“What is the matter, Maurice?”
He looked at her vacantly. “Oh, Mary!” he said. “Yes, of course, my dear, we ought to be getting home.”
He stumbled past her into the car, dropped on to the padded seat with a little groan.
“Do you want to go back to Deptford, Maurice?”
“Yes—back to Deptford.”
She gave instructions to the chauffeur and, entering the car after him, closed the door. “Was it something awful, Maurice?”
“No, my dear.” He roused himself with a start. “Awful? … No, a lie, that’s all! Tried to scare me … tried to scare Maurice Meister!” His laugh was thin and cracked and wholly unnatural. “They thought it would rattle me. You know what these police commissioners are … jumped up army officers who have been jobbed into a soft billet, and have to pretend they understand police work to keep it!” His face changed.
“That man Bliss was there—the fellow you told me about. I can’t quite place him, Mary. Did your—did Wembury tell you anything about him?” She shook her head.
“No, Maurice, I only know what I told you.”
“Bliss!” he muttered. “I’ve never seen a detective with a beard before. They used to wear them years ago: it was quite the ordinary thing, but nowadays they’re clean-shaven … he comes from America, too. Did you see Hackitt?”
She nodded. “He came out about ten minutes before you and got on a tram.”
He heaved a deep and troubled sigh. “I wish I’d seen him. I’d like to know what they asked him about. Of course I know now: they brought him there for an altogether different reason. They’re sly, these fellows; you never know what they’re after. The truth isn’t in them!”
He was feeling in his pocket for the little cushion-shaped gold box, and Mary pretended not to see. She had guessed the nature of the stimulant which Maurice took at frequent intervals, and of late he had made no disguise of his weakness. He snuffled at a pinch of white, glittering powder, dusted his face with a handkerchief, and a few seconds later was laughing at himself—another man. She had often wondered at the efficacy of the drug, not realising that every week he had to increase the dose to produce the desired effect, and that one day he would be a cringing, crawling slave to the glittering white powder which he now regarded as his servant.
“Wembury threatened me, by gad!” His tone had changed: he was now his pompous self. “A wretched hireling police officer threatened me, an officer of the High Court of Justice!”
“Surely not, Maurice? Alan threatened you?” He nodded solemnly, and was about to tell her the nature of the threat when he thought better of it. Even in his present mood of exaltation he had no desire to raise the subject of Gwenda Milton.
“I took no notice, of course. One is used to dealing with that kind of creature. By the way, Mary, I have made inquiries and I’ve discovered that Johnny was not involved in the prison riot.”
She was so grateful for this news, that she did not for one moment question its authenticity. Mary did not know that Scotland Yard was as ignorant of what happened in the prison as the Agricultural and Fisheries Board. But when he was under the influence of the drug, Maurice lied for the pleasure of lying: it was symptomatic of the disease.
“No, he was not in any way connected with the trouble. It was a man named—I forget the name, but it doesn’t matter—who was the ringleader. And, my dear, I’ve been thinking over that burglary at your house.” He half-turned to face her, the drug had transformed him: he was the old loquacious, debonair and carefree Meister she knew. “You can’t stay any longer at Malpas Mansions. I will not allow it. Johnny would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“But where can I go, Maurice?”
He smiled.
“You’re coming to my house. I’ll have that room put in order and the lights seen to. You can have a maid to look after you …”
She was shaking her head already. “That is impossible,” she said quietly. “I am not at all nervous about the burglary, and I am quite sure that nobody intended harming me. I shall stay at Malpas Mansions, and if I get too nervous I shall go into lodgings.”
“My dear Mary!” he expostulated.
“I’m determined on that, Maurice,” she said, and he was a picture of resignation.
“As you wish. Naturally, I would not suggest that you should come to a bachelor’s establishment without rearranging my household to the new conditions; but if you’re set against honouring my little hovel, by all means do as you wish.”
As they approached New Cross he woke from the reverie into which he had fallen and asked: “I wonder who is on the rack at this moment?”
She could not understand what he meant for a moment.
“You mean at Scotland Yard?”
He nodded. “I’d give a lot of money,” he said slowly, “to know just what is happening in Room C 2 at this very second, and who is the unfortunate soul facing the inquisitors.”
CHAPTER 26
Dr. Lomond could neither be described as an unfortunate soul, nor the genial Assistant Commissioner as an inquisitor. Colonel Walford for the moment was being very informative, and the old doctor listened, rolling one of his interminable cigarettes, and apparently not particularly interested in the recital.
Lomond was possessed of many agreeable qualities, and he had the dour humour of his race. Alert and quick-witted, he displayed the confidence and assurance of one who was so much master of his own particular subject that he could afford to mock himself and his science. His attitude towards the Commissioner was respectful only so far as it implied the deference due to an older man, but an equal.
He paused at the door.
“I’ll not be in the way, will I?”
“Come along in, doctor,” smiled the Commissioner.
“Poor old Prideaux!” he shook his head sadly. “Man, it’s on my conscience sending a man to be hanged in the suburbs! There was a dignity about Newgate and an historical value to being hanged at Tyburn. I wish I didn’t know so much about criminology. Have ye ever noticed Wembury’s ears, sir? He exhibited these appendages of the embarrassed Wembury in the manner of a showman. A tee-pical criminal ear! In conjunction with the prognathic process of the jaw suggests a rabid homicide! Have ye ever committed a murder?”
“Not yet,” growled Alan.
Lomond finished rolling his cigarette, and the Commissioner, who had been waiting patiently for this operation to be concluded, spoke: “I wanted to have a little chat with you, doctor.”
“About a woman,” said Lomond, without looking up.
“How the devil did you guess that?” asked the surprised Walford.
“I didn’t guess; I knew. You see, you’re a broadcaster—most people are. And I’m terribly receptive. Telepathic. It’s one of the animal things left in me.”
Bliss was watching, his lips lifted in derision.
“Animal?” he growled. “I always thought telepathy was one of the signs of intellect. That’s what they say in America.”
“They say so many things in America that they don’t mean. Telepathy is just animal instinct which has been smothered under reason. What would you have me do for the lady?”
“I want you to find out something about her husband,” said Walford, and the doctor’s eyes twinkled.
“Would she know? Do wives know anything about their husbands?”
“I’m not so sure that he is her husband,” said Bliss.
The old man chuckled.
“Ah! Then she would! She’d know fine if he was somebody else’s husband. Who is she?”
The Commissioner turned to Wembury.
“What is her real name?”
“Cora Ann Milton—she was born Cora Ann Barford.”
Lomond looked up suddenly.
“Barford—Cora Ann? Cora Ann! That’s a coincidence!”
“Why?”
“I was hearing a lot about a Cora Ann, a few months ago,” said the doctor, lighting his limp cigarette.
“You don’t want me, sir?” said Bliss. “I’ve got some real work to do!” He walked to the door. “Doctor, here’s a job after your own heart. A man with your wisdom ought to catch him in a week.”
“I ignore that,” said the doctor, smoking placidly, and the sound of his chuckle pursued Bliss down the corridor.
And now Lomond was to hear the police story of The Ringer. The Commissioner opened a dossier.
“The history of this man is a most peculiar one, and will interest you as an anthropologist. In the first place, he has never been in our hands. The man is an assassin. So far as we know, he has never gained a penny by any of the murders of which we suspect him. We know almost for certain that during the war he was an officer in the Flying Corps—a solitary man with only one friend, a lad who was afterwards shot on an ill-founded charge of cowardice made by his colonel—Chafferis-Wisman. Three months after the war ended Chafferis-Wisman was killed. We suspect, indeed we are certain, the murderer was The Ringer, who had disappeared immediately after the Armistice was signed—didn’t even wait to draw his gratuity.”
“He was no Scotsman,” interjected Lomond.
“He had refused the D.S.O.—every decoration that was offered to him,” Walford went on. “He was never photographed in any of the regimental groups. We have only one drawing of him, made by a steward on a boat plying between Seattle and Vancouver. It was on this boat that Milton was married.”
“Married?”
Walford explained.
“There was a girl on the ship, a fugitive from American justice; she had shot a man who had insulted her in some low-down dance hall in Seattle. She must have confided in Milton that she would be arrested on her arrival in Vancouver, for he persuaded a parson on board to marry them. She became a British subject and defeated the extradition law,” he continued. “It was a foolish, quixotic thing to do.”
Lomond’s eyes twinkled.
“Ah, then, he must be a Scotsman. He’s really a terror, eh?”
“If people knew this man was in England, there would be trouble,” said the Colonel. “He certainly killed old Oberzhon, who ran a South American agency of a very unpleasant character. He killed Attaman, the moneylender. Meister, by the way, was in the house when the murder was committed. There has been method in every killing. He left his sister in Meister’s charge when he had to fly the country over the Attaman affair. He did not know that Meister was giving us information about his movements. And, of course, Meister being the brute he is …” He shrugged.
“The Ringer knows?” Lomond moved his chair nearer to the desk. “Come that’s interesting.”
“We know he was in Australia eight months ago. Our information is that he is now in England—and if he is, he has come back with only one object: to settle with Meister in his own peculiar way. Meister was his solicitor—he was always running around with Gwenda Milton.”
“You say you have a picture of him?”
The Commissioner handed a pencil sketch to Lomond, and the doctor gasped.
“You’re joking—why—I know this man!”
“What!” incredulously.
“I know his funny little beard, emaciated face, rather nice eyes —good Lord!”
“You know him—surely not?” said Wembury.
“I don’t say I know him, but I have met him.”
“Where—in London?”
Lomond shook his head.
“No. I met this fellow in Port Said about eight months ago. I stepped off there on my way back from Bombay. I was staying at one of the hotels, when I heard that there was a poor European who was very sick in some filthy caravanserai in the native quarter. Naturally I went over and saw him—the type of creature who pigs with natives interests me. And there I found a very sick man; in fact, I thought he was going to peg out.” He tapped the picture. “And it was this gentleman!”
“Are you certain?” asked Walford.
“No man with a scientific mind can be certain of anything. He had come ashore from an Australian ship—”
“That’s our man, sir!” exclaimed Wembury.
“Did he recover?”
“I don’t know.” Lomond was dubious. “He was delirious when I saw him. That is where I heard the names ‘Cora Ann’. I saw him twice. The third time I called, the old lady who ran the show told me that he had wandered out in the night—the Lord knows what happened to him; probably he fell into the Suez Canal and was poisoned. Would he be The Ringer? No, it’s not possible!”
The Commissioner looked at the sketch again.
“It almost seems like it. I’ve an idea that he is not dead. Now you may be useful, doctor. If there is one person who knows where The Ringer is to be found, it is Mrs. Milton.”
“Cora Ann. Yes?”
“Doctor, I was more than impressed by your examination of Prideaux. I want you to try your hand on this woman. Bring her up, inspector.”
When the door closed on Wembury he drew another paper from the folder. “Here are the ascertainable facts about her movements. She returned to this country on a British passport three weeks ago. She is staying at the Marlton.”
Lomond adjusted his glasses and read. “She came overland from Genoa —British passport, you say. Is she—er—married?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that; he married her on the boat, but they were only a week together.”
“A week? Ah, then she may still be in love with him,” said the cynical Lomond. “If my Egyptian friend is The Ringer, I know quite a lot about this woman. He was rather talkative in his delirium, and I’m beginning to remember some of the things he told me. Now, let me think! Cora Ann …” He turned suddenly. “Orchids! … I’ve got it!”
CHAPTER 27
It was at that moment that Cora Ann was ushered in. She was brightly and expensively dressed, and for a moment she stood looking from one to the other, poising the cigarette she held between her gloved fingers.
“Good morning, Mrs. Milton.” The Commissioner rose. “I asked you to come because I rather wanted my friend here to have a little talk with you.”
Cora scarcely looked at the shabby doctor: her attention was for the moment concentrated on the military-looking Commissioner.
“Why, isn’t that nice!” she drawled. “I’m just crazy to talk to somebody.” She smiled round at Wembury. “What’s the best show in London, anyway? I’ve seen most of ‘em in New York, but it was such a long time ago—”
“The best show in London, Mrs. Milton,” said Lomond, “is Scotland Yard! Melodrama without music, and you are the leading lady.”
She looked at him for the first time.
“Isn’t that cute! What am I leading?” she asked.
“Me, for the moment,” said the cheerful Scot. “You haven’t seen much of London lately, Mrs. Milton—it is Mrs. Milton, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“You’ve been abroad, haven’t you?”
“I certainly have—all abroad!” she replied slowly.
Lomond’s voice was very bland. “And how did you leave your husband?” he asked.
She was not smiling now. “Say, Wembury, who is this fellow?” she demanded.
“Doctor Lomond, police surgeon, ‘R’ division.”
The news was reassuring. There was a note of amusement in her voice when she replied. “You don’t say? Why, you know, doctor, that I haven’t seen my husband in years, and I’ll never see him again. I thought everybody had read that in the newspapers. Poor Arthur was drowned in Sydney Harbour.”
Dr. Lomond’s lips twitched and he nodded at the gaily attired girl. “Really? I noticed that you were in mourning.”
She was baffled: something of her self-confidence le
ft her. “Why, that’s not the line of talk I like,” she said.
“It’s the only line of talk I have.” He was smiling now. “Mrs. Milton, to revert to a very painful subject—”
“If it hurts you, don’t talk about it.”
“Your husband left this country hurriedly three”—he turned to Wembury—“or was it four years ago. When did you see him last?”
Cora Ann was coolness itself. She did not answer the question. Here was a man not to be despised. A crafty, shrewd man of affairs, knowledge in the deeps of his grey-blue twinkling eyes.
“You were in Sydney three months after he reached there,” Lomond continued, consulting the paper which Walford had given him. “You called yourself Mrs. Jackson, and you registered at the Harbour Hotel. You had suite No. 36, and whilst you were there you were in communication with your husband.”
The corners of her mouth twisted in a smile. Cora’s sarcasm was a tantalising thing.
“Isn’t that clever! Suite No. 36 and everything! Just like a real little sleuth!” Then, deliberately: “I never saw him, I tell you.”
But Lomond was not to be put off.
“You never saw him, I guess that. He telephoned. You asked him to meet you—or didn’t you? I’m not quite sure.” He paused, but Cora Ann did not answer. “You don’t want to tell me, eh? He was scared that there was somebody trailing you—scared that you might lead the police to him.”
“Scared!” she repeated scornfully. “Where did you get that word? Nothing would scare Arthur Milton—anyway, he’s dead!”
“And now has nothing to be scared about—if he was a Presbyterian,” said Lomond—it was Lomond at his pawkiest. “Let’s bring him to life, shall we?” He snapped his fingers. “Come up. Henry Arthur Milton, who left Melbourne on the steamship Themistocles on the anniversary of his wedding—and left with another woman.”
Up to this moment Cora Ann had remained cool, but at the mention of the name of the ship she stiffened, and at his last words she came to her feet in a fury.
The Ringer, Book 1 Page 12
