The Missing Million

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

IN Room 375, at two o'clock punctually, the Big Three met in committee to discuss the profit and loss of the week. And invariably Bill Dicker was in the chair, and as invariably Jimmy Sepping acted as secretary, for he was the junior of the three. Miller, a dark, unemotional man, was the third.

Every week between the hours of two and four the Big Three discussed the week's "trading," examined profit and loss, compared plans for the coming week and passed under review the reports of subordinates.

No. 375 was not a very large office, and in spite of opened windows and electric fans the atmosphere was usually blue, for these men were great smokers of pipes— all except Sepping, who had a weakness for the brown cylinders of peace which Havana produces in large quantities.

On this bright May afternoon the sun was shining through the oriel windows, and there was a disposition on the part of the committee to let their eyes wander to the glittering river and the leisurely stream of traffic which passed up and down; to the vivid green of the spring foliage which fringed the broad boulevard of the Embankment; to the sweep of the County Council's gay new palace on the other side of the river— to anything except the trivialities which occupied or were designed to occupy their attention.

Only Bill Dicker, huddled up in his big chair at the head of the table, a picture of gloomy thought, never allowed his eyes to wander.

"What about that job at Greenwich?" asked the round-headed Miller, making a laudable attempt to galvanise the assembly into life.

"Harry Feld did that," replied Dicker sombrely. "By the way, Jimmy, you might mark the officer who sent the account to head-quarters; recommend him for promotion— he has probably got the necessary certificate. A smart man; the report he sent was a model of its kind. Yes, Feld did the robbery; he was pulled in this afternoon. Queer how these fellows specialise— Feld, I mean. He has never stolen anything in his life but bolts of cloth. I suppose he knows where to 'fence' it."

"The Hertford murder hasn't come on to our books?" asked Jimmy.

Dicker shook his head.

"They haven't asked for assistance. The Hertford police never call in head-quarters until they've let the trail get all trodden up."

Miller rose and stretched himself.

"That's about all, chief?" he asked. "By the way, we've located the factory where those American bills are made— but you had that in my report."

Bill Dicker nodded.

"I'm hoping we'll get this crowd, anyway. When Tony Frascati got away with a hundred thousand sterling we didn't shine, Joe. I still think that somebody at central office tipped him off."

There was no significance in his words; they were addressed to the room; it was almost as though he was speaking his thoughts aloud. But the dark face of Chief Inspector Miller flushed a deep red.

"I was in charge of the case, sir," he said stiffly, and when any of the Big Three addressed one another as "sir," there was trouble brewing. "We made every effort to catch Tony— I myself was at Dover watching the cross- Channel boats—"

"Surely," said Bill with one of his infrequent smiles. "It might have happened to any of us. Tony, being a forger on the grand scale, must have got one of our men squared. You couldn't help that, Joe. Anyway, Tony's dead— and it's seven years ago."

"I offered my resignation—" began Miller, but the other stopped him with a gesture.

"Forget it. We all have our failures. There is only one other matter," he said slowly, "and, Jimmy, you're interested in this: Kupie!"

"Lord, Bill, I forgot that you were going," said Jimmy in dismay. "And I wanted to talk to you about Kupie."

"And that was the one matter I wished to speak about," said Bill Dicker, rubbing his nose thoughtfully. "Kupie has to be stopped. You read what the Westminster coroner said about the Shale case? That's the second suicide this year, and there will be others. We can't have any idea how many people Kupie is after. I've been forty-three years in the police service, and I could count my failures on one hand. That sounds like boasting, but it isn't. There isn't a crook living that I've been after and haven't got. The four I didn't get are dead, anyway."

Chief Superintendent William Dicker spoke no more than the truth. Wherever convict met convict, they testified to his genius, his cunning, his ruthlessness. Men had walked dazed to the death house, the memory of his dour face present in their minds, even with the dangling rope before their eyes, his last grim jest overriding the whispered exhortations of the surpliced minister who attended them.

It was to Bill Dicker, who served before the mast of a windjammer for nine hellish months before rounding the Horn on the homeward trip, that Charles Barser, the bos'n, confided his share in the Telmark murder. Barser was drunk, and it was in the middle watch, when men are not normal— but he went to the gallows on Bill Dicker's evidence. "But Kupie has me rattled," he went on in his slow way. "It is a reproach to the police that this should be so, even though only a few of his victims have squealed."

"There won't be so many more squealing either," said Jimmy, lighting his cigar again. "Do you remember that City man that came here and wanted us to get back the letters he'd written to a chorus girl?"

"He hasn't been since— what happened?" asked Dicker.

"Kupie had the letters reproduced and printed. Every pal of his had a copy— his wife, his mother, his business associates, banker— everybody that counted. Kupie only circularised one of the letters— the City man paid. I had Collett up here to-day— Lawford Collett, the lawyer who had the case in hand. He says he advised the fellow not to pay a cent, but he's settled: cost him eight thousand. That is the new terror which he has introduced."

"Are there any fresh cases?" asked Dicker.

"Walton— but that isn't fresh," said Jimmy. "He has my poor friend rattled too. By the way, Miller," he turned suddenly to the dark-visaged man on his right, "you don't know Walton, do you?"

"Slightly," said the other.

"Have you ever spoken to him?"

"I may have done— why?"

There was resentment in his tone.

"He was telling me that somebody had advised him to take Kupie seriously. Somebody who seems to have pitched a ghost story about Kupie's omnipotence."

Miller's face was dark.

"I don't know what you mean by 'ghost story,'" he said sharply. "I certainly advised Mr. Walton to take a certain action which had been suggested to him. If you think Kupie—"

"Now, you fellows, don't snarl at one another," Bill Dicker interrupted. "I've a great respect for the power of Kupie: he has surely a fund of information about people—"

He stopped as the door opened and a uniformed constable came in, a letter in his hand.

"For me?" said Miller. He tore open the envelope and took out two sheets of typewritten matter. Dicker was talking to Jimmy when he heard the cry, and spun round. Miller was standing by the window, one hand at his throat, the other grasping the letter. His saturnine face was dead white, his eyes staring wildly.

"For God's sake!" said Bill Dicker, springing to the man's side. "What's wrong, Miller?"

Miller shook his head.

"Nothing... nothing," he said huskily. "Excuse me..."

He went out quickly; they heard the door of his room close, and the two men looked at one another.

"What's the matter with Miller— bad news?" Jimmy shook his head helplessly.

"I don't know. He isn't married, so it can't be family trouble. You know what he is; he never takes you into his—"

He stopped. The sound of the shot came distinctly, and in another second he was across the passage and was at Miller's door. It was locked. "Pass- key," said Dicker tersely, and Jimmy fled down the corridor. He was back almost immediately and Dicker unlocked the door and threw it wide open.

A thin blue wisp of smoke hung in the air, moving slowly. On the hearthrug lay Miller, a revolver clenched in his hand.

Jimmy saw the burning paper in the grate, and, stooping, blew out the flame. Only one particle of the paper remained.

"He's dead," said Dicker. "What's that? Break off the unburnt bit— we'll have the ashes photographed."

Jimmy Sepping laid the charred scrap on the desk, and in seven words and a half-burnt picture it told its story.

Fifty thousand

Tony Fra

Escape

Banked

Norwich

Beneath was a part of the letter K.

"He banked at Norwich— I know that," said Dicker, and put his foot on the ashes in the grate. "And he let Tony go for half the loot; I guessed that too. And Kupie knew it."

He struck a match and burnt the scrap of paper. When it was ashes he dropped it into the grate.

"Never mind about that photographer, Jimmy," he said. "We'd better say he'd been strange in his manner lately— the service must come first."

He stooped and patted the dead man's shoulder.

"Poor fellow!" he said gently. "I'll get Kupie, Miller, and get him good!"