CHAPTER XII
DOCTOR LOMOND was writing a book on crime. It was one of those electric decisions to which he confessed and pursued with unrelenting energy. Apparently he wrote in his study, in his bedroom, whilst he was at breakfast, and, with Alan's approval, occupied the inspector's desk in his little office at Harlboro' Street when Wembury was absent. An exercise book, its pages covered with the microscopic, execrable writing of one who was born to write prescriptions came Alan's way, and he learnt the nature of the pretentious work from the proud author.
"Certainly you can read it. You may be able to check your own observations with mine. For the moment," confessed the doctor, "I am dealing entirely with Indian crime, and this has some bearing upon the Ringer, because I understand that his wife was born in that delightful country""
"Indiana is a long way from India," said Alan, with perfect gravity.
The doctor's face fell.
"Still, that really doesn't affect the issue," he said. "Now, let me read you the first bit."
"Thanks, I'd rather read it when I'm alone, Doctor," said Alan hastily. He had met other authors anxious to read their literary efforts. "I think you may help me, however," he said. "I've just come from old man Meister, who's in a state of collapse."
"So early? "asked the sympathetic doctor.
"No, it isn't booze this tune; it is sheer, unadulterated funk. The man is in a state of terror, and it only needs just a little push one way or the other to throw him off his balance. I'm going to tell you the story."
And the doctor, settling himself on the edge of his seat, listened with wide-eyed interest to the story of the Killer and his vendetta.
"Hardly seems credible," he said, "in this country. And yet I've known a dozen cases of family feuds that have been handed on from father to son. Take the case of Ahmet Mahomet Ali, who lived""
"Yes, yes, Doctor," said Alan tactfully, "I know that case very well. But this is not the East, and, as you say, it is incredible."
The doctor fingered his little beard and looked wisely through his pince-nez.
"Is it established that the Ringer is in England?"
Alan nodded.
"Then why not do what we did in India? I know all talk of India sets your teeth on edge, but the case of Ahmet Mahomet Ali, which you most mendaciously claimed to know, may give you a hint. How do you shoot lions by night?"
"I've never shot lions by night or by day," said Alan.
"I'll tell you; you tether a live goat near a tree, and you sit on the tree, and if the mosquitoes will only be reasonable you pot your lion when he's just making a leap at the bleating billy. It seems to me that the goat in this case—if Mr. Meister will not be offended at my describing him as such—is bleating loudly enough to draw the oldest and the deafest of lions; and if you only place him properly, you ought to catch the Ringer."
"In other words, bait a trap for him?"
"Exactly," said the doctor in triumph. "They baited a trap for Ahmet Mahomet with a brother-in-law whom he cordially detested. A wedding was staged in a little hill village, and up turned Ahmet with his bold men and fell into an ambush.... I went to his hanging."
Alan was dubious.
"If you make it too easy for him he'll smell bait and trap. What do you suggest?"
But the doctor was not ready with an immediate solution. He said he would think the matter over that night and deliver a written plan in the morning. Alan thought he would have made an excellent Anglo-Indian official, with his weakness for reducing all human activities to the dead level of a written report.
"Where do you think the blow will fall—what is the most likely place?"
"His own house," replied Wembury promptly. "He's near his friends for one thing. There isn't a Laner who wouldn't give him house-room and risk their own lives to get him away. The Lane is a queer, theatrical sort of place. We raided a house a year ago and, exploring the cellar, found that there was a clear passageway underground from one end of the street to the other! What we thought were separate cellars were in reality huge stalls, packed tightly with the most appalling specimens of humanity. Visible Flanders Lane is bad enough, but when Flanders Lane gets down to its bolt-holes it is frankly horrible."
Alan greatly desired to interview one man in Deptford, and that man was Peter the Nose. Whilst he was satisfied that no mistake had been made, and that the Ringer was in London, he was anxious to secure the kind of confirmation that only Peter could give; for Peter was a wonderful sorter of truth from fiction, legend from fact. Alan went in search of him, without success. His usual haunts knew him not, and the detective went on to Rotherhithe, to a crazy little riverside warehouse which served as a habitation for an old lady and her ancient son, who made a good living out of combing the river flats for flotsam. Old packing cases, hay bales which had fallen overboard from barges, the body of a suicide or so—the authorities paid seven and sixpence from this reach for a body. Sometimes the scourers found things which were not lost, but it is always very hard to prove a negative. But Peter was not there.
The old lady, sitting before a fire of driftwood, a ragged cigar between her discoloured teeth, thought he had left London. He had a home in Devonshire, it appeared, and stolid and decent farm labourers as his relatives. It was difficult to picture Peter with bucolic associations, but afterwards Alan learnt that this was the truth.
Nor was Peter in the house of the cobbler of Friendly Avenue, who fenced petty loot. It looked as though there were some foundation for the theory that Peter had shaken the dust of London from his shoes and had gone out into the clean air of Devonshire.
Coming back along the High Street, he saw Mary Lenley and her brother on the opposite sidewalk. They had been shopping. High Street, Deptford, though farther afield than the Lewisham Road, has a reputation for cheapness. There was a smile on Lenley's face that gave the detective a little pain. Johnny was carrying a bag full of provisions; the girl, her arm in his, was looking up into his face as they passed out of Alan's sight. He shook his head. Rotten work—police work. He had not realized its rottenness before. He turned his thoughts to the Ringer; such was his concern for Mary that the man who was, at that moment, dominating the police mind, performed the humble service of keeping in the background the vision of a girl, stricken with sorrow. In every station house throughout the length and breadth of the land the question of the Ringer and his menace was an urgent matter for discussion. The long blue lines of policemen parading for duty stood stiffly at attention whilst inspectors, great and minor, read emphatically the meaningless details of his height, colour and appearance.
On the blackboards before the stations, amidst notices of children abandoned and unknown bodies found, a square sheet had appeared.
WANTED FOR MURDER.
£500 REWARD.
HENRY ARTHUR MILTON, alias the Ringer, aged 34. height 67 inches, blue or gray eyes, brown hair. may be disguised. Believed to have arrived in this country from Australia. Latest news of him is that he has recently recovered from a bad attack of pleurisy. The man is wanted on charges of murder, prison breaking and murderous assault. Dangerous; carries firearms. The above reward will be paid to any person giving information that will lead to his arrest. Notify Superintendent Mcfarlane, New Scotland Yard, S.W., or any police officer.
Beneath the line announcing the reward was a photograph, obviously taken in prison. It was a picture of vacuity; there was absolutely no expression in the blank face. The lips were parted, the eyes vacant and without life. The portrait was admitted to be the Ringer's chef d'oeuvre, for without the slightest aid from the instruments of artifice, he had so completely hidden himself from the eye of the camera that even Cora Milton, stopping (as she often did) to examine the picture, could trace no resemblance to her husband. And yet it was he; the prison photographer at Pentonville had taken the photograph. A governor and a chief warder could swear that it was the Ringer who had "sat"—with equal truth they could swear that not one of them could have recognized the prisoner from the print that was made.
In Flanders Lane they pointed to the ears that stood away from the head, and hugged themselves with unholy joy when they related, one to the other, the queer gift of a man whose will commanded even the muscles that in ordinary mortals had no control over those appendages. There was nobody like the Ringer—nobody in the world. Sympathy was general in Flanders Lane. He had half-killed a "screw" and had "done" a snout—but who loves a prison guard or a sneaking police spy? Certainly no Laner. They would have turned out to a man and a woman in his defence—it would have been an honour to die for him.
When Cora Milton found herself picking a way through the litter of the Lane early that evening, she had proof of the glamour which enwrapped the wife of Henry Arthur Milton. A gawky boy, terrier-faced, yelled a derisive comment on her smart appearance. Instantly somebody darted from a doorway, caught the terrified youth by the scruff of his neck and flung him, half stunned, against the area railings with a shrill dissertation upon his dubious ancestry.
She had to wait some time before the door opened, and then she saw a face that was vaguely familiar. He was certainly a "busy." She was conscious of the atmosphere of authority in which he moved.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Milton. What can we do for you?"
She frowned into his face.
"Atkins, isn't it?"
Sergeant Atkins nodded.
She winced and her colour changed.
"Nothing wrong with Meister, is there?" she asked sharply.
"You know him better than I," replied the sergeant, and she was relieved by the flippancy of the reply.
"I want to see him," she said.
"Want to see Mr. Wembury, too?"
"If he's here." She saw the smile on the man's features and guessed accurately. He was not. "Am I supposed to be scared at Wembury?"
Sergeant Atkins chuckled and led her along the paved pathway to the door. An old withered face peeped out from the kitchen, but was quickly withdrawn.
"Who's that?"
"That's his housekeeper. Want to meet her?"
At that moment the door of the kitchen slammed, and there was the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
"She's not used to visitors," said Atkins. "Maybe she doesn't think it proper for beautiful young ladies to call on the old man after business hours."
"We girls have our peculiarities," said Cora, and followed him up the stairs.
She waited outside the door whilst Atkins went in.
"Who?" she heard Meister say, and then: "Right! Show her in."
He was sitting in his armchair, his hands complacently folded over his expansive waistcoat, a newly lit cigar in his mouth, and though he did not attempt to rise he was pleasant, even good-humoured.
"You'll be getting me a bad reputation, Cora," he said. "Sit down."
"On the floor or somewhere?" she asked.
He got up with a grunt and found a chair for her.
"Well, have you come to say good-bye to me before I sail for Australia?" he asked humorously, and shook a reproving finger at her. "You're a naughty girl!"
"I had a list of your visitors from that stenographer—I couldn't trace Arthur."
He laughed gently.
"You couldn't trace Arthur, could you? I'll bet you couldn't! You'll trace him in Australia—somewhere in Collins Street, Melbourne. Or you'll pick him up on the track at Flemington. But you won't trace him here, honey."
"I like you best when you're sober, Meister," she said. "You don't talk so prettily. Where is Wembury?"
"Sleeping under my bed." Meister was quite amused at the jest. "I had a pillow and a blanket put for him, and there he sleeps to-night!"
And then she asked a question which took the smile from his face.
"Who was the guy you saw—the man who peeked through the door?"
"Who told you that?" he asked angrily.
"Haggitt," was the calm reply. "That stenographer of yours wasn't talkative enough for me. Now, don't get heated up, Meister. Sam has left you, or I wouldn't have told. Besides, I'm only trying to help you."
"The thieving scum!" he growled. "That fellow couldn't drop straight!"
"Who was the man?" she asked again. "I've seen him once""
"You've seen him?"
She nodded.
"Yuh, just for a second. I saw him at the Sports Club."
Mr. Meister's hand was out of jurisdiction; it was fumbling at his lips.
"But is it he?" he demanded in a harsh voice.
"I don't know—it might have been. But it is queer—his being here."
"Fake!" said Meister loudly. "Fake! It's all part of the game to scare me into quitting. But you'll not do it, Cora, neither you nor the gang. I'm too wide, too—too clever for you all."
There was a little table in the centre of the room, covered with a white embroidered cloth. It was a delicate tablecloth and a small settee had been pulled up against it. Her shrewd eyes missed nothing.
"Having a dinner party?" she asked.
Mr. Meister glanced at the table, smiled and recovered some of his lost self-assurance.
"A client, that's all," he said airily.
She walked over to the window and, pulling aside the curtains, examined the grille.
"You don't think he's in England?" she remarked sarcastically. "What's the idea of this? To keep out the rats? Listen, Meister—I've got a feeling here"—she touched her heart—"that there is bad trouble coming to you. Bars won't keep Arthur away from you, nor detectives, nor policemen, nor a whole army. Get that into your mind. I'm giving you a chance, and you hate me for it."
He said nothing, and she mused a while, looking down at the floor, then her eyes again returned to the table.
"That's a mighty pretty stenographer of yours, Meister," she said carelessly, and she saw the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Are you sure of her?"
His mouth opened in astonishment.
"Of Mary Lenley? What do you mean—sure?"
"I'm only asking. Are you sure of anybody? Are you sure of me?"
As if by magic, a stubby Browning had appeared in her hand. He shrank back against the wall, livid, his hands outflung. For a moment she rocked with silent laughter, and then dropped the gun into her bag.
"You're not sure of much," she said. "I could have killed you then, but I guess that Arthur would have hated me worse than ever, if I had!"
She left Meister in a state of quivering fear. For her own part, she was not altogether free from anxiety. She went into the street, letting herself out, for Atkins, at the sound of the closing door, had passed to his place of observation. She saw him there, nodded a farewell and walked quickly up Flanders Lane into the High Street.
Following her at a distance walked a man who slackened and hastened his pace to match hers. When she stopped before a jeweller's to glance at the window and he passed her, she saw him for a second in a careless glance, but she did not recognize the parson in the horn-rimmed glasses as the man she had momentarily seen in the doorway of the Sports Club.