(1929) The Three Just Men, Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO - THE THREE MEN OF CURZON STREET

  No. 233, Curzon Street, was a small house. Even the most enthusiastic of agents would not, if he had any regard to his soul’s salvation, describe its dimensions with any enthusiasm. He might enlarge upon its bijou beauties, refer reverently its historical association, speak truthfully of its central heating and electric installation, but he would, being an honest man, convey the impression that No. 233 was on the small aide.

  The house was flanked by two modern mansions, stone-fronted, with metal and glass doors that gave out a blur of light by night. Both overtopped the modest roof of their neighbour by many stories—No. 233 had the appearance of a little man crushed in a crowd and unable to escape, and there was in its mild frontage the illusion of patient resignation and humility.

  To that section of Curzon Street wherein it had its place, the house was an offence and was, in every but a legal sense, a nuisance. A learned Chancery judge to whom application had been made on behalf of neighbouring property owners, ground landlords and the like, had refused to grant the injunction for which they had pleaded, “prohibiting the said George Manfred from carrying on a business, to wit the Triangle Detective Agency, situate at the aforesaid number two hundred and thirty-three Curzon Street in the City of Westminster in the County of Middlesex.”

  In a judgment which occupied a third of a column of The Times he laid down the dictum that a private detective might be a professional rather than a business man—a dictum which has been, and will be, disputed to the end of time.

  So the little silver triangle remained fixed to the door and he continued to interview his clients—few in number, for he was most careful to accept only those who offered scope for his genius.

  A tall, strikingly handsome man, with the face of a patrician and the shoulders of an athlete, Curzon Street—or such of the street as took the slightest notice of anything—observed him to be extremely well dressed on all occasions. He was a walking advertisement for a Hanover Street tailor who was so fashionable that he would have died with horror at the very thought of advertising at all. Car folk held up at busy crossings glanced into his limousine, saw the clean-cut profile and the tanned, virile face, and guessed him for a Harley Street specialist. Very few people knew him socially. Dr. Elver, the Scotland Yard surgeon, used to come up to Curzon Street at times and give his fantastic views on the snake and its appearances, George Manfred and his friends listening in silence and offering no help. But apart from Elver and an Assistant Commissioner of Police, a secretive man, who dropped in at odd moments to smoke a pipe and talk of old times, the social callers were few and far between.

  His chauffeur-footman was really better known than he. At the mews where he garaged his car, they called him “Lightning,” and it was generally agreed that this thin-faced, eager-eyed man would sooner or later meet the end which inevitably awaits all chauffeurs who take sharp corners on two wheels at sixty miles an hour: some of the critics had met the big Spanz on the road and had reproached him afterwards, gently or violently, according to the degree of their scare.

  Few knew Mr. Manfred’s butler, a dark-browed foreigner, rather stout and somewhat saturnine. He was a man who talked very little even to the cook and the two housemaids who came every morning at eight and left the house punctually at six, for Mr. Manfred dined out most nights.

  He advertised only in the more exclusive newspapers, and not in his own name; no interviews were granted except by appointment, so that the arrival of Mr. Sam Barberton was in every sense an irregularity.

  He knocked at the door just as the maids were leaving, and since they knew little about Manfred and his ways except that he liked poached eggs and spinach for breakfast, the stranger was allowed to drift into the hall, and here the taciturn butler, hastily summoned from his room, found him.

  The visitor was a stubby, thick-set man with a brick-red face and a head that was both grey and bald. His dress and his speech were equally rough. The butler saw that he was no ordinary artisan because his boots were of a kind known as veldtschoons. They were of undressed leather, patchily bleached by the sun.

  “I want to see the boss of this Triangle,” he said in a loud voice, and, diving into his waistcoat pocket, brought out a soiled newspaper cutting.

  The butler took it from him without a word. It was the Cape Times—he would have known by the type and the spacing even if on the back there had not been printed the notice of a church bazaar at Wynberg. The butler studied such things.

  “I am afraid that you cannot see Mr. Manfred without an appointment,” he said. His voice and manner were most expectedly gentle in such a forbidding man.

  “I’ve got to see him, if I sit here all night,” said the man stubbornly, and symbolized his immovability by squatting down in the hall chair.

  Not a muscle of the servant’s face moved. It was impossible to tell whether he was angry or amused.

  “I got this cutting out of a paper I found on the Benguella—she docked at Tilbury this afternoon—and I came straight here. I should never have dreamt of coming at all, only I want fair play for all concerned. That Portuguese feller with a name like a cigar—Villa, that’s it!—he said, ‘What’s the good of going to London when we can settle everything on board ship?’ But half-breed Portuguese! My God, I’d rather deal with bushmen! Bushmen are civilized—look here.”

  Before the butler realized what the man was doing, he had slipped off one of his ugly shoes. He wore no sock or stocking underneath, and he upturned the sole of his bare foot for inspection. The flesh was seamed and puckered into red weals, and the butler knew the cause.

  “Portuguese,” said the visitor tersely as he resumed his shoe. “Not niggers—Portugooses—half-bred, I’ll admit. They burnt me to make me talk, and they’d have killed me only one of those hell-fire American traders came along—full of fight and fire-water. He brought me into the town.”

  “Where was this?” asked the butler.

  “Mosamades: I went ashore to look round, like a fool. I was on a Woerman boat that was going up to Boma. The skipper was a Hun, but white—he warned me.”

  “And what did they want to know from you?”

  The caller shot a suspicious glance at his interrogator.

  “Are you the boss?” he demanded.

  “No—I’m Mr. Manfred’s butler. What name shall I tell him?”

  “Barberton—Mister Samuel Barberton. Tell him I want certain things found out. The address of a young lady by the name of Miss Mirabelle Leicester. And I’ll tell your governor something too. This Portugoose got drunk one night, and spilled it about the fort they’ve got in England. Looks like a house but it’s a fort: he went there…”

  No, he was not drunk; stooping to pick up an imaginary match-stalk, the butler’s head had come near the visitor; there was a strong aroma of tobacco but not of drink.

  “Would you very kindly wait?” he asked, and disappeared up the stairs.

  He was not gone long before he returned to the first landing and beckoned Mr. Barberton to come. The visitor was ushered into a room at the front of the house, a small room, which was made smaller by the long grey velvet curtains that hung behind the empire desk where Manfred was standing.

  “This is Mr. Barberton, sir,” said the butler, bowed, and went out, closing the door.

  “Sit down, Mr. Barberton.” He indicated a chair and seated himself. “My butler tells me you have quite an exciting story to tell me—you are from the Cape?”

  “No, I’m not,” said Mr. Barberton. “I’ve never been at the Cape in my life.”

  The man behind the desk nodded.

  “Now, if you will tell me—”

  “I’m not going to tell you much,” was the surprisingly blunt reply. “It’s not likely that I’m going to tell a stranger what I wouldn’t even tell Elijah Washington—and he saved my life!”

  Manfred betrayed no resentment at this cautious attitude. In that room he had met many clients who had shown the same rel
uctance to accept him as their confidant. Yet he had at the back of his mind the feeling that this man, unlike the rest, might remain adamant to the end: he was curious to discover the real object of the visit.

  Barberton drew his chair nearer the writing-table and rested his elbows on the edge.

  “It’s like this, Mr. What’s-your-name. There’s a certain secret which doesn’t belong to me, and yet does in a way. It is worth a lot of money. Mr. Elijah Washington knew that and tried to pump me, and Villa got a gang of Kroomen to burn my feet, but I’ve not told yet. What I want you to do is to find Miss Mirabelle Leicester; and I want to get her quick, because there’s only about two weeks, if you understand me, before this other crowd gets busy—Villa is certain to have cabled ‘em, and according to him they’re hot!”

  Mr. Manfred leant back in his padded chair, the glint of an amused smile in his grey eyes.

  “I take it that what you want us to find Miss Leicester?”

  The man nodded energetically.

  “Have you the slightest idea as to where she is to be found? Has she any relations in England?”

  “I don’t know,” interrupted the man. “All I know is that she lives here somewhere, and that her father died three years ago, on the twenty-ninth of May—make a note of that: he died in England on the twenty-ninth of May.”

  That was an important piece of information, and it made the search easy, thought Manfred.

  “And you’re going to tell me about the fort, aren’t you?” he said, as he looked up from his notes.

  Barberton hesitated.

  “I was,” he admitted, “but I’m not so sure that I will now, until I’ve found this young lady. And don’t forget,”—he rapped the table to emphasize his words—“that crowd is hot!”

  “Which crowd?” asked Manfred good-humouredly. He knew many “crowds,” and wondered if it was about one which was in his mind that the caller was speaking.

  “The crowd I’m talking about,” said Mr. Barberton, who spoke with great deliberation and was evidently weighing every word he uttered for fear that he should involuntarily betray his secret.

  That seemed to be an end of his requirements, for he rose and stood a little awkwardly, fumbling in his inside pocket.

  “There is nothing to pay,” said Manfred, guessing his intention. “Perhaps, when we have located your Miss Mirabelle Leicester, we shall ask you to refund our out-of-pocket expenses.”

  “I can afford to pay—” began the man.

  “And we can afford to wait.” Again the gleam of amusement in the deep eyes.

  Still Mr. Barberton did not move.

  “There’s another thing I meant to ask you. You know all that’s happening in this country?”

  “Not quite everything,” said the other with perfect gravity.

  “Have you ever heard of the Four Just Men?”

  It was a surprising question. Manfred bent forward as though he had not heard aright.

  “The Four—?”

  “The Four Just Men—three, as a matter of fact. I’d like to get in touch with those birds.”

  Manfred nodded.

  “I think I have heard of them,” he said.

  “They’re in England now somewhere. They’ve got a pardon: I saw that in the Cape Times—the bit I tore the advertisement from.”

  “The last I heard of them, they were in Spain,” said Manfred, and walked round the table and opened the door. “Why do you wish to get in touch with them?”

  “Because,” said Mr. Barberton impressively, “the crowd are scared of ‘em—that’s why.”

  Manfred walked with his visitor to the landing.

  “You have omitted one important piece of information,” he said with a smile, “but I did not intend your going until you told me. What is your address?”

  “Petworth Hotel, Norfolk Street.”

  Barberton went down the stairs; the butler was waiting in the hall to show him out, and Mr. Barberton, having a vague idea that something of the sort was usual in the houses of the aristocracy, slipped a silver coin in his hand. The dark-faced man murmured his thanks: his bow was perhaps a little lower, his attitude just a trifle more deferential.

  He closed and locked the front door and went slowly up the stairs to the office room. Manfred was sitting on the empire table, lighting a cigarette. The chauffeur-valet had come through the grey curtains to take the chair which had been vacated by Mr. Barberton.

  “He gave me half a crown—generous fellow,” said Poiccart, the butler. “I like him, George.”

  “I wish I could have seen his feet,” said the chauffeur, whose veritable name was Leon Gonsalez. He spoke with regret. “He comes from West Sussex, and there is insanity in his family. The left parietal is slightly recessed and the face is asymmetrical.”

  “Poor soul!” murmured Manfred, blowing a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “It’s a great trial introducing one’s friends to you, Leon.”

  “Fortunately, you have no friends,” said Leon, reaching out and taking a cigarette from the open gold case on the table. “Well, what do you think of our Mr. Barberton’s mystery?”

  George Manfred shook his head.

  “He was vague, and, in his desire to be diplomatic, incoherent. What about your own mystery, Leon? You have been out all day…have you found a solution?”

  Gonsalez nodded.

  “Barberton is afraid of something,” said Poiccart, a slow and sure analyst. “He carried a gun between his trousers and his waistcoat—you saw that?” George nodded.

  “The question is, who or which is the crowd? Question two is, where and who is Miss Mirabelle Leicester? Question three is, why did they burn Barberton’s feet?…and I think that is all.”

  The keen face of Gonsalez was thrust forward through a cloud of smoke.

  “I will answer most of them and propound two more,” he said. “Mirabelle Leicester took a job to-day at Oberzohn’s—laboratory secretary!”

  George Manfred frowned.

  “Laboratory? I didn’t know that he had one.”

  “He hadn’t till three days ago—it was fitted in seventy-two hours by experts who worked day and night; the cost of its installation was sixteen hundred pounds—and it came into existence to give Oberzohn an excuse for engaging Mirabelle Leicester. You sent me out to clear up that queer advertisement which puzzled us all on Monday—I have cleared it up. It was designed to bring our Miss Leicester into the Oberzohn establishment. We all agreed when we discovered who was the advertiser, that Oberzohn was working for something—I watched his office for two days, and she was the only applicant for the job—hers the only letter they answered. Oberzohn lunched with her at the Ritz-Carlton—she sleeps to-night in Chester Square.”

  There was a silence which was broken by Poiccart.

  “And what is the question you have to propound?” he asked mildly.

  “I think I know,” said Manfred, and nodded. “The question is: how long has Mr. Samuel Barberton to live?”

  “Exactly,” said Gonsalez with satisfaction. “You are beginning to understand the mentality of Oberzohn!”

  CHAPTER THREE - THE VENDETTA

  THE man who that morning walked without announcement into Dr. Oberzohn’s office might have stepped from the pages of a catalogue of men’s fashions. He was, to the initiated eye, painfully new. His lemon gloves, his dazzling shoes, the splendour of his silk hat, the very correctness of his handkerchief display, would have been remarkable even in the Ascot paddock on Cup day. He was good-looking, smooth, if a trifle plump, of face, and he wore a tawny little moustache and a monocle. People who did not like Captain Monty Newton—and their names were many—said of him that he aimed at achieving the housemaid’s conception of a guardsman. They did not say this openly, because he was a man to be propitiated rather than offended. He had money, a place in the country, a house in Chester Square, and an assortment of cars. He was a member of several good clubs, the committees of which never discussed him without offering the excuse of wart
ime courtesies for his election. Nobody knew how he made his money, or, if it were inherited, whose heir he was. He gave extravagant parties, played cards well, and enjoyed exceptional luck, especially when he was the host and held the bank after one of the splendid dinners he gave in his Chester Square mansion.

  “Good morning, Oberzohn—how is Smitts?” It was his favourite jest, for there was no Smitts, and had been no Smitts in the firm since ‘96.

  The doctor, peering down at the telegram he was writing, looked up.

  “Good morning, Captain Newton,” he said precisely. Newton passed to the back of him and read the message he was writing. It was addressed to “Miss Alma Goddard, Heavytree Farm, Daynham, Gloucester,” and the wire ran:

  “Have got the fine situation. Cannot expeditiously return to-night. I am sleeping at our pretty flat in Doughty Court. Do not come up until I send for you.—Miss MIRABELLE LEICESTER.”

  “She’s here, is she?” Captain Newton glanced at the laboratory door. “You’re not going to send that wire? ‘Miss Mirabelle Leicester!’ ‘Expeditiously return!’ She’d tumble it in a minute. Who is Alma Goddard?”

  “The aunt,” said Oberzohn. “I did not intend the dispatching until you had seen it. My English is too correct.”

  He made way for Captain Newton, who, having taken a sheet of paper from the rack on which to deposit with great care his silk hat, and having stripped his gloves and deposited them in his hat, sat down in the chair from which the older man had risen, pulled up the knees of his immaculate trousers, tore off the top telegraph form, and wrote under the address:

  “Have got the job. Hooray! Don’t bother to come up, darling, until I am settled. Shall sleep at the flat as usual. Too busy to write. Keep my letters.—MIRABELLE.”

  “That’s real,” said Captain Newton, surveying his work with satisfaction. “Push it off.”

  He got up and straddled his legs before the fire.

  “The hard part of the job may be to persuade the lady to come to Chester Square,” he said.