The Complete Four Just Men

by Edgar Wallace

  Leon sighed wearily.

  ‘I tried that on the second day, my dear chap, and had little Lew Leveson on hand to “whizz” him the moment he came into the street in case he was carrying the letters on him.’

  ‘By “whizz” you mean to pick his pocket? I can’t keep track of modern thief slang,’ said Manfred. ‘In the days when I was actively interested, we used to call it “dip”.’

  ‘You are out of date, George; “whizz” is the word. But of course the beggar didn’t come out. If he owed rent I could get the brokers put in; but he does not owe rent. He is breaking no laws, and is living a fairly blameless life – except, of course, one could catch him for being in possession of opium. But that wouldn’t be much use, because the police are rather chary of allowing us to work with them.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to give Miss Brown a very bad report.’

  It was not until a few days later that he actually wrote to the agreed address, having first discovered that it was, as he suspected, a small stationer’s shop where letters could be called for.

  A week later Superintendent Meadows, who was friendly with the Three, came down to consult Manfred on a matter of a forged Spanish passport, and since Manfred was an authority on passport forgeries and had a fund of stories about Spanish criminals, it was long after midnight when the conference broke up.

  Leon, who needed exercise, walked to Regent Street with Meadows, and the conversation turned to Mr John Letheritt.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know him well. I took him two years ago on a false pretence charge, and got him eighteen months at the London Assizes. A real bad egg, that fellow, and a bit of a squeaker, too. He’s the man who put away Joe Benthall, the cleverest cat burglar we’ve had for a generation. Joe got ten years, and I shouldn’t like to be this fellow when he comes out!’

  Suddenly Leon asked a question about Letheritt’s imprisonment, and when the other had answered, his companion stood stock-still in the middle of the deserted Hanover Square and doubled up with silent laughter.

  ‘I don’t see the joke.’

  ‘But I do,’ chuckled Leon. ‘What a fool I’ve been! And I thought I understood the case!’

  ‘Do you want Letheritt for anything? I know where he lives,’ said Meadows.

  Leon shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t want him: but I should very much like to have ten minutes in his room!’

  Meadows looked serious.

  ‘He’s blackmailing, eh? I wondered where he was getting his money from.’

  But Leon did not enlighten him. He went back to Curzon Street and began searching certain works of reference, and followed this by an inspection of a large scale map of the Home Counties. He was the last to go to bed, and the first to waken, for he slept in the front of the house and heard the knocking at the door.

  It was raining heavily as he pulled up the window and looked out; and in the dim light of dawn he thought he recognized Superintendent Meadows. A second later he was sure of his visitor’s identity.

  ‘Will you come down? I want to see you.’

  Gonsalez slipped into his dressing-gown, ran downstairs and opened the door to the Superintendent.

  ‘You remember we were talking about Letheritt last night?’ said Meadows as Leon ushered him into the little waiting-room.

  The superintendent’s voice was distinctly unfriendly, and he was eyeing Leon keenly.

  ‘Yes – I remember.’

  ‘You didn’t by any chance go out again last night?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  Again that look of suspicion.

  ‘Only Letheritt was murdered at half past one this morning, and his room ransacked.’

  Leon stared at him.

  ‘Murdered? Have you got the murderer?’ he asked at last.

  ‘No, but we shall get him all right. He was seen coming down the rainpipe by a City policeman. Evidently he had got into Letheritt’s room through the window, and it was this discovery by the constable which led to a search of the house. The City Police had to break in the door, and they found Letheritt dead on the bed. He had evidently been hit on the head with a jemmy, and ordinarily that injury would not have killed him, according to the police doctor; but in his state of health it was quite enough to put him out. A policeman went round the house to intercept the burglar, but somehow he must have escaped into one of the little alleys that abound in this part of the city, and he was next seen by a constable in Fleet Street, driving a small car, the number-plate of which had been covered with mud.’

  ‘Was the man recognized?’

  ‘He hasn’t been – yet. What he did was to leave three fingerprints on the window, and as he was obviously an old hand at the game, that is as good as a direct identification. The City Detective Force called us in, but we haven’t been able to help them except to give them particulars of Letheritt’s past life. Incidentally, I supplied them with a copy of your fingerprints. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Leon grinned.

  ‘Delighted!’ he said.

  After the officer had left, Leon went upstairs to give the news to his two friends.

  But the most startling intelligence was to come when they were sitting at breakfast. Meadows arrived. They saw his car draw up and Poiccart went out to open the door to him. He strode into the little room, his eyes bulging with excitement.

  ‘Here’s a mystery which even you fellows will never be able to solve,’ he said. ‘Do you know that this is a day of great tragedy for Scotland Yard and for the identification system? It means the destruction of a method that has been laboriously built up . . . ’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Manfred quickly.

  ‘The fingerprint system,’ said Meadows, and Poiccart, to whom the fingerprint method was something God-like, gaped at him. ‘We’ve found a duplicate,’ said Meadows. ‘The prints on the glass were undoubtedly the prints of Joe Benthall – and Joe Benthall is in Wilford County Gaol serving the first part of a ten years’ sentence!’

  Something made Manfred turn his head toward his friend. Leon’s eyes were blazing, his thin face wreathed in one joyous smile.

  ‘The man who sang in church!’ he said softly. ‘This is the prettiest case that I have ever dealt with. Now sit down, my dear Meadows, and eat! No, no: sit down. I want to hear about Benthall – is it possible for me to see him?’

  Meadows stared at him.

  ‘What use would that be? I tell you this is the biggest blow we’ve ever had. And what is more, when we showed the City policeman a photograph of Benthall, he recognized him as the man he had seen coming down the rainpipe! I thought Benthall had escaped, and phoned the prison. But he’s there all right.’

  ‘Can I see Benthall?’

  Meadows hesitated.

  ‘Yes – I think it could be managed. The Home Office is rather friendly with you, isn’t it?’

  Friendly enough, apparently. By noon, Leon Gonsalez was on his way to Wilford Prison and, to his satisfaction, he went alone.

  Wilford Gaol is one of the smaller convict establishments, and was brought into use to house long-time convicts of good character who were acquainted with the bookbinding and printing trade. There are several ‘trade’ prisons in England – Maidstone is the ‘printing’ prison, Shepton Mallet the ‘dyeing’ prison – where prisoners may exercise their trades.

  The chief warder, whom Leon interviewed, told him that Wilford was to be closed soon, and its inmates transferred to Maidstone. He spoke regretfully of this change.

  ‘We’ve got a good lot of men here – they give us no trouble, and they have an easy time. We’ve had no cases of indiscipline for years. We only have one officer on night-duty – that will give you an idea how quiet we are.’

  ‘Who was the officer last night?’ asked Leon, and the unexpectedness of the question
took the chief warder by surprise.

  ‘Mr Bennett,’ he said, ‘he’s gone sick today by the way – a bilious attack. Curious thing you should ask the question: I’ve just been to see him. We had an inquiry about the man you’ve come to visit. Poor old Bennett is in bed with a terrible headache.’

  ‘Can I see the Governor?’ asked Leon.

  The chief warder shook his head.

  ‘He’s gone to Dover with Miss Folian – his daughter. She’s gone off to the Continent.’

  ‘Miss Gwenda Folian?’ and when the chief warder nodded: ‘Is she the lady who was training to be a doctor?’

  ‘She is a doctor,’ said the other emphatically. ‘Why, when Benthall nearly died from a heart attack, she saved his life – he works in the Governor’s house, and I believe he’d cut off his right hand to serve the young lady. There’s a lot of good in some of these fellows!’

  They were standing in the main prison hall. Leon gazed along the grim vista of steel balconies and little doors.

  ‘This is where the night-warder sits, I suppose?’ he asked, as he laid his hand on the high desk near where they were standing: ‘and the door leads – ?’

  ‘To the Governor’s quarters.’

  ‘And Miss Gwenda often slips through there with a cup of coffee and a sandwich for the night man, I suppose?’ he added carelessly.

  The chief warder was evasive.

  ‘It would be against regulations if she did,’ he said. ‘Now you want to see Benthall?’

  Leon shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly.

  * * *

  ‘Where could a blackguard like Letheritt be singing in church on Christmas Day?’ asked Leon when he was giving the intimate history of the case to his companions. ‘In only one place – a prison. Obviously our Miss Brown was in that prison: the Governor and his family invariably attend church. Letheritt was “not staying” – it was the end of his sentence, and he had been sent to Wilford for discharge. Poor Meadows! With all his faith in fingerprints gone astray because a released convict was true to his word and went out to get the letters that I missed, whilst the doped Mr Bennett slept at his desk and Miss Gwenda Folian took his place!’

  The Lady From Brazil

  The journey had begun in a storm of rain and had continued in mist. There was a bumpiness over the land which was rather trying to airsick passengers. The pilot struck the Channel and dropped to less than two hundred feet.

  Then came the steward with news that he bawled above the thunder of engines. ‘We’re landin’ at Lympne . . . thick fog in London . . . coaches will take you to London . . . ’

  Manfred leaned forward to the lady who was sitting on the other side of the narrow gangway.

  ‘Fortunate for you,’ he said, tuning his voice so that it reached no other ear.

  The Honourable Mrs Peversey raised her glasses and surveyed him cold-bloodedly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  They made a perfect landing soon after, and as Manfred descended the steps leading from the Paris plane he offered his hand to assist the charming lady to alight.

  ‘You were saying – ?’

  The slim, pretty woman regarded him with cold and open-eyed insolence.

  ‘I was saying that it was rather fortunate for you that we landed here,’ said Manfred. ‘Your name is Kathleen Zieling, but you are known better as “Claro” May, and there are two detectives waiting for you in London to question you on the matter of a pearl necklace that was lost in London three months ago. I happen to understand French very well and I heard two gentlemen of the Sureté discussing your future just before we left Le Bourget.’

  The stare was no longer insolent, but it was not concerned. Apparently her scrutiny of the man who offered such alarming information satisfied her in the matter of his sincerity.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said easily, ‘but I am not at all worried. Fenniker and Edmonds are the two men. I’ll wire them to meet me at my hôtel. You don’t look like a “bull” but I suppose you are?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ smiled Manfred.

  She looked at him oddly. ‘You certainly look too honest for a copper. I’m OK, but thank you all the same.’

  This was a dismissal, but Manfred stood his ground.

  ‘If you get into any kind of trouble I’d be glad if you’d call me up.’ He handed the woman a card, at which she did not even glance. ‘And if you wonder why I am interested, I only want to tell you that a year ago a very dear friend of mine would have been killed by the Fouret gang which caught him unprepared on Montmartre, only you very kindly helped him.’

  Now, with a start of surprise, she read the card and, reading, changed colour. ‘Oh!’ she said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t know that you were one of that bunch – Four Just Men? You folks give me the creeps! Leon something – a dago name . . . ’

  ‘Gonsalez,’ suggested Manfred, and she nodded.

  That’s right!’

  She was looking at him now with a new interest.

  ‘Honest there’s no trouble coming about the pearls. And as to your friend, he saved me. He wouldn’t have got into the gang fight, only he came out of the cabaret to help me.’

  ‘Where are you staying in London?’

  She told him her address, and at that moment came a Customs officer to break the conversation. Manfred did not see her again – she was not in the closed coach that carried him to London.

  In truth he had no great wish to meet her again. Curiosity and a desire to assist one who had given great help to Leon Gonsalez – it was the occasion of Leon’s spectacular unravelling of the Lyons forgeries – were behind his action.

  Manfred neither sympathized with nor detested criminals. He knew May to be an international swindler on the grand scale, and was fairly well satisfied that she would be well looked after by the English police.

  It was on the journey to London that he regretted that he had not asked her for information about Garry, though in all probability they had never met.

  George Manfred, by common understanding the leading spirit of the Four Just Men, had in the course of his life removed three-and-twenty social excrescences from all human activities.

  The war brought him and his companions a pardon for offences known and offences suspected. But in return the pardoning authorities had exacted from him a promise that he should keep the law in letter and in spirit, and this he had made, not only on his own behalf but on behalf of his companions. Only once did he express regret for having made this covenant, and that was when Garry Lexfield came under his observation.

  Garry lived on the outer edge of the law. He was a man of thirty, tall, frank of face, rather good-looking. Women found him fascinating, to their cost, for he was of the ruthless kind; quite nice people invited him to their homes – he even reached the board of a well-known West End Company.

  Manfred’s first encounter with Garry was over a stupidly insignificant matter. Mr Lexfield was engaged in an argument at the corner of Curzon Street, where he had his flat. Manfred, returning late, saw a man and a woman talking, the man violently, the woman a little timidly. He passed them, thinking that it was one of those quarrels in which wise men are not interested, and then he heard the sound of a blow and a faint scream. He turned to see the woman crouching by the area railings of the house. Quickly he came back.

  ‘Did you hit that woman?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s none of your dam’ business – ’

  Manfred swung him from his feet and dropped him over the area railings. When he looked round the woman had vanished.

  ‘I might have killed him,’ said Manfred penitently, and the spectacle of a penitent Manfred was too much for Leon Gonsalez.

  ‘But you didn’t – what happened?’

  ‘When I saw him get up on his feet and k
new nothing was broken I bolted,’ confessed Manfred. ‘I really must guard against these impulses. It must be my advancing years that has spoilt my judgment.’

  If Poiccart had a very complete knowledge of the sordid underworld, Manfred was a living encyclopaedia on the swell mob; but for some reason Mr Lexfield was outside his knowledge. Leon made investigations and reported.

  ‘He has been thrown out of India and Australia. He is only “wanted” in New Zealand if he attempts to go back there. His speciality is bigamous marriages into families which are too important to risk a scandal. The swell mob in London only know of him by hearsay. He has a real wife who has followed him to London and was probably the lady who was responsible for his visit to the area.’

  Mr Garry Lexfield had ‘touched’ royally, and luck had been with him, since, unostentatiously and in an assumed name, he had stepped on to the Monrovia at Sydney. He had the charm and the attraction which are three-quarters of the good thief’s assets. Certainly he charmed the greater part of three thousand pounds out of the pockets of two wealthy Australian land-owners, and attracted to himself the daughter of one who at any rate had the appearance of being another.

  When he landed he was an engaged man: happily and mercifully, his bride-to-be was taken ill on the day of her arrival with a prosaic attack of appendicitis. Before she had left her nursing home, he learned that that bluff squatter, her father, so far from being a millionaire, was in very considerable financial difficulties.

  But the luck held: a visit to Monte Carlo produced yet another small fortune – which was not gained at the public tables. Here he met and wooed Elsa Monarty, convent-trained and easily fascinated. A sister, her one relative, had sent her to San Remo – oddly enough, she also was convalescing from an illness – and, straying across the frontier, she met the handsome Mr Lexfield – which was not his name – in the big vestibule of the rooms. She wanted a ticket of admission – the gallant Garry was most obliging. She told him about her sister, who was the manager and part owner of a big dress-making establishment in the Rue de la Paix. Giving confidence for confidence, Garry told her of his rich and titled parents, and described a life which was equally mythical.