The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 7

was in his study, making a very careful microscopic examination. The room was in darkness save for the light which came from a powerful electric lamp directed to the reflector of the instrument. What he found on the slide was evidently satisfactory, for by and by he removed the strip of glass, threw it into the fire and turned on the lights.

He took up a newspaper cutting from the table and read it. It interested him, for it was an account of the sudden death of Mr. Augustus Fanks.

“The deceased gentleman,” ran the account, “was engaged with Colonel Black, the famous financier, discussing the details of the new iron amalgamation, when he suddenly collapsed and, before medical assistance could be procured, expired, it is believed, of heart failure.”

There had been no inquest, for Fanks had in truth a weak heart and had been under the care of a specialist, who, since his speciality was heart trouble, discovered symptoms of the disease on the slightest pretext.

So that was the end of Fanks. The doctor nodded slowly. Yes, that was the end of him. And now? He took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed to him in the round sprawling calligraphy of Theodore Sandford.

Essley had met him in the early days when Sandford was on friendly terms with Black. He had been recommended to the ironmaster by the financier, and had treated him for divers ills. “My suburban doctor,” Sandford had called him.

“Though I am not seeing eye to eye with our friend Black,” he wrote, “and we are for the moment at daggers drawn, I trust that this will not affect our relationships, the more so since I wish you to see my daughter.”

Essley remembered having seen her once: a tall girl, with eyes that danced with laughter and a complexion of milk and roses.

He put the letter in his pocket, went into his little surgery and locked the door. When he came out he wore his long overcoat and carried a little satchel. He had just time to catch a train for the City, and at eleven o’clock he found himself in Sandford’s mansion.

“You are a weird man, doctor,” said the ironmaster with a smile, as he greeted his visitor. “Do you visit most of your patients by night?”

“My aristocratic patients,” said the other coolly.

“A bad job about poor Fanks,” said the other. “He and I were only dining together a few weeks ago. Did he tell you that he met a man who knew you in Australia?”

A shadow of annoyance passed over the other’s face. “Let us talk about your daughter,” he said brusquely. “What is the matter with her?”

The ironmaster smiled sheepishly. “Nothing, I fear; yet you know, Essley, she is my only child, and I sometimes imagine that she is looking ill. My doctor in Newcastle tells me that there is nothing wrong with her.”

“I see,” said Essley. “Where is she?”

“She is at the theatre,” confessed the father. “You must think I am an awful fool to bring you up to town to discuss the health of a girl who is at the theatre, but something upset her pretty badly last night, and I was to-day glad to see her take enough interest in life to visit a musical comedy.”

“Most fathers are fools,” said the other. “I will wait till she comes in.” He strolled to the window and looked out. “Why have you quarrelled with Black?” he asked suddenly.

The older man frowned. “Business,” he said shortly. “He is pushing me into a corner. I helped him four years ago—”

“He helped you, too.” interrupted the doctor.

“But not so much as I helped him,” said the other obstinately. “I gave him his chance. He floated my company and I profited, but he profited more. The business has now grown to such vast proportions that it will not pay me to come in. Nothing will alter my determination.”

“I see.” Essley whistled a little tune as he walked again to the window.

Such men as this must be broken, he thought. Broken! And there was only one way: that daughter of his. He could do nothing to-night, that was evident—nothing.

“I do not think I will wait for your daughter,” he said. “Perhaps I will call in tomorrow evening.”

“I am so sorry—”

But the doctor silenced him. “There is no need to be sorry,” he said with acerbity; “you will find my visit charged in my bill.”

The ironmaster laughed as he saw him to the door. “You are almost as good a financier as your friend,” he said.

“Almost,” said the doctor dryly.

His waiting taxi dropped him at Charing Cross, and he went straight to the nearest call-office and rang up a Temperance Hotel at Bloomsbury. He had reasons for wishing to meet a Mr. Weld who knew him in Australia.

He had no difficulty in getting the message through. Mr. Weld was in the hotel. He waited whilst the attendant found him. By and by a voice spoke:

“I am Weld—do you want me?”

“Yes; my name is Cole. I knew you in Australia. I have a message for you from a mutual friend. Can you see me to-night?”

“Yes; where?”

Dr. Essley had decided the place of meeting. “Outside the main entrance of the British Museum,” he said. “There are few people about at this time of night, and I am less likely to miss you.”

There was a pause at the other end of the wire. “Very good,” said the voice; in a quarter of an hour?”

“That will suit me admirably—good-bye.”

He hung up the receiver. Leaving his satchel at the cloak-room at Charing Cross Station, he set out to walk to Great Russell Street. He would take no cab. There should be no evidence of that description. Black would not like it. He smiled at the thought. Great Russell Street was deserted, save for a constant stream of taxi-cabs passing and repassing and an occasional pedestrian. He found his man waiting; rather tall and slight, with an intellectual, refined face.

“Dr. Essley?” he asked, coming forward as the other halted.

“That is my—” Essley stopped. “My name is Cole,” he said harshly. “What made you think I was Essley?”

“Your voice,” said the other calmly. “After all, it does not matter what you call yourself; I want to see you.”

“And I you,” said Essley.

They walked along side by side until they came to a side street.

“What do you want of me?” asked the doctor.

The other laughed.

“I wanted to see you. You are not a bit like the Essley I knew. He was slighter and had not your colouring, and I was always under the impression that the Essley who went up into the bush died.”

“It is possible,” said Essley in an absent way. He wanted to gain time. The street was empty. A little way down there was a gateway in which a man might lie unobserved until a policeman came.

In his pocket he had an impregnated feather carefully wrapped up in lint and oiled silk. He drew it from his pocket furtively and with his hands behind him he stripped it of its covering.

“… in fact, Dr. Essley,” the man was saying, “I am under the impression that you are an impostor.”

Essley faced him. “You think too much,” he said in a low voice, “and after all, I do not recognize—turn your face to the light.”

The young man obeyed. It was a moment. Quick as thought the doctor raised the feather…

A hand of steel gripped his wrist. As if from the ground, two other men had appeared. Something soft was thrust into his face; a sickly aroma overpowered him. He struggled madly, but the odds were too many, and then a shrill police-whistle sounded and he dropped to the ground…

He awoke to find a policeman bending over him. Instinctively he put his hand to his head.

“Hurt, sir?” asked the man.

“No.” He struggled to his feet and stood unsteadily. “Did you capture the men?”

“No, sir, they got away. We just spotted them as they downed you, but, bless your heart, they seemed to be swallowed up by the earth.”

He looked around for the feather: it had disappeared. With some reluctance he gave his name and address to the constable, who called a taxi-cab.

“You’re sure you’ve lost nothing, sir?” asked the man.

“Nothing,” said Essley testily. “Nothing—look here, constable, do not report this.” He slipped a pound into the man’s hand. “I do not wish this matter to get into the papers.”

The constable handed the money back. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I couldn’t take this even if I was willing.” He looked round quickly and lowered his voice. “I’ve got a gentleman from the Yard with me,” he said, “one of the assistant commissioners.”

Essley followed the direction of the policeman’s eyes. In the shadow of the wall a man was standing.

“He was the chap who saw you first,” said the policeman, young and criminally loquacious.

Obeying some impulse he could not define, Essley walked towards the man in the shadow.

“I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he said. “I can only hope that you will add to your kindness by letting the matter drop—I should hate to see the thing referred to in the newspapers.”

“I suppose you would,” said the unknown. He was in evening dress, and the red glow of his cigar rather concealed than defined his face. “But this is a matter, Dr. Essley, where you must allow us full discretion.”

“How do you know my name?” asked the doctor suspiciously. The other smiled in the darkness and turned away.

“One moment!” Essley took a stride forward and peered into the other’s face. “I seem to recognize your voice,” he said.

“That is possible,” said the other, and pushed him gently, but firmly, away. Essley gasped. He himself was no weakling, but this man had an arm like steel.

“I think you had better go, sir,” said the police-constable anxiously. He desired neither to offend an obviously influential member of the public nor his superior—that mysterious commissioner who appeared and disappeared in the various divisions and who left behind him innumerable casualties amongst the different members of the force.

“I’ll go,” said the doctor, “but I should like to know this gentleman’s name.”

“That cannot possibly interest you,” said the stranger, and Essley shrugged his shoulders. With that he had to be content. He drove home to Forest Hill, thinking, thinking. Who were these three—what object had they? Who was the man who had stood in the shadows? Was it possible that his assailants were acting in collusion with the police?

He was no nearer the solution when he reached his home. He unlocked the door and let himself in. There was nobody in the house but himself and the old woman upstairs. His comings and goings were so erratic that he had organized a system which allowed him the most perfect freedom of movement.

There must be an end to Dr. Essley, he decided. Essley must disappear from London. He need not warn Black—Black would know. He would settle the business of the iron-master and his daughter, and then—there would be a finish.

He unlocked his study, entered and switched on the lights. There was a letter on his writing-table, a letter enclosed in a thin grey envelope. He picked it up and examined it. It had been delivered by hand, and bore his name written in a firm hand. He looked at the writing-table and started back. The letter had been written in the room and blotted on the pad!

There was no doubt at all about it. The blotting-paper had been placed there fresh that day, and the reverse of the bold handwriting on the envelope was plain to see. He looked at the envelope again.

It could not have been a patient: he never admitted patients—he had none worth mentioning. The practice was a blind. Besides, the door had been locked, and he alone had the key. He tore the envelope open and took out the contents. It was a half-sheet of note-paper. The three lines of writing ran—

“You escaped to-night, and have only seven days to prepare yourself for the fate which awaits you. THE FOUR JUST MEN.”

He sank into his chair, crushed by the knowledge. They were the Just Men—and he had escaped them. The Just Men! He buried his face in his hands and tried to think. Seven days they gave him. Much could be done in seven days. The terror of death was upon him, he who had without qualm or remorse sent so many on the long journey. But this was he—himself! He clutched at his throat and glared round the room. Essley the poisoner—the expert; a specialist in death—the man who had revived the lost art of the Medicis and had hoodwinked the law. Seven days! Well, he would settle the business of the ironmaster. That was necessary to Black.

He began to make feverish preparations for the future. There were no papers to destroy. He went into the surgery and emptied three bottles down the sink. The fourth he would want. The fourth had been useful to Black: a little green bottle with a glass stopper. He slipped it into his pocket.

He let the tap run to wash away all trace of the drug he had spilt. The bottles he smashed and threw into a waste-bin.

He went upstairs to his room, but he could not sleep. He locked his door and put a chair against it. With a revolver in his hand, he searched the cupboard and beneath the bed. He placed the revolver under his pillow and tried to sleep.

Next morning found him haggard and ill, but none the less he made his toilet with customary care. Punctually at noon he presented himself at Hampstead and was shown into the drawing-room. The girl was alone when he entered. He noted with approval that she was very beautiful.

That May Sandford did not like him he knew by instinct. He saw the cloud come to her pretty face as he came into her presence, and was amused in his cold way.

“My father is out.” she said.

“That is good,” said Essley, “for now we can talk.” He seated himself without invitation.

“I think it is only right to tell you, Dr. Essley, that my father’s fears regarding me are quite groundless.”

At that moment the ironmaster came in and shook hands warmly with the doctor. “Well, how do you think she looks?” he asked.

“Looks tell you nothing,” said the other. It was not the moment for the feather. He had other things to do, and the feather was not the way. He chatted for a while and then rose. “I will send you some medicine,” he said. She pulled a wry face. “You need not worry to take it,” he said, with the touch of rancour that was one of his characteristics.

“Can you come to dinner on Tuesday?” asked Sandford.

Essley considered. This was Saturday—three days out of seven, and anything might turn up in the meantime. “Yes,” he said, “I will come.”

He took a cab to some chambers near the Thames Embankment. He had a most useful room there.