The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  Black’s eyebrows lowered.

  ‘I do not like jests of that kind,’ he said. ‘Sandford is an obstinate man, a proud man; he needs delicate handling. Leave him to me.’

  The meeting adjourned lamely enough, and Black was leaving the room when Fanks beckoned to him.

  ‘I met a man yesterday who knew your friend, Dr Essley, in Australia,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed.’ Colonel Black’s face was expressionless.

  ‘Yes – he knew him in his very early days – he was asking me where he could find him.’

  The other shrugged his shoulders. ‘Essley is abroad, I think – you don’t like him?’

  Augustus Fanks shook his head. ‘I don’t like doctors who come to see me in the middle of the night, who are never to be found when they are wanted, and are always jaunting off to the Continent.’

  ‘He is a busy man,’ excused Black. ‘By the way, where is your friend staying?’

  ‘He isn’t a friend, he’s a sort of prospector, name of Weld, who has come to London with a mining proposition. He is staying at Varlet’s Temperance Hôtel in Bloomsbury.’

  ‘I will tell Essley when he returns,’ said Black, nodding his head.

  He returned to his private office in a thoughtful mood. All was not well with Colonel Black. Reputedly a millionaire, he was in the position of many a financier who counted his wealth in paper. He had got so far climbing on the shadows. The substance was still beyond his reach. He had organized successful combinations, but the cost had been heavy. Millions had flowed through his hands, but precious little had stuck. He was that curious contradiction – a dishonest man with honest methods. His schemes were financially sound, yet it had needed almost superhuman efforts to get them through.

  He was in the midst of an unpleasant reverie when a tap on the door aroused him. It opened to admit Fanks. He frowned at the intruder, but the other pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Look here, Black,’ he said, ‘I want to say something to you.’

  ‘Say it quickly.’

  Fanks took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. ‘You’ve had a marvellous career,’ he said. ‘I remember when you started with a little bucket-shop – well, we won’t call it a bucket-shop,’ he said hastily as he saw the anger rising in the other’s face, ‘outside broker’s. You had a mug – I mean an inexperienced partner who found the money.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not the mysterious Gram, I think?’

  ‘His successor – there was nothing mysterious about Gram.’

  ‘A successor named Flint?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He died unexpectedly, didn’t he?’

  ‘I believe he did,’ said Black abruptly.

  ‘Providence again,’ said Fanks slowly; ‘then you got the whole of the business. You took over the flotation and a rubber company, and it panned out. Well, after that you floated a tin mine or something – there was a death there, wasn’t there?’

  ‘I believe there was – one of the directors; I forget his name.’

  Fanks nodded. ‘He could have stopped the flotation – he was threatening to resign and expose some methods of yours.’

  ‘He was a very headstrong man.’

  ‘And he died.’

  ‘Yes,’ – a pause – ‘he died.’

  Fanks looked at the man who sat opposite to him.

  ‘Dr Essley attended him.’

  ‘I believe he did.’

  ‘And he died.’

  Black leant over the desk. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘What are you suggesting about my friend, Dr Essley?’

  ‘Nothing, except that Providence has been of some assistance to you,’ said Fanks. ‘The record of your success is a record of death – you sent Essley to see me once.’

  ‘You were ill.’

  ‘I was,’ said Fanks grimly, ‘and I was also troubling you a little.’ He flicked the ash from his cigar to the carpet. ‘Black, I’m going to resign all my directorships on your companies.’

  The other man laughed unpleasantly.

  ‘You can laugh, but it isn’t healthy, Black. I’ve no use for money that is bought at too heavy a price.’

  ‘My dear man, you can resign,’ said Colonel Black, ‘but might I ask if your extraordinary suspicions are shared by anybody else?’

  Fanks shook his head.

  ‘Not at present,’ he said.

  They looked at one another for the space of half a minute, which was a very long time.

  ‘I want to clear right out,’ Fanks continued. ‘I reckon my holdings are worth £150,000 – you can buy them.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ said Black harshly.

  He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little green bottle and a feather. ‘Poor Essley,’ he smiled, ‘wandering about Spain seeking the secrets of Moorish perfumery – he would go off his head if he knew what you thought of him.’

  ‘I’d sooner he went off his head than that I should go off the earth,’ said Fanks stolidly. ‘What have you got there?’

  Black unstoppered the bottle and dipped in the feather. He withdrew it and held it close to his nose.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fanks curiously. For answer, Black held up the feather for the man to smell.

  ‘I can smell nothing,’ said Fanks. Tilting the end quickly downwards. Black drew it across the lips of the other. ‘Here . . . ’ cried Fanks, and went limply to the ground.

  * * *

  ‘Constable Fellowe!’

  Frank Fellowe was leaving the charge-room when he heard the snappy tones of the desk-sergeant calling him.

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’ he said, with a note of inquiry in his voice. He knew that there was something unpleasant coming. Sergeant Gurden seldom took any opportunity of speaking to him, except in admonishment. The sergeant was a wizen-faced man, with an ugly trick of showing his teeth when he was annoyed, and no greater contrast could be imagined than that which was afforded by the tall, straight-backed young man in the constable’s uniform, standing before the desk, and the shrunken figure that sat on the stool behind.

  Sergeant Gurden had a dead-white face, which a scrubby black moustache went to emphasize. In spite of the fact that he was a man of good physical development, his clothing hung upon him awkwardly, and indeed the station-sergeant was awkward in more ways than one. Now he looked at Fellowe, showing his teeth. ‘I have had another complaint about you,’ he said, ‘and if this is repeated it will be a matter for the Commissioner.’

  The constable nodded his head respectfully. ‘I am very sorry, sergeant,’ he said, ‘but what is the complaint?’

  ‘You know as well as I do,’ snarled the other; ‘you have been annoying Colonel Black again.’

  A faint smile passed across Fellowe’s lips. He knew something of the solicitude in which the sergeant held the colonel.

  ‘What the devil are you smiling at?’ snapped the sergeant. ‘I warn you,’ he went on, ‘that you are getting very impertinent, and this may be a matter for the Commissioner.’

  ‘I had no intention of being disrespectful, sergeant,’ said the young man. ‘I am as tired of these complaints as you are, but I have told you, as I will tell the Commissioner, that Colonel Black lives in a house in Serrington Gardens and is a source of some interest to me – that is my excuse.’

  ‘He complains that you are always watching the house,’ said the sergeant, and Constable Fellowe smiled.

  ‘That is his conscience working,’ he said. ‘Seriously, sergeant, I happen to know that the colonel is not too friendly disposed – ’

  He stopped himself.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the sergeant.

  ‘Well,’ repeated Constable Fellowe, ‘it might be as well perhaps if I kept my thoughts to myself.’

  The sergeant nodded g
rimly.

  ‘If you get into trouble you will only have yourself to blame,’ he warned. ‘Colonel Black is an influential man. He is a ratepayer. Don’t forget that, constable. The ratepayers pay your salary, find the coat for your back, feed you – you owe everything to the ratepayers.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said the young man, ‘Colonel Black is a ratepayer who owes me something.’

  Hitching his cape over his arm, he passed from the charge-room down the stone steps into the street without. The man on duty at the door bade him a cheery farewell.

  * * *

  Fellowe was an annoying young man, more annoying by reason of the important fact that his antecedents were quite unknown to his most intimate friends. He was a man of more than ordinary education, quiet, restrained, his voice gently modulated; he had all the manners and attributes of a gentleman.

  He had a tiny little house in Somers Town where he lived alone, but no friend of his, calling casually, had ever the good fortune to find him at home when he was off duty. It was believed he had other interests.

  What those interests were could be guessed when, with exasperating unexpectedness, he appeared in the amateur boxing championship and carried off the police prize, for Fellowe was a magnificent boxer – hard-hitting, quick, reliable, scientific.

  The bad men of Somers Town were the first to discover this, and one, Grueler, who on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion had shown fight on the way to the station, testified before breathless audiences as to the skill and science of the young man.

  His breezy independence had won for him many friends, but it had made him enemies too, and as he walked thoughtfully along the street leading from the station, he realized that in the sergeant he had an enemy of more than average malignity.

  Why should this be? It puzzled him. After all, he was only doing his duty. That he was also exceeding his duty did not strike him as being sufficient justification for the resentment of his superior, for he had reached the enthusiastic age of life where only inaction was unpardonable. As to Black, Frank shrugged his shoulders. He could not understand it. He was not of a nature to suspect that the sergeant had any other motive than the perfectly natural desire which all blasé superiors have, to check their too impulsive subordinates.

  Frank admitted to himself that he was indeed a most annoying person, and in many ways he understood the sergeant’s antagonism to himself. Dismissing the matter from his mind, he made his way to his tiny house in Croome Street and let himself into his small dining-room.

  The walls were distempered, and the few articles of furniture that were within were such as are not usually met with in houses of this quality. The old print above the mantelpiece must have been worth a working-man’s annual income. The small gate-legged table in the centre of the felt-covered floor was indubitably Jacobean, and the chairs were Sheraton, as also was the sideboard. Though the periods may not have harmonized, there is harmony enough in great age. A bright fire was burning in the grate, for the night was bitterly cold. Fellowe stopped before the mantelpiece to examine two letters which stood awaiting him, replaced them from where he had taken them, and passed through the folding doors of the room into a tiny bedroom.

  He had an accommodating landlord. Property owners in Somers Town, and especially the owners of small cottages standing on fairly valuable ground, do not as a rule make such renovations as Fellowe required. The average landlord, for instance, would not have built the spacious bathroom which the cottage boasted, but then Fellowe’s landlord was no ordinary man.

  The young man bathed, changed himself into civilian clothing, made himself a cup of tea, and, slipping into a long overcoat which reached to his heels, left the house half an hour after he had entered.

  Frank Fellowe made his way West. He found a taxi-cab at King’s Cross and gave an address in Piccadilly. Before he had reached that historic thoroughfare he tapped at the window-glass and ordered the cabman to drop him.

  At eleven o’clock that night Sergeant Gurden, relieved from his duty, left the station-house. Though outwardly taciturn and calm, he was boiling internally with wrath.

  His antipathy to Fellowe was a natural one, but it had become intensified during the past few weeks by the attitude which the young man had taken up towards the sergeant’s protégé.

  Gurden was as much of a mystery to the men in his division as Fellowe, and even more so, because the secrecy which surrounded Gurden’s life had a more sinister import than the reservation of the younger man.

  Gurden was cursed with an ambition. He had hoped at the outset of his career to have secured distinction in the force, but a lack of education, coupled with an address which was apt to be uncouth and brusque, had militated against his enthusiasm.

  He had recognized the limitations placed upon his powers by the authorities over him. He had long since come to realize that hope of promotion, first to an inspectorship, and eventually to that bright star which lures every policeman onward, and which is equivalent to the baton popularly supposed to be in every soldier’s knapsack, a superintendentship, was not for him.

  Thwarted ambition had to find a new outlet, and he concentrated his attention upon acquiring money. It became a passion for him, an obsession. His parsimony, his meanness, and his insatiable greed were bywords throughout the Metropolitan police force.

  It had become a mania with him, this collecting of money, and his bitterest enmity was reserved for those who placed the slightest obstacle between the officer and the gratification of his ambitions.

  It must be said of Colonel Black that he had been most kind. Cupidity takes a lenient view of its benefactor’s morals, and though Sergeant Gurden was not the kind of man willingly to help the lawless, no person could say that an outside broker, undetected of fraud, was anything but a desirable member of society.

  Black had made an appointment with him. He was on his way now to keep it. The colonel lived in one of those one-time fashionable squares in Camden Town. He was obviously well off, ran a car of his own, and had furnished No. 60 Serrington Gardens, with something like lavish comfort.

  The sergeant had no time to change. There was no necessity, he told himself, for his relations with Black were of such a character that there was no need to stand on ceremony.

  The square was deserted at this time of night, and the sergeant made his way to the kitchen entrance in the basement and rang the bell. The door was opened almost instantly by a man-servant.

  ‘Is that you, sergeant?’ said a voice from the darkness, as Gurden made his way upstairs to the unlighted hall above. Colonel Black turned on the light. He held out a long muscular hand in welcome to the police officer. ‘I am so glad you have come,’ he said.

  The sergeant took the hand and shook it warmly. ‘I have come to apologize to you. Colonel Black,’ he said. ‘I have severely reprimanded Police-Constable Fellowe.’

  Black waved his hand deprecatingly. ‘I do not wish to get any member of your admirable force into trouble,’ he said, ‘but really this man’s prying into my business is inexcusable and humiliating.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘I can well understand your annoyance, sir,’ he said, ‘but you will understand that these young constables are always a little over-zealous, and when a man is that way he is inclined to overdo it a little.’

  He spoke almost pleadingly in his desire to remove any bad impression that might exist in Black’s mind as to his own part in Police-Constable Fellowe’s investigations.

  Black favoured him with a gracious bow.

  ‘Please do not think of it, I beg of you,’ he said. ‘I am perfectly sure that the young constable did not intend willingly to hurt my amour-propre.’ He led the way to a spacious dining-room situated at the back of the house. Whisky and cigars were on the table. ‘Help yourself, sergeant,’ said Colonel Black. He pushed a big comfortable chair forward.

  With a
murmured word of thanks, the sergeant sank into its luxurious depths. ‘I am due back at the station in half an hour,’ he said, ‘if you will excuse me then.’

  Black nodded. ‘We shall be able to do our business in that time,’ he said, ‘but before we go any further, let me thank you for what you have already done.’

  From the inside pocket of his coat he took a flat pocket-book, opened it and extracted two bank-notes. He laid them on the table at the sergeant’s elbow. The sergeant protested feebly, but his eyes twinkled at the sight of the crinkling paper. ‘I don’t think I have done anything to deserve this,’ he muttered.

  Colonel Black smiled, and his big cigar tilted happily. ‘I pay well for little services, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I have many enemies – men who will misrepresent my motives – and it is essential that I should be forewarned.’

  He strode up and down the apartment thoughtfully, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets.

  ‘It is a hard country, England,’ he said, ‘for men who have had the misfortune to dabble in finance.’

  Sergeant Gurden murmured sympathetically.

  ‘In our business, sergeant,’ the aggrieved colonel went on, ‘it frequently happens that disappointed people – people who have not made the profits which they anticipated – bring extraordinary accusations against those responsible for the conduct of those concerns in which their money is invested. I had a letter today – ’ he shrugged his shoulders – ‘accusing me – me! – of running a bucket-shop.’

  The sergeant nodded; he could well understand that aspect of speculation.

  ‘And one has friends,’ Black went on, striding up and down the apartment, ‘one has people one wants to protect against similar annoyances – take my friend Dr Essley – Essley, E double S L E Y,’ he spelt the name carefully; ‘you have heard of him?’

  The sergeant had not heard of any such body, but was willing to admit that he had.

  ‘There is a man,’ said the colonel, ‘a man absolutely at the head of his profession – I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that even he is no safer from the voice of slander.’