The Black Gang Read online

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  The Black Gang

  First published in 1933

  © Trustees of the Estate of H.C. McNeile; House of Stratus 1933-2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., 21 Beeching Park, Kelly Bray,

  Cornwall, PL17 8QS, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842326759 9781842326756 Print

  0755104420 9780755104420 Print (Alt)

  0755117840 9780755117840 Pdf

  0755119304 9780755119301 Mobi

  0755120434 9780755120437 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

  During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

  Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

  McNeile's first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

  Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

  McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

  House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In which Things Happen near Barking Creek

  The wind howled dismally round a house standing by itself almost on the shores of Barking Creek. It was the grey dusk of an early autumn day, and the occasional harsh cry of a seagull rising discordantly above the wind alone broke the silence of the flat, desolate waste.

  The house seemed deserted. Every window was shuttered; the garden was uncared for and a mass of weeds; the gate leading on to the road, apparently feeling the need of a deficient top hinge, propped itself drunkenly on what once had been a flower-bed. A few gloomy trees swaying dismally in the wind surrounded the house and completed the picture – one that would have caused even the least imaginative of men to draw his coat a little tighter round him, and feel thankful that it was not his fate to live in such a place.

  But then few people ever came near enough to the house to realise its sinister appearance. The road – it was little better than a cart track – which passed the gate, was out of the beaten way; only an occasional fisherman or farm labourer ever used it, and that generally by day when things assumed their proper proportion, and it was merely an empty house gradually falling to pieces through lack of attention. At night they avoided it if possible; folks did say that twelve years ago some prying explorer had found the bones of a skeleton lying on the floor in one of the upstair rooms with a mildewed rope fixed to one of the beams in the ceiling. And then it had been empty for twenty years.

  Even now when the wind lay in the east or north-east and the tide was setting in, there were those who said that you could see a light shining through the cracks in the shutters in that room upstairs, and that, should a man climb up and look in, he’d see no skeleton, but a body with purple face and staring eyes swinging gently to and fro, and tied by the neck to a beam with a rope which showed no trace of mildew. Ridiculous, of course; but then so many of these local superstitions are. Useful, too, in some cases; they afford a privacy from the prying attentions of local gossips far more cheaply and effectively than high walls and bolts and bars.

  So, at any rate, one of the two men who were walking briskly along the rough track seemed to think.

  “Admirable,” he remarked, as he paused for a moment at the entrance of the weed-grown drive. “Quite admirable, my friend. A house situated as this one is, is an acquisition, and when it is haunted in addition it becomes a godsend.”

  He spoke English perfectly with a slight foreign accent, and his companion nodded abruptly.

  “From what I heard about it I thought it would do,” he answered. “Personally I think it’s a damnable spot, but since you were so set against coming to London, I had to find somewhere in this neighbourhood.”

  The two men started to walk slowly up the drive. Branches dripping with moisture brushed across their faces, and involuntarily they both turned up the collars of their coats.

  “I will explain my reasons in due course,” said the first speaker shortly. “You may take it from me that they were good. What’s that?”

  He swung round with a little gasp, clutching his companion’s arm.

  “Nothing,” cried the other irritably. For a moment or two they stood still, peering into the dark undergrowth. “What did you think it was?”

  “I thought I heard a bush creaking as if – as if someone was moving,” he said, relaxing his grip. “It must have been the wind, I suppose.”

  He still peered fearfully into the gloomy garden, until the other man dragged him roughly towards the house.

 
“Of course it was the wind,” he muttered angrily. “For heaven’s sake, Zaboleff, don’t get the jumps. If you will insist on coming to an infernal place like this to transact a little perfectly normal business you must expect a few strange noises and sounds. Let’s get indoors; the others should be here by now. It oughtn’t to take more than an hour, and you can be on board again long before dawn.”

  The man who had been addressed as Zaboleff ceased looking over his shoulder, and followed the other through a broken-down lattice-gate to the rear of the house. They paused in front of the back door, and on it the leader knocked three times in a peculiar way. It was obviously a prearranged signal, for almost at once stealthy steps could be heard coming along the passage inside. The door was cautiously pulled back a few inches, and a man peered out, only to throw it open wide with a faint sigh of relief.

  “It’s you, Mr Waldock, is it?” he muttered. “Glad you’ve got ’ere at last. This place is fair giving us all the ’ump.”

  “Evening, Jim.” He stepped inside, followed by Zaboleff, and the door closed behind them. “Our friend’s boat was a little late. Is everyone here?”

  “Yep,” answered the other. “All the six of us. And I reckons we’d like to get it over as soon as possible. Has he” – his voice sank to a hoarse undertone – “has he brought the money?”

  “You’ll all hear in good time,” said Waldock curtly. “Which is the room?”

  “’Ere it is, guv’nor.” Jim flung open a door. “And you’ll ’ave to sit on the floor, as the chairs ain’t safe.”

  Two candles guttered on a square table in the centre of the room, showing up the faces of the five men who sat on the floor, leaning against the walls. Three of them were nondescript specimens of humanity of the type that may be seen by the thousand hurrying into the City by the early business trains. They were representative of the poorer type of clerk – the type which Woodbines its fingers to a brilliant orange; the type that screams insults at a football referee on Saturday afternoon. And yet to the close observer something more might be read on their faces: a greedy, hungry look, a shifty untrustworthy look – the look of those who are jealous of everyone better placed than themselves, but who are incapable of trying to better their own position except by the relative method of dragging back their more fortunate acquaintances; the look of little men dissatisfied not so much with their own littleness as with the bigness of other people. A nasty-faced trio with that smattering of education which is the truly dangerous thing; and – three of Mr Waldock’s clerks.

  The two others were Jews; a little flashily dressed, distinctly addicted to cheap jewellery. They were sitting apart from the other three, talking in low tones, but as the door opened their conversation ceased abruptly and they looked up at the newcomers with the keen, searching look of their race. Waldock they hardly glanced at; it was the stranger Zaboleff who riveted their attention. They took in every detail of the shrewd, foreign face – the olive skin, the dark, piercing eyes, the fine-pointed beard; they measured him up as a boxer measures up his opponent, or a businessman takes stock of the second party in a deal; then once again they conversed together in low tones which were barely above a whisper.

  It was Jim who broke the silence – Flash Jim, to give him the full name to which he answered in the haunts he frequented.

  “Wot abaht getting on with it, guv’nor?” he remarked with an attempt at a genial smile. “This ’ere ’ouse ain’t wot I’d choose for a blooming ’oneymoon.”

  With an abrupt gesture Waldock silenced him and advanced to the table.

  “This is Mr Zaboleff, gentlemen,” he said quietly. “We are a little late, I am afraid, but it was unavoidable. He will explain to you now the reason why you were asked to come here, and not meet at our usual rendezvous in Soho.”

  He stepped back a couple of paces and Zaboleff took his place. For a moment or two he glanced round at the faces turned expectantly towards him; then resting his two hands on the table in front of him, he leaned forward towards them.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, and the foreign accent seemed a little more pronounced, “I have asked you to come here tonight through my good friend, Mr Waldock, because it has come to our ears – no matter how – that London is no longer a safe meeting-place. Two or three things have occurred lately the significance of which it is impossible to disregard.”

  “Wot sort of things?” interrupted Flash Jim harshly.

  “I was about to tell you,” remarked the speaker suavely, and Flash Jim subsided, abashed. “Our chief, with whom I spent last evening, is seriously concerned about these things.”

  “You spent last night with the chief?” said Waldock, and his voice held a tremor of excitement, while the others leaned forward eagerly. “Is he, then, in Holland?”

  “He was at six o’clock yesterday evening,” answered Zaboleff with a faint smile. “Today – now – I know no more than you where he is.”

  “Who is he – this man we’re always hearing about and never seeing?” demanded one of the three clerks aggressively.

  “He is – the Chief,” replied the other, while his eyes seemed to bore into the speaker’s brain. “Just that – and no more. And that is quite enough for you.” His glance travelled round the room, and his audience relaxed. “By the way, is not that a chink in the shutter there?”

  “All the safer,” grunted Flash Jim. “Anyone passing will think the ghost is walking.”

  “Nevertheless, kindly cover it up,” ordered Zaboleff, and one of the Jews rose and wedged his pocket-handkerchief into the crack. There was silence in the room while he did so, a silence broken only by the mournful hooting of an owl outside.

  “Owls is the only things wot comes to this damned museum,” said Flash Jim morosely. “Owls and blinkin’ fools like us.”

  “Stow it, Jim,” snarled Waldock furiously. “Anyone would think you wanted a nurse.”

  “Gentlemen – please.” Zaboleff held up a protesting hand. “We do not want to prolong matters, but one or two explanations are necessary. To return, then, to these things that have happened recently, and which necessitated a fresh rendezvous for this evening – one which our friend Mr Waldock so obligingly found. Three messengers sent over during the last three weeks bearing instructions and – what is more important – money, have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” echoed Waldock stupidly.

  “Absolutely and completely. Money and all. Two more have been abominably ill-treated and had their money taken from them, but for some reason they were allowed to go free themselves. It is from them that we have obtained our information.”

  “Blimey!” muttered Flash Jim; “is it the police?”

  “It is not the police, which is what makes it so much more serious,” answered Zaboleff quietly, and Flash Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “It is easy to keep within the law, but if our information is correct we are up against a body of men who are not within the law themselves. A body of men who are absolutely unscrupulous and utterly ruthless; a body of men who appear to know our secret plans as well as we do ourselves. And the difficulty of it is, gentlemen, that though, legally speaking, on account of the absurd legislation in this country we may keep within the law ourselves, we are hardly in a position to appeal to the police for protection. Our activities, though allowed officially, are hardly such as would appeal even to the English authorities. And on this occasion particularly that is the case. You may remember that the part I played in stirring up bloodshed at Cowdenheath a few months ago, under the name of MacTavish, caused me to be deported. So though our cause is legal – my presence in this country is not. Which was why tonight it was particularly essential that we should not be disturbed. Not only are we all up against this unknown gang of men, but I, in addition, am up against the police.”

  “Have you any information with regard to this gang?” It was the Jew who had closed the c
hink in the shutters speaking for the first time.

  “None of any use – save that they are masked in black, and cloaked in long black cloaks.” He paused a moment as if to collect his thoughts. “They are all armed, and Petrovitch – he was one of the men allowed to escape – was very insistent on one point. It concerned the leader of the gang, whom he affirmed was a man of the most gigantic physical strength; a giant powerful as two ordinary strong men. He said… Ah! Mein Gott–!”

  His voice rose to a scream as he cowered back, while the others, with terror on their faces, rose hurriedly from their seats on the floor and huddled together in the corners of the room.

  In the doorway stood a huge man covered from head to foot in black. In each hand he held a revolver, with which he covered the eight occupants during the second or two which it took for half a dozen similarly disguised men to file past him, and take up their positions round the walls. And Waldock, a little more educated than the remainder of his friends, found himself thinking of old tales of the Spanish Inquisition and the Doges of Venice even as he huddled a little nearer to the table.

  “Stand by the table, all of you.”

  It was the man at the door who spoke in a curiously deep voice, and like sheep they obeyed him – all save Flash Jim. For that worthy, crook though he was, was not without physical courage. The police he knew better than to play the fool with, but these were not the police.

  “Wot the–” he snarled, and got no farther. Something hit him behind the head, a thousand stars danced before his eyes, and with a strangled grunt he crashed forward on his face.

  For a moment or two there was silence, and then once again the man at the door spoke.

  “Arrange the specimens in a row.”