The Complete Four Just Men Page 53

  ‘Then evidently I’ve come to the wrong house,’ smiled the gentleman. ‘This is Mr Smithson’s?’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ said the ungracious Jope, and shut the door in the caller’s face.

  The visitor walked down the steps into the street and joined another man who was standing at a corner.

  ‘They know nothing of Safe Deposits, Manfred,’ he said.

  ‘I hardly thought it would be at a Safe Deposit,’ said the taller of the two. ‘In fact, I was pretty certain that he would keep all his papers at the bank. You saw the man Jope, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gonsalez dreamily. ‘An interesting face. The chin weak, but the ears quite normal. The frontal bones slope irregularly backward, and the head, so far as I can see, is distinctly oxycephalic.’

  ‘Poor Jope!’ said Manfred without a smile. ‘And now, Leon, you and I will devote our attention to the weather. There is an anticyclone coming up from the Bay of Biscay, and its beneficent effects are already felt in Eastbourne. If it extends northwards to London in the next three days we shall have good news for Mrs Storr.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Gonsalez, as they were travelling back to their rooms in Jermyn Street, ‘I suppose there is no possibility of rushing this fellow.’

  Manfred shook his head.

  ‘I do not wish to die,’ he said, ‘and die I certainly should, for Noah Stedland is unpleasantly quick to shoot.’

  Manfred’s prophecy was fulfilled two days later, when the influence of the anticyclone spread to London and a thin yellow mist descended on the city. It lifted in the afternoon, Manfred saw to his satisfaction, but gave no evidence of dispersing before nightfall.

  Mr Stedland’s office in Regent Street was small but comfortably furnished. On the glass door beneath his name was inscribed the magic word: ‘Financier,’ and it is true that Stedland was registered as a moneylender and found it a profitable business; for what Stedland the moneylender discovered, Stedland the blackmailer exploited, and it was not an unusual circumstance for Mr Stedland to lend at heavy interest money which was destined for his own pocket. In this way he could obtain a double grip upon his victim.

  At half past two that afternoon his clerk announced a caller.

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘A man, sir,’ said the clerk, ‘I think he’s from Molbury’s Bank.’

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Stedland.

  ‘No, sir, but he came yesterday when you were out, and asked if you’d received the Bank’s balance sheet.’ Mr Stedland took a cigar from a box on the table and lit it.

  ‘Show him in,’ he said, anticipating nothing more exciting than a dishonoured cheque from one of his clients.

  The man who came in was obviously in a state of agitation. He closed the door behind him and stood nervously fingering his hat.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Stedland. ‘Have a cigar, Mr – ’

  ‘Curtis, sir,’ said the other huskily. ‘Thank you, sir, I don’t smoke.’

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ asked Stedland.

  ‘I want a few minutes’ conversation with you, sir, of a private character.’ He glanced apprehensively at the glass partition which separated Mr Stedland’s office from the little den in which his clerks worked.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Stedland humorously. ‘I can guarantee that screen is sound-proof. What’s your trouble?’

  He scented a temporary embarrassment, and a bank clerk temporarily embarrassed might make a very useful tool for future use.

  ‘I hardly know how to begin, Mr Stedland,’ said the man, seating himself on the edge of a chair, his face twitching nervously. ‘It’s a terrible story, a terrible story.’

  Stedland had heard about these terrible stories before, and sometimes they meant no more than that the visitor was threatened with bailiffs and was anxious to keep the news from the ears of his employers. Sometimes the confession was more serious – money lost in gambling, and a desperate eleventh-hour attempt to make good a financial deficiency.

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You won’t shock me.’ The boast was a little premature, however.

  ‘It’s not about myself, but about my brother, John Curtis, who’s been cashier for twenty years, sir,’ said the man nervously. ‘I hadn’t the slightest idea that he was in difficulties, but he was gambling on the Stock Exchange, and only today he has told me the news. I am in terrible distress about him, sir. I fear suicide. He is a nervous wreck.’

  ‘What has he done?’ asked Stedland impatiently.

  ‘He has robbed the Bank, sir,’ said the man in a hushed voice. ‘It wouldn’t matter if it had happened two years ago, but now, when things have been going so badly and we’ve had to stretch a point to make our balance sheet plausible, I shudder to think what the results will be.’

  ‘Of how much has he robbed the Bank?’ asked Stedland quickly.

  ‘A hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ was the staggering reply, and Stedland jumped to his feet.

  ‘A hundred and fifty thousand?’ he said incredulously.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was wondering whether you could speak for him; you are one of the most highly respected clients of the Bank!’

  ‘Speak for him!’ shouted Stedland, and then of a sudden he became cool. His quick brain went over the situation, reviewing every possibility. He looked up at the clock. It was a quarter to three.

  ‘Does anybody in the Bank know?’

  ‘Not yet, sir, but I feel it is my duty to the general manager to tell him the tragic story. After the Bank closes this afternoon I am asking him to see me privately and – ’

  ‘Are you going back to the Bank now?’ asked Stedland.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the man in surprise.

  ‘Listen to me, my friend.’ Stedland’s grey face was set and tense. He took a case from his pocket, opened it and extracted two notes. ‘Here are two notes for fifty,’ he said. ‘Take those and go home.’

  ‘But I’ve got to go to the Bank, sir. They will wonder – ’

  ‘Never mind what they wonder,’ said Stedland. ‘You’ll have a very good explanation when the truth comes out. Will you do this?’

  The man took up the money reluctantly.

  ‘I don’t quite know what you – ’

  ‘Never mind what I want to do,’ snapped Stedland. ‘That is to keep your mouth shut and go home. Do you understand plain English?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the shaking Curtis.

  Five minutes later Mr Stedland passed through the glass doors of Molbury’s Bank and walked straight to the counter. An air of calm pervaded the establishment and the cashier, who knew Stedland, came forward with a smile.

  ‘Unconscious of their awful doom,

  The little victims play;’

  quoted Stedland to himself. It was a favourite quotation of his, and he had used it on many appropriate occasions.

  He passed a slip of paper across the counter, and the cashier looked at it and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Why, this is almost your balance, Mr Stedland,’ he said.

  Stedland nodded.

  ‘Yes, I am going abroad in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I shall not be back for two years, but I am leaving just enough to keep the account running.’

  It was a boast of Molbury’s that they never argued on such occasions as these.

  ‘Then you will want your box?’ said the cashier politely.

  ‘If you please,’ said Mr Noah Stedland. If the Bank passed into the hands of the Receiver, he had no wish for prying strangers to be unlocking and examining the contents of the tin box he had deposited with the Bank, and to the contents of which he made additions from time to time.

  Ten minutes later, with close on a hundred thousand pounds in his pockets, a tin box in one hand, the other resting on his hip pocket – for
he took no chances – Mr Stedland went out again on the street and into the waiting taxicab. The fog was cleared, and the sun was shining at Clapham when he arrived.

  He went straight up to his study, fastened the door and unlocked the little safe. Into this he pushed the small box and two thick bundles of notes, locking the safe door behind him. Then he rang for the faithful Jope, unfastening the door to admit him.

  ‘Have we another camp bed in the house?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jope.

  ‘Well, bring it up here. I am going to sleep in my study tonight.’

  ‘Anything wrong, sir?’

  ‘Don’t ask jackass questions. Do as you’re told!’

  Tomorrow, he thought, he would seek out a safer repository for his treasures. He spent that evening in his study and lay down to rest, but not to sleep, with a revolver on a chair by the side of his camp bed. Mr Stedland was a cautious man. Despite his intention to dispense with sleep for one night, he was dozing when a sound in the street outside roused him.

  It was a familiar sound – the clang of fire bells – and apparently fire engines were in the street, for he heard the whine of motors and the sound of voices. He sniffed; there was a strong smell of burning, and looking up he saw a flicker of light reflected on the ceiling. He sprang out of bed to discover the cause. It was immediately discernible, for the fuse factory was burning merrily, and he caught a glimpse of firemen at work and a momentary vision of a hose in action. Mr Stedland permitted himself to smile. That fire would be worth money to him, and there was no danger to himself.

  And then he heard a sound in the hall below; a deep voice boomed an order, and he caught the chatter of Jope, and unlocked the door. The lights were burning in the hall and on the stairway. Looking over the banisters he saw the shivering Jope, with an overcoat over his pyjamas, expostulating with a helmeted fireman.

  ‘I can’t help it,’ the latter was saying, ‘I’ve got to get a hose through one of these houses, and it might as well be yours.’

  Mr Stedland had no desire to have a hose through his house, and thought he knew an argument which might pass the inconvenience on to his neighbour.

  ‘Just come up here a moment,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to one of those firemen.’

  The fireman came clumping up the stairs in his heavy boots, a fine figure of a man in his glittering brass.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I must get the hose – ’

  ‘Wait a moment, my friend,’ said Mr Stedland with a smile. ‘I think you will understand me after a while. There are plenty of houses in this road, and a tenner goes a long way, eh? Come in.’

  He walked back into his room and the fireman followed and stood watching as he unlocked the safe. Then: ‘I didn’t think it would be so easy,’ he said.

  Stedland swung round.

  ‘Put up your hands,’ said the fireman, ‘and don’t make trouble, or you’re going out, Noah. I’d just as soon kill you as talk to you.’

  Then Noah Stedland saw that beneath the shade of the helmet the man’s face was covered with a black mask.

  ‘Who – who are you?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘I’m one of the Four Just Men – greatly reviled and prematurely mourned. Death is my favourite panacea for all ills . . . ‘

  At nine o’clock in the morning Mr Noah Stedland still sat biting his nails, a cold uneaten breakfast spread on a table before him.

  To him came Mr Jope wailing tidings of disaster, interrupted by Chief Inspector Holloway and a hefty subordinate who followed the servant into the room.

  ‘Coming for a little walk with me, Stedland?’ asked the cheery inspector, and Stedland rose heavily.

  ‘What’s the charge?’ he asked heavily.

  ‘Blackmail,’ replied the officer. ‘We’ve got evidence enough to hang you – delivered by special messenger. You fixed that case against Storr too – naughty, naughty!’

  As Mr Stedland put on his coat the inspector asked: ‘Who gave you away?’

  Mr Stedland made no reply. Manfred’s last words before he vanished into the foggy street had been emphatic.

  ‘If he wanted to kill you, the man called Curtis would have killed you this afternoon when we played on your cunning; we could have killed you as easily as we set fire to the factory. And if you talk to the police of the Four Just Men, we will kill you, even though you be in Pentonville with a regiment of soldiers round you.’

  And somehow Mr Stedland knew that his enemy spoke the truth. So he said nothing, neither there nor in the dock at the Old Bailey, and went to penal servitude without speaking.

  The Man with the Canine Teeth

  ‘Murder, my dear Manfred is the most accidental of crimes,’ said Leon Gonsalez, removing his big shell-rimmed glasses and looking across the breakfast-table with that whimsical earnestness which was ever a delight to the handsome genius who directed the operations of the Four Just Men.

  ‘Poiccart used to say that murder was a tangible expression of hysteria,’ he smiled, ‘but why this grisly breakfast-table topic?’

  Gonsalez put on his glasses again and returned, apparently, to his study of the morning newspaper. He did not wilfully ignore the question, but his mind, as George Manfred knew, was so completely occupied by his reflections that he neither heard the query nor, for the matter of that, was he reading the newspaper. Presently he spoke again.

  ‘Eighty per cent of the men who are charged with murder are making their appearance in a criminal court for the first time,’ he said: ‘therefore, murderers as a class are not criminals – I speak, of course, for the Anglo-Saxon murderer. Latin and Teutonic criminal classes supply sixty per cent of the murderers in France, Italy and the Germanic States. They are fascinating people, George, fascinating!’

  His face lighted up with enthusiasm, and George Manfred surveyed him with amusement.

  ‘I have never been able to take so detached a view of those gentlemen,’ he said, ‘To me they are completely horrible – for is not murder the apotheosis of injustice?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Gonsalez vacantly.

  ‘What started this line of thought?’ asked Manfred, rolling his serviette.

  ‘I met a true murderer type last night,’ answered the other calmly. ‘He asked me for a match and smiled when I gave it to him. A perfect set of teeth, my dear George, perfect – except – ’

  ‘Except?’

  ‘The canine teeth were unusually large and long, the eyes deep set and amazingly level, the face anamorphic – which latter fact is not necessarily criminal.’

  ‘Sounds rather an ogre to me,’ said Manfred.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Gonsalez hastened to correct the impression, ‘he was quite good-looking. None but a student would have noticed the irregularity of the face. Oh no, he was most presentable.’

  He explained the circumstances of the meeting. He had been to a concert the night before – not that he loved music, but because he wished to study the effect of music upon certain types of people. He had returned with hieroglyphics scribbled all over his programme, and had sat up half the night elaborating his notes.

  ‘He is the son of Professor Tableman. He is not on good terms with his father, who apparently disapproves of his choice of fiancée, and he loathes his cousin,’ added Gonsalez simply.

  Manfred laughed aloud.

  ‘You amusing person! And did he tell you all this of his own free will, or did you hypnotise him and extract the information? You haven’t asked me what I did last night.’

  Gonsalez was lighting a cigarette slowly and thoughtfully.

  ‘He is nearly two metres – to be exact, six feet two inches – in height, powerfully built, with shoulders like that!’ He held the cigarette in one hand and the burning match in the other to indicate the breadth of the young man. ‘He has
big, strong hands and plays football for the United Hospitals. I beg your pardon, Manfred; where were you last night?’

  ‘At Scotland Yard,’ said Manfred; but if he expected to produce a sensation he was to be disappointed. Probably knowing his Leon, he anticipated no such result.

  ‘An interesting building,’ said Gonsalez. ‘The architect should have turned the western façade southward – though its furtive entrances are in keeping with its character. You had no difficulty in making friends?’

  ‘None. My work in connection with the Spanish Criminal Code and my monograph on Dactyology secured me admission to the chief.’

  Manfred was known in London as ‘Señor Fuentes’, an eminent writer on criminology, and in their roles of Spanish scientists both men bore the most compelling of credentials from the Spanish Minister of Justice. Manfred had made his home in Spain for many years. Gonsalez was a native of that country, and the third of the famous four – there had not been a fourth for twenty years – Poiccart, the stout and gentle, seldom left his big garden in Cordova.

  To him Leon Gonsalez referred when he spoke.

  ‘You must write and tell our dear friend Poiccart,’ he said. ‘He will be interested. I had a letter from him this morning. Two new litters of little pigs have come to bless his establishment, and his orange trees are in blossom.’

  He chuckled to himself, and then suddenly became serious.

  ‘They took you to their bosom, these policemen?’

  Manfred nodded.

  ‘They were very kind and charming. We are lunching with one of the Assistant Commissioners, Mr Reginald Fare, tomorrow. British police methods have improved tremendously since we were in London before, Leon. The finger-print department is a model of efficiency, and their new men are remarkably clever.’

  ‘They will hang us yet,’ said the cheerful Leon.

  ‘I think not!’ replied his companion.

  The lunch at the Ritz-Carlton was, for Gonsalez especially, a most pleasant function. Mr Fare, the middle-aged Commissioner, was, in addition to being a charming gentleman, a very able scientist. The views and observations of Marro, Lombroso, Fere, Mantegazza and Ellis flew from one side of the table to the other.