The Joker by Edgar Wallace (books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📖

visit which

he could not have imagined.

 

‘It would be dreadful if I liked him, or if he was fond of me,’ she went

on, stopping at the foot of the hotel steps. ‘As it is, we have a

business talk and that is all.’

 

With a friendly nod she passed into the hotel ahead of him. Mr Harlow

stood for a long time in the doorway, looking at nothing, his mind very

busy, and then he strolled back to his cooling coffee; and presently fell

into discussion; about the weather and the crops with the nervous little

man who awaited his coming.

 

They were quite alone now. The car parties had vanished in noisy

confusion; the old gentleman and the stout old lady were leaving the

hotel on a walking excursion as he had come in.

 

‘Is everything all right, Ellenbury?’

 

‘Yes, Mr Harlow,’ said the little man eagerly. ‘Everything is in perfect

shape and trim. I have settled the action that the French underwriters

were bringing against the Rata Company, and—’

 

Suddenly he was stricken to silence. Following the direction of his

staring eyes, Mr Harlow also looked out of the window. Eight convicts

were walking down the street in the direction of the railway station; Mr

Harlow looked and pointed.

 

‘Not a very pleasant or an agreeable sight,’ he said. In his oracular

moments his voice was very rich and pleasant. ‘Yet one, I think, to which

the callous people of Princetown are quite accustomed. These men are

being transferred to another prison, I imagine. Do you ever realise what

your feelings would be if you had been, say, the leader of that gang,

they used to be chained like wild beasts—’

 

‘For God’s sake, stop!’ said the little man hoarsely. ‘Don’t talk about

it, don’t talk about it!’ His trembling hands covered his eyes. ‘I had a

horror of coming here,’ he said, in a voice that was scarcely audible.

‘I’ve never been before… the car passed that terrible archway and I

nearly fainted!’

 

Mr Harlow, one eye on the door, smiled indulgently. ‘You have nothing to

fear, my dear Ellenbury,’ he said in a paternal voice. ‘I have in a sense

condoned your felony. In a sense,’ he emphasised carefully. ‘Whether a

judge would take the same view, I do not know. You understand the law

better than I. This much is certain; you are free, your debts are paid,

the money you stole from your clients has been made good and you have, I

think, an income which is, shall we say, satisfactory.’

 

The little man nodded and swallowed something. He was white to the lips,

and when he tried to lift a glass of water his hand shook so that he had

to put it down again. ‘I’m very grateful,’ he said. ‘Very—very

grateful… I’m sorry-it was rather upsetting.’

 

‘Naturally,’ murmured Mr Harlow.

 

He took a notebook from his pocket, opened it with the greatest

deliberation and wrote for five minutes, the little lawyer watching him.

When he had finished he tore out the sheet and passed it across the

table.

 

‘I want to know all about this man Arthur Ingle,’ he said. ‘When his

sentence expires, where he lives in London or elsewhere, his means and

especially his grudge against life. I don’t know what it is, but I rather

suspect that it is a pretty big one. I should also like to know where his

niece is employed. Her name you will find on the paper, with a query mark

attached. I want to know who are her friends, what are her amusements,

her financial position is very important.’

 

‘I understand.’ Ellenbury put the paper carefully in a worn pocket-book.

And then, with one of his habitual starts: ‘I had forgotten one thing, Mr

Harlow,’ he said. ‘On Monday last I had a visit at my office in Lincoln’s

Inn Fields from the police.’

 

He said the last two words apologetically as though he were in some way

responsible for the character of his caller. Mr Harlow turned his pale

eyes upon his companion, made a long scrutiny of his face before he

asked: ‘in what connection?’

 

‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Ellenbury, who had a trick of reproducing at

a second’s notice all the emotions he described. ‘It was rather

puzzling.’ He screwed up his face into an expression of bewilderment.

‘You see, Mr Carlton did not come to any point.’

 

‘Carlton?’ demanded Harlow, quickly for him. ‘That’s the man at the

Foreign Office, isn’t it?’

 

Ellenbury nodded.

 

‘It was about the rubber fire. You remember the fire at the United

International factory? He wanted to know if Rata had any insurance on the

stock that was burnt and of course I told him that as far as I knew, we

hadn’t.’

 

‘Don’t say “we,”’ said Mr Harlow gently. ‘Say the Rata Syndicate hadn’t.

You are a lawyer acting for undisclosed principals. Well?’

 

‘That was all,’ said Ellenbury. ‘He was very vague.’

 

‘He always is vague,’ interrupted Harlow with a faint smile, ‘and he’s

always unscrupulous—remember that, Ellenbury. Sub-Inspector James

Carlton is the most unscrupulous man that Scotland Yard has ever

employed. Some day he will be irretrievably ruined or irretrievably

promoted. I have a great admiration for him. I know of no man

in the world I rate higher in point of intelligence, acumen

and—unscrupulousness! He has a theory which is both admirable and

baffling. Which means that he has the right theory. For rectitude is the

most baffling of all human qualities, because you never know, if a man

is doing right, what he will do next. I think that is almost an epigram,

Ellenbury: you had best jot it down, so that if ever you are called upon

to write my biography you may have material to lighten its pages.’ He

looked at his watch. I shall be at Park Lane at eleven o’clock on Friday

night, and I can give you ten minutes,’ he said.

 

Ellenbury twiddled his fingers unhappily.

 

‘Isn’t there a risk—to you, I mean?’ he blurted. ‘Perhaps I’m stupid,

but I can’t see why you do… well, why you take chances. With all your

money—’

 

Mr Harlow leaned back in the cushioned seat, amusement faintly visible in

his pale eyes.

 

‘If you had millions what would you do? Retire, of course. Build or buy a

beautiful house—and then?’

 

‘I don’t know,’ said the older man vaguely. ‘One could travel… ‘

 

‘The English people have two ideas of happiness: one comes from travel,

one from staying still! Rushing or rusting! I might marry but I don’t

wish to marry. I might have a great stable of race-horses, but I detest

racing. I might yacht—I loathe the sea. Suppose I want a thrill? I do!

The art of living is the art of victory. Make a note of that. Where is

happiness in cards, horses, golf, women-anything you like? I’ll tell you:

in beating the best man to it! That’s An Americanism. Where is the joy of

mountain climbing, of exploration, of scientific discovery? To do better

than somebody else—to go farther, to put your foot on the head of the

next best.’

 

He blew a cloud of smoke through the open window and waited until the

breeze had torn the misty gossamer into shreds and nothingness.

 

‘When you’re a millionaire you either get inside yourself and become a

beast, or get outside of yourself and become a nuisance to your fellows.

If you’re a Napoleon you will play the game of power, if you’re a

Leonardo you’ll play for knowledge—the stakes hardly matter; it’s the

game that counts. Accomplishment has its thrill, whether it is hitting a

golf ball farther than the next fellow, or strewing the battle fields

with the bodies of your enemies. My thrill is harder to get than most

people’s. I’m a millionaire. Sterling and dollars are my soldiers—I am

entitled to frame my own rules of war, conduct my forays in my own way.

Don’t ask any further questions!’

 

He waved his hand towards the door and Mr Ellenbury was dismissed; and

shortly afterwards his hired car rattled loudly up the hill and past the

gates of the jail. Mr Ellenbury studiously turned his face in the

opposite direction.