At half past twelve that night, Leopold Gorman, financier, industrialist and director of three times as many large companies as he had fingers, sat in his study at 5, Park Place, W.i, and scowled at a sheet of virgin blotting-paper in front of him. For the first time since the commencement of his campaign against Department Z, as a possible danger to the scheme which he had started five years before and which was fast reaching its maturity, he was worried. Never before had he been met with opposition as varied as it was tenacious. Beresford, the big, innocuous-looking man, had the luck of the devil and a guile which Gorman admitted was far in advance of anything he had anticipated. Craigie too was clever, and Gorman was never sure from which angle the next attack would come.
As the financier leaned back in his chair he looked even bigger across the shoulders than he had done at the Two-Step Club on the evening of his first attacks on Tony Beresford. Beneath the shaded light of the electric chandelier above his desk, the peculiar lopsidedness of his features was more apparent, and the way in which his right brow went above his left was weirdly emphasized by the complete baldness of his head. Beresford’s hazard, that night when he had seen the financier for the one and only time of his life, had been right. Gorman’s hair had been as unnatural as the redness of Adele Fayne’s lips.
Until the Beresford interference, everything had gone right for Leopold Gorman. In England, America, Germany and Japan there had been a slow but sure change of financial control. The combined resources of the five men whom Gorman had met that night after the International Economic Conference had been sufficient to put the virtual control of foodstuffs and raw materials into Gorman’s hands. True, he had had trouble with the American Wheat Pool, but he did not anticipate that the trouble would last much longer, and he had already decided, after gaining control of the Orient-Western Oils, to insert the thin edge of his wedge. Petrol was up in price, as Beresford had seen. Other things would go with it.
Leopold Gorman, during the earlier part of that day, had spent several hours visualizing the situation in England and abroad after six months of his manipulations. By pooling the world’s resources, he and his partners in the enterprise which had been calculated to adopt the principles of the Economic Conference, without its ideals, could control world prices and force them to whatever level they desired. The strength of the ring which had been formed was now so great that Gorman did not consider failure even a remote possibility. Private ownership was the ruling principle; a man could charge what he liked for what he owned. Admittedly—and Gorman looked well ahead—the price rises would have to be temporary. There would have to be times when they reached a normal level. But they would fluctuate as and when Gorman wanted, and at no time would they be fixed so that Gorman and his associates worked at a loss.
In itself, Gorman’s objective was not criminal. It might—and it did—violate every human principle, and it was an abuse of an economic system which, when administered with moral honesty, was efficient and sufficing. Gorman was fully aware that the abuse of it would probably mean its end, but he knew that the end would be a long way off. For ten or even fifteen years Gorman would be able to rig his markets as he liked, and the vastness of his holdings would make any opposition futile. In fact, he told himself, he could break any and all opposition. Already in England he had found help from various unexpected sources. Money was a god which broke down all barriers, and to those people who were in the ring which Gorman had formed, money in the future would be plentiful. Thus the financier had been able to exert considerable influence to prevent too searching inquiries into the nature of some of his activities. As it happened, Gorman had found no trouble at all in England. The American Wheat Pool had been the one big stumbling block, and Gorman had not needed to look far for the reason for that. The Pool itself was a powerful ring, working on similar principles to those on which Gorman worked. It had controlled American—and reacted on world—wheat prices, and the members of the ring had no desire for the control to change hands.
In his efforts to gain control of the Pool, Gorman had been compelled to break the law. To him, the murder of several of America’s industrial magnates meant nothing in itself; it did mean, however, that he had left himself open to attack from the law, the one thing which might eventually break his power. Gorman knew perfectly well that if by some freak of chance he was caught, on any one of the charges which Beresford, for instance, was trying to prove against him, the back of the scheme would be broken. In its secrecy lay its safety. Once the rest of the world realized what was happening, those magnates outside Gorman’s ring, helpless individually but powerful if united, would join forces. They would have help from most of the Governments, and their opposition would be severe. Any kind of inquiry into Gorman’s activities at that time must inevitably lead to failure.
For this reason, Leopold Gorman had left very little of the work against Beresford and Craigie in other hands. Only Nosey Dean, who had died because he knew too much, and three well-paid general utility men of the gangster variety had ever contributed directly to any of the crimes. There were many who had helped, indirectly, but none of them knew enough to be dangerous. At least, none of them should have known enough.
It was that ‘should’ which was worrying Gorman on the night of Tony Beresford’s great activity in London, the night when Bob Lavering, who should have been dead, had proved himself alive. For amongst Gorman’s helpers, Adele Fayne and Solly Lewistein played a large part, at times unwittingly, at others with knowledge. And that night Gorman had reached the Emblem Theatre to see Solly Lewistein and to examine more closely Adele Fayne’s recent admirer, the man Trale. Gorman did not know that Trale was one of Craigie’s men, but he did know that his only policy was to suspect all and every one who came in contact with the dancer.
For the first time in his life Leopold Gorman had been completely nonplussed. Solly Lewistein and Adele Fayne had left the theatre, although they had received his instructions to wait for him. The discovery had at first annoyed him; then, as he realized the possibilities behind their prolonged absence, it perturbed him. For Gorman had Solly Lewistein in the hollow of his hand, and had counted on his hold over the theatre manager a great deal. Lewistein had worked for him for years; Lewistein knew more, probably, than any other man, how often and in what directions Leopold Gorman had broken the law. If by some chance a charge was ever levelled against Gorman, Solly Lewistein would be the most dangerous witness who could be put on oath in court. In a lesser way, Adele Fayne could be dangerous. There was one thing in particular which she had done and which might put her, with Gorman, in the dock on a capital charge, but Gorman was less worried by that possibility than by the chance that many of the secrets of his financial coup d’état would leak out, via Lewistein.
At one o’clock Gorman called the manager’s flat, only to find that Lewistein was still missing. He called Adele Fayne, with the same result. As he replaced the receiver after the second call, Gorman sat dead still, his misshapen body hunched in his chair, his curious jade-green eyes narrowed to mere slits. He told himself that it would mean failure if he took any more chances. Beresford had been lucky, but he would have to go now. He was too dangerous while he was alive. The Arrans must go too, with the man Trale, and with Craigie—Craigie.
Gorman, as he sat back in his chair, told himself, and for the first time, that he was afraid of Gordon Craigie. The Chief of Department Z knew a great deal and guessed more. Hitherto Gorman had been afraid that if he tried to get at Craigie he would jeopardize the support of those powerful influences which had made his task comparatively easy over the past five years. Craigie was big meat...
“But he must go.” Gorman muttered the words between his tight lips, and his face twisted in an expression which would have made even Tony Beresford afraid. “And there’s that damned American too, and Valerie Lester. Valerie Lester!”
Gorman laughed harshly, and for the third time reached for the telephone.
As Adele Fayne had been taking her curtain at the Emblem Theatre that night, a large-limbed, genial-looking man had called on Solly Lewistein and suggested, in a rich, mellow voice which indicated that he had dined well and supped better, that they should drink. Solly was in a better humour that night than he had been for some time past. Major Gulliver Odell was not at the theatre, and to Solly Lewistein, Major Gulliver Odell was much worse than a red rag to an enraged bull. Consequently, the theatre-manager was not so curt with Robert Montgomery Curtis as he might have been, and he even humoured that happy young man inasmuch as he promised to go with him, some night in the near future, to a place which Curtis promised would open his eyes to many a star-to-be in the theatrical business.
From good-tempered indulgence, Solly Lewistein’s attention grew to keen interest. Curtis’s manner suggested that he was interested in some dancer or other in a two-by-four cabaret show or café, and Lewistein knew that when men were interested in that way, business often resulted. Solly, although knowing that nine times out of ten the budding genius would never rise from the chorus ranks, often ‘took an interest’ in the lady in question, and received a pleasant fee for his services—before they were rendered.
It was a knowledge of this sideline on the fat man’s part which had persuaded Curtis to try his trick. He tried, heavily, to cajole Solly into making his visit that night, but Lewistein was adamant. He had a supper engagement which he must keep. Much as he would like to oblige Mr.——
“Brown,” lied Curtis. “But listen, Solly old scout, you really must, she’s——”
Solly began to lose patience.
“I haff not the time,” he said curtly. “Some odder night, Mr. Brown, mit pleasure, but to-night, no.”
Bob Curtis reared himself up to his full height and looked down on the little Jew with extreme displeasure. At that moment the two men were about ten yards from the stage-door, and fifteen yards from the stage itself. From the auditorium the low-voiced hum of applause which invariably accompanied Adele Fayne’s last bow came dully to the listeners’ ears, and Curtis knew that if he was to have any luck he would have to hurry. His one object, although Solly knew nothing of it, was to get the theatre-manager into the street, and thence into his Bentley.
“All right,” said Bob Curtis, with well-aped drunken dignity. “You will not see her, but at least, Mishter—Mr. Lewistoll, you will see her photograph?”
Lewistein groaned to himself, but avarice, and the fact that this man’s clothes and manner suggested that he was full of money but empty of sense, persuaded him to see the photograph.
“In my car,” said Curtis, with Napoleonic grandeur.
Solly lifted his hands and his brows expressively, but followed the big man out of the stage-door. An attendant watched them, grinning, and Solly snapped out:
“I vill not be two minutes. Tell Miss Fayne——”
The attendant nodded, and turned away from the street. Only a dozen fans, eager-eyed and waiting for La Fayne, saw the tall man and the little fat man hurry across the pavement. None of them heard the sudden change of tone in the big man’s voice, nor saw the sudden expression of alarm dart across Lewistein’s features.
Something hard jabbed into the fat of Solly’s back.
“That’s a gun,” snapped Curtis, sotto voce. “Step right into that seat, son. We’re going for a little ride, but if you behave yourself you’ll be all right!”
In Adele Fayne’s dressing-room Dodo Trale, a coloured visitor, was asking himself whether Curtis had any luck with Solly Lewistein, and wondering whether he would have much trouble with the dancer. He did not anticipate any, and he felt at peace with the world. So far as he was concerned, the affair on which Department Z was working had fallen a lot short of the usual in the way of excitement, and Dodo Trale liked his life in high colours. The kidnapping (for the message and instructions which Curtis had brought from Beresford were little short of instructions to kidnap Adele Fayne and her manager) promised that it was about to liven up.
La Fayne swept in, and as the door opened the roar of applause from the auditorium filled the room. Adele was as excited as usual. The plaudits of the people were her meat and drink, and the drink went to her head.
Dodo held her wrap for her. She slipped into it, and rested her slim body against his for a moment, looking up into his face with a smile which should have been (and to Odell would have been) captivating and intriguing. Dodo, who was not in love, told her that she had been more wonderful than ever that night.
“Do you really think so, Dodo?”
“Would I lie to you?” asked Trale impressively.
“All men are liars,” said Adele Fayne, with a moué which created the impression that she was delivering a truism at once unique and devastating.
“That proves,” said Dodo, with the same impressiveness, “that you haven’t met the right men, ’Dele. I say——”
“Hm-hm?” La Fayne slipped away from him, into a smaller room which ensured her privacy while allowing her to talk with whoever was paying court. Trale could hear the low-voiced French maid asking madame what dress she would wear.
“Make it something warmish,” said Trale, “so that we can have a spin out of London and stop at a road-side house. I know several tasty little places.”
There was a shriek of delight from the smaller room, and Trale told himself that his job was easy. A moment later, however, he suffered a reverse.
“Dodo—what a divine idea! But I must wait for—for a friend, and then after we have had supper——”
“You’re seeing him again, are you?” Dodo Trale’s voice sounded grim, and Adele Fayne pictured to herself the scowl on his face. “Who is it?” he demanded.
“It is business——” began the dancer.
“You mean Gorman?”
“But, Dodo—he owns the theatre——”
“He doesn’t own you,” said Trale roughly, and then, for the sake of effect, added “yet.”
There was a brief silence. For a moment Dodo Trale called himself a fool for having gone too far, but the scowl, this time genuine, disappeared from his face as La Fayne snapped an order to her maid.
“Hurry, Antoinette, hurry! That blue frock—no, idiot, not for dinner, for the country—and those heavy shoes——”
“You’re coming with me?” Dodo put every ounce of expression that he could into the words.
“Yes—I am tired of Gorman! But we must hurry—before he comes.”
Dodo Trale lit a cigarette and smiled happily to himself.
At twenty past one, Greenwich time, the telephone bell in the office of M’sieu Franchot, manager of the Côte d’Or, burred out insistently, and Franchot lifted the receiver with a curse. Since Corinne had been murdered, Franchot was an uneasy man at heart. It was not so much that he had arranged for Corinne to be strangled; Franchot was too experienced a rogue to be squeamish on that score. It was not even because the murder had stirred up more trouble than any case which Franchot could remember; Piquet, of the Sûreté, was putting all his energy into solving the mystery of the murder in the Hotel Royale, and he had questioned Franchot closely several times, but the Frenchman was not worried about the police; true, Piquet could not be bought, but if Piquet grew too dangerous he could be taken off the case by those in higher authority. Thus it was neither conscience nor fear of the police which had made the manager bad-tempered. It was simply that he had earned a rebuke from Leopold Gorman—and Franchot was very much afraid of the financier. Gorman had the ear of those in higher authority.
Franchot considered that he had a justifiable grievance. He had arranged for the American, Lavering, to be drugged while he had been at the café, and he had had the American taken to the Hôtel Divante. He had, moreover, told Corinne to acquaint him at once if anyone made inquiries about Lavering. Franchot did not see that it was his sin if Corinne had been treacherous, and had tried—indeed had—shown the other madman, the Englishman, where Lavering was being kept a prisoner. In fact, being suspicious of Corinne that night, Franchot had taken the trouble to send two of his best street rats after her. It could not be laid at Franchot’s door that the Englishman had avoided death, and had cunningly arranged for Lavering to be removed. After all, Franchot in turn had arranged for Corinne to die.
Instead of congratulating Franchot on the astuteness with which he had countered Corinne’s treachery, Gorman had raged because the mad Englishman had escaped from the apaches’ knives. Gorman did not pay Franchot to try to do things. He paid him to do them.
Franchot would have liked to have told the Englishman with the green eyes just where he could go, but there were reasons why he could do nothing of the kind. For one thing, Gorman owned the Côte d’Or. For another, his money and influence sheltered Franchot from many troubles. Without Gorman’s support, Franchot knew that he would have a very short journey to make to the guillotine. Franchot knew that Leopold Gorman was behind many a murder, and of recent months the murders of Englishmen in Paris on mysterious business; but he could not prove it. Gorman was as clever as he was powerful.
In consequence of these things, Franchot picked up the telephone with no very good grace. The sound of the harsh voice at the other end of the wire made him go tense, however, and his voice was suave as he spoke.
“It is I, Franchot, M’sieu Gorman.”
Leopold Gorman, speaking from his Park Place house, after his deliberations over the case of Tony Beresford and others, grunted and snapped:
“I want three more men, in London. Can you get them here by the morning, Franchot?”
“Three?” The Frenchman’s voice went up. “Already you have two, M’sieu——”
“Already they’ve failed to do everything that I’ve told them.” Gorman’s voice came over the wires, cold and brutal. “You have had too many failures, Franchot. Do you want to suffer for them?”
“But M’sieu!” Franchot’s voice quivered, and at the pit of his stomach there was a peculiar coldness. “I——”
“Send them over before morning,” said Gorman coldly. “They need not know London, but they must speak good English.”
“Mais oui, mais oui!”
The line went dead. Franchot, sweating as though he had been running, sat for a moment looking at the telephone as if it was an agent of the devil. Then, with a curse, he hurried out of the office. He dared not refuse Gorman—but Franchot did not like sending men to England. There was a ruthlessness about English justice which made him afraid.