The Complete Four Just Men (103 page)

Garry Lexfield became instantly attentive. Nobody in England knew him well enough to make him the subject of conversation. If they did, then the discussion had not been greatly to his advantage.

‘Who was this?’ he asked.

‘He spoke such perfect Spanish, and he has a smile the most delightful! And he said so many funny things that I laughed.’

‘A Brazilian?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘In Brazil we speak Portuguese,’ she said. ‘No, Señor Gonsalez – ’

‘Gonsalez?’ he said quickly. ‘Not Leon Gonsalez? One of those swi – men . . . the Three Just Men?’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Do you know them?’

He laughed.

I have heard about them. Blackguards that should have been hanged years ago. They are murderers and thieves. They’ve got a nerve to come and see you. I suppose he said something pretty bad about me? The truth is, I’ve been an enemy of theirs for years . . . ’

He went on to tell an imaginary story of an earlier encounter he had had with the Three, and she listened intently.

‘How interesting!’ she said at last. ‘No, they simply said of you that you were a bad man, and that you wanted my money; that you had a bad – what is the word? – record. I was very angry really, especially when they told me that you had a wife, which I know is not true, because you would not deceive me. Tomorrow he comes again, this Señor Gonsalez – he really did amuse me when I was not angry. Shall I lunch with you and tell you what he said?’

Garry was annoyed: he was thoroughly alarmed. It had not been difficult to locate and identify the man who had taken such summary action with him; and, once located, he had decided to give a wide berth to the men who lived behind the Silver Triangle. He had sense enough to know they were not to be antagonized, and he had hoped most sincerely that they had been less acute in tracing him than he had been in identifying them.

He changed the conversation and became, in spite of the witness, the most ardent and tender of lovers. All his art and experience was called into play; for here was a prize which had been beyond his dreams.

His immediate objective was some £20,000 which had come to the lady in the shape of dividends. She had displayed a pretty helplessness in the matter of money, though he suspected her of being shrewd enough. Garry Lexfield could talk very glibly and fluently on the subject of the market. It was his pet study; it was likewise his continuous undoing. There never was a thief who did not pride himself on his shrewdness in money matters, and Garry had come in and out of the market from time to time in his short and discreditable life with disastrous results to himself.

He saw her and her silent companion to the car and went back, and in the solitude of his flat turned over the new and alarming threat represented by the interest which the Three Just Men were showing in his activities.

He rose late, as was his practice, and was in his pyjamas when the telephone-bell rang. The voice of the porter informed him that there was a trunk call for him and trunk calls these days meant the lovely Velasquez.

‘I have seen Gonsalez,’ said her urgent voice. ‘He came when I was at breakfast. Tomorrow, he says, they will arrest you because of something you did in Australia. Also today he applies to stop your money coming from the bank.’

‘Holding up my account?’ said Garry quickly. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain I am sure! They will go to a judge in his rooms and get a paper. Shall I come to lunch?’

‘Of course – one o’clock,’ he said quickly. He glanced at the little clock on the mantelshelf: it was half-past eleven.

‘And about your investments: I think I can fix everything today. Bring your cheque-book.’

He was impatient for her to finish the conversation, and at last rather abruptly he brought it to a termination, dashed down the receiver, and, flying into his bedroom, began to dress.

His bank was in Fleet Street, and the journey seemed interminable. Fleet Street was much too close to the Law Courts for his liking. The judge’s order might already be effective.

He pushed his cheque under the brass grille of the tellers’ counter and held his breath while the slip of paper was handed to the accountant for verification. And then, to his overwhelming relief, the teller opened his drawer, took out a pad of notes and counted out the amount written on the cheque.

‘This leaves only a few pounds to your credit, Mr Lexfield,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said Garry. ‘I’m bringing in rather a big cheque after lunch, and I want you to get a special clearance.’

It was then he realized that by that time the judge’s order would be in operation. He must find another way of dealing with Madame Velasquez’s cheque.

The relief was so great that he could hardly speak calmly. With something short of £9,000 he hurried back to Jermyn Street and arrived simultaneously with Madame Velasquez.

‘How funny that
caballero
was, to be sure!’ she said in her staccato way. ‘I thought I should have laughed in his face. He told me you would not be here tomorrow, which is so absurd!’

‘It’s blackmail,’ said Garry easily. ‘Don’t you worry about Gonsalez. I have just been to Scotland Yard to report him. Now about these shares – ’

They had ten minutes to wait before lunch was ready, and those ten minutes were occupied with many arguments. She had brought her cheque-book, but she was a little fearful. Perhaps, he thought, the visit of Gonsalez had really aroused her suspicions. She was not prepared to invest the whole of her £20,000. He produced the papers and balance sheets that he had intended showing her on the previous night and explained, as he could very readily explain, the sound financial position of the company – one of the most solid on the Rand – in which he wished her to invest.

These shares,’ he said impressively, ‘will rise in the next twenty-four hours by at least ten per cent. in value. I’ve got a block held for you, but I must get them this afternoon. My idea is that immediately after lunch you should bring me an open cheque; I’ll buy the shares and bring them back to you.’

‘But why could not I go?’ she asked innocently.

‘This is a personal matter,’ said Garry with great gravity. ‘Sir John is allowing me to buy this stock as a great personal favour.’

To his joy she accepted this assurance – she actually wrote a cheque for £12,500 at the luncheon table, and he could scarcely summon patience to sit through the meal.

The proprietors of the flats in which he had his brief habitation did not cater on a generous scale, but the short time which elapsed before the dessert stage of the lunch arrived was a period of agony. She returned once to the question of her investment, seemed in doubt, referred again to Gonsalez and his warning.

‘Perhaps I had better wait for a day – yes?’

‘My dear girl, how absurd!’ said Garry. ‘I really believe you are being frightened by this fellow who called on you this morning! I’ll make him sorry!’

He half rose from the table, but she put her hand on his arm.

‘Please don’t hurry,’ she begged, and reluctantly he agreed. The bank did not close until three; there would be time to reach Dover by car and catch the five o’clock boat.

But the bank was situated in the City, and he must not cut his time too fine. He excused himself for a moment, went out in search of the valet he had acquired and gave him a few simple but urgent instructions. When he returned she was reading the balance sheet.

‘I am so foolish about these matters,’ she said, and suddenly lifted her head. ‘What was that?’ she asked, as the door slammed.

‘My valet – I have sent him out on a little errand.

She laughed nervously.

‘I am what you call on the jump,’ she said, as she pushed his coffee towards him. ‘Now tell me again, Garry, dear, what does ex-dividend mean?’

He explained at length, and she listened attentively. She was still listening when, with a sudden little choke of alarm, he half rose from his feet, only to fall back on the chair and thence to roll helplessly to the floor. Madame Velasquez took his half-empty cup of coffee, carried it at her leisure into the kitchen and emptied the contents into the sink. When he sent his valet out, Mr Garry Lexfield had saved her a great deal of trouble.

She rolled the unconscious man on to his back, and searched quickly and with a dexterous hand pocket after pocket until she found the fat envelope wherein Garry had placed his banknotes.

There was a knock at the outer door. Without hesitation she went out and opened it to the young guardsman who had so kindly introduced Mr Lexfield to her.

‘It’s all right, the servant’s gone,’ she said. ‘Here’s your two hundred, Tony, and thank you very much.’

Tony grinned.

‘The grudge I’ve got against him is that he took me for a sucker. These Australian crooks – ’

‘Don’t talk – get,’ she said tersely.

She went back to the dining-room, removed Garry’s collar and tie and, putting a pillow under his head, opened the window. In twenty minutes he would be more or less conscious, by which time his valet would have returned.

She found the cheque she had given to him, burnt it in the empty grate, and with a last look round took her departure.

Outside the airport a tall man was waiting. She saw him signal to the driver of the car to pull up.

‘I got your message,’ said Manfred sardonically. ‘I trust you’ve had a good killing? I owe you five hundred pounds.’

She shook her head with a laugh. She was still the brown, beautiful Brazilian – it would take weeks before the stain would be removed.

‘No, thank you, Mr Manfred. It was a labour of love, and I have been pretty well paid. And the furnished house I took in the country was really not a very expensive proposition – oh, very well, then.’

She took the notes he handed to her and put them in her bag, one eye on the waiting plane. ‘You see, Mr Manfred, Garry is an old acquaintance of mine – by hearsay. I sent my sister down to Monte Carlo for her health. She also found Garry.’

Manfred understood. He waited till the plane had passed through the haze out of sight, and then he went back to Curzon Street, well satisfied.

The evening newspapers had no account of the Jermyn Street robbery, which was easily understood. Mr Garry Lexfield had a sense of pride.

The Typist Who Saw Things

About every six months Raymond Poiccart grew restless, and began prodding about in strange corners, opening deed boxes and trunks, and sorting over old documents. It was a few days before the incident of the Curzon Street ‘murder’ that he appeared in the dining room with an armful of old papers, and placed them on that portion of the table which had not been laid for dinner.

Leon Gonsalez looked and groaned.

George Manfred did not even smile, though he was laughing internally.

‘I am indeed sorry to distress you, my dear friends,’ said Poiccart apologetically; ‘but these papers must be put in order. I have found a bundle of letters that go back five years, to the time when the agency was a child.’

‘Burn ’em,’ suggested Leon, returning to his book. ‘You never do anything with them, anyway!’

Poiccart said nothing. He went religiously from paper to paper, read them in his short-sighted way, and put them aside so that as one pile diminished another pile grew.

‘And I suppose when you’ve finished you’ll put them back where you found them?’ said Leon.

Poiccart did not answer. He was reading a letter.

‘A strange communication, I don’t remember reading this before,’ he said.

‘What is it, Raymond?’ asked George Manfred.

Raymond read.

To the Silver Triangle. Private.

Gentlemen,

I have seen your names mentioned in a case as being reliable agents who can be trusted to work of a confidential character. I would be glad if you would make inquiries and find out for me
the prospects of the Persian Oil Fields; also if you could
negociate the sale of 967 shares held by me. The reason I do not approach an ordinary share-broker is because there are so many sharks in this profeccion. Also could you tell me whether there is a sale for Okama Biscuit shares (American)? Please let me know this.

Yours faithfully,

J. Rock

‘I recall that letter,’
said
Leon promptly.
‘
“Negotiate” and
“profession” were spelt with c’s. Don’t you remember, George, I suggested this fellow had stolen some shares and was anxious to make us the means by which he disposed of his stolen property?’

Manfred nodded.

‘Rock,’ said Leon softly. ‘No, I have never met Mr Rock. He wrote from Melbourne, didn’t he, and gave a box number and a telegraphic address? Did we hear again from him? I think not.’

None of the three could recollect any further communication: the letter passed with the others and might have remained eternally buried, but for Leon’s uncanny memory for numbers and spelling errors.

And then one night –

A police whistle squealed in Curzon Street. Gonsalez, who slept in the front of the house, heard the sound in his dreams, and was standing by the open window before he was awake. Again the whistle sounded, and then Gonsalez heard the sound of flying feet. A girl was racing along the sidewalk. She passed the house, stopped, and ran back, and again came to a standstill.

Leon went down the narrow stairs two at a time, unlocked the front door and flung it open. The fugitive stood immediately before him.

‘In here – quickly!’ said Leon.

She hesitated only a second; stepping backward through the doorway, she waited. Leon gripped her by the arm and pulled her into the passage.

‘You needn’t be frightened of me or my friends,’ he said.

But he felt the arm in his hand strain for release. ‘Let me go, please – I don’t want to stay here!’

Leon pushed her into the back room and switched on the light.

‘You saw a policeman running up toward you, that’s why you came back,’ he said, in his quiet, conversational way. ‘Sit down and rest – you look all in!’

‘I’m innocent . . . !’ she began, in a trembling voice.

He patted her shoulder.

‘Of course you are. I, on the contrary, am guilty, for whether you’re innocent or not, I am undoubtedly helping a fugitive from justice.’

She was very young – scarcely more than a child. The pale, drawn face was pretty. She was well, but not expensively, dressed, and it struck Leon as a significant circumstance that on one finger was an emerald ring, which, if the stone were real, must have been worth hundreds of pounds. He glanced at the clock. A few minutes after two. There came to them the sound of heavy, hurrying feet.

‘Did anybody see me come in?’ she asked, fearfully.

‘Nobody was in sight. Now, what is the trouble?’

Danger and fear had held her tense, almost capable. The reaction had come now: she was shaking. Shoulders, hands, body quivered pitiably. She was crying noiselessly, her lips trembled; for the time being she was inarticulate. Leon poured water into a glass and held it to her chattering teeth. If the others had heard him, they had no intention of coming down to investigate. The curiosity of Leon Gonsalez was a household proverb. Any midnight brawl would bring him out of bed and into the street.

After a while, she was calm enough to tell her story, and it was not the story he expected.

‘My name is Farrer – Eileen Farrer. I am a typist attached to Miss Lewley’s All-Night Typing Agency. Usually there are two girls on duty, one a senior; but Miss Leah went home early. We call ourselves an all-night agency, but really we close down about one o’clock. Most of our work is theatrical. Often, after a first-night performance, certain changes have to be made in a script – and sometimes new contracts are arranged over supper, and we prepare the rough drafts. At other times it is just letter-work. I know all the big managers, and I’ve often gone to their offices quite late to do work for them. We never, of course, go to strange people and at the offices we have a porter who is also a messenger, to see that we are not annoyed. At twelve o’clock I had a phone message from Mr Grasleigh, of the Orpheum, asking me if I would do two letters for him. He sent his car for me, and I went to his flat in Curzon Street. We’re not allowed to go to the private houses of our clients, but I knew Mr Grasleigh was a client, though I had never met him before.’

Leon Gonsalez had often seen Mr Jesse Grasleigh’s bright yellow car. That eminent theatrical manager lived in some exclusive flats in Curzon Street, occupying the first floor, and paying – as Leon, who was insatiably curious, discovered – £3,000 a year. He had dawned on London three years before, had acquired the lease of the Orpheum, and had been interested in half a dozen productions, most of which had been failures.

‘What time was this?’ he asked.

‘A quarter to one,’ said the girl. ‘I reached Curzon Street at about a quarter after. I had several things to do at the office before I left, besides which he told me there was no immediate hurry. I knocked at the door and Mr Grasleigh admitted me. He was in evening dress, and looked as if he had come from a party. He had a big white flower in the buttonhole of his tail coat. I saw no servants, and I know now there were none in the flat. He showed me into his study, which was a large room, and pulled up a chair to a little table by his desk. I don’t know exactly what happened. I remember sitting down and taking my notebook out of my attache case and opening it, and I was stooping to find a pencil in the case when I heard a groan, and, looking up, I saw Mr Grasleigh lying back in his chair with a red mark on his white shirt-front – it was horrible!’

‘You heard no other sound, no shot?’ asked Leon.

She shook her head.

‘I was so horrified I couldn’t move. And then I heard somebody scream and, looking round, I saw a lady, very beautifully dressed, standing in the doorway. “What have you done to him?” she said. “You horrible woman, you’ve killed him!” I was so terrified that I couldn’t speak, and then I must have got into a panic, for I ran past her and out of the front door – ’

‘It was open?’ suggested Leon.

She frowned.

‘Yes, it was open. I think the lady must have left it open. I heard somebody blow a police whistle, but I can’t remember how I got down the stairs or into the street. You’re not going to give me up, are you?’ she asked wildly.

He leaned over and patted her hand.

‘My young friend,’ he said, gently, ‘you have nothing whatever to fear. Stay down here while I dress, and then you and I will go down to Scotland Yard and you will tell them all you know.’

‘But I can’t. They’ll arrest me!’

She was on the verge of hysteria, and it was perhaps a mistake to attempt to argue with her.

‘Oh, it’s horrible. I hate London . . . I wish I’d never left Australia . . . First the dogs and then the black man and now this . . . ’

Leon was startled, but this was not a moment to question her. The thing to do was to bring her to a calm understanding of the situation.

‘Don’t you realize that they won’t blame you, and that your story is such that no police officer in the world would dream of suspecting it?’

‘But I ran away – ’ she began.

‘Of course you ran away,’ he said soothingly. ‘I should probably have run away too. Just wait here.’

He was half-way through dressing when he heard the front door slam and, running down the stairs, found that the girl had disappeared.

Manfred was awake when he went into his room and told him the story.

‘No, I don’t think it’s a pity that you didn’t call me earlier,’ he interrupted Leon’s apology. ‘We couldn’t very well have detained her in any circumstances. You know where she is employed. See if you can get Lewley’s Agency on the telephone.’

Leon found the number in the book, but had no answer from his call.

When he was dressed he went into the street and made his way to Curzon House. To his surprise he found no policeman on guard at the door, though he saw one at the corner of the street, nor was there any evidence that there had been a tragedy. The front door of the flat was fastened, but inserted in the wall were a number of small bell-pushes, each evidently communicating with one of the flats, and after a while he discovered that which bore the name Grasleigh and was on the point of ringing when the policeman he had seen came silently across from the other side of the road. He evidently knew Leon.

‘Good evening, Mr Gonsalez,’ he said. It wasn’t you blowing that police whistle, was it?’

‘No – I heard it, though.’

‘So did I and three or four of my mates,’ said the policeman. ‘We’ve been flying round these streets for a quarter of an hour, but we haven’t found the man who blew it.’

‘Probably I’ll be able to help you.’

It was at that moment that he heard the door unlocked, and nearly dropped, for the man who opened the door to him he recognized as Grasleigh himself. He was in a dressing-gown; the half of a cigar was in the corner of his mouth.

‘Hullo!’ he said in surprise. ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘Can I see you for a few minutes?’ said Leon when he had recovered from his surprise.

‘Certainly,’ said the ‘dead man’, ‘though it’s hardly the time I like to receive callers. Come up.’

Wonderingly Leon followed him up the stairs to the first floor. He saw no servants, but there was not the slightest evidence to associate this place with the dramatic scene which the girl had described. Once they were in the big study, Leon told his story. When he had finished, Grasleigh shook his head.

‘The girl’s mad! It’s perfectly true that I did telephone for her, and as a matter of fact I thought it was her when you rang the bell. I assure you she hasn’t been here tonight . . . Yes, I heard the police whistle blow, but I never mix myself up in these midnight troubles.’ He was looking at Leon keenly. ‘You’re one of the Triangle people, aren’t you, Mr Gonsalez? What was this girl like?’

Leon described her, and again the theatrical manager shook his head.

‘I’ve never heard of her,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a hoax, Mr Gonsalez.’

Leon went back to join his two friends, a very bewildered man.

The next morning he called at Lewles Agency, which he knew by repute as a well-conducted establishment of its kind, and interviewed its good-natured spinster-proprietress. He had to exercise a certain amount of caution: he was most anxious not to get the girl into trouble. Fortunately, he knew an important client of Miss Lewley’s and he was able to use this unconscious man as a lever to extract the information he required.

‘Miss Farrer is doing night duty this week, and she will not be in until this evening,’ she explained. ‘She has been with us about a month.’

‘How long has Mr Grasleigh been a client of yours?’

‘Exactly the same time,’ she said with a smile. ‘I rather think he likes Miss Farrer’s work, because previous to that he sent all his work to Danton’s Agency, where she was employed, and the moment she came to us he changed his agency.’

‘Do you know anything about her?’

The woman hesitated.

‘She is an Australian. I believe at one time her family were very wealthy. She’s never told me anything about her troubles, but I have an idea that she will be entitled to a lot of money some day. One of the partners of Colgate’s, the lawyers, came to see her once.’

Leon managed to get the girl’s address, and then went on to the City to find Messrs Colgate. Luck was with him, for Colgate’s had employed the Three on several occasions, and at least one of their commissions had been of a most delicate character.

It was one of those old-fashioned firms that had its offices in the region of Bedford Row, and though it was generally known as ‘Colgate’s’, it consisted of seven partners, the names of all of whom were inscribed on the brass plate before the office.

Mr Colgate himself was a man of sixty, and at first rather uncommunicative. It was an inspiration for Leon to tell him of what had happened the night before. To his amazement, he saw the lawyer’s face drop.

‘That’s very bad,’ he said, ‘very bad indeed. But I’m afraid I can tell you nothing more than you know.’

‘Why is it so very bad?’ asked Leon.

The lawyer pursed his lips thoughtfully.

‘You understand that she is not our client, although we represent a firm of Melbourne solicitors who are acting for this young lady. Her father died in a mental home and left his affairs rather involved. During the past three years, however, some of his property has become very valuable, and there is no reason why this young lady should work at all, except, as I suspect, that she wishes to get away from the scene of this family trouble and has to work to occupy her mind. I happen to know that the taint of madness is a cause of real distress to the girl, and I believe it was on the advice of her only relative that she came to England, in the hope that the change of scene would put out of her mind this misfortune which has overshadowed her.’