Elk 04 White Face Page 13

  Bateman knew they were well off; suggested she should pay him money, threatening to publish the story of her bigamy. He arrived from South Africa penniless, having met some sharper crooks on the boat, who had taken what little money he had had when he embarked. But he had excellent prospects, he told her.

  “Yes,” said Mason dryly, “I know her name.”

  He settled himself deeper in his chair and clasped his hands before him. He knew he was now coming to the really delicate part of his investigations.

  “He called at your house—when?”

  “To-day,” she said.

  “Did he call yesterday—for the money?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, that was posted.”

  “Then what did he call about to-day? To thank you?”

  She did not answer.

  “Your husband was out?”

  She was looking straight at the wall ahead of her; he saw her lips quivering.

  “Was he—affectionate?”

  Bray was nearest to her, and caught her before she slid to the floor.

  “All right, get some water.”

  There was a water bottle on the mantelpiece. Shale poured out a glassful. Presently her eyes opened and her husband lifted her into the arm-chair which Bray pushed forward.

  “You needn’t ask her anything more,” Landor said. “I can tell you everything.”

  “I think you can,” said Mason. “What time did you arrive at the flat yesterday—after this man had seen your wife?”

  “Immediately after. I passed him on the stairs, but didn’t know who he was.”

  “And yet you recognised him in the photograph?”

  “I’ve seen him since: I’ve admitted that, or practically admitted it, when I said I was in Tidal Basin.”

  “You found your wife very upset? She told you what it was all about?”

  He nodded.

  “And you went after him?”

  “Yes,” defiantly.

  “With a knife similar to this?”

  Inez Landor came up to her feet at this, her hand on the table.

  “That’s a lie! He didn’t go after him with a knife,” she said passionately. “Donald took the knife—he took it from me. I’ll tell you the truth. I tried to kill him. I snatched the knife from the wall. I hated him! For all the years I had with him, for all that I suffered when he was out of prison, for my baby who died because of his beastliness!”

  There was a silence. Mason could hear her quick breathing.

  “He took the knife from you?”

  “Yes. He said he’d keep it as a souvenir, and took the sheath and put it in his pocket. You know what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted me to live with him again.” Her voice rose. Mason had come round to the side of his desk and took her arm in his big hand and literally pushed her back into the chair.

  “Gently, Mrs. Landor. Don’t get rattled. You’re doing fine.”

  He looked round to Louis.

  “You followed this man to Tidal Basin and fought with him. Did you know he had the knife in his pocket?”

  “I didn’t know anything about it till my wife told me on the telephone. I didn’t see the knife or use it.”

  “Why did you run away?” asked Mason.

  Again Louis paused before he answered.

  “I thought I’d killed him…my wife begged me not to touch him. He had some sort of heart disease.”

  Mason nodded many times.

  “And carried butyl ammonal in his pocket?”

  “Yes,” said Inez eagerly, “a little thing he crushed in a handkerchief and inhaled. He always carried that.”

  Mason began to walk slowly up and down the room, his hands in his pockets.

  “You bolted, and found a door open in the gate of the Eastern Trading Company. I call it the beer door: you won’t understand why, and I can’t explain. And that’s all you know about it?”

  “As God is my judge,” said Landor.

  “You never threw a knife or used a knife?”

  “I’ll swear I never did.”

  “Did you hear all the commotion when we were outside the gate?”

  Louis shook his head.

  “No, I was trying to find a way out of the yard. I didn’t come back to that gate again for an hour. I was hiding part of the time and—”

  “And how did—”

  Mason got so far when the door was flung violently open. Mason stared in amazement at the man who stood there. It was Elk, part of his face hidden in white bandages. He stood at the door, supporting himself by the lintel, and glared with a certain malignity at his immediate superior.

  “For the love of Allah, what has happened?”

  “Don’t touch me,” snarled Elk, as Bray made a motion to assist him. “I don’t want anybody with a higher rank than sergeant to help me!”

  He glared down at Inez.

  “Did you hear anybody come into your flat before your husband returned?”

  “I thought I did,” she said.

  “How right you were! He was there, in the maid’s room, waiting for me when I came back, and coshed me. He couldn’t have got in without a key.”

  “Where are your keys?” asked Mason, and Louis started.

  “I lost them…I lost them in the fight. I didn’t miss them until I was on my way back there, and then I found the broken end of the chain—look.”

  He showed it: a gold chain dangling by the side of his trousers.

  Elk staggered across to where Louis was standing and tapped him heavily on the chest.

  “There’s a desk in your hall,” he said slowly. “Did you keep anything valuable in the top drawer—money?”

  Louis stared at him.

  “Stop hiding up, will you?” snapped Mason. “What was in that top drawer?”

  “Money, passports and tickets,” said Louis Landor huskily. “I was clearing out to-morrow and taking my wife away from this man.”

  “How much money?” demanded Elk.

  “About three thousand pounds.”

  Elk laughed mirthlessly.

  “There’s about nothing now! It’s gone! The drawer was broken open and the money taken. I’ll tell you something more, Mason.” His outrageous familiarity passed unnoticed. “The fellow that coshed me was White Face! I’m not romancing—”

  Mason interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

  “Of course it was White Face. It could be nobody else but White Face. I’ve known that all along,” he said.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Michael Quigley had never been alone through Gallows Court by day or night. He stood hesitant at the entrance and experienced a qualm of uneasiness which was foreign to him. He looked up and down the street vainly for a policeman, and rather wished he had detained the taxi-driver. Yet Gallows Court differed from no other noisome thoroughfare; there were thousands of them in every great city, none more mysterious or sinister than the other. Two hundred years ago, when bravoes lurked in these dens, there might be another tale to tell; but here was the twentieth century; a highly organised police force, housing societies and sanitary inspectors prying into the darkest places without hurt to themselves. Not in the early hours of the morning, said a warning voice. But they would be asleep now.

  It was one of Mr. Mason’s figures of speech that the inmates of the court never slept. But he was rather prone to exaggeration. Mike looked up at the facade of Dr. Marford’s surgery. The windows of the top room were open. This was evidently his sleeping-room—he had had a faint hope that the doctor would still be about. Summoning his resolution, he walked into the dark entry. There was no sign or sound of life. Every window in the court was black.

  Either the storm or some human piece of mischief had extinguished the gas-lamp at the far end of the court. Groping his way along, feeling at the wall, he presently touched the door which gave into the doctor’s yard. It was fastened, and he went on a little farther. Then suddenly he stopped, with his heart in his mouth. He had heard a groan, a deep,
a painful groan that ended in a long-drawn “Oh-h!”

  Where had it come from? He looked around fearfully, but could see nothing. And then he heard the groan again. It seemed to come from somewhere near him. He waited, determined to locate the sound, but it was not repeated. Instead came a soft cackle of laughter which made every hair on his head stand up. And then a hoarse voice spoke.

  “Go on, Mr. Reporter, nobody’s going to hurt ya!”

  He recognised the speaker, though he could not see him. It was the crazy man who had followed Mason and him into the street.

  “Rats, ain’t we? Eyes like rats,” he said. “I heard ya! I hear everything!”

  Michael edged towards the voice, and then saw an indistinguishable black mass huddled against the wall.

  “I know where ya going!” The crazy unknown spoke in a thick whisper. “Ya going to see what’s wrong with old Gregory—clever! Cleverer than Mason. Here!” An invisible hand clutched his overcoat. Michael had to use all his self-control to prevent wrenching himself free. “I’ll tell you something.” The whisper grew more confidential. “They ain’t found Rudd—the police doctor. They’re out on the river with their drags, raking up the old mud, but they ain’t found him.”

  The unseen creature laughed until he broke into a fit of coughing.

  “All the busies and all the coppers in Tidal Basin lookin’ for old Rudd! Do you think he’s a good doctor—I don’t! I wouldn’t let him doctor me. Tell ‘em what I say at the station, mister—have a lark with ‘em! Tell ‘em he’s under a barge!”

  Then the detaining claws released their grip.

  “Blue Face is asleep down there on old Gregory’s doorstep. Blue Face—not White Face.”

  Again the long gurgle of laughter that ended in a paroxysm of coughing. Michael drew himself away and went on till he came to No. 9. The sleeper he had seen sat hunched up on the doorstep of Gregory Wicks, the can still balanced on his knees. His arms were folded, his head bent forward. He was snoring regularly.

  Michael did not dare go back the way he had come. He went out of the lower end of the court, came round the block and found the crazy man leaning against the wall of the entry.

  “Old Gregory’s back—been back a quarter of an hour. An old man like him oughtn’t to drive taxicabs—and I’m the only man that knows why he oughtn’t! Dr. Marford knows, but he’s not the feller that goes snouting on his patients.”

  “Snouting” meant “nosing,” and “nosing” meant “informing.” Dr. Marford was credited with having been the recipient of secrets which it would have terrified his more opulent brethren even to hear.

  “What’s wrong with old Gregory Wicks? That’s what I’m asking ya?”

  And then, without warning, the crazy man turned abruptly and ran noiselessly through the dark entry. He must have been either in stockinged or bare feet, for he made no sound, but moved with uncanny silence. He might have been the wraith of all that was ugly and wicked in the court.

  But he had told Michael one thing he wanted to know. Gregory had returned, had been back a quarter of an hour. Michael walked slowly to the police station and interviewed the sergeant.

  “No, we haven’t found Dr. Rudd. The river police are searching. There’s a chance he may have gone up west. He’s got a flat near Langham Place and he may turn up there later. Mr. Mason is on his way here, if you want to see him.”

  “Why is he coming back?” asked Michael in surprise, but the station sergeant could or would give information on this point.

  Michael was relieved: he wished for no better news, for he was desperately anxious to see the superintendent.

  “Personally, I’m not worried about Rudd.” The station sergeant could drop all ceremonious titles with a sympathetic and understanding audience. “He’s a funny old chap—I don’t know how old he is, but he’s young compared with Methuselah. If a man’s got money, he oughtn’t to be messing about in this neigbourhood.”

  “Has he got money?”

  “Whips of it,” said the sergeant. “An old lady, one of his patients, died and left him a packet! If he’d been a better doctor she might have been living now,” he added libellously.

  He patted back a yawn.

  “Yes, he’s got tons of money. He owns a flat in the West End of London. Some of the Special Branch fellers from Scotland Yard tell me they often see him in the night clubs. Thank God, a man’s never too old to be silly!”

  Michael, who knew the area well, had never seriously considered Dr. Rudd as an individual. There are some characters who fail utterly to inspire the least interest in themselves. They are figures—men or women occupying set places, who have no existence other than the existence which is visible to their casual acquaintances. Whether they eat or drink, have home lives or private predilections, is hardly worth speculating upon. It is almost surprising to discover that they play bridge or have the gift of distinguishing between Chateau Lafitte and Imperial Tokay. Whatever they do that is human appears as an amazing phenomenon.

  He brought Dr. Rudd out of the background of his mind and tried to examine him as an entity, but he was either too tired or too bored to give this shadowy figure significance.

  Mason came with Bray and Shale, and the superintendent was in his most rollicking mood. You might have thought he had risen from a long and refreshing sleep; he greeted Michael jovially.

  But the news which the station sergeant gave him wiped the smile from his face.

  “What?” he said. “Rudd hasn’t turned up?”

  He had quite forgotten Dr. Rudd, for, like Michael, he found that elusive personality difficult to place. He did not speak for a long time, but stood in front of the fire, warming his hands.

  “I’m not as worried about him as I should be,” he said. “He’s a queer bird, and gets me on the raw quicker than any man I know, though I hope I’ve never shown it. I can’t feel that he’s anything to worry about.”

  “I’ll tell you something to worry about, if you’ll give me a few minutes,” said Michael, and the superintendent looked at him sharply.

  “That sounds to me like a threat. All right. Can we have your room, Bray?”

  Bray looked a little sour that he was not invited to the conference. He disliked these crime reporters, and made no disguise of his antipathy. And crime reporters disliked him and maliciously spelt his name wrong if they mentioned it at all.

  Behind the closed door of the inspector’s room Michael revealed all his suspicions, and Mr. Mason listened, making very few comments.

  “I’ve had that idea in my mind, too,” he said. “I’m not kidding you, Mike, or trying to jump in and take credit for your brain’s work. But old Gregory Wicks is as straight as a die. I’ve known him since I was a boy. I was born in this neighbourhood, but don’t want you to tell anybody this. Gregory’s got the finest record of any cabman in London—the amount of property that fellow’s restored to the rightful owners runs into five figures.”

  “He limps, doesn’t he?” asked Michael, and Mason’s brows knitted.

  “Yes, he limps,” he said slowly. “He was thrown from the seat of a cab years ago. Of course he limps,” he went on thoughtfully. “Now, why on earth did I forget that?”

  “You told me that the man who was seen coming out of Mrs. Weston’s flat also limped?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Yes; I hadn’t connected the two people. But Gregory Wicks!” He laughed. “The idea’s ridiculous! The old boy is seventy-six if he’s a day, and he’s the most rumbustiously straight man I know.”

  “That crazy fellow in the court asked you to find out what’s wrong with him, didn’t he?” asked Michael quietly.

  Mason rubbed his bald head.

  “There are too many crazy people giving me theories,” he said pointedly. “No, I don’t mean you, Michael.”

  “What about asking the doctor?”

  “Marford? Must I tell him I’ve pulled him out of bed to confirm what a lunatic has said about one of his patients? And wo
uld he tell? That’s the one thing you can’t compel a doctor to do unless you get him into the witness stand, and even then the Medical Association raise a hullabaloo if a lawyer goes a little too far.”

  “Wake him up on some other excuse,” suggested Michael. “After all, he may be able to help us with Rudd.”

  Mr. Mason thrust his hands more deeply into his pockets and rattled his loose change irritably.

  “He certainly limped, if the woman witness was telling the truth. And now I come to remember it, White Face has always been a limper. That was one of the first descriptions circulated. He used to ride a motor-cycle, you remember—that rather knocks your idea on the head.”

  “Motor-cyclists have been seen coming from the scene of a robbery, but nobody could swear that those particular cyclists were the robbers,” said Michael. “The motor-cycle theory is one that everybody has jumped to, that after he did his dirty work he made his getaway on a pop-pop! When you come to think of it, motor-bikes are the most conspicuous things in London after a certain hour. Isn’t it more likely that he made his grand exit on the box of a taxicab?”

  “Or,” said Mason, “is it more likely that a man with a fifty-year record for honesty, a man with a bit of money put by, with no relations or friends, no vices, a man who never goes out, has never done a dishonest thing in his life, should suddenly turn crook? And listen, Michael! You’ve been a witness to a White Face raid and you’ve read about the others. What has invariably happened? He’s come into the restaurant and he’s said two words—what are those words?”

  “‘Bail up,’” said Michael.

  Mason nodded vehemently.

  “Exactly—‘bail up’! It was an expression of the old Australian bushrangers. It’s still used by the hold-up men in Australia. Gregory’s never been out of London in his life, except to drive a drunken fare into the country. The only knowledge he has of the word ‘bail’ is that it’s something to do with getting a man out of a police station after he’s pinched. I’ll tell you who White Face is—Tommy Furse.”

  “And who in hell is Tommy Furse?” asked Michael, in surprise.

  “You shall have the story when it’s properly cooked—at present the oven is just heating up.”