“Then I must work at once.” She laughed, but there was a catch in her throat. “And you must be very patient … if you want to see Maurice he’ll be down soon now—I think you scared him.”
He watched her as she went back to her table, and then caught Hackitt’s eye and jerked his head. “Sam, what’s the idea?” Mr. Hackitt shrugged.
“I’ve only been here a few days. You’re a man of the world, Johnny. Ever seen a tiger being kind to a skinned rabbit? I don’t know anything more than that.”
Lenley nodded. “Is that so?” he said.
He had come straight to the lawyer’s to liquidate old debts and make an end of an unprofitable association. And then London and the stink and grime of Flanders Lane would know him no more: he would find fields where he could work without the supervision of over-armed guards, and with the knowledge that peace and comfort lay at his day’s end. He stood by the door, talking to Sam, questioning him, never doubting where Meister’s “kindness” would ultimately end. And then the lawyer came into the room. His eyes were all for the girl: her nimble fingers flashing amongst the keys. He went round to her and dropped his hands on her shoulders.
“My dear, forgive me! I’m just as jumpy as I can be, and I’m imagining all sorts of queer things.”
“Maurice!”
The lawyer spun round, his colour coming and going. “You!” he croaked. “Out! … I thought …”
Johnny Lenley smiled contemptuously. “About two years too soon, eh? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but miracles happen, even in prison—and I’m one.”
With a tremendous effort the lawyer recovered his balance and was his old genial self.
“My dear fellow”—he offered a wavering hand, but Lenley apparently did not see it—“sit down, won’t you? What an amazing thing to happen! So it was you at the panel … .Hackitt, give Mr. Lenley a drink … you’ll find one in the cupboard … well, this is a sight for sore eyes!”
Hackitt offered the drink, but the other shook his head. “I want to see you, Maurice.” He looked significantly at Mary, and rising, she left the room.
“How did you get your ticket?” asked Meister, helping himself to the ever handy bottle.
“The remainder of my sentence was wiped out,” said Lenley curtly. “I thought you’d have read that.”
The lawyer frowned. “Oh! Were you the lag who saved the life of the governor? I remember reading about it—brave boy!”
He was trying to get command of the situation. Other men had come blustering into that office, and had poured a torrent of threats over the table, leaving him unmoved.
“Why did you allow Mary to go on working for you?”
Meister shrugged. “Because, my dear fellow, I can’t afford to be charitable,” he said blandly.
“I left you the greater part of four hundred pounds,” Lenley’s voice was stern and uncompromising, “the money I got from my first thefts.”
“You were well defended, weren’t you?”
“I know the fee,” said Lenley quietly. “When you had had that, there was still the greater part of four hundred left. Why did you stop the allowance?”
The lawyer sat down again in the chair he had vacated, lit cigar, and did not speak until he saw the match almost burning his fingertips.
“Well, I’ll tell you. I got worried about her. I like you, Johnny, I’ve always been interested in you and your family. And it struck me that a young girl living alone, with no work to do, wasn’t exactly having a fair chance. I thought it would be kinder to you and better for her to give her some sort of employment—keep her mind occupied, you understand, old man? I take a fatherly interest in the kid.”
He met the challenging eyes and his own fell before them.
“Keep your fatherly paws to yourself when you’re talking to her, will you, Maurice?” The words rang like steel on steel.
“My dear fellow!” protested the other.
“And listen!” Lenley went on. “I know you pretty well; I’ve known you for a long time, both by reputation and through personal acquaintance. I know just how much there is in that fatherly interest stuff. If there has been any monkey business as there was with Gwenda Milton, I’ll take that nine o’clock walk for you!”
Meister jerked up his head.
“Eh?” he rasped.
“From the cell to the gallows,” Lenley went on. “And I’ll toe the trap with a good heart. You don’t misunderstand me?”
CHAPTER 33
The lawyer got up slowly. Whatever else he was, Maurice Meister was no coward when he had to deal with tangible dangers.
“You’ll take the nine o’clock walk, will you?” he repeated with a sneer. “What a very picturesque way of putting things! But you won’t walk for me. I shall read the account in bed.”
He strolled across to the piano and sat down, his fingers running swiftly over the keys. Softly came the dirge-like notes of “Mort d’un Cosaque”—a dreary, heart-stirring thing that Maurice Meister loved.
“I always read those accounts in bed,” he went on, talking through the music; “they soothe me. Ever go to the cinema, Johnny?” ‘The condemned man spent a restless night and scarcely touched his breakfast. He walked with a firm step to the scaffold and made no statement. A vulgar end to a life that began with so much promise.’ Hanged men look very ugly.”
“I’ve told you, Maurice—any monkey business, and I’ll get you even before The Ringer.” Johnny’s voice shook with suppressed passion.
“Ringer!” he laughed. “You have that illusion, too? How amusing!”
The tune changed to “Ich liebe dich.”
“The Ringer! Here am I, alive and free, and The Ringer—where is he? That sounds almost poetical! Dead at the bottom of Sydney Harbour … or hiding in some unpleasantly hot little town, or in the bush with the sundowners—a hunted dog.”
A man was standing at the barred window behind him, glaring into the room—a bearded face was pressed to the pane.
“The Ringer is in London, and you know it,” said Lenley. “How near he is to you all the time. God knows!”
As though the eavesdropper heard, he suddenly withdrew. But for the moment Maurice Meister had no mind for The Ringer. The music intoxicated, enthralled him. “Isn’t that lovely?” he breathed. “Is there a woman in the world who can exalt the heart and soul of a man as this—is there a woman worth one divine harmony of the master?”
“Was Gwenda Milton?” snarled Lenley. The music stopped with a crash and Meister, rising, turned to Lenley in a cold fury.
“To hell with Gwenda Milton and Gwenda Milton’s brother, alive or dead!” he roared. “Don’t mouth her name to me!” He snatched the glass of whisky he had put on the top if the piano and drained it at a draught. “Do you think she is on my conscience—she’s not! Any more than you or any other weak whining fool, soaked to the soul with self-pity. That’s what’s the matter with you, my dear boy—you’re sorry for yourself! Weeping over your own miseries. The cream of your vanity’s gone sour!” Suddenly his tone changed.
“Ach! Why do you annoy me? Why are you so inexpressibly common? I won’t quarrel with you, my dear Johnny. Now what is it you want?”
For answer the caller took from his pocket a small package and opened it on the desk. Inside, wrapped in cotton wool, was a little jewelled bangle. “I don’t know how much is due to me; this will make it more.”
Meister took the bangle and carried the glittering thing to the light. “Oh, this is the bracelet—I wondered what you had done with it.”
“I collected it on my way here: it was left with a friend of mine. That is all I had for my three years,” he said bitterly. “Three robberies and I’ve only touched a profit on one!”
Maurice stroked his upper lip thoughtfully.
“You are thinking of your second exploit: the little affair at Camden Crescent?
”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” said Johnny impatiently. “I’m finished with the game. Prison has cured me. Anyhow, in the Camden Crescent job, the man who you sent to help me got away with the stuff. You told me that yourself.”
In that second a plan was born in Meister’s mind. “I told you a lie,” he said slowly. And then, in a more confidential tone: “Our friend never got away with it.”
“What!”
“He hid it. He told me before I got him off to South Africa. There was an empty house in Camden Crescent—where the burglary was committed—there is still. I didn’t tell you before, because I didn’t want to be mixed up in the business after the Darnleigh affair. I could have got half a dozen men to lift it—but I didn’t trust them.”
Irresolution showed in Lenley’s face; the weak mouth drooped a little. “Let it stay where it is,” he said, but he did not speak with any great earnestness.
Meister laughed. It was the first genuine laugh of his that the day had brought forth. “You’re a fool,” he said in disdain. “You’ve done your time, and what have you got for it? This!” He held up the trinket. “If I give you twenty pounds for it I’m robbing myself. There’s eight thousand pounds’ worth of good stuff behind that tank—yours for the taking. After all, Johnny,” he said, adopting a tone of persuasion, “you’ve paid for it!”
“By God, I have!” said the other between his teeth. “I’ve paid for it all right!”
Meister was thinking quickly, planning, cross-planning, organising, in that few seconds of time.
“Knock it off to-night,” he suggested, and again Lenley hesitated.
“I’ll think about it. If you’re trying to shop me—”
Again Meister laughed. “My dear fellow, I’m trying to do you a good turn and, through you, your sister.”
“What is the number of the house? I’ve forgotten.”
Meister knew the number well enough: he forgot nothing. “Fifty-seven. I’ll give you the twenty pounds for this bracelet now.”
He opened his desk, took out his cash-box and unlocked it. “That will do to go on with.”
Lenley was still undecided; nobody knew that better than the lawyer. “I want full value for the rest if I go after it—or I’ll find another ‘fence’.”
It was the one word that aroused the lawyer to fury. “‘Fence’? That’s not the word to use to me, Johnny.”
“You’re too sensitive,” said his dour client.
“Just because I help you fellows, when I ought to be shopping you … .” The lawyer’s voice trembled. “Get another ‘fence’, will you? Here’s your twenty.” He threw the money on the table, and Lenley, counting it, slipped it into his pocket. “Going into the country, eh? Taking your little sister away? Afraid of my peculiar fascinations?”
“I’d hate to hang for you,” said John Lenley, rising.
“Rather have The Ringer hang, eh? You think he’ll come back with all that time over his head, with the gallows waiting for him? Is he a lunatic? Anyway—I’m not scared of anything on God’s Almighty earth.”
He looked round quickly. The door that led to his room was opening.
It was Dr. Lomond: Hackitt had left him in the lumber room and had forgotten that he was in the house. The doctor was coming into the room but stopped at the sight of the young man.
“Hallo—I’m awfu’ sorry. Am I butting in on a consultation?”
“Come in, doctor—come in. This—is—a friend of mine. Mr. Lenley.”
To Meister’s surprise the doctor nodded.
“Aye. I’ve just been having a wee chat with your sister. You’ve just come back from the—country, haven’t you?”
“I’ve just come out of prison, if that’s what you mean,” said the other bluntly, as he turned to go. His hand was on the knob when the door was flung open violently and a white-faced Hackitt appeared.
“Guv’nor!” He crossed fearfully to Meister and lowered his voice. “There’s a party to see you.”
“Me? Who is it?”
“They told me not to give any name,” gasped Sam. “This party said: ‘Just say I’m from The Ringer’.”
Meister shrank back.
“The Ringer!” said Lomond energetically. “Show him up!”
“Doctor!”
But Lomond waved him to silence. “I know what I am doing,” he said.
“Doctor! Are you mad? Suppose—suppose—”
“It’s all right,” said Lomond, his eyes on the door.
CHAPTER 34
Presently it opened, and there came into view of the white-faced Maurice a slim, perfectly dressed girl, malicious laughter in her eyes.
“Cora Ann!” croaked Meister.
“You’ve said it! Gave you all one mean fright, eh?” She nodded contemptuously. “Hallo, doc!”
“Hallo, little bunch of trouble. You gave me heart disease!”
“Scared you, too, eh?” she scoffed. “I want to see you, Meister.”
His face was still pallid, but he had mastered the panic that the name of The Ringer had evoked.
“All right, my dear, Johnny!” He looked hard at Lenley. “If you want anything, my dear boy, you know where you can get it,” he said, and Johnny understood, and went out of the room with one backward glance of curiosity at the unexpected loveliness of the intruder.
“Get out, you!” Maurice spoke to Hackitt as though he were a dog, but the little Cockney was unabashed.
“Don’t you talk to me like that, Meister—I’m leaving you today.”
“You can go to hell,” snarled Maurice.
“And the next time I’m pinched I’m going to get another lawyer,” said Sam loudly.
“The next time you’re pinched you’ll get seven years,” was the retort.
“That’s why I’m goin’ to change me lawyer.”
Maurice turned on him with a face of fury. “I know a man like you who thought he was clever. He’s asked me to defend him at the Sessions.”
“I don’t call that clever.”
“Defend him! I’d see him dead first.”
“And he’d be better off!” snapped Sam.
Lomond and the girl made an interested audience.
“That’s what you get for helping the scum!” said Meister, when his truculent servant had gone.
Obviously he wanted to be alone with the girl, and Dr. Lomond, who had good reason for returning, said that he had left his bag upstairs in Meister’s room, and made that the excuse for leaving them. Maurice waited until the door closed on the old man before he spoke.
“Why—my dear Cora. Ann. You’re prettier than ever. And where is your dear husband?” asked Meister blandly.
“I suppose you think that because you’re alive, he’s dead?”
He laughed. “How clever of you! Did it take you long to think that out?”
She was staring round the room. “So this is the abode of love!” She turned fiercely upon the lawyer. “I never knew Gwenda—I wish to God I had! If Arthur had only trusted me as he trusted you! I heard about her suicide, poor kid, when I was on my way to Australia and flew back from Naples by airplane.”
“Why didn’t you wire me? If I had only known—”
“Meister—you’re a paltry liar!” She went to the door through which the doctor had passed, opened it and listened. Then she came back to where Meister sat lighting a cigar. “Now listen—that Scotch sleuth will be coming back in a minute.” She lowered her voice to an intense whisper. “Why don’t you go away—out of the country—go somewhere you can’t be found—take another name? You’re a rich man—you can afford to give up this hole!”
Maurice smiled again.
“Trying to frighten me out of England, eh?”
“Trying to frighten you!” The contempt in her voice would have hurt another man. �
��Why, it’s like trying to make a nigger black! He’ll get you, Meister! That’s what I’m afraid of. That is what I lie in bed and think about—it’s awful … awful … !”
“My dear little girl”—he tried to lay his hand on her cheek, but she drew back—“don’t worry about me.”
“You! Say, if I could lift my finger to save you from hell I wouldn’t! Get out of the country—it’s Arthur I want to save, not you! Get away—don’t give him the chance that he wants to kill you.”
Maurice beamed at her.
“Ah! How ingenious! He dare not come back himself, But he has sent you to England to get me on the run!”
Cora’s fine eyes narrowed. “If you’re killed—you’ll be killed here! Here in this room where you broke the heart of his sister! You fool!”
He shook his head. “Not such a fool, my dear, that I’d walk into a trap. Suppose this man is alive: in London I’m safe—in the Argentine he’d be waiting for me. And if I went to Australia he’d be waiting for me, and if I stepped ashore at Cape Town … No, no, little Cora Ann, you can’t catch me.”
She was about to say something when she heard the door open. It was the “Scotch sleuth”; whatever warning she had to deliver must remain unspoken.
“Had your little talk, Cora Ann?” asked Lomond, and in spite of her anxiety the girl laughed.
“Now listen, doctor, only my best friends call me Cora Ann,” she protested.
“And I’m the best friend you ever had,” said the doctor.
Meister was in eager agreement. “She doesn’t know who her best friends are. I wish you’d persuade her.”
Neither gave him encouragement to continue. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was an intruder in his own house, and the arrival of Mary Lenley gave him an excuse to wander to the little office alcove where he was out of sight but not out of hearing.
“I like meeting you, Cora Ann,” said the doctor.
She laughed. “You’re funny.”
“I’ve brought the smile to the widow’s eye,” said Lomond unsmilingly.
The Ringer, Book 1 Page 15
