Chapter 1

They picked up the young man called "Snow" Gregory from a Lambeth
gutter, and he was dead before the policeman on point duty in Waterloo
Road, who had heard the shots, came upon the scene.

He had been shot in his tracks on a night of snow and storm and none saw
the murder.

When they got him to the mortuary and searched his clothes they found
nothing except a little tin box of white powder which proved to be
cocaine, and a playing card--the Jack of Clubs!

His associates had called him "Snow" Gregory because he was a doper, and
cocaine is invariably referred to as "snow" by all its votaries. He was
a gambler too, and he had been associated with Colonel Dan Boundary in
certain of his business enterprises. That was all. The colonel knew
nothing of the young man's antecedents except that he had been an Oxford
man who had come down in the world. The colonel added a few particulars
designed, as it might seem to the impartial observer, to prove that he,
the colonel, had ever been an uplifting quantity. (This colonelcy was an
honorary title which he held by custom rather than by law.)

There were people who said that "Snow" Gregory, in his more exalted
moments, talked too much for the colonel's comfort, but people were very
ready to talk unkindly of the colonel, whose wealth was an offence and a
shame.

So they buried "Snow" Gregory, the unknown, and a jury of his
fellow-countrymen returned a verdict of "Wilful murder against some
person or persons unknown."

And that was the end of a sordid tragedy, it seemed, until three months
later there dawned upon Colonel Boundary's busy life a brand new and
alarming factor.

One morning there arrived at his palatial flat in Albemarle Place a
letter. This he opened because it was marked "Private and Personal." It
was not a letter at all--as it proved--but a soiled and stained playing
card, the Knave of Clubs.

He looked at the thing in perplexity, for the fate of his erstwhile
assistant had long since passed from his mind. Then he saw writing on
the margin of the card, and twisting it sideways read:

"JACK O' JUDGMENT."

Nothing more!

"Jack o' Judgment!"

The colonel screwed up his tired eyes as if to shut out a vision.

"Faugh!" he said in disgust and dropped the pasteboard into his
waste-paper basket.

For he had seen a vision--a white face, unshaven and haggard, its lips
parted in a little grin, the smile of "Snow" Gregory on the last time
they had met.

Later came other cards and unpleasant, not to say disconcerting
happenings, and the colonel, taking counsel with himself, determined to
kill two birds with one stone.

It was a daring and audacious thing to have done, and none but Colonel
Dan Boundary would have taken the risk. He knew better than anybody else
that Stafford King had devoted the whole of his time for the past three
years to smashing the Boundary Gang. He knew that this grave young man
with the steady, grey eyes, who sat on the other side of the big Louis
XV table in the ornate private office of the Spillsbury Syndicate, had
won his way to the chief position in the Criminal Intelligence
Department by sheer genius, and that he was, of all men, the most to be
feared.

No greater contrast could be imagined than that which was presented
between the two protagonists--the refined, almost æsthetic chief of
police on the one hand, the big commanding figure of the redoubtable
colonel on the other.

Boundary with his black hair parted in the centre of his sleek head, his
big weary eyes, his long, yellow walrus moustache, his double chin, his
breadth and girth, his enormous hairy hands, now laid upon the table,
might stand for force, brutal, remorseless, untiring. He stood for
cunning too--the cunning of the stalking tiger.

Stafford was watching him with dispassionate interest. He may have been
secretly amused at the man's sheer daring, but if he was, his
inscrutable face displayed no such emotion.

"I dare say, Mr. King," said the colonel, in his slow, heavy way, "you
think it is rather remarkable in all the circumstances that I should ask
for you? I dare say," he went on, "my business associates will think the
same, considering all the unpleasantness we have had."

Stafford King made no reply. He sat erect, alert and watchful.

"Give a dog a bad name and hang him," said the colonel sententiously.
"For twenty years I've had to fight the unjust suspicions of my enemies.
I've been libelled," he shook his head sorrowfully. "I don't suppose
there's anybody been libelled more than me--and my business associates.
I've had the police nosing--I mean investigating--into my affairs, and
I'll be straight with you, Mr. Stafford King, and tell you that when it
came to my ears and the ears of my business associates, that you had
been put on the job of watching poor old Dan Boundary, I was glad."

"Is that intended as a compliment?" asked Stafford, with the faintest
suspicion of a smile.

"Every way," said the colonel emphatically. "In the first place, Mr.
King, I know that you are the straightest and most honest police
official in England, and possibly in the world. All I want is justice.
My life is an open book, which courts the fullest investigation."

He spread out his huge hands as though inviting an even closer
inspection than had been afforded him hitherto.

Mr. Stafford King made no reply. He knew, very well he knew, the stories
which had been told about the Boundary Gang. He knew a little and
guessed a lot about its extraordinary ramifications. He was well aware,
at any rate, that it was rich, and that this slow-speaking man could
command millions. But he was far from desiring to endorse the colonel's
inferred claim as to the purity of his business methods.

He leant a little forward.

"I am sure you didn't send for me to tell me all about your hard lot,
colonel," he said, a little ironically.

The colonel shook his head.

"I wanted to get to know you," he said with fine frankness. "I've heard
a lot about you, Mr. King. I am told you do nothing but specialise on
the Boundary enterprises, and I tell you, sir, that you can't know too
much about me, nor can I know too much about you."

He paused.

"But you're quite right when you say that I didn't ask you to come
here--and a great honour it is for a big police chief to spare time to
see me--to discuss the past. It is the present I want to talk to you
about."

Stafford King nodded.

"I'm a law-abiding citizen," said the colonel unctuously, "and anything
I can do to assist the law, why, I'm going to do it. I wrote you on this
matter about a fortnight ago."

He opened a drawer and took out a large envelope embossed with a
monogram of the Spillsbury Syndicate. This he opened and extracted a
plain playing-card. It was a white-backed card of superfine texture,
gilt-edged, and bore a familiar figure.

"The Knave of Clubs," said Stafford King lifting his eyes.

"The Jack of Clubs," said the colonel gravely; "that is its name I
understand, for I am not a gambling man."

He did not bat a lid nor did Stafford King smile.

"I remember," said the detective chief, "you received one before. You
wrote to my department about it."

The colonel nodded.

"Read what's written underneath."

King lifted the card nearer to his eyes. The writing was almost
microscopic and read:

"Save crime, save worry, save all unpleasantness. Give back the property
you stole from Spillsbury."

It was signed "Jack o' Judgment."

King put the card down and looked across at the colonel.

"What happened after the last card came?" he asked, "there was a
burglary or something, wasn't there?"

"The last card," said the colonel, clearing his throat, "contained a
diabolical and unfounded charge that I and my business associates had
robbed Mr. George Fetter, the Manchester merchant, of £60,000 by means
of card tricks--a low practice of which I would not be guilty nor would
any of my business associates. My friends and myself knowing nothing of
any card game, we of course refused to pay Mr. Fetter, and I am sure Mr.
Fetter would be the last person who would ask us to do so. As a matter
of fact, he did give us bills for £60,000, but that was in relation to a
sale of property. I cannot imagine that Mr. Fetter would ever take money
from us or that he knew of this business--I hope not, because he seems a
very respectable--gentleman."

The detective looked at the card again.

"What is this story of the Spillsbury deal?" he asked.

"What is that story of the Spillsbury deal?" said the colonel.

He had a trick of repeating questions--it was a trick which frequently
gave him a very necessary breathing space.

"Why, there's nothing to it. I bought the motor works in Coventry. I
admit it was a good bargain. There's no law against making a profit. You
know what business is."

The detective knew what business was. But Spillsbury was young and wild,
and his wildness assumed an unpleasant character. It was the kind of
wildness which people do not talk about--at least, not nice people. He
had inherited a considerable fortune, and the control of four factories,
the best of which was the one under discussion.

"I know Spillsbury," said the detective, "and I happen to know
Spillsbury's works. I also know that he sold you a property worth
£300,000 in the open market for a sum which was grossly
inadequate--£30,000, was it not?"

"£35,000," corrected the colonel. "There's no law against making a
bargain," he repeated.

"You've been very fortunate with your bargains."

Stafford King rose and picked up his hat.

"You bought Transome's Hotel from young Mrs. Rachemeyer for a sum which
was less than a twentieth of its worth. You bought Lord Bethon's slate
quarries for £12,000--their value in the open market was at least
£100,000. For the past fifteen years you have been acquiring property at
an amazing rate--and at an amazing price."

The colonel smiled.

"You're paying me a great compliment, Mr. Stafford King," he said with a
touch of sarcasm, "and I will never forget it. But don't let us get away
from the object of your coming. I am reporting to you, as a police
officer, that I have been threatened by a blackguard, a thief, and very
likely a murderer. I will not be responsible for any action I may
take--Jack o' Judgment indeed!" he growled.

"Have you ever seen him?" asked Stafford.

The colonel frowned.

"He's alive, ain't he?" he growled. "If I'd seen him, do you think he'd
be writing me letters? It is your job to pinch him. If you people down
at Scotland Yard spent less time poking into the affairs of honest
business men----"

Stafford King was smiling now, frankly and undisguisedly. His grey eyes
were creased with silent laughter.

"Colonel, you have _some_ nerve!" he said admiringly, and with no other
word he left the room.