Chapter 3

THE FROG

IT was growing dark when the two tramps, skirting the village of Morby,
came again to the post road. The circumvention of Morby had been a
painful and tiring business, for the rain which had been falling all day
had transformed the ploughed fields into glutinous brown seas that made
walking a test of patience.

One was tall, unshaven, shabby, his faded brown coat was buttoned to his
chin, his sagged and battered hat rested on the back of his head. His
companion seemed short by comparison, though he was a well-made,
broad-shouldered man, above the average height.

They spoke no word as they plodded along the muddy road. Twice the
shorter man stopped and peered backward in the gathering darkness, as
though searching for a pursuer, and once he clutched the big man’s arm
and drew him to hiding behind the bushes that fringed the road. This was
when a car tore past with a roar and a splattering of liquid mud.

After a while they turned off the road, and crossing a field, came to
the edge of a wild waste of land traversed by an ancient cart track.

“We’re nearly there,” growled the smaller man, and the other grunted.
But for all his seeming indifference, his keen eyes were taking in every
detail of the scene. Solitary building on the horizon . . . looked like
a barn. Essex County (he guessed this from the indicator number on the
car that had passed); waste land probably led to a disused clay pit
. . . or was it quarry? There was an old notice-board fixed to a groggy
post near the gate through which the cart track passed. It was too dark
to read the faded lettering, but he saw the word “lime.” Limestone? It
would be easy to locate.

The only danger was if the Frogs were present in force. Under cover of
his overcoat, he felt for the Browning and slipped it into his overcoat
pocket.

If the Frogs were in strength, there might be a tough fight. Help there
was none. He never expected there would be. Carlo had picked him up on
the outskirts of the city in his disreputable car, and had driven him
through the rain, tacking and turning, following secondary roads,
avoiding towns and hamlets, so that, had he been sitting by the driver’s
side, he might have grown confused. But he was not. He was sitting in
the darkness of the little van, and saw nothing. Wellingdale, with the
shadows who had been watching him, had not been prepared for the car. A
tramp with a motor-car was a monstrosity. Even Genter himself was taken
aback when the car drew up to the pavement where he was waiting, and the
voice of Carlo hissed, “Jump in!”

They crossed the crest of a weed-grown ridge. Below, Genter saw a
stretch of ground littered with rusting trollies, twisted Decourville
rails, and pitted with deep, rain-filled holes. Beyond, on the sharp
line of the quarry’s edge, was a small wooden hut, and towards this
Carlo led the way.

“Not nervous, are you?” he asked, and there was a sneer in his voice.

“Not very,” said the other coolly. “I suppose the fellows are in that
shack?”

Carlo laughed softly.

“There are no others,” he said, “only the Frog himself. He comes up the
quarry face—there’s a flight of steps that come up under the hut. Good
idea, eh? The hut hangs over the edge, and you can’t even see the steps,
not if you hang over. I tried once. They’d never catch him, not if they
brought forty million cops.”

“Suppose they surrounded the quarry?” suggested Genter, but the man
scoffed.

“Wouldn’t he know it was being surrounded before he came in? He knows
everything, does the Frog.”

He looked down at the other’s hand.

“It won’t hurt,” he said, “and it’s worth it if it does! You’ll never be
without a friend again, Harry. If you get into trouble, there’s always
the best lawyer to defend you. And you’re the kind of chap we’re looking
for—there is plenty of trash. Poor fools that want to get in for the
sake of the pickings. But you’ll get big work, and if you do a special
job for him, there’s hundreds and hundreds of money for you! If you’re
hungry or ill, the Frogs will find you out and help you. That’s pretty
good, ain’t it?”

Genter said nothing. They were within a dozen yards of the hut now, a
strong structure built of stout timber bulks, with one door and a
shuttered window.

Motioning Genter to remain where he was, the man called Carlo went
forward and tapped on the door. Genter heard a voice, and then he saw
the man step to the window, and the shutter open an inch. There followed
a long conversation in an undertone, and then Carlo came back.

“He says he has a job for you that will bring in a thousand—you’re
lucky! Do you know Rochmore?”

Genter nodded. He knew that aristocratic suburb.

“There’s a man there that has got to be coshed. He comes home from his
club every night by the eleven-five. Walks to his house. It is up a dark
road, and a fellow could get him with a club without trouble. Just one
smack and he’s finished. It’s not killing, you understand.”

“Why does he want me to do it?” asked the tall tramp curiously.

The explanation was logical.

“All new fellows have to do something to show their pluck and
straightness. What do you say?”

Genter had not hesitated.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

Carlo returned to the window, and presently he called his companion.

“Stand here and put your left arm through the window,” he ordered.

Genter pulled back the cuff of his soddened coat and thrust his bare arm
through the opening. His hand was caught in a firm grip, and immediately
he felt something soft and wet pressed against his wrist. A rubber
stamp, he noted mentally, and braced himself for the pain which would
follow. It came, the rapid pricking of a thousand needles, and he
winced. Then the grip on his hand relaxed and he withdrew it, to look
wonderingly on the blurred design of ink and blood that the tattooer had
left.

“Don’t wipe it,” said a muffled voice from the darkness of the hut. “Now
you may come in.”

The shutter closed and was bolted. Then came the snick of a lock turning
and the door opened. Genter went into the pitch-black darkness of the
hut and heard the door locked by the unseen occupant.

“Your number is K 971,” said the hollow voice. “When you see that in the
personal column of _The Times_, you report here, wherever you are. Take
that. . . .”

Genter put out his hand and an envelope was placed in his outstretched
palm. It was as though the mysterious Frog could see, even in that
blackness.

“There is journey money and a map of the district. If you spend the
journey money, or if you fail to come when you are wanted, you will be
killed. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“You will find other money—that you can use for your expenses. Now
listen. At Rochmore, 17 Park Avenue, lives Hallwell Jones, the
banker——”

He must have sensed the start of surprise which the recruit gave.

“You know him?”

“Yes—worked for him years ago,” said Genter.

Stealthily, he drew his Browning from his pocket and thumbed down the
safety catch.

“Between now and Friday he has to be clubbed. You need not kill him. If
you do, it doesn’t matter. I expect his head’s too hard——”

Genter located the man now, and, growing accustomed to the darkness,
guessed rather than saw the bulk of him. Suddenly his hand shot out and
grasped the arm of the Frog.

“I’ve got a gun and I’ll shoot,” he said between his teeth. “I want you,
Frog! I am Inspector Genter from police headquarters, and if you resist
I’ll kill you!”

For a second there was a deathly silence. Then Genter felt his pistol
wrist seized in a vice-like grip. He struck out with his other hand, but
the man stooped and the blow fell in the air, and then with a wrench the
pistol was forced out of the big man’s hand and he closed with his
prisoner. So doing, his face touched the Frog’s. Was it a mask he was
wearing? . . . The cold mica goggles came against his cheek. That
accounted for the muffled voice. . . .

Powerful as he was, he could not break away from the arms which
encircled him, and they struggled backward and forward in the darkness.

Suddenly the Frog lifted his foot, and Genter, anticipating the kick,
swerved round. There was a crash of broken glass, and then something
came to the detective—a faint but pungent odour. He tried to breathe,
but found himself strangling, and his arms fell feebly by his side.

The Frog held him for a minute, and then let the limp figure fall with a
thud to the ground. In the morning a London police patrol found the body
of Inspector Genter lying in the garden of an empty house, and rang for
an ambulance. But a man who has been gassed by the concentrated fumes of
hydrocyanic acid dies very quickly, and Genter had been dead ten seconds
after the Frog smashed the thin glass cylinder which he kept in the hut
for such emergencies as these.