The Ringer/Chapter 18

HE detective reserves of three divisions were out. Two cars were racing from Scotland Yard to the spot. Police cyclists were flying to every beat to warn the patrol men. Yet Alan knew it was all unnecessary; that the man who killed Peter would not be reached by any of the inquiries which would be set on foot that night.

The knife had been found about fifty yards from the station: a long, straight, butcher's knife. The stroke was the Ringer's own—the left-handed swing inwards and upwards that had settled a certain Toby in Silvertown years before.

"How the man walked the distance from where he was struck will remain a mystery to me till my dying day," said the doctor in tones of wonder. "The blow was fatal; he should have died right where he was struck. And yet he walked ... a dead man! That is inexplicable—one of the many mysteries which come to every surgeon in the course of his practice."

"You're getting your romance, doctor," said Alan quietly, and the doctor made a little face.

"I don't want any more of it, thank you," he said.

Alan looked at his watch. He had already lost time, and Meister's danger now was a terrific one. The police car was waiting at the door and the four men bundled in, and were hardly settled before the machine drew up at Meister's open door. Atkins was waiting under the cover of the glass awning, and had nothing more to report.

"I didn't want to break the door until you came in. There was no sound that I could hear. I went round the back of the house ... there's a light burning in his room, but I could see that, of course, from under his door."

"No sound!"

"None whatever."

Alan hurried into the house, followed by the manacled Haggitt and his custodian, Atkins and the doctor bringing up the rear. He went up the stairs and knocked at the door heavily. There was no answer. Hammering on the panel with his fist, he shouted the lawyer's name, but still there was no reply.

"Where is the housekeeper?" he asked. "Mrs. K.?"

"In her room, sir. At least, she was there a few hours before. But she's deaf."

"Stone deaf, I should say," said Alan, and then, "Stand back!"

He threw his whole weight against the door and the panel split.

"Have you got your stick?" he asked, and Atkins passed his police baton over his shoulder.

Presently a hole was made big enough to admit Wembury's arm, and groping, he found the key and turned it, and, flinging open the door, ran into the room. Mr. Meister sat in his chair, his mouth open, his hands still clasped, and though he no longer snored, the regular rise and fall of his breast showed that he was alive.

"Phew!" said Alan, and wiped his streaming forehead. "I've heard the expression 'dead to the world,' but this is certainly the first time I've seen a man in that state."

He shook the sleeping lawyer, but he might as well have shaken himself for all the effect it had upon the slumberer.

"Thank Gawd!" said a voice behind. It was Haggitt's trembling voice. "I never thought I'd be glad to see that old bird alive!"

Alan glanced up at the chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Only one light was burning, and he pointed.

"Put on the others," he said. "See if you can wake him, doctor."

Lomond lifted the sleeping man until he sat erect, and then let him fall back with a crash against the padded back of the chair. Mr. Meister mumbled something in his sleep, turned his head and began to snore.

"Have you tried burning his ears?" suggested the helpful Haggitt, and was sternly ordered to be quiet. "Can't a man express his emotions?" asked Mr. Haggitt wrathfully. "There's no law against that, is there? Mr. Wembury, is Peter dead?"

Wembury nodded, remembering that the man had been taken to the cells immediately after the tragedy had been discovered.

"Poor little nose!" said Haggitt with genuine regret. "I'll bet he shopped me, but I don't bear him any malice. That's the Ringer, my lad—you be careful!"

"Haggitt, where were you in this room when you felt the hand?" asked Alan. "Take the cuff off."

The handcuff was unlocked, and Haggitt moved to a place almost opposite the door. Between the door and the small settee was a supper table, which Wembury had seen the moment he came into the room. So Mary had not come: that was an instant cause of relief.

"I was here," said Haggitt. "The hand came from there." He pointed to the mystery door, but Wembury saw that the bolts were shot, the door locked, and the key hung in its place on the wall. It was impossible that anybody could have come into the room from that entrance without Meister's assistance.

He next turned his attention to the window. The chintz curtains had been pulled across; Haggitt had noticed this immediately. He had left them half drawn and window and grille open.

"Somebody's been here," he said emphatically. "I'm sure the old man hasn't moved. I left the bars unfastened."

The door leading to Mary's little office room was locked. So was the second door, which gave to the private staircase to Meister's own bedroom. He looked at the bolts again, and was certain they had not been touched that night. It was a dusty room; the carpet had not been beaten for months, and every footstep must stir up a little dust cloud. He wetted his finger, touched the knob of the bolt, and although he had handled it that afternoon, there were microscopic specks to tell him that the doorway had not been used.

Atkins was working at the sleeping Meister, shaking him gently, encouraged thereto by the uncomfortable snorts he provoked, but so far his efforts were unsuccessful. Wembury, standing by the supper table, looked at it thoughtfully.

"Supper for two," he said, picked up a bottle of champagne and examined it. "Cordon Rouge '11."

"He was expecting somebody," said Doctor Lomond wisely, and, when Wembury nodded: "A lady!"

"Why a lady?" asked Wembury irritably. "Men drink wine."

The doctor stooped and picked up a small silver dish, piled high with candy.

"But they seldom eat chocolates," he said, and Wembury laughed irritably.

"You're becoming a detective in spite of yourself. Meister has—queer tastes."

There was a small square morocco case under the serviette that the doctor moved. He opened it. From the velvet bed within there came the glitter and sparkle of diamonds.

"Is he the kind of man who gives these things to his—queer friends?" he asked with a quiet smile.

"I don't know." Wembury's answer was brusque to rudeness. "Wake up that man, sergeant."

Under the vigorous shakes of the stalwart police officer Meister opened his eyes and stared round.

"Hallo, people!" he said thickly. "Give me a drink."

He groped out for the bottle on the table, but Wembury moved it aside.

"I think you've had enough drink for one night. Meister. Pull yourself together. I've something unpleasant to tell you."

Meister looked at him stupidly.

"What's the time?" he asked slowly.

"Half-past twelve."

The answer partially sobered the man.

"Half-past twelve!" He staggered rockily to his feet. "Is she here?" he asked, holding on to the table.

"Is who here?" demanded Wembury with cold deliberation.

Mr. Meister shook his aching head.

"She said she'd come," he muttered. "She promised faithfully ... twelve o'clock. If she tries to fool me"

"Who is the 'she,' Meister?" asked Wembury, and the lawyer smiled foolishly.

"Nobody you know," he said.

"She was coming to keep you company, I suppose?" asked Wembury carelessly.

"You've got it.... Give me a drink."

"Peter is dead." It was Alan Wembury who rapped out the words, and the drunken hand went up to his head.

"Dead?" he asked dully. "Peter! Which Peter?"

"Try to understand what I'm saying, Meister. Peter the Nose has been killed."

The man was still dazed, hardly conscious of what was going on around him.

"Good job," he grunted. "Wish they were all dead, every one of 'em—Peter ... The Ringer ... wish they were all dead!"

And then, in his fuddled way, he saw Haggitt.

"You've come back, eh! Well, you can go again!"

"Hear what he says?" asked the eager Haggitt. "He's withdrawn the charge!"

"Have you lost your cash box?" asked Wembury.

"Eh? Lost ...?" He stumbled towards the drawer and pulled it open. "Gone!" he shrieked. "You took it!" He pointed a trembling finger to Sam. "You dirty thief...!"

"Steady, now," said Wembury, and caught him as he swayed. "We've got Haggitt; you can charge him in the morning."

"Stole my cash box!" He was maudlin in his anger and drunkenness. "Bit the hand that fed him!"

Mr. Haggitt's lips curled.

"I like your idea about feeding!" he said scornfully. "Cottage pie and rice puddin'!"

But Meister was not listening.

"Peter is dead ...! Give me a drink."

Wembury moved the bottle farther away.

"Do you realise what this means?" he asked. "The Ringer got Peter."

But he might have been talking to a man of wood.

"Good job," said Meister with drunken gravity, and tried to look at his watch. "Clear out: I've got a friend coming to see me."

"Your friend has a very poor chance of getting in. All the doors of this room are fastened, except where Atkins is on duty, and they will remain fastened."

Meister muttered something, tripped and would have fallen if Wembury had not caught him by the arm and lowered him again into the chair.

"The Ringer got Peter!" Meister sat with his head on his hands. "He'll have to be clever to get me.... I can't think to-night, but to-morrow I'll tell you where you can put your hands on him, Wembury. My boy, you're a smart detective, aren't you?" He chuckled foolishly. "Let's have another drink."

He had hardly spoken the words when two of the three lights in the chandelier went out.

"Who did that?" asked Wembury, turning sharply. "Did anybody touch the board?"

"No, sir," said Atkins, standing at the door and pointing to the switch. "Only I could have touched it."

Haggitt was near the window, examining the curtains, when the light had diverted his attention.

"Come over this side of the room: you're too near that window," said Wembury.

"I was wondering who pulled the curtains, Mr. Wembury," said Haggitt in a troubled voice. "I'll swear it wasn't the old man. He was sleeping when I left him and you couldn't get any answer by telephone, could you?"

He took hold of the curtain and pulled it aside and stared out into a pale face pressed against the pane: a pale, grinning face, that vanished instantly in the darkness.

At Haggitt's scream of terror Alan ran to the window.

"What was it?"

"I don't know," gasped Sam. "Something!"

"I saw something too," said Atkins.

Danger was at hand. There was a creepy feeling in Alan Wembury's spine, a cold shiver that sent the muscles of his shoulders rippling involuntarily.

"Take that man," he said.

Haggitt was hauled back to his position near the door and the handcuff snapped again. And then Alan heard a sound: the soft whimper of a woman crying. He held up his hand to enjoin silence.

"Somebody is crying—on the other side of the door!"

Whence did the sound come? In a fury he turned to the supine figure in the chair.

"Did you hear that, Meister?"

"A woman crying," said Meister, and laughed to himself. "How dam' funny!"

"Where is Mary Lenley?" Alan's hand gripped the lapel of his coat and drew him up. "Where is she? Tell me, Meister."

"Let me go, let me go!" shrilled the man. "What's the good of asking me?"

Alan released his hold.

"She's in this house somewhere. Search that room."

Atkins went into Mary's office and returned with a story of failure.

"Is she there?"

"No, sir," said Atkins, and locked the door after him.

"Meister, you're going to tell me the truth about this: where is Mary Lenley?" asked Alan, turning to the man.

The words were hardly out of his lips when all the lights in the room went out.

"Don't move, anybody!" whispered Alan. "Stand fast! Did you touch the switch, Atkins?"

"No, sir."

"Did any of you men touch the switch?"

There was a chorus of Noes.

Click!

Somebody had come into the room!

"Atkins, stand by Meister—feel along the table till you find him. Keep quiet, everybody."

Whoever it was, was in the room now. Alan heard the unquiet breathing, the rustle of a soft foot on the carpet, and waited. Suddenly there was a flicker of light. Only for a second it showed a white circle on the door of the safe, and was gone.

An electric hand lamp, and they were working at the safe. Still he did not move, though he was now in a position that would enable him to cut across the intruder's line of retreat.

He moved stealthily, both hands outstretched, his ears strained for the slightest sound. And then suddenly he gripped somebody, and nearly released his hold in his horror and amazement.

A woman! She was struggling frantically.

"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Let me go!" Only a whispered voice, strained, unrecognizable.

"I want you," he said, and then his knee struck something sharp and hard. It was the corner of the settee, and in the exquisite pain his hold was released. In another second she had escaped. When he put out his hands he grasped nothing.

"A light, somebody!"

As he spoke, he heard the thud of a closing door. It came from the direction of the mystery door.

"Strike a match. Haven't any of you men torches?" he shouted.

And then the lights came on. They looked at one another in amazement. There was nobody in the room save those who had been there when the lights went out, and the door was locked, bolted, had not been touched; the key still hung on the wall.

Alan stared; and then his eyes, travelling along the wall, were arrested by the sight of an open door. The safe!

"Look at that," he said.

The door was wide open. In the struggle something heavy had dropped on his foot, and now he saw it: a short hand torch. He stooped and picked it up.

"Who was it, sir?" said Atkins.

"It sounded like a woman's voice to me," said Lomond shrewdly. "The safe has been opened!"

Wembury nodded.

"Yes, the safe has been opened."

And then he heard a cry from the doctor and, looking round, saw him bending over the figure of Meister.

"Wembury, quick! My God! Look!... He's dead!"

"Dead?"

The doctor's hand went down and came back with a knife. He dropped it with a gasp of horror on the blotting pad.

"Stabbed to the heart," he said. "Murdered ... under our very eyes!"

"It must have been the woman who came into the room," Atkins said in hushed tones.

"That's impossible!" Wembury's voice was harsh and grating. "The woman who came into this room was never out of my hands until she escaped."

"She didn't pass here, sir," said Atkins. "She went through that door." He pointed.

Alan was again looking at the bolts.

"Locked and bolted on the inside," he said.

Then, from somewhere outside the room, came a laugh: a long, continuous, raucous laugh, as at a good joke, and the men listened and shivered, and even the rubicund face of Doctor Lomond changed colour.