The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 16

house at Forest Hill stood untenanted. The red lamp before the door was unlit, and though the meagre furnishings had not been removed, the house, with its drawn blinds and grimy steps, had the desolate appearance of emptiness.

The whisper of a rumour had agitated the domestic circles of that respectable suburb—a startling rumour which, if it were true, might well cause Forest Hill to gasp in righteous indignation. “Dr.” Essley was an unauthorized practitioner, a fraud of the worst description, for he had taken the name and the style of a dead man.

“All I know,” explained Colonel Black, whom a reporter discovered at his office, “is that I met Dr. Essley in Australia, and that I was impressed by his skill. I might say,” he added in a burst of frankness, “that I am in a sense responsible for his position in England, for I not only advanced him money to buy his practice, but I recommended him to all my friends, and naturally I am upset by the revelation.”

No, he had no idea as to the “doctor’s” present location. He had last seen him a month before, when the “doctor” spoke of going to the Continent.

Colonel Black had as much to tell—and no more—to the detectives who came from Scotland Yard. They came with annoying persistence and never seemed tired of coming. They waited for him on the doorstep and in his office. They waited for him in the vestibules of the theatres, at the entrance doors of banks. They came as frequently as emissaries of houses to whom Colonel Black was under monetary obligation.

A week after the events chronicled in the last chapter. Colonel Black sat alone in his flat with a light heart. He had collected together a very considerable amount of money. That it was money to which he had no legal right did not disturb the smooth current of his thoughts. It was sufficient that it was money, and that a motor-car which might carry him swiftly to Folkestone was within telephone-call day and night. Moreover, he was alive.

The vengeance of an organization vowed against Dr. Essley had passed over the head of Colonel Black—he might be excused if he thought that the matter of a grey wig and a pair of shaggy eyebrows, added to some knowledge of medicine, had deceived the astute men who had come to England to track him down.

This infernal man Fellowe, who appeared and disappeared as if by magic, puzzled him—almost alarmed him. Fellowe was not one of the Four Just Men—instinct told him that much. Fellowe was an official.

A Sergeant Gurden who had been extremely useful to Black had been suddenly transferred to a remote division, and nobody knew why. With him had disappeared from his familiar beats a young police-constable who had been seen dining with Cabinet Ministers. It was very evident that there was cause for perturbation—yet, singularity enough, Colonel Black was cheerful; but there was a malignant quality to his cheerfulness. He busied himself with the destruction of such of his papers—and they were few—which he had kept by him.

He turned out an old pocket-book and frowned when he saw its contents. It was a wagon-lit coupon for the journey from Paris to Madrid, and was made out in the name of Dr. Essley—a mad slip which might have led to serious consequences, he told himself. He burnt the incriminating sheet and crumbled the ashes before he threw them into the fire-place.

It was dark before he had finished his preparations, but he made no attempt to light the room. His dress-suit was laid out in an adjoining room, his trunks stood packed. He looked at his watch. In half an hour he would be on his way to the Sandfords. Here was another risk which none but a madman would take—so he told himself, but he contemplated the outcome of his visit with equanimity.

He went into his bedroom and began his preparations, then remembered that he had left a bundle of notes on his writing-table, and went back. He found the notes and was returning when there was a click, and the room was flooded with light.

He whipped round with an oath, dropping his hand to his hip-pocket.

“Don’t move, please,” quietly.

“You!” gasped Black.

The tall man with the little pointed beard nodded. “Keep your hand away from your pocket, colonel,” he said; “there is no immediate danger.”

He was unarmed. The thin cigar between his white teeth testified his serenity. “De la Monte!” stammered Black.

Again the bearded man nodded. “The last time we met was in Cordova,” he said, “but you have changed since then.”

Black forced a smile.

“You are confusing me with Dr. Essley,” he said.

“I am confusing you with Dr. Essley,” agreed the other. “Yet I think I am justified in my confusion.”

He did not remove his cigar, seemed perfectly at ease, even going so far as to cast an eye upon a chair, inviting invitation. “Essley or Black,” he said steadily, “your day is already dusk, and the night is very near.”

A cold wave of terror swept over the colonel. He tried to speak, but his throat and his mouth were dry, and he could only make inarticulate noises. “To-night—now?” he croaked—his shaking hands went up to his mouth. Yet he was armed and the man before him bore no weapon. A quick movement of his hand and he would lay the spectre which had at one time terrorized Europe. He did not doubt that he was face to face with one of the dreaded Four, and he found himself endeavouring to memorize the face of the man before him for future use. Yet he did not touch the pistol which lay snug in his hip-pocket. He was hypnotized, paralysed by the cool confidence of the other. All that he knew was that he wanted the relief which could only come if this calm man were to go. He felt horribly trapped, saw no way of escape in the presence of this force.

The other divined what was going on in Black’s mind.

“I have only one piece of advice to offer you,” he said, “and that is this—keep away from the Sandfords’ dinner.”

“Why—why?” stammered Black.

The other walked to the fire-place and flicked the ash of his cigar into the grate.

“Because,” he said, without turning round, “at the Sandford dinner you come within the jurisdiction of the Four Just Men—who, as you may know, are a protecting force. Elsewhere—”

“Yes—elsewhere?”

“You come within the jurisdiction of the law. Colonel Black, for at this present moment an energetic young Assistant-Commissioner of Police is applying for a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murder.” With a little nod, Manfred turned his back and walked leisurely towards the door.

“Stop!” The words were hissed. Black, revolver in hand, was livid with rage and fear.

Manfred laughed quietly. He did not check his walk, but looked backward over his shoulder. “Let the cobbler stick to his last,” he quoted. “Poison, my dear colonel, is your last—or the knife in the case of Jakobs. An explosion, even of a Webley revolver, would shatter your nerves.”

He opened the door and walked out, closing it carefully behind him. Black sank into the nearest chair, his mouth working, the perspiration streaming down his face. This was the end. He was a spent force. He crossed the room to the telephone and gave a number. After a little while he got an answer.

Yes, the car was in readiness; there had been no inquiries. He hung up the telephone and called up six depots where cars could be hired. To each he gave the same instructions. Two cars were to be waiting—he changed the locality with each order. Two fast cars, each able to cover the eighty miles to Dover without fear of a breakdown.

“I shall take one,” he said, “the other must follow immediately behind—yes, empty. I am going to Dover to meet a party of people.” He would take no risk of a breakdown. The second car must be close at hand in case he had an accident with the first.

He was something of an organizer. In the short space of time he was at the telephone, he arranged the cars so that whatever avenue of escape he was forced to take he would find the vehicles waiting. This done, he completed his dressing. The reaction from the fear had come. He was filled with black hate for the men who had put a period to his career of villainy. Most of all he hated Sandford, the man who could have saved him. He would take the risk of the Four—take his chance with the police. Curiously, he feared the police least of all. One final blow he would strike and break the man whose obstinacy had broken him.

He was mad with anger—he saw nothing but the fulfilment of his plan of revenge. He went into his room, unlocked a cupboard and took out the green bottle. There was no need for the feather, he would do the job thoroughly.

He finished his dressing, pocketed his bank-notes, and slipped the little green bottle into his waistcoat pocket. One last look round he gave, then, with a sense of the old exhilaration which had been his before the arrival of Manfred, he put on his hat, threw an overcoat over his arm and went out.

It was a gay little party that assembled at the Great South Central Hotel. May Sandford had invited a girl friend, and Mr. Sandford had brought back the junior partner of one of the City houses he did business with. Black was late and did not arrive till a quarter of an hour after the time settled for dinner. Sandford had given orders for the meal to be served when the colonel came in.

“Sit down, Black,” said Sandford. There was a chair between the ironmaster and his daughter, and into this he dropped. His hand shook as he took up the spoon to his soup. He put the spoon down again and unfolded his serviette. A letter dropped out. He knew those grey envelopes now, and crushed the letter into his pocket without attempting to read it.

“Busy man, Black, eh?” smiled Sandford. He was a florid, hearty man with a wisp of white whisker on either side of his rubicund face, and in his pleasant moments he was a very lovable man. “You ought to be grateful I did not agree to the amalgamations—you would have been worked to death.”

“Yes,” said the colonel shortly. He stuck out his jaw—a trick he had when he was perturbed.

“In a way,” bantered the elder man, “you’re an admirable chap. If you were a little more reasonable you would be more successful.”

“Wouldn’t you call me successful?”

Sandford pouted thoughtfully. “Yes and no,” he said. “You are not altogether successful. You see, you have achieved what you would call success too easily.”

Colonel Black did not pursue the subject, nor did he encourage the other to go any further. He needed opportunity. For a time he had to sit patiently, joining in, with such scraps of speech as he could muster, the conversation that rippled about him.

At his left hand were the girl’s wine-glasses. She refused the lighter wines and drew forth a laughing protest from her father.

“Dearie, on your birthday—you must sip some champagne!”

“Champagne, then!” she said gaily. She was happy for many reasons, but principally because—well, just because.

That was the opportunity. Absent-mindedly he drew her glass nearer, then he found the bottle in his pocket. With one hand he removed the cork and spilt half the contents of the phial on to his serviette. He re-corked the bottle and slipped it into his pocket. He took the glass on to his lap. Twice he wiped the edge of it with the damp napkin. He replaced the glass unnoticed.

Now it was done he felt better. He leant back in his chair, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets. It was an inelegant attitude, but he derived a sense of comfort.

“Black, wake up, my dear fellow!” Sandford was talking to him, and he roused himself with a start. “My friend here was rude enough to comment on your hair.”

“Eh?” Black put up his hand to his head.

“Oh, it’s all right and it isn’t disarranged—but how long has it been white?”

“White?” He had heard of such things and was mildly interested. “White? Oh—er—quite a time.”

He did not further the discussion. The waiters were filling the glasses. He looked across to Sandford. How happy, how self-sufficient he was. He intercepted the tender little looks that passed between father and daughter. There was perfect sympathy between the two. It was a pity that in a minute or so one should be dead and the other broken. She so full of life, so splendid of shape, so fresh and lovely. He turned his head and looked at her. Curious, very curious, how frail a thing is life, that a milligram of a colourless fluid should be sufficient to snap the cord that binds soul to body. The waiter filled the glasses—first the girl’s, then his.

He raised his own with unconcern and drank it off.

The girl did not touch hers. She was talking to the man on her left. Black could see only the rounded cheek and one white shoulder. He waited impatiently.

Sandford tried to bring him into the conversation, but he refused to be drawn. He was content to listen, he said. To listen, to watch and to wait. He saw the slim white fingers close round the stem of the glass, saw her half raise it, still looking towards her partner. Black pushed his chair a little to one side as the glass reached her lips. She drank, not much, but enough. The colonel held his breath. She replaced the glass, still talking with the man on her left.

Black counted the slow seconds. He counted sixty—a hundred, oblivious to the fact that Sandford was talking to him. The drug had failed!

“Are you ill, colonel?”

Everybody was staring at him.

“Ill?” he repeated hoarsely. “No, I am not ill—why should I be ill?”

“Open one of those windows, waiter.”

A blast of cold air struck him and he shivered. He left the table hurriedly and went blundering blindly from the room. There was an end to it all. In the corridor of the hotel he came in his haste into collision with a man. It was the man who had called upon him some time before.

“Excuse me,” said the man, catching his arm. “Colonel Black, I believe.”

“Stand out of my way.”

Black spat out the words savagely.

“I am Detective-Sergeant Kay from Scotland Yard, and shall take you into custody.”

At the first hint of danger the colonel drew back. Suddenly his fist shot out and caught the officer under the jaw. It was a terrific blow and the detective was unprepared. He went down like a log.

The corridor was empty. Leaving the man upon the floor, the fugitive sped into the lobby. He was hatless, but he shaded his face and passed through the throng in the vestibule into the open air. He signalled a taxi. “Waterloo, and I will give you a pound if you catch my train.”

He was speeding down the Strand in less than a minute. He changed his instructions before the station was reached.

“I have lost the train—drop me at the corner of Eaton Square.”

At Eaton Square he paid the cabman and dismissed him. With little difficulty he found two closed cars that waited.

“I am Colonel Black,” he said, and the first chauffeur touched his cap. “Take the straightest road to Southampton and let the second man follow behind.” The car had not gone far before he changed his mind. “Go first to the Junior Turf Club in Pall Mall,” he said.

Arrived at the club, he beckoned the porter. “Tell Sir Isaac Tramber that he is wanted at once,” he directed.

Ikey was in the club—it was a chance shot of the colonel’s, but it bagged his man.

“Get your coat and hat,” said Black hurriedly to the flustered baronet.

“But—”

“No buts,” snarled the other savagely. “Get your coat and hat, unless you want to be hauled out of your club to the nearest police-station.”

Reluctantly Ikey went back to the club and returned in a few seconds struggling into his great-coat. “Now what the devil is this all about?” he demanded peevishly; then, as the light of a street lamp caught the colonel’s uncovered head, he gasped: “Good Lord! Your hair has gone white! You look just like that fellow Essley!”