Chapter XXVIII: The Seen Prior

That a man should be shot dead in broad daylight, on one of the most crowded streets of London, and that the murderer should have escaped, offered to the leader-writer of every metropolitan newspaper an opportunity and an excuse for calling into question the prescience and genius of the detective force.

The Chief sent for Bullott, and, without a word, handed him a thick bunch of newspaper cuttings, and the first thing that caught the inspector’s eye was a paragraph:

“In the circumstances it is rather remarkable that the officer in charge of the case should be Inspector Bullott, who, we understand, is in this way making his acquaintance with the procedure of criminal detection. Hitherto, Mr. Bullott has occupied an important position in the Records Department of Scotland Yard, where he has rendered admirable service to the State, but which can hardly have fitted him for the duty he is now called upon to perform.”

Bullott’s heart went down with a thump. The rosy dreams of success, already dim, faded greyly.

“Read the next one,” suggested the police chief.

The second of the leaders was even more ruthless.

“Mr. Bullott, who is in charge of this case, is certainly pursuing methods which are, to say the least, unorthodox. Despising the assistance which trained and efficient police officers, accustomed to such cases, could give to him, he seems to be satisfied with the help of a man of doubtful antecedents and a reporter attached to the staff of one of our contemporaries. Admirable as this combination may appear to the inexperienced Mr. Bullott, an anxious public will not be impressed…”

“The third one is almost as bad,” said the Chief, and the troubled Inspector Bullott took up the third cutting reluctantly.

It was from the _Post-News_.

“… frankly, we must ask Scotland Yard to consider seriously whether they are taking all the steps possible to bring to justice this unknown assassin. As frankly, we state that it is, in our opinion, a grave error of judgment to place so important a case in the hands of an inexperienced police officer, a gentleman who has never before handled so much as a minor prosecution…”

“I suppose that means you want me to go back to my office, sir?” said Bullott.

The old chief chuckled.

“It means nothing of the kind,” he said. “I’ve been on to the newspapers--I know the editors of most--and I’ve found that those leaders were written on information supplied yesterday afternoon from a source which they, of course, refuse to reveal. The information was couched in the same terms, all having one object, which is to clear you out of this case. And they wouldn’t be worrying about you and your peculiar friends if there wasn’t a reason--it is quite enough for me, Bullott, that they wish you replaced. I’ll take the unpopular course of confirming you in that appointment. The police force that is popular isn’t doing its duty! Now, what about this shooting of Holbrook? How is he, by the way?”

“Practically well,” said Bullott. “The Press knows nothing about this last attempt, and I propose to keep it quiet for a day or two.”

The chief nodded.

“Marsh may be a difficult proposition for you to handle, but there’s nothing new in making use of a man of his questionable past. And he’s a character--I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew much more about this business than you give him credit for.”

The conference lasted an hour, and when Bullott issued into the street the first thing he saw was an early newspaper bill:

“_Murder Witness Kidnapped._”

Betty’s story was now public property. Bill Holbrook’s column had been the big news of the morning, and although he had dealt as sketchily as possible with the girl and her experience, he had left no doubt in the reader’s mind that her disappearance from London for three days was directly associated with the murder of Brother John.

“Not that I’m sure about that,” he said, when Bullott had returned and showed him the paper. “When we can persuade this young lady to tell us her dreams, we shall probably form another opinion--you got a good roasting from the morning papers, Bullott. What do they say at headquarters?”

Bullott turned up his thumbs suggestively.

“The opposition is organised, of course,” said Bill, laying down the paper, “and that brings me down to Laffin. There is a Laffin touch in that stuff that can’t be mistaken. And, if you want news, here’s an item that’ll tickle you to death; La Florette has taken Lord Towcester’s house in Portman Place for the season, and is entertaining on a large scale, prior to her departure to winter in South America. You don’t see anything funny about it? I do! Florette is nearly broke, so is Van Campe. The failure of his last show has brought more creditors to his doorstep than he can accommodate. In fact, Florette--whose other name is Hamshaw--has started economising. Toby Marsh lodges with her mother and knows. A year’s rent of that Portman Place house is about two thousand pounds; it will cost five thousand a year to run--and that is without etceteras.”

Bullott was only mildly interested.

“That’s her trouble,” he said.

“And yours too,” said Bill, and before he could explain what he meant, Bullott’s housekeeper announced a visitor.

It was Mr. Pawter, and in the quiet eyes that gleamed behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses was a ghoulish satisfaction.

“This comes of leaving the innocent pursuits of commerce, William,” he said, glancing approvingly at the white-bandaged head.

“How the devil did you know I was shot up?”

“It has just come on the street, in the later editions,” said Mr. Pawter. “That is why I called.”

By this time Bullott was halfway down the stairs to his telephone. He had many friends on the Press, and his first call was at the _Evening Gazette_.

“It came through on the tape,” said the news editor reproachfully. “You might have tipped us off, Bullott.”

“What agency sent it out?” demanded the inspector.

“The Central Association.”

Fortunately, Bullott had friends at this court also, but they could give him little satisfaction.

“We had a ’phone call this morning saying Holbrook was shot, and one of our reporters saw the hall-keeper in Albemarle Street, and interviewed the doctor who attended him.”

“There’s a very busy newsgiver wandering round,” he said, when he returned to Bill and told him the result of his investigations.

“It doesn’t matter, except to you,” said Bill. “I presume the idea of spreading the report is to discredit you still further as a sleuth.”

“They can go right on discrediting,” said Bullott, with quiet satisfaction. “I don’t suppose that it matters. The Chief has given me a new assistant--” he glanced at Mr. Pawter, listening open-mouthed, and decided that it was not a moment for confidences.

“That is Father Pips,” explained Holbrook, when his relative had gone. “Pawter’s Publicity Agency, my respected cousin, a bachelor, has no criminal tendencies so far as I know, except a passion for gramophone music, and is not even remotely connected with the Proud Sons of Ragousa----”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bullott. “He’s the Seen Prior of that exalted order.”

“The Seen Prior? What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been going into this Ragousa question rather thoroughly,” said Bullott, “and I have collected more information in the past few days than I ever hoped to get. It is part of the scheme of the Proud Sons that no brother shall know another, though, of course, so far as the lower ranks are concerned, this idea doesn’t work, and isn’t expected to work. But, higher up, amongst the Grand Lodge folk and the Twenty-Third Degree, and higher still, amongst the Priors of the Order, the system of secrecy is a rigid one. There are fourteen Priors: the Grand Prior, twelve others in residence, and the fourteenth, who comes occasionally and acts for the Grand Prior in certain matters. He’s the only man whose face is never covered. That man is Pawter!”

“You’re crazy!” said Bill.

“I tell you I’m speaking by the book. I’ve had a man down in Dartmoor, and we’ve trailed the Priors to their home. Twelve years ago, an old monastery on the edge of Dartmoor came into the market as a result of a branch of a religious order returning to Italy, where it belonged. The property was purchased on behalf of the Ragousas by Pawter himself. It is a queer, ancient building, surrounded by a high wall in the most desolate part of Dartmoor, and thousands of pounds were spent in renovation before the Grand Priors came into residence. The Priors do not know one another. They live fairly well; each has his own suite, and is waited upon by a lower order Ragousa, specially chosen for the purpose, and well paid for the job. Pawter goes down to the Priory every six months, and when you think the matter over you’ll realise the wisdom of having one of the Priors unmasked. Twice a year the lottery occurs, which has made the Proud Sons of Ragousa so popular with the speculating public. The man who does the drawing is Pawter. It is carried out, of course, in the presence of the others, and every precaution is taken to ensure the draw being a fair one. Hundreds of thousands of metal-rimmed tickets, on each of which is written the official number of a member, are placed in a barrel and turned. The Seen Prior puts his hand through an aperture, takes out a ticket, and that is the first prize-winner. I should not have known this but for the discovery I made last night, that every man who draws a big argosy is present at the next drawing, under a vow of secrecy, of course. I interviewed four of the lucky ones before I could get one to talk, and by an odd chance it happened that he knew Pawter personally, and had worked in his office. Now I’m going to tell you something else; the head of the order is Leiff Stone. My informant told me something I did not know; that there was a Chaplain of the Priors, a short, stout man, whose face naturally he did not see, but whom he heard addressed as ‘Brother John’.”

Bill whistled.

“Here’s a problem for you”--Bullott spoke slowly--“Brother John is the confidant of the Grand Prior, the most trusted member of the order. Why was he shot? I am taking the strongest party of police that ever went to Dartmoor, and raiding the Grand Priory, and when I come out, the murderer of Brother John will be in my hands!”