Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog by Edgar Wallace Page A

him the rendezvous, and that was all. He says he has never seen a Frog since he was initiated. Where he was sworn in he doesn’t remember. The car belongs to Frogs, and he receives so much a week for looking after it. Ordinarily he is employed by Heron’s Club—drives a truck for them. He tells me that there are twenty other cars cached in London somewhere, just standing in their garages, and each has its own driver, who goes once a week to give it a clean up.”
    “Heron’s Club—that is the dance club which Lola and Lew Brady are interested in!” said Dick thoughtfully, and Elk considered.
    “I never thought of that. Of course, it doesn’t mean that the management of Heron’s know anything about Litnov’s evening work. I’ll look up that club.”
    He was saved the trouble, for the next morning, when he reached the office, he found a man waiting to see him.
    “I’m Mr. Hagn, the manager of the Heron’s Club,” he introduced himself. “I understand one of my men has been in trouble.”
    Hagn was a tall, good-looking Swede who spoke without any trace of a foreign accent.
    “How have you heard that, Mr. Hagn?” asked Elk suspiciously. “The man has been under lock and key since last night, and he hasn’t held any communication with anybody.”
    Mr. Hagn smiled.
    “You can’t arrest people and take them to a police-station without somebody knowing all about it,” he said with truth. “One of my waiters saw Litnov being taken to Mary Lane handcuffed, and as Litnov hasn’t reported for duty this morning, there was only one conclusion to be drawn. What is the trouble, Mr. Elk?”
    Elk shook his head.
    “I can’t give you any information on the matter,” he said. “Can I see him?”
    “You can’t even see him,” said Elk. “He has slept well, and sends his love to all kind friends.”
    Mr. Hagn seemed distressed.
    “Is it possible to discover where he put the key of the coal cellar?” he urged. “This is rather important to me. This man usually keeps it.”
    The detective hesitated.
    “I can find out,” he said, and, leaving Mr. Hagn under the watchful eyes of his secretary, he crossed the yard to the cells where the Russian was held.
    Litnov rose from his plank bed as the cell door opened.
    “Friend of yours called,” said Elk. “Wants to know where you put the key of the coal cellar.”
    It was only the merest flicker of light and understanding that came to the little man’s eyes, but Elk saw it.
    “Tell him I believe I left it with the Wandsworth man,” he said.
    “Um!” said Elk, and went back to the waiting Hagn.
    “He said he left it in the Pentonville Road,” said Elk untruthfully, but Mr. Hagn seemed satisfied.
    Returning to the cells, Elk saw the gaoler.
    “Has this man asked you where he was to be taken from here?”
    “Yes, sir,” said the officer. “I told him he was going to Wandsworth Prison—we usually tell prisoners where they are going on remand, in case they wish to let their relatives know.”
    Elk had guessed right. The inquiry about the key was prearranged. A telephone message to Mary Lane, where the remainder of the gang were held, produced the curious information that a woman, reputedly the wife of one of the men, had called that morning, and, on being refused an interview, begged for news about the missing key of the coal cellar, and had been told that it was in the possession of “the Brixton man.”
    “The men are to be remitted to Wormwood Scrubbs Prison, and they are not to be told where they are going,” ordered Elk.
    That afternoon a horse-driven prison-van drew out of Cannon Row and rumbled along Whitehall. At the juncture of St. Martin’s Lane and Shaftesbury Avenue, a carelessly-driven motor lorry smashed into its side, slicing off the near wheel. Instantly there came from nowhere a crowd of remarkable appearance. It seemed as if all the tramps in the world had been lying in wait to crowd about the crippled van. The door was wrenched open, and