The Shadow of the Dead Hand by Fred M. White

For perhaps the first time in his long career of crime, Felix Murdstone was genuinely frightened. It seemed to him that he had the whole scheme in the hollow of his hand. So far as he could see, looking round him on all sides, he had covered up every sign of a track. To begin with, the man called John Tilson was dead, and buried, without the police having the slightest idea that there had been any sort of underhand business, and, to all outward appearances, the broken and derelict Felix Murdstone lay in his grave.

That being so, what was there to be afraid of? There were others, of course, who knew the inner history of that amazing murder in Marrion-square, but Murdstone was not particularly afraid of them. He had Martin absolutely under his thumb. Martin was unscrupulous enough and ready for anything in the way of crime, but he was a minor rascal, after all, and would have been hard put to it to get a living had he not depended entirely upon the greater criminal who had bought him body and soul.