The Ringer, Book 1

by Edgar Wallace

  She shot a swift sidelong glance at the man. “Say, Scottie! That widow stuff—forget it! There are times when I almost wish I was—no, not that—but that Arthur and I had never met.”

  He was instantly sympathetic. “Arthur was a bad lad, eh?”

  She sighed. “The best in the world—but not the kind of man who ought to have married.”

  “There isn’t any other kind,” said Lomond, and then, with a cautious look round at Meister: “Were you very much in love with him?”

  She shrugged. “Well—I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know? My dear young person, you’re old enough to know where your heart is.”

  “It’s in my mouth most times,” she said, and he shook his head.

  “Ye poor wee devil! Still, you followed him to Australia, my dear?”

  “Sure I did. But that kind of honeymoon takes a whole lot of romance out of marriage. You don’t have to be a doctor to know that.”

  He bent over her. “Why don’t you drop him, Cora Ann? That heart of yours is going to wear away from being in your mouth all the time.”

  “Forget him?” Lomond nodded. “Do you think he wants me to forget him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lomond. “Is any man worth what you are suffering? Sooner or later he will be caught. The long arm of the law will stretch out and take him, and the long leg of the law will boot him into prison!”

  “You don’t say!” She looked round to where Meister was sitting by Mary Lenley, and her tone grew very earnest. “See here. Dr. Lomond, if you want to know—my Ringer man is in danger, but I’m not scared of the police. Shall I tell you something?”

  “Is it fit for me to hear?” he asked.

  “That’ll worry me!” she answered sarcastically. “I’m going to be frank with you, doctor. I’ve a kind of hunch there is only one man in God’s wide world that will ever catch Arthur Milton—and that man is you!”

  CHAPTER 35

  Lomond met her eyes.

  “You’re just daft!” he said.

  “And why?”

  “A pretty girl like you—hooking on to a shadow—the best part of your life wasted.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Now, you know it’s so, don’t you? It’s a dog’s life. How do you sleep?”

  “Sleep!” She threw out her arms in a gesture of despair. “Sleep!”

  “Exactly. You’ll be a nervous wreck in a year. Is it worth it?”

  “What are you trying out?” she asked breathlessly. “What’s your game?”

  “I’ll tell you—shall I? I wonder if you’ll be shocked?” She was looking at him intently. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea for you to go away and forget all about The Ringer? Cut him out of your mind. Find another—interest.” He laughed. “You think I’m being unpleasant, don’t you? But I’m only thinking of you. I’m thinking of all the hours you’re waiting for something to happen—with your heart in your mouth.”

  Suddenly she sprang to her feet. “Listen! You’ve got some reason behind all this!” she breathed.

  “I swear to you—”

  “You have—you have!” She was in a fury. “You’re a man—I know what men are. See here—I’ve put myself in hell and I’m staying put!”

  She picked up her bag from the table.

  “I’ve given you your chance,” said Lomond, a little sadly.

  “My chance. Dr. Lomond! When Arthur Milton says ‘I’m tired of you —I’m sick of you—you’re out,’ then I’ll go. My way—not your way. You’ve given me my chance—Gwenda Milton’s chance! That’s a hell of a chance, and I’m not taking it!”

  Before he could speak she had flung from the room.

  Meister had been watching, and now he came slowly to where the doctor was standing. “You’ve upset Cora Ann.”

  “Aye,” nodded Lomond, as he took up his hat and bag thoughtfully. “Aye.”

  “Women are very strange,” mused Meister. “I rather think she likes you, doctor.”

  “You think so?” Lomond’s manner and voice were absent. “I wonder if she’d come out and have a bit of dinner with me?”

  “How marvellous it would be if she liked you well enough to tell you a little more about The Ringer,” suggested Maurice slyly.

  “That’s just what I was thinking. Do you think she would?”

  Maurice was amused. Evidently there was no age limit to men’s vanity. “You never know what women will do when they’re in love—eh, doctor?”

  Dr. Lomond did not reply; he went out of the room, counting the silver in his hand.

  Meister’s head was clear now. Johnny was a real menace … he had threatened, and a young fool like that would fulfil his threat, unless … Would he be mad enough to go to Camden Crescent that night? From Johnny his mind went to Mary. His love for the girl had been a tropical growth. Now, when it seemed that she was to be taken from him, she had become the most desirable of women. He sat down at the piano, and at the first notes of the “Liebestraum,” the girl entered.

  He was for the moment oblivious of her presence, and it was through a cloud of dreams that her voice brought him to realities.

  “Maurice … .” He looked at her with unseeing eyes. “Maurice.” The music stopped. “You realise that I can’t stay here now that Johnny’s back?” she was saying.

  “Oh, nonsense, my dear!” His tone had that fatherly quality which he could assume with such effect.

  “He is terribly suspicious,” she said, and he laughed.

  “Suspicious! I wish he had something to be suspicious about!”

  She waited, a picture of indecision. “You know I can’t stay,” she said desperately.

  He got up from the piano, and coming across to her, laid his hands on her shoulder. “Don’t be silly. Anyone would think I was a leper or something. What nonsense!”

  “Johnny would never forgive me.”

  “Johnny, Johnny!” he snapped. “You can’t have your life governed and directed by Johnny, who looks like being in prison half his life.”

  She gasped. “Let us see things as they are,” he went on. “There’s no sense in deceiving oneself. Johnny is really a naughty boy. You don’t know, my dear, you don’t know. I’ve tried to keep things from you and it has been awfully difficult.”

  “Keep things from me—what things?” Her face had gone pale.

  “Well—” his hesitation was well feigned—“what do you think the young fool did—just before he was caught? I’ve been his best friend, as you know, and yet—well, he put my name to a cheque for four hundred pounds.”

  She stared at him in horror.

  “Forgery!”

  “What is the use of calling it names?” He took a pocket-book from his dressing-gown and extracted a cheque. “I’ve got the cheque here. I don’t know why I keep it, or what I’m going to do about Johnny.”

  She tried to see the name on the oblong slip, but he was careful to keep it hidden. It was, in fact, a cheque he had received by the morning post, and the story of the forgery had been invented on the spur of the minute. Inspirations such as this had been very profitable to Maurice Meister.

  “Can’t you destroy it?” she asked tremulously.

  “Yes—I suppose I could.” His hesitation was artistic. “But Johnny is so vindictive. In self-defence I’ve got to keep this thing.” He put the cheque back in his pocket. “I shall never use it, of course,” he said airily. And then, in that tender tone of his: “I want to talk to you about Johnny and everything. I can’t now, with people walking in and out all the time and these policemen hanging round. Come up to supper—the way I told you.”

  She shook her head. “You know I can’t. Maurice, you don’t wish people to talk about me as they are talking about—Gwenda Milton.”

  The lawyer spun round at the words, his face distorted with fury
. “God Almighty! Am I always to have that slimy ghost hanging round my neck? Gwenda Milton, a half-wit who hadn’t the brains to live! All right—if you don’t want to come, don’t. Why the hell should I worry my head about Johnny? Why should I?”

  She was terrified by this sudden violence of his.

  “Oh, Maurice, you’re so unreasonable. If you really want—”

  “I don’t care whether you do or whether you don’t,” he growled. “If you think you can get along without me, try it. I’m not going on my knees to you or to any other woman. Go into the country—but Johnny won’t go with you, believe me!”

  She caught his arm, frantic with the fear his half-threat had roused. “Maurice—I’ll do anything you wish—you know I will.”

  He looked at her oddly. “Come at eleven,” he said, and: “If you want a chaperon, bring The Ringer!”

  The words were hardly spoken when there came three deliberate raps at the door, and Maurice Meister shrank back, his shaking hand at his mouth. “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely.

  The deep tone of a man answered him. “I want to see you, Meister.”

  Meister went to the door and flung it open. The sinister face of Inspector Bliss stared into his.

  “What … what are you doing here?” croaked the lawyer.

  Bliss showed his white teeth in a mirthless smile. “Protecting you from The Ringer—watching over you like a father,” he said harshly. His eyes strayed to the pale girl. “Don’t you think, Miss Lenley—that you want a little watching over, too?”

  She shook her head. “I am not afraid of The Ringer,” she said; “he would not hurt me.”

  Bliss smiled crookedly.

  “I’m not thinking of The Ringer!” he said, and his menacing eyes wandered to Maurice Meister.

  CHAPTER 36

  The return of John Lenley was the most supremely embarrassing thing that had ever happened within Maurice Meister’s recollection. If he had resented the attitude of the young man before, he hated him now. The menace in his words, the covert threat behind his reference to Gwenda Milton, were maddening enough, but now there was another factor operating at a moment when it seemed that all his dreams were to be realised, and Mary Lenley, like a ripe plum, was ready to fall into his hands; when even the fear of The Ringer had evaporated in some degree, there must enter upon the scene this young man whom he thought he would not see again for years.

  Prison had soured and aged him. He had gone away a weakling, come back a brooding, vicious man, who would stop at nothing—if he knew. There was nothing to know yet. Meister showed his teeth in a smile. Not yet …

  Maurice Meister was no coward in his dealings with other men: he had all the qualities of his class. Known dangers he could face, however deadly they might be. He could have met John Lenley and without wincing could have told him of his evil plan—if he were sure of Mary. Yet the sight of a door opening slowly and apparently through no visible agency brought him to the verge of hysteria.

  The Ringer was alive: the worst of Meister’s fear died with the sure knowledge. He was something human, tangible; something against which he could match his brains.

  That afternoon, when they were alone, he came in to Mary and, standing behind her, dropped his hands upon her shoulders. He felt her stiffen, and was amused.

  “You haven’t forgotten what you promised this morning?” he asked. She twisted from his clasp and came round to meet his eyes.

  “Maurice, was it true about the cheque? You were not lying?” He nodded slowly. “We’re alone now,” she said desperately. “Can’t we talk … is it necessary that I should come tonight?”

  “Very necessary,” said Meister coolly. “I suppose you are aware that there are three people in the house besides ourselves? Do, for Heaven’s sake, take a sane view of things, Mary; see them as they are, not as you would like them to be. I have to protect myself against Johnny—an irresponsible and arrogant young man—and I am very much afraid of—” he nearly said “fools” but thought better of it—“young men of his peculiar temperament.” He saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom: it pleased him that he could stir her even to fear. How simple women were, even clever women! He had long ceased to be amazed at their immense capacity for believing. Credulity was one of the weaknesses of human-kind that he could never understand.

  “But, Maurice, isn’t this as good an opportunity as we can get? Nobody will interrupt you … why, you are here with your clients for hours on end! Tell me about the cheque and how he came to forge it. I want to get things right.”

  He spread out his hands in a gesture of mock helplessness.

  “What a child you are, Mary! How can you imagine that I would be in the mood to talk of Johnny, or plan for you? Keep your promise, my dear!”

  She faced him squarely. “Maurice, I’m going to be awfully plain-spoken.” What was coming? he wondered. There was a new resolution in her voice, a new courage in her eyes. She was so unlike the wilting, terrified being of the morning that he was for a moment staggered. “Do you really wish me to come tonight … just to talk about the cheque that Johnny has forged?”

  He was so taken aback by the directness of the question that he could not for the moment answer. “Why, of course,” he said at length. “Not only about the forgery, but there are so many other matters which we ought to talk over, Mary. If you’re really going into the country, we must devise ways and means. You can’t go flying off into Devonshire, or wherever it is you intend settling, at a minute’s notice. I am getting some catalogues from one of my—from a house agent I represent. We can look over these together—”

  “Maurice, is that true? I want to know. I’m not a child any longer. You must tell me.”

  She had never looked more lovely to him than in that moment of challenge.

  “Mary,” he began, “I am very fond of you—”

  “What does that mean—that you love me?” The cold-bloodedness of the question took his breath away. “Does it mean, you love me so much that you want to marry me?” she asked.

  “Why, of course,” he stammered. “I am awfully fond of you. But marriage is one of the follies that I have so far avoided. Does it mean anything, my dear? A few words mumbled by a paid servant of the Church …”

  “Then you don’t want to marry me, Maurice?” she said quietly. “I am right there, aren’t I?”

  “Of course, if you wish me—” he began hastily.

  She shook her head. “I don’t love you and I don’t wish to marry you, if that is what you mean,” she said. “What do you really want of me?’ She was standing close to him when she asked the question, and in another instant she was struggling in his arms.

  “I want you—you!” he breathed. “Mary, there is no woman in the world like you … I adore you …”

  Summoning all her strength, she broke free from his grasp and held him breathlessly at arm’s length. “I see!” She could hardly articulate the words. “I guessed that. Maurice, I shall not come to this house tonight.”

  Meister did not speak. The wild rush of passion which had overcome him had left him curiously weak. He could only look at her; his eyes burnt. Once he put up his trembling hand as though to control his lips. “I want you here tonight.” The voice was scarcely audible. “You have been frank with me; I will be as frank with you. I want you: I want to make you happy. I want to take away all the dread and fear that clouds your life. I want to move you from that squalid home of yours. You know what has happened to your brother, don’t you? He’s been released on ticket-of-leave. He has two years and five months to serve. If I prefer a charge of forgery against him, he will get seven years and the extra time he has not served. Nine and a half years … you realise what that means? You’ll be over thirty before you see him again.”

  He saw her reel, thinking she was going to faint, caught her by the arm, but she shook off his hand. “That puts the matter i
n a different light, doesn’t it?”

  He read agreement in a face which was as white as death.

  “Is there no other way, Maurice?” she asked in a low voice. “No service I can render you? I would work for you as a housekeeper, as a servant—I would be your best friend, whatever happened to you, your loyalist helper.”

  Meister smiled.

  “You’re getting melodramatic, my dear, and that is stupid. What a fuss over a little supper party, a little flirtation.”

  Her steady eyes were of his. “If I told Johnny—” she began slowly.

  “If you told Johnny, he’d come here, and be even more melodramatic. I should telephone for the police and that would be the end of Johnny. You understand?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  CHAPTER 37

  At five o’clock Meister told her she could go home for the evening. Her head was aching; she had done practically no work that afternoon, for the letters were blurred and illegible specks of black that swam before her eyes. No further reference was made to the visit of the evening, and she hurried from the house into the dark street. A thin fog lay on Deptford as she threaded a way along the crowded side-walk of High Street.

  Suppose she went to Alan? The thought only occurred to be rejected. She must work out her own salvation. Had Johnny been at home when she arrived, she might have told him, even if he had not guessed from her evident distress that something unusual had occurred.

  But he was out; had left a note on the table saying that he had gone to town to see a man he knew. She remembered the name after a while; it was a gentleman farmer who had been a neighbour of theirs in the old days at Lenley. It was a dismal thought that all these preparations of Johnny’s would come to naught if—She shuddered. Either prospect she did not dare think about.

  She went to her room and presently came her little maid-of-all-work with the announcement that a gentleman had called to see her.

  “I can’t see anybody. Who is it?”