The Ringer, Book 1
Page 22
The Ringer chuckled.
“Bliss, eh? It doesn’t fit you! You’re the fellow who said I knifed you when you tried to arrest me three years ago.”
“So you did,” said Bliss.
“That’s a lie! I never carry a knife. You know that.”
Bliss showed his teeth in an exultant grin.
“I know that I’ve got you. Ringer—that’s all I know. Come from Port Said, did you—attended a sick man there? I thought your woman knew I suspected you when she was scared that day at Scotland Yard.”
Henry Arthur Milton smiled contemptuously. “You flatter yourself, my dear fellow. That woman—who happens to be my wife—was scared not because she even saw you—but because she recognised me!”
“That Port Said story was good,” said Bliss. “You saw a sick man there—Dr. Lomond, a dope who’d been lost to sight for years and sunk to native level. He died and you took his name and papers.”
“I also nursed him—and I paid for his funeral,” added Milton.
“You tried to make people suspicious of me—you’ve got a cheek! It was you who let Lenley out of the cell!”
The Ringer inclined his head.
“Guilty. Best thing I ever did.”
“Clever!” approved Bliss. “I hand it to you! Got your job as police surgeon by smoodging a Cabinet Minister you met on the boat, didn’t you?”
The Ringer shuddered.
‘“Smoodging’ is a vulgar word! ‘Flattering’ is a better. Yes, I was lucky to get the post—I was four years a medical student in my youth—Edinburgh—I present you with that information.”
Bliss was beside himself with excitement.
“Well, I’ve got you! I charge you with the wilful murder of Maurice Meister.”
Alan could bear the gloating no longer.
“I say. Bliss—” he began.
“I’m in charge of this case, Wembury,” said Bliss sourly. “When I want your advice I’ll ask you for it—who’s that?”
He heard the patter of footsteps on the stairs. In another minute Cora Ann had flown into her husband’s arms.
“Arthur! Arthur!”
“All right, Mrs. Milton. That’ll do, that’ll do,” cried Bliss.
“I told you—I told you—oh, Arthur!” she sobbed.
Bliss tried to pull her away.
“Come on.”
“One minute,” said The Ringer, and then, to the girl; “Cora Ann, you haven’t forgotten?” She shook her head. “You promised me something: you remember?”
“Yes—Arthur,” she said, Instantly all the suspicions of Bliss were aroused and he dragged the woman away.
“What’s the idea? You keep off and don’t interfere.”
She turned her white face to his.
“You want to take him and shut him away,” she cried wildly—“like a wild animal behind bars; like a beast—like something that isn’t human. That’s what you want to do! You’re going to bury him alive, blot out his life, and you think I’ll let you do it! You think I’ll stand right here and watch him slip into a living grave and not save him from it.”
“You can’t save him from the gallows!” was the harsh reply.
“I can’t, can’t I?” she almost screamed. “I’ll show you that I can!”
Too late Bliss saw the pistol, but before he could snatch it from her hand she had fired. The Ringer collapsed into a settee.
“You little brute—Wembury!” yelled Bliss.
Wembury went to his assistance and wrenched the revolver from her hand. As he did so, The Ringer rose swiftly from the place where he had been lying limp and apparently lifeless, and walked out of the door, locking it behind him.
“My God! He’s gone!” roared Bliss, and threw open the chamber of the revolver. “Blank cartridge. After him!”
Wembury rushed to the door and pulled at it. It was locked!
Cora was laughing.
“Smash in the panel,” cried Bliss. “The key’s on the other side,” And then, to the girl: “Laugh, will you—I’ll give you something to laugh at!” With a crash the panel split, and in another few seconds Wembury was flying down the stairs.
“Clever—clever; aren’t you clever, Mister Bliss!” Cora’s voice was shrill and triumphant. “But The Ringer’s got you where he wants you.”
“You think so—” said Bliss, between his teeth, and shouted for the officer on duty in the hall below.
“There’s a car waiting for him outside,” taunted Cora, “and a new disguise which he kept in the little room downstairs. And an aeroplane ten miles out, and he’s not afraid to go up in the fog.”
“I’ve got you, my lady!” howled Bliss. “And where you are, he’ll be. I know The Ringer! Officer!” he shouted.
A policeman came through the door.
“I’m Inspector Bliss from the Yard. Don’t let her out of your sight, or I’ll have the coat off your back.”
He ran out, stopping only to lock the door. Cora flew after him, but he had taken the key, and she turned, to see the policeman opening the long panel by the door. Then in a flash off came helmet and cape, and she was locked in the arms of this strange man.
“This way, Cora,” he said, and pointed to the panel. “La Via Amorosa.”
He kissed her and lifted her through the panel. Presently it closed upon them. No man saw The Ringer again that night or for the many nights which followed.
THE END
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1925 by Edgar Wallace
Cover design by Amanda Shaffer
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0231-8
This edition published in 2021 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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EDGAR WALLACE
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