‘Good morning, Manfred.’ Newton removed his cigar and nodded genially. ‘Were you at the dance last night?’
‘I was there, but I didn’t come in,’ said Manfred, seating himself. ‘You did not turn up till late, they tell me?’
‘It was of all occurrences the most unfortunate,’ said Dr Oberzohn, and Newton laughed.
‘I’ve lost his laboratory secretary and he hasn’t forgiven me,’ he said almost jovially. ‘The girl he took on yesterday. Rather a stunner in the way of looks. She didn’t wish to go back to the country where she came from, so my sister offered to put her up for the night in Chester Square. I’m blessed if she didn’t lose herself at the dance, and we haven’t seen her since!’
‘It was a terrible thing,’ said Oberzohn sadly. ‘I regard her as in my charge. For her safety I am responsible. You, I trust, Mr Newton – ’
‘I don’t think I should have another uneasy moment if I were you, doctor,’ said Manfred easily. ‘The young lady is back at Heavytree Farm. I thought that would surprise you. And she is still there: that will surprise you more, if you have not already heard by telephone that your Old Guard failed dismally to – er – bring her back to work. I presume that was their object?’
‘My old guard, Mr Manfred?’ Oberzohn shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This is beyond my comprehension.’
‘Is your sister well?’ asked Manfred blandly.
Newton shrugged his shoulders.
‘She is naturally upset. And who wouldn’t be? Joan is a very tender-hearted girl.’
‘She has been that way for years,’ said Manfred offensively. ‘May I smoke?’
‘Will you have one of my cigarettes?’ Manfred’s grave eyes fixed the doctor in a stare that held the older man against his will.
‘I have had just one too many of your cigarettes,’ he said. His words came like a cold wind. ‘I do not want any more, Herr Doktor, or there will be vacancies in your family circle. Who knows that, long before you compound your wonderful elixir, you may be called to normal immortality?’
The yellow face of Oberzohn had turned to a dull red.
‘You seem to know as much about me, Mr Manfred, as myself,’ he said in a husky whisper.
Manfred nodded.
‘More. For whilst you are racing against time to avoid the end of a life which does not seem especially worthy of preservation, and whilst you know not what day or hour that end may come, I can tell you to the minute.’ The finger of his gloved hand pointed the threat.
All trace of a smile had vanished from Monty Newton’s face. His eyes did not leave the caller’s.
‘Perhaps you shall tell me.’ Oberzohn found a difficulty in speaking. Rage possessed him, and only his iron will choked down the flames from view.
‘The day that injury comes to Mirabelle Leicester, that day you go out – you and those who are with you!’
‘Look here, Manfred, there’s a law in this country – ’ began Monty Newton hotly.
‘I am the law.’ The words rang like a knell of fate. ‘In this matter I am judge, jury, hangman. Old or young, I will not spare,’ he said evenly.
‘Are you immortal too?’ sneered Monty.
Only for a second did Manfred’s eyes leave the old man’s face.
‘The law is immortal,’ he said. ‘If you dream that, by some cleverly concerted coup, you can sweep me from your path before I grow dangerous, be sure that your sweep is clean.’
‘You haven’t asked me to come here to listen to this stuff, have you?’ asked Newton, and though his words were bold, his manner aggressive, there were shadows on his face which were not there when Manfred had come into the room – shadows under his eyes and in his cheeks where plumpness had been.
‘I’ve come here to tell you to let up on Miss Leicester. You’re after something that you cannot get, and nobody is in a position to give you. I don’t know what it is – I will make you a present of that piece of information. But it’s big – bigger than any prize you’ve ever gone after in your wicked lives. And to get that, you’re prepared to sacrifice innocent lives with the recklessness of spendthrifts who think there is no bottom to their purse. The end is near!’
He rose slowly and stood by the table, towering over the stiff-backed doctor.
‘I cannot say what action the police will take over this providential snake-bite, Oberzohn, but I’ll make you this offer: I and my friends will stand out of the game and leave Meadows to get you in his own way. You think that means you’ll go scot-free? But it doesn’t. These police are like bull-dogs: once they’ve got a grip of you, they’ll never let go.’
‘What is the price you ask for this interesting service?’ Newton was puffing steadily at his cigar, his hands clasped behind him, his feet apart, a picture of comfort and well-being.
‘Leave Miss Leicester alone. Find a new way of getting the money you need so badly.’
Newton laughed.
‘My dear fellow, that’s a stupid thing to say. Neither Oberzohn nor I are exactly poor.’
‘You’re bankrupt, both of you,’ said Manfred quietly. ‘You are in the position of gamblers when the cards have run against you for a long time. You have no reserve, and your expenses are enormous. Find another way, Newton – and tell your sister – ’ he paused by the door, looking down into the white lining of his silk hat – ‘I’d like to see her at Curzon Street tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’
‘Is that an order?’ asked Newton sarcastically.
Manfred nodded.
‘Then let me tell you,’ roared the man, white with passion, ‘that I take no orders for her or for me. Got swollen heads since you’ve had your pardon, haven’t you? You look out for me, Manfred. I’m not exactly harmless.’
He felt the pressure of the doctor’s foot upon his and curbed his temper.
‘All right,’ he growled, ‘but don’t expect to see Joan.’
He added a coarse jest, and Manfred raised his eyes slowly and met his.
‘You will be hanged by the State or murdered by Oberzohn – I am not sure which,’ he said simply, and he spoke with such perfect confidence that the heart of Monty Newton turned to water.
Manfred stood in the sidewalk and signalled, and the little car came swiftly and noiselessly across. Leon’s eyes were on the entrance. A tall man standing in the shadow of the hall was watching. He was leaning against the wall in a negligent attitude, and for a second Leon was startled.
‘Get in quickly!’
Leon almost shouted the words back, and Manfred jumped into the machine, as the chauffeur sent the car forward, with a jerk that strained every gear.
‘What on – ?’ began Manfred, but the rest of his words were lost in the terrific crash which followed.
The leather hood of the machine was ripped down at the back, a splinter of glass struck Leon’s cap and sliced a half-moon neatly. He jammed on the brakes, threw open the door of the saloon and leaped out. Behind the car was a mass of wreckage; a great iron casting lay split into three pieces amidst a tangle of broken packing-case. Leon looked up; immediately above the entrance to Oberzohn & Smitts’ was a crane, which had swung out with a heavy load just before Manfred came out. The steel wire hung loosely from the derrick. He heard excited voices speaking from the open doorway three floors above, and two men in large glasses were looking down and gabbling in a language he did not understand.
‘A very pretty accident. We might have filled half a column in the evening newspapers if we had not moved.’
‘And the gentleman in the hall – what was he doing?’
Leon walked back through the entrance: the man had disappeared, but near where he had been standing was a small bell-push which, it was obvious, had recently been fixed, for the wires ran loosely on the surface of the wall and were new.
He came
back in time to see a policeman crossing the road.
‘I wish to find out how this accident occurred, constable,’ he said. ‘My master was nearly killed.’
The policeman looked at the ton of debris lying half on the sidewalk, half on the road, then up at the slackened hawser.
‘The cable has run off the drum, I should think.’
‘I should think so,’ said Leon gravely.
He did not wait for the policeman to finish his investigations, but went home at a steady pace, and made no reference to the ‘accident’ until he had put away his car and had returned to Curzon Street.
‘The man in the hall was put there to signal when you were under the load – certain things must not happen,’ he said. ‘I am going out to make a few inquiries.’
Gonsalez knew one of Oberzohn’s staff: a clean young Swede, with that knowledge of English which is normal in Scandinavian countries; and at nine o’clock that night he drifted into a Swedish restaurant in Dean Street and found the young man at the end of his meal. It was an acquaintance – one of many – that Leon had assiduously cultivated. The young man, who knew him as Mr Heinz – Leon spoke German remarkably well – was glad to have a companion with whom he could discuss the inexplicable accident of the afternoon.
‘The cable was not fixed to the drum,’ he said. ‘It might have been terrible: there was a gentleman in a motor-car outside, and he had only moved away a few inches when the case fell. There is bad luck in that house. I am glad that I am leaving at the end of the week.’
Leon had some important questions to put, but he did not hurry, having the gift of patience to a marked degree. It was nearly ten when they parted, and Gonsalez went back to his garage, where he spent a quarter of an hour.
At midnight, Manfred had just finished a long conversation with the Scotland Yard man who was still at Brightlingsea, when Leon came in, looking very pleased with himself. Poiccart had gone to bed, and Manfred had switched out one circuit of lights when his friend arrived.
‘Thank you, my dear George,’ said Gonsalez briskly. ‘It was very good of you, and I did not like troubling you, but – ’
‘It was a small thing,’ said Manfred with a smile, ‘and involved merely the changing of my shoes. But why? I am not curious, but why did you wish me to telephone the night watchman at Oberzohn’s to be waiting at the door at eleven o’clock for a message from the doctor?’
‘Because,’ said Leon cheerfully, rubbing his hands, ‘the night watchman is an honest man; he has a wife and six children, and I was particularly wishful not to hurt anybody. The building doesn’t matter: it stands, or stood, isolated from all others. The only worry in my mind was the night watchman. He was at the door – I saw him.’
Manfred asked no further questions. Early the next morning he took up the paper and turned to the middle page, read the account of the ‘Big Fire in City Road’ which completely gutted the premises of Messrs Oberzohn & Smitts; and, what is more, he expected to read it before he had seen the paper.
‘Accidents are accidents,’ said Leon the philosopher that morning at breakfast. ‘And that talk I had with the clerk last night told me a lot: Oberzohn has allowed his fire insurance to lapse!’
Chapter 16
Rath Hall
In one of the forbidden rooms that was filled with the apparatus which Dr Oberzohn had accumulated for his pleasure and benefit, was a small electrical furnace which was the centre of many of his most interesting experiments. There were, in certain known drugs, constituents which it was his desire to eliminate. Dr Oberzohn believed absolutely in many things that the modern chemist would dismiss as fantastical.
He believed in the philosopher’s stone, in the transmutation of base metals to rare; he had made diamonds, of no great commercial value, it is true; but his supreme faith was that somewhere in the materia medica was an infallible elixir which would prolong life far beyond the normal span. It was to all other known properties as radium is to pitch-blende. It was something that only the metaphysician could discover, only the patient chemist could materialize. Every hour he could spare he devoted himself to his obsession; and he was in the midst of one of his experiments when the telephone bell called him back to his study. He listened, every muscle of his face moving, to the tale of disaster that Monty Newton wailed. ‘It is burning still? Have you no fire-extinguishing machinery in London?’
‘Is the place insured or is it not?’ asked Monty for the second time.
Dr Oberzohn considered. ‘It is not,’ he said. ‘But this matter is of such small importance compared with the great thing which is coming, that I shall not give it a thought.’
‘It was incendiary,’ said Newton angrily. ‘The fire brigade people are certain of it. That cursed crowd are getting back on us for what happened this afternoon.’
‘I know of nothing that happened this afternoon,’ said Dr Oberzohn coldly. ‘You know of nothing either. It was an accident which we all deplored. As to this man . . . we shall see.’
He hung up the telephone receiver very carefully, went along the passage, down a steep flight of dark stairs, and into a basement kitchen. Before he opened the door he heard the sound of furious voices, and he stood for a moment surveying the scene with every feeling of satisfaction. Except for two men, the room was empty. The servants used the actual kitchen at the front of the house, and this place was little better than a scullery. On one side of the deal table stood Gurther, white as death, his round eyes red with rage. On the other, the short, stout Russian Pole, with his heavy pasty face and baggy eyes; his little moustache and beard bristling with anger. The cards scattered on the table and the floor told the Herr Doktor that this was a repetition of the quarrel which was so frequent between them.
‘Schweinhund!’ hissed Gurther. ‘I saw you palm the King as you dealt. Thief and robber of the blind – ’
‘You German dog! You – ’
They were both speaking in German. Then the doctor saw the hand of Gurther steal down and back.
‘Gurther!’ he called, and the man spun round. ‘To my parlour – march!’
Without a word, the man strode past him, and the doctor was left with the panting Russian.
‘Herr Doktor, this Gurther is beyond endurance!’ His voice trembled with rage. ‘I would sooner live with a pig than this man, who is never normal unless he is drugged.’
‘Silence!’ shouted Oberzohn, and pointed to the chair. ‘You shall wait till I come,’ he said.
When he came back to his room, he found Gurther standing stiffly to attention.
‘Now, Gunther,’ he said – he was almost benevolent as he patted the man on the shoulder – ‘this matter of Gonsalez must end. Can I have my Gurther hiding like a worm in the ground? No, that cannot be. Tonight I will send you to this man, and you are so clever that you cannot fail. He whipped you, Gurther – tied you up and cruelly beat you – always remember that, my brave fellow – he beat you till you bled. Now you shall see the man again. You will go in a dress for-every-occasion,’ he said. ‘The city-clerk manner. You will watch him in your so clever way, and you shall strike – it is permitted.’
‘Ja, Herr Doktor.’
He turned on his heels and disappeared through the door. The doctor waited till he heard him going up the stairs, and then he rang for Pfeiffer. The man came in sullenly. He lacked all the precision of the military Gurther; yet, as Oberzohn knew, of the two he was the more alert, the more cunning.
‘Pfeiffer, it has come to me that you are in some danger. The police wish to take you back to Warsaw, where certain unpleasant things happened, as you well know. And I am told – ’ he lowered his voice – ‘that a friend of ours would be glad to see you go, hein?’
The man did not raise his sulky eyes from the floor, did not answer, or by any gesture or movement of body suggest that he had heard what the older man had said.
Still the awkward-looking man made no reply.
‘Let him do his work: you shall not interfere, until – it is done.’
Pfeiffer was looking at him now, a cold sneer on his face.
‘If he comes back, I do not,’ he said. ‘This man is frightening me. Twice the police have been here – three times . . . you remember the woman. The man is a danger, Herr Doktor. I told you he was the day you brought him here.’
‘He can dress in the gentleman-club manner,’ said the doctor gently.
‘Pshaw!’ said the other scornfully. ‘Is he not an actor who has postured and painted his face and thrown about his legs for so many marks a week?’
‘If he does not come back I shall be relieved,’ murmured the doctor. ‘Though it would be a mistake to leave him so that these cunning men could pry into our affairs.’
Pfeiffer said nothing: he understood his instructions; there was nothing to be said. ‘When does he go?’
‘Early tomorrow, before daylight. You will see him, of course.’
He said something in a low tone, that only Pfeiffer heard. The shadow who stood in stockinged feet listening at the door only heard two words. Gurther grinned in the darkness; his bright eyes grew luminous. He heard his companion move towards the door and sped up the stairs without a sound.
* * *
Rath Hall was a rambling white building of two storeys, set in the midst of a little park, so thickly wooded that the house was invisible from the road; and since the main entrance to the estate was a very commonplace gate, without lodge or visible drive beyond, Gonsalez would have missed the place had he not recognized the man who was sitting on the moss-grown and broken wall who jumped down as Leon stopped his car.
The Complete Four Just Men Page 80