The Ringer/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII
QUEER people came to Mr. Meister's office dwelling, but none who enjoyed so universal an unpopularity as Peter Litt. A "nose" he was indeed. Most interested folks suspected this, upbraiding him cruelly whenever they met. The police knew it for certain, regarding him as a news-bringer of extraordinary value. In the years that he had worked for policemen, he had acquired almost an official position. Lawbreakers who suspected men of betraying them—"shopping" was the technical term— would have killed the ordinary informer. But whilst Peter was credited rightly with being in very close touch with the authorities, he was also believed, though this was an error, to exercise certain influences which might react to a prisoner's advantage. It was said that on Peter's word detectives would stand up in the box and speak gently and even favourably of a man waiting sentence; and that in consequence of these eleventh-hour encomia, a judge would sometimes knock as much as three years off a man's sentence.
Undoubtedly it suited the police from time to time to say a good word for a criminal, and indeed it was the general policy to find out whatever was favourable to the man under charge, in order that the judge might view his future more knowledgeably. So that Peter the Nose, notorious from Dockhead to Greenwich, from Limehouse to the Broadway, was hatefully tolerated, and there were some men who did not disdain to invite Peter to a quiet bar and spend money upon his liquid refreshment, in the hope that the bread thus cast upon the waters might return tenfold on some stormy day at the Old Bailey.
If fate had blessed him with the necessary physique, and life had given him a few of the chances it had maliciously withheld from him, he might have made a phenomenally successful detective. Peter had struggled through life on the tail of a van and graduated in the slimes and kips of Wapping and Poplar, until he had worked his way into the police service as a mole might work his way into an unknown field, blindly.
Men like Haggitt hated him, and spiced their hatred with a little fear. The police treated him as though he were a pet snake; there was a sort of rough kindness in their dealings with Peter the Nose. It never took any other expression than payment at a scheduled rate. Peter was a veritable storehouse of knowledge; he knew people beyond the ken of the police; had plumbed depths, in his impassive, cold-blooded, sneaking way, which the most hardened detective would have shrunk from exploring. Men and women so utterly depraved that police attentions would have dignified them and their calling, confided their secrets to Peter, sometimes, as he sat before a coke brazier in some crazy riverside hut, sometimes in places less savoury.
He knew men and women who lived on the combing of the river. He had seen and talked with a type of thief who picked the pockets of tramps and down-and-outs curled up asleep on the Embankment. He knew the grave-robbers who stole the metal wreaths and sold them again in Petticoat Lane, re-coloured and re-varnished—all these people were tremendously interesting to Peter. And he never forgot a face: that gift was his misfortune.
He came furtively to Mr. Meister that morning, lifted his lip in what he intended to be a smile as he sidled past the old woman scrubbing in the hall, and tiptoed up the stairs. He did not knock, but turned the handle stealthily and looked in. Mr. Haggitt at that precise moment was tugging gently at one of the locked drawers in Mr. Meister's desk. He spun round violently, the seventh sense of the crook told him that he was overlooked and he made a quick but unconvincing pretence of polishing the face of the desk.
"Hullo, Nose," he said violently, "got your creepers on? There ought to be a law to make people like you carry bells round your necks."
"Just come up to see the governor," said Peter. "You told me to look back in two hours."
He had a high, complaining whine of a voice, and all the time seemed to be protesting against some injustice which had been put upon him. He looked around swiftly, and then, in a lower tone:
"What was you doing in Cockspur Street yesterday, Haggitt?" he demanded.
Mr. Haggitt's eyes behind the glasses went cold and murderous.
"I never went to Cockspur Street yesterday or the day before yesterday," he said rapidly. "And if you go following me about"
"I saw you coming out of the Canadian Pacific office." Peter nodded several times.
"You're a liar!" said Haggitt violently. "If you go nosing on me, Gawd help you!"
"I wasn't nosing on you. I never nose on anybody," whined Peter. "I'll give a hundred million pounds to anybody who can prove I'm a nose—there you are."
"A hundred million pounds!" said Haggitt contemptuously. "Of course you're a nose!"
Again that furtive scrutiny that took in the spaces beneath the chairs, the slight cover that the chintz curtains might offer.
"Who's that young girl who came in a while ago? She's Johnny Lenley's sister, isn't she?"
Mr. Haggitt laughed scornfully.
"Go on, trunk on her, you poor elephant! Find out what she's been doing and go and tell Wembury. He may give you a dollar."
"I don't earn money that way," said Peter.
His ears had heard Meister's feet descending the stairs.
"I'm an honest man, that's what I am, Haggitt, and that's why crooks like you don't like me. I know a gentleman when I see him, and if Mr. Meister ain't a gentleman—"
Here was Mr. Meister, ready to answer for himself. A pallid and a haggard Mr. Meister, dressed roughly over his pajamas. He always had his breakfast that way and read his paper, retiring as a rule just before Mary Lenley's arrival.
Peter's lip lifted on both sides: it was the nearest approach to geniality that he could command.
"Good-morning, sir."
Mr. Meister splashed out some golden liquid into a tumbler and drank it down at a gulp.
"Having his breakfast," commented Haggitt audibly, and Meister turned his head slowly in the direction of his subordinate.
"Who sent for Wembury?" he asked sourly.
"I sent for Wembury—him and me's friends," said Haggitt. "Not snouting friends, like him and Peter, but man to man friends, if you understand me, Meister?"
"Why did you send for him?" roared the lawyer, some of the colour coming back to his cheeks under the influence of anger.
"Because I thought somebody was cutting your throat, that's why," said Haggitt loudly. "I don't want any scandal while I'm in the house, which won't be long. They can cut your throat and welcome after I've gone. As a matter of fact, I was disappointed to find you alive! When a day starts like that my luck's out!"
"God! ... What's that?"
The door through which Peter had come was opening slowly, and Mr. Meister crouched back, his voice vibrant with fear.
"Shut the door—lock it!"
He bellowed the words, and Haggitt, who was startled by the extraordinary happening, moved forward with some reluctance and slammed the door.
"I told you to shut it when you came in!"
He turned savagely to the unoffending Peter.
"I did shut it," whined Peter indignantly. "What are you always getting at me for? What does everybody bullyrag me for? What have I done?"
He caught Mr. Meister's eye and the lawyer beckoned him.
"Well?" Meister was still a little breathless. Peter looked round significantly at the waiting Haggitt. "You needn't wait, Haggitt—get out!"
Haggitt went as far as the other side of the door, at any rate.
"Now, Peter, what is the news?"
Peter shook his head.
"It's one of their lies, eh!" asked Meister eagerly. "I knew it! That crowd believes everything it hears. You're a good boy, Peter ... he isn't here, is he?"
Peter looked up from the tattered cap he was twisting and crumpling in his hand.
"I don't know," he said.
Meister's face changed.
"But you don't think he's here?" he asked anxiously.
"I hope he ain't, though he's got nothing against me. I never had anything to do with the Ringer: he was too big for me."
"He's got nothing against me, has he?" snarled Meister viciously. "If it comes to a question of deserving anything, why, he ought to drop on his knees to me after what I've done for him. He hasn't been seen!"
"No," said Peter slowly, "but he's been heard!"
The lawyer's hand went up to his throat.
"He's been heard?" he asked in a shaky voice. "What do you mean by that?"
Peter glanced at the door. His ears were keen enough to catch the deep breathing of the interested Mr. Haggitt and he dropped his voice to a tantalizing level, from Mr. Haggitt's point of view.
"His old landlord heard him in the dark, going up the stairs of the lodgings he used to have—heard his voice. The landlord knew somebody was moving about in the room and came out into the passage in the middle of the night, and when he called up, the Ringer's voice answered him."
There was a deathly silence.
"When was this?" asked Meister, finding his voice.
"A month ago. The police know: they've got seven busies looking for him. And Wembury knows: I've had that straight!"
Meister sat down suddenly in his chair.
"They'll never find him!" he groaned. "She was right."
"Mrs. Milton is here."
"I know—I know!"
He put a hand in his pocket and, taking out a bundle of Treasury notes, skinned three and threw them across the table.
"Watch for him, Peter," he said, his voice shaking. "You're not afraid of the Ringer, are you?"
Peter was afraid of him—terribly afraid of him; for Peter moved in a world in which the Ringer's name was like that of an avenging god.
"I don't believe he's here," he compromised. "Maybe he came back for something and then slipped away into Australia again."
A lame and most unconvincing explanation, but Mr. Meister jumped at it.
"Of course he's not here—but you'll watch? Never let up—you're a clever boy, Peter. There's very little that happens in this part of the world that you don't know. He couldn't get past you, could he, Peter?"
He dropped his hand upon the narrow-shouldered spy and Peter winced. Nobody had ever smacked him on the back before without intending to do him grievous bodily harm.
The lawyer rang the table bell and Haggitt came in instantly.
"Where are my letters?" he asked.
"On the mantelpiece?" said Haggitt. "Can't you see 'em?"
Peter was shuffling towards the door.
"Good-morning, sir. Good-morning, Sam."
Haggitt waved his hand majestically to the door and banged it behind the visitor.
"What did he want?" he demanded.
Meister looked over the letter he was reading.
"I've told you before" he began.
"I am leaving you to-day," said Haggitt.
"You can go to hell so far as I'm concerned," retorted the other.
"And the next time I'm pinched," Haggitt went on, "I'm going to get another lawyer."
"The next time you're pinched, my man," said Meister warningly, "you'll get a lifer!"
"That's why I'm going to change my lawyer," retorted Haggitt calmly.
Shaking with rage, Meister held up the letter he was reading.
"You're clever! But here's a letter from a man who thought he was clever! He's written asking me to defend him at the next sessions!"
"I don't call that clever," said Haggitt.
"He was a man like you," Meister went on. "He thought he knew it all: he made money and then he got fresh. Defend him! I'd see him dead first!"
He walked to the safe, unlocked it and threw in the letter.
"Personally, I think he'd be better off," said Haggitt. "After all, you know where you are when you're dead!"
"Has Miss Lenley arrived?" growled the lawyer.
Haggitt put down his broom and walked over to the desk, glaring down through his large glasses at the resentful face of his employer.
"See here, Meister, what's the idea of Johnny Lenley's sister working for you? Does Johnny know? ... Have you written to him?"
"You mind your own damned business!" stormed Meister. "Finish your work and get out."
"You owe me two days," said the other promptly. "A pound a day at union rates."
Meister went on writing and did not look up for some time, though he was conscious that Haggitt remained standing by the desk. Presently he put down his pen, and, in a more amiable tone:
"I'll give you a pound a day if you'll stop. You're too ready with your tongue, Haggitt, but so long as you don't interfere with my business, I'm willing to humour you. You can stay as long as you like."
Haggitt sneered.
"I'll stop till four o'clock this afternoon and then I'll say good-bye. I wouldn't stay for twenty a day. Last time I was in bird I promised the chaplain I wouldn't keep bad company. He wasn't a bad 'sky' and I hate breaking my word. Besides"—he got to the door before he delivered his Parthian shot—"I'm not up to the Ringer's weight—do your own minding!"