The Man Who Bought London

by Edgar Wallace

  ‘So am I,’ said the multi-millionaire grimly.

  The door opened as he spoke and Gordon Bray stood in the doorway fully dressed. He recognized Elsie immediately.

  ‘Thank God, you have come!’ he said. ‘I’ve been worrying myself to death about you; I called at the station. I suppose they didn’t tell you?’ She introduced the millionaire, and the young man glanced curiously at her large escort.

  ‘Mr Bray,’ said Kerry, ‘we want to arouse your landlady; can you do this for us?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  He led the way to the fusty little sitting room and lit the gas.

  ‘Couldn’t I?’ asked the girl. ‘I have to go up to my room.’

  ‘Not yet, please,’ answered Kerry quickly. ‘Whatever happens, you are not to sleep in your room tonight. I have arranged a suite at the Sweizerhof, and I have already sent two ladies there to chaperon you,’ he chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t think it was possible to get a chaperon in the middle of the night, would you?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled.

  ‘Yet I got two,’ he said. ‘I telegraphed to the London Hospital and told them to send two of their nicest nurses – there was a chance that you might have collapsed and I knew that they would serve as guardians anyway. One thing more.’

  He was very serious now.

  ‘Yesterday I told you to remember three words – words I made you swear you would never reveal to any soul save me, or in the event of my death to my executors!’

  She nodded. He had dropped his voice to a little above a whisper.

  ‘You remember them?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied in the same tone; ‘the words were “Kingsway needs paving.”’

  He nodded. ‘I asked you never even to use words!’

  ‘I kept my promise,’ said the girl quickly.

  He smiled. ‘You need not, any more,’ he said. ‘After tonight you may employ them as often as you like. I ought not to have told you.’

  They were interrupted by the return of Bray.

  ‘Mrs Gritter is on her way down,’ he said. ‘She isn’t an elaborate dresser.’

  King Kerry threw a swift glance at the young man, a glance which took him in from head to toe. He saw a fair-haired youth of twenty-two, with two honest blue eyes and as firm a chin as he himself possessed. The forehead was high and broad and the fingers which drummed noiselessly on the table were long and delicate.

  It was said of King Kerry that he understood two things well – land and men, and in the general term ‘men’ was included woman in some of her aspects. He knew Gordon Bray from that moment of scrutiny, and never knew him better – as a man.

  Mrs Gritter came blinking into the light; a shawl, a skirt, and a pair of slippers, plus an assortment of safety pins, being sufficient to veil her night attire. ‘Hello!’ she said, a little flustered by the sight of Kerry and not a little embarrassed by the unexpected spectacle of Elsie; ‘thought you was safe for the night.’

  Her humour was forced, and she was obviously uncomfortable.

  ‘I wish to go to Miss Marion’s room and collect some other things,’ said Kerry to the girl’s surprise.

  Mrs Gritter was more embarrassed than ever, but it was not at the impropriety of a gentleman invading a lady’s bedroom in the small hours of the morning.

  ‘Oh,’ she said a little blankly, ‘that’s awkward, my dear.’

  She fixed a speculative and thoughtful eye upon Elsie.

  ‘The fact is’ – she cleared her throat with a little cough – ‘the fact is, Miss Marion, I’ve taken a great liberty.’ They waited. ‘Ria happened to come in at ten minutes to eleven,’ said the landlady apologetically, ‘an’ not feelin’ well.’

  Elsie concealed a smile. She had seen the lack-lustre eyes of Ria when she was ‘not feeling well’.

  ‘“Mother,” she sez to me,’ continued Mrs Gritter with relish, ‘“Mother,” she sez, “you’re not goin’ to turn your only daughter into the street,” she sez. “Well,” I sez, “well, Ria, you know how I’m placed. There ain’t a bed to spare except Miss Marion’s, who’s gone away to the country.” I said that,’ exclaimed Mrs Gritter, seeking approval, ‘to keep the matter quiet.’

  ‘In fact, your daughter is sleeping in Miss Marion’s bed?’ asked Kerry, and Elsie made a wry little face.

  ‘And took the liberty of borrowin’ Miss Marion’s night-gown,’ added Mrs Gritter, with a desire to get her sin off her mind.

  Elsie laughed helplessly, but King Kerry was serious.

  ‘Let us go in,’ he said. ‘You stay here, my child!’

  Mrs Gritter walked to the door slowly.

  ‘She’s a heavy sleeper when she ain’t well,’ she said resentfully. ‘What do you want to go up for?’

  ‘I want to find out whether you are speaking the truth or not,’ said Kerry, ‘and whether it is your daughter or some other person occupying Miss Marion’s room.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’ asked Mrs Gritter, relieved; ‘well, come up!’

  She led the way, taking a lamp from the hall and lighting it. She paused outside the door of the first floor back.

  ‘If Miss Marion misses anything from her box,’ she said, ‘it’s nothing to do with me, or with my daughter.’

  She turned the handle of the door and entered. Kerry followed. By the light of the lamp he saw a figure huddled beneath the bedclothes, and a tangle of disorderly hair spread on the pillow.

  ‘Ria!’ called Mrs Gritter loudly; ‘Ria, wake up!’ But the woman in the bed did not move.

  Kerry passed the landlady swiftly, and laid the back of his hand on the pale cheek.

  ‘I think you’d better go down,’ he said gently, ‘and tell the men you see outside the door I want them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the trembling landlady. He took the lamp from her shaking hand and put it on the chest of drawers.

  ‘Your daughter is dead,’ he said quietly. ‘She has been murdered by somebody who came across the leads through that window.’ He pointed to the window that was open.

  King Kerry was speaking the truth in that solemn voice of his. She was dead, this poor, drunken soul, murdered by men who had come to force from Elsie’s lips the words which would unfasten the combination lock on King Kerry’s giant safe.

  For Hermann Zeberlieff in his prescience had guessed right – King Kerry still locked his safe with the name of a street, and that street was ‘Kingsway’.

  CHAPTER X

  It was a nine days’ wonder, this murder of a drunken slut, and many were the theories which were advanced. The inquest proved that the woman had suffered from rough treatment at the hands of her assailants. She owed her death to strangulation.

  No arrests were made, and the crime was added to the list of London’s unravelled mysteries.

  Four days after the sensational discovery, Elsie Marion sat behind her desk – an article of furniture which in itself was a pleasure to her – sorting over King Kerry’s correspondence. Like many other great men, he was possessed of amiable weaknesses, and one of these was a disinclination to answer letters save those which were vital to his schemes. He recognized his own shortcomings in this respect and the growing pile of letters, opened and unopened, produced a wince every time he had seen it.

  Elsie had reduced the heap to something like a minimum. With the majority she found no occasion to consult her chief. They were begging letters, or the letters of cranks who offered wonderful inventions which would make their, and the exploiters’, fortunes at small cost of time or money. There was a sprinkling of religious letters, too – texts heavily underlined admonishing or commending. Every post brought appeals from benevolent institutions.

  In the drawer of her desk she had a chequebook which enabled her to draw money on an account which had been opened in her name. It was King Kerry’s charity account, and she used her discretion as to the amount she should send, and the worthiness of the object. At first the responsibility had frightened her, but she had tackled her task co
urageously.

  ‘It needs as much courage to sign a cheque as it does to starve,’ was one of King Kerry’s curious epigrams.

  She worked splendidly through the pile of letters before her. Some went into the waste-paper basket; on some, after a knitting of brows and a biting of penholder, she scribbled a figure. She knew the people she was dealing with; she had lived amongst them, had eaten her frugal lunch at a marble-topped table across which professional begging-letter writers had compared notes unashamed.

  She looked up as the commissionaire on duty came in with a card. She made a little grimace as she read the name.

  ‘Does he know that Mr Kerry is out of town?’ she asked.

  ‘I told him, miss, but he particularly asked to see you,’ said the man. She looked at the card again dubiously. It had its humorous side, this situation. A week ago, the perky Mr Tack never dreamt that he would be sending in his card to ‘our Miss Marion’ asking for an interview.

  ‘Show him in, please – and, Carter –’ as the man was at the door.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘I want you to stay in the room, please, whilst Mr Tack is here.’

  The man touched his cap and went out, returning to usher in the late junior partner of Messrs Tack and Brighten.

  He was all smiles and smirks, and offered his gloved hand with immense affability. ‘Well, well!’ he said in genial surprise, ‘who’d have thought to see you in a comfortable situation like this!’

  ‘Who, indeed!’ she replied.

  Uninvited he drew a chair up to the desk. ‘You must admit that the training you had under me, and what I might term the corrective discipline – never harsh and always justified – has fitted you for this; now don’t deny it!’ He shook a finger playfully at her.

  ‘It has certainly helped me to appreciate the change,’ she said.

  Mr Tack looked round at the waiting commissionaire, and then back to the girl with a meaning look.

  ‘I’d like a few private words with you,’ he said mysteriously.

  ‘This is as private an interview as I can give you, Mr Tack,’ said the girl with a smile. ‘You see, I am not exactly a principal in the business, and I have neither the authority nor the desire to engage in any undertaking which is not also my employer’s business.’

  Mr Tack swallowed something in his throat, but inclined his head graciously.

  ‘Very proper! very proper, indeed!’ he agreed, with hollow cordiality. ‘The more so since I hear rumours of a certain little trouble –’ He looked at her archly.

  The colour rose to her cheeks.

  ‘There is no need to refer to that, Mr Tack,’ she said coldly. ‘Mr Kerry had me arrested because he knew that my life was in danger – he has given me fullest permission to tell why. When you go out you will see a steel safe in the front office – it has a combination lock which opened to the word ‘Kingsway’. Mr Kerry gave me three words, the first of which would be the word which would open the safe. He told me this because he dare not write the word down. Then he realized that by doing so he had placed me in great danger. Men were sent to Smith Street, by somebody who guessed I knew the word, to force it from me, and Mr Kerry, guessing the plot, had me arrested, knowing that I should be safe in a police station. He came to London by special train to release me.’

  She might have added that Kerry had spent three hours in London searching for the Home Secretary before he could secure an order of release, for it is easier to lock up than to unlock.

  ‘Moreover,’ she added, ‘Mr Kerry generously offered me any sum I cared to mention to compensate me for the indignity.’

  ‘What did you ask?’ demanded Mr Tack eagerly, a contemptuous smile playing about his lips.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied curtly, and waited for him to state his business.

  Again he looked round at the solid commissionaire, but received no encouragement from the girl.

  ‘Miss Marion,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘you and I have always been good friends – I want you to help me now.’

  She ignored the wilful misstatement of fact, and he went on. ‘You know Mr Kerry’s mind – you’re the sort of young lady any gentleman would confide in: now tell me, as friend to friend, what is the highest Mr Kerry will give for Goulding’s?’

  ‘Are you in it, too?’ she asked in surprise. She somehow never regarded him as sufficiently ingenious to be connected with the plot, but he nodded.

  ‘The highest,’ he repeated persuasively.

  ‘Half a million,’ said the girl. It was marvellous how easily the fat sum tripped from her lips.

  ‘But, seriously?’

  ‘Half a million, and the offer is open till Saturday,’ she said. ‘I have just written Goulding’s a letter to that effect.’

  ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!’ said Mr Tack rapidly, but wearily. ‘Why don’t you persuade the old gentleman to be reasonable?’

  A steely gleam came into her eyes. He remembered the episode of the inkpot and grew apprehensive.

  ‘Which “old gentleman” are you referring to?’ she asked icily.

  Tack made haste to repair his error, and blundered still further. ‘Of course,’ he apologized, ‘I oughtn’t to speak like that about Mr Kerry.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Kerry!’ She smiled pityingly at the other. ‘Mr Kerry is not, I should imagine, as old as you by ten years,’ she said brutally. ‘A strenuous life often brings grey hairs to a young man just as a sedentary life brings grossness to a middle-aged man.’

  Mr Tack showed his teeth in a smile from which genuine merriment was noticeably absent.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he said, offering his hand, ‘we mustn’t quarrel – use your influence with Mr Kerry for good.’

  ‘I hope I shall,’ she said, ‘though I cannot see how that is going to help you.’

  He was in the street before he thought of a suitable response.

  Oxford Street, and especially the drapery and soft goods section of Oxford Street, was frankly puzzled by the situation as it stood between Goulding’s Universal Store and Tack and Brighten. It was recognized that Tack’s – as it was called in drapery circles – could not fight against the rush and hustle of its powerful neighbour. Apparently King Kerry was doing nothing wonderful in the shape of resuscitating the business. He had discharged some of the old overseers, and had appointed a new manager, but there was nothing to show that he was going to put up a fight against his rival, who surrounded him literally and figuratively.

  Goulding’s offer had leaked out, and experts’ view placed it as being exactly thirty-three per cent more than the business was worth; but what was Kerry to do?

  Kerry was content apparently to flit from one department of trade to another. He bought in one week Tabards, the famous confectioner, the Regent Treweller Company’s business, and Transome’s, the famous Transome, whose art fabrics were the wonder and the joy of the world.

  ‘What’s his game?’ asked the West End, and finding no game comprehensible to its own views, or measurable by its own standard, the West End decided that King Kerry was riding for a fall. Some say that the ground landlords had been taken into the Big Buyers’ confidence; but this is very doubtful. The Duke of Pallan, in his recently published autobiography, certainly does make a passing reference to the matter which might be so construed; but it is not very definite. His Grace says –

  ‘The question of selling my land in the neighbourhood of Regency, Colemarker, and Tollorton Streets was satisfactorily settled by arrangement with my friend Mr King Kerry. I felt it a duty in these days of predatory and pernicious electioneering …’

  The remainder is purely political, but it does point to the fact that whether King Kerry bought the land, or came to a working arrangement with the ground landlords, he was certainly at one time in negotiation for their purchase. No effort was spared by those interested to discover exactly the extent of the ‘L Trust’s’ aspirations.

  Elsie, returning to her Chelsea flat one night, was met by a well-dressed
stranger who, without any preliminary, offered her £5,000 for information as to the Trust’s intended purchases. Her first impulse was to walk on, her second to be very angry. Her third and final resolution was to answer.

  ‘You must tell your employer that it is useless to offer me money, because I have no knowledge whatever concerning Mr King Kerry’s intentions.’

  She went on, very annoyed, thereby obeying all her impulses together.

  She told the millionaire of the attempt the next morning, and he nodded cheerily. ‘The man’s name was Gelber; he is a private detective in the employ of a Hermann Zeberlieff, and he will not bother you again,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked in surprise.

  He was always surprising her with odd pieces of information. It was a stock joke of his that he knew what his enemies had for dinner, but could never remember where he put his gloves.

  ‘You never go home without an escort,’ he said. ‘One of my men was watching you.’

  She was silent for a moment, then she asked, ‘Does Zeberlieff dislike you?’

  He nodded slowly. Into his face crept a look of infinite weariness.

  ‘He hates me,’ he said softly, ‘and I hate him like the devil.’

  She looked across at him and met his eyes. Was it over a question of business that their quarrel arose? As clear as though she had put the question in so many words, he read the unspoken query and shook his head. ‘I hate him’ – he hesitated – ‘because he behaved badly to – a woman.’

  It seemed that an icy hand closed over Elsie’s heart, and for a few seconds she could hardly breathe. She felt the colour leave her face, and the room appeared blurred and indistinct.

  She lowered her face, and fingered the letters on the desk before her. ‘Indeed?’ she said politely. ‘That was – that was horrid of him!’

  She heard the telephone bell ring, and he took up the receiver.

  He exchanged a few words, then – ‘I shall be back shortly,’ he said. ‘Mr Grant wants to see me.’