pearls?” he repeated, in affected surprise. “Do you mean Lady Darnleigh’s pearls?”
She nodded. “Why did Johnny lie?” she asked. “It was the first thing he told me when he came home, that there had been a robbery in Park Lane and that Lady Darnleigh had lost her jewels.”
“Johnny was not quite normal,” he said soothingly. “I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he said. His memory seems to have gone to pieces lately.”
“It isn’t that.” She was not convinced. “He knew that he had told me, Maurice: there was no question of his having forgotten.” She looked up anxiously into his face. “You don’t think—” She did not complete the sentence.
“That Johnny knew anything about the robbery? Rubbish, my dear! The boy is a little worried — and naturally! It isn’t a pleasant sensation to find yourself thrown on to the world penniless as Johnny has. He has neither your character nor your courage, my dear.”
She sighed heavily and went back to her desk, where there was a neat little pile of correspondence which she had put aside. She turned the pages listlessly and suddenly withdrew a sheet.
“Maurice, who is The Ringer?” she asked.
He glared back at the word.
“The Ringer?”
“It’s a cablegram. You hadn’t opened it. I found it amongst a lot of your old correspondence.”
He snatched the paper from her. The message was dated three months before, and was from Sydney. By the signature he saw it was from a lawyer who acted as his agent in Australia, and the message was brief: “Man taken from Sydney Harbour identified, not Ringer, who is believed to have left Australia.”
Mary was staring at the lawyer. His face had gone suddenly haggard and drawn; what vestige of colour there had been in his cheeks had disappeared.
“The Ringer!” he muttered…”Alive!”
The hand that held the paper was shaking, and, as though he realised that some reason for his agitation must be found, he went on with a laugh: “An old client of mine, a fellow I was rather keen on — but a scoundrel, and more than a scoundrel.”
As he spoke he tore the form into little pieces and dropped the litter into the wastepaper basket. Then unexpectedly he put his arm about her shoulder.
“Mary, I would not worry too much about Johnny if I were you. He is at a difficult age and in a difficult mood. I am not pleased with him just now.”
She stared at him wonderingly.
“Not pleased with him, Maurice? Why not?”
Maurice shrugged his shoulders.
“He has got himself mixed up with a lot of unpleasant people — men I would not have in this office, and certainly would not allow to associate with you.”
His arm was still about her shoulder, and she moved slightly to release herself from this parental embrace. She was not frightened, only a little uncomfortable and uneasy, but he allowed his arm to drop as though his gesture had been born in a momentary mood of protection, and apparently did not notice the movement by which she had freed herself.
“Can’t you do something for him? He would listen to you,” she pleaded.
But he was not thinking of Johnny. All his thoughts and eyes were for the girl. She was holding his arms now, looking up into his face, and he felt his pulses beating a little faster. Suppose Johnny took the detective’s advice and went off to the Continent with the pearls — and Mary! He would find no difficulty in disposing of the necklace and would secure a sum sufficient to keep him for years. This was the thought that ran through Meister’s mind as he patted the girl’s cheek softly.
“I will see what can be done about Johnny,” he said. “Don’t worry your pretty head any more.”
In his private office Meister had a small portable typewriter. Throughout the afternoon she heard the click-click of it as he laboriously wrote his message of betrayal.
That evening, when Inspector Wembury came back to Flanders Lane Police Station, he found a letter awaiting him. It was typewritten and unsigned and had been delivered by a district messenger from a West Central office. The message ran:
‘The Countess of Darnleigh’s pearl necklace was stolen by John Lenley of 37, Malpas Mansions. It is at present in a cardboard carton in a box under his bed.’
Alan Wembury read the message and his heart sank within, him, for only one course was open to him, the course of duty.
Chapter 12
Wembury knew that he would be well within his rights if he ignored this typewritten message, for anonymous letters are a daily feature of police life. Yet he realised that it was the practice that, if the information which came thus surreptitiously to a police station coincided with news already in the possession of the police, or if it supported a definite suspicion, inquiries must be set afoot.
He went to his little room to work out the problem alone. It would be a simple matter to hand over the inquiry to another police officer, or even to refer it to…But that would be an act of moral cowardice.
There was a small sliding window in the door of his office which gave him a view of the charge room, and as he pondered his problem a bent figure came into his line of vision and, acting on an impulse, he jumped up from the table, and, opening the door beckoned Dr. Lomond. Why he should make a confidant of this old man who was ignorant of police routine he could not for the life of him explain. But between the two men in the very short period of their acquaintance there had grown a queer understanding.
Lomond looked round the little room from under his shaggy brows.
“I have a feeling that you’re in trouble, Mr. Wembury,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“If that’s a guess, it’s a good one,” said Alan.
He closed the door behind the police surgeon and pushed forward a chair for him. In a few words he revealed the problem which was exercising his mind, and Lomond listened attentively.
“It’s verra awkward.” He shook his head. “Man, that’s almost like a drama! It seems to me there’s only one thing for you to do, Mr. Wembury — you’ll have to treat John Lenley as though he were John Smith or Thomas Brown. Forget he’s the brother of Miss Lenley, and I think,” he said shrewdly, “that is what is worrying you most — and deal with this case as though it were somebody you had never heard of.”
Alan nodded slowly.
“That, I’m afraid, is the counsel I should give myself, if I were entirely unprejudiced in the matter.”
The old man took a silver tobacco box from his pocket and began slowly to roll a cigarette.
“John Lenley, eh?” he mused. “A friend of Meister’s!”
