(1929) The Three Just Men (29 page)

After he had done what he was to do, there was no reason in the world why they should be bad friends, and he would give her a big present. Girls of that class soon forget their miseries if the present is large enough. Thus he argued, tossing from side to side in his bed, and all the time his thoughts playing about that infernal cellar. What she must be feeling! He did not worry at all about Mirabelle, because—well, she was a principal in the case. To him, Joan was the real victim.

Sleep did not come until daybreak, and he woke in his most irritable frame of mind. He had promised the girl he would call and see her, though he had privately arranged with Oberzohn not to go to the house until the expiry of the five days.

By lunch-time he could stand the worry no longer, and, ordering his car, drove to a point between New Cross and Bermondsey, walking on foot the remainder of the distance. Mr. Oberzohn expected the visit. He had a shrewd knowledge of his confederate’s mental outfit, and when he saw this well-dressed man picking a dainty way across the littered ground, he strolled out on the steps to meet him.

“It is curious you should have come,” he said.

“Why didn’t you telephone?” growled Newton. This was his excuse for the visit.

“Because there are human machines at the end of every wire,” said Oberzohn. “If they were automatic and none could listen, but you and I, we would talk and talk and then talk! All day long would I speak with you and find it a pleasure. But not with Miss This and Miss That saying, ‘One moment, if you please,’ and saying to the Scotland Yard man, ‘Now you cut in’!”

“Is Gurther back?”

“Gurther is back,” said the doctor soberly.

“Nothing happened to that bird? At least, I saw nothing in the evening papers.”

“He has gone to Lisbon,” replied the doctor indifferently. “Perhaps he will get there, perhaps he will not—what does it matter? I should like to see the letter, because it is data, and data has an irresistible charm for a poor old scientist. You will have a drink?”

Monty hesitated, as he always did when Oberzohn offered him refreshment. You could never be sure with Oberzohn.

“I’ll have a whisky,” he said at last, “a full bottle—one that hasn’t been opened. I’ll open it myself.”

The doctor chuckled unevenly.

“You do not trust?” he said. “I think you are wise. For who is there in this world of whom a man can say, ‘He is my friend. To the very end of my life I will have confidence in him’?”

Monty did not feel that the question called for an answer.

He took the whisky bottle to the light, examined the cork and drove in the corkscrew.

“The soda water—that also might be poisoned,” said Dr. Oberzohn pleasantly.

At any other time he would not have made that observation. That he said it at all betrayed a subtle but ominous change in their relationship. If Monty noticed this, he did not say a word, but filled his glass and sat down on the sofa to drink. And all the time the doctor was watching him interestedly.

“Yes, Gurther is back. He failed, but you must excuse failure in a good man. The perfect agent has yet to be found, and the perfect principal also. The American, Washington, had left Paris when I last heard of him. He is to be congratulated. If I myself lived in Paris I should always be leaving. It is a frivolous city.”

Monty lit a cigar, and decided to arrive at the object of his visit by stages. For he had come to perform two important duties. He accounted as a duty a call upon Joan. No less was it a duty, and something of a relief also, to make his plan known to his partner.

“How are the girls?” he asked.

“They are very happy,” said Dr. Oberzohn, who had not resumed his seat, but stood in an attitude somewhat reminiscent of Gurther, erect, staring, motionless. “Always my guests are happy.”

“In that dog-hole?” said the other contemptuously. “I don’t want Joan to be here.”

The Herr Doktor shrugged.

“Then take her away, my friend,” he said. “Why should she stay, if you are unhappy because this woman is not with you? She serves no purpose. Possibly she is fretting. By all means—I will bring her to you.” He moved to the door.

“Wait a moment,” said Monty. “I’ll see her later and take her out perhaps, but I don’t want her to be away permanently. Somebody ought to stay with that girl.”

“Why? Am I not here?” asked Oberzohn blandly.

“You’re here, and Gurther’s here.” Monty was looking out of the window and did not meet the doctor’s eyes. “Especially Gurther. That’s why I think that Mirabelle Leicester should have somebody to look after her. Has it ever struck you that the best way out of this little trouble is—marriage?”

“I have thought that,” said the doctor. “You also have thought it? This is wonderful! You are beginning to think.”

The change of tone was noticeable enough now. Monty snapped round at the man who had hitherto stood in apparent awe of him and his judgments.

“You can cut that sarcasm right out, Oberzohn,” he said, and, without preamble: “I’m going to marry that girl.” Oberzohn said nothing to this. “She’s not engaged; she’s got no love affairs at all. Joan told me, and Joan is a pretty shrewd girl. I don’t know how I’m going to fix it, but I guess the best thing I can do is to pretend that I am a real friend and get her out of your cellar. She’ll be so grateful that maybe she will agree to almost anything. Besides, I think I made an impression the first time I saw her. And I’ve got a position to offer her, Oberzohn: a house in the best part of London—”

“My house,” interrupted Oberzohn’s metallic voice.

“Your house? Well, our house, let us say. We’re not going to quarrel about terms,”

“I also have a position to offer her, and I do not offer her any other man’s.”

Oberzohn was looking at him wide-eyed, a comical figure; his elongated face seemed to stand out in the gloom like a pantomime mask.

“You?” Monty could hardly believe his ears.

“I, Baron Eruc Oberzohn.”

“A baron, are you?” The room shook with Monty’s laughter. “Why, you damned old fool, you don’t imagine she’d marry you, do you?”

Oberzohn nodded.

“She would do anythings what I felt her.” In his agitation his English was getting a little ragged. “A girl may not like a mans, but she might hate something worse—you understand? A woman says death is nothing, but a woman is afeard of death, isn’t it?”

“You’re crazy,” said Monty scornfully.

“I am crazy, am I? And a damned old fool also—yes? Yet I shall marry her.”

There was a dead silence, and then Oberzohn continued the conversation, but on a much calmer note.

“Perhaps I am what you call me, but it is not a thing worthy for two friends to quarrel. Tomorrow you shall come here, and we will discuss this matter like a business proposition, hein?”

Monty examined him as though he were a strange insect that had wandered into his ken.

“You’re not a Swede, you’re German,” he said. “That baron stuff gave you away.”

“I am from the Baltic, but I have lived many years in Sweden,” said Oberzohn shortly. “I am not German: I do not like them.”

More than this he would not say. Possibly he shared Gurther’s repugnance towards his sometime neighbours.

“We shall not quarrel, anyway,” he continued. “I am a fool, you are a fool, we are all fools. You wish to see your woman?”

“I wish to see Joan,” said Monty gruffly. “I don’t like that ‘your woman’ line of yours.”

“I will go get her. You wait.”

Again the long boots came from under the table, were dragged on to the doctor’s awkward feet, and Monty watched him from the window as he crossed to the factory and disappeared.

He was gone five minutes before he came out again, alone. Monty frowned. What was the reason for this?

“My friend,” panted Oberzohn, to whom these exertions were becoming more and more irksome, “it is not wise.”

“I want to see her—” began Monty.

“Gently, gently; you shall see her. But on the canal bank Gurther has also seen a stranger, who has been walking up and down, pretending to fish. Who can fish in a canal, I ask you?”

“What is he to do with it?”

“Would it be wise to bring her in daylight, I ask you again? Do not the men think that your—that this girl is in Brussels?”

This had not occurred to Monty.

“I have an idea for you. It is a good idea. The brain of old fool Oberzohn sometimes works remarkably. This morning a friend sent to me a ticket for a theatre. Now you shall take her to-night. There is always a little fog when the sun is setting and you can leave the house in a car. Presently I will send a man to attract this watcher’s attention, and then I will bring her to the house and you can call for her.”

“I will wait for her.” Monty was dogged on this point.

And wait he did, until an hour later a half-crazy girl came flying into the room and into his arms.

Dr. Oberzohn witnessed the reunion unmoved.

“That is a pretty scene for me,” he said, “for one to be so soon married,” and he left them alone.

“Have you been talking to her?” he asked angrily. “I told you—”

“No, I’ve only just asked her a few questions. You can’t be in a poky hole like that, thrown together day and night, without talking, can you? Monty, you’re absolutely sure nothing can happen to her?”

Monty cleared his throat.

“The worst thing that can happen to her,” he said, “is to get married.”

She opened her eyes at this.

“Does somebody want to marry her?”

“Oberzohn,” he said.

“That old thing!” she scoffed.

Again he found a difficulty in speaking.

“I have been thinking it over, honey,” he said. “Marriage doesn’t mean a whole lot to anybody.”

“It’ll mean a lot to me,” she said quietly.

“Suppose I married her?” he blurted.

“You!” She stepped back from him in horror.

“Only just a…well, this is the truth, Joan. It may be the only way to get her money. Now you’re in on this graft, and you know what you are to me. A marriage—a formal marriage—for a year or two, and then a divorce, and we could go away together, man and wife.”

“Is that what he meant?” She jerked her head to the door. “About ‘married so soon’?”

“He wants to marry her himself.”

“Let him,” she said viciously. “Do you think I care about money? Isn’t there any other way of getting it?”

He was silent. There were too many other ways of getting it for him to advance a direct negative.

“Oh, Monty, you’re not going to do that?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet,” he said.

“But not that?” she insisted, clinging to him by his coat.

“We’ll talk about it tonight. The old man’s got us tickets for the theatre. We’ll have a bit of dinner up West and go on, and it really doesn’t matter if anybody sees us, because they know very well you’re not in Brussels. What is that queer scent you’ve got?”

Joan laughed, forgetting for the moment the serious problem which faced her.

“Joss-sticks,” she said. “The place got so close and stuffy, and I found them in the pantry with the provisions. As a matter of fact, it was a silly thing to do, because we had the place full of smoke. It’s gone now, though. Monty, you do these crazy things when you’re locked up,” she said seriously. “I don’t think I can go back again.”

“Go back to-morrow,” he almost pleaded. “It’s only for two or three days, and it means a lot to me. Especially now that Oberzohn has ideas.”

“You’re not going to think any more about—about marrying her, are you?”

“We’ll talk of it tonight at dinner. I thought you’d like the idea of the graft,” he added untruthfully.

Joan had to return to her prison to collect some of her belongings. She found the girl lying on the bed, reading, and Mirabelle greeted her with a smile.

“Well, is your term of imprisonment ended?”

Joan hesitated.

“Not exactly. Do you mind if I’m not here tonight?”

Mirabelle shook her head. If the truth be told, she was glad to be alone. All that day she had been forced to listen to the plaints and weepings of this transfigured girl, and she felt that she could not well stand another twenty-four hours.

“You’re sure you won’t mind being alone?”

“No, of course not. I shall miss you,” added Mirabelle, more in truth than in compliment. “When will you return?”

The girl made a little grimace.

“To-morrow.”

“You don’t want to come back, naturally? Have you succeeded in persuading your—your friend to let me out too?”

Joan shook her head.

“He’ll never do that, my dear, not till…” She looked at the girl. “You’re not engaged, are you?”

“I? No. Is that another story they’ve heard?” Mirabelle got up from the bed, laughing. “An heiress, and engaged?”

“No, they don’t say you were engaged.” Joan hastened to correct the wrong impression. There was genuine admiration in her voice when she said: “You’re wonderful, kid! If I were in your shoes I’d be quaking. You’re just as cheerful as though you were going to the funeral of a rich aunt!”

She did not know how near to a breakdown her companion had been that day, and Mirabelle, who felt stronger and saner now, had no desire to tell her.

“You’re rather splendid,” Joan nodded. “I wish I had your pluck.”

And then, impulsively, she came forward and kissed the girl.

“Don’t feel too sore at me,” she said, and was gone before Mirabelle could make a reply.

The doctor was waiting for her in the factory.

“The spy has walked up to the canal bridge. We can go forward,” he said. “Besides”—he had satisfaction out of this—“he cannot see over high walls.”

“What is this story about marrying Mirabelle Leicester?”

“So he has told you? Also did he tell you that—that he is going to marry her?”

“Yes, and I’ll tell you something, doctor. I’d rather he married her than you.”

“So!” said the doctor.

“I’d rather anybody else married her, except that snake of yours.”

Oberzohn looked round sharply. She had used the word quite innocently, without any thought of its application, and uttered an “Oh!” of dismay when she realized her mistake.

“I meant Gurther,” she said.

“Well, I know you meant Gurther, young miss,” he said stiffly.

To get back to the house they had to make a half-circle of the factory and pass between the canal wall and the building itself. The direct route would have taken them into a deep hollow into which the debris of years had been thrown, and which now Nature, in her kindness, had hidden under a green mantle of wild convolvulus. It was typical of the place that the only beautiful picture in the grounds was out of sight.

They were just turning the corner of the factory when the doctor stopped and looked up at the high wall, which was protected by a cheval de frise of broken glass. All except in one spot, about two feet wide, where not only the glass but the mortar which held it in place had been chipped off. There were fragments of the glass, and, on the inside of the wall, marks of some implement on the hard surface of the mortar.

“So!” said the doctor.

He was examining the scratches on the wall.

“Wait,” he ordered, and hurried back into the factory, to return, carrying in each hand two large rusty contraptions which he put on the ground.

One by one he forced open the jagged rusty teeth until they were wide apart and held by a spring catch. She had seen things like that in a museum. They were mantraps—relics of the barbarous days when trespass was not only a sin but a crime.

He fixed the second of the traps on the path between the factory and the wall.

“Now we shall see,” he said. “Forward!”

Monty was waiting for her impatiently. The Rolls had been turned out in her honour, and the sulky-looking driver was already in his place at the wheel.

“What is the matter with that chauffeur?” she asked, as they bumped up the lane towards easier going. “He looks so happy that I shouldn’t be surprised to hear that his mother was hanged this morning.”

“He’s sore with the old man,” explained Monty. “Oberzohn has two drivers. They do a little looking round in the morning. The other fellow was supposed to come back to take over duty at three o’clock, and he hasn’t turned up. He was the better driver of the two.”

The chauffeur was apparently seeking every pothole in the ground, and in the next five minutes she was alternately clutching the support of the arm-strap and Monty. They were relieved when at last the car found a metal road and began its noiseless way towards the lights. And then her hand sought his, and for a moment this beautiful flower which had grown in such foul soil, bloomed in the radiance of a love common to every woman, high and low, good and bad.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - AT PRATER’S

MANFRED suggested an early dinner at the Lasky, where the soup was to his fastidious taste. Leon, who had eaten many crumpets for tea—he had a weakness for this indigestible article of diet—was prepared to dispense with the dinner, and Poiccart had views, being a man of steady habits. They dined at the Lasky, and Leon ordered a baked onion, and expatiated upon the two wasted years of Poiccart’s life, employing a wealth of imagery and a beauty of diction worthy of a better subject.

Manfred looked at his watch.

“Where are they dining?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” said Leon. “Our friend will be here in a few minutes: when we go out he will tell us. You don’t want to see her?”

Manfred shook his head.

“No,” he said.

“I’m going to be bored,” complained Poiccart.

“Then you should have let me bring Alma,” said Leon promptly.

“Exactly.” Raymond nodded his sober head. “I have the feeling that I am saving a lady from an unutterably dreary evening.”

There was a man waiting for them when they came out of the restaurant—a very uninteresting-looking man who had three sentences to say sotto voce as they stood near him, but apparently in ignorance of his presence.

“I did not wish to go to Mero’s,” said Manfred, “but as we have the time, I think it would be advisable to stroll in that direction. I am curious to discover whether this is really Oberzohn’s little treat, or whether the idea emanated from the unadmirable Mr. Newton.”

“And how will you know, George?” asked Gonsalez.

“By the car. If Oberzohn is master of the ceremonies, we shall find his machine parked somewhere in the neighbourhood. If it is Newton’s idea, then Oberzohn’s limousine, which brought them from South London, will have returned, and Newton’s car will be in its place.”

Mero’s was one of the most fashionable of dining clubs, patronized not only by the elite of society, but having on its books the cream of the theatrical world. It was situated in one of those quiet, old-world squares which are to be found in the very heart of London, enjoying, for some mysterious reason, immunity from the hands of the speculative property owner. The square retained the appearance it had in the days of the Georges; and though some of the fine mansions had been given over to commerce and the professions, and the lawyer and the manufacturer’s agent occupied the drawing-rooms and bedrooms sacred to the bucks and beauties of other days, quite a large number of the houses remained in private occupation.

There was nothing in the fascia of Mero’s to advertise its character. The club premises consisted of three of these fine old dwellings. The uninitiated might not even suspect that there was communication between the three houses, for the old doorways and doorsteps remained untouched, though only one was used.

They strolled along two sides of the square before, amidst the phalanx of cars that stood wheel to wheel, their backs to the railings of the centre gardens, they saw Oberzohn’s car. The driver sat with his arms folded on the wheel, in earnest conversation with a pale-faced man, slightly and neatly bearded, and dressed in faultless evening dress. He was evidently a cripple: one shoulder was higher than the other; and when he moved, he walked painfully with the aid of a stick.

Manfred saw the driver point up the line of cars, and the lame gentleman limped in the direction the chauffeur had indicated and stopped to speak to another man in livery. As they came abreast of him, they saw that one of his boots had a thick sole, and the limp was explained.

“The gentleman has lost his car,” said Manfred, for now he was peering short-sightedly at the number-plates.

The theft of cars was a daily occurrence. Leon had something to say on the potentialities of that branch of crime. He owned to an encyclopaedic knowledge of the current fashions in wrongdoing, and in a few brief sentences indicated the extent of these thefts.

“Fifty a week are shipped to India and the Colonies, after their numbers are erased and another substituted. In some cases the ‘knockers off,’ as they call the thieves, drive them straightway into the packing-cases which are prepared for every make of car; the ends are nailed up, and they are waiting shipment at the docks before the owner is certain of his loss. There are almost as many stolen cars in India, South Africa and Australia as there are honest ones!”

They walked slowly past the decorous portals of Mero’s, and caught a glimpse, through the curtained windows, of soft table lamps burning, of bare-armed women and white-shirted men, and heard faintly the strains of an orchestra playing a Viennese waltz.

“I should like to see our Jane,” said Gonsalez. “She never came to you, did she?”

“She came, but I didn’t see her,” said Manfred. “From the moment she leaves the theatre she must not be left.”

Leon nodded.

“I have already made that arrangement,” he said. “Digby—”

“Digby takes up his duty at midnight,” said Manfred. “He has been down to Oberzohn’s place to get the lie of the land: he thought it advisable that he should study the topography in daylight, and I agreed. He might get himself into an awkward tangle if he started exploring the canal bank in the dark hours. Summer or winter, there is usually a mist on the water.”