The Ringer/Chapter 19

HE RINGER had kept his word. Under their very eyes he had come stealthily to his prey and struck.

Somebody was knocking at the door below. Alan was the first to recover his balance.

"Go down and see who that is, Atkins."

Atkins went down and opened the door. A woman stood in the darkness and the rain.

"Who is it?" he asked, and then he recognized Cora's voice, hollow with fear. "Come in, Mrs. Milton," said Atkins sharply, and, taking her up to the landing, called Wembury out.

One look at the drawn face of the Ringer's wife told him that she either knew or guessed. She was white to the lips.

"Has it happened?" she asked.

Wembury nodded.

"What made you think it would happen to-night?"

But she was sobbing and rocking as a woman demented, her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, God! Oh, my God!" she sobbed. "He told me he'd do it! He 'phoned me ... I begged him, I begged him ... Oh, God! Have you got him?"

He felt her quivering from head to foot as she raised her tear-stained face.

"No, we haven't got him—yet," he said.

"I hope you won't, I hope you won't!" she breathed. "Meister wasn't fit to live."

"Every man is fit to live, Cora Milton, unless the law of the land says otherwise," said Alan sternly. "When did you hear from him?"

"An hour ago. He told me he was going to do" she caught her breath—"do Meister."

"Did he say anything about the other man?"

She stared at him.

"The other man? What other man?"

"He killed Peter," said Alan.

She was open-mouthed, incredulous.

"It couldn't have been Arthur. If it was, then it was an accident. He never told me. Can I come in?"

Wembury shook his head.

"There's a thing here that no woman should see," he said. "Take her down, Atkins. Report straight away to the station-house, Cora: I want to see you."

She nodded and went blindly down the stairs on Atkins's arm, a woman racked with grief and fear.

Alan had opened the bolted ladies' door, and now he understood the mystery of the lights. Outside on the wall within reach of hand was a fuse box and switch which governed the lights of the room. Evidently it had been placed there because its unsightliness made it unsuitable for the room. He scared the life out of Atkins and the doctor by proving this, and he guessed, when he turned over the long-handled switch, that the lights went out throughout the house.

"It's all right," he said, as he came back to the room. "I was just testing the governor. Whoever it was went this way. The door into the garden is open."

"But how did they get through this door?" demanded Lomond.

"I don't know." He signalled to the second detective to take Haggitt away, and the man went not unwillingly to the less gruesome atmosphere of a police-court cell.

"Haggitt is cleared, at any rate: it could not have been he. "Wake the housekeeper," he said to Atkins, who came in at that moment, and the sergeant went downstairs, and the sound of his hammering on Mrs. K.'s door was audible. In five minutes Atkins returned.

"She's not in her room," he said. "It wasn't even locked."

"Oh!" said Alan blankly.

Atkins told him that the woman had been complaining that evening about the loneliness of the house, and had talked of going home that night to sleep with some friends she had in Flanders Lane.

"She probably went when Meister and I were at the station," explained Atkins.

The noise of an ambulance pulling up before the door interrupted them, and Wembury was glad of an excuse to hurry away. He was sick of bloodshed, and yet the real tragedy lay not with Peter or with Lewis Meister. He would find it presently in Malpas Mansions.

St. John's Church was booming one when Mary Lenley turned the key in the door of her flat and went in. She slipped the bolts before she realized that Johnny might be still out. But anyway she would hear him; she might not go to bed that night. Never had she felt so wakeful.

She lit the gas and sat down heavily by the table, making no attempt to remove hat or coat, her eyes fixed on the little black bag which lay on her knees. Presently, with a catch of her breath, she opened the bag and took out a blue envelope and put it on the table. That was the only satisfaction to be had out of that horrible experience. She had the proof!

She put her fingers into the envelope, half withdrew the long letter and thrust it back again. Then, rising, she slowly took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair, her eyes fixed on the blue envelope. Picking it up, she carried it to the fire, which was nearly out, and, poking together the red embers, she stirred a blaze. The envelope was halfway to the fire when she heard a sound coming from the kitchen and turned quickly.

"Is that you, Johnny?" she asked in a low voice.

He was in the doorway before she had finished her question.

"Hallo, darling!" he said.

He kept one hand behind him. He looked strangely dishevelled; there were white patches on the knees of his trousers. His collar was limp, though it was by no means warm that night.

"I didn't hear you come in. You're late?"

She nodded.

"Yes, I—I was detained."

"Is she very ill?" asked Johnny after a pause.

"Who?" The blank astonishment in her face betrayed her.

"You told me you were going to visit a sick friend."

She went red and white.

"I told you a lie," she said quietly, and for some reason he did not seem to resent the deception.

"Did you bolt the hall door?"

"Yes—why?"

Under the cover of her table Mary slipped the envelope back into her bag.

"If anybody comes, I'm not here," he said, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

"What is the matter?"

He did not reply to her question.

"Where is that tool bag of mine, girlie? You remember, the little red bag"

"It is in your room, I think."

She went into his room, found the tiny kit-bag and, bringing it back, put it on the table.

"What is wrong, Johnny?"

"Leave it, leave it," he said impatiently, and, turning his back to her, he rummaged in the bag and presently brought out a small, straight key.

"Ah! I thought it was there," he said, and then, looking past his arm, she saw the handcuff, and if she had not held on to the table she would have fallen.

"Johnny—oh!" she said faintly.

In a second he was by her side, and half lifted, half guided her to a chair.

"They took me to-night," he said quickly. "I went after the stuff, supposed to be planted before I went away. Meister told the police and they were on the roof waiting for me."

He put his hand tenderly on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, old girl," he said.

"How awful!" she breathed.

He walked across to the window and, pulling aside the curtain, peeped down into the deserted street.

"The police are watching the block. I climbed up from the back of the building," he said. "It was pretty easy; there's a service lift runs to this floor. When I go, it will be the same way."

He put his hand in his pocket, took out some money and counted it.

"Fifteen pounds: I think that will get me out."

"Meister told the police!" She was staring into vacancy. "It doesn't seem possible! I thought he would only tell—about the other crime."

"About the other crime?" said the puzzled man. "What other crime?"

"The thing you did a long time ago," she said in a low voice, "the forgery."

"Forgery?" He could hardly believe his ears. "I never committed a forgery in my life."

"This!" She slipped the blue envelope out of her bag and he took it from her hand, examined the address and the date stamp, and then, drawing out the letter, began to read. "What is this?" he asked.

"The proof that Meister held—the evidence. Burn it, Johnny," she begged, "please burn it!"

"There's nothing here worth burning," he said slowly; "only a letter from a man waiting trial and asking Meister to defend him."

She sprang to her feet, but he pressed her gently down.

"Now just tell me all about this," he said soothingly, and waited till she had governed the tempest of remorse that shook her like an aspen leaf.

"He said he had the evidence to send you to prison for life." She spoke jerkily, holding herself in hand. "Then he threatened to take it to Alan Wembury, only I promised" She stopped here.

"Yes? You promised—you only promised?"

She nodded. Johnny Lenley laughed contemptuously.

"He's a liar. How did you get this?"

"I took it—to-night."

The reply staggered him.

"You went to his house! Did he expect you—to-night?"

She nodded.

"Yes; I got into the room through the garden and the private staircase. He was to let me in, though I knew and could save him the trouble."

"Well?" he asked, when she checked again.

"I knew he had been drinking. I hoped he would be asleep. I had discovered how the door worked—I found it by accident only to-day—yesterday, wasn't it? I heard him snoring and I waited a long time before I could get the courage. It was horrible, waiting, Johnny. I was crying like a fool, but I had to do it. And then I turned out the lights: there's a fuse-box on the landing. I went in ... opened the safe ..." She covered her eyes with her hands. "It was awful! Alan Wembury was there!"

"Wembury?" he whispered.

"He caught me, but I managed to get away."

"Did he know it was you!"

She threw out her hands, indifferent in her despair.

"I don't know. It was quite dark. I got out of the room and put the lights on again. I had to do that. I wanted a light on the stairs and I had lost my torch."

His arm was round her now, his head against hers.

"Poor little girl!" he said softly.

She pushed him aside gently, got up from the chair and walked to the table and picked up the envelope.

"And it was for nothing—nothing!" she said. "Johnny, he was lying."

Suddenly his face hardened.

"My God! I'll settle with Meister."

She caught his arm as he reached the door.

"Johnny, you mustn't. Wait, wait! Let us be as sensible as we can. I feel half mad myself."

She covered her eyes with her two hands, and that old nervous trick of hers brought a little pang to his heart.

"Yes, you must go," she said. "I've a little money"

"I've got enough," he interrupted.

"They will be looking for you, Johnny. Every policeman will be watching for you. Can't you disguise yourself, boy? I've heard of men dressing as women"

He shook his head.

"My dear, I'm not the Ringer!" A little smile lit up his gloomy face for a second. "No, I'll have to take my chance and trust to my natural agility."

In his endeavour to calm her fears he was almost flippant.

"Get me some food, my dear," he said briskly. "I want to get a clear run before daylight. I'll make for the river; I know the skipper of one of the coast barges and perhaps he'll give me a lift."

She hurried out into the kitchen and came back with a tray, to find him sitting on the edge of the chair before the fire, his head between his hands. She saw by his face that his thoughts were unpleasant, and guessed that Meister had been the subject of his reflections.

"Hurry, Johnny," she said nervously, as she began to cut the bread, and the knife was halfway through the loaf when she heard a knock at the door. Brother and sister looked at one another. Johnny snatched up the bread, tore off the uncut slice and put it into his pocket.

"Wait till I open the window of my room," he whispered. "I closed it after I got in for fear of their seeing me from the street."

He took up the handcuffs from the table and dropped them into his pocket.

"Don't worry about me; I can get down the lift rope."

He went quickly to his room, closed and locked the door, and she heard the sound of the window sash being raised, and then went out to answer the knock.

She knew it was Alan Wembury before she opened the door, and her surprise was a pitiful simulation.

"Why, Alan! this is a rather late hour for calling, isn't it?"

"May I come in?" he said.

She stood aside to let him pass, and shut the door behind him, following him into the room, her heart in her mouth. She tried hard to appear unconcerned, even smiled at him.

"We don't usually receive callers at one o'clock in the morning," she said. "Won't you sit down, Alan?"

But he did not move his eyes from her, scanning her closely.

"You've just come in?"

"No—no—I've been in some time," she lied bravely.

"One of my men saw you come in a few minutes ago," said Alan.

He was looking now at the coat she had thrown across the back of a chair.

"I—well, I went out to post a letter," she said hastily, loathing herself for the subterfuge.

Alan did not pursue the subject.

"Is your brother here?" he asked.

"My brother? No, he's staying with some friends to-night. Did you want to see him?"

Alan's eyes caught the glitter of something on the table, and he picked it up: something that looked like a clock key.

"Do you know what this is? It's a handcuff key."

She did not answer, and the key fell with a clang on the table. His face was pale and sad, she thought, and wondered if he felt just a little bit unhappy. She hoped that he did, just as she hoped that Meister's story of police treachery was a lie.

Alan dropped his hands gently on her shoulders and compelled her eyes to his.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, in so soft a voice that the man who was listening in the next room did not hear him speak. "Why did you do it?"

"Johnny is my brother" she began.

"I'm not talking about your brother. I don't care a curse if we never see him again. Why did you go to Meister's house?"

She shrank back under the scrutiny, and the cry she uttered was involuntary. She could only look at him in wonder and fear, in the knowledge that he had recognized her. To her, the worst had happened.

"Let me see your hands," he said.

He held them palms upwards to the light, then gently turned them, inspecting finger by finger.

"Clean, of course!" he whispered. "I knew it could not have been you! You went there for something—I heard you crying."

She was very near to tears now, could not meet his eyes for fear of making a fool of herself.

"I was mad to go," she said.

"What did you expect to find?"

She looked past him at the table. He saw the envelope and letter and, dropping her hands, picked up the missive and read with a frown.

"This?"

"Yes," she said listlessly. "Don't think I'm mad, but I went to get that—I risked everything for that!"

"Risked the—the supper?" he said.

"You saw the table—that was the biggest risk of all," she said quietly.

"This," said Alan again, holding the letter at arm's length. "In the name of God, why?"

And then she told him; and as she reduced Meister's invention to words, the utter childishness of the plot seemed so apparent that she wondered if Alan would believe her. Apparently he did.

"You were trying to tell me about it at the station when Meister came in? He used it as a lever?"

She nodded.

"He wanted me to go to him."

"To-night?"

"Yes, at midnight."

He put down the letter. The Ringer had succeeded. Meister had doubly failed, and a big load was lifted from his heart.

"How did you get into the room? The door was locked from the inside," he asked, and the wraith of a smile flitted across her pale face.

"It was very easy. I will show you to-morrow." And then: "Mr. Meister knows I took the letter, of course? That was why you came?"

He was looking at her intently.

"When you were in that room"—his slow speech, the deadly earnestness in his tone, frightened her—"did you go anywhere near Meister?"

"I? No." The vague terror of the tragedy unknown but now dimly realized, was upon her.

"Did you take a knife with you?"

"Knife, Alan?" She clung desperately to his arm. "Alan, you're frightening me! What do you mean?"

"I mean that whilst you were in that room, Lewis Meister was murdered."

She put her hand to her mouth to stop the scream.

"Murdered, Alan! Oh, no! Not—murdered!"

"He was stabbed to death at the very moment you were in the room," said Wembury, "by somebody"

"By me!"

He spun round. Johnny Lenley was standing in the doorway of his room.

"By me," said Johnny again.

Alan's hand went out quickly.

"I want you, Lenley." He felt stifled, could hardly articulate the words. Johnny Lenley gave that crooked smile of his.

"Don't worry; I am going quietly, and I shall give you no trouble. If Meister is dead, I killed him."

The girl had stood paralysed with horror at the confession, and now she flung herself between the two men.

"It isn't true, it isn't true!" she gasped. "Alan, he's not telling the truth! He thinks he is shielding me, don't you, Johnny? I went alone to Meister's—it was impossible that Johnny could have been there—he didn't know till I told him just now...."

Very gently her brother put her aside.

"I did it. You needn't take any notice of this crazy girl. I followed her into the room when she put the lights out. I heard Meister talking—that was my guide to him"

Alan was standing before him now.

"Let me see your hands," he said, and turned them over quickly.

"I washed them when I came in," said Johnny. "You'll find no blood on them."

"You've still got the marks of the handcuff; where is it?"

Lenley took the steel circlet from his pocket, and Alan carried it to the table and examined it closely under the light.

"Did you wash this too?" he asked. "Now listen, Lenley: I'm taking you for burglary and breaking arrest. You were guided to Meister by his voice, were you?"

Lenley nodded.

"You will be interested to learn that he never uttered a sound after the lights went out! I respect you for your chivalry, but you couldn't convince a judge and jury even if you gave evidence against yourself. If it is true that Meister sent you after the loot, you may get away with it—they cannot punish you twice for the same offence, and I'll speak a word for you. But the other story won't go."

Lenley's brows met.

"Do you think she killed Meister?" he asked fiercely.

Alan shook his head.

"No," he said; "I know who killed Meister. Lenley, I'm going to make a fool of myself—as big a fool as you are. I want you to go into that room"—he pointed—"and wait. And whilst you wait, decide whether you will make a run for it, or stand your trial. If you stay, I'll do my best for you. If you run, I shall get an interview with the Chief Commissioner in the morning, and tell him what has happened. He will probably break me, but don't let that stop you."

Mary listened in amazement.

"You mustn't do that, Johnny. You can't possibly do that."

Johnny did not answer; he was looking queerly at the detective.

"You've gone crazy, haven't you?" he said.

"Crazy or sane, that is my offer. Go to your room and think it over. I sha'n't feel sore with you if you decide to run, though I warn you that I can do nothing more than give you this chance. It is a thousand to one against your escaping from London, and if you'll take those odds you may, so far as I am concerned."

"Why are you doing this? What's the big idea?" asked Lenley suspiciously.

"That is entirely my business," was the stiff reply.

John Lenley pursed his lips and looked from the detective to his sister.

"I'm no great friend of yours, Wembury, but I'll not do it."

"Think it over."

The girl thought she saw her brother waver in his purpose.

"Johnny, you can't ruin Alan Wembury!"

"Think it over," said Alan, and nodded to the door. Johnny Lenley went slowly from the room; the door shut behind him. The girl stared after him, then brought her tired eyes to the man by the table.

"Alan, we can't accept this sacrifice. Why are you doing this?"

Alan's shrug was no very illuminating answer.

"It looks like lunacy, doesn't it? Well, perhaps it is. I'll tell you why, Mary," he said after a pause. "I knew a girl once who used to pass my father's cottage in Hillboro Village." He was not looking at her, and did not see her wan little smile.

"That isn't a very good reason, is it?" she said gently.

His voice was husky and sounded as if it belonged to somebody else.

"Well, I—I fell in love with that little girl—it used to be a sort of dream of mine. I suppose we've all got some sort of ideal, but most of us die without seeing our dream-girl come true. I've always wanted to do something for her."

His speech was spasmodic, on the verge of incoherence. He heard her catch her breath, and then:

"I think you're a fool, Alan. After all, no girl is worth a man's career." She shook her head. "No, I can't let you do this. It is very sweet to know that you wanted to help me...." She put out both her hands to him, and he took them. "Alan, is there any danger to you from—the Ringer? Is there?" she asked again.

"No"—shortly.

"Look at me and tell me the truth."

He shook his head.

"Anyway, that is part of my job," he said.

Then he saw the smile light up her eyes.

"Is it part of your job to set Johnny free? If you want to do this because you loved a child—ages and ages ago"

He met the grave eyes without flinching.

"No," he said quietly, "because I love you."

She dropped her hands suddenly.

"I'm sorry I told you that—I didn't mean to tell you."

"But I wanted to know," she said in a low voice. "I wanted you to tell me!" And then, as he caught her in his arms: "Life's awfully queer, isn't it? And it's such a long way to Hillboro Village, and a million years since ... Wait!"

She pushed him gently back and, walking to Johnny's door, knocked.

"Johnny!"

There was no answer. She flung open the door and went in, coming back with consternation in her face.

"He's gone!" she cried.

Alan Wembury was shocked. His offer had been genuine enough, and yet somehow he could not believe that Johnny would take him at his word, the more so after his declaration.

"Is that so?" he said.

She had another thought in her mind; she held him by the arms and clung to him.

"Alan, you don't think—you don't think I knew he was going!" she said wildly. "That I was keeping you—talking to you—about ourselves—to give him a chance? You don't think that, do you?" She was shaking him.

"Of course not. And I don't believe that Johnny has gone."

He put her aside and went into the room. The window was open, and the service lift was within the reach of a long-armed man. That was the way he had gone. How far, he wondered. He was soon to learn, for, when he returned, he found the room empty and heard Mary's voice speaking to somebody at the door. She came back in a hurry, a strange light in her face.

"Alan, it is your officer, Mr. Atkins. He says Johnny has given himself up."

Alan drew a long breath of relief.

"Thank God for that!" she said, voicing his own thoughts.

"Can Atkins come in?"

She stepped aside and beckoned the invisible officer.

"What happened, Atkins?"

"He walked up to one of our men and surrendered himself. He asked me to tell you, sir, that he thought he might weaken on it. I don't know what he meant."

Wembury nodded.

"Thank you," he said.