He himself was shaking like an aspen when he moved to the door.
“I’m going to solve a few mysteries—about Johnny and about other things,” he said, between his teeth. “Will you stay here where I can find you? I will come back in an hour.”
Dimly divining his purpose, she called him back, but he was gone.
Meister’s house was in darkness when Alan struggled through the fog into Flanders Lane. The police officer on duty at the door had nothing to report except that he had heard the sound of a piano coming faintly from one of the upper rooms.
The policeman had the key of the gate and the front door, and, leaving the man on duty outside, Alan strode into the house. As he mounted the stairs, the sounds of a Humoresque came down to him. He tried Meister’s door: it was locked. He tapped on the panel.
“What do you want?” asked Meister’s slurred voice. “Who is it?”
“Wembury. Open the door,” said Alan impatiently.
He heard the man growl as he crossed the room, and presently the door was opened. He walked in; the room was in darkness save for a light which came from one standard lamp near the piano.
“Well, what’s that young blackguard got to say for himself?” demanded Maurice. He had been drinking heavily; the place reeked with the smell of spirits. There was a big bruise on his cheek where John Lenley had struck him.
Without invitation, Alan switched on the lights, and the lawyer blinked impatiently at him.
“I don’t want lights. Curse you, why did you put those lights on?” he snarled.
“I want to see you,” said Wembury, “and I would like you to see me.”
Meister stared at him stupidly.
“Well,” he asked at last, “you wanted to see me? You seem to have taken charge of my house, Mr. Wembury. You walk in and you go out as you wish; you turn on my lights and put them off at your own sweet will. Now perhaps you will condescend to explain your attitude and your manner.”
“I’ve come to ask you something about a forgery.”
He saw Maurice start. “A forgery? What do you mean?”
“You know damned well what I mean,” said Alan savagely. “What is this forgery you’ve told Mary Lenley about?”
Drunk as he was, the question sobered the man. He shook his head. “I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Maurice Meister was no fool. If Mary had told the story of the forged cheque, this bullying oaf of a police officer would not ask such a question. He had heard a little, guessed much—how much, Meister was anxious to learn.
“My dear man, you come here in the middle of the night and ask me questions about forgeries,” he went on in a flippant tone. “Do you really expect me to be conversational and informative—after what I have experienced tonight? I’ve dealt with so many forgeries in my life that I hardly know to which one you refer.”
His eyes strayed unconsciously to a little round table that was set in the centre of the room, and covered by a fine white cloth. Alan had noticed this and wondered what the cloth concealed. It might be Meister’s supper, or it might be—Only for a second did he allow his attention to be diverted, however.
“Meister, you’re holding some threat over the head of Mary Lenley, and I want to know what it is. You’ve asked her to do something which she doesn’t want to do. I don’t know what that is either, but I can guess. I’m warning you—”
“As a police officer?” sneered Maurice.
“As a man,” said Alan quietly. “For the evil you are contemplating there may be no remedy in law, but I tell you this, that if one hair of Mary Lenley’s head is hurt, you will be sorry.”
The lawyer’s eyes narrowed.
“That is a threat of personal violence, one presumes?” he said, and in spite of the effort to appear unconcerned his voice trembled. “Threatened men live long, Inspector Wembury, and I have been threatened all my life and nothing has come of it. The Ringer threatens me, Johnny threatens me, you threaten me—I thrive on threats!”
The eyes of Alan Wembury had the hard brightness of burnished steel. “Meister,” he said softly, “I wonder if you realise how near you are to death?”
Meister’s jaw dropped and he gaped at the young man who towered over him.
“Not at my hands, perhaps; not at The Ringer’s hands, nor John Lenley’s hands; but if what I believe is true, and if I am right in suspecting the kind of villainy you contemplate tonight, and you carry your plans through, be sure of one thing, Maurice Meister—that if The Ringer fails, I shall get you!”
Meister looked at him for a long time and then forced a smile.
“By God, you’re in love with Mary Lenley,” he chuckled harshly. “That’s the best joke I’ve heard for years!”
Alan heard his raucous laugher as he went down the stairs, and the echo of it rang in his ears all the way down Flanders Lane.
He had a call to make—a lawyer friend who lived in Greenwich. His interview with that gentleman was very satisfactory.
CHAPTER 44
Alan Wembury came into the charge-room and glanced at the clock. He had been gone two hours.
“Has Mr. Bliss been in?” he asked.
Bliss had vanished from the station almost as dramatically as he arrived.
“Yes, sir; he came in for a few minutes: he wanted to see a man in the cells,” said Carter.
Instantly Alan was alert. “Who?” he asked.
“That boy Lenley. I let him have the key.”
What interest had the Scotland Yard man in Johnny? Wembury was puzzled. “Oh—he didn’t stay long?”
“No, sir. Above five minutes.”
Alan shook his rain-soddened hat in the fireplace. “No messages?”
“No, sir: one of our drunks has been giving a lot of trouble. I had to telephone to Dr. Lomond—he’s with him now. By the way, sir, did you see this amongst Lenley’s papers? I only found it after you’d gone.”
He took a card from the desk and gave it to Wembury, who read: “Here is the key. You can go in when you like—No. 57.”
“Why, that’s Meister’s writing.”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Carter, “and No. 57 is Meister’s own property. I don’t know how that will affect the charge against Lenley.”
As he read a great load seemed to roll from Alan Wembury’s heart: everything his lawyer friend had said, came back to him. “Thank God! That lets him out! It was just as I thought! Meister must have been very drunk to have written that—it is his first slip.”
“What is the law?”
Wembury was no lawyer, but when he had discovered that the arrest had been made on Meister’s property, he had seen a loophole. Johnny Lenley went at Meister’s invitation—it could not be burglary. Meister was the landlord of the house.
“Was there a key?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Carter handed the key over. “It has Meister’s name on the label.”
Alan sighed his relief. “By gad! I’m glad Lenley is inside, though. If ever I saw murder in a man’s eyes it was in his!”
Carter put a question that had been in his mind all the evening. “I suppose Lenley isn’t The Ringer?” he asked, and Alan laughed.
“Don’t be absurd! How can he be?” As he spoke he heard his name called, and Lomond ran into the charge-room from the passage leading to the cells. “Is anything wrong?” asked Alan quickly. “What cell did you put Lenley in?”
“Number eight at the far end,” said Carter. “The door’s wide open —it’s empty!” Carter flew out of the room. Alan picked up the ‘phone from the sergeant’s desk.
“By God, Lomond, he’ll be after Meister.” Carter came into the room hurriedly.
“He’s got away all right,” he said. “The door is wide open, and so is the door into the yard!”
“Two of my men, Carter,” said Wembury quickly, and then
the number he had asked for came through.
“Scotland Yard? … Give me the night officer … Inspector Wembury speaking. Take this for all stations. Arrest and detain John Lenley, who escaped tonight from Flanders Lane police station whilst under detention. Age twenty-seven, height six feet, dark, wearing a—”
“Blue serge,” prompted Sergeant Carter.
“He’s a convict on licence,” continued Wembury. “Sort that out, will you? Thank you.”
He hung up the receiver as a detective came in.
“Get your bicycle and go round to all patrols. Lenley’s got away. You can describe the man.”
To the second man who came in: “Go to Malpas Mansions—Lenley lives there with his sister. Don’t alarm the young lady, do you understand? If you find him, bring him in.”
When the men had hurried out into the thick night, Alan strode up and down the charge-room. This danger to Meister was a new one. Dr. Lomond was going and collecting his impedimenta.
“How the devil did he get away?” Wembury put his thoughts into words.
“I have my own theory,” said Lomond. “If you allow Detective Inspector Bliss too near a prisoner, he’ll get away easily enough.”
On which cryptic note he left.
He had to wait at the head of the steps to allow Sam Hackitt to pass in—and Hackitt did not come willingly, for he was in the hands of a detective and a uniformed policeman.
Alan heard a familiar plaint and looked over his shoulder.
“‘Evening, Mr. Wembury. See what they’ve done to me? Why don’t you stop ‘em ‘ounding me down?” he demanded in a quivering voice.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Alan testily. He was in no mood for the recital of petty larcenies.
“I saw this man on Deptford Broadway,” said the detective, “and asked him what he had in his bag. He refused to open the bag, and tried to run away. I arrested him.”
“That’s a lie,” interposed Sam. “Now speak the truth: don’t perjure yourself in front of witnesses. I simply said: ‘If you want the bag, take it.’“
“Shut up, Hackitt,” said Wembury. “What is in the bag?”
“Here!” said Sam, hastily breaking in. “I want to tell you about that bag. To tell you the truth, I found it. It was layin’ against a wall, an’ I says to meself,’ I wonder what that is?’—just like that.”
“And what did the bag say?” asked the sceptical Carter.
The bag “said” many damning things. The first thing revealed was the cash-box. Sam had not had time to throw it away. The sergeant opened it, and took out a thick wad of notes and laid them on the desk.
“Old Meister’s cash-box!” Sam’s tone was one of horror and amazement. “Now how did that get there? There’s a mystery for you, Wembury! That ought to be in your memories when you write them for the Sunday newspapers. ‘Strange and mysterious discovery of a cash-box!’“
“There’s nothing mysterious about it,” said Wembury. “Anything else?”
One by one they produced certain silver articles which were very damning.
“It’s a cop,” said Sam philosophically. “You’ve spoilt the best honeymoon I’m ever likely to have—that’s what you’ve done, Wembury. Who shopped me?”
“Name?” asked Carter conventionally.
“Samuel Cuthbert ‘Ackitt—don’t forget the haitch.”
“Address?”
Sam wrinkled his nose.
“Buckingham Palace,” he said sarcastically.
“No address. What was your last job?”
“Chambermaid! ‘Ere, Mr. Wembury, do you know what Meister gave me for four days’ work? Ten bob! That’s sweating! I wouldn’t go into that house—’aunted, I call it—”
The ‘phone rang at that moment and Carter answered it. “Haunted?”
“I was in Meister’s room, and I was just coming away with the stuff when I felt—a cold hand touch me! Cold! Clammy like a dead man’s hand! I jumped for the winder and got out on the leads!”
Carter covered the telephone receiver with his palm.
“It’s Atkins, sir—the man at Meister’s house. He says he can’t make him hear—Meister’s gone up to his room but the door’s locked.”
Alan went to the ‘phone quickly.
“It’s Mr. Wembury speaking. Are you in the house? … You can’t get in? Can’t make him hear? … You can’t get any answer at all? Is there a light in any of the windows? … You’re quite sure he’s in the house?”
Carter saw his face change.
“What’s that? The Ringer’s been seen in Deptford tonight! I’ll come along right away.”
He hung up the receiver.
“I don’t know how much of that cold hand is cold feet, Hackitt, but you’re coming along to Meister’s house with me. Take him along!”
Protesting noisily, Mr. Hackitt was hurried into the street.
From his hip pocket Wembury slipped an automatic, clicked back the jacket and went swiftly to the door.
“Good luck, sir!” said Carter.
Alan thought he would need all the luck that came his way.
CHAPTER 45
The car was worse than useless—the fog was so thick that they were forced to feel their way by railing and wall. One good piece of luck they had—Alan overtook the doctor and commandeered his services. The route led through the worst part of Flanders Lane—a place where police went in couples.
Wembury’s hand lamp showed a pale yellow blob that was almost useless.
“Is that you, doctor?” he asked and heard a grunt.
“What a fearful hole! Where am I?”
“In Flanders Lane,” said Wembury. He had hardly spoken the words before a titter of laughter came from somewhere near at hand.
“Who is that?” asked Lomond.
“Don’t move,” warned Alan. “Part of the road is up. Can’t you see the red light?”
He thought he saw a pinkish blur ahead.
“I’ve been seeing the red light all the evening,” said Lomond. “Road up, eh?”
Some unseen person spoke hoarsely in the fog. “That’s him that’s going to get The Ringer!” They heard the soft chuckle of many voices.
“Who was that?” asked Lomond again.
“You are in Flanders Lane, I tell you,” replied Alan. “Its other name is Little Hell!”
The doctor dropped his voice.
“I can see nobody.”
“They are sitting on their doorsteps watching us,” answered Alan in the same tone. “What a night for The Ringer!”
Near at hand and from some miserable house a cracked gramophone began to play. Loudly at first and then the volume of sound decreased as though a door were shut upon it.
Then from another direction a woman’s voice shrieked: “Pipe the fly doctor! ‘Im that’s goin’ to get The Ringer!”
“How the devil can they see?” asked Lomond in amazement.
Alan shivered. “They’ve got rats’ eyes,” he said. “Hark at the rustle of them—ugh! Hallo there!”
Somebody had touched him on the shoulder.
“They’re having a joke with us. Is it like this all the way, I wonder?”
Ahead, a red light glowed and another. They saw a grimy man crouching over a brazier of coke: a watchman. For a second as he raised his hideous face, Lomond was startled.
“Ugh! Who are you,” he demanded.
“I’m the watchman. It’s a horrible place, is Flanders Lane. They’re always screaming—it’d freeze your blood to hear the things I hear.” His tone was deep—sepulchral.
“She’s been hangin’ round here all night—the lady?” he said amazingly.
“What lady?” asked Wembury.
“I thought she was a ghost—you see ghosts here—and hear ‘em.”
Somebody
screamed in one of the houses they could not see.
“Always shoutin’ murder in Flanders Lane,” said the old watchman gloomily. “They’re like beasts down in them cellars. Some of ‘em never comes out. They’re born down there and they die down there.”
At that minute Lomond felt a hand touch his arm.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Don’t go any farther—for God’s sake!” she whispered, and he was staggered.
“Cora Ann!”
“Who is that?” asked Alan turning back.
“There’s death there—death”—Cora’s low voice was urgent—“I want to save you. Go back, go back!”
“Trying to scare me,” said Lomond reproachfully. “Cora Ann!”
In another instant she was gone and at that moment the fog lifted and they could see the street lamp outside Meister’s house.
Atkins was waiting under the cover of the glass awning, and had nothing more to report.
“I didn’t want to break the door until you came in. There was no sound that I could hear except the piano. I went round the back of the house, there’s a light burning in his room, but I could see that, of course, from under his door.”
“No sound?”
“None—only the piano.”
Alan hurried into the house, followed by the manacled Hackitt and his custodian, Atkins and the doctor bringing up the rear. He went up the stairs and knocked at the door heavily. There was no answer. Hammering on the panel with his fist, he shouted the lawyer’s name, but still there was no reply.
“Where is the housekeeper?” he asked. “Mrs. K.?”
“In her room, sir. At least, she was there a few hours before. But she’s deaf.”
“Stone deaf, I should say,” said Alan, and then: “Give me any kind of key—I can open it,” said Hackitt.
They stood impatiently by whilst he fiddled with the lock. His boast was justified—in a few seconds the catch snapped back and the door opened.
Only one big standard lamp burnt in the room, and this threw an eerie light upon the yellow face of Meister. He was in evening dress and sat at the piano, his arms resting on the top, his yellow face set in a look of fear.
The Ringer, Book 1 Page 20