by Peter Baron
“I suppose you’ll deny having been in London for the past two months?” said Elveden, his mouth setting in a hard line.
“Not necessarily,” replied the Lag. “I’ll admit it, if yer likes, only ther’s upwards o’ a ‘undred people as can disprove it, an’ I don’t pertickerly want ter go up fer perjury. Them was me mother’s dyin’ words: ‘Jerry,’ she says, tender-like, ‘never tell a mort o’ lies when one’ll do.’ She did, strite, Mr. Elv’den.”
The Inspector looked at his superior ruefully. “There’s something very wrong here, sir,” he said awkwardly.
“So much I had gathered,” said the Commissioner dryly.
Elveden turned to the Lag again: “What do you do on the estate?” he demanded; adding hastily, “And don’t tell any lies about work.”
“‘Ere, I’ll pull yer fer defamation,” said Jerry sharply. “Don’t come none o’ yer madam wiv me, coz I gotter witness,” he pointed to the amused Commissioner and glared aggrievedly at the Inspector.
“I’m waiting,” prompted Elveden.
“Me? I’m ‘ead gamekeeper,” said Jerry grandly, and his pose became more dignified.
Elveden laughed shortly. “What a life for the poachers,” he sneered. “I suppose you work on a commission basis with them?”
“An’ don’t you call me a liar,” said Jerry heatedly. “I got letters from Sir Markis ‘isself what can prove me words.”
He rummaged hastily in his pockets, and after a protracted search produced two or three letters which he proffered with the air of one who gives incontrovertible evidence of his integrity.
Elveden glanced hastily through the letters. In each case they were signed “Marcus Loseley,” and were written unquestionably in the sprawling, familiar hand of the Baronet.
The Inspector bit his lip.
“I don’t understand this, sir,” he said. “I shall have to see Sir Marcus himself to verify this man’s statements. It is physically impossible for Jerry to have been in London and Faversham at one and the same time, and yet I can bring forward numbers of witnesses to vouch that they have seen him in London recently.”
The Commissioner nodded. “Get in touch with Sir Marcus by all means. That should be a possible solution to what seems to be a somewhat curious affair.” His tone suggested that he considered the interview as good time needlessly wasted, and the Inspector flushed.
“I had intended to postpone the interview with Sir Marcus until I had something a little more definite to work on, sir,” he said. “I wished to see him on a totally different and rather more important score.”
“What score?” asked the Commissioner.
The Inspector leant forward and whispered something that the Lag could not hear.
Whatever it was it made the Commissioner start, and Jerry, seeing the start, misconstrued it as relevant to himself.
“Yer tryin’ to fix me fer a stretch,” he snarled passionately. “I noo that was the gime! I tells yer I bin outer London fer two years an’ I bin goin’ strite ever since I got free o’ you blokes. It’s association wot causes arf the trouble. I tell yer——”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Jerry,” the Commissioner interrupted.
The Lag calmed down, but still glared at his interlocutors.
“An’ where do I git orf?” he demanded. “I got an appointment wiv Sir Marcus at six, and it’s gorn that now.”
“I shouldn’t let that worry you,” drawled Elveden, “you’ll be seeing Sir Marcus very shortly!”
He rang a bell and issued a few instructions in a low voice to the plain clothes man who entered.
That done, he turned to the Commissioner and spoke in the same quiet tone, unintelligible to Jerry, who watched suspiciously.
“This man may be Jerry the Lag, sir, but he is not the man who has been using that name in London for the past two years. There’s some kind of trickery going on and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
He turned to the Lag and resumed his examination.
An hour slipped by; another followed, interspersed with hurried telephone calls, and yet they learnt nothing more materially important than had been gleaned in the first twenty minutes.
During that time the Inspector verified the fact that the man in front of them was undoubtedly Jerry the Lag who, four years previously, had gone to prison on the Inspector’s evidence for a period of two years, and that during the two years which had followed he had remained on Sir Marcus Loseley’s estate at Faversham. Which proved conclusively that he had been impersonated by someone in London. But by whom?
Against Sir Marcus’s head gamekeeper, for Jerry insisted on the distinction, they could bring no charge. His reform had been more or less complete and his conduct as exemplary as they could expect. So much they had verified by two long-distance calls to Faversham, one to the local police inspector and one to the steward of the Loseley estate.
During the examination Elveden had recognized little long-forgotten mannerisms peculiar to the original Jerry, the absence of which in his impersonator had passed unnoticed.
Baffled, the Inspector turned to answer the imperative jangling of the telephone.
“Hallo,” he called wearily; and almost immediately his face lighted up with excitement.
“What? Here now? Holy Mike! Send him up at once!”
He replaced the receiver and rose hastily to his feet.
Crossing the room swiftly, he opened a door on the right and beckoned to the Lag.
“Wait in there till you’re wanted, Jerry,” he said, his eyes gleaming strangely.
The Lag shuffled across the floor into the room without comment and Elveden closed the door behind him and turned to meet the inquiring glance of his superior.
“So far, sir, they cannot get in touch with Sir Marcus Loseley. He appears to be out and no one knows exactly where he is, a frequent occurrence, I fancy. However, we’ve had a stroke of absolutely unexpected good luck. The man on the St. Martin’s Lane beat has brought in Jerry the Lag!”
XXXIII. SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS
The faces of the two men in the Commissioner’s room showed varying expressions: that of the Assistant Commissioner astonishment, and that of the Inspector keen excitement. Resuming his seat as a tap sounded on the door, Elveden said tersely, “Come in.”
A plain clothes man ushered in Jerry the Lag. The Jerry that Elveden knew, complete with dusty bowler, dirty choker and shabby suit. The Inspector eyed him casually for a few moments before motioning him to a seat. For two years this man had posed as the Lag, and the Inspector was curious. What identity lay behind the assumption of Jerry’s face and character?
“I want a few words with you, Jerry,” he said at length, as the newcomer became restless under his keen regard.
“Which,” retorted Jerry, scowling, “is most hunusual, ain’t it?” and the preliminaries over, Jerry’s ire loosened his tongue.
He turned wrathfully on the Assistant Commissioner, whom he had seen before, and burst out angrily:
“It beats me what you pay these lead swingers for. You gives ‘em a good job and sizable screw, and dreckerly anyfin’ ‘appens the busies comes ter us fer infermation. Elv’den, ‘ere, ‘e allus comes ter me an’ says as ‘ow I done it. Then as soon as ever I kerrecks ‘is error, ‘e turns rahnd an’ says, Well, if you didn’t, ‘oo the ‘ell did?’ Now, I asts yer, is that playin’ the gime? No, it ain’t. I don’t git no retainin’ fee, do I? No, I don’t. I ain’t the Crim’nal Records Orfice, am I? No, I ain’t. An’ if I wivdroo me support, would this perishin’ department go phut? Not arf it wouldn’t. I never gets no peace from these busies. Allus bein’ lugged ‘ere and lugged there to answer a lot o’ questions. Fair makes me tired, it do!”
He paused and drew a deep breath preparatory to launching out into another spirited diatribe, but Elveden, noticing the half-amused expression on the face of the Commissioner, frowned and interrupted suddenly.
“Shut up, Jerry! You’ve got nothing to write
home about. You’ve had plenty of rope in the past, and now you’re going to answer a few questions or find yourself in Queer Street.”
“‘Ad plenty o’ rope, ‘ave I?” retorted the Lag swiftly. “Mebbe, but I ain’t aimin’ to be too intimate wiv rope. An’ what kind o’ noose is ‘anging at the end o’ this? I ain’t bound to answer, am I, sir?” he demanded, looking at the Commissioner.
“No, you’re not bound to answer his questions,” agreed the Commissioner.
“Like that, is it?” grimaced the Lag. “I needn’t talk, but it’d be best fer all parties—pertickerly me, by the look o’ things—if I did?”
“Exactly,” smiled the Commissioner.
“Orl right, go ahead, you,” grunted Jerry, glaring at Inspector Elveden.
“How often are you in Faversham, Jerry?”
Jerry started involuntarily, but answered quite calmly, “Wot is Faversham?”
“It’s a place in Kent.”
“Only been to Kent for ‘op pickin’, an’ it wasn’t there,” grunted Jerry. “I never been there.”
“I think you have,” said Elveden softly, watching the other intently.
“You gimme a pain in the elbow,” Jerry complained bitterly. “When I says a thing, I ‘as the unforchinate ‘abit o’ meanin’ it. Naturally you blokes at the Yard find it a bit difficult like at first, but you’ll get inter the way o’ speakin’ the truf in time, even if only be accident.”
“Then you’ve solved the problem of spirit projection?” suggested the Inspector, smiling coolly.
“Never touches spirits now,” said the Lag truculently. “Bin on the waggin fer a couple o’ days!”
“How long have you been in London, Jerry?” asked Elveden. “You oughter know,” riposted Jerry sourly. “Stuck ter me like a shadder fer the last two years, ‘e ‘as, sir.”
He looked indignantly at the Commissioner.
“During which time,” said Elveden, “your double has been on Sir Marcus Loseley’s estate in Faversham.”
“Spirits, doubles,” growled Jerry. “Git orf the subjec’ o’ booze, can’t yer? Fair makin’ me mouth water wiv yer sly temptations.” Nevertheless Elveden noticed that the Lag had paled slightly. Still smiling, the Inspector rose to his feet and crossed the room. Opening the door on the left, he summoned the occupant of the inner room.
The gamekeeper shuffled forward.
“Jerry the Lag,” said Elveden, mockingly, “meet Jerry the Lag!”
There was a complete silence for a few moments while the two Jerrys, the genuine one and his impersonator, stared at each other.
The resemblance was extraordinary. Not in one line of the face, one wrinkle, one hair did they differ. Save for their clothes, they might have been reflections of one another.
Elveden, watching both intently in turn, noticed that the game-keeper was startled, but that the other retained his composure perfectly.
Eventually the “Jerry” in the chair spoke, and he spoke in a cultured voice that bore no resemblance to the voice of Jerry the Lag.
“All right, Jerry,” he said quietly. “It’s not your fault, old man. You didn’t know.”
The gamekeeper started and a dejected light crept into his eyes. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
“Your point, Inspector,” said the double tranquilly. “May I have a bowl of water and some soap?”
At last the Inspector understood, but he made no comment. Summoning a plain clothes man, he issued a curt order, and in a few moments the man returned with a basin of warm water, a tablet of soap and a towel.
“With your permission, gentlemen,” said the cultured Lag, taking the soap and water; and for the next few moments there was no sound in the room save splashing.
At length the mystery man turned, finished drying his face, and dropped the towel.
The Commissioner’s eyebrows went up slightly, but Elveden’s face remained expressionless.
The sandy mustache, pock-marked complexion and hollowed cheeks had vanished and, raising a hand, the erstwhile Lag removed a black straggling wig, revealing sleek gray hair beneath. The metamorphosis was complete.
Before them stood Sir Marcus Loseley of Faversham and Eaton Place, London!
Sir Marcus seated himself calmly and nodded encouragingly to Jerry.
“Suppose,” said the Commissioner, breaking the silence, “we deal with this new development, Inspector? Jerry, you can remain in that room.”
“You have been impersonating Jerry for two years, Sir Marcus?” Elveden asked slowly, as soon as the Lag had retired.
“Rather less,” answered the Baronet, “but we will not quibble.”
“During which period,” pursued the Inspector, “you have been associated with the Squid in various criminal transactions.”
“More or less,” the Baronet agreed, “although”—and he turned to the Commissioner—“I ask you to believe that I personally have committed no felony during that—er—association, I think Elveden called it.”
“Perhaps Sir Marcus will be good enough to explain?” suggested the Inspector. “Bearing in mind such trifles as the robbery at the Consolidated Trust Company’s offices, which we know was the work of the entire gang, also the robbery at Thyme’s, and various other little matters. In robbing yourself of the Loseley tiara, of course, you committed no crime. We can discount that.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Marcus ironically. “In no case have I committed any penal offense. I admit that I was present at some of these functions, but I deny having assisted the Squid’s henchmen in any way. On no occasion did I facilitate ingress to the places the Squid robbed, neither did I handle any of the jewels or moneys he—acquired. The wage for my services I forwarded to the Middlesex Hospital.”
The Inspector smiled, but Sir Marcus ignored him and continued:
“That was the case at the Trust Company’s offices. The robbery at Thyme’s Bank was not carried out by the gang, but by the Squid in person, as in the case of the Baraipur diamonds. The case of my own tiara was a little different. That was the first occasion on which I received definite instructions to carry out a robbery on my own initiative. Fortunately, the victim chosen was myself. Before going to the theater, I removed the paste imitation of the tiara, made to meet such a contingency, and ransacked my room. Returning later that night, I affected surprise on hearing that it had been stolen.”
“Accepting your statements as true,” said the Commissioner evenly, “you still lay yourself open to the charge of being an accessory both before and after felony.”
“Unfortunately that is so, but it was necessary that I should assist in the Squid’s projects in order to convince him that I was Jerry the Lag. To have given him cause for suspicion would have meant summary expulsion from the gang, if not from this planet. Which latter is rather more probable than the former.”
The Commissioner pursed his lips. “It might be as well if you explained your object in masquerading as Jerry the Lag, Sir Marcus.”
The Baronet drew a deep breath and appeared to be meditating. At length he spoke.
“My object,” he said slowly, “is the paying off of a score long overdue. And I propose to settle it very definitely.”
“You’re making rather a dangerous statement, aren’t you, Sir Marcus?” said Elveden.
“It is the forerunner of a dangerous task.”
“You are hinting at—what?” asked the Commissioner.
“As I said before—paying off a score I owe the Squid,” said Loseley.
“Does it occur to you that that is the prerogative of the law,” suggested the Commissioner.
The Baronet nodded slowly.
“It also occurs to me that the law is damnably slow,” he replied.
“You imagine that you are quicker?” jeered Elveden.
“And a good deal surer,” snapped back the Baronet.
There was no mistaking the hatred that shone in Loseley’s eyes, and the Commissioner sat back suddenly with a start of surprise.
/> “What form will the payment take?” he asked slowly.
“An exceedingly just one,” retorted the Baronet in little more than a whisper.
There was an unpleasant silence.
“Are we to infer—murder?” asked the Commissioner at last.
“On the contrary,” was the quiet disclaimer, “the project I have in mind is something infinitely more attractive.”
“And that is?”
“To hand him over to justice! That has been my constant aim during the past two years,” answered the Baronet. “He was responsible for the death of my dear friend, John Richmond. That account between us cannot go unpaid. It was in order to settle it that I assumed the personality of Jerry, a reformed convict who asked me for work and whom I employed.”
Elveden smiled unpleasantly, but the Baronet paid no heed.
“And I have had no cause to regret it,” he continued. “The Squid learned of the return of Jerry the Lag and enlisted my services, which was my object. Since then I have waited. Many times I might have attempted to kill him, but I might have failed. I doubt if I should have survived the attempt in any case. That was not what I wanted, however. When once the opportunity comes, I shall strike at the one vulnerable spot in his armor—his amour propre”.
He smiled at his own joke.
“The man does not know fear. To kill him would be no satisfaction. It would be too momentary a pain. But to imprison him: to let him know the agony of three weeks of waiting for the inevitable, without the power to avert it. With nothing else to think about: to blazon his downfall to those whom he has ruled and terrorized for so long. That is worth waiting for.”
“That’s our side of the job,” Elveden interrupted; “and you’re withholding valuable information. You are aware, I suppose, that we could subpoena you to give evidence and imprison you if you declined to answer.”
“I am,” agreed the Baronet, “but I do not propose to alter my plans.”