The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  Whilst this was being done, Poiccart returned.

  ‘His car has just driven off,’ he said. ‘I saw the number-plate as it turned into Lisle Street.’

  ‘How long ago?’ asked Gonsalez quickly.

  ‘At this very moment.’

  Leon pinched his lip thoughtfully.

  ‘Why didn’t he wait, I wonder?’

  He went back through the emergency door, which was being closed, and passed up the passage towards the entrance. The box was on the dress-circle level, and the end of a short passage brought him into the circle itself.

  And then the thought of the lame man occurred to him, and his eyes sought the first seat in the front row, which was also the seat nearest to the boxes. The man had gone.

  As he made this discovery, George emerged from the passage.

  ‘Gurther!’ said Leon. ‘What a fool I am! But how clever!’

  ‘Gurther?’ said Manfred in amazement. ‘Do you mean the man with the club foot?’

  Leon nodded.

  ‘He was not alone, of course,’ said Gonsalez. ‘There must have been two or three of the gang here, men and women – Oberzohn works these schemes out with the care and thoroughness of a general. I wonder where the management have taken the girl?’

  He found the manager discussing the tragedy with two other men, one of whom was obviously associated with the production, and he signalled him aside.

  ‘The lady? I suppose she’s gone home. She’s left the theatre.’

  ‘Which way did she go?’ asked Gonsalez, in a sudden panic.

  The manager called a linkman, who had seen a middle-aged woman come out of the theatre with a weeping girl, and they had gone down the side-street towards the little square at the back of the playhouse.

  ‘She may have taken her home to Chester Square,’ said Manfred. His voice belied the assumption of confidence.

  Leon had not brought his own machine, and they drove to Chester Square in a taxi. Fred, the footman, had neither heard nor seen the girl, and nearly fainted when he learned of the tragic ending to his master’s career.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ he groaned. ‘And he only left here this afternoon . . . dead, you say?’

  Gonsalez nodded.

  ‘Not – not The Snake?’ faltered the man.

  ‘What do you know about the snake?’ demanded Manfred sternly.

  ‘Nothing, except – well, the snake made him nervous, I know. He told me today that he hoped he’d get through the week without a snake-bite.’

  He was questioned closely, but although it was clear that he knew something of his master’s illicit transactions, and that he was connected in business with Oberzohn, the footman had no connection with the doctor’s gang. He drew a large wage and a percentage of profits from the gaming side of the business, and confessed that it was part of his duties to prepare stacks of cards and pass them to his master under cover of bringing in the drinks. But of anything more sinister he knew nothing.

  ‘The woman, of course, was a confederate, who had been planted to take charge of the girl the moment the snake struck. I was in such a state of mind,’ confessed Leon, ‘that I do not even remember what she looked like. I am a fool – a double-distilled idiot! I think I must be getting old. There’s only one thing for us to do, and that is to get back to Curzon Street – something may have turned up.’

  ‘Did you leave anybody in the house?’

  Leon nodded. ‘Yes, I left one of our men, to take any ’phone messages that came through.’

  They paid off the taxi before the house, and Leon sprinted to the garage to get the car. The man who opened the door to them was he who had been tied up by the pedlar at Heavy-tree Farm, and his first words came as a shock to Manfred: ‘Digby’s here, sir.’

  ‘Digby?’ said the other in surprise. ‘I thought he was on duty?’

  ‘He’s been here since just after you left, sir. If I’d known where you had gone, I’d have sent him to you.’

  Digby came out of the waiting-room at that moment, ready to apologize.

  ‘I had to see you, sir, and I’m sorry I’m away from my post.’

  ‘You may not be missing much,’ said Manfred unsmilingly. ‘Come upstairs and tell me all about it.’

  Digby’s story was a strange one. He had gone down that afternoon to the canal bank to make a reconnaissance of ground which was new to him.

  ‘I’m glad I did too, because the walls have got broken glass on top. I went up into the Old Kent Road and bought a garden hoe, and prised the mortar loose, so that if I wanted, I could get over. And then I climbed round the water-gate and had a look at that barge of his. There was nobody about, though I think they spotted me afterwards. It is a fairly big barge, and, of course, in a terrible state, but the hold is full of cargo – you know that, sir?’

  ‘You mean there is something in the barge?’

  Digby nodded.

  ‘Yes, it has a load of some kind. The after part, where the bargee’s sleeping quarters are, is full of rats and water, but the fore part of the vessel is water-tight, and it holds something heavy too. That is why the barge is down by its head in the mud. I was in the Thames police and I know a lot about river craft.’

  ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

  ‘No, sir, it was something queerer than that. After I’d given the barge a look over and tried to pull up some of the boards – which I didn’t manage to do – I went along and had a look at the factory. It’s not so easy to get in, because the entrance faces the house, but to get to it you have to go half round the building, and that gives you a certain amount of cover. There was nothing I could see in the factory itself. It was in a terrible mess, full of old iron and burnt-out boxes. I was coming round the back of the building,’ he went on impressively, ‘when I smelt a peculiar scent.’

  ‘A perfume?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it was perfume, but stronger – more like incense. I thought at first it might be an old bale of stuff that had been thrown out, or else I was deceiving myself. I began poking about in the rubbish heaps – but they didn’t smell of scent! Then I went back into the building again, but there was no smell at all. It was very strong when I returned to the back of the factory, and then I saw a little waft of smoke come out of a ventilator close to the ground. My first idea was that the place was on fire, but when I knelt down, it was this scent.’

  ‘Joss-sticks?’ said Poiccart quickly.

  ‘That’s what it was!’ said the detective. ‘Like incense, yet not like it. I knelt down and listened at the grating, and I’ll swear that I heard voices. They were very faint.’

  ‘Men’s?’

  ‘No, women’s.’

  ‘Could you see anything?’

  ‘No, sir, it was a blind ventilator; there was probably a shaft there – in fact, I’m sure there was, because I pushed a stone through one of the holes and heard it drop some distance down.’

  ‘There may be an underground room there,’ said Poiccart, ‘and somebody’s burnt joss-sticks to sweeten the atmosphere.’

  ‘Under the factory? It’s not in the plans of the building. I’ve had them from the surveyor’s office and examined them,’ said George, ‘although surveyors’ plans aren’t infallible. A man like Oberzohn would not hesitate to break so unimportant a thing as a building law!’

  Leon came in at that moment, heard the story and was in complete agreement with Poiccart’s theory.

  ‘I wondered at the time we saw the plans whether we ought to accept that as conclusive,’ he said. ‘The store was built at the end of 1914, when architects and builders took great liberties and pleaded the exigencies of the war.’

  Digby went on with his story.

  ‘I was going back to the barge to get past the water-gate, but I saw the old man coming down the steps of the house,
so I climbed the wall, and very glad I was that I’d shifted that broken glass, or I should never have got over.’

  Manfred pulled his watch from his pocket with a frown. They had lost nearly an hour of precious time with their inquiries in Chester Square.

  ‘I hope we’re not too late,’ he said ominously. ‘Now Leon . . . ’

  But Leon had gone down the stairs in three strides.

  Chapter 30

  Joan a prisoner

  Dazed with grief, not knowing, not seeing, not caring, not daring to think, Joan suffered herself to be led quickly into the obscurity of the side-street, and did not even realize that Oberzohn’s big limousine had drawn up by the sidewalk.

  ‘Get in,’ said the woman harshly.

  Joan was pushed through the door and guided to a seat by somebody who was already in the machine.

  She collapsed in a corner moaning as the door slammed and the car began to move.

  ‘Where are we going? Let me get back to him!’

  ‘The gracious lady will please restrain her grief,’ said a hateful voice, and she swung round and stared unseeingly to the place whence the voice had come.

  The curtains of the car had been drawn; the interior was as black as pitch.

  ‘You – you beast!’ she gasped. ‘It’s you, is it? . . . Gurther! You murdering beast!’

  She struck at him feebly, but he caught her wrist.

  ‘The gracious lady will most kindly restrain her grief,’ he said suavely. ‘The Herr Newton is not dead. It was a little trick in order to baffle certain interferers.’

  ‘You’re lying, you’re lying!’ she screamed, struggling to escape from those hands of steel. ‘He’s dead! You know he’s dead, and you killed him! You snake-man!’

  ‘The gracious lady must believe me,’ said Gurther earnestly. They were passing through a public part of the town and at any moment a policeman might hear her shrieks. ‘If Herr Newton had not pretended to be hurt, he would have been arrested . . . he follows in the next car.’

  ‘You’re trying to quieten me,’ she said, ‘but I won’t be quiet.’

  And then a hand came over her mouth and pressed her head back against the cushions. She struggled desperately, but two fingers slid up her face and compressed her nostrils. She was being suffocated. She struggled to free herself from the tentacle hold of him, and then slipped into unconsciousness.

  Gurther felt the straining figure go limp and removed his hands. She did not feel the prick of the needle on her wrist, though the drugging was clumsily performed in the darkness and in a car that was swaying from side to side. He felt her pulse, his long fingers pressed her throat and felt the throb of the carotid artery; propping her so that she could not fall, Herr Gurther sank back luxuriously into a corner of the limousine and lit a cigar.

  The journey was soon over. In a very short time they were bumping down Hangman’s Lane and turned so abruptly into the factory grounds that one of the mudguards buckled to the impact of the gate-post.

  * * *

  It must have been two hours after the departure of her companion, when Mirabelle, lying on her bed, half dozing, was wakened by her book slipping to the floor, and sat up quickly to meet the apprising stare of the man whom, of all men in the world, she disliked most cordially. Dr Oberzohn had come noiselessly into the room and under his arm was a pile of books.

  ‘I have brought these for you,’ he said, in his booming voice, and stacked them neatly on the table.

  She did not answer.

  ‘Novels of a frivolous kind, such as you will enjoy,’ he said, unconscious of offence. ‘I desired the seller of the books to pick them for me. Fiction stories of adventure and of amorous exchanges. These will occupy your mind, though to me they would be the merest rubbish and nonsense.’

  She stood silently, her hands clasped behind her, watching him. He was neater than usual, had resumed the frock-coat he wore the day she had first met him – how long ago that seemed! – his collar was stiffly white, and if his cravat was more gorgeous than is usually seen in a man correctly arrayed, it had the complementary value of being new.

  He held in his hands a small bouquet of flowers tightly packed, their stems enclosed in silver foil, a white paper frill supplying an additional expression of gentility.

  ‘These are for you.’ He jerked out his hand towards her.

  Mirabelle looked at the flowers, but did not take them. He seemed in no way disconcerted, either by her silence, or by the antagonism which her attitude implied, but, laying the flowers on top of the books, he clasped his hands before him and addressed her. He was nervous, for some reason; the skin of his forehead was furrowing and smoothing with grotesque rapidity. She watched the contortions, fascinated.

  ‘To every man,’ he began, ‘there comes a moment of domestic allurement. Even to the scientific mind, absorbed in its colossal problems, there is this desire for family life and for the haven of rest which is called marriage.’

  He paused, as though he expected her to offer some comment upon his platitude.

  ‘Man alone,’ he went on, when she did not speak, ‘has established an artificial and unnatural convention that, at a certain age, a man should marry a woman of that same age. Yet it has been proved by history that happy marriages are often between a man who is in the eyes of the world old, and a lady who is youthful.’

  She was gazing at him in dismay. Was he proposing to her? The idea was incredible, almost revolting. He must have read in her face the thoughts that were uppermost in her mind, the loathing, the sense of repulsion which filled her, yet he went on, unabashed: ‘I am a man of great riches. You are a girl of considerable poverty. But because I saw you one day in your poor house, looking, gracious lady, like a lily growing amidst foul weeds, my heart went out to you, and for this reason I brought you to London, spending many thousands of pounds in order to give myself the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘I don’t think you need go any farther, Dr Oberzohn,’ she said quietly, ‘if you’re proposing marriage, as I think you are.’

  He nodded emphatically.

  ‘Such is my honourable intention,’ he said.

  ‘I would never marry you in any circumstances,’ she said. ‘Not even if I had met you under the happiest conditions. The question of your age’ – she nearly added ‘and of your appearance,’ but her natural kind-ness prevented that cruel thrust, though it would not have hurt him in the slightest degree – ‘has nothing whatever to do with my decision. I do not even like you, and have never liked you, Mr Oberzohn.’

  ‘Doctor,’ he corrected, and in spite of her woeful plight she could have laughed at this insistence upon the ceremonial title.

  ‘Young miss, I cannot woo you in the way of my dear and sainted brother, who was all for ladies and had a beautiful manner.’

  She was amazed to hear that he had a brother at all – and it was almost a relief to know that he was dead.

  ‘Martyred, at the hands of wicked and cunning murderers, slain in his prime by the assassin’s pistol . . . ’ His voice trembled and broke. ‘For that sainted life I will some day take vengeance.’

  It was not wholly curiosity that impelled her to ask who killed him.

  ‘Leon Gonsalez.’ The words in his lips became the grating of a file. ‘Killed . . . murdered! And even his beautiful picture destroyed in that terrible fire. Had he saved that, my heart would have been soft towards him.’ He checked himself, evidently realizing that he was getting away from the object of his call. ‘Think over this matter, young lady. Read the romantic books and the amorous books, and then perhaps you will not think it so terrible a fate to drift at moonlight through the canals of Venice, with the moon above and the gondoliers.’

  He wagged his head sentimentally.

  ‘There is no book which will change my view, doctor,’ she said. ‘I cann
ot understand why you propose such an extraordinary course, but I would rather die than marry you.’

  His cold eyes filled her with a quick terror.

  ‘There are worse things than death, which is but sleep – many worse things, young miss. Tomorrow I shall come for you, and we will go into the country, where you will say “yes” and “no” according to my desire. I have many – what is the word? – certificates for marriage, for I am too clever a man to leave myself without alternatives.’

  (This was true; he had residential qualifications in at least four counties, and at each he had given legal notice of his intended marriage.)

  ‘Not tomorrow or any other day. Nothing would induce me.’

  His eyebrows went almost to the top of his head.

  ‘So!’ he said, with such significance that her blood ran cold. ‘There are worse men than the Herr Doktor – ’ he raised a long finger warningly – ‘terrible men with terrible minds. You have met Gurther?’

  She did not answer this.

  ‘Yes, yes, you danced with him. A nice man, is he not, to ladies? Yet this same Gurther . . . I will tell you something.’

  He seated himself on a corner of the table and began talking, until she covered her ears with her hands and hid her white face from him.

  ‘They would have killed him for that,’ he said, when her hands came down, ‘but Gurther was too clever, and the poor German peasants too stupid. You shall remember that, shall you not?’

  He did not wait for her answer. With a stiff bow he strutted out of the room and up the stairs. There came the thud of the trap falling and the inevitable rumble of the concrete barrel.

  He had some work to do, heavy work for a man who found himself panting when he climbed stairs. And though four of his best and most desperate men were waiting in his parlour drinking his whisky and filling the little room with their rank cigar smoke, he preferred to tackle this task which he had already begun as soon as night fell, without their assistance or knowledge.