Room 13

by Edgar Wallace

  Emanuel chuckled derisively.

  “Old Peter’s going to be a gunman,” he said. “And after all the lectures you’ve given me! I’m surprised at you, Peter. Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He rested his elbows on the table and cubbed his chin in his hands, his keen eyes, all the keener for the magnification of his spectacles, fixed hardly upon his sometime friend. “By my reckoning, you owe me forty thousand pounds, and I know I’m not going to get it without a struggle. Weigh in with that money, and I’ll make things easy for my son’s wife.” He emphasised the last word.

  “You can cut that out!”

  It was Jeffrey whose rough interruption checked his father’s words.

  “There’s no money in the world that’s going to get Marney from me. Understand that.” He brought his hand down with a crash upon the table. “She belongs to me, and I want her, Peter. Do you get it? And what is more, I’m going to take her.”

  Johnny edged a little farther from the table, and folding his arms across his chest, his lips parted in a smile. His right hand reached for the gun that he carried under his armpit: a little Browning, but a favourite one of Johnny’s in such crises as these. For the cupboard door had moved again, and the door of the room was locked: of that he was certain. All this talk of Marney was sheer blind to keep them occupied.

  It had long passed the time when the plates should have been cleared and the second course make its appearance. But there was to be no second course at that dinner. Emanuel was speaking chidingly, reproachfully.

  “Jeffrey, my boy, you mustn’t spoil a good deal,” he said. “The truth is–”

  And then all the lights of the room went out. Instantly Johnny was on his feet, his back to the wall, his gun fanning the dark.

  “What’s the game?” asked Peter’s voice sharply. “There’ll be a real dead man here if you start fooling.”

  “I don’t know,” said Emanuel, speaking from the place where he had been. “Ring the bell, Jeff. I expect the switch has gone.”

  There was somebody else in the room: Johnny felt the presence instinctively – a stealthy somebody who was moving toward him. Holding out one hand, ready to pounce the moment it touched, he waited. A second passed – five seconds – ten seconds – and then the lights went on again.

  Peter was also standing with his back to the wall, and in his hand a murderous-looking Webley. Jeffrey and his father were side by side in the places they had been when the lights went out. There was no fifth man in the room.

  “What’s the game?” asked Peter suspiciously.

  “The game, my dear Peter? What a question to ask! You don’t make me responsible for the fuses, do you? I’m not an electrician. I’m a poor old crook who has done time that other people should have done – that’s all,” said Emanuel pleasantly. “And look at the hardware! Bad idea, carrying guns. Let an old crook give you a word of advice, Peter,” he bantered. “I’m not surprised at Johnny, because he might be anything. Sit down, you damned fools,” he said jocularly. “Let’s talk.”

  “I’ll talk when you open that door,” said Johnny quietly. “And I’ll put away my gun on the same condition.”

  In three strides, Emanuel was at the door. There was a jerk of his wrist, and it flew open.

  “Have the door open if you’re frightened,” he said contemptuously. “I guess it’s being in boob that makes you scared of the dark. I got that way myself.”

  As he had turned the handle, Johnny had heard a second click. He was confident that somebody stood outside the door, and that the words Legge had uttered were intended for the unknown sentry. What was the idea?

  Peter Kane was sipping his champagne, with an eye on his host. Had he heard the noise, too? Johnny judged that he had. The extinguishing of the lights had not been an accident. Some secret signal had been given, and the lights cut off from the controlling switchboard. The doors of the buffet cupboard were still. Turning his head, Johnny saw that Jeffrey’s eyes were fixed on his with a hard concentration which was significant. What was he expecting?

  The climax, whatever it might be, was at hand.

  “It’s a wonder to me, Gray, that you’ve never gone in for slush.” Jeffrey was speaking slowly and deliberately. “It’s a good profession, and you can make money that you couldn’t dream of getting by faking racehorses.”

  “Perhaps you will tell me how to start in that interesting profession,” said Johnny coolly.

  “I’ll put it on paper for you, if you like. It’ll be easier to make a squeak about. Or, better still, I’ll show you how it’s done. You’d like that?”

  “I don’t know that I’m particularly interested, but I’m sure my friend Mr Reeder–”

  “Your friend Mr Reeder!” sneered the other. “He’s a pal of yours too, is he?”

  “All law-abiding citizens are pals of mine,” said Johnny gravely.

  He had put his pistol back in his jacket pocket, and his hand was on it.

  “Well, how’s this for a start?”

  Jeffrey rose from the table and went to the buffet. He bent down and must have touched some piece of mechanism; for, without any visible assistance, the lid of the buffet turned over on some invisible axis, revealing a small but highly complicated piece of machinery, which Johnny recognised instantly as one of those little presses employed by banknote printers when a limited series of notes, generally of a high denomination, were being made.

  The audacity of this revelation momentarily took his breath away.

  “You could pull that buffet to pieces,” continued Jeffrey, “and then not find it.”

  He pressed a switch, and the largest of the wheels began to spin, and with it a dozen tiny platens and cylinders. Only for a few minutes, and then he cut off the current, pressed the hidden mechanism again, and the machine turned over out of sight, and the two astonished men stared at the very ordinary looking surface of a very ordinary buffet.

  “Easy money, eh, Gray?” said Emanuel, with an admiring smirk at his son. “Now listen, boys.” His tone grew suddenly practical and businesslike as he came back to his chair. “I want to tell you something that’s going to be a lot of good to both of you, and we’ll leave Marney out of it for the time being.”

  Johnny raised his glass of water, still watchful and suspicious.

  “The point is – said Emanuel, and at that moment Johnny took a long sip from the glass.

  The liquid had hardly reached his throat when he strove vainly to reject it. The harsh tang of it he recognised, and, flinging the glass to the floor, jerked out his gun.

  And then some tremendous force within him jerked at his brain, and the pistol dropped from his paralysed hand.

  Peter was on his feet, staring from one to the other.

  “What have you done?”

  He leapt forward, but before he could make a move, Emanuel sprang at him like a cat. He tried to fight clear, but he was curiously lethargic and weak. A vicious fist struck him on the jaw, and he went down like a log.

  “Got you!” hissed Emanuel, glaring down at his enemy. “Got you, Peter, my boy! Never been in boob, have you? I’ll give you a taste of it!”

  Jeffrey Legge stooped and jerked open the door of the cupboard, and a man came stooping into the light. It was a catlike Pietro, grinning from ear to ear in sheer enjoyment of the part he had played. Emanuel dropped his hand on his shoulder.

  “Good boy,” he said. “The right stuff for the right man, eh? To every man his dope, Jeff. I knew that this Johnny Gray was going to be the hardest, and if I’d taken your advice and given them both a knock-out, we’d have only knocked out one. Now they know why the lights went out. Pick ’em up.”

  The little half-caste must have been enormously strong, for he lifted Peter without an effort and propped him into an armchair. This done, he picked up the younger man and la
id him on the sofa, took a little tin box from his pocket, and, filling a hypodermic syringe from a tiny phial, looked round for instructions.

  Jeffrey nodded, and the needle was driven into the unfeeling flesh. This done, he lifted the eyelid of the drugged man and grinned again.

  “He’ll be ready to move in half an hour,” he said. “My knock-out doesn’t last longer.”

  “Could you get him down the fire-escape into the yard?” asked Emanuel anxiously. “He’s a pretty heavy fellow, that Peter. You’ll have to help him, Jeff boy. The car’s in the yard. And, Jeff, don’t forget you’ve an engagement at two o’clock.”

  His son nodded.

  Again the half-caste swung up Peter Kane, and Jeffrey, holding the door wide, helped him to carry the unconscious man through the open window and down the steel stairway, though he needed very little help, for the strength of the man was enormous.

  He came back, apparently unmoved by his effort, and hoisted Johnny on to his back. Again unassisted, he carried the young man to the waiting car below, and flung him into the car.

  He was followed this time by Jeffrey, wrapped from head to foot in a long waterproof a chauffeur’s cap pulled down over his eyes. They locked both doors of the machine, and Pietro opened the gate and glanced out. There were few people about, and the car swung out and sped at full speed toward Oxford Street.

  Closing and locking the gate, the half-caste went up the stairs of the fire-escape two at a time and reported to his gratified master.

  Emanuel was gathering the coats and hats of his two guests into a bundle. This done, he opened a cupboard and flung them in, and they immediately disappeared.

  “Go down and burn them,” he said laconically. “You’ve done well, Pietro. There’s fifty for you tonight.”

  “Good?” asked the other laconically.

  Emanuel favoured him with his benevolent smile. He took the two glasses from which the men had drunk, and these followed the clothes. A careful search of the room brought to light no further evidence of their presence. Satisfied, Emanuel sat down and lit a long, thin cigar. His night’s work was not finished. Jeff had left to him what might prove the hardest of all the tasks.

  From a small cupboard he took a telephone, and pushed in the plug at the end of a long flex. He had some time to wait for the number, but presently he heard a voice which he knew was Marney’s.

  “Is that you, Marney?” he asked softly, disguising his voice so cleverly that the girl was deceived.

  “Yes, daddy. Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Quite all right, darling. Johnny and I have made a very interesting discovery. Will you tell Barney to go to bed, and will you wait up for me – open the door yourself?”

  “Is Johnny coming back with you?”

  “No, no, darling; I’m coming alone.”

  “Are you sure everything is all right?” asked the anxious voice.

  “Now, don’t worry, my pet. I shall be with you at two o’clock. When you hear the car stop at the gate, come out. I don’t want to come into the house. I’ll explain everything to you.”

  “But–”

  “Do as I ask you, darling,” he said, and before she could reply had rung off.

  But could Jeff make it? He would like to go himself, but that would mean the employment of a chauffeur, and he did not know one he could trust. He himself was not strong enough to deal with the girl, and, crowning impossibility, motor-car driving was a mystery – that was one of the accomplishments which a long stay in Dartmoor had denied to him.

  But could Jeff make it? He took a pencil from his pocket and worked out the times on the white tablecloth. Satisfied, he put away his pencil, and was pouring out a glass of champagne when there was a gentle tap-tap-tap at the door. He looked up in surprise. The man had orders not under any circumstances to come near Room 13, and it was his duty to keep the whole passage clear until he received orders to the contrary.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened. A man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in shabby evening clothes; his bow was clumsily tied; one stud missing from his white shirt-front.

  “Am I intruding upon your little party?” he asked timidly.

  Emanuel said nothing. For a long time he sat staring at this strange apparition. As if unconscious of the amazement and terror he had caused, the visitor sought to readjust his frayed shirt-cuffs, which hung almost to the knuckles of his hands. And then: “Come in, Mr Reeder,” said Emanuel Legge a little breathlessly.

  27

  Mr Reeder sidled into the room apologetically, closing the door behind him.

  “All alone, Mr Legge?” he asked. “I thought you had company?”

  “I had some friends, but they’ve gone.”

  “Your son gone, too?” Reeder stared helplessly from one corner of the room to the other. “Dear me, this is a disappointment, a great disappointment.”

  Emanuel was thinking quickly. In all probability the shabby detective had been watching the front of the house, and would know that they had not left that way. He took a bold step.

  “They left a quarter of an hour ago. Peter and Johnny went down the fire-escape – my boy’s car was in the yard. We never like to have a car in front of the club premises; people talk so much. And after the publicity we’ve had–”

  Mr Reeder checked him with a mild murmur of agreement.

  “That was the car, was it? I saw it go and wondered what it was all about – Number XC 9712, blue painted limousine Daimler – I may be wrong, but it seemed like a Daimler to me; I know so little about motor-cars that I could be very easily mistaken, and my eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

  Emanuel cursed him under his breath.

  “Yes, it was a Daimler,” he said, “one we bought cheap at the sales.”

  The absent-minded visitor’s eyes were fixed on the table.

  “Took their wine-glasses with them?” he asked gently. “I think it is a pretty custom, taking souvenirs of a great occasion. I’m sure they were very happy.”

  How had he got in, wondered Emanuel? Stevens had strict orders to stop him, and Fernando was at the end of the L-shaped passage. As if he divined the thought that was passing through Legge’s mind, Mr Reeder answered the unspoken question.

  “I took the liberty of coming up the fire-escape, too,” he said. “It was an interesting experience. One is a little old to begin experiments, and I am not the sort of man that cares very much for climbing, particularly at night.”

  Following the direction of his eyes, Emanuel saw that a small square of the rusty trousers had been torn, and through the opening a bony white knee.

  “Yes, I came up the fire-escape, and fortunately the window was open. I thought I would give you a pleasant surprise. By the way, the escape doesn’t go any higher than this floor? That is curious, because, you know, my dear Mr Legge, it might well happen, in the event of fire, that people would be driven to the roof. If I remember rightly, there is nothing on the roof but a square superstructure-store-room, isn’t it? Let me think. Yes, it’s a store-room, I’m sure.”

  “The truth is,” interrupted Emanuel. “I had two old acquaintances here, Johnny Gray and Peter Kane. I think you know Peter?”

  The other inclined his head gently.

  “And they got just a little too merry. I suppose Johnny’s not used to wine, and Peter’s been a teetotaller for years.” He paused. “In fact, they were rather the worse for drink.”

  “That’s very sad.” Mr Reeder shook his head. “Personally; I am a great believer in prohibition. I would prohibit wine and beer, and crooks and forgers, tale-tellers, poisoners” – he paused at the word – “druggers would be a better word,” he said. “They took their glasses with them, did they? I hope they will return t
hem. I should not like to think that people I – er – like would be guilty of so despicable a practice as – er – the petty theft of – er – wine-glasses.”

  Again his melancholy eyes fell on the table.

  “And they only had soup! It is very unusual to get bottled before you’ve finished the soup, isn’t it? I mean, in respectable circles,” he added apologetically.

  He looked back at the open door over his spectacles.

  “I wonder,” he mused, “how they got down that fire-escape in the dark in such a sad condition?”

  Again his expressionless eyes returned to Emanuel.

  “If you see them again, will you tell them that I expect both Mr Kane and Mr Johnny – what is his name? – Gray, that is it! to keep an appointment they made with me for tomorrow morning? And that if they do not turn up at my house at ten o’clock…”

  He stopped, pursing up his lips as though he were going to whistle. Emanuel wondered what was coming next, and was not left long in doubt.

  “Did you feel the cold very much in Dartmoor? They tell me that the winters are very trying, particularly for people of an advanced age. Of course,” Mr Reeder went on, “one can have friends there; one can even have relations there. I suppose it makes things much easier if you know your son or some other close relative is living on the same landing – there are three landings, are there not? But it is much nicer to live in comfort in London, Mr Legge – to have a cosy little suite in Bloomsbury, such as you have got; to go where you like without a screw following you – I think ‘screw’ is a very vulgar word, but it means ‘warder’, does it not?”

  He walked to the door and turned slowly.

  “You won’t forget that I expect to meet Mr Peter Kane and Mr John Gray tomorrow at my house at half past ten – you won’t forget, will you?”