The Black Gang

The wind howled dismally round a house standing by itself almost on the shores of Barking Creek. It was the grey dusk of an early autumn day, and the occasional harsh cry of a seagull rising discordantly above the wind alone broke the silence of the flat, desolate waste.

The house seemed deserted. Every window was shuttered; the garden was uncared for and a mass of weeds; the gate leading on to the road, apparently feeling the need of a deficient top hinge, propped itself drunkenly on what had once been a flowerbed. A few gloomy trees swaying dismally in the wind surrounded the house and completed the picture⁠—one that would have caused even the least imaginative of men to draw his coat a little tighter round him, and feel thankful that it was not his fate to live in such a place.

But then few people ever came near enough to the house to realize its sinister appearance. The road⁠—it was little better than a cart track⁠—which passed the gate, was out of the beaten way; only an occasional fisherman or farm labourer ever used it, and that generally by day when things assumed their proper proportion, and it was merely an empty house gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention. At night they avoided it if possible; folks did say that twelve years ago some prying explorer had found the bones of a skeleton

In the doorway stood a huge man covered from head to foot in black. In each hand he held a revolver, with which he covered the eight occupants during the second or two which it took for half a dozen similarly disguised men to file past him, and take up their positions round the walls. And Waldock, a little more educated than the remainder of his friends, found himself thinking of old tales of the Spanish Inquisition and the Doges of Venice even as he huddled a little nearer to the table.

“Stand by the table, all of you.”

It was the man at the door who spoke in a curiously deep voice, and like sheep they obeyed him⁠—all save Flash Jim. For that worthy, crook though he was, was not without physical courage. The police he knew better than to play the fool with, but these were not the police.

“Wot the⁠—” he snarled, and got no further.

Something hit him behind the head, a thousand stars danced before his eyes, and with a strangled grunt he crashed forward on his face.

For a moment or two there was silence, and then once again the man at the door spoke.

“Arrange the specimens in a row.”

In a second the seven remaining men were marshalled in a line, while behind them stood six motionless black figures. And then the big man walked slowly down in front of them, peering into each man’s face. He spoke no word until he reached the end of the line, and then, his inspection concluded, he stepped back and leaned against the wall facing them.

“To think of an old bird like you, Mac,” it ran, “going and showing yourself up in a chink of light. You must tell Mrs. Mac to get some more cushions. There were only enough in the parlour for you and Andrews. I have taken Zaboleff and Waldock, and I dropped Flash Jim in Piccadilly Circus. I flogged two of the others whose method of livelihood failed to appeal to me; the remaining small fry I turned loose. Cheer oh! old son. The fellow in St. James’s makes wonderful pick-me-ups for the morning after. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Idly Sir Bryan studied the note, holding it up to the light to see if there was any watermark on the paper which might help.

“That I can quite imagine,” returned Drummond grimly. “But since you’re so reticent I will tell you. This afternoon you made arrangements, perfect in every detail, to blow up the main power station of the Greystone works.” The man in the bed started violently. “The result of that would have been to throw some three thousand men out of work for at least a couple of months.”

“It’s a lie,” said Latter thickly.

“Your object in so doing was obvious,” continued Drummond. “Money. I don’t know how much, and I didn’t know who from⁠—until last night.” And now Latter was swallowing hard, and clutching the bedclothes with hands that shook like leaves.

“You saw me last night, Mr. Latter, didn’t you? And I found out your headquarters⁠ ⁠…”

“In God’s name⁠—who are you?” His voice rose almost to a scream. “Aren’t you the police?”

“No⁠—I am not.” He was coming nearer, and Latter cowered back, mouthing. “I am not the police, you wretched thing: I am the leader of the Black Gang.”

Latter felt the other’s huge hands on him, and struggled like a puny child, whimpering, half sobbing. He writhed and squirmed as a gag was forced into his mouth: then he felt a rope cut his wrists as they were lashed behind his back. And all the while the other went on speaking in a calm, leisurely voice.

“The leader of the Black Gang, Mr. Latter: the gang that came into existence to exterminate things like you. Ever since the war you poisonous reptiles have been at work stirring up internal trouble in this country. Not one in ten of you believe what you preach: your driving force is money and your own advancement.

Some ten minutes later he emerged from the bathroom carefully carrying a saucer in his hand. The girl’s announcement that Number 13 had started at once had been received with a satisfied grunt, but he had spoken no word. And the girl, glancing through the door, saw him with his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, carefully mixing two liquids together and stirring the result gently with a glass rod. He was completely absorbed in his task, and with a faint smile on her face she went back to the sofa and waited. She knew too well the futility of speaking to him on such occasions. Even when he came in, carrying the result of his labours with a pair of india-rubber gloves on his hands, she made no remark, but waited for him to relieve her curiosity.

He placed the mixture on the table and glanced round the room. Then he pulled up one of the ordinary stuff armchairs to the table and removed the linen headrest, which he carefully soaked with the contents of the saucer, dabbing the liquid on with a sponge, so as not to crumple the linen in any way. He used up all the liquid, and then, still with the same meticulous care, he replaced the headrest on the chair, and stood back and surveyed his handiwork.

“Look all right?” he asked briefly.

“Quite,” answered the girl. “What’s the game?”

“Drummond has got to sit in that chair,” he returned, removing the saucer and the sponge to the bathroom, and carefully peeling off his gloves.