“Do you know anybody he likes—except Bliss?” growled Wembury.
“I heard quite a curious thing about him at the club this afternoon,” said Lomond slowly. “I met a man who knew him in Washington—a doctor man. He swears that he saw Bliss in the psychopathic ward of a Brooklyn hospital.”
“When was this?”
“That is the absurd part of it. He said he saw him only a fortnight ago.”
Wembury smiled. “He has been back months.”
“Do you know Bliss very well?”
“No, not very well,” admitted Wembury. “I never met him until he returned from America. I had seen him—he’s a much older man than I, and my promotion was rather rapid. He was a sub-inspector when I was only a constable—hallo!”
A man strode into the charge-room and walked straight to the sergeant’s desk. It was Inspector Bliss.
“I want a gun,” he said shortly.
“I beg pardon?” Carter stared at him.
“I want an automatic.”—louder.
Wembury chuckled maliciously.
“That’s right, sergeant—Central Inspector Bliss from Scotland Yard wants an automatic. What do you want it for, Bliss? Going ratting?”
Bliss favoured him with a crooked smile.
“Yes, but you needn’t be afraid, though. What’s it to do with you?”
“Quite a lot,” said Wembury, quietly, as the sergeant produced an automatic. “This is my division.”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t have it?” demanded the bearded man.
“None,” said Wembury, and as the other made for the door: “I should sign for it, though. You seem to have forgotten the routine, Bliss.”
Bliss turned with a curse. “I’ve been away from this damned country, you know that.”
The doctor’s eyes were twinkling. “Good evening, Mr. Bliss.”
For the first time it seemed Bliss noticed the police surgeon’s presence. “‘Evening, Professor. Caught The Ringer yet?”
“Not yet,” smiled Lomond.
“Huh! Better write another book and then perhaps you will!”
“We are amused,” responded Lomond dryly. “No, I haven’t caught The Ringer, but I dare say I could put my hand on him.”
Bliss looked at the other suspiciously. “Think so? You’ve got a theory, eh?”
“A conviction, a very strong conviction,” said Lomond mysteriously.
“Now you take a tip from me. Leave police work to policemen. Arthur Milton’s a dangerous man. Seen his wife lately?”
“No—have you?”
Bliss turned. “No; I don’t even know who she’s living with.”
The doctor’s face hardened. “Would you remember you’re speaking of a particular friend of mine?” he demanded.
Inspector Bliss allowed himself the rare luxury of a chuckle. “Oh, she’s caught you, too, eh? She does find ‘em!”
“Have you never heard of a woman having a disinterested friend?” demanded Lomond.
“Oh yes, there’s one born every minute,” was the harsh reply, and, seeing Wembury’s disapproving eye on him: “You’re a bit of a sentimental Johnny, too, aren’t you, Wembury?”
“That’s my weakness,” said Alan coolly.
“That girl Lenley—she’s in Meister’s office, isn’t she?”
Wembury smiled his contempt. “You’ve found that out, have you? There are the makings of a detective in you,” he said, but Bliss was not perturbed by the studied insult.
“Sweet on her, they tell me. Very romantic! The old squire’s daughter and the love-sick copper!”
“If you must use thieves’ slang, call me ‘busy’. Were you ever in love, Bliss?”
“Me! Huh! No woman can make a fool of me!” said Inspector Bliss, one hand on the door.
“It takes a clever woman to improve on God’s handiwork. What are you doing down here, anyway?” retorted Alan rudely.
“Your job!” snapped Bliss, as he went out, banging the door behind him.
CHAPTER 42
uwas intrigued.
“It’s curious that the inspector doesn’t know station routine, isn’t it, sir?”
“Everything about Mr. Bliss is curious,” said Alan savagely. “Bliss! Where he got his name from I’d like to know!”
Lomond went to the door of the inspector’s room, where Meister lay under the watchful eye of a “relief”. He was rapidly recovering, the doctor said. As he returned, a policeman came in and whispered to Wembury.
“A lady to see me? Who is it?”
“It’s Cora Ann Milton,” said Lomond, again displaying that uncanny instinct of his. “My future bride!”
Cora Ann came in with an air in which defiance and assumed indifference were blended. “Say, is there something wrong with your date book, doctor?”
Alan regarded the old doctor suspiciously as Lomond took the woman’s hand in his.
“There’s something wrong with you. Why, you’re all of a dither, Cora Ann.”
She nodded grimly. “I never wait longer than an hour for any man.”
Wembury looked up at this.
“Good Lord! I was taking ye to dinner!” gasped the doctor. “I was called down here and it slipped out of my mind.”
Cora Ann looked round with every indication of distaste.
“I can’t blame you. If I were called to a place like this my mind would slip a cog. So this is a police station? My idea of hell, only not so bright!” She looked at Wembury. “Say, where’s your fancy dress? Everybody else is in uniform.”
“I keep that for wearing at parties,” he smiled.
She shuddered.
“Ugh—doesn’t it make you sick? How can you stay here? There must be something wrong with a man’s mind who likes this sort of life.”
“There’s something wrong with you,” said Lomond quietly. “There’s a queer vacant look in your eye.”
She eyed him steadily. “The vacancy isn’t in my eye—I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch!”
Lomond was all remorse. “You poor hungry mite—could you not eat by yourself?”
“I prefer to take my meals under the eye of a medical man,” said Cora.
“I’m not so sure that it would be safe,” he bantered. “Do you think I’ll poison you?”
“You might poison my mind.”
All the time Wembury was listening with undisguised astonishment. What was the doctor’s game? Why was he making friends with this girl?
“Are you going to take pity on a poor hysterical female?” she demanded.
There was an element of desperation in her tone; it was as though she were making one last effort to … what? Alan was puzzled.
“I’d love to, Cora Ann, but—” Lomond was saying.
“But! But!” she mocked. “You’re a ‘butter’, eh? Listen, Scottie, you won’t have to pay for the dinner!”
He grinned at this. “That’s certainly an inducement, but I’ve got work to do.”
In a second her face had grown haggard. “Work!” She laughed bitterly, and with a shrug of her shoulders walked listlessly towards the door. “I know the work! You’re trying to hang Arthur Milton. That’s your idea of work! All right.”
“Where are you going now, lassie?” asked the doctor, anxiously.
She looked at him, and her smile was a little hard. “It’s too late for dinner. I think I’ll go and have supper and a music lesson at the same time. I’ve a friend who plays the piano very, very well.”
Lomond walked to the door and peered out into the fog after her. “That sounds like a threat to me,” he said.
Alan did not answer immediately. When he spoke his voice was very grave.
“Doctor—I wish you wouldn’t make love to The Ringer’s wife.”
“What d
o you mean?”
“I mean—I don’t want the possibility of two tragedies on my mind.”
Carter, who had been into the room where Meister was lying, came back to his desk at that moment.
“How is he now?”
“He’s all right, sir,” said the sergeant.
Tramp, tramp, tramp!
Alan’s keen ears had caught the sound of the measured march, the peculiar tempo of a man in custody, and he drew a long breath as Johnny Lenley, his arm gripped by a plain-clothes policeman, came through the door and was arrayed before the desk. There was no preliminary.
“I am Detective-Constable Bell,” said the tall man. “This evening I was on the roof of 57, Camden Crescent, and I saw this man come up through a trap-door in the attic of No. 55. I saw him searching behind the cistern of 57, and took him into custody. I charged him with being on enclosed premises for the purpose of committing a felony.”
Lenley stood looking down at the floor. He scarcely seemed interested in the proceedings, until he raised his head and his eyes found Wembury’s, and then he nodded slowly.
“Thank you, Wembury,” he said. “If I had the brain of a rabbit I shouldn’t be here.”
Carter at the desk dipped his pen in the ink. “What is your name?” he asked automatically.
“John Lenley.” Silence and a splutter of writing.
“Your address?”
“I have no address.”
“Your trade?”
“I’m a convict on licence,” said Johnny quietly.
The sergeant put down his pen. “Search him,” he said. Johnny spread out his arms and the tall officer ran his hands through his pockets and carried what he had found to the desk. “Who put me away, Wembury?”
Alan shook his head. “That is not a question to ask me,” he said. “You know that very well.” He nodded to the desk to call the prisoner’s attention to the man who was, for the moment, in supreme authority.
“Have you any explanation for your presence on the roof of 57, Camden Crescent?” asked the sergeant.
Johnny Lenley cleared his throat.
“I went after some stuff that was supposed to be planted behind a cistern. And it wasn’t there. That’s all. Who was the snout? You needn’t tell me, because I know. Look after my sister, Wembury; she’ll want some looking after, and I’d sooner trust you than any man—”
It was unfortunate for all concerned that Mr. Meister chose that moment to make his bedraggled appearance. He stared foolishly at the man in the hands of the detectives, and Johnny Lenley smiled.
“Hallo, Maurice!” he said softly.
The lawyer was staggered.
“Why—why—it’s—it’s Johnny!” he stammered. “You haven’t been getting into trouble again, have you, Johnny?” He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. “What a misfortune! I’ll be down at the court to defend you in the morning, my boy.” He ambled up to the sergeant’s desk. “Any food he wants, let him have it at my expense,” he said loudly.
“Meister!” The word came like the clang of steel on steel. “There was no swag behind the cistern!”
Mr. Meister’s face was a picture of wonder and amazement.
“No swag behind the cistern? ‘Swag?’ I don’t know what you’re talking about, my boy.”
Lenley nodded and grinned mirthlessly.
“I came out too soon for you. It interfered with your little scheme, didn’t it, Meister? You swine!”
Before Wembury could realise what was happening, Johnny had the lawyer by the throat. In a second four men were struggling in a heap on the ground.
As they rolled on the floor, the door of the charge room flung open, and Inspector Bliss appeared. He stood for a second, and then with one leap was in the thick of the scrum.
It was Bliss who flung the boy back. He walked to the prostrate Meister.
“Is he hurt?” he demanded.
White with rage, Johnny glared at the lawyer.
“I wish to God I’d killed him!” he hissed.
Bliss turned his hard eyes upon the prisoner.
“Don’t be so damned selfish, Lenley!” he said coldly.
CHAPTER 43
Alan Wembury had only one thought in his mind as he walked from the police station, and that a supremely wretched one. Mary had to be told. Again he was to be an unwilling messenger of woe. A fog was blowing up from the river, and lay so thick in some places that he had to grope his way feeling along the railings. In the dip of Lewisham High Road ii was clearer, for some reason. Being human, he cursed the log; cursed John Lenley for his insensate folly; but it was when he thought of Maurice Meister that he found it most difficult to control his anger. The base treachery of the man was almost inhuman.
He climbed up the stone staircase of Malpas Mansions and knocked at the door of Mary’s flat. There was no answer. He knocked again, and then he heard an inner door open with the snap of a lock as it was turned back, and: “Is that you, Johnny? I thought you had the key.”
“No, my dear, it is I.”
“Alan!” She took a step back and her hand went to her heart. “Is anything wrong?”
Her face was twitching with anxiety. He did not answer until he had closed the door behind him and followed her into the room.
“Is there anything wrong?” she asked again … .”Is it Johnny?”
He nodded. She sank into a chair and covered her eyes with her hands.
“Is he … arrested?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Alan.
“For the forgery?” She spoke in a voice little above a whisper.
“For the forgery?” He stared down at her. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear.” And she turned a white, bewildered face up to his. “Isn’t it for forgery?” she asked, in wonder; and then, as she realised her indiscretion: “Will you forget that I asked that, Alan?”
“Of course I’ll forget, Mary, my dear. I know nothing about a forgery. Johnny was arrested for being on enclosed premises.”
“For burglary—oh, my God!”
“I don’t know what it’s all about. I’m a little at sea myself,” said Alan. “I wish I could tell you everything I guess: perhaps I will, even if I am fired out of the force for it.”
He dropped his hand gently on her shoulder.
“You’ve got to stand up to this, Mary; there may be some explanation. I can’t understand why Johnny should have been such a lunatic. I did my best to warn him. I still think there is a chance for him. After I leave here and have seen Meister, I’m going to knock up a lawyer friend of mine and get his advice. I wish he hadn’t gone for Meister.”
And then he told her of the scene at the police station, and she was horrified.
“He struck Maurice? Oh, he’s mad! Why, Maurice has it in his power—” She stopped short.
Alan’s keen eyes searched her face.
“Go on,” he said gently. “Maurice has it in his power—?” And, when she did not speak: “Is it the forgery you are thinking of?”
She looked at him reproachfully.
“Alan, you promised—”
“I didn’t promise anything,” he half smiled, “but I’ll tell you this, that anything you say to me is to Alan Wembury the individual, and not to Alan Wembury the police officer. Mary, my dear, you’re in trouble: won’t you let me help you?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t, I can’t! This has made things so dreadful. Maurice is so vindictive, and he will never forgive Johnny. And he was going to be so nice … he was getting us a little farm in the country.”
It was on the tip of Alan’s tongue to tell her the truth about the betrayal, but the rigid discipline of the police force was triumphant. The first law and the last law of criminal detection is never to betray the informer.
“It’s a mystery to me why J
ohnny went to this house. He told some story about there being loot, the proceeds of an old burglary, hidden in a cistern, but of course there was nothing of the sort.”
She was crouching over the table, her head on her hands, her eyes closed. He thought for a moment she was going to faint, and his arm went about her shoulder.
“Mary, can’t I help you?” His voice was husky. He found a difficulty in breathing. “I don’t care how you think of me, whether it is as the son of your old servant, as Inspector Wembury the police officer, or just Alan Wembury … who loves you!”
She did not move; made no attempt to withdraw from his encircling arm.
“I’ve said it now and I’m glad,” he went on breathlessly. “I’ve always loved you since you were a child. Won’t you tell me everything, Mary?”
And then suddenly she pushed him away and came to her feet, wild-eyed, her lips parted as at some horrible thought.
“I can’t, I can’t!” she said, almost incoherently. “Don’t touch me, Alan … .I’m not worthy of you … .I thought I need not go, but now I know that I must … for Johnny’s sake.”
“Go where?” he asked sternly, but she shook her head. Then she flung her hands out impulsively and caught him in a frenzied clasp.
“Alan, I know you love me … and I’m glad … glad! You know what that means, don’t you? A woman wouldn’t say that unless she … she felt that way herself. But I’ve got to save Johnny—I must!”
“Won’t you tell me what it is?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. This is one of the hard places that I’ve got to go through without help.”
But he was not to be silenced. “Is it Meister?” he asked. “Is it some threat that he is holding over you?”
Mary shook her head wearily.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Alan—what can I do for Johnny? Is it really a bad charge—I mean, will he be sent to penal servitude again? Do you think that Maurice could save him?”
For the moment Johnny’s fate did not interest the police officer. He had no mind, no thought for anybody but this lonely girl, battered and bruised and broken. His arms went round her; he held her to his breast and kissed her red lips.
“Don’t, please, Alan,” she murmured, and realising that she had no physical strength to resist, he released her gently.
The Ringer, Book 1 Page 19
