The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘Well?’ asked Thery with something of triumph in his voice.

  ‘I see you have labelled it,’ said Manfred.

  ‘It is better so – since we shall work in the dark,’ said Thery.

  ‘Did you see then – ?’ began Poiccart.

  Manfred nodded.

  ‘Very indistinctly – one could just see the Houses of Parliament dimly, and Downing Street is a jumble of roofs.’

  Thery had turned to the work that was engaging his attention. Whatever was his trade he was a deft workman. Somehow he felt that he must do his best for these men. He had been made forcibly aware of their superiority in the last days, he had now an ambition to assert his own skill, his individuality, and to earn commendation from these men who had made him feel his littleness.

  Manfred and the others stood aside and watched him in silence. Leon, with a perplexed frown, kept his eyes fixed on the workman’s face. For Leon Gonsalez, scientist, physiognomist (his translation of the Theologi Physiognomia Humana of Lequetius is regarded today as the finest), was endeavouring to reconcile the criminal with the artisan.

  After a while Thery finished. ‘All is now ready,’ he said with a grin of satisfaction: ‘let me find your Minister of State, give me a minute’s speech with him, and the next minute he dies.’

  His face, repulsive in repose, was now demoniacal. He was like some great bull from his own country made more terrible with the snuffle of blood in his nostrils.

  In strange contrast were the faces of his employers. Not a muscle of either face stirred. There was neither exultation nor remorse in their expressions – only a curious something that creeps into the set face of the judge as he pronounces the dread sentence of the law. Thery saw that something, and it froze him to his very marrow.

  He threw up his hands as if to ward them off.

  ‘Stop! stop!’ he shouted; ‘don’t look like that, in the name of God – don’t, don’t!’ He covered his face with shaking hands.

  ‘Like what, Thery?’ asked Leon softly.

  Thery shook his head.

  ‘I cannot say – like the judge at Granada when he says – when he says, “Let the thing be done!” ’

  ‘If we look so,’ said Manfred harshly, ‘it is because we are judges – and not alone judges but executioners of our judgment.’

  ‘I thought you would have been pleased,’ whimpered Thery.

  ‘You have done well,’ said Manfred gravely.

  ‘Bueno, bueno!’ echoed the others.

  ‘Pray God that we are successful,’ added Manfred solemnly, and Thery stared at this strange man in amazement.

  * * *

  Superintendent Falmouth reported to the Commissioner that afternoon that all arrangements were now complete for the protection of the threatened Minister.

  ‘I’ve filled up 44 Downing Street,’ he said; ‘there’s practically a man in every room. I’ve got four of our best men on the roof, men in the basement, men in the kitchens.’

  ‘What about the servants?’ asked the Commissioner.

  ‘Sir Philip has brought up his own people from the country, and now there isn’t a person in the house from the private secretary to the doorkeeper whose name and history I do not know from A to Z.’

  The Commissioner breathed an anxious sigh.

  ‘I shall be very glad when tomorrow is over,’ he said. ‘What are the final arrangements?’

  ‘There has been no change, sir, since we fixed things up the morning Sir Philip came over. He remains at 44 all day tomorrow until half past eight, goes over to the House at nine to move the reading of the Bill, returns at eleven.’

  ‘I have given orders for the traffic to be diverted along the Embankment between a quarter to nine and a quarter after, and the same at eleven,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Four closed carriages will drive from Downing Street to the House, Sir Philip will drive down in a car immediately afterwards.’

  There was a rap at the door – the conversation took place in the Commissioner’s office – and a police officer entered. He bore a card in his hand, which he laid upon the table.

  ‘Señor Jose di Silva,’ read the Commissioner. ‘The Spanish Chief of Police,’ he explained to the Superintendent. ‘Show him in, please.’

  Señor di Silva, a lithe little man, with a pronounced nose and a beard, greeted the Englishmen with the exaggerated politeness that is peculiar to Spanish official circles.

  ‘I am sorry to bring you over,’ said the Commissioner, after he had shaken hands with the visitor and had introduced him to Falmouth; ‘we thought you might be able to help us in our search for Thery.’

  ‘Luckily I was in Paris,’ said the Spaniard; ‘yes, I know Thery, and I am astounded to find him in such distinguished company. Do I know the Four? – ’ his shoulders went up to his ears – ‘who does? I know of them – there was a case at Malaga, you know? . . . Thery is not a good criminal. I was astonished to learn that he had joined the band.’

  ‘By the way,’ said the chief, picking up a copy of the police notice that lay on his desk, and running his eye over it, ‘your people omitted to say – although it really isn’t of very great importance – what is Thery’s trade?’

  The Spanish policeman knitted his brow.

  ‘Thery’s trade! Let me remember.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Thery’s trade? I don’t think I know; yet I have an idea that it is something to do with rubber. His first crime was stealing rubber; but if you want to know for certain – ’

  The Commissioner laughed.

  ‘It really isn’t at all important,’ he said lightly.

  Chapter 7

  The messenger of the Four

  There was yet another missive to be handed to the doomed Minister. In the last he had received there had occurred the sentence: ‘One more warning you shall receive, and so that we may be assured it shall not go astray, our next and last message shall be delivered into your hands by one of us in person.’

  This passage afforded the police more comfort than had any episode since the beginning of the scare. They placed a curious faith in the honesty of the Four Men; they recognised that these were not ordinary criminals and that their pledge was inviolable. Indeed, had they thought otherwise the elaborate precautions that they were taking to ensure the safety of Sir Philip would not have been made. The honesty of the Four was their most terrible characteristic.

  In this instance it served to raise a faint hope that the men who were setting at defiance the establishment of the law would overreach themselves. The letter conveying this message was the one to which Sir Philip had referred so airily in his conversation with his secretary. It had come by post, bearing the date mark, Balham, 12.15.

  ‘The question is, shall we keep you absolutely surrounded, so that these men cannot by any possible chance carry out their threat?’ asked Superintendent Falmouth in some perplexity, ‘or shall we apparently relax our vigilance in order to lure one of the Four to his destruction?’

  The question was directed to Sir Philip Ramon as he sat huddled up in the capacious depths of his office chair.

  ‘You want to use me as a bait?’ he asked sharply.

  The detective expostulated.

  ‘Not exactly that, sir; we want to give these men a chance – ’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ said the Minister, with some show of irritation.

  The detective resumed.

  ‘We know now how the infernal machine was smuggled into the House; on the day on which the outrage was committed an old member, Mr Bascoe, the member for North Torrington, was seen to enter the House.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Sir Philip in surprise.

  ‘Mr Bascoe was never within a hundred miles of the House of Commons on that date,’ said the detective quietly. ‘We might never have found it out, for his name did n
ot appear in the division list. We’ve been working quietly on that House of Commons affair ever since, and it was only a couple of days ago that we made the discovery.’

  Sir Philip sprang from his chair and nervously paced the floor of his room.

  ‘Then they are evidently well acquainted with the conditions of life in England,’ he asserted rather than asked.

  ‘Evidently; they’ve got the lay of the land, and that is one of the dangers of the situation.’

  ‘But,’ frowned the other, ‘you have told me there were no dangers, no real dangers.’

  ‘There is this danger, sir,’ replied the detective, eyeing the Minister steadily, and dropping his voice as he spoke. ‘Men who are capable of making such disguise are really outside the ordinary run of criminals. I don’t know what their game is, but whatever it is, they are playing it thoroughly. One of them is evidently an artist at that sort of thing, and he’s the man I’m afraid of – today.’

  Sir Philip’s head tossed impatiently.

  ‘I am tired of all this, tired of it – ’ and he thrashed the edge of his desk with an open palm – ‘detectives and disguises and masked murderers until the atmosphere is, for all the world, like that of a melodrama.’

  ‘You must have patience for a day or two,’ said the plain-spoken officer.

  The Four Just Men were on the nerves of more people than the Foreign Minister.

  ‘And we have not decided what is to be our plan for this evening,’ he added.

  ‘Do as you like,’ said Sir Philip shortly, and then: ‘Am I to be allowed to go to the House tonight?’

  ‘No; that is not part of the programme,’ replied the detective.

  Sir Philip stood for a moment in thought.

  ‘These arrangements; they are kept secret, I suppose?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Who knows of them?’

  ‘Yourself, the Commissioner, your secretary, and myself.’

  ‘And no one else?’

  ‘No one; there is no danger likely to arise from that source. If upon the secrecy of your movements your safety depended it would be plain sailing.’

  ‘Have these arrangements been committed to writing?’ asked Sir Philip.

  ‘No, sir; nothing has been written; our plans have been settled upon and communicated verbally; even the Prime Minister does not know.’

  Sir Philip breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘That is all to the good,’ he said, as the detective rose to go.

  ‘I must see the Commissioner. I shall be away for less than half an hour; in the meantime I suggest that you do not leave your room,’ he said.

  Sir Philip followed him out to the ante-room, in which sat Hamilton, the secretary.

  ‘I have had an uncomfortable feeling,’ said Falmouth, as one of his men approached with a long coat, which he proceeded to help the detective into, ‘a sort of instinctive feeling this last day or two, that I have been watched and followed, so that I am using a car to convey me from place to place: they can’t follow that, without attracting some notice.’ He dipped his hand into the pocket and brought out a pair of motoring goggles. He laughed somewhat shamefacedly as he adjusted them. ‘This is the only disguise I ever adopt, and I might say, Sir Philip,’ he added with some regret, ‘that this is the first time during my twenty-five years of service that I have ever played the fool like a stage detective.’

  After Falmouth’s departure the Foreign Minister returned to his desk.

  He hated being alone: it frightened him. That there were two score detectives within call did not dispel the feeling of loneliness. The terror of the Four was ever with him, and this had so worked upon his nerves that the slightest noise irritated him. He played with the penholder that lay on the desk. He scribbled inconsequently on the blotting-pad before him, and was annoyed to find that the scribbling had taken the form of numbers of figure 4.

  Was the Bill worth it? Was the sacrifice called for? Was the measure of such importance as to justify the risk? These things he asked himself again and again, and then immediately, What sacrifice? What risk?

  ‘I am taking the consequence too much for granted,’ he muttered, throwing aside the pen, and half turning from the writing-table. ‘There is no certainty that they will keep their words; bah! it is impossible that they should – ’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hullo, Superintendent,’ said the Foreign Minister as the knocker entered. ‘Back again already!’

  The detective, vigorously brushing the dust from his moustache with a handkerchief, drew an official-looking blue envelope from his pocket.

  ‘I thought I had better leave this in your care,’ he said, dropping his voice; ‘it occurred to me just after I had left; accidents happen, you know.’

  The Minister took the document.

  ‘What is it? ‘he asked.

  ‘It is something which would mean absolute disaster for me if by chance it was found in my possession,’ said the detective, turning to go.

  ‘What am I to do with it?’

  ‘You would greatly oblige me by putting it in your desk until I return’; and the detective stepped into the anteroom, closed the door behind him and, acknowledging the salute of the plain-clothes officer who guarded the outer door, passed to the motor-car that awaited him.

  Sir Philip looked at the envelope with a puzzled frown.

  It bore the superscription, ‘Confidential’ and the address, ‘Department A, CID, Scotland Yard’.

  ‘Some confidential report,’ thought Sir Philip, and an angry doubt as to the possibility of it containing particulars of the police arrangements for his safety filled his mind. He had hit by accident upon the truth had he but known. The envelope contained those particulars.

  He placed the letter in a drawer of his desk and drew some papers towards him.

  They were copies of the Bill for the passage of which he was daring so much.

  It was not a long document. The clauses were few in number, the objects, briefly described in the preamble, were tersely defined. There was no fear of this Bill failing to pass on the morrow. The Government’s majority was assured. Men had been brought back to town, stragglers had been whipped in, prayers and threats alike had assisted in concentrating the rapidly dwindling strength of the administration on this one effort of legislation; and what the frantic entreaties of the Whips had failed to secure, curiosity had accomplished, for members of both parties were hurrying to town to be present at a scene which might perhaps be history, and, as many feared, tragedy.

  As Sir Philip conned the paper he mechanically formed in his mind the line of attack – for, tragedy or no, the Bill struck at too many interests in the House to allow of its passage without a stormy debate. He was a master of dialectics, a brilliant casuist, a coiner of phrases that stuck and stung. There was nothing for him to fear in the debate. If only – It hurt him to think of the Four Just Men. Not so much because they threatened his life – he had gone past that – but the mere thought that there had come a new factor into his calculations, a new and terrifying force, that could not be argued down or brushed aside with an acid jest, nor intrigued against, nor adjusted by any parliamentary method. He did not think of compromise. The possibility of making terms with his enemy never once entered his head.

  ‘I’ll go through with it!’ he cried, not once but a score of times; ‘I’ll go through with it!’ and now, as the moment grew nearer to hand, his determination to try conclusions with this new world-force grew stronger than ever.

  The telephone at his elbow purred – he was sitting at his desk with his head on his hands – and he took the receiver. The voice of his house steward reminded him that he had arranged to give instructions for the closing of the house in Portland Place.

  For two or three days, or until this terro
r had subsided, he intended his house should be empty. He would not risk the lives of his servants. If the Four intended to carry out their plan they would run no risks of failure, and if the method they employed were a bomb, then, to make assurance doubly sure, an explosion at Downing Street might well synchronize with an outrage at Portland Place.

  He had finished his talk, and was replacing the receiver when a knock at the door heralded the entry of the detective.

  He looked anxiously at the Minister.

  ‘Nobody been, sir?’ he asked.

  Sir Philip smiled.

  ‘If by that you mean have the Four delivered their ultimatum in person, I can comfort your mind – they have not.’

  The detective’s face was evidence of his relief.

  ‘Thank Heaven!’ he said fervently. ‘I had an awful dread that whilst I was away something would happen. But I have news for you, sir.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  ‘Yes, sir, the Commissioner has received a long cable from America. Since the two murders in that country one of Pinkerton’s men has been engaged in collecting data. For years he has been piecing together the scrappy evidence he has been able to secure, and this is his cable-gram.’ The detective drew a paper from his pocket and, spreading it on the desk, read.

  Pinkerton, Chicago, to Commissioner of Police,

  Scotland Yard, London.

  Warn Ramon that the Four do not go outside their promise. If they have threatened to kill in a certain manner at a certain time they will be punctual. We have proof of this characteristic. After Anderson’s death small memorandum book was discovered outside window of room evidently dropped. Book was empty save for three pages, which were filled with neatly written memoranda headed ‘Six methods of execution’. It was initialled ‘C.’ (third letter in alphabet). Warn Ramon against following: drinking coffee in any form, opening letters or parcels, using soap that has not been manufactured under eye of trustworthy agent, sitting in any room other than that occupied day and night by police officer. Examine his bedroom; see if there is any method by which heavy gases can be introduced. We are sending two men by Lucania to watch.