The Man Who Bought London

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘There’s not much to say,’ he said with an assumption of carelessness which he was far from feeling. ‘I’ve told you in my letter, that I am Goulding’s, and I sell at a price.’

  ‘You did not reveal the fact that you were the guiding spirit of Goulding’s before I bought your other business,’ said Kerry with a little smile. ‘You were not even on the board – your solicitor acted for you, I presume?’

  Mr Leete nodded.

  ‘Of course, I knew all about it,’ said King Kerry calmly. ‘That is why I bought the cheaper property. What do you want for your precious store?’

  ‘A million and a quarter,’ replied Leete emphatically; ‘and not a penny less.’

  Kerry shook his head.

  ‘Yours is a hand-to-mouth business,’ he said slowly. ‘You pay medium dividends and you have no reserves.’

  ‘We made a profit of a hundred and fifty thousand last year,’ responded Leete with a quiet smile.

  ‘Exactly – a little over ten per cent of the price you ask – yet I offer you five hundred thousand pounds in cash for your business.’

  Mr Leete got up from his chair very deliberately and pulled on his gloves.

  ‘Your offer is ridiculous,’ he said. And, indeed, he thought it was.

  King Kerry rose with him.

  ‘It is a little under what the property is worth,’ he said; ‘but I am allowing a margin to recoup me for the sum I gave for Tack and Brighten – the sum in excess of its value.’

  He walked with the visitor to the door.

  ‘I would ask you to come to lunch and talk it over,’ he said; ‘but, unfortunately, I have to go to Liverpool this afternoon.’

  ‘All the talking-over in the world wouldn’t alter my offer,’ said Mr Leete grimly. ‘Your proposition is absurd!’

  ‘You’ll be glad to take it before the year’s out,’ said King Kerry, and closed the door behind the inwardly raging Mr Leete.

  He hailed a taxi, and arrived at his flat incoherent with wrath, and Hermann Zeberlieff listened with calm interest to a story calculated to bring tears to the eyes of any speculative financier.

  That afternoon a young and cheerful reporter of The Monitor, prowling about Middlesex Street in search of copy, saw a familiar face disappear into the ‘Am Tag’, a frowsy club frequented by Continental gentlemen who described themselves variously as ‘Social Democrats’ and ‘Anarchists’, but who were undoubtedly expatriated criminals of a very high order of proficiency.

  The enterprising reporter recognized the gentleman in spite of his poor dress, and followed him into the club with all the aplomb peculiar to the journalist who scents a good story.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Elsie Marion went back to her lodgings in Smith Street, Southwark, humming a little tune. It was incredible, yet here was the patent fact. She patted her little suede bag tenderly, and the crackle of stationery brought a happy little smile to her lips.

  For in the bag was deposited that most wonderful of possessions – a contract. A contract drawn up in the most lucid phraseology which lawyers permit themselves, typed on a stiff sheet of paper inscribed with the tiny ‘L’ and an address which characterized the stationery of the Big Trust, in which she ‘hereinafter called the employee of the one part’, agreed to serve for the term of five years the president of the London Land Trust, ‘hereinafter called the employers of the other part’, for the sum of £780 per annum, payable weekly.

  Presently, she thought, she would wake up from her dream to the sordid realities of life spent amidst the bricks and mortar of mean streets, to the weary, hungry round of days divided between a high stool and a lumpy flock bed. Yet though her heart sang gaily at the new vistas opening for her, at the wondrous potentialities of her miraculously acquired wealth, something like a pang came to her at the thought of leaving Smith Street. The bed was lumpy, the breakfast served solidly, thick bread and butter on thick plates, and glutinous coffee in what she had christened Mrs Gritter’s soundproof cups; the room, with its tiny bookshelves, its window-boxes, and its general neatness was redolent of much happiness. It was home to her – the only one of her own where she was mistress – that she had known.

  Mrs Gritter’s daughter was a trial certainly. Henrietta was a slatternly girl of twenty-four, mysteriously married and as mysteriously deserted – (the mystery was all Mrs Gritter’s, for the neighbourhood knew the story). She was now a chronic inebriate, and the lodgers of 107, Smith Street were for ever meeting her in her most dazed condition, to the intense annoyance of Mrs Gritter, who was in the habit of saying that she did not mind Henrietta’s weakness, but strongly condemned Henrietta’s indiscretion in making it known.

  But there were pleasant associations. Elsie had made friends amongst people who worked hard and lived decently on salaries which would scarcely suffice to pay for her Savoy lunch. As she was about to insert her key in the door of number 107, it opened and a young man stood in the entrance.

  ‘Hullo, Miss Marion,’ he said cheerily. ‘You’re home early tonight.’

  Gordon Bray occupied the second floor front, and was something outside of the run of men she had met. He was a splendid specimen of the self-educated man who had triumphed over the disadvantages which a poverty-stricken upbringing and inadequate schooling had brought him. He had been denied even the opportunities for securing a scholarship through the council schools, for his association with the unbeautiful school in Latimer Road had ended abruptly when he found himself the sole support of a widowed mother at the age of fourteen. Errand boy, printers’ devil, shop-boy, clerk – he had progressed till the death of his mother had shocked him to a realization of actualities. Tragic as that death had been, it had offered him a larger opportunity for advancing himself. His tiny income, which had sufficed for both, now offered a margin of surplus, and he had thrown himself into new fields of study.

  There are thousands of Gordon Brays in the world: young men fighting bravely against almost insuperable odds. Handicapped by a lack of influence, they must fight for their own openings, and woe to them if they have no goal or, having one, deviate by one hairbreadth from the path they have set themselves.

  The girl looked at him kindly. She was not in love with this good-looking boy, nor he with her. Between them existed a sympathy rarer than love. They were fellow-fighters in the big conflict of life, possessed common enemies, found similar inspirations.

  ‘I’m off to the “Tec”,’ he said, and swung a bundle of books without shame. ‘I’m getting so tired of Holdron’s – they raised my salary by five shillings a week today and expected me to be overwhelmed with gratitude.’

  She wanted to tell him her great news, but the fear that even a tiny spark of envy might be kindled in his heart stopped her. She would tell him another time when he was more cheerful.

  ‘How are the models?’ she asked. His goal was architecture, and those splendid models of his were the joy of his life. Moreover, they had material value, for he had won two gold medals at the school with a couple.

  A momentary cloud passed over his face; then he grinned cheerfully.

  ‘Oh, they’re all right,’ he said, and with a nod left her.

  She ran up the stairs lightheartedly, passing on her way Mrs Gritter’s disreputable daughter already far advanced in intoxication. Mrs Gritter brought the inevitable tea herself, and offered the inevitable comments on the weather and the inevitable apology for her daughter’s condition.

  ‘I’m going to leave you, Mrs Gritter,’ said the girl.

  ‘Oh, indeed?’ Mrs Gritter felt such occasions called for an expression of injured innocence. She regarded ‘notice’ in the light of a censure upon her domestic capacities.

  ‘I – I’ve got something better to do,’ the girl went on; ‘and I can afford a little more rent –’

  ‘There’s the first floor front, with foldin’ doors,’ suggested Mrs Gritter hopefully. ‘If you could afford another ten shillings.’

  The girl shook her head laughingly.
<
br />   ‘Thank you, Mrs Gritter,’ she said; ‘but I want to live nearer my work –’

  ‘Tube practically opposite the ’ouse,’ persisted the landlady; buses to and fro, so to speak. It’s very hard on me losin’ two lodgers in a week.’

  ‘Two?’ asked the girl in surprise.

  The landlady nodded.

  ‘Between you and me and the gatepost,’ she said confidentially and polishing her spectacles with the corner of her alpaca apron, ‘Mr Bray has been a trial – always behind with his rent an’ owes me three weeks.’

  The girl was shocked. She had never troubled to enquire into the young man’s affairs. She knew, of course, that he was not any too well off, but it never occurred to her that he was so desperately hard up. She understood now the bitterness in his voice when he spoke of his five shillings rise.

  ‘It’s studying that does it,’ said Mrs Gritter mournfully; ‘wastin’ money on puttin’ things in your head instead of puttin’ ’em in your stummick an’ on your back. What’s the good of it? Education! It fills the prisons an’ the workhouses and – and the army!’

  She had a son in the army, and she bore the junior service a grudge in consequence; for sons in Southwark mean a contribution to the family finance.

  The girl bit her lip in thought.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she hesitated. ‘Perhaps if I were to pay you – the arrears?’

  A gleam came into the landlady’s eyes only to vanish again.

  ‘That’s no good,’ she said. ‘Besides, he’s given me some things to hold for the money.’

  ‘Some things?’ Elsie looked at the woman from under her brows. ‘What things?’

  Mrs Gritter avoided her eyes.

  ‘Not his models?’ asked the girl quickly.

  Mrs Gritter nodded.

  ‘To ’ave and to ’old,’ she said, mistakenly imagining she was indulging in legal terminology, ‘until he doth pay.’

  She had a passion for phrases of a certain sonorous type.

  ‘You ought not to have allowed him to do so,’ said the girl, stamping her foot. ‘You knew that he would pay in time!’

  Mrs Gritter sniffed.

  ‘He didn’t exactly give ’em to me,’ she said; ‘but I seized ’em according to lawr!’

  The girl stared at her as though she were some strange new insect.

  ‘You seized them?’ she asked. ‘Took them out of his room?’

  Mrs Gritter nodded complacently.

  ‘According to the lawr,’ she justified herself.

  ‘Why – why, you’re not honest!’ cried the girl.

  A dull red rose to the cheeks of the excellent Mrs Gritter. ‘Not honest!’ she said, raising her voice to its full strident pitch. ‘Don’t you go saying things like that about respectable people, miss –’

  There came a knock at the door, a sharp authoritative knock. Then, without waiting for permission to enter, the door opened and two men came in.

  ‘Marion?’ asked one.

  ‘I am Miss Marion,’ replied the girl, wondering what this unceremonious entry meant.

  The man nodded in a friendly way.

  ‘I am Sergeant Colestaff of the Metropolitan Police,’ he said, ‘and I shall take you into custody on a charge of stealing the sum of fourteen pounds, the property of your employers, Messrs Tack and Brighten.’

  She did not faint.

  She stood like a figure carved in stone, motionless.

  Mrs Gritter eyed her darkly and muttered, ‘Not honest!’

  ‘Who charges me?’ the girl asked faintly.

  ‘Mr King Kerry,’ said the detective.

  ‘King Kerry – no, no!’ Her hands went out and caught the detective’s arm imploringly.

  ‘It is Mr King Kerry,’ he said gently. ‘I am executing this warrant on information which he has sworn.’

  ‘It’s impossible – impossible!’ she cried, her eyes filling with tears. ‘It can’t be – there must be a mistake! He couldn’t do it – he wouldn’t do it!’

  The detective shook his head.

  ‘There may be a mistake, Miss Marion,’ he said gently; ‘but what I have said is true.’

  The girl sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

  The detective’s hand fell upon her shoulder. ‘Come along, please,’ he said. She rose, and, putting on her hat mechanically, went down the stairs with the two men, leaving the landlady speechless.

  ‘Not honest!’ she said at last. ‘My gawd! What airs these shop-girls give theirselves!’

  She waited till she heard the front door close, then she stooped to pull the girl’s box from under the bed. If ever there was a time to pick up a few unexpected trifles it was now.

  CHAPTER IX

  Elsie Marion sat on the wooden bed and stared at the whitewashed wall of her cell. She heard a church clock strike twelve. She had been six hours in custody; it seemed six years. She could not understand it.

  King Kerry had parted from her cheerfully that afternoon to go to Liverpool to meet Cyrus Hatparl, newly arrived from America. She had accompanied the millionaire to the station and had stood chatting with him, taking his instructions for the work he wished her to do on the following day.

  At Liverpool – so she had gathered from a sympathetic station inspector – he had sworn an affidavit before a justice of the peace, and at the telegraphed request of the Liverpool police a London magistrate had issued the warrant.

  Why could he not have waited until he returned? She could have explained – whatever there was to be explained – but he was too impatient to shatter the little paradise which he so lately created. All through the evening she had sat wondering, racking her brains to think of some explanation for this terrible change in her fortunes. The thing was inexplicable – too vast a tragedy for her comprehension.

  She had never handled large sums of money; accounts were made up daily, and they had never been questioned. There was another mystery. At eight o’clock that night her dinner had been sent in. It had been brought in a cab from the best hotel in London, the newly erected Sweizerhof; as perfect a meal as even an epicure could desire. She was young and healthy, and in spite of the seriousness of her position, she enjoyed the meal. As to why it came she could only elicit the information that it had been ordered by telephone from Liverpool by a gentleman.

  The inconsistency of the man was amazing. He could cause her arrest for a charge of stealing a few pounds and could spend almost as much as she was supposed to have stolen on one meal.

  One o’clock struck; she tried to sleep but could not.

  At half-past one the wardress came down the corridor and unlocked her cell door.

  ‘Come this way, miss,’ she said, and the girl followed her through another steel-faced door, up a flight of steps to the charge room. She stopped dead as she entered the room, for standing by the inspector’s desk was King Kerry.

  He came towards her with outstretched hands. ‘My poor child!’ he said, and she could not doubt the genuineness of his concern. He led her to the desk. The girl was too dazed to resist.

  ‘I think it is all right, inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Quite all right, sir,’ said the officer, smiling at the girl. ‘You are at liberty, miss.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ she began. Then King Kerry took her arm and led her from the room.

  Outside three cars were waiting and little groups stood on the sidewalk chatting. They turned as if at an order as the two came down the steps of the station, and one came up and raised his hat.

  ‘I think, sir, we had better go to 107, Smith Street, first,’ he said.

  ‘I agree, superintendent,’ said Kerry gravely.

  He opened the door of the first car and lifted the girl in.

  ‘My child,’ he said when they were alone, ‘you must suspend your judgement on me; none of my friends were in town. I had to take a drastic action, one which I was sure would not miscarry.’

  ‘But, but – why?’ she was crying, and her sobs wen
t straight to the man’s heart.

  ‘Suspend your judgement,’ he said gently. ‘I believe that in arresting you I saved your life.’

  He spoke so earnestly, so solemnly, that the tears ceased as a natural curiosity overcame her sense of grievance.

  ‘I had a telegram on the train,’ he said. ‘I got it just as we were pulling into Liverpool – it must have come aboard at Edgehill. It was from my agent – a youngster on The Monitor – and was to the effect that for a reason which I understand and which, one of these days, you will understand, an attempt was to be made, tonight, on your life.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  He nodded.

  ‘I could have informed the police, but I doubt whether they would have taken me seriously. I was terrified lest they protected you in some halfhearted way.’

  ‘But who would want to harm me?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t an enemy in the world.’

  He nodded.

  ‘You have as many enemies as any other member of society,’ he said; ‘that is to say, you have the enemies which are invariably opposed to the honest and decent members of society.’

  He did not speak again until the car stopped before her lodging. The other cars were pulling up as she descended with her employer, and there was a brief consultation between Kerry and the detectives – for Scotland Yard and Pinkerton’s men they were. Then King Kerry walked to the door of the dark and silent house and knocked a long, thundering roll.

  He turned to the girl.

  ‘Is your room in the front of the house?’ he asked.

  She shook her head smilingly.

  ‘That has been far too expensive a situation,’ she said. ‘No, I have a room at the back on the first floor, with an excellent view of other people’s back windows and a private promenade – if I had the courage to climb out.’

  ‘A private promenade?’

  He asked the question sharply, and she hastened to explain her facetious reference.

  ‘I can step out of my window on to the leads,’ she said. ‘They form the roof of the kitchen. I rather like the idea because I am terrified of fire.’