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“I’ve no idea. Who is Kuprin?”
“He is the leader, the head of the organization in London. He killed Krasinski, no doubt of that. The Yard has been watching the brotherhood for two years. I also, for my friend Alleyn, have been watching and have wormed my way into their council.”
Nigel told him of Tokareff’s arrest.
“Do you think Tokareff killed my cousin, Mr. Sumiloff?”
“I think — I think it very possible,” said Sumiloff, pulling the telephone towards him. He dialled a number and waited.
“Now for Vassily Ivanovitch,” he murmured, and then, “Hullo; is that Mr. Alleyn’s flat? Is it Mr. Alleyn’s servant speaking? Ah—” Then followed a gusty and splashy speech in Russian, long pauses during which the tiny ghost of Vassily’s voice spoke from the earpiece. Finally Sumiloff rang off.
“It’s all right so far,” he said. “Vassily is nervous but obedient. He is evidently terrified of the committee. He says Yansen knows where they all are hiding to-night. The rooms in Soho are watched by the police. He suggests that I ring Yansen up and tell him to collect the others. We may learn a great deal from this meeting. If Tokareff did it, they will certainly discuss his position. Yes — Alleyn has set an amusing trap for them.”
He turned to a memoranda of exchange numbers on his desk and lifted the receiver again. This time the conversation was in English:
“Ah, that you, Number Four? I am the friend of the boss. You remember we have met at his lodgings and at the general council. You know, of course, the boss is taken and also the doctor. I was with the boss when they came for him. He whispered me to call an immediate meeting at—”
Sumiloff broke off to listen to a clatter of expostulation and alarm. A lengthy conversation followed. The bi-lingual Yansen seemed to be greatly perturbed.
“Those are the boss’s instructions,” said Sumiloff. “The Yard man is safely out of London, Vassily knows and I myself have ascertained this. You know me— Sumiloff. If you like I will come and give my account. It is better not by telephone. Very well. In half an hour at Vassily’s then.” He rang off.
“All right?” asked Nigel.
“I think so.” Sumiloff looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”
“Alleyn said I was to ring Vassily and pretend I wanted the Frantock number. That will confirm Vassily’s opinion that Alleyn is out of London.”
“Of course. Will you ring up now, then?”
Nigel dialled the number and in a minute heard Vassily’s voice, querulous and elderly, “Are you there?”
“Hullo, Vassily, is that you?” began Nigel. “Look here, tell me the Frantock telephone number, will you? I want to get hold of Mr. Alleyn as soon as he arrives. It’s Mr. Bathgate speaking.”
“Jyes, jyes, Mr. Bathgate, certainly. It is Frantock 59, sir. The exchange closes at twelve.”
“Thank you so much, Vassily — sorry to bother you. Good-night.”
“So far all right,” said Sumiloff. Nigel got up. “Don’t go yet. I shan’t start myself for twenty minutes. We can leave together,” suggested the Russian. “Is this your first acquaintance with Inspector Alleyn?”
“Yes. He’s an extraordinarily interesting man,” said Nigel. “Not at all one’s idea of a Scotland Yard official.”
“No? Well, I suppose not. He has had an expensive education,” said Sumiloff quaintly. “He began in the Diplomatic Service, it was then I first met him. It was for private reasons that he became a policeman. It’s a remarkable story. Perhaps some day he will tell you.”
As it was evident that Sumiloff himself did not intend further to explain Inspector-Detective Alleyn, Nigel asked him to describe more fully the society whose activities they were investigating. He learnt that the London branch of the brotherhood had been in operation for some years. The organization itself was of amazing antiquity and was strong in the reign of Peter the Great, when it practised various indecent and horrible rites, based on a kind of inverted monasticism.
“One of their favourite practices was to gather together in one house, work themselves into a sort of disgusting frenzy and then lock themselves in and set fire to the building. Unfortunately they did not all do this, so the brotherhood survived to turn itself into a political organization and to associate itself with the doctrines of the Soviet. Whether it has any official recognition I have not been able to discover, though, at Alleyn’s suggestion, I have become a member and have gone some way with the ritual.” He glanced at Nigel with a look of curious detachment. “I am, you see,” he ended, “a sort of stool pigeon. Unpaid. But I was a patriot once and I do not love the Soviet.”
“And the knife?”
“It is undoubtedly very old. Mongolian, I should say. Its association with the brotherhood is of long standing and it was used for mutilations in the old ritual. It has a hideous history, but the more fanatic among the brethren believe that it possesses extraordinary powers. Krasinski had been entrusted to bring it to England after a special meeting of the Society at Geneva — yes, at Geneva, my friend. We shall never know why he gave it to Mr. Rankin. Perhaps he was hard-pressed, or frightened, or perhaps he merely wished to leave it with a reliable personage. He was mad. The Poles are even madder than the Russians, Mr. Bathgate — and now I must go to my meeting.”
“Where do you imagine Alleyn is at the moment?” asked Nigel as they went downstairs.
Sumiloff did not answer at once. He switched the light off in his little hall.
“At the moment?” his voice spoke quietly in the dark. “In his natural habitat, I should think.”
Outside on the footpath a man paused to light his pipe. The match went out and he threw away the box with an exclamation of a
“Want a light?” asked Sumiloff.
“Thank you very much,” said the man and held out his hand.
“Yard?” asked Sumiloff very quietly.
“Yes, sir. Detailed by Detective-Inspector Alleyn.”
“This gentleman is all right. I am going to the house now. I don’t expect trouble, but you know the arrangements, I suppose?”
“Well, sir, Mr. Alleyn was very anxious we should keep out-of sight, but as soon as the last of them’s in the house, we shall close in a bit.”
“I hope you’ll be careful. They will certainly set a watch.”
“Yes, sir. We were instructed this afternoon. I understand we don’t really mix in at all unless we get a message from the Hungaria restaurant. We are to wait in the empty shop opposite Mr. Alleyn’s house. The entrance is from the other street, and the young lady is to ring us there. It’s an unusual arrangement. Got a whistle, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.” A solitary pedestrian approached.
“Much obliged,” said the Yard man aloud.
“Not at all. Good-night.”
Sumiloff and Nigel walked on in silence until they had arrived at Lower Regent Street.
“A whistle might be rather a clumsy method of alarm, ”said Nigel, who was eaten up with curiosity.
“Not this one,” rejoined Sumiloff. He produced a little metal disc which he placed under his tongue. “It is only to be used in an emergency,” he said. “Perhaps we had better part here.”
“All right. Oh! Half a second. Did you give them a password?”
“Certainly.”
“I say, do tell me what it is?”
“You are not grown up yet, I see. Well, there can be no harm. It is the name of the murdered Pole.”
“Great hopping fleas, how dramatic! Good-night.”
“Good-night, Mr. Bathgate.”
Nigel turned in to the Hungaria and ordered a table. As he was not in evening dress it was among those at the back of the restaurant. Angela had not yet arrived. Nigel sat down in a state of mental fidget. There were not many people there at this hour and he found little to distract his over-stimulated nerves. He smoked three cigarettes on end, watched three couples dancing an enervated tango, and thought immediately of Rankin and Mrs. Wilde.