Copyright & Information

The Black Gang

First published in 1933

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore St., Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

Typeset by House of Stratus.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

EAN	ISBN	Edition
1842326759	9781842326756	Print
0755104420	9780755104420	Print (Alt)
0755117840	9780755117840	Pdf
0755119304	9780755119301	Mobi
0755120434	9780755120437	Epub

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

www.houseofstratus.com

About the Author

Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

McNeile’s first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

CHAPTER ONE

The wind howled dismally round a house standing by itself almost on the shores of Barking Creek. It was the grey dusk of an early autumn day, and the occasional harsh cry of a seagull rising discordantly above the wind alone broke the silence of the flat, desolate waste.

The house seemed deserted. Every window was shuttered; the garden was uncared for and a mass of weeds; the gate leading on to the road, apparently feeling the need of a deficient top hinge, propped itself drunkenly on what once had been a flower-bed. A few gloomy trees swaying dismally in the wind surrounded the house and completed the picture – one that would have caused even the least imaginative of men to draw his coat a little tighter round him, and feel thankful that it was not his fate to live in such a place.

But then few people ever came near enough to the house to realise its sinister appearance. The road – it was little better than a cart track – which passed the gate, was out of the beaten way; only an occasional fisherman or farm labourer ever used it, and that generally by day when things assumed their proper proportion, and it was merely an empty house gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention. At night they avoided it if possible; folks did say that twelve years ago some prying explorer had found the bones of a skeleton lying on the floor in one of the upstair rooms with a mildewed rope fixed to one of the beams in the ceiling. And then it had been empty for twenty years.

Even now when the wind lay in the east or north-east and the tide was setting in, there were those who said that you could see a light shining through the cracks in the shutters in that room upstairs, and that, should a man climb up and look in, he’d see no skeleton, but a body with purple face and staring eyes swinging gently to and fro, and tied by the neck to a beam with a rope which showed no trace of mildew. Ridiculous, of course; but then so many of these local superstitions are. Useful, too, in some cases; they afford a privacy from the prying attentions of local gossips far more cheaply and effectively than high walls and bolts and bars.

So, at any rate, one of the two men who were walking briskly along the rough track seemed to think.

“Admirable,” he remarked, as he paused for a moment at the entrance of the weed-grown drive. “Quite admirable, my friend. A house situated as this one is, is an acquisition, and when it is haunted in addition it becomes a godsend.”

He spoke English perfectly with a slight foreign accent, and his companion nodded abruptly.

“From what I heard about it I thought it would do,” he answered. “Personally I think it’s a damnable spot, but since you were so set against coming to London, I had to find somewhere in this neighbourhood.”

The two men started to walk slowly up the drive. Branches dripping with moisture brushed across their faces, and involuntarily they both turned up the collars of their coats.

“I will explain my reasons in due course,” said the first speaker shortly. “You may take it from me that they were good. What’s that?”

“Nothing,” cried the other irritably. For a moment or two they stood still, peering into the dark undergrowth. “What did you think it was?”

“I thought I heard a bush creaking as if – as if someone was moving,” he said, relaxing his grip. “It must have been the wind, I suppose.”

He still peered fearfully into the gloomy garden, until the other man dragged him roughly towards the house.

“Of course it was the wind,” he muttered angrily. “For heaven’s sake, Zaboleff, don’t get the jumps. If you will insist on coming to an infernal place like this to transact a little perfectly normal business you must expect a few strange noises and sounds. Let’s get indoors; the others should be here by now. It oughtn’t to take more than an hour, and you can be on board again long before dawn.”

The man who had been addressed as Zaboleff ceased looking over his shoulder, and followed the other through a broken-down lattice-gate to the rear of the house. They paused in front of the back door, and on it the leader knocked three times in a peculiar way. It was obviously a prearranged signal, for almost at once stealthy steps could be heard coming along the passage inside. The door was cautiously pulled back a few inches, and a man peered out, only to throw it open wide with a faint sigh of relief.

“It’s you, Mr Waldock, is it?” he muttered. “Glad you’ve got ’ere at last. This place is fair giving us all the ’ump.”

“Evening, Jim.” He stepped inside, followed by Zaboleff, and the door closed behind them. “Our friend’s boat was a little late. Is everyone here?”

“Yep,” answered the other. “All the six of us. And I reckons we’d like to get it over as soon as possible. Has he” – his voice sank to a hoarse undertone – “has he brought the money?”

“You’ll all hear in good time,” said Waldock curtly. “Which is the room?”

“’Ere it is, guv’nor.” Jim flung open a door. “And you’ll ’ave to sit on the floor, as the chairs ain’t safe.”

Two candles guttered on a square table in the centre of the room, showing up the faces of the five men who sat on the floor, leaning against the walls. Three of them were nondescript specimens of humanity of the type that may be seen by the thousand hurrying into the City by the early business trains. They were representative of the poorer type of clerk – the type which Woodbines its fingers to a brilliant orange; the type that screams insults at a football referee on Saturday afternoon. And yet to the close observer something more might be read on their faces: a greedy, hungry look, a shifty untrustworthy look – the look of those who are jealous of everyone better placed than themselves, but who are incapable of trying to better their own position except by the relative method of dragging back their more fortunate acquaintances; the look of little men dissatisfied not so much with their own littleness as with the bigness of other people. A nasty-faced trio with that smattering of education which is the truly dangerous thing; and – three of Mr Waldock’s clerks.

The two others were Jews; a little flashily dressed, distinctly addicted to cheap jewellery. They were sitting apart from the other three, talking in low tones, but as the door opened their conversation ceased abruptly and they looked up at the newcomers with the keen, searching look of their race. Waldock they hardly glanced at; it was the stranger Zaboleff who riveted their attention. They took in every detail of the shrewd, foreign face – the olive skin, the dark, piercing eyes, the fine-pointed beard; they measured him up as a boxer measures up his opponent, or a businessman takes stock of the second party in a deal; then once again they conversed together in low tones which were barely above a whisper.

It was Jim who broke the silence – Flash Jim, to give him the full name to which he answered in the haunts he frequented.

“Wot abaht getting on with it, guv’nor?” he remarked with an attempt at a genial smile. “This ’ere ’ouse ain’t wot I’d choose for a blooming ’oneymoon.”

“This is Mr Zaboleff, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “We are a little late, I am afraid, but it was unavoidable. He will explain to you now the reason why you were asked to come here, and not meet at our usual rendezvous in Soho.”

He stepped back a couple of paces and Zaboleff took his place. For a moment or two he glanced round at the faces turned expectantly towards him; then resting his two hands on the table in front of him, he leaned forward towards them.

“Gentlemen,” he began, and the foreign accent seemed a little more pronounced, “I have asked you to come here tonight through my good friend, Mr Waldock, because it has come to our ears – no matter how – that London is no longer a safe meeting-place. Two or three things have occurred lately the significance of which it is impossible to disregard.”

“I was about to tell you,” remarked the speaker suavely, and Flash Jim subsided, abashed. “Our chief, with whom I spent last evening, is seriously concerned about these things.”

“You spent last night with the chief?” said Waldock, and his voice held a tremor of excitement, while the others leaned forward eagerly. “Is he, then, in Holland?”

“He was at six o’clock yesterday evening,” answered Zaboleff with a faint smile. “Today – now – I know no more than you where he is.”

“Who is he – this man we’re always hearing about and never seeing?” demanded one of the three clerks aggressively.

“He is – the Chief,” replied the other, while his eyes seemed to bore into the speaker’s brain. “Just that – and no more. And that is quite enough for you.” His glance travelled round the room, and his audience relaxed. “By the way, is not that a chink in the shutter there?”

“All the safer,” grunted Flash Jim. “Anyone passing will think the ghost is walking.”

“Nevertheless, kindly cover it up,” ordered Zaboleff, and one of the Jews rose and wedged his pocket-handkerchief into the crack. There was silence in the room while he did so, a silence broken only by the mournful hooting of an owl outside.

“Owls is the only things wot comes to this damned museum,” said Flash Jim morosely. “Owls and blinkin’ fools like us.”

“Stow it, Jim,” snarled Waldock furiously. “Anyone would think you wanted a nurse.”

“Gentlemen – please.” Zaboleff held up a protesting hand. “We do not want to prolong matters, but one or two explanations are necessary. To return, then, to these things that have happened recently, and which necessitated a fresh rendezvous for this evening – one which our friend Mr Waldock so obligingly found. Three messengers sent over during the last three weeks bearing instructions and – what is more important – money, have disappeared.”

“Absolutely and completely. Money and all. Two more have been abominably ill-treated and had their money taken from them, but for some reason they were allowed to go free themselves. It is from them that we have obtained our information.”

“It is not the police, which is what makes it so much more serious,” answered Zaboleff quietly, and Flash Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “It is easy to keep within the law, but if our information is correct we are up against a body of men who are not within the law themselves. A body of men who are absolutely unscrupulous and utterly ruthless; a body of men who appear to know our secret plans as well as we do ourselves. And the difficulty of it is, gentlemen, that though, legally speaking, on account of the absurd legislation in this country we may keep within the law ourselves, we are hardly in a position to appeal to the police for protection. Our activities, though allowed officially, are hardly such as would appeal even to the English authorities. And on this occasion particularly that is the case. You may remember that the part I played in stirring up bloodshed at Cowdenheath a few months ago, under the name of MacTavish, caused me to be deported. So though our cause is legal – my presence in this country is not. Which was why tonight it was particularly essential that we should not be disturbed. Not only are we all up against this unknown gang of men, but I, in addition, am up against the police.”

“Have you any information with regard to this gang?” It was the Jew who had closed the chink in the shutters speaking for the first time.

“None of any use – save that they are masked in black, and cloaked in long black cloaks.” He paused a moment as if to collect his thoughts. “They are all armed, and Petrovitch – he was one of the men allowed to escape – was very insistent on one point. It concerned the leader of the gang, whom he affirmed was a man of the most gigantic physical strength; a giant powerful as two ordinary strong men. He said… Ah! Mein Gott–!”

His voice rose to a scream as he cowered back, while the others, with terror on their faces, rose hurriedly from their seats on the floor and huddled together in the corners of the room.

In the doorway stood a huge man covered from head to foot in black. In each hand he held a revolver, with which he covered the eight occupants during the second or two which it took for half a dozen similarly disguised men to file past him, and take up their positions round the walls. And Waldock, a little more educated than the remainder of his friends, found himself thinking of old tales of the Spanish Inquisition and the Doges of Venice even as he huddled a little nearer to the table.

It was the man at the door who spoke in a curiously deep voice, and like sheep they obeyed him – all save Flash Jim. For that worthy, crook though he was, was not without physical courage. The police he knew better than to play the fool with, but these were not the police.

“Wot the–” he snarled, and got no farther. Something hit him behind the head, a thousand stars danced before his eyes, and with a strangled grunt he crashed forward on his face.

For a moment or two there was silence, and then once again the man at the door spoke.

In a second the seven remaining men were marshalled in a line, while behind them stood six motionless black figures. And then the big man walked slowly down in front of them, peering into each man’s face. He spoke no word until he reached the end of the line, and then, his inspection concluded, he stepped back and leaned against the wall facing them.

“A nauseating collection,” he remarked thoughtfully. “A loathsome brood. What are the three undersized and shivering insects on the right?”

“Those are three of my clerks,” said Waldock with an assumption of angry bravado. “And I would like to know–”

“In good time you will,” answered the deep voice. “Three of your clerks, are they; imbued with your rotten ideas, I suppose, and yearning to follow in father’s footsteps? Have we anything particular against them?”

There was no answer from the masked men, and the leader made a sign. Instantly the three terrified clerks were seized from behind and brought up to him, where they stood trembling and shaking in every limb.

“Listen to me, you three little worms.” With an effort they pulled themselves together: a ray of hope was dawning in their minds – perhaps they were going to be let off easily. “My friends and I do not like you or your type. You meet in secret places and in your slimy minds you concoct foul schemes which, incredible though it may seem, have so far had more than a fair measure of success in this country. But your main idea is not the schemes, but the money you are paid to carry them out. This is your first and last warning. Another time you will be treated differently. Get out of here. And see you don’t stop.”

The door closed behind them and two of the masked men; there was the sound as of a boot being used with skill and strength, and cries of pain; then the door reopened and the masked men returned.

“Good,” said the leader. “Let us continue the inspection. What are these two Hebrews?”

A man from behind stepped forward and examined them slowly; then he came up to the leader and whispered in his ear.

“Is that so?” A new and terrible note had crept into the deep voice. “My friends and I do not like your trade, you swine. It is well that we have come provided with the necessary implement for such a case. Fetch the cat.”

In silence one of the men left the room, and as his full meaning came home to the two Jews they flung themselves grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy.

The order came out sharp and clear, and in an instant the two writhing men were seized and gagged. Only their rolling eyes and trembling hands showed the terror they felt as they dragged themselves on their knees towards the impassive leader.

“The cat for cases of this sort is used legally,” he remarked. “We merely anticipate the law.”

With a fresh outburst of moans the two Jews watched the door open and the inexorable black figure come in, holding in his hand a short stick from which nine lashes hung down.

“Heavens!” gasped Waldock, starting forward. “What are you going to do?”

“Flog them to within an inch of their lives,” said the deep voice. “It is the punishment for their method of livelihood. Five and six – take charge. After you have finished remove them in Number 3 car, and drop them in London.”

Struggling impotently, the Jews were led away, and the leader passed on to the remaining two men.

“A specimen hunter,” said the other suavely. “I am making a collection of people like you. The police of our country are unduly kind to your breed, although they would not have been kind to you tonight, Zaboleff, unless I had intervened. But I couldn’t let them have you; you’re such a very choice specimen. I don’t think somehow that you’ve worked this little flying visit of yours very well. Of course I knew about it, but I must confess I was surprised when I found that the police did too.”

“I mean that when we arrived here we found to our surprise that the police had forestalled us. Popular house, this, tonight.”

“Even so – led by no less a personage than Inspector McIver. They had completely surrounded the house, and necessitated a slight change in my plans.”

“By heaven!” said Zaboleff, taking a step forward. “As I asked you before – who are you?”

“And as I told you before, Zaboleff, a collector of specimens. Some I keep; some I let go – as you have already seen.”

“Until tonight we have not clashed. Even tonight, well, I think we are working towards the same end. And do you know what that end is, Zaboleff?” The deep voice grew a little sterner. “It is the utter, final overthrow of you and all that you stand for. To achieve that object we shall show no mercy. Even as you are working in the dark – so are we. Already you are frightened; already we have proved that you fear the unknown more than you fear the police; already the first few tricks are ours. But you still hold the ace, Zaboleff – or shall we say the King of Trumps? And when we catch him you will cease to be the cream of my collection. This leader of yours – it was what Petrovitch told him, I suppose, that made him send you over.”

“You needn’t; it is obvious. And now that you are caught – he will come himself. Perhaps not at once – but he will come. And then… But we waste time. The money, Zaboleff.”

“You lie, Zaboleff. You lie clumsily. You have quite a lot of money brought over for Waldock so that he might carry on the good work after you had sailed tomorrow. Quick, please; time passes.”

With a curse Zaboleff produced a small canvas bag and held it out. The other took it and glanced inside.

“I see,” he said gravely. “Pearls and precious stones. Belonging once, I suppose, to a murdered gentlewoman whose only crime was that she, through no action of her own, was born in a different sphere from you. And, you reptile” – his voice rose a little – “you would do that here.”

There was a sudden movement on Zaboleff’s part – instantly suppressed, but not quite soon enough.

“Injudicious,” said the leader quietly. “Memory is better. An address, I see – No. 5, Green Street, Hoxton. A salubrious neighbourhood, with which I am but indifferently acquainted. Ah! I see my violent friend has recovered.” He glanced at Flash Jim, who was sitting up dazedly, rubbing the back of his head. “Number 4 – the usual.”

There was a slight struggle, and Flash Jim lay back peacefully unconscious, while a faint smell of chloroform filled the room.

“What are you going to do with me, you scoundrel?” spluttered Waldock. “I warn you that I have influential friends, who – who will ask questions in – in Parliament if you do anything to me; who will go to Scotland Yard.”

“I can assure you, Mr Waldock, that I will make it my personal business to see that their natural curiosity is gratified,” answered the leader suavely. “But for the present I fear the three filthy rags you edit will have to be content with the office boy as their guiding light. And I venture to think they will not suffer.”

He made a sudden sign, and before they realised what was happening the two men were caught from behind and gagged. The next instant they were rushed through the door, followed by Flash Jim. For a moment or two the eyes of the leader wandered round the now empty room taking in every detail: then he stepped forward and blew out the two candles. The door closed gently behind him, and a couple of minutes later two cars stole quietly away from the broken-down gate along the cart track. It was just midnight; behind them the gloomy house stood up gaunt and forbidding against the darkness of the night sky. And it was not until the leading car turned carefully into the main road that anyone spoke.

“Perhaps,” he returned. “Perhaps not. Anyway, the more the merrier. Flash Jim all right?”

“Sleeping like a child,” answered the other, peering into the body of the car.

For about ten miles they drove on in silence: then at a main cross-roads the car pulled up and the big man got out. The second car was just behind, and for a few moments there was a whispered conversation between him and the other driver. He glanced at Zaboleff and Waldock, who appeared to be peacefully sleeping on the back seat, and smiled grimly.

The second car swung right-handed and started northwards, while the leader stood watching the vanishing tail lamp. Then he returned to his own seat, and soon the first beginnings of outer London were reached. And it was as they reached Whitechapel that the leader spoke again with a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

“We’re worrying ’em; we’re worrying ’em badly. Otherwise they’d never have sent Zaboleff. He was too big a man to risk, considering the police.”

CHAPTER TWO

Sir Bryan Johnstone leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling with a frown. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets; his long legs were stretched out to their full extent under the big roll-top desk in front of him. From the next room came the monotonous tapping of a typewriter, and after a while Sir Bryan closed his eyes.

Through the open window there came the murmur of the London traffic – that soothing sound so conducive to sleep in those who have lunched well. But that did not apply to the man lying back in his chair. Sir Bryan’s lunch was always a frugal meal, and it was no desire for sleep that made the Director of Criminal Investigation close his eyes. He was puzzled, and the report lying on the desk in front of him was the reason.

For perhaps ten minutes he remained motionless, then he leaned forward and touched an electric hell. Instantly the typewriter ceased, and a girl secretary came quickly into the room.

“Miss Forbes,” said Sir Bryan, “I wish you would find out if Chief Inspector McIver is in the building. If so, I would like to see him at once; if not, see that he gets the message as soon as he comes in.”

The door closed behind the girl, and after a moment or two the man rose from his desk and began to pace up and down the room with long, even strides. Every now and then he would stop and stare at some print on the wall, but it was the blank stare of a man whose mind is engrossed in other matters.

And once while he stood looking out of the window, he voiced his thoughts, unconscious that he spoke aloud.

“Dash it, McIver’s not fanciful. He’s the least fanciful man we’ve got. And yet…”

His eyes came round to the desk once more, the desk on which the report was lying. It was Inspector McIver’s report – hence his instructions to the secretary. It was the report on a very strange matter which had taken place the previous night, and after a while Sir Bryan picked up the typed sheets and glanced through them again. And he was still standing by the desk, idly turning over the pages, when the secretary came into the room.

Certainly the Inspector justified his Chief’s spoken thought – a less fanciful looking man it would have been hard to imagine. A square-jawed, rugged Scotchman, he looked the type to whom Holy Writ was Holy Writ only in so far as it could be proved. He was short and thick-set, and his physical strength was proverbial. But a pair of kindly twinkling eyes belied the gruff voice. In fact, the gruff voice was a pose specially put on which deceived no one; his children all imitated it to his huge content, though he endeavoured to look ferocious when they did so. In short, McIver, though shrewd and relentless when on duty, was the kindest-hearted of men. But he was most certainly not fanciful.

“What the dickens is all this about, McIver?” said Sir Bryan with a smile, when the door had shut behind the secretary.

“I wish I knew myself, sir,” returned the other seriously. “I’ve never been so completely defeated in my life.”

“I’ve read your report,” he said, still smiling, “and frankly, McIver, if it had been anyone but you, I should have been annoyed. But I know you far too well for that. Look here” – he pushed a box of cigarettes across the table – “take a cigarette and your time and let’s hear about it.”

McIver lit a cigarette and seemed to be marshalling his thoughts. He was a man who liked to tell his story in his own way, and his chief waited patiently till he was ready. He knew that when his subordinate did start he would get a clear, concise account of what had taken place, with everything irrelevant ruthlessly cut out. And if there was one thing that roused Sir Bryan to thoughts of murder and violence, it was a rambling, incoherent statement from one of his men.

“Well, sir,” began McIver at length, “this is briefly what took place. At ten o’clock last night as we had arranged, we completely surrounded the suspected house on the outskirts of Barking. I had had a couple of good men on duty there lying concealed the whole day, and when I arrived at about nine-thirty with Sergeant Andrews and half a dozen others, they reported to me that at least eight men were inside, and that Zaboleff was one of them. He had been shadowed the whole way down from Limehouse with another man, and both the watchers were positive that he had not left the house. So I posted my men and crept forward to investigate myself. There was a little chink in the wooden shutters of one of the downstairs rooms through which the light was streaming. I took a glimpse through, and found that everything was just as had been reported to me. There were eight of them there, and an unpleasant-looking bunch they were, too. Zaboleff I saw at the head of the table, and standing next to him was that man Waldock who runs two or three of the worst Red papers. There was also Flash Jim, and I began to wish I’d brought a few more men.”

McIver smiled ruefully. “It was about the last coherent wish I remember. And,” he went on seriously, “what I’m going to tell you now, sir, may seem extraordinary and what one would expect in detective fiction, but as sure as I am sitting in this chair, it is what actually took place. Somewhere from close to, there came the sound of an owl hooting. At that same moment I distinctly heard the noise of what seemed like a scuffle, and a stifled curse. And then, and this is what beats me, sir.” McIver pounded a huge fist into an equally huge palm. “I was picked up from behind as if I were a baby. Yes, sir, a baby.”

“Exactly, sir,” grunted the Inspector. “If a man had suggested such a thing to me yesterday I’d have laughed in his face. But the fact remains that I was picked up just like a child in arms, and doped, sir, doped. Me – at my time of life. They chloroformed me, and that was the last I saw of Zaboleff or the rest of the gang.”

“Yes, but it’s the rest of the report that beats me,” said his chief thoughtfully.

“So it does me, sir,” agreed McIver. “When I came to myself early this morning I didn’t realise where I was. Of course my mind at once went back to the preceding night, and what with feeling sick as the result of the chloroform, and sicker at having been fooled, I wasn’t too pleased with myself. And then I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself, and for a moment or two I honestly thought I’d gone off my head. There was I sitting on my own front door step, with a cushion all nicely arranged for my head and every single man I’d taken down with me asleep on the pavement outside. I tell you, sir, I looked at those eight fellows all ranged in a row for about five minutes before my brain began to act. I was simply stupefied. And then I began to feel angry. To be knocked on the head by a crew like Flash Jim might happen to anybody. But to be treated like naughty children and sent home to bed was a bit too much. Dammit, I thought, while they were about it, why didn’t they tuck me up with my wife.”

“It was then I saw the note,” continued McIver. He fumbled in his pocket, and his chief stretched out his hand to see the original. He already knew the contents almost by heart, and the actual note itself threw no additional light on the matter. It was typewritten, and the paper was such as can be bought by the ream at any cheap stationer’s.

“To think of an old bird like you, Mac,” it ran, “going and showing yourself up in a chink of light. You must tell Mrs Mac to get some more cushions. There were only enough in the parlour for you and Andrews. I have taken Zaboleff and Waldock, and I dropped Flash Jim in Piccadilly Circus. I flogged two of the others whose method of livelihood failed to appeal to me; the remaining small fry I turned loose. Cheer oh! old son. The fellow in St James makes wonderful pick-me-ups for the morning after. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Idly Sir Bryan studied the note, holding it up to the light to see if there was any water-mark on the paper which might help. Then he studied the typed words, and finally with a slight shrug of his shoulders he laid it on the desk in front of him.

“An ordinary Remington, I should think. And as there are several thousands in use it doesn’t help much. What about Flash Jim?”

“The first thing I did, sir, was to run him to ground. And I put it across him good and strong. He admitted everything: admitted he was down there, but over the rest of the show he swore by everything that he knew no more than I did. All he could say was that suddenly the room seemed full of men. And the men were all masked. Then he got a clip over the back of the head, and he remembers nothing more till the policeman on duty at Piccadilly Circus woke him with his boot just before dawn this morning.”

“At once, sir,” answered the other. “For once in his life Flash Jim appears to be speaking the truth. Which puts a funny complexion on matters, sir, if he is speaking the truth.”

“You’ve heard the rumours, sir,” he went on after a moment, “the same as I have.”

“Perhaps,” said Sir Bryan quietly. “But go on, McIver. I’d like to hear what’s on your mind.”

“It’s the Black Gang, sir,” said the Inspector, leaning forward impressively.

“There have been rumours going round, rumours which our men have heard here and there for the past two months. I’ve heard ’em myself; and once or twice I’ve wondered. Now I’m sure – especially after what Flash Jim said. That gang is no rumour, it’s solid fact.”

“Have you any information as to what their activities have been, assuming for a moment it is the truth?” asked Sir Bryan.

“None for certain, sir; until this moment I wasn’t certain of its existence. But now – looking back – there have been quite a number of sudden disappearances. We haven’t troubled officially, we haven’t been asked to. Hardly likely when one realises who the people are who have disappeared.”

“All conjecture, McIver,” said Sir Bryan. “They may be lying doggo, or they’ll turn up elsewhere.”

“They may be, sir,” answered McIver doggedly. “But take the complete disappearance of Granger a fortnight ago. He’s one of the worst of the Red men, and we know he hasn’t left the country. Where is he? His wife, I happen to know, is crazy with anxiety, so it doesn’t look like a put-up job. Take that extraordinary case of the Pole who was found lashed to the railings in Whitehall with one half of his beard and hair shaved off and the motto ‘Portrait of a Bolshevist’ painted on his forehead. Well, I don’t need to tell you, sir, that that particular Pole, Strambowski, was undoubtedly a messenger between – well, we know who between and what the message was. And then take last night.”

“Exactly, sir,” answered McIver. “Well, they’ve got Zaboleff and they’ve got Waldock, and they laid eight of us out to cool. I guess they’re not to be sneezed at.”

With a thoughtful look on his face Sir Bryan rose and strolled over to the window. Though not prepared to go quite as far as McIver, there were certainly some peculiar elements in the situation – elements which he, as head of a big public department, could not officially allow for an instant, however much it might amuse him as a private individual.

“We must find Zaboleff and Waldock,” he said curtly, without turning round. “Waldock, at any rate, has friends who will make a noise unless he’s forthcoming. And…”

But his further remarks were interrupted by the entrance of his secretary with a note.

“For the Inspector, Sir Bryan,” she said, and McIver, after a glance at his chief, opened the envelope. For a while he studied the letter in silence, then with an enigmatic smile he rose and handed it to the man by the window.

“No answer, thank you, Miss Forbes,” he said, and when they were once more alone, he began rubbing his hands together softly – a sure sign of being excited. “Curtis and Samuel Bauer, both flogged nearly to death and found in a slum off Whitechapel. The note said two of ’em had been flogged.”

“White Slave Traffic of the worst type,” said McIver. “They generally drug the girls with cocaine or some dope first. What do you say to my theory now, sir?”

“It’s another point in its favour, McIver,” conceded Sir Bryan cautiously: “but it still wants a lot more proof. And, anyway, whether you’re right or not, we can’t allow it to continue. We shall be having questions asked in Parliament.”

McIver nodded portentously. “If I can’t lay my hands on a man who can lift me up like a baby and dope me, may I never have another case. Like a baby, sir. Me–”

He opened his hands out helplessly, and this time Sir Bryan laughed outright, only to turn with a quick frown as the door leading to the secretary’s office was flung open to admit a man. He caught a vague glimpse of the scandalised Miss Forbes hovering like a canary eating bird-seed in the background: then he turned to the newcomer.

Hugh Drummond grinned all over his face, and lifting a hand like a leg of mutton he smote Sir Bryan in the back, to the outraged amazement of Inspector McIver.

“You priceless old bean,” boomed Hugh affably. “I gathered from the female bird punching the what-not outside that the great brain was heaving – but, my dear old lad, I have come to report a crime. A crime which I positively saw committed with my own eyes: an outrage: a blot upon this fair land of ours.”

He sank heavily into a chair and selected a cigarette. He was a vast individual with one of those phenomenally ugly faces which is rendered utterly pleasant by the extraordinary charm of its owner’s expression. No human being had ever been known to be angry with Hugh for long. He was either moved to laughter by the perennial twinkle in the big man’s blue eyes, or he was stunned by a playful blow on the chest from a fist which rivalled a steam hammer. Of brain he apparently possessed a minimum: of muscle he possessed about five ordinary men’s share.

And yet unlike so many powerful men his quickness on his feet was astounding – as many a good heavyweight boxer had found to his cost. In the days of his youth Hugh Drummond – known more familiarly to his intimates as Bulldog – had been able to do the hundred in a shade over ten seconds. And though the mere thought of such a performance now would have caused him to break out into a cold sweat, he was still quite capable of a turn of speed which many a lighter-built man would have envied.

Between him and Sir Bryan Johnstone existed one of those friendships which are founded on totally dissimilar tastes. He had been Bryan Johnstone’s fag at school, and for some inscrutable reason the quiet scholarship of the elder boy had appealed to the kid of fourteen who was even then a mass of brawn. And when one day Johnstone, going about his lawful occasions as a prefect, discovered young Drummond reducing a boy two years older than himself to a fair semblance of a jelly, the appeal was reciprocated.

“He called you a scut,” said Drummond a little breathlessly when his lord and master mildly inquired the reason of the disturbance. “So I scutted him.”

It was only too true, and with a faint smile Johnstone watched the “scutted” one depart with undignified rapidity. Then he looked at his fag.

And that was all. But it started then, and it never died, though their ways lay many poles apart. To Johnstone a well-deserved knighthood and a high position in the land: to Drummond as much money as he wanted and a life of sport.