(1929) The Three Just Men (15 page)

“It hasn’t,” he admitted. “By the very nature of our work we are debarred from that experience. And is it an offensive thing to say that I have never felt my singleness to be a deprivation?”

“It is very rude,” she said severely, and Leon was laughing to himself all the way back to town as at a great joke that improved upon repetition.

“I think we can safely leave her for a week,” he reported, on his return to Curzon Street. “No, nothing happened. I was held up in a police trap near Newbury for exceeding the speed limit They said I was doing fifty, but I should imagine it was nearer eighty. Meadows will get me out of that. Otherwise, I must send the inevitable letter to the magistrate and pay the inevitable fine. Have you done anything about Johnson Lee?”

Manfred nodded. “Meadows and the enthusiastic Mr. Washington have gone round to see him. I have asked Washington to go because”—he hesitated—“the snake is a real danger, so far as he is concerned. Elijah Washington promises to be a very real help. He is afraid of nothing, and has undertaken to stay with Lee and to apply such remedies for snake-bites as he knows.”

He was putting on his gloves as he spoke, and Leon Gonsalez looked at him with a critical admiration.

“Are you being presented at Court, or are you taking tea with a duchess?”

“Neither. I’m calling upon friend Oberzohn.”

“The devil you are!” said Leon, his eyebrows rising.

“I have taken the precaution of sending him a note, asking him to keep his snakes locked up,” said Manfred, “and as I have pointedly forwarded the carbon copy of the letter, to impress the fact that another exists and may be brought in evidence against him, I think I shall leave Oberzohn & Smitts’ main office without hurt. If you are not too tired, Leon, I would rather prefer the Buick to the Spanz.”

“Give me a quarter of an hour,” said Leon, and went up to his room to make himself tidy.

It was fifteen minutes exactly when the Buick stopped at the door, and Manfred got into the saloon. There was no partition between driver and passenger, and conversation was possible.

“It would have been as well if you’d had Brother Newton there,” he suggested.

“Brother Newton will be on the spot: I took the precaution of sending him a similar note,” said Manfred. “I shouldn’t imagine they’ll bring out their gunmen.”

“I know two, and possibly three, they won’t bring out.” Gonsalez grinned at the traffic policeman who waved him into Oxford Street. “That Browning of mine throws high, Manfred: I’ve always had a suspicion it did. Pistols are queer things, but this may wear into my hand.” He talked arms and ammunition until the square block of Oberzohn & Smitts came into sight. “Good hunting!” he said, as he got out, opened the saloon door and touched his hat to Manfred as he alighted.

He got back into his seat, swung the little car round in a circle, and sat on the opposite side of the road, his eyes alternately on the entrance and on the mirror which gave him a view of the traffic approaching him from the rear.

Manfred was not kept in the waiting-room for more than two minutes. At the end of that time, a solemn youth in spectacles, with a little bow, led him across the incurious office into the presence of the illustrious doctor.

The old man was at his desk. Behind him, his debonair self, Monty Newton, a large yellow flower in his buttonhole, a smile on his face. Oberzohn got up like a man standing to attention.

“Mr. Manfred, this is a great honour,” he said, and held at his hand stiffly.

An additional chair had been placed for the visitor: a rich-looking tapestried chair, to which the doctor waved the hand which Manfred did not take.

“Good morning, Manfred.” Newton removed his cigar and nodded genially. “Were you at the dance last night?”

“I was there, but I didn’t come in,” said Manfred, seating himself. “You did not turn up till late, they tell me?”

“It was of all occurrences the most unfortunate,” said Dr. Oberzohn, and Newton laughed.

“I’ve lost his laboratory secretary and he hasn’t forgiven me,” he said almost jovially. “The girl he took on yesterday. Rather a stunner in the way of looks. She didn’t wish to go back to the country where she came from, so my sister offered to put her up for the night in Chester Square. I’m blessed if she didn’t lose herself at the dance, and we haven’t seen her since!”

“It was a terrible thing,” said Oberzohn sadly. “I regard her as in my charge. For her safety I am responsible. You, I trust, Mr. Newton—”

“I don’t think I should have another uneasy moment if I were you, doctor,” said Manfred easily. “The young lady is back at Heavytree Farm. I thought that would surprise you. And she is still there: that will surprise you more, if you have not already heard by telephone that your Old Guard failed dismally to—er—bring her back to work. I presume that was their object?”

“My old guard, Mr. Manfred?” Oberzohn shook his head in bewilderment. “This is beyond my comprehension.”

“Is your sister well?” asked Manfred blandly. Newton shrugged his shoulders.

“She is naturally upset. And who wouldn’t be? Joan is a very tender-hearted girl.”

“She has been that way for years,” said Manfred offensively. “May I smoke?”

“Will you have one of my cigarettes?” Manfred’s grave eyes fixed the doctor in a stare that held the older man against his will.

“I have had just one too many of your cigarettes,” he said. His words came like a cold wind. “I do not want any more, Herr Doktor, or there will be vacancies in your family circle. Who knows that, long before you compound your wonderful elixir, you may be called to normal immortality?”

The yellow face of Oberzohn had turned to a dull red.

“You seem to know so much about me, Mr. Manfred, as myself,” he said in a husky whisper.

Manfred nodded.

“More. For whilst you are racing against time to avoid the end of a life which does not seem especially worthy of preservation, and whilst you know not what day or hour that end may come, I can tell you to the minute,” The finger of his gloved hand pointed the threat.

All trace of a smile had vanished from Monty Newton’s face. His eyes did not leave the caller’s.

“Perhaps you shall tell me.” Oberzohn found a difficulty in speaking. Rage possessed him, and only his iron will choked down the flames from view.

“The day that injury comes to Mirabelle Leicester, that day you go out—you and those who are with you!”

“Look here, Manfred, there’s a law in this country—” began Monty Newton hotly.

“I am the law.” The words rang like a knell of fate. “In this matter I am judge, jury, hangman. Old or young, I will not spare,” he said evenly.

“Are you immortal too?” sneered Monty.

Only for a second did Manfred’s eyes leave the old man’s face.

“The law is immortal,” he said. “If you dream that, by some cleverly concerted coup, you can sweep me from your path before I grow dangerous, be sure that your sweep is clean.”

“You haven’t asked me to come here to listen to this stuff, have you?” asked Newton, and though his words were bold, his manner aggressive, there were shadows on his face which were not there when Manfred had come into the room—shadows under his eyes and in his cheeks where plumpness had been.

“I’ve come here to tell you to let up on Miss Leicester. You’re after something that you cannot get, and nobody is in a position to give you. I don’t know what it is—I will make you a present of that piece of information. But it’s big—bigger than any prize you’ve ever gone after in your wicked lives. And to get that, you’re prepared to sacrifice innocent lives with the recklessness of spendthrifts who think there is no bottom to their purse. The end is near!”

He rose slowly and stood by the table, towering over the stiff-backed doctor.

“I cannot say what action the police will take over this providential snake-bite, Oberzohn, but I’ll make you this offer: I and my friends will stand out of the game and leave Meadows to get you in his own way. You think that means you’ll go scot-free? But it doesn’t. These police are like bull-dogs: once they’ve got a grip of you, they’ll never let go.”

“What is the price you ask for this interesting service?” Newton was puffing steadily at his cigar, his hands clasped behind him, his feet apart, a picture of comfort and well-being.

“Leave Miss Leicester alone. Find a new way of getting the money you need so badly.”

Newton laughed.

“My dear fellow, that’s a stupid thing to say. Neither Oberzohn nor I are exactly poor.”

“You’re bankrupt, both of you,” said Manfred quietly. “You are in the position of gamblers when the cards have run against you for a long time. You have no reserve, and your expenses are enormous. Find another way, Newton—and tell your sister”—he paused by the door, looking down into the white lining of his silk hat—“I’d like to see her at Curzon Street to-morrow morning at ten o’clock.”

“Is that an order?” asked Newton sarcastically.

Manfred nodded.

“Then let me tell you,” roared the man, white with passion, “that I take no orders for her or for me. Got swollen heads since you’ve had your pardon, haven’t you? You look out for me, Manfred. I’m not exactly harmless.”

He felt the pressure of the doctor’s foot upon his and curbed his temper.

“All right,” he growled, “but don’t expect to see Joan.”

He added a coarse jest, and Manfred raised his eyes slowly and met his.

“You will be hanged by the State or murdered by Oberzohn—I am not sure which,” he said simply, and he spoke with such perfect confidence that the heart of Monty Newton turned to water.

Manfred stood in the sidewalk and signalled, and the little car came swiftly and noiselessly across. Leon’s eyes were on the entrance. A tall man standing in the shadow of the hall was watching. He was leaning against the wall in a negligent attitude, and for a second Leon was startled.

“Get in quickly!”

Leon almost shouted the words back, and Manfred jumped into the machine, as the chauffeur sent the car forward, with a jerk that strained every gear.

“What on—?” began Manfred, but the rest of his words were lost in the terrific crash which followed.

The leather hood of the machine was ripped down at the back, a splinter of glass struck Leon’s cap and sliced a half-moon neatly. He jammed on the brakes, threw open the door of the saloon and leaped out. Behind the car was a mass of wreckage; a great iron casting lay split into three pieces amidst a tangle of broken packing-case. Leon looked up; immediately above the entrance to Oberzohn & Smitts’ was a crane, which had swung out with a heavy load just before Manfred came out. The steel wire hung loosely from the derrick. He heard excited voices speaking from the open doorway three floors above, and two men in large glasses were looking down and gabbling in a language he did not understand.

“A very pretty accident. We might have filled half a column in the evening newspapers if we had not moved.”

“And the gentleman in the hall—what was he doing?”

Leon walked back through the entrance: the man had disappeared, but near where he had been standing was a small bell-push which, it was obvious, had recently been fixed, for the wires ran loosely on the surface of the wall and were new.

He came back in time to see a policeman crossing the road.

“I wish to find out how this accident occurred, constable,” he said. “My master was nearly killed.”

The policeman looked at the ton of debris lying half on the sidewalk, half on the road, then up at the slackened hawser.

“The cable has run off the drum, I should think.”

“I should think so,” said Leon gravely.

He did not wait for the policeman to finish his investigations, but went home at a steady pace, and made no reference to the “accident” until he had put away his car and had returned to Curzon Street.

“The man in the hall was put there to signal when you were under the load—certain things must not happen,” he said. “I am going out to make a few inquiries.”

Gonsalez knew one of Oberzohn’s staff: a clean young Swede, with that knowledge of English which is normal in Scandinavian countries; and at nine o’clock that night he drifted into a Swedish restaurant in Dean Street and found the young man at the end of his meal. It was an acquaintance—one of many—that Leon had assiduously cultivated. The young man, who knew him as Mr. Heinz—Leon spoke German remarkably well—was glad to have a companion with whom he could discuss the inexplicable accident of the afternoon.

“The cable was not fixed to the drum,” he said. “It might have been terrible: there was a gentleman in a motor-car outside, and he had only moved away a few inches when the case fell. There is bad luck in that house. I am glad that I am leaving at the end of the week.”

Leon had some important questions to put, but he did not hurry, having the gift of patience to a marked degree. It was nearly ten when they parted, and Gonsalez went back to his garage, where he spent a quarter of an hour.

At midnight, Manfred had just finished a long conversation with the Scotland Yard man who was still at Brightlingsea, when Leon came in, looking very pleased with himself. Poiccart had gone to bed, and Manfred had switched out one circuit of lights when his friend arrived.