(1929) The Three Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  Manfred considered.

  “Pfeiffer, I think. He is the steadier of the two. Gurther has brain-storms; he is on the neurotic side. And that nine-thonged whip of yours, Leon, cannot have added to his mental stability. No, it was Pfeiffer, I’m sure.”

  “I suppose the whip unbalanced him a little,” said Leon. He thought over this aspect as though it were one worth consideration. “Gurther is a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, except that there is no virtue to him at all. It is difficult to believe, seeing him dropping languidly into his seat at the opera, that this exquisite young man in his private moments would not change his linen more often than once a month, and would shudder at the sound of a running bath-tap! That almost sounds as though he were a morphia fiend. I remember a case in ‘99…but I am interrupting you?”

  “What precautions shall you take, Leon?” asked George Manfred.

  “Against the snake?” Leon shrugged his shoulders. “The old military precaution against Zeppelin raids; the precaution the farmer takes against a plague of wasps. You cannot kneel on the chest of the vespa vulgaris and extract his sting with an anaesthetic. You destroy his nest—you bomb his hangar. Personally, I have never feared dissolution in any form, but I have a childish objection to being bitten by a snake.”

  Poiccart’s saturnine face creased for a moment in a smile. “You’ve no objection to stealing my theories,” he said drily, and the other doubled up in silent laughter.

  Manfred was pacing the little room, his hands behind him, a thick Egyptian cigarette between his lips.

  “There’s a train leaves Paddington for Gloucester at ten forty-five,” he said. “Will you telegraph to Miss Goddard, Heavytree Farm, and ask her to meet the train with a cab? After that I shall want two men to patrol the vicinity of the farm day and night.”

  Poiccart pulled open a drawer of the desk, took out a small book and ran his finger down the index.

  “I can get this service in Gloucester,” he said. “Gordon, Williams, Thompson and Elfred—they’re reliable people and have worked for us before.”

  Manfred nodded.

  “Send them the usual instructions by letter. I wonder who will be in charge of this Barberton case? If it’s Meadows, I can work with him. On the other hand, if it’s Arbuthnot, we shall have to get our information by subterranean methods.”

  “Call Elver,” suggested Leon, and George pulled the telephone towards him.

  It was some time before he could get into touch with Dr. Elver, and then he learnt, to his relief, that the redoubtable Inspector Meadows had complete charge.

  “He’s coming up to see you,” said Elver. “As a matter of fact, the chief was here when I arrived at the Yard, and he particularly asked Meadows to consult with you. There’s going to be an awful kick at the Home Secretary’s office about this murder. We had practically assured the Home Office that there would be no repetition of the mysterious deaths and that the snake had gone dead for good.”

  Manfred asked a few questions and then hung up.

  “They are worried about the public—you never know what masses will do in given circumstances. But you can gamble that the English mass does the same thing—Governments hate intelligent crowds. This may cost the Home Secretary his job, poor soul! And he’s doing his best.”

  A strident shout in the street made him turn his head with a smile.

  “The late editions have got it—naturally. It might have been committed on their doorstep.”

  “But why?” asked Poiccart “What was Barberton’s offence?”

  “His first offence,” said Leon promptly, without waiting for Manfred to reply, “was to go in search of Miss Mirabelle Leicester. His second and greatest was to consult with us. He was a dead man when he left the house.”

  The faint sound of a bell ringing sent Poiccart down to the hall to admit an unobtrusive, middle-aged man, who might have been anything but what he was: one of the cleverest trackers of criminals that Scotland Yard had known in thirty years. A sandy-haired, thin-faced man, who wore pince-nez and looked like an actor, he had been a visitor to Curzon Street before, and now received a warm welcome. With little preliminary he came to the object of his call, and Manfred told him briefly what had happened, and the gist of his conversation with Barberton.

  “Miss Mirabelle Leicester is—” began Manfred.

  “Employed by Oberzohn—I know,” was the surprising reply. “She came up to London this morning and took a job as laboratory assistant. I had no idea that Oberzohn & Smitts had a laboratory on the premises.”

  “They hadn’t until a couple of days ago,” interrupted Leon. “The laboratory was staged especially for her.”

  Meadows nodded, then turned to Manfred.

  “He didn’t give you any idea at all why he wanted to meet Miss Leicester?”

  George shook his head.

  “No, he was very mysterious indeed on that subject,” he said.

  “He arrived by the Benguella, eh?” said Meadows, making a note. “We ought to get something from the ship before they pay off their stewards. If a man isn’t communicative on board ship, he’ll never talk at all! And we may find something in his belongings. Would you like to come along, Manfred?”

  “I’ll come with pleasure,” said George gravely. “I may help you a little—you will not object to my making my own interpretation of what we see?”

  Meadows smiled.

  “You will be allowed your private mystery,” he said.

  A taxi set them down at the Petworth Hotel in Norfolk Street, and they were immediately shown up to the room which the dead man had hired but had not as yet occupied. His trunk, still strapped and locked, stood on a small wooden trestle, his overcoat was hanging behind the door; in one corner of the room was a thick hold-all, tightly strapped, and containing, as they subsequently discovered, a weather-stained mackintosh, two well-worn blankets and an air pillow, together with a collapsible canvas chair, also showing considerable signs of usage. This was the object of their preliminary search.

  The lock of the trunk yielded to the third key which the detective tried. Beyond changes of linen and two suits, one of which was practically new and bore the tab of a store in St. Paul de Loanda, there was very little to enlighten them. They found an envelope full of papers, and sorted them out one by one on the bed. Barberton was evidently a careful man; he had preserved his hotel bills, writing on their backs brief but pungent comments about the accommodation he had enjoyed or suffered. There was an hotel in Lobuo which was full of vermin; there was one at Mossamedes of which he had written: “Rats ate one boot. Landlord made no allowance. Took three towels and pillow-slip.”

  “One of the Four Just Men in embryo,” said Meadows dryly.

  Manfred smiled.

  On the back of one bill were closely written columns of figures: “126, 1315, 107, 1712, about 24,” etc. Against a number of these figures the word “about” appeared, and Manfred observed that invariably this qualification marked one of the higher numbers. Against the 107 was a thick pencil mark.

  There were amongst the papers several other receipts. In St. Paul he had bought a “pistol automatic of precision” and ammunition for the same. The “pistol automatic of precision” was not in the trunk.

  “We found it in his pocket,” said Meadows briefly. “That fellow was expecting trouble, and was entitled to, if it is true that they tortured him at Mosamodes.”

  “Moss-AM-o-dees,” Manfred corrected the mispronunciation. It almost amounted to a fad in him that to hear a place miscalled gave him a little pain.

  Meadows was reading a letter, turning the pages slowly.

  “This is from his sister: she lives at Brightlingsea, and there’s nothing in it except…” He read a portion of the letter aloud:

  “…thank you for the books. The children will appreciate them. It must have been like old times writing them—but I can understand how it helped pass the time. Mr. Lee came over and asked if I had heard from you. He is wonderful.”

  Th
e letter was in an educated hand.

  “He didn’t strike me as a man who wrote books,” said Meadows, and continued his search.

  Presently he unfolded a dilapidated map, evidently of Angola. It was rather on the small scale, so much so that it took in a portion of the Kalahari Desert in the south, and showed in the north the undulations of the rolling Congo.

  “No marks of any bind,” said Meadows, carrying the chart to the window to examine it more carefully. “And that, I think, is about all—unless this is something.”

  “This” was wrapped in a piece of cloth, and was fastened to the bottom and the sides of the trunk by two improvised canvas straps. Meadows tried to pull it loose and whistled.

  “Gold,” he said. “Nothing else can weigh quite as heavily as this.”

  He lifted out the bundle eventually, unwrapped the covering, and gazed in amazement on the object that lay under his eyes. It was an African bete, a nude, squat idol, rudely shaped, the figure of a native woman.

  “Gold?” said Manfred incredulously, and tried to lift it with his finger and thumb. He took a firmer grip and examined the discovery closely.

  There was no doubt that it was gold, and fine gold. His thumb-nail made a deep scratch in the base of the statuette. He could see the marks where the knife of the inartistic sculptor had sliced and carved.

  Meadows knew the coast fairly well: he had made many trips to Africa and had stopped off at various ports en route.

  “I’ve never seen anything exactly like it before,” he said, “and it isn’t recent workmanship either. When you see this”—he pointed to a physical peculiarity of the figure—“you can bet that you’ve got something that’s been made at least a couple of hundred years, and probably before then. The natives of West and Central Africa have not worn toe-rings, for example, since the days of the Caesars.”

  He weighed the idol in his hand.

  “Roughly ten pounds,” he said. “In other words, eight hundred pounds’ worth of gold.”

  He was examining the cloth in which the idol had been wrapped, and uttered an exclamation.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  Written on one corner, in indelible pencil, were the words:

  “Second shelf up left Gods lobby sixth.”

  Suddenly Manfred remembered.

  “Would you have this figure put on the scales right away?” he said. “I’m curious to know the exact weight.”

  “Why?” asked Meadows in surprise, as he rang the bell.

  The proprietor himself, who was aware that a police search was in progress, answered the call, and, at the detective’s request, hurried down to the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with a pair of scales, which he placed on the table. He was obviously curious to know the purpose for which they were intended, but Inspector Meadows did not enlighten him, standing pointedly by the door until the gentleman had gone.

  The figure was taken from under the cloth where it had been hidden whilst the scales were being placed, and put in one shallow pan on the machine.

  “Ten pounds seven ounces,” nodded Manfred triumphantly. “I thought that was the one!”

  “One what?” asked the puzzled Meadows.

  “Look at this list.”

  Manfred found the hotel bill with the rows of figures and pointed to the one which had a black cross against it.

  “107,” he said. “That is our little fellow, and the explanation is fairly plain. Barberton found some treasure-house filled with these statues. He took away the lightest. Look at the figures! He weighed them with a spring balance, one of those which register up to 21 lb. Above that he had to guess—he puts ‘about 24,’ ‘about 22.’”

  Meadows looked at his companion blankly, but Manfred was not deceived. That clever brain of the detective was working.

  “Not for robbery—the trunk is untouched. They did not even burn his feet to find the idol or the treasure house: they must have known nothing of that It was easy to rob him—or, if they knew of his gold idol, they considered it too small loot to bother with.”

  He looked slowly round the apartment. On the mantelshelf was a slip of brown paper like a pipe-spill. He picked it up, looked at both sides, and, finding the paper blank, put it back where he had found it. Manfred took it down and absently drew the strip between his sensitive finger-tips.

  “The thing to do,” said Meadows, taking one final look round, “is to find Miss Leicester.”

  Manfred nodded.

  “That is one of the things,” he said slowly. “The other, of course, is to find Johnny.”

  “Johnny?” Meadows frowned suspiciously. “Who is Johnny?” he asked.

  “Johnny is my private mystery.” George Manfred was smiling. “You promised me that I might have one!”

  CHAPTER SIX - IN CHESTER SQUARE

  WHEN Mirabelle Leicester went to Chester Square, her emotions were a curious discord of wonder, curiosity and embarrassment. The latter was founded on the extraordinary effusiveness of her companion, who had suddenly, and with no justification, assumed the position of dearest friend and lifelong acquaintance. Mirabelle thought the girl was an actress: a profession in which sudden and violent friendships are not a rare occurrence. She wondered why Aunt Alma had not made an effort to come to town, and wondered more that she had known of Alma’s friendship with the Newtons. That the elder woman had her secrets was true, but there was no reason why she should have refrained from speaking of a family who were close enough friends to be asked to chaperon her in town.

  She had time for thought, for Joan Newton chattered away all the time, and if she asked a question, she either did not wait for approval, or the question was answered to her o satisfaction before it was put.

  Chester Square, that dignified patch of Belgravia, is an imposing quarter. The big house into which the girl was admitted by a footman had that air of luxurious comfort which would have appealed to a character less responsive to refinement than Mirabelle Leicester’s. She was ushered into a big drawing-room which ran from the front to the back of the house, and did not terminate even there, for a large, cool conservatory, bright with flowers, extended a considerable distance.

  “Monty isn’t back from the City yet,” Joan rattled on. “My dear! He’s awfully busy just now, what with stocks and shares and things like that.”

  She spoke as though “stocks and shares and things like that” were phenomena which had come into existence the day before yesterday for the occupation of Monty Newton.

  “Is there a boom?” asked Mirabelle with a smile, and the term seemed to puzzle the girl.

  “Ye-es, I suppose there is. You know what the Stock Exchange is, my dear? Everybody connected with it is wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. The money they make is simply wicked! And they can give a girl an awfully good time—theatres, parties, dresses, pearls—why, Monty would think nothing of giving a string of pearls to a girl if he took a liking to her!”

  In truth Joan was walking on very uncertain ground. Her instructions had been simple and to the point. “Get her to Chester Gardens, make friends with her, and don’t mention the fact that I know Oberzohn.” What was the object of bringing Mirabelle Leicester to the house, what was behind this move of Monty’s, she did not know. She was merely playing for safety, baiting the ground, as it were, with her talk of good times and vast riches, in case that was required of her. For she, no less than many of her friends, entertained a wholesome dread of Monty Newton’s disapproval, which usually took a definite unpleasant shape.

  Mirabelle was laughing softly.

  “I didn’t know that stockbrokers were so rich,” she said dryly, “and I can assure you that some of them aren’t!”

  She passed tactfully over the gaucherie of the pearls that Monty would give to any girl who took his fancy. By this time she had placed Joan: knew something of her upbringing, guessed pretty well the extent of her intelligence, and marvelled a little that a man of the unknown Mr. Newton’s position should have allowed his sister to co
me through the world without the benefit of a reasonably good education.

  “Come up to your room, my dear,” said Joan. “We’ve got a perfectly topping little suite for you, and I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. It’s at the front of the house, and if you can get used to the milkmen yowling about the streets before they’re aired, you’ll have a perfectly topping time.”

  When Mirabelle inspected the apartment she was enchanted. It fulfilled Joan’s vague description. Here was luxury beyond her wildest dreams. She admired the silver bed and the thick blue carpet, the silken panelled walls, the exquisite fittings, and stood in rapture before the entrance of a little bathroom, with its silver and glass, its shaded lights and marble walls.

  “I’ll have a cup of tea sent up to you, my dear. You’ll want to rest after your horrible day at that perfectly terrible factory, and I wonder you can stand Oberzohn, though they tell me he’s quite a nice man…”

  She seemed anxious to go, and Mirabelle was no less desirous of being alone.

  “Come down when you feel like it,” said Joan at parting, and ran down the stairs, reaching the hall in time to meet Mr. Newton, who was handing his hat and gloves to his valet.

  “Well, is she here?”

  “She’s here all right,” said Joan, who was not at all embarrassed by the presence of the footman. “Monty, isn’t she a bit of a fool? She couldn’t say boo to a goose. What is the general scheme?”

  He was brushing his hair delicately in the mirror above the hall-stand.

  “What’s what scheme?” he asked, after the servant had gone, as he strolled into the drawing-room before her.

  “Bringing her here—is she sitting into a game?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Monty without heat, as he dropped wearily to a low divan and drew a silken cushion-behind him. “Nor inquisitive,” he added. “You haven’t scared her, have you?”

  “I like that!” she said indignantly.

  She was one of those ladies who speak more volubly and with the most assurance when there is a mirror in view, and she had her eyes fixed upon herself all the time she was talking, patting a strand of hair here and there, twisting her head this way and that to get a better effect, and never once looking at the man until he drew attention to himself.