The Joker ds(e-3

by Edgar Wallace

  To him Stratford Harlow was the very incarnation of evil, a devil on earth who had bound his soul in fetters of brass. And of late he had embarked upon a novel course of dreaming. It was the confused middle of a dream, having neither beginning nor end, but it was all about a humiliated Harlow; Harlow being dragged in chains through the Awful Arch; Harlow robbed at the apotheosis of his triumph. And always Ellenbury was there, leering, chuckling, pointing a derisive finger at the man he had ruined, or else he was flitting by midnight across the Channel with a suitcase packed with fabulous sums of money that he had filched from his master.

  Mr Ellenbury bit his nails.

  Soon money would be flowing into Ratas—he would spend days endorsing cheques, clearing drafts…drafts…

  You may pass a draft into a bank and it becomes a number of figures in a pass-book. On the other hand, you may hand it across the counter and receive real money.

  Sometimes Harlow preferred that method—dollars into sterling, sterling into Swiss francs, Swiss francs into florins, until the identity of the original payment was beyond recognition.

  Drafts…

  In the room above his head his wife was lying immersed in the self-revelations of a fictional countess. Mrs Ellenbury had little money of her own. The house was her property. He could augment her income by judicious remittances.

  Drafts…

  Mauve and blue and red. ‘Pay to the order of—’ so many thousand dollars, or rupees, or yen.

  Harlow never interfered. He gave exact instructions as to how the money was to be dealt with, into which accounts it must be paid and that was all. At the end of a transaction he threw a thousand or two at his assistant, as a bone to a dog.

  Ellenbury had never been so rich in his life as he was now.

  He could meet his bank manager without a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach—no longer did the sight of a strange man walking up the drive to the house fill him with a sense of foreboding. Yet once he had seen the sheriff’s officer in every stranger.

  But he had grown accustomed to prosperity; it had become a normal condition of life and freed his mind to hate the source of his affluence.

  A slave—at best a freedman. If Harlow crooked his finger he must run to him; if Harlow on a motoring tour wired ‘Meet me at—’ any inaccessible spot, he must drop his work and hurry there. He, Franklin Ellenbury, an officer of the High Court of Justice, a graduate of a great university, a man of sensibility and genius.

  No wonder Mr Ellenbury bit at his nails and thought of drafts and sunny cafes and picture galleries which he had long desired to visit; and perhaps, after he was sated with the novelty of travel, a villa near Florence with orange groves and masses of bougainvillaea clustering between white walls and jade-green jalousies.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’

  He aroused himself from his dreams with a painful start.

  ‘To see me?’ The clock on his desk said fifteen minutes after eleven. All the house save the weary maid was asleep. ‘But at this hour? Who is he? What does he want?’

  ‘He’s outside, in a big car.’

  Automatically he sprang to his feet and ran out of the room. Harlow! How like the swine, not condescending to alight, but summoning his Thing to his chariot wheels! ‘Is that you, Ellenbury?’ The voice that spoke from. the darkness of the car was his.

  ‘Yes, Mr Harlow.’

  ‘You’ll be getting inquiries about the Gibbins woman—probably tomorrow. Carlton is certain to call—he has found that the letters were posted from Norwood. Why didn’t you post them in town?’

  ‘I thought—er—well, I wanted to keep the business away from my office.’

  ‘You could still have posted them in town. Don’t try to hide up the fact that you sent those letters. Mrs Gibbins was an old family servant of yours. You told me once that you had a woman with a similar name in your employ—’

  ‘She’s dead—’ began Ellenbury.

  ‘So much the easier for you to lie!’ was the answer. ‘Is everything going smoothly at Ratas?’

  ‘Everything, Mr Harlow.’

  ‘Good!’

  The lawyer stood at the foot of the steps watching the carmine rear light of the car until it vanished on the road.

  That was Harlow! Requesting nothing—just ordering. Saying ‘Let this be done,’ and never doubting that it would be done.

  He went slowly back to his study, dismissed the servant to bed; and until the early hours of the morning was studying a continental timetable—Madrid, Munich, Cordova, Bucharest—delightful places all.

  As he passed his wife’s bedroom she called him and he went in.

  ‘I’m not at all well tonight,’ she said fretfully. ‘I can’t sleep.’

  He comforted her with words, knowing that at ten o’clock that night she had eaten a supper that would have satisfied an agricultural labourer.

  CHAPTER 14

  MR HARLOW had timed his warning well. He had the general’s gift of foretelling his enemy’s movements.

  Jim called the next morning at the lawyer’s office in Theobald’s Road; and when the dour clerk denied him an interview, he produced his card.

  ‘Take that to Mr Ellenbury. I think he will see me,’ he said.

  The clerk returned in a few seconds and ushered him into a cupboard of a place which could not have been more than seven feet square. Mr Ellenbury rose nervously from behind his microscopic desk and offered a limp, damp hand.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We do not get many visitors from Scotland Yard. May I inquire your business?’

  ‘I am making inquiries regarding the death of a woman named Gibbins,’ said the visitor.

  Mr Ellenbury was not startled. He bowed his head slowly. ‘She was the woman taken out of the Regent’s Canal some weeks ago; I remember the inquest,’ he said.

  ‘Her mother, Louise Gibbins, had been drawing a quarterly pension of thirteen pounds, which, I understand, was sent by you?’

  It was a bluff designed to startle the man into betraying himself but, to Jim Carlton’s astonishment, Mr Ellenbury lowered his head again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is perfectly true. I knew her mother, a very excellent old lady who was for some time in my employ. She was very good to my dear wife, who is an invalid, and I have made her an allowance for many years. I did not know she was dead until the case of the drowned charwoman came into court and caused me to make inquiries.’

  ‘The allowance was stopped before these facts wire made public,’ challenged Jim Carlton, and again he was dumbfounded when the lawyer agreed.

  ‘It was delayed—not stopped,’ he said, ‘and it was only by accident that the money was not sent at the usual time. Fortunately or unfortunately, I happened to be rather ill when the allowance should have been sent off. The day I returned to the office and dispatched the money I learnt of Mrs Gibbins’s death. It is clear that the woman, instead of informing me of her mother’s death, suppressed the fact in order that she might benefit financially. If she had lived and it had come to my notice, I should naturally have prosecuted her for embezzlement.’

  Carlton knew that his visit had been anticipated, and the story cut and dried in advance. To press any further questions would be to make Harlow’s suspicion a certainty. He could round off his inquiry plausibly enough, and this he did.

  ‘I think that is my final question in the case,’ he said with a smile. ‘I am sorry to have bothered you, Mr Ellenbury. You never met Miss Annie Gibbins?’

  ‘Never,’ replied Ellenbury, with such emphasis that Jim knew he was speaking the truth. ‘I assure you I had no idea of her existence.’

  From one lawyer to another was a natural step: more natural since Mr Stebbings’ office was in the vicinity, and this interview at least held one pleasant possibility—he might see Aileen.

  She was a little staggered when he entered her room.

  ‘Mr Stebbings!—why on earth—?’ And then penitently: ‘I’m so sorry! I am not as in
quisitive as I appear!’

  Mr Stebbings, who was surprised at nothing, saw him at once and listened without comment to the detective’s business.

  ‘I never saw Mr Marling except once,’ he said. ‘He was a wild, rather erratic individual, and as far as I know, went to the Argentine and did not return.’

  ‘You’re sure that he went abroad?’ asked Jim.

  Mr Stebbings, being a lawyer, was too cautious a man to be sure of anything. ‘He took his ticket and presumably sailed; his name was on the passenger list. Miss Alice Harlow caused inquiries to be made; I think she was most anxious that Marling’s association with Mr Harlow should be definitely broken. That, I am afraid, is all I can tell you.’

  ‘What kind of man was Marling? Yes, I know he was wild and a little erratic, but was he the type of man who could be dominated by Harlow?’

  A very rare smile flitted across the massive face of the lawyer.

  ‘Is there anybody in the world who would not be dominated by Mr Harlow?’ he asked dryly. ‘I know very little of what is happening outside my own profession, but from such knowledge as I have acquired I understand that Mr Harlow is rather a tyrant. I use the word in its original and historic sense,’ he hastened to add.

  Jim made a gentle effort to hear more about Mr Harlow and his earlier life. He was particularly interested in the will, a copy of which he had evidently seen at Somerset House, but here the lawyer was adamant. He hinted that, if the police procured an order from a judge in chambers, or if they went through some obscure process of law, he would have no alternative but to reveal all that he knew about his former client; otherwise—

  Aileen was not in her room when he passed through, and he lingered awhile, hoping to see her, but apparently she was engaged (to her annoyance, it must be confessed) with the junior partner; he left Bloomsbury with a feeling that he had not extracted the completest satisfaction from his visits.

  At the corner of Bedford Place a blue Rolls was drawn up by the sidewalk, and so deep was he in thought that lie would have passed, had not the man who was sitting at the wheel removed the long cigar from his white teeth and called him by name. Jim turned with a start. The last person he expected to meet at this hour of the morning in the prosaic environment of Theobald’s Road.

  ‘I thought it was you.’ Mr Harlow’s voice was cheerful, his manner a pattern of geniality. ‘This is a fortunate meeting.’

  ‘For which of us?’ smiled Jim, leaning his elbow on the window opening and looking into the face of the man.

  ‘For both, I hope. Come inside, and I’ll drive you anywhere you’re going. I have an invitation to offer and a suggestion to make.’

  Jim opened the door and stepped in. Harlow was a skilful driver. He slipped in and out of the traffic into Bedford Square, and then: ‘Do you mind if I drive you to my house? Perhaps you can spare the time?’

  Jim nodded, wondering what was the proposition. But throughout the drive Mr Harlow kept up a flow of unimportant small talk, and he said nothing important until he showed his visitor into the beautiful library. Mr Harlow threw his heavy coat and cap on to one of the red settees, twisted a chair round, so that it revolved like a teetotum, and set it down near his visitor.

  ‘Somebody followed you here,’ he said. ‘I saw him out of the tail of my eye. A Scotland Yard man! My dear man, you are very precious to the law.’ He chuckled at this. ‘But I bear you no malice that you do not trust me! My theory is that it is much better for a dozen innocent men to come under police surveillance than for a guilty man to escape detection. Only it is sometimes a little unnerving, the knowledge that I am being watched. I could stop it at once, of course. The Courier is in the market—I could buy a newspaper and make your lives very unpleasant indeed. I could raise a dozen men up in Parliament to ask what the devil you meant by it. In fact, my dear Carlton, there are so many ways of breaking you and your immediate superior that I cannot carry them in my head!’

  And Jim had an uncomfortable feeling that this was no vain boast.

  ‘I really don’t mind,’ Harlow went on; ‘it annoys me a little, but amuses me more. I am almost above the law! How stupid that sounds!’ He slapped his knee and his rich laughter filled the room. ‘Of course I am; you know that! Unless I do something very stupid and so trivial that even the police can understand that I am breaking the law, you can never touch me!’

  He waited for some comment here, but Jim was content to let his host do most of the talking. A footman came in at that moment pushing a basket trolley, and, to Jim’s surprise, it contained a silver tea-service, in addition to a bottle of whisky, siphon and glasses.

  ‘I never drink,’ explained Harlow. ‘When I say “never,” it would be better if I said “rarely.” Tea-drinking is a pernicious habit which I acquired in my early youth.’ He lifted the bottle. ‘For you—?’

  ‘Tea also,’ said Jim, and Mr Harlow inclined his head.

  ‘I thought that was possible,’ he said; and when the servant had gone he carried his tea back to the writing-table and sat down.

  ‘You’re a very clever young man,’ he said abruptly, and Jim showed his teeth in a sceptical smile. ‘I could almost wish you would admit your genius. I hate that form of modesty which is expressed in self-depreciation. You’re clever. I have watched your career and have interested myself in your beginning. If you were an ordinary police officer I should not bother with you; but you are something different.’

  Again he paused, as though he expected a protest, but neither by word nor gesture did Jim Carlton approve or deny his right to this distinction.

  ‘As for me, I am a rich man,’ Harlow went on. ‘Yet I need the very help you can give to me. You are not well off, Mr Carlton? I believe you have an income of four hundred a year or thereabouts, apart from your salary, and that is very little for one who sooner or later must feel the need of a home of his own, a wife and a family—’

  Again he paused suggestively, and this time Jim spoke.

  ‘What do you suggest to remedy this state of affairs? he asked.

  Mr Harlow smiled.

  ‘You are being sarcastic. There is sarcasm in your voice! You feel that you are superior to the question of money. You can afford to laugh at it. But, my friend, money is a very serious thing. I offer you five thousand pounds a year.’

  He rose to his feet the better to emphasize the offer, Jim thought.

  ‘And my duties?’ he said quietly.

  Harlow shrugged his big shoulders; and put his hands deep into his trousers pockets.

  ‘To watch my interests.’ He almost snapped the words. ‘To employ that clever brain of yours in furthering my cause, in protecting me when I go—joking! I love a joke—a practical joke. To see the right man squirming makes me laugh. Five thousand a year, and all your expenses paid to the utmost limit. You like play-going? I’ll show you a play that will set you rolling with joy! What do you say?’

  ‘No,’ said Jim simply; ‘I’m not keen on jokes.’

  ‘You’re not?’ Harlow made a little grimace. ‘What a pity! There might be a million in it for you. I am not trying to induce you to do something against your principles, but it is a pity.’ It seemed to Jim’s sensitive ear that there was genuine regret in Harlow’s tone, but he went on quickly: ‘I appreciate your standpoint. You have no desire to enter my service. You are, let us say, antipathetic towards me?’

  ‘I prefer my own work,’ said Jim.

  Harlow’s smile was broad and benevolent. ‘There remains only one suggestion: I want you to come to the dinner and reception I am giving to the Middle East delegates next Thursday. Regard that as an olive branch!’

  Jim smiled. ‘I will gladly accept your invitation, Mr Harlow,’ he said and then, with scarcely a pause: ‘Where can I find Marling?’

  The words were hardly out of his lips before he cursed himself for his folly. He had not the slightest intention of asking such a fool question, and he could have kicked himself for the stupid impulse which, in one fraction of a se
cond, had thrown out of gear the delicate machinery of investigation.

  Not a muscle of Stratford Harlow’s face moved.

  ‘Marling?’ he repeated. His black brows met in a frown; the pale eyes surveyed the detective blankly.. ‘Marling?’ he said again. ‘Now where have I heard that name? You don’t mean the fellow who was my tutor? Good God! what a question to ask! I have never heard of him from the day he left for South Africa or somewhere.’

  ‘The Argentine?’ suggested Jim.

  ‘Was it the Argentine? I’m not sure. Yes, I am-Pernambuco—cholera—he died there!’

  The underlip came thrusting out. Harlow was passing to the aggressive.

  ‘The truth is, Marling and I were not very good friends. He treated me rather as though I were a child, and I cannot think of him without resentment. Marling! How that word brings back the most uncomfortable memories! The succession of wretched cottages, of prim, neat gardens, of his abominable Greek and Latin verses—differential calculi, the whole horrible gauntlet of so-called education through which a timid youth must run—and be flayed. Why do you ask?’

  Jim had his excuse all ready. He might not recover the ground he had lost, but he could at least consolidate himself against further retirement.

  ‘I have had an inquiry from one of his former associates.’ He mentioned a name, and here he was on safe ground, for it was the name of a man who had been a contemporary of Marling’s and who was in the same college. Not a difficult achievement for Jim, who had spent that morning looking up old university lists. Evidently it had no significance to Harlow.

  ‘I seem t remember Marling talking about him.’ he said. ‘But twenty-odd years is a very long time to cast one’s memory! And very probably I am an unconscious liar! So far as I know’—he shook his head—‘Marling is dead. I have no absolute proof of this, but if you wish I will have inquiries made. The Argentine Government will do almost anything I wish.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man.’ Jim held out his hand with a laugh.

  ‘I wonder if I am?’ Harlow looked at him steadfastly. ‘I wonder! And I wonder if you are, Mr Carlton,’ he added slowly. ‘Or will be!’