The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘You hold it thus,’ said Leon, ‘do you not?’ He dipped the cigarette down and pressed the small spring that was concealed in the black ebonite. ‘The holder is an insulated chamber that holds two small icy splinters – I found the mould in your laboratory, Herr Doktor. They drop into the cigarette, which is a metal one, and then . . . ’

  He lifted it to his lips and blew. None saw the two tiny icicles fly. Only Oberzohn put his hand to his cheek with a strangled scream, glared for a second, and then went down like a heap of rags.

  Leon met Inspector Meadows on his way up.

  ‘I’m afraid our friend has gone,’ he said. ‘He has cheated the hangman of ten pounds.’

  ‘Dead?’ said Meadows. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘It looks like a snake-bite to me,’ said Leon carelessly, as he went down to find Mirabelle Leicester, half laughing, half crying, whilst an earnest Elijah Washington was explaining to her the admirable domestic qualities of snakes.

  ‘There’s five thousand dollars’ worth dead,’ he said, in despair, ‘but there’s enough left to start a circus!’

  Chapter 34

  The death tube

  Later Manfred explained to an interested police chief.

  ‘Oberzohn secured the poison by taking a snake and extracting his venom – a simple process: you have but to make him angry, and he will bite on anything. The doctor discovered a way of blending these venoms to bring out the most deadly qualities of them all – it sounds fantastic, and, from the scientists’ point of view, unlikely. But it is nevertheless the fact. The venom was slightly diluted with water and enough to kill a dozen people was poured into a tiny mould and frozen.’

  ‘Frozen?’ said the chief, in astonishment.

  Manfred nodded.

  ‘There is no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘Snake venom does not lose its potency by being frozen, and this method of moulding their darts was a very sane one, from their point of view. It was only necessary for a microscopic portion of the splinter to pierce the flesh. Sufficient instantly melted to cause death, and if the victim rubbed the place where he had been struck, it was more certain that he would rub some of the venom, which had melted on his cheek, into the wound. Usually they died instantly. The cigarette holders that were carried by Gurther and the other assassin, Pfeiffer, were blowpipes, the cigarette a hollow metal fake. By the time they blew their little ice darts, it was in a half-molten condition and carried sufficient liquid poison to kill, even if the skin was only punctured. And, of course, all that did not enter the skin melted before there could be any examination by the police. That is why you never found darts such as the bush-men use, slithers of bamboo, thorns from trees. Oberzohn had the simplest method of dealing with all opposition: he sent out his snake-men to intercept them, and only once did they fail – when they aimed at Leon and caught that snake-proof man, Elijah Washington!’

  ‘What about Miss Leicester’s claim to the goldfields of Biskara?’

  Manfred smiled.

  ‘The renewal has already been applied for and granted. Leon found at Heavytree Farm some blank sheets of note-paper signed with the girl’s name. He stole one during the aunt’s absence and filled up the blank with a formal request for renewal. I have just had a wire to say that the lease is extended.’

  He and Poiccart had to walk the best part of the way to New Cross before they could find a taxicab. Leon had gone on with the girl. Poiccart was worried about something, and did not speak his mind until the providential cab appeared on the scene and they were trundling along the New Cross Road.

  ‘My dear George, I am a little troubled about Leon,’ he said at last. ‘It seems almost impossible to believe, but – ’

  ‘But what?’ asked Manfred good-humouredly, and knowing what was coming.

  ‘You don’t believe,’ said Poiccart in a hushed voice, as though he were discussing the advent of some world cataclysm – ‘you don’t believe that Leon is in love, do you?’

  Manfred considered for a moment.

  ‘Such things happen, even to just men,’ he said, and Poiccart shook his head sadly.

  ‘I have never contemplated such an unhappy contingency,’ he said, and Manfred was laughing to himself all the way back to town.

  THE END

  Again the Three

  The characters in this book are entirely imaginary and have no relation to any living person.

  The Rebus

  As The Megaphone once said, in its most pessimistic and wondering mood, recording rather than condemning the strangeness of the time:

  Even The Four Just Men have become a respectable institution. Not more than fifteen years ago we spoke of them as ‘a criminal organization’; rewards were offered for their arrest . . . today you may turn into Curzon Street and find a silver triangle affixed to the sedate door which marks their professional headquarters . . . The hunted and reviled have become a most exclusive detective agency . . . We can only hope that their somewhat drastic methods of other times have been considerably modified.

  It is sometimes a dangerous thing to watch a possible watcher.

  ‘What is Mr Lewis Lethersohn afraid of?’ asked Manfred, as he cracked an egg at breakfast. His handsome, clean-shaven face was tanned a teak-brown, for he was newly back from the sun and snows of Switzerland.

  Leon Gonsalez sat opposite, absorbed in The Times; at the end of the table was Raymond Poiccart, heavy-featured and saturnine. Other pens than mine have described his qualities and his passion for growing vegetables.

  He raised his eyes to Gonsalez.

  ‘Is he the gentleman who has had this house watched for the past month?’ he asked.

  A smile quivered on Leon’s lips as he folded the newspaper neatly.

  ‘He is the gentleman – I’m interviewing him this morning,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, the sleuth hounds have been withdrawn – they were employed by the Ottis Detective Agency.’

  ‘If he is watching us, he has a bad conscience,’ said Poiccart, nodding slowly. ‘I shall be interested to hear all about this.’

  Mr Lewis Lethersohn lived in Lower Berkeley Street – a very large and expensive house. The footman who opened the door to Leon was arrayed in a uniform common enough in historical films but rather out of the picture in Lower Berkeley Street. Mulberry and gold and knee breeches . . . Leon gazed at him with awe.

  ‘Mr Lethersohn will see you in the library,’ said the man – he seemed, thought Leon, rather conscious of his own magnificence.

  A gorgeous house this, with costly furnishings and lavish decorations. As he mounted the wide stairs he had a glimpse of a beautiful woman passing across the landing. One disdainful glance she threw in his direction and passed, leaving behind her the faint fragrance of some exotic perfume.

  The room into which he was shown might have been mistaken for a bedroom, with its bric-a-brac and its beauty of appointments.

  Mr Lethersohn rose from behind the Empire writing table and offered a white hand. He was thin, rather bald, and there was a suggestion of the scholar in his lined face.

  ‘Mr Gonsalez?’ His voice was thin and not particularly pleasant. ‘Won’t you sit down? I had your inquiry – there seems to be some mistake.’

  He had resumed his own seat. Though he might endeavour to cover up his uneasiness by this cold attitude of his, he could not quite hide his perturbation.

  ‘I know you, of course – but it is ridiculous that I should set men to watch your house. Why?’

  Gonsalez was watching him intently.

  ‘That is what I have come to learn,’ he said, ‘and I think it would be fairest to tell you that there is no doubt that you are watching us. We know the agency you employed – we know the fees you have paid and the instructions you have given. The only question is, why?’

  Mr Lethersohn moved uncomfortably and smiled. ‘Really . .
. I suppose there is no wisdom in denying that I did employ detectives. The truth is, the Four Just Men is rather a formidable organization – and – er – well, I am a rich man . . .’

  He was at a loss how to go on.

  The interview ended lamely with polite assurances on either side. Leon Gonsalez went back to Curzon Street a very thoughtful man.

  ‘He’s afraid of somebody consulting us, and the detective people have been employed to head off that somebody. Now who?’

  The next evening brought the answer.

  It was a grey April night, chill and moist. The woman who walked slowly down Curzon Street, examining the numbers on the doors, was an object of suspicion to the policeman standing on Claridge’s corner. She was in the region of thirty, rather slim, under the worn and soddened coat. Her face was faded and a little pinched. ‘Pretty once,’ mused Leon Gonsalez, observing her from behind the net curtain that covered the window. ‘A working woman without a thought beyond keeping her body and soul together.’

  He had time enough to observe her, since she stood for a long time by the kerb, looking up and down the street hopelessly.

  ‘Notice the absence of any kind of luring finery – and this is the hour when even the poorest find a scarf or a pair of gloves.’

  Manfred rose from the table where he had been taking his frugal meal and joined the keen-faced observer.

  ‘Provincial, I think,’ said Leon thoughtfully. ‘Obviously a stranger to the West End – she’s coming here!’

  As he was speaking, the woman had turned, made a brief scrutiny of the front door . . . They heard the bell ring.

  ‘I was mistaken – she hadn’t lost her way; she was plucking up courage to ring – and if she isn’t Lethersohn’s bête noire I’m a Dutchman!’

  He heard Poiccart’s heavy tread in the passage – Poiccart played butler quite naturally. Presently he came in and closed the door behind him.

  ‘You will be surprised,’ he said in his grave way. That was peculiarly Poiccart – to say mysterious things gravely.

  ‘About the lady? I refuse to be surprised.’ Leon was vehement. ‘She has lost something – a husband, a watch, something. She has the “lost” look – an atmosphere of vague helplessness surrounds her. The symptoms are unmistakable!’

  ‘Ask her to come in,’ said Manfred, and Poiccart retired.

  A second later Alma Stamford was ushered into the room.

  That was her name. She came from Edgware and she was a widow . . . Long before she came to the end of preliminaries Poiccart’s promised surprise had been sprung, for this woman, wearing clothes that a charwoman would have despised, had a voice which was soft and educated. Her vocabulary was extensive and she spoke of conditions which could only be familiar to one who had lived in surroundings of wealth.

  She was the widow of a man who – they gathered – had not been in his lifetime the best of husbands. Rich beyond the ordinary meaning of the term, with estates in Yorkshire and Somerset, a fearless rider to hounds, he had met his death in the hunting field.

  ‘My husband had a peculiar upbringing,’ she said. ‘His parents died at an early age and he was brought up by his uncle. He was a terrible old man who drank heavily, was coarse to the last degree, and was jealous of outside interference. Mark saw practically nobody until, in the last year of the old man’s life, he brought in a Mr Lethersohn, a young man a little older than Mark, to act as tutor – for Mark’s education was terribly backward. My husband was twenty-one when his uncle died, but he retained a gentleman to act for him as companion and secretary.’

  ‘Mr Lewis Lethersohn,’ said Leon promptly, and she gasped.

  ‘I can’t guess how you know, but that is the name. Although we weren’t particularly happy,’ she went on, ‘my husband’s death was a terrible shock. But almost as great a shock was his will. In this he left one half of his fortune to Lethersohn, the other half to me at the expiration of five years from his death, provided that I carried out the conditions of the will. I was not to marry during that period, I was to live at a house in Harlow and never to leave the Harlow district. Mr Lethersohn was given absolute power as sole executor to dispose of property for my benefit. I have lived in Harlow until this morning.’

  ‘Mr Lethersohn is of course married?’ said Leon, his bright eyes fixed on the lady.

  ‘Yes – you know him?’

  Leon shook his head.

  ‘I only know that he is married and very much in love with his wife.’

  She was astounded at this.

  ‘You must know him. Yes, he married just before Mark was killed. A very beautiful Hungarian girl – he is half Hungarian and I believe he adores her. I heard that she was very extravagant – I only saw her once.’

  ‘What has happened at Harlow?’ It was the silent, watchful Poiccart who asked the question.

  He saw the woman’s lips tremble.

  ‘It has been a nightmare,’ she said with a break in her voice. ‘The house was a beautiful little place – miles from Harlow really, and off the main road. There I have been for two years practically a prisoner. My letters have been opened, I have been locked in my room every night by one of the two women Mr Lethersohn sent to look after me, and men have been patrolling the grounds day and night.’

  ‘The suggestion is that you are not quite right in your head?’ asked Manfred.

  She looked startled at this.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ she asked quickly, and, when he shook his head: ‘Thank God for that! Yes, that was the story they told. I wasn’t supposed to see newspapers, though I had all the books I wanted. One day I found a scrap of paper with the account of a bank fraud which you gentlemen had detected, and there was a brief account of your past. I treasured that because it had your address in the paragraph. To escape seemed impossible – I had no money, it was impossible to leave the grounds. But they had a woman who came to do the rough work twice a week. I think she came from the village. I managed to enlist her sympathy, and yesterday she brought me these clothes. Early this morning I changed, dropped out of my bedroom window and passed the guard. Now I come to my real mystery.’

  She put her hand into the pocket of her wet coat and took out a small package. This she unwrapped.

  ‘My husband was taken to the cottage hospital after his accident; he died early the next morning. He must have recovered consciousness unknown to the nurses, for the top of the sheet was covered with little drawings. He had made them with an indelible pencil attached to his temperature chart and hanging above his head – he must have reached up for it and broken it off.’

  She spread out the square of soiled linen on the table.

  ‘Poor Mark was very fond of drawing the figures that children and idle people who have no real knowledge of art love to scribble.’

  ‘How did you get this?’ asked Leon.

  ‘The matron cut it off for me.’

  Manfred frowned. ‘The sort of things a man might draw in his delirium,’ he said.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Leon coolly, ‘it is as clear as daylight to me. Where were you married?’

  ‘At the Westminster Registry Office.’

  Leon nodded.

  ‘Take your mind back: was there anything remarkable about the marriage – did your husband have a private interview with the registrar?’

  She opened her big blue eyes at this.

  ‘Yes – Mr Lethersohn and my husband interviewed him in his private office.’

  Leon chuckled, but was serious again instantly.

  ‘One more question. Who drew up the will? A lawyer?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘My husband – it was written in his own hand from start to finish. He wrote rather a nice hand, very easily distinguishable from any other.’

  ‘Were there any other conditions
imposed upon you in your husband’s will?’

  She hesitated, and the watchers saw a dark flush pass over her face.

  ‘Yes . . . it was so insulting that I did not tell you. It was this – and this was the main condition – that I should not at any time attempt to establish the fact that I was legally married to Mark. That was to me inexplicable – I can’t believe that he was ever married before, but his early life was so remarkable that anything may have happened.’

  Leon was smiling delightedly. In such moments he was as a child who had received a new and entrancing toy.

  ‘I can relieve your mind,’ he said, to her amazement. ‘Your husband was never married before!’

  Poiccart was studying the drawings.

  ‘Can you get the plans of your husband’s estates?’ he asked, and Leon chuckled again.

  ‘That man knows everything, George!’ he exclaimed. ‘Poiccart, mon vieux, you are superb!’ He turned quickly to Mrs Stamford. ‘Madam, you need rest, a change of clothing, and – protection. The first and the last are in this house, if you dare be our guest. The second I will procure for you in an hour – together with a temporary maid.’

  She looked at him, a little bewildered . . . Five minutes later, an embarrassed Poiccart was showing her to her room, and a nurse of Leon’s acquaintance was hurrying to Curzon Street with a bulging suitcase – Leon had a weakness for nurses, and knew at least a hundred by name.

  Late as was the hour, he made several calls – one as far as Strawberry Hill, where a certain assistant registrar of marriages lived.

  It was eleven o’clock that night when he rang the bell at the handsome house in Upper Berkeley Street. Another footman admitted him.

  ‘Are you Mr Gonsalez? Mr Lethersohn has not returned from the theatre, but he telephoned asking you to wait in the library.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Leon gratefully, though there was no need for gratitude, for he it was who had telephoned.