Room 13
The man jingled the keys in his hand.
“Why haven’t you gone after it, Emanuel?”
“Because it’s not my graft,” said Emanuel. “I’m running straight now.
But I want my cut, Fenner. Don’t run away with any idea that you’re
getting this for nothing. You’ve got a couple of nights to do the job;
after that, you haven’t the ghost of a chance, because the family will
be coming back.”
“But why do you give it to me?” asked Fenner, still suspicious.
“Because there’s nobody else,” was the almost convincing reply. “It
may be that the jewellery is not there at all,” went on Emanuel
frankly. “It may have been taken away. But there is plenty of plate. I
wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d got the right man--I doubt
whether I’m going to get my cut from you.”
“You’ll get your cut,” said the other roughly. “I’m a fool to go after
this, knowing what a squeaker you are, but I’ll take the risk. If you
put a point on me over this, Emanuel, I’ll kill you. And I mean it.”
“I’m sick of getting news about my murder,” said Emanuel calmly. “If
you don’t want to do it, leave it. I’ll send you up a couple of
hundred in the morning, and that’s all I’ll do for you. Give me back
those keys.”
“I’ll think about it,” said the man, and turned away without another
word.
It was one o’clock, and Emanuel went back to the club, working the
automatic lift himself to the second floor.
“Everybody gone, Stevens?” he asked.
The porter stifled a yawn and shook his head.
“There’s a lady and a gentleman”--he emphasised the word--“in No. 8.
They’ve been quarrelling since nine o’clock. They ought to be finished
by now.”
“Put my office through to the exchange,” said Emanuel.
Behind the porter’s desk was a small switchboard, and he thrust in the
two plugs. Presently the disc showed him that Emanuel was through.
Mr. Legge had many friends amongst the minor members of the Criminal
Investigation Department. They were not inexpensive acquaintances, but
they could on occasion be extremely useful. That night, in some
respects, Emanuel’s luck was in, when he found Sergeant Shilto in his
office. There had been a jewel theft at one of the theatres, which had
kept the sergeant busy.
“Is that you, Shilto?” asked Legge in a low voice. “It’s Manileg.” He
gave his telegraphic address, which also served as a _nom de plume_
when such delicate negotiations as these were going through.
“Yes, Mr. Manileg?” said the officer, alert, for Emanuel did not call
up police head-quarters unless there was something unusual afoot.
“Do you want a cop--a real one?” asked Legge in a voice little above a
whisper. “There’s a man named Fenner----”
“The old lag?” asked Shilto. “Yes, I saw him to-day. What’s he doing?”
“He’s knocking off a little silver, from 973, Berkeley Square. Be at
the front door: you’ll probably see him go in. You want to be careful,
because he’s got a gun. If you hurry, you’ll get there in front of
him. Good night.”
He hung up the receiver and smiled. The simplicity of the average
criminal always amused Emanuel Legge.
CHAPTER XXIV
Peter wrote to tell of the invitation which Legge had extended to
him. Johnny Gray had the letter by the first post. He sat in his big
arm-chair, his silk dressing-gown wrapped around him, his chin on his
fists; and seeing him thus, the discreet Parker did not obtrude upon
his thoughts until Johnny, reading the letter again, tore it in pieces
and threw it into the wastepaper-basket.
He had a whimsical practice of submitting most of his problems, either
in parable form or more directly, to his imperturbable manservant.
“Parker, if you were asked to take dinner in a lion’s den, what dress
would you wear?”
Parker looked down at him thoughtfully, biting his lip.
“It would largely depend, sir, on whether there were ladies to be
present,” he said. “Under those extraordinary circumstances, one
should wear full dress and a white tie.”
Johnny groaned.
“There have been such dinners, sir,” Parker hastened to assure him in
all seriousness. “I recall that, when I was a boy, a visiting
menagerie came to our town, and one of the novelties was a dinner
which was served in a den of ferocious lions; and I distinctly
remember that the lion-tamer wore a white dress bow and a long tail
coat. He also wore top boots,” he said after a moment’s consideration,
“which, of course, no gentleman could possibly wear in evening dress.
But then, he was an actor.”
“But supposing the lion-tamer had a working arrangement with the
lions? Wouldn’t you suggest a suit of armour?” asked Johnny without
smiling.
Parker considered the problem for a moment.
“That would rather turn it into a fancy-dress affair, sir,” he said,
“where, of course, any costume is permissible. Personally,” he added,
“I should never dream of dining in a den of lions under any
circumstances.”
“That’s the answer I’ve been waiting for; it is the most intelligent
thing you’ve said this morning,” said Johnny. “Nevertheless, I shall
not follow your excellent advice. I will be dining at the Highlow Club
on Thursday. Get me the morning newspaper: I haven’t seen it.”
He turned the pages apathetically, for the events which were at the
moment agitating political London meant nothing in his life. On an
inner page he found a brief paragraph which, however, did interest
him. It was in the latest news column, and related to the arrest of a
burglar, who had been caught red-handed breaking into a house in
Berkeley Square. The man had given his name as Fenner. Johnny shook
his head sadly. He had no doubt as to the identity of the thief, for
burglary was Fenner’s graft. Since the news had come in the early
hours of the morning, there were no details, and he put the paper
aside and fell into a train of thought.
Poor Fenner! He must go back to that hell, which was only better than
Keytown Jail. He would be spared the ordeal of Keytown, at any rate,
if what Craig had said was true. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it
was nearly eleven and jumped up. He was taking Marney to lunch and a
_matinée_ that day. Peter was bringing her up, and he was to meet
them at Victoria.
Since his release from Dartmoor, Johnny had had no opportunity of a
quiet talk with the girl, and this promised to be a red-letter day in
his life. He had to wait some time, for the train was late; and as he
stood in the broad hall, watching with abstracted interest the
never-ceasing rush and movement and life about him, he observed, out
of the corner of his eye, a man sidling toward him.
Johnny had that sixth sense which is alike the property of the
scientist, the detective and the thief. He was immediately sensitive
to what he called the approaching spirit, and long before the shabby
stranger had spoken to him, he knew that he was the objective. Nearer
at hand, he recognised the stranger as a man he had seen in Dartmoor,
and remembered that he had come to prison at the same time as Fenner
and for the same offence, though he had been released soon after
Johnny had passed through that grim gateway.
“I followed you down here, Mr. Gray, but I didn’t like to talk to you
in the street,” said the stranger, apparently immersed in an evening
newspaper, and talking, as such men talk, without moving his lips.
Johnny waited, wondering what was the communication, and not doubting
that it had to do with Fenner.
“Old Fenner’s been ‘shopped’ by Legge,” said the man. “He went to
‘knock off’ some silver from a house in Berkeley Square, and Shilto
was waiting in the hall for him.”
“How do you know Legge ‘shopped’ him?” asked Johnny, interested.
“It was a ‘shop’ all right,” said the other without troubling to
explain. “If you can put in a good word for Fenner, he’d be much
obliged.”
“But, my dear fellow,” said John with a little smile, “to whom can I
put in a good word? In the present circumstances I couldn’t put a word
in for my own maiden aunt. I’ll see what I can do.”
There was no need to tell the furtive man to go. With all a thief’s
keen perceptions he had seen the eyes of Johnny Gray light up, and
with a sidelong glance assured himself as to the cause. Johnny went
toward the girl with long strides, and, oblivious to curious
spectators and Peter Kane alike, took both her hands in his. Her
loveliness always came to him in the nature of a glorious surprise.
The grace and poise of her were indefinite quantities that he could
not keep exactly in his mind, and inevitably she surpassed his
impressions of her.
After he had handed the girl into a taxi, the older man beckoned him
aside.
“I’m not any too sure about this Highlow dinner,” he said. “Love
feasts are not Emanuel’s specialities, and there’s a kick coming
somewhere, Johnny. I hope you’re prepared for it?”
Johnny nodded.
“Emanuel isn’t usually so obvious,” he said. “In fact, the whole thing
is so patent and so crude that I can’t suspect anything more than an
attempt to straighten matters as far as Marney is concerned.”
Peter’s face clouded.
“There will be no straightening there,” he said shortly. “If he has
committed bigamy, he goes down for it. Understand that, Johnny. It
will be very unpleasant because of Marney’s name being dragged into
the light, but I’m going through with it.”
He turned away with a wave of his hand, and Johnny returned to the
girl.
“What is the matter with father?” she asked as the taxi drew out of
the station. “He is so quiet and thoughtful these days. I suppose the
poor dear’s worrying about me, though he needn’t, for I never felt
happier.”
“Why?” asked Johnny, indiscreetly.
“Because--oh, well, because,” she said, her face flushing the faintest
shade of pink. “Because I’m unmarried, for one thing. I hated the
idea, Johnny. You don’t know how I hated it. I understand now poor
daddy’s anxiety to get me married into respectable society.” Her sense
of humour, always irrepressible, overcame her anxiety. “I wonder if
you understand my immoral sense of importance at the discovery that
poor father has done so many illegal things! I suppose it is the kink
that he has transmitted to me.”
“Was it a great shock to you, Marney?” interrupted the young man
quietly.
She nodded.
“Yes, but shocks are like blows--they hurt and they fade. It isn’t
pleasant to be twisted violently to another angle of view. It pains
horribly, Johnny. But I think when I found----” She hesitated.
“When you found that I was a thief.”
“When I found that you were--oh, Johnny, why did you? You had so many
advantages; you were a University man, a gentleman--Johnny, it wasn’t
big of you. There’s an excuse for daddy; he told me about his youth
and his struggles and the fearful hardness of living. But you had
opportunities that he never had. Easy money isn’t good money, is it,
Johnny?”
He was silent, and then, with a quick, breath-catching sigh, she
smiled again.
“I haven’t come out to lecture you, and I shall not even ask you if,
for my sake, you will go straight in the future. Because, Johnny”--she
dropped a cool palm on the back of his hand--“I’m not going to do
anything like the good fairy in the storybooks and try to save you
from yourself.”
“I’m saved,” said Johnny with a quizzical smile. “You’re perfectly
right: there was no reason why I should be a thief. I was the victim
of circumstances. It was possibly the fascination of the game--no, no,
it wasn’t that. One of these days I will tell you why I left the
straight path of virtue. It is a long and curious story.”
She made no further reference to his fall, and throughout the lunch
was her own gay self. Looking down at her hand, Johnny saw, with
satisfaction, that the platinum wedding-ring she had worn had been
replaced by a small, plain gold ring, ornamented with a single
turquoise, and his breath came faster. He had first met her at a