White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  ‘We’ll have to risk it,’ said Paul when Mr. Robin suggested this, and he slipped an automatic from his hip pocket. ‘The likelihood is that he’ll be sleeping at this hour, if he’s there at all.’

  He began to creep towards the house with the others close at his heels, and when they reached the door he signed to them to stop. ‘You wait here,’ he whispered, ‘and I’ll go round to the back and see if I can get in. If I can, I’ll open the door for you.’

  He hurried away round the angle of the house. By the back door, which he tried and found locked, was a small window leading, he concluded, to the scullery. This, too, was fastened, but a glance showed him that the catch was a simple one, and pulling out his pocket-knife he pushed the blade between the sash and the frame and pressed upwards. With a click the catch snapped back, and he opened the window. Hauling himself up onto the sill, he squeezed through. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed it, and found himself, as he had expected, in a small scullery. A door stood half-open before him, revealing a kitchen beyond. To this he made his way, standing and listening intently before proceeding any further, but he heard nothing. No sound at all came to his ears. He had expected to hear the deep breathing of a sleeping man, but a stillness brooded over everything.

  Leaving the kitchen, he made his way up three steps and along a passage to the front door. Carefully he took off the chain and pulled back the bolt. Mr. Robin and Crick entered quickly and noiselessly as he opened the door, and Paul closed it softly behind them. Then, with nerves alert, they made a careful and thorough search of the house. From room to room they went, beginning with the ground floor and finishing with the attic. The place was empty. There was plenty of evidence, though, to show that they had found the place they sought. In one of the bedrooms was a dressing table spread with make-up materials, and in a box in the wardrobe Paul discovered two wigs, a white and a red-haired one.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, drawing Mr. Robin’s attention to them. ‘There’s the wig he wore on the bus, and there’s the one he wore to visit Mrs. Mace when he went to get the revolver.’

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty conclusive,’ said Round Robin. ‘The thing we want now is the man.’

  ‘And Bob,’ said Paul as he went back to the hall. ‘What the deuce can have become of him?’ He frowned and caressed his chin.

  ‘Perhaps he’s still following the crippled man,’ suggested the journalist. ‘Anyway, it’s pretty evident that he isn’t here.’

  ‘What the dickens could that fellow have wanted that cement for?’ said Mr. Robin in a puzzled voice. ‘I haven’t seen a sign of it.’

  ‘No, neither have I,’ said Paul. ‘I wonder — My God! wonder —’ A sudden horrible thought had occurred to him. Had the cement been used to fill in a grave? ‘The cellar!’ he cried suddenly. ‘We haven’t looked in the cellar yet.’

  The others followed him as he searched for the door. He found it in a dark alcove just beyond the three steps leading to the kitchen, and it was locked. He took a running kick at the lock and the door flew open. It was pitch dark inside, but he pulled out his torch and directed its light on the steps. He saw the slimy floor and something else — a heap of still-wet cement in which was stuck a brick-layer’s trowel. With a face that had suddenly gone white, he stumbled down the wooden stairs and flashed the torch this way and that. A patch of brickwork in one wall attracted his attention because it looked different from the rest. Going over, he touched the mortar between the bricks. It was soft and still damp.

  ‘Find an iron bar or a hammer — anything that I can smash this wall down with,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse and utterly unlike his own.

  ‘My God!’ muttered Round Robin. ‘You don’t think —’

  ‘I think that Bob is behind there,’ said Paul grimly. ‘Find me something I can use to break the wall down.’

  ‘There’s a steel poker in the kitchen,’ said Crick shakily. ‘I’ll get it.’

  He ran up the steps and was back again almost at once with the poker. Paul snatched it from his grasp and, inserting the point between two of the bricks, bore with all his strength on the handle. He succeeded in shifting them, and once he had removed two the rest was easy. In less than five minutes he had completely demolished the patch of wall. Taking the torch from Mr. Robin, who had held it while he had been at work, he flashed the light into the dark aperture. It shone on the white face of his brother!

  26

  The Vigil

  ‘Give him a little more water. He’s all right now,’ said Paul, straightening up with a sigh of relief.

  It had been touch and go with Bob. When they had earned him out of that horrible cellar and taken him up to the sofa in the sitting-room, Paul had thought at first that they had been too late. Bob’s face was congested and there had been no sign of breathing. Examination had shown, however, that the heart was still beating feebly, and Paul had set to work to apply artificial respiration. He had worked for an hour before his brother’s breathing had improved sufficiently to show that he was out of danger. A little later he had recovered consciousness, and after a drink of water was so much better that he was able to sit up.

  The strain on the others was noticeable in their faces. Mr. Robin’s usually florid colour had changed to a mottled grey. Joseph Crick looked as if he had had no sleep for a week. There were dark patches below Paul’s eyes, and the lines about his mouth had deepened. Round Robin took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glistening forehead.

  ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘I thought it was all up with him at first.’

  ‘So did I,’ admitted Paul. ‘It was, nearly. Another five minutes and I don’t think anything could have saved him.’

  ‘The man who did this must be a devil,’ said Joseph Crick, and he shuddered.

  ‘He is,’ answered Paul. ‘But I don’t think he’ll be in a position to do any more harm after today.’

  Mr. Robin looked at him sharply. ‘I don’t know what you mean by that,’ he remarked. ‘He’s got away —’

  ‘But not for long,’ interrupted Paul. ‘I think we shall get him tonight.’

  The inspector frowned. ‘How are we going to get him when we don’t know where he is?’ he demanded.

  ‘Because I’m convinced he’ll come back here. He still has a lot of work left to do. He cannot leave things as they are. Those wigs and make-up materials must, for his own safety’s sake, be destroyed, and the cement moved from the cellar. For some reason he had to leave early this morning with all that left undone. But he’ll come back, and when he does we’ve got him.’

  ‘D’you think he’ll take the risk?’ said the journalist doubtfully.

  ‘I do,’ declared Paul. ‘You must remember that so far as he knows, there’s no risk. He hasn’t the least idea that we’ve succeeded in finding this place, and he’s under the impression that he’s silenced Bob forever. Oh yes, he’ll come back.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you’re right,’ said Mr. Robin. ‘I’d like to get the bracelets on that fellow.’

  ‘I hope I’m there when you do,’ said Bob in a weak, rather husky voice. ‘I’d like to have something to say to him myself.’

  ‘Feeling all right now, old chap?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Except that I’ve never been so hungry in my life before, I’m OK,’ answered Bob. ‘Do you think there’s anything to eat in this infernal place?’

  ‘I believe I saw some bread and cheese in the pantry,’ said Crick. ‘I’ll go and look.’ He hurried out of the sitting-room and presently returned with half a loaf, a large wedge of cheese and some pickles. ‘This is all I could find,’ he remarked.

  ‘Looks good to me,’ said Bob, and he began to eat ravenously. When he had finished the last crumb, a tinge of colour began to creep back into his cheeks. ‘That was good,’ he said. ‘I could push a house over now.’

  ‘Confine your energy to telling us what happened after you left Maroc’s,’ said his brother, and Bob, his voice growing stronger every second, proceeded
to give them a detailed account of his adventures.

  ‘He’s no more a cripple than I am,’ he concluded. ‘When he was carrying me to that cellar he forgot to limp.’

  ‘We have ample evidence of his cleverness in make-up,’ said Paul. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s just ten o’clock. I think we’d better hold a conversation and decide what we’re going to do.’

  They discussed the matter in detail and came to the conclusion that it would be dangerous for any of them to leave the cottage. They had no idea at what time the man they were after would return, and if he should accidentally catch a glimpse of them he would be scared off.

  ‘It may prove to be a long wait,’ said Paul, ‘for personally I don’t think he’ll come until the evening, but we shall have to stick it.’

  ‘It will be worth waiting for,’ remarked Mr. Robin. ‘By Jove, when he does come he’s going to get a shock.’

  Mr. Robin was also destined to get a shock, but he did not know that at the time.

  27

  White Wig

  The murderer of William Hooper spent a very busy day. Things were going extremely well, and except for one or two small incidents, which had been attended to, the plan his ingenious brain had conceived had been carried out successfully. Many times during that day he congratulated himself on his cleverness. There was no means of connecting him with the affair at all, and in a few months he would be able to reap the reward of his work. A million pounds was worth the time and trouble he had spent, and there was no reason why it should stop at that amount. Already he was scheming to eliminate Leslie Craven so that he could reap the full benefit instead of only half. Altogether he felt in a very complacent mood.

  There had been one nasty moment, the moment when he had seen and recognised Bob Rivington in Maroc’s, but he had dealt with that adequately, and the man was no longer a source of danger. It was a nuisance that he had to leave his work at the cottage half-done in order to cope with other urgent measures that required his attention, but it could not be helped, and he could go back after nightfall and complete it. That would be the last time he would assume the character of a cripple. That had served its turn and could be discarded. It was dangerous to keep that kind of charade going too long. It had been intended to be a conspicuous persona because it was so different from his own self, just as the old man and the red-haired man had also been conspicuous. Once discarded, no one would ever dream of connecting them with himself.

  There was only one more thing to do now, and that was to deal with Dick Lonsdale — always supposing that the law failed to do that for him — and that would not, he thought, present a great difficulty.

  He considered the matter coolly while he ate a carefully chosen dinner in his favourite restaurant. Once Lonsdale was released, if he was released, there would be ample opportunity. It would have, of course, to be made to look like an accident, but there were many ways in which this could be done easily. Once again, too, an alibi would have to be carefully prepared for Craven. He rather enjoyed this plotting and scheming. There was something infinitely satisfying in pitting his wits against the world, with his life for a stake. It gave him a tremendous kick.

  He sketched out a possible plan while he sat over his coffee. Then, rising, he paid his bill, and leaving the restaurant walked to his flat.

  It was nine o’clock when he left it again. Carrying a small suitcase, he made his way by tube and bus to Dulwich. There was an empty house which he had to pass on his way to the cottage, and in the weed-choked garden of this he made his change. It was a thin, well-dressed man who went in through the open drive gate carrying a suitcase. It was the cripple who emerged ten minutes later without the suitcase and went shuffling off in the direction of the newly made road, and — disaster.

  *

  To the quartet in the cottage, the day passed slowly enough. They had taken up their positions in the sitting-room, and from the window it was possible to overlook the path that led up to the house.

  Paul had arranged for each to put in an hour’s watch from this vantage point so that they could be warned of the approach of the man they were expecting. It added greatly to the monotony of their vigil that none of them had anything to smoke. In his hurry to leave Hampstead, Paul had forgotten his cigarettes, and the few that Crick had were soon finished. All of them, too, were ravenously hungry, but the only food in the house had been the bread and cheese which Bob had eaten, so they were forced to put up with it. The journalist found some tea and a half-used tin of condensed milk, and this was something, but it was a poor substitute for food.

  Eventually the day began to wane. The light grew less and less. The trees and shrubs outside the gate blended with each other and the ground in which they grew, and the watchers at the window began find it increasingly difficult to distinguish the path from its background of deepening shadows. And with the gradual approach of darkness came a silence, a silence that held in its bated breath a sense of expectancy.

  As each minute passed, the tension increased — the feeling that something that had long been expected might at any moment materialise. They had, up to the time that darkness finally settled like an extinguishing blanket over the cottage, kept up a desultory conversation in monotones; but with the coming of night, as if by common consent, it had ceased — not suddenly, but gradually, fraying as it were to silence. The gentle breathing of each person was occasionally disturbed by a sharper breath as though in the subdued excitement that had settled on the room the person concerned had missed an intake.

  Paul, lounging at the corner of the sofa, glanced at his watch. The luminous dial showed that it was five minutes past nine. How much longer would this vigil last? How many hours had yet to pass before the crippled man made his appearance? Bob, who was at the window, turned and muttered something to Joseph Crick, who went over and took his place. Paul’s pulse, which had momentarily leapt in the expectation that Bob had seen something, resumed its normal beat when he realised that it was only the change in the watch.

  At ten o’clock the wind began to rise. It moaned round the cottage in intermittent gusts, sighing away through the trees with a rustling whisper that was like myriads of tiny voices. A dampness began to creep into the air — the dampness that heralds the approach of rain, but at the moment the night was still fine, though it was rendered darker by the grey clouds that covered the sky.

  Again and again as the time went by, Paul found his imagination playing tricks with him. Half a dozen times he could have sworn that he heard a footstep on the path outside, but Crick, at his post by the window, gave no sign, and he knew that he was mistaken.

  And then suddenly the journalist drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. ‘He’s coming now!’ he whispered hoarsely.

  Paul felt his muscles tense. Stealthily he drew out his automatic and thumbed back the safety-catch. From outside came the sound of a footstep, a stumbling dragging step that drew nearer and nearer.

  ‘Come on,’ said Paul in a voice that was almost inaudible, and he crept to the door, the others at his heel. In the little hall they took up their positions as they had previously arranged, on either side of the front door, and waited. The footsteps stopped; there was a momentary silence, and then a key clicked in the lock and the door was pushed gently open. Against the indigo blue of the night they saw a figure silhouetted for a moment, and then it crossed the threshold and closed the door behind it.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Paul, and he flung himself forward. They heard a sharp exclamation of surprise and fear, and then he found himself fighting desperately with a man whose strength was abnormal.

  Thrusting out his foot, Paul tripped his opponent with a back lock on the shin, and they both went crashing to the floor. Paul was uppermost as he had planned, but his advantage was short-lived, for with a snarling oath the other twisted himself away, shot up his knees and sent his adversary flying over his head. Paul fell against Mr. Robin, who was peering forward in the darkness, trying to distinguish friend from foe. The insp
ector’s legs doubled beneath him and with a grunt he fell forward, clutching Paul to try and regain his balance. The man on the floor, taking advantage of this momentary respite, scrambled quickly to his feet, but as he did so Crick succeeded in dragging a torch from his pocket, and a white ray of light split the darkness.

  With a curse the limping man swung round, and at the same moment Bob stepped forward and sent a stinging right with all his force behind it to the other’s jaw. It hit home with a sound like a pistol shot, and the man collapsed to the floor.

  ‘All right!’ cried Bob. ‘We’ve got him now!’

  He bent over the motionless form, and then Paul, extricating himself from Mr. Robin’s embrace, joined him.

  ‘Give me the torch a moment, Crick,’ he said, and when the journalist handed it to him he directed the light full on the upturned face of the man in the passage. ‘I was right,’ he breathed.

  In spite of the make-up and the different arrangement of the hair, he recognised the man. It was Edgar Hallows!

  28

  The Black Diary

  It was some days before Mr. Robin and Paul were able to collect all the evidence they required against Hallows and link up the pieces of the problem into a connected whole.

  Hallows, following his arrest, had relapsed into a sullen silence, and refused to say anything at all that was of help. They took Leslie Craven, however, at his flat on the day following the unmasking of his accomplice at the cottage at Dulwich, and he was less reticent. Directly he realised that the game was up and the cunning plot had been discovered, he tried to curry favour by turning King’s evidence. Fortunately his evidence was unnecessary, for among Hallows’ effects in his flat in Holborn, they discovered a diary bound in black leather which gave practically full details of the plot, written in Hallows’ neat, business-like hand.