The Complete Four Just Men (84 page)

‘It was a man in woman’s clothes,’ he said, a little breathlessly, and they went back to search the compartment, but Mr Gurther had taken bag and everything with him, and the only souvenir of his presence was the heel of a shoe that had been torn off in the struggle.

Chapter 25

Gurther returns

The train was going at thirty miles an hour when Gurther dropped on to a ridge of sand by the side of the track, and in the next second he was sliding forward on his face. Fortunately for him the veil, though torn, kept his eyes free. Stumbling to his feet, he looked round. The level-crossing gates should be somewhere here. He had intended jumping the train at this point, and Oberzohn had made arrangements accordingly. A signalman, perched high above the track, saw the figure and challenged.

‘I’ve lost my way,’ said Gurther. ‘Where is the level-crossing?’

‘A hundred yards farther on. Keep clear of those metals – the Eastbourne express is coming behind.’

If Gurther had had his way, he would have stopped long enough to remove a rail for the sheer joy of watching a few hundred of the hated people plunged to destruction. But he guessed that the car was waiting, went sideways through the safety gates into a road which was fairly populous. There were people about who turned their heads and looked in amazement at the bedraggled woman in black, but he had got beyond worrying about his appearance.

He saw the car with the little green light which Oberzohn invariably used to mark his machines from others, and, climbing into the cab (as it was), sat down to recover his breath. The driver he knew as one of the three men employed by Oberzohn, one of whom Mr Washington had seen that morning.

The journey back to town was a long one, though the machine, for a public vehicle, was faster than most. Gurther welcomed the ride. Once more he had failed, and he reasoned that this last failure was the most serious of all. The question of Oberzohn’s displeasure did not really arise. He had travelled far beyond the point when the Swede’s disapproval meant very much to him. But there might be a
consequence more serious than any. He knew well with what instru
c
tions Pfeiffer had been primed on the night of the attack at Rath House – only Gurther had been quicker, and his snake had bitten first. Dr Oberzohn had no illusions as to what happened, and if he had tactfully refrained from making reference to the matter, he had his purpose and reasons. And this night journey with Elijah Washington was one of them.

There was no excuse; he had none to offer. His hand wandered beneath the dress to the long knife that was strapped to his side, and the touch of the worn handle was very reassuring. For the time being he was safe; until another man was found to take Pfeiffer’s place Oberzohn was working single-handed and could not afford to dispense with the services of this, the last of his assassins.

It was past eleven when he dismissed the taxi at the end of the long lane, and, following the only safe path, came to the unpainted door that gave admission to Oberzohn’s property. And the first words of his master told him that there was no necessity for explanation.

‘So you did not get him, Gurther?’

‘No, Herr Doktor.’

‘I should not have sent you.’ Oberzohn’s voice was extraordinarily mild in all the circumstances. ‘That man you cannot kill – with the snake. I have learned since you went that he was bitten at the blind man’s house, yet lives! That is extraordinary. I would give a lot of money to test his blood. You tried the knife?’

‘
Ja
, Herr Doktor.’ He lifted his veil, stripped off hat and wig in one motion. The rouged and powdered face was bruised; from under the brown wig was a trickle of dried blood.

‘Good! You have done as well as you could. Go to your room, Gurther – march!’

Gurther went upstairs, and for a quarter of an hour was staring at his grinning face in the glass, as with cream and soiled towel he removed his make-up.

Oberzohn’s very gentleness was a menace. What did it portend? Until that evening neither Gurther nor his dead companion had been taken into the confidence of the two men who directed their activities. He knew there were certain papers to be recovered; he knew there were men to be killed; but what value were the papers, or why death should be directed to this unfortunate or that, he neither knew nor cared. His duty had been to obey, and he had served a liberal paymaster well and loyally. That girl in the underground room? Gurther had many natural explanations for her imprisonment. And yet none of them fitted the conditions. His cogitations were wasted time. That night, for the first time, the doctor took him into his confidence.

He had finished dressing and was on his way to his kitchen when the doctor stood at the doorway and called him in.

‘Sit down, Gurther.’ He was almost kind. ‘You will have a cigar? These are excellent.’

He threw a long, thin, black cheroot, and Gurther caught it between his teeth and seemed absurdly pleased with his trick.

‘The time has come when you must know something, Gurther,’ said the doctor. He took a fellow to the weed the man was smoking, and puffed huge clouds of rank smoke into the room. ‘I have for a friend – who? Herr Newton?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘He is a very charming man, but he has no brains. He is the kind of man, Gurther, who would live in comfort, take all we gave him by our cleverness and industry, and never say thank you! And in trouble what will he do, Gurther? He will go to the police – yes, my dear friend, he will go to the police!’

He nodded. Gurther had heard the same story that night when he had crept soft-footed to the door and had heard the doctor discuss certain matters with the late Mr Pfeiffer.

‘He would, without a wink of his eyelash, without a snap of his hand, send you and me to death, and would read about our execution with a smile, and then go forth and eat his plum-pudding and roast beef! That is our friend Herr Newton! You have seen this with your own eyes?’

‘
Ja
, Herr Doktor!’ exclaimed the obedient Gurther.

‘He is a danger for many reasons,’ Oberzohn proceeded deliberately. ‘Because of these three men who have so infamously set themselves out to ruin me, who burnt down my house, and who whipped you, Gurther – they tied you up to a post and whipped you with a whip of nine tails. You have not forgotten, Gurther?’

‘
Nein
, Herr Doktor!’ Indeed, Gurther had not forgotten, though the vacant smirk on his face might suggest that he had a pleasant memory of the happening.

‘A fool in an organization,’ continued the doctor oracularly, ‘is like a bad plate on a ship, or a weak link in a chain. Let it snap, and what happens? You and I die, my dear Gurther. We go up before a stupid man in a white wig and a red cloak, and he hands us to another man who puts a rope around our necks, drops us through a hole in the ground – all because we have a stupid man like Herr Montague Newton to deal with.’

‘
Ja
, Herr Doktor,’ said Gurther as his master stopped. He felt that this comment was required of him.

‘Now, I will tell you the whole truth.’ The doctor carefully knocked off the ash of his cigar into the saucer of his cup. ‘There is a fortune for you and for me, and this girl that we have in the quiet place can give it to us. I can marry her, or I can wipe her out, so! If I marry her, it would be better, I think, and this I have arranged.’

And then, in his own way, he told the story of the hill of gold, concealing nothing, reserving nothing – all that he knew, all that Villa had told him.

‘For three-four days now she must be here. At the end of that time nothing matters. The letter to Lisbon – of what value is it? I was foolish when I tried to stop it. She has made no nominee, she has no heirs, she has known nothing of her fortune, and therefore is in no position to claim the renewal of the concession.’

‘Herr Doktor, will you graciously permit me to speak?’

The doctor nodded.

‘Does the Newton know this?’

‘The Newton knows all this,’ said the doctor.

‘Will you graciously permit me to speak again, Herr Doktor? What was this letter I was to have taken, had I not been overcome by misfortune?’

Oberzohn examined the ceiling.

‘I have thought this matter from every angle,’ he said, ‘and I have decided thus. It was a letter written by Gonsalez to the Secretary or the Minister of the Colonies, asking that the renewal of the concession should be postponed. The telegram from my friend at the Colonial Office in Lisbon was to this effect.’ He fixed his glasses, fumbled in his waistcoat and took out the three-page telegram. ‘I will read it to you in your own language –

‘Application has been received from Leon Gonsalez, asking His Excellency to receive a very special letter which arrives in two days. The telegram does not state the contents of the letter, but the Minister has given orders for the messenger to be received. The present Minister is not favourable to concessions granted to England or Englishmen.’

He folded the paper.

‘Which means that there will be no postponement, my dear Gurther, and this enormous fortune will be ours.’

Gurther considered this point and for a moment forgot to smile, and looked what he was in consequence: a hungry, discontented wolf of a man.

‘Herr Doktor, graciously permit me to ask you a question?’

‘Ask,’ said Oberzohn magnanimously.

‘What share does Herr Newton get? And if you so graciously honoured me with a portion of your so justly deserved gains, to what extent would be that share?’

The other considered this, puffing away until the room was a mist of smoke.

‘Ten thousand English pounds,’ he said at last.

‘Gracious and learned doctor, that is a very small proportion of many millions,’ said Gurther gently.

‘Newton will receive one half,’ said the doctor, his face working nervously, ‘if he is alive. If misfortune came to him, that share would be yours, Gurther, my brave fellow! And with so much money a man would not be hunted. The rich and the noble would fawn upon him; he would have his lovely yacht and steam about the summer seas everlastingly, huh?’

Gurther rose and clicked his heels.

‘Do you desire me again this evening?’

‘No, no, Gurther.’ The old man shook his head. ‘And pray remember that there is another day tomorrow, and yet another day after. We shall wait and hear what our friend has to say. Good night, Gurther.’

‘Good night, Herr Doktor.’

The doctor looked at the door for a long time after his man had gone and took up his book. He was deep in the chapter which was headed, in the German tongue: ‘The Subconscious Activity of the Human Intellect in Relation to the Esoteric Emotions’. To Dr Oberzohn this was more thrilling than the most exciting novel.

Chapter 26

In captivity

The second day of captivity dawned unseen, in a world that lay outside the brick roof and glazed white walls of Mirabelle Leicester’s prison-house. She had grown in strength and courage, but not so her companion, Joan, who had started her weary vigil with an almost cheerful gaiety, had sunk deeper and deeper into depression as the hours progressed, and Mirabelle woke to the sound of a woman’s sobs, to find the girl sitting on the side of her bed, her head in her wet hands.

‘I hate this place!’ she sobbed. ‘Why does he keep me here? God! If I thought the hound was double-crossing me . . . ! I’ll go mad if they keep me here any longer. I will, Leicester!’ she screamed.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ said Mirabelle, getting out of bed and finding her slippers.

The girl sat throughout the operation huddled in a miserable heap, and by and by her whimpering got on Mirabelle’s nerves.

‘I don’t know why you should be wretched,’ she said. ‘They’re not after your money!’

‘You can laugh – and how you can, I don’t know,’ sobbed the girl, as she took the cup in her shaking hands. ‘I know I’m a fool, but I’ve never been locked up – like this before. I didn’t dream he’d break his word. He swore he’d come yesterday. What time is it?’

‘Six o’clock,’ said Mirabelle.

It might as well have been eight or midday, for all she knew to the contrary.

‘This is a filthy place,’ said the hysterical girl. ‘I think they’re going to drown us all . . . or that thing will explode – ’ she pointed to the green baize box – ‘I know it! I feel it in my blood. That beast Gurther is here somewhere, ugh? He’s like a slimy snake. Have you ever seen him?’

‘Gurther? You mean the man who danced with me?’

‘That’s he. I keep telling you who he is,’ said Joan impatiently. ‘I wish we could get out of here.’

She jumped up suddenly.

‘Come and see if you can help me lift the trap.’

Mirabelle knew it was useless before she set forth on the quest for freedom. Their united efforts failed to move the stone, and Joan was on the point of collapse when they came back to their sleeping-room.

‘I hope Gurther doesn’t know that those men are friends of yours,’ she said, when she became calmer.

‘You told me that yesterday. Would that make any difference?’

‘A whole lot,’ said Joan vehemently. ‘He’s got the blood of a fish, that man! There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. Monty ought to be flogged for leaving us here at his mercy. I’m not scared of Oberzohn – he’s old. But the other fellow dopes, and goes stark, staring mad at times. Monty told me one night that he was – ’ she choked – ‘a killer. He said that these German criminals who kill people are never satisfied with one murder, they go on and on until they’ve got twenty or thirty! He says that the German prisons are filled with men who have the murder habit.’

‘He was probably trying to frighten you.’

‘Why should he?’ said the girl, with unreasonable anger. ‘And leave him alone! Monty is the best in the world. I adore the ground he walks on!’

Very wisely, Mirabelle did not attempt to traverse this view.

It was only when her companion had these hysterical fits that fear was communicated to her. Her faith was completely and whole-heartedly centred on the three men – upon Gonsalez. She wondered how old he was. Sometimes he looked quite young, at others an elderly man. It was difficult to remember his face; he owed so much to his expression, the smile in his eyes, to the strange, boyish eagerness of gesture and action which accompanied his speech. She could not quite understand herself; why was she always thinking of Gonsalez, as a maid might think of a lover? She went red at the thought. He seemed so apart, so aloof from the ordinary influences of women. Suppose she had committed some great crime and had escaped the vigilance of the law, would he hunt her down in the same remorseless, eager way, planning to cut off every avenue of her escape until he shepherded her into a prison cell? It was a horrible thought, and she screwed up her eyes tight to blot out the mental picture she had made.

It would have given her no ordinary satisfaction to have known how often Gonsalez’s thoughts strayed to the girl who had so strangely come into his life. He spent a portion of his time that morning in his bedroom, fixing to the wall a large railway map which took in the south of England and the greater part of the Continent. A red-ink line marked the route from London to Lisbon, and he was fixing a little green flag on the line just south of Paris when Manfred strolled into the room and surveyed his work.

‘The Sud Express is about there,’ he said, pointing to the last of the green flags, ‘and I think our friend will have a fairly pleasant and uneventful journey as far as Valladolid – where I have arranged for Miguel Garcia, an old friend of mine, to pick him up and shadow him on the westward journey – unless we get the ’plane. I’m expecting a wire any minute. By the way, the Dieppe police have arrested the gentleman who tried to bump him overboard in mid-Channel, but the man who snatched at his portfolio at the Gare St Lazare is still at liberty.’

‘He must be getting quite used to it now,’ said Manfred coolly, and laughed to himself.

Leon turned. ‘He’s a good fellow,’ he said with quick earnestness. ‘We couldn’t have chosen a better man. The woman on the train, of course, was Gurther. He is the only criminal I’ve ever known who is really efficient at disguising himself.’

Manfred lit his pipe; he had lately taken to this form of smoking. ‘The case grows more and more difficult every day. Do you realize that?’

Leon nodded. ‘And more dangerous,’ he said. ‘By the laws of average, Gurther should get one of us the next time he makes an attempt. Have you seen the papers?’

Manfred smiled.

‘They’re crying for Meadows’s blood, poor fellow! Which shows the extraordinary inconsistency of the public. Meadows has only been in one snake case. They credit him with having fallen down on the lot.’

‘They seem to be in remarkable agreement that the snake deaths come into the category of wilful murder,’ said Gonsalez as they went down the stairs together.

Meadows had been talking to the reporters. Indeed, that was his chief offence from the viewpoint of the official mind. For the first article in the code of every well-constituted policeman is, ‘Thou shalt not communicate to the Press.’

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 tonight?’

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 tonight, 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’s 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.