by Sapper
“Not guilty. This was a slight, dark bird. Haven’t an earthly what his name was, but he’d just come from South America, where according to him gambling was gambling, and not messing about with chicken food.”
Not too good, reflected Jim. The evidence as far as it went at present seemed to point to nothing bigger than an ordinary gambling row as the cause of the shooting. And if so it would have been far better if he had telephoned the police from the house, for all interest would have left the situation as far as he was concerned.
“Who runs the place?” he asked.
“A syndicate, I believe. Cagnotte of five per cent – drinks and sandwiches chucked in.”
He rose.
“Let me know any time you want to go,” he remarked. “But give me a bit of warning, because I’m pretty full up. And if I can’t manage it – you must be introduced the first time by someone who is known – I’ll get old Monty to take you. He’s always there: believe he’s one of the syndicate, as a matter of fact. From all I hear, the old lad needs every penny of boodle he can lay his hands on.”
Not a muscle of Jim’s face twitched: his expression was one of polite interest.
“Monty,” he murmured. “Monty who?”
“Monty Barnet,” said the other. “Thought everyone knew old Monty. Well – so long: you just let me know when you feel like a flutter.”
He lounged away, and Jim turned to his cousin.
“Who the devil is Monty Barnet when he’s at home?”
“Good Lord! man – it can’t be him your blind friend meant. He’s Sir Montague Barnet, umpteenth Bart. Got a big place not far from Crowborough.”
“At the moment I don’t give a hoot where his place is,” remarked Jim. “What sort of a man is he to look at?
“Great big fellow with a small, dark moustache. Rather red in the face.”
Jim Maitland lit a cigarette with some deliberation.
“If that is so, Percy,” he said quietly, “the betting is just about five to one on your umpteenth Bart being one of the birds I want. Your description fits, and we have it from your pal d’Acres that he uses the place considerably. It may, of course, be only a very strange coincidence, but as a basis to work on I propose to start with the assumption as correct.”
“But what are you going to do?” demanded Percy. “You can’t go and accuse the bloke of murder.”
“There are moments, little man,” said Jim kindly, “when the thought that the same blood runs in our veins drives me to thoughts of suicide. Run away now, and play, and return at eleven o’clock in a dark suiting bringing an electric torch in your pocket.”
He glanced at his watch: it was just on six. With luck he would have time to catch the man he wanted before he left his office. The firm of Henley Bros – fifty pounds to ten thousand advanced on note of hand alone – kept late hours.
“And don’t forget,” he gave a final warning, “not a word to a soul, or I’ll break your darned neck.”
He penetrated the holy of holies at Messrs Henley Bros without difficulty. An oleaginous clerk outside informed him that such a thing would be out of the question, but on being requested to guess again and guess quickly he consented to take his name to Mr Henley, with a result that surprised him.
“My dear Misther Maitland, thith ith a pleasure indeed.”
A small, obese Jew almost concealed behind a vast cigar rose at Jim’s entrance. He indicated a chair which his visitor took: he proffered an equally vast cigar which his visitor refused. Then sitting back in his chair he contemplated Jim with a watchful look.
“And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, Misther Maitland?”
“I do not want a thousand pounds, Isaac,” said Jim shortly. “Not being a millionaire I couldn’t repay you. What I do want is some information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Information which even if you can’t give me now, you can find out for me. I don’t like your trade, Isaac, as you know very well: but you may remember that day in Marseilles when I saved your somewhat worthless life.”
Isaac Goldstein remembered it only too well, as the sickly pallor which spread over his face at the mere recollection of the incident testified. It was in the days before he had become Henley Bros, though his method of earning his livelihood had been the same, if on a smaller scale. And some of the inhabitants of Marseilles had suddenly decided that a thousand per cent was too much of a good thing. They stand not on the order of their going, do the people of that district: their habits are crude and summary. In short, but for the timely intervention of Jim Maitland who happened to be passing, Isaac Goldstein would not have been sitting in his present position smoking his fat cigar. And being well aware of the fact he had a feeling of gratitude towards this large Englishman with an eyeglass. He would even have gone as far, he told himself, as to reduce his terms for him – than which no more can be said.
“I remember it well, Misther Maitland,” he said humbly. “Those sonths of dogs.”
Cut it out, Isaac. You richly deserved all you got. However, you can now do something to repay what I did. Don’t turn pale: as I said before it is information, not money, I want. Now in the first place – what do you know of Sir Montague Barnet?”
The Jew stared at him shrewdly.
“I suppoth you don’t mean whath written in Whoth Who?” he remarked.
“Correct,” said Jim.
“Well, I don’t know anything perthonally, but…”
He waved his hands deprecatingly.
“Precisely,” cried Jim. “But. Get on with it, Isaac: I want my dinner. No good pretending to me that you fellows are not all hand in glove with one another.”
“Well, in the course of bithineth we do hear things,” admitted the other. “And a friend of mine did tell me that he had accommodated Sir Montague two or three timeth.”
“As man to man, Isaac, is he in Queer Street?”
And for once the Jew did not beat about the bush.
“Yeth, Misther Maitland: he ith.”
“So far, so good. What you’ve said merely confirms what I’ve already heard. Now for the next item. Do you know anything about a private gambling den in Oakleigh Avenue up in Hampstead?”
And for the fraction of a second there appeared in the moneylender’s eyes a look which Jim found difficult to interpret. Almost it seemed to him there was fear in them: certainly surprise. It went as instantaneously as it appeared, but it did not escape the notice of one of the finest poker players in the world.
“Never heard of it, Misther Maitland,” said the Jew.
“You’re lying, Isaac,” said Jim quietly. “I should have thought a man in your profession would have more control over his face. Now I realise there is no reason why you should answer me: at the same time I did you a good turn once. So once again I ask you the question. What do you know of that gambling den?
“Why do you ask, Misther Maitland?” said the other at length.
“Why does one generally ask a question?” remarked Jim. “Because, Isaac, I want to hear your answer.”
And once again the other hesitated.
“Get on with it, man,” said Jim impatiently. “You’ve admitted now that you know about it: you can either tell me or not as you like. But I don’t want to sit here all night.”
“There certainly ith a houth in Oakleigh Avenue where they play,” said the Jew suddenly. “But I’ve never been there mythelf.”
“Is this man Barnet mixed up with it in any way?”
“He may be, Misther Maitland: he may be.”
“And where does a blind dwarf come into the affair?”
The question shot out like a bullet from a gun, and the effect on the moneylender was remarkable. He sat up as if he had been stung by a hornet, and the hand holding his cigar trembled visibly.
“A blind dwarth, Misther Maitland,” he muttered. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Assuredly,” said Jim wearily, “you are the wo
rld’s most indifferent liar. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, why did my question bring on an attack of blind staggers? I’m interested in that man, Isaac,” he continued gently, “and I would greatly appreciate any information you can give me about him. What, for instance, is his name?”
But the Jew shook his head.
“I know nothing about any blind dwarth, Misther Maitland,” he said doggedly. “As I told you I’ve never been to the houth, and if there ith a blind man there I don’t know who it ith. I’m thorry I can’t help you.”
“Won’t, you mean – not can’t,” said Jim curtly.
He rose, and ignoring the other’s proffered hand, went to the door.
“So long, Isaac. I’m not sure it wouldn’t have been wiser to have let you fend for yourself in Marseilles that time.”
He strolled back to his club, turning the conversation over in his mind. That Isaac Goldstein knew the blind man was obvious, and he regretted now that he had ever been to see him. He had done no good by the interview, and if, as seemed more than likely, the moneylender passed on the fact that he had been to see him it would be definitely disadvantageous. The others would know that he was not going to let the matter drop.
Still the mischief could not be undone. On the spur of the moment he had fired the question at the Jew, and he could only make the best of it. One thing, however, was clear. Not only did the moneylender know the dwarf, but he also stood in fear of him. Nothing else could account for Goldstein’s whole manner when speaking. And he found his curiosity with regard to the blind man growing.
Common sense told him that the Isaac Goldsteins of this world are not generally afraid of men of unimpeachable morals. And the point that arose was what niche in the social scheme the dwarf adorned. Was he merely the owner or part owner of a gambling house, or was he something bigger? If the former there was no adequate reason for Goldstein’s nervousness: if the latter it seemed possible he was getting into deeper waters than he had anticipated. In which case the sooner he got further information the better. And as he turned in to his club it suddenly struck him that there was another source of obtaining it available. Clement Hargreaves dined there most evenings, and though he was as secretive as an oyster it was possible he might be persuaded to open his mouth. There were few people connected even remotely with the underworld whom Clem did not know, and the dwarf would be an easily recognisable figure.
He found him, as luck would have it, sipping a glass of sherry in the smoking-room, and tackled him forthwith.
“Are you still in your hush-hush job, Clem?” he demanded.
“I still do my poor best to safeguard righteous citizens,” answered the other with a grin. “Have a drink, Jim: it’s about five years since we met.”
“I want you to tell me something, old man, if you will.”
“And if I can.”
“Ça va sans dire.”
He lit a cigarette: he had decided to adopt the same line as he had done with the sergeant at Streatham.
“Last night I went to a house up Hampstead way for a bit of a gamble. Organised place, you know.”
“I don’t,” said the other. “They spring up like mushrooms, those spots. Go on.”
“And there I met a gentleman who interested me. He stood about five foot high: he possessed the chest and shoulders of a giant: he was blind. Do you know anything about him?”
Hargreaves finished his drink, and in his turn lit a cigarette.
“In what capacity did you meet him?” he enquired at length.
“I should imagine he had something to do with the place,” said Jim.
“And is that the reason of your interest in him?”
“You cautious old devil,” laughed Jim. “Are you asking for information, or am I?”
But there was no answering smile on the other’s face.
“I know your record better than most men, Jim,” he said quietly. “And I know there is no one of my acquaintance more capable of looking after himself than you are. Nevertheless, if you and the man you’ve described fell foul of one another last night in any way, I can only give you one piece of advice. Do not go near that house again.”
“We progress,” said Jim. “It is clear that you know the bird. Why this animosity against him?”
“There can’t be two men answering to your description,” continued Hargreaves. “And 1 have no hesitation in saying that he is one of the most dangerous swine out of prison at the moment. He passes under the name of Emil Dresler, and he possesses an American passport. His activities are many and varied. At one time he was mixed up in the white slave traffic, but as far as we know he has given that up now. He’s a blackmailer, and a drug trafficker. He is a moneylender on a large scale. We are also practically certain that he is responsible for at least two murders.”
“Splendid,” said Jim mildly. “Would it be indiscreet to ask why this charming individual is out of prison?”
“The reason is simple: we can’t get any proof. He’s a damned sight too clever. He covers his tracks with such infernal skill that we can’t bring anything home to him. He is the brain, and he leaves other people to do the job. And they in their turn pass it on to someone else, till in the end it is impossible to trace his hand in it at all. It’s the old question – we know but we can’t prove. If we had half a chance we’d deport him like a shot, but so far he hasn’t given it to us.”
“He seems a cheery lad,” laughed Jim. “So you think I’d better cut him off my visiting list?”
“I can’t imagine how he ever got on it. He’s a gentleman who keeps himself very much in the background. And if he is running a gambling den, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s more behind it than what he makes out of the cagnotte. Was the place on the square?”
“Quite, as far as I could see,” answered Jim. “But in view of your warning I shall not revisit it.”
He turned the conversation: further questions with regard to the place might prove difficult to answer. The last hour had provided him with more information than he had dared hope for, and with a nod to Hargreaves he sauntered off towards the dining-room. On the way he picked up an evening paper. It was the latest edition, but even the Stop Press news contained no mention of the finding of any dead body.
In itself the fact proved nothing. He was more than ever convinced after Hargreaves’ remarks that he would find the place closed down. The bigger the man behind it the less would he be disposed to run any risk of trouble with the police. And connection with a gambling den would be quite enough to give the authorities the chance they needed to deport Mr Emil Dresler. So what really was the object in going there at all?
He pondered the point over the soup: he ruminated on it over the fish. And by the time the Scotch woodcock arrived he had decided – to go. Object or no object he knew that he would have no peace of mind until he had made sure for himself that the body was not there still. What he proposed to do about it he was not sure: sufficient unto the moment would be the decision thereof.
The hall-porter beckoned to him as he left the dining-room: a letter had just arrived for him. It was in a woman’s handwriting – one that was unknown to him, and having ordered a brandy with his coffee in the smoking-room he opened it. And the first words that caught his eye were the signature – Judy Draycott. He opened out the sheet and began to read.
Wednesday afternoon
37a, Langham Square
Telephone: Grosvenor A123
Dear Mr Maitland,
You may remember that we met last night – or was it this morning? – at the beer and bones party. And I then inflicted on you a long and I’m afraid boring story about my brother and hidden treasure in South America. Well, this morning a development has taken place. I told you, didn’t I, that Arthur had written to me to say that if anything should happen to him I would find a letter addressed to me at my bank. And though I suppose you think I’m foolish I’ve been down every morning to see if there was anything. This morning there was. The e
nvelope was a mere scrawl, though I recognised his writing at once: the postmark was London. And inside was a half sheet of paper with a drawing on it and some words. The drawing looks to me like a map – there’s a north point marked on it: but the extraordinary thing is that it’s not all there. It’s sort of like half a map. Some of the words are cut in two, or if not, they don’t make sense.
However, I could explain it so much more easily to you than write it. You see apart from whether it may mean anything or not I’m so terribly worried as to whether anything has happened to him. He must have been in London yesterday, so why hasn’t he been to see me? Or rung up, or something? Do you think he has had an accident? I’ve rung up Scotland Yard, and looked in all the papers, but I can’t find out anything.
I hate to bother you, but could you possibly come round and see me tomorrow morning some time? I’d suggest this evening, but you may not get this letter in time, and anyway we’ve got a ghastly dinner party on. I’ll stay in until lunch in hopes of your being able to manage it.
I do hope you don’t think I’m a terrible nuisance, but I really am most awfully worried.
Yours sincerely,
Judy Draycott
With a faint smile Jim Maitland folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. Then the smile faded, and he sat staring in front of him. This was an unexpected development, and one that required thought. It confirmed – if confirmation was necessary – that the dead man was her brother, but it did not make things any easier with regard to telling her. And yet what was he to say when she asked him – as she undoubtedly would – if he thought any accident had happened? He must either tell her the whole thing, or keep it entirely dark.
For the moment he dismissed that side of the problem, and concentrated on the other. A kind of map. It was clear that there was something in this yarn about the treasure, or at any rate that her brother had thought there was. Had the boy then had some premonition of danger which had impelled him to send it to her bank? And why did she say like half a map?
There came back to him suddenly the big man’s words the night before – “You damned fool – you’ve wrecked the whole thing.” What whole thing? It was a queer remark to make over the murder of a man after a gambling quarrel. It might, of course, allude to the fact that it would be necessary to shut down the house: on the other hand it might not. And the more he thought of it, the more probably did it seem to him that there was something bigger in the whole affair than met the eye at first sight. Or, as he had qualified it before, that there was something which certain people thought was bigger. Which came to the same thing at the present moment.