman had visited him twice during the last
year. Was that you?”
“It was I,” she admitted.
He remained silent.
“I did not like asking him to see me,” she went on.
“It wasn’t pleasant. I asked him to do something for
my brother. It was after I had made my final appeal
to him that he promised to think over it. It was a
week or two before his death that he sent, under cover
to me, a packet addressed to my brother. It contained
the forged cheques and a curt note that that was all
he might ever expect.” -
“I thought so,” said Menzies. “That explains how
Ling got those dead cheques. There was an abusive
letter written by Errol to your father of which we
found the charred remains in the grate. Whether
through that letter or some other letter or threats made
in person the old man went in fear of his life.”
[258 )


T H E M A. E L S T R O M
Peggy shivered.
“By all the laws of probability Errol was the mur-
derer. Even on the line of reasoning I have indicated
he was the most likely man. Mind you, even yet I am
not sure. The motive of the crime is clear enough and
any one of the gang may have tired of waiting. It is
possible—and a likely thing considering the characters
of the persons concerned—that his sense of grievance
was deliberately worked upon to fan into flame the
fierce hatred he nourished against his father. I’ll own
I held that theory strongly for a while. Later I aban-
doned it. He may have been an accessory, he may even
have been in the house at the time that the murder took
place; he certainly knew who was the murderer.”
The tense look on Peggy's features was relaxed. She
drew a long breath of relief.
“That is my opinion,” resumed the detective, “and
I'll tell you why. Mr. Hallett’s call at Linstone Ter-
race Gardens could not have been foreseen. He was ad-
mitted and knocked out. Likely enough, if the man who
had hit him had had all his wits about him he would
have finished the job. Anyway, subsequent events
showed that the gang believed that he had caught a
glimpse of the murderer's features and that as an awk-
ward witness he must be intimidated or kept out of the
way.
“Remember that Errol was only a tool in this con-
spiracy—a stool-pigeon. The rest of the gang would
[259 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M .
|
have been pleased to see him out of the way so long as
they were safe themselves. If I know anything of
Gwennie Lyne and Ling they would easily have ar-
ranged that if he had killed Greye-Stratton he should
have been the scapegoat.”
“That is to say,” put in Hallett, who had been listen-
ing with an eagerness no less intense than that of the
girl, “that if it had been Errol who opened the door to
me they would not have worried whether I should recog-
mise him again or not. They would have let him take
his own risk?”
“You get it,” said Menzies. “One of the master
brains was concerned. It certainly wasn’t Gwennie
Lyne—the person you saw was a man. Of the known
folk mixed up in this business that leaves Ling and
Dago Sam. Sam we’ll put aside for the moment. Who
was the person who was most concerned in the success-
ful carrying out of the original coup—whose safety or
danger affected the pockets of the rest?” He half
closed his eyes as though he were weary of laying down
the course of the case and went on drowsily. “That
singles out the man who had married Miss Greye-
Stratton—Stewart Reader Ling. , If he was arrested
for the killing where do the rest of 'em stand?” He
answered his own question. “The show was busted.”
“I’m not saying that Treasury counsel would follow
the line I’m laying down if we ever get Ling in the
dock. There’s more than one thing that bears me out,
[260 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
**
however. A thread of cloth was found near the dead
man which corresponds to a suit that Ling was wearing
on at least one occasion. You, Mr. Hallett, took off
him one or two things of importance, among them Mr.
Greye-Stratton's missing pistol—the pistol with which
probably the murder was committed.”
He roused himself and tapped his pipe on the fender.
“Now I promised you I'd lay down my hand—a thing
I’ve not done to outsiders before a case was completed
for twenty years. I have done it because I believe it will
remove any scruples you may have in clearing up some
matters. Miss Greye-Stratton—I may be wrong but I
don’t think so—has probably been actuated by an idea
that her brother had committed a big crime and a desire
to save him from the consequences.”
She looked up gravely. “I thought,” she murmured
in a low voice—so low that she was scarcely audible—
“that he might have shot my father in a fit of passion.”
“I guessed there was something of that sort in your
mind.” He sat suddenly upright and slapped his thigh.
“What a maundering old fool I am. Here I’ve been
talking my head off and I’ve clean forgot to say what I
really meant to. Do you know, Miss Greye-Stratton,
you're not married at all. Ling was married before he
met you.”
Jimmie Hallett's face surged a vivid scarlet with emo-
tion and he felt his heart pumping like a steam piston.
He stole a look at the girl as she scrutinised the de-
[261 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tective in wide-eyed amazement. Her eyes became de-
tached for a moment and met his. Then the flush of
colour into her cheeks rivalled his.
“Not married,” she repeated.
“I told you I was your fairy godfather,” chuckled
Menzies.
[262 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
curiosity. Jimmie's face grew hot as he remembered the
handcuffs.
“There was a little academic discussion this morning
on a point of professional ethics,” said Menzies.
“Hardly academic,” laughed Jimmie. “I should call
it a practical demonstration.”
“We differed, anyhow. But I’m being switched off
my line. I’m just making clear Miss Greye-Stratton
that you’ve got no family ties now to prevent you speak-
ing out. I want you to tell me everything you know.
Will you be as frank with me as I with you?”
The brief wave of happiness that had come to her
with the knowledge that she was not tied to Ling was
followed by a return of depression. “I am willing
enough to tell you anything I can now,” she said slowly.
“But won’t it do when all this horrible business is over.
I am tired, so tired.”
“Come, Menzies. You can see how it is. Another
day won’t hurt. You don’t think Miss Greye-Stratton's
made of iron.”
Menzies took out his watch. “If it hadn’t been for
me young fellow, my lad,” he said, “ you’d still be play-
ing piquet with Royal at the hotel. In half an hour
I’ve got to be digging Mr. Ling out and I guess this
young lady can stand a quiet talk meanwhile. Now,
Miss Greye-Stratton, please. Tell me everything
your own way, and if any question occurs to me I’ll
ask it.”
[264 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
it? Anyway, why should he get Errol up there and send
for Miss Greye-Stratton to nurse him? People don’t do
things like that.”
“Remorse,” suggested Jimmie.
Menzies smiled. “Try again. You don’t know
Ling.”
“It’s too far-fetched, I suppose,” said Jimmie
thoughtfully, “to think that it was done with the idea
of bagging me. Besides, how should he judge that
Pe—Miss Greye-Stratton would write to me?”
“Much too far-fetched,” agreed the other man
drily. “But you’ve given me some sort of an idea.
You were not the only person they wanted out of the
way. If Miss Greye-Stratton took the bit between her
teeth they realised that she could make things pretty
hot for them. They would want to keep an eye on her.
I suppose you are sure *—he addressed the girl—
“that Errol really was wounded? It wasn’t just a
frame-up?”
“I’ll answer that he was a very sick man when I
saw him,” said Jimmie.
“Yes. Of course. I forgot your little scrimmage.
Still, I think we’ve got a motive, and I’d sooner have
a motive to build an assumption on any day than a
heap of cigarette ash or scratches on a watch.”
“I don’t see that it matters,” exclaimed Jimmie,
who secretly nursed a little contempt for what he con-
sidered the detective’s over-subtlety. “Isn’t it a by-
[266 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
of the way of the police as any other of them. Oh,
they’re a wise mob. I'd bet any money if I was a
betting man that you never had any suspicion of Mrs.
Buttle being anything but what she was made up to
be? 35
Peggy stared at him.
“She was Gwennie Lyne. There isn’t an ounce of
the Cockney about her.”
“I’d have sworn it was she when I came out last
night,” said Jimmie.
“I wish to blazes you'd said so then,” said Menzies.
He glanced at his watch again. “Well, if anything
more occurs to either of you people perhaps you’ll let
me know. I’ve got to get to work again. I’ve sent
for a police matron and a nurse, Mr. Hallett, so per-
haps you’ll stay with Miss Greye-Stratton till they
come. They’ll be able to make arrangements.”
Jimmie's eyebrows jumped up, but the girl was be-
fore him. “A police matron?” she repeated.
“I could understand a nurse,” said Hallett. “But,
as Miss Greye-Stratton says, why a police matron?
You’re not proposing to put her under—under any re-
straint?”
A little flash of temper showed in the chief inspector’s
face. It was gone instantly. He placed his hands on
the sides of his chair and heaved himself up ponder-
ously. “Not in the least,” he said urbanely. “I’m only
remembering that a little while ago some people pre-
[268 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
to my flat,” she cried, “and I could get a friend to
come in to stay with me.”
Their failure to see his point of view exasperated
Menzies, the more especially as he had been at some
trouble to send for a matron of his acquaintance, the
antithesis of Peggy's imaginings—a little grey-eyed
person whose sympathetic tact and good-nature had
more than once tamed even the fiercest of suffragettes
who came under her influence.
“You’re a pair of young fools,” he said bluntly.
Jimmie bowed.
“You’d better get it out of your heads that I’m
going to stand for any of this nonsense,” he went on.
“A fine thing to have you blundering round London
on your own if Ling or any of the others slipped us
now. I tell you, any danger you were in before
wouldn’t be a circumstance to what it would be now.
We’ve stirred up this hornet’s nest and they’re ready
to sting. They won’t stand on ceremony if they can
put anyone who can testify against them down and out,
believe me.”
“That's a bluff,” said Hallett coolly. “You’re
trying to frighten Miss Greye-Stratton. I guess she’ll
take the risk as I will.”
“I guess she won’t,” said Menzies, a little flushed
about the temples. He was thoroughly honest in his
belief that she might find herself in peril if she were
allowed to go without surveillance at this stage. At the
[270 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
back of his mind, too, there lurked a suspicion that he
had perhaps exposed his hand too openly and until
matters had matured he didn’t want to take any
chances.
“She's been shaken up a bit,” he went on, “ or she'd
see that it would be sheer stupidity to get out of touch
with us—sheer fatuous stupidity.” -
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” de-
manded Jimmie. “She naturally prefers her own
friends, and I will say I agree with her. Going to
threaten to arrest her as you did me?”
The detective cocked a moody eye at him. “Some-
thing of the kind. Don’t you forget I’ve got power to
detain a person on suspicion without making any actual
charge. What’s to hinder me doing that to both of you
if you persist in this attitude?”
“Surely,” persisted Jimmie, “considering what Miss
Greye-Stratton has passed through 33
“That’s just what I am considering. I hate to use
the appearance of force, but if you won’t be reasonable
I’ve got to see that precautions are taken for her own
sake. Now wait a minute. Forget I’m a police officer
for a minute. Miss Greye-Stratton, I’m sure I’m speak-
ing for my wife when I ask you to be our guest for a
few days. We’ll do our best to make you com-
fortable.”
She almost laughed in her relief. “Thank you very
much,” she said. “It’s silly of me, I know, but I just
[21]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
hate the idea of a police matron. It would make me
feel as if I really were a criminal.”
“That's all right, then,” he said, and smiled across
at Hallett. “Any objections?” he asked.
“You’re a sport—sometimes,” said the young man
and held out his hand.
[272 )


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE minute search of the enclosed area on which Weir
Menzies had set his heart he knew to be no trifling busi-
ness. The crowds, both inside and outside, the still un-
broken cordons had thinned as the fire burnt out and no
promise of further spectacular action presented itself.
So far as was humanly possible the detectives and
uniformed police had seen that no authorised person
had entered or left the cordon. If Ling had ever been
inside they were confident he could not have broken out.
Menzies had a high respect for the brains and audac-
ity of both Gwennie Lyne and Ling and though he be-
lieved he had managed to isolate them, as it were, in an
island of some hundreds of houses, he was not altogether
confident of the result.
The whole district was a human rabbit-warren.
The sifting of the ruins was going to take time. En-
quiries which in a better class district might have re-
sulted in something tangible were not to be thought of.
The breed of liar who inhabited those slums would talk
—oh, yes, he would talk. A flood of information or mis-
information would be let loose at a second’s notice.
Moreover the difficulty of the search was going to be
increased by a number of people who had their own
reasons for avoiding association with the police.
Menzies bit his lip as Foyle, the collar of his water-
[273 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
wanted. Comparatively small parties entered the
houses to view the inmates, by now mostly asleep. Now
and again the light from a lantern or an electric torch
would rest longer than usual on the face of one of the
sleepers, or someone would pull back the blanket which
by accident or design had been shifted so as to conceal
features.
Those who were aroused for the most part took this
domiciliary visit with apathetic curiosity. Sometimes
a growling curse would be thrown at the officers, some-
times an attempt at rough chaff, which the detectives
answered in kind. Only when they were met with oppo-
sition did the stern purpose beneath their good humour
show itself.
A short, stocky Cockney Irishman, red-haired and
obstinate, barred the passage at one house. “An’ it’s
meself that wants to know what for ye are troublin’
dacent folk at this hour at all, at all,” he demanded.
“That’s all right, Mike,” said the burly Hugh good-
humouredly. “We’re police officers. We’re just tak-
ing a look round. Look out of the way.”
The Irishman’s jaw jutted out and his face became
bellicose. “It’s not me house that ye’ll be turning up-
side down,” he announced. “Ye’ve no right at all, at
all, an’ by the Splindour of Hiven I’ll paste the fir-r-st
blagguard o' ye that tries to come it.” He shook a beefy
fist at them. “I’m a respectable man and I know the
law.”
[276 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
One of the detectives brought up from the river police
peered forward. He was an Irishman himself. “That
you, Tim Donovan?” he said. “Sure the last toime
we met you had a lot of ship junk that some omadhaun
had stuck in your cellar. An’ you in the marine dealers’
trade, too. We’ve lost sight of ye since then. Do ye
want to meet that magistrate again or is your cellar
full now? "
The reminiscence—an episode in which he had figured
as the receiver of stolen ships’ stores—appeared to in-
furiate him. “It’s meself ye forsworn Judas,” he
snarled, “an’ if ye’ll just kindly step up it’s meself
that’ll measure the length of me fut on your carcase.
Not a hair o’ any of ye comes into my house.”
“That’s enough,” commanded Hugh curtly. “Stand
aside if you don’t want to be taken for obstructing the
police.”
“Come and make me, ye big oaf,” challenged the
little man, and swung a blow. Hugh, who held the
heavy-weight police championship, swayed his body and
the Irishman swung half round. Hugh's hand descended
on his collar and he was jerked forward into half a dozen
willing hands and held securely while a little rumble of
laughter went round.
The house, like most of the others, was packed with
humanity, and as the river man had suspected, a store
at the back full of rope and metal explained Tim's un-
willingness to allow unimpeded access to the premises.
[277 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
That, however, was a minor matter in the circumstances.
Of far more importance was the fact that among Tim's
coterie of lodgers was only one who had not been
awakened. He was sleeping in the remote corner of one
room with his face turned to the wall.
Congreve it was who walked over and casually lifted
the blanket. One glimpse he took and the next moment
he had his arms round the kicking, cursing occupant
and had lifted him bodily to his feet. An automatic
pistol dropped on the floor and a couple of men hurried
to Congreve’s assistance. The struggle was brief.
They dragged their prisoner—he was fully dressed—
towards the door and two or three lights fell on a face
that was distorted with rage—a sallow, thin face with
a hawk-like nose, and high cheek-bones surmounted by
a shock of thick, curly black hair. He wore a reddish
brown suit of American cut, the skirts of the coat sag-
ging low over his hips and the wide peg-top trousers
with a well-defined crease. Glaring from his necktie
was an enormous pearl pin—too big to be genuine.
He ceased his struggles as soon as he realised their
futility, and stood scowling round on the police. “Tell
dem gazebos to take de spotlight off me,” he complained.
“I ain’t no stage prima-donna.”
“Get him outside,” ordered Congreve. “The guv-
nor’ll want to see him.”
He walked meekly out into the street with his escort
and Congreve sought out Menzies. “We’ve pulled one
[278 )


THE MAEL STROM
thug who looks a possible, sir,” he reported. “Big
Rufe Isaacs shamming asleep in his clothes with a gun
by his side. I grabbed him quick and he didn’t get a
chance to use it.”
Menzies removed his pipe from his lips and a look of
interest came into his face. “Big Rufe, eh? Good
business. Has he got shiny elbows or do you think
This isn’t the kind of place he’d hang out in while he’s
got dough.”
“That’s what I thought when I spotted him. He’s no
bum. Looks as if he could afford the Carlton if he
wanted it rather than Tim Donovan's doss-house.”
“Fetch him along. No. Wait a bit. Ask the
“Three Kings' to let us have a room and cart him in
there. I’ll come and talk to him.”
Big Rufe, as the manner in which he had been taken
showed, was one of those crooks who are not averse from
running desperate chances and probably if Congreve
had not acted as quickly as he did murder would have
been set alight in Tim Donovan's boarding-house. Had
he had brains he would have been as formidable an in-
ternational criminal as Ling himself. But he had no
brains—only an immeasurable audacity and a degree
of cunning that had carried him through until both New
York and London had got to know him. For him to
embark on an enterprise unaided was to court imme-
diate disaster, and after tripping several times he had
wit enough to recognise the fact and to attach himself
[279 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
when possible to the banner of some more masterful
crook who could plan as well as execute. He was an
admirable tool when working under directions and away
from liquor—a skilled mechanician with a brute courage
that had, more than once, got him into trouble. Like
most crooks he was a free spender.
Menzies had a little doubt that one of the unknown
factors in Ling’s gang had at last been run down. Big
Rufe, out of luck and without a penny in his pocket,
might have been found in an East End doss-house with-
out any deduction being necessarily drawn from it; but
Big Rufe, flush and well dressed, in Levoine Street and
with a gun in his hand could have only one explana-
tion.
The man was palpably uneasy when Menzies walked
in upon him. The chief inspector greeted him affably.
“Bad job this of yours, sonny. You look to be in it
bad.”
Rufe had all the philosophy of the captured crook.
He would cheerfully have shot Menzies or anyone else
if by doing so he could have secured a chance of escape.
But once taken he held no futile animosity. Violence,
either of speech or action, he knew would be merely
silly. His mouth glistened with gold filling as he smiled
cheerfully.
“Not,” he ejaculated. “No pen for mine. If you'se
de wise guy you'd take these mittens off.” He shook
his wrists, on which the thoughtful Congreve had taken
'[280 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
the precaution to encircle handcuffs. “Say, this will
be funny stuff for the Sunday supplements wit” you
Scotland Yard bulls, I don’t think! What do you
reckon you’re holdin’ me for, huh?”
“Persecuting a poor down-trodden American citizen
again, Rufe, eh?” commented Menzies. “We can’t
help it. It’s the way we’re built. Let us down light
with your journalistic pals.”
“G”van,” commented Rufe shortly. “Cut it out.”
He was grinning, but there was an uneasy look in his
eye. The usual gambit of the crook—and it does not
matter what grade in the criminal hierarchy he adorns—
is bluff when he is run to earth. It is an easy weapon
to handle and can do little harm if it fails.
“Just as you say,” agreed Menzies amicably. “What
are you doing up in this quarter, Rufe? I thought
Piccadilly was more your mark.”
The other was ready. “There’s a kiddo, chief—y’
know I wandered down to 33
“What’s her name?”
“Enid Samuels. She-”
“Where does she live?”
“Her boss, he’s got a little cigar factory down Com-
mercial Road. She's a cigar-maker. Say, chief, you
ought to see her—she’s a peacherino 33
“Aren’t you wasting time?” said Menzies acidly.
“Look here, Rufe, you know you’ll get a square deal
from me. You didn’t come to meet your kiddo, your
[281 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Enid, your peacherino, with a gun. You didn’t expect
to find her in Tim Donovan's kip, did you? What kind
of suckers do you take us for to swallow that? You
know what we want. Where's Ling and the others lay-
ing up?”
Rufe blinked several times in succession. “Come
again,” he murmured. “I don’t get you.”
The chief inspector crossed his knees and eyed the
prisoner placidly. From his breast pocket he took an
official blue-coloured document. “This is your dull
night, isn’t it?” he asked. “You know all about Eng-
lish law, I reckon. I can’t put you in the sweat-box.
A police officer mustn't ask incriminating questions of
a man he intends to arrest. I can’t make you give your-
self away, Rufe, can I?” He shook a menacing fore-
finger.
The prisoner shuffled his feet uneasily and his inso-
lent eyes lost something of their boldness. He was
shaken and he showed it. “There ain’t nothing against
me, anyway,” he agreed. -
“No.” There was an intonation of polite surprise
in Menzies’ voice. “Nothing at all. Just a few little
things like arson and conspiracy to murder don’t count
in this game. I reckon Gwennie has been playing you
for a Rube.”
The beady black eyes caught fire. “I ain’t no-
body’s fool,” he cried. “Gwennie can’t put it over on
me.”
[282 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“I’m glad you feel like that, Rufe.” From Menzies’,
air he might have been chatting confidentially with an
intimate friend in whose troubles he took a sympathetic
interest. “Shows a trusting nature.” Rufe glowered
at him suspiciously. “Funny, though, isn’t it? Here’s
the mob of you go out for a hatful and when you miss
your jump who gets left behind? Why, Dago Sam,
and Errol, and you. Gwennie isn’t in the basket, I bet
you. No, nor Ling, either. That’s what I mean when
I say they played you for a Rube.”
Two deep vertical lines etched themselves in Rufe's
forehead and his lower jaw dangled. It was part of the
soundness of the detective’s position that the other did
not know how much he knew. He had instilled into
Rufe a profound distrust of his confederates. The
crook was being deftly provided with a new point of
view calculated to stir the idea of reprisal in his mind.
His hands opened and clenched.
“If I thought that,” he said, and suddenly paused
and raked the detective with his gaze. “How do I
know you ain’t stringin' me?” he demanded.
Menzies flung his hand out in a listless gesture. “It
doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “I just hate to see folk
double crossed, though.” He leaned forward. “D’ye
see, Rufe, you were due to get left anyhow. They were
using you to pull the chestnuts out of the fire, but
do you reckon you’d have been in at the share-out?
I don’t.”
[283 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“That’s your word,” persisted the other doubtingly.
“You want me to squeal on 'em. You’re some sleut’.
Where do I come in if I put you wise?” -
“I get ’em anyway,” answered Menzies indifferently.
“You’d maybe save some time and trouble.” He spread
his hands out wide. “You’re no chicken, Rufe. You
know what you’re in for. I can’t help that, can I? I
guess you’ll take whatever's coming to you like a white
man. But after the dirty way they’ve treated you you
ought to get a come-back on them. Hadn’t you now?”
In point of fact Menzies had no knowledge as to
whether Rufe was being treated fairly or not by his
confederates. He was working on the line of least re-
sistance. It is never at any time difficult to arouse in
the mind of a crook a surmise that he is being double-
crossed by his associates. Rufe had neither the skill
nor the wit to conceal in his features the fact that the
seed Menzies had sown had fallen on fertile ground.
“I guess dem gazebos ain’t worrying about me
any,” he admitted. “But they’re in it as bad as
me, ain’t they, chief?” He shot a cunning glance at
Menzies.
“Worse,” agreed that individual. “Of course,
there’s that little job of Errol’s, but I know you, Rufe.
You wouldn’t go for to do a thing like that without he
properly asked for it.”
It was a long shot, but by no means a shot at random.
The very character of Big Rufe had been sufficient to
[284 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
convince Menzies that here he held the most likely
author of the knife thrust which had laid up Errol. He
spoke casually, as though the fact was what lawyers
call common ground, and he had his reward.
“You’re on to it,” said Rufe eagerly. “Dat guy
was too fresh. He took liberties, you understand, and
when he pulled a gun on me he got what was coming to
him.” - -
The chief inspector's face was immobile. He gave
no sign of having scored another peg in his investiga-
tion. Leaning over against the door, Congreve, ap-
parently more interested in his finger nails than in the
conversation, jerked his head without looking up and
Menzies knew that he had heard and appreciated the
importance of the confession.
“You know what you’re saying, Rufe?” Menzies
warned. “Of course, it isn’t news to me, but I’ll have
to say you owned up. If you didn’t mean it I’ll forget
it. Not that it will make much odds.”
“Sure I know,” said Rufe with a definiteness that
showed he had made up his mind. “I ain’t blind. You
guys have got it all fixed up for me an’ I don’t make
any trouble—see.” He squared his shoulders. “Why
should I be denying it? If it’s me for it you bet I want
Ling for company.”
There was no need to correct the crook’s impression
that his admission was a work of supererogation. It
made things promise to go easier. So long as Big Rufe
[285 J


w T H E M A E L S T R O M
an active old lady for her age and she seems to have a
sort of ruspect for you, chief—kind as if she knew you’d
block all bolt-holes from the front. She had a bit of an
argument with Ling about it. He holds that there’d
be time for a getaway from the front because we came
that way and calls her down for a mutt giving the game
away by climbing backyard walls. She wouldn’t argue.
“If you’ve any sense, Stewart,” says she, ‘you’ll do
what I’m going to. The bulls’ll be waitin’ outside for
Cincinnati.” Dat woman’s got some sense, chief; but
Ling, he didn’t see it. And I didn’t reckon there was
much to it till we got lit up. Ling, he stays behind.
‘You go see if the old lady’s got it straight,” he says.
‘Day’se not looking for you anyway.” So I beat it and
sees the cops holding everybody up just as the fire-
engines come. I lights back, but I didn’t get the chance
to get at Ling. But he must have tumbled to the racket
because the next I see of him he came out and walked
straight down the street and through your lines, boss,
and not one of your guys was wise to him. He’s some
nervy is Ling.”
“You mean that Ling walked right through our men
without being held up?”
“Sure. If I’d have thought of the gag I’d have done
it, too.” His eyes twinkled. “Can you figure it out.”
Menzies bit hard at a mouthful of moustache. Even
Congreve had lost all interest in his finger-nails. Sud-
denly the senior detective’s face lightened. “Congreve,”
[288 |


CHAPTER XXIX
THERE was wailing and gnashing of teeth among the
men of the C.I.D. as knowledge of Ling's escape spread.
Yet the simplicity and audacity with which it had been
carried out earned for it a chagrined admiration. Luck
had attended the crook better than he knew. The dis-
trict fire call had brought steamers from many stations
and some of the firemen were strangers to each other—
a fact which had made the risk of detection infinitely
small.
Nevertheless, it must have needed an iron nerve to
have waited as Ling had done in a back room of the
blazing building till the moment was ripe for his expe-
dient. He had reckoned astutely enough that the fire-
men would have their hands full at the front of the
house at the commencement of operations and that at
the most only one or two would penetrate through by
the blazing staircase to the back to have a look at
things. On that hypothesis he had acted and the first
fireman to get through had never known what hit him
as Ling dropped a sandbag across the nape of his neck.
It had taken little enough time to change the man’s
outer garments—the brass helmet, the heavy jacket, the
trousers and big sea-boots—but even so, he had to fight
his way, choking and gasping, through the smothering
mixture of flame and smoke to the open air.
[290


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The uniformed police at the lower end of the street
remembered a fireman with grimed face and bloodshot
eyes—one keen-eyed officer had even noticed what he
took to be a bandage under the helmet—come towards
them at a lumbering trot. As Ling had calculated,
there had not been the shadow of suspicion in their
minds as breathlessly he had ordered them to make way,
muttering “We want to see if we can get at it from
the back.” And so he had vanished, leaving one more
victim to be buried in the ruins of the burning house.
Mortifying as it was, no one could justly be blamed.
The uniformed police had acted hastily in cutting off
access to and from Levoine Street, though one end of
the street which backed on to it—Paradise Street—had
been included in the cordon, the other had been left
open.
The mistake had been an easy one to make. Levoine
Street itself ran straight as a pencil its entire length;
Paradise Street, on the other hand, ran parallel back
to back with Levoine Street for perhaps a quarter of
its length and then swerved widely, away at an obtuse
angle which brought its bottom end out something more
than half a mile from Levoine Street. If Gwennie Lyne
had scaled the back walls safely she could have reached
the house in Paradise Street from the back and escaped
through the front without anyone being a whit the wiser.
Ling, too, would have made for Paradise Street if only
to effect a change back into normal clothing.
[291 ||


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Mother Hubbard's cupboard except for some tinned
stuff, some stale bread and half-a-dozen travelling
rugs. Front door and the yard door were both
open.”
“I was afraid so,” said Menzies. “We don’t seem
to have any luck, do we?”
“I don’t know.” Congreve smiled behind his hand
at his chief’s impatience. “If you don’t mind my say-
ing so, sir, it seems to me we haven’t much to grumble
about. A week ago we were right in the cart. Now we
do know the story and we know the murderer.”
“Yep. And you’ve been long enough in the service,
Congreve, to know that troubles only begin when a
man is spotted. Tell me what “en she quay’ means
and you’ll be talking sense.”
“Give it up,” said Congreve decisively.
“Well, I’m going to knock off now and go up and
see Mr. Foyle. We’ve about cleared up here. You
might ask some of the boys about that. Perhaps some
of 'em may know. Where's Royal?”
“Dry nursing Hallett in the ‘Three. Kings’.”
“On my soul I nearly forgot about him,” declared
Menzies and hurried away.
He found Hallett and Royal, who appeared to have
become fairly intimate, swopping tall stories in the
public-house with Cincinnati Red as an interested on-
looker. Peggy Greye-Stratton had long ago been sent
away to Menzies’ house. Royal stopped in the middle
[294 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
won’t be any pension for my widows and orphans if
somebody hands me one. Why don’t you take one of
your staff?”
“Because they’ve mostly cleared away home and I
don’t want to spend an hour or two hunting for the
right man. I want to get after Ling right now.”
“Say,” drawled Jimmie. “Aren’t you getting on
too fast. You don’t even know that Ling is in an opium
joint, and if you did you don’t know where the joint is.”
Menzies’ brow corrugated. “I’ll find it,” he answered
grimly. “It isn’t the finding of it that worries me.”
“Then, Sherlock,” said Jimmie, “since our friend
Whiffen has waived the honour why not let me be M. C.
I’ll own that I didn’t know, or have forgotten, the mean-
ing of ‘en she quay,” but I’m no tenderfoot when it
comes to opium joints. I think I might bluff any China-
man you’re likely to run across. I have had some ex-
perience in San Francisco.”
“You think you can get us in if I find the joint? I
don’t want any trouble so that he can slip out a back
way while we’re arguing at the front. It’s got to be
done quietly. Remember, he’s killed one man in order
to get away to-night and he won’t stand on ceremony
with us.”
“I’ll be discreet,” promised Jimmie. “I shan’t make
any trouble unless it comes. You bank on little
Willie.”
Menzies gave a curt nod. “Wery well. That’s a
[298 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
t
place and found neither Gwennie nor Ling there where
would we have been now?”
“Just where you are,” argued Hallett doggedly.
“You haven’t got 'em now, have you?”
“Oh, deliver us,” ejaculated Royal wearily. “Can’t
you see that he had to make certain before running a
raid? The news would have been all over the shop in
two ticks and if our birds had been laying up elsewhere
they’d have flown and we wouldn’t have stood the ghost
of a chance of catching up with 'em. Got that? Wery
well. The guvnor arranges to see if they’re at home
before jumping. If they hadn’t been we’d have waited
for 'em to walk into the trap. You turn that endways
and upside down and inside out and see if there’s any
flaw in it. As it is we’ve bagged one of the small fry
of the gang, filled up practically all our evidence and
got the tip where to look for Ling.”
“Luck,” persisted Jimmie. “I never said he had no
luck.”
“It’s the sort of luck that’s got a way of following
Weir Menzies. Of course, he goes off the line some-
times, but he’s only human. It’s only in books that
detectives never go wrong. If Weir Menzies was that
sort of detective—why, he wouldn’t be in the C. I. D.;
he’d have Rockefeller and Wanderbilt and Rothschild
in his vest pocket. The C. I. D.,” he concluded gloom-
ily, “never gets justice done to 'em in print—except
perhaps in ‘Judicial Statistics’.”
[300 |


CHAPTER XXX
It is no reflection upon the activity of the divisional
police that there should be an undiscovered opium joint
in Shadwell. There is all the difference in the world
between a deliberate search with a definite object and
a preventive vigilance much spread out. Menzies had
special reason to believe that an opium den existed
somewhere in the district and it became a question
merely of locating it.
That problem was not so formidable as it looked. It
all turned on a question of advertisement.
Even illicit trades must advertise. A gambling-house,
a whisky still or an opium joint do it in different ways
from the proprietors of a breakfast food, but in essence
it is the same. They must have their public—a definite
circle of patrons to keep trade humming. Sooner or
later some hint inevitably reaches the ear of authority
and the cleverest keepers of such places time their flit-
tings accordingly.
Although Menzies did not analyse the mental process
that had made him so confidently assert that he would
find the opium den in an hour it is probable that he
relied on these facts rather than on any hope of melo-
dramatic deductions. It is a pity to spoil a popular
illusion, but it is true that the greatest detective suc-
[302 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Talking about queer characters, Mr. Pickens, do you
ever get any Chinese in here?”
“Not one in a blue moon.”
“I was wondering if this dope shop hit you hard?”
“Y” mean opium, don’t you? Naw, that don’t touch
me!” -
“None of your regulars hit the pipe, then? There
used to be a lot of it round here ten years ago.” Pickens
had said that he had only had the house seven years.
Menzies could hazard the statement.
“That so? The only bloke I know that touches it
now is old Chawley Bates. Comes 'ome this way early
of a mornin’ sometimes, and regular swills cawfee.
Reckon it pulls him together.”
Menzies sized up his man. He wished now he had
made a few enquiries about Pickens from the local men.
“The Three Kings” was known as a resort of persons
who had no great love for the police. Still, the keeper
of a pub may have the shadiest customers and yet be
an entirely straight man. The detective determined
to chance it. He took some gold out of his pocket and
slowly and absently dropped ten sovereigns from one
hand to the other. Then he fixed his eyes on the other
man.
“It’s worth just ten quid to me,” he said distinctly,
“to find out where this opium shop is. No one will
ever know who told me.” He held the closed fist con-
taining the gold out at arm’s length.
[304 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Pickens’ eyes glistened and he straightened himself
out to full length. “I’m on,” he said. “You’d better
leave it to me. If old Chawley's at 'ome I’ll git it out
of 'im.” He was putting on his jacket as he spoke.
He refused the detective’s company and went out.
Menzies did not rejoin Hallett and Royal, but reclining
with one elbow on the counter smoked stolidly and
thoughtfully till his return. Pickens was back within
half an hour. He took a dirty scrap of paper from his
waistcoat pocket and passed it to the detective.
“There y” are,” he said. “I wrote it dahn to make
sure. It’s a little general shop kept by a Chink—Sing
Loo. All you’ve got to do is to knock at the side door
and ask if they can oblige you with a bottle of lime-
juice and a screw o' shag. That’s the pass-word.
Where’s that tenner?”
Menzies put the money into his hand and moved
swiftly to where Hallett and Royal awaited him. In a
little they were out in the, by now, almost deserted street.
The chief inspector set the pace and they moved at a
swift walk. No one spoke for a while. Once Menzies
stopped a policeman with an enquiry, as to direction
and five minutes later they entered a short street
bounded on one side by a high blank factory wall and
on the other by a few small shuttered shops.
“That’s the joint,” said Menzies in a low voice, keep-
ing his head straight in front of him. “Mark it as we
go by. That one with “Sing Loo” on the façia.”
[305 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
They swung by at a smart pace and took the first
turning to the right. Not until they had walked for
ten minutes did Menzies speak again. “Either of you
chaps got a gun?”
Royal thrust a bull-dog revolver into his hands.
“Not for me,” said Menzies. “You got one, Hal-
lett? "
“Not here,” said Jimmie.
“You take this, then; I wouldn’t know how to hit
anything with it, anyhow.” He halted and shook a
warning forefinger. “Don’t get using it unless you’ve
got to. I want Ling alive. Now, Royal, you’ll have to
hang about and use your own discretion once we’re in
Hello! What the blazes is a taxi doing in this
quarter at this time of night?”
A taxi-cab whizzed by them in the direction from
which they had come. It is not a mode of conveyance
largely favoured by the inhabitants of the back streets
of Shadwell, even in the daytime. In the small
hours of the morning it is probably as rare as an aero-
plane.
As though the same thought had simultaneously oc-
curred to each of them, the three raced after the retreat-
ing vehicle. It was, of course, a hopeless chase, but
there are moments when men do not stop to reason.
Menzies was the first to pull up.
“Take it steady, boys,” he said. “We’re only wast-
ing breath. The thing's a mile away by now.”
[306 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Likely enough it’s nothing to do with us,” said
Royal optimistically.
“I’ve got a sort of feeling that it has, all the same.
Well I’ll be petrified! Here it comes again. Stop it.”
They spread across the road, Royal flashing an elec-
tric torch as he moved. The three bawled fiercely to
the driver. For a moment he slackened speed as though
about to stop. Then, as if he had changed his mind,
the vehicle leapt swiftly forward.
Jimmie had a scant five seconds of time in which to
make up his mind. His hand closed on the revolver
and it occurred to him that there was only one thing
to do. The bonnet of the car was within a yard of him
when he leapt aside and pulled the trigger. With a shiv-
ering rattle the vehicle stopped. Menzies was at the
driver’s side in an instant.
“Why didn’t you stop when you were ordered?” he
demanded in a blaze of wrath. “What's your num-
ber?”
“Why should I stop? Who are you? What busi-
ness is it of yours anyway? If you’ve smashed my
radiator ” The man's voice was less certain than
his words.
“We’re police officers,” said Menzies curtly. “Why
—what's the matter, Royal?”
Royal had opened the door and his cry now inter-
rupted his chief. Menzies dropped back to him and
followed the segment of light directed from the ser-
[307 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
geant's pocket lamp to the interior of the cab. It fell
full on the white lifeless face of a woman leaning hud-
dled up in one of the corners. He gave an ejaculation
of surprise. The driver had descended from his seat
and was peering over the shoulders of the three.
* Good Gawd!” he exclaimed. “She’s fainted.”
“She’s dead,” said Menzies.
He wheeled and his strong fingers bit deep into the
driver's shoulders. “Where did you pick her up?” he
demanded. “Speak the truth or I’ll shake it out of
you.”
The man gazed helplessly up at him. “Strike me
lucky, guv'nor, I don’t know nothing about it,” he de-
clared. “She was alive two minutes ago. There was
a bloke with her. Where's he gone?”
Jimmie felt an eerie sensation along his scalp. He
had gazed at the dead face, ghastly in the rays of the
pocket torch which picked it out against the darkness
of the upholstering and, like the others, he had recog-
nised at once the features of Gwennie Lyne.
He had expected, he knew not what, when he peered
into the cab–perhaps Ling himself. Certainly not that
grim dead face with the staring eyes. He shuddered.
“Tell us all about it—quick,” ordered Menzies.
“We’ve no time to waste. Come on, out with it.” He
shook the man fiercely. “Everything, mind you, and
get to the point.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” repeated the man
[308 |


THE M A E L S T R O M
only just in time. Ling has struck a snag somehow.
He must have intended to lie up just as I said and
Gwennie and he have quarrelled somehow. If he'd meant
to lay her out he’d have done it when it was less awk-
ward for himself. As it is he was pushed to get the
body away, or he wouldn’t have sent for a taxi and left
a trail right back to this joint. He means to vacate
quick, and that cab would have gone, in the ordinary
way, to the other end of London before we were on
to it.”
“You think we'll get him this time?”
“It’s he or I for it now,” said Menzies grimly.
“Here we are.” -
He pressed the little electric button at the side door.
[310 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
yellow skin came towards them and the door closed
again. He spread out his hands in a sort of low
obeisance.
“Solly, gentlemen,” he murmured softly. “You
want pipe?” He regarded them sideways out of his
slits of eyes with an expression of artfulness. “Solly.”
“Wot in 'ell you palavering about?” demanded Men-
zies thickly. “Wot are you sorry for? Me an’ my
mate 'ere wants a smoke. Just off the “Themistocles,”
y” know. We can pay.”
The old Chinaman spread out his hands and lowered
his head humbly. “Solly,” he repeated. “You’ve
made a mistake. My fliend six dolls up you get it.
Not hele.”
“W’y you rotten slant-eyed old 'eathen,” said Men-
zies irascibly. “Wot ya giving us? You’re Sing Loo,
ain’t you? We was sent to you.”
Sing Loo made a gesture of acquiescence. “I’ve re-
tiled,” he said meekly. “My fliend up the stleet give
you plenty opium.”
It was evident that his suspicions had been aroused
in some manner and that he was fully determined they
should not set foot within the interior room. Mean-
while time was flying. Menzies took a sudden step and,
whirling the Chinaman round, got his left arm in a
strangle hold round his throat.
“Make a sound and I’ll throttle you,” he whispered
tensely. “We want to have a look round this joint—
[312 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Then she fainted and he asked me to send a boy to get
a taxi to fetch hel away.”
“Sounds as if you might be speaking the truth for
once,” said Menzies. “Now listen to me, Sing Loo. Is
that man here still?”
“Yes, in the back loom. He’s going soon after he's
had one mole pipe.”
“Ah. He’s got the craving in his blood, has he?
Very well. We’re new customers of yours, see? You'll
lead us in to where he is, and if you get gay remember
my friend’s gun is liable to go off, and I’m a bad-
tempered man myself.”
“I undelstand,” murmured Sing Loo. “Come this
way.”
Jimmie slipped the weapon into his overcoat pocket
and kept his hand on it ready for instant action. Men-
zies edged up close to Sing Loo and twisted his hand
into the other’s sleeve. The inner door opened in re-
sponse to the Chinaman’s summons and they found
themselves in a passage lighted very dimly in com-
parison to that outside.
Jimmie's heart was pounding with excitement. He
was glad that the chief inspector had permitted him to
carry the revolver. He had acquired a certain amount
of respect for Menzies, but he also had views about
Ling and he was resolved at the first hint of trouble to
shoot fast and to shoot first. The legal question of his
justification could be settled afterwards.
[314 |


THE MAEL STROM
Menzies, if his face was any index to his feelings, was
as unmoved and impassive as though he was about to
take a seat in a theatre. Ling was to him merely a
piece in the game that was so nearly played out—a
piece he intended to remove from the board and then
to forget, except as something that had played a prom-
inent part in a well-fought game.
They descended a couple of steps into a gloomy room
lit by two or three tiny gas jets and a glowing fire. As
his eyes became accustomed to the darkness Jimmie saw
vague forms about the room, the majority lying on a
series of platforms with tiny glass lamps by their sides.
They were mostly smoking, one or two cigarettes and
others opium. A few were asleep.
The atmosphere was no new one to Jimmie. He rec-
ognised the usual paraphernalia of the inyun fun.
Each smoker had a tray with his apparatus from the
pipe itself to the yen hock used for smoking the opium
over the flame of the lamp.
Most of the customers were quite apathetic to the
entrance of the new arrivals. Menzies in one rapid
glance gleaned the fact that there was no window and
that the only other egress from the room, except that
in which they stood, was at the opposite side of the room.
In the dim light it was at first impossible to make out
the identity of any of the smokers. -
He relinquished his grip of Sing Loo's sleeve and
bounded across to the other door. Someone raised him-
[315 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
self on an elbow. “That you, Menzies?” drawled a
lazy voice. “I’ll give you credit for being a hustler
when you get on the go. Take that, you swine.”
A streak of flame split the darkness and a bullet
smashed against the wall. Jimmie's pistol was levelled
and almost in the same instant his shot answered.
There was a groan, immediately stifled, and then a short
laugh.
“Bull's-eye—five,” said Ling in the monotonous
chant of the ranges. “That’s one I owe to you, Master
Hallett. You’ve smashed my wrist. Good shooting in
this tricky light.”
The place was filled with a vague vision of crawling
forms, all of those who were not too far under the influ-
ence of the drug being anxious to get out of the way of
the bullets. Jimmie's muzzle was full on the dark figure
of Ling.
“Drop your gun—drop it, I say,” he ordered per-
emptorily.
Ling laughed again. “All right, sonny, I know when
I’ve got enough. Don’t I tell you you’ve smashed my
wrist. I aren’t worth a cent at left-handed shooting.
Say, your friend Menzies seems to have got his medi-
cine.”
The chief inspector had collapsed at the first shot,
and though Jimmie was too wary to take his eyes off
the master crook he had an impression of his great bulk
lying motionless at the other side of the room.
[316 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“Stand up,” commanded Jimmie. “Put your hands
up. My God, Ling, I’m only looking for a good excuse
to plug you.” He remembered Peggy and all she had
suffered at this man’s hands and his blood boiled.
“Tut, tut! Let not your angry passions arise.”
Ling might have been remonstrating with a petulant
child, but he stood up nevertheless. “I told you I'd
got a bullet in my wrist, didn't I? How can I put my
hands up? I’ll put one up if that’ll suit you. You’re
a smart boy, Hallett, but if you’d been alone I could
have handled you.”
“Shut up!” said Jimmie. “I want to think.”
It was a position not without its difficulties. There
would have been a dozen solutions of the problem had
Menzies not been laid out. That had been a piece of
most execrable luck which had made all the difference.
So long as he held his back to the door and his weapon
on Ling Jimmie was in command. To remain like that
was, however, impossible. Something had to be done,
but what, it was hard to decide. For all that he knew
the place might be teeming with friends of Ling only
waiting for that steady muzzle to waver a second before
rushing him. At the best he was confident that five out
of every six of those present were crooks and black-
guards who would stick at little if it came to the
point.
Ling crystallised his dilemma with a sneer. “Say,
bo, you’ve got hold of a tiger's tail, haven’t you? Don’t
[317 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
know whether to keep hold or let go. You take my
advice and run home to your mummy.”
Jimmie never answered. His lips were firm-pressed
and his dogged chin jutted out. Even if he had been
able to rush Ling out at the point of the revolver until
he found a police officer, he could not leave Menzies.
Moreover he had an idea that in any case Ling would
not calmly submit to such a programme. He lowered
the pistol muzzle a trifle and his finger hovered inde-
cisively over the trigger. An easy, simple way would
be to maim him so that he could not get away. A bullet
in the leg would do it.
Yet, when it came to the point, Jimmie could not press
the trigger. It was too cold-blooded to shoot down an
unarmed man. He wished Ling was not so cool—that
he could give him an excuse for an attempt at violence.
Otherwise it seemed a stale mate.
Of course there was Royal. Sooner or later he would
be back or would send aid of some sort. But then Royal
had his hands full for the time and he might believe
that they were capable of coping with the situation
without assistance. It might be hours before relief was
to be looked for from that quarter.
“Well, what are you going to do about it, sonny?”
asked Ling coolly. “Seems to me that you’ll have to
do a heap of thinking before you take me. Meanwhile,
if you don’t mind my saying so, my arm’s getting
tired.” -
[318 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“You’ll keep as you are—if you’re wise. I can keep
my tiger one way—if he puts temptation in front of
me.”
“Right you are,” acquiesced Ling cheerfully. “I’ll
try to endure it, only I just hate to hear your brains
creak under the strain.”
Jimmie could have sworn he had come nearer, yet
he had not noticed him move. He strained his eyes
and what he saw made him tighten up. The one hand
held by the crook above his head had the two middle
fingers and the thumb closed. The first and little finger
were extended right out. To a man not aware of the
trick it might have seemed insignificant. But Jimmie
had seen it before—seen it carried out. Ling was ma-
noeuvring to get within reach of him. Then these two
fingers could be used with deadly effect in a leap—one
in each eye, and in his blinding, agonising pain he would
be at his opponent’s mercy. -
“Go back,” he said crisply, “back three paces. I
like you better at a distance.”
As Ling obeyed Jimmie turned his eyes for the frac-
tion of a second to the place where he had seen Menzies
fall. There was nothing there. Forgetful in his sur-
prise of the importance of watching Ling he stared
blankly, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks with
him. Menzies had certainly gone.
His distraction was only momentary, but it was the
chance for which the other had been waiting. Swiftly
[319 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
one man on top and then the other. They rolled over
one of the drugged smokers and he paid no more atten-
tion than if he had been a corpse. Then, silhouetted
against the gas flame for a tithe of a second was an
upraised hand and below it the fantastic reflection of
light on steel.
Jimmie focused his weapon, but before he could draw
a sight another hand grasped the wrist and wrenched it
down. The knife dropped with a little musical tinkle
and the two forms became obscure again. Then he be-
came aware of a man’s head slowly rising into the dim
light and he saw that it was Menzies. The vision was
like a badly focused cinema picture. Menzies’ hand
was at the other’s throat and he dragged him slowly,
relentlessly upwards and then suddenly flung all his
force downwards. There was a crash as Ling’s skull
touched the boards and the chief inspector got shakily
to his feet. He passed a dazed hand over his forehead
and laughed a trifle shakily.
“I’m getting a bit too fat for this sort of work,” he
said.
He spoke as though he had been engaged in a football
match rather than a life-and-death struggle. Hallett
laughed too, the overstrained laugh of relief. “Bully for
you,” he agreed. “I thought you were down and out.”
“A close thing,” admitted the chief inspector, mop-
ping his brow with a big handkerchief. “He had the
pull of us. His eyes were used to the light. I just .
[321 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
In an incredibly short space of time, as it seemed to
Jimmie, the place was swarming with policemen. They
were prompt and businesslike, and there was no unneces-
sary fuss. Sing Loo went off protesting and tearful
between a couple of stalwart constables and a similar
escort was provided for most of his clients who were able
to walk. On the others a guard was placed.
Menzies walked over to Ling and, lifting his head,
forced a flask of brandy between his teeth. The crook
sat up and opened his eyes. Then with a sudden move-
ment he knocked the flask away and scowled on the
detective.
“You got me,” he growled deep in his throat. Then
with a sudden spasm of energy, “By H , Mr. Po-
liceman, you may think you’ve got the odd trick, but
the rubber isn’t played out yet.”
“You don’t want to talk for a minute,” said Men-
zies placidly. “Better have a drink.”
[323 ]


CHAPTER XXXII
THE scar on Ling’s temple was flaming blood-red
against the whiteness of his features as they brought him
into the cold, businesslike atmosphere of the bare charge
room of the police station. His ordinary clothes had
been removed when he was searched and the suit tem-
porarily substituted hung loosely about him. His in-
jured wrist had been bandaged and he had had doctor’s
attention since he had been brought from the opium
joint. He looked ill and worn, yet his eyes flamed
indomitably as he glanced from one to the other of the
little group of men who were awaiting him.
“We’re all here, ain’t we?” he snarled. “Why don’t
you get on with the séance?”
The beast in him was still at the top, but to the men
there his words did not at all matter. . They were con-
tent to know that he had been run down and they were
only concerned to see that he was held in safe-keeping
till the mechanism of the law had been put into opera-
tion. No one resented his manner so long as it did not
go to physical violence. He was impersonal—a piece of
merchandise that had to be dealt with. When they had
done with him he would be put back in a cell like any
common drunk and disorderly, and be more or less
forgotten when any reasonable physical wants had been
attended to.
[324 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
The inspector's pen scratched busily. Then, putting
the pen in his mouth, he used both hands to blot what
he had written and read it critically before inviting
Menzies’ signature.
“Thank you,” he said politely. “Now ” He
raised his head and looked at the prisoner.
“Stewart Reader Ling, you heard what the chief
inspector said. You are charged with the wilful mur-
der of John Edward Greye-Stratton. No. Keep quiet
for a minute ” He raised a placatory hand as
Ling opened his lips. “If there’s anything you wish
to say you may do so, but I shall take it down in writ-
ing and it may be used as evidence against you.”
“You think you can prove that?” said Ling.
“There are two other charges of murder I may as
well tell you will be brought against you later,” said
Menzies, ignoring the question. “One is in connection
with the death of a fireman in Levoine Stree 95
“Here. Hold on a minute, Mr. Man. What fire-
man’s this? I never killed any fireman. There was one
knocked out for a while, but he wasn’t killed by a long
way.”
“He was killed when the building burnt out. We
call that murder. The third case is that of the woman
known as Gwennie Lyne whom you are believed to have
stabbed to-night.”
Little wrinkles of profound amusement appeared on
Ling’s face. “You seem to have got it right in for
[326 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“So you’re going to lay it all on to her now?” said
Menzies with a note of scorn in his voice.
“You’d better bet I am, sonny. Gwennie can look
after herself. You’ve kept us on the run pretty hot for
a day or two but to-night’s been the limit. The only
fault with you as a sleuth, Menzies, is that your im-
agination doesn’t go far enough.”
A retort rose to Menzies’ lips but he suppressed it.
He was too old a hand to taunt a prisoner.
“Yes, sir,” went on Ling. “That’s what you want—
imagination. I’ll own I didn’t expect you to smell out
that opium joint as quick as you did or we’d never have
gone there. We were surprised some when you and the
other two walked down the street. I’ll make you a
present of that. Your imagination didn’t rise to us
having a lookout. If you’d have walked in then you’d
have found both the little birdies at home—Gwennie and
me. It isn’t exactly a place for a lady and she had
already sent for a cab, not feeling that she could be real
homelike there. If we'd known there were only the three
of you we might have tried a run in the other direction,
but we thought that you'd got the place shut off tighter
than you did Levoine Street.
“So we fixed a little stunt for your benefit. You'll
have got the idea by this time. You see she’d got more
at stake than I had—me being innocent of all these
things you’ve accused me of so we had to see to her
get-away first. It was her stunt all through—a fake
[328 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
quarrel in the passage, some flour well rubbed into her
face and a touch of brown paint on her dress just above
her heart. She looked real ghastly when the cab came
up and I helped her in.
“We reckoned you’d rise to it,” went on Ling drily.
“If the cab did get through well and good. If it didn’t,
why you wouldn’t keep as close an eye on a corpse as
you would on a live woman and you could trust Gwennie
to light out when she saw her chance. Anyway it was
the best we could do in a hurry. I stayed a little longer
than I ought. Guess I thought there was time for one
more pipe. Anyway, if you think you can touch me
for murder you can’t-you’ve got to get her. She’s
away by now, so my telling won’t hurt her.”
He grinned maliciously as he finished. The station
officer calmly put down his pen.
“Done?” he queried.
“That’s all I’ve got to say just now. My lawyer’ll
do the talking if you go on with this.”
“Take him below,” ordered the inspector and began
to gather up his papers. -
Jimmie eagerly turned to Menzies. “What do you
make of it?” he asked. “How did you know about
Gwennie? I’ve been with you ever since and 33
The chief inspector smoothed his sparse hair.
“Didn't know,” he said shortly. “I guessed. We were
too pushed to judge except by appearances and he's
probably right about it’s being a fake. No good worry-
[329 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
chief inspector serenely. “There's only one little legal
point that he as well as you missed. I’m dead sure that
Ling killed Greye-Stratton but it wouldn’t make the
slightest difference to him if I couldn’t prove it—which
I think I can. It doesn’t matter a button who fired the
shot—all those in the conspiracy are equally guilty of
murder—even if they were a million miles away at the
time. There’s the motive, there's the fact that Ling (or
someone wearing clothes of exactly the same material,
which would be an extraordinary coincidence) was in
the house; there is Greye-Stratton’s pistol, which you
will have to swear you took from him, and—oh, there's
a dozen things.”
The swing door of the charge room clattered noisily
open and Jimmie wheeled to confront Royal. The
detective-sergeant’s clothes were torn and smothered in
mud and there was an ugly black bruise on his face.
Deep encrimsoned scratches were on both cheeks and
his eyes were bloodshot. He laughed unsteadily as he
saw them. -
“What a night we’re having!” he said. “What a
night we’re having! You got Ling?”
[331 J


CHAPTER XXXIII
MENZIEs was at his side in an instant and had slipped
a supporting arm round him.
“Got him tight,” he answered. “You look to have
been in something, old chap. Much hurt? All right,
don’t trouble to talk now.” He raised his voice. “One
of you people call that doctor up again.”
“I got Gwennie,” muttered Royal feebly. “Slip-
pery Jezebel she is, too, but I got her. She wasn’t dead
at all, Mr. Menzies. She. . . .”
“That’s all right,” said the chief inspector sooth-
ingly. “You shall tell us all about that later.” But
he drew a long breath of relief.
It was half an hour later that Royal, pulled together
by the skilled ministrations of the divisional surgeon,
was able to tell his story. He grinned apologetically at
Menzies. -
“Sorry to have made an ass of myself like that, sir,”
he said. “I wanted to come right on and tell you all
about it so I didn’t stay to be patched up. I never
thought I'd get the worst doing I’ve ever had from an
old woman.”
“She seems to have mucked you up and that’s a
fact,” agreed Menzies.
“She did that,” explained Royal. “I was too busy
cursing my luck at being left to look after a deader
[332 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
while you were on the warpath with Ling that I never
stopped to consider she mightn’t be dead after all.”
“I made the same mistake,” said Menzies. “You
aren’t to blame there.”
“Maybe I was in a bit of a hurry,” confessed Royal.
“I didn’t think a corpse required much watching. I
was thinking of the driver. He might have been all
right and again he mightn’t. So when he patched the
engine up I took my seat alongside of him and we
started off for the hospital at quite a respectable speed.
We’d just turned into the main road when I heard a
click behind me and it flashed across my mind that I’d
been careless in taking the old girl so much on trust. I
bent round the side of the cab to take a look through
the window and there was a hand fumbling with the
door handle. I’d had to twist like an acrobat to get a
fair look and I suppose I was a little off my guard.
First thing I knew the cab gave a lurch and I was
rolling over and over in the mud of the roadway. It
was a mercy I didn’t break my neck, but I wasn’t think-
ing of that. I just picked myself up and there was the
cab a hundred yards ahead putting on steam for all
it was worth.
“It came to me then what a damn fool I’d been. If
you’ll believe me, sir, I hadn’t even taken the number
of that rotten cab, and it was too far away to see it.
“This about puts the finish to your career in the C. I. D.,
Royal, my man,’ I thinks to myself and pulled out my
[333 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
whistle. Of course I knew there wasn’t a chance in a
million of that doing any good. She’d got too big a
start. -
“I’m not much of a believer in miracles, but I’m
blest if one didn’t happen then. As I’m alive a great
big touring car came sliding along towards me. The
chauffeur was bringing it back from Southend or some-
where, I learned afterwards. I jumped to it and pulled
him up.
“‘You noticed a taxi-cab that you’ve just passed, I
says.
“He looks me up and down and you can guess I was
in a pretty pickle of mud from head to foot. If I
hadn’t pulled myself up into the seat alongside of him
and took possession I reckon he’d have gone on with-
out me.
“‘You’ve got a devil of a cool nerve,” he says. “Get
off this car or I'll fling you off and call a policeman.”
“I was getting over my shake-up a bit then, but there
wasn’t time for argument. ‘For God’s sake don’t chew
the rag with me,” I says. “Turn her head round and
get after that cab before it gets a chance to dodge
me.” -
“Well, that chauffeur was a sport. I will say that
for him. He jerked that big car about in double-quick
time and we began sliding after Gwennie. I felt my luck
was in.
“‘Now what's it all about?” he says as soon as we
[334]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
got going. ‘If you’re having a game with me, my lad,
you’ve got the biggest sort of hiding you ever had in
your life coming to you.” He looked it, too.
“‘I’m a detective officer,” I says, “and in that cab
there’s a woman wanted for murder. Now bust your car
or catch her.”
“He nodded and let the car out. You know the
Whitechapel Road’s fairly straight in stretches and we
had a view of the cab before it took one of the bends.
There’ll be some summonses out against that car this
morning for exceeding the speed limit unless we put in
a word. That chauffeur was quick to take a hint and
you can bet we shifted. The road was fairly clear at
that hour and we came up to the cab as if it was stand-
ing still.
“‘What do you want me to do?’ asks the chauffeur.
“‘Get alongside and yell to the driver to stop,” I says.
I hadn’t any plan very clear in my own mind and that
was the best I could rake up at the moment. It was
just silly, too, because if he’d stop for a demand like
that he'd have stopped when I tumbled off.
“Anyway we tried it, and then I got an idea of what
was happening. The driver's face was like dirty white
paper and he was hanging on to the steering wheel like
grim death. Inside Gwennie had opened one of the
windows—you know some taxi-cabs have got windows
that open straight on to the driver's seat—and was
leaning forward with a little ivory-mounted pistol in her
r [335]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
hand. He told me later on that when I tumbled off he
started to pull up and the feel of the pistol muzzle in
his ribs was the first thing that woke him up to the fact
that Gwennie was going to have a say-so. He thought
she was a ghost at first.
“As we came level I yelled to the man to stop. He
just took no notice. She had him too thoroughly
frightened for that. All his mind was on his steering
and that wicked little pistol that was behind his back.
“Then she saw us and swung the pistol round to-
wards us. But she never fired. She must have under-
stood what kind of a fix I was in, for, while she kept the
cab going, it seemed impossible that I could get at her.
She just smiled and then kissed her hand towards me.
“That got my goat. I passed the word to my chauf-
feur to drop a little behind and then I put it to him.
“‘Can you cut a wheel off that thing for me—smash
the blighting thing up??
“It didn’t seem to appeal to him. He looked grave.
‘I wouldn’t mind so much if this was one of the guv-
'nor's old cars,” he says, “but it isn’t. It’s his pet and
I wouldn't risk a smash for anything.”
“‘How much petrol have you got?” I asks, thinking
we might shadow the other car till it was forced to come
to a standstill.
“‘I don’t know exactly,” he answers, “but it isn’t
much. We may get to the bottom of the tank any min-
ute. Whatever you’re going to do you’d better do
[ 336 )


THE MAEL STR O M
quick. I’m game for anything that won’t do in the car.”
“I looked at the road sliding past and it gave me
the shivers. We were fairly hustling. However, I
wasn’t going to let her have the laugh at me.
“‘You put us level with that cab again,” I says, “and
hold as close and as near the same pace as you can. I’m
going to board it.”
“‘You’ll be killed, he says.
“‘That’s my business,” I tells him. “I’ve got to stop
that woman and I’m going to do it.’ I was pretty well
strung up. Perhaps her kissing her hand to me had
something to do with it.
“Well, he eased up to let me get on the footboard
and I held on with one hand. I knew I had to be mighty
quick in pulling open the door of the cab and grab-
bing Gwennie and I didn’t like the idea of her pistol a
little bit.
“That chauffeur knew how to handle a car. He swung
out a bit a little behind till he had gauged the pace and
then he edged till as we drew level again there wasn’t
three inches between the two cars. I tore at the door of
the cab and wrenched it open somehow. I hate to think
in cold blood of how I did it. There wasn’t much time
for thinking and I went for her hell for leather before
she could get to work with the shooter.
“I got her wrist as she turned and smashed it
against the side window. It cut us both about a bit,
but she dropped the gun, and that was the great thing.
... [337 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
They say it wasn’t two minutes before the cab stopped
then. It was just about the busiest two minutes I ever
spent. A tiger's cage would be a peaceful spot com-
pared to the inside of that cab. She may be a woman,
and an old woman at that, but she’s got muscles like
whipcord.
“Once she got her hand at the back of my neck
and I saw forty million stars as she flung me up against
the side of the cab. Then I got my arms around her
and tried to force her down, and she used her ten com-
mandments on my face. I thought my cheeks had gone.
And all the while that door was open and I’d got a
kind of idea that at any minute we might both go
through it.
“But we didn’t, although we must have been near it
once or twice. I’d got my arms locked round her and
I wasn’t going to let go, though I was half tempted to
take a chance and smash her one under the jaw to lay
her out—especially when she got her teeth into my
shoulder and bit right through coat and all. She was
all animal just then.
“At last the cab stopped and my chauffeur comes to
my help. The driver was too paralysed to do anything
but sit staring, goggle-eyed. We dragged her out into
the roadway and managed to get the cuffs on her—a
nice job that was, too—just as a constable came up.
“Things were easy after that. She saw the jig was
up and didn’t make too much trouble. I shipped her
[338 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
down to the local station and left her there without any
charge, and when I found you were here came on
straight away. I thought you’d like to know. Shall I
make out my report in the morning, sir?”
Menzies nodded complacently and let a hand drop
gently on his subordinate's shoulder. “You run away,
laddie, and get some sleep,” he said. “That’s all you’ve
got to think of now. There’s no urgency about getting
to the office to-morrow. Let me know when you turn
up, that’s all. By the way, did you ever pass the Civil
Service examination for inspector?”
Royal’s face glowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I wouldn’t wonder if you got called before the
C. I. Board sometime. Good-night. Which way you
going, Hallett?”
“Back to the hotel. What time will you be off duty
to-morrow?”
The glance the chief inspector shot at him had a
mixture of questioning and amusement. “To-morrow
looks like being my busy day. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing.” Jimmie was a trifle confused. “I’ve
been taking a little interest in gardening lately and I
thought I’d like to have a look at some of your roses
again—if you’d let me come over to Magersfontein Road
sometime.”
“H'm.” Menzies surveyed him doubtingly. “I don’t
know. Honest Injun. Now do you know a Captain
Hayward from a Caroline Testout?”
[339 |


CHAPTER XXXIV
TRULY, as he had said, this was Menzies’ busy day. He
sat bending over his desk, going over the piles of papers
which were the evidence of the minuteness with which
Scotland Yard, aided by other great police organisa-
tions, had ransacked the world for the smallest facts.
Hundreds of men had spent days and money in com-
piling these reports—and nine-tenths of them were use-
less.
Before he met the Treasury Solicitor, and the
counsel who would have charge of the case in court, it
was his task to have his evidence at least roughly sorted
into what was material and what was not material, if
he did not want to have it straightened out by the legal
advisers of the Treasury.
More than once the door opened noiselessly and Foyle
peeped in, took one look at the industrious figure at the
desk, and as noiselessly vanished.
As he arranged the reports, Menzies sent for the
officer responsible for each one and went through his
statement with him with deliberate care. Sometimes a
man would be sent out again to further verify an im-
portant point which had appeared of no great value at
the time the statement was taken. Gradually things be-
gan to fall into shape. The chief inspector began to
pack the documents and exhibits into a despatch case.
[341 )


T H E M A E L S T R O M
For the fifth time Helden Foyle poked his head inside
the door and then the rest of his body followed. Men-
zies looked up and nodded. -
“Just finished,” he said.
“How does it look?” Foyle asked.
“Fair. Very fair indeed,” said Menzies cautiously.
“Heard about Ling?” demanded the superintendent.
“What about him? I was down at the station on
my way here and there was nothing much fresh then.”
“Nothing much. It’s interesting, though.” Foyle
kicked an obdurate coal with the toe of his brightly
polished boot. “It happened after you had gone and
they’ve just had me on the 'phone. You know they
put a constable in the cell with him? He offered the
man one hundred pounds to smuggle him out.”
“That’s interesting. Looks as if he doesn’t fancy
his chance overmuch.” The detail did not appear to
greatly stir Menzies.
“Yes, but listen to this. The blame fool, after re-
fusing it, seems to have got into conversation with Ling
and asked him if he really did shoot Greye-Stratton.”
Some sign of consternation flickered over Menzies’
face. “You don’t say,” he exclaimed. “The cabbage-
headed idiot!” . . . Words failed him.
There is one unforgiveable blunder in the Metro-
politan Police, the hideousness of which no layman can
adequately plumb. To question a prisoner, to coax or
bully him into an admission of guilt is one of those things
[342


T H E M A E L S T R O M
that no zeal, no temptation can excuse. It is not merely
that it is against the law. It is not playing the game.
The slightest suggestion that such a course has been
pursued has before now secured a guilty man’s ac-
quittal.
Foyle kicked the coals again and the action seemed
to afford him some relief. “And Ling admitted it. The
chap was so proud of what he'd done that he took a note
of the conversation.”
“I don’t see what we can do,” said Menzies slowly.
“We can’t put the constable in the box. The only thing
to do is to let it slide. If we don’t use it the defence
won’t make a point of it.”
“What I’m wondering about,” said the superin-
tendent, “is if your evidence is water-tight as it stands.
You see, even if Ling should make a voluntary admission
now it’s tainted. He’s been seeing that shyster Lexton
and I wouldn’t wonder if all this wasn’t a carefully
put-up trap.”
Weir Menzies drew his brows together and began
eating his moustache. “There might be something in
that,” he agreed. “Lexton’s a good lawyer and it’s
like him.”
“See.” Foyle demonstrated with a forefinger. “If
we could be tempted into putting an officer in the box
to say that Ling had confessed he'd have us by the short
hair. We’d have to admit that at least one of our men
had questioned him and ”—he snapped his fingers—
35
[343 ]


T H E M A E L S T R O M
“there you are. The whole police evidence tainted.
We’re so anxious for a conviction that we’ve applied
third-degree methods in England. Why, he’d be ac-
quitted if he’d committed as many murders as Herod.”
“I quite understand, sir.” Menzies was a little peev-
ish at having the i's dotted. “If he makes a thousand
confessions we won’t use them.”
“I only wanted to put you wise,” said Foyle almost
apologetically. “You’ve got to rely on a straightfor-
ward case. Got it mapped out?”
“I think so. There’s the direct case against him.
There’s plenty of evidence to indicate Gwennie Lyne’s
association, and we’ve got Miss Greye-Stratton’s story.
Big Rufe was caught, so to speak, red-handed, and I
rather fancy when he sees how deep he's in he’ll turn
King’s evidence. We don’t want that, though, if we
can help it.”
“No. I should think not,” said the superintendent
quickly. He had all the prejudice of the trained man
against calling the assistance of one guilty person to
convict others. King's evidence is never suggested by
Scotland Yard officers except as a last resource.
“The weak point,” said Menzies, “is Dago Sam.
Except his threatening Hallett, and what Cincinnati Red
can tell us about him, we’ve got little to connect him
up.”
“Well, see what the lawyers say,” said Foyle.
“After all, it’s their funeral now.” -
[344 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
Menzies nevertheless had a doubt rankling in his mind,
and before he left for the consultation with the legal
• lights he had put into motion again all the machinery
that he could bring to bear to find out whether any part
of the case as affecting Dago Sam had been overlooked.
He held no animus. He would cheerfully have volun-
teered any statement in favour of a prisoner, but equally
he had that stern sense of duty that impelled him to
make sure he had every accessible fact.
Many difficulties had been brushed away since all the
main persons of the drama were in his hands, and it not
infrequently happens that evidence of vast import is
picked up after arrests have been effected. It is then
possible to go over the ground more at leisure and with
an undetached mind.
Congreve, with a big Gladstone bag and an air of
jubilation, was awaiting him when he returned from
Whitehall. He had been assisting in the search of the
opium house, and, though he suppressed it well, it was
plain to the inspector’s keen eyes that he was labouring
under some excitement.
“Having a birthday, Congreve?” he said. “You
look happy.”
The other was diving into the bag. He stood up
with something wrapped in tissue paper in his arms.
“We went over that place as you said, sir. Mostly old
pipes and lamps and all the old junk that you’d expect.
I left it in charge of Hugh. There was one room,
[345 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
though, that had apparently been lived in by a Euro-
pean, proper bed and washstand and everything. The
mattress looked rather uneven, so we undid it. Found
this suit of clothes stuffed in it. Shouldn’t wonder if
we found that they fit Ling. Here’s the jacket. Look
at the stain on the left sleeve and breast.
“Don’t be in a hurry to jump to conclusions, Con-
greve,” said Menzies calmly.
“It’s blood, all right, sir,” asserted Congreve con-
fidently. “Look.” He pointed as Menzies spread the
jacket carefully over the desk. “You’ll remember how
the dead man was lying—on his left side with his face
towards the fireplace. Anyone approaching the body
would naturally come from behind and use the left arm
to support the head. If the wound was bleeding freely
then the jacket would be soaked exactly like this
one.”
Menzies opened a penknife and removed a hair from
the breast of the coat. “Go and get me two small
pieces of glass,” he said.
He placed the hair between the small glass slabs which
Congreve secured and tied a piece of tape round them.
His lips were pressed together tightly. -
“Does it strike you, Congreve,” he said quietly,
“that if you’re right and this is the suit that was worn
by the murderer it queers my theory? I was relying
on the thread of cloth I found to show that it was Ling.
Now this material isn’t in the slightest respect like that.
[346 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
It means that we’ve got an entirely new angle to look
into.”
“Yes, but 33
“Never mind about anything else for the minute.
Take the coat round to Professor Harding’s and make
sure that it is human blood. Before you do that 'phone
through to Mr. Fynne-Racton and ask him if he’ll
oblige me by coming on here as quick as a motor can
bring him. Tell him to bring an instrument. It’s very
urgent or I wouldn’t trouble him.” He opened the
breast pocket of the coat, wrote a few words on an
envelope and passed out, carrying the hair in its glass
shield.
He held a brief conversation with Foyle in the latter's
room and left the hair with him. Thence he walked to
the Home Office, from there took the tube to Kensington,
and thence returned to a certain tailoring firm in the
Strand. From the Strand he took a taxi to Buxton
Prison.
He had entirely forgotten his appointment with
Jimmie Hallett and that young man’s reproachful face
peering out of the waiting-room was one of the first
sights that he encountered on his return to the Yard.
“Hullo, Hallett, old man. Sorry. Hope I haven’t
kept you waiting long?”
“Only a matter of a couple of hours,” said Jimmie.
“Don’t apologise.”
“Lucky you’re a man of leisure,” grinned the de-
[347 I


T H E M A E L S T R O M
tective. “Another ten minutes won’t hurt.” He swung
into the superintendent's room.
It was nearer another sixty than another ten minutes
before he emerged and carried the impatient Jimmie to
the electric cars opposite the Houses of Parliament.
“That’s another good day’s work done,” he said thank-
fully. “I clean forgot all about you, Hallett, or I’d
have left a message. I’ve had a hundred things to think
about.”
“And I,” mourned Jimmie, “have only had one. By
the way, how is Miss Greye-Stratton?”
“As fit as could be expected, all things considered.
Ninety-nine girls out of a hundred who had gone through
what she has would have been knocked out. I told her
I should probably be bringing you home to dinner.”
“Things been all right today? No hitches of any
kind?”
“One or two little points,” admitted the chief in-
spector. “I’m expecting a telephone call when I get
home. Perhaps I’ll tell you then.”
They had the top of the car to themselves. Jimmie
laughed. “Still as cautious as ever. I’ll begin to have
doubts soon whether you’re as wise as you seem.”
“I’ve begun to have doubts myself. We’re none of
us infallible. If I was I should be on the Stock Ex-
change, not in the C. I. D.”
Although Menzies lived in Magersfontein Road,
Upper Tooting, the dinner that had been arranged
[348 |


T H E M A E L S T R O M
you, Mr. Foyle. Oh, yes, yes. . . . I see, that clears
everything up. . . . Yes, I’ll be along early in the morn-
ing. Good-night.”
He returned to the dining-room. “To break an-
other professional rule,” he said quietly, “I don’t mind
telling you that my mind is perfectly at ease for the
first time since Mr. Greye-Stratton was killed.”
[350 J


CHAPTER XXXV
JIMMIE presented a French roll sternly at Menzies,
pistol wise.
“You don’t get away with it like that,” he warned.
“Look at him. Cold-blooded isn’t the word. He's got
a perfectly clear mind and he can sit down and eat and
drink in our presence as though we didn’t matter.”
The chief inspector brushed his moustache with his
serviette. “Plenty of time,” he murmured. “Let’s
have some coffee in my room, my dear.” His eyes
twinkled at his wife. “I must try to satisfy this insa-
tiable young man, even if I get broken for betraying
official secrets.”
“If you betray any secrets to Mr. Hallett you be-
tray them to us,” assented Mrs. Menzies definitely.
“But, my dear”—a series of humorous wrinkles
formed around the corners of his eyes—“you know you
don’t like smoke in the drawing-room. How can I
talk 35
“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Menzies spoke in laughing
resignation. “You may smoke there—but not a pipe.
Mind, I totally forbid a pipe.”
Menzies winked at Jimmie. “It shall be my very
Sunday best cigars,” he said. “Come along.”
In the drawing-room he took up his favourite posture
[351 J


T H E M A E L S T R O M
they had either to open the door or risk the possibility
of an alarm being raised. Ling had taken the precau-
tion to switch off the whole light when they came
through. He started for the front door. Sam quietly
called him back and passed him a small sandbag. He
had that spiel about being a doctor all ready to loose
out on you. If the caller had happened to be an ac-
quaintance of Greye-Stratton’s it would explain what
he, a stranger, was doing there. You fell for it, were
lured inside and laid out and the cheques taken from
you. Then you were locked in. It occurred to Ling
that something might be traced home to them if any
trace of the forgery was left. That was why they
cleared out all those bankbooks and things. It only
seems to have occurred to them next day, after they had
had a sleep on it, that you might have seen Ling and be
able to recognise him again. So Dago Sam was put on
that fool idea of trying to terrify you.”
He lifted a cup of coffee, took a sip and replaced it.
“It is an old truism that every criminal makes mis-
takes. So if you come to it does every detective. We’re
all human. But there’s this difference and it explains
why the world is not overrun with crooks. A detective's
mistake is not necessarily disastrous. He can retrieve
himself. A crook who is being hunted by the whole re-
sources of civilisation hasn’t often much time to repair
an error, even if he knows he’s made one. The shooting
of Greye-Stratton was an accident in a sense and look-
[356 |