The Fourth Plague by Edgar Wallace Page A

merciless. It is a word which to you signifies a certain unjust harshness, cruelty, perhaps. But, my friend…cruelty!” He laughed, a bitter little laugh. “You don’t know what cruelty is, not the type of cruelty which flourishes on the shores of the Adriatic. I won’t tell you, it would spoil your night’s sleep.”
    The detective smiled.
    â€œI know—a little,” he said quietly, puffing a cloud of smoke and watching it disperse with a thoughtful eye.
    â€œYour idea,” the professor continued, “is to catch them—very good. And when you have caught them to secure evidence against them—very good again,” he said drily; “one is as easy as the other. Now my view is that they are vermin, society’s rats, to be exterminated without trial and without remorse.”
    He spoke quietly; there was no trace of emotion in his voice nor in his gesture. The hand that went searching for a cigarette in the gold box was steady; yet Crocks, no sentimentalist, shivered.
    â€œI know that is your view,” he said, with a forced smile, “yet it is not the view which finds favour in this country; it is a view which would get you into serious trouble with the authorities and might even bring you to the Old Bailey on the capital charge.”
    The professor laughed—a low, musical laugh. He ran his fingers through his grey-streaked hair with a characteristic gesture, then sank into the padded chair by the desk.
    â€œWell!” he said briskly, “what have you discovered?”
    The detective shook his head.
    â€œNothing,” he said, “that is, nothing worth while. The gang is unreachable—the people who can give information are dumb brutes; they are either afraid, or in league with the ‘Red Hand.’ I’ve tried threatening them; I’ve tried bribing them; neither is of the least use.”
    Tillizini laughed softly.
    â€œAnd the ‘Red Hand’—have they made any further move?”
    The detective’s hand went to his pocket. He drew forth a bundle of papers enclosed in an elastic band. From this he extracted a letter.
    â€œThis has been addressed to the Sa’ Remo Ambassador,” he said. “I won’t trouble to read it to you; it is the usual sort of thing. Only this time it is a child who is threatened.”
    â€œA child!”
    Tillizini’s black brows met in an ugly frown. “That is their principal card,” he said slowly, “I wondered how long they would keep their hands off the children; what does he threaten, our unknown?”
    â€œAbduction first—murder afterwards, if the abduction fails.”
    Tillizini took the letter from the other’s hand and read it carefully. He held the paper to the light.
    â€œThis is the American gang—I thought we’d wiped them out, but it was evidently a bigger organization than I credited.”
    The musical little bell rang overhead. Tillizini raised his eyes, listening. After the shortest interval the bell rang again.
    The professor nodded. A big black box stood at one corner of the table—he unlocked it, the detective watching him curiously. With the turning of the key and the lifting of the lid, the front fell away, revealing three sedate rows of crystal phials.
    Tillizini took one from the front, slipped it in his pocket, then bent down and pressed the bell in the table.
    The door opened to admit a servant, followed by a fresh-coloured young man evidently of the working class. Crocks looked at him, saw he was an Englishman, and wondered in what way the two men had become acquainted. The young man accepted a seat at the invitation of Tillizini.
    â€œWell, my friend,” said the professor pleasantly, “you are willing to go on with this matter?”
    â€œYes sir,” said the other, firmly.
    Tillizini nodded.
    â€œI got your message,” he said. He turned to the detective.
    â€œThis man’s name is