The Ringer, Book 1 Read online

  Meister had asked the girl to call at his house on her way home, but mentally Mary had laid down a formula which was subsequently to serve her well. She had fixed nine o’clock as the utmost limit she could work in the house, and as it was past that hour when she reached New Cross, she went straight to Malpas Mansions. One little luxury had been introduced into the flat: Maurice had insisted that she should be connected with the telephone system, and this was a great comfort to her.

  The bell was ringing as she unlocked the door, and, lighting the gas, hurried to the little table where the instrument stood. As she expected, it was Meister.

  “My dear girl, where have you been?” he asked testily. “I have been waiting for you since eight o’clock.”

  She glanced at the watch on her wrist: it was a quarter to ten.

  “I’m sorry, Maurice,” she said, “but I didn’t definitely promise I’d call.”

  “Have you been to a theatre or something?” he asked suspiciously. “You didn’t tell me anything about it?”

  “No, I’ve been to see a friend.”

  “A man?”

  Mary Lenley possessed an almost inexhaustible fund of patience, but the persistence of this cross-examination irritated her, and he must have guessed this, for, before she could reply, he went on: “Forgive my curiosity, my dear, but I am acting in loco parentis to you whilst poor Johnny is away, and I’d like to know—”

  “I went to dinner with a friend,” she interrupted shortly. “I’m sorry I have put you to any inconvenience, but I did not exactly promise, did I?”

  A pause.

  “Can’t you come round now?”

  Her “No” was very decisive.

  “It is much too late, Maurice. What is it you want doing?”

  If he had answered right away she might have believed him, but the pause was just a little too long.

  “Affidavits!” she scoffed. “How absurd, at this time of night! I’ll come down earlier in the morning.”

  “Your friend was not by any chance Alan Wembury?” asked Meister’s voice.

  Mary considered that a very opportune moment to hang up the receiver.

  She went into her little bedroom to change whilst the kettle was boiling, and the draught from the open window slammed the door behind her. She lit the gas, and closed the window with a thoughtful frown. She had given her servant a holiday, and the girl had left before her. Because of a threatening rainstorm, Mary had gone round the flat closing every window. Who had opened it? She looked round the room and a chill crept down her spine. Somebody had been in the room: one of the drawers in her chest had been forced open. As far as she could see, nothing had been stolen. Then with a gasp she remembered the code letter—it was gone! The wardrobe had been opened also; her dresses had been moved, and the long drawer beneath had been searched. By whom? Not by any ordinary burglar, for nothing except the letter had been taken.

  She went back to the window and, pulling it open, looked down. There was a sheer drop into the yard of fifty feet. To the right was the tiny balcony jutting out from her kitchenette, and by its side a balance lift by which the households in Malpas Mansions could obtain their supplies from the tradesmen in the yard below. The lift was at the bottom, and she could see the long steel ropes swaying gently in the stiff breeze that was blowing. A nimble man could climb to the level of the balcony without any superhuman effort. But what man, nimble or otherwise, would risk his neck for the sake of turning over her few poor possessions and extracting Cora Ann’s letter?

  She had an electric torch in the kitchen, and she brought this to make a closer inspection. It was then she found the wet footprints on the carpet. It was a new carpet and had the disadvantage of showing every stain. Two muddy footprints were so clearly on view that she wondered she had not seen them when she came into the room.

  She made another discovery: the dressing-table where she had left a number of brushes neatly arranged was all disarranged. She found one of the clothes brushes at the foot of the bed, and it had evidently been used to brush somebody who was very untidy, for it was wet and had a smear of mud at the end of the bristles. Nor had the cool intruder been satisfied with a rough toilet: he had used her hair-brushes; in the white bristles she saw a coarse black hair. She had seen its kind before: her father had a trick of straightening his beard with any brush that was handy. Somebody with a beard, a black beard, had tidied himself before the glass. She began to laugh, the idea was so absurd; but it was not long before she was serious again.

  She heard the bell ring in the kitchen, and opened the front door to find the man who acted as porter to the block.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, miss, but has anybody been in your flat whilst you have been out?”

  “That’s just what I was wondering, Jenkins,” she answered, and led him into the room to show him the evidence of the visit.

  “There has been a man hanging around the block all the evening,” said the porter, scratching his head; “a fellow with a little black beard. One of the tenants saw him in the back courtyard just before dark, having a look at the tradesmen’s lift, and the lady who lives on the opposite landing says before that he was knocking at this door for ten minutes, trying to make somebody hear. That must have been about eight o’clock Have you lost anything, miss?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing valuable.” She could not explain the exact value of The Ringer’s code card.

  CHAPTER 20

  A man with a beard! Where had she heard about a man with a beard? And then she suddenly remembered her talk with Alan. Inspector Bliss! That idea seemed too fantastic for words.

  She took the telephone directory, and turned the pages until she found the Flanders Lane police station. A gruff voice answered her. Mr. Wembury had not returned. He had been out all day but was expected at any minute. She gave her name and telephone number, and insisted upon the private nature of the call. An hour later the telephone bell rang and Alan’s voice greeted her. She told him in a few words what had happened, and she heard his gasp of astonishment.

  “I don’t think it could possibly have been the person you think,” he said, and she realised he was probably speaking in a room where other people were. “But if it’s not too late, may I come round?”

  “Do, please,” she said without hesitation.

  Alan came after such a remarkably short interval that she suggested he must have flown.

  “A taxi,” he explained. “One doesn’t often see them in High Street, Deptford, but I was fortunate.”

  It was the first time he had been in the flat since Johnny’s arrest. The very arrangement of the furniture aroused ugly memories. She must have divined this, for she led him straight to her room, and showed him the evidence of the visitor’s presence.

  “Bliss?” he frowned. “Why on earth should Bliss come here? What on earth did he expect to find?”

  “That is what I should like to know.” She could smile now. It was rather wonderful how comforting was the presence of Alan Wembury. “If it were the letter, he could have come and asked for it.”

  But he shook his head. “Have you anything here of Meister’s—any papers?” he asked suddenly.

  She shook her head.

  “Keys?” he suggested.

  “Why, yes, of course!” she remembered. “I’ve the keys of the house. His old cook is rather deaf, and Maurice is seldom up when I arrive, so he has given me a key of the outer gate and the door.”

  “Where do you keep them?” asked Alan.

  She opened her bag.

  “I carry them about with me. Besides, Alan, why on earth should Mr. Bliss want the keys? I suppose he can see Mr. Meister whenever he wishes.”

  But Alan’s mind was on another trail. Did Bliss know of the visit of Cora Ann Milton to this girl? Supposing he had set himself the task of hunting down The Ringer—and Alan Wembur
y had not been notified that the Central Office were playing a lone hand—would he make this difficult entry in order to test his suspicions? And suppose he were after the letter, how would he have heard of it?

  “Only one man would have come after that letter—and that man is The Ringer,” he said with conviction.

  He had left the front door open when he came in, and now, as they returned to the dining-room, the porter appeared in the hall.

  “Here you are, miss,” he called eagerly. “The fellow’s outside. What about calling a policeman?”

  “Which fellow?” asked Wembury quickly. “Do you mean the bearded man?”

  Evidently the porter did not know Alan for a police officer.

  “Yes, sir. Don’t you think we ought to call a policeman? There’s one on point duty at the end of the road.”

  Wembury brushed past him and ran down the stairs. Emerging into the night, he saw a man standing on the opposite side of the road. He made no attempt to conceal himself: indeed, he was standing in the full light of the street lamp, but drew aside as Wembury crossed the road, and long before he reached the stranger he knew that Mary’s surmise had been correct. It was Bliss.

  “Good evening. Inspector Wembury,” was the cool greeting.

  Without preliminary, Alan made his accusation.

  “Somebody has broken into Miss Lenley’s flat to-night, and I have reason to believe it is you, Bliss.”

  “Broken into Miss Lenley’s flat, eh?” The central inspector was rather amused. “Do I look like a burglar?”

  “I don’t know what you look like, but you were seen in the courtyard just before dark, examining the food lift. There’s no doubt that the man who entered Miss Lenley’s room gained admission by that means.”

  “In that case,” said Bliss, “you had better take me down to your funny little police station and charge me. But before you do so, I will make your job a little easier by confessing that I did climb that infernal rope, that I did force the window of Miss Lenley’s bedroom, that I did inspect the flat. But I did not find what I expected to find. The man who was there before me got that.”

  “Is that your explanation?” asked Wembury, when the other had finished, “that there was another man in the flat?”

  “Exactly—a perfect explanation, though it may not satisfy you. I did not climb the rope until I had seen somebody else go up that way, and open the window. It was just before dusk. Your friends will doubtless tell you that I immediately went up the stairs and knocked at Miss Lenley’s door, and, receiving no answer, decided to make my entrance the same way as the unknown intruder. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Wembury, or do you think that as a police officer I exceeded my duty in chasing a burglar?”

  Alan was in a quandary. If the story the man told was true, he had perfect justification for his action. But was it true?

  “Did you turn out the contents of the drawers by any chance?”

  Bliss shook his head.

  “No, I’m afraid our friend forestalled me there. I opened one drawer and gathered from its confusion that my predecessor had made a search. I don’t think he found what he wanted, and that he will very likely come again tonight. That is why I am here. Have you any further questions, inspector?”

  “No,” said Alan shortly.

  “And you’re not thinking of inviting me to meet your superintendent? Good! Then I think my presence for the moment is a little superfluous.” And, with a jerk of his shoulder, he turned and strolled at a leisurely pace along the sidewalk.

  Going back to the girl, Alan told her of his interview, and loyalty to his cloth prevented his giving his own private views on the matter.

  “He may be speaking the truth,” he said. “Of course it was his duty to follow a burglar. If he is lying, we shall hear no more of it, but if he is telling the truth he will have to report the matter.”

  He left her half an hour later, and as he went out of the flat he looked round for Bliss, but there was no sign of him. When he returned to the police station, he was taken aback to learn that Bliss had indeed reported the burglary, given times and full particulars, and had added a note to his report to the effect that Divisional Inspector Wembury had charge of the case.

  Alan was baffled. If Bliss’s account was true, who could have been the first man to climb up the rope? And what other object had he in burgling Mary Lenley’s flat than a search for the code? It brought The Ringer too near for comfort. Here was a mystery, which was never solved until that night of horror when The Ringer came to Meister’s house.

  Two little problems were recurring to Mary Lenley from day to day. Not the least important of these was contained in the formula, “Shall I tell Maurice?” Should she tell Maurice that she had been to tea with Alan Wembury … should she tell him of the burglary that had been committed the night before? On the whole she felt the least unpleasant confession, the one which would probably absorb him to the exclusion, was the second of her adventures.

  Maurice was not down when she arrived, and Mr. Samuel Hackitt, newly installed in the Meister household, was polishing wearily the window that looked out on to the leads. He had made his appearance a few days before, and in spite of his unpleasant past Mary liked the little man.

  “Good morning, miss.” He touched an invisible cap. “The old man’s still up in bed, bless his old heart!”

  “Mr. Meister had a heavy night,” she said primly.

  “‘Thick’ is the word I’d use,” said Sam, wringing out a leather cloth at his leisure.

  Very wisely Mary did not encourage any further revelations.

  “Funny old house, this, miss.” Sam knocked with his knuckle at one of the panels. “Holler. It’s more like a rabbit warren than a house.”

  Mr. Meister’s residence had been built in the days when Peter the Great was still living in Deptford, She passed this news of historical interest on to the wholly unimpressed man.

  “I never knew Peter … King, was he? That sounds like one of Meister’s lies.”

  “It’s history, Sam,” she said severely, as she dusted her typewriter.

  “I don’t take any notice of history—that’s lies, too,” said Hackitt, calmly. “Lor’ miss, you don’t know all the his’try books I’ve read—’Ume, Macaulay, Gibbons, the feller that wrote all about Rome.”

  She was astounded.

  “You’ve read them?”

  He nodded. “Studied ‘em,” he said solemnly, so solemnly that she laughed.

  “You’re quite a student: I didn’t realise that you were such a well read man.”

  “You have to do something in ‘stir’,” said Sam, and she realised that this reading of his had whiled away some period of his incarceration.

  He had an extraordinary stock of knowledge on unlikely subjects. Possibly this was gained under similar circumstances. Once or twice he strayed to the piano, although this had been dusted and polished, as she could see in her face reflected in the black top; but the piano fascinated him, and probably he had a higher respect for Mr. Meister because of his musical qualities than for his knowledge of the law. He depressed a key that tinkled sharply and apologised.

  “I’m going up to Scotland Yard tomorrow, miss,” he said, and she thought it had something to do with his recent imprisonment, and expressed only a polite interest. “Never been there before,” said Sam complacently, “but I suppose it’s like every other busy’s office—one chair, one table, one pair of handcuffs, a sergeant and forty-five thousand perjuring liars!”

  The entrance of Meister at that moment cut short his speculations. Maurice looked shaky and ill, she thought. After he had gruffly dismissed his new servitor, he told her he had slept badly.

  “Where did you go—” he began.

  She thought it was an excellent moment to tell him of her burglar. And because she did not wish to talk of Cora Ann she made no reference to the sto
len letter. He listened in amazement, until she came to the interview which Alan had had with Inspector Bliss.

  “Bliss! That’s queer!”

  He stood up, his eyes tightened, as though he were facing a bright light.

  “Bliss … I haven’t seen him for years. He’s been in America. A clever fellow … Bliss … humph!”

  “But don’t you think it was extraordinary, Maurice, that he should climb up into my flat, or that there should have been anybody there before him—what profit can they find in burgling my poor little apartment?”

  Maurice shook his head.

  “I don’t believe it. Bliss wanted to find something in your room. The yarn about another man having gone up is all bunk.”

  “But what could he find?” she insisted, and Maurice Meister was not prepared to offer a convincing reason.

  Bliss! He had no right in Deptford, unless—Maurice was both puzzled and apprehensive. The advent of a Central man to Deptford could only indicate some extraordinary happening, and in his mind he went over the various events which might be calculated to interest that exalted policeman. Strangely enough, Deptford at this moment was unusually well behaved. There had been no serious charges in the division for three months, and Meister, who had his finger in more lawless pies than his worst enemy gave him credit for, knew that there had been no steal of such importance that Scotland Yard would send one who was reputedly its most promising officer to conduct an independent examination.

  By some extraordinary process, peculiarly his own, he decided that there was nothing sinister in this attention. Probably Headquarters were trying out the new divisional inspector, and had sent this wise and experienced officer to discover the extent of his acquaintance with the Lenleys.

  Meister’s breakfast was not an elaborate meal, and was usually served in his little bureau. This morning it consisted, as usual, of a cup of coffee, a small plate of fruit and a biscuit. He unfolded the newspaper by the side of his table and glanced at it idly. His life was so full that he had little time for, or interest in, the great events of the world; but a news item at the top of the columns caught his eye.