The Ringer, Book 1 Page 4

  “Does Mr. Meister play this?”

  “Him?” said the old lady with a cackle of laughter. “I should say he does!”

  From this chamber led a little doorless ante-room which evidently was used as an office, for there were deed boxes piled up against one wall and a small desk on which stood a covered typewriter.

  She had hardly taken her survey when the door opened and Maurice Meister came quickly in, alert and smiling. He strode toward her and took both her hands in his.

  “My dear Mary,” he said, “this is delightful!”

  His enthusiasm amused her.

  “This isn’t a social call, Maurice,” she said. “I have come to work!”

  She drew her hands free of his. Had they always been on these affectionate terms, she wondered. She was puzzled and uneasy. She tried to reconstruct from her memory the exact relationship that Maurice Meister had stood to the family. He had known her since she was a child. It was stupid of her to resent this subtle tenderness of his.

  “My dear Mary, there’s work enough to do—title deeds, evidence,” he looked vaguely round as though seeking some stimulant to his imagination.

  And all the time he looked he was wondering what on earth he could find to keep her occupied.

  “Can you type?” he asked.

  He expected a negative and was amazed when she nodded.

  “I had a typewriter when I was twelve,” she smiled. “Daddy gave it to me to amuse myself with.”

  Here was relief from a momentary embarrassment. Maurice had never wished or expected that his offer to employ the girl should be taken seriously—never until he had seen her at Lenley Court and realised that the gawky child he had known had developed so wonderfully.

  “I will give you an affidavit to copy,” he said, searching feverishly amongst the papers on his desk. It was a long time before he came upon a document sufficiently innocuous for her to read. For Maurice Meister’s clientele was a peculiar one, and he, who through his life had made it a practice not to let his right hand know what his left hand did, found a difficulty in bringing himself to the task of handing over so much of his dubious correspondence for her inspection. Not until he had read the paper through word by word did he give it to her.

  “Well, Mary, what do you think of it all?” he demanded, “and do, please, sit down, my dear!”

  “Think of it all? This place?” she asked, and then, “You live in a dreadful neighbourhood, Maurice.”

  “I didn’t make the neighbourhood. I found it as it is,” he answered with a laugh. “Are you going to be very happy here, Mary?”

  She nodded. “I think so. It is so nice working for somebody one has known for so long—and Johnny will be about. He told me I should see a lot of him.”

  Only for a second did the heavy eyelids droop. “Oh,” said Maurice Meister, looking past her. “He said you’d see a lot of him, eh? In business hours, by any chance?”

  She did not detect the sarcasm in his tone.

  “I don’t know what are your business hours, but it is rather nice, isn’t it, having Johnny?” she asked. “It really doesn’t matter working for you because you’re so kind, and you’ve known me such a long time, but it would be rather horrid if a girl was working for somebody she didn’t know, and had no brother waiting on the doorstep to see her home.”

  He had not taken his eyes from her. She was more beautiful even than he had thought. Hers was the type of dainty loveliness which so completely appealed to him. Darker than Gwenda Milton, but finer. There was a soul and a mind behind those eyes others; a latent passion as yet unmoved; a dormant fire yet to be kindled. He felt her grow uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze, and quick to sense this, he was quicker to dispel the mist of suspicion which might soon gather into a cloud.

  “I had better show you the house,” he said briskly, and led her through the ancient building.

  Before one door on the upper floor he hesitated and finally, with an effort, slipped the key in the lock and threw open the door.

  Looking past him, Mary saw a room such as she had not imagined would be found in this rather shabby old house. In spite of the dust which covered everything it was a beautiful apartment, furnished with a luxury that amazed her. It seemed to be a bed and sitting-room, divided by heavy velvet curtains which were now drawn. A thick carpet covered the floor, the few pictures that the room contained had evidently been carefully chosen. Old French furniture, silver light brackets on the walls, every fuse and every fitting spoke of lavish expenditure.

  “What a lovely room!” she exclaimed when she had I recovered her breath.

  “Yes … lovely.” He stared gloomily into the nest which had once known Gwenda Milton, in the days before tragedy had come to her. “Better than Malpas Mansions, Mary, eh?” The frown had vanished from his face; he was his old smiling self. “A little cleaning, a little dusting, and there is a room for a princess—in fact, my dear, I shall put it entirely at your disposal.”

  “My disposal!” she stared at him. “How absurd, Maurice! I am living with Johnny and I couldn’t possibly stay here, ever.”

  He shrugged.

  “Johnny? Yes. But you may be detained one night—or Johnny may be away. I shouldn’t like to think you were alone in that wretched flat.”

  He closed and locked the door and followed her down the stairs.

  “However, that is a matter for you entirely,” he said lightly. “There is the room if you ever need it.”

  She made no answer to this, for her mind was busy with speculation. The room had been lived in, she was sure of that. A woman had lived there —it was no man’s room. Mary felt a little uneasy. Of Maurice Meister and his private life she knew nothing. She remembered vaguely that Johnny had hinted of some affair that Meister had had, but she was not curious.

  Gwenda Milton!

  She remembered the name with a start. Gwenda Milton, the sister of a criminal. She shivered as her mind strayed back to that gorgeous little suite, peopled with the ghost of a dead love, and she had the illusion that a white face, tense with agony, was peering at her as she sat at the typewriter. She looked round with a shudder, but the room was empty and from somewhere near at hand she heard the sound of a man humming a popular tune.

  Maurice Meister did not believe in ghosts.

  CHAPTER 8

  On the afternoon of the day that Mary Lenley went to Meister’s house the Olympic was warped into dock at Southampton. The two Scotland Yard men who had accompanied the ship from Cherbourg, and who had made a very careful scrutiny of the passengers, were the first to land and took up their station at the foot of the gangway. They had a long time to wait whilst the passport examinations were taking place, but soon the passengers began to straggle down to the quay.

  Presently one of the detectives saw a face which he had not seen on the ship. A man of middle height, rather slight, with a tiny pointed beard and a black moustache appeared at the ship’s side and came slowly down.

  The two detectives exchanged glances and as the passenger reached the quay one of them stepped to his side and said: “Excuse me, sir, I did not see you on the ship.”

  For a second the bearded man surveyed the other coldly. “Are you making me responsible for your blindness?” he asked.

  They were looking for a bank robber who had crossed from New York, and they were taking no chances. “May I see your passport?”

  The bearded passenger hesitated, then slipping his hand into his inside pocket pulled out, not a passport but a leather note-case. From this he extracted a card. The detective took it and read:

  CENTRAL INSPECTOR BLISS.

  C.I.D. Scotland Yard. Attached Washington Embassy.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  The detective pushed the card back into the other’s hand and his attitude changed.

  “I didn’t recognise you, Mr. Bli
ss. You hadn’t grown a beard when you left the Yard.”

  “Who are you looking for?” he asked harshly.

  The second detective gave a brief explanation.

  “He’s not on the ship, I can tell you that,” said Bliss, and with a nod turned away.

  He did not carry his bag into the Customs, but depositing it at his feet, he stood with his back to the wall of the Custom House and watched the passengers disembark. Presently he saw the girl for whom he had been looking.

  Slim, svelte, immensely capable, entirely and utterly fearless—this was the first impression Inspector Bliss had received. He never had reason to revise his verdict. Her olive skin was faultless, the dark eyes under delicately pencilled eyebrows were insolent, knowledgeable. Here was a girl not to be tampered with, not to be fooled; an exquisite product of modernity. Expensively and a little over-dressed, perhaps. One white hand glittered with diamonds. Two large stones flashed on the lobes of her pink ears. As she brushed past him there came to the sensitive nostrils of Mr. Bliss the elusive fragrance of a perfume that was strange to him.

  She had come on board at Cherbourg, and it was, he thought, a remarkable coincidence that they should have travelled to England on the same boat, and that she had not recognised him. Following her into the Custom House, he watched her thread her way through piles of luggage under the indicator M. His own customs examination was quickly finished. He handed his bag to a porter and told him to find a seat in the waiting train, and then he strolled toward where the girl, now hidden in the little crowd of passengers, was pointing out her baggage to the customs officer.

  As though she were aware of his scrutiny she looked over her shoulder twice, and on the second occasion their eyes met, and he saw a look of wonder—or was it apprehension?—come into her face.

  When her head was turned again, he approached nearer, so near that looking round, she almost stared into his face, and gasped.

  “Mrs. Milton, I believe?” said Bliss.

  Again that look. It was fear, beyond doubt.

  “Sure! That’s my name,” she drawled. She had the soft cultured accent of one who had been raised in the Southern States. “But you certainly have the advantage of me.”

  “My name is Bliss. Central Inspector Bliss of Scotland Yard,” he said.

  Apparently the name had no significance, but as he revealed his calling, he saw the colour leave her cheeks, to flow back again instantly.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” she said, “and what can I do for—Central Inspector Bliss of Scotland Yard?”

  Every word was like a pistol shot. There was no doubt about her antagonism.

  “I should like to see your passport.”

  Without a word she took it from a little hand-bag and handed it to him. He turned the leaves deftly and examined the embarkation stamps.

  “You’ve been in England quite recently?”

  “Sure! I have,” she said with a smile. “I was here last week. I had to go to Paris for something. From there I made the trip from Cherbourg—I was just homesick to hear Americans talking.”

  She was looking hard at him, puzzled rather than frightened.

  “Bliss?” she said thoughtfully, “I can’t place you. Yet, I’ve got an idea I’ve met you somewhere.”

  He was still examining the embarkation marks.

  “Sydney, Genoa, Domodossola—you’re a bit of a traveller, Mrs. Milton, but you don’t move quite so fast as your husband.”

  A slow smile dawned on the beautiful face.

  “I’m too busy to tell you the story of my life, or give you a travelogue,” she said, “but maybe you want to see me about something more important?”

  Bliss shook his head. In his sour way he was rather amused.

  “No,” he said, “I have no business with you, but I hope one day to meet your husband.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Do you reckon on getting to heaven too?” she asked sardonically. “I thought you knew Arthur was dead?”

  His white teeth appeared under his bearded lips for a second.

  “Heaven is not the place I should go to meet him,” he said.

  He handed back her passport and turning on his heel walked away.

  She followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight, and then with a quick little sigh turned to speak to the customs officer. Bliss! The ports were being watched.

  Had The Ringer reached England? She went cold at the thought. For Cora Ann Milton loved this desperate man who killed for the love of the killing, and who was now an Ishmael and a wanderer on the face of the earth with the hands of all men against him and a hundred police packs hot on his trail.

  As she walked along the platform she examined each carriage with a careless eye. After a while she found the man she sought. Bliss sat in the corner of the carriage, apparently immersed in a morning newspaper.

  “Bliss!” she said to herself. “Bliss!”

  Where had she seen his face before? Why did the sight of this dour- looking man fill her soul with terror? Cora Ann Milton’s journey to London was a troubled one.

  CHAPTER 9

  When Johnny Lenley called at Meister’s house that afternoon, the sight of his sister hard at work with her typewriter was something of a shock to him. It was as if he recognised for the first time the state of poverty into which the Lenleys had fallen.

  She was alone in the room when he came and smiled up at him from a mass of correspondence.

  “Where’s Maurice?” he asked, and she indicated the little room where Meister had his more important and confidential interviews which the peculiar nature of his clientele demanded.

  “That’s a rotten job, isn’t it?”

  He hoped she would say “no” and was relieved when she laughed at the question.

  “It is really very interesting,” she said, “and please don’t scowl, Johnny, this is less boring than anything I have done for years!”

  He looked at her for a moment in silence; he hated to see her thus —a servant. Setting his teeth he crossed the room and knocked at the door of Meister’s private bureau.

  “Who is there?” asked a voice.

  Johnny tried to turn the handle but the door was locked. Then he heard the sound of a safe closing, the bolt slipped back and the lawyer appeared.

  “What is the secret?” grumbled Johnny as he entered the private apartment.

  Meister closed the door behind him and motioned him to a chair.

  “I have been examining some rather interesting pearls,” he said meaningly, “and naturally one does not invite the attention of all the world to stolen property.”

  “Have you had an offer for them?” asked Johnny eagerly.

  Maurice said he had. “I want to get them off to Antwerp tonight,” he said.

  He unlocked the little safe in the corner of the room, took out a flat cardboard box, and removing the lid he displayed a magnificent row of pearls embedded in cotton wool.

  “There are at least twenty thousand pounds worth,” said Johnny, his eyes brightening.

  “There is at least five years’ penal servitude,” said Maurice brutally, “and I tell you frankly, Johnny, I’m rather scared.”

  “Of what?” sneered the other. “Nobody is going to imagine that Mr. Meister, the eminent lawyer, is ‘fencing’ Lady Darnleigh’s pearls.” Johnny chuckled as the thought occurred to him. “By gad! You’d cut a queer figure in the dock at the Old Bailey, Maurice, Can’t you imagine the evening newspapers running riot over the sensational arrest and conviction of Mr. Maurice Meister, late of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and now of Flanders Lane, Deptford.”

  Not a muscle of Maurice’s face moved, only the dark eyes glowed with a sudden baleful power.

  “Very amusing,” he said evenly. “I never credited you before with an imagination.” He carried the pearls to the ligh
t and examined them, before he replaced the cardboard lid.

  “You have seen Mary?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  Johnny nodded.

  “It is beastly to see her working, but I suppose it is all right. Maurice—”

  The lawyer turned his head.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been thinking things over. You had a girl in your service named Gwenda Milton?”

  “Well?” said Maurice again.

  “She drowned herself, didn’t she? Have you any idea why?”

  Maurice Meister was facing him squarely now. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid betrayed the rising fury within him.

  “The jury said—” he began.

  “I know what the jury said,” interrupted Johnny roughly, “but I have my own theory.”

  He walked slowly to the lawyer and touched him lightly on the shoulder as he emphasised every word.

  “Mary Lenley is not Gwenda Milton,” he said. “She is not the sister of a fugitive murderer, and I am expecting a little better treatment for her than Gwenda Milton received at your hands.”

  “I don’t understand you,” said Meister. His voice was very low and distinct.

  “I think you do.” Johnny nodded slowly. “I want you to understand that there will be very serious trouble if Mary is hurt! They say that you live in everlasting fear of The Ringer—you would have greater cause to fear me if any harm came to Mary!”

  Only for a second did Maurice drop his eyes.

  “You’re a little hysterical, Johnny,” he said, “and you’re certainly not in your politest mood this morning. I think I called you crude a week ago, and I have no reason to revise that description. Who is going to harm Mary? As for The Ringer and his sister, they are dead!”

  He picked up the pearls from the table, again removed the lid and apparently his eyes were absorbed in the contemplation of the pearls again.

  “As a jewel thief—”

  He got so far when there came a gentle tap at the door.