forgotten to warn you about that. Meister was at Lenley Court, you say? You didn’t tell him?”
“No, sir,” said Alan, his lips twitching. “I thought, coming up in the train, that it was rather a pity I couldn’t — I would like to have seen the effect upon him!”
Alan could understand how the news of The Ringer’s return would flutter the Whitehall dovecotes, but he was unprepared for the extraordinarily serious view which Colonel Walford took of the position.
“I’ll tell you frankly, Wembury, that I would much rather be occupying a place on the pension list than this chair at Scotland Yard when that news is published.”
Alan looked at him in astonishment; the Commissioner was in deadly earnest.
“The Ringer is London’s favourite bogy,” Colonel Walford said, “and the very suggestion that he has returned to England will be quite sufficient to send all the newspaper hounds of Fleet Street on my track. Never forget, Wembury, he is a killer, and he has neither fear nor appreciation of danger. He has caused more bolts to be shot than any other criminal on our list! The news that this man is at large and in London will arouse such a breeze that even I would not weather it!”
“You think he’ll be beyond me?” smiled Alan.
“No,” said Walford surprisingly, “I have great hopes of you — and great hopes of Dr. Lomond. By the way, have you met Dr. Lomond?”
Alan looked at him in surprise. “No, sir, who is he?”
Colonel Walford reached for a book that lay on his table, “He is one of the few amateur detectives who have impressed me,” he said. “Fourteen years ago he wrote the only book on the subject of the criminal that is worth studying. He has been in India and Tibet for years and I think the UnderSecretary was fortunate to persuade him to fill the appointment.”
“What appointment, sir?”
“Police surgeon of ‘R’ Division — in fact, your new division,” said Walford. “You are both making acquaintance with Deptford at the same time.”
Alan Wembury turned the closely-set pages of the book. “He is a pretty big man to take a fiddling job like this,” he said and Walford laughed.
“He has spent his life doing fiddling jobs — would you like to meet him? He is with the Chief Constable at the moment.”
He pressed a bell and gave instructions to the messenger who came. “Lomond is rather a character — terribly Scottish, a little cynical and more than a little pawky.”
“Will he help us to catch The Ringer?” smiled Alan and he was astonished to see the Commissioner nod.
“I have that feeling,” he said.
The door opened at that moment and a tall bent figure shuffled in. Alan put his age at something over fifty. His hair was grey, a little moustache drooped over his mouth and the pair of twinkling blue eyes that met Alan’s were dancing with good-humour. His homespun suit was badly cut, his high-crowned felt hat belonged to the seventies.
“I want you to meet Inspector Wembury who will be in charge of your division,” said Walford and Wembury’s hand was crushed in a powerful grip.
“Have ye any interesting specimens in Deptford, inspector? I’d like fine to measure a few heids.”
Alan’s smile broadened.
“I’m as ignorant of Deptford as you — I haven’t been there since before the war,” he said.
The doctor scratched his chin, his keen eyes fixed on the younger man, “I’m thinkin’ they’ll no’ be as interesting as the Lolos. Man, there’s a wonderful race, wi’ braci-cephalic heads, an’ a queer development of the right parietal…”
He spoke quickly, enthusiastically when he was on his favourite subject.
Alan seized an opportunity when the doctor was expounding a view on the origin of some mysterious Tibetan tribe to steal quietly from the room. He was not in the mood for anthropology.
An hour later as he was leaving Scotland Yard he met Walford as he was coming out of his room and walked with him to the Embankment, “Yes — I got rid of the doctor,” chuckled the colonel, “he’s too clever to be a bore, but he made my head ache!” Then suddenly: “You’re handing over that pearl case to Burton — the Darnleigh pearls I mean. You have no further clue?”
“No, sir,” said Alan. He had almost forgotten that there was such a case in his hands.
The Commissioner was frowning. “I was thinking, after you left, what a queer coincidence it was that you were going to Lenley Court. Young Lenley was apparently at Lady Darnleigh’s house on the night of the robbery,” and then, seeing the look that came to his subordinate’s face, he went on quickly: “I’m not suggesting that he knew anything about it, of course, but it was a coincidence. I wish we could clear up that little mystery. Lady Darnleigh has too many friends in Whitehall for my liking and I get a letter from the Home Secretary every other day asking for the latest news.”
Alan Wembury went on his way with an uneasy mind. He had known that Johnny was at the house on the night of the robbery but he had never associated “the Squire’s son” with the mysterious disappearance of Lady Darnleigh’s pearls. There was no reason why he should, he told himself stoutly. As he walked across Westminster Bridge he went over again and again that all too brief interview he had had with Mary.
How beautiful she was! And how unapproachable! He tried to think of her only, but against his will a dark shadow crept across the rosy splendour of dreams: Johnny Lenley.
Why on earth should he, and yet — the Lenleys were ruined… Mary was worried about the kind of company that Johnny was keeping. There was something else she had said which belonged to the category of unpleasant things. Oh, yes, Johnny had been “making money” Mary told him a little proudly. How?
“Rot!” said Alan to himself as an ugly thought obtruded upon his mind. “Rubbish!”
The idea was too absurd for a sane man to entertain. The next morning he handed over all the documents in the case to Inspector Burton and walked out of Scotland Yard with almost a feeling of relief. It was as though he had shaken himself clear of the grisly shadow which was obscuring the brightness of the day.
The week which followed was a very busy one for Alan Wembury. He had only a slight acquaintance with Deptford and its notables. The grey-haired Scots surgeon he saw for a minute or two, a shrewd old man with laughing eyes and a fund of dry Scottish humour, but both men were too busy in their new jobs to discuss The Ringer.
Mary did not write, as he had expected she would, and he was not aware that she was in his district until one day, walking down the Lewisham High Road, somebody waved to him from an open taxicab and turning, he saw it was the girl. He asked one of his subordinates to find out where she and Johnny were staying and with no difficulty located them at a modern block of flats near Malpas Road, a building occupied by the superior artisan class. What a tragic contrast to the spacious glories of Lenley Court! Only his innate sense of delicacy prevented his calling upon her, and for this abstention at least one person was glad.
Chapter 7
