White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  ‘What a life,’ muttered Bob as he sat down opposite his companion.

  ‘It’s of their own choosing,’ said the journalist, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Most of ’em wouldn’t understand any other. I’ve spoken to ’em and I know.’

  He beckoned to a pallid-faced waiter and gave an order while Bob glanced about in search of Leslie Craven. He saw him seated at a table to their left, staring rather contemptuously at the crowded dance floor. A half-finished whisky stood before him, and the light glistened on the setting of the onyx ring. As Bob watched him he glanced over towards the entrance, and his hand resting on the table moved impatiently. Was he expecting someone? That quick look at the door and the ceaseless movement that had accompanied it rather suggested that he was. Bob sincerely hoped so, anyway.

  He only allowed his eyes to rest on Craven casually, and then his glance passed on. It stopped at the stout evening-dress-clad figure of Maroc standing, a cigar in the corner of his thick-lipped mouth, by the side of the band platform. He was talking to a woman in a vivid green dress, and from her expression the conversation was anything but a pleasant one. Twice she shook her head, and then her overly red lips quivered as though she were going to cry. Maroc took his cigar out of his mouth with a sudden movement, and the expression on his face was ugly as he snarled something at her, accompanying his remark, whatever it was, with a peremptory movement of his fat, none-too-clean hand.

  The woman — she was, so Bob judged, still in her early twenties — looked at him as though she were going to protest, and then without a word she moved away and disappeared through a curtained recess at the side of the orchestra dais. Maroc, without a glance in her direction, began to cross the tiny dance floor, threading his way among the couples. Reaching the other side of the room, he sat down at a table occupied by a man nearly twice as fat as himself, and the pair began an earnest conversation.

  Bob watched this piece of by-play and wondered what it was all about. The woman who had disappeared through the curtained archway was being forced to do something that she did not want to do, that was obvious, and the something was connected with the foreign-looking man to whom Maroc was now speaking, for he looked over his shoulder at the place where the woman had gone.

  ‘Who is that fellow?’ he asked.

  Crick smiled. ‘That fellow is Veetshein,’ answered the journalist. ‘He owns a string of dance halls abroad.’

  ‘And the woman?’ asked Bob. ‘The woman in green who Maroc was talking to?’

  Crick shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before. She came in just before you telephoned, and that’s the first time I’ve ever set eyes on her.’

  Bob opened his mouth to say something more, and stopped as his attention was attracted by a newcomer. The door at the top of the three steps had opened, and a man had appeared, a man with jet-black hair that fell lankly over his forehead and threw into vivid relief his almost dead-white face. And what a face! The lips were thin, and the scar than ran up one side of his cheek had by its contraction pulled up one side of his mouth so that he appeared to be eternally smiling; a sneering smile that found no counterpart in his eyes. He was dressed in an ill-fitting dinner suit, and standing on the steps he shot a quick, searching glance round the whole place. His eyes — the lids of which remained half-closed — rested for a fraction of a second on the table occupied by Leslie Craven, and Bob saw that Craven had seen and recognised the newcomer.

  So this was the man he had been waiting for!

  Bob felt his pulse beating faster. Was this man the passenger on the Blue Moon — White-wig, the murderer of William Hooper? He was not the least like the description Paul had given him of the man, but he had been disguised then, and there was no reason why he should not be disguised now.

  Bob watched him as he descended the three steps and began to cross the floor towards Craven. The band had just finished playing a foxtrot, and in spite of the applause appeared to have decided to have a short rest. The dance floor began to clear as the couples drifted towards their respective tables, and as a result, Bob was able to get a good view of the man. He noticed that he walked with a pronounced limp, dragging his left foot behind him as though the leg were partially paralysed. This might be part and parcel of the disguise. If it were not, then this unpleasant-looking newcomer could not be the man of the bus, because he had not been crippled. Bob saw the limping man come up to Craven’s table and sit down. Craven looked rather annoyed, and it seemed to Bob that his annoyance was due to being kept waiting, for he glanced at the watch on his wrist and made some remark to which the other replied with a long explanation.

  Bob turned towards his companion and found that Crick was watching him interestedly. ‘Who’s that fellow who’s just come in?’ he asked.

  ‘They call him Marlowe,’ answered the journalist. ‘But whether that’s his real name or not, I wouldn’t like to say. He’s been here once or twice before, but he doesn’t come often. Who he is, or what he is, I don’t know.’

  Bob took a sip of the drink which had stood neglected in front of him, and once more gave a casual glance towards Craven’s table. The crippled man and his companion were deep in conversation, with their heads close together. He would have given a great deal to have heard what they were discussing, but that was impossible. However, things had progressed much better than he had anticipated or expected. He had been beginning to think, after three days without result of any kind, that Paul had been wrong in his theory, but now it looked as if his brother was right. Certainly something was afoot, and if it had nothing to do with the killing of William Hooper it would be a very strange coincidence.

  Bob came to the conclusion that his best course would be to keep an eye on the limping man when he left. Craven wasn’t important. They knew where to find him when they wanted him, but this other man was — if Paul was right — the key to the whole problem, and it was essential to find out all about him. He settled himself comfortably to wait until the man he was interested in should show signs of departure. And he had a long wait, for it was nearly two hours before his quarry showed a disposition to move.

  By this time the club was beginning to empty. By ones and twos and in little parties, the habitués began to drift towards the exit and disappear. Most of them, Crick informed him, would be going on to the Caterpillar, a new club that had recently been opened in Tottenham Court Road.

  ‘It’ll be raided and shut within a fortnight,’ said the journalist, ‘but just at present it’s a novelty. Why the police haven’t closed this place before is a mystery to me.’

  It was no mystery to Bob. He had once discussed the night-club question with Mr. Robin, and the Scotland Yard man had told him that a few of these places were allowed to keep going because they were useful. A certain class of criminal frequents them regularly, and they act as a sort of concentration point. Besides which, a great deal of useful information can be picked up from the people who run them.

  ‘In return for being allowed to break the law and sell drinks after hours,’ the cherubic inspector had said, ‘they’re willing to act as ‘noses’. That fellow Maroc, for instance, has more than once been able to give us valuable information. If he didn’t spill the beans when we want him to, we should close him up in a week, and he knows it.’

  Bob was in the middle of explaining this to Crick when out of the corner of his eye he saw the limping man rise to his feet and say goodnight to Craven.

  Instantly he gave a signal to Crick, and the journalist proceeded to do what they had previously arranged. He got up, yawned, and in a fairly loud voice remarked: ‘Well, I think I’ll be getting along. What about you?’

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Bob. ‘Let’s go.’

  Without even glancing in the direction of his quarry, he followed Crick across to the steps and out to the cloakroom. As they were collecting their coats and hats, he saw the cripple come along and hand in his check. Still chatting to Crick about nothing in particular, Bob struggled into his overcoat and,
linking his arm in that of his friend, passed out of the club.

  A taxi came swinging round the corner out of the Haymarket, and the crippled man hailed it, gave a quick direction to the driver, and getting in, slammed the door. The taxi turned and began to run along Coventry Street, gathering speed. Bob, his heart sinking at the possibility of losing his quarry after all, looked round for another, and luckily saw one just emerging from Regent Street. The driver drew up beside him at his signal, and Bob pulled open the door.

  ‘Follow that cab,’ he said quickly, pointing towards the rear light of the taxi containing the crippled man, and jumped inside.

  20

  The House at Dulwich

  Bob settled himself back in the cab and prepared for what was destined to be a long chase. The taxi in front sped down Whitehall, passed over Westminster Bridge and along Westminster Bridge Road into Kennington, swung round at the Oval, and went on towards Camberwell Green. He began to wonder how much further they were going. Certainly the crippled man had come a long enough distance to keep his appointment with Craven.

  On they went, the road ahead getting momentarily lighter as the dawn came. The grey of early morning began to give place to a warmer hue as the sky became tinged with the light of the rising sun. They had left the main road now and were negotiating a maze of narrow side streets until Bob became completely lost as to their whereabouts.

  The first inkling he had of their locality was when they suddenly emerged from the network of side turnings and came out onto a broad thoroughfare that seemed familiar. Peering out through the side window, he caught a glimpse of a name plate high up on the wall of a house: ‘London Road’.

  He looked ahead at the steep hill and saw part of a square tower with a clock in it rising out of a screen of trees, and recognising the landmark, he realised where he was. The tower was the tower of Horniman’s Museum, and they were, therefore, at Forest Hill. If they continued in the direction in which they were travelling, they would shortly be at Dulwich. But apparently they had reached the end of the journey, for as the cab in front passed the museum on the top of the hill and began to run down the other side, it slowed and drew in towards the kerb.

  Bob leaned forward and tapped on the window to attract the attention of his own driver, and hastily letting it down, leaned out. ‘Turn round this next side street and stop,’ he ordered, and the taxi man nodded, swung his cab sharply to the right and pulled up.

  Bob jumped out almost before it had come to a halt and, taking some money from his pocket, thrust it into the man’s willing palm. ‘Keep the change, and thanks,’ he said hastily, and hurried back to the corner of the street. He was just in time to see the crippled man limping away from his taxi, which was in the act of moving off. Bob prepared to follow him.

  He continued along the main road until he had passed the fire station, which stood on the left at the bottom of the hill, and then turned into a winding road lined on either side with rather attractive, low-built houses. It seemed to Bob to be rather a prosperous neighbourhood, and he wondered if the man he was following lived here.

  Apparently he did not, for he never stopped, but hurried on with his peculiar rapid shuffle that enabled him to move at an amazing rate. Right through the small streets of Dulwich Village he went, and on to a newly made road that was still in the process of construction. Only two houses were finished, the rest consisting of half-brick walls and unpainted wood in a forest of scaffold poles and planks. The whole spot looked very desolate and miserable, for it was too early yet for the workmen engaged on the construction of these ‘desirable residences’ to have put in an appearance.

  Halfway along the road, the crippled man turned off and began to strike across a field. He glanced sharply behind him as he did so, and Bob had only just time to hide himself behind a heap of sacks and escape being seen.

  His quarry was making for a gate in a high hedge that bordered the other side of the field, and Bob decided that he would have to wait until he reached it before he came out from his place of concealment. The field offered no cover at all, and it was too risky to attempt to follow him until he was out of sight, for if he took it into his head to look back, nothing could prevent him becoming aware of his trailer’s presence.

  Bob, therefore, remained where he was and watched the figure of the limping man growing smaller and smaller as he neared his objective. Presently he reached the gate, opened it and, passing through, disappeared from view behind the screening hedge.

  Bob waited for a moment or so, and then he too set off towards the gate. Although he hurried as fast as he could, the field was bigger than it looked, and by the time he reached the gate and found himself in the lane that ran along the other side, there was no sign of his quarry. He had made a note of the fact that he had turned to the left when he had passed the gate, however, and set off in this direction.

  The lane was very narrow, little more than a cattle track, and turned and twisted to such a degree that it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. A little way along it began to widen, and presently broadened out into quite a respectable road. This remained fairly straight, and Bob looked ahead in the hope of sighting the man he was following, but there was no sign of him.

  He had walked twenty yards or so when he came upon a small gate. It was set in the bordering hedge and was almost invisible until he was almost on top of it. He paused and looked at it. Could the crippled man have gone through? It would account for his not being anywhere in sight, and the gate looked as though it might lead to a house.

  He hesitated for a second or two and then, making up his mind, he glanced quickly about him to make sure that he was not overlooked, opened the gate and slipped through. There was a narrow overgrown path on the other side that wound its way among a small forest of thickly growing trees, and along this he cautiously made his way.

  The path took a sharp bend round a clump of evergreen, and he saw before him a rather dilapidated cottage. It was small and in a very bad state of repair, but apparently it was inhabited, for there were curtains at the windows, and one of the upper sashes was half-open. He stopped in the shadow of the shrubbery and considered what he should do next. If this was where the crippled man had gone, then all he had to do was to make a note of the place and go back to Hampstead and report to his brother — but he could not be certain. How was he to get that knowledge?

  He was in the act of looking round for a suitable point of vantage — a point from which he could see the cottage without himself being seen — when a faint rustling behind him made him swing round.

  At the same instant something crashed down on his head — a violent blow that sent him reeling backwards. He had a momentary glimpse of a white, distorted face close to his own, and then pain and darkness blotted out everything like the switching out of an electric light!

  21

  Paul Gets Anxious

  Paul Rivington came down to breakfast on the morning of Bob’s excursion to Dulwich in pursuit of the crippled man, to find a bulky letter among his correspondence. The postmark bore the Victoria district imprint, and as he saw this his interest increased. Ripping it open, he withdrew a number of closely typewritten sheets, and with them a short covering letter.

  ‘Dear Rivington,’ it ran, ‘here is all the information I can get you regarding the matter we spoke about. I hope it proves of service. Drop in again soon for a chat.

  ‘Sincerely,

  ‘DAVID MARLE.’

  Paul laid the letter aside and, spreading the typed sheets beside his plate, began to read them while he ate his breakfast. There was a more detailed account of the robbery of the Southern Bank of Canada than had appeared in his cutting, and it seemed that the Canadian police had made every effort to trace Lonsdale and Warne and the money, but without success. They had, however, succeeded in tracing Warne as far as California, where they had lost him. Mrs. Craven and her son had apparently disappeared from the house where they had been living almost directly after the execution of
her husband, and had not appeared again until five years afterwards when she had been located in New York. She was, however, now the wife of William Hooper, one of the new millionaires who had suddenly burst upon Wall Street with a series of startling speculations.

  The marriage had been a secret one, but an inquisitive newspaper man had ferreted it out and also discovered that she was the widow of the Southern Bank murderer. The yellow press had seized upon this with glee, with the result that Mrs. Hooper had been visited by the police and subjected to a vigorous cross-examination concerning the reason for her sudden disappearance, where she had gone, and what she knew about Lonsdale and Warne. She said she knew nothing of either, but that after the trial of her husband and his subsequent execution she had felt the disgrace so keenly that she decided to go away with her son to a place where she was unknown. She had gone to a little village in Alberta, and here, while he was on a holiday, she had met William Hooper.

  Leslie Craven, her son, bore out these statements, and the police, if not satisfied, had to be content. A year after, a son was born to the Hoopers, and when the child had reached the age of two a fresh sensation was provided in the newspapers. While out with his nurse in Central Park, the boy was kidnapped. William Hooper and his wife were heartbroken, and everything that could be done to find the boy was done.

  Hooper offered a reward of twenty thousand dollars, and the police hunted high and low, but the child had vanished completely and there was no trace of him. The nurse could not help at all. A man had come up to her while she was playing with the boy and asked her the time, and then suddenly and without warning clapped a handkerchief soaked with chloroform over her face and held it there until she had lost consciousness.