by Sax Rohmer
“I would say, sir, that the police ha’ many duties to perform which are no’ necessarily pleasures.” He turned again to Destrée. “What lies through yon?”
“There are two more small rooms, a pantry and a kitchen. Would you like to see?”
“I would wish to do so.” Led by Destrée he soon completed his tour and returned. “And in yon, where these two gentlemen were?”
“That’s the place you’re looking for, Inspector!” cried Mr. Bernstein. “That’s where police investigations are leading to. Not half! Follow me.”
Frowning ominously, Firth walked into the little red bar, glanced at shelves of expensive bottles and stared at Mrs. Destrée. “Ye keep a good cellar,” he commented.
“I do my best, Inspector. You must not think, please, I am angry with you for bursting in on me like this. No doubt you had a reason, and you must do your duty.”
“What about one for the road?” Mr. Bernstein suggested. “Just a wee doch-an-doris?”
Firth shook his head, narrowing the tawny eyes. “I am much obliged, Mr. MacBernstein, but I must say no, and wish you a’ good-night.”
“This door leads to the lobby.” Mr. Michaelis opened it; and there was Sergeant Bluett still seated in his chair, tapping his knee with the evening paper, Destrée rang a bell, and the man-servant reappeared.
“These gentlemen are leaving, Markham.”
Markham opened the front door and stood aside.
No word was spoken in the bar until a clang of distant lift gates came, followed by the fading whine of an elevator. Then, Mr. Bernstein, chuckling unctuously, produced from his pocket a small, round, white object which he threw in the air and caught as it fell ... It was the missing roulette ball.
Mr. Michaelis glanced uneasily at Destrée.
“I picked it up,” chuckled Mr. Bernstein, “just a tick before the Inspector stepped on it. See me spill me drink? That would have mucked things up, dear. That would have spoiled the party!” He handed the ball to Destrée. “Kiss your uncle Barney.”
Destrée tossed the ball to Mr. Michaelis, and clapped her hands in childish glee. A peal of musical laughter rang out ... and was checked as suddenly as though a hand had been pressed over Destrée’s red mouth. Her eyes seemed to change, so that their slightly oblique beauty became annulled, swiftly, oddly, and they resembled the eyes of a hunted wild animal. A dull pallor struck all the youth from her face.
“Hugo! Hugo! listen!” She clutched Michaelis convulsively. “Oh, no — no!” The banshee wail of a siren rose and fell, rose and fell, to give warning of the approach of German raiders. “Hugo! promise you won’t leave me! Please hold my hands ... Don’t leave me ...”
And Mr. Bernstein, a man amazed, watched an uncontrollable terror claiming this suave woman whose whole life was lived in smiling defiance, whose spirit he had thought to be unconquerable. He glanced at Michaelis, who nodded.
“Strange? It is always the same. Come and lie down until the all-clear, Ysolde—”
“I am afraid — Hugo — I can’t walk ... Oh! stop those sirens — stop those sirens!”
Michaelis lifted Destrée in his arms as one who soothes a frightened child, and carried her to her room.
17
Covering Mr. Bernstein
The tall figure of Chief Inspector Firth was indistinguishable from the shadows of a boarded up doorway, but nevertheless Sergeant Bluett, coming around the corner, stepped in without hesitation, and was immediately swallowed up, too. Clouds drifted slowly across the sky from a southwesterly direction, obscuring the moon, and so still was Mayfair in those small hours that the police officers heard a clock chiming somewhere inside the building above them.
“Ye dismissed the squad?” The breadth of Firth’s Scots denoted the depth of his annoyance.
“That’s right.” Bluett’s tones sounded preternaturally gloomy. “I know where their scout was posted.”
“Is tha’ so.”
“In the one-way street leading to the front of Gatacre House there’s a call-box, right on the corner.”
“I mind me of it.”
“Well, that’s where he was. He must have put a call through the moment he saw us drive up. He’s only just gone: slipped through my fingers.”
“It doesna’ matter. We had nothing on him.”
“I should have liked a dekko at his grid.”
“And I should like to point out, Bluett, that thieves’ slang is highly objectionable to me — and to the Chief. It recalls some of the lowest characters we have known. I am thinking of Painter, the Hoxton murderer.”
“I was thinking of Gaston Max.”
“Is tha’ so? Weel — we both ha’ much to learn from him.”
Silence fell. A car or a taxi passed along a neighboring street. Doors opened and closed; one heard footsteps and distant voices. Wardens, fire-watchers and others whose duties began when the sirens sounded, were afoot. A searchlight beam shot up over the dark bulk of Gatacre House and seemed to be nosing a bank of cloud like a questing sword ... It was switched off.
“Nae doubt ye know where the gambling party went? But it would ha’ been straining our authority to follow.”
“Where was that?
“To another flat, either up or downstairs; like enough by the fire ladders, and taking the evidence wi’ them. There’s little doubt that Sir Giles was associated wi’ this gang, and if we could ha’ got them inside, there would be time for a little investigation of their private affairs. However, we haven’t.”
“They’ll come out in one’s and two’s,” murmured Bluett. “If some of them have cars, they are parked a long way off. I can see none.”
“That doesna’ matter. We know that Destrée is in on it, and I’ll find out when I get back to the office where Mr. Michaelis lives. By heaven! but there’s a woman for ye!”
“Destrée?” came Sergeant Bluett’s voice out of the darkness. “I know. Got the nerve of a man.”
“The nerve o’ three men. I canna’ imagine that woman weakening for a moment, Bluett. There’s sma’ doubt that those who stayed are her associates; and the one I should like to know more about is Mr. Bernstein.”
“That’s right.”
“He will be awkward to check up on; there are many Bernsteins; and so I am thinking, Bluett, that you must do your best to cover him when he leaves.”
“Oh,” murmured Bluett, without discernible enthusiasm.
“I am going back, and I’ll be leaving this job in your hands. I know I can count on you.”
“That’s right,” said Bluett hollowly. “Do you want me to report to-night, or are you thinking of going home at any time?”
“Report in the morning. Good-night.”
“Good-night, Inspector.”
As the light footsteps of the Chief Inspector, who had a walk cat-like as that of Mr. Francis, died away in the distance, Sergeant Bluett changed his position for another which he had in mind, and which would enable him better to see anyone leaving Gatacre House. He listened intently, questioning the darkness, for now the sky was heavily overcast, and there was threat of rain. Satisfied that no one was about, his new strong-point gained, he sighed deeply and lighted a cigarette.
This cigarette had been smoked, and another as well, before his patience was rewarded. An elegant young man who wore no hat, and whose wavy hair gleamed effectively in dim light cast by the opening of the door, came out escorting an elderly lady who carried a large handbag, a lady to whom the young man displayed most courteous attention. A car, presumably summoned by ‘phone, and in charge of a smart chauffeur, rolled up a few moments later. The cavalier, having arranged the lady comfortably in her place, stepped in beside her and the car was driven away.
Bluett succeeded in discerning the number, wrote it blindly in his notebook, and then resumed his vigil. He was about to light a third cigarette when at last came the signal for action.
The door of Gatacre House swung open once more and a man came out alone, walked briskly down the steps, and look
ed about to right and left. He wore a black overcoat and a rather narrow brimmed bowler hat. The glitter of his spectacles was visible in the darkness. It was Mr. Bernstein. Apparently despairing of a taxi, he set off with springy step, swinging a tightly rolled umbrella in the manner of a walking stick.
Sergeant Bluett replaced the unlighted cigarette (his stock was getting low) and wearily set out in pursuit. The odds against Mr. Bernstein finding a taxi at that hour, Sergeant Bluett put at a hundred to one. Should he succeed in doing so, Bluett, once he had taken its number, would be entitled to abandon his tedious duties and to question the driver in the morning.
He was visited by a vision of an armchair with a pair of slippers set beside it; of a white cover displaying half an admirable veal and ham pie prepared by his wife the day before. There would be a nice bit of cheese, and there would be a bottle of stout. These blissful images danced before him as he strode resolutely on along Grosvenor Street, across New Bond Street, and, presently, with many twists and turns across Regent Street, too. Mr. Bernstein, not once employing a torch, moved through the black-out mystery of London with all the insouciance of a town cat. Except for police and wardens brought to attention by the alert, normal pedestrians were few; and as Mr. Bernstein wore creaky shoes and those of the sergeant were rubber-soled, the pursuit was a simple matter. On the frontiers of Soho an all-night taxi hove in sight and Bluett drew up eagerly towards his quarry.
“Taxi, sir?”
“No, thank you—” and Mr. Bernstein walked on.
“Economy is all very well in wartime,” muttered Bluett, crossing the street behind the cab, so that his presence should not be betrayed by a challenge from the driver, “but to my mind it can be overdone.”
A moment later, doubling like a hare, he was racing back to overtake the taxi ... He had seen Mr. Bernstein approach a man who stood beside a stationary car waiting immediately beyond the next corner!
He overtook the taxi and jumped on the running board. “Scotland Yard,” he said breathlessly. “Pull round like lightning, and try to keep that car in sight — one back on the next corner.”
“Blimey!” remarked the driver. “Want a bit of doin’ on a night like this!”
“You can do it.” Sergeant Bluett got in, having satisfied himself that the driver bore no resemblance to Peter Finch.
The unforeseen pursuit began; and it took an equally unforeseen direction, leading down the Haymarket and into Pall Mall, past Buckingham Palace guarded by phantom sentries, and out into Buckingham Gate. A theory that Mr. Bernstein was making for Victoria Station (although for what purpose, at that hour, Bluett could not imagine) proved to be wrong. In Buckingham Gate the car ahead was pulled up.
“Stop!” said Bluett. “Wait here.”
He jumped out and moved cautiously forward. He was just in time to see Mr. Bernstein enter one of those large, grimy and somewhat threatening buildings which distinguish this thoroughfare. He pulled up with a muffled, “Well, I’ll be damned!” The building, taken over by the Salvation Army, was the Buckingham Gate hostelry for stranded Service men!
But Detective-sergeant Bluett was an officer of some resource. In thirty seconds he had rejoined the taxi driver. “Listen. I’ll stand by the cab. The man I’m watching has gone into the Salvation Army hostelry. Cut inside to inquire if they have room for two Canadians who’ve missed the train. That is, if anybody asks what you want. But look out for a stout Jewish bloke; black overcoat, specs, bowler hat and umbrella. Let me know what he’s doing. Get back in time. We have to follow him.”
“Right-o!” said the taximan, imbued with the spirit of Sherlock Holmes and only too happy to find himself confidentially employed by “The Yard.”
He was absent no more than three minutes, an interval which Sergeant Bluett employed for the purpose of taking the number of Mr. Bernstein’s car. Bluett also noted, but attached small importance to the circumstance, the presence of another car stationed a hundred yards behind the taxi. When the man reappeared he came doubling back with some appearance of urgency.
“Just comin’ out! That place is full up. Told me to try Great Peter Street. Blimey!” — as he climbed to his seat— “that’s a queer bloke!”
“What’s he doing?” Bluett got in, opening the small window in front.
“Distributin’ big cigars to a bunch of Yanks what’s lost theirselves. And I see him hand a envelope to the Salvation Army captain in charge and take a receipt for it. Then I see he was comin’ out, and — hullo! here he is!”
The chase was resumed. Sergeant Bluett, deep in thought, was not so lost to externals as to fail to note that Mr. Bernstein’s car seemed to be returning to its starting point. In fact, this was exactly what happened. At the same spot on the frontiers of Soho, Mr. Bernstein alighted. So did Sergeant Bluett, close behind him. The car moved off.
“Take this card. Stand by for five minutes, and then don’t wait. Call at the Yard in the morning.”
“O.K., Sergeant — and here’s a tip. I think, I only think, mind you, that a car followed us back.”
“Oh,” said Bluett. “I can’t hear anything.”
And now came the rain. For Bluett, who wore no topcoat, it meant a drenching but the prospect did not deter him. As Mr. Bernstein plunged into dim mazes of Soho, the dogged man from Scotland Yard followed. Furtive figures crossed his path every once in a while, coming out of secret cafés and merging into shadow again. Mindful of the taxi driver’s words, he paused on turning corners, but failed to detect the sound of a pursuer. Near the corner of Windmill Street, a sudden cessation of shoe creaks caused a momentary doubt, until he grasped the fact that Mr. Bernstein had actually turned into this thoroughfare. Here, he overtook him without difficulty, but fifty paces onward, lost him again. That zest of the chase inherent in the human breast having now possessed Sergeant Bluett, he hurried eagerly forward through drizzling rain, questing about like a hound at fault. At the entrance to a narrow courtyard he paused, stood stock still, and listened ... Creaky shoes were moving at its further end.
Sergeant Bluett put himself through a knowledge-of-London test, and presently formed a mental picture of the terrain. Straight ahead was a blank wall, broken by a gateway which communicated with a mews. A once celebrated night club occupied all premises immediately on the left, except for a narrow block of cheap offices adjoining. On the other side, he recalled an indifferent Greek restaurant (closed now) with apartments above it; and this, so far as Sergeant Bluett could puzzle out, completed the picture. Into which of these had Mr. Bernstein gone?
This problem was almost immediately solved. A faint light, that of a shaded torch, appeared behind a first-floor window, slightly left of the restaurant, revealing criss-cross paper strapping attached to dirty glass; so that evidently no black-out was in use. The light faded and the window became blind again. A moment later, one immediately above it, and of almost identical appearance, awakened in turn. The mystery was solved. Mr. Bernstein had entered by a side door which evidently gave access to the apartments above the restaurant. There was only one more floor, and this Bluett watched intently, so intently that presently he discerned a silhouette of the roof against a temporary rift in the clouds.
Two tiny streaks of light appeared, right and left of another window high up under the tiles. He knew what this portended. The light was shining through crannies of a black-out curtain. And now, zest of the chase strong upon him, he determined to explore further; for one possibility remained. Rain had ceased but the night was clammy, the paving slimily wet. Did the lower door stand open for the convenience of tenants, or did each of these hold a key? Upon the answer to this question his future operations depended.
Bluett approached the door and shone a ray from his torch upon it. He saw an ordinary looking house-door, neglected by the paint brush for many years ... and it stood ajar!
Passing along a short passage he began to mount an uncarpeted stair; its ancient treads, well seasoned, did not creak as he had feared: the handrail he a
voided touching. Two doors opened upon the first landing. On one a card was pinned which said: “Sales Transport Company”; the other was blank; and the window with criss-cross strapping confronted him for a moment as he walked on, turned, and mounted the next flight. Here again he found two doors, besides one of which a grimy brass plate was fixed bearing the name: “Paolo Moroni.” It contained no clue to the nature of Signor Moroni’s trade or profession. The opposite door showed a newly painted board which announced “Wardens.” Bluett paused for a moment, listening.
Movements became audible directly above his head, and he deduced that these were made by Mr. Bernstein. He stole on past the second criss-cross window and mounted to the top floor. Here, he paused again, and then shone light upon one of the doors. It proudly offered on polished mahogany with gilt lettering: “Bernard Bernstein & Co.” But Bluett’s impression had been that the room he was looking for was not this one, but that opposite. He directed a ray upon it. The second door bore no inscription of any kind. He extinguished his torch, and stood there, keenly alert, and thinking hard.
Now, to the best of his knowledge, and he was no amateur, he had proceeded thus far without making any perceptible sound. Yet, at this moment someone began to whistle “Up in the morning early”; the blank door was thrown suddenly open, casting light onto the dingy landing, and Mr. Bernstein stood before him!
But what he saw in a lighted room behind the burly figure astonished him even to a higher degree. He saw dilapidated walls, an uncarpeted floor, a dirty ceiling. He had a glimpse of an expensive radio set, of brightly upholstered chairs; but, and this commanded most of his attention, directly facing him stood a large dressing table which had wing mirrors, a table littered with all sorts of toilet articles, and reminding him of that in an actor’s dressing room. The only light, a very bright one, hung immediately above this mirror.
The incompatibility of room and occupant, the mystery of the whole thing, induced in Bluett’s mind a sort of momentary amnesia; he felt swimmy. Then, removing his spectacles and smiling that golden smile, Mr. Bernstein ceased to whistle, and spoke:
