The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

“I don’t know, miss. He’s a fellow with a beard.”

  She walked quickly past the girl across the dining-room into the tiny hall.

  “You don’t know me, I think,” said the man at the door. “My name is Bliss.”

  Her heart sank. Why had this man come from Scotland Yard? Had Maurice, in one of those paroxysms of unreasonable temper, sent him?

  “Come in, please.”

  He walked into the room, a cigarette drooping from his bearded mouth, and slowly took off his hat, as though he were reluctant to pay even this tribute of respect to her.

  “I understand your brother’s been released from prison today—or was it yesterday?”

  “Yesterday,” she said. “He came home this morning.”

  To her surprise, he made no further reference to Johnny, but took from his pocket a morning newspaper and folded it to show a column on the front page. She read the advertisement his finger indicated.

  X2Z. LBa4T. QQ57g. LL4i8TS. A79Bf.

  “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “That is what I want to know,” said Bliss, fixing his dark eyes on her. “It is a message either from The Ringer to his wife, or from his wife to The Ringer, and it is in a code which was left at this flat last week. I want you to show me that code.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Bliss”—she shook her head—“but the code was stolen—I thought by—”

  “You thought by me?” His lips twisted in a grim smile. “So you didn’t believe that cock-and-bull story I told about my having seen a man climbing into the flat and going up after him? Miss Lenley, I have reason to believe that the code was not taken from your house, but that it is still here, and that you know where it is.”

  She had a feeling that, insulting as he was, he was merely testing her. His attitude was that of a man who wished to be convinced.

  “The code is not here,” she said quietly. “I missed it the night I came back and found the flat had been burgled.”

  She wondered if the peculiar look she saw indicated relief or scepticism.

  “I’ll have to take your word,” he said, and folded up the paper. “If what you say is true, no other person than The Ringer and his wife has this code.”

  Mary was a trifle bewildered. “Of course,” she said, “unless the person whom you saw climb into my room—”

  “My theory is that that was The Ringer himself,” said Bliss. He had not taken his eyes off her all the time he had been speaking. “Are you scared of The Ringer, Miss Lenley?”

  In spite of her trouble she smiled. “Of course not. I told you today. Why should I be scared of him? I have done him no harm, and from what I know of him he is not the kind of man who would hurt any woman.”

  Again that fleeting smile. “I’m glad you have such a high opinion of the scoundrel,” he said, in a more genial tone. “I am afraid it is one that I do not share. How do you like Meister?”

  Everybody asked her that question; it was beginning to get on her nerves; and he must have seen this, for, without waiting for her answer, he went on quickly: “You’ve got to look after that brother of yours. Miss Lenley. He’s a pretty foolish young man.”

  “So Maurice Meister thinks,” she was stung into replying.

  “Does he?” The answer seemed to amuse him. “That is about all. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  He walked to the door and turned round.

  “Rather a nice fellow, Wembury, eh? A bit of an impetuous young fool, but rather nice?” Again he did not wait for an answer, but pulled the door close behind him, and she opened it in time to see him shut the front door. She herself had to go out again; the shops did not close till seven, and the evening was the only time she had for marketing. She made a list of all the things that Johnny liked; steadfastly kept out of her mind the pitiful possibilities which might disturb this housekeeping of hers.

  With a basket on her arm she went out into the Lewisham High Road and shopped for an hour, and she was hurrying back to Malpas Mansions when she saw a tall man walking ahead of her. He wore a grey overcoat, but she could not mistake that shuffling gait and bent shoulders. She intended passing him without speaking, but almost before she came abreast. Dr. Lomond, without turning his head, hailed her. “It’s fine to see a lassie with a basket, but the eggs ye bought were no’ so good.”

  She gasped at this and laughed. It was the first time that day she had been genuinely amused.

  “I didn’t know I was under police observation,” she said.

  “It’s a verra peculiar thing, that few people do,” he said drily. “But I was watching ye in the egg shop—lassie, you’ve a trusting disposition. Those new-laid eggs you bought are contemporaneous with the eggs of the great roc.” And then, seeing her rueful face in the light of a shop window, he chuckled. “I tell ye this, Miss Lenley; I’m a verra good obsairver. I obsairve eggs and skulls, jaws, noses, eyes and detectives! Was Mr. Bluss very offensive?” (He always referred to the ill-favoured inspector as “Bluss”.) “Or was it merely a social call?”

  “Did you know Mr. Bliss had been to see me?” she asked in astonishment.

  The old man nodded “He’s been around here a’ the afternoon. When he came to Malpas Mansions I happened to be passing and gave him good night, but he’s a sorry fellow wi’oot any milk of human kindness in his dour system.”

  “Are you watching somebody now?” she asked mischievously, and was staggered when he pointed ahead. “Yon’s the fellow,” he said.

  “Mr. Bliss?” She peered into the night, and at that moment saw in the light of a street standard the dapper figure of the Central Inspector.

  “He interests me, that body,” admitted Lomond. “He’s mysteerious, and mysteerious things are very attractive to a plain, matter-of-fact old man like me.”

  She left him to his chase and got back to the Mansions just as Johnny returned. He was in excellent spirits; joked with her on her marketing, and uttered gloomy forebodings as to the effect upon his digestion. She could not remember when she had last seen him in that mood. And then he said something which gladdened her heart.

  “That fellow Wembury isn’t such a bad chap, after all. Which reminds me that I ought to call at Flanders Lane and register myself.”

  She heard this with a little pang.

  “You are on ticket of leave, aren’t you, Johnny. If anything happened … I mean, if you were silly again, would you have to serve the full sentence?”

  “If I’m silly again?” he asked sharply. “What do you mean?” And then with an air of unconcern: “You’re being silly now, Mary. I’m going to lead a highly respectable life.”

  “But if you were—”

  “Of course I should have to serve the unfinished portion of my sentence in addition to any other I might get; but as I’m most unlikely to be what you call silly, we needn’t consider that. I suppose, Meister’s finished with you for the day? I hope in a week or two you’ll be finished with him for good. I don’t like you working there, Mary.”

  “I know, Johnny, but—”

  “Yes, yes, I quite understand. You never work there at night, do you, dear?”

  She could say “No” to this truthfully.

  “I’m glad. You’ll be wise to see Maurice only in business hours.”

  He lit a cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke into the air. Johnny was trying to frame the lie he must tell her.

  “I may be late tonight,” he said eventually. “A man I know has asked me to go to supper in the West End. You don’t mind, do you?”

  She shook her head. “No. What time will you be back?”

  He considered this before he answered. “Not before midnight—probably a little later,” he said.

  Mary found her breath coming more quickly. “I—I may be late myself, Johnny. I’ve promised to go to a party … some people I’ve met.”

  Would he be dece
ived? she wondered. Apparently he was, for he accepted her story of this mythical engagement without question.

  “Get as much fun out of life as you can, old girl,” he said, us he stripped his coat and walked into his bedroom. “I suppose it’ll be a ghastly party after the wonderful shows we had at Lenley Court in the old days. But wait till we get on to our farm; we’re going to do a bit of hunting—keep a horse or two …”

  He was in his bedroom now and she did not hear the remainder of his highly coloured plans.

  He left the house by eight o’clock, and she sat down to wait for the hours to pass. How would this day end? And what would Alan think about it all? Alan, to whom she was something sacred and apart. She closed her eyes tightly us if to shut out some horrible vision. The world would never again be the same as it was. She had thought that, the day Johnny went away, when she had walked down the broad steps of the Old Bailey, her heart broken, her future wrecked. But now she watched the minute hand of the little American clock move all too quickly towards the hour of fate, she realised that her supreme hour of trial had yet to come.

  CHAPTER 38

  The fog which lay over Deptford extended to a wider area. An hour after Mary had had her little talk with Johnny, a powerful two-seater car came whizzing through the mist which shrouded the countryside between Hatfield and Welwyn, turned from the main road into a bumpy cart track and continued till, ahead of the driver, loomed the great arch of an abandoned hangar. The place had been an aerodrome in the days of the war, but it had been sold and re-sold so often that the list of its owners was of considerable length.

  Stopping the car, he dimmed the lights and stepped briskly from the machine, walking towards the hangar. He heard a dog bark and the challenge of a man’s voice. “Is that you, Colonel?”

  The motorist answered.

  “I’ve got your machine ready and it’s all tuned up, but you won’t be able to take your trip to Paris tonight. The fog’s thick, and I’ve just been on the ‘phone to the Cambridge aerodrome. They say that one of their pilots went up and found the fog was two thousand feet deep and extending over the channel.”

  “What could be nicer?” said the man called “Colonel Dane” cheerfully. “Fog driving is my speciality!”

  The keeper of the hangar grunted something about every man to his taste, and walked ahead, swinging a dim lantern. Using all his strength, he rolled back the soft squeaking door of the hangar, and a long propeller and a portion of the fuselage of a Scout machine were revealed in the nickering light of the lantern.

  “She’s a beauty, Colonel,” said the man admiringly. “When do you expect to come back?”

  “In a week,” said the other.

  The collar of his overcoat was turned up and it was impossible to see anything save a pair of keen eyes, and these were only visible at intervals, for his soft felt hat was pulled down over his forehead and afforded a perfect shade.

  “Yes, she’s a beauty,” said the man. “I’ve been tuning her up all the afternoon.”

  He was an ex-Air Force mechanic, and was for the moment the tenant of the garage, and the small cottage where he lived. Incidentally, he was the best paid aeroplane mechanic in England at the moment.

  “The police were here today, sir,” he said. “They came nosing around, wanting to know who was the owner of the ‘bus—I told them you were an ex-officer of the Flying Corps who was thinking of running a light aircraft club. I’ve often wondered what you really are, sir?”

  The man whom he called “Colonel” laughed softly.

  “I shouldn’t do too much wondering, Green,” he said. “You’re paid to think of nothing but struts and stays, carburettors and petrol supply!”

  “I’ve had all sorts of theories,” the imperturbable Green went on. “I thought maybe you were running dope to the Continent. If you are, it’s no business of mine.” Then he went off at a tangent. “Have you heard about The Ringer, sir? There’s a bit in tonight’s paper.”

  “The Ringer? Who on earth is The Ringer?”

  “He’s a fellow who disguises himself. The police have been after him for years.”

  Green was the kind of man who had the police news at his finger-tips and could give the dates of the conviction and execution of every murderer for the past twenty years. “He used to be in the Air Force, from what they say.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” said the Colonel. “Just stand outside, will you. Green?”

  He walked into the hangar and, producing a powerful electric lamp from his pocket, made a minute examination of the aeroplane, testing wires, and eventually climbing into the fuselage to inspect the controls.

  “Yes, she’s all right,” he said as he dropped lightly down. “I don’t know what time I shall be going, but probably some hour of the night. Have her taken out behind the garage facing the long field. You’ve been over the ground—I don’t want to get her scratched before I start to rise.”

  “I’ve combed the ground, sir,” said Green complacently.

  “Good!”

  “Colonel Dane” took from his pocket a flat wad of notes, counted a dozen and placed them in the hand of his assistant.

  “Since you are so infernally curious, I will tell you, my friend. I am hoping tonight to be running away with a lady—that sounds a little romantic, doesn’t it?”

  “She’s somebody’s wife, eh?” said Green, scenting a scandal.

  “She’s somebody’s wife,” agreed the Colonel gravely. “With any kind of luck I shall be here either at two o’clock tomorrow morning or two o’clock the following morning. The thicker the fog, the better I shall like it. I shall be accompanied by a lady, as I have told you. There will be no baggage, I want to carry as much juice as I can.”

  “Where are you making for, Colonel?”

  The Ringer laughed again. He was easily amused tonight.

  “It may be France or Belgium or Norway or the North Coast of Africa or the South Coast of Ireland—who knows? I can’t tell you when I shall return, but before I go I shall leave you enough money to live in comfort for at least a year. If I’m not back in ten days, I advise you to let the garage, keep your mouth shut, and with any kind of luck we shall be meeting again.”

  He picked his way back to the car, and Green, with all the curiosity of his kind, sought vainly to catch a glimpse of his face. Never once had he seen this strange employer of his, who had engaged him by night, and by night had visited him, choosing always those conditions which made it necessary to wear either a long mackintosh or a heavy ulster.

  Green was always under the impression that his employer wore a beard, and in subsequent evidence that he gave adhered to this statement. Bearded or clean-shaven, he could not have penetrated beyond the muffling collar even now, as he escorted the “Colonel” back to his car.

  “Talking about this Ringer—” began Green.

  “I wasn’t,” said the other shortly, as he stepped into the car and jammed his foot on the self-starter. “And I advise you to follow my example. Green. I know nothing about the fellow, except that he’s a dangerous man—dangerous to spy upon, more dangerous to talk about. Keep your mind fixed on aeroplanes. Green; they are less deadly!”

  In another few seconds the rear light of his car was out of sight.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sam Hackitt had other trials than were represented by a vigilant constabulary. There was, for example, a lady whom in a misguided moment he had led to the altar—an act he had spent the rest of his life regretting. She was a loud, aggressive woman, who hated her husband, not for his offences against society but for certain weaknesses of his which led him to neglect his home—a collection of frowsy furniture in a dingy little room off Church Street.

  Sam was as easy-going as most criminals, a fairly kind man, but he lived in terror of his wife. Since his release from prison he had very carefully avoided her, but the news of his ret
urn had spread, and there had been two scenes, one on Meister’s doorstep and one in High Street, Deptford, when a raucous virago had followed him along the street explaining to the world at large the habits, character and delinquencies of Mr. Samuel Hackitt.

  One day, Sam in an off moment had strolled up west, and in a large window in Cockspur Street he had seen many glowing booklets describing the wonder of the life on the western prairies of Canada; and though agriculture was a pursuit which had never wholly attracted him, he became from that instant an enthusiastic pioneer. But to reach Canada, money was needed, and to acquire property required more money. Sam Hackitt sat down cold-bloodedly to consider the problem of transportation and sustenance. He had sufficient money saved to buy his ticket, but this he did surreptitiously, passing the emigration doctor with flying colours. Sam decided that, all being fair in love and war, and his relationships with Mr. Meister being permanently strained, it would be no hurt to his conscience to help himself to a few portable and saleable souvenirs.

  That which he most strenuously coveted was a small black metal cash-box, which Meister usually kept in the second drawer of his desk. The lawyer, by reason of the peculiar calls made upon him, generally had a large sum of money in his cash-box, and it was this which Sam most earnestly desired.

  There had been no opportunity in the past two days even to look at the box, and now, with the return of Johnny and his own summary ejection —Meister, as an act of grace, had told him he could stay on for the remainder of the week—a moment of crisis had arisen.

  He had no grudge against Mary Lenley, but he had found a sense of bitter resentment growing towards the girl that day when, after the sixth attempt to walk into the room and make a quick extraction, he found her covering her typewriter before going home.

  “You are leaving us, Hackitt?” she said on this occasion.

  Sam thought that he could leave with greater rapidity if she would be kind enough to give him an opportunity of opening the second drawer of Mr. Meister’s desk.

  “Yes, Miss. I can’t stand Meister any longer. I suppose you’re glad about your brother coming back, Miss?”