The Joker by Edgar Wallace (books to read in your 20s .TXT) đ
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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People who pass as strangers on the Monday may be planning a mutual
future on the Saturday. A very pretty girl⊠the wheels of Mr Ellenburyâs
mind began to revolve, were whirling madly.
The first thing she would tell Harlow.
âDid you see Mr Ellenbury?â
âYes; he had an enormous quantity of money in two suitcases on his
desk⊠â
He could imagine the swift conclusions that would follow.
âMy wife is very illââthe wheels creaked a littleââvery ill. She hasnât
been out of bed for twenty years.â His weak mouth drooped pathetically.
âIt is strange⊠your coming like this. She asked about you this
morning.â
âAbout me?â Aileen could hardly believe her ears. âBut I donât know her!â
âShe knows youâknew you when you were a childâknew your mother or your
father, Iâm not sure which.â He was on safe ground here, though he was
not sure of this. âCurious⊠I intended calling at Stebbingsâs to ask
you⊠the car would bring you back.â
âTo see Mrs Ellenburyâtonight?â She was incredulous. Mr Ellenbury nodded
his head. âButâIâve promised to go to Mr Harlowâs house.â
âThere will be timeâit is an old manâs request; unreasonableâI realise
that.â He looked very old and mean and unhappy.
âIs it far?â
He told her the exact position of this houseâdescribed the nearest
route. What would happen after, he did not know. There would be time to
consider that. Something dreadful. To keep her away from Harlowâher
lover perhaps. That was the first consideration. His seats were booked,
the cabin reserved; he left in the morning by the early train. Why not by
Ostend? These by-thoughts insisted on confusing him.
âCould I telephone to Mr Stebbings?â
âIâll do that.â He was almost jovial. âWhat you can do, young lady, is to
help me pack these two cases. A lot of money, eh? All Harlowâs, all
Harlowâs! A clever man!â
She nodded as she gathered up the bundles of bills.
âYesâvery clever.â
âA good fellow?â
She wasnât sure of this; he thought she was dissembling a new affection.
Obviously she was fond of Harlow. Otherwise, since she was a known friend
of Jim Carlton she must express her abhorrence. He had escaped a very
real danger.
She had forgotten that he had promised to telephone until the car,
waiting all this time in the soaking rain, was moving down Kingsway. âI
have a phone at my house,â he said.
It is true that he had a telephoneâa private wire into Mr Harlowâs
library. But he was hardly likely to use it. Crouched up in a corner of
the car, the suitcases at his feet, knocking at his knees as the machine
slowed or accelerated, he talked about his wife, but he thought of the
girl by his side. And he reached this conclusion: she was the one person
in the world who could betray him. The one person in the world who knew
that he had two large suitcases filled with money. It was necessary that
he should forget bank managers and Harlow and certain members of the
Rataâs staff, and so he forgot them. A bit of a girl to stand between him
and a wonderful future. Picture galleries, sunlight on striped awnings,
great masses of flowers blooming under blue skies, what time fog and rain
clouds palled this filthy city and liquid mud splashed at the windows of
the hired car.
They were nearing the house when he dropped the window and leaned out on
the driverâs side.
âThe house is the fourth from the next side road. Stop before the gates;
donât go into the drive and wait for a few minutes before you drive
away.â
He pushed three notes into the manâs hand: the gum-chewing driver
examined them by the light on his instrument board and seemed satisfied.
âDo you mind if we stop at the gate? It is only a little walk up the
driveâmy wife is so nervous; starts at every sound.â
Aileen did not object. When they alighted in the muddy road, she offered
to carry one of the cases and he consented. It was heavier than she
expected.
âHarlowâs, all Harlowâs!â he muttered as he walked through the ugly gates
and bent his head to the drive of rain. âOne of his âjokesâ.
âWhat do you mean by âjokeâ?â she asked.
âHarlowâs jokes⊠difficult⊠explain.â The wind tore words out of his
speech. She could see the house; square, lifeless. âTo the leftâwe go in
at the back.â
They were following a cinder-path that ran snakily through the bare stems
of rose bushes. Ahead of her she saw a squat building of some sort. It
was the furnace house of the greenhouses, he told her.
âThere are two steps down.â
Why on earth were they going into a hot-house at this time of night? He
answered the question she had not put.
âSafe⊠lock away⊠cases,â he shouted.
The wind had freshened to a gale. A flicker of lightning startled her:
lightning in December was a phenomenon outside her knowledge. Ellenbury
put down the cases and pulled at a rusty padlock; a door groaned open.
âHere,â he said, and she went in after him.
He struck a match and lit an inch of candle in a grimy little
storm-lantern and she could take stock of the place. It was a brick pit,
windowless. The floor was littered with cinders and broken flower-pots.
On a wooden bench was a heap of mould from which the green shoots of weed
were sprouting. There was a rusting furnace door open and showing more
ashes and cinders and garden rubbish.
âJust wait: Iâll bring the bags.â
His heart was beating so violently that he could hardly
breatheâfortunately for her peace of mind, she could not see his face.
He staggered out and slammed the door, threw the rusty lamp on to the
staple and, groping at his feet, found the padlock and fixed it. Then he
stumbled up the two steps and ran towards the house.
He had to sit on the steps for a long time before he was sufficiently
calm to go in. Listening at the door before he opened it, he crept into
the hall, closed the door without a sound and tiptoed to his study. He
was wet through and shivering. The suitcases were shining like patent
leather.
He took off his drenched overcoat and rang the bell. The maid who
presently appeared was surprised to see him.
âI thought, sirââ she began, but he cut her short.
âGo up to my roomâdonât make a noiseâand bring me down a complete
change. You may tell your mistress that I shall not be up for some time.â
Poking the meagre fire, he warmed his hands at the blaze.
The girl came back with a bundle of clothes, announced her intention of
making him a cup of tea and discreetly retired.
Mr Ellenbury started to change when a thought occurred to him. He might
have to change again. His trousers were not very wet. And round about the
pit was very muddy. He had thought of the pit in the car. Fate was
working for him.
He put on his dressing-gown and took down from a shelf two volumes which
he had often read. The Chronicles of Crime they were calledâa record of
drab evil told in the stilted style of their Early Victorian editor. They
were each âembellished with fifty-two illustrations by âPhizâ.â
He opened a volume at random.
â⊠when a female, young, beautiful and innocent, is the victim of
oppression, there is no man with common feelings who would not risk his
life to snatch her from despair and misery⊠â
This little bit of moralising was the sentence he read. He turned the
page, unconscious of its irony.
Maria Martenâshot in a barn. There was another woman killed with a
sword. He turned the leaves impatiently; regretted at that moment so
little acquaintance with the criminal bar. There was a large axeâwhere?
Outside the kitchen door. He went down the kitchen stairs, passing the
maid on her way up. Just outside the kitchen door, in the very place
where he had seen it that morning, he found the axe. He brought it
upstairs under his dressing-gown.
âYou may go to bed,â he said to the maid. He drank his tea and then heard
the ring of the telephone in the hall. He hesitated, then hastened to
answer it.
âYes this is Ellenbury,â he strove to keep his voice calm, âMiss Rivers?
Yes she called at my office soon after six with a letter from Mr
Stebbingsâno, I havenât seen her since⊠â
He heaved on his wet overcoat and went out into the storm.
How very unpleasant!⊠why couldnât they let him go away quietly⊠an old
manâwhite-haired, with only a few years to live? Tears rolled down his
cheeks at the injustice of his treatment. It was Harlow! Damn Harlow!
This poor girl, who had done nobody any harmâa beautiful creature who
must die because of Harlow!
He dashed the weak tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, lilted
off the padlock and threw open the door.
The candle had burnt down to its last flicker of life, but in that
fraction of light, before the wick sank bluely into oblivion, he saw the
white face of the girl as she stood, frozen with horror. Ellenbury swung
his axe with a sob.
WHEN Mr Elk went into the office of his friend that afternoon, he found
Jim engrossed in a large street plan that was spread out on the table. It
had evidently been specially drawn or copied for his purpose, for there
was a smudge of green ink where his sleeve had brushed.
âBuying house property?â asked Elk.
Jim rolled up the plan carefully and put it into his drawer.
âThe real estate business,â Elk went on, âis the easiest way of getting
money I know. You canât be pinched for it, and thereâs no come-back.
Friend of mine bought a cow field at Finchley and built a lot of
ready-to-wear villas on itâhe drives his own Jaguar nowadays. I know
another manââ
âWould you like to assist me in a little burglary tonight?â interrupted
Jim.
âBurglary is my long suit,â said Elk. âI remember onceââ
âThere was a time,â mused Jim, âwhen I could climb like a cat, though
Iâve not seen a cat go up the side of a house, and Iâve never quite
understood how âcat burglarâ can be an apposite description.â
âShort for caterpillar,â suggested Elk. âThey can walk up glass owing to
the suckers on their big feet. Thatâs natural history, the same as flies.
Whereâs the âbustâ?â
âPark Lane, no less,â replied Jim. âMy scheme is to inspect one of the
stately homes of Englandâthe ancestral castle of Baron Harlow.â
âHe ainât been knighted, has he?â asked Elk, who had the very haziest
ideas about the peerage. âThough I donât see why he shouldnât be; ifââ
he mentioned an illustrious political figureââwas in office, Harlow
would have been a duke by now, or an earl, or somethinâ.â
Jim looked out of the window at the Thames Embankment, crowded at this
rush hour with homeward-bound workers. It was raining heavily, and half a
gale was blowing. Certainly the fog which had been predicted by the
Weather Bureau showed no sign of appearance.
âThe Weather people are letting me down,â he said; âunless thereâs a fog
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