Room 13
Still the smile on Emanuel’s face did not fade.
“Ain’t you smart?” he said admiringly. “Ain’t you the quickest grafter
that ever grafted? Married or not, Peter, the girl’s got to go into
the court for the marriage to be--what do you call it?--annulled,
that’s the word. And she can’t marry till she does. And they’ll never
annul the marriage until you get my boy caught for bigamy, and that
you won’t do, Peter, because you don’t want to advertise what a damned
fool you are. Take my advice, come and talk it over. Bring Johnny with
you----”
“Why should I bring Johnny? I can look after myself.”
“Johnny’s an interested party,” said the other. “He’s interested in
anything to do with Marney, eh?” He chuckled, and for a second Peter
Kane had all his work to maintain his calm.
“I’m not going to discuss Marney with you. I’ll meet you and the
Printer, and I don’t suppose Johnny will mind either. Though what you
can do that the law can’t do, I don’t know.”
“I can give you evidence that you can’t get any other way,” said the
other. “The fact is, Peter, my poor boy has realised he’s made a
mistake. He married a girl who was the daughter of a respectable
gentleman, and when I broke it to him, Peter, that he’d married into a
crook family, he was upset! He said I ought to have told him.”
“I don’t know what funny business you’re going to try,” said Peter
Kane, “but I’m not going to run away from it. You want me to meet you
and your son--where?”
“What about the old Highlow?” suggested Emanuel. “What about Room 13,
where a sad accident nearly occurred?”
“Where you shot your son?” asked Peter coolly, and only for a second
did the man’s self-possession leave him. His face turned a dusky red
and then a pale yellow.
“I shot my son there, did I? Peter, you’re getting old and dopy!
You’ve been dreaming again, Peter. Shot my son!”
“I’ll come to this fool dinner of yours.”
“And Marney?” suggested the other.
“Marney doesn’t put her foot inside the doors of the Highlow,” said
Peter calmly. “You’re mad to imagine I would allow that. I can’t
answer for Johnny, but I’ll be there.”
“What about Thursday?” suggested the old man.
“Any day will suit me,” said Peter impatiently. “What time do you want
us?”
“Half-past eight. Just a snack and a talk. We may as well have a bit
of food to make it cheerful, eh, Peter? Remember that dinner we had a
few days before we smashed the Southern Bank? That must be twenty
years ago. You split fair on that, didn’t you? I’ll bet you did--I had
the money! No taking a million dollars and calling it a hundred and
twenty thousand pounds, eh, Peter?”
This time Peter stood by the door, and the jerk of his head told
Emanuel Legge that the moment for persiflage had passed.
“I want to settle this matter.” The earnestness of his manner did not
deceive Peter. “You see, Peter, I’m getting old, and I want to go
abroad and take the boy with me. And I want to give him a chance
too--a good-looking lad like that ought to have a chance. For I’ll
tell you the truth--he’s a single man.”
Peter smiled.
“You can laugh! He married Lila--you’ve got a record of that, but have
you taken a screw at the divorce list? That takes the grin off your
face. They were divorced a year after they were married. Lila got
tired of the other man and came back to Jeff. You’re a looker-up; go
and look up that! Ask old Reeder----”
“Ask him yourself,” said Peter. “He’s in the garden.”
He had no sooner said the words than he regretted them. Emanuel was
silent for a while.
“So Reeder’s here, in the garden, is he? He’s come for a squeak. But
you can’t, because you’ve nothing to squeak about. What does he want?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“That fellow spends his life wandering about other people’s gardens,”
grumbled Emanuel.
A disinterested observer might have imagined that Mr. Reeder’s passion
for horticulture was the only grievance against him.
“He was round my garden yesterday. I dare say he told you? Came
worrying poor Jeff to death. But you always were fond of busies,
weren’t you, Peter? How’s your old friend Craig? I can’t stand them
myself, but then I am a crook. Thursday will suit you, Peter? That
gives you six days.”
“Thursday will suit me,” said Peter. “I hope it will suit you.”
As he came back on to the lawn Reeder and the girl were coming into
view up the steps, and without preliminary he told them what had
passed.
“I fear,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head sadly, “that Emanuel is
not as truthful a man as he might be. There was no divorce. I was
sufficiently interested in the case to look up the divorce court
records.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think your dinner party
at the Highlow--is that the name?--will be an interesting one,” he
said. “Are you sure he did not invite me?” And again Peter saw that
glint of humour in his eyes.
CHAPTER XXIII
Mr. Emanuel Legge had a great deal of business to do in London. The
closing of the club had sadly interfered with the amenities of the
Highlow, for many of its patrons and members were, not unnaturally,
reluctant to be found on premises subject, at any moment, to the
visitation of inquisitive police officers. Stevens, the porter, had
been reinstated, though his conduct, in Emanuel’s opinion, had been
open to the gravest suspicion. In other ways he was a reliable man,
and one whose services were not lightly to be dispensed with. To his
surprise, when he had come to admonish the porter, that individual had
taken the wind out of his sails by announcing his intention of
retiring unless the staff was changed. And he had his way, the staff
in question being the elevator boy Benny.
“Benny squeaked on me,” said Stevens briefly, “and I’m not going to
have a squeaker round.”
“He squeaked to me, my friend,” said Emanuel, showing his teeth
unpleasantly. “He told me you tried to shield Johnny Gray.”
“He’s a member, ain’t he?” asked the porter truculently. “How do I
know what members you want put away, and what members you want hidden?
Of course, I helped the Captain--or thought I was trying to help him.
That’s my job.”
There was a great deal of logic in this. Benny, the elevator boy, was
replaced.
Stepping out of the lift, Emanuel saw the prints of muddy boots in the
hall, and they were wet.
“Who is here?” he asked.
“Nobody in particular.”
Legge pointed to the footprints.
“Somebody has been here recently,” he said.
“They’re mine,” said Stevens without hesitation. “I went out to get a
cab for Monty Ford.”
“Are there any mats?” snapped Emanuel.
Stevens did not answer.
There was a great deal of work for Emanuel to do. For example, there
was the matter of a certain house in Berkeley Square to be cleared
off. Though he was no longer in active work, he did a lot of crooked
financing, and the house had been taken with his money. It was hired
furnished for a year, and it was the intention of his associates to
run an exclusive gambling club. Unfortunately, the owner, who had a
very valuable collection of paintings and old jewellery, discovered
the character of the new tenant (a dummy of Legge’s) and had promptly
cancelled the agreement. Roughly, the venture had cost Emanuel a
thousand, and he hated losing good money.
It was late that night when he left the club. He was sleeping in town,
intending to travel down to his convalescent son by an early train in
the morning. It had been raining heavily, and the street was empty
when he went out of the club, pulling the collar of his macintosh
about his neck.
He had taken two strides when a man stepped out of the shadow of a
doorway and planted himself squarely in his path. Emanuel’s hand
dropped to his pocket, for he was that rarest variety of criminal, an
English gunman.
“Keep your artillery out of action, Legge,” said a voice that was
strangely familiar.
He peered forward, but in the shadow he could not distinguish the
stranger’s face.
“Who are you?”
“An old friend of yours,” was the reply. “Don’t tell me you’ve
forgotten all your pals! Why, you’ll be passing a screw in the street
one of these days without touching your hat to him.”
And then it dawned upon Emanuel.
“Oh… you’re Fenner, aren’t you?”
“I’m Fenner,” admitted the man. “Who else could I be? I’ve been
waiting to see you, Mr. Emanuel Legge. I wondered if you would
remember a fellow you sent to the triangle… fifteen lashes I had.
You’ve never had a ‘bashing,’ have you, Legge? It’s not so nice as
you’d think. When they’d took me back to my cell and put that big bit
of lint on my shoulder, I laid on my face for a week. Naturally, that
interfered with my sleeping, though it helped me a whole lot to think.
And what I thought was this, Emanuel, that a thousand a stroke
wouldn’t be too much to ask from the man who got it for me.”
Legge’s lip twisted in a sneer.
“Oh, it’s ‘the black’ you’re after, is it? Fifteen thousand pounds--is
that your price?”
“I could do a lot with fifteen thousand, Legge. I can go abroad and
have a good time--maybe, take a house in the country.”
“What’s the matter with Dartmoor?” snarled Emanuel. “You’ll get no
fifteen thousand from me--not fifteen thousand cents, not fifteen
thousand grains of sand. Get out of my way!”
He lurched forward, and the man slipped aside. He had seen what was in
the old man’s hand.
Legge turned as he passed, facing him and walking sideways, alert to
meet any attempt which was launched.
“That’s a pretty gun of yours, Legge,” drawled the convict. “Maybe I
shall meet you one of these days when you won’t be in a position to
pull it.”
A thought struck Emanuel Legge, and he walked slowly back to the man,
and his tone was mild, even conciliatory.
“What’s the good of making a fuss, Fenner? I didn’t give you away.
Half a dozen people saw you cosh that screw.”
“But half a dozen didn’t come forward, did they?” asked Fenner
wrathfully. “You were the only prisoner; there was not a screw in
sight.”
“That’s a long time ago,” said Emanuel after a pause. “You’re not
going to make any trouble now, are you? Fifteen thousand pounds is out
of the question. It is ridiculous to ask me for that. But if a couple
of hundred will do you any good, why, I’ll send it to you.”
“I’ll have it now,” said Fenner.
“You won’t have it now, because I haven’t got it,” replied Emanuel.
“Tell me where you’re to be found, and I’ll send a boy along with it
in the morning.”
Fenner hesitated. He was surprised even to touch for a couple of
hundred.
“I’m staying at Rowton House, Wimborne Street, Pimlico.”
“In your own name?”
“In the name of Fenner,” the other evaded, “and that’s good enough for
you.”
Emanuel memorised the address.
“It will be there at ten o’clock,” he said. “You’re a mug to quarrel
with me. I could put you on to a job where you could have made not
fifteen, but twenty thousand.”
All the anger had died out of the burglar’s tone when he asked:
“Where?”
“There’s a house in Berkeley Square,” said Emanuel quickly, and gave
the number.
It was providential that he had remembered that white elephant of his.
And he knew, too, that at that moment the house was empty but for a
caretaker.
“Just wait here,” he said, and went back into the club and to his
little office on the third floor.
Opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a small bunch of keys, the
duplicates that had been made during the brief period that the
original keys had been in his possession. He found Fenner waiting
where he had left him.
“Here are the keys. The house is empty. One of our people borrowed the
keys and got cold feet at the last minute. There’s about eight
thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in a safe--you can’t miss it. It
is in the principal drawing-room--in show cases--go and take a look at
it. And there’s plate worth a fortune.”