The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

  She smiled faintly.

  In every tragedy there is a touch of grotesque comedy, and it seemed to be supplied in this case by the unsought honour that had come to this reluctant police officer.

  He sat by her side and tried to comfort her, and if his efforts were a little awkward, a little gauche, she understood. And then Maurice came into the hall, his old, immaculate self. His silk hat was more shiny than ever, his spats were like the virgin snow. He might have come straight from a wedding party but for his lugubrious countenance.

  “The judge is summing up,” he said. “I wish you’d go into court, Wembury, so that you can bring news of what happens.”

  It was a crude request, which Alan diagnosed as a wish on the part of the lawyer to be alone with Mary.

  “There goes a very clever young man,” said Meister, as he watched the broad-shouldered figure of the detective disappear through the swing doors. “Unscrupulous, but then all police officers are unscrupulous. A climber, but all police officers are ambitious.”

  “I’ve never found Alan unscrupulous,” said Mary.

  Maurice Meister smiled. “That is perhaps a strong word to employ,” he agreed carelessly. “After all, the man had to do his duty, and he was very ingenious in the method he employed to trap poor Johnny.”

  “Ingenious? Trap?” She frowned at him.

  “That did not come out in the evidence. Nothing that is detrimental to the police force ever comes out in police court evidence, my dear,” said Maurice with a meaning smile. “But I am on the inside of things, and I happen to know that Wembury has been on Johnny’s trail ever since the robbery was committed. That was why he came down to Lenley Court.”

  She stared at him. “Are you sure? I thought—”

  “You thought he came down to see you, to get your congratulations on his promotion?” said Maurice. “That is a natural error. My dear, if you think the matter over, you will realise that a detective officer must always pretend to be doing something other than he actually is doing. If you were to tax Wembury with his little act of duplicity, he would of course be indignant and deny it.”

  She thought a while. “I don’t believe it,” she said. “Alan told me that he had not associated Johnny with the crime until he received an anonymous letter.”

  “S-sh!” said Meister warningly.

  Alan had come out of the court and was walking towards them.

  “The judge will be another ten minutes,” he said, and then, before Meister could warn her, the girl asked: “Alan, is it true that you have been watching Johnny for a long time?”

  “You mean in connection with this offence? No, I knew nothing about it. I did not suspect Johnny until I had a letter, written by somebody who was in a very favourable position to know all about the robbery.”

  His eyes were on Maurice Meister.

  “But when you came down to Lenley Court—”

  “My dear,”—it was Maurice who interrupted hastily—“why ask the inspector these embarrassing questions?”

  “It doesn’t embarrass me,” said Alan curtly. “I went to Lenley Court to see Miss Lenley and to tell her of my promotion. You’re not suggesting that my visit had anything to do with the robbery, are you?”

  Maurice shrugged his shoulders.

  “I was probably giving you credit that you did not deserve,” he said, with an attempt to pass the matter off humorously. “As a solicitor I am not unacquainted with these mysterious letters which the police are supposed to receive, and which cover the operations of their—noses, I think is the word for police informer.”

  “You know it’s the word for police informer, Mr. Meister,” said Alan. “And there was nothing mysterious about the letter which betrayed Lenley, except the writer. It was written on typewriting paper, Swinley Bond No. 14.”

  He saw Meister start.

  “I have made a few inquiries amongst the stationers of Deptford, and I have discovered that that particular paper is not supplied locally. It comes from a law stationer’s in Chancery Lane and is their own especial property. I tell you that in case you would like to take the inquiry any further.”

  With a nod he left them together. “What does he mean?” asked the girl, a little worried.

  “Does anyone know what any police officer means?” asked Maurice, with a forced laugh.

  She was thoughtful for a while, and sat for a long time without speaking.

  “He suggested that Johnny had been betrayed by—by somebody—”

  “Somebody who did not live in Deptford, obviously,” said Maurice quickly. “Really, my dear, I shouldn’t take too much notice of that cock-and-bull story. And it would be well if you did not see too much of Wembury in the future.”

  “Why?” she asked, looking at him steadily.

  “There are many reasons,” replied Maurice slowly. “In the first place, I have a clientele which would look a little askance at me if my secretary were a friend of a police officer. Of course,” he went on hurriedly, as he saw the look in the girl’s face, “I have no wish to dictate to you as to your friends. But I want to be of help to you, Mary. There are one or two matters which I would like to discuss after this unpleasant business is over. You can’t live alone in Malpas Mansions.”

  “Johnny will be sent to prison, of course?” she nodded.

  It was not the moment for delicacy.

  “Johnny will be sent to penal servitude,” said Meister: “you’ve got to get that fast in your mind. This may mean seven years for him, and you must reconcile yourself to that possibility. As I say, you can’t live alone—”

  “I can’t live anywhere else but Malpas Mansions,” she said. The note of determination in her voice was unmistakable. “I know you mean to be kind, Maurice, but there are some things which I cannot do. If you care to employ me, I’ll be pleased to work for you. I don’t think I’m sufficiently competent to work for anybody else, and I’m sure no other employer would give me the wages you have offered. But I’m living at Malpas Mansions until Johnny returns.”

  There came a dramatic interruption. The swing door opened and Alan Wembury walked out. He stood stock still for a moment, looking at her, and then slowly paced across the tiled floor.

  “Well?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Three years penal servitude,” said Alan. “The judge asked if anything was known of him and I went into the box and told the Bench all I knew.”

  “And what did you know?” asked Meister. He was on his feet now, facing the detective.

  “I know that he was a decent boy who has been ruined by associating with criminals,” said Wembury between his teeth; “and some day I am going to take the man who ruined Johnny Lenley, and put him in that court.” He pointed back to the swing door. “And when I go into the box it will not be to plead for the prisoner but to tell the judge a story that will send the man who betrayed John Lenley to a prison from which he will never come out!”

  CHAPTER 18

  To Maurice Meister, The Ringer was dead. He treated as a jest, or as one of those stupid legends which to the criminal mind is gospel, all the stories of Henry Arthur Milton’s presence in England. The three months which followed Johnny’s sentence were too full to allow him time even to consider with any seriousness the whispered hints which came to him from his unsavoury clients.

  Scotland Yard, which acts only on definite knowledge, had taken no step to warn him, and that was the most comforting aspect of the situation. Mary came regularly to work, and from being an ornament to the establishment, developed into a most capable typist. She often wondered whether it would not be fair to Maurice to tell him of the interview she had had with Cora Ann Milton; but since The Ringer’s name was never again mentioned, she thought it wisest to let the matter drop. If she had not severed all association with Alan Wembury, she saw very little of him. Twice she had almost met him in the street, but he had obvi
ously avoided her. At first she was hurt, but then she realised that it was Alan’s innate delicacy which was responsible. One day in the High Street she saw him and before he could escape intercepted him.

  “Alan, you’re being very unkind,” she said, and added mischievously: “People think that you will not know me because of my dubious relations!”

  He went red and white at this, and she was instantly sorry. There was something childlike about Alan.

  “Of course I meant nothing of the sort. But you’re being I rather a pig, aren’t you? You’ve avoided me like the plague.”

  “I thought I was being rather delicate,” he said ruefully, and, grasping the nettle firmly: “Have you heard from Johnny?”

  She nodded. “He is quite cheerful, and already making plans for the future,” she said, and added: “Won’t you take me to tea somewhere on Wednesday—that is my early day?”

  It was a very happy, man who went back to the station house. Indeed, he was so cheerful that old Dr. Lomond, busy at the sergeant’s desk writing a report upon a drunken motorist, looked over his glasses and rallied him in his dour way.

  “Have ye had money left ye?”

  “Something better than that,” smiled Alan. “I’ve rid myself of a dull ghost.”

  Lomond clucked his lips derisively as he signed his name with a flourish and blotted the report.

  “That means that you’ve had a quarrel with a girl, and she’s suddenly decided to make it up,” he said. He had an uncanny habit of getting into the mind of his audience. “I’m no’ saying that matrimony is no’ a good thing for any man. But it must be terribly risky for a police officer.”

  “I’m not contemplating matrimony,” laughed Alan.

  “Then I wonder ye’re not ashamed of yourself,” said the doctor as he shuffled down to the fire and shook off the ash of his cigarette into the grate.

  “You ought to be a happy man,” said Alan. “Colonel Walford told me he had written you a letter of thanks for the work you did in the Prideaux case.”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Man, I’m no’ proud of my work. But poisoners I abominate, and Prideaux was the most cold-blooded poisoner I have ever known. A strange man with a queer occiput. Have you ever noticed the occiput of poisoners? It juts oot from the back of the heid.”

  As he was talking a stocky, poorly dressed man had come into the charge room. There was a grin on his unshaven face as he made his way to the sergeant at the desk. He had all the aplomb of a man in familiar surroundings, and as he laid his ticket of leave on the desk he favoured the sergeant with a friendly nod.

  “Why, Hackitt!” said Wembury. “I didn’t know you were out.”

  He shook hands with the ex-convict and Sam Hackitt’s grin broadened.

  “I got my brief last Monday,” he said. “Old Meister’s giving me a job.”

  “What, Sam, are you going into the law?”

  The idea tickled Hackitt.

  “No, I’m going to clean his boots! It’s a low job for a man of my ability, Mr. Wembury, but what can you do when the police are ‘ounding you down all the time?”

  “Hounding grandmothers!” said Alan, with a smile “You fellows hound yourselves down. So you’re going to valet Meister, are you? I wish you luck.”

  Sam Hackitt scratched his unshaven chin thoughtfully.

  “They tell me Johnny Lenley’s been put away, Mr. Wembury? That’s bad luck.”

  “Did you know him?” asked Alan.

  Sam Hackitt hesitated.

  “Well, I can’t say that I know him. I went down to the country to see him once, when he was a swell. I knew he was on the crook then, and somebody put up a joke for him and me.”

  Alan knew what “a joke” meant in the argot of the criminal classes: it meant a robbery, big or small.

  “But I didn’t take it on,” said Sam. “It was a bit too dangerous for me, and I don’t like working with amachoors. They’re bound to give you away if they’re a bit too impetuous. Especially as this gentlemen who was putting up the money for the joke wanted us to carry a shooter—not for me, thank you!”

  Alan was acquainted with the professional burglar’s horror of firearms. But surely the man who had planned the robbery was as well aware of the dangers of a burglar being captured with firearms in his possession?

  “Who is the Big Fellow, Sam?” he asked, never for one moment expecting a truthful reply; for only in a moment of direst necessity would a thief betray his “big fellow” or employer.

  “Him? Oh, he’s a chap who lives in Sheffield,” said Sam vaguely. “I didn’t like the job, so I didn’t take it on. He’s a nice boy—that young Lenley, I mean. It’s a pity he went crook, a gentleman of his education.”

  And then he changed the subject abruptly.

  “Mr. Wembury, what’s this yarn about The Ringer being in London? I heard about it when I was in Maidstone, and I sent a letter to your boss.”

  Alan was surprised. The Ringer belonged to another plane, and although the little criminals were greatly intrigued by the operations of this super-criminal, he had not connected any of them with the man for whom the police were searching.

  “He’s drowned, as a matter of fact,” said Sam comfortably. “I read about it when I was in ‘stir’.” [Stir = Prison. E.W.]

  “Did you know him, Sam?”

  Again the ex-convict scratched his chin.

  “I’m one of the few people who’ve seen him without his make-up,” he grinned. “The Ringer, eh? What a lad! There never was a bloke who could disguise himself like that bird!”

  The sergeant had copied particulars of Sam Hackitt’s brief into a book, and now handed the ticket of leave back to the man.

  “We may be asking to see you one of these days, Hackitt, if the Ringer turns up,” said Wembury.

  Sam shook his head.

  “He’ll never turn up: he’s drowned. I believe the newspapers.”

  Dr. Lomond watched the stocky figure disappear through the doorway and shook his head.

  “There goes a super-optimist,” he said, “and what a heid! Did you notice, Wembury, the flattening of the skull? Man, I’d like to measure him!”

  CHAPTER 19

  The days that intervened before Wednesday were very long days and each seemed to consist of much more than twenty-four hours. Alan had a note from the girl in the morning, asking him to meet her at a little teashop in the West End, and he was at the rendezvous a quarter of an hour before she was due to arrive. She came at last, a trim, neat figure in blue serge, with just a little more colour in her cheeks than was ordinary.

  “I’m being a dutiful servant,” she said. “I would have met you at Blackheath, only I was afraid that some of Mr. Meister’s clients might have seen you and thought I was in secret communication with the police over their grisly pasts!”

  He laughed at this. He had never seen her so light-hearted since the old Lenley Court days.

  The teashop was only sparsely patronised. It was an hour before the rush of shoppers filled each seat and occupied every table, and he found a quiet corner where they could talk. She was full of hopeful plans for the future. Maurice (he hated to hear her call Meister by his Christian name) was going to start Johnny on a poultry farm: she had worked out to a day the end of Johnny’s period of imprisonment.

  “He has three months remitted for every year if he is on his best behaviour,” she said. “And Johnny is being very sensible. When he wrote the other day he told me he was going to earn his full marks. That will be wonderful, won’t it, Alan?”

  He hesitated to ask the question that was in his mind, but presently he put it to her, and she nodded.

  “Yes, he writes about you, and he has no resentment at all. I think you could be a very good friend to him when he comes out.”

  Her own days were so filled, she told him, t
hat the time was passing rapidly, more rapidly than she had dared hope. Maurice was most kind. (How often she repeated that very sentence!) And life at Malpas Mansions was moving smoothly. She had been able to employ a little maid-of-all-work.

  “A queer little thing who insists upon telling me all the horrors of Deptford.” She smiled quietly. “As though I hadn’t enough horrors of my own! Her favourite hero is The Ringer—do you know about him?”

  Alan nodded.

  “He’s the hero of all the funny-minded people of Deptford,” he said. “They love the thought of anybody outwitting the police.”

  “He is not in England, is he?” Alan shook his head. “Are you terribly interested in The Ringer?” she went on. “Because, if you are, I can tell you something—I have met his wife.”

  He opened his eyes wide at this.

  “Cora Ann Milton?” he said incredulously, and she laughed at the impression her words had made on him.

  She told him of Cora Ann’s visit, and yet for some reason, which she did not understand herself, she did not give a faithful account of that interview, or even hint that Cora Ann had warned her against Meister. It was when she came to the code letter that he was more interested.

  “I’ve only just remembered it!” she said penitently; “it is in my bureau and ought to be sent to her.”

  “A code card—that is very important,” said Alan. “Do you think you could bring it to me tomorrow?”

  She nodded.

  “But why on earth did she come—the night Johnny was arrested, you say?” said Alan. “Have you seen her since?”

  Mary shook her head. “Don’t let’s talk about The Ringer. It’s shop to you, isn’t it? It’s shop to us both—ugh!” She shivered.

  They strolled through Green Park together and dined at a little restaurant in Soho. He told her of his new bete noir—the black-bearded Inspector Bliss, and was so vehement on the subject that she dissolved into laughter. It was the day of days in Alan Wembury’s life, and when he left her, after seeing her on a tramcar bound southward, something of the colour of life went with her.