Ask For Ronald Standish

by Sapper

  “Do you see that good-looking man on the other side of the road? The one gazing everywhere except at this room. Get him arrested at once as a loiterer.”

  McIver, who knew Ronald of old, went straight to the telephone.

  “Get a couple of men round here to remove this little bunch of joy to somewhere safe,” advised Standish. “And then, McIver, two car loads of trusty warriors in plain clothes, armed and ready for the road. We don’t know how many there are at the other end, which as you already know is the Cornsheaf.”

  McIver was giving clear and rapid orders over the line, whilst our prisoner, writhing impotently, struggled to free himself. If looks could have killed us we would all have died painfully, and I found myself feeling almost sorry for the poor devil. His position was so incredibly ignominious.

  “All fixed, Mr Standish.” McIver replaced the receiver. “What are you and Mr Leyton going to do?”

  “See the fun, Mac,” grinned Ronald. “As soon as our visitor here has been removed, Bob and I will hit the road for the Cornsheaf too.”

  “Is it political, do you think?”

  “More than likely, I should say. This badge is a new one on me, but judging by its owner I should hardly imagine it betokens the International Society of Dart Throwers. You say you know of no one in the Berengaria who would be likely to attract attention?”

  “Not from New York. But if you’re right our man got on at Cherbourg.”

  He smiled suddenly as he glanced out of the window.

  “You must admit we don’t lose much time, Mr Standish.”

  I looked out. Protesting furiously, the watcher was being hustled into a car that had drawn up beside the pavement, and even as he departed a ring at the bell announced the arrival of our own reinforcements.

  “Here’s your man, Sergeant Latimer,” said the inspector. “Feloniously entering a house, and unlawful possession of firearms. And watch him: he bites.”

  “You bet he does, sir. I know the customer.”

  “You do, do you? Who is he?”

  “I wouldn’t care to swear to his mother’s name – or to his father’s. But he passes as Georgio Pozzi. Half-bred Italian anarchist. Was in my district. And” – he caught sight of the card – “that’s the badge of his damned society. A branch of the Mafia. I put in a report about ’em, sir, but of course, it’s not your department. A bad gang, the whole lot of them – but so far the lodge over here have kept within the law.”

  “Well, they haven’t this time,” said McIver grimly. “Lock him up, and we’ll get a move on. I’ll come with you, Mr Standish, if I may.”

  “What orders have you given the police cars?”

  “To wait for us in Basingstoke.”

  Ronald roared with laughter.

  “I was under the impression you asked me what I was going to do.”

  A smile twitched round McIver’s lips.

  “A matter of form, Mr Standish. Just a matter of form.”

  Of all the strange adventures I have ever had with Ronald, I think this one was the queerest. True, it called for none of that detective ability on his part which in other chronicles I have tried to portray. The solution of the so-called cipher was so simple that it can hardly be said to count. In fact, as Ronald himself has frequently remarked, the cardinal error of the opponents was their attempt to murder Philip on board the cross-channel boat; had they not done that no one would have bothered about the thing at all. And another throne in Europe would have changed its occupant.

  It was growing dusk as we reached Basingstoke. Drawn up in the square were two cars, whose passengers were strolling about, looking at the shops, and who, the moment we stopped, came up and grouped themselves round the car.

  McIver issued his orders, which, by the very nature of things could only be provisional.

  “We don’t know what to expect,” he said “But something is brewing at the Cornsheaf Inn. Number One car will take up its station beyond the inn, but in sight of it. Number Two will remain this side, and in sight of it also. Park your cars so that you can go in either direction immediately. After that you must act on your own initiative. I am going to the inn itself.”

  It was Ronald’s suggestion that only he and I should actually enter the pub. At first McIver refused flatly; he felt it was contrary to his professional dignity. But at last he was compelled to admit that there was every possibility of his being recognised, and he agreed to remain in the car outside the door.

  And so, twenty minutes later, Ronald and I entered the bar of the Cornsheaf Inn, to find an atmosphere which would have been comical but for the fact that every suspicion was confirmed. The British yokel does not take kindly to strangers, and when those strangers consist of five of the most obvious foreigners one could hope to meet, the kindliness is even less in evidence.

  “Two pints, please,” cried Ronald cheerfully, and it sounded like a man laughing at a funeral. Elderly men raised rheumy eyes from tankards of ale, and having gazed at us pessimistically returned to the contemplation of the group in the corner. No dart was thrown; no halfpenny was pushed. Intense suspicion hung like a pall over the assembled company.

  The foreigners were aware of it. One of them was evidently Philip’s black-bearded friend, and he kept glancing uneasily round the room. But always his eyes came back to the door, and he continually looked at his watch.

  “Fine day it’s been,” said Ronald affably.

  “Might ’a been worse,” conceded the barman.

  “Ay,” acknowledged the oldest inhabitant. “That’s right, Joe.”

  After which conversational high spot, silence again settled on the bar.

  Suddenly, from afar off in the distance, there came three short blasts on a motor horn, and the foreigners grew tense. Blackbeard half rose then sat down again. And, gradually growing louder, came the roar of a powerful car. It stopped outside the inn, and a moment later the door was flung open, and a man looked in.

  Instantly the five of them rose and left the room.

  “Come on, Bob,” said Ronald. “This is our cue.”

  They were already in the car by the time we got outside, and as we joined McIver they started off at speed towards London.

  “That our bunch?” asked McIver.

  “You’ve said it, Mac,” said Ronald. “Hallo! Here’s another car.”

  Travelling fast, also towards London, came a big saloon. The inside light was on, and in the back a man was sitting reading. The red tail-lamp of the first car had already disappeared, and we followed the saloon.

  “Not too close, Mr Standish,” cried McIver, flashing his torch as a signal to the police cars to follow. “What the devil is it all about?”

  “Search me,” said Ronald. “But the crowd in the first car are pretty tough.”

  The saloon in front swung over a hill, and dipped out of sight. Behind us were the two police cars, and as we breasted the rise we saw at the bottom of the hill the saloon car stationary. Two red lights gleamed in the road: a STOP sign barred the way.

  “Easy,” repeated McIver. “Not too close.”

  And even as he spoke the saloon, disregarding the traffic signal, ran through the control and proceeded on its way.

  “Rum,” said McIver, as we slowed down. The STOP signal still showed; the red lights still gleamed. And it was Ronald who let out a sudden shout.

  “That control is new. It wasn’t here when we came down.”

  We drew up beside it; there was no watchman. Only a board in the middle of the road, and a pair of legs sticking out of the ditch – legs encased in black gaiters. We pulled him out, that poor devil in a chauffeur’s livery, and there was a lump on his forehead the size of a hen’s egg. But he was breathing, and leaving one of the men with him McIver got back into the car.

  “Stamp on it,” he said curtly. “Someone is going to get hell for this.”

  Up the next hill, and then in front of us a long stretch of road. But of the saloon car, no trace.

  “There she
goes,” I cried, pointing away to the right, where we could see lights moving.

  “Good for you, Bob,” said Ronald. “Taken a byroad.”

  We came to it in about a quarter of a mile – a narrow twisting, road between high hedges. And with the two police cars sitting on our tail Ronald drove all out. So much so that he had to ditch us to save ramming the back of the saloon car, which we came on suddenly round a corner.

  “Put out all lights,” cried McIver, and as we tumbled out of the cars there rang out from close by a scream for help. It came from a barn which one could see through a gap in the hedge, a barn from which a dim light filtered through the door.

  We burst in. Dangling from a beam was the man in the saloon car; round him on the floor were our friends of the Cornsheaf. Even though taken completely by surprise they fought savagely, but it was hopeless. In half a minute they were handcuffed in a circle, and the show was over.

  “Well, sir,” said McIver to the man they were just hanging, and who had been instantly cut down on our entry, “we were just in time it seems. They don’t appear to like you. What’s it all about?”

  “Are you the police?” he gasped.

  “We are,” said McIver.

  “Thank God!” he muttered and pitched forward unconscious.

  It was a strange story that he subsequently told us. A member himself of this secret society, which he had joined in ignorance of its true character, he had learned the full details of a plot to assassinate a certain foreign prince on the occasion of his state visit to England the following month. And it was to give away the whole thing that he had come over. But somehow or other he had incurred the suspicions of the other members, and they had decided to kill him.

  Believing himself to be safe owing to the precautions he had taken, he had not bothered to inform the police of his intentions, and the first moment he had realised his folly was when the car stopped, the chauffeur was knocked out in front of his eyes, and the two men he dreaded most got into the car with him.

  His name is immaterial, and as all the world knows the Royal visit passed off without a hitch. But though the particular gang we caught are never likely to trouble him again, there are others. And I do not think I would care to be in the shoes of the man in the saloon car.

  7: The Fourth Bottle

  Admittance to the Pointed Shoe presents but few difficulties to those who wish to enter. On a payment of five shillings you become for the evening a guest of the proprietors, and a partaker – at a price – in the festivities, which last as a general rule till about five in the morning.

  And here let me state at once that the Pointed Shoe is not one of those reprehensible establishments which sell forbidden liquor out of hours, and are invariably raided, sooner or later, by hordes of detectives in regulation boots.

  The Pointed Shoe is run on absolutely legal lines, and furnishes yet another example of the futility of trying to enforce unwanted legislation. Attached to it, though ostensibly quite a separate undertaking, is a wine merchant whose hours for opening are midnight to five a.m. From this gentleman then, on the production of much money, may be obtained a bottle of whatever drink the guest may desire.

  To buy an ordinary whisky and soda is impossible; it would render the proprietors, the staff and the consumer liable to execution in the Tower. To buy a bottle of whisky, however, and have twelve whiskies and sodas is a great and meritorious deed. Which is a remarkable state of affairs, but I feel sure it has made somebody happy.

  Now, if I have written at some length on this peculiar anomaly of the licensing laws, it is because there may be people who know not the Pointed Shoes of London, and who would rightly regard such an artificial absurdity as an invention on my part. And it is essential that they should realise the conditions that existed at the Pointed Shoe if they are to appreciate one of the cleverest murders ever planned, and still more the brilliant manner in which it was detected.

  On the night in question the place was almost full up at two o’clock. The room is long and narrow, and is especially adapted to allow the minimum of people to dance with the maximum of discomfort. Which, as all the world knows, is the goal aimed at by every night club. At the end opposite the entrance door a gaily-uniformed band was playing really well. From table to table moved Captain Coombe – late of His Majesty’s Royal Loamshires – chatting with his guests, most of whom were regular habitués of the place. A haze of tobacco smoke hung like a pall. At times the conversation drowned the music.

  Taken as a whole, the crowd was a smart one. Quite a number of the sweet girlish faces that are repeated week by week in the society papers could be seen; a couple of earls, two well-known actors, and a sprinkling of Guardsmen supplied the male attendants. And it was during one of those sudden lulls that sometimes occur that the door was flung open and a large, rather red-faced man came in with a woman. Coombe was at my table at the time, and I heard his muttered “Damn!” And the reason was not far to seek.

  The red-faced man was John Forfar, and it was clear at a glance that he had not confined himself to water during the evening. His blustering “Hi! you!” to a waiter came distinctly across the room; then the babel of conversation broke out again.

  But the cause of Captain Coombe’s annoyance was not the fact that John Forfar was a little in liquor. Such a condition was not unknown in the Pointed Shoe. Nor was it due to the fact that the lady with him was one of those that the Greeks had a word for. Again, such ladies were not unknown in the Pointed Shoe. The reason of his expletive lay in the composition of the party seated at the next table but one to ours. For amongst that party was Tony Elgin.

  And now I must once again digress for the benefit of those whose paths lie far from London.

  Everybody knew that Tony Elgin was in love with John Forfar’s wife. Including John Forfar. Of the lady’s feelings on the matter no one was quite so sure. Being a woman, she was naturally aware of the fact; but whether she reciprocated the sentiment I, for one, am unable to say.

  Certainly, she gave no hint of it in public, whereas Tony’s every movement proclaimed his state of mind from the housetops. His eyes followed her from the time she entered a room till the time she left it. Never a bright conversationalist, his mind became a complete blank on such occasions, so that he mumbled incoherently, and men fled from his presence.

  Admittedly, Sheila Forfar was an adorable creature, and why she had married her husband John was one of those insoluble mysteries that everyone had given up trying to solve years ago. He was flagrantly unfaithful to her, and took not the slightest pains to conceal his infidelities. But for some strange reason she would not divorce him.

  It was no question of money – she had plenty of her own. I do not think it was religion – she certainly was not a Catholic. But she was not a woman who gave her confidence easily, and so to the mystery of why she married him in the first place was added the even greater one of why she did not get rid of him now.

  Fortunately, she herself was not in Tony Elgin’s party, and he had his back to the table which John Forfar had taken. But it could only be a question of time before the two men saw one another, and one had an uncomfortable feeling that then there might be trouble, in spite of the publicity of the place. Everybody knew Tony Elgin’s opinion of John Forfar. Including John Forfar. And though Tony was one of the most delightful men you could meet, he had the devil of a temper when it was roused.

  A bottle of whisky and one of champagne for the lady had appeared on Forfar’s table, and it soon became evident that he was proposing to make a night of it. In rapid succession he lowered three of the very strongest, so that even his fair companion began to shake her head at him. And still Tony was oblivious of his presence.

  Then Forfar got up to dance, and almost simultaneously Tony rose too.

  “The fat,” said little Anne Dornoch, “is shortly going to be in the gas stove, my pet. Only the Crystal Palace would be big enough for those two tonight.”

  And she was right. At no time a br
illiant performer, when in wine Forfar was positively a menace. He seemed to regard the floor as a space on which he could move at speed in a straight line. If anybody got in his light, so much the worse for the other. And fate decreed that just as Tony was passing our table Forfar, backing across the room like a bull, took him and his partner fairly amidships, and literally almost knocked them down.

  Now, let it be clearly understood, in justice to everyone, I am quite convinced that Forfar did not purposely run into Tony. He did not purposely run into anybody. But as an exhibition of execrable dancing it would have been hard to beat, especially on that tiny floor. And Tony, quite naturally, was not amused, even before he realised who it was who had done it. But when he did he lost his temper. He thought, as he told me afterwards, that Forfar had meant to do it.

  “Confound you, Forfar,” he said, angrily, “if you do that again I’ll smash your face in.”

  Forfar dropped his partner, and his face grew mottled with fury.

  “Will you really, Mr Elgin?” he answered thickly. “Give my love to my wife when you see her again tonight.”

  It was an unspeakable thing to say, and it was said in an unspeakable way. And once again, in justice to everyone, I do not think even Forfar would have said it had he not been slightly drunk. But no one could blame Tony for standing not on the order of his answer.

  “You ineffable swine,” he said in a very clear voice. “Some day some lucky man is going to kill you.”

  And then Captain Coombe came hurrying up. Though not many people heard the actual words used, all heads were craning in our direction, and conversation had practically ceased. Tony’s partner had hurriedly sat down; the lady friend had gone back to Forfar’s table. And Coombe, who was a little man, performed a deed of great valour. He got between the two men who were glaring at one another over his head.

  “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I must really ask you to control yourselves. It makes it so unpleasant for all my other guests.”

  He half led, half pushed Tony to his seat, and after a moment’s indecision Forfar resumed his. The band played a new tune; the tension relaxed. And in a few moments the Pointed Shoe had resumed the even tenor of its way.