The Joker, Edgar Wallace [books you have to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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He read the letter carefully, and then dropped it in the fire and watched
it turn black.
‘A useful man, but a thought too anxious. It was a mistake perhaps to
keep him so taut. He must be let down,’ Mr Harlow decided. A little of
his own confidence must be infused into his helper. Too great a desire to
please, too present a fear of failure: those were Ellenbury’s weaknesses.
He pressed an ivory bell on his desk, sat down, reached to the wall, slid
back a panel and took out a small black bottle, a siphon and a glass. He
poured out barely more whisky than was enough to cover the bottom of the
tumbler, and filled it to the top with soda-water. The glass was
half-empty when Mrs Edwins, his housekeeper, came in without knocking. A
tall, yellow-faced woman, with burning black eyes, she showed nothing of
the slowness or decrepitude that might have been expected in a woman near
seventy.
‘You rang?’
Miss Mercy’s maid of other days had a voice as sharp and clear as a bugle
note. She stood before the desk, her hands behind her, her eyes fixed on
his.
‘Yes,’ he said, turning over his letters once more. ‘Is everything all
right?’
‘Everything.’
Like a bugle note and with some of a bugle’s stridency.
‘Couldn’t we keep a servant in the house?’ she asked. ‘The hours are a
little too long for me. I didn’t get to bed until one o’clock yesterday,
and I had to be up at seven to let them in.’
It was a curious fact that no servants slept at No. 704, Park Lane. There
was not a house of its size, or an establishment of such pretensions, in
all the country where every servant slept out. Mr Harlow’s excuse to his
friends was that the room space was too valuable for servants, but he
denied this by hiring an expensive house in Charles Street for their
accommodation.
‘No, I don’t think it is necessary,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘I
thought you understood that.’
‘I might die, or be taken ill in the night,’ said Mrs Edwins
dispassionately, ‘and then where would you be?’
He smiled. ‘It would be rather a case of where would you be, I think.’ he
said in excellent humour. ‘Nothing has happened?’
She considered her answer before she replied. ‘Somebody called, that was
all,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell you about that afterwards.’
He was amused. ‘A good many people call. Very well—be mysterious!’
He got up from his chair and walked out of the room, and she followed.
There was a tiny elevator in the hall, big enough for two, but she
declined this conveyance.
‘I’ll walk,’ she said, and he laughed softly.
‘You were complaining about feeling tired just now,’ he retorted as he
closed the grille before the little lift.
He pressed the top button, the elevator moved swiftly and noiselessly
upwards and came at last to a stop on the third floor, where he stepped
out to a square-carpeted landing from which led two doors. Here he
waited, humming softly to himself, until the woman came in sight round
the bend of the stairs.
‘You’re an athlete,’ he said pleasantly and, jerking out a pocket-chain,
selected a small key and opened the door on the left.
It was a big and artistically furnished apartment, lit from the cornice
by concealed light and from the floor by two red-shaded lamps. In one
corner of the room was an ornate wooden bed of red lacquer decorated with
Chinese paintings in gold. At a small Empire desk near one of the
windows, which were heavily curtained, sat a man. He was almost as tall
as Stratford Harlow; and the features which would have arrested the
attention of a stranger were his big, dome-shaped forehead and the long
golden-yellow beard which, in spite of his age—and he must have been as
old as Harlow himself—was untinged with grey.
He was reading, one thin hand on his cheek, his eyes fixed upon the book
that lay or the desk, and not until Mr Harlow spoke did he look up.
‘Hallo, Marling!’ said Stratford Harlow gently.
The man leaned back in his chair, closed the book, mechanically marking
his place with a thin tortoise-shell paper-knife.
‘Good evening,’ he said simply.
‘Time you had your walk, isn’t it?’
There was a second door in the room and towards this Mr Harlow glanced.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said the man, and rose.
He wore a short dressing-jacket of dark blue velvet; his feet were
encased in red morocco slippers. His glance strayed back to the closed
book as though he were reluctant to have his reading interrupted.
‘The Odes of Horace,’ he said; ‘an English translation, but full of
errors.’
‘Yes, yes,’ smiled Mr Harlow. ‘It’s rather late for Horace.’
The woman was standing by the door, stiffly erect, her hands folded in
front of her, her dark eyes on her master.
‘Do you know who you are, my friend?’ he asked.
The bearded man put his white hand to his forehead.
‘I am Saul Marling, a graduate of Balliol,’ he said.
Mr Harlow nodded.
‘And—anything eke?’ he asked.
Again the hand went up to the dome-shaped forehead.
‘I forget… how absurd! It was something I saw, wasn’t it?’ he asked
anxiously.
‘Something you saw,’ agreed Mr Harlow, ‘just before Miss Mercy died.’
The other heaved a sigh.
‘She died very suddenly. She was very kind to me in all my little
troubles. Awfully suddenly! She used to sit on the chair talking to you,
and then one night after dinner she fell down.’
‘On the floor,’ nodded Mr Harlow, almost cheerfully. ‘But you saw
something, didn’t you?’ he encouraged. ‘A little bottle and some blue
stuff. Wake up, Marling! You remember the little bottle and the blue
stuff?’
The man shook his head.
‘Not clearly… that was before you and Mrs Edwins took me away. I drank
the white powders—they fizzed like a seidlitz powder—and then… ‘
‘To the country,’ smiled Harlow. ‘You were ill, my poor old fellow, and
we had to prescribe something to quieten you. You’re all right?’
‘My head is a little confused—’ began the man, but Harlow laughed,
caught him almost affectionately by the arm and, opening the narrow door,
led his companion up a flight of steep stairs. At the top of this was
another door, which Mr Harlow unlocked. They were on the roof of
Greenhart House, a wide, flat expanse of asphalt confined within a
breast-high parapet. For half an hour they walked up and down arm-in-arm,
the bigger man talking all the time. The fog was thick, the street lamps
showed themselves below as patches of dull yellow luminosity.
‘Cold? I told you to put on your scarf, you stupid chap!’ Mr Harlow was
good-humoured even in his annoyance.
‘Conic along, we’ll go down.’
In the room below he fastened the door and gazed approvingly round the
comfortable apartment. He took up one of the eight volumes that lay on a
table. They still wore the publishers’ wrappers and had arrived that day.
‘Reading maketh a full man—you will find the Augustan histories a little
heavy even for a graduate of Oxford, eh? Good night. Marling—sleep
well.’
He locked the door and went out on to the landing with Mrs Edwins. Her
hard eyes were fixed on his face, and until he spoke she was silent.
‘He’s quite all right,’ he said.
‘Is he?’ Her harsh voice was disagreeable. ‘How can he be all right if
he’s reading and writing?’
‘Writing?’ he asked quickly. ‘What?’
‘Oh, just stuff about the Romans, but it reads sensible.’
Mr Harlow considered this frowningly. ‘That means nothing. He gives no
trouble.’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I get worried,’ she went on, ‘but he’s quiet.
Who is Mr Carlton?’
Harlow drew a quick breath. ‘Has he been here?’
She nodded. ‘Yes—this afternoon. He asked me if I was Miss Mercy’s old
maid—she must have died soon after he was born.’
‘He’s older than that—well?’
‘I thought it was queer, but he said he’d been asked to trace Mr Saul
Marling.’
‘By whom?’
She confessed her ignorance with a look. ‘I don’t know; but it was a
proper inquiry. He showed me the papers. They were from Eastbourne. I
told him Marling was dead. “Where?” he said. “In South America,” I told
him.’
‘Pernambuco,’ emphasised Mr Harlow, ‘in the plague epidemic. Humph!
Clever… and unscrupulous. Thank you.’
She watched him pass into the elevator and drop out of sight, then she
went into the second room that opened from the landing. This too, was
pleasantly furnished. Turning on the lights she sat down and opened a big
chintz bag.
From this she took an unfinished stocking and adjusted her knitting
needles. And as her nimble fingers moved, so did her lips.
‘Pernambuco-in the plague epidemic,’ she was saying.
AILEEN RIVERS lived in Bloomsbury, which had the advantage of being near
her work. She had spent a restless night, and the day that followed had
been full of vexation. Mr Stebbings, her immediate chief, was away
nursing a cold; and his junior partner, with whom she was constantly
brought into contact that day, was a tetchy and disagreeable man, with a
habit of mislaying important documents and blaming the person who
happened to be most handy for their disappearance.
At six o’clock in the evening she locked up her desk with a sigh of
thankfulness, looking forward to a light dinner and an early bedtime.
Through her window she had seen the car drawn up by the kerb, and at
first had thought it was waiting for a client, so that she was a little
surprised, and by no means pleased, when, as she came down the steps of
the old-fashioned house where the office was situate, a young man crossed
the broad sidewalk towards her and lifted his hat.
‘Oh, you!’ she said in some dismay,
‘Me, or I, as the case may be; I’m not quite certain which,’ said Jim
Carlton. ‘And your tone is offensive,’ he said sternly. ‘By rights Elk or
I should have been interviewing you at all sorts of odd hours during the
day.’
‘But what on earth can I tell you?’ she asked, exasperated. You know
everything about the burglary—I suppose that is what you mean?’
‘That is what I mean,’ said Jim. ‘It is very evident that you know
nothing about policemen. You imagine, I suppose, that Scotland Yard says
“Hallo, there’s been a burglary in Victoria. How interesting! Nobody
knows, anything about it, so we’ll let the matter drop.” You’re wrong!’
‘I’m much too hungry to talk.’
‘So I guessed,’ he said. ‘There is an unpretentious restaurant at King’s
Cross, where the sole bonne femme is worthy only of the pure of heart.’
She hesitated. ‘Very well,’ she said a little ungraciously. ‘Is that your
car? How funny!’
‘There’s nothing funny about my car,’ he said with dignity, ‘and it is
not my car. I borrowed it.’
It was a clear night of stars and there was a touch of frost in the air
and, although she would not have admitted as much for untold wealth, she
enjoyed the short run that brought them to the side entrance of a large
restaurant filled with people in varying stages of gastronomic enjoyment.
‘I have booked a
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