The Green Mamba

The spirit of exploration has ruined more promising careers than drink, gambling or the smiles of women. Generally speaking, the beaten tracks of life are the safest, and few men have adventured into the uncharted spaces in search of easy money who have not regarded the discovery of the old hard road whence they strayed as the greatest of their achievements.

Mo Liski held an assured position in his world, and one acquired by the strenuous and even violent exercise of his many qualities. He might have gone on until the end of the chapter, only he fell for an outside proposition, and, moreover, handicapped himself with a private feud, which had its beginning in an affair wholly remote from his normal operations.

There was a Moorish grafter named El Rahbut, who had made several visits to England, travelling by the banana boats which make the round trip from London River to Funchal Bay, Las Palmas, Tangier and Oporto. He was a very ordinary, yellow-faced Moor, pockmarked and undersized, and he spoke English, having in his youth fallen into the hands of a well-meaning American missionary. This man Rahbut was useful to Mo because quite a lot of German drugs are shipped via Trieste to the Levant, and many a crate of oranges has been landed in the Pool that had, squeezed in their golden interiors, little metal cylinders containing smuggled saccharine, heroin, cocaine, hydrochlorate and divers other noxious medicaments.

Rahbut brought such things from time to time, was paid fairly and was satisfied. One day, in the saloon bar of The Four Jolly Seamen, he told Mo of a great steal. It had been carried out by a group of Anghera thieves working in Fez, and the loot was no less than the Emeralds of Suliman, the most treasured possession of Morocco. Not even Abdul Aziz in his most impecunious days had dared to remove them from the Mosque of Omar; the Anghera men being what they were, broke into the holy house, killed two guardians of the treasure, and had got away with the nine green stones of the great king. Thereafter arose an outcry which was heard from the bazaars of Calcutta to the mean streets of Marsi-Karsi. But the men of Anghera were superior to the voice of public opinion and they did no more than seek a buyer. El Rahbut, being a notorious bad character, came into the matter, and this was the tale he told to Mo Liski at The Four Jolly Seamen one foggy October night.

“There is a million pesetas profit in this for you and me, Mr. Good Man,” said Rahbut (all Europeans who paid on the nail were “Mr. Good Man” to El Rahbut). “There is also death for me if this thing becomes known.”

Mo listened, smoothing his chin with a hand that sparkled and flashed dazzlingly. He was keen on ornamentation. It was a little outside his line, but the newspapers had stated the bald value of the stolen property, and his blood was on fire at the prospect of earning half a million so easily. That Scotland Yard and every police headquarters in the world were on the lookout for the nine stones of Suliman did not greatly disturb him. He knew the subterranean way down which a polished stone might slide; and if the worst came to the worst, there was a reward of £5,000 for the recovery of the jewels.

“I’ll think it over; where is the stuff?”

“Here,” said Rahbut, to the other’s surprise. “In ten⁠—twenty minutes I could lay them on your hands, Mr. Good Man.”

Here seemed a straightforward piece of negotiation; it was doubly unfortunate that at that very period he should find himself mixed up in an affair which promised no profit whatever⁠—the feud of Marylou Plessy, which was to become his because of his high regard for the lady.

When a woman is bad, she is usually very bad indeed, and Marylou Plessy was an extremely malignant woman. She was rather tall and handsome, with black sleek hair, boyishly shingled, and a heavy black fringe that covered a forehead of some distinction.

Mr. Reeder saw her once: he was at the Central Criminal Court giving evidence against Bartholomew Xavier Plessy, an ingenious Frenchman who discovered a new way of making old money. His forgeries were well-nigh undetectable, but Mr. Reeder was no ordinary man. He not only detected them, but he traced the printer, and that was why Bartholomew Xavier faced an unimpassioned judge, who told him in a hushed voice how very wrong it was to debase the currency; how it struck at the very roots of our commercial and industrial life. This the debonair man in the dock did not resent. He knew all about it. It was the judge’s curt postscript which made him wince.

“You will be kept in penal servitude for twenty years.”

That Marylou loved the man is open to question. The probabilities are that she did not; but she hated Mr. Reeder, and she hated him not because he had brought her man to his undoing, but because, in the course of his evidence, he had used the phrase “the woman with whom the prisoner is associated.” And Mr. John Reeder could have put her beside Plessy in the dock had he so wished: she knew this too and loathed him for his mercifulness.

Mrs. Plessy had a large flat in Portland Street. It was in a block which was the joint property of herself and her husband, for their graft had been on the grand scale, and Mr. Plessy owned racehorses before he owned a number in Parkhurst Convict Establishment. And here Marylou entertained lavishly.

A few months after her husband went to prison, she dined tête-à-tête with Mo Liski, the biggest of the gang leaders and an uncrowned emperor of the underworld. He was a small, dapper man who wore pince-nez and looked rather like a member of one of the learned professions. Yet he ruled the Strafas and the Sullivans and the Birklows, and his word was law on a dozen racetracks, in a score of spieling clubs and innumerable establishments less liable to police supervision. People opposing him were incontinently “coshed”⁠—rival leaders more or less paid tribute and walked warily at that. He levied toll upon bookmakers and was immune from police interference by reason of their two failures to convict him.

Since there are white specks on the blackest coat, he had this redeeming feature, that Marylou Plessy was his ideal woman, and it is creditable in a thief to possess ideals, however unworthily they may be disposed.

He listened intently to Marylou’s views, playing with his thin watchguard, his eyes on the embroidery of the tablecloth. But though he loved her, his native caution held him to reason.

“That’s all right, Marylou,” he said. “I dare say I could get Reeder, but what is going to happen then? There will be a squeak louder than a bus brake! And he’s dangerous. I never worry about the regular busies, but this old feller is in the Public Prosecutor’s office, and he wasn’t put there because he’s silly. And just now I’ve got one of the biggest deals on that I’ve ever touched. Can’t you ‘do’ him yourself? You’re a clever woman: I don’t know a cleverer.”

“Of course, if you’re scared of Reeder⁠—!” she said contemptuously, and a tolerant smile twisted his thin lips.

“Me? Don’t be silly, dearie! Show him a point yourself. If you can’t get him, let me know. Scared of him! Listen! That old bird would lose his feathers and be skinned for the pot before you could say ‘Mo Liski’ if I wanted!”

In the Public Prosecutor’s office they had no doubt about Mr. Reeder’s ability to take care of himself, and when Chief Inspector Pyne came over from the Yard to report that Marylou had been in conference with the most dangerous man in London, the Assistant Prosecutor grinned his amusement.

“No⁠—Reeder wants no protection. I’ll tell him if you like, but he probably knows all about it. What are you people doing about the Liski crowd?”

Pyne pulled a long face.

“We’ve had Liski twice, but well organised perjury has saved him. The Assistant Commissioner doesn’t want him again till we get him with the blood on his hands, so to speak. He’s dangerous.”

The Assistant Prosecutor nodded.

“So is Reeder,” he said ominously. “That man is a genial mamba! Never seen a mamba? He’s a nice black snake, and you’re dead two seconds after he strikes!”

The chief inspector’s smile was one of incredulity.

“He never impressed me that way⁠—rabbit, yes, but snake, no!”

Later in the morning a messenger brought Mr. Reeder to the chief’s office, and he arrived with that ineffable air of apology and diffidence which gave the uninitiated such an altogether wrong idea of his calibre. He listened with closed eyes whilst his superior told him of the meeting between Liski and Marylou.

“Yes, sir,” he sighed, when the narrative came to an end. “I have heard rumours. Liski? He is the person who associates with unlawful characters? In other days and under more favourable conditions he would have been the leader of a Florentine faction. An interesting man. With interesting friends.”

“I hope your interest remains impersonal,” warned the lawyer, and Mr. Reeder sighed again, opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then: “Doesn’t the continued freedom of Mr. Liski cast⁠—um⁠—a reflection upon our department, sir?” he asked.

His chief looked up: it was an inspiration which made him say:

“Get him!”

Mr. Reeder nodded very slowly.

“I have often thought that it would be a good idea,” he said. His gaze deepened in melancholy. “Liski has many acquaintances of a curious character,” he said at last. “Dutchmen, Russians, Jewish persons⁠—he knows a Moor.”

The chief looked up quickly.

“A Moor⁠—you’re thinking of the Nine Emeralds? My dear man, there are hundreds of Moors in London and thousands in Paris.”

“And millions in Morocco,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “I only mention the Moor in passing, sir. As regards my friend Mrs. Plessy⁠—I hope only for the best.”

And he melted from the room.

The greater part of a month passed before he showed any apparent interest in the case. He spent odd hours wandering in the neighbourhood of Lambeth, and on one occasion he was seen in the members’ enclosure at Hurst Park racetrack⁠—but he spoke to nobody, and nobody spoke to him.

One night Mr. Reeder came dreamily back to his well-ordered house in Brockley Road, and found waiting on his table a small flat box which had arrived, his housekeeper told him, by post that afternoon. The label was addressed in typewritten characters “John Reeder, Esq.” and the postmark was Central London.

He cut the thin ribbon which tied it, stripped first the brown paper and then the silver tissue, and exposed a satiny lid, which he lifted daintily. There, under a layer of paper shavings, were roll upon roll of luscious confectionery. Chocolate, with or without dainty extras, had an appeal for Mr. Reeder, and he took up a small globule garnished with crystallised violets and examined it admiringly.

His housekeeper came in at that moment with his tea-tray and set it down on the table. Mr. Reeder looked over his large glasses.

“Do you like chocolates, Mrs. Kerrel?” he asked plaintively.

“Why, yes, sir,” the elderly lady beamed.

“So do I,” said Mr. Reeder. “So do I!” and he shook his head regretfully, as he replaced the chocolate carefully in the box. “Unfortunately,” he went on, “my doctor⁠—a very excellent man⁠—has forbidden me all sorts of confectionery until they have been submitted to the rigorous test of the public analyst.”

Mrs. Kerrel was a slow thinker, but a study of current advertisement columns in the daily newspaper had enlarged to a very considerable extent her scientific knowledge.

“To see if there is any vitamines in them, sir?” she suggested.

Mr. Reeder shook his head.

“No, I hardly think so,” he said gently. “Vitamines are my sole diet. I can spend a whole evening with no other company than a pair of these interesting little fellows, and take no ill from them. Thank you, Mrs. Kerrel.”

When she had gone, he replaced the layer of shavings with punctilious care, closed down the lid, and as carefully re-wrapped the parcel. When it was finished he addressed the package to a department at Scotland Yard, took from a small box a label printed redly “Poison.” When this was done, he scribbled a note to the gentleman affected, and addressed himself to his muffins and his large teacup.

It was a quarter-past six in the evening when he had unwrapped the chocolates. It was exactly a quarter-past eleven, as he turned out the lights preparatory to going to bed, that he said aloud:

“Marylou Plessy⁠—dear me!”

Here began the war.

This was Wednesday evening; on Friday morning the toilet of Marylou Plessy was interrupted by the arrival of two men who were waiting for her when she came into the sitting-room in her negligee. They talked about fingerprints found on chocolates and other such matters.

Half an hour later a dazed woman sat in the cells at Harlboro Street and listened to an inspector’s recital of her offence. At the following sessions she went down for two years on a charge of “conveying by post to John Reeder a poisonous substance, to wit aconite, with intent to murder.”

To the last Mo Liski sat in court, his drawn haggard face testifying to the strength of his affection for the woman in the dock. After she disappeared from the dock he went outside into the big, windy hall, and there and then made his first mistake.

Mr. Reeder was putting on his woollen gloves when the dapper man strode up to him.

“Name of Reeder?”

“That is my name, sir.”

Mr. Reeder surveyed him benevolently over his glasses. He had the expectant air of one who has steeled himself to receive congratulations.

“Mine is Mo Liski. You’ve sent down a friend of mine⁠—”

“Mrs. Plessy?”

“Yes⁠—you know! Reeder, I’m going to get you for that!”

Instantly somebody behind him caught his arm in a vice and swung him round. It was a City detective.

“Take a walk with me,” he said.

Mo went white. Remember that he owed the strength of his position to the fact that never once had he been convicted: the register did not bear his name.

“What’s the charge?” he asked huskily.

“Intimidation of a Crown witness and using threatening language,” said the officer.

Mo came up before the Aldermen at the Guildhall the next morning and was sent to prison for three weeks, and Mr. Reeder, who knew the threat would come and was ready to counter with the traditional swiftness of the mamba, felt that he had scored a point. The gang leader was, in the parlance of the law, “a convicted person.”

“I don’t think anything will happen until he comes out,” he said to Pyne, when he was offered police protection. “He will find a great deal of satisfaction in arranging the details of my⁠—um⁠—‘bashing,’ and I feel sure that he will postpone action until he is free. I had better have that protection until he comes out⁠—”

“After he comes out, you mean?”

“Until he comes out,” insisted Mr. Reeder carefully. “After⁠—well⁠—um⁠—I’d rather like to be unhampered by⁠—um⁠—police protection.”

Mo Liski came to his liberty with all his senses alert. The cat-caution which had, with only one break, kept him clear of trouble, dominated his every plan. Cold-bloodedly he cursed himself for jeopardising his emerald deal, and his first step was to get into touch with El Rahbut.

But there was a maddening new factor in his life: the bitter consciousness of his fallibility and the fear that the men he had ruled so completely might, in consequence, attempt to break away from their allegiance. There was something more than sentiment behind this fear. Mo drew close on fifteen thousand a year from his racecourse and clubhouse victims alone. There were pickings on the side: his “crowd” largely controlled a continental drug traffic worth thousands a year. Which may read romantic and imaginative, but was true. Not all the “bunce” came to Mo and his men. There were pickings for the carrion fowl as well as for the wolves.

He must fix Reeder. That was the first move. And fix him so that there was no recoil. To beat him up one night would be an easy matter, but that would look too much like carrying into execution the threat which had put him behind bars. Obviously some ingenuity was called for; some exquisite punishment more poignant than the shock of clubs.

Men of Mr. Liski’s peculiar calling do not meet their lieutenants in dark cellars, nor do they wear cloaks or masks to disguise their identities. The big six who controlled the interests serving Mo Liski came together on the night of his release, and the gathering was at a Soho restaurant, where a private dining-room was engaged in the ordinary way.

“I’m glad nobody touched him whilst I was away,” said Mo with a little smile. “I’d like to manage this game myself. I’ve been doing some thinking whilst I was in bird, and there’s a good way to deal with him.”

“He had two coppers with him all the time, or I’d have coshed him for you, Mo,” said Teddy Alfield, his chief of staff.

“And I’d have coshed you, Teddy,” said Mr. Liski ominously. “I left orders that he wasn’t to be touched, didn’t I? What do you mean by ‘you’d have coshed him’?”

Alfield, a big-shouldered man whose speciality was the “knocking-off” of unattended motorcars, grew incoherent.

“You stick to your job,” snarled Mo. “I’ll fix Reeder. He’s got a girl in Brockley; a young woman who is always going about with him⁠—Belman’s her name and she lives nearly opposite his house. We don’t want to beat him up⁠—yet. What we want to do is to get him out of his job, and that’s easy. They fired a man in the Home Office last week because he was found at the ‘95’ Club after drinking hours.”

He outlined a simple plan.

Margaret Belman left her office one evening and, walking to the corner of Westminster Bridge and the Embankment, looked around for Mr. Reeder. Usually, if his business permitted, he was to be found hereabouts, though of late the meetings had been very few, and when she had seen him he was usually in the company of two glum men who seated themselves on either side of him.

She let one car pass, and had decided to catch the second which was coming slowly along the Embankment, when a parcel dropped at her feet. She looked round to see a pretty, well-dressed woman swaying with closed eyes, and had just time to catch her by the arm before she half collapsed. With her arm round the woman’s waist she assisted her to a seat providentially placed hereabouts.

“I’m so sorry⁠—thank you ever so much. I wonder if you would call me a taxi?” gasped the fainting lady.

She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and had the indefinable manner of a great lady; so Margaret thought.

Beckoning a cab, she assisted the woman to enter.

“Would you like me to go home with you?” asked the sympathetic girl.

“It would be good of you,” murmured the lady, “but I fear to inconvenience you⁠—it was so silly of me. My address is 105, Great Claridge Street.”

She recovered sufficiently on the journey to tell Margaret that she was Madame Lemaire, and that she was the widow of a French banker. The beautiful appointments of the big house in the most fashionable part of Mayfair suggested that Madame Lemaire was a woman of some wealth. A butler opened the door, a liveried footman brought in the tea which Madame insisted on the girl taking with her.

“You are too good. I cannot be thankful enough to you, mademoiselle. I must know you better. Will you come one night to dinner? Shall we say Thursday?”

Margaret Belman hesitated. She was human enough to be impressed by the luxury other surroundings, and this dainty lady had the appeal of refinement and charm which is so difficult to resist.

“We will dine tête-à-tête, and after⁠—some people may come for dancing. Perhaps you have a friend you would like to come?”

Margaret smiled and shook her head. Curiously enough, the word “friend” suggested only the rather awkward figure of Mr. Reeder, and somehow she could not imagine Mr. Reeder in this setting.

When she came out into the street and the butler had closed the door behind her, she had the first shock of the day. The object of her thoughts was standing on the opposite side of the road, a furled umbrella hooked to his arm.

“Why, Mr. Reeder!” she greeted him.

“You had seven minutes to spare,” he said, looking at his big-faced watch. “I gave you half an hour⁠—you were exactly twenty-three minutes and a few odd seconds.”

“Did you know I was there?” she asked unnecessarily.

“Yes⁠—I followed you. I do not like Mrs. Annie Feltham⁠—she calls herself Madame something or other. It is not a nice club.”

“Club!” she gasped.

Mr. Reeder nodded.

“They call it the Muffin Club. Curious name⁠—curious members. It is not nice.”

She asked no further questions, but allowed herself to be escorted to Brockley, wondering just why Madame had picked upon her as a likely recruit to the gaieties of Mayfair.

And now occurred the succession of incidents which at first had so puzzled Mr. Liski. He was a busy man, and almost regretted that he had not postponed putting his plan of operation into movement. That he had failed in one respect he discovered when by accident, as it seemed, he met Mr. Reeder face to face in Piccadilly.

“Good morning, Liski,” said Mr. Reeder, almost apologetically. “I was so sorry for that unfortunate contretemps, but believe me, I bear no malice. And whilst I realise that in all probability you do not share my sentiments, I have no other wish than to live on the friendliest terms with you.”

Liski looked at him sharply. The old man was getting scared, he thought. There was almost a tremble in his anxious voice when he put forward the olive branch.

“That’s all right, Mr. Reeder,” said Mo, with his most charming smile. “I don’t bear any malice either. After all, it was a silly thing to say, and you have your duty to do.”

He went on in this strain, stringing platitude to platitude, and Mr. Reeder listened with evidence of growing relief.

“The world is full of sin and trouble,” he said, shaking his head sadly; “both in high and low places vice is triumphant, and virtue thrust, like the daisies, underfoot. You don’t keep chickens, do you, Mr. Liski?”

Mo Liski shook his head.

“What a pity!” sighed Mr. Reeder. “There is so much one can learn from the domestic fowl! They are an object lesson to the unlawful. I often wonder why the Prison Commissioners do not allow the convicts at Dartmoor to engage in this harmless and instructive hobby. I was saying to Mr. Pyne early this morning, when they raided the Muffin Club⁠—what a quaint title it has⁠—”

“Raided the Muffin Club?” said Mo quickly. “What do you mean? I’ve heard nothing about that.”

“You wouldn’t. That kind of institution would hardly appeal to you. Only we thought it was best to raid the place, though in doing so I fear I have incurred the displeasure of a young lady friend of mine who was invited to dinner there tomorrow night. As I say, chickens⁠—”

Now Mo Liski knew that his plan had miscarried. Yet he was puzzled by the man’s attitude.

“Perhaps you would like to come down and see my Buff Orpingtons, Mr. Liski? I live in Brockley.” Reeder removed his glasses and glared owlishly at his companion. “Say at nine o’clock tonight; there is so much to talk about. At the same time, it would add to the comfort of all concerned if you did not arrive⁠—um⁠—conspicuously: do you understand what I mean? I should not like the people of my office, for example, to know.”

A slow smile dawned on Liski’s face. It was his faith that all men had their price, whether it was paid in cash or terror; and this invitation to a secret conference was in a sense a tribute to the power he wielded.

At nine o’clock he came to Brockley, half hoping that Mr. Reeder would go a little farther along the road which leads to compromise. But, strangely enough, the elderly detective talked of nothing but chickens. He sat on one side of the table, his hands clasped on the cloth, his voice vibrant with pride as he spoke of the breed that he was introducing to the English fowl-house, and, bored to extinction, Mo waited.

“There is something I wanted to say to you, but I fear that I must postpone that until another meeting,” said Mr. Reeder, as he helped his visitor on with his coat. “I will walk with you to the corner of Lewisham High Road: the place is full of bad characters, and I shouldn’t like to feel that I had endangered your well-being by bringing you to this lowly spot.”

Now, if there is one place in the world which is highly respectable and free from the footpads which infest wealthier neighbourhoods, it is Brockley Road. Liski submitted to the company of his host, and walked to the church at the end of the road.

“Goodbye, Mr. Liski,” said Reeder earnestly. “I shall never forget this pleasant meeting. You have been of the greatest help and assistance to me. You may be sure that neither I nor the department I have the honour to represent will ever forget you.”

Liski went back to town, a frankly bewildered man. In the early hours of the morning the police arrested his chief lieutenant, Teddy Alfield, and charged him with a motorcar robbery which had been committed three months before.

That was the first of the inexplicable happenings. The second came when Liski, returning to his flat off Portland Place, was suddenly confronted by the awkward figure of the detective.

“Is that Liski?” Mr. Reeder peered forward in the darkness. “I’m so glad I’ve found you. I’ve been looking for you all day. I fear I horribly misled you the other evening when I was telling you that Leghorns are unsuitable for sandy soil. Now on the contrary⁠—”

“Look here, Mr. Reeder, what’s the game?” demanded the other brusquely.

“The game?” asked Reeder in a pained tone.

“I don’t want to know anything about chickens. If you’ve got anything to tell me worth while, drop me a line and I’ll come to your office, or you can come to mine.”

He brushed past the man from the Public Prosecutor’s Department and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Within two hours a squad from Scotland Yard descended upon the house of Harry Merton, took Harry and his wife from their respective beds, and charged them with the unlawful possession of stolen jewellery which had been traced to a safe deposit.

A week later, Liski, returning from a vital interview with El Rahbut, heard plodding steps overtaking him, and turned to meet the pained eye of Mr. Reeder.

“How providential meeting you!” said Reeder fervently. “No, no, I do not wish to speak about chickens, though I am hurt a little by your indifference to this noble and productive bird.”

“Then what in hell do you want?” snapped Liski. “I don’t want anything to do with you, Reeder, and the sooner you get that into your system the better. I don’t wish to discuss fowls, horses⁠—”

“Wait!” Mr. Reeder bent forward and lowered his voice. “Is it not possible for you and me to meet together and exchange confidences?”

Mo Liski smiled slowly.

“Oh, you’re coming to it at last, eh? All right. I’ll meet you anywhere you please.”

“Shall we say in the Mall near the Artillery statue, tomorrow night at ten? I don’t think we shall be seen there.”

Liski nodded shortly and went on, still wondering what the man had to tell him. At four o’clock he was wakened by the telephone ringing furiously, and learnt, to his horror, that O’Hara, the most trustworthy of his gang leaders, had been arrested and charged with a year-old burglary. It was Carter, one of the minor leaders, who brought the news.

“What’s the idea, Liski?” And there was a note of suspicion in the voice of his subordinate which made Liski’s jaw drop.

“What do you mean⁠—what’s the idea? Come round and see me. I don’t want to talk over the phone.”

Carter arrived half an hour later, a scowling, suspicious man.

“Now what do you want to say?” asked Mo, when they were alone.

“All I’ve got to say is this,” growled Carter; “a week ago you’re seen talking to old Reeder in Lewisham Road, and the same night Teddy Alfield is pinched. You’re spotted having a quiet talk with this old dog, and the same night another of the gang goes west. Last night I saw you with my own eyes having a confidential chat with Reeder⁠—and now O’Hara’s gone!”

Mo looked at him incredulously.

“Well, and what about it?” he asked.

“Nothing⁠—except that it’s a queer coincidence, that’s all,” said Carter, his lip curling. “The boys have been talking about it: they don’t like it, and you can’t blame them.”

Liski sat pinching his lip, a faraway look in his eyes. It was true, though the coincidence had not struck him before. So that was the old devil’s game! He was undermining his authority, arousing a wave of suspicion which, if it were not checked, would sweep him from his position.

“All right, Carter,” he said, in a surprisingly mild tone. “It never hit me that way before. Now I’ll tell you, and you can tell the other boys just what has happened.”

In a few words he explained Mr. Reeder’s invitations.

“And you can tell ’em from me that I’m meeting the old fellow tomorrow night, and I’m going to give him something to remember me by.”

The thing was clear to him now, as he sat, after the man’s departure, going over the events of the past week. The three men who had been arrested had been under police suspicion for a long time, and Mo knew that not even he could have saved them. The arrests had been made by arrangement with Scotland Yard to suit the convenience of the artful Mr. Reeder.

“I’ll ‘artful’ him!” said Mo, and spent the rest of the day making his preparations.

At ten o’clock that night he passed under the Admiralty Arch. A yellow mist covered the park, a drizzle of rain was falling, and save for the cars that came at odd intervals towards the palace, there was no sign of life.

He walked steadily past the Memorial, waiting for Mr. Reeder. Ten o’clock struck and a quarter past, but there was no sign of the detective.

“He’s smelt a rat,” said Mo Liski between his teeth, and replaced the short life-preserver he had carried in his pocket.

It was at eleven o’clock that a patrolling police-constable fell over a groaning something that lay across the sidewalk, and, flashing his electric lamp upon the still figure, saw the carved handle of a Moorish knife before he recognised the pain-distorted face of the stricken Mo Liski.

“I don’t quite understand how it all came about,” said Pyne thoughtfully. (He had been called into consultation from headquarters.) “Why are you so sure it was the Moor Rahbut?”

“I am not sure,” Mr. Reeder hastened to correct the mistaken impression. “I mentioned Rahbut because I had seen him in the afternoon and searched his lodgings for the emeralds⁠—which I am perfectly sure are still in Morocco, sir.” He addressed his chief. “Mr. Rahbut was quite a reasonable man, remembering that he is a stranger to our methods.”

“Did you mention Mo Liski at all, Mr. Reeder?” asked the Assistant Public Prosecutor.

Mr. Reeder scratched his chin.

“I think I did⁠—yes, I’m pretty certain that I told him that I had an appointment with Mr. Liski at ten o’clock. I may even have said where the appointment was to be kept. I can’t remember exactly how the subject of Liski came up. Possibly I may have tried to bluff this indigenous native⁠—‘Bluff’ is a vulgar word, but it will convey what I mean⁠—into the belief that unless he gave me more information about the emeralds, I should be compelled to consult one who knew so many secrets. Possibly I did say that. Mr. Liski will be a long time in hospital, I hear? That is a pity. I should never forgive myself if my incautious words resulted in poor Mr. Liski being taken to the hospital⁠—alive!”

When he had gone, the chief looked at Inspector Pyne. Pyne smiled.

“What is the name of that dangerous reptile, sir?” asked the inspector. “ ‘Mamba,’ isn’t it? I must remember that.”