The Four Stragglers. Frank L. Packard
woman's voice had thickened; her words, in snatches, were incoherent:
"Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—Polly Gray—Polly Gray 'er name is—Polly Gray. I got the lines an' the birth paper. I kept 'em all these years. 'Ere! I got 'em 'ere."
"Where?" said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely.
"'Ere!" Mrs. Wickes plucked feebly at the edge of the bed clothing. "'Ere!"
Captain Francis Newcombe thrust his hand quickly in under the mattress. After a moment's search he brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a faded superscription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle from the chair and read it:
"Polly's papers which is God's truth,
Mrs. Wickes X her mark."
He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the end. It contained two papers that were turned a little yellow with age. Yes, it was quite true! His eyes travelled swiftly over the names:
"Harold Morton Gray. … Elizabeth Pauline Forbes. Pauline Gray. … "
There was a sudden sound from the bed—like a long, fluttering sigh. Captain Francis Newcombe swung sharply about. The woman's arm was stretched out toward him; dulled eyes seemed to be striving desperately in their fading vision to search his face.
"Polly!" Mrs. Wickes whispered. "For—for for Christ's sake—be—be good to Polly—be good to—"
The outstretched arm fell to the bed covering—and Mrs. Wickes lay still.
Captain Francis Newcombe leaned forward, holding the candle, searching the form on the bed critically with his eyes. After a moment he straightened up.
Mrs. Wickes was dead.
Captain Francis Newcombe replaced the papers in the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket. He set the candle back on the chair, blew it out, and walked across the room to the door.
"Gray, eh?" said Captain Francis Newcombe under his breath, as he closed the door behind him. "Polly Gray, eh? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? It's just as good an iron in the fire whether it's—Wickes or Gray!"
—III—
THREE OF THEM
Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Francis Newcombe stood at the door of his apartment. Runnells admitted him.
"Paul Cremarre here yet?" demanded the ex-captain of territorials briskly.
"Yes," said Runnells. "Been here half an hour."
With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis Newcombe entered the living room of the apartment. A tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantel.
"Ah, monsieur!" He waved his arm in greeting. "Salut!"
"Back, eh, Paul?" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe, flinging himself into a lounge chair. "Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's the news? How's the fishing smack?"
Paul Cremarre smiled faintly.
"Ah, the poor Marianne!" he said. "Such bad weather! It is always the bilge. If it did not leak so furiously!" He lifted his shoulders, and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward.
"So!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Been searched again, eh?"
The Frenchman laughed softly.
"Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French coast, and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard? But, why not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children they looked—not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the Préfecture!"
"One more sign of the times!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe a little shortly. "And Père Mouche?"
"Ah!" murmured the Frenchman. "That is another story! I am afraid it is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed him too well."
Captain Francis Newcombe frowned.
"Well, he's right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, eh? I don't like it! If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here. There is to-morrow night's affair, of course, that naturally we will carry through, but after that I think we should come to a full stop for, say—a six months' holiday. Personally, as you know, I'm rather anxious to make a little trip to America. I'll take Runnells along as my man for the looks of it. He can play at valeting and still enjoy himself if he keeps out of mischief—which I will see to it"—Captain Francis Newcombe's lips thinned—"that he does! That will account for the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And you, Paul—I suppose it will be the Riviera for you?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah!" he said. "As to that I do not know, but what does it matter?" He laughed good-humouredly. "I have no attraction such as monsieur with a charming ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of the forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more than a passing interest."
"Except Scotland Yard and the Préfecture," said the ex-captain of territorials with a grim smile. He rose suddenly from his chair and paced once or twice the length of the room. "Yes," he said decisively, "we'd be fools to do anything else. It will give Père Mouche a chance to work down his surplus stock, and the police to lose a little of their ardour. It's getting a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked on the raw. London is becoming unhealthy. Even Runnells here, whom I would never accuse of having any delicate sense of prescience, has been uneasy of late as though he felt the net drawing in."
"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells gruffly. "I don't know how, but it's true. Let the coppers nose a cold scent for a while, I says. I can do with a bit of America whenever you're ready!"
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It's in the air. Like Runnells, I do not know exactly where it comes from, but I know it's there."
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have often wondered about the fourth—stragglers, I think you called us that night—about the fourth straggler."
"You mean?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.
"Nothing!" said the Frenchman. "One sometimes wonders, that is all. The thought flashed through my mind as you spoke. But it means nothing. How could it? More than three years have gone. Let us forget my remark." He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Well, then, as I am the only one left to speak, I will say that I too agree. For six months we do not exist so far as business is concerned—after to-morrow night." He made a wry face, and laughed. "Well, it will be dull! I fear it will be dull, and one will become ennuyé, but it is wise. So! It is decided. And so there remains only to-morrow night. I was to be here this evening to discuss the details—and here I am. Shall we proceed to discuss them? I have made a promise to the little Père Mouche that when I return he shall eat a ragoût from a veritable gold plate, and that Scotland Yard—"
The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman's words.
Runnells left the room to answer the summons. He was back in a moment with a card on a silver tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of territorials.
The card tray was significant. Captain Francis Newcombe glanced first at Runnell's face, frowned—then picked up the card. His eyes narrowed as he read it. On the card was written:
DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MULLINS
NEW SCOTLAND YARD
He