(1929) The Three Just Men (28 page)

Leon strolled aimlessly about the room. He was wearing his chauffeur’s uniform, and his hands were thrust into the breeches pockets. Manfred, recognizing the symptoms, rang the bell for Poiccart, and that quiet man came from the lower regions.

“Leon is going to be mysterious,” said Manfred dryly.

“I’m not really,” protested Leon, but he went red. It was one of his most charming peculiarities that he had never forgotten how to blush. “I was merely going to suggest that there’s a play running in London that we ought to see. I didn’t know that ‘The Ringer’ was a play until this morning, when I saw one of Oberzohn’s more genteel clerks go into the theatre, and, being naturally of an inquisitive turn of mind, followed him. A play that interests Oberzohn will interest me, and should interest you, George,” he said severely, “and certainly should interest Meadows—it is full of thrilling situations! It is about a criminal who escapes from Dartmoor and comes back to murder his betrayer. There is one scene which is played in the dark, that ought to thrill you—I’ve been looking up the reviews of the dramatic critics, and as they are unanimous that it is not an artistic success, and is, moreover, wildly improbable, it ought to be worth seeing. I always choose an artistic success when I am suffering from insomnia,” he added cruelly.

“Oberzohn is entitled to his amusements, however vulgar they may be.”

“But this play isn’t vulgar,” protested Leon, “except in so far as it is popular. I found it most difficult to buy a seat. Even actors go to see the audience act.”

“What seat did he buy?”

“Box A,” said Leon promptly, “and paid for it with real money. It is the end box on the prompt side—and before you ask me whence I gained my amazing knowledge of theatrical technique, I will answer that even a child in arms knows that the prompt side is the left-hand side facing the audience.”

“For to-night?”

Leon nodded.

“I have three stalls,” he said and produced them from his pocket. “If you cannot go, will you give them to the cook? She looks like a woman who would enjoy a good cry over the sufferings of the tortured heroine. The seats are in the front row, which means that you can get in and out between the acts without walking on other people’s knees.”

“Must I go?” asked Poiccart plaintively. “I do not like detective plays, and I hate mystery plays. I know who the real murderer is before the curtain has been up ten minutes, and that naturally spoils my evening.”

“Could you not take a girl?” asked Leon outrageously. “Do you know any who would go?”

“Why not take Aunt Alma?” suggested Manfred, and Leon accepted the name joyously.

Aunt Alma had come to town at the suggestion of the Three, and had opened up the Doughty Court flat.

“And really she is a remarkable woman, and shows a steadiness and a courage in face of the terrible position of our poor little friend, which is altogether praiseworthy. I don’t think Mirabelle Leicester is in any immediate danger. I think I’ve said that before. Oberzohn merely wishes to keep her until the period of renewal has expired. How he will escape the consequences of imprisoning her, I cannot guess. He may not attempt to escape them, may accept the term of imprisonment which will certainly be handed out to him, as part of the payment he must pay for his millions.”

“Suppose he kills her?” asked Poiccart.

For a second Leon’s face twitched.

“He won’t kill her,” he said quietly. “Why should he? We know that he has got her—the police know. She is a different proposition from Barberton, an unknown man killed nobody knew how, in a public place. No, I don’t think we need cross that bridge, only…” He rubbed his hands together irritably. “However, we shall see. And in the meantime I’m placing a lot of faith in Digby, a shrewd man with a sense of his previous shortcomings. You were wise there, George.”

He was looking at the street through the curtains.

“Tittlemouse is at his post, the faithful hound!” he said, nodding towards the solitary taxicab that stood on the rank. “I wonder whether he expects—”

Manfred saw a light creep into his eyes.

“Will you want me for the next two hours?” Leon asked quickly, and was out of the room in a flash.

Ten minutes later, Poiccart and George were talking together when they heard the street door close, and saw Leon stroll to the edge of the pavement and wave his umbrella. The taxi-driver was suddenly a thing of quivering excitement. He leaned down, cranked his engine, climbed back into his seat and brought the car up quicker than any taxicab driver had ever moved before.

“New Scotland Yard,” said Leon, and got into the machine.

The cab passed through the forbidding gates of the Yard and dropped him at the staff entrance.

“Wait here,” said Leon, and the man shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ve got to be back at my garage—” he began.

“I shall not be five minutes,” said Leon.

Meadows was in his room, fortunately.

“I want you to pull in this man and give him a dose of the third degree you keep in this country,” said Leon. “He carries a gun; I saw that when he had to get down to crank up his cab in Piccadilly Circus. The engine stopped.”

“What do you want to know?”

“All that there is to be known about Oberzohn. I may have missed one or two things. I’ve seen him outside the house. Oberzohn employs him for odd jobs and occasionally he acts as the old man’s chauffeur. In fact, he drove the machine the day Miss Leicester lunched with Oberzohn at the Ritz-Carlton. He may not have a cabman’s licence, and that will make it all the easier for you.”

A few minutes later, a very surprised and wrathful man was marched into Cannon Row and scientifically searched. Leon had been right about the revolver; it was produced and found to be loaded, and his excuse that he carried the weapon as a protection following upon a recent murder of a cab-driver had not the backing of the necessary permit. In addition—and this was a more serious offence—he held no permit from Scotland Yard to ply for hire on the streets, and his badge was the property of another man.

“Put him inside,” said Meadows, and went back to report to the waiting Leon. “You’ve hit the bull’s-eye first time. I don’t know whether he will be of any use to us, but I don’t despise even the smallest fish.”

Whilst he was waiting, Leon had been engaged in some quick thinking.

“The man has been at Greenwich lately. One of my men saw him there twice, and I needn’t say that he was driving Oberzohn.”

“I’ll talk to him later and telephone you,” said Meadows, and Leon Gonsalez went back to Curzon Street, one large smile.

“You have merely exchanged a spy you know for a spy you don’t know,” said George Manfred, “though I never question these freakish acts of yours, Leon. So often they have a trick of turning up trumps. By the way, the police are raiding the Gringo Club in the Victoria Dock Road to-night, and they may be able to pick up a few of Mr. Oberzohn’s young gentlemen who are certain to be regular users of the place.”

The telephone bell rang shrilly, and Leon took up the receiver, and recognized Meadows’ voice.

“I’ve got a queer story for you,” said the inspector immediately.

“Did he talk?” asked the interested Leon.

“After a while. We took a finger-print impression, and found that he was on the register. More than that, he is a ticket-of-leave man. As an ex-convict we can send him back to finish his unexpired time. I promised to say a few words for him, and he spilt everything. The most interesting item is that Oberzohn is planning to be married.”

“To be married? Who is this?” asked Manfred, in surprise. “Oberzohn?”

Leon nodded.

“Who is the unfortunate lady?” asked Leon.

There was a pause, and then:

“Miss Leicester.”

Manfred saw the face of his friend change colour, and guessed.

“Does he know when?” asked Leon in a different voice.

“No. The licence was issued over a week ago, which means that Oberzohn can marry any morning he likes to bring along his bride. What’s the idea, do you think?”

“Drop in this evening and either I or George will tell you,” said Leon.

He put the telephone on the hook very carefully.

“That is a danger I had not foreseen, although it was obviously the only course Oberzohn could take. If he marries her, she cannot be called in evidence against him. May I see the book, George?”

Manfred unlocked the wall safe and brought back a small ledger. Leo Gonsalez turned the pages thoughtfully.

“Dennis—he has done good work for us, hasn’t he?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s a very reliable man. He owes us, amongst other things, his life. Do you remember, his wife was—”

“I remember.” Leon scribbled the address of a man who had proved to be one of the most trustworthy of his agents.

“What are you going to do?” asked Manfred.

“I’ve put Dennis on the doorstep of the Greenwich registrar’s office from nine o’clock in the morning until half-past three in the afternoon, and he will have instructions from me that, the moment he sees Oberzohn walk out of a cab with a lady, he must push him firmly but gently under the wheels of the cab and ask the driver politely to move up a yard.”

Leon in his more extravagantly humorous moods was very often in deadly earnest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - MR. NEWTON’S DILEMMA

THE most carefully guided streaks of luck may, in spite of all precautions, overflow into the wrong channel, and this had happened to Mr. Montague Newton, producing an evening that was financially disastrous and a night from which sleep was almost banished. He had had one of his little card parties; but whether it was the absence of Joan, and the inadequacy of her fluffy-haired substitute, or whether the wine had disagreed with one of the most promising victims, the result was the same. They had played chemin de fer, and the gilded pigeon, whose feathers seemed already to be ornamenting the headdress of Monty Newton, had been successful, and when he should have been signing cheques for large amounts, he was cashing his counters with a reluctant host.

The night started wrong with Joan’s substitute, whose name was Lisa. She had guided to the establishment, via an excellent dinner at Mero’s, the son of an African millionaire. Joan, of course, would have brought him alone, but Lisa, less experienced, had allowed a young-looking friend of the victim to attach himself to the party, and she had even expected praise for her perspicacity and enterprise in producing two birds for the stone which Mr. Newton so effectively wielded, instead of one.

Monty did not resent the presence of the new-corner, and rather took the girl’s view, until he learnt that Lisa’s “find” was not, as she had believed, an officer of the Guards, but a sporting young lawyer with a large criminal practice, and one who had already, as a junior, conducted several prosecutions for the Crown. The moment his name was mentioned, Monty groaned in spirit. He was, moreover, painfully sober. His friend was not so favourably situated.

That was the first of the awkward things to happen. The second was the bad temper of the player, who, when the bank was considerably over PS3,000, had first of all insisted upon the cards being reshuffled, and then he had gone banquo—the game being baccarat. Even this contretemps might have been overcome, but after he had expressed his willingness to “give it,” the card which Monty had so industriously palmed slipped from his hand to the table, and though the fact was unnoticed by the players, the lawyer’s attention being diverted at the moment, it was impossible to recover that very valuable piece of pasteboard. And Monty had done a silly thing. Instead of staging an artistic exhibition of annoyance at remarks which the millionaire’s son had made, he decided to take a chance on the natural run of the cards. And he had lost. On top of that, the slightly inebriated player had decided that when a man had won a coup of PS3,000 it was time to stop playing. So Monty experienced the mortification of paying out money, and accompanying his visitor to the door with a smile that was so genial and so full of good-fellowship that the young gentleman was compelled to apologize for his boorish-ness.

“Come along some other night and give me my revenge,” said Monty.

“You bet I will! I’m going to South Africa tomorrow, but I shall be back early next year, and I’ll look you up.”

Monty watched him going down the steps and hoped he would break his neck.

He was worried about Joan—more worried than he thought it was possible for him to be about so light a girl. She was necessary to him in many ways. Lisa was a bungling fool, he decided, though he sent her home without hurting her feelings. She was a useful girl in many ways, and nothing spoils a tout quicker than constant nagging.

He felt very lonely in the house, and wandered from room to room, irritated with himself that the absence of this featherbrained girl, who had neither the education nor the breed of his own class, should make such a big difference. And it did; he had to admit as much to himself. He hated the thought of that underground room. He knew something of her temperament, and how soon her experience would get on her nerves. In many respects he wished he did not feel that way about her, because she had a big shock coming, and it was probably because he foresaw this hurt that he was anxious to make the present as happy as he could for her.