The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

  The Ringer

  Edgar Wallace

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  TO SIR GERALD DU MAURIER

  My dear Gerald, This book is “The Gaunt Stranger” practically in the form that you and I shaped it for the stage. Herein you will find all the improvements you suggested for “The Ringer”—which means that this is a better story than “The Gaunt Stranger.”

  Yours, Edgar Wallace

  BIBLIOGRAPHIC NOTE

  As Edgar Wallace indicates in his dedication, the present book is based on the homonymous stage-play, which he co-authored with Sir Gerald Dumaurier in 1925-1926. In turn, the material in the stage-play was drawn from Wallace’s novel The Gaunt Stranger, which was published by Hodder & Stoughton, London, in 1925. The play premièred at Wyndham’s Theatre, London, on May 4, 1926, where it was scheduled for a run of 410 performances. Variety magazine, in a brief review under the title “Drama Gets Over” wrote: “… The Ringer [is] an absorbing melodrama. Blessed with a generally brilliant cast the first performance was more than enthusiastically received.” Interested readers can download a copy of the novel The Gaunt Stranger from this library. —RG.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Assistant Commissioner of Police pressed a bell on his table, and, to the messenger who entered the room a few seconds after: “Ask Inspector Wembury if he will be good enough to see me,” he said.

  The Commissioner put away into a folder the document he had been reading. Alan Wembury’s record both as a police officer and as a soldier was magnificent. He had won a commission in the war, risen to the rank of Major and had earned the Distinguished Service Order for his fine work in the field. And now a new distinction had come to him.

  The door opened and a man strode in. He was above the average height. The Commissioner looked up and saw a pair of good-humoured grey eyes looking down at him from a lean, tanned face.

  “Good morning, Wembury.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Alan Wembury was on the sunny side of thirty, an athlete, a cricketer, a man who belonged to the out-of-doors. He had the easy poise and the refinement of speech which comes from long association with gentlemen.

  “I have asked you to come and see me because I have some good news for you,” said the Commissioner.

  He had a real affection for this straight-backed subordinate of his. In all his years of police service he had never felt quite as confident of any man as he had of this soldierly detective.

  “All news is good news to me, sir,” laughed Alan.

  He was standing stiffly to attention now and the Commissioner motioned him to a chair.

  “You are promoted divisional inspector and you take over ‘R’ Division as from Monday week,” said the chief, and in spite of his self-control, Alan was taken aback. A divisional inspectorship was one of the prizes of the C.I.D. Inevitably it must lead in a man of his years to a central inspectorship; eventually inclusion in the Big Four, and one knows not what beyond that.

  “This is very surprising, sir,’“ he said at last. “I am terribly grateful. I think there must be a lot of men entitled to this step before me—”

  Colonel Walford shook his head.

  “I’m glad for your sake, but I don’t agree,” he said. And then, briskly: “We’re making considerable changes at the Yard. Bliss is coming back from America; he has been attached to the Embassy at Washington—do you know him?”

  Alan Wembury shook his head. He had heard of the redoubtable Bliss, but knew little more about him than that he was a capable police officer and was cordially disliked by almost every man at the Yard.

  “‘R’ Division will not be quite as exciting as it was a few years ago,” said the Commissioner with a twinkle in his eye; “and you at any rate should be grateful.”

  “Was it an exciting division, sir?” asked Alan, to whom Deptford was a new territory.

  Colonel Walford nodded. The laughter had gone out of his eyes; he was very grave indeed when he spoke again.

  “I was thinking about The Ringer—I wonder what truth there is in the report of his death? The Australian police are almost certain that the man taken out of Sydney Harbour was this extraordinary scoundrel.”

  Alan Wembury nodded slowly.

  The Ringer!

  The very name produced a little thrill that was unpleasantly like a shiver. Yet Alan Wembury was without fear; his courage, both as a soldier and a detective, was inscribed in golden letters. But there was something very sinister and deadly in the very name of The Ringer, something that conjured up a repellent spectacle … the cold, passionless eyes of a cobra.

  Who had not heard of The Ringer? His exploits had terrified London. He had killed ruthlessly, purposelessly, if his motive were one of personal vengeance. Men who had good reason to hate and fear him, had gone to bed, hale and hearty, snapping their fingers at the menace, safe in the consciousness that their houses were surrounded by watchful policemen. In the morning they had been found stark and dead. The Ringer, like the dark angel of death, had passed and withered them in their prime.

  “Though The Ringer no longer haunts your division, there is one man in Deptford I would like to warn you against,” said Colonel Walford, “and he—”

  “Is Maurice Meister,” said Alan, and the Commissioner raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “Do you know him?” he asked, astonished. “I didn’t know Meister’s reputation as a lawyer was so widespread.”

  Alan Wembury hesitated, fingering his little moustache.

  “I only know him because he happens to be the Lenley’s family lawyer,” he said.

  The Commissioner shook his head with a laugh. “Now you’ve got me out of my depth: I don’t even know the Lenleys. And yet you speak their name with a certain amount of awe. Unless,” he said suddenly, “you are referring to old George Lenley of Hertford, the man who died a few months ago?”

  Alan nodded.

  “I used to hunt with him,” mused the Commissioner. “A hard-riding, hard-drinking type of old English squire. He died broke, somebody told me. Had he any children?”

  “Two, sir,” said Alan quietly.

  “And Meister is their lawyer, eh?” The Commissioner laughed shortly. “They weren’t well advised to put their fortune in the hands of Maurice Meister.”

  He star
ed through the window on to the Thames Embankment. The clang of tram bells came faintly through the double windows. There was a touch of spring in the air; the bare branches along the Embankment were budding greenly, and soon would be displayed all their delicate leafy splendour. A curious and ominous place, this Scotland Yard, and yet human and kindly hearts beat behind its grim exterior.

  Walford was thinking, not of Meister, but of the children who were left in Meister’s care.

  “Meister knew The Ringer,” he said unexpectedly, and Wembury’s eyes opened.

  “Knew The Ringer, sir?” he repeated.

  Walford nodded.

  “I don’t know how well; I suspect too well—too well for the comfort of The Ringer if he’s alive. He left his sister in Meister’s charge—Gwenda Milton. Six months ago, the body of Gwenda Milton was taken from the Thames.” Alan nodded as he recalled the tragedy. “She was Meister’s secretary. One of these days when you’ve nothing better to do, go up to the Record Office—there was a great deal that didn’t come out at the inquest.”

  “About Meister?”

  Colonel Walford nodded.

  “If The Ringer is dead, nothing matters, but if he is alive”—he shrugged his broad shoulders and looked oddly under the shaggy eyebrows at the young detective—“if he is alive, I know something that would bring him back to Deptford—and to Meister.”

  “What is that, sir?” asked Wembury.

  Again Walford gave his cryptic smile.

  “Examine the record and you will read the oldest drama in the world —the story of a trusting woman and a vile man.”

  And then, dismissing The Ringer with a wave of his hand as though he were a tangible vision awaiting such a dismissal, he became suddenly the practical administrator.

  “You are taking up your duties on Monday week. You might like to go down and have a look round, and get acquainted with your new division?”

  Alan hesitated.

  “If it is possible, sir, I should like a week’s holiday,” he said, and in spite of himself, his tanned face assumed a deeper red.

  “A holiday? Certainly. Do you want to break the good news to the girl?” There was a good-humoured twinkle in Walford’s eyes.

  “No, sir.” His very embarrassment seemed to deny his statement. “There is a lady I should like to tell of my promotion,” he went on awkwardly. “She is, in fact—Miss Mary Lenley.”

  The Commissioner laughed softly.

  “Oh, you know the Lenleys that much, do you?” he said, and Alan’s embarrassment was not decreased.

  “No, sir; she has always been a very good friend of mine,” he said, almost gently, as though the subject of the discussion were one of whom he could not speak in more strident tones. “You see, I started life in a cottage on the Lenley estate. My father was head gardener to Squire Lenley, and I’ve known the family ever since I can remember. There is nobody else in Lenley village”—he shook his head sadly—“who would expect me—I—” He hesitated, and Walford jumped in.

  “Take your holiday, my boy. Go where you jolly well please! And if Miss Mary Lenley is as wise as she is beautiful—I remember her as a child—she will forget that she is a Lenley of Lenley Court and you are a Wembury of the gardener’s cottage! For in these democratic days, Wembury,”—there was a quiet earnestness in his voice—“a man is what he is, not what his father was. I hope you will never be obsessed by a sense of your own unworthiness. Because, if you are”—he paused, and again his eyes twinkled—“you will be a darned fool!”

  Alan Wembury left the room with the uneasy conviction that the Assistant Commissioner knew a great deal more about the Lenleys than he had admitted.

  CHAPTER 2

  It seemed that the spring had come earlier to Lenley village than to grim old London, which seems to regret and resist the tenderness of the season, until, overwhelmed by the rush of crocuses and daffodils and yellow-hearted narcissi, it capitulates blandly in a blaze of yellow sunshine.

  As he walked into the village from the railway station, Alan saw over the hedge the famous Lenley Path of Daffodils, blazing with a golden glory. Beyond the tall poplars was the roof of grey old Lenley Court.

  News of his good fortune had come ahead of him. The bald-headed landlord of the Red Lion Inn came running out to intercept him, a grin of delight on his rubicund face.

  “Glad to see you back, Alan,” he said. “We’ve heard of your promotion and we’re all very proud of you. You’ll be Chief of the Police one of these days.”

  Alan smiled at the spontaneous enthusiasm. He liked this old village; it was a home of dreams. Would the great, the supreme dream, which he had never dared bring to its logical conclusion, be fulfilled?

  “Are you going up to the Court to see Miss Mary?” and when he answered yes, the landlord shook his head and pursed his lips. He was regret personified. “Things are very bad up there, Alan. They say there’s nothing left out of the estate either for Mr. John or Miss Mary. I don’t mind about Mr. John: he’s a man who can make his way in the world—I wish he’d get a better way than he’s found.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Alan quickly. The landlord seemed suddenly to remember that if he was speaking to an old friend he was also speaking to a police officer, and he became instantly discreet.

  “They say he’s gone to the devil. You know how people talk, but there’s something in it. Johnny never was a happy sort of fellow; he’s forgotten to do anything but scowl in these days. Poverty doesn’t come easy to that young man.”

  “Why are they at the Court if they’re in such a bad way? It must be an expensive place to keep up. I wonder John Lenley doesn’t sell it?”

  “Sell it!” scoffed the landlord. “It’s mortgaged up to the last leaf on the last twig! They’re staying there whilst this London lawyer settles the estate, and they’re going to London next week, from what I hear.”

  This London lawyer! Alan frowned. That must be Maurice Meister, and he was curious to meet the man about whom so many strange rumours ran. They whispered things of Maurice Meister at Scotland Yard which it would have been libel to write, slander to say. They pointed to certain associations of his which were unjustifiable even in a criminal lawyer, whose work brought him into touch with the denizens of the underworld.

  “I wish you’d book me a room, Mr. Griggs. The carrier is bringing my bag from the station. I’ll go to up the Court and see if I can see John Lenley.”

  He said “John,” but his heart said “Mary.” He might deceive the world, but he could not deceive his own heart.

  As he walked up the broad oak-shaded drive, the evidence of poverty came out to meet him. Grass grew in the gravelled surface of the road; those fine yew hedges of the Tudor garden before which as a child he had stood in awe had been clipped by an amateur hand; the lawn before the house was ragged and unkempt. When he came in sight of the Court his heart sank as he saw the signs of general neglect. The windows of the east wing were grimy—not even the closed shutters could disguise their state; two windows had been broken and the panes not replaced.

  As he came nearer to the house, a figure emerged from the shadowy portico, walked quickly towards him, and then, recognising, broke into a run.

  “Oh, Alan!”

  In another second he had both her hands in his and was looking down into the upturned face. He had not seen her for twelve months. He looked at her now, holding his breath. The sweet, pale beauty of her caught at his heart. He had known a child, a lovely child; he was looking into the crystal-clear eyes of radiant womanhood. The slim, shapeless figure he had known had undergone some subtle change; the lovely face had been moulded to a new loveliness.

  He had a sense of dismay. The very fringe of despair obscured for the moment the joy which had filled his heart at the sight of her. If she had been beyond his reach before, the gulf, in some incomprehensible manner, had widened now.

/>   With a sinking heart he realised the gulf between this daughter of the Lenleys and Inspector Wembury.

  “Why, Alan, what a pleasant sight!” Her sad eyes were brightened with laughter. “And you’re bursting with news! Poor Alan! We read it in the morning newspaper.”

  He laughed ruefully.

  “I didn’t know that my promotion was a matter of world interest,” he said.

  “But you’re going to tell me all about it.” She slipped her arm in his naturally, as she had in the days of her childhood, when the gardener’s son was Mary Lenley’s playmate, the shy boy who flew her kite and bowled and fielded for her when she wielded a cricket bat almost as tall as herself.

  “There is little to tell but the bare news,” said Alan. “I’m promoted over the heads of better men, and I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry!”

  He felt curiously self-conscious and gauche as they paced the untidy lawn together.

  “I’ve had a little luck in one or two cases I’ve handled, but I can’t help feeling that I’m a favourite with the Commissioner and that I owe my promotion more to that cause than to any other.”

  “Rubbish!” she scoffed. “Of course you’ve had your promotion on merit!”

  She caught his eyes looking at the house, and instantly her expression changed.

  “Poor old Lenley Court!” she said softly. “You’ve heard our news, Alan? We’re leaving next week.” She breathed a long sigh. “It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Johnny is taking a flat in town, and Maurice has promised me some work.”

  Alan stared at her.

  “Work?” he gasped. “You don’t mean you’ve got to work for your living?”

  She laughed at this.

  “Why, of course, my dear—my dear Alan. I’m initiating myself into the mysteries of shorthand and typewriting. I’m going to be Maurice’s secretary.”

  Meister’s secretary!

  The words had a familiar sound. And then in a flash he remembered another secretary, whose body had been taken from the river one foggy morning, and he recalled Colonel Walford’s ominous words.