The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

  “Very glad. We’re going into the country.”

  “Taking up farming, Miss?” asked Sam, interested.

  She sighed.

  “I’m afraid we shan’t be much use as farmers.”

  “I thought of going in for farming myself,” said Sam. “I’ve had a bit of experience—I worked in the fields down at Dartmoor.”

  “Are you going to farm in England?” she asked, surprised out of her mood.

  Sam coughed. “I’m not exactly sure. Miss, but I thought of going abroad. Into the great open spaces as it were.”

  “Sam, you’ve been to the pictures,” she accused him, and he grinned.

  “This is no country for a man who’s trying to get away from the arm of the police,” he said. “I want to go abroad and make a fresh start.”

  She looked at him oddly.

  “Why are your eyes always on Mr. Meister’s desk? Is there anything wrong with it?” she asked.

  “No, no, Miss,” said Sam hastily, “only I thought of giving it a rub up tomorrow. Look here, miss,”—he walked nearer to her and lowered his voice to a confidential tone—“you’ve known old Meister for years, haven’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t suppose you know very much about him except that he’s a snide lawyer,” said Sam outrageously. “Don’t you think it’d be a good idea if you had another young lady in to help you? This may be my last word to you.”

  She looked at him kindly: how well he meant. “There isn’t enough work for two people,” she said.

  He nodded knowingly.

  “Yes, there is. Miss. You make enough work—do a little bit of miking.”

  “‘Miking’?”

  “Slowing up, ca’ canny—it’s a Scottish expression.”

  “But why should I do that? It wouldn’t be very honest, would it?” she smiled in spite of herself.

  The honesty of things never made any very great appeal to Sam Hackitt.

  “It mightn’t be honesty, but it’d be safe,” he said, and winked. “I hope you won’t be offended, but if I had a sister I wouldn’t pass her within half a mile of Meister’s house.”

  He saw her expression change and was instantly apologetic, and took the first opportunity of getting out of the room.

  There was only one way for Sam: the steel grille which protected the window leading on to the leads was an effective barrier to the average thief, but Sam was above the average. And, moreover, when he cleaned the windows that morning, he had introduced a little appliance to the lock, an appliance which the maker had not foreseen. If Alan Wembury had examined the bars carefully he would have seen a piece of steel wire neatly wrapped round a bar, and had he followed the wire to its end he would have discovered that it entered the lock in such a way that a person outside the window had only to loosen the wire and pull, to force back the catch. It was an ingenious contrivance and Sum was rather proud of it.

  That night, after Alan Wembury had gone, Sam crouched on the leads. He heard Alan come and go. It was an unpleasant experience crouching there, for the fog was alternated with a drizzle which soaked him through and chilled him to the bone. He heard Meister talking to himself as he paced up and down the room, heard the rattle of knife against plate, and then Sam cursed. Meister was at the piano—he might be there for hours. And Sam hated music. But apparently the man was in a fitful mood: the music ceased, and Sam heard the creak of a chair, and after a while his stertorous, regular breathing. The lawyer was asleep and Sam waited no longer. A quick pull and the grille was unfastened. He had greased the window sash and it rose noiselessly.

  Meister sat at the piano, his eyes wide open, an unpleasant sight. Sam no more than glanced at the little table, near the settee, which was covered by a cloth. Tiptoeing across the room, he reached for the switch and turned out the lights.

  The fire burnt low; but he was a famous night worker, and by touch located the drawer, fitted the little instrument he carried into the lock, and pulled. The drawer opened, and his hand groped in the interior. He found the cash-box instantly, but there were other treasures. A small cupboard under the disused buffet held certain priceless articles of Georgian silver. He went back to the window, lifted inside his portmanteau and packed until the case could hold no more. Lifting the suit-case, he stepped softly back towards safety, and was nearly opposite the mystery door when he heard a faint click and stood, petrified, all his senses alert.

  It might have been a cooling cinder in the fire. He moved stealthily, one hand extended before him, an instinctive gesture common to all who work in the dark. He was opposite the mystery door, when suddenly a cold hand closed on his wrist!

  He set his teeth, stifled the cry which rose, and then, with a quick jerk, wrenched free. Who was it? He could see nothing, could only hear quick breathing, and darted for the window. In a second he was on the leads and in another he was racing across the courtyard. The fear of death in his heart.

  There could be only one explanation for that cold and deathly hand —The Ringer had come for Meister!

  CHAPTER 40

  Early that evening Alan Wembury made a hurried call at Meister’s house. The girl was gone but Meister was visible. He came down in his inevitable dressing-gown and was so gloomy and nervous a man that Alan formed the impression that he had been sent for so urgently to soothe the lawyer’s nerves.

  But in this he was wrong.

  “Sorry to bother you, inspector …” Meister was, for the first time in his life, at a loss as to how he should proceed. Alan waited. “The fact is … I’ve got a very unpleasant duty to perform—very unpleasant. To tell you the truth, I hate doing it.”

  Still Alan said nothing to encourage the coming confidence and Meister hardly wanted encouragement.

  “It’s about Johnny. You understand my position, Wembury? You know what the Commissioner said to me? I am under suspicion—unjustly, it is true—but I am suspect by police headquarters.”

  What was coming next? Alan wondered. This was so unlike the Meister he knew that he might be excused his bewilderment.

  “I can’t afford to take risks,” the lawyer went on. “A few weeks ago I might have taken a chance, for the sake of Mary—Miss Lenley. But now I simply dare not. If I know of a felony about to be committed or contemplated, I have only one course—to inform the police.”

  Now Alan Wembury understood. But he still maintained his silence.

  Maurice was walking nervously up and down the room. He sensed the antagonism, the contempt of the other man, and hated him for it. Worse than this, he was well aware that Alan knew that he was lying: knew full well that the betrayal was cold-blooded and deliberate.

  “You understand?” asked Meister again.

  “Well?” said Alan. He was nauseated by this preliminary. “What felony is Lenley committing?”

  Meister drew a long breath.

  “I think you should know that the Darnleigh affair was not Johnny’s first job. He did the burglary at Miss Bolter’s about a year ago. You remember?”

  Wembury nodded. Miss Bolter was an eccentric maiden lady of great wealth. She had a house on the edge of Greenwich—a veritable storehouse of old jewellery. A robbery had been committed and the thieves had got away with £8,000 worth of jewels.

  “Was Lenley in that—is that the information you are laying?”

  “I am laying no information,” said Maurice hastily. “I merely tell you what I believe to be true. My information, which you will be able to confirm, is that the jewels were never got away from the house—you will remember that the burglars were disturbed at their nefarious work.”

  Alan shook his head. “I still don’t understand what you’re driving at,” he said.

  Meister looked round and lowered his voice. “I understand from some hint he dropped that he is going to Camden Crescent tonight to get the jewels! He has borrowed the k
ey of the house next door, which happens to be my property and is empty. My theory is that the jewels are hidden on the roof of No. 57. I suggest—I do no more than suggest, that you post a man there tonight.”

  “I see!” said Alan softly.

  “I don’t want you to think that I intend harm to Johnny—I’d rather have cut off my right hand than hurt him. But I have my duty to do—and I am already under suspicion and deeply involved, so far as John Lenley is concerned.”

  Alan went back to Flanders Lane police station with a heavy heart. He could do nothing. Meister would report to headquarters that he had given him the information. To warn John Lenley would mean ruin—disgrace—probably an ignominious discharge from the service.

  He sent a man to take up a position on the roof of Camden Crescent.

  Within an hour he had his report. He was standing moodily before the fire when the telephone bell rang. The sergeant pulled the instrument over to him.

  “Hallo!” He looked up at the clock mechanically to time the call in his book. “What’s that?” He covered the receiver with his hand. “The night watchman at Cleavers reports there’s a man on the roof in Camden Crescent.”

  Alan thought for a moment. “Yes, of course. Tell him not to worry; it is a police officer.”

  “On the roof of Camden Crescent?” asked the sergeant incredulously.

  Alan nodded, and the officer addressed himself to his unknown vis-a- vis.

  “That’s all right, son. He’s only one of our men … eh? He’s sweeping the chimney … yes, we always have policemen sweep chimneys and we usually choose the night.” He hung up the receiver. “What’s he doing up there?”

  “Looking round,” said Alan indifferently.

  His men were searching for another criminal that night. Sam Hackitt had disappeared from Meister’s house, and the slatternly woman who was known as Mrs. Hackitt had been brought in earlier in the evening charged with fighting. It was the old sordid story … a younger woman who had taken the erratic fancy of the faithless Sam. In her fury Mrs. Hackitt had “squeaked”—the story of Sam’s plans was told to the station sergeant’s desk—and two of Wembury’s men were looking for him.

  Dr. Lomond had once said that he felt the police were very hard on little criminals, that they sought crime, and grew callous to all the sufferings attendant upon its detection. Alan wondered if he had grown callous. Perhaps he had not. Perhaps no police officer should. They came to be rather like doctors, who have two personalities, in one of which they can dissociate from themselves all sentiment and human tenderness. And then the object of his thoughts appeared and Wembury’s heart leapt. John Lenley came into the charge-room, nodding to the sergeant.

  “I’m reporting here,” he said.

  He took some papers out of his pocket and laid them on the desk.

  “My name’s Lenley. I’m a convict on licence.”

  And then he caught Wembury’s eye and came over to him and shook hands.

  “I heard you were out, Lenley. I congratulate you.” All the time he was speaking, there was in his mind the picture of that crouching, waiting figure of justice on the roof of Camden Crescent. He had to clench his teeth to inhibit the warning that rose to his lips.

  “Yes, I came out yesterday,” said Johnny.

  “Your sister was glad to see you?”

  “Yes,” said Lenley curtly, and seemed disinclined to make any further reference to Mary.

  “I’d like to find a job for you, Johnny,” said Alan, in desperation. “I think I can.”

  John Lenley smiled crookedly.

  “Prisoners’ Aid Society?” he asked. “No, thank you! Or is it the Salvation Army you’re thinking of? Paper sorting at twopence a hundredweight? When I get a job, it will be one that a waster can’t do, Wembury. I don’t want helping; I want leaving alone.”

  There was a silence, broken by the scratching of the sergeant’s pen.

  “Where are you going tonight?” asked Alan. At all costs this man must be warned. He thought of Mary Lenley waiting at home. He was almost crazy with the fear that she might in some way conceive the arrest of this man as a betrayal on his part.

  John Lenley was looking at him suspiciously. “I’m going up west. Why do you want to know?”

  Alan’s indifference was ill assumed. “I don’t wish to know particularly,” And then: “Sergeant, how far is it from here to Camden Crescent?”

  He saw Johnny start. The man’s eyes were fixed on his.

  “Not ten minutes’ walk,” said the sergeant.

  “Not far, is it?” Alan was addressing the ticket-of-leave man. “A mere ten minutes’ walk from Camden Crescent to the station house!”

  Johnny did not answer.

  “I thought of taking a lonely stroll up west,” Alan went on. “Would you like to come along and have a chat? There are several things I’d like to talk to you about.”

  Johnny was watching him suspiciously. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ve got to meet a friend.”

  Alan picked up a book and turned the leaves slowly. He did not raise his eyes when he said: “I wonder if you know whom you’re going to meet? You used to be a bit of an athlete in your early days, Lenley—a runner, weren’t you? I seem to remember that you took prizes?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a cup or two,” he said, in a tone of surprise.

  “If I were you”—still Alan did not raise his eyes from the book—“I’d run and not stop running until I reached home. And then I’d lock the door to stop myself running out again!”

  The desk sergeant was intrigued.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Johnny had turned his back on Wembury and was apparently absorbed in the information he was giving to the sergeant. Then he walked to the door.

  “Good night, Lenley, if I don’t see you again,” said Wembury.

  Johnny spun round. “Do you expect to see me again?” he asked. “Tonight?”

  “Yes—I do.”

  The words were deliberate. It was the nearest to a warning that he could give consistent with his duty; and when, with a shrug, Johnny Lenley went out into the night, the heart of Alan Wembury was sore.

  “What fools these people are!” he said aloud.

  “And a good job, too!” returned the sergeant. “If they weren’t fools, you’d never catch ‘em!”

  Wembury would have gone out had it not been for his promise to meet Dr. Lomond here. He did not want to be round when the inevitable happened and Johnny Lenley was brought in—unless he had taken the hint. Had he? It seemed impossible of belief that he could have the situation so plainly put before him, and yet ignore the warning.

  CHAPTER 41

  Lomond had just shuffled in and was cursing the weather when there was a heavy footfall in the corridor outside and the lawyer lurched in. His overcoat was open, his silk hat was on the back of his head, an unaccustomed cigarette drooped from his lips. The transition from the dark street to the well-lit charge-room temporarily blinded him. He leered for a long time at the doctor.

  “The man of medicine and the man of law!” he said thickly and thumped himself on the chest. “My dear doctor, this is almost an historic meeting!”

  He turned to Alan. “Have they brought him in? I didn’t think he’d be fool enough to do the job, but he’s better away, my dear Wembury, very much better.”

  “Did you come to find out? You might have saved yourself the trouble by telephoning,” said Alan sternly.

  The whole mien of Meister suddenly changed. The look that Alan had seen in his eyes before reappeared, and when lie spoke his voice was harsh but coherent.

  “No, I didn’t come for that.” He looked round over his shoulder. The policeman had come from the door to the sergeant, and was whispering something to him. Even the doctor seemed interested. “Hackitt cleared out and left me alone—the dirty coward! Alone in
the house!”

  Up went the hand to his mouth.

  “It got on my nerves, Wembury. Every sound I heard, the creak of a chair when I moved, a coal falling from the fire, the rattle of the windows—”

  Out of the dark beyond the doorway loomed a figure. Nobody saw it. The three men talking together at the desk least of all. Inspector Bliss stared into the charge-room for a second and vanished as though he were part of some magician’s trick. The policeman at the desk caught a glimpse of him and walked to the door. The sergeant and the doctor followed at a more leisurely pace.

  “Every sound brings my heart into my mouth, Wembury. I feel as though I stood in the very presence of doom.”

  His voice was a husky whine.

  “I feel it now—as though somewhere near me, in this very room, death were at my elbow. Oh, God, it’s awful—awful!”

  Suddenly he swayed, and Alan Wembury caught him just in time. Fortunately the doctor was at hand, and they sat him on a chair whilst Sergeant Carter delved into his desk for an ancient bottle of smelling-salts that had served many a fainting lady, overcome in that room by her temporary misfortunes.

  “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Dope,” answered the doctor laconically. “Take him into the inspector’s room, sergeant, he’ll be all right in a few minutes!”

  He watched the limp figure assisted from the charge-room and shook his head. Then he strolled back to the main door and into the corridor. He was peering out into the night.

  “What is it, doctor?” asked Alan.

  “There he is again!” Lomond pointed to the dark street.

  “Who is it?”

  “He’s been watching the station ever since Meister came in,” said Lomond, as he came back to the charge-room and drew up a chair to the fire.

  “Who is the mysterious watcher?” asked Wembury, smiling.

  “I don’t know. It looked like Bliss to me,” said Lomond, rolling a cigarette; “he doesn’t like me—I don’t know why.”