The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

  CHAPTER 15

  “I don’t think you need trouble about Miss Lenley.” Alan’s voice was deadly cold. “Fortunately she lives in my division, and she trusts me well enough to come to me if she’s in any trouble.”

  He saw the slow smile dawn upon the lawyer’s face.

  “Do you think that is likely. Inspector Wembury?” Meister asked. His voice had a quality of softness which was almost feline. “As I understand, you had the unhappy task of arresting her brother: is she likely to bring her troubles to you?”

  Alan’s heart sank. The thought of Mary’s attitude towards him had tortured him since the arrest. How could she continue to be friendly with the man who was immediately responsible for the ruin and disgrace of her brother?

  “The Lenleys are an old family,” Meister went on. “They have their modicum of pride. I doubt if poor Mary will ever forgive you for arresting her brother. It will be terribly unjust, of course, but women are illogical. I will do what I can for Miss Lenley, just as I shall do what I can for Johnny. And I think my opportunities are more obvious than yours. Can I see Johnny to-night?”

  Alan nodded.

  “Yes, he asked me if you would see him at once, though I’m afraid you can do very little for him. No bail will be granted, of course. This is a felony charge.”

  Maurice Meister hurried to the door that led to his room, slipping off his dressing-gown as he went.

  “I will not keep you waiting very long,” he said. Left alone in the big room, Alan paced up and down the worn carpet, his hands behind him, his chin on his breast. There was something subtly repulsive in this atmosphere. The great piano, the faded panelling, the shabby richness of the furnishing and decoration. The room seemed to be over-supplied with doors: he counted four, in addition to the curtain which hid the alcove. Where did all these lead to? And what stories could they tell, he wondered.

  Particularly interested was he in one door which was heavily bolted and barred, and he was staring at this when, to his amazement, above the frame glowed suddenly a long red light. A signal of some kind—from whom? Even as he looked, the light died away and Meister came in, struggling into his overcoat.

  “What does that light mean, Mr. Meister?”

  The lawyer spun round. “Light? Which light?” he asked quickly, and following the direction of the detective’s finger, he gasped. “A light?” incredulously. “You mean that red lamp? How did you come to notice it?”

  “It lit up a few minutes ago and went out again.” It was not imagination on his part: the lawyer’s face had gone a sickly yellow.

  “Are you sure?” And then, quickly: “It is a substitute for a bell—I mean, if you press the bell on the outer door the lamp lights up; bells annoy me.”

  He was lying, and he was frightened too. The red lamp had another significance. What was it?

  In those few seconds Meister had become ill at ease, nervous; the hand that strayed constantly to his mouth trembled. Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, when he thought he was free from observation, Alan saw him take a small golden box from his pocket, pinch something from its contents and sniff at his thumb and finger. “Cocaine,” guessed Wembury, and knew that his theory was right when almost immediately the lawyer became his old buoyant self.

  “You must have imagined it—probably a reflection from the lamp on the table,” he said.

  “But why shouldn’t there be somebody at the front door?” asked Alan coolly, and Meister made an effort to correct his error.

  “Very probably there is,” He hesitated. “I wonder if you would mind, inspector—would it be asking you too much to go down to the front gate and see? Here is the key!”

  Alan took the key from the lawyer’s hand, went downstairs across the courtyard and opened the outer gate. There was nobody there. He suspected, indeed he was sure, that the lawyer had asked him to perform this service because he wished to be alone in the room for a few minutes, possibly to investigate the cause of and reason for that signal.

  As he went up the stairs he heard a sharp click as though a drawer had closed, and when he came into the room he found Meister pulling on his gloves with an air of nonchalance.

  “Nobody?” he asked. “It must have been your imagination, inspector, or one of these dreadful people of Flanders Lane playing a trick.”

  “The lamp hasn’t lit since I left the room?” asked Alan, and when Meister shook his head, “You are sure?”

  “Absolutely,” said the lawyer, and too late saw he was trapped.

  “That is very curious.” Wembury looked hard at him. “Because I pressed the front door bell, and if the lamp was what you said it was, it should have lit up again, shouldn’t it?”

  Meister murmured something about the connections being out of order, and almost hustled him from the room.

  Alan was not present at the interview at the police station. He left Meister in the charge of the station sergeant, and went home to his lodgings in Blackheath Road with a heavy heart. He could do nothing for the girl; not so much as suggest a woman who would keep her company. He could not guess that at that moment, when his heart ached for her, Mary had a companion, and that companion a woman.

  CHAPTER 16

  Long after Johnny Lenley had been taken away Mary Lenley sat numbed, paralysed to inaction by the overwhelming misfortune which had come to her. She sat at the table, her hands clasped before her, staring down at the white cloth until her eyes ached. She wished she could weep, but no tears had come. The only reminder she had of the drama that had been played out under that roof was the empty feeling in her breast, it was as though her heart had been taken from her.

  Johnny a thief! It wasn’t possible, she was dreaming. Presently she would wake up from this horrible nightmare, hearing his voice calling her from the lawn … But she was not at Lenley Court: she was in a block of industrial flats, sitting on a cheap chair, and Johnny was in a prison cell. The horror of it made her blood run cold. And Alan—what vicious trick of fate had made him Johnny’s captor? She had a vivid memory of that scene which had preceded Johnny’s arrest. Every word Alan had spoken had been burnt into her brain. Too well she realised that Wembury had risked everything to save her brother. He had given him a chance. Johnny had only to keep silence and spend the night in getting rid of those pearls, and he would have been with her now. But his fatal hauteur had been his undoing. She had no bitterness in her soul against Alan Wembury, only a great sorrow for him, and the memory of his drawn face hurt her almost as much as Johnny’s mad folly.

  She heard the bell tinkle faintly. It rang three times before she understood that somebody was at the front door. Alan perhaps, she thought, and, getting up stiffly, went out into the hall and opened the door. A woman stood there dressed in a long black mackintosh; a black hat enhanced the fairness of her hair and skin. She was beautiful, Mary saw, and apparently a lady.

  “You’ve made some mistake—” she began.

  “You’re Mary Lenley, aren’t you?” An American, noted Mary, and looked her astonishment. “Can I see you?”

  The girl stood aside, and Cora Ann Milton walked into the room and looked round. There was a faint hint of disparagement in her glance, which Mary was too miserable to resent.

  “You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

  Uninvited, she sat down by the half-opened drawer of the table, took a jewelled case from her bag and lit a cigarette.

  “Yes, I’m in trouble—great trouble,” said Mary, wondering how this woman knew, and what had brought her here at such an hour.

  “I guessed that. I hear Wembury pulled your brother for a jewel theft—he caught him with the goods, I guess?”

  Mary nodded slowly. “Yes, the pearls were in this house. I had no knowledge that they were here.”

  She wondered in a dim way whether this American was Lady Darnleigh; so many members of the aristocracy have been recruite
d from the United States that it was possible.

  “My name’s Milton—Cora Ann Milton,” said the woman, but the name meant nothing to Mary Lenley. “Never heard of me, kid?”

  Mary shook her head. She was weary in body and soul, impatient that this intruder into her sorrow should leave her.

  “Never heard of The Ringer?”

  Mary looked up quickly.

  “The Ringer? You mean the criminal who is wanted by the police?”

  “Wanted by everybody, honey.” Despite the flippancy of her tone, Cora Ann’s voice shook a little. “By me more than anybody else—I’m his wife!”

  Mary got up quickly from her chair. It was incredible! This beautiful creature the wife of a man who walked everlastingly in the shadow of the gallows!

  “I’m his wife,” nodded Cora Ann. “You don’t think it’s a thing to boast about? That’s where you’re wrong.” And then, abruptly: “You’re working for Meister, aren’t you?”

  “I am working for Mr. Meister,” said Mary quietly; “but really, Mrs.—”

  “Mrs. Milton,” prompted Cora.

  “Mrs. Milton, I don’t quite understand the object of your visit at this time of night.”

  Cora Ann Milton was regarding the room with shrewd, appraising eyes.

  “It’s not much of an apartment you’ve got, but it’s better than that cute little suite of Meister’s.”

  She saw the colour come into the girl’s face and her eyes narrowed.

  “He’s shown it to you eh? Gosh, that fellow’s a quick worker!”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.” Mary was slow to anger, but now she felt her resentment merging into anger. At the back of her mind was a confused idea that, but for Johnny’s misfortune, this woman would never have dared to see her. It was as though his arrest had qualified her tor admission to the confidence of the underworld.

  “If you don’t know what I mean, I won’t say much more about it,” said the woman coolly. “Does Meister know I’m back?”

  Mary shook her head. Mrs. Milton was sitting by the table, and was taking a handkerchief from the little bag on her lap: she was very deliberate and self-possessed. “I don’t think he’s very much interested in your movements, Mrs. Milton,” said Mary wearily. “Do you mind if I ask you not to stay? I’ve had a great shock this evening and I’m not in a mood to discuss Mr. Meister or your husband or anybody.”

  But Cora Ann Milton was not easily abashed. “I guess when all this trouble is over you’ll be working late at Meister’s house,” she said, “and I’m wondering whether you’d like to have my address?”

  “Why on earth—” began Mary.

  “Why on earth!” mimicked the other. “I guess this is an age of freedom when the only place you see a chaperon is a museum. But I should like you to get in touch with me if … anything happens. There was another girl once … but I guess you don’t want any awful example. And, say, I’d be much obliged to you if you’d not mention the fact to dear Maurice that The Ringer’s wife is in town.”

  Mary hardly listened to the latter part of the speech. She walked to the door and opened it suggestively. “That means I’ve got to go,” said Cora Ann with a good-natured smile. “I’m not blaming you, kid. I guess I’d feel that way myself if some dame came floating in on me with all that guardian angel stuff.”

  “I don’t require guardianship, thank you. I have a number of friends—”

  She stopped. A number of friends! Not in all London, in all the country, was there any to whom she could turn in her trouble, except to—Alan Wembury. And Maurice?

  Why did she hesitate at Maurice? In the last day or two a subtle change had come over their relationship. He was no longer the natural refuge and adviser to whom she would go in her distress.

  Cora Ann was watching her from the doorway; keen, shrewd eyes seemed to be reading her every thought. “That man Wembury’s a decent fellow. I hope you’re not going to be sore at him for pinching your brother?”

  Mary made a weary gesture: she had reached almost the end of her tether.

  Long after the girl had gone, she sat by the table, trying to understand just what this visit of Cora Ann Milton’s meant. Had she followed the woman down the stairs, she might have discovered.

  Cora turned into the dark, deserted street, walked a few paces, and then, as if by magic from some mysterious underground trap, a man appeared by her side, so unexpectedly and silently that she started and took a step away from him.

  “Oh! … you scared me!” she breathed.

  “Did you see the girl?”

  “Yes, I saw her. Arthur”—her voice was broken and agitated—“why do you stay here? Don’t you realise, you fool, what danger …”

  She heard his low chuckle.

  “Cora Ann, you talk too much,” he said lightly. “By the way, I saw you this afternoon.”

  “You saw me?” she gasped. “Where were you?” Suddenly: “Arthur, how am I to know you when I see you? I’ve got that spookish feeling that you’re round me all the time, and I’m forever peering into people’s faces as I pass them—I’ll be pinched for being too fresh one of these days!”

  Again he chuckled.

  “Surely my own loving wife would know me?” he said ironically. “The eyes of love could penetrate any disguise.”

  He heard her teeth snap in anger. Arthur Milton had the trick of infuriating this beautiful wife of his.

  “I’ll know what you look like now,” she said.

  Suddenly there was a click and a white beam of light flashed in his face.

  “You’re a fool!” he said roughly, as he knocked the lamp down. “When you can see, others can see.”

  “I wish ‘em joy!” she whispered. For she had looked into a face that was covered from forehead to chin by a square of black silk, through which a pair of wide-set eyes stared down at her.

  “Did you get my letter?” he demanded.

  “Yes—the code, you mean. I thought the newspapers did not publish code messages?”

  He did not answer and mechanically she felt in her bag. The envelope she had put there was gone.

  “What is it?” he asked quickly and when she told him: “Cora, you’re a goop! You must have dropped it in this girl Lenley’s flat! Go and get it!”

  Cora Ann hurried up the stairs and knocked at the door. It was immediately answered by Mary.

  “Yes, I’ve come back,” said the woman breathlessly. “I dropped a letter here somewhere: I’ve only just missed it.”

  Mary turned back and together they searched the flat, turning up carpets and shaking out curtains, but there was no sign of the letter.

  “You must have lost it elsewhere.” The woman was so agitated that she was sorry for her. “Did it have any money—”

  “Money? No,” said Cora Ann impatiently. “I wish it had.”

  She looked round the room in bewilderment. “I know I had it before I came in.”

  “Perhaps you left it at your own home?” suggested Mary, but Cora Ann shook her head, and after another thorough search she began to doubt whether she had brought it out with her.

  Mary Lenley closed the door upon her finally with heartfelt thanksgiving, walked listlessly back to the table and sat down. Her tea was cold and bitter. She pulled open a little drawer in the table where the spoons were kept, and looked down in amazement. The letter for which they had sought lay on top of a miscellaneous collection of spoons and forks. It was simply inscribed on the envelope “Cora Ann”, and had no address. Perhaps the address was inside, she thought, and after some hesitation pulled out its contents, a square white card covered with groups of letters and figures, written in an almost microscopic hand. It did not need any very great acumen on her part to know that she was looking at a code: if she had been more experienced in such matters, she would have realised how ingenious a code it
was.

  She replaced the card, put it again in the drawer and waited for the woman to return. What had happened was obvious: when she had taken her handkerchief from the bag, the letter bad slipped into the drawer, which had been slightly open, and in moving she must have closed the drawer, which ran very easily, without noticing the fact.

  That night, before she went to bed, Mary took the letter into her room and locked it away in one of the drawers of her dressing-table where she kept her few trinkets, and, having locked it away, forgot all about it.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was a month later that Mary Lenley sat in the marble hall of the Central Criminal Court and waited with folded hands and a set, tragic face for the jury’s finding. She had gone into court and had heard the preliminaries of the evidence, but the sight of that neat figure in the dock was more than she could bear, and she had gone out to wait with fatalistic resignation for the final curtain of the drama.

  The door leading to the court opened and Alan Wembury came out and walked over to her.

  “Is it—ended?” she asked huskily.

  Wembury shook his head. “Very soon now, I think,” he said quietly.

  He looked as if he had not slept, he was hollow-eyed, haggard, a man distracted.

  “I’m sorry, Alan.” She put out her hand and gently touched his. The touch of her hand almost brought the tears to his eyes.

  “You don’t know how I feel about this, Mary; and the horrible thing is that I am getting the credit for the arrest—I had a letter from the Commissioner yesterday congratulating me!”