The Hangman's Knot

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”-1

Chapter I.—“Sowing the Wind.”Man is always an animal, and civilisation, culture, and the conventions of society are but the mask that covers over the face of the beast. Sometimes the mask is lifted and then we gaze upon expressions more terrible than those of any creature of the wild, because of the resentment of the beast at the restraints that have been imposed upon him.

* * *

Ah Chung was a marine store dealer on Limehouse Causeway, and from the outward appearance of his shop it was no different from any others of its kind by the river side. In the big shed, however, at the far end of the backyard, happenings occurred that were unknown except to a very few, and which would have been of great interest to the police, if by any chance they had come to their knowledge.

The shed was roomy and most substantially built. It had double doors, double windows, and was completely sound-proof.

The marine store, notwithstanding its rather small size, did a good trade, and there were always customers passing in and out. Ah Chung had, however, several other sources of income, and indeed was quite well-to-do. Although people were not aware of the fact, he owned the houses on either side of the one he lived in, and also the barber's shop that abutted on to his yard at the back, and opened into Rent Street. There were hidden means of communication between all the four houses.

The houses adjoining Ah Chung's shop were managed by relations of Ah Chung. One was a lodging-house, and the other a bird and live-stock shop. In this latter, in addition to parrots, canaries, ducks, and even the humble fowl, you could purchase animals drawn from all parts of the world. Monkeys were always obtainable and sometimes wallabies, and occasionally, even a mongoose. There were cats of all varieties in cages, and a number of dogs, the latter, however, were usually of large size, and evidently intended for watch-dogs, rather than for pets.

The tenant of the barber's shop was a Swiss, named Voisin, and like the majority of his country-men he was taciturn and short of speech. He said little as he cut hair and shaved, but nevertheless took good stock of all his customers as they came in, as if instead of being a barber, he were a medical man and studying all their cases. He had served a term of imprisonment in his own country and in this, the country of his adoption, he had also reason for fearing the police. Occasionally he used to visit Ah Chung late at night, and in the intervals of discussing business, endeavour to make himself agreeable to the latter's two young and pretty wives. The girls, however, spoke no French or German and little English, being both recent importations, and they only giggled at his clumsy advances.

In a friendly way, Ah Chung was well-known to the police, and, indeed, was held by them in some esteem. He was marked as straight at headquarters, for he had many times been of service to the authorities in putting them upon the tracks of dealers in illicit drugs. He was never, however, seen to approach any police station, but from time to time a neatly typed letter would arrive at the station in Limehouse, with a dot and two dashes instead of a signature, and it would be known from whom it came. It would give certain information, and that information would invariably prove to be correct. Ah Chung was paid for these services, and he expected to be, too, for it was at all times, he averred, a risk to be having dealings with the police. He was most businesslike in all his transactions, and quick in his decisions always knew his own mind.

One day an enterprising and energetic plain-clothes man, McCarthy by name, came into the shop, and with the pretence of inspecting a coil of rope, put some questions to Ah Chung about the barber, Voisin.

“I'm getting suspicious,” he whispered, “for I've noticed that some nights he gets a lot of callers after his place is shut. Do you know anything about him?”

Ah Chung's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx. “I have never seen him,” he lied softly. He spoke perfect English. “I know nothing.”

The plain-clothes man laughed. “Well, you be careful,” he said, “and don't start sticking a knife into me, if you catch me one night in your back-yard. I may climb up on to his roof that way and take a peep through the sky-light.”

Two nights later McCarthy did not return home, and later it was believed he had fallen into the river and got drowned, although his body was never recovered. Ah Chung heard of his disappearance, but made no comment. He had just been examining a police whistle under a powerful magnifying-glass to see if there were any distinguishing marks upon it, and finding there were none, had polished it up and put it into stock. He never believed in wasting anything.

Upon certain nights gatherings were held in the big shed and then for an unknown person to enter, it was many times more difficult than to obtain an invitation for the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. The visitors arrived through any of the four houses, and they nearly always came alone, as single units. Their hats, too, were generally pressed low down upon their foreheads and the collars of their coats turned up. They seldom spoke to one another, and when they left they were escorted out, one by one.

Ah Chung catered for one of the by products of civilisation that can be found in any of the big cities of the world, the educated and cultured depraved, who with all outward appearance of refinement, yet so gloat upon the infliction of suffering that no forms of cruelty fail to be appreciated, or are too strong for their palates.

* * *

Ah Chung was not aware that there was a scientific name for this cult, and that it was one, well recognised, among the classes of degenerates. All he knew was that he supplied a want and was well paid for doing so. It had taken him many years to build up the connection, and he had made the circle most exclusive, a guinea being the invariable charge for admission.

The interior of the shed was arranged in the form of a miniature theatre, the stage, however, being in the middle. Well-cushioned seats, in three tiers, surrounded a large rat pit at the bottom. The pit was 12ft. square, and either inside, or upon a platform that could be speedily placed in position upon it, were staged the dramas that were so gratifying to Ah Chung's patrons. Save for the faint and diffused rays that escaped from a closely hooded arc-light that was swung directly over the pit, the whole place was always in darkness.

The events of the evening generally commenced with a score or so of large rats being introduced into the pit, to be followed by one or more excited and yelping fox-terriers, but in order that the enjoyment of the audience might be prolonged and the full flavour of everything obtained, the dogs were always muzzled. The muzzles, however, were provided at their ends with a short spike of a needle-like sharpness.

Then would follow an interesting ten minutes or quarter of an hour, until finally the unhappy rodents had been either bruised or spiked to death, not however, without having inflicted visible injuries upon the victorious terriers. Red shows up well upon a background of white.

Sometimes, instead of terriers, a cat would be introduced to deal with three or four rats, and then great enjoyment would be experienced by the playfulness with which she would pass from one rat to another, before giving them the final despatch.

Again, a muzzled cat, with her claws closely trimmed, would be put into the pit and two or three monkeys would provide entertainment by jumping upon her and plucking out handfuls of her fur.

Later, a platform would be thrown over the pit, and a huge cage placed in position, a fight between two large and savage dogs would be shown, or a series of c**k-fights, or upon rare occasions an encounter between an ape and a dog.

Then the seats upon one side of the shed would be vacated and with Ah Chung's cinematograph coming into play, pictures smuggled into the country from all parts of the world would be thrown upon the screen. It but faintly suggests their nature to state that no censor upon earth would have passed them, either for public or private view, for apart from those of a wholly unmentionable kind, they always depicted incidents of horror or brutality.

And when everything was all over, Ah Chung, placid and respectful as a well-trained gentleman's servant, would stand by the door, and as he collected p*****t, whisper the date of the next meeting, and often add that he was expecting then to have something yet more interesting to show.

* * *

One night after one of these gatherings, when the chimes of midnight were just sounding, a well-dressed man alighted from a taxi-cab in Cavendish Square, and proceeded to walk briskly along until he came to a house at the junction of Wimpole and Queen Anne Streets. Taking a latch-key from his pocket, he was about to insert it in the door when he was accosted by another man, who came gliding up like a shadow from the area railings, where he had evidently been waiting, of set purpose.

“Professor Batcher, I believe,” said this second man, and receiving a cold nod in answer, he asked. “Can I speak to you for a few minutes?”

“Speak,” was the curt rejoinder, and the professor immediately slipped the hand that had been holding the latch-key into one of the side pockets of his overcoat.

“But I should like to have the few words with you inside your house,” said the other. He lowered his voice, and added, “I, too, was at Ah Chung's to-night.”

The professor gave an almost imperceptible start, but he replied quite steadily, “I don't understand. I don't know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes you do,” came the quick response, “and although I always wear dark glasses at Ah Chung's, you will recognise me at once. See,” the speaker snapped a little electric torch full on to his own face for a few seconds. “It was I,” he went on, “who asked you for a match to-night, just when that bulldog had got the Alsatian by the throat.”

A moment's silence followed upon the torch being extinguished, and then the professor asked sharply, “Well, what do you want?”

“I have a proposition to put before you,” replied the man with the torch. He shook his head quickly. “No, you needn't be afraid. It's not money I'm after, for I've plenty of that, and I'm not connected with the police. It's a comrade I am looking for, and I should never have dared to approach you, if I had not been certain that you were a suitable one.”

“How did you learn my name?” asked the professor, and there was nothing in the sternness of his tone to suggest that the explanation had in any way tended to inspire confidence in him.

“In the same way that I have learned everything else about you,” laughed the man softly, “by extended and patient inquiries.” He spoke quickly. “I have been interested in you for many months. Your name is not Batcher. It is Libbeus, Joseph Libbeus, and you are a doctor of medicine, a graduate of London University. You are——”

“No, no,” broke in the professor angrily, “you are quite mistaken. You have been wrongly informed.”

“You are 39 years of age,” went on the stranger, as if he had not heard the interruption, “and ten years ago came under the notice of the police, when a woman patient of yours died. You were sentenced to five years' penal servitude, and your name was removed from the Medical Register. Upon your release from prison you went to Shanghai, but three years ago you returned to this country, and set up here as an expert upon diet and slimming. Nearly all of your patients are women, and you are doing well, but without being aware of your real identity, the police have recently become suspicious that you are engaged upon the same work that got you into trouble before. They have set two traps for you within the past five weeks, but you escaped them both and——”