Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Smith laughed quietly. “That’s useful. It’s one of the methods barred to me. No nice-looking young men — or women — will flirt with me. That’s where you get a start of me. Well, it’s real good of you to have called off that thug just now, and to have tipped me about Bordington. I’d like to take you to dinner one time to express my appreciation.”

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” said Kitty calmly. “I want something more than that.”

“Hello — another participant in the stock deal?”

“No. You can keep your stock deal, if you wish to, although I reckon I’ve helped in it a good bit; because by now that document could have been mine. I want to be in the Fellowship.”

“What?” Smith stood staring down at her.

“I want to be in with you. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I reckon you and I could do big things. You’ve just admitted that I’ve got advantages that you don’t possess. Mind — I’m not coming in like Trevelyan. I know him.

“He’s only half a man. I’m in fifty fifty with you. I can give you some names of people to go and see. There’s Danson, the jeweler in Piccadilly — the biggest fence in London. Ask him. And there’s Stocky Wellbow, and Gertz. Ask any of them. They’ll tell you about me.”

She had mentioned three of the most notorious and cunning criminals outside the Fellowship, and, to Smith, it was as good as is a reference from a great bank to an honest man. He knew all three men personally, and they would answer any questions he cared to put.

He was on the point of curtly turning down the proposition when he decided to have another look at her. She was poised and delightfully fresh and beautiful. She looked less like an habitual criminal than anybody Smith had ever encountered. He had just had an example of her calmness in the little encounter with Pink, and her subsequent behavior. He had big things on his hands, and there was Pink lurking in the background. Pink—

His cunning brain was working swiftly. She had flirted with young Lansdale, Bordington’s secretary, in order to obtain admission to the manor. She looked the most innocent thing in the world.

It was himself — or Pink — for death — and quickly.

He could not see clearly ahead, but, half formed, there was a plan in his brain, as he answered.

“Come and see me to-morrow at noon. By then, I’ll have talked to Danson and the other two and found out what they have to say about you. If their word’s good, we’ll probably fix up something.”

“Right,” said Kitty. She got up and went to the door. “By the way, you need not be afraid of my talking about the Fellowship, even if you turn me down. I’m not built like that. And there’s another thing. Bordington’s not such a fool as you seem to think him. Watch your step, comrade, or you might get tripped.”

“Oh — I’m all right.”

“Ye-es,” hesitantly; and then: “By the way, is it the truth that that fellow Murray, the Secret Service man, is out to get the Fellowship?”

“I’ve heard it. Bordington said he was. Why?”

“Well — I’m not windy. But Murray’s the chap who got Heine, the German, wasn’t he? Kind of mystery being — working behind the scenes, known only to the Home Secretary and the commissioner for police. I’d like to repeat my warning about watching your step. I only asked about Murray because it’s as well to know how we stand. It makes no difference to my offer to join you.”

“Offer?” Smith laughed.

“Sure! You don’t think I’m on my hands and knees, begging, do you? Good night!”

She went out.

Chapter IX Where the Next Blow?

Smith drew at his cigar. “A cute little dame,” he soliloquized. “If those three give her a good character I’ll take her. I think she’ll get Pink for me.”

Smith always preferred to “arrange” for other people to do his killing, if possible.

The following morning, at precisely eleven ten, Smith had a shock. The House had just opened, and his brokers were on tiptoe for the purchase of Che Fiangs — price limit one shilling and eight pence. In ten minutes they telephoned Smith.

The buying of the previous day had been disclosed as extensive. The overnight price was ignored when the market opened, and Che Fiangs were offered at three shillings — buyers. In effect, the price had risen sensationally, and there were people willing to pay it.

Ten minutes later came the startling information that Che Fiangs were not easy to obtain. There were rumors going round the House, and holders who had long regarded the shares as a dead loss were now sticking to their holdings in the hope of a complete recovery.

Somebody had struck hard at Smith, and his coup had fallen to the ground. He had secured a few hundred Che Fiangs at something like five shillings each — face value one pound — but now the price was soaring, there was every prospect of a heavy gamble in the shares developing, and Smith was virtually shut out.