The Council of Justice

by Otto Penzler

  ‘I do not tell you how great a risk you take upon yourself,’ said Manfred, ‘nor do I labour the extent of the responsibility you ask to undertake. You are a wealthy man?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Courtlander, ‘as wealth goes; I have large estates in Hungary.’

  ‘I do not ask that question aimlessly, yet it would make no difference if you were poor,’ said Manfred. ‘Are you prepared to sell your estates—Buda-Gratz, I believe they are called—Highness?’

  For the first time, the young man smiled.

  ‘I did not doubt but that you knew me,’ he said; ‘as to my estates, I will sell them without hesitation.’

  ‘And place the money at my disposal?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied instantly.

  ‘Without reservation?’

  ‘Without reservation.’

  ‘And,’ said Manfred, slowly, ‘if we felt disposed to employ this money for what might seem our own personal benefit, would you take exception?’

  ‘None,’ said the young man calmly.

  ‘And as a proof?’ demanded Poiccart, leaning a little forward.

  ‘The word of a Hap—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Manfred; ‘we do not want your money—yet money is the supreme test.’ He pondered awhile before he spoke again.

  ‘There is the Woman of Gratz,’ he said abruptly; ‘at the worst, she must be killed.’

  ‘It is a pity,’ said Courtlander a little sadly. He had answered the final test did he but know it. A too-willing compliance, an overeagerness to agree with the supreme sentence of the ‘Four’, any one thing that might have betrayed the lack of that exact balance of mind, which their word demanded, would have irretrievably condemned him.

  ‘Let us drink an arrogant toast,’ said Manfred, beckoning a waiter. The wine was opened and the glasses filled, and Manfred muttered the toast.

  ‘The Four who were three, to the Fourth who died and the Fourth who is born.’

  Once upon a time, there was a fourth who fell riddled with bullets in a Bordeaux cafe, and him they pledged. In Middlesex Street, in the almost emptied hall, Falmouth stood at bay before an army of reporters.

  ‘Were they the Four Just Men, Mr. Falmouth?’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Have you any clue?’

  Every second brought a fresh batch of newspaper men; taxi after taxi came into the dingy street, and the string of vehicles lined up outside the hall was suggestive of a fashionable gathering. The Telephone Tragedy was still fresh in the public mind, and it needed no more than the utterance of the magical words, ‘Four Just Men’, to fan the spark of interest to flame again. The delegates of the Red Hundred formed a privileged throng in the little wilderness of a forecourt, and through these the journalists circulated industriously.

  Smith of the Megaphone and his youthful assistant, Maynard, slipped through the crowd and found their taxi.

  Smith shouted a direction to the driver and sank back in the seat with a whistle of weariness.

  ‘Did you hear those chaps talking about police protection?’ he asked. ‘All the blessed anarchists from all over the world—and talking like a mothers’ meeting! To hear ’em you would think they were the most respectable members of society that the world had ever seen. Our civilization is a wonderful thing,’ he added cryptically.

  ‘One man,’ said Maynard, ‘asked me in very bad French if the conduct of the Four Just Men was actionable!’

  At that moment, another question was being put to Falmouth by a leader of the Red Hundred, and Falmouth, a little ruffled in his temper, replied with all the urbanity that he could summon.

  ‘You may have your meetings,’ he said with some asperity; ‘so long as you do not utter anything calculated to bring about a breach of the peace, you may talk sedition and anarchy till you’re blue in the face. Your English friends will tell you how far you can go—and I might say you can go pretty far—you can advocate the assassination of kings, so long as you don’t specify which king; you can plot against governments and denounce armies and grand dukes; in fact, you can do as you please—because that’s the law.’

  ‘What is—a breach of the peace?’ asked his interrogator, repeating the words with difficulty.

  Another detective explained.

  Francois and one Rudulph Starque escorted the Woman of Gratz to her Bloomsbury lodgings that night, and they discussed the detective’s answer.

  This Starque was a big man, strongly built, with a fleshy face and little pouches under his eyes. He was reputed to be well-off and to have a way with women.

  ‘So it would appear,’ he said, ‘that we may say “Let the kings be slain”, but not “Let the king be slain”; also that we may preach the downfall of governments, but if we say “Let us go into this cafe”—how do you call it?—“public house and be rude to the proprietaire”, we commit a—er—breach of the peace—ne c’est pas?’

  ‘It is so,’ said Francois, ‘that is the English way.’

  ‘It is a mad way,’ said the other.

  They reached the door of the girl’s pension. She had been very quiet during the walk, answering questions that were put to her in monosyllables. She had ample food for thought in the events of the night.

  Francois bade her a curt good night and walked a little distance. It had come to be regarded as Starque’s privilege to stand nearest the girl. Now he took her slim hands in his and looked down at her. Someone has said the East begins at Bukarest, but there is a touch of the Eastern in every Hungarian, and there is a crudeness in their whole attitude to womankind that shocks the more tender susceptibilities of the Western.

  ‘Good night, little Maria,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Some day you will be kinder, and you will not leave me at the door.’

  She looked at him steadfastly. ‘That will never be,’ she replied without a tremor.

  CHAPTER III.

  Jessen, alias Long

  THE FRONT PAGE OF EVERY big London daily was again black with the story of the Four Just Men.

  ‘What I should like,’ said the editor of the Megaphone wistfully, ‘is a sort of official propaganda from the Four—a sort of inspired manifesto that we could spread into six columns.’

  Charles Garret, the Megaphone’s ‘star’ reporter, with his hat on the back of his head and an apparently inattentive eye fixed on the electrolier, sniffed.

  The editor looked at him reflectively.

  ‘A smart man might get into touch with them.’

  Charles said, ‘Yes,’ but without enthusiasm.

  ‘If it wasn’t that I knew you,’ mused the editor, ‘I should say you were afraid.’

  ‘I am,’ said Charles shamelessly.

  ‘I don’t want to put a younger reporter on this job,’ said the editor sadly; ‘it would look bad for you, but I’m afraid I must.’

  ‘Do,’ said Charles with animation, ‘do, and put me down ten shillings toward the wreath.’

  He left the office a few minutes later with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth and one fixed determination in the deepest and most secret recesses of his heart. It was rather like Charles that, having by an uncompromising firmness established his right to refuse work of a dangerous character, he should of his own will undertake the task against which he had officially set his face. Perhaps his chief knew him as well as he knew himself, for as Charles, with a last defiant snort, stalked from the office, the smile that came to his lips was reflected on the editor’s face.

  Walking through the echoing corridors of Megaphone House, Charles whistled that popular and satirical song, the chorus of which runs—

  By kind permission of the Megaphone,

  By kind permission of the Megaphone.

  Summer comes when Spring has gone,

  And the world goes spinning on,

  By permission of the Daily Megaphone.

  Presently he found himself in Fleet Street, and, standing at the edge of the curb, he answered a taxi driver’s expectant look with a nod.

>   ‘Where to, sir?’ asked the driver.

  ‘37 Presley Street, Walworth—round by the “Blue Bob” and the second turning to the left.’

  Crossing Waterloo Bridge it occurred to him that the taxi might attract attention, so halfway down the Waterloo Road, he gave another order, and, dismissing the vehicle, he walked the remainder of the way.

  Charles knocked at 37 Presley Street, and after a little wait, a firm step echoed in the passage, and the door was half opened. The passage was dark, but he could see dimly the thickset figure of the man who stood waiting silently.

  ‘Is that Mr. Long?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man curtly.

  Charles laughed, and the man seemed to recognize the voice and opened the door a little wider.

  ‘Not Mr. Garrett?’ he asked in surprise.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Charles and walked into the house.

  His host stopped to fasten the door, and Charles heard the snap of the well-oiled lock and the scraping of a chain. Then, with an apology, the man pushed past him and, opening the door, ushered him into a well-lighted room, motioned Charles to a deep-seated chair, seated himself near a small table, turned down the page of the book from which he had evidently been reading, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.

  ‘I’ve come to consult you,’ said Charles.

  A lesser man than Mr. Long might have been grossly flippant, but this young man—he was thirty-five but looked older—did not descend to such a level.

  ‘I wanted to consult you,’ he said in reply.

  His language was the language of a man who addresses an equal, but there was something in his manner that suggested deference.

  ‘You spoke to me about Milton,’ he went on, ‘but I find I can’t read him. I think it is because he is not sufficiently material.’ He paused a little. ‘The only poetry I can read is the poetry of the Bible, and that is because materialism and mysticism are so ingeniously blended—’

  He may have seen the shadow on the journalist’s face, but he stopped abruptly.

  ‘I can talk about books another time,’ he said. Charles did not make the conventional disclaimer, but accepted the other’s interpretation of the urgency of his business.

  ‘You know everybody,’ said Charles, ‘all the queer fish in the basket, and a proportion of them get to know you—in time.’ The other nodded gravely.

  ‘When other sources of information fail,’ continued the journalist, ‘I have never hesitated to come to you—Jessen.’

  It may be observed that ‘Mr. Long’ at the threshold of the house became ‘Mr. Jessen’ in the intimacy of the inner room.

  ‘I owe more to you than ever you can owe to me,’ he said earnestly; ‘you put me on the track,’ he waved his hand round the room as though the refinement of the room was the symbol of that track of which he spoke. ‘You remember that morning?—if you have forgotten, I haven’t—when I told you that to forget—I must drink? And you said—’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Jessen,’ said the correspondent quietly, ‘and the fact that you have accomplished all that you have is a proof that there’s good stuff in you.’

  The other accepted the praise without comment.

  ‘Now,’ Charles went on, ‘I want to tell you what I started out to tell: I’m following a big story. It’s the Four Just Men story; you know all about it? I see that you do; well, I’ve got to get into touch with them somehow. I do not for one moment imagine that you can help me, nor do I expect that these chaps have any accomplices among the people you know.’

  ‘They have not,’ said Jessen. ‘I haven’t thought it worthwhile inquiring. Would you like to go to the Guild?’

  Charles pursed his lips in thought.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s an idea; yes, when?’

  ‘Tonight—if you wish.’

  ‘Tonight let it be,’ said Charles.

  His host rose and left the room.

  He reappeared presently, wearing a dark overcoat and about his throat a black silk muffler that emphasized the pallor of his strong square face.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ he said and unlocked a drawer, from which he took a revolver.

  He turned the magazine carefully, and Charles smiled.

  ‘Will that be necessary?’ he asked.

  Jessen shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said with a little embarrassment, ‘but—I have given up all my follies and fancies, but this one sticks.’

  ‘The fear of discovery?’

  Jessen nodded.

  ‘It’s the only folly left—this fear. It’s the fly in the ointment.’

  He led the way through the narrow passage, first having extinguished the lamp.

  They stood together in the dark street while Jessen made sure the fastening of the house.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and in a few minutes, they found themselves amid the raucous confusion of a Walworth Road market night.

  They walked on in silence, then, turning into East Street, they threaded a way between loitering shoppers, dodged between stalls overhung by flaring naphtha lamps, and turned sharply into a narrow street.

  Both men seemed sure of their ground, for they walked quickly and unhesitatingly, and striking off through a tiny court that connected one malodorous thoroughfare with the other, they stopped simultaneously before the door of what appeared to be a disused factory.

  A peaky-faced youth, who sat by the door and acted as doorkeeper, thrust his hand forward as they entered, but, recognizing them, drew back without a word.

  They ascended the flight of ill-lighted stairs that confronted them, and, pushing open a door at the head of the stairs, Jessen ushered his friend into a large hall.

  It was a curious scene that met the journalist’s eye. Well acquainted with ‘The Guild’ as he was and with its extraordinary composition, he had never yet put his foot inside its portals. Basing his conception upon his knowledge of working-men’s clubs and philanthropic institutions for the regeneration of degraded youth, he missed the inevitable billiard table; he missed, too, the table strewn with month-old literature, but most of all he missed the smell of free coffee.

  The floor was covered with sawdust, and about the fire that crackled and blazed at one end of the room there was a semicircle of chairs occupied by men of varying ages. Old-looking young men and young-looking old men, men in rags, men well dressed, men flashily attired in loud clothing and resplendent with shoddy jewellery. And they were drinking.

  Two youths at one end of the crescent shared a quart pewter pot, the flashy man whose voice dominated the conversation held a glass of whiskey in one beringed hand, and the white-haired man with the scarred face, who sat with bowed head listening, had a spirit glass half filled with some colourless fluid.

  Nobody rose to greet the newcomers.

  The flashy man nodded genially, and one of the circle pushed his chair back to give place to Jessen.

  ‘I was just a-saying—’ said the flashy man, then looked at Charles.

  ‘All right,’ signalled Jessen.

  ‘I was just a-sayin’ to these lads,’ continued the flashy one, ‘that takin’ one thing with the other, there’s worse places than “stir”.’

  Jessen made no reply to this piece of dogmatism, and he of the rings went on.

  ‘An’ what’s the good of a man tryin’ to go straight. The police will pull you all the same: not reportin’ change of address, loitering with intent; it don’t matter what you do if you’ve been in trouble once, you’re sure to get in again.’

  There was a murmur of assent.

  ‘Look at me,’ said the speaker with pride. ‘I’ve never tried to go straight—been in twice an’ it took six policemen to take me last time, and they had to use the “stick”.’

  Jessen looked at him with mild curiosity.

  ‘What does that prove, except that the policemen were pretty soft?’

  ‘Not a bit!’ The man stood up.

  Under the veneer of tawdry foppery, Char
les detected the animal strength of the criminal.

  ‘Why, when I’m fit, as I am now,’ the man went on, ‘there ain’t two policemen, nor four neither, that could handle me.’

  Jessen’s hand shot out and caught him by the forearm.

  ‘Get away,’ he suggested, and the man swung round like lightning, but Jessen had his other arm in a grip of iron.

  ‘Get away,’ he said again, but the man was helpless, and knew it, and after a pause, Jessen released his hold.

  ‘How was that?’ he asked.

  The amused smiles of the men did not embarrass the prisoner.

  ‘The guv’nor’s different,’ he explained easily; ‘he’s got a knack of his own that the police haven’t got.’

  Jessen drew up a chair, and whatever there was in the action that had significance, it was sufficient to procure an immediate silence.

  He looked round the attentive faces that were turned toward him. Charles, an interested spectator, saw the eager faces that bent in his friend’s direction and marvelled not a little at the reproductive qualities of the seed he had sown.

  Jessen began to speak slowly, and Charles saw that what he said was in the nature of an address. That these addresses of Jessen were nothing unusual, and that they were welcome, was evident from the attention with which they were received.

  ‘What Falk has been telling you,’ said Jessen, indicating the man with the rings, ‘is true—so far as it goes. There are worse places than “stir”, and it’s true that the police don’t give an old lag a chance, but that’s because a lag won’t change his job. And a lag won’t change his job because he doesn’t know any other trade where he gets money so quickly. Wally’—he jerked his head toward a weedy-looking youth—‘Wally there got a stretch for what? For stuff that fetched thirty pounds from a fence. Twelve months’ hard work for thirty pounds! It works out at about 10s, 6d. a week. And his lawyer and the mouthpiece cost him a fiver out of that. Old man Garth’—he pointed to the white-headed man with the gin—‘did a five stretch for less than that, and he’s out on brief. His wage works out at about a shilling a week.’