The Complete Four Just Men (85 page)

‘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 27

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 newcomer, 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 £3,000, 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 £3,000 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 boorishness.

‘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.

After he had done what he was to do, there was no reason in the world why they should be bad friends, and he would give her a big present. Girls of that class soon forget their miseries if the present is large enough. Thus he argued, tossing from side to side in his bed, and all the time his thoughts playing about that infernal cellar. What she must be feeling! He did not worry at all about Mirabelle, because – well, she was a principal in the case. To him, Joan was the real victim.

Sleep did not come until daybreak, and he woke in his most irritable frame of mind. He had promised the girl he would call and see her, though he had privately arranged with Oberzohn not to go to the house until the expiry of the five days.

By lunch-time he could stand the worry no longer, and, ordering his car, drove to a point between New Cross and Bermondsey, walking on foot the remainder of the distance. Mr Oberzohn expected the visit. He had a shrewd knowledge of his confederate’s mental outfit, and when he saw this well-dressed man picking a dainty way across the littered ground, he strolled out on the steps to meet him.

‘It is curious you should have come,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you telephone?’ growled Newton. This was his excuse for the visit.

‘Because there are human machines at the end of every wire,’ said Oberzohn. ‘If they were automatic and none could listen, but you and I, we would talk and talk and then talk! All day long would I speak with you and find it a pleasure. But not with Miss This and Miss That saying, “One moment, if you please”, and saying to the Scotland Yard man, “Now you cut in”!’

‘Is Gurther back?’

‘Gurther is back,’ said the doctor soberly.

‘Nothing happened to that bird? At least, I saw nothing in the evening papers.’

‘He has gone to Lisbon,’ replied the doctor indifferently. ‘Perhaps he will get there, perhaps he will not – what does it matter? I should like to see the letter, because it is data, and data has an irresistible charm for a poor old scientist. You will have a drink?’

Monty hesitated, as he always did when Oberzohn offered him refreshment. You could never be sure with Oberzohn.

‘I’ll have a whisky,’ he said at last, ‘a full bottle – one that hasn’t been opened. I’ll open it myself.’

The doctor chuckled unevenly.

‘You do not trust?’ he said. ‘I think you are wise. For who is there in this world of whom a man can say, “He is my friend. To the very end of my life I will have confidence in him.”?’

Monty did not feel that the question called for an answer.

He took the whisky bottle to the light, examined the cork and drove in the corkscrew.

‘The soda water – that also might be poisoned,’ said Dr Oberzohn pleasantly.

At any other time he would not have made that observation. That he said it at all betrayed a subtle but ominous change in their relationship. If Monty noticed this, he did not say a word, but filled his glass and sat down on the sofa to drink. And all the time the doctor was watching him interestedly.

‘Yes, Gurther is back. He failed, but you must excuse failure in a good man. The perfect agent has yet to be found, and the perfect principal also. The American, Washington, had left Paris when I last heard of him. He is to be congratulated. If I myself lived in Paris I should always be leaving. It is a frivolous city.’

Monty lit a cigar, and decided to arrive at the object of his visit by stages. For he had come to perform two important duties. He accounted as a duty a call upon Joan. No less was it a duty, and something of a relief also, to make his plan known to his partner.

‘How are the girls?’ he asked.

‘They are very happy,’ said Dr Oberzohn, who had not resumed his seat, but stood in an attitude somewhat reminiscent of Gurther, erect, staring, motionless. ‘Always my guests are happy.’

‘In that dog-hole?’ said the other contemptuously. ‘I don’t want Joan to be here.’

The Herr Doktor shrugged.

‘Then take her away, my friend,’ he said. ‘Why should she stay, if you are unhappy because this woman is not with you? She serves no purpose. Possibly she is fretting. By all means – I will bring her to you.’ He moved to the door.

‘Wait a moment,’ said Monty. ‘I’ll see her later and take her out perhaps, but I don’t want her to be away permanently. Somebody ought to stay with that girl.’

‘Why? Am I not here?’ asked Oberzohn blandly.

‘You’re here, and Gurther’s here.’ Monty was looking out of the window and did not meet the doctor’s eyes. ‘Especially Gurther. That’s why I think that Mirabelle Leicester should have somebody to look after her. Has it ever struck you that the best way out of this little trouble is – marriage?’

‘I have thought that,’ said the doctor. ‘You also have thought it? This is wonderful! You are beginning to think.’

The change of tone was noticeable enough now. Monty snapped round at the man who had hitherto stood in apparent awe of him and his judgments.

‘You can cut that sarcasm right out, Oberzohn,’ he said, and, without preamble: ‘I’m going to marry that girl.’

Oberzohn said nothing to this.

‘She’s not engaged; she’s got no love affairs at all. Joan told me, and Joan is a pretty shrewd girl. I don’t know how I’m going to fix it, but I guess the best thing I can do is to pretend that I am a real friend and get her out of your cellar. She’ll be so grateful that maybe she will agree to almost anything. Besides, I think I made an impression the first time I saw her. And I’ve got a position to offer her, Oberzohn: a house in the best part of London – ’

‘My house,’ interrupted Oberzohn’s metallic voice.

‘Your house? Well, our house, let us say. We’re not going to quarrel about terms.’

‘I also have a position to offer her, and I do not offer her any other man’s.’

Oberzohn
was looking at him
wide-eyed,
a comical figure;
his elongated face seemed to stand out in the gloom like a pantomime mask.

‘You?’ Monty could hardly believe his ears.

‘I, Baron Eruc Oberzohn.’

‘A baron, are you?’ The room shook with Monty’s laughter. ‘Why, you damned old fool, you don’t imagine she’d marry you, do you?’

Oberzohn nodded.

‘She would do anythings what I tell her.’ In his agitation his English
was getting a little ragged. ‘A girl may not like a mans, but she might hate something worse – you understand? A woman says death is nothing, but a woman is afeard of death, isn’t it?’

‘You’re crazy,’ said Monty scornfully.

‘I am crazy, am I? And a damned old fool also – yes? Yet I shall marry her.’

There was a dead silence, and then Oberzohn continued the conversation, but on a much calmer note.

‘Perhaps I am what you call me, but it is not a thing worthy for two friends to quarrel. Tomorrow you shall come here, and we will discuss this matter like a business proposition,
hein
?’

Monty examined him as though he were a strange insect that had wandered into his ken.

‘You’re not a Swede, you’re German,’ he said. ‘That baron stuff gave you away.’

‘I am from the Baltic, but I have lived many years in Sweden,’ said Oberzohn shortly. ‘I am not German: I do not like them.’

More than this he would not say. Possibly he shared Gurther’s repugnance towards his sometime neighbours.

‘We shall not quarrel, anyway,’ he continued. ‘I am a fool, you are a fool, we are all fools. You wish to see your woman?’

‘I wish to see Joan,’ said Monty gruffly. ‘I don’t like that “your woman” line of yours.’

‘I will go get her. You wait.’

Again the long boots came from under the table, were dragged on to the doctor’s awkward feet, and Monty watched him from the window as he crossed to the factory and disappeared.

He was gone five minutes before he came out again, alone. Monty frowned. What was the reason for this?

‘My friend,’ panted Oberzohn, to whom these exertions were becoming more and more irksome, ‘it is not wise.’

‘I want to see her – ’ began Monty.

‘Gently, gently; you shall see her. But on the canal bank Gurther has also seen a stranger, who has been walking up and down, pretending to fish. Who can fish in a canal, I ask you?’

‘What is he to do with it?’

‘Would it be wise to bring her in daylight, I ask you again? Do not the men think that your – that this girl is in Brussels?’

This had not occurred to Monty.

‘I have an idea for you. It is a good idea. The brain of old fool Oberzohn sometimes works remarkably. This morning a friend sent to me a ticket for a theatre. Now you shall take her tonight. There is always a little fog when the sun is setting and you can leave the house in a car. Presently I will send a man to attract this watcher’s attention, and then I will bring her to the house and you can call for her.’

‘I will wait for her.’ Monty was dogged on this point.

And wait he did, until an hour later a half-crazy girl came flying into the room and into his arms.

Dr Oberzohn witnessed the reunion unmoved.

‘That is a pretty scene for me,’ he said, ‘for one to be so soon married,’ and he left them alone.

* * *

‘Monty, I can’t possibly go back to that beastly place tonight. She’ll have to stay by herself. And she’s not a bad kid, Monty, but she doesn’t know she’s worth a lot of money.’

‘Have you been talking to her?’ he asked angrily. ‘I told you – ’

‘No, I’ve only just asked her a few questions. You can’t be in a poky hole like that, thrown together day and night, without talking, can you? Monty, you’re absolutely sure nothing can happen to her?’

Monty cleared his throat.

‘The worst thing that can happen to her,’ he said, ‘is to get married.’

She opened her eyes at this.

‘Does somebody want to marry her?’

‘Oberzohn,’ he said.

‘That old thing!’ she scoffed.

Again he found a difficulty in speaking.

‘I have been thinking it over, honey,’ he said. ‘Marriage doesn’t mean a whole lot to anybody.’

‘It’ll mean a lot to me,’ she said quietly.

‘Suppose I married her?’ he blurted.

‘You!’ She stepped back from him in horror.