The Man Who Bought London

by Edgar Wallace

  It was gentle wit, but the great house roared with amusement at this latest addition to the gayest of the revues.

  None laughed more heartily than Kerry in the shadow of the stage box. He was in the company of Elsie Marion, Vera Zeberlieff and Gordon Bray. Elsie Marion didn’t know whether she approved, but the stately girl by her side laughed quietly.

  ‘This is the last word in fame,’ said Gordon Bray.

  He sat at King Kerry’s elbow, and was genuinely amused.

  ‘How embarrassed the singer would be,’ said Kerry with a little twinkle in his eye, ‘if I stepped round to the stage door and offered him a conveyance of a slice of London.’

  ‘When do you go away, sir?’ It was Bray who asked the question. King Kerry turned his head and spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘I want to get away at the end of the week,’ he said. ‘It is rather late for Marienbad, but I must be unfashionable. I am afraid I shall be away for a fortnight.’

  ‘Afraid!’ smiled Bray.

  The millionaire nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said seriously, ‘I do not really want to go away at all. The healthiest experience in life is to be interested in your work, and I have not yet grown stale.’

  They saw the revue through to its pleasant end and adjourned for supper. Vera was a member of the Six Hundred Club, and to this exclusive establishment the party went. King Kerry seized the first opportunity to speak to Vera alone.

  ‘I want to see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There is something very important I should like to discuss with you, something which I think you ought to know.’

  His tone was so grave that the girl looked at him a little apprehensively. ‘It is not Hermann again?’ she asked.

  He nodded. Something told her that he knew. ‘It is to do with Hermann,’ he said. ‘I am afraid you have got just a little hurt coming – I would have spared you that, if I could.’

  She shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of weariness.

  ‘I can stand just one more,’ she replied. ‘I do not think you really know what life has been with Hermann.’

  ‘I can guess,’ he said grimly.

  She recovered her spirits at supper, and made an excellent hostess, and Elsie, to whom this was a new and a beautiful world, had a most fascinating hour as the tango dancers glided and dipped between the gaily decorated tables.

  The Six Hundred is the best of the night clubs. Duchesses order tables in advance and the most famous actresses of the world are members, and may be seen nightly in their precious toilettes seated about the little tables of the great dining-hall. Here was laughter and music and song, and the murmur and magic of life, the life of the leisured and the artistic – of the section of Bohemia which dresses for dinner.

  Elsie watched the unaccustomed scenes, comforted by the light and the glitter. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before. No staring eyes surveyed them; the club was used to celebrities and even the whisper that the ‘King of London’ was in its midst aroused little more than passing interest.

  Vera was sitting next to Kerry, and after the first course had been served she spoke to him under her breath.

  ‘Hermann is here,’ she said. ‘He is sitting a little to your left and behind you.’

  He nodded. ‘I saw him come in,’ he said. ‘I do not anticipate any particular danger from him here.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘Oh, please do not think of going yet, Mr Kerry!’ the girl begged.

  ‘I am not going,’ he said. ‘But it is a practice of mine, as you know, to make a call at my office before I go home, and I was just wondering what was the hour.’

  Hermann Zeberlieff had seen the action, and suddenly he rose, leaving the elegant Mr Hubbard, whose guest he was, without any apology and strolled across to the table.

  A dead silence greeted him, but he was not in any way embarrassed. From where he stood, he could look down at King Kerry and his sister, and there was an ample display of good humour on his handsome face.

  ‘Does anybody feel inclined,’ he asked languidly, ‘to do a little scientific hatchet-burying?’

  He addressed the company at large. There was not one there against whom he had not offended. Elsie was ignorant perhaps of the part the man had played, but she looked up at him anxiously.

  Gordon Bray, with the memory of drugged drink and an awakening in a certain wine cellar in Park Lane, went a dull red. King Kerry’s face was expressionless, and it was only Vera who smiled gaily at the man who had neglected no effort to remove her from the world.

  ‘Because,’ Hermann went on, ‘if at this particularly genial moment of life you feel inclined to accept me as your guest I am in a most humble frame of mind.’

  It was a situation at once delicate and trying: Vera for the moment was deceived by his loneliness and looked a little pleadingly at King Kerry.

  ‘Certainly,’ he responded. ‘Will you ask the waiter to put a chair for your brother?’

  ‘What about your guest?’ asked Vera.

  Hermann shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He is waiting for somebody else,’ he said, ‘and he will be rather relieved than otherwise to get rid of me.’

  It happened that he partly spoke the truth, because Hubbard was expecting Leete, who joined him a few minutes later. But since the two had foregathered to talk ways and means with the man who had so calmly deserted them, they found little consolation in one another’s society.

  Hermann was charming. Never before had King Kerry known him so gay, so cheerful, so full of sparkling wit, so ready with good-natured banter.

  It was a new Hermann they saw – a suave, polished man of the world, versed in its niceties, its tone, and its standard of humour. He told stories that were new, had anecdotes that not one member of the party had heard before, which was strange: but never once did he address Kerry, though he blandly included Gordon Bray in his conversation whenever the opportunity offered.

  That young man, resentful as he was, and with the memory of his unpleasant experience behind him, found himself engaged in an animated conversation with this man who had treated him so badly.

  The coffee stage had long since come and gone. King Kerry fidgeted uneasily, he did not like late hours, and he still had a little work to do at the office. Late nights disorganized the following day, for he laid down an irreducible minimum of seven hours for sleep.

  Still Hermann rattled on, and they were forced against their will to listen and be amused.

  Martin Hubbard had long since gone with Leete, and Hermann had met their scowls with his most pleasant smile. They were out of the scheme for the moment.

  The tables began to thin a little; the more sedate members had gathered up their belongings and departed in a cloud of chatter and laughter.

  Vera’s table was one of the last four occupied in the room.

  ‘I really think we must go now,’ said Kerry. ‘It is nearly three o’clock.’

  They rose, Hermann with an apology.

  ‘I’m afraid I have kept you,’ he said.

  Kerry returned a conventional and polite reply.

  It was whilst Vera was settling the bill that young Lord Fallingham, whom King Kerry knew slightly, came in with a most hilarious party.

  He was settling upon a table when he caught sight of the millionaire and came over.

  ‘How do you do, Mr King Kerry?’ he said cordially. ‘I congratulate you on the fruition of your scheme, and I only regret that the successful conclusion of your business has removed so picturesque a spectacle from London.’

  ‘Meaning me?’ asked King Kerry good humouredly.

  ‘Meaning your Jewel House,’ said the young man.

  King Kerry shook his head.

  ‘It will be a long time before the Jewel House departs,’ he said. ‘The one concrete evidence of the Trust’s existence will remain for many years.’

  The young man looked down at him a little bewildered.

  ‘But you are moving from Glasshouse Str
eet,’ he persisted. ‘I went round there to find you tonight; I have just come from there.’

  ‘You have just come from there?’ repeated Kerry in astonishment.

  ‘Yes. I have a man here,’ he jerked his head towards his table, ‘who is home from India, and I took him round to see the wonderful sights, and, alas! there were no longer wonderful sights to be seen.’

  ‘Exactly what do you mean?’ King Kerry’s voice was sharp and commanding. ‘I have not moved from Glasshouse Street.’

  ‘I do not quite understand you,’ said Fallingham slowly. ‘The place is in darkness, and you have two huge bills pasted up on the window outside saying that your office is removed to 106, Piccadilly Circus.’

  For a moment Elsie’s startled eyes met the millionaire’s, then he turned quickly to the smiling Hermann.

  ‘I see,’ he said, without raising his voice.

  ‘Exactly, Mr King Kerry, what do you see?’ drawled the other.

  ‘I understand your intrusion into this party,’ said King Kerry, ‘and your entertaining conversation is explained.’

  With an excuse he left them and hurried downstairs.

  He hailed the first taxi-cab he could see and drove to his office. The shop front was in darkness; he peered through, but could not see the safe. Once the lights were out, as they had not been since the opening of the Jewel House, the safe would be in the shadow.

  He unlocked the outer door and entered, pressing over the switch on the left of the door. But no light resulted. He went out again into the street and called the nearest policeman.

  ‘This place has been burgled,’ he said.

  ‘Burgled, sir! Why I thought you had moved your furniture tonight.’

  ‘Who put those bills up?’

  King Kerry pointed to the large printed notice on the window.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘When I came on duty the shop was in darkness and these bills were posted. Naturally, when I saw there was no light I acted according to the instructions the police had received from you, and went across, but seeing the bills I thought it was all right.’

  He whistled two of his mates, and the four men entered the building, the policemen flashing their lamps before them. In the commissionaire’s box they found the unfortunate guard whose duty it was to protect the treasures of the safe. He was unconscious. He had been clubbed into insensibility, gagged and bound. The arrival of the relief only came just in time to save his life.

  The commissionaire was nowhere to be seen. They found him afterwards in the smaller office, treated in very much the same way as his assistant. The only account he could give was that suddenly, while he was sitting in his box, something had been squirted in his face, something that had taken away his breath.

  ‘I think it was ammonia,’ he said, and that, before he could struggle or cry, he was knocked down, and awoke to find himself strung and gagged in the little office.

  An examination of the place showed that all the electric light cables were cut. Possibly the burglary had been committed at the very moment when the police were changing over.

  There was no necessity to unlock the steel door leading from the inner office to the safe room, the lock had been burnt out and the safe was open wide, and was apparently uninjured.

  King Kerry uttered a smothered exclamation.

  ‘Lend me your lamp,’ he said, and rapidly examined the contents of the safe. None of the documents affecting the Trust had been disturbed, or if they had been moved they had been put back as they had been found. One bundle of envelopes, the most important to him, had gone.

  ‘You had better report this,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘I will get somebody in to repair the damage to the electric cable.’

  He sat in the inner office with no more light than a candle afforded, and there Elsie found him. Alarmed by the look on the millionaire’s face, she had followed. ‘Is anything gone?’ she asked.

  ‘A bundle of mine,’ he said quietly; ‘but, fortunately, nothing belonging to the business has been touched.’

  ‘Are you sure your bundle has gone?’ she asked.

  It was a true woman’s question, the inevitable expression of distrust in man’s power of search. He smiled slightly. ‘You had better look for yourself,’ he said. ‘There is a lamp over there.’

  She went into the office; the safe was still open and she was carefully examining the contents before she remembered that she did not know what she was seeking.

  She went back to Kerry. ‘It is a bunch of long envelopes,’ he said, ‘inscribed “Relating to the affairs of King Kerry – Private”.’

  She nodded and went back. She turned over every envelope in the safe without making any discovery. Then she flashed her lamp over the floor. Here she found something: One long, thin envelope, carefully sealed, had fallen, and lay on its edge against the side of the safe, kept in its upright position possibly by the edge of the carpet.

  She picked it up and, turning the lantern light upon it, read –

  ‘Marriage Certificate of King Kerry and Henrietta Zeberlieff.’

  The girl stared at the envelope.

  Zeberlieff! Hermann’s sister!

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  ‘Voilà!’ said Micheloff.

  He stood in an attitude of complete satisfaction, his arms akimbo, and the bundle of envelopes, tightly bound with string, which lay upon the desk testified mutely to the skill of the man.

  There were two red patches on Hermann’s cheeks and his eyes blazed with triumph. ‘At last! You are a wonderful man,’ he said ironically.

  Micheloff shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘The genius of the idea; the forethought was all yours, oh, mon générale! Who but you would have thought of the bills to paste upon the windows? That was a master stroke; the rest was easy.’

  ‘You had to cut out the lock, I suppose?’ asked Hermann as he untied the strings which bound the letters.

  Micheloff shook his great head. ‘It was simple. Here again your perception!’ He extended his arms admiringly.

  ‘My perception!’ said the other roughly. ‘Did you open the safe with the name I gave?’ The man bowed his head. ‘With “Elsie”?’ Again Micheloff nodded.

  The brows of Hermann Zeberlieff were knitted, his under-jaw stuck out pugnaciously, and he was not beautiful to look upon at the moment.

  ‘Elsie,’ he repeated, ‘damn him! I’ll make him sorry for that.’

  He cut the cord impatiently and sorted over the envelopes.

  ‘You have missed one,’ he said.

  ‘Impossible,’ replied the calm Micheloff. ‘I examined with great care, and my knowledge of English is almost perfect. Every one is here.’

  ‘There was one which contained a marriage certificate,’ said Hermann.

  ‘That is there also,’ said the other. ‘I particularly remember placing it there.’

  ‘It is not here now.’ He made another search. ‘You fool, you have left behind the most valuable letter of all.’

  ‘It is a thousand pities,’ said Micheloff a little impatiently. He was tired of criticism, tired of being bullied. He wanted a little praise for the risk he had taken and the work he had done.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I think that you have sufficient for your money.’

  Hermann thought a moment, and went to a little safe in the wall, opened it, and took out a bundle of notes. He carefully counted ten and handed them to his tool, who counted them again no less carefully. ‘This is exactly half what you promised,’ he said.

  ‘There is exactly all there that you will get,’ said Hermann. ‘You have failed to secure what I asked for, what I particularly desired you to bring to me.’

  ‘I require another thousand pounds,’ said Micheloff; his little eyes twinkled coldly. ‘I desire another thousand pounds, monsieur, and I do not leave here until I get it.’

  ‘You will go!’ Hermann took a step towards him and stopped.

  Micheloff wa
s taking no chances that night. He had felt the strangling white hands of the other about his throat, and it was an experience which he did not intend should be repeated. Hermann stopped before the black barrel of a Browning pistol.

  ‘No, no, my ancient!’ said Micheloff. ‘We will have no further exhibition from the pupil of Le Cinq!’

  ‘Put that revolver down!’ cried Hermann. ‘You fool, put it down!’

  He was terribly agitated: in a state of panic almost. He feared firearms to an extraordinary extent, and even Micheloff was astounded at the pallor and the shakiness of the man. Something that was human in the little Russian made him drop his hand.

  Hermann wiped his brow and licked his dry lips. ‘Do not ever lift a pistol to me again,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I cannot stand it. It is one of the things I hate worse than anything else in the world.’

  He went to the safe again and counted ten more notes with trembling fingers and threw them down on the table.

  ‘Take them!’ he said.

  Micheloff took them, and without stopping to count them made his way to the door.

  ‘My friend,’ he said elaborately, ‘I salute – and retire!’

  And now Hermann Zeberlieff was alone.

  Very carefully he examined the contents of the envelopes. One of them containing a bundle of correspondence afforded him some quiet amusement – the letters were in his own writing.

  He read them through again and again and carefully burnt them. He had lit a fire in his study with this object. There was one envelope which he did not touch, inscribed with the name of a girl who had loved him and who had learnt his secret with horror, and in all the frenzy of her despair had taken her own life.

  He turned the envelope over and over – something prevented him from examining its contents.

  His chin upon his palm, he sat thinking, and then the recollection of Micheloff’s words came to him, and he sat bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘Elsie,’ he repeated, and his lips curled in a sneer. So that was it – this man had fallen in love with a gutter-child he had found in London. She was enough in his thoughts, sufficient in his life to be entrusted with his secrets. This girl had all that Hermann Zeberlieff desired – once he had had the opportunity of standing next to King Kerry, first in place amongst his friends, trusted, and growing to fortune as the millionaire had grown. He had thrown it away, and this girl had taken all that he had scorned.