The Complete Four Just Men (56 page)

‘Grace was three years old when her father got into trouble,’ she said. ‘He had always been a brute and I think he’d been under the eyes of the police since he was a bit of a kid. I didn’t know this when I married him. I was nursemaid in a house that he’d burgled and I was discharged because I’d left the kitchen door ajar for him, not knowing that he was a thief. He did one long lagging and when he came out he swore he wouldn’t go back to prison again, and the next time if there was any danger of an alarm being raised, he would make it a case of murder. He and another man got into touch with a rich bookmaker on Blackheath. Bash used to do his dirty work for him, but they quarrelled and Bash and his pal burgled the house and got away with nearly nine thousand pounds.

‘It was a big race day and Bash knew there’d be a lot of money in notes that had been taken on the racecourse and that couldn’t be traced. I thought he’d killed this man at first. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t. He walked into the room and bashed him as he lay in bed – that was Bash’s way – that’s how he got his name. He thought there’d be a lot of enquiries and gave me the money to look after. I had to put the notes into an old beer jar half full of sand, ram in the cork and cover the cork and the neck with candle-wax so that the water couldn’t g et through, and then put it in the cistern which he could reach from one of the upstairs rooms at the back of the house. I was nearly mad with fear because I thought the gentleman had been killed, but I did as I was told and sunk the jar in the cistern. That night Bash and his mate were getting away to the north of England when they were arrested at Euston Station. Bash’s friend was killed, for he ran across the line in front of an engine, but they caught Bash and the house was searched from end to end. He got fifteen years’ penal servitude and he would have been out two years ago if he hadn’t been a bad character in prison.

‘When he was in gaol I had to sit down and think, Mr Lucas, and my first thought was of my child. I saw the kind of life that she was going to grow up to, the surroundings, the horrible slums, the fear of the police, for I knew that Bash would spend a million if he had it in a few weeks. I knew I was free of Bash for at least twelve years and I thought and I thought and at last I made up my mind.

‘It was twelve months after he was in gaol that I dared get the money, for the police were still keeping their eye on me as the money had not been found. I won’t tell you how I bought grand clothes so that nobody would suspect I was a working woman or how I changed the money.

‘I put it all into shares. I’m not well educated, but I read the newspapers for months, the columns about money. At first I was puzzled and I could make no end to it, but after a while I got to understand and it was in an Argentine company that I invested the money, and I got a lawyer in Bermondsey to make a trust of it. She gets the interest every quarter and pays her own bills – I’ve never touched a penny of it. The next thing was to get my little girl out of the neighbourhood, and I sent her away to a home for small children – it broke my heart to part with her – until she was old enough to go into a school. I used to see her regularly and when, after my first visit, I found she had almost forgotten who I was, I pretended that I’d been her nurse – and that’s the story.’

Gonsalez was silent.

‘Does your husband know?’

‘He knows I spent the money,’ said the woman staring blankly out of the window. ‘He knows that the girl is at a good school. He’ll find out,’ she spoke almost in a whisper. ‘He’ll find out!’

So that was the tragedy! Leon was struck dumb by the beauty of this woman’s sacrifice. When he found his voice again, he asked:

‘Why do you think he will kill you? These kind of people threaten.’

‘Bash doesn’t threaten as a rule,’ she interrupted him. ‘It’s the questions he’s been asking people who know me. People from Deptford who he’s met in prison. Asking what I do at nights, what time I go to bed, what I do in the daytime. That’s Bash’s way.’

‘I see,’ said Leon. ‘Has anybody given him the necessary particulars?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘They’ve done their best for me,’ she said. ‘They are bad characters and they commit crimes, but there’s some good hearts amongst them. They have told him nothing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m certain. If they had he wouldn’t be still asking. Why, Toby Brown came up from Devizes a month ago and told me Bash was there and was still asking questions about me. He’d told Toby that he’d never do another lagging and that he reckoned he’d be alive up to Midsummer Day if they caught him.’

Leon went up to his flat that night exalted.

‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ asked Manfred. ‘I for my part have been lunching with the excellent Mr Fare.’

‘And I have been moving in a golden haze of glory! Not my own, no, not my own, Manfred,’ he shook his head, ‘but the glory of Amelia Jones. A wonderful woman, George. For her sake I am going to take a month’s holiday, during which time you can go back to Spain and see our beloved Poiccart and hear all about the onions.’

‘I would like to go back to Madrid for a few days,’ said Manfred thoughtfully. ‘I find London particularly attractive, but if you really are going to take a holiday – where are you spending it, by the way?’

‘In Devizes Gaol,’ replied Gonsalez cheerfully, and Manfred had such faith in his friend that he offered no comment.

Leon Gonsalez left for Devizes the next afternoon. He arrived in the town at dusk and staggered unsteadily up the rise toward the market-place. At ten o’clock that night a police constable found him leaning against a wall at the back of the Bear Hôtel, singing foolish songs, and ordered him to move away. Whereupon Leon addressed him in language for which he was at the time (since he was perfectly sober) heartily ashamed. Therefore he did appear before a bench of magistrates the next morning, charged with being drunk, using abusive language and obstructing the police in the execution of their duty.

‘This is hardly a case which can be met by imposing a fine,’ said the staid chairman of the Bench. ‘Here is a stranger from London who comes into this town and behaves in a most disgusting manner. Is anything known against the man?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said the gaoler regretfully.

‘You will pay a fine of twenty shillings or go to prison for twenty-one days.’

‘I would much rather go to prison than pay,’ said Leon truthfully.

So they committed him to the local gaol as he had expected. Twenty-one days later, looking very brown and fit, he burst into the flat and Manfred turned with outstretched hands.

‘I heard you were back,’ said Leon joyously. ‘I’ve had a great time! They rather upset my calculations by giving me three weeks instead of a month, and I was afraid that I’d get back before you.’

‘I came back yesterday,’ said George and his eyes strayed to the sideboard.

Six large Spanish onions stood in a row and Leon Gonsalez doubled up with mirth. It was not until he had changed into more presentable garments that he told of his experience.

‘Bash Jones had undoubtedly homicidal plans,’ he said. ‘The most extraordinary case of facial anamorphosis I have seen. I worked with him in the tailor’s shop. He is coming out next Monday.’

‘He welcomed you, I presume, when he discovered you were from Deptford?’ said Manfred dryly.

Leon nodded.

‘He intends to kill his wife on the third of the month, which is the day after he is released,’ he said.

‘Why so precise?’ asked Manfred in surprise.

‘Because that is the only night she sleeps in the house alone. There are usually two young men lodgers who are railwaymen and these do duty until three in the morning on the third of every month.’

‘Is this the truth or are you making it up?’ asked Manfred.

‘I did make it up,’ admitted Gonsalez. ‘But this is the story I told and he swallowed it eagerly. The young men have no key, so they come in by the kitchen door which is left unlocked. The kitchen door is reached by a narrow passage which runs the length of Little Mill Street and parallel with the houses. Oh yes, he was frightfully anxious to secure information, and he told me that he would never come back to gaol again except for a short visit. An interesting fellow. I think he had better die,’ said Leon, with some gravity. ‘Think of the possibilities for misery, George. This unfortunate girl, happy in her friends, well-bred – ’

‘Would you say that,’ smiled Manfred, ‘with Bash for a father?’

‘Well-bred, I repeat,’ said Gonsalez firmly. ‘Breeding is merely a quality acquired through life-long association with gentle-folk. Put the son of a duke in the slums and he’ll grow up a peculiar kind of slum child, but a slum child nevertheless. Think of the horror of it. Dragging this child back to the kennels of Deptford, for that will be the meaning of it, supposing this Mr Bash Jones does not kill his wife. If he kills her then the grisly truth is out. No, I think we had better settle this Mr Bash Jones.’

‘I agree,’ said Manfred, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar, and Leon Gonsalez sat down at the table with Browning’s poems open before him and read, pausing now and again to look thoughtfully into space as he elaborated the method by which Bash Jones should die.

On the afternoon of the third, Mrs Amelia Jones was called away by telegram. She met Leon Gonsalez at Paddington Station.

‘You have brought your key with you, Mrs Jones?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the woman in surprise, then, ‘Do you know that my husband is out of prison?’

‘I know, I know,’ said Gonsalez, ‘and because he is free I want you to go away for a couple of nights. I have some friends in Plymouth. They will probably meet you at the station and if they do not meet you, you must go to this address.’

He gave her an address of a boarding-house that he had secured from a Plymouth newspaper.

‘Here is some money. I insist upon your taking it. My friends are very anxious to help you.’

She was in tears when he left her.

‘You are sure you have locked up your house?’ said Leon at parting.

‘I’ve got the key here, sir.’

She opened her bag and he noticed that now her hands trembled all the time.

‘Let me see,’ said Leon taking the bag in his hand and peering at the interior in his short-sighted way. ‘Yes, there it is.’

He put in his hand, brought it out apparently empty and closed the bag again.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Jones,’ he said, ‘and don’t lose courage.’

When dark fell Leon Gonsalez arrived in Little Mill Street carrying a bulky something in a black cloth bag. He entered the house unobserved, for the night was wet and gusty and Little Mill Street crouched over its scanty fires.

He closed the door behind him and with the aid of his pocket lamp found his way to the one poor bedroom in the tiny house. He turned down the cover, humming to himself, then very carefully he removed the contents of the bag, the most important of which was a large glass globe.

Over this he carefully arranged a black wig and searched the room for articles of clothing which might be rolled into a bundle. When he had finished his work, he stepped back and regarded it with admiration. Then he went downstairs, unlocked the kitchen door, and to make absolutely certain crossed the little yard and examined the fastening of the gate which led from the lane. The lock apparently was permanently out of order and he went back satisfied.

In one corner of the room was a clothes hanger, screened from view by a length of cheap cretonne. He had cleared this corner of its clothing to make up the bundle on the bed. Then he sat down in a chair and waited with the patience which is the peculiar attribute of the scientist.

The church bells had struck two when he heard the back gate creak, and rising noiselessly took something from his pocket and stepped behind the cretonne curtain. It was not a house in which one could move without sound, for the floor-boards were old and creaky and every stair produced a creak. But the man who was creeping from step to step was an artist and Leon heard no other sound until the door slowly opened and a figure came in.

It moved with stealthy steps across the room and stood for a few seconds by the side of the bulky figure in the bed. Apparently he listened and was satisfied. Then Leon saw a stick rise and fall.

Bash Jones did not say a word until he heard the crash of the broken glass. Then he uttered an oath and Leon heard him fumble in his pocket for his matches. The delay was fatal. The chlorine gas, compressed at a pressure of many atmospheres, surged up around him. He choked, turned to run and fell, and the yellow gas rolled over him in a thick and turgid cloud.

Leon Gonsalez stepped from his place of concealment and the dying man staring up saw two enormous glass eyes and the snout-like nozzle of the respirator and went bewildered to his death.

Leon collected the broken glass and carefully wrapped the pieces in his bag. He replaced the clothes with the most extraordinary care and put away the wig and tidied the room before he opened the window and the door. Then he went to the front of the house and opened those windows too. A south-wester was blowing and by the morning the house would be free from gas.

Not until he was in the back yard did he remove the gas mask he wore and place that too in the bag.

An hour later he was in his own bed in a deep, untroubled sleep.

Mrs Jones slept well that night, and in a dainty cubicle somewhere in the west of England a slim girlish figure in pyjamas snuggled into her pillow and sighed happily.

But Bash Jones slept soundest of all.

The Man who was Happy

On a pleasant evening in early summer, Leon Gonsalez descended from the top of a motor-omnibus at Piccadilly Circus and walking briskly down the Haymarket, turned into Jermyn Street apparently oblivious of the fact that somebody was following on his heels.

Manfred looked up from his writing as his friend came in, and nodded smilingly as Leon took off his light overcoat and made his way to the window overlooking the street.

‘What are you searching for so anxiously, Leon?’ he asked.

‘Jean Prothero, of 75 Barside Buildings, Lambeth,’ said Leon, not taking his eyes from the street below. ‘Ah, there he is, the industrious fellow!’

‘Who is Jean Prothero?’

Gonsalez chuckled.

‘A very daring man,’ evaded Leon, ‘to wander about the West End at this hour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Oh no, not so daring,’ he said, ‘everybody who is anybody is dressing for dinner just now.’

‘A ladder larcenist?’ suggested Manfred, and Leon chuckled again.

‘Nothing so vulgar,’ he said. ‘By ladder larcenist I presume you mean the type of petty thief who puts a ladder against a bedroom window whilst the family are busy at dinner downstairs, and makes off with the odd scraps of jewellery he can find?’

Manfred nodded.

‘That is the official description of this type of criminal,’ he agreed.

Leon shook his head.

‘No, Mr Prothero is interesting,’ he said. ‘Interesting for quite another reason. In the first place, he is a bald-headed criminal, or potential criminal, and as you know, my dear George, criminals are rarely bald. They are coarse-haired, and they are thin-haired: they have such personal eccentricities as parting their hair on the wrong side, but they are seldom bald. The dome of Mr Prothero’s head is wholly innocent of hair of any kind. He is the second mate of a tramp steamer engaged in the fruit trade between the Canary Islands and Southampton. He has a very pretty girl for a wife and, curiously enough, a ladder larcenist for a brother-in-law, and I have excited his suspicion quite unwittingly. Incidentally,’ he added as though it were a careless afterthought, ‘he knows that I am one of the Four Just Men.’

Manfred was silent.

Then: ‘How does he know that?’ he asked quietly.

Leon had taken off his coat and had slipped his arms into a faded alpaca jacket; he did not reply until he had rolled and lit an untidy Spanish cigarette.

‘Years ago, when there was a hue and cry after that pernicious organisation, whose name I have mentioned, an organisation which, in its humble way, endeavoured to right the injustice of the world and to mete out to evil-doers the punishment which the ponderous machinery of the Law could not inflict, you were arrested, my dear George, and
consigned to
Chelmsford
Gaol.
From there
you
made a miraculous escape, and on reaching the coast you and I and Poiccart were taken aboard the yacht of our excellent friend the Prince of the Asturias, who honoured us by acting as the fourth of our combination.’

Manfred nodded.

‘On that ship was Mr Jean Prothero,’ said Leon. ‘How he came to be on the yacht of His Serene Highness I will explain at a later stage, but assuredly he was there. I never forget faces, George, but unfortunately I am not singular in this respect. Mr Prothero remembered me, and seeing me in Barside Buildings – ’

‘What were you doing in Barside Buildings?’ asked Manfred with a faint smile.

‘In Barside Buildings,’ replied Leon impressively, ‘are two men unknown to one another, both criminals, and both colour-blind!’

Manfred put down his pen and turned, prepared for a lecture on criminal statistics, for he had noticed the enthusiasm in Gonsalez’s voice.

‘By means of these two men,’ said Leon joyously, ‘I am able to refute the perfectly absurd theories which both Mantegazza and Scheml have expounded, namely, that criminals are never colour-blind. The truth is, my dear George, both these men have been engaged in crime since their early youth. Both have served terms of imprisonment, and what is more important, their fathers were colour-blind and criminals!’

‘Well, what about Mr Prothero?’ said Manfred, tactfully interrupting what promised to be an exhaustive disquisition upon optical defects in relation to congenital lawlessness.

‘One of my subjects is Prothero’s brother-in-law, or rather, half-brother to Mrs Prothero, her own father having been a blameless carpenter, and lives in the flat overhead. These flats are just tiny dwelling places consisting of two rooms and a kitchen. The builders of Lambeth tenements do not allow for the luxury of a bathroom. In this way I came to meet Mrs Prothero whilst overcoming the reluctance of her brother to talk about himself.’

‘And you met Prothero, too, I presume,’ said Manfred patiently.

‘No, I didn’t meet him, except by accident. He passed on the stairs and I saw him give me a swift glance. His face was in the shadow and I did not recognise him until our second meeting, which was today. He followed me home. As a matter of fact,’ he added, ‘I have an idea that he followed me yesterday, and only came today to confirm my place of residence.’

‘You’re a rum fellow,’ said Manfred.

‘Maybe I’ll be rummer,’ smiled Leon. ‘Everything depends now,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘upon whether Prothero thinks that I recognised him. If he does – ’

Leon shrugged his shoulders.

‘Not for the first time have I fenced with death and overcome him,’ he said lightly.

Manfred was not deceived by the flippancy of his friend’s tone.

‘As bad as that, eh?’ he said, ‘and more dangerous for him, I think,’ he added quietly. ‘I do not like the idea of killing a man because he has recognised us – that course does not seem to fit in with my conception of justice.’

‘Exactly,’ said Leon briskly, ‘and there will be no need, I think. Unless, of course – ’ he paused.

‘Unless what?’ asked Manfred.

‘Unless Prothero really does love his wife, in which case it may be a very serious business.’

The next morning he strolled into Manfred’s bedroom carrying the cup of tea which the servant usually brought, and George stared up at him in amazement.

‘What is the matter with you, Leon, haven’t you been to bed?’

Leon Gonsalez was dressed in what he called his ‘pyjama outfit’ – a grey flannel coat and trousers, belted at the waist, a silk shirt open at the neck and a pair of light slippers constituted his attire, and Manfred, who associated this costume with all-night studies, was not astonished when Leon shook his head.

‘I have been sitting in the dining-room, smoking the pipe of peace,’ he said.

‘All night?’ said Manfred in surprise. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night and I saw no light.’

‘I sat in the dark,’ admitted Leon. ‘I wanted to hear things.’

Manfred stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Is it as bad as that? Did you expect – ’

Leon smiled. ‘I didn’t expect what I got,’ he said. ‘Will you do me a favour, my dear George?’

‘What is your favour?’

‘I want you not to speak of Mr Prothero for the rest of the day. Rather, I wish you to discuss purely scientific and agricultural matters, as becomes an honest Andalusian farmer, and moreover to speak in Spanish.’

Manfred frowned.

‘Why?’ and then: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t get out of the habit of being mystified, you know, Leon. Spanish and agriculture it shall be, and no reference whatever to Prothero.’

Leon was very earnest and Manfred nodded and swung out of bed.

‘May I talk of taking a bath?’ he asked sardonically.

Nothing particularly interesting happened that day. Once Manfred was on the point of referring to Leon’s experience, and divining the drift of his thought, Leon raised a warning finger.

Gonsalez could talk about crime, and did. He talked of its more scientific aspects and laid particular stress upon his discovery of the colour-blind criminal. But of Mr Prothero he said no word.

After they had dined that night, Leon went out of the flat and presently returned.

‘Thank heaven we can now talk without thinking,’ he said.

He pulled a chair to the wall and mounted it nimbly. Above his head was a tiny ventilator fastened to the wall with screws. Humming a little tune he turned a screwdriver deftly and lifted the little grille from its socket, Manfred watching him gravely.

‘Here it is,’ said Leon. ‘Pull up a chair, George.’

‘It’ proved to be a small flat brown box four inches by four in the centre of which was a black vulcanite depression.

‘Do you recognise him?’ said Leon. ‘He is the detectaphone – in other words a telephone receiver fitted with a microphonic attachment.’

‘Has somebody been listening to all we’ve been saying?’

Leon nodded.

‘The gentleman upstairs has had a dull and dreary day. Admitting that he speaks Spanish, and that I have said nothing which has not illuminated that branch of science which is my particular hobby,’ he added modestly, ‘he must have been terribly bored.’

‘But – ’ began Manfred.

‘He is out now,’ said Gonsalez. ‘But to make perfectly sure – ’

With deft fingers he detached one of the wires by which the box was suspended in the ventilator shaft.

‘Mr Prothero came last night,’ he explained. ‘He took the room upstairs, and particularly asked for it. This I learnt from the head waiter – he adores me because I give him exactly three times the tip which he gets from other residents in these service flats, and because I tip him three times as often. I didn’t exactly know what Prothero’s game was, until I heard the tap-tap of the microphone coming down the shaft.’

He was busy re-fixing the grille of the ventilator – presently he jumped down.

‘Would you like to come to Lambeth today? I do not think there is much chance of our meeting Mr Prothero. On the other hand, we shall see Mrs Prothero shopping at eleven o’clock in the London Road, for she is a methodical lady.’

‘Why do you want me to see her?’ asked Manfred.

He was not usually allowed to see the workings of any of Leon’s schemes until the dramatic dénouement, which was meat and drink to him, was near at hand.

‘I want you, with your wide knowledge of human nature, to tell me whether she is the type of woman for whom a bald-headed man would commit murder,’ he said simply, and Manfred stared at him in amazement.

‘The victim being – ?’

‘Me!’ replied Gonsalez, and doubled up with silent laughter at the blank look on Manfred’s face.

It was four minutes to eleven exactly when Manfred saw Mrs Prothero. He felt the pressure of Leon’s hand on his arm and looked.

‘There she is,’ said Leon.

A girl was crossing the road. She was neatly, even well-dressed for one of her class. She carried a market bag in one gloved hand, a purse in the other.

‘She’s pretty enough,’ said Manfred.

The girl had paused to look in a jeweller’s window and Manfred had time to observe her. Her face was sweet and womanly, the eyes big and dark, the little chin firm and rounded.

‘What do you think of her?’ said Leon.

‘I think she’s rather a perfect specimen of young womanhood,’ said Manfred.

‘Come along and meet her,’ said the other, and took his arm.

The girl looked round at first in surprise, and then with a smile. Manfred had an impression of flashing white teeth and scarlet lips parted in amusement. Her voice was not the voice of a lady, but it was quiet and musical.

‘Good morning, Doctor,’ she said to Leon. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world so early in the morning.’

‘Doctor,’ noted Manfred.

The adaptable Gonsalez assumed many professions for the purpose of securing his information.

‘We have just come from Guy’s Hospital. This is Dr Selbert,’ he introduced Manfred. ‘You are shopping, I suppose?’

She nodded.

‘Really, there was no need for me to come out, Mr Prothero being away at the Docks for three days,’ she replied.

‘Have you seen your brother this morning?’ asked Leon.

A shadow fell over the girl’s face.

‘No,’ she said shortly.

Evidently, thought Manfred, she was not particularly proud of her relationship. Possibly she suspected his illicit profession, but at any rate she had no desire to discuss him, for she changed the subject quickly.

They talked for a little while, and then with an apology she left them and they saw her vanish through the wide door of a grocer’s store.

‘Well, what do you think of her?’

‘She is a very beautiful girl,’ said Manfred quietly.

‘The kind of girl that would make a bald-headed criminal commit a murder?’ asked Leon, and Manfred laughed.

‘It is not unlikely,’ he said, ‘but why should he murder you?’

‘
Nous verrons
,’ replied Leon.

When they returned to their flat in the afternoon the mail had been and there were half a dozen letters. One bearing a heavy crest upon the envelope attracted Manfred’s attention.

‘Lord Pertham,’ he said, looking at the signature. ‘Who is Lord Pertham?’

‘I haven’t a Who’s Who handy, but I seem to know the name,’ said Leon. ‘What does Lord Pertham want?’

‘I’ll read you the note,’ said Manfred.

‘Dear Sir,’ [it read] ‘Our mutual friend Mr Fare of Scotland Yard is dining with us tonight at Connaught Gardens, and I wonder whether you would come along? Mr Fare tells me that you are one of the cleverest criminologists of the century, and as it is a study which I have made particularly my own, I shall be glad to make your acquaintance.’

It was signed ‘Pertham’ and there was a postscript running –

‘Of course, this invitation also includes your friend.’

Manfred rubbed his chin.

‘I really do not want to dine fashionably tonight,’ he said.

‘But I do,’ said Leon promptly. ‘I have developed a taste for English cooking, and I seem to remember that Lord Pertham is an epicurean.’

Promptly at the hour of eight they presented themselves at the big house standing at the corner of Connaught Gardens and were admitted by a footman who took their hats and coats and showed them into a large and gloomy drawing-room.

A man was standing with his back to the fire – a tall man of fifty with a mane of grey hair, that gave him an almost leonine appearance.