Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 24, No. 4. Whole No. 131, October 1954

The Mark of the Flail by L. J. Beeston

With enormous regret we announce having reached the end of our stocky of stories by L. J. Beeston. We confess, without the slightest trace of reservation, that we have come to love this man’s work. It has a zest and an ingenuity and a spirit and an admittedly melodramatic vitality that bring back to us “the good old times,” as we remember them most warmly and vividly. Every Beeston story we have published has been like a breath of high adventure, with the nostalgia of the old classics and the new Arabian Nights; and that air of excitement and good old-fashioned suspense has represented an admirable change of pace between, say, a quiet study in deduction and a psychological study of murder. Our aim has always been to give you the widest possible diversity of ’tec types, not only in individual issues of EQMM but in the sustained continuity of years, and to this end the uninhibited adventures which Mr. Beeston has framed in words have served as an important part of a balanced detectival diet.

So we now make this sincere appeal to Mr. Beeston: send us more stories — more tingling thrillers out of the thousand you have written.

Whenever I hear mention of the Hotel Sumptuous in Piccadilly, as I did just now,” said Storer, “there rises before me a keen mental photograph of Room 333, and the queer thing I saw there.”

“Good! We must hear all about that, Storer,” said his host, going round the table with a box of cigars.

The seven men in the dining room of a Wimpole Street house all looked at Storer expectantly.

“I noticed when I named the Hotel Sumptuous,” said a big man with a convex shirt-front, “that you threw up your head as if hit by a powerful reflection. Thank you, do you mind if I keep to my own cigars? They are as strong as they are black, and they are incidentally killing me; but that is my trouble.”

“Right-o!” The host snapped down the cedar-wood top and dropped into his chair at the head of the table. “Go ahead, Storer,” he begged.

“The mystery began with three lines in an unsigned letter,” started the narrator. “The communication entreated me, in a most earnest manner, to be at Room 333, at the Sumptuous, at 10 o’clock on a certain night in November. Of course my curiosity was fired. Anyone’s curiosity would have been fired. So I went eagerly.

“As I was shown into the room I saw two men there whom I recognized at once. Their names were Hanlon and Bailey. Also, it was evident from their constrained look and movements that they were there without knowing why; in short, both had received invitations similar to mine. This pleased neither them nor me. I had unconsciously anticipated something strictly personal and private, and my conceit got jarred accordingly. However, we chatted together and wondered what the deuce was on foot.

“During the next ten minutes three other men were shown into the room. Their names were Howis, Bell, and Mansford, and we were all very well acquainted. It was amusing to see the look of slightly disgusted surprise on the face of each visitor as he made his appearance. But that sort of feeling quickly passed off, and we endeavored to guess the reason which had caused the mysterious invitation to be sent to each of us.

“ ‘Anything in the nature of the delicately charming seems ruled out by an over-plus of the masculine element,’ said Hanlon, ruefully.

“ ‘A suspicion that we are being hoaxed tingles my backbone,’ ventured Howis.

“ ‘I don’t know; I shouldn’t like to say that,’ dissented Mansford, thoughtfully. ‘There may be something deep here. It has dawned upon me that the six of us were all together on a previous occasion. I allude to a weekend which we spent, about two years ago, at Sir Hugo Parly’s place at Wendover, in Bucks, and which is burned into our memory by a certain deplorable event.’

“ ‘Ah, but there were eight of us, including Sir Hugo,’ Bailey corrected.

“ ‘True; but Parly is abroad,’ answered Mansford, ‘and as for the other man — Wayridge — why, we all know where he is. I cannot help thinking that our being called together in this strange fashion may be connected with that astonishing affair—’

“ ‘Your surmise is perfectly correct,’ said a deep and troubled voice which made us all start.

“As we spun round we saw a man standing at an inner door which had been concealed by a tapestry curtain. We recognized him at once, though suffering had sadly marked him since our last meeting. He was Hugh Wayridge.

“His fine features had the pallor of one who has lived a long time in the dark. And so, in a manner, he had; in a most terrible darkness. My last glimpse of him had been when he was led from the dock, sentenced to two years of imprisonment.

“We stared at him, and we looked at one another, and we coughed, and Mansford and Bell edged towards the door.

“ ‘I implore you not to go away, gentlemen,’ interrupted Wayridge, with emotion. ‘I have brought you here by a trick; but I ask you in God’s name to forgive me, because I have something to say to you, and I could think of no other means of getting you together to listen to me.’

“Mansford and Bell came back when they saw that the rest of us had remained still. Wayridge closed the door, then crossed the room to the fireplace, and holding a corner of the mantelpiece, with his strong face averted, he again broke a silence which no one present had cared to interrupt.

“ ‘I want to tell you why I have been in prison,’ he said, gulping once or twice. ‘That must sound strange to you, since you were witnesses of my shame — my crime. You are aware that I was convicted of an abominable theft; that I stole from a man, while I was enjoying his hospitality, a jewel of great price. You saw it in my hands. I confessed it at the time; I pleaded guilty at my trial. And yet, believe me if you can, that was not the true reason why I went to prison, why I became an outcast. I am going to tell you that reason, which is so strange that you will almost certainly not believe me. Nevertheless, I must speak.

“ ‘The beginning, of course, was at our weekend at Sir Hugo Parly’s house at Wendover. I entered that house a strong man, in perfect health; I appeared to find our brief stay as congenial as you did; and yet the chances of my ever leaving the place alive were about two in a hundred. I was as doomed as a spy who faces, blindfolded, a platoon of crack shots.

“ ‘For three years I had known fear, and for a month, terror. I do not mean to be mysterious. It is a situation easily understood, though unusual. When I was a young man I had allied myself to one of those secret, those rodent, societies which burrow in the underworld, and which are frequently the true and unsuspected cause of big upheavals. I am prepared, whenever you wish, to give you all particulars; but at present I must confine myself to the events of one night.

“ ‘Briefly, I had extricated myself from the fraternity three years before. Its methods had become too alarming for me. But my act of withdrawal had compromised me with them, and I was marked down as one whose life must be brushed aside as easily as we flick away a cobweb.

“ ‘I went to the Antipodes to hide myself, and for nearly two years I was successful. Then they found me. An escape from a great personal danger, which in normal circumstances would not have aroused my suspicions, made me feel apprehensive. It was followed almost immediately by another. The cold shadow of death passed within an inch of me. I knew, then, that The Society of the Flail — so they called themselves — had found me, and I fled.

“ ‘For months I lived on the brink of the grave. Will you try to understand what that means? Again and again I saved myself only by using the utmost vigilance; but I felt sure, down in my heart, that my days were numbered. I could not shake off my relentless enemies, who followed me in secret, and struck in stealth. Eventually I returned to England.

“ ‘But my nerve was gone. One may bear up and fortify one’s spirit against the advance of a fatal disease; but when the sword of murder hangs over one’s head it is different. Each night I dreamed of strangling hands round my throat. A sharp sound by day made me think of a pistol shot. When I was suddenly accosted by an acquaintance I would cry out and shrink back. Such a condition of things could not last.

“ ‘Finally I received an anonymous note. The writer claimed — though he may have lied — that hitherto my sworn foes, of whom he was one, had been only playing with me, and that the real blow was about to fall. An invitation to Sir Hugo Parly’s house, which I had accepted, was mentioned in the unsigned letter; and it closed with the assurance that I should meet my death during the visit.

“ ‘And I knew perfectly well that I should. The Society of the Flail does not boast. My last hours had arrived.

“ ‘Police protection? I had already tried it, and in vain. I might have kept away from the Wendover house? It would have been utterly useless.

“ ‘I went, therefore, knowing that I should never return. The Saturday passed off and nothing happened. The Sunday crept away. When I retired to my room that night I felt on the verge of mental collapse. And a longing to tell someone of my terrible situation became so strong that I yielded to it. I went to the room of one of my fellow-guests, and I–I told him all. He is here now, and he must remember.’

“As Wayridge paused we all looked at one another. After a short silence Hanlon cleared his throat and spoke.

“ ‘That is quite true,’ said he. ‘You came to my room, Wayridge. You told me that you were in deadly fear. Mingled with your very real terror was a certain shame of it, and you asked me to respect your secret. I did so.’

“ ‘Principally because you did not altogether believe me,’ said Wayridge, heavily. ‘I could tell, from your manner, that you thought I was suffering from a nervous complaint.’

“ ‘Yes, I did think that,’ agreed Hanlon.

“ ‘You were wrong,’ said Wayridge, gloomily. ‘It did not matter, however; you could not have helped me. I left you, and I returned to my own room.

“ ‘I locked my door; I saw that my window was secured. I made a careful examination of my room. But in spite of these precautions I could not dismiss a heart-chilling instinct that I should be murdered before morning.

“ ‘I did not undress. The hours crawled by. My sufferings increased — the accumulated suffering of a whole year of dreadful expectation. My hearing was strained to catch the slightest sound. Between 2 and 3 o’clock I heard a click downstairs as if a window-bolt had been forced back!

“ ‘To me that noise was as the footfall of death. Blame me for cowardice if you will. I simply could not help it. Someone had entered the house, and it was for my life that person had come.’ ”

At this point in his tale Storer paused to finish his wine, for he was a trifle husky. Also he noted that he had the absorbed attention of the company, and he knew the value of a halt at a critical juncture. The cigars round the dining table glowed strongly, and a heavy smoke hung over the man who was shortening his days with his black weeds.

“I shall not readily forget Wayridge’s emotion as he unfolded to us the events of that night,” continued Storer. “He need not have labored to make us understand what he had passed through, for vivid recollection of the ordeal paled his wasted cheeks, and beaded his forehead with perspiration.

“ ‘I waited in my room, scarcely daring to breathe,’ Wayridge went on. ‘Several minutes passed, but not the faintest sound succeeded that first one. Nevertheless, I was absolutely certain that I had heard the sharp click of a window-fastener which had suddenly yielded. At length, unable to bear the suspense any longer, I opened my door. There was no one outside. I stepped to the head of the staircase and listened again. After a minute or two I caught an almost inaudible sound of someone moving in a room below.

“ ‘I did not stir. I was sure that the person would come up, and I had made up my mind to spring upon him in the dark, as he climbed the stairs. But he did not come. Slight noises were now frequent, and at last I resolved to go down.

“ ‘I descended the stairs with infinite caution. I reached the door of the room in which I was sure an intruder was lurking. But he did not emerge, and I took hold of the handle of the door. It turned without making a sound, and I peered in.

“ ‘A single glance showed me that I had made a mistake. I saw, not an assassin, but a common thief. He had switched on the electric light and was most clearly revealed. He did not see me, for his back was towards me. To the right was the open window through which he had entered. He was kneeling before a small safe, which he had obviously succeeded in forcing. From it he had taken a jewel box, and when I first saw him he was lifting out a string of pearls — the well-known pearls of Lady Parly.

“ ‘As I took a step forward, perhaps incautiously, a board creaked under my foot. He turned his head, gave me one glance, and without an instant’s pause rushed to the window. It was lightning-like. One moment he was stooping before me, the next he had vanished. I leaped to the window, and I saw the string of pearls lying across it, dropped by the fellow in his flight. I picked it up, uncertain for a second whether to follow, and in that luckless moment Sir Hugo, followed by you, Howis, and Hanlon close behind, rushed into the room. The same slight sounds which had disturbed me had drawn them to the spot.

“ ‘Sir Hugo Parly roared out, “Here he is, by Heaven!” Then he pulled himself up abruptly, for he recognized me.

“ ‘And I, gentlemen, saw the suspicion leap into his eyes. Well it might! There was the open safe, the pearls clenched in my hand, and I had one leg across the open window.

“ ‘I had but a second in which to act. An immediate repudiation of the terrible suspicion looking from every pair of eyes fixed upon me, an instant explanation, would have saved me. But I did not make it. Why?

“ ‘Because in that moment an idea passed like a flame of fire through my brain. I saw the gates of a prison open to me. I might escape them; I could escape them, and by a word. But if I did, I was a dead man. A prison? Why, in that instant of time, when thoughts went roaring like a tempest through my head, I realized that the confines of a cell would surely and absolutely shelter me from those enemies who had made each day a torment which I would give anything to annihilate. The long knife of an assassin would never pierce the stone walls of a dungeon. To me they would prove a refuge, a salvation.

“ ‘To tell you of this strange, this bizarre inspiration occupies an appreciable time; but it presented itself to my tortured senses with the swiftness of light. Remember, I had to act with the quickness of a man whose head is in the tiger’s jaws, and who feels those jaws closing.

“ ‘I made my choice. I tossed the pearls at the feet of Sir Hugo Parly. “I have lost,” I said, grimly, “and I must take the consequences.”

“ ‘You know what those consequences were, gentlemen. I received a sentence of two years’ imprisonment. The thief might have left traces of himself, but in the circumstances no one dreamed of looking for any such thing. Yet I was as innocent as yourselves of the crime for which I was convicted.

“ ‘Do I regret my decision? I do not. I am convinced that it kept me on the right side of a grave. The question which confronts me now is — can you accept my story?

“ ‘I dare not hope that you will. The situation I have described must seem to you so unusual as to be almost fantastic. Yet my future rests upon your verdict; it is for you to decide if I am to know a relative happiness, or to be extinguished.’

“As Wayridge concluded his story he lifted his haggard eyes and looked at us steadily for the first time. What he saw did not encourage him.

“ ‘I am asking a big thing of you,’ he went on. ‘I want reinstatement among decent men and women. This you can give me by accepting the facts which I have placed before you. Your position and your influence can remove the brand of felon which marks me. God knows I need friends, and God knows I have done nothing to lose them.’ ”

“We still remained silent, each furtively glancing at the other.

“ ‘I see that I am not believed,’ said Wayridge, circles of crimson burning in the wasted hollows of his cheeks. ‘I must admit that I did not entertain much hope of convincing you. If I stood where you are I should probably share your incredulity.’

“Mansford was the first among us to break the silence. He said, blurtingly:

“ ‘Are we to assume, now that you are discharged, that you are still menaced by this secret society?’

“ ‘The Society of the Flail was rooted out and practically exterminated fifteen months ago,’ replied Wayridge, eagerly and anxiously. ‘I read the news in one of the newspapers, in the prison library. It was uprooted as a body. Most of its individual members still exist, I suppose; but they are not to be feared by me, the organization being destroyed.’

“ ‘I seem to remember reading about it myself,’ said Howis.

“ ‘I think you will agree with me, gentlemen,’ spoke out Bailey, turning to us, ‘that any judgment we may pass upon this matter must be influenced by the evidence of Hanlon, whom Wayridge took into his confidence an hour or two before the theft at Sir Hugo Parly’s house. You admitted, Hanlon, did you not, that Wayridge told you that he feared he would be murdered before the morning?’

“ ‘Oh, yes, he told me all about that matter,’ assented Hanlon, dryly.

“ ‘But you did not think fit to mention it at Wayridge’s trial?’ continued Bailey.

“ ‘Certainly not,’ answered Hanlon, in the same dry tone. ‘Wayridge’s story of taking guilt upon himself to save his skin did not occur to me. And if it had, I should have rendered him doubtful service by speaking.’

“ ‘Possibly, at the time, you concluded that Wayridge had invented what he told you?’ pressed Bailey. ‘You were annoyed with him for trying to throw dust in your eyes? In short, you had not the least doubt of his trying to steal Lady Parly’s pearls?’

“ ‘No; and I see no reason for changing my opinion now,’ said Hanlon, coolly.

“At those words Wayridge lifted his head, hesitated a moment, then walked towards the door. Wheeling round he faced us with a sudden air of resolution which lighted up his worn face.

“ ‘Wait!’ he called out, sharply and clearly. ‘I hoped that you might accept my story without my bringing a painful truth as its witness. But I see the necessity of my proving it, and I will hesitate no longer. The Society of the Flail marked each of its members, upon the palm of the right hand, with a representation of the instrument of which it bore the name — a Flail.

“ ‘You think that the peril which threatened me was not sufficient to drive me into a prison for shelter? You doubt that part of my story? Then I will show you how imminent it was, how sickeningly real. When Hanlon, there, among others, rushed into the room and found me apparently escaping with the necklace, he threw up his right hand in surprise; and I saw, on his palm, the dreaded mark of the Flail! The agent of the Society, the man sent to kill me, was one of yourselves!’

“As a gasp of astonishment left our lips, Hanlon cried out: ‘That’s an infernal lie!’ He rushed to the door.

“It was a lightning dash, but not quick enough to beat Wayridge. He caught Hanlon’s right arm and twisted it so that the other screamed aloud. Wayridge forced it up, wrenching aside the fingers; and we all saw, black and sinister upon the white skin of the palm, the mark of the Flail!

“Before any of us could move, before we could recover from the shock of that dramatic denouement, Hanlon tore himself loose, dashed through the open door, and vanished.

“As for poor Wayridge, that climax to his sufferings completely overcame him. He went to pieces all at once. It is not nice to hear a strong man sobbing his heart out. Poor, poor devil.”

Storer had finished his tale. He filled his glass. “That is why I remember Room 333 at the Hotel Sumptuous,” he added.

“And you have excellent reason,” said a listener, when the murmur of applause had subsided. “I envy you the adventure.”

“And you all put Wayridge back into his proper niche in society?” said another auditor.

“We saw him thoroughly righted,” answered Storer, gladly.

“And, of course, Wayridge, having been one of the Flail, bore the mark upon his right palm?” questioned the man with the black cigar carelessly.

“I did not examine him personally,” said Storer.

“No? And did you ever hunt up Hanlon, afterwards, to see if the mark on his palm was indelible, and that it had not been put there, shall we say, for one night only?”

“Excuse me, sir, but you seem to be sceptical,” answered Storer, with asperity.

“Oh, I do, I do!” agreed the other, with enthusiasm.

“Then may I ask what the devil you are driving at?”

“Yes, tell him!” shouted everybody.

The other removed his terrible cigar and waved it gracefully. “Willingly, when I have asked him two more questions,” said he. “One: did you and your friends, Storer, make any kind of money collection for Wayridge?”

“We assisted him financially, yes — and substantially, I must admit,” was Storer’s irritated answer.

“Ah! Question two: can you recall any subsequent theft of valuable jewels occurring in the circle of your friends? The kind of daring haul, for instance, which might have been effected by a smart crook whom you had all taken to your arms, and so given him plenty of opportunity?”

Storer, red in the face, half rose from his chair, then sat down again. “I will not allow the insinuation,” he spluttered. “True, a few weeks later, Mansford was robbed of a piece of presentation gold plate—”

“Ah!” interrupted the other, delightedly, “I thought so. Why, I know your Wayridge, and I know your Hanlon! The Society of the Flail did exist, but I’ll swear that neither Wayridge nor Hanlon ever had anything to do with it. They are a couple of gilt-edged crooks, working together; a couple of so-called gentlemen thieves, who have edged themselves into decent society! You may take it as absolutely certain that they managed to get an invitation to Sir Hugo Parly’s with the intention of stealing Lady Parly’s pearl necklace. Wayridge went downstairs and opened the safe. Probably Hanlon was with him; but, if so, Hanlon contrived to get out before the interruption. Wayridge’s tale of finding a burglar there was pure invention. The only thieves in the house that night were himself and Hanlon. He really was caught in the act of jewel lifting by Sir Hugo Parly and the rest, and he deserved the two years he got for it. He invented the burglar part of the story, and he invented the yarn about his being threatened by The Society of the Flail, with a view to making you and your friends, met together in Room 333, believe that he was an innocent man. He arranged that scene, he and Hanlon. They acted it to the very life, apparently. Why? Because he wanted to get into a good set again, he wanted the substantial collection you raised for him, and future opportunities of robbing you. Listen! I met both of them not so very long ago, at the gaming tables at Monte Carlo. Perhaps they were playing with the proceeds of your friend Mansford’s piece of gold plate! A couple of crooks of the first magnitude. A couple of deep-swimming sharks!”

He looked at them triumphantly.

The loud hum of sensation which rose from the excited listeners was cut short by Storer banging his fist upon the table.

“Dammit, sir, you have spoiled a good story!” he shouted.

“Dammit, sir,” beamed the other, “I have made it!”