The Joker by Edgar Wallace (books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📖
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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Carlton chuckled. ‘Saw that too? I’ll remember you, constable. You had
better send the girl home in a taxi—no, I’ll take her myself.’
Aileen heard the proposal without enthusiasm. ‘I much prefer to walk,’
she said definitely.
He led her aside from the crowd now being dispersed, authoritatively. And
in such privacy as could be obtained momentarily, he revealed himself.
‘I am, in fact, a policeman,’ he said; and she opened her eyes in wonder.
He did not look like a policeman, even in the fog which plays so many
tricks. He had the appearance of a motor mechanic, and not a prosperous
one. On his head was a black beret that had seen better days; he wore an
old mack reaching to his knees; and the gloves he carried under his arm
were black with grease.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said firmly, as though she had given oral expression
to her surprise, ‘I am a policeman. But no ordinary policeman. I am an
inspector at Scotland Yard—a sub-inspector, it is true, but I have a
position to uphold.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘He had already hailed a taxi and now he opened the door. ‘You might
object to the escort of an ordinary policeman,’ he said airily, ‘but my
rank is so exalted that you do not need a chaperon.’
She entered the cab between laughter and tears, for her elbow really did
hurt more than she was ready to confess.
‘Rivers—Aileen Rivers,’ he mused, as the cab went cautiously along the
Embankment. ‘I’ve got you on the tip of my tongue and at the back of my
mind, but I can’t place you.’
‘Perhaps if you look up my record at Scotland Yard?’ she suggested,
with a certain anger at his impertinence.
‘I thought of doing that,’ he replied calmly; ‘but Aileen Rivers?’ He
shook his head. ‘No, I can’t place you.’ And of course he had placed her.
He knew her as the niece of Arthur Ingle, sometime Shakespearean actor
and now serving five years for an ingenious system of fraud and forgery.
But then, he was unscrupulous, as Mr Harlow had said. He had a power of
invention which carried him far beyond the creative line, but he was not
averse to stooping on the way to the most petty deceptions. And this in
spite of the fact that he had been well educated and immense sums had
been spent on the development of his mind, so that lie might distinguish
between right and wrong.
‘Fotheringay Mansions.’ He fingered his grimy chin. ‘How positively
exclusive!’
She turned on him in sudden anger. ‘I’ve accepted your escort, Mr—’ She
paused insultingly.
‘Carlton,’ he murmured; ‘half-brother to the hotel but no relation to the
club. And this is fame! You were saying?’
‘I was going to say that I wished you would not talk. You have done your
best to kill me this evening; you might at least let me die in peace.’
He peered through the fog-shrouded windows. ‘There’s an old woman selling
chrysanthemums near Westminster Bridge; we might stop and buy you some
flowers.’ And then, quickly: ‘I’m terribly sorry, I won’t ask you any
questions at all or make any comments upon your plutocratic residence.’
‘I don’t live there,’ she said in self-defence. ‘I go there sometimes to
see the place is kept in order. It belongs to a-a-relation of mine who is
abroad.’
‘Monte Carlo?’ he murmured. ‘And a jolly nice place too! Rien ne va plus!
Faites vos jeux, monsieurs et mesdames! Personally I prefer San Remo.
Blue sky, blue sea, green hills, white houses—everything like a railway
poster.’ And then he went off at a tangent. ‘And talking of blueness, you
were lucky not to be hit by the blue Rolls; it was going faster than me,
but it has better brakes. I rammed his petrol tank in the fog, but even
that didn’t make him stop.’
Her lips curled in the darkness. ‘A criminal escaping from justice, one
thinks? How terribly romantic!’
The young man chuckled.
‘One thinks wrong. It was a millionaire on his way to a City banquet. And
the only criminal charge I can bring home to him is that he wears large
diamond studs in his shirt, which offence is more against my aesthetic
taste than the laws of my country, God bless it!’
The cab was slowing, the driver leaning sideways seeking to identify the
locality.
‘We’re here,’ said Mr Carlton; opened the door of the taxi while it was
still in motion and jumped out.
The machine stopped before the portals of Fotheringay Mansions.
‘Thank you very much for bringing me home,’ said Aileen primly and
politely, and added not without malice: ‘I’ve enjoyed your conversation.’
‘You should hear my aunt,’ said the young man. ‘Her line of talk is sheer
poetry!’
He watched her until she was swallowed in the gloom, and returned to the
cab.
‘Scotland Yard,’ he said laconically; ‘and take a bit of a risk, O son of
Nimshi.’
The cabman took the necessary risk and arrived without hurt at the gloomy
entrance of police headquarters. Jim Carlton waved a brotherly greeting
to the sergeant at the desk, took the stairs two at a time, and came to
his own little room. As a rule he was not particularly interested in his
personal appearance, but now, glancing at the small mirror which
decorated the upturned top of a washstand, he uttered a groan.
He was busy getting the grease from his face when the melancholy face of
Inspector Elk appeared in the doorway.
‘Going to a party?’ he asked gloomily.
‘No,’ said Jim through the lather; ‘I often wash.’
Elk sniffed, seated himself on the edge of a hard chair, searched his
pockets slowly and thoroughly.
‘It’s in the inside pocket of my jacket,’ spluttered Carlton. ‘Take one;
I’ve counted ‘em.’
Elk sighed heavily as he took out the long leather case, and, selecting a
cigar, lit it.
‘Seegars are not what they was when I was a boy,’ he said, gazing at the
weed disparagingly. ‘For sixpence you could get a real Havana. Over in
New York everybody smokes cigars. But then, they pay the police a livin’
wage; they can afford it.’
Mr Carlton looked over his towel. ‘I’ve never known you to buy a cigar in
your life,’ he said deliberately. ‘You can’t get them cheaper than for
nothing!’
Inspector Elk was not offended. ‘I’ve smoked some good cigars in my
time,’ he said. ‘Over in the Public Prosecutor’s office in Mr Gordon’s
days—he was the fellow that smashed the Frogs—him and me, that is to
say,’ he corrected himself carefully.
‘The Frogs? Oh, yes, I remember. Mr Gordon had good cigars, did he?’
‘Pretty good,’ said Elk cautiously. ‘I wouldn’t say yours was worse, but
it’s not better.’ And then, without a change of voice: ‘Have you pinched
Stratford Harlow?’
Jim Carlton made a grimace of disgust. ‘Tell me something I can pinch him
for,’ he invited.
‘He’s worth fifteen millions according to accounts,’ said Elk. ‘No man
ever got fifteen million honest.’
Jim Carlton turned a white, wet face to his companion. ‘He inherited
three from his father, two from one aunt, one from another. The Harlows
have always been a rich family, and in the last decade they’ve graded
down to maiden aunts. He had a brother in America who left him eight
million dollars.’
Elk sighed and scratched his thin nose.
‘He’s in Ratas too,’ he said complainingly.
‘Of course he’s in Ratas!’ scoffed Jim. ‘Ellenbury hides him, but even if
he didn’t, there’s nothing criminal in Ratas. And supposing he was openly
in it, that would be no offence.
‘Oh!’ said Elk, and by that ‘Oh!’ indicated his tentative disagreement.
There was nothing furtive or underhand about the Rata Syndicate. It was
registered as a public company, and had its offices in Westshire House,
Old Broad Street, in the City of London, and its New York office on Wall
Street. The Rata Syndicate published a balance sheet and employed a staff
of ten clerks, three of whom gained further emoluments by acting as
directors of the company, under the chairmanship of a retired colonel of
infantry. The capital was a curiously small one, but the resources of the
syndicate were enormous. When Rata cornered rubber, cheques amounting to
five millions sterling passed outward through its banking accounts; in
fact every cent involved in that great transaction appeared in the books
except the fifty thousand dollars that somebody paid to Lee Hertz and his
two friends.
Lee arrived from New York on a Friday afternoon. On the Sunday morning
the United Continental Rubber Company’s stores went up in smoke. Nearly
eighteen thousand tons of rubber were destroyed in that well-organised
conflagration, and rubber jumped 80 per cent in twenty-four hours and 200
per cent in a week. For the big reserves that kept the market steady had
been wiped out in the twinkling of an eye, to the profit of Rata
Incorporated.
Said the New York Headquarters to Scotland Yard: Lee Hertz, Jo Klein and
Philip Serrett well known fire bugs believed to be in London stop See
record NY 9514 mailed you October 7 for description stop Possibility you
may connect them United Continental fire.
By the time Scotland Yard located Lee he was in Paris in his well-known
role of American Gentleman Seeing the Sights.
‘It doesn’t look right to me,’ said Elk, puffing luxuriously at the
cigar. ‘Here’s Rata, buys rubber with not a ghost of a chance of its
rising. And suddenly, biff! A quarter of the reserve stock in this
country is burnt out, and naturally prices and shares rise. Rata’s been
buying ‘em for months. Did they know that the United was going west?’
‘I thought it might have been an accident,’ said Jim, who had never
thought anything of the sort.
‘Accident my grandmother’s right foot!’ said Elk, without heat. ‘The
stores were lit up in three places—the salvage people located the
petrol. A man answering the description of Jo Klein was drinking with the
night watchman the day before, and that watchman swears he never saw this
Jo bird again, but he’s probably lying. The lower classes lie easier than
they drink. Ten millions, and if Harlow’s behind Rata, he made more than
that on the rubber deal. Buying orders everywhere! Toronto, Rio,
Calcutta—every loose bit of rubber lifted off the market. Then comes the
fire, and up she goes! All I got to say is—’
The telephone bell rang shrilly at that second, and Jim Carlton picked up
the receiver.
‘Somebody wants you, Inspector,’ said the exchange clerk.
There was a click, an interval of silence, and then a troubled voice
asked:
‘Can I speak to Mr Carlton?’
‘Yes, Miss Rivers.’
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ There was a nattering relief in the voice. ‘I
wonder if you would come to Fotheringay Mansions, No. 63?’
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked quickly.
‘I don’t know, but one of the bedroom doors is locked, and I’m sure
there’s nobody in there.’
THE GIRL was standing in the open doorway of the flat as the two men
stepped from the elevator. She seemed a little disconcerted at the sight
of Inspector Elk, but Jim Carlton introduced him as a friend and
obliterated him as a factor with one comprehensive gesture.
‘I suppose I ought to have sent for the local police, only there
are—well, there are certain reasons why I shouldn’t,’ she said.
Somehow Jim had
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