standing in the centre of the room, from which most traces of the tragedy had been removed, was mainly concerned with the ‘structural damage’ that The Times so lightly passed over.
At his feet yawned a great square hole, and beneath, in the empty flat below, was a heap of plaster and laths, and the debris of destruction.
‘The curious thing is, and it shows how thorough these men are,’ explained the superintendent to his companion, ‘that the first thing we found when we got there was a twenty-pound note pinned to the wall with a brief note in pencil saying that this was to pay the owner of the property for the damage.’
It may be added that by the express desire of the young man at his side he dispensed with all ceremony of speech.
Once or twice in speaking, he found himself on the verge of saying, ‘Your Highness’, but the young man was so kindly, and so quickly put the detective at his ease, that he overcame the feeling of annoyance that the arrival of the distinguished visitor with the letter from the commissioner had caused him, and became amiable.
‘Of course, I have an interest in all this,’ said the young man quietly; ‘these people, for some reason, have decided I am not fit to encumber the earth—’
‘What have you done to the Red Hundred, sir?’
The young man laughed.
‘Nothing. On the contrary,’ he added with a whimsical smile, ‘I have helped them.’
The detective remembered that this hereditary Prince of the Escorial bore a reputation for eccentricity.
With a suddenness which was confusing, the Prince turned with a smile on his lips.
‘You are thinking of my dreadful reputation?’
‘No, no!’ disclaimed the embarrassed Mr. Falmouth. ‘I—’
‘Oh, yes — I’ve done lots of things,’ said the other with a little laugh; ‘it’s in the blood — my illustrious cousin—’
‘I assure your Highness,’ said Falmouth impressively, ‘my reflections were not — er — reflections on yourself — there is a story that you have dabbled in socialism — but that, of course—’
‘Is perfectly true,’ concluded the Prince calmly. He turned his attention to the hole in the floor.
‘Have you any theory?’ he asked.
The detective nodded.
It’s more than a theory — it’s knowledge — you see we’ve seen Jessen, and the threads of the story are all in hand.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Nothing,’ said the detective stolidly; ‘hush up the inquest until we can lay the Four Just Men by the heels.’
‘And the manner of killing?’
‘That must be kept quiet,’ replied Falmouth emphatically. This conversation may furnish a clue as to the unprecedented conduct of the police at the subsequent inquest.
In the little coroner’s court there was accommodation for three pressmen and some fifty of the general public. Without desiring in any way to cast suspicion upon the cleanest police force in the world, I can only state that the jury were remarkably well disciplined, that the general public found the body of the court so densely packed with broad-shouldered men that they were unable to obtain admission. As to the press, the confidential circular had done its work, and the three shining lights of journalism that occupied the reporters’ desk were careful to carry out instructions.
The proceedings lasted a very short time, a verdict, ‘…some person or persons unknown,’ was recorded, and another London mystery was added (I quote from the Evening News) to the already alarming and formidable list of unpunished crimes.
Charles Garrett was one of the three journalists admitted to the inquest, and after it was all over he confronted Falmouth.
‘Look here, Falmouth,’ he said pugnaciously, ‘what’s the racket?’ Falmouth, having reason to know, and to an extent stand in awe of, the little man, waggled his head darkly.
‘Oh, rot!’ said Charles rudely, ‘don’t be so disgustingly mysterious — why aren’t we allowed to say these chaps died — ?’
‘Have you seen Jessen?’ asked the detective.
‘I have,’ said Charles bitterly, ‘and after what I’ve done for that man; after I’ve put his big feet on the rungs of culture—’
‘Wouldn’t he speak?’ asked Falmouth innocently.
‘He was as close,’ said Charles sadly, ‘as the inside washer of a vacuum pump.’
‘H’m!’ the detective was considering. Sooner or later the connection must occur to Charles, and he was the only man who would be likely to surprise Jessen’s secret. Better that the journalist should know now.
‘If I were you,’ said Falmouth quietly, ‘I shouldn’t worry Jessen; you know what he is, and in what capacity he serves the Government. Come along with me.’
He did not speak a word in reply to the questions Charles put until they passed through the showy portals of Carlby Mansions and a lift had deposited them at the door of the flat.
Falmouth opened the door with a key, and Charles went into the flat at his heels.
He saw the hole in the floor.
‘This wasn’t mentioned at the inquest,’ he said; ‘but what’s this to do with Jessen?’
He looked up at the detective in perplexity, then a light broke upon him and he whistled.
‘Well, I’m—’ he said, then he added softly—’But what does the Government say to this?’
‘The Government,’ said Falmouth in his best official manner, smoothing the nap of his hat the while—’the Government regard the circumstances as unusual, but they have accepted the situation with great philosophy.’
That night Mr. Long (or Jessen) reappeared at the Guild as though nothing whatever had happened, and addressed his audience for half an hour on the subject of ‘Do burglars make good caretakers?’
Chapter VIII
An Incident in the Fight
From what secret place in the metropolis the Woman of Gratz reorganized her forces we shall never know; whence came her strength of purpose and her unbounded energy we can guess. With Starque’s death she became virtually and actually the leader of the Red Hundred, and from every corner of Europe came reinforcements of men and money to strengthen her hand and to reestablish the shaking prestige of the most powerful association that Anarchism had ever known.
Great Britain had ever been immune
