White Wig

by Gerald Verner

  The police had been rather inclined to suspect the stepson, Leslie Craven, at first, for there was no doubt that the arrival of a son to the Hoopers had jeopardised his prospects, and he was known to be rather a wild youth; but they could not prove anything. At the time of the kidnapping he was at home with his mother, and this alibi could not be shaken.

  During the years that followed, William Hooper had never once given up his search for the boy. The famous firm of Pinkertons was engaged to try and find him, but without any success. Why he had been kidnapped at all was not discovered, but it certainly wasn’t for money, for Hooper doubled and redoubled the reward without the slightest effect.

  This was the gist of the reports that Marie had sent Paul, and he read them with a slight frown. What had happened to Warne? Nobody seemed to know. He had completely vanished with Lonsdale after the robbery, but unlike Lonsdale, there had been no further trace of him. Unless … He stopped suddenly in his pacing of the room and his eyes narrowed as a possible suggestion presented itself. Supposing Hooper had been Warne!

  Quickly he ran over the facts as he knew them. There was nothing against the idea, but what did it lead to? Going quickly over to his desk, he picked up a pencil and drew a sheet of paper towards him. As he pieced together this fresh idea in his mind, he noted it down, and when he had finished he had compiled the following interesting document:

  Lonsdale and Warne get away after the robbery of the Southern Bank of Canada, taking the money with them, and allowing Craven to take the rap for the policeman’s death. They probably split up, since they would know that a hue and cry would be out after them and that together they would stand more chance of being caught. Warne takes the money and, adopting the name of Hooper, makes a getaway. He joins Mrs. Craven in Alberta and lies low until the excitement following the robbery and the execution of Craven dies down.

  Lonsdale, in the meantime, has lost sight of him — probably Warne had promised to communicate with his confederate — and when the time passes and Lonsdale receives no word, he comes to the conclusion that Warne has double-crossed him.

  This is exactly what Warne has done, and with the proceeds of the robbery lays the foundation for his future enormous wealth, and sinks his identity in the personality of William Hooper, the millionaire. He eventually marries Mrs. Craven and goes to New York. Lonsdale, in the meanwhile, consumed with rage against the perfidy of the man he trusted, sets out to find him. He succeeds and plans to abduct the boy Richard to revenge himself, knowing that Hooper is passionately fond of his son.

  Paul laid down his pencil and read through his notes with satisfaction. This was not only a plausible theory, but he felt sure that it was the right one. It fitted the facts so exactly and cleared up all the ragged threads. That part of the problem which preceded the murder on the Blue Moon was now clear, provided that this was the truth. Hooper, eventually despairing of finding his missing son, had made a will leaving his property to Leslie Craven after the death of his wife — probably at her wish. And then had come news. One or other of the enquiry agents whom he had engaged must have succeeded in tracing the missing boy to Richard Lonsdale, and Hooper had come to England to meet his death at the hands of — whom?

  Paul glanced at his watch and saw that it was half past ten. Bob ought to have been back by now, for Birch was due to relieve him at nine. Had something occurred at last? Paul settled himself down to attend to the rest of his morning mail, and this occupied him until twelve, but still there was no sign of his brother. He decided to go round to Gerrard Street and see if he could see anything of Birch. Perhaps Bob had gone off somewhere. He put on his hat and coat, and leaving word that he would be in for lunch, set off.

  He found Birch strolling along on the opposite side of the street to Craven’s flat, and the man, as he recognised him, increased his pace and came quickly towards him.

  ‘Good morning, Birch,’ greeted Paul. ‘What’s happened to Mr. Robert?’

  ‘That’s what’s been worrying me, sir,’ said the ex-policeman with a worried frown. ‘Haven’t you seen him?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. Wasn’t he here when you came to relieve him?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. I haven’t seen him since last night.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s following Craven,’ suggested Paul.

  ‘No, he isn’t, sir,’ answered Birch quickly. ‘Craven came out and bought a paper a few minutes ago and went back again. He’s still in his flat.’

  Paul pursed his lips. ‘Well, he must have struck something,’ he said. ‘Probably I shall hear from him before the day’s out.’

  He stayed and chatted to the man for a few minutes and then went back to Hampstead. Lunchtime came and went, and Paul sat down with a book, for in case Bob should ring up he wanted to be on the spot. But the afternoon faded into evening, and there was no call from his brother.

  At nine o’clock the front door bell rang and he heard the maid cross the hall to answer it, and immediately afterwards a voice that he knew enquired if he was in. There came a man’s footsteps, and presently the maid ushered into the room Joseph Crick.

  ‘Hello, Rivington,’ greeted the journalist. ‘You look very cosy. Hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘I’m very glad to see you,’ said Paul. ‘Make yourself at home. You’ll find cigars and whisky on that table. Help yourself.’

  Crick did so, and came back to a chair opposite Paul, carrying a sizzling glass and a cigar. ‘I saw your brother last night,’ he said after they had exchanged a few remarks about nothing in particular.

  Paul looked across at him quickly. ‘Did you? Where?’

  ‘In Maroc’s,’ answered the journalist, and he related exactly what had happened.

  ‘What time was it when he left you to follow this crippled man?’ asked Paul when he had finished.

  Crick thought for a moment. ‘Somewhere about half-past four,’ he answered.

  Paul looked at the clock. The hands pointed to just ten minutes to ten. Nearly eighteen hours had elapsed since Bob had left the journalist outside Maroc’s club.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ he said gravely. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

  22

  Bob’s Ordeal

  Hammers pounding violently with a dull roar of machinery; a hissing of steam and the rush of many waters …

  Bob stirred uneasily, and a faint groan escaped from between his clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and stared up at a blackened and broken expanse of plaster. His head felt as though it was lying in boiling water, but he discovered that the sounds that he had mistaken for machinery and pounding hammers were inside his brain and not external to himself as he had at first supposed.

  The mists were clearing now, and he saw that the cracked and blackened plaster at which he was staring was a ceiling. Dropping his eyes without moving his head, he could make out part of a wall with faded flowery paper, grimy, and in places torn. Presently when the pain in his head had subsided a little, he was able to see more of his surroundings.

  He was lying on an old horse-hair-covered sofa in a shabbily furnished room that was long and narrow and rather dusty. There was one latticed window that admitted a modicum of light, and opposite this a fairly solid-looking door. The floor was covered by a carpet that at one time had probably boasted some part of a pattern, but was now a uniform drab colour. The whole place exhaled an atmosphere of sordidness that was most depressing.

  He found that he had not been gagged, and came to the conclusion that since this had been omitted, shouting would help him very little. When he had recovered from the dizziness that had attacked him on first coming to his senses, and when the pain in his head had abated to some extent, he tried to see if there was any chance of loosening his bonds, but he quickly discovered that his captor had made a very good job of securing him. He was trussed up like a fowl, and the cords had been drawn so tightly that any slight give in their tension made no appreciable difference.

  Allowing his muscles to relax, he lay back and, sta
ring up at the ceiling, set himself to evolve some method by which he could escape. Every possible and impossible suggestion passed through his brain, but none of them were practical. The house was still both inside and out, and he came to the conclusion that the crippled man was either sleeping or had left. He had no idea of the time, for owing to his hands having been tied behind his back, he couldn’t see his watch.

  It was still daylight outside, but whether it was morning or afternoon he had no way of telling. Presently, while he was still thinking, he dropped into a doze, and he must have slept for a considerable time because when he awoke the room was in partial darkness and the light from the window had faded to a greyish-blue. So the evening was coming on, was it? This first conscious thought was immediately followed by an acute sensation of extreme hunger.

  The blue-grey light at the window faded to blackness, and he lay in the dark, his hunger and thirst increasing with every minute. And then when it seemed that the night was far advanced, he heard a sound — the sound of a footfall on the path outside. With straining ears he listened. The footsteps came nearer, and now he was able to distinguish the dragging slur of the crippled leg. His captor was coming back!

  From somewhere that sounded very far away, he heard the click of a key, and then the soft thudding of a closing door. This was followed by the complete cessation of all sound — a sudden dead hush. It seemed to him, listening in the darkness, that an age passed before he again heard the shuffling steps, this time on bare boards, and approaching the room in which he lay.

  They came nearer and stopped; there was the rasping of a drawn bolt and the snap of a lock spring, and the darkness was dispersed by the dim yellow flame of a candle. Behind this flickering light, Bob could make out the shadowy form of the crippled man. The light caught his dead-white face and made it stand out from the shadows with rather a startling effect.

  For a moment the newcomer stood on the threshold, and Bob could see his eyes peering forward in the direction of the couch. It was only for a moment that he remained there, and then, shielding the candle-flame with his hand, he advanced towards the table and set the candle down.

  He was no longer dressed in the evening suit in which he had appeared at Maroc’s, but was wearing an ill-fitting lounge suit of some dark material. His whole appearance, accentuated by the dragging foot, was indescribably sinister. There was something evil and unclean about it. Leaving the candle burning on the table, he came over to the couch and looked down at his prisoner.

  ‘Well,’ he said in a thin cracked treble, ‘how are you feeling now?’

  Bob met his gaze coolly. ‘No better for seeing you,’ he retorted briefly.

  The crippled man gave a little shrill chuckle. ‘I should like to take you in hand,’ he remarked. ‘You’re too fresh! You were remarkably foolish to have followed me last night. I recognised you directly you came into Maroc’s, and I guessed that you would follow me when I left. It was rather amusing.’ He chuckled again.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it,’ said Bob tersely.

  ‘Oh, I did. I can assure you that I haven’t been so amused for a long time.’

  ‘You’ll no doubt be a great deal more amused before long,’ remarked Bob pleasantly. ‘You’ll smile at the trial, and I expect when they hang you you’ll laugh yourself to death!’

  The face above him changed. The thin lips curled back in a snarl, showing, to Bob’s surprise, a set of remarkably white and even teeth. ‘They’ll never hang me,’ said the crippled man softly. ‘They aren’t clever enough. I’ve got more brains than all of them put together.’

  ‘Every crook thinks that,’ said Bob. ‘They’re all eaten up with a colossal vanity.’

  ‘You cannot class me with the ordinary crook,’ retorted the other. ‘I agree with you that they’re mostly fools, but I’m different.’

  ‘They all think they’re different,’ said Bob. ‘But the only difference about them is the length of their sentences.’

  ‘I shall get no sentence, because I shall never be caught,’ said the crippled man with conviction. ‘I have guarded against every eventuality.’ He nodded several times with great satisfaction. ‘I’ve taken the utmost precautions to cover my tracks. You are the only person I have to fear, and I can assure you that you won’t be able to do me any harm.’

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ asked Bob steadily.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ answered the other calmly, and without emotion. ‘There is no other way. That’s why I’ve come back here.’ He waited, evidently expecting an answer, but receiving none he went on: ‘I’ll tell you exactly how you’ll die. I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and I don’t want your body to be found. I want you just to disappear without a trace, and I’ve found a way in which it can be done.’

  He paused again, but still Bob remained silent.

  ‘This house has a very convenient cellar,’ he continued. ‘Like the rest of the place, it’s very old, and part of the wall has fallen in. I have for a long time contemplated repairing it, and tonight — with the aid of a sack of cement, which can easily be got from the place where they’re building, I think I shall do it. There will be just room behind that wall — for you!’

  23

  Paul Gets Busy

  ‘I don’t like it at all,’ said Paul again, and his forehead was wrinkled in a worried frown. ‘I’m very much afraid that something must have happened.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Crick. ‘Bob’s pretty good at taking care of himself, isn’t he?’

  ‘Very good,’ answered Paul, rising to his feet and beginning to pace up and down. ‘But I know that he’s dealing with a clever and desperate man. If he once guessed that he was being followed, he’d take action, and I’m afraid that’s what he’s done. Otherwise I feel certain that I should’ve heard from Bob before now.’

  Joseph Crick moved uneasily in his chair, and his eyes looked troubled. ‘I hope you’re wrong. I sincerely hope so, because I don’t see that we can do anything. We’ve not the slightest idea where the man or Bob went after they left Maroc’s.’

  ‘You say they were walking towards Shaftesbury Avenue?’

  Crick nodded, and Rivington went over to the telephone. Lifting the receiver, he called a number. After a short delay, a voice came over the wire demanding to know what he wanted.

  ‘Is Inspector Robin there, or has he gone home?’ asked Paul, giving his name.

  ‘Hold on, sir,’ said the voice. ‘I’ll enquire.’

  There was another short pause, and then the soft tones of Mr. Robin reached his ears. ‘Hello, Paul,’ said the inspector. ‘I was just leaving. What is it?’

  ‘I’m rather worried about my brother. Can you hang on at the Yard for a little while longer? I’d like to come along.’

  ‘Why, certainly,’ answered Mr. Robin. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. I’ll be along in about half an hour.’ He hung up the receiver and turned to Crick. ‘I’m sorry to boot you out, old man,’ he apologised, ‘but I’m going along to the Yard and —’

  ‘I heard that,’ broke in the journalist. ‘And I’d like to come too, if I may?’

  ‘I’d be very glad if you would,’ said Paul heartily. ‘You may be very useful.’

  He hurried into the hall, pulled on his overcoat and hat and, followed by Crick, left the house. A short distance away they found a taxi, and Paul hailed it. A second later they were spinning along on the way to Scotland Yard. They found Mr. Robin waiting in his bare office, and, without preliminary, Paul told his friend exactly what had happened.

  ‘I think it looks pretty bad, too,’ agreed the stout little inspector when he had listened to all Paul had to say. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt that Bob has fallen foul of this cripple fellow.’

  ‘If he has,’ said Paul grimly, ‘anything may have happened. Listen, Robin, I want you to put through an enquiry. There’s just a chance that someone may have seen the limping man last
night while Bob was following him. He was, according to Crick, a fairly conspicuous figure, and we may be able to trace the way he went.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Mr. Robin, pulling the telephone towards him.

  Crick and Paul waited in silence while he was put through to several departments and issued a string of instructions.

  ‘That’s that,’ he said, pushing the instrument away from him. ‘Now we’ll have to wait until we get some news through. And that may not be long,’ he added, ‘because the night patrols will just be starting to go out, and they’ll be questioned before they go.’

  It was, in fact, only half an hour before the first piece of information reached them. The call came from Argyle Street police station, and was to the effect that a constable who had been talking to some men cleaning the street at Piccadilly Circus had noticed a crippled man get into a cab and drive away down Coventry Street. He had also noticed another man from whom he was too far away to describe hail another taxi, get in and follow in the same direction as the first.

  ‘That was Bob,’ commented Paul when Mr. Robin recounted the news he had just received. ‘I wonder if we can get hold of that taxi-driver?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult,’ murmured Round Robin, and he once more turned his attention to the telephone.

  Ten minutes after he had finished speaking, forty policemen were visiting all the taxi ranks in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Street and Regent Street, and even further afield, questioning the drivers to find the man who had picked up Bob at Piccadilly Circus in the early hours of the previous morning. It was not until nearly seven hours later, however, that he was found and brought reluctantly to Scotland Yard in the charge of a young policeman, who saw visions of unexpected promotion for his smartness.