The Joker, Edgar Wallace [books you have to read TXT] 📗

CHAPTER 12

FOR SOME reason which she could not explain to herself, Aileen was

irritated.

 

‘Do you realise how horribly mysterious you are?’ she asked, almost

tartly. ‘I always thought that the mystery of detectives was an illusion

fostered by sensational writers.’

 

‘All mystery is illusion,’ he said grandly.

 

They had reached Oxford Street.

 

‘Have you ever been to the House of Commons?’ he asked her suddenly.

 

She shook her head.

 

‘No.’

 

‘Then come along. You’ll see something more entertaining than a film or a

play, but you will hear very little that hasn’t been said better

elsewhere.’

 

The House was in session, though she was only dimly aware of this, for

she belonged to the large majority of people to whom the workings of

Parliament were a closed book. Jim, on the contrary, was extraordinarily

well informed in political affairs and favoured her with a brief

dissertation on the subject. The old hard and fast party spirit was

moribund, he said. The electorate had grown too flexible for any machine

to control. There had been surprising results in recent by-elections to

illustrate a fact so disconcerting to party organizers. The present

Government, she learnt, despite its large majority, was on its last legs.

There was dissension within the Cabinet, and rebel caves honey-combed the

Government party.

 

In truth she was only faintly interested. But the approach to the Commons

was impressive. The lofty hall, the broad stairway, the echoing lobby

with its hurrying figures, and the mystery of what lay behind the door at

one end, brought her a new thrill.

 

Jim disappeared and returned with a ticket. They passed up a flight of

stairs and presently she was admitted to one of the galleries.

 

Her first impression was one of disappointment. The House was so much

smaller than she had expected. Somebody was talking; a pale bald man, who

rocked and swayed slowly as he delivered himself of a monotonous and

complaining tirade on the failure of the Government to do something or

other about the Basingstoke Canal. There were only a few dozen members in

the House, and mainly they were engaged in talking or listening to one

another, and apparently taking no notice of the speaker. On the front

bench three elderly men sat, head to head, in consultation.

 

Mr Speaker in his canopied chair seemed the only person who was taking a

keen interest in the member’s oration.

 

Even as she looked, the House began to fill. A ceaseless procession of

men trooped in and took their places on the benches, stopping as they

passed to exchange a word with somebody already seated. The orator still

droned on; and then Jim pressed her arm and nodded.

 

From behind the Speaker’s chair had come a man whom she instantly

recognised as Sir Joseph Layton, the Foreign Minister. He was in evening

dress except that he wore, instead of the conventional dinner jacket, one

of black velvet.

 

He sat down on the front bench, fingered his tiny white moustache with a

characteristic gesture, and then the member who had been speaking sat

down. Somebody rose from one of the front benches and asked a question

which did not reach the girl. Sir Joseph jerked to his feet, his hands

gripping the lapels of his velvet coat, his head on one side like an

inquisitive sparrow, and she listened without hearing to his reply. His

voice was husky; he had a dozen odd mannerisms of speech and gesture that

fascinated her. And then Jim’s hand touched her.

 

‘I’m going down to see him. Will you wait for me in the lobby?’ he

whispered and she nodded.

 

It was ten minutes before the Foreign Minister came out of the House,

greeted the detective with a wave of his hand and put his arm in Jim’s.

 

‘Well, what is the news?’ he asked, when they reached his private room.

‘Harlow again, eh? Something dark and sinister going on in international

circles of diplomacy?’

 

He chuckled at the joke as he sat down at his big table and filled his

pipe from a tin of tobacco that stood at his elbow.

 

‘Harlow, Harlow!’ he said, with good-humoured impatience. ‘Everybody is

telling me about Harlow! I’m going to have a talk with the fellow. He is

giving a dinner-party on Tuesday and I’ve promised to look in before I

come to the House.’

 

‘What is the excuse for the dinner?’ asked Jim, interested.

 

The Minister laughed.

 

‘He is a secret diplomatist, if you like. He has fixed up a very

unpleasant little quarrel which might have developed in the Middle

East—really it amounted to a row between two bloodthirsty brigands!—and

he is giving a sort of olive-branch dinner to the ambassadors of the two

states concerned. I can’t go to the dinner, but I shall go to the

reception afterwards. Well,’ he asked abruptly, ‘what is your news?’

 

‘I came here to get news, not to give it, Sir Joseph,’ said Jim. ‘That

well-known cloud is not developing?’

 

‘Pshaw!’ said the Minister impatiently. ‘Cloud!’

 

‘The Bonn incident?’ suggested Jim, and Sir Joseph exploded.

 

‘There was no incident! It was a vulgar slanging match between an elderly

and pompous staff colonel and an impudent puppy of a French

sous-officier! The young man has been disciplined by the French; and the

colonel has been relieved of his post by the War Office. And that is the

end of a so-called incident.’

 

Jim rejoined the girl soon after and learnt that Parliament had not

greatly impressed her. Perhaps her mood was to blame that she found him a

rather dull companion; for the rest of the evening, whilst she was with

him, she did most of the talking, and he replied either in monosyllables

or not at all. She understood him well enough to suspect that something

unusual must have happened and did not banter him on his long silence.

 

At the door other boarding-house he asked: ‘You won’t object to Brown

staying on?’

 

‘I intended speaking about him,’ she said. ‘Why am I under

observation—that is the term, isn’t it?’

 

‘But do you mind?’

 

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It is rather funny.’

 

‘A sense of humour is a great thing,’ he replied, and that was his

farewell.

 

Elk was not at Scotland Yard. He went up to the Great Eastern Road, where

the inspector had rooms; and he was distinctly piqued to learn that Elk

knew all about the Harlow dinner.

 

‘I only got to know this afternoon, though,’ said Elk. ‘If you’d been at

the Yard I could have told you—the thing was only organised yesterday.

We shouldn’t have heard anything about it, but Harlow applied for two

policemen to be on duty outside the house. Swift worker, Harlow.’ His

small eyes surveyed Jim Carlton gravely. ‘Tell you something else, son:

Ratas have bought up a new office building in Moorgate Street. I forget

the name of the fellow who bought it. Anyway, Ellenbury took over

yesterday-got in double staff. He is a fellow you might see.’

 

‘He is a fellow I intend seeing,’ said Jim. ‘What is he now—lawyer or

financier?’

 

‘A lawyer. But he knows as much about finance as law. I’ve got an idea

he’s on the crook. We’ve never had a complaint against him, though there

was a whisper once about his financial position. In the old days he used

to act for some mighty queer people; and I think he lost money on the

Stock Exchange.’

 

‘He’s the man who lives at Norwood?’

 

Elk nodded.

 

‘Norwood,’ he said deliberately; ‘the place where the letters were posted

to Mrs Gibbins. I wondered you hadn’t seen him before—no, I haven’t,

though.’ He reconsidered.

 

‘You didn’t want to make Harlow think that you are on to that Gibbins

business.’ He stroked his nose thoughtfully.

 

‘Yuh, that’s it. He doesn’t know you. You might call on him on some

excuse, but you’ll have to be careful.’

 

‘How does he get from Norwood to the City?’

 

Elk shook his head.

 

‘He’s not the kind of fellow you can pick up in the train, he said. ‘He

runs a hired car which Ratas pay for. Royalton House is his address. It’s

an old brick box near the Crystal Palace. He lives there with his

wife—an invalid. He hasn’t any vices that I know of, unless being a

friend of Harlow’s puts him on the list. And he’s not approachable any

other way. He doesn’t work in Norwood, but has a little office in

Theobald’s Road; and if you call his clerk will see you and tell you that

he is very sorry but Mr Ellenbury can’t give you an appointment for the

next ten years. But Ellenbury might tell something, if you could get at

him.’

 

‘You are certain that Ellenbury is working with Harlow?’

 

‘Working with him?’ Elk spat contemptuously but unerringly into the fire.

‘I should say he was! They’re like brothers—up to a point. Do you

remember the police station old man Harlow presented