The Fourth Plague by Edgar Wallace Page B

Carter,” he said briefly; “he is an out-of-work plumber, unmarried, without family, and prepared to take risks. You have been in the army, I think?” he said.
    The newcomer nodded. He sat uneasily on the edge of his chair as though unused to good society, and with obvious embarrassment.
    â€œI advertised,” Tillizini went on, “for a man who was willing to risk his life; I’m paying him two hundred pounds, and he is earning it.”
    Crocks was mystified.
    â€œExactly what does he do?” he asked.
    â€œThat,” said Tillizini, with a slow smile, “is exactly what he does not know.”
    He turned to the other man, who grinned sheepishly.
    â€œI carry out instructions,” he said, “and I’ve had a hundred pounds.”
    â€œLucid enough, Mr. Crocks; he does nothing except live in a lodging in Soho, make his way to a wharf over there,” he pointed out of the window, “every evening at about this hour, signal to me a fairly unintelligible message, and afterwards walk slowly across Westminster Bridge, along the Embankment, up Vilhers Street, and so to my house.”
    He paced the room with long swinging strides.
    â€œHe has taken his life in his hands, and he knows it,” he said. “I have told him that he will probably be assassinated, but that does not deter him.”
    â€œIn these hard times,” said the soldier, “a little thing like that doesn’t worry you; it is better to be assassinated than to be starved to death, and I have been out of work for twelve months until Mr. Tillizini gave me this job.”
    â€œHe receives two hundred pounds,” Tillizini went on, “by contract. I have paid him one hundred, I shall pay him another hundred to-night and his expenses. Probably,” he said, with a little smile, “he may escape with minor injuries, in which case I shall congratulate him heartily.”
    He turned briskly to the man.
    â€œNow let me have all the papers you have got in that pocket. Put them on the table.”
    The man dived into his various pockets and produced scraps of paper, memorandum, pocket-books—all the literary paraphernalia of his class.
    From his pocket Tillizini took the phial he had removed from the medicine chest. He unstoppered it, and a pungent, sickly odour filled the room. With the moist tip of the stopper he touched each article the man had laid on the table.
    â€œYou will get used to the smell,” he said, with a smile; “you won’t notice it after a while.”
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Crocks, curiously.
    â€œYou will be surprised when I tell you,” said the other. “It is double distilled attar of roses, the vilest smell in the world in its present stage, and this bottle I have in my hand is worth commercially, twenty-five pounds.”
    At a nod from Tillizini, Carter gathered up his papers and replaced them in his pockets.
    â€œYou have a revolver?” asked the professor.
    â€œYes, sir,” replied the man. “I’m just getting used to it. I don’t understand these automatic pistols, but I went down to Wembley the other day and had some practice.”
    â€œI hope that no occasion will arise for you to have practice nearer at hand,” said Tillizini, dryly.
    He rang the bell, and the servant came.
    â€œGet Mr. Carter some supper,” he ordered. He nodded to the man as he left.
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this?” asked Crocks.
    â€œThat you shall see,” said the other.
    â€œBut I don’t understand,” said the bewildered detective. “Why should you give this man so large a sum to do nothing more than send electric signals to you every evening?”
    Tillizini sat down at his desk.
    â€œMr. Crocks,” he said, “it would be false modesty on my part if I pretended that my movements escape the notice of the ‘Red Hand.’ I am perfectly satisfied in my own mind that I do not go in or