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patient and long-suffering people, and had the

reeling figure been less vocal he might have passed on to his destination

without interference. For drunkenness in itself is not a crime according

to the law; a man must be incapable or create a disturbance, or obstruct

the police in the execution of their duty, before he offends. The

policeman had no intention of arresting the noisy wayfarer.

 

He walked into the middle of the road to intercept and quieten him; and

then discovered that the reveller was a black-faced comedian with

extravagant white lips, a ridiculous Eton collar and a shell coat. On his

head was a college cap, and this completed his outfit with the exception

of the banjo, with which he was making horrid sounds.

 

‘Hi, hi!’ said the policeman gently. ‘A little less noise, young fellow!’

 

Such an admonition would have been sufficient in most cases to have

reduced a midnight song-bird to apology, but this street waif stood

defiantly in the middle of the road, his legs apart, and invited the

officer to go to a warmer climate, and, not satisfied with this, he swung

his banjo, and brought it down with a crash on the policeman’s helmet.

 

‘You’ve asked for it!’ said the officer of the law and took his lawful

prey in a grip of iron.

 

By a coincidence, Jim Carlton was at Evory Street Station when the man

was brought in, singing not unmusically, and so obviously drunk that Jim

hardly turned his head or interrupted the conversation he was having with

the inspector on duty, to look at the charge. They made a rapid search of

the man, he resisting violently and at last, when they had extracted a

name (he refused his address) he was hustled between a policeman and a

jailer into the long corridor off which the cells are placed.

 

The door of Cell No. 7 was opened and into this he was pushed, struggling

to the last to maintain his banjo.

 

‘And,’ said the jailer when he came back to the charge-room, wiping his

perspiring brow, ‘the language that bud is using would turn a soldier

pale!’

 

The reason for Jim’s presence was to arrange a local supervision of

Greenhart House and to obtain certain assistance in the execution of a

plan which was running through his mind; and that task would have been

completed when the black-faced man was brought in, but that the officer

he had called to see was away. Jim lingered a little while, talking

police shop, before he paid his last visit to Sir Joseph’s house. He had

the inevitable reply: No News had reached Whitehall Gardens of the

Foreign Minister.

 

The man he came to see at Evory Street was due to appear at the police

court in the role of prosecutor and Jim strolled down to the court next

morning, arriving soon after the magistrate had taken his seat. There he

met the inspector from Evory Street. Before Jim could broach the subject

which had brought him, the inspector asked:

 

‘Were you at the station when that black-faced fellow was pulled in last

night?’

 

‘Yes, I remember the noisy gentleman,’ said Jim. ‘Why?’

 

The inspector shook his head, puzzled. ‘I can’t understand where he got

it from. The sergeant searched him carefully, but he must have had it

concealed in some place.’

 

‘What is the matter with him?’ asked Jim, only half interested.

 

‘Dope,’ said the other. ‘When the jailer went and called him this morning

it was as much as he could do to wake him up. In fact, he thought of

sending for the divisional surgeon. You never saw a sicker-looking man in

your life! Can’t get a word out of him. All he did was to sit on his bed

with his head in his hands, moaning. We had to shake him to get him into

the prison van.’

 

The first two cases were disposed of rapidly, and then a policeman

called: ‘John Smith,’ and there tottered into court the black-faced

comedian, a miserable object, so weak of knee that he had to be guided up

the steps into the steel-railed dock. Gone was the exhilaration of the

night before, and Jim had an unusual feeling of pity for the poor wretch

in his absurd clothes and black, shining face.

 

The magistrate looked over his glasses.

 

‘Why wasn’t this man allowed to wash his face before he came before me?’

he asked.

 

‘Couldn’t get him to do anything, sir,’ said the jailer, ‘and we haven’t

got the stuff to take off this make-up.’

 

The magistrate grumbled something, and the assaulted policeman stepped

into the box and took his oath to tell the truth and nothing but the

truth. He gave his stereotyped evidence and again the magistrate looked

at the drooping figure in the dock.

 

‘What have you to say, Smith?’ he asked.

 

The man did not raise his head.

 

‘Is anything known about him? I notice that his address is not on the

charge sheet.’

 

‘He refused his address, your Worship,’ said the inspector.

 

‘Remanded for inquiries!’

 

The jailer touched the prisoner’s arm and he looked up at him suddenly;

stared wildly round the court, and then:

 

‘May I ask what I am doing here?’ he asked in a husky voice, and Jim’s

jaw dropped.

 

For the black-faced man was Sir Joseph Layton!

CHAPTER 17

EVEN THE magistrate was startled, though he did not recognise the voice.

He was about to give an order for the removal of the man when Jim pushed

his way to his desk and whispered a few words.

 

‘Who?’ asked the magistrate. ‘Impossible!’

 

‘May I ask’—it was the prisoner speaking again—‘what is all this

about—I really do not understand.’

 

And then he swayed and would have fallen, but the jailer caught him in

his arms.

 

‘Take him out into my room.’ The magistrate was on his feet. ‘The court

stands adjourned for ten minutes,’ he said; and disappeared behind the

curtains into his office.

 

A few seconds later they brought in the limp figure of the prisoner and

laid him on a sofa.

 

‘Are you sure? You must be mistaken, Mr Carlton!’

 

‘I am perfectly sure—even though his moustache has been shaved off,’

said Jim, looking into the face of the unconscious man. ‘This is Sir

Joseph Layton, the Foreign Minister. I could not make a mistake. I know

him so well.’

 

The magistrate peered closer.

 

‘I almost think you are right,’ he said, ‘but how on earth—’

 

He did not complete his sentence; and soon after he went out to carry on

the business of the court. Jim had sent an officer to a neighbouring

chemist for a pot of cold cream; and by the time the divisional surgeon

arrived all doubt as to the identity of the black-faced man had been

removed with his make-up. His white hair was stained, his moustache

removed, and so far as they could see, not one stitch of his clothing

bore any mark which would have identified him.

 

The doctor pulled up the sleeve and examined the forearm.

 

‘He has been doped very considerably,’ he said, pointing to a number of

small punctures. ‘I don’t exactly know what drug was used, but there was

hyoscine in it, I’ll swear.’

 

Leaving Sir Joseph to the care of the surgeon, Jim hurried out to the

telephone and in a few minutes was in communication with the Prime

Minister.

 

‘I’ll come along in a few minutes,’ said that astonished gentleman. ‘Be

careful that nothing about this gets into the papers—will you please ask

the magistrate, as a special favour to me, to make no reference in

court?’

 

Fortunately, only one police-court reporter had been present, he had seen

nothing that aroused his suspicion and his curiosity as to why the

prisoner had been carried to the magistrate’s room was easily satisfied.

 

Sir Joseph was still unconscious when the Premier arrived. An ambulance

had been summoned and was already in the little courtyard, and after a

vain attempt to get him to speak, the Foreign Secretary was smuggled out

into the yard, wrapped in a blanket and dispatched to a nursing home.

 

‘I confess I’m floored,’ said the Prime Minister in despair. A nigger

minstrel… assaulting the police! It is incredible! You say you were at

the police station when he was brought in; didn’t you recognise him

then?’

 

‘No, sir,’ said Jim truthfully, ‘I was not greatly interested—he seemed

just an ordinary drunk to me. But one thing I will swear; he was not

under the influence of any drug when he was brought into the station. The

inspector said he reeked of whisky, and he certainly found no difficulty

in giving expression to his mind!’

 

The Premier threw out despairing hands.

 

‘It is beyond me; I cannot understand what has happened. The whole thing

is monstrously incredible. I feel I must be dreaming.’

 

As soon as the Premier had gone, Jim drove to the nursing home to which

the unfortunate Minister had been taken. The Evory Street inspector had

gone with the ambulance, and had an astonishing story to tell.

 

‘What do you think we found in his pocket?’ he asked.

 

‘You can’t startle me,’ said Jim recklessly. ‘What was it—the Treaty of

Versailles?’

 

The inspector opened his pocket-book and took out a small blank visiting

card, blank, that is, except for a number of scratches, probably made by

some blunt instrument, but the writer had attempted to get too much on so

small a space, for Jim saw that it was writing when he examined the card

carefully. Two words were decipherable, ‘Marling’ and ‘Harlow’ and these

had been printed in capitals. He took a lead pencil, scraped the point

upon the card, and sifted the fine dust over the scratches until they

became more definite.

 

The writing was still indecipherable even with such an aid to legibility

as the lead powder. Apparently the message had been written with a pin,

for in two places the card was perforated.

 

‘The first word is “whosoever”,’ said Jim suddenly. ‘“Whosoever… please”

is the fourth word and that seems to be underlined… ‘

 

He studied the card for a long time and then shook his head.

 

‘“Harlow” is clear and “Marling” is clear. What do you make of it,

inspector?’

 

The officer took the card from his hand and examined it with a blank

expression. ‘I don’t know anything about the writing or what it means,’

he said. ‘The thing I am trying to work out is how did that card come in

his pocket—it was not there last night when the sergeant searched

him—he takes his oath on it!’

CHAPTER 18

A BRIEF paragraph appeared in the morning newspapers.

 

‘Sir Joseph Layton, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, is seriously

ill in a nursing home.’

 

It would take more than this simple paragraph to restore the markets of

the world to the level they had been when the threat of war had sent them

tumbling like a house of cards. The principal item of news remained this

world panic, which the Foreign Secretary’s speech had initiated. A great

economist computed that the depreciation in gilt-edged securities

represented over �100,000,000 sterling and whilst the downward tendency

at least to some stocks was recovering, a month or more must pass before

the majority reached the pre-scare level. One newspaper, innocent of the

suspicion under which the financier lay in certain quarters, interviewed

Mr Harlow.

 

‘I think,’ said Mr Stratford Harlow, ‘that the effect of the slump has

been greatly exaggerated. In many ways, such a

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