The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  * * *

  ‘It was a very simple matter, and I really am ashamed of myself that I did not understand those marks at the back of the cheque at first glance,’ explained Leon over the supper-table that night. ‘Our Italian friend was one of the crowd that got the Concession: he had lived for years in London, and possibly it will be proved that he had criminal associates. At any rate, he had no difficulty in collecting a houseful of servants, playing as he did on his knowledge of Storn’s character. All these men offered to serve Storn for sums at which the average servant would have turned up his nose. It has taken the better part of a year to fill our friend’s establishment with these ex-convicts. You remember that the footman who came to us a few months ago said that he had been employed, not by the butler but by Storn himself. They would have taken the first opportunity of getting rid of him, only inadvertently he used an Arabic expression, and Storn, who was suspicious of spies and probably expected the men whom he had betrayed to return, sent him packing.

  ‘On the day Storn was supposed to leave for Egypt, he was seized by the two Italians, locked up in a room and compelled to write such letters and sign such cheques as they dictated. But he remembered, rather late in the day, that the accountant was an old telegraphist, and so he put on the back of the cheque, in pencil marks, a Morse message in the old symbols which were employed when the needle machine was most commonly used.’

  He produced the cheque and laid it on the table, running his finger along the pencil mark:

  S O S P R S N R P R K L N

  ‘In other words, “Prisoner in Park Lane”. The accountant was on his holiday, so he did not read the message.’

  Manfred took up the cheque, turned it and examined it.

  ‘What handsome fee will this millionaire send you?’ he asked ironically.

  The answer did not come till a few days after the Old Bailey trial. It took the form of a cheque – for five guineas.

  ‘Game to the last!’ murmured Leon admiringly.

  Mr Levingrou’s Daughter

  Mr Levingrou took his long cigar from his mouth and shook his head sorrowfully. He was a fat man, thick-necked and heavy-cheeked, and he could not afford to spoil a good cigar.

  ‘That is awful . . . that is brutal! Tch! It makes me seek . . . poor José!’

  His companion snorted in sympathy.

  For José Silva had fallen. An unemotional judge, who spoke rather precociously, had told José that certain crimes were very heinous in the eyes of the law. For example, women were held in special esteem, and to trade on their follies was regarded as being so dreadful that nothing but a very long term of imprisonment could vindicate the law’s outraged majesty.

  And José had offended beyond forgiveness. He ran the Latin-American Artists Agency to give young and pretty aspirants to the stage a quick and profitable engagement on South American stages. They went away full of joy and they never came back. Letters came from them to their relations, very correctly worded, nicely spelt. They were, they said, happy. They all wrote the same in almost identical language. You might imagine that they wrote to dictation, as indeed they did.

  But the vice squad had got on José’s tail. A pretty girl applied for a job and went to Buenos Aires, accompanied by her father and brother – they were both Scotland Yard men, and when they learnt all that they had to learn they came back with the girl, a rather shrewd detective herself, and José was arrested. And then they learnt more things about him, and the prison sentence was inevitable.

  Nobody arrested Jules Levingrou and haled him from his beautiful little bijou house in Knightsbridge and sent him to a cold bleak prison. And nobody arrested Heinrich Luss, who was his partner. They had financed José and many other Josés, but they were clever.

  ‘José was careless,’ sighed Jules as he sucked at his cigar.

  Heinrich sighed, too. He was as fat as, but looked fatter than, his companion, because he was a shorter man.

  Jules looked round the pretty saloon with its cream and gold decorations, and presently his eyes stopped roving and fixed on a framed photograph that was on the mantelpiece. His big face creased in a smile as he rose with a grunt and, waddling across to the fireplace, took the frame in his hand. The picture was of an extremely pretty girl.

  ‘You see?’

  Heinrich took the picture and mumbled ecstatic praise.

  ‘Not goot enough,’ he said.

  Mr Levingrou agreed. He had never yet seen a picture that quite did justice to the delicate beauty of this only daughter of his. He was a widower; his wife had died when Valerie was a baby. She would never know how many hearts were broken, how many souls destroyed, that she might be brought up in the luxury which surrounded her. This aspect of her upbringing never occurred to Mr Levingrou. He prided himself that he had no sentiment.

  He was part proprietor of twenty-three cabarets and dance halls scattered up and down the Argentine and Brazil, and drew large profits from what he regarded as a perfectly legitimate business.

  He put down the photograph and came back to the deep armchair.

  ‘It is unfortunate about José; but these men come and go. This new man may or may not be good.’

  ‘What is his name?’ asked Heinrich.

  Jules searched breathlessly in his pockets, found a letter and opened it, his thick fingers glittering in the light from the crystal chandelier, for he was a lover of rings.

  ‘Leon Gonsalez – herr Gott!’

  Heinrich was sitting upright in his chair, white as a sheet.

  ‘Name of a pipe! What is the matter with you, Heinrich?’

  ‘Leon Gonsalez!’ repeated the other huskily. ‘You think he is an applicant for the post . . . you do not know him?’

  Jules shook his huge head.

  ‘Why in God’s name should I know him – he is a Spaniard, that is good enough for me. This is always the way, Heinrich. No sooner does one of our men make a fool of himself and get caught than another arises. Tomorrow I shall have twenty, thirty, fifty applicants – not to me but through the usual channel.’

  Heinrich was looking at him hollow-eyed, and now in his agitation he spoke in German – that brand of German which is heard more frequently in Poland.

  ‘Let me see the letter.’ He took it in his hand and read it carefully.

  ‘He asks for an appointment, that is all.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Four Just Men?’

  Jules frowned.

  ‘They are dead, eh? I read something years ago.’

  ‘They are alive,’ said the other grimly, ‘pardoned by the English Government. They have a bureau in Curzon Street.’

  Rapidly he sketched the history of that strange organization which for years had terrorized the evil-doers who by their natural cunning had evaded the just processes of the law; and, as he spoke, the face of Jules Levingrou lengthened.

  ‘But that – is preposterous!’ he spluttered at last. ‘How could these men know of me and of you . . . Besides, they dare not.’

  Before Heinrich could reply there was a gentle knock at the door and a footman came in. There was a card on the salver he carried in his hand. Jules took it, adjusted his glasses and read, meditated a second, and then: ‘Show him up,’ he said.

  ‘Leon Gonsalez,’ almost whispered Heinrich as the door closed on the servant. ‘Do you see a little silver triangle at the corner of the card? That is on the door of their house. It is he!’

  ‘Pshaw!’ scoffed his companion. ‘He has come – why? To offer his services. You shall see!’

  Leon Gonsalez, grey-haired and dapper, swung into the room, his keen, ascetic face tense, his fine eyes alive. A ready smiler was Leon. He was smiling now as he looked from one man to the other.

  ‘You!’ he said, and pointed to Jules.

  Monsieur Levingrou started. There
was almost an accusation in that finger thrust.

  ‘You wish to see me?’ He tried to recover some of his lost dignity.

  ‘I did,’ said Leon calmly. ‘It is my misfortune that I have never seen you before. My friend Manfred, of whom you have heard, knows you very well by sight, and my very dear comrade Poiccart is so well acquainted with you that he could draw you feature by feature – and indeed did upon the table-cloth at dinner last night, much to the annoyance of our thrifty housekeeper!’

  Levingrou was on his guard; there was something of the cold devil in those smiling eyes.

  ‘To what am I indebted – ’ he began.

  ‘I come in a perfectly friendly spirit,’ Leon’s smile broadened, his eyes were twinkling, as with suppressed laughter. ‘You will forgive that lie, Monsieur Levingrou, for lie it is. I have come to warn you that your wicked little business must be destroyed, or you will be made very unhappy. The police do not know of the Café Espagnol and its peculiar attractions.’

  He dived into his overcoat pocket and, with the quick, jerky motion which was characteristic of him, produced a sheet of notepaper and unfolded it.

  ‘I have here a list of thirty-two girls who have gone to one or another of your establishments during the past two years,’ he said. ‘You may read it’ – and thrust the paper into Jules’s hand – ‘for I have a copy. You will be interested to know that that sheet of paper represents six months’ inquiries.’

  Jules did not so much as read a name. Instead, he shrugged, pushed the paper back to his visitor and, when Leon did not take it, dropped it on the floor.

  ‘I am entirely in the dark,’ he said. ‘If you have no business with me you had better go – goodnight.’

  ‘My friend’ – Leon’s voice was a little lower, and those eyes of his were piercing the very soul of the man who squatted like an ill-shaped toad in the luxurious deeps of silk and down – ‘you will send cables to your managers, ordering the release of those girls, the payment of adequate compensation, and first-class return ticket to London.’

  Levingrou shrugged.

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean, my friend. It seems to me you’ve come upon a cock and bull story, that you have been deceived.’

  M. Jules Levingrou reached out deliberately and pressed an ivory bell-push.

  ‘I think you are mad, therefore I will take a very charitable view of what you say. Now, my friend, we have no more time to give to you.’

  But Leon Gonsalez was unperturbed.

  ‘I can only imagine that you have no imagination. Monsieur Levingrou,’ he said, a little curtly. ‘That you do not realize the torture, the sorrow, the ghastly degradation into which you throw these sisters of ours.’

  A gentle tap at the door and the footman entered. Mr Levingrou indicated his visitor with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Show this gentleman to the door.’

  If he expected an outburst he was pleasantly disappointed. Leon looked from one man to the other, that mocking smile of his still playing about the corners of his sensitive mouth then, without a word, turned, and the door closed on him.

  ‘You heard – you heard?’ Heinrich’s voice was quivering with terror, his face the colour of dirty chalk. ‘Herr Gott! you don’t understand, Jules! I know of these men. A friend of mine . . . ’

  He told a story that would have impressed most men; but Levingrou smiled.

  ‘You are scared, my poor friend. You have not my experience of threats. Let him prove what he can and go to the police.’

  ‘You fool!’ Heinrich almost howled the words. ‘The police! Do I not tell you they want no proof? They punished – ’

  ‘Hush!’ growled Jules.

  He had heard the girl’s step in the hall. She was going to the theatre, she said – her explanation stopped short at the sight of Heinrich’s white face.

  ‘Daddy,’ she said reproachfully, ‘you’ve been quarrelling with Uncle Heinrich.’

  She stooped and kissed the forehead of her father and pulled his ear gently. The stout man imprisoned her in both his arms and chuckled.

  ‘No quarrel, my darling. Heinrich is scared of a business deal. You wouldn’t imagine he could be such a baby.’

  A minute later she stood in front of the fireplace, using a lipstick skilfully. She paused in the operation to tell him an item of news.

  ‘I met such a nice man today, Daddy, at Lady Athery’s, a Mr Gordon – do you know him?’

  ‘I know many Mr Gordons,’ smiled Jules. And then, in sudden alarm: ‘He didn’t make love to you, did he?’

  She laughed at this.

  ‘My dear, he’s almost as old as you. And he’s a great artist and very amusing.’

  Jules walked with her to the door and saw her go down the steps, cross the little flagged garden, and stood there until her Rolls had passed out of sight. Then he came back to his pretty saloon to argue out this matter of the Four Just Men.

  It was a gay party of young people about her own age that Valerie joined. The box was crowded, and was hot and thick, for the theatre was one where smoking was allowed. She was relieved when an attendant tapped her on the shoulder and beckoned her out.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, miss.’

  ‘To see me?’ she said in wonder, and came into the vestibule to find a handsome, middle-aged man in evening dress.

  ‘Mr Gordon!’ she exclaimed. ‘I had no idea you were here!’

  He seemed unusually grave.

  ‘I have some rather bad news for you, Miss Levingrou,’ he said, and she went pale.

  ‘Not about Father?’

  ‘In a sense it is. I am afraid that he is in rather bad trouble.’

  She frowned at this.

  ‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I can’t explain here. Will you come with me to the police station?’

  She stared at him incredulously, her mouth open.

  ‘The police station?’

  Gordon summoned a waiting attendant.

  ‘Get Miss Levingrou’s coat from the box,’ he said authoritatively.

  A few minutes later they passed out of the theatre together and into a waiting car.

  Twelve o’clock was striking when Mr Levingrou rose from his chair stiffly and stretched himself. Heinrich had been gone nearly three hours. He had, indeed, left the house in time to catch the last train for the Continent, whither he fled without even packing so much as a pocket-handkerchief. Unaware of this desertion, Mr Levingrou was on the point of mounting the stairs to bed when a thundering rat-tat shook the house. He turned to the footman.

  ‘See who that is,’ he growled, and waited curiously.

  When the door was opened he saw the stocky figure of a police inspector.

  ‘Levingrou?’ asked the visitor.

  Mr Levingrou came forward.

  ‘That is my name,’ he said.

  The inspector strolled into the hall.

  ‘I want you to come with me to the police station.’ His manner was brusque, indeed rude, and Levingrou felt for the first time in his life a qualm of fear.

  ‘The police station? Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain that to you when you get there.

  ‘But this is monstrous!’ exploded the stout man. I will telephone to my lawyers – ’

  ‘Are you going quietly?’

  There was such a threat in the tone that Jules became instantly tractable.

  ‘Very good, inspector, I will come. I think you have made a very great mistake and . . . ’

  He was hustled out of the hall, down the steps and into the waiting car.

  It was not an ordinary taxi. The blinds were pulled down. Moreover, he discovered as soon as he entered the interior that it was well occupied. Two men sat on seats facing him, the inspect
or took his place by the prisoner’s side.

  He could not see where the car was going. Five minutes, ten minutes passed . . . there should be a police station somewhere nearer than that. He put a question.

  ‘I can relieve your mind,’ said a calm voice. ‘You’re not going to a police station.’

  ‘Then where am I being taken?’

  ‘That you will discover,’ was the unsatisfactory answer.

  Nearly an hour passed before the car drew up before a dark house and the authoritative ‘inspector’ ordered him curtly to alight. The house had the appearance of being untenanted; the hall was littered with refuse and dust. They led him down a flight of stone stairs to the cellar, unlocked a steel door and pushed him inside.

  He had hardly entered before an electric light in the wall glowed dimly, and he saw that he was in what looked to be a concrete chamber, furnished with a bed. At the farther end was a small open doorway, innocent of door, which he was informed led to a washing place. But the revelation which came to Mr Levingrou, and which struck terror to his soul, was the fact that the two men who had brought him were heavily masked – the inspector had disappeared and, try as he did, Jules could not remember what he looked like.

  ‘You will stay here and keep quiet, and you need not be afraid that anybody will be alarmed by your disappearance.’

  ‘But . . . my daughter!’ stammered Levingrou in terror.

  ‘Your daughter? Your daughter leaves for the Argentine with a Mr Gordon tomorrow morning – as other men’s daughters have left.’

  Levingrou stared, took one step forward and fell fainting to the floor.

  * * *

  Sixteen days passed; sixteen days of unadulterated hell for the shrieking, half-demented man who paced the length of his cell for hours on end till, exhausted, he dropped almost lifeless on his bed. And every morning came a masked man to tell him of plans that had been made, to describe in detail the establishment in Antofagasta which was to be the destination of Valerie Levingrou; of a certain piestro . . . they showed him his photograph . . . who was the master of that hell broth.