The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

On a pleasant evening in early summer, Leon Gonsalez descended from the top of a motor-omnibus at Piccadilly Circus and walking briskly down the Haymarket, turned into Jermyn Street apparently oblivious of the fact that somebody was following on his heels.

  Manfred looked up from his writing as his friend came in, and nodded smilingly as Leon took off his light overcoat and made his way to the window overlooking the street.

  ‘What are you searching for so anxiously, Leon?’ he asked.

  ‘Jean Prothero, of 75 Barside Buildings, Lambeth,’ said Leon, not taking his eyes from the street below. ‘Ah, there he is, the industrious fellow!’

  ‘Who is Jean Prothero?’

  Gonsalez chuckled.

  ‘A very daring man,’ evaded Leon, ‘to wander about the West End at this hour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh no, not so daring,’ he said, ‘everybody who is anybody is dressing for dinner just now.’

  ‘A ladder larcenist?’ suggested Manfred, and Leon chuckled again.

  ‘Nothing so vulgar,’ he said. ‘By ladder larcenist I presume you mean the type of petty thief who puts a ladder against a bedroom window whilst the family are busy at dinner downstairs, and makes off with the odd scraps of jewellery he can find?’

  Manfred nodded.

  ‘That is the official description of this type of criminal,’ he agreed.

  Leon shook his head.

  ‘No, Mr Prothero is interesting,’ he said. ‘Interesting for quite another reason. In the first place, he is a bald-headed criminal, or potential criminal, and as you know, my dear George, criminals are rarely bald. They are coarse-haired, and they are thin-haired: they have such personal eccentricities as parting their hair on the wrong side, but they are seldom bald. The dome of Mr Prothero’s head is wholly innocent of hair of any kind. He is the second mate of a tramp steamer engaged in the fruit trade between the Canary Islands and Southampton. He has a very pretty girl for a wife and, curiously enough, a ladder larcenist for a brother-in-law, and I have excited his suspicion quite unwittingly. Incidentally,’ he added as though it were a careless afterthought, ‘he knows that I am one of the Four Just Men.’

  Manfred was silent.

  Then: ‘How does he know that?’ he asked quietly.

  Leon had taken off his coat and had slipped his arms into a faded alpaca jacket; he did not reply until he had rolled and lit an untidy Spanish cigarette.

  ‘Years ago, when there was a hue and cry after that pernicious organisation, whose name I have mentioned, an organisation which, in its humble way, endeavoured to right the injustice of the world and to mete out to evil-doers the punishment which the ponderous machinery of the Law could not inflict, you were arrested, my dear George, and consigned to Chelmsford Gaol. From there you made a miraculous escape, and on reaching the coast you and I and Poiccart were taken aboard the yacht of our excellent friend the Prince of the Asturias, who honoured us by acting as the fourth of our combination.’

  Manfred nodded.

  ‘On that ship was Mr Jean Prothero,’ said Leon. ‘How he came to be on the yacht of His Serene Highness I will explain at a later stage, but assuredly he was there. I never forget faces, George, but unfortunately I am not singular in this respect. Mr Prothero remembered me, and seeing me in Barside Buildings – ’

  ‘What were you doing in Barside Buildings?’ asked Manfred with a faint smile.

  ‘In Barside Buildings,’ replied Leon impressively, ‘are two men unknown to one another, both criminals, and both colour-blind!’

  Manfred put down his pen and turned, prepared for a lecture on criminal statistics, for he had noticed the enthusiasm in Gonsalez’s voice.

  ‘By means of these two men,’ said Leon joyously, ‘I am able to refute the perfectly absurd theories which both Mantegazza and Scheml have expounded, namely, that criminals are never colour-blind. The truth is, my dear George, both these men have been engaged in crime since their early youth. Both have served terms of imprisonment, and what is more important, their fathers were colour-blind and criminals!’

  ‘Well, what about Mr Prothero?’ said Manfred, tactfully interrupting what promised to be an exhaustive disquisition upon optical defects in relation to congenital lawlessness.

  ‘One of my subjects is Prothero’s brother-in-law, or rather, half-brother to Mrs Prothero, her own father having been a blameless carpenter, and lives in the flat overhead. These flats are just tiny dwelling places consisting of two rooms and a kitchen. The builders of Lambeth tenements do not allow for the luxury of a bathroom. In this way I came to meet Mrs Prothero whilst overcoming the reluctance of her brother to talk about himself.’

  ‘And you met Prothero, too, I presume,’ said Manfred patiently.

  ‘No, I didn’t meet him, except by accident. He passed on the stairs and I saw him give me a swift glance. His face was in the shadow and I did not recognise him until our second meeting, which was today. He followed me home. As a matter of fact,’ he added, ‘I have an idea that he followed me yesterday, and only came today to confirm my place of residence.’

  ‘You’re a rum fellow,’ said Manfred.

  ‘Maybe I’ll be rummer,’ smiled Leon. ‘Everything depends now,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘upon whether Prothero thinks that I recognised him. If he does – ’

  Leon shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not for the first time have I fenced with death and overcome him,’ he said lightly.

  Manfred was not deceived by the flippancy of his friend’s tone.

  ‘As bad as that, eh?’ he said, ‘and more dangerous for him, I think,’ he added quietly. ‘I do not like the idea of killing a man because he has recognised us – that course does not seem to fit in with my conception of justice.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Leon briskly, ‘and there will be no need, I think. Unless, of course – ’ he paused.

  ‘Unless what?’ asked Manfred.

  ‘Unless Prothero really does love his wife, in which case it may be a very serious business.’

  The next morning he strolled into Manfred’s bedroom carrying the cup of tea which the servant usually brought, and George stared up at him in amazement.

  ‘What is the matter with you, Leon, haven’t you been to bed?’

  Leon Gonsalez was dressed in what he called his ‘pyjama outfit’ – a grey flannel coat and trousers, belted at the waist, a silk shirt open at the neck and a pair of light slippers constituted his attire, and Manfred, who associated this costume with all-night studies, was not astonished when Leon shook his head.

  ‘I have been sitting in the dining-room, smoking the pipe of peace,’ he said.

  ‘All night?’ said Manfred in surprise. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night and I saw no light.’

  ‘I sat in the dark,’ admitted Leon. ‘I wanted to hear things.’

  Manfred stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Is it as bad as that? Did you expect – ’

  Leon smiled. ‘I didn’t expect what I got,’ he said. ‘Will you do me a favour, my dear George?’

  ‘What is your favour?’

  ‘I want you not to speak of Mr Prothero for the rest of the day. Rather, I wish you to discuss purely scientific and agricultural matters, as becomes an honest Andalusian farmer, and moreover to speak in Spanish.’

  Manfred frowned.

  ‘Why?’ and then: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t get out of the habit of being mystified, you know, Leon. Spanish and agriculture it shall be, and no reference whatever to Prothero.’

  Leon was very earnest and Manfred nodded and swung out of bed.

  ‘May I talk of taking a bath?’ he asked sardonically.

  Nothing particularly interesting happened that day. Once Manfred was on the point of referring to Leon’s experience, and divining the drift of his thought, Leon raised a warning finger.

  Gons
alez could talk about crime, and did. He talked of its more scientific aspects and laid particular stress upon his discovery of the colour-blind criminal. But of Mr Prothero he said no word.

  After they had dined that night, Leon went out of the flat and presently returned.

  ‘Thank heaven we can now talk without thinking,’ he said.

  He pulled a chair to the wall and mounted it nimbly. Above his head was a tiny ventilator fastened to the wall with screws. Humming a little tune he turned a screwdriver deftly and lifted the little grille from its socket, Manfred watching him gravely.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Leon. ‘Pull up a chair, George.’

  ‘It’ proved to be a small flat brown box four inches by four in the centre of which was a black vulcanite depression.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ said Leon. ‘He is the detectaphone – in other words a telephone receiver fitted with a microphonic attachment.’

  ‘Has somebody been listening to all we’ve been saying?’

  Leon nodded.

  ‘The gentleman upstairs has had a dull and dreary day. Admitting that he speaks Spanish, and that I have said nothing which has not illuminated that branch of science which is my particular hobby,’ he added modestly, ‘he must have been terribly bored.’

  ‘But – ’ began Manfred.

  ‘He is out now,’ said Gonsalez. ‘But to make perfectly sure – ’

  With deft fingers he detached one of the wires by which the box was suspended in the ventilator shaft.

  ‘Mr Prothero came last night,’ he explained. ‘He took the room upstairs, and particularly asked for it. This I learnt from the head waiter – he adores me because I give him exactly three times the tip which he gets from other residents in these service flats, and because I tip him three times as often. I didn’t exactly know what Prothero’s game was, until I heard the tap-tap of the microphone coming down the shaft.’

  He was busy re-fixing the grille of the ventilator – presently he jumped down.

  ‘Would you like to come to Lambeth today? I do not think there is much chance of our meeting Mr Prothero. On the other hand, we shall see Mrs Prothero shopping at eleven o’clock in the London Road, for she is a methodical lady.’

  ‘Why do you want me to see her?’ asked Manfred.

  He was not usually allowed to see the workings of any of Leon’s schemes until the dramatic dénouement, which was meat and drink to him, was near at hand.

  ‘I want you, with your wide knowledge of human nature, to tell me whether she is the type of woman for whom a bald-headed man would commit murder,’ he said simply, and Manfred stared at him in amazement.

  ‘The victim being – ?’

  ‘Me!’ replied Gonsalez, and doubled up with silent laughter at the blank look on Manfred’s face.

  It was four minutes to eleven exactly when Manfred saw Mrs Prothero. He felt the pressure of Leon’s hand on his arm and looked.

  ‘There she is,’ said Leon.

  A girl was crossing the road. She was neatly, even well-dressed for one of her class. She carried a market bag in one gloved hand, a purse in the other.

  ‘She’s pretty enough,’ said Manfred.

  The girl had paused to look in a jeweller’s window and Manfred had time to observe her. Her face was sweet and womanly, the eyes big and dark, the little chin firm and rounded.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ said Leon.

  ‘I think she’s rather a perfect specimen of young womanhood,’ said Manfred.

  ‘Come along and meet her,’ said the other, and took his arm.

  The girl looked round at first in surprise, and then with a smile. Manfred had an impression of flashing white teeth and scarlet lips parted in amusement. Her voice was not the voice of a lady, but it was quiet and musical.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she said to Leon. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world so early in the morning.’

  ‘Doctor,’ noted Manfred.

  The adaptable Gonsalez assumed many professions for the purpose of securing his information.

  ‘We have just come from Guy’s Hospital. This is Dr Selbert,’ he introduced Manfred. ‘You are shopping, I suppose?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Really, there was no need for me to come out, Mr Prothero being away at the Docks for three days,’ she replied.

  ‘Have you seen your brother this morning?’ asked Leon.

  A shadow fell over the girl’s face.

  ‘No,’ she said shortly.

  Evidently, thought Manfred, she was not particularly proud of her relationship. Possibly she suspected his illicit profession, but at any rate she had no desire to discuss him, for she changed the subject quickly.

  They talked for a little while, and then with an apology she left them and they saw her vanish through the wide door of a grocer’s store.

  ‘Well, what do you think of her?’

  ‘She is a very beautiful girl,’ said Manfred quietly.

  ‘The kind of girl that would make a bald-headed criminal commit a murder?’ asked Leon, and Manfred laughed.

  ‘It is not unlikely,’ he said, ‘but why should he murder you?’

  ‘Nous verrons,’ replied Leon.

  When they returned to their flat in the afternoon the mail had been and there were half a dozen letters. One bearing a heavy crest upon the envelope attracted Manfred’s attention.

  ‘Lord Pertham,’ he said, looking at the signature. ‘Who is Lord Pertham?’

  ‘I haven’t a Who’s Who handy, but I seem to know the name,’ said Leon. ‘What does Lord Pertham want?’

  ‘I’ll read you the note,’ said Manfred.

  ‘Dear Sir,’ [it read] ‘Our mutual friend Mr Fare of Scotland Yard is dining with us tonight at Connaught Gardens, and I wonder whether you would come along? Mr Fare tells me that you are one of the cleverest criminologists of the century, and as it is a study which I have made particularly my own, I shall be glad to make your acquaintance.’

  It was signed ‘Pertham’ and there was a postscript running –

  ‘Of course, this invitation also includes your friend.’

  Manfred rubbed his chin.

  ‘I really do not want to dine fashionably tonight,’ he said.

  ‘But I do,’ said Leon promptly. ‘I have developed a taste for English cooking, and I seem to remember that Lord Pertham is an epicurean.’

  Promptly at the hour of eight they presented themselves at the big house standing at the corner of Connaught Gardens and were admitted by a footman who took their hats and coats and showed them into a large and gloomy drawing-room.

  A man was standing with his back to the fire – a tall man of fifty with a mane of grey hair, that gave him an almost leonine appearance.

  He came quickly to meet them.

  ‘Which is Mr Fuentes?’ he asked, speaking in English.

  ‘I am Signor Fuentes,’ replied Manfred, with a smile, ‘but it is my friend who is the criminologist.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you both – but I have an apology to make to you;’ he said, speaking hurriedly. ‘By some mischance – the stupidity of one of my men – the letter addressed to Fare was not posted. I only discovered it half an hour ago. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Manfred murmured something conventional and then the door opened to admit a lady.

  ‘I want to present you to her ladyship,’ said Lord Pertham.

  The woman who came in was thin and vinegary: a pair of pale eyes, a light-lipped mouth and a trick of frowning deprived her of whatever charm Nature had given to her.

  Leon Gonsalez, who analysed faces automatically and mechanically, thought, ‘Spite – suspicion – uncharity – vanity.’

  The frown deepened as she offered a limp hand.

&
nbsp; ‘Dinner is ready, Pertham,’ she said, and made no attempt to be agreeable to her guests.

  It was an awkward meal. Lord Pertham was nervous and his nervousness might have communicated itself to the two men if they had been anything but what they were. This big man seemed to be in terror of his wife – was deferential, even humble in her presence, and when at last she swept her sour face from the room he made no attempt to hide his sigh of relief.

  ‘I am afraid we haven’t given you a very good dinner,’ he said. ‘Her ladyship has had a little – er – disagreement with my cook.’

  Apparently her ladyship was in the habit of having little disagreements with her cook, for in the course of the conversation which followed he casually mentioned certain servants in his household who were no longer in his employ. He spoke mostly of their facial characteristics, and it seemed to Manfred, who was listening as intently as his companion, that his lordship was not a great authority upon the subject. He spoke haltingly, made several obvious slips, but Leon did not correct him. He mentioned casually that he had an additional interest in criminals because his own life had been threatened.

  ‘Let us go up and join my lady,’ he said after a long and blundering exposition of some phase of criminology which Manfred could have sworn he had read up for the occasion.

  They went up the broad stairs into a little drawing-room on the first floor. It was empty. His lordship was evidently surprised.

  ‘I wonder – ’ he began, when the door opened and Lady Pertham ran in. Her face was white and her thin lips were trembling.

  ‘Pertham,’ she said rapidly, ‘I’m sure there’s a man in my dressing-room.’

  ‘In your dressing-room?’ said Lord Pertham, and ran out quickly.

  The two men would have followed him, but he stopped half-way up the stairs and waved them back.

  ‘You had better wait with her ladyship,’ he said. ‘Ring for Thomas, my love,’ he said.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs they heard him moving about. Presently they heard a cry and the sound of a struggle. Manfred was half-way up the stairs when a door slammed above. Then came the sound of voices and a shot, followed by a heavy fall.

  Manfred flung himself against the door from whence the sound came.