The House of Rogues

Taranaki Daily News, 4 June 1934, Page 15

The House of Rogues

(By

Christopher B. Booth)

(Author of “The Man from Lazy River,” “The Porcelain Mask” etc.,)

CHAPTER 1.

THE FOX TAKES A PARTNER.

There was, despite the wrinkled, misshapen prison garb, something almost magnificent about the old man with the number “595” sewed to the breast of his grey shirt. Fifteen years of confinement had failed to crush his arresting personality, and his shoulders had not sagged beneath the weight of a nearing sixty years. Always silent, he now sat on the side of the ,ron cot, his sombre eyes fixed meditatively upon his cellmate, studying the other with careful appraisal. . The prison records recited that Convict 595 had been committed under the name of Philip Reynard, that his offence against the federal statutes had been counterfeitng the moneys of the United States, and that he had drawn a punishment of fifteen years imprisonment. The fifteen years were nearing an end—just three days more to serve—and the nearness of his release accounted for Philip Reynard’s interest in his cell-mate. A shifting of the prisoners two months before had brought these two men together without choice of their own. Different in type and temperament, there had been companionship. without comradeship; long days had passed with hardly more than monosyllables passing between them. There was nothing magnificent about No. 2002, Reynard’s cell-mate; he was short and stocky with an undershot jaw. His age was perhaps thirty. Unaware of the old man’s intent scrutiny, he was humming the tune of the still poplar ballard, “The Sidewalks of New York. His release, too, was approaching; in fact, on to-morrow he would be a free man again. Naturally he was in high spirits. Philip Reynard continued his analytical gaze, making certain mental notes of his findings. He had noticed that No. ’ 2002—unknown to him by any other designation—was the sort willing to take a chance, that the fellow possessed a shrewd sort of intelligence not at first apparent. Last, but not least, that he had nerve. All of those traits were, for Reynard’s purposes, commendable. His interest in his cell-mate dated only from the day previous, when he had learned that only two days intervened between the dates of their respective release —and he needed a partner. .He knew that when he stepped forth into the outside world again he would be under constant- surveillance, that the. eyes of the Secret Service men would be constantly upon him, eager to know if he had retained his old-time skill, ready to balk a resumption of his criminal operations. Reynard except for a few hundred dollars, was penniless; he was an old man? Even was not the lure of the old game tugging at his fingers there seemed nothing else that he could do: He wanted money and he vanted it quickly* for Philip Reynard was a luxury-loving animal In the passing of fifteen years, his organisation —those five . men with whom he had surrounded himself—waS shattered, scattered. Some of them were dead and he had lost track of the others. No. 2002 at last became aware of his companion’s scrutiny and the hummed words, “East Side, West Side; all around the town” broke off into a growl “Say, grandpa, what’s the' idea of starin’ a hole through a fellow „that way?" he demanded indignantly. Cut it out. Get me? Cut it out!” Philip Reynard smiled slowly. “Two months, my friend,” he murmured, “we have occupied this same compartment, and we do not so much as know each other’s names. _ “That ain’t my fault,” grunted No. 2002. “I’m a chummy sort of a guy, but I seen you wanted to be let alone so I let you alone.’’ Philip Reynard nodded. “Yes,” he admitted, “the fault has been mine. No doubt I have been very unsociable.” 1 ' His fingers touched a volume of Victor Hugo in the original French. “I have taken to living much with books .... You are going out on Monday, I believe.” No. 2002 grinned broadly and nodded vigorously. __ , ,„ “You’ve said it, grandpa; Monday U see me breathin’ the free ozone again—after eighteen months. It’s going to be good, getting’ back to the Big Town. Reynard smiled tolerantly; under ordinary circumstances he might have rebuked this flippant “grandpa” address with a cold glance and withdrawn into his sombre shell again, but he had a purpose in geniality.

“I am leaving Wednesday—after just ten times eighteen months,” he said. “Fifteen years! Certainly, my friend, it is a coincidence that we, cell-mates, are being released within the passing, of just a few hours. I have been thinking that we might take advantage of this coincidence, you and I.” “Don’t you use the grand language though,” grunted No. 2002. “Mebbe you’re some college professor what went wrong, huh?” “Have you made any plans? . , “Now you see here, grandpa, I aint aimin’ to hurt your feelin’s, but if you’re hintin’ that you an’ me is to hook up, there’s nothin’ doin’. Strictly nothin doin’. Speakin’ frank an’ overboard as the sayin’ goes, you’re too old. to travel my gait. When I takes a pal he’s got to be a live un.” Reynard showed no resentment. “Perhaps,” he asked softly, “you ve heard of The Fox? Because he was black-haired and black-bearded they sometime# referred to him as The Black The other man frowned, searching his memory. “Sort of seems like Ive heard that monicker,” he admitted. . “It has been some years since he operated,” said Reynard. “You were in your teens then. Quite likely you have forgotten. I shall tell you something about him—The Black Fox. He was also known as The King of Counterfeiters.” No. 2002’s eyes lighted. “Yes,” he agreed, “I got you now. He was the bird that shoved the queer so long without getting’ nwobed. . ‘The Black Fox operated for eight years,” nodded Reynard; “eight years without detection or'a shadow of suspicion. During that time he manufactured and marketed hundreds of thousands in counterfeits so perfect that they were readily accepted by the banks; so perfect, my friend, that only the Treasury Department experts could tell them from the genuine.” “Yes; I’ve heard that he; was the best in the business. So he was that good, huh?” „ . , “The secret of his success,” proceeded Reynard, “lies in two things. His engraving plates were practically perfect, and he had been able to get possession of banknote paper in considerable quantity, that money paper with the silk threads running through it which it is so. hard to duplicate. His printing equipment was of the finest. He had established his plant in a remote section where he lived the life of a gentleman recluse in his grand old house , which —” His voice trailed off and his eyes fiimed with retrospection. The other convict sensed that tnere was purpose behind this recital and his interest was flamed into sudden eagerness. “Let’s have it,” he urged tersely. “My name,” the old man murmured softly, “is Reynard; since Reynard means fox, it was only natural that they should call me—” , , . • “What?” gasped the other, his eyes bulging. “You ain’t kiddrn me? On the level, are you—? Reynard ran his fingers through h hair, now cotton white. “I am he,” he nodded; I am The Black Fox. My hair was black then, but fifteen years is a long time—to spend in prison.” 1 ' . No 2002 stared, speechless, not knowing if he should accept this' statement at its face-value or put it down as a flight of fancy indulged in by an old ma whose brain did him tricks. Reynard was still smiling. , . , "What is your name?’ he “Frank Padden’s my right handle, but most of ’em calls me ‘Three-Finger Frank. That’s on account of the nn here.” He held up for inspection his left hand with its middle finger missing —just a brief stub where the finger, had been amputated below the second joint. “What brought you here, Padden. 1 have a reason for wanting to know. Within the mind of Three-Finger Frank there was a conflict between doubt and credulity, and credulity won. “Mail truck stickup,” he answered humbly, somewhat abashed in thepresence of such a celebrity as The Black Fox, King of Counterfeiters. I was drivin’ the taxi that the boys what done the job made their getaway in. I couia have grabbed myself an immunity, but souealin’ on a pal ain’t my style. 1 wasrJt built to be no snitch. Mebbe you saw about that stick-up m the P a P er ®“ the one that was pulled off down by the City Hall Square in the Big TownThe Black Fox— only he might have been better called The White Fox nownodded, well pleased. “Something tells me that you are the man I want,” he said. “From the moment that the prison gates open for me Wednesday, I will be watched. The eyes of the government ferrets will be watching me. It might take me days, weeks or months to escape this espionage, t lull their suspicions. I haven t enoug money to bide my time; I must have quick action.” Three-Finger leaned closer. “You’re goin’ back into the old game again?” he demanded in a hoarse excited whisper. “You’re going to cut me in on it? ■ The Black Fox nodded. „ “There are chances to be taken, ne said; if you’re the sort I take you to be and want to take the chance for big stakes— yes.” . . Three Finger jerked his head m vigorous assent. “Count me in Chief,” he said huskily. “Let’s hear the lay.” “Very well; listen to my instructions. And The Black Fox began to talk in a guarded undertone, short, terse sentences, as he outlined the plan in all of its precise detail. (To be Continued).