“Who’s there?” he asked quickly.
“Divisional Inspector Wembury!”
CHAPTER 10
Maurice Meister had time hastily to cover the pearls, toss them back into the safe and lock it before he opened the door. In spite of his iron nerve, the sallow face of the lawyer was drawn and white, and even his companion showed signs of mental strain as Alan appeared. It was Johnny who made the quicker recovery.
“Hallo, Wembury!” he said with a forced laugh. “I don’t seem to be able to get away from you!”
There was evidence of panic, of deadly fear, something of breathless terror in the attitude of these men. What secret did they hold in common? Alan was staggered by an attitude which shouted “guilt” with a tongue of brass.
“I heard Lenley was here,” he said, “and as I wanted to see him—”
“You wanted to see me?” said Johnny, his face twitching. “Why on earth should you want to see me?”
Wembury was well aware that Meister was watching him intently. No movement, no gesture, no expression was lost on the shrewd lawyer. What were they afraid of? Alan wondered, and his heart sank when, looking past them, he saw Mary at her typewriter, all unconscious of evil. “You know Lady Darnleigh, don’t you?” he asked.
John Lenley nodded dumbly.
“A few weeks ago she lost a valuable string of pearls,” Alan went on, “and I was put in charge of the case.”
“You?” Maurice Meister’s exclamation was involuntary.
Alan nodded. “I thought you knew that. My name appeared in the newspapers in connection with the investigations. I have handed the case over to Inspector Burton, and he wrote me this morning asking me if I would clear up one little matter that puzzled him.”
Mary had left her typewriter and had joined the little group. “One little matter that was puzzling him?” repeated John Lenley mechanically. “And what was that?”
Wembury hesitated to put the question in the presence of the girl. “He wanted to know what induced you to go up to Lady Darnleigh’s room.”
“And I have already given what I think is the natural explanation,” snapped Johnny.
“That you were under the impression you had left your hat and coat on the first floor? His information is that one of the footmen told you, as you were going upstairs, that the coats and hats were on the ground floor.”
John Lenley avoided his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he said. “I was rather rattled that night. I came downstairs immediately I recognised my mistake. Is it suggested that I know anything about the robbery?” His voice shook a little.
“Of course no such suggestion is put forward,” said Wembury with a smile, “but we have to get information wherever we can.”
“I knew nothing of the robbery until I read about it in the newspapers and—”
“Oh, Johnny,” Mary gasped the words, “you told me when you came home there had been a—”
Her brother stared her into silence. “It was two days after, you remember, my dear,” he said slowly and deliberately. “I brought the newspaper in to you and told you there had been a robbery. I could not have spoken to you that night because I did not see you.”
For a moment Alan wondered what the girl was going to say, but with a tremendous effort of will she controlled herself. Her face was colourless, and there was such pain in her eyes that he dared not look at her.
“Of course, Johnny, I remember … I remember,” she said dully. “How stupid of me!”
A painful silence followed.
Alan was looking down at the worn carpet; his hand was thrust into his jacket pocket. “All right,” he said at last. “That, I think, will satisfy Burton. I am sorry to have bothered you.” He did not look at the girl: his stern eyes were fixed upon Johnny Lenley. “Why don’t you take a trip abroad, Lenley?” He spoke with difficulty. “You are not looking quite as well as you might.”
Johnny shifted uneasily under his gaze. “England is good enough for me,” he said sulkily. “What are you, Wembury, the family doctor?”
Alan paused. “Yes,” he said at last, “I think that describes me,” and with a curt nod he was gone.
Mary had gone back to her typewriter but not to work. With a gesture Maurice led the young man back to his room and closed the door quietly.
“I suppose you understand what Wembury meant?” he said.
“Not being a thought reader, I didn’t,” replied Johnny. He was hovering between rage and amusement. “He has got a cheek, that fellow! When you think that he was a gardener’s boy …”
“I should forget all that,” said Mr. Meister savagely. “Remember only that you have given yourself away, and that the chances are from today onward you will be under police observation—which doesn’t very much matter, Johnny, but I shall be under observation, too, and that is very unpleasant. The only doubt I have is as to whether Wembury is going to do his duty and communicate with Scotland Yard. If he does you will be in serious trouble.”
“So will you,” replied Johnny gruffly. “We stand or fall together over this matter, Maurice. If they find the pearls where will they be? In your safe! Has that occurred to you?”
Maurice Meister was unruffled, could even smile.
“I think we are exaggerating the danger to you,” he said lightly. “Perhaps you are right and the real danger is to me. They certainly have a down on me, and they’d go far to bring me to my knees.” He looked across at the safe. “I wish those beastly things were a thousand miles away. I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Wembury returned armed with a search warrant, and if that happened the fat would be in the fire!”
“Why not post them to Antwerp?” asked the other.
Meister smiled contemptuously.
“If I am being watched, as is very likely,” he said, “you don’t suppose for one moment that they would fail to keep an eye on the post office? No, the only thing to do with those wretched pearls is to plant them somewhere for a day or two.”
Johnny was biting his nails, a worried look on his face.
“I’ll take them back to the flat,” he said suddenly. “There are a dozen places I could hide them.”
If he had been looking at Maurice he would have seen a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
“That is not a bad idea,” said the lawyer slowly. “Wembury would never dream of searching your flat—he likes Mary too much.”
He did not wait for his companion to make up his mind, but, unlocking the safe, took out a box and handed it to the other. The young man looked at the package dubiously and then slipped it into his inside pocket.
“I’ll put it into the box under my bed,” he said, “and let you have it back at the end of the week.”
He did not stop to speak to Mary as he made his way quickly through the outer room. There was a sense of satisfaction in the very proximity of those pearls, for which he had risked so much, that gave him a sense of possession, removed some of the irritable suspicion which had grown up in his mind since Meister had the handling of them.
As he passed through crowded Flanders Lane a man turned out of a narrow alley and followed him. As Johnny Lenley walked up Tanners Hill, the man was strolling behind him, and the policeman on point duty hardly noticed him as he passed, never dreaming that within reach of his gloved hand was the man for whom the police of three continents were searching—Henry Arthur Milton, otherwise known as The Ringer.
CHAPTER 11
Long after Lenley had taken his departure Maurice Meister strode up and down his tiny sanctum, his hands clasped behind him.
A thought was taking shape in his mind—two thoughts indeed, which converged, intermingled, separated and came together again—Johnny Lenley and his sister.
There had been no mistaking the manner in Lenley’s voice. Meister had been threatened before and now, so far from moving him from his half-formed purpose, it
needed only the youthful and unbalanced violence of Johnny Lenley to stimulate him in the other direction. He had seen too much of Johnny lately. Once there was a time when the young man was amusing—then he had been useful. Now he was becoming not only a bore but a meddlesome bore. He opened the door gently and peeped through the crack. Mary was sitting at her typewriter intent upon her work.
The morning sun flooded the little room, and made a nimbus about her hair. Once she turned her face in his direction without realising that she was being watched. It was difficult to find a fault in the perfect contour of her face and the transparent loveliness of her skin. Maurice fondled his chin thoughtfully. A new interest had come into his life, a new chase had begun. And then his mind came uneasily back to Johnny.
There was a safe and effective way of getting rid of Johnny, with his pomposity, his threats and his stupid confidence.
That last quality was the gravest danger to Maurice. And when Johnny was out of the way many difficulties would be smoothed over. Mary could not be any more adamantine than Gwenda had been in the earliest stages of their friendship.
Inspector Wembury!
Maurice frowned at the thought. Here was a troublemaker on a different plane from Lenley. A man of the world, shrewd, knowledgeable, not lightly to be antagonised. Maurice shrugged his shoulders. It was absurd to consider the policeman, he thought. After all, Mary was not so much his friend as his patroness. She was wholly absorbed in her work when he crossed the room and went softly up the stairs to the little suite above.
As he opened the door he shivered. The memory of Gwenda Milton and that foggy coroner’s court was an ugly one. A little decoration was needed to make this room again as beautiful as it had been. The place must be cleaned out, decorated and made not only habitable but attractive. Would it attract Mary—supposing Johnny were out of the way? That was to be discovered. His first task was to settle with John Lenley and send him to a place where his power for mischief was curtailed. Maurice was a wise man. He did not approach or speak to the girl after the interview with her brother, but allowed some time to elapse before he came to where she was working.
The little lunch which had been served to her was uneaten.
She stood by the window, staring down into Flanders Lane, and at the sound of his voice she started.
“What is the matter, my dear?” Maurice could be very fatherly and tender. It was his favourite approach.
She shook her head wearily. “I don’t know, Maurice. I’m worried —about Johnny and the pearls.”
“The pearls?” he repeated, in affected surprise. “Do you mean Lady Darnleigh’s pearls?”
She nodded. “Why did Johnny lie?” she asked. “It was the first thing he told me when he came home, that there had been a robbery in Park Lane and that Lady Darnleigh had lost her jewels.”
“Johnny was not quite normal,” he said soothingly. “I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he said. His memory seems to have gone to pieces lately.”
“It isn’t that.” She was not convinced. “He knew that he had told me, Maurice: there was no question of his having forgotten.” She looked up anxiously into his face. “You don’t think—” She did not complete the sentence.
“That Johnny knew anything about the robbery? Rubbish, my dear! The boy is a little worried—and naturally! It isn’t a pleasant sensation to find yourself thrown on to the world penniless as Johnny has. He has neither your character nor your courage, my dear.”
She sighed heavily and went back to her desk, where there was a neat little pile of correspondence which she had put aside. She turned the pages listlessly and suddenly withdrew a sheet.
“Maurice, who is The Ringer?” she asked.
He glared back at the word.
“The Ringer?”
“It’s a cablegram. You hadn’t opened it. I found it amongst a lot of your old correspondence.”
He snatched the paper from her. The message was dated three months before, and was from Sydney. By the signature he saw it was from a lawyer who acted as his agent in Australia, and the message was brief: “Man taken from Sydney Harbour identified, not Ringer, who is believed to have left Australia.”
Mary was staring at the lawyer. His face had gone suddenly haggard and drawn; what vestige of colour there had been in his cheeks had disappeared.
“The Ringer!” he muttered … “Alive!”
The hand that held the paper was shaking, and, as though he realised that some reason for his agitation must be found, he went on with a laugh: “An old client of mine, a fellow I was rather keen on—but a scoundrel, and more than a scoundrel.”
As he spoke he tore the form into little pieces and dropped the litter into the wastepaper basket. Then unexpectedly he put his arm about her shoulder.
“Mary, I would not worry too much about Johnny if I were you. He is at a difficult age and in a difficult mood. I am not pleased with him just now.”
She stared at him wonderingly.
“Not pleased with him, Maurice? Why not?”
Maurice shrugged his shoulders.
“He has got himself mixed up with a lot of unpleasant people—men I would not have in this office, and certainly would not allow to associate with you.”
His arm was still about her shoulder, and she moved slightly to release herself from this parental embrace. She was not frightened, only a little uncomfortable and uneasy, but he allowed his arm to drop as though his gesture had been born in a momentary mood of protection, and apparently did not notice the movement by which she had freed herself.
“Can’t you do something for him? He would listen to you,” she pleaded.
But he was not thinking of Johnny. All his thoughts and eyes were for the girl. She was holding his arms now, looking up into his face, and he felt his pulses beating a little faster. Suppose Johnny took the detective’s advice and went off to the Continent with the pearls—and Mary! He would find no difficulty in disposing of the necklace and would secure a sum sufficient to keep him for years. This was the thought that ran through Meister’s mind as he patted the girl’s cheek softly.
“I will see what can be done about Johnny,” he said. “Don’t worry your pretty head any more.”
In his private office Meister had a small portable typewriter. Throughout the afternoon she heard the click-click of it as he laboriously wrote his message of betrayal.
That evening, when Inspector Wembury came back to Flanders Lane Police Station, he found a letter awaiting him. It was typewritten and unsigned and had been delivered by a district messenger from a West Central office. The message ran:
The Countess of Darnleigh’s pearl necklace was stolen by John Lenley of 37, Malpas Mansions. It is at present in a cardboard carton in a box under his bed.
Alan Wembury read the message and his heart sank within, him, for only one course was open to him, the course of duty.
CHAPTER 12
Wembury knew that he would be well within his rights if he ignored this typewritten message, for anonymous letters are a daily feature of police life. Yet he realised that it was the practice that, if the information which came thus surreptitiously to a police station coincided with news already in the possession of the police, or if it supported a definite suspicion, inquiries must be set afoot.
He went to his little room to work out the problem alone. It would be a simple matter to hand over the inquiry to another police officer, or even to refer it to … But that would be an act of moral cowardice.
There was a small sliding window in the door of his office which gave him a view of the charge room, and as he pondered his problem a bent figure came into his line of vision and, acting on an impulse, he jumped up from the table, and, opening the door beckoned Dr. Lomond. Why he should make a confidant of this old man who was ignorant of police routine he could not for the life of him explain. But between the two men in the ve
ry short period of their acquaintance there had grown a queer understanding.
Lomond looked round the little room from under his shaggy brows.
“I have a feeling that you’re in trouble, Mr. Wembury,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“If that’s a guess, it’s a good one,” said Alan.
He closed the door behind the police surgeon and pushed forward a chair for him. In a few words he revealed the problem which was exercising his mind, and Lomond listened attentively.
“It’s verra awkward.” He shook his head. “Man, that’s almost like a drama! It seems to me there’s only one thing for you to do, Mr. Wembury —you’ll have to treat John Lenley as though he were John Smith or Thomas Brown. Forget he’s the brother of Miss Lenley, and I think,” he said shrewdly, “that is what is worrying you most—and deal with this case as though it were somebody you had never heard of.”
Alan nodded slowly.
“That, I’m afraid, is the counsel I should give myself, if I were entirely unprejudiced in the matter.”
The old man took a silver tobacco box from his pocket and began slowly to roll a cigarette.
“John Lenley, eh?” he mused. “A friend of Meister’s!”
Alan stared at him. The doctor laid significant emphasis on the lawyer’s name.
“Do you know him?”
Lomond shook his head.
“Through my career,” he said, “I have followed one practice when I come to a strange land—I acquire the local legends. Meister is a legend. To me he is the most interesting man in Deptford, and I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
“But why should Johnny Lenley’s friendship with Meister—” began Alan, and stopped. He knew full well the sinister importance of that friendship.
Maurice Meister was something more than a legend: he was a sinister fact. His acquaintance with the criminal law was complete. The loopholes which exist in the best drawn statutes were so familiar to him that not once, but half a dozen times, he had cleared his clients of serious charges. There were suspicious people who wondered how the poor thieves who employed him raised the money to pay his fees. There were ill-natured persons who suggested that Meister paid himself out of the proceeds of the robbery and utilised the opportunities he had as a lawyer to obtain from his clients the exact location of the property they had stolen. Many a jewel thief on the run had paused in his flight to visit the house in Flanders Lane, and had gone on his way, leaving in the lawyer’s hands the evidence which would have incriminated him. He acted as a sort of banker to the larger fry, and exacted his tribute from the smaller.
The Ringer, Book 1 Page 5
