The Ringer/Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI
ONCE in the street, Lenley ran like a deer. Behind him the shrill drone of police whistles; ahead of him he saw a man in uniform appear out of the shadow and into the light of the street lamps, and, checking himself in his run, flung up a narrow alley. At the end further progress was barred by a high wooden paling, but he was over this before the policeman had flashed his light down the dark entry. He was in a poor back yard; he felt the felt-covered roof of a chicken run sag beneath his weight before he reached the earth. There was a light in one of the upstairs rooms and he heard a door open.
There was no way out, except through the house or over it. He decided upon the latter course. He was on the roof of the scullery and clambering over the slates in a miraculously short space of time. Below him now, as he came down the inverted V of the roof, was a little street, where, with the exception of two children playing noisily at the far end, nobody was in sight. He dropped on to the pavement with the ease of a trained athlete, and, darting across the road to where a lesser street joined the thoroughfare, he had vanished when the first policeman came on the scene.
Alan Wembury had no expectation that the man would be overtaken. Lenley was a runner, and the neighbourhood was full of these little streets and alleys. And he knew that Johnny could climb like a cat. He had only to place a couple of walls between himself and his pursuers to beat them.
He returned to the station house to issue an all-station message and circulate the description of the escaped man, and then, as was his duty, he made a bee line for Malpas Mansions. She must know sooner or later, and she might as well learn the tragedy which had come upon the Lenleys from his own lips.
He climbed up the broad stone staircase, stopped outside her flat and knocked. He knocked three times when the door opposite opened (there were four flats on each landing), and a woman peered out at him, for the landing was illuminated by one dimly-burning gas lamp.
"Do you want Miss Lenley? She's not in; she went out a quarter of an hour ago."
"Do you know where?"
"No." The woman shook her head. "But she won't be in till late. I know, because I met her coming down the stairs, and she asked me to slip a note under the door for her brother. To tell you the truth," confessed the garrulous lady, "I didn't even know she had a brother."
"She has a brother all right," said Alan.
There had been no sound or stir within when he had knocked. It was unlikely that Johnny would have come straight home. Where had she gone? He turned cold at the memory of her words. To Meister's? His first business was to continue the search for Johnny Lenley, but for the moment he had a duty which was nearer to him than the call of the State. He posted a plain-clothes officer to watch the mansions and hurried to Flanders Lane. Atkins was outside, with his back to the black door, a pipe between his teeth, as comfortable as a man can be whom duty compelled to remain exposed to the chill of the night. Nobody had been, he said, and Wembury went round to the back of the house and tried the stable door. It was locked.
Crossing the road, he could just see the top of the window in Meister's room. There was a light there and the curtains were drawn. Was it a trick of his imagination, or did he see a shadowy shape silhouetted for a moment against the window? Even as he considered this, he saw a bunch of leaves sweep jerkily into his line of vision and disappear again. It must have been the trees he had seen; the leaves were rustling noisily, every branch was astir, for the norther was reaching gale force. And yet—a shoulder and a head, he could have sworn.
He waited another five minutes, but saw only the recurring toss of leaves and boughs, and he joined Atkins before the house.
"Have you seen Meister lately?"
"Yes," said Atkins. "He wanted me to stay inside. He was his old, jovial self—I helped him to carry a case up from his cellar. Champagne and everything."
Alan bit his lip.
"Where is the housekeeper?"
"Haven't seen her since we came back." Atkins shook his head. "I've got an idea she locks herself in. She sleeps behind the kitchen."
"Now listen, Atkins." Alan Wembury was very earnest. "It may be that Meister will have visitors to-night, or people who want to see him for some reason—for some good reason," he corrected himself. "There is one person I do not want to come into this house, and you have instructions that she is not to be admitted."
"Who is that?" asked Atkins, with interest.
"Miss Mary Lenley."
"I see." Atkins scratched his head. "What happened to Johnny?" he asked, and in a few words Wembury told him of the escape.
Atkins whistled.
"Does she know?"
"No; you had better keep that from her until I see her. If she comes, 'phone me at the station and I'll be round in three or four minutes. Remember, on no account is Miss Lenley to be admitted to the house."
"We had the divisional surgeon round here this evening, measuring the road." Something amused Atkins and he was laughing softly to himself. "All Flanders Lane turned out to help. When he asked somebody to hold the end of his measure there was a free fight for the honour and glory!"
Alan cursed the doctor under his breath, but the absurdity of it struck him and he laughed, though he was in no laughing mood.
"He was measuring from the end of the Lane to Meister's wall, I suppose?"
"Yes," said the other in surprise; "did you know?"
"I guessed. He has a theory that there is a subterranean passage. If there is or if there isn't, he'll put it in his book. You've not seen our friend with the whiskers?"
"No, sir. I've got an idea Harrap invented him. You haven't seen him, have you?"
"I'm the only one in London who hasn't," said Alan, and went swinging up Flanders Lane. Its cat-eyed population saw him, and only the just were left visible as he stalked past.
He grinned to himself at the thought of the doctor and his tape measure, and wondered what conclusion Flanders Lane had reached at this eccentricity. Possibly they thought that he had a new drainage system in view. Certainly very few of them knew him, or his association with the police might have led to unpleasant consequences.
There was no news at the station when he returned. He had made inquiries about others than Johnny Lenley that night. Mr. Sam Haggitt had disappeared from his usual haunts, and it almost seemed as though Peter the Nose was unusually well informed. Alan had taken the precaution of sending a man to Euston to look over the Canadian boat train. The third-class passengers left that night, and it was possible that Mr. Haggitt would be amongst the number, though it was unlikely; and when Mr. Meister's late servant was mentioned, Alan shook his head.
"Peter may be wrong there," he said. "Haggitt looks as if he'd settled down. He might not like working for Meister, but he'll probably find another job."
"Peter's never wrong," said the sergeant. "If he says Haggitt's going to Canada, then he's going to Canada. It would be a good thing to let him go, too."
"We can't do that," said Alan. "He's a convict on licence for one thing, and he hasn't asked permission. If it's true that he's leaving for Canada, then there's an undiscovered larceny somewhere in the background, and that concerns me much more than his licence. If he wanted to emigrate on his own money I would willingly ask permission, supposing Canada were so foolish as to accept such an unreliable brute, but it's the larceny I'm thinking about."
Sergeant Carter got down from his stool with a wince. Not that he was in pain; most men of his age wince at anything that has the appearance of exertion.
"Peter's generally right," he said again. "He's the best nose I've struck for a very long time. It's a queer thing about Peter, he's never been in prison. Most of these fellows mix it a little, and of course if you want a real good nose you can't beat a fence. I suppose the boys will get him one of these days."
His superior did not seem greatly interested, and the sergeant, a lover of sensation, thought it an appropriate moment to drop his bomb.
"I've got an idea that Peter's seen the Ringer."
Alan looked up sharply.
"Recognized him, you mean?"
"Recognized him," replied the sergeant, "in spite of your wire from Australia. I'll believe they've pinched the Ringer there when they've got him and I see him here or at Bow Street."
"Rubbish! If he'd seen the Ringer he'd have told us."
Alan was prepared to dismiss the fantastic suggestion.
"Would he?" asked the sergeant significantly. "I doubt it. They're all scared of the Ringer, all these little hooks. He's the last man that Peter would betray. He puts the fear of God in every nose since that knifing down at Silvertown."
Here was an idea which had not occurred to Alan. Peter probably knew the Ringer by sight. He was an active investigator in the underworld in the Ringer's palmiest days, and he was a shrewd little fellow. The Ringer enjoyed a fearsome popularity.
"I can't believe that," he said, after considering the possibility. "You seem to forget there's five hundred pounds for the informer. Peter doesn't know there's so much money in the world."
The ticking of the station clock made him raise his eyes. It was a quarter to twelve—nearly time for him to make another call at Malpas Mansions. She must have returned by now, he thought.
"You're nervous to-night, inspector," said the sergeant. "You're not afraid the Ringer will get busy to-night, are you?"
"Not the Ringer; Lenley," said Alan curtly. "If ever I saw murder in a man's eyes it was in Johnny's. The only thing is, he's just a bit too level-headed to take that risk. He'll know we have the house watched Why, Peter!"
Peter had almost fled into the charge room, dashing aside the staid and indignant constable on door duty. His face, ordinarily bloodless, was now gray. He stood for a moment staring round like a demented being, until Wembury's voice roused him with a start, and he ran to the inspector and gripped him by the hand.
"I want to see you!"
The whine had gone from his voice: it was a croak now.
"Can you get me out of London, sir?"
Peter's voice held an urgent appeal.
"Out of London? Why?"
"Because I want to go away—that's why. Ain't that a good enough reason, Mr. Wembury?"
He was in a state bordering upon hysteria. As suddenly as he had gripped Wembury's arm he released it, ran to the door and peered fearfully forth, before he came back to press his request.
"I want to get away." He looked up at the clock. "There's time.... Ain't it horrible, Mr. Wembury? There's one bit of me wants to stay, and yet I must go!"
Wembury's arm gripped him by the shoulder and turned him round.
"Look at me, Peter," he said slowly. "You've seen the Ringer!"
The answer was in the staring, horrified eyes.
"I'm not going to talk about the Ringer." Peter's voice was little more than a whisper. "I'd do anything for you, Mr. Wembury—you know that—anything! But you can't expect me Get me out of London, can't you?" he pleaded. "I've got relations down in Devonshire, and there's a train at half-past twelve from Paddington. I'll make it—"
"You've seen the Ringer," said Wembury accusingly. "You've recognized him, and you think he knows you recognized him. You're scared."
"Seared!" Peter's lip went up in a grin that was fearful to see. "That's not the word. My blood's like water, Mr. Wembury. Don't keep me here, sir," he wailed. "I want a couple of pounds—I'll pay you back—I'll do anything for you, but get me out of London to-night!"
The sergeant had left his desk, and now he put his hand paternally upon the informer's shoulder, and at his touch Peter squealed and writhed himself free.
"Now, Peter, there's nothing to be afraid of. Mr. Wembury will look after you. Why don't you be a good boy and tell him what you've seen?"
Peter shook his head.
"I can't, I can't!" he muttered.
"That's silly." The old sergeant was in a fatherly mood. "You're going on like a young lady in a pantomime. Tell the inspector."
"Where did you see him?" asked Wembury.
Peter shook his head.
"Don't be a fool. Come into my room and have a drink."
"No, no, no; I don't want to be chived." His teeth were chattering. "I've got a girl."
"Chived!" said the sergeant contemptuously. "Who's going to put a knife into you, you poor fish?"
"I'm not going to tell, anyway," said Peter doggedly. "I want to go—into Devonshire."
"You probably made a mistake," said Wembury. "Tell me where you saw him."
But Peter wasn't listening.
"He's a clever feller, too clever for the likes of me," he said, speaking half to himself. "I wouldn't tell you, Mr. Wembury, not for a million. Get me out of London. I'll do anything for you when I come back, but get me out of London now—to-night!"
"See here, Peter, if you're so frightened I'll put you in a cell for the night," said Wembury.
"No, no, no!" shrieked the man, wriggling from his hands. "I don't want to be in London. Don't you understand? I—don't—want—to—be—in—London—tonight!"
The two police officers exchanged glances. Something was going to happen that night, and Peter knew it. Knew it and would not tell. Such was the power that the Ringer wielded, such the terror his name inspired.
Peter's pained eyes went up to the clock.
"Look at the time, look at the time!" he wailed. "Give me the money, sir."
Wembury took the sergeant aside, leaving the man to warm his trembling fingers at the fire.
"What do you make of it?" asked Alan.
The sergeant shook his head despairingly.
"I've never seen him so bad as that, not since he shopped Ike Smith, the fence. You won't get him to talk, you can take that from me, Mr. Wembury."
Alan was in agreement.
"I'll let him go and send a man down to Devonshire to-morrow. He may talk when he gets his nerve back."
He took some money out of his pocket and called the informer to him.
"Here is the fare. What is your address?"
"Lisle Cottage, Liverton, sir."
"Take that down, sergeant. You're being foolish, Peter."
"I'd rather be foolish than dead," shivered Peter. "It ain't that I don't want to stay and find out, Mr. Wembury. I'm lingering about when I ought to be running. Nosin' is in my blood. But I've got to go. I feel as though I'm being hunted just like a rat that's trailed by a weasel."
"Tell me one thing," said Alan. "Where did you see him?"
Peter pointed in silence to the door.
"In this street?" demanded Wembury incredulously, and when the man nodded he whistled.
"I'm not going to tell you any more." Peter was frantic now. "You've been a good friend to me, Mr. Wembury. I'll be thankful to you till my dying day. Good-night."
"Good-night, Peter."
As quickly as he came he went.
"I don't like that," said Wembury.
"His fear?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I don't know. These birds talk about the Ringer as though he were superhuman," said the sergeant.
Alan walked to the door and looked out. In this street....
He wondered why they always built police stations in back streets, and this the most poorly illuminated thoroughfare in London. Along the sidewalk a hundred yards away he saw two men pass under a street lamp; one carried a suitcase, and he turned back to the desk.
"I fear Peter told the truth. Friend Haggitt is coming—and he is not alone!"