The Joker ds(e-3 Read online

  Ellenbury offered no resistance when the big man relieved him of his wet coat and held up the dressing-gown invitingly. ‘Take off your shoes.’ The old man obeyed; he always obeyed Harlow. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ The admission was wrung from him. He had no resistance.

  ‘One suitcase full of money is enough for any man,’ said Harlow. ‘I’ll take a chance—you shall have first pick.’

  ‘It’s yours!’ Ellenbury almost shouted the words.

  ‘No—anybody’s. Money belongs to the man who has it. That is my pernicious doctrine-you will go to Switzerland, get as high up the mountains as you can. St Moritz is a good place. Very likely you’re mad. I think you are. But madness cannot be cured by daily association with other madmen. It would be stupid to hide you up in an asylum—stupid and wicked. And if you will not think of killing people any more, Ellenbury. You—are—not—to—think—about—killing!’

  ‘No!’ The old man was weeping foolishly.

  ‘Our friend Ingle leaves for the Continent tomorrow—join him. If he starts talking politics, pull the alarm cord and have him arrested. I don’t know where he is going—anywhere but Russia, I guess…’

  All the time he was talking, Aileen sensed his anxiety. Just then the maid brought in the tea and the big fellow relaxed.

  ‘Drink that hot,’ he ordered, and when the servant had gone he moved nearer to the girl and lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t respond. You noticed that? No reflexes, I’m certain. I dare not try; he’d think I was assaulting him. It was my own fault. I kept him too tense—too keyed up. If I had let him down…umph!’ He shook his head; the thick lips pursed and drooped. Presently he spoke again. ‘I’ll have to bring you both away—you can be very helpful. If you insist upon going to Carlton and telling him about…this’—he nodded to the unconscious man by the fire—‘I shan’t stop you. This is the finish, anyway.’

  ‘Of what?’ she asked.

  ‘Harlow the Joker,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that? Here’s a man who tried to murder you—a madman. Why? Because he thought you knew he was bolting. Here’s Harlow the magnificent masquerading like a fiction detective with a comic moustache! Why? Imagine the police asking all these questions. And Ellenbury of course would tell them quite a lot of things—some silly, some sane. The police are rather clever—not very, but rather. They’d smell—all sorts of jokes. I want a day if I can get it. Would you come to Park Lane for a day?’

  ‘Willingly!’ she said; and he went red.

  ‘That is a million-pound compliment,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to sit on the floor with a rug over you; you mustn’t be seen. As it is, if you are missed, your impetuous lover—did you speak?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘If he learns that you have disappeared, my twenty-four hours will be shortened.’

  She glanced at Ellenbury. ‘What shall you do with…him?’ she asked.

  ‘He sits by my side; I dare not leave him here.’ He lifted up one of the suitcases and weighed it in his hand. ‘Would you like half a million?’ he asked pleasantly.

  Aileen shook her head. ‘I don’t think there is much happiness in that money,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Forgive me! I’ve got a little joke at the back of my mind—maybe I’ll tell you all about it!’

  CHAPTER 24

  SHE TOLD Jim all about this as he drove her back to her rooms after she had brought a policeman to release him.

  ‘He IS rather a darling,’ she repeated, and when he frowned she pressed his arm and laughed. ‘Somehow I don’t think you will arrest him,’ she said. ‘But if you do, hold him very tight!’

  And she thought of Mr Harlow’s joke.

  When, an hour later, a strong force of plain-clothes policemen descended upon 704 Park Lane, they found only Mrs Edwins, erect and intractable as ever, her hands folded over her waist.

  ‘Mr Harlow left for the country this morning,’ she said, and when they searched the house they discovered neither the Splendid Harlow nor the golden-bearded man called Marling.

  ‘Arrest me!’ she sneered. ‘It takes a clever policeman to arrest an old woman. But you’ll not take Lemuel.’

  ‘Lemuel?’

  She realised her mistake.

  ‘I called him Lemuel when he was a child, and I call him Lemuel now,’ she said defiantly. ‘He’ll ruin every one of you—mark my words!’

  She was still muttering threats when two detectives found her coat and hat and led her, protesting, to the police station.

  Mr Harlow’s landed possessions were not limited to his pied-a-terre in Park Lane. He had a large estate in Hampshire, which he seldom visited, though he retained a considerable staff for its upkeep. It was known that he owned a luxurious flat in Brighton; and it was generally believed that somewhere in London he kept another extensive suite of apartments.

  Stratford Harlow was a far-thinker. He saw not only tomorrow but the day after. For over twenty years he had lived in the knowledge that he was a reprehensible jester, and that there was always a possibility, if not a probability, that his supreme ‘joke’ would be detected.

  He was at the mercy of many men, for only the mean thief may work single-handed. He had perforce to employ people who must be taken—a little—into his confidence.

  But only one person knew the big truth.

  His chauffeur, who knew so much, never dreamt the whole; to Ellenbury he had been a crooked market-rigger; to Ingle he had been an admirable enemy of society. To himself, what was he? That ‘joke’ idea persisted; almost the description fitted his every action. When he had locked the grille on Jim he knew that the ‘joke’ was on him. The machinery of the law had begun to move, and there was nothing to be gained by dodging from one hiding place to another. It was a case of night or nothing.

  He went to the foot of the stairs and whistled; and soon Mrs Edwins came into view with the tall, bearded man.

  ‘Marling, I am going to take you for a little drive,’ said Stratford Harlow pleasantly. ‘You are at once a problem and a straw. You have almost broken my neck and I am grasping at you.’ He laughed gently. ‘That’s a mixed illustration, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Mrs Edwins.

  He fixed her with his cold eyes.

  ‘You are very inquisitive and very stupid,’ he said. ‘What is worse, you lack self-control, and that has nearly been my undoing. Not that I blame you.’ A gesture of his white hand absolved her from responsibility. ‘Telephone to Reiss to bring the car. Possibly he will telephone in reply that he is unable to bring the car. You may even hear the strange and authoritative voice of a policeman.’

  Her jaw dropped.

  ‘You don’t mean?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘Please telephone.’

  He was very patient and cheerful. He did not look at her; his eyes, lit with a glint of humour, focused upon the uncomfortable man who faced him.

  ‘I hope I’ve done nothing—’ began Marling.

  ‘Nothing at all—nothing!’ said Mr Harlow with the greatest heartiness. ‘I have told you before, and I tell you again, you have nothing to fear from me. You are a victim of circumstances, incapable of a wrong action. I would sooner die than that you suffered so much as a hurt! Injustice pains me. That variety of justice which is usually called “poetical” fills me with a deep and abiding peace of soul. Well?’ He snapped the question at the woman in the doorway.

  ‘What am I to do with that girl?’ she asked.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said the big man testily, ‘and at the earliest opportunity restore her to her friends. Help Mr Marling on with his coat; it is a cold night. And a scarf for his throat…Good!’

  He peered through the ground-glass window.

  ‘Reiss has brought the car. Trustworthy fellow,’ he said, and beckoned Marling to him. Together they left the house and were driven rapidly away. For nearly a quarter of an hour Mrs Edwins stood in the deserted vestibule, very upright, very forbiddi
ng, her gnarled hands folded, staring at the door through which they had passed.

  The car drove through Mayfair, turned into a side street and stopped. It was a corner block, the lower floor occupied by a bank. There was a side door, which Mr Harlow opened and stood courteously aside to allow his companion to pass.

  They went up a long flight of stairs to another door, which Harlow unlocked.

  ‘Here we are, my dear fellow,’ he said, closing the door gently. ‘This is what is called a labour-saving flat; one of the modern creations designed by expensive architects for the service of wealthy tenants who are so confoundedly mean that they weigh out their servants’ food! Here we shall live in comparative quiet for a week or two.’

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Marling.

  The big man shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I do not know—I rather imagine that I recognise the inevitable, but I am not quite sure. Your room is here, at the back of the house. Do you mind?’

  Marling saw that it was a more luxurious apartment than that which he had left. Books there were in plenty. The only drawback was that the windows were covered with a thin coating of white paint which made them opaque.

  ‘I prepared this place for you two, nay, three years ago,’ said Harlow. ‘For a week or two, until we can make arrangements, I am afraid we shall have to do our own housework.’

  He patted the other on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re a good fellow,’ he said. ‘There are times when I would like to change places with you. Vivit post funera virtus! I, alas! have no virtues, but a consuming desire to make wheels turn.’

  He pursed his thick lips and then said, apropos of nothing: ‘She is really a very nice girl indeed!…And she has a sense of humour. How rare a quality in a woman!’

  ‘Of whom are you talking?’ asked the bearded man, a little bewildered.

  ‘The might-have-been,’ was the flippant reply. ‘Even the wicked cannot be denied their dreams. Would you call me a sentimentalist, Marling?’ Marling shook his head, and Mr Harlow laughed not unkindly. ‘You’re the most appallingly honest man I’ve ever met,’ he said, in admiration; ‘and I think you’re the only human being in the world for whom I have a genuine affection.’

  His companion stared at him with wide-open eyes. And Mr Harlow met the gaze without faltering. He was speaking the truth. His one nightmare in the past twenty years was that this simple soul should fall ill; for if that catastrophe had occurred, Stratford Harlow would have risked ruin and suffering to win him back to health. Marling was the only joke in life that he took seriously.

  Every morning for three years, two newspapers had been thrust under the door of Harlow’s flat and had been disposed of by the hired servant who came to keep the place in order. Every morning a large bottle of milk had been deposited on the mat and had been similarly cleared away by the servant, who would come no more, for she had received a letter dispensing with her services on the morning Harlow and his companion arrived. The letter was not signed ‘Stratford Harlow,’ but bore the name by which she knew her employer.

  The first day was a dull one. Harlow had nothing to do and inactivity exasperated him. He was down early the next morning to take in milk and newspapers; and for a long time sat at his ease, a thin cigar between his teeth, a cup of cooling coffee by his side, reading of his disappearance. The ports were watched; detectives were on duty at the termini of all airways. The flying squad was scouring London. The phrase seemed familiar. The flying squad from police headquarters spend their lives scouring London, and London seems none the cleaner for it.

  There was his portrait across three columns, headed ‘The Splendid Harlow,’ and only hinting at the charge which would be laid against him. He learnt, without regret or sorrow, of the arrest of Mrs Edwins—he had a lifelong grudge against Mrs Edwins, who had a lifelong grudge against him. She was wholly incapable of understanding his attitude to life. She had wondered why he did not live abroad in the most luxurious and exotic atmosphere. She would have excused a seraglio; she could not forgive his industry and continence.

  She had made no statement, the newspapers said, and he suspected her of making many of a vituperative character.

  There was a hint of Marling in the paragraph:

  ‘The police are particularly desirous of getting into touch with the man who left the Park Lane house at the same time as Harlow. He is described as tall, rather pale, with a long yellow beard. None of the servants of the house has ever seen him. It may be explained that Mr Harlow’s domestic arrangements were of an unusual character. All the servants slept out in a house which Harlow had hired…’

  Mr Harlow turned over the page to see the sporting cartoon. The humour of Tom Webster never failed to amuse him. Then he turned back to the Stock Exchange news.

  Markets were recovering rapidly. He made a calculation on the margin of the paper and purred at his profits.

  He could feel a glow of satisfaction though he was a fugitive from justice; though all sorts of horrid possibilities were looming before him; though it seemed nothing could prevent his going the dreary way-Brixton Prison, Pentonville, Wormwood Scrubs, Dartmoor…if not worse. If not worse.

  He took out his cigar and looked at it complacently. Mrs Gibbins had died a natural death, though that would take some proving. It was a most amazingly simple accident. Her muddy shoes had slipped on the polished floor of his library; and when he had picked her up she was dead. That was the truth and nothing but the truth. And Miss Mercy Harlow had died naturally; and the little green bottle that Marling had seen had contained nothing more noxious than the restorative with which the doctor had entrusted him against the heart attack from which she succumbed.

  He rose and stretched himself, drank the cold coffee with a wry face, and shuffled along leisurely in his slippered feet to call Saul Marling. He knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Turning the handle, he went in. The room was empty. So, too, was the bathroom.

  Mr Harlow walked along the passage to the door leading down to the street. It was open. So also was the street door. He stood for a while at the head of the stairs, his hands in his pockets, the dead cigar between his teeth. Then he descended, closed the door and, walking back to the sitting-room, threw the cigar into the fireplace, lit another and sat down to consider matters; his forehead wrinkled painfully.

  Presently he gave utterance to die thought which filled his mind.

  ‘I do hope that poor fellow is careful how he crosses the road—he isn’t used to traffic!’

  But there were policemen who would help a timid, bearded man across the busy streets, and it was rather early for heavy traffic.

  That thought comforted him. He took up the newspaper and in a second was absorbed in the Welbury divorce case which occupied the greater part of the page.

  CHAPTER 25

  AILEEN RIVERS might well have excused herself from attending her office, but she hated the fuss which her absence would occasion; and she felt remarkably well when she woke at noon.

  Mr Stebbings greeted her as though she had not been absent until lunch-time, to his great inconvenience; and one might not imagine, from his matter-of-fact attitude, that he had been badgered by telephone messages and police visitations during the twelve hours which preceded her arrival.

  He made no reference to her adventure until late in the afternoon, when she brought in some letters for him to sign. He put his careful signature to each sheet and then looked up. ‘James Carlton comes of a very good family. I knew his father rather well.’

  She went suddenly red at this and was for the moment so thrown off her balance that she could not ask him what James Carlton’s parentage had to do with a prosaic and involved letter on the subject of leases.

  ‘He was most anxious about you, naturally,’ Mr Stebbings rambled on aimlessly. ‘I was in bed when he called me up—I have never heard a man who sounded so worried. It is curious that one does not associate the police force with those human emotions which are common in us all, a
nd I confess it was a great surprise—in a sense a gratifying surprise! I have seen him once; quite a good looking young man; and although the emoluments of his office are not great, he appeals to me as one who has the capacity of making any woman happy.’ He paused. ‘If women can be made happy,’ he added, the misogynist in him coming to the surface.

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean, Mr Stebbings,’ she said, very hot, a little incoherent, but not altogether distressed.

  ‘Will you take this letter?’ said Mr Stebbings, dismissing distracted detectives and hot-faced girls from his mind; and immediately she was plunged into the technology of an obscure trusteeship which the firm of Stebbings was engaged in contesting.

  As Aileen grew calmer, the shock of the discovery grew in poignancy. A girl who finds herself to be in love experiences a queer sense of desolation and loneliness. It is an emotion which seems unshareable; and the more she thought of Jim Carlton, the more she was satisfied that the affection was one-sided; that she was wasting her time and thought on a man who did not care for her any more than he cared for every other girl he met; and that love was a disease which was best cured by fasting and self-repression.

  She was in this frame of mind when there came a gentle tap at her door. She called ‘Come in!’—the handle turned and a man walked nervously into the room. A tall man, hatless, collarless, and inadequately clad. An overcoat many times too broad for him was buttoned up to the neck, and although he wore shoes he was sockless and his legs were covered by a pair of dark-blue pyjamas. He stroked his long beard nervously and looked at the girl in doubt.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he said, ‘is this the office of Stebbings, Field and Farrow?’

  She had risen in amazement. ‘Yes. Do you wish to see Mr Stebbings?’

  He nodded, looked nervously round at the door and dosed it behind him.

  ‘If you please,’ he said.

  ‘What name?’ she asked.

  He drew a long breath.

  ‘Will you tell him that Mr Stratford Harlow wishes to see him?’

  Her mouth opened in amazement.

  ‘Stratford Harlow? Is he here?’