The Ringer/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
SHE came towards him, and from the pallor of her face and her obvious distress he thought that she had discovered her brother's plans.
"May I see you, please?" she said breathlessly. "Alone. I want to talk."
He opened the door of his room, but she shook her head.
"No, I can't stay."
"What on earth are you doing here?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Has Mr. Meister come?"
"No. Why—is anything wrong? He told me a little time ago that he would call."
"Yes, something is very wrong. I made him very angry tonight.... Oh, I don't know what I'm saying!" She covered her eyes with her hands. He remembered that gesture of hers so well; he had seen it in the days she wore pinafores; the dog had died and she stopped at the cottage gates to tell him.
"Did you know he was coming here?"
She nodded.
"I was in his room when he phoned. I didn't intend going, but something took me there to ask him.... Have you seen my brother?"
"Yes; he was here a little time ago. I wonder you didn't meet him."
Her mouth was dry, her pulses were racing erratically. Acting on the impulse, she had first gone to the house. Atkins had seen her and let her in, and the interview which followed had been valueless. She had found Meister a being exalted, unsteady of foot and vinous of breath; he had grown out of his fear, and when she had begged him to let her off the promise she had made, he had been adamantine. And now, in a last desperate endeavour to save herself and her brother, she had come to tell Alan Wembury what she should have told him at first.
"I want you to advise me, Alan. You told me to come if I was in any difficulty, and I'm in a terrible difficulty. I don't know how to put it to you. Suppose—suppose that before Johnny went to prison he had done something even worse than burglary?"
Wembury was glancing uneasily at the door, but at her words he concentrated his gaze upon her.
"Won't you come into my room?" he begged.
She shook her head.
"No, I mustn't wait. Johnny will be coming home very soon. I want to see him before I—I go out. I'm working rather late to-night. Alan, suppose Johnny had done something dreadful in the past, could they punish him now? That is what I want to know. You understand what I mean—something he did before he was arrested and sent to prison?"
It was the last question in the world he expected from her, because he thought he knew Johnny Lenley's record rather well.
"It depends upon what the crime was," he said slowly. "You don't know?"
She shook her head.
"If it was serious—more serious than the charge on which he was convicted—they would try him again. But a case of that sort—years old—would take a lot of proving."
"But suppose there were proof?" she said desperately. "Documentary proof?"
He stared at her.
"Forgery?"
"No, no, no—I don't know. Oh, I oughtn't to be telling you this at all," she wailed, and he took her hand gently in his.
"You have told me nothing as yet. And if you do tell me anything that you'd rather I hadn't known, why, I'm a pretty good forgetter."
Sergeant Carter was pretending to be busy, and had an excuse, for Dr. Lomond had followed the girl into the charge room and was searching for the fountain pen which, alternately with his glasses, he was always losing.
"They could punish him, then!" she asked anxiously.
"It depends. I shouldn't think that they would punish him, after his sentence and the way in which he earned remission."
He found it so hard even to offer this grain of comfort, knowing that yet another charge might soon be preferred against the man. The sight of her grief was agony to him, and her next words cut him even a little deeper.
"Oh, how awful!" she whispered. "And he's only just come back from prison! That year has changed him terribly, Alan! It is as if all the humanity had been drawn out of him, and something hard and solid had been put in its place."
"Won't you pretend that I'm not a police officer?" he asked in a low voice. "Give me just a little of your confidence, Mary. What is behind this story of an early crime?"
"I'll—I'll tell you," she said jerkily.
The heavy footfall of Meister came to them; she heard and recognized it, looked wildly round for a way of escape. Before Alan could open the door of his office the lawyer lurched in. His overcoat was open, his silk hat was on the back of his head, an unaccustomed cigarette drooped from his lips. The transition from the dark street to the well-lit charge room temporarily blinded him. He stared for a long time at the sacking that hid the hole in the wall, and then slowly brought his eyes in the direction of Mary Lenley. Before he could speak to her she confronted him.
"Why have you come?" she asked in a voice that shook. "After I promised you?"
Alan saw a slow smile spread upon the vacuous face.
"The little girl doesn't think I'm double-crossing her?" He patted her arm affectionately. "She doesn't trust her old lawyer! Just come to see the inspector," he said soothingly, "about a man I'm defending. What a suspicious little girl you are! I wouldn't do Johnny harm, you know that, even though he's threatened me." He shook his head stupidly. "He'll take the nine o'clock walk to the scaffold, eh? He may take that walk!"
And then, partially sobered by the horror on her face:
"No, no, I didn't mean that, my dear."
"What do you mean?" she asked intensely.
"I don't think you'd better stay here, Miss Lenley." Alan had joined the group, and there was a plea in his voice which was irresistible. He was in an agony of mind lest at any moment John Lenley should be brought in. He himself had wished to avoid meeting the man; most passionately he desired to save the girl that misery.
"Quite right," said Meister with solemn drunken gravity. "Quite right. The inspector knows."
He drew Alan aside.
"Have they brought him in? I don't think he'd be fool enough to do the job, but he's better away, my dear Wembury, very much better."
"Did you come to find out? You might have saved yourself the trouble by telephoning," said Alan sternly.
The whole mien of Meister suddenly changed. The look that Alan had seen in his eyes before reappeared, and when he spoke his voice was harsh but coherent.
"No, I didn't come for that." He looked round over his shoulder. The policeman had come from the door to the sergeant and was whispering something to him. Even the doctor seemed interested. "Haggitt cleared out and left me alone—the dirty quitter! Alone in the house!"
Up went the hand to his mouth.
"It got on my nerves, Wembury. Every sound I heard, the creak of a chair when I moved, a coal falling from the fire, the rattle of the windows"
Out of the dark beyond the doorway loomed a figure. Nobody saw it. The three men talking together at the desk least of all. The gaunt man stared into the charge room for a second and vanished as though he were part of some magician's trick. The policeman at the desk caught a glimpse of him and ran to the door. The sergeant and the doctor followed at a more leisurely pace.
"Every sound brings my heart into my mouth, Wembury. I feel as though I stood in the very presence of doom."
His voice was a husky whine.
"I feel it now—as though somewhere near me, in this very room, death were at my elbow. Oh, God, it's awful—awful!"
He covered his face with his hands.
"Why don't you go abroad—go away?"
Meister looked at him with sour suspicion.
"Go abroad?" sneered the lawyer. "Are you in that game too? I'll stay—I'm not going to be scared of a shadow. If the Ringer is here, it is the duty of the police to detect him—your job! Do you hear, Wembury?" he roared. "Your job!"
Suddenly he swayed, and Alan Wembury caught him just in time. Fortunately the doctor was at hand, and they sat him on a chair whilst Sergeant Carter delved into his desk for an ancient bottle of smelling salts that had served many a fainting lady, overcome in that room by her temporary misfortunes.
"Now won't you go away, Mary?" Alan asked the question urgently.
"Why is he afraid?" She was looking at the huddled heap in the chair with pity and disgust.
"Some day I'll tell you. But won't you go now?"
All the time his eyes had been on the door, his ears strained to catch the tramp of feet. Then, to his relief, she smiled suddenly and nodded.
"I'll go. Thank you for seeing me."
She caught his hand in both of hers.
"You've told me all I wanted to know."
He shook his head.
"I'm afraid I haven't been much help to you, my dear."
"If there are proofs against Johnny" she began.
"Let us talk about that to-morrow." He was terrified that the man would come.
"To-morrow!" Again she smiled. "I hope you'll think well of me to-morrow."
For a second their eyes met, and had Alan been less preoccupied with the thought of Johnny Lenley, he would have seen into her heart. He went to the door and watched her until she disappeared, and came back to find that Meister had recovered under the doctor's treatment. He sat with his face screwed up in a grimace of distaste. Lomond had given him one of his most noxious restoratives.
"That's beastly stuff," he said, smacking his lips.
"Then it must be very good," said Lomond. "None of the real tonics of life are sugar-coated, Mr. Meister."
The man staggered to his feet, and for the first time noticed the absence of Mary.
"Where has she gone?" he asked.
"She's gone home—to her own home," said Alan quietly. "I advise you to go home to yours. Let Atkins stay in the house with you; he can sleep in your study."
Meister shot a queer glance at him.
"Yes—but not to-night."
The slow, sly smile came back to his face.
"I shan't be alone to-night."
There was a pause.
"You won't, eh?" said Alan Wembury softly. "You're having a friend to stay with you?"
"That's it—a very good friend—if promises mean anything."
"A man friend?" The searching eyes were on the lawyer's face.
"Oh, of course!"
"I can't imagine that you would ask any other kind," said Wembury slowly, "or that you would employ some influence you hold to induce an unwilling—individual to keep you company."
For a second Meister was taken aback by the accuracy of the detective's guess, and then, with a return to his best judicial manner:
"I don't consult the police about the kind of friends I have to stay with me," he said.
"I'm not talking to you as a policeman." Wembury's face was a shade paler; his voice had the sting of a whip. "I'm talking as a friend of your friend. You're a useful man to us, Meister; you give us very valuable hints. But in the past years we've accumulated quite a lot of information about you."
"Are you threatening me?" bullied Meister.
"I'm warning you! You're the second man I've warned to-night."
The lawyer started to say something, but with an impatient wave of his hand:
"Let me alone. I don't want to quarrel with you. A man has got to find his happiness where he can. You haven't adopted—a certain person, have you?"
Wembury nodded, and the next second turned his face to the door.
"There he is again!" It was Lomond; he was pointing up the street. Meister gripped the arm of the detective.
"Who is it?"
"He's been watching the station ever since Meister came in," said Lomond, and with a scream of terror the lawyer's knees doubled up under him; this time it took three men to lift and carry him into the inspector's room, where a couch was quickly cleared.
"I'm afraid he's gone right out this time," said Wembury.
"Who was it you saw?" he asked the doctor.
"I've seen him before. He's been hanging round all the evening.... This fat man is going to die in one of these fits."
Happily there was a little wash place in Wembury's room, and running water. As the doctor swabbed the face of the unconscious man and tore off his collar, he proceeded to enlarge upon the psychology of conscience.
"Meister has evidently done something particularly bad in the past," he said, and Alan knew it was useless to agree or disagree, so brought the doctor back to the subject of the mysterious watcher."What was he like?"
"I saw just a glimpse of him—in fact, I passed him rather closely. A thin-faced man who looks ill and miserable and, if I may use the word, 'sinister.' I know you imagine I see a ferocious criminal in the most innocent people, but that is how he impressed me."
"What was he doing?"
"Standing on the other side of the road under the lamp post."
Alan beckoned Atkins, who had accompanied Meister to the station, and sent him out to investigate. He returned in a few minutes to announce that there was no sign of a man, sinister or otherwise, loitering in the street.
Dr. Lomond took a serious view of the happening.
"I've seen him before," he said, "once in the High Street. I had the illusion that he was following me."
"Do you know anybody answering the description?" asked Wembury.
Atkins nodded.
"Yes, sir; he is undoubtedly the man who was challenged by Harrap near Meister's house last night."
"It occurred to me," said Dr. Lomond, lifting the eyelid of the still unconscious Meister, "that it might have been the Ringer—"
"The Ringer!" snapped Alan. "Don't make me laugh! Everybody's seen the Ringer except me! He's like the Russians who came through England at the beginning of the war, with the snow on their boots to prove their nationality!"
"Maybe they did," said the doctor, game to the last. He bent his head over Meister and listened. "I think we can leave him here for a little while; he'll recover as quickly as he went. These fainting fits are mainly digestive derangement." So did this lover of romance reduce tragedy to its lowest denominator. "He ought not to walk home, by the way," he said as they went out of the room together, closing the door.
"I agree," said Alan grimly. "Fortunately you have a cab, Atkins, haven't you?"
The sergeant nodded.
Tramp, tramp, tramp!
His keen ears had caught the sound of the measured march, the peculiar tempo of a man in custody, and he drew a long breath as Johnny Lenley, his arm gripped by a plain-clothes policeman, came through the door and was pushed into the steel dock which was the one imposing feature of the charge room. There was no preliminary.
"I am Detective Constable Bell," said the tall man. "This evening I was on the roof of 57, Camden Crescent, and I saw this man come up through a trapdoor in the attic of No. 55. I saw him searching behind the cistern of 57, and took him into custody. I charged him with breaking and entering 65, Camden Crescent, and attempting to break and enter No. 57."
Lenley stood with his arm on the steel rail of the dock, looking down at the floor. He scarcely seemed interested in the proceedings, until he raised his head and his eyes found Wembury's, and then he nodded slowly.
"Thank you, Wembury," he said. "If I had the brain of a rabbit I shouldn't be here."
Carter at the desk dipped his pen in the ink.
"What is your name?" he asked automatically.
"John Lenley."
Silence and a splutter of writing.
"Your address?"
"I have no address."
"Your trade?"
"I am a convict on licence," said Johnny quietly.
The sergeant put down his pen.
"Search him," he said, and Johnny spread out his arms while the tall officer ran his hands through his pockets and carried what he had found to the desk.
"Who put me away, Wembury?"
Alan shook his head.
"That is not a question to ask me," he said. "You know that very well." He nodded to the desk to call the prisoner's attention to the man who was, for the moment, in supreme authority.
"Have you any explanation for your presence on the roof of 57, Camden Gardens?" asked the sergeant.
Johnny Lenley cleared his throat.
"I went after the stuff I got my seven for. It was supposed to be planted behind a cistern, and I went to get it. And it wasn't there. That's all. Who was the snout? You needn't tell me, because I know. Look after my sister, Wembury; she'll want some looking after, and I'd sooner trust you than any man"
It was unfortunate for all concerned that Mr. Meister chose that moment to make his bedraggled appearance. He stared foolishly at the man in the dock, and Johnny Lenley smiled.
"Hallo, Meister!" he said softly.
The lawyer was staggered.
"Why—why—it's—it's Johnny!" he stammered. "You haven't been getting into trouble again, have you, Johnny?" He raised his hands in a gesture of despair. "What a misfortune! I'll be down at the court to defend you in the morning, my boy." He ambled up to the sergeant's desk. "Any food he wants, let him have it at my expense," he said loudly.
"Meister!" The word came like the clang of steel on steel. "There was no swag behind the cistern!"]
Mr. Meister's face was a picture of wonder and amazement.
"No swag behind the cistern? 'Swag'? I don't know what you're talking about, my boy."
Lenley nodded and grinned mirthlessly.
"I came out too soon for you. It interfered with your little scheme, didn't it, Meister? You might have found a less drastic way of clearing me out."
Meister's smile was a blend of pity and amusement.
"Johnny, you're talking nonsense," he said. "A little rest will do you good, anyway. Came out too soon, did you? And now you're going into the country—alone!"
"That will do, Meister." Wembury caught him by the arm and jerked him back angrily. "I am not going to allow you to jeer at a man in trouble. He's going to the country alone, but while Mary Lenley is in London and I am here, she is not alone—do you understand that?"
He beckoned the jailer.
"Take him away," he said.
At that second John Lenley dropped and dived under the rail and before Wembury could realize what was happening, he had the lawyer by the throat. In a second four men were struggling in a heap on the ground.
"Handcuffs!" called Alan.
The sergeant snatched a pair from a hook on the wall and Wembury caught them deftly. In a second he had dived into the scrum, had gripped one strong wrist and snapped the bracelet fast. Before he could reach the other, Lenley, with a superhuman effort, wriggled himself free from the scrum, knocking Atkins backward in his bull-rush. A policeman started for the door to cover that exit, but with one spring John Lenley was through the hole in the wall; there was a sound of rending, tearing and snapping laths, and he was gone!