Terror Keep
By Edgar Wallace.
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To
Leslie Faber
(“The Ringer”)
Terror Keep
Foreword
Rightly speaking, it is improper, not to say illegal, for those sadly privileged few who go in and out of Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, to have pointed out to them any particular character, however notorious he may have been or to what heights of public interest his infamy had carried him, before the testifying doctors and a merciful jury consigned him to this place without hope. But often had John Flack been pointed out as he shuffled about the grounds, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast, a tall, lean old man in an ill-fitting suit of drab clothing, who spoke to nobody and was spoken to by few.
“That is Flack—The Flack—the cleverest crook in the world. … Crazy John Flack … nine murders …”
In their queer, sane moments, men who were in Broadmoor for isolated homicides were rather proud of Old John. The officers who locked him up at night and watched him as he slept had little to say against him, because he gave no trouble, and through all the six years of his incarceration had never once been seized of those frenzies which so often end in the hospital for some poor innocent devil, and a rubber-padded cell for the frantic author of misfortune.
He spent most of his time writing and reading, for he was something of a genius with his pen, and wrote with extraordinary rapidity. He filled hundreds of little exercise books with his great treatise on crime. The governor humoured him; allowed him to retain the books, expecting in due course to add them to his already interesting museum.
Once, as a great concession, Old Jack gave him a book to read, and the governor read and gasped. It was entitled Method of Robbing a Bank Vault When Only Two Guards Are Employed. The governor, who had been a soldier, read and read, stopping now and then to rub his head; for this document, written in the neat, legible hand of John Flack, was curiously reminiscent of a divisional order for attack. No detail was too small to be noted; every contingency was provided for. Not only were the constituents of the drug to be employed to “settle the outer watchman” given, but there was an explanatory note which may be quoted:
“If this drug is not procurable, I advise that the operator should call upon a suburban doctor and describe the following symptoms. … The doctor will then prescribe the drug in a minute quantity. Six bottles of this medicine should be procured and the following method adopted to extract the drug. …”
“Have you written much like this, Flack?” asked the wondering officer.
“This?” John Flack shrugged his lean shoulders. “I am doing this for amusement, just to test my memory. I have already written sixty-three books on the subject, and those works are beyond improvement. During the six years I have been here, I have not been able to think of a single improvement on my old system.”
Was he jesting? Was this a flight of a disordered mind? The governor, used as he was to his patients and their peculiar ways, was not certain.
“You mean you have written an encyclopaedia of crime?” he asked incredulously. “Where is it to be found?”
Old Flack’s thin lips curled in a disdainful smile, but he made no answer.
Sixty-three handwritten volumes represented the life work of John Flack. It was the one achievement upon which he prided himself.
On another occasion, when the governor referred to his extraordinary literary labours, he said: “I have put a huge fortune in the hands of any clever man—providing, of course,” he mused, “that he is a man of resolution and the books fall into his hands at a very early date. In these days of scientific discovery, what is a novelty today is a commonplace tomorrow.”
The governor had his doubts as to the existence of these deplorable volumes, but very soon after the conversation took place he had to revise his judgment. Scotland Yard, which seldom if ever chases chimeras, sent down one Chief Inspector Simpson, who was a man entirely without imagination and had been promoted for it.
His interview with Crazy John Flack was a brief one. “About these books of yours, Jack,” he said. “It would be terrible if they fell into wrong hands. Ravini says you’ve got
