The Council of Justice Read Online

'Listen,' he whispered, and they held their breath. Very plainly indeed did they hear the 'tick—tick—tick.'

  'It is under the table,' muttered Francois.

  Starque seized the cloth and lifted it. Underneath, in the shadow, he saw the black box and heard the ominous whir of clockwork. 'Out!' he roared and sprang to the door. It was locked and from the outside.

  Again and again he flung his huge bulk against the door, but the men who pressed round him, whimpering and slobbering in their pitiable fright, crowded about him and gave him no room.

  With his strong arms he threw them aside left and right; then leapt at the door, bringing all his weight and strength to bear, and the door crashed open.

  Alone of the party the Woman of Gratz preserved her calm. She stood by the table, her foot almost touching the accursed machine, and she felt the faint vibrations of its working. Then Starque caught her up in his arms and through the narrow passage he half led, half carried her, till they reached the street in safety.

  The passing pedestrians saw the dishevelled group, and, scenting trouble, gathered about them.

  'What was it? What was it?' whispered Francois, but Starque pushed him aside with a snarl.

  A taxi was passing and he called it, and lifting the girl inside, he shouted directions and sprang in after her.

  As the taxi whirled away, the bewildered Council looked from one to the other.

  They had left the door of the house wide open and in the hall a flickering gas-jet gyrated wildly.

  'Get away from here,' said Bartholomew beneath his breath.

  'But the papers—the records,' said the other wringing his hands.

  Bartholomew thought quickly.

  The records were such as could not be left lying about with impunity. For all he knew these madmen had implicated him in their infernal writings. He was not without courage, but it needed all he possessed to re-enter the room where a little machine in a black box ticked mysteriously.

  'Where are they?' he demanded.

  'On the table,' almost whispered the other. 'Mon Dieux! what disaster!' The Englishman made up his mind.

  He sprang up the three steps into the hall. Two paces brought him to the door, another stride to the table. He heard the 'tick' of the machine, he gave one glance to the table and another to the floor, and was out again in the street before he had taken two long breaths.

  Francois stood waiting, the rest of the men had disappeared.

  'The papers! the papers!' cried the Frenchman.

  'Gone!' replied Bartholomew between his teeth.

  Less than a hundred yards away another conference was being held.

  'Manfred,' said Poiccart suddenly—there had been a lull in the talk—'shall we need our friend?' Manfred smiled. 'Meaning the admirable Mr. Jessen?'

  Poiccart nodded.

  'I think so,' said Manfred quietly; 'I am not so sure that the cheap alarm-clock we put in the biscuit box will be a sufficient warning to the Inner Council—here is Leon.'

  Gonsalez walked into the room and removed his overcoat deliberately.

  Then they saw that the sleeve of his dress coat was torn, and Manfred remarked the stained handkerchief that was lightly bound round one hand.

  'Glass,' explained Gonsalez laconically. 'I had to scale a wall.'

  'Well?' asked Manfred.

  'Very well,' replied the other; 'they bolted like sheep, and I had nothing to do but to walk in and carry away the extremely interesting record of sentences they have passed.'

  'What of Bartholomew?' Gonsalez was mildly amused. 'He was less panicky than the rest—he came back to look for the papers.'

  'Will he—?'

  'I think so,' said Leon. 'I noticed he left the black bean behind him in his flight—so I presume we shall see the red.'

  'It will simplify matters,' said Manfred gravely.

  Lauder Bartholomew knew a man who was farming in Uganda. It was not remarkable that he should suddenly remember his friend's existence and call to mind a three years' old invitation to spend a winter in that part of Africa. Bartholomew had a club. It was euphemistically styled in all the best directories as 'Social, Literary and Dramatic', but knowing men about town called it by a shorter title. To them it was a 'night club'. Poorly as were the literary members catered for, there were certain weeklies, The Times, and a collection of complimentary timetables to be obtained for the asking, and Bartholomew sought and found particulars of sailings. He might leave London on the next morning and overtake (via Brindisi and Suez) the German boat that would land him in Uganda in a couple of weeks.

  On the whole he thought this course would be wise.

  To tell the truth, the Red Hundred was becoming too much of a serious business; he had a feeling that he was suspect, and was more certain that the end of his unlimited financing was in sight. That much he had long since recognized, and had made his plans accordingly. As to the Four Just Men, they would come in with Menshikoff; it would mean only a duplication of treachery. Turning the pages of a Bradshaw, he mentally reviewed his position. He had in hand some seven hundred pounds, and his liabilities were of no account because the necessity for discharging them never occurred to him. Seven hundred pounds—and the red bean, and Menshikoff.

  'If they mean business,' he said to himself, 'I can count on three thousand.'

  The obvious difficulty was to get into touch with the Four. Time was everything and one could not put an advertisement in the paper:

  'If the Four Just Men will communicate with L—B—they will hear of something to their advantage.'

  Nor was it expedient to make in the agony columns of the London press even the most guarded reference to Red Beans after what had occurred at the Council Meeting.