The Council of Justice

The Council of Justice
Edgar Wallace
1908
CHAPTER I.
The Red Hundred
It is not for you or me to judge Manfred and his works. I say 'Manfred',
though I might as well have said 'Gonsalez', or for the matter of that
'Poiccart', since they are equally guilty or great according to the light in
which you view their acts. The most lawless of us would hesitate to
defend them, but the greater humanitarian could scarcely condemn
them.
From the standpoint of us, who live within the law, going about our
business in conformity with the code, and unquestioningly keeping to
the left or to the right as the police direct, their methods were terrible,
indefensible, revolting.
It does not greatly affect the issue that, for want of a better word, we
call them criminals. Such would be mankind's unanimous designation,
but I think--indeed, I know--that they were indifferent to the opinions
of the human race. I doubt very much whether they expected posterity
to honour them.
Their action towards the cabinet minister was murder, pure and simple.
Yet, in view of the large humanitarian problems involved, who would
describe it as pernicious?
Frankly I say of the three men who killed Sir Philip Ramon, and who

slew ruthlessly in the name of Justice, that my sympathies are with
them. There are crimes for which there is no adequate punishment, and
offences that the machinery of the written law cannot efface. Therein
lies the justification for the Four Just Men,--the Council of Justice as
they presently came to call themselves a council of great intellects,
passionless.
And not long after the death of Sir Philip and while England still rang
with that exploit, they performed an act or a series of acts that won not
alone from the Government of Great Britain, but from the Governments
of Europe, a sort of unofficial approval and Falmouth had his wish. For
here they waged war against great world-criminals--they pitted their
strength, their cunning, and their wonderful intellects against the most
powerful organization of the underworld--against past masters of
villainous arts, and brains equally agile.
It was the day of days for the Red Hundred. The wonderful
inter-national congress was meeting in London, the first great congress
of recognized Anarchism. This was no hole-and-corner gathering of
hurried men speaking furtively, but one open and unafraid with three
policemen specially retained for duty outside the hall, a commissionaire
to take tickets at the outer lobby, and a shorthand writer with a
knowledge of French and Yiddish to make notes of remarkable
utterances.
The wonderful congress was a fact. When it had been broached there
were people who laughed at the idea; Niloff of Vitebsk was one
because he did not think such openness possible. But little Peter (his
preposterous name was Konoplanikova, and he was a reporter on the
staff of the foolish Russkoye Znamza), this little Peter who had thought
out the whole thing, whose idea it was to gather a conference of the
Red Hundred in London, who hired the hall and issued the bills
(bearing in the top left-hand corner the inverted triangle of the Hundred)
asking those Russians in London interested in the building of a Russian
Sailors' Home to apply for tickets, who, too, secured a hall where
interruption was impossible, was happy--yea, little brothers, it was a
great day for Peter.

'You can always deceive the police,' said little Peter enthusiastically;
'call a meeting with a philanthropic object and--voila!'
Wrote Inspector Falmouth to the assistant commissioner of police:--
Your respected communication to hand. The meeting to be held tonight
at the Phoenix Hall, Middlesex Street, E., with the object of raising
funds for a Russian Sailors' Home is, of course, the first international
congress of the Red Hundred. Shall not be able to get a man inside, but
do not think that matters much, as meeting will be engaged throwing
flowers at one another and serious business will not commence till the
meeting of the inner committee. I inclose a list of men already arrived
in London, and have the honour to request that you will send me
portraits of under-mentioned men.
There were three delegates from Baden, Herr Schmidt from Frieburg,
Herr Bleaumeau from Karlsruhe, and Herr Von Dunop from Mannheim.
They were not considerable persons, even in the eyes of the world of
Anarchism; they called for no particular notice, and therefore the
strange thing that happened to them on the night of the congress is all
the more remarkable.
Herr Schmidt had left his pension in Bloomsbury and was hurrying
eastward. It was a late autumn evening and a chilly rain fell, and Herr
Schmidt was debating in his mind whether he should go direct to the
rendezvous where he had promised to meet his two compatriots,