The Complete Four Just Men (95 page)

‘May I drop you, gracious lady?’ Leon’s smile was most entrancing. ‘I have a poor car but it is at your disposition.’

Isola hesitated.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Leon, ever the soul of politeness, insisted on taking one of the seats that put his back to the driver. It was not his own car. Usually he was very nervous about other drivers, but tonight he did not mind.

They crossed Trafalgar Square.

‘The man is taking the wrong turning,’ said Isola with quick vehemence.

‘This is the right road to Scotland Yard,’ said Leon. ‘We call this the Way of the Happy Traveller – keep your hand away from your pocket, Emilio. I have killed men on less provocation, and I have been covering you ever since we left the club!’

* * *

In the early hours of the morning telegrams were despatched to police headquarters at Folkestone and Dover:

Arrest and detain Theophilus Barger, Joseph Lokely, Harry Rigson
– [here followed five other names] – travelling to the Continent by boat either today or tomorrow.

There was no need to give instructions about Isola. For a perfect lady, her behaviour was indefensible.

‘She blotted her copybook,’ said Leon sadly. ‘I’ve never seen a Happy Traveller less happy when we got her to Scotland Yard.’

Considering the matter at the morning conference which was part of the daily routine in Curzon Street, Manfred was inclined to regard the plot as elementary.

‘If you speak disparagingly of my genius and power of deduction I shall burst into tears,’ said Leon. ‘Raymond thinks I was clever – I will not have that verdict challenged. George, you’re getting old and grouchy.’

‘The detection was clever,’ Manfred hastened to placate his smiling friend.

‘And the scheme was clever,’ insisted Leon, ‘and terribly like Isola. One of these days she’ll do something awfully original and be shot. Obviously, what she set out to do was to collect seven men who bore some resemblance to the members of her murder gang. When she had found them, she made them get passports – that of course is why she asked if they knew a clergyman, for a padre’s signature on the photograph and application form is as good as a lawyer’s. Seven poor innocent men with passports which she handed over to her friends while the happy travellers were sent into out-of-the-way places. She was heading the gang into Italy – all the passports were visaed for that country.’

‘Tell me,’ said Manfred, ‘did they arrest the spurious T. Barger at Dover?’

Leon shook his head.

‘The man who was to have travelled with T. Barger’s passport was one Emilio Cassini – I spotted the likeness immediately. Isola was very abusive – but I quietened her by suggesting that her husband might like to know something about her friendship with Emilio . . . I have been watching Isola for a long time and I have seen things.’

The Abductor

It was a year since Lord Geydrew invoked the aid of the Just Men who lived at the sign of the Triangle in Curzon Street. He was a narrow-headed man; the first time they met with him, Poiccart hazarded the opinion that he was constitutionally mean. The last time they met it was not so much an opinion as stark knowledge, for his lordship had most boldly repudiated the bill of expenses that Poiccart had rendered – even though Manfred and Gonsalez had risked their lives to recover the lost Geydrew diamond.

The Three did not take him to court. Not one of them had need of money. Manfred was satisfied with the experience; Poiccart was cock-a-hoop because a theory of his had worked home; Gonsalez found his consolation in the shape of the client’s head.

‘The most interesting recession of the parietal and malformation of the occiput I have ever seen,’ he said enthusiastically.

The Just Men shared one extraordinary gift – a prodigious memory for faces and an extraordinary facility for attaching those faces to disreputable names. There was, however, no credit due for remembering the head of his lordship.

Manfred was sitting in his small room overlooking Curzon Street one night in spring, and he was in his most thoughtful mood when Poiccart – who invariably undertook the job of butler – came hobbling in to announce Lord Geydrew.

‘Not the Geydrew of Gallat Towers?’ Manfred could be massively ironical. ‘Has he come to pay his bill?’

‘God knows,’ said Poiccart piously. ‘Do peers of the realm pay their bills? For the moment I am less concerned about the peerage than I am about my ankle – really, Leon is a careless devil. I had to take a taxi . . . ’

Manfred chuckled. ‘He will be penitent and interesting,’ he said; ‘as for his lordship. Show him up.’

Lord Geydrew came in a little nervously, blinking at the bright light that burnt on Manfred’s table. Evidently he was unusually agitated. The weak mouth was tremulous, he opened and closed his eyes with a rapidity for which the bright light was not wholly responsible. His long, lined face was twitching spasmodically; from time to time he thrust his fingers through the scanty, reddish-grey hair.

‘I hope, Mr Manfred, there is no – um – er – ’

He fumbled in his pocket, produced an oblong slip of paper and pushed it across the desk. Manfred looked and wondered. Poiccart, forgetful of his role as butler, watched interestedly. Besides, there was no need to pretend that he was anything but what he was.

Lord Geydrew looked from one to the other.

‘I was hoping your friend – um – ’

‘Mr Gonsalez is out: he will be back later in the evening,’ said Manfred, wondering what was coming.

Then his lordship collapsed with a groan, and let his head fall upon the arms that lay on the desk.

‘Oh, my God!’ he wailed . . . ‘The most terrible thing . . . It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Manfred waited patiently. Presently the older man looked up.

‘I must tell you the story from the beginning, Mr Manfred,’ he said. ‘My daughter Angela – you may have met her?’

Manfred shook his head.

‘She was married this morning. To Mr Guntheimer, a very wealthy Australian banker and an immensely nice fellow.’ He shook his head and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

Light was beginning to dawn on Manfred.

‘Mr Guntheimer is considerably older than my daughter,’ his lordship went on, ‘and I will not conceal from you the fact that Angela has certain objections to the match. In fact, she had very stupidly arrived at some sort of understanding with young Sidworth – good family and all that, but not a penny in the world . . . It would have been madness.’

Manfred now understood quite clearly.

‘We had to hurry the marriage, since Guntheimer is leaving for Australia much earlier than he expected. Happily my daughter gave way to my legitimate wishes and they were married this morning at a registrar’s office and were due to leave for the Isle of Wight by the three o’clock train.

‘We did not go to see her off, and the only account I have of the occurrence was from the mouth of my son-in-law. He said that he was walking up to his reserved compartment, when suddenly he missed my daughter from his side. He looked round, retraced his steps, but could see nothing of her. Thinking that she might have gone ahead, he returned to the compartment, but it was empty. He then went back beyond the barrier: she was not in sight, but a porter whom he had engaged to carry his luggage and who followed him, said that he had seen her in earnest conversation with an elderly man and that they walked into the booking hall together and disappeared. Another porter on duty in the courtyard of the station saw them get into a car and drive off.’

Manfred was jotting down his notes on his blotting-pad. Poiccart never lifted his eyes from the visitor.

‘The story the porter tells – the outside porter, I mean, went on his lordship, ‘is that my daughter seemed reluctant to go, and that she was almost thrust into the car, which had to pass him. As the car came abreast, the man was pulling down the blinds, and the porter says that he has no doubt that my daughter was struggling with him.’

‘With the elderly man?’ said Manfred.

Lord Geydrew nodded.

‘Mr Manfred’ – his voice was a wail – ‘I am not a rich man, and perhaps I would be wise to leave this matter in the hands of the police. But I have such extraordinary faith in your intelligence and acumen – I think you will find that cheque right – and in spite of your
exorbitant charges I wish to engage you. She is my only daughter . . . ’
His voice broke.

‘Did the porter take the number of the car?’

Lord Geydrew shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Naturally I wish to keep this out of the press – ’

‘I’m afraid you’ve failed,’ said Manfred, and took a paper from a basket that was at his side, pointing out a paragraph in the stop press.

REPORTED ABDUCTION OF BRIDE

It is reported that a bride, just before leaving Waterloo on her honeymoon trip, was forcibly abducted by an elderly man. Scotland Yard have been notified.

‘Porters will talk,’ said Manfred, leaning back in his chair. ‘Have the police a theory?’

‘None,’ snapped his lordship.

‘Has Mr Sidworth been interviewed?’

Lord Geydrew shook his head vigorously.

‘Naturally that was the first thought I had. Sidworth, I thought, has persuaded this unfortunate girl – ’

‘Is he an elderly man?’ asked Manfred, with a twinkle in his eye which only Poiccart understood.

‘Of course he isn’t,’ snapped his lordship. ‘I told you he was young. At the present moment he’s staying with some very dear friends of mine at Newbury – I think he took the marriage rather badly. At any rate, my friend says that he has not left Kingshott Manor all day, and that he has not once used the telephone.’

Manfred rubbed his shapely nose thoughtfully.

‘And Mr Guntheimer – ?’

‘Naturally he’s distracted. I have never known a man so upset. He’s almost mad with grief. Can you gentlemen give me any hope?’

He looked from one to the other, and his lean face brightened at Manfred’s nod.

‘Where is Mr Guntheimer staying?’ asked Poiccart, breaking his silence.

‘At the Gayborough Hôtel,’ said Lord Geydrew.

‘Another point – what was his present to the bride?’ asked Manfred.

His visitor looked surprised, and then: ‘A hundred thousand pounds,’ he said impressively. ‘Mr Guntheimer doesn’t believe in our old method of settlement. I may say that his cheque for that amount is in my pocket now.’

‘And your present to the bride?’ asked Manfred.

Lord Geydrew showed some signs of impatience.

‘My dear fellow, you’re on the wrong track. Angela was not spirited
away for purposes of property. The jewel case containing her diamonds was carried by Guntheimer. She had nothing of value in her possession except for a few odd pounds in her handbag.’

Manfred rose.

‘I think that is all I want to ask you, Lord Geydrew. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, your daughter will come back to you in twenty-four hours.’

Poiccart showed the comforted man to his car, and returned to find Manfred reading the sporting column in an evening newspaper.

‘Well?’ asked Poiccart.

‘A curious case and one in which my soul revels.’ He put down the paper and stretched himself. ‘If Leon comes in, will you ask him to await my return unless there is something urgent takes him elsewhere?’ He lifted his head. ‘I think that is him,’ he said, at the sound of squealing brakes.

Poiccart shook his head.

‘Leon is more noiseless,’ he said, and went down to admit an agitated young man.

Mr Harry Sidworth was that type of youth for which Manfred had a very soft spot. Lank of body, healthy of face, he had all the incoherence of his age.

‘I say, are you Mr Manfred?’ he began, almost before he got into the room. ‘I’ve been to that old devil’s house and his secretary told me to come here, though for the Lord’s sake don’t tell anybody he said so!’

‘You’re Mr Sidworth, of course?’

The young man nodded vigorously. His face was anxious, his air wild; he was too young to hide his evident distress.

‘Isn’t it too terrible for words – ’ he began.

‘Mr Sidworth – ’ Manfred fixed him with a kindly eye – ‘you’ve come to ask me about your Angela, and I’m telling you, as I told Lord Geydrew, that I’m perfectly certain that she will come back to you unharmed. There’s one thing I might ask – how long has she known her husband?’

The young man made a wry face.

‘That’s a hateful word to me,’ he groaned. ‘Guntheimer? About three months. He isn’t a bad fellow. I’ve nothing against him, except that he got Angela. Old Geydrew thought I’d taken her away. He rang up the people I was staying with, and that was the first news I had that she’d disappeared. It’s the most ghastly thing that’s ever happened to me.’

‘Have you heard from her lately?’ asked Manfred.

Sidworth nodded. ‘Yes, this morning,’ he said dolefully. ‘Just a little note thanking me for my wedding present. I gave her a jewel case – ’

‘A what?’ asked Manfred sharply, and the young man, surprised at his vehemence, stared at him.

‘A jewel case – my sister bought one about a month ago, and Angela was so taken with it that I had an exact copy made.’

Manfred was looking at him absently.

‘Your sister?’ he said slowly. ‘Where does your sister live?’

‘Why, she’s at Maidenhead,’ said the young man, surprised.

Manfred looked at his watch.

‘Eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘This is going to be rather an amusing evening.’

The clocks were striking the half-hour after ten when the telephone in Mr Guntheimer’s private suite buzzed softly. Guntheimer ceased his restless pacing and went to the instrument.

‘I can’t see anybody,’ he said. ‘Who?’ He frowned. ‘All right, I’ll see him.’

It had been raining heavily and Manfred apologized for his wet raincoat and waited for an invitation to remove it. But apparently Mr Guntheimer was too preoccupied with his unhappy thoughts to be greatly concerned about his duties as host.

He was a tall, good-looking man, rather haggard of face now, and the hand that stroked the iron-grey moustache trembled a little.

‘Geydrew told me he was going to see you – what is your explanation of this extraordinary happening, Mr Manfred?’

Manfred smiled.

‘The solution is a very simple one, Mr Guntheimer,’ he said. ‘It is to be found in the pink diamond.’

‘In the what?’ asked the other, startled.

‘Your wife has a rather nice diamond brooch,’ said Manfred. ‘Unless I am misinformed, the third from the end of the bar is of a distinctly pinkish hue. It is, or was, the property of the Rajah of Komitar, and on its topmost facet you will find an Arabic word, meaning “Happiness”.’

Guntheimer was gazing at him open-mouthed.

‘What has that to do with it?’

Again Manfred smiled.

‘If there is a pink diamond and it is inscribed as I say, I can find your wife, not in twenty-four but in six hours.’

Guntheimer fingered his chin thoughtfully.

‘That matter’s easily settled,’ he said. ‘My wife’s jewels are in the hôtel safe. Just wait.’

He was gone five minutes and returned carrying a small scarlet box. He put this on the table and opened it with a key which he took from his pocket. Lifting the lid, he took out a pad of wash-leather and revealed a trayful of glittering jewels.

‘There’s no brooch there,’ he said after a search; he pulled out the tray and examined the padded bottom of the box.

There were brooches and bars of all kinds. Manfred pointed to one, and this was inspected – but there was no pink diamond; nor was there in any other brooch.

‘Is that the best you can do in the way of detective work?’ demanded Mr Guntheimer as he closed and locked the box. ‘I thought that tale was a little fantastic . . . ’

Crash
! A stone came hurtling through the window, smashing the glass, and fell on the carpet. With an oath Guntheimer spun round.

‘What was that?’

He grabbed the jewel box that was on the table and ran to the window. Outside the window was a small balcony which ran the length of the building.

‘Somebody standing on the balcony must have thrown that,’ said Guntheimer.

The sound of smashing glass had been heard in the Corridor, and two hôtel servants came in and examined the damage without, however, offering a solution to the mystery.

Manfred waited until the distracted bridegroom had locked away the jewel box in a strong trunk, and by this time Guntheimer was in a better humour.

‘I’ve heard about you fellows,’ he said, ‘and I know you’re pretty clever; otherwise, I should have thought that story of the pink diamond was all bunkum. Perhaps you will tell me what the Rajah of Who-was-it has to do with Angela’s disappearance?’

Manfred was biting his lip thoughtfully.

‘I don’t wish to alarm you,’ he said slowly. ‘But has it occurred to you, Mr Guntheimer, that you may share her fate?’

Again that quick turn and look of apprehension.

‘I don’t quite understand you.’