“Remember Pinkerton’s wire, sir,” he said, and ripped open the brown envelope.
“Just received a telegram handed in at Charing Cross 7:52 begins: We have delivered our last message to the Foreign Secretary, signed Four. Ends. Is this true? Editor Megaphone.”
“What does this mean?” asked Falmouth in bewilderment when he had finished reading.
“It means, my dear Mr. Falmouth,” replied Sir Philip testily, “that your noble Four are liars and braggarts as well as murderers; and it means at the same time, I hope, an end to your ridiculous faith in their honesty!”
The detective made no answer, but his face was clouded and he bit his lips in perplexity.
“Nobody came after I left,” he asked.
“Nobody.”
“You have seen no person besides your secretary and myself?”
“Absolutely nobody has spoken to me, or approached within a dozen yards of me,” Ramon answered, shortly.
Falmouth shook his head despairingly.
“Well—I—where are we?” he asked, speaking more to himself than to anybody in the room, and moved towards the door.
Then it was that Sir Philip remembered the package left in his charge.
“You had better take your precious documents,” he said, opening his drawer and throwing the package left in his charge on to the table.
The detective looked puzzled.
“What is this?” he asked, picking up the envelope.
“I’m afraid the shock of finding yourself deceived in your estimate of my persecutors has dazed you,” said Sir Philip, and added pointedly, “I must ask the commissioner to send an officer who has a better appreciation of the criminal mind, and a less childlike faith in the honour of murderers.”
“As to that, sir,” said Falmouth, unmoved by the outburst, “you must do as you think best. I have discharged my duty to my own satisfaction; and I have no more critical taskmaster than myself. But what I am more anxious to hear is exactly what you mean by saying that I handed any papers into your care.”
The foreign secretary glared across the table at the imperturbable police officer.
“I am referring, sir,” he said harshly, “to the packet which you returned to leave in my charge.”
The detective stared.
“I—did—not—return,” he said in a strained voice. “I have left no papers in your hands.” He picked up the package from the table, tore it open and disclosed yet another envelope. As he caught sight of the grey-green cover he gave a sharp cry.
“This is the message of the Four,” said Falmouth.
The foreign secretary staggered back a pace, white to the lips.
“And the man who delivered it?” he gasped.
“Was one of the Four Just Men,” said the detective grimly. “They have kept their promise.”
He took a quick step to the door, passed through into the anteroom and beckoned the plain-clothes officer who stood on guard at the outer door.
“Do you remember my going out?” he asked.
“Yes, sir—both times.”
“Both times, eh!” said Falmouth bitterly. “And how did I look the second time?”
His subordinate was bewildered at the form the question took.
“As usual, sir,” he stammered.
“How was I dressed?”
The constable considered.
“In your long dust coat.”
“I wore my goggles, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought so,” muttered Falmouth savagely, and raced down the broad marble stairs that led to the entrance-hall. There were four men on duty, who saluted him as he approached.
“Do you remember my going out?” he asked of the sergeant in charge.
“Yes, sir—both times,” the officer replied.
“Damn your ‘both times’!” snapped Falmouth. “How long had I been gone the first time before I returned?”
“Five minutes, sir,” was the astonished officer’s reply.
“They just gave themselves time to do it,” muttered Falmouth, and then aloud—“Did I return in my car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah!” hope sprang into the detective’s breast. “Did you notice the number?” he asked, almost fearful to hear the reply.
“Yes!”
The detective could have hugged the stolid officer.
“Good—what was it?”
“A 17164.”
The detective made a rapid note of the number.
“Jackson,” he called, and one of the men in plain clothes stepped forward and saluted.
“Go to the Yard; find out the registered owner of this car. When you have found this go to the owner; ask him to explain the movements; if necessary, take him into custody.”
Falmouth retraced his steps to Sir Philip’s study. He found the statesman still agitatedly walking up and down the room, the secretary nervously drumming his fingers on the table and the letter still unopened.
“As I thought,” explained Falmouth; “the man you saw was one of the Four impersonating me. He chose his time admirably; my own men were deceived. They managed to get a car exactly similar in build and colour to mine, and, watching their opportunity, they drove to Downing Street a few minutes after I had left. There is one last chance of our catching him—luckily the sergeant on duty noticed the number of the car, and we might be able to trace him through that—hullo.” An attendant stood at the door.
Would the superintendent see Detective Jackson?
Falmouth found him waiting in the hall below.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Jackson, saluting, “but is there not some mistake in this number?”
“Why?” asked the detective, sharply.
“Because,” said the man, “A 17164 is the number of your own car.”
IX
The Pocketbook
The final warning was brief and to the point:
We allow you until tomorrow evening to reconsider your position in the matter of the Aliens Extradition Bill. If by six o’clock no announcement is made in the afternoon newspapers of your withdrawing this measure we shall have no other course to pursue but to fulfil our promise. You will die at eight in the evening. We append for your enlightenment a concise table of the secret police arrangements made for your safety tomorrow. Farewell.
Sir Philip read this over without a tremor. He read, too, the slip of paper on which was written, in the strange foreign hand, the details that the police had not dared to put into writing.
“There is a leakage somewhere,” he said, and the two anxious watchers saw that the face of their charge was grey and drawn.
“These details were known only to four,”
