‘He never saw his wife again, though he frequently saw Slane. Reynolds, or Grain, as I will call him, had shaved off his moustache and generally altered his appearance, and Slane never recognized him. It became an obsession of Grain’s to follow his enemy about, to learn of his movements, his habits. The one habit he did discover, and which proved to be Slane’s undoing, was his practice of dining at the Real Club in Pall Mall every Wednesday evening and of leaving the club at eleven-thirty on those occasions.
‘He put his discovery to no use, nor did he expect he would, until the night of the murder. He was driving somewhere in the north-west district when he saw a woman knocked down by a bus and he himself nearly ran over the prostrate figure. Stopping his cab, he jumped down and, to his horror, as he picked her up, he found himself gazing into the emaciated face of his wife. He lifted her into the cab, drove full pelt to the nearest hospital. It was while they were in the waiting-room, before the house surgeon’s arrival, that the dying woman told him, in a few broken, half-delirious words, the story of her downward progress . . . She was dead before they got her on to the operating table – mercifully, as it proved.
‘I knew all this before I went to the hospital and found that some unknown person had decided that she should be buried at Tetley and had made the most lavish arrangements for her removal. I guessed it before I saw Grain’s suitcase packed ready for that tragedy. He left the hospital, a man mad with hate. It was raining heavily. He crawled down Pall Mall, and luck was with him, for just as the porter came out to find an empty taxi, Grain pulled up before the door.
‘On the pretext of a tyre burst he stopped in the Mall, forced open one of the gates that led to the park, and waited until no pedestrian was in sight before he dragged the half-drunken man into the gardens . . . He was sober enough before Grain finished his story. Grain swears that he gave him the chance of his life, but Slane pulled a gun on him, and he had to kill him in self-defence. That may or may not be true.
‘He never lost his nerve. Reaching his cab without observation, he drove to Albert Palace Mansions, waited until the lift had risen, and then ran up the stairs. He had taken Slane’s bunch of keys, and on the way had selected that which he knew would open the door. His first intention was to search the flat for everything that betrayed the man’s association with his wife; but he heard the porter up above saying good night and, slamming the door, raced downstairs in time to be there when the man reached the ground floor.’
‘We’re not telling the police of this, of course?’ said Manfred gravely.
Poiccart at the other end of the table burst into a loud guffaw.
‘It’s so good a story that the police would never believe it,’ he said.
The Marked Cheque
The man who called at the little house in Curzon Street was in a rage, and anxious to say something that would hurt his late employer.
He had also a personal grievance against Mr Jens, the butler.
‘Mr Storn took me on as a second footman, and it looked like being a good job, but I couldn’t hit it off with the rest of the staff. But was it fair to chuck me out without a minute’s warning because I happened to let drop a word in Arabic – ?’
‘Arabic?’ asked Leon Gonsalez in surprise. ‘Do you speak Arabic?’
Tenley, the dismissed footman, grinned.
‘About a dozen words: I was with the Army in Egypt after the war, and I picked up a few phrases. I was polishing the silver salver in the hall, and I happened to say “That’s good” in Arabic; and I heard Mr Storn’s voice behind me.
‘“You clear out,” he said, and before I knew what had happened, I was walking away from the house with a month’s salary.’
Gonsalez nodded.
‘Very interesting,’ he said, ‘but why have you come to us?’
He had asked the same question many times of inconsequential people who had come to the House of the Silver Triangle, with their trifling grievances.
‘Because there’s a mystery there,’ said the man vaguely. Perhaps he had cooled down a little by now, and was feeling rather uncomfortable. ‘Why was I fired for my Arabic? What’s the meaning of the picture in Storn’s private room – the men being hung?’
Leon sat upright. ‘Men being hanged? What is that?’
‘It’s a photograph. You can’t get it, because it’s in the panelling and you have to open one of the panels. But I went in one day and he’d left the panel ajar . . . Three men hanging from a sort of gibbet an’ a lot of Turks looking on. That’s a funny thing for a gentleman to have in his house.’
Leon was silent for a while.
‘I don’t know that that is an offence. It is certainly odd. Is there anything I can do for you?’
Apparently nothing. The man left a little sheepishly, and Leon carried the news to his partner. He remembered afterwards that he had heard nothing of the grievance against the butler.
‘The only thing I learnt about Storn is that he is extraordinarily mean, that he runs his house in Park Lane with a minimum number of staff, that he pays those the smallest wages possible. He is of Armenian origin and made his money out of oilfields which he acquired by very dubious means.
‘As to the three hanged men, that is rather gruesome, but it might be worse. I have seen photographs in the house of the idle rich that would make your hair stand on end, my dear Poiccart. At any rate, the morbid interest of a millionaire in a Turkish execution is not extraordinary.’
‘If I were an Armenian,’ said Manfred, ‘they would be my chief hobby; I should have a whole gallery of ’em!’
And there ended the matter of the morbid millionaire who lived meanly and underpaid his servants.
Early in April, Leon read in the newspaper that Mr Storn had gone to Egypt for a short holiday.
By every test, Ferdinand Storn was a desirable acquaintance. He was immensely rich; he was personally attractive in a dark, long-nosed way; and to such people as met him intimately – and they were few – he could talk Art and Finance with equal facility. So far as was known, he had no enemies. He lived at Burson House, Park Lane, a small, handsome residence which he had purchased from the owner, Lord Burson, for £150,000. He spent most of his time either there or at Felfry Park, his beautiful country house in Sussex. The Persian and Oriental Oil Trust, of which he was the head, had its offices in a magnificent building in Moorgate Street, and here he was usually to be found between ten o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon.
This Trust, despite its titled board, was a one-man affair, and conducted, amongst other things, the business of bankers. Storn held most of the shares, and was popularly supposed to derive an income of something like a quarter of a million a year. He had few personal friends, and was a bachelor.
It was just short of a month after Leon had read the news that a big car drew up at the door of the Triangle, and a stout, prosperous-looking man got out and rang the bell. He was a stranger to Leon, who interviewed him, and was apparently loth to state his business, for he hummed and hawed and questioned until Leon, a little impatiently, asked him point-blank who he was and what was his object.
‘Well, I’ll tell you, Mr Gonsalez,’ said the stout man. ‘I am the General Manager of the Persian and Oriental Oil – ’
‘Storn’s company?’ asked Leon, his interest awakened.
‘Storn’s company. I suppose I really ought to go to the police with my suspicions, but a friend of mine has such faith in you and what he calls the Three Just Men, that I thought I had better see you first.’
‘Is it about Mr Storn?’ asked Leon.
The gentleman, who proved to be Mr Hubert Grey, the Managing Director of the Trust, nodded.
‘You see, Mr Gonsalez, I am in rather a peculiar position. Mr Storn is a very difficult man, and I should lose my job if I made him look ridiculous.’
‘He’s abroad, isn’t he?’ asked Leon.
‘He’s abroad,’ agreed the other soberly. ‘He went abroad, as a matter of fact, quite unexpectedly; that is to say, it was unexpected by the office. In fact he had an important Board meeting the day he left, which he should have attended, but on that morning I got a letter from him saying that he had to go to Egypt on a matter which affected his personal honour. He asked me not to communicate with him, or even to announce the fact that he had left London. Unfortunately, one of my clerks very foolishly told a reporter who had called that day that Mr Storn had left.
‘A week after he had gone, he sent us a letter from an hôtel in Rome, enclosing a cheque for eighty-three thousand pounds, and arranging that this cheque should be honoured when a gentleman called, which he did the next day.’
‘An Englishman?’ asked Leon.
Mr Grey shook his head. ‘No, he was a foreigner of some kind; a rather dark-looking man. The money was paid over to him.
‘A few days later we had another letter from Mr Storn, written from the Hôtel de Russie, Rome. This letter told us that a further cheque had been sent to Mr Kraman, which was to be honoured. This was for one hundred and seven thousand pounds and a few odd shillings. He gave us instructions as to how the money was to be paid, and asked us to telegraph to him at an hôtel in Alexandria the moment the cheque was honoured. This I did. The very next day there came a second letter written from the Hôtel Mediterraneo in Naples – I will let you have copies of all these – telling us that a third cheque was to be paid without fail, but to a different man, a Mr Rezzio, who would call at the office. This was for one hundred and twelve thousand pounds, which very nearly exhausted Mr Storn’s cash balance, although of course he has large reserves at the bank. I might say that Mr Storn is a man who is rather eccentric in the matter of large deposit reserves. Very little of his money is locked up in shares. Look here – ’ he took a note-case from his pocket and produced a cheque form – ‘this money has been paid, but I’ve brought you along the cheque to see.’
Leon took it in his hand. It was written in characteristic writing, and he examined the signature.
‘There is no question of this being a forgery?’
‘None whatever,’ said Grey emphatically. ‘The letter, too, was in his own handwriting. But what puzzled me about the cheque were the queer marks on the back.’
They were indistinguishable to Leon until he took them to the window, and then saw a line of faint pencil marks which ran along the bottom of the cheque.
‘I suppose I can’t keep this cheque for a day or two?’ asked Leon.
‘Certainly. The signature, as you see, has been cancelled out, and the money has been paid.’
Leon examined the cheque again. It was drawn on the Ottoman Oil Bank, which was apparently a private concern of Storn’s.
‘What do you imagine has happened?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, but I’m worried.’
Grey’s troubled frown showed the extent of that worry.
‘I don’t know why I should be, but I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling at the back of my mind that there is a swindle somewhere.’
‘Have you cabled to Alexandria?’
Mr Grey smiled. ‘Naturally; and I have had a reply. It struck me that you might have agents in Egypt, in which case it might be a simple matter for you to discover whether there is anything wrong. The main point is that I don’t wish Mr Storn to know that I’ve been making inquiries. I’ll pay any reasonable expenditure you incur, and I’m quite sure that Mr Storn will agree that I have done the right thing.’
After the departure of his visitor, Leon interviewed Manfred.
‘It may, of course, be a case of blackmail,’ said George softly. ‘But you will have to start at Storn’s beginnings if you want to get under whatever mystery there is.’
‘So I think,’ said Gonsalez; and a few minutes afterwards went out of the house.
He did not return till midnight. He brought back an amazing amount of information about Mr Storn.
‘About twelve years ago he was an operator in the service of the Turco Telegraph Company. He speaks eight Oriental languages, and was well-known in Istanbul. Does that tell you anything, George?’
Manfred shook his head.
‘It tells me nothing yet, but I am waiting to be thrilled.’
‘He was mixed up with the revolutionary crowd, the under-strappers who pulled the strings in the days of Abdul Ahmid, and there is no doubt that he got his Concession through these fellows.’
‘What Concession?’ asked Manfred.
‘Oil land, large tracts of it. When the new Government came into power, the Concession was formed, though I suspect our friend paid heavily for the privilege. His five partners, however, were less fortunate. Three of them were accused of treason against the Government, and were hanged.’
‘The photograph,’ nodded Manfred. ‘What happened to the other two?’
‘The other two were Italians, and they were sent to prison in Asia Minor for the rest of their lives. When Storn came to London, it was as sole proprietor of the Concession, which he floated with a profit of three million pounds.’
The next morning Leon left the house early, and at ten o’clock was ringing the bell at Burson House.
The heavy-jowled butler who opened the door regarded him with suspicion, but was otherwise deferential.
‘Mr Storn is abroad, and won’t be back for some weeks, sir.’
‘May I see Mr Storn’s secretary?’ asked Leon in his blandest manner.
‘Mr Storn never has a secretary at his house; you will find the young lady at the offices of the Persian Oil Trust.’
Leon felt in his pocket and produced a card.
‘I am one of the Bursons,’ he said, ‘and as a matter of fact my father was born here. Some months ago when I was in London I asked Mr Storn if he would give me permission to look over the house.’
The card contained a scribbled line, signed ‘Ferdinand Storn’, giving permission to the bearer to see the house at any hour ‘when I am out of town.’ It had taken Leon the greater part of an hour to forge that permit.
‘I am afraid I cannot let you in, sir,’ said the butler, barring the passage. ‘Mr Storn told me before he went that I was to admit no strangers.’
‘What is today?’ asked Leon suddenly.
‘Thursday, sir,’ said the man.
Leon nodded. ‘Cheese day,’ he said.
Only for the fraction of a second was the man confused.
‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ he said gruffly, and almost shut the door in the face of the caller.
Gonsalez made a circuit of the house. It stood with another upon an island site.
When he had finished, he went home, an amused and almost excited man, to give instructions to Raymond Poiccart who, amongst his other qualifications, had a very wide circle of criminal friends. There was not a big gangster in London that he did not know. He was acquainted with the public house in London where the confidence men and the safe smashers met: he could at any moment gather the gossip of the prisons, and was probably better acquainted with the secret news of the underworld than any man at Scotland Yard. Him Leon sent on a news-gathering mission, and in a small public house off Lambeth Walk, Poiccart learned of the dark philanthropist who had found employment for at least three ex-convicts.
Leon was sitting alone when he returned, examining with a powerful lens the odd marks on the back of the cheque.
Before Poiccart could retail his news, Leon reached for a telephone directory.
‘Grey, of course, has left his office, but unless I am mistaken this is his private address,’ he said, as his fingers stopped on one of the pages. A maid answered his call. Yes, Mr Grey was at home. Presently the Managing Director’s voice came through.
>
‘Mr Grey – who would handle the cheques which you have received from Storn; I mean who is the official?’
‘The accountant,’ was the reply.
‘Who gave the accountant his job – you?’
A pause.
‘No – Mr Storn. He used to be in the Eastern Telegraph Company – Mr Storn met him abroad.’
‘And where is the accountant to be found?’ asked Leon eagerly.
‘He’s on his holidays. He left before the last cheque came. But I can get him.’
Leon’s laugh was one of sheer delight.
‘You needn’t worry – I knew he wasn’t at the office,’ he said, and hung up on the astonished manager.
‘Now, my dear Poiccart, what did you find?’
He listened intently till his friend had finished, and then: ‘Let us go to Park Lane – and bring a gun with you,’ he said. ‘We will call at Scotland Yard en route.’
It was ten o’clock when the butler opened the door. Before he could frame a question, a big detective gripped him and pulled him into the street.
The four plain-clothes officers who accompanied Leon flocked into the hall. A surly-faced footman was arrested before he could shout a warning. At the very top of the house, in a small windowless apartment that had once been used as a box-room, they found an emaciated man whom even his Managing Director, hastily summoned to the scene, failed to identify as the millionaire. The two Italians who kept guard on him and watched him through a hole broken through the wall from an adjoining room gave no trouble.
One of them, he who had carefully planted Burson House full of ex-convict servants, was very explicit.
‘This man betrayed us, and we should have hanged like Hatim Effendi and Al Shiri and Maropulos the Greek, only we bribed witnesses,’ he said. ‘We were partners in the oilfields, and to rob us he manufactured evidence that we were conspiring against the Government. My friend and I broke prison and came back to London. I was determined he should pay us the money he owed us, and I knew that we could never get it from a Court of Law.’
The Complete Four Just Men Page 103
