(1929) The Three Just Men Page 3

  “My own little house—” began Oberzohn.

  “Would scare her to death,” said Newton with a loud laugh. “That dog-kennel! No, it is Chester Square or nothing. I’ll get Joan or one of the girls to drop in this afternoon and chum up with her. When does the Benguella arrive?”

  “This afternoon: the person has booked rooms by radio at the Petworth Hotel.”

  “Norfolk Street…humph! One of your men can pick him up and keep an eye on him. Lisa? So much the better. That kind of trash will talk for a woman. I don’t suppose he has seen a white woman in years. You ought to fire Villa—crude beast! Naturally the man is on his guard now.”

  “Villa is the best of my men on the coast,” barked Oberzohn fiercely. Nothing so quickly touched the raw places of his amazing vanity as a reflection upon his organizing qualities.

  “How is trade?” Captain Newton took a long ebony holder from his tail pocket, flicked out a thin platinum case and lit a cigarette in one uninterrupted motion.

  “Bat!” When Dr. Oberzohn was annoyed the purity of his pronunciation suffered. “There is nothing but expense!”

  Oberzohn & Smitts had once made an enormous income from the sale of synthetic alcohol. They were, amongst other things, coast traders. They bought rubber and ivory, paving in cloth and liquor. They sold arms secretly, organized tribal wars for their greater profit, and had financed at least two Portuguese revolutions nearer at home. And with the growth of their fortune, the activities of the firm had extended. Guns and more guns went out of Belgian and French workshops. To Kurdish insurrectionaries, to ambitious Chinese generals, to South American politicians, planning, to carry their convictions into more active fields. There was no country in the world that did not act as host to an O. & S. agent—and agents can be very expensive. Just now the world was alarmingly peaceful. A revolution had failed most dismally in Venezuela, and Oberzohn & Smitts had not been paid for two ship-loads of lethal weapons ordered by a general who, two days after the armaments were landed, had been placed against an adobe wall and incontinently shot to rags by the soldiers of the Government against which he was in rebellion. “But that shall not matter.” Oberzohn waved bad trade from the considerable factors of life. “This shall succeed: and then I shall be free to well punish—”

  “To punish well,” corrected the purist, stroking his moustache. “Don’t split your infinitives, Eruc—it’s silly. You’re thinking of Manfred and Gonsalez and Poiccart? Leave them alone. They are nothing!”

  “Nothing!” roared the doctor, his sallow face instantly distorted with fury. “To leave them alone, is it? Of my brother what? Of my brother in heaven, sainted martyr…!”

  He spun round, gripped the silken tassel of the cord above the fireplace, and pulled down, not a map, but a picture. It had been painted from a photograph by an artist who specialized in the gaudy banners which hang before every booth at every country fair. In this setting the daub was a shrieking incongruity; yet to Dr. Oberzohn it surpassed in beauty the masterpieces of the Prado. A full-length portrait of a man in a frock-coat. He leaned on a pedestal in the attitude which cheap photographers believe is the acme of grace. His big face, idealized as it was by the artist, was brutal and stupid. The carmine lips were parted in a simper. In one hand he held a scroll of paper, in the other a Derby hat which was considerably out of drawing.

  “My brother!” Dr. Oberzohn choked. “My sainted Adolph…murdered! By the so-called Three Just Men…my brother!”

  “Very interesting,” murmured Captain Newton, who had not even troubled to look up. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the fireplace and said no more. Adolph Oberzohn had certainly been shot dead by Leon Gonsalez: there was no disputing the fact. That Adolph, at the moment of his death, was attempting to earn the generous profits which come to those who engage in a certain obnoxious trade between Europe and the South American states, was less open to question. There was a girl in it: Leon followed his man to Porto Rico, and in the Cafe of the Seven Virtues they had met. Adolph was by training a gunman and drew first—and died first. That was the story of Adolph Oberzohn: the story of a girl whom Leon Gonsalez smuggled back to Europe belongs elsewhere. She fell in love with her rescuer and frightened him sick.

  Dr. Oberzohn let the portrait roll up with a snap, blew his nose vigorously, and blinked the tears from his pale eyes.

  “Yes, very sad, very sad,” said the captain cheerfully. “Now what about this girl? There is to be nothing rough or raw, you understand, Eruc? I want the thing done sweetly. Get that bug of the Just Men out of your mind—they are out of business. When a man lowers himself to run a detective agency he’s a back number. If they start anything we’ll deal with them scientifically, eh? Scientifically!”

  He chuckled with laughter at this good joke. It was obvious that Captain Newton was no dependant on the firm of Oberzohn & Smitts. If he was not the dominant partner, he dominated that branch which he had once served in a minor capacity. He owed much to the death of Adolph—he never regretted the passing of that unsavoury man.

  “I’ll get one of the girls to look her over this afternoon—where is your telephone pad—the one you write messages received?”

  The doctor opened a drawer of his desk and took out a little memo pad, and Newton found a pencil and wrote: “To Mirabelle Leicester, care Oberzohn (Phone) London. Sorry I can’t come up to-night. Don’t sleep at flat alone. Have wired Joan Newton to put you up for night. She will call—ALMA.”

  “There you are,” said the gallant captain, handing the pad to the other. “That message came this afternoon. All telegrams to Oberzohn come by ‘phone—never forget it!”

  “Ingenious creature!” Dr. Oberzohn’s admiration was almost reverential.

  “Take her out to lunch…after lunch, the message. At four o’clock, Joan or one of the girls. A select dinner. To-morrow the office…gently, gently. Bull-rush these schemes and your plans die the death of a dog.”

  He glanced at the door once more.

  “She won’t come out, I suppose?” he suggested.

  “Deuced awkward if she came out and saw Miss Newton’s brother!”

  “I have locked the door,” said Dr. Oberzohn proudly.

  Captain Newton’s attitude changed: his face went red with sudden fury.

  “Then you’re a—you’re a fool. Unlock the door when I’ve gone—and keep it unlocked! Want to frighten her?”

  “It was my idea to risk nothing,” pleaded the long-faced Swede.

  “Do as I tell you.”

  Captain Newton brushed his speckless coat with the tips of his fingers. He pulled on his gloves, fitted his hat with the aid of a small pocket-mirror he took from his inside pocket, took up his clouded cane and strolled from the room.

  “Ingenious creature,” murmured Dr. Oberzohn again, and went in to offer the startled Mirabelle an invitation to lunch.

  CHAPTER FOUR - THE SNAKE STRIKES

  THE great restaurant, with its atmosphere of luxury and wealth, had been a little overpowering. The crowded tables, the soft lights, the very capability and nonchalance of the waiters, were impressive. When her new employer had told her that it was his practice to take the laboratory secretary to lunch, “for I have not other time to speak of business things,” she accepted uncomfortably. She knew little of office routine, but she felt that it was not customary for principals to drive their secretaries from the City Road to the Ritz-Carlton to lunch expensively at that resort of fashion and the epicure. It added nothing to her self-possession that her companion was an object of interest to all who saw him. The gay luncheon parties forgot their dishes and twisted round to stare at the extraordinary-looking man with the high forehead.

  At a little table alone she saw a man whose face was tantalizingly familiar. A keen, thin face with eager, amused eyes. Where had she seen him before? Then she remembered: the chauffeur had such a face—the man who had followed her into Oberzohn’s when she arrived that morning. It was absurd, of course; this man was one of the l
eisured class, to whom lunching at the Ritz-Carlton was a normal event. And yet the likeness was extraordinary.

  She was glad when the meal was over. Dr. Oberzohn did not talk of “business things.” He did not talk at all, but spent his time shovelling incredible quantities of food through his wide slit of a mouth. He ate intently, noisily—Mirabelle was: glad the band was playing, and she went red with suppressed laughter at the whimsical thought; and after that she felt less embarrassed.

  No word was spoken as the big car sped citywards. The doctor had his thoughts and ignored her presence. The only reference he made to the lunch was as they were leaving the hotel, when he had condescended to grunt a bitter complaint about the quality of English-made coffee. He allowed her to go back to her weighing and measuring without displaying the slightest interest in her progress.

  And then came the crowning surprise of the afternoon—it followed the arrival of a puzzling telegram from her aunt. She was weighing an evil-smelling mass of powder when the door opened and there floated into the room a delicate-looking girl, beautifully dressed. A small face framed in a mass of little golden-brown curls smiled a greeting. “You’re Mirabelle Leicester, aren’t you? I’m Joan Newton—your aunt wired me to call on you.”

  “Do you know my aunt?” asked Mirabelle in astonishment. She had never heard Alma speak of the Newtons, but then, Aunt Alma had queer reticences. Mirabelle had expected a middle-aged dowd—it was amazing that her unprepossessing relative could claim acquaintance with this society butterfly.

  “Oh yes—we know Alma very well,” replied the visitor. “Of course, I haven’t seen her since I was quite a little girl—she’s a dear.”

  She looked round the laboratory with curious interest.

  “What a nasty-smelling place!” she said, her nose upturned. “And how do you like old—er—Mr. Oberzohn?”

  “Do you know him?” asked Mirabelle, astounded at the possibility of this coincidence.

  “My brother knows him—we live together, my brother and I, and he knows everybody. A man about town has to, hasn’t he, dear?”

  “Man about town” was an expression that grated a little; Mirabelle was not of the “dearing” kind. The combination of errors in taste made her scrutinize the caller more closely. Joan Newton was dressed beautifully but not well. There was something…Had Mirabelle a larger knowledge of life, she might have thought that the girl had been dressed to play the part of a lady by somebody who wasn’t quite sure of the constituents of the part. Captain Newton she did not know at the time, or she would have guessed the dress authority.

  “I’m going to take you back to Chester Square after Mr. Oberzohn—such a funny name, isn’t it?—has done with you. Monty insisted upon my bringing the Rolls. Monty is my brother; he’s rather classical.”

  Mirabelle wondered whether this indicated a love of the Greek poets or a passion for the less tuneful operas. Joan (which was her real name) meant no more than classy: it was a favourite word of hers; another was “morbid.”

  Half an hour later the inquisitive chauffeur put his foot on the starter and sent his car on the trail of the Rolls, wondering what Mirabelle Leicester had in common with Joan Alice Murphy, who had brought so many rich young men to the green board in Captain Newton’s beautiful drawing-room, where stakes ran high and the captain played with such phenomenal luck,

  “And there you are,” said Gonsalez complacently. “I’ve done a very good day’s work. Oberzohn has gone back to his rabbit-hutch to think up new revolutions—Miss Mirabelle Leicester is to be found at 307, Chester Square. Now the point is, what do we do to save the valuable life of Mr. Sam Barberton?”

  Manfred looked grave. “I hardly like the thought of the girl spending the night in Newton’s house,” he said.

  “Why allow her to remain there?” asked Poiccart in his heavy way.

  “Exactly!” Leon nodded.

  George Manfred looked at his watch.

  “Obviously the first person to see is friend Barberton,” he said, “If we can prevail on him to spend the evening with us, the rest is a simple matter—”

  The telephone bell rang shrilly and Leon Gonsalez monopolized the instrument.

  “Gloucester? Yes.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “I took the liberty of asking Miss Alma Goddard to ring me up…her address I discovered very early in the day: Heavytree Farm, Daynham, near Gloucester…yes, yes, it is Mr. Johnson speaking. I wanted to ask you if you would take a message to Miss Leicester…oh, she isn’t at home?” Leon listened attentively, and, after a few minutes: “Thank you very much. She is staying at Doughty Court? She wired you…oh, nothing very important. I—er—am her old science master and I saw an advertisement… oh, she has seen it, has she?”

  He hung up the receiver.

  “Nothing to go on,” he said. “The girl has wired to say she is delighted with her job. The aunt is not to come up until she is settled, and Mirabelle is sleeping at Doughty Court.”

  “And a very excellent place too,” said Manfred. “When we’ve seen Mr. Barberton I shouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t sleep there after all.”

  Petworth Hotel in Norfolk Street was a sedate residential hostel, greatly favoured by overseas visitors, especially South Africans. The reception clerk thought Mr. Barberton was out: the hall porter was sure.

  “He went down to the Embankment—he said he’d like to see the river before it was dark,” said that confidant of so many visitors.

  Manfred stepped into the car by Leon’s side—Poiccart seldom went abroad, but sat at home piecing together the little jigsaw puzzles of life that came to Curzon Street for solution. He was the greatest of all the strategists: even Scotland Yard brought some of its problems for his inspection.

  “On the Embankment?” Manfred looked up at the blue and pink sky. The sun had gone down, but the light of day remained. “If it were darker I should be worried…stop, there’s Dr. Elver.”

  The little police surgeon who had passed them with a cheery wave of his hand turned and walked back.

  “Well, Children of the Law”—he was inclined to be dramatic—“on what dread errand of vengeance are you bound?”

  “We are looking for a man named Barberton to ask him to dinner,” said Manfred, shaking hands.

  “Sounds tame to me: has he any peculiarities which would appeal to me?”

  “Burnt feet,” said Leon promptly. “If you would like to learn how the coastal intelligence department extract information from unwilling victims, come along.”

  Elver hesitated. He was a man burnt up by the Indian suns, wizened like a dried yellow apple, and he had no interest in the world beyond his work.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said, stepping into the car. “And if your Barberton man fails you, you can have me as a guest. I like to hear you talking. One cannot know too much of the criminal mind! And life is dull since the snake stopped biting!”

  The car made towards Blackfriars Bridge, and Manfred kept watch of the sidewalk. There was no sign of Barberton, and he signalled Leon to turn and come back. This brought the machine to the Embankment side of the broad boulevard. They had passed under Waterloo Bridge and were nearing Cleopatra’s Needle when Gonsalez saw the man they were seeking.

  He was leaning against the parapet, his elbows on the coping and his head sunk forward as though he were studying the rush of the tide below. The car pulled up near a policeman who was observing the lounger thoughtfully. The officer recognized the police surgeon and saluted.

  “Can’t understand that bird, sir,” he said. “He’s been standing there for ten minutes. I’m keepin’ an eye on him, because he looks to me like a suicide who’s thinkin’ it over!”

  Manfred approached the man, and suddenly, with a shock, saw his face. It was set in a grin—the eyes were wide open, the skin a coppery red.

  “Elver! Leon!”

  As Leon sprang from the car, Manfred touched the man’s shoulder and he fell limply to the ground. In a second the doctor was on hi
s knees by the side of the still figure.

  “Dead,” he said laconically, and then: “Good God!”

  He pointed to the neck, where a red patch showed.

  “What is that?” asked Manfred steadily.

  “The snake!” said the doctor.

  CHAPTER FIVE - THE GOLDEN WOMAN

  BARBERTON had been stricken down in the heart of London, under the very eyes of the policeman, it proved.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve had him under observation for a quarter of an hour. I saw him walking along the Embankment, admiring the view, long before he stopped here.”

  “Did anybody go near him to speak to him?” asked Dr. Elver, looking up.

  “No, sir, he stood by himself. I’ll swear that nobody was within two yards of him. Of course, people have been passing to and fro, but I have been looking at him all the time, and I’ve not seen man or woman within yards of him, and my eyes were never off him.”

  A second policeman had appeared on the scene, and he was sent across to Scotland Yard in Manfred’s car for the ambulance and the police reserves necessary to clear and keep in circulation the gathering crowd. These returned simultaneously, and the two friends watched the pitiable thing lifted into a stretcher, and waited until the white-bodied vehicle had disappeared with its sad load before they returned to their machine.

  Gonsalez took his place at the wheel; George got in by his side. No word was spoken until they were back at Curzon Street. Manfred went in alone, whilst his companion drove the machine to the garage. When he returned, he found Poiccart and George deep in discussion.

  “You were right, Raymond.” Leon Gonsalez stripped his thin coat and threw it on a chair. “The accuracy of your forecasts is almost depressing. I am waiting all the time for the inevitable mistake, and I am irritated when this doesn’t occur. You said the snake would reappear, and the snake has reappeared. Prophesy now for me, O seer!”

  Poiccart’s heavy face was gloomy; his dark eyes almost hidden under the frown that brought his bushy eyebrows lower.

  “One hasn’t to be a seer to know that our association with Barberton will send the snake wriggling towards Curzon Street,” he said. “Was it Gurther or Pfeiffer?”