NOW WHILE it may not have been exactly true, as the professor had wanted to make out, that Mangan was the bosom friend of Lieutenant Chester Avon, certainly of late a strong friendship, which the elder man took good care should not cool, had sprung up between them.

As the nephew of Lord Delamarne and heir to the barony young Avon was a most useful person to know, because it was through him that the major had become acquainted with a number of people of good social position who, upon occasions, were not unwilling to risk fairly heavy sums at cards. Of course, highly taxed as they all were, few of them had anything like the large incomes they once had had, but it was symptomatic of the times that so many of them were dipping deeply into their capitals to enjoy to the full the old pleasures and luxuries of the prewar days.

Lieutenant Avon was a good-looking young fellow of one and twenty and who, though having obtained his commission, had been just too late to see any real active service in the 1939–45 War. With the war over, he had continued in the Regular Army, but later, through the influence of his uncle had been given employment in the War Office.

Most obliging and good-natured, he was by no means of a strong character and very easily led, but strange to say Mangan’s influence over him was all for the best. Flattered by the dashing major’s attentions, he was always willing to take his advice and, accordingly, Mangan saw to it that he avoided unsuitable companions and did not get mixed up with people whom it was undesirable for a future peer of the realm to know. He took particular care, too, that he should not become entangled in any close association with any of the other sex, who were always trying to set their caps at him.

Still, Mangan’s interest and care were wholly selfish ones, for not only was he benefiting now by the young man’s almost exclusive friendship, but also, looking ahead, he had his eyes upon the time when the young lieutenant would become the master of Blackarden Castle and in possession at any rate of most of what went with it.

Lord Delamarne was old and ailing and there was much speculation as to what he was worth. Certainly he must be a wealthy man, and ever since he had come into the barony, more than forty years previously, there had been persistent rumours of some treasure hidden away in the walled-up dungeons deep below his 600 year-old castle. It was said to have been brought over to England by his grandfather when the latter had returned from India after the 1857 mutiny.

So that evening upon his return to Town after his extraordinary encounter with Professor Glenowen in the latter’s bungalow upon the Norfolk coast, ruminating over the conversation that had taken place between them, it was only natural Mangan should be thinking hard about both the professor himself and the Lord of Blackarden Castle. Accordingly, knowing young Lieutenant Avon was generally to be found at his club about that time of day, he thought it would be just as well to have a chat with him and clear up a few matters.

Finding him quite easily, as he had expected, after a few general remarks he enquired how his uncle was.

“As well as usual and more eccentric than ever,” laughed Avon. “I was down there last week-end and his latest craze is that he believes someone may one day try to break in by burrowing under the Castle. So now he talks of having an expensive sound-detector installed so that he’ll be able to hear if anyone is doing a bit of digging outside. It would be laughable if it weren’t such a waste of money.”

“The less for you to come into one day, my boy,” laughed Mangan. He became serious. “But do you ever really believe that, as they say, he’s got a lot of gold hidden away somewhere?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes I do and then sometimes I think there’s nothing in it. Still, you know uncle’s a very shrewd businesslike man and always seems to have plenty of spending money. He’s just bought another Botticelli and I believe paid four thousand guineas for it.”

“But have you never mentioned to him,” asked Mangan, “the rumour that his grandfather came back from India with a pot of money?”

Avon looked aghast. “I’d never dare to,” he replied. “He’d snap my head off if I did. The only person whom we believe has ever started to mention it to him is that old Professor Glenowen whom you met the last time you were at the castle. It was a long time ago he began questioning him about it, and my uncle was so rude to him that it was years before he visited the place again. Before that they used to play a lot of chess together.”

“Ah, talking about that professor,” exclaimed Mangan, very pleased the conversation had come round to him, “is he really as mad as they make him out to be?”

“Only in his stupid Communist ideas,” replied Avon, “and then he goes nuts at once. He seems, too, to have become much worse lately. Otherwise, he’s a good-natured, amiable little fellow. Last year he heard that the Norwich Hospital was hard-up and at once plumped down a cheque for ￡2,000, and said there would be another ￡2,000 this year if they wanted it.”

“And do you think he’ll stump up if they ask for it?”

Avon looked surprised. “Of course he will! He’s not the sort of chap to ever go back upon his word, and besides he’s got pots of money, he could afford to give away. Those rotten books of his sell all over the world and bring in tremendous royalties.”

Mangan was delighted he had so easily found out what he wanted. Evidently then he could be sure of the promised ￡1,000 if he earned it, and so he began at once to think much more favourably of the proposition the professor had put before him. The money would certainly be most useful and it was to be earned with practically no expenses at all. He had no qualms whatsoever about shooting the German scientist. Indeed, in a way the idea was quite pleasing to him, as it would be something of an exciting adventure. Still, he told himself, he wasn’t going to rush blindly into the risk there undoubtedly would be of putting his neck into the hangman’s noose. He would go slowly and examine first how great that risk would be.

Finally, he made up his mind that whether or not he would go the whole way, at any rate he would get something more out of this half-crazed little man by going down to Cambridge and making the few enquiries necessary to qualify for the further ￡200. Unless he found it would be an easy matter to plug the German scientist with little or no risk to himself, though making out to the professor that he was going to attempt to do so, he would let the whole thing slide. Then, after all, he would have earned ￡250 for a couple of days’ work.

On the Sunday evening he went to his partner and told him that on the morrow he would be going away for a few days into the country. He said he had heard from one of his club friends of some good stuff that might be picked up from an elderly maiden lady near Nottingham, who, in order to meet the exorbitant taxes which had been imposed upon her, was now wanting to dispose of some of her old family plate.

However, rather uneasy as to how in his absence his partner would handle things if any of their rapidly-growing clientele of light-fingered gentry should come in with articles to sell, he gave him strict instructions that on no account was anything to be bought from them until he came back.

“Tell them,” he said, “to call again at the end of the week. You know how active the police have been lately and, with them already suspicious of you, sooner or later it’s certain they will set a trap to catch us.”

His partner, with his nerves as usual in a bad way, was quite agreeable to do as he was told, being very glad to escape the responsibility. Indeed, it happened he was the more willing just then to do as he was ordered, because only a few weeks back two second-hand dealers had been caught making purchases and not entering the transactions in their purchase book. They had fallen into the traps set by the police, and both had been heavily fined, with their licences being taken away so that they had been thrown out of business. And since these happenings Mangan had been continually rubbing into him that it was only by sheer good luck he himself had not been caught long ago.
*     *     *     *     *

Mangan started for Cambridge early on the Monday morning, and the following Wednesday evening the professor was fidgeting about long before the appointed hour, eight o’clock, when he was due to appear at the flat. The professor, however, was quite certain Mangan would turn up with all plans cut and dried to commit the required murder. It was an act of humanity, he kept on telling himself, and he was hoping that if Mangan proved himself capable enough to carry out this first commission successfully, then it would be followed by more acts of a similar kind.

One day, he told himself, he would write a book about everything, of course to be published only after his death. Then the sneering world would learn he had not sat down meekly under all the abuse and insults he had received, but had played a bold and unselfish part in endeavouring to save mankind by removing some of its worst enemies.

Awaiting Mangan’s arrival, he began to tick off on his fingers for the hundredth time some of those against whom, apart from their work upon the atom bomb, he had a particular personal spite. The first — there was that one-time professorial colleague of his, Professor Rodney, the low-minded brute who had once referred to him, Harleck Glenowen, as a mangy little red-headed Welsh ape. Ah, how he would love to hear of him having been finished off in the true commando way and found strangled, with his body all twisted up in convulsive agony and his swollen tongue lolling out of his ugly blue-black face. Then there was that Dr. Carmichael, who had said the padded room of a mental asylum was the only place for him, and Travers, the scavenging journalist, who had written openly in his newspaper that he ought to be put away.

Still, the second German physicist, Otto Bernstein, must come high on the list! He was a vile and Judas-like creature if ever there was one! Once grovelling at the feet of Adolf Hitler when it seemed the mighty Fuhrer of the Third Reich would dominate the world, he was now boasting that all along he had, in secret, hated his master and — but his musings were interrupted by the ringing of the front door bell, and in a few moments his expected and so welcome visitor was ushered into the room.

Mangan was in evening dress, his well-fitting dinner jacket showing him off to good advantage. The professor thought he looked the perfect type of officer and a gentleman, and congratulated himself he had discovered so presentable an assassin. Why, the man could go everywhere and mingle in the best society without anyone entertaining the slightest suspicion of what he really was!

“Good evening,” said Mangan coldly and without offering to shake hands. “You expected I’d turn up, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” returned the professor. He spoke eagerly. “Then you’ve been to Cambridge and spied out the lie of the land?”

Mangan nodded. “I came back only this afternoon.” He frowned. “But I learn you have been going round making enquiries about me. What do you mean by that?”

The professor tried to cover his obvious embarrassment with a little nervous laugh. “Oh, you’ve heard of that, have you?” he said. “Well, what could be more natural than that I should be interested in everything about someone to whom I am going to pay a large sum of money?” He nodded. “Yes, I looked up your private address in the phone book and just asked a few questions of the attendant at your block of flats.” He shook his head in disgust. “But the dishonourable fellow, for the pound note I gave him, promised me most faithfully that he would not mention to you that I had been there and questioned him.”

“Well, you certainly did not get much out of him for your money,” scoffed Mangan. “He knows nothing about me.”

“Oh, doesn’t he?” laughed the professor. “At any rate he told me about that place in Wardour Street which you are running and call ‘Etoile d’Argent.’ I got that out of him.”

It was now Mangan’s turn to look disconcerted. “He did, did he?” he exclaimed. “Well, there’s nothing in that. I told you I was an art-dealer, didn’t I?” He frowned. “Still, I wonder how the devil he knew.”

“A tenant of one of the other flats told him,” said the professor. “He passes down Wardour Street quite often and has twice seen you going into the shop. Then he saw your name on the lintel over the door.” Glenowen lifted up one hand impressively. “And it’s probablly a good thing for you that attendant did tell me all about it, as after I’d been round to have a look at what sort of place you’d got, the idea struck me that the police are much more interested in you than you can have any idea. At any rate, I happened to notice a woman coming out of your shop and, barely ten minutes later and just by chance, I saw her again in a tea-shop in Leicester Square sitting between two men.” He held Mangan’s eyes with his own. “One of these men I know to be a detective from Scotland Yard.”

Mangan cursed under his breath. “And how do you know he was a detective?” he snarled.

“Because last week I went to Scotland Yard myself and he came into the waiting-room to whisper to someone there. I have a good memory for faces and he’s got a nose like you see in pictures of the Duke of Wellington. I had gone to the police with two threatening letters I had received.” He dismissed the matter with a shake of his head and asked eagerly. “Well, you are prepared to carry out my little commission?”

“I’m prepared to attempt it,” replied Mangan slowly, “but the risk is a big one for me, as he is guarded by a detective wherever he goes. This detective is a special and experienced one provided by the authorities in London. He’s a Scotland Yard man.”

“How do you know that?” asked the professor sharply.

Mangan shrugged his shoulders. “Everybody says so. It’s the talk of the town.” He laughed. “Oh, yes, I have earned that ￡200 right enough. I spent three days in Cambridge and ferreted out as much as I could. As you told me, the German is staying at Canon Drew’s big house, the last but one in Trumpington Road. The Canon and his family are away from home, but two maid-servants have been left to look after the doctor and the guardian detective. The garden surrounding the house has walls quite eight feet high, with broken glass at the top to keep trespassers away. The detective motors the doctor to the University laboratories every morning just before nine and they come home again soon after six. Evidently they are being very watchful, as the big gate in the drive is shut and locked after the car has been driven in and the detective has searched the grounds. Still, I can see it will be quite impossible for me to get at him during the day. My only chance will be at night.”

“And do you think you will be able to get him then?” asked the professor anxiously.

“I may be able to manage it if the weather is all right,” replied Mangan, “for after he’s had his dinner, if the night is fine and warm, as you mentioned, he does sit reading until quite late under a light from that summer-house on the other side of the garden. Then, upon the two nights that I was watching him, it was well after eleven before he went into the house. His bedroom is upon the ground floor, as I saw a light go up in a room there directly after he went in.”

“And from where did you see all this?” asked the professor.

“From a tree in the garden of the next house,” said Mangan. “The wall there was easier to get over and I climbed up a big oak which overlooks everything.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I don’t see how I am going to get over the high wall surrounding the garden, as the broken glass at the top will make it very awkward. Still, I must climb over it somewhere to get near enough to shoot him with any certainty.”

“But you needn’t climb over where the glass is,” said the professor quickly. “As it happens I know the house next door quite well. I used to visit there years ago, and you can get over from the garden there. If you go to the other end of the party wall separating the two houses you can climb on to the roof of a tool-shed built right against the wall. Then you will be only about a foot from the top and you can step over on to another shed in the Canon’s garden and drop on to the ground. It couldn’t be more simple.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mangan. “I didn’t know of that, and it’ll certainly make things easier.” He shook his head. “But there will be a bigger worry for me than that. My danger will be getting away after I’ve finished with the man. I’ve seen where I can cut the telephone wires, but I shall want a good long start to escape any cordon the police may draw round the district.”

“But, you’ve got a fast car?” said the professor.

“That’s nothing,” exclaimed Mangan, “as the nearest place I can park it with any safety is a good quarter of a mile from the Canon’s home, and I can’t be noticed running like a madman to get to it.”

A short silence followed, and the professor asked, “Well, when are you going to make the attempt? To-morrow night? The sooner the better, I think, while the fine weather holds.”

Mangan shook his head. “No, not at any rate before Saturday. There’s a circus opening in the town that night — thank goodness — in a field off the Newmarket Road and right at the other end of the town. The police will be kept busy there and, with lots of cars coming in from all round the district, mine is less likely to be remembered afterwards.”

The ensuing conversation was protracted because Mangan insisted that, with the risk being so great, ￡1,000 was not enough. He wanted it raised to ￡1,500, with another payment straightaway of ￡300 down.

“Mind you,” he said sharply, “I don’t promise I can bring it off, but I’m certainly going to have a good try and, when you consider the risk I am running, you must agree it’s worth every penny of the money.”

With some demur the professor agreed to his terms and, going to a safe in the wall, abstracted a large packet of banknotes from which he counted out thirty ￡10 ones. Mangan made a mental note that the safe was of an old fashioned pattern and could be easily broken into.

“And when shall I see you again?” asked the professor, in some excitement. “Shall you ring me up?”

Mangan shook his head. “No, I’ll come round one evening just before eight o’clock. It may be on Sunday, but it mayn’t be until much later in the week. I’m not going to be hasty, but when and if I do strike I’ll take good care it’s at the most opportune time,” and he spoke with such confidence that the professor was sure he was going to be successful.

The following morning Mangan arrived a little earlier than usual at the shop in Wardour Street and at once enquired as to how the business had been in his absence. His partner replied it had not been bad and that he had made a few small sales. He added that a woman had been in to sell two silver-plated entree dishes, but he had done no business with her and asked her to call again.

“She looked quite safe to me,” he said, “and the dishes were well worth buying, but I told her to call again, and so she’ll be coming in today or tomorrow.”

Mangan made no comment, but when the woman duly arrived that same afternoon he eyed her intently. About thirty, she had a nice appearance and might have been a good-class domestic servant. She made it appear that she was rather nervous, as she kept glancing over her shoulder as she undid the parcel containing the entree dishes. They were of good quality and Mangan knew he would have no difficulty disposing of them. “They are yours?” he asked, and when she nodded, he said, “Well, have you taken them to anyone else to sell?”

She shook her head. “No, I came here because I was recommended by a gentleman friend. You bought something of his a little while ago.”

“What did we buy?” asked Mangan carelessly.

“I don’t know,” she said, “but he told me you were quite fair and —” she lowered her eyes “— didn’t make any fuss.”

Mangan was quite enjoying the little comedy. “And how much do you want for them?” he asked.

“￡5,” she said firmly, “and I won’t take less.” She gave a little cough. “I shan’t want a receipt.”

Mangan smiled to himself. It was a sure thing the woman came from the police. The dishes were worth more than double what she was asking. However, he beat her down to a pound less.

“Then ￡4 it is,” he said and at once produced one of the firm’s billheads for her to write down her name and address.

“She was quite O.K.,” said Fenton with animation, when she had gone, “and I’ll take them straight round to old Beckstein. He’ll give us twelve quid without a murmur. You see if he doesn’t. We’ll get them off the premises at once.”

“No, we won’t,” snapped Mangan. “She was a police nark if ever I saw one. ￡4 was a ridiculous price if everything was all right, and I’ll swear we shall be having detectives here within the next twenty-four hours. I’ll enter the buying in the book at once.”

His partner was inclined to be angry, and protested as much as he dared. However, the next morning his face took on a very different expression when the woman reappeared with two detectives as an escort this time. The men showed their badges and one of them, pointing to the woman, demanded sharply, “You bought two silver dishes from this party here yesterday. Well, where are they? Are they still here?”

“Of course they are,” replied Mangan, equally as sharply. “We never try to resell anything we have bought from people we don’t know for at least a couple of weeks,” and he produced the dishes from a cupboard.

“Show me the entry in your book,” ordered the detective and, when he saw that everything was in order, he commented savagely. “Only ￡4 for them! You must have known they were stolen goods.”

“We didn’t,” said Mangan coolly, “or we shouldn’t have bought them. We are honest dealers here and ￡4 was quite a fair price, as it might have been months before we should have been able to dispose of them again.”

“Well, we take them away with us,” scowled the detective, “and you can call round later at the Yard for a refund of the money.”

It was a very subdued Wardale who expressed his gratitude to his partner. “The luckiest day of my life when I came to know you, my boy,” he said. “Upon my own, I should have been booked for quod as certain as eggs is eggs,” and Mangan made the mental note that for one thing, at all events, he owed something to the mad professor.
*     *     *     *     *

It was a warm and balmy night in the beautiful town of Cambridge, and the celebrated nuclear physicist, Dr. von Bressen, with a long string of letters after his name, was lying back luxuriously in a comfortable big deck-chair just under the window of the summer-house across the lawn, in Canon Drew’s large and high-walled garden.

He was smoking a good cigar and had several more in the case in his pocket. With a newspaper upon his knee and an interesting detective novel lying handy for when he wanted it, he was in that satisfied and happy frame of mind which follows upon a good dinner in its first stages of digestion.

Of real Teutonic appearance, stout and well-rounded with a short neck and bullet-shaped head and hanging flabby cheeks, he looked all over a man who would appreciate the good things in life.

There could be no doubt he had had a good dinner, as good almost, he told himself, as if there were no such things as rations, and the agreeable taste of everything was still lingering upon his palate. A plate of rich pea-soup, a good helping of a tender chicken which had been sent in as a present from a kind-hearted old Don whom he happened to have met in the laboratory in the University, plenty of delicious gravy and bread-sauce, roast potatoes and the best part of a whole dish of cabbage. To top off the meal there had been apple-pie and a generous slab of well-matured cheese. For drink there had been a large bottle of good beer.

He lay back smiling at his own thoughts. Of a truth those English were mad! Here was he, who had killed as many of their sons and brothers and fathers as he possibly could, and would kill as many more if ever he got the chance, living practically unrationed while they themselves were almost starving along upon half-filled unsatisfied bellies!

Yes, they were mad, and he had always hated them! Had it not always seemed to be their mission in the happenings of the world to stand between his great fatherland and the proving that his children were verily the master-race?

His memory harked back to when as a young lieutenant he had fought against them in the first World War, and he grinned that it certainly would not look well if all he had done then were put down in cold black and white. He had never been one to encourage those under his command to take prisoners if they could get out of it, and he remembered how, when there were none of his superior officers about, many a quick bayonet thrust had saved a lot of inconvenience if rations were coming up tardily to the front line.

He recalled, too, certain other happenings when he had been in France. By thunder, some of these French girls had been as pretty as anyone could want, and what did it matter a bit of rough handling and a few tears? They should have been proud of his attentions and consider it an honour if by good fortune they came to have a baby by him. Ah, they were great days then, and he never regretted anything he had done!

Then, in the last war, though he had certainly taken no part in the actual fighting, he had nevertheless strained every nerve so that his great country could win the race for the atom bomb. At work in those hidden laboratories in Peenemeunde he had not spared himself any hour of the day or night, with his hatred against the allies becoming accentuated with every bomb they dropped upon the beautiful cities of the Third Reich.

Still, he had once been most foolish and a lightly spoken but very stupid remark about the Fuehrer had resulted in his being thrown into a concentration camp. However, he had only said what he did because it happened he was in an evil temper that day and let his tongue outrun his discretion.

Of course, coming as he himself did from a noble family in East Prussia and steeped as he always had been in the proud traditions of his class, it was only natural he should resent their being ruled by Adolf Hitler, a man as common in origin as any menial in the Third Reich.

Certainly, he had always admired the way the Fuehrer had broken every promise he had made and ignored every solemn treaty when it was to his country’s interest to do so, but it had always galled him when he thought of this one-time corporal barking out his orders to the General Staff, many of whom were German noblemen of long and distinguished ancestry.

So, when upon that particular morning he had been engaged upon some very intricate problem and not wanted to be disturbed, he knew he had lost his temper when the latest photograph of the Fuehrer had been brought round to be admired.

“Take it away,” he had shouted. “He looks like a monkey on a stick.”

Of course, immediately after he had spoken he had wished he hadn’t said it, for he knew it would be reported. So two nights later he had not been surprised when he had been dragged from his bed and, handcuffed like some dirty Jew, thrust among some thousands of others in an enclosure surrounded by electrified barbed wire.

Oh, how he had suffered there! Cold and wet, horrible and scanty food, no proper sanitation, and shouted at and whipped by young criminal toughs who had been released from the prisons to be the camp guards!

Ten dreadful weeks he had spent there and then had come the disaster to Peenemeunde, a terrible one because they had been so near to the harnessing of the atom bomb which almost certainly would have meant their winning the war. When everyone had thought the very existence of all those wonderful laboratories upon that lonely stretch of the Baltic coast was a secret unknown to the Allies, one night over had come a thousand bombers, and within one single hour every building had been razed to the ground and more than five thousand most highly skilled workers killed.

Certainly, the Allies had paid dearly, as it had cost them thirty-nine bombers and the loss of more than three hundred of their crack Air Force men, but the blow had been a stunning one for the Third Reich and, no wonder, as he had heard afterwards, it had almost driven the Fuehrer out of his mind.

Still, as far as he, Carl von Bressen had been concerned it had had its bright side, as he had been immediately released from the concentration camp and put to his beloved work again. With so many eminent nuclear physicists killed, they could not do without him.

Another thing, too. When the war was over and lost, the record of his having been in a concentration camp had convinced these pig British that he had been a hater of the Nazi regime, with the result that they were now employing him and make his life run upon such comfortable and pleasant lines.

His so happy frame of mind following upon his good dinner had made him feel sleepy, and he dozed off deliciously for quite a long time. When he woke up again the garden was all in darkness, except for the electric light behind him and the faint new moon in the sky. He lit another cigar and picking up the newspaper started to read.

And at that moment a dark figure, as noiseless as a shadow, was dropping from the roof of the tool-shed into the garden.

Clad in dark overalls and wearing rubber-soled shoes, upon alighting to the ground, for several minutes Leon Mangan, for it was he, stood as still as a graven image, taking in all his surroundings. His heart was beating quickly.

Across the lawn, about thirty paces from him he saw the German lying back in the deck-chair, with the rays from the electric light behind him making his surroundings the only bright spot in the dark garden. A few paces nearer and he would have been a tempting shot. Indeed, even now, Mangan felt pretty sure he would be able to hit him in the head. But no, he told himself, with so much at stake he must take as few risks as possible and it was worrying him that he did not know where the detective was. Certainly, a light was showing from one of the ground floor windows at the end of the house, but he rather thought it must be the kitchen and if so, it meant the two maids had not yet gone to bed. However, they would probably be going soon, as he had just heard some church clock strike ten.

He melted into the shadows of a belt of trees to make his way round the garden and get to the back of the summer-house. Feeling no trace of nervousness now, he was thrilled with the adventure. It was his old French Resistance days over again and it might almost be as if he were stalking an enemy sentry.

Calling up every scrap of his Commando training, he planted every footstep with the softness of a cat. The trees were old and big and he slipped behind them, one by one, without the slightest sound.

When half-way round the garden, however, all of a sudden his very blood seemed to almost freeze in his veins, for he had smelt the smell of burning tobacco. On the instant he had realised it was not smoke wafted from the German’s cigar. It was either cigarette smoke or that from a pipe, and it seemed to be coming from somewhere very close to him. He flattened himself behind the trunk of a big tree and, breathlessly, inch by inch, moved his head very slowly round.

Then, with all his self-control, he nearly uttered a starded exclamation, as his amazed eyes fell upon the outline of the dim figure of a man, leaning against a tree not half a dozen paces from where he himself was standing, a silent, meditative figure, puffing slowly at a cigarette. It did not take him two seconds to realise it was that of the detective guarding the man, he, Mangan, was intending to murder.

With his heart in his mouth, for the moment he was minded to draw back into the shadows and get out of the garden as quickly as he could. He would have to try again another night!

Then the spirit of the Commando stirred in him, and the memories of just such other nights surged up riotously into his mind, those warm and scented nights in Southern France when he and his little band of partisans had crept down from their fastness in the Auvergne Mountains and dealt out silent death to many a sleeping German.

His heart calmed down, and everything about him became as steady as a rock. This man near him should die too, die as had so many others at his hands, without a cry, without a moan, without even a sigh. Once he got his fingers about his neck he would make no sound again.

His thoughts came like lightning. But he could not grapple with him with his back against a tree! He must get him into the open and, preferably, in the attitude of bending down. A moment’s hesitation, and his right hand dropped stealthily on to the ground. Without for one second taking his eyes off his intended victim, he groped for a lump of earth and began moulding it into a little ball. The earth under the trees was soft and easy to manipulate.

The ball ready, very slowly he straightened himself up and flipped it to a few feet to the left of the man leaning against the tree. The ball rustled among the leaves. The man heard it and Mangan saw him give a slight start. A few seconds later he stepped away a couple of paces or so from the tree and bent down as if he were searching on the ground to see what had disturbed him.

His back was now towards Mangan, and the latter, in a lightning movement, sprang upon him from behind and, gripping his neck fiercely with both hands, dug his fingers deeply into the soft flesh on either side of the throat. At the same time he forced him violently face downwards on to the ground.

With Mangan now astride his back and his arms pinioned by Mangan’s knees, the man could do nothing but struggle ineffectively with his legs. He could utter no cry and he could not breathe. He was in the dreadful carotid hold. Now of all holds the carotid is one of the most deadly, as it cuts off all supply of blood to the heart by pressure in an extreme degree upon the great carotid arteries in the neck. The heart is thereby put out of action at once.

In a little over a minute the detective had passed into unconsciousness and ceased to struggle. In less than three he was dead.

With his breath coming in great gasps from his exertions, Mangan rose staggeringly to his feet and dragged the body deep among the trees. Then, for the first time since he had caught sight of the detective, he looked towards the deck-chair under the light. The German was still reading his newspaper. Obviously he had heard nothing!

Mangan wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and squatted down upon the ground to recover his breath. A fierce exhilaration thrilled through him. The savagery of the animal was possessing him. He had tasted blood again and he was back in his jungle days.

Very quickly recovering from his exertions, he considered what he must next do. He saw the light in the house suddenly go out. Good! Then he and the German had the garden all to themselves, and there was no need for any frantic hurry now.

A quarter of an hour later he was crouching a few paces behind the deck chair. The doctor was now engrossed in the reading of his book, and his interest in it was so great that he was puffing unconsciously upon a cigar that long since had gone dead and cold.

Now the more thoughtful among us in our meditative moments are so often realising the strange happenings that are going on all round, but surely none could have been more strange than what was now happening to Dr. Carl von Bressen in that still and silent garden surrounded by the high wall.

There he was, all unknowingly threatened with a most dreadful form of death, and its coming to him was being delayed minute by minute simply because he was wanting to finish the last pages of a detective story. Though the hour was getting very late, he felt he must read on until he learned if the police found out who was really the murderer.

And all the time his murderer was crouching just behind him in deeply cursing irritation at the delay. Eleven had struck long ago and there was no certainty that midnight would not strike, too, before the German got out of his chair.

The killing of the detective having been so silently accomplished, Mangan was now minded to get his second victim in the same way. Yet he could do nothing as long as the latter remained in his chair. With a short neck such as his, the matter would not be one of the best propositions at any time, and he must get right behind him to be certain of success.

The minutes passed and passed, and it seemed to the impatient watcher that the scientist would never finish his story. At last, however, he slapped the book to with a deep sigh and heaved himself slowly from his chair. He was most disappointed that the police had caught the murderer, as he was a damned clever fellow and deserved to get away!

He yawned deeply and, with a pleasurable anticipation of the comfortable bed awaiting him, picked up his chair and, carrying it into the summer-house, placed it against some others there and proceeded to switch off the light. Turning to make his way back to the house, he had not, however, taken half a dozen steps before — the avalanche descended.

It was soon over, with the garden wrapped in complete stillness once again.

Never more would Carl von Bressen gloat over his many crimes, never more would he chuckle in fond memory over the pretty French girls he had molested, and never more would he eat pork chops or read exciting detective stories. Passing forever into the shades, a brave soldier and with all the lust of his race for battle strong within him, he would soon be among the meek he had always so despised for inheriting the earth, only as they did — in coffins.

A few minutes later, Mangan, now wearing a pair of black gloves and with a little pocket torch to light his way, was prowling round the lower rooms of the canon’s house. Mindful that he had heard from the professor that the reverend gentleman was something of a collector of art treasures, he was wondering if there might not be some small portable article he would be able to pocket and take away.

To his annoyance, however, he found two of the rooms were locked up, and he told himself he could not tempt fortune further by breaking into them. If the maids became aware of any suspicious noises, it was possible they might come down to find out what they meant. Then, if any outcries were made, they might be heard in the house in the adjoining garden. No, it was not worth the risk! He would get away quickly while the going was good.

However, coming to a small room where the door was ajar, he stepped inside and flashed his light round where the German and the detective were accustomed to have their meals, as the table was laid for the breakfast upon the morrow for two. The room was comfortably furnished and upon one side of the wall a row of etchings were hanging from a high picture-rail above. He knew very little about the value of etchings and passed them by, but his light happening to flash upon a small painting at the end of the row, he moved up closer to look at it. It was only about twelve inches by eighteen and, protected by a sheet of glass, it depicted the sun setting upon a field of ripened corn. Its delicacy and colouring were very beautiful.

Then he had almost to suppress a cry as he noted a small silver plate attached to the bottom of the frame, upon which was engraved “Jean Baptiste Corot, 1869.”

“A genuine Corot,” he gasped, “and probably one of his last works! Why it may be worth many hundreds of pounds! Gad, what a find!”

Jerking the wire of the little painting from off the picture-rail, he took the Corot into his hands and, with more excitement even than when brutal murder was filling all his thoughts, proceeded to open the frame at the back and with great care take out the canvas. One quick glance at its beauty, and he rolled it up and pushed it under his waistcoat. The empty frame he pushed well behind a heavy sideboard.

Then, so that the absence of the painting should not be noticed at once, he stood upon a chair and with the poker from the grate sidled the echings along the rail until, with a little more space between each of them, the whole space on the wall was filled.

Next, with no more delay, he left the house and, returning by the same way he had come, made all haste to where he had left his car. To his relief he found it had not been interfered with.

Well started upon his journey back to London, he had, however, gone barely a dozen miles and had just passed through Royston when, about to cross a bridge spanning a small and shallow stream, he got a blow-out in one of his back tyres.

Cursing angrily, not because of any fear of pursuit as he felt quite safe there, but because the job was going to be a dirty one, he sprang out of his car and started to put on the spare wheel. He had got as far as struggling to get it into its place when, by the headlights of his car, he saw a man approaching upon a bicycle, and it did not take him two seconds to grasp that the arrival was a patrolling constable.

“Let me help you, sir,” said the constable, alighting from his machine and propping it up against the wall of the bridge so that the rays of the lamp fell straight upon Mangan’s face. He stared hard and then exclaimed smilingly, “Oh, but I know you very well by sight, sir! You live near Fitzroy Square, don’t you, and garage your car at Tom Pike’s there? I’ve seen you often when I’ve been passing, and I never forget a face. You see, sir, I’ve only been down here for a few weeks. Before that I was stationed at the police station in Euston Road and, living in Cleveland Street, used often to pass through Fitzroy Square to go on duty.” He added quickly, “Cut yourself, have you, sir?” and he pointed to what were obviously bloodstains upon Mangan’s wrist and the back of his right hand.

Mangan cursed again. The German doctor’s nose had bled and drenched Mangan’s hand and sleeve, but he thought he had wiped it all off on the grass afterwards.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said quickly, “just a scratch.”

The new wheel was soon put in position and the obliging constable proceeded to screw up the bolts. Pumping some air into the tyre, he let down the jack. Then, deciding more air was needed, he asked Mangan for his tyre-gauge and, the pressure being found to be not high enough, he resorted to the pump again.

In the meantime Mangan had been thinking hard, realising to the full how very awkward the meeting with this policeman might turn out to be. He knew quite well that later there would be searching and far-reaching enquiries about all motorists who had been seen upon the roads near Cambridge about midnight. The police would be able to determine pretty accurately about what time the murders had been committed in the garden, as it could only have been not long before the two murdered men were accustomed to go to bed.

Hell, then this interfering policeman would at once bark out about his encounter with him, Mangan, upon the road so near to Cambridge! He would be able to describe both him and his car and, worst still, tell whereabouts he lived. Oh, hell again; he would remember his bloodied wrist, too!

Mangan did not hesitate long in making up his mind what he must do. Already, it had been a night of violence for him and another murder, weighed against his own safety, was as nothing to him.

With his teeth clenched tightly together, in a furtive movement he picked up the heavy jack and struck with a terrific blow upon the back of the policeman’s head. The latter sank down like a staggered ox and, snatching up the body Mangan dropped it over the bridge into the shallow stream below. In a few seconds the bicycle followed and now, in feverish haste, after grabbing up the tools spread about upon the ground, Mangan sprang into the car and started to resume his interrupted journey to Town. Cool and collected and with his wits about him, he turned out of the main road into the first byroad he came to, and in due course reached London by a long detour through Bishop’s Stortford.

The next day being Sunday, the woman who looked after his flat did not put in an appearance, and it was not until mid-afternoon that Mangan had had his bath and dressed. He had no intention of going to the professor to claim his reward until the way he had successfully carried out his full mission of murder appeared in the daily newspapers and that, possibly, he expected might not be for two or three days.

However, the next morning he read in The Daily Megaphone that at some hour late on the previous Saturday night a most brutal murder had been committed upon the main Cambridge–London road near Royston. The news had come in just before the paper had gone to press as the paragraph was in consequence very brief. It stated, however, that a patrolling constable had apparently been knocked down and killed by a motor-car, with his body as well as the bicycle being afterwards thrown over a bridge into the stream below. It added the usual statement that the police were investigating the matter. The inquest was to be held that afternoon.

Mangan was rather puzzled there was nothing in the paper about any happening to the German scientist and the detective, but supposed for some reason of their own the authorities were deliberately withholding everything there. He was quite confident, however, that they would not be able to keep silence for long and looked forward with pleasurable anticipation to what the evening papers would contain.

Sure enough, there was no disappointment there, as the following day the Evening Cry in its early afternoon edition put forward a thrilling story under big headlines, recording that Dr. Carl von Bressen, the great nuclear physicist, along with Inspector Barwell, the well-known Scotland Yard detective who had been specially detailed to look after him, had been kidnapped on the Saturday night from the house in Cambridge where they had been staying and no clue had as yet been picked up to give any indication to where they had been taken.

The Evening Cry went on that, as was known to everyone, the eminent scientist had been brought from Frankfurt to give what service he could to the British authorities and had been working in the University laboratories in Cambridge. Quite aware there was a lot of resentment among certain people that a former enemy should now be being employed by the Government, an inspector of long experience had been detailed to keep a strict watch over him and never leave his side.

Installed in a suite of rooms in Canon Drew’s house in Trumpington Road, the doctor and the inspector had been residing there for upwards of six weeks and both had appeared to be well satisfied with their treatment and surroundings. Canon Drew and his family were not in residence, having gone up to Scotland on a holiday, but two maids had been left in charge to look after the visitors and up to the previous Saturday evening everything had been as uneventful as could be.

Then, after his dinner the doctor, as was his custom upon warm evenings, had retired to the garden to smoke and read in a deckchair near the summer-house, while the inspector had sat on reading in the room where they had had their meal. That was how things had been until the maids went off to bed at their usual time of half past ten.

The night had passed quite quietly and the maids had heard no noises or cries. As had been arranged, the next morning breakfast was served at exactly nine o’clock and, as the two men were always so punctual in their habits, the maid who carried in the hot dishes and the tea was rather surprised not to find them already waiting in the room.

Wondering if they had overslept themselves, she knocked at both their doors — the rooms were adjoining — but to her great surprise obtained no answer from either of them. Returning into the kitchen and consulting her fellow servant, the two of them together went back to the bedrooms and after more ineffectual knocking ventured to open the doors. To their amazement they found both rooms were empty and the beds had not been slept in.

Aware of the importance of the German doctor, they were now thoroughly alarmed and went to the telephone at once to ring up the Cambridge police station. Finding the line was dead, they opened the gate in the drive with their key and running round to the people next door implored them to get in touch with the police with the least possible delay.

The police arrived in a few minutes and at once took a very grave view of the matter. Undoubtedly the two men had not gone away upon their own accords, but had been forcibly taken off. Their hats and overcoats had been left behind and, moreover, the doctor was wearing carpet slippers and the inspector indoor shoes. To confirm everything their car was in the garage.

A thorough search was made everywhere, but no light was thrown upon the disappearances. They were certainly most mysterious, as there were no signs of any struggle anywhere, everything seemed to be quite in order and, apparently, nothing was missing from the house.

The Evening Cry finished up by declaring it was not likely the matter would remain a mystery for long as, with the police combing the whole country, it was highly improbable the two men could be kept hidden away for an indefinite period of time.

Mangan chuckled in great amusement as he went through the article. Of course it would be no good approaching the professor yet, as he was quite certain a kidnapping would not satisfy him and he would refuse to cash up with the rest of the promised money. So he, Mangan, must wait until the police had found out a bit more and, with the hot weather now prevailing, he thought with a grin that should be very soon.

In the meantime the professor was in a perfect fever of exasperadon. Kidnapping was not what he had wanted! What was the good of that, as the men were bound to be found soon? He would not pay Mangan a penny more! He wondered why the latter was now keeping away from him and wondered also if the killing of that policeman upon the Cambridge road were his work as well!

Two days passed with no more information about the missing men, but on the Thursday the evening newspapers stirred themselves up to great excitement with shocking news.

Their bodies had been found! They had been lying all the time in the summer-house in the garden and there was all evidence the two men had met with dreadful deaths!

They had been throttled!

It appeared that with the gates in the drive now being kept open during the day, a grocer had driven his van right up to the house and, while he was engaged in talking to the maids, the fox terrier who always accompanied him upon his rounds had wandered into the garden and, with the lively curiosity of his breed, started sniffing about everywhere.

Suddenly the little animal had begun to bark vociferously and refusing the orders of his master to come back to the van the grocer had gone to see what the barking was about.

The dog was in the summer-house and greatly excited at something he had found. He had pushed his way in behind a big pile of deckchairs and was continuing to bark for all he was worth. The grocer bent down to pull him out and at once, as he told the reporters later, his nostrils were assailed with a horrible sickly odour and he saw a foot in a carpet slipper poking out.

At once starting to pull the chairs away, his horrified eyes fell upon two bodies, one on top of the other, pushed close against the wall.

Almost, as he said, terrified out of his wits, he rushed back into the house and got on the telephone, which had now been put right, to summon the police. The police arrived in furious haste and at once saw what, hardened as they were to gruesome things, was in a fair way to make them retch.

The newspapers continued that surely never in all the annals of black crime had two more dreadful murders been committed, as even to the untrained and most casual observer there could not be the slightest doubt as to how they had died.

The professor was about to start upon his evening meal when the newspaper was brought to him, and for the moment what he read so unnerved him that he had to get up from the table and mix himself a stiff brandy and soda. His face had gone a putty colour and his hands were so trembling that it was with difficulty he could bring the glass to his lips.

“Gad, but what a devil I have raised,” he choked, “and there’ll be all hell to pay if he’s found out! He’ll go for me next, too, if I anger him,” and tottering over to his desk he took out a little automatic and, making sure it was fully loaded, put it into one of the side pockets of his jacket.

The brandy steadied him a lot and he smiled a sickly smile. “But it is only what I wanted,” he whispered, “and I can’t complain. No, if I give him his money everything will be quite all right. He’s escaped so far, and so he’s not likely to be caught now.”

He returned to his meal and a small bottle of old claret on the top of the stiff brandy he had given himself soon began to restore his confidence.

“And he’ll come to-night for the money,” he told himself. “He’s only been waiting until it was all in the newspapers.” He chuckled. “But, oh, what a nerve he’s got! I couldn’t have picked upon a better man.”

All the time he kept listening for the ringing of the front door bell. To his great disappointment, however, it did not ring, neither that evening nor the ensuing one either. Mangan’s coming had been delayed by a slight attack of influenza and, always anxious about his health, he had kept to his bed until the temperature had gone down. So it was not until the Saturday evening that he put in an appearance at the professor’s flat to claim the reward. He was all smiles as he took the professor’s rather nervously proffered hand.

“Well, are you satisfied?” he asked. “Did I make a good job of it?”

“Excellent,” exclaimed the professor, “and I’ve got the money all ready for you as you asked in ￡5 banknotes. Now tell me all about it?” and Mangan proceeded to relate what had happened.

“I had to deal with that detective,” he said, “as unfortunately for himself he had got in my way. Still, I never expected that the bodies would have remained undiscovered for so long and had only reckoned upon their not being found until the next day. The deckchairs were only just propped up over them and the police must have been most casual in their search.”

“But it was a very clever idea of yours,” said the professor, “to think of putting them there.” An anxious look came into his face. “But are you sure you left no trails behind?”

“Quite sure,” nodded Mangan. “Had I left any, they would have been followed up long before this.”

“And that policeman who was killed by the bridge?” smiled the professor slyly. “I guess that was your work, too?”

Mangan shook his head. He had no intention of letting the professor know too much. “No, I didn’t come home that way. I went a long way round by way of Huntingdon and Bedford. I was taking as few risks as possible.”

The professor looked very pleased. “Well, we’ll just lie low for a week or two and then you’ll go for that other German, Otto Bernstein.”

“No, no,” said Mangan quickly. “Not him for much longer than that. He’ll be far too well guarded after what’s happened to his colleague. We must let the excitement die down.”

For the moment the professor looked very disappointed but then his face brightened. “Well, if not him,” he said, “you can put paid to that Professor Rodney. He’s another vicious brute, an enemy to all human kind.”

“What’s he done?” asked Mangan.

“More atom bomb work,” nodded the professor, “and he’s insulted me as well. He’s an old enemy of mine. Now come to me again in a few days. By then I’ll have everything cut and dried with the easiest way of getting him with no risk at all.” He rubbed his hands together delightedly. “Gad, man, don’t you realise we are making history, you and I. We shall be among the immortals one day. In years to come the world will put us up on pedestals and regard us as white-souled humanitarians, who at all risks to themselves ——”

“Here, you cut that out,” broke in Mangan savagely. “Don’t you take in that if we’re found out we shall both be hanged for it? It’s no time for gloating over what’s been done. So blot it out of your memory. Forget all about it and, whatever you do, never start talking about it with your friends.” He spoke sharply and with some uneasiness in his tones. “You haven’t discussed it with anyone yet, have you?”

“No, no,” exclaimed the professor rather crestfallen. “As with you, I have had a bad cold and haven’t been out of the flat this week. No, I’ve seen no one to talk to.”

“Well, when you do,” said Mangan with the utmost sternness, “you’ll be the damnedest fool in the world if you bring it up, for you won’t be able to prevent their seeing how pleased you are, and they may get suspicious that you’ve had a hand in it. Don’t forget that letter you wrote to The Times when you practically said that anyone who killed any worker upon the atom bombs would be only committing justifiable homicide.”

The professor looked uncomfortable. “Of course, I didn’t know then what was going to happen,” he excused himself, “but I see now it was a foolish letter for me to write.”

“It certainly was,” snapped Mangan, “and after your having broadcast such peculiar views my wonder is the police haven’t been round to you already to ask some awkward questions.” He regarded the puny little man before him and repressed a grin. “One thing in your favour is that the men were not shot, for if they had been the police might easily have been suspicious that you killed them yourself.” A thought seemed to strike him and he asked frowningly, “But tell me — have you ever heard of anyone called Gilbert Larose?”

“Of course I have,” replied the professor. “As a matter of fact I know him quite well. He lives at Carmel Abbey, only a few miles away from the bungalow of mine in Norfolk. But why do you ask?”

“Because,” replied Mangan, “I saw in one of the papers yesterday that he had been a friend of that Inspector Barwell and had sworn he would find out who killed him. Who is he?”

“He’s nothing now,” said the professor, “because about fifteen or sixteen years ago he married a very rich woman and all he does is to look after her estate. However, years ago he was a detective at Scotland Yard and probably he knew the inspector then.”

“Poof,” scoffed Mangan, “only a policeman!”

The professor frowned uneasily. “Ah, but he was far more than that! He was their star crime investigator and, undoubtedly the best man they had ever had. They used to say he could pick up clues which no one else saw and always managed to get his man in the end. Yes, he’s a most dangerous party for anyone to have against him.”

“Rubbish!” snapped Mangan. “At any rate, for certain he’ll never worry me. If there was anything to find out he’d have certainly found it before now. No, I’m quite safe, and so are you if you keep your trap shut.”

However, when Mangan had gone off, the professor was still frowning uneasily. He didn’t altogether like that news about Larose and to find out if there was anything in the wind must certainly have a little chat with the one-time detective. It should not be difficult. He’d pretend to be passing his way one day and drop in with a few oysters. Larose was a chatty fellow and always ready for a yarn.