is that the name? – will be an interesting one,” he said. “Are you sure he did not invite me?” And again Peter saw that glint of humour in his eyes.
Chapter XXIII
Mr. Emanuel Legge had a great deal of business to do in London. The closing of the club had sadly interfered with the amenities of the Highlow, for many of its patrons and members were, not unnaturally, reluctant to be found on premises subject, at any moment, to the visitation of inquisitive police officers. Stevens, the porter, had been reinstated, though his conduct, in Emanuel’s opinion, had been open to the gravest suspicion. In other ways he was a reliable man, and one whose services were not lightly to be dispensed with. To his surprise, when he had come to admonish the porter, that individual had taken the wind out of his sails by announcing his intention of retiring unless the staff was changed. And he had his way, the staff in question being the elevator boy, Benny.
“Benny squeaked on me,” said Stevens briefly, “and I’m not going to have a squeaker round.”
“He squeaked to me, my friend,” said Emanuel, showing his teeth unpleasantly. “He told me you tried to shield Johnny Gray.”
“He’s a member, ain’t he?” asked the porter truculently. “How do I know what members you want put away, and what members you want hidden? Of course, I helped the Captain – or thought I was trying to help him. That’s my job.”
There was a great deal of logic in this. Benny, the elevator boy, was replaced.
Stepping out of the lift, Emanuel saw the prints of muddy boots in the hall, and they were wet.
“Who is here?” he asked.
“Nobody in particular.”
Legge pointed to the footprints.
“Somebody has been here recently,” he said.
“They’re mine,” said Stevens without hesitation. “I went out to get a cab for Monty Ford.”
“Are there any mats?” snapped Emanuel.
Stevens did not answer.
There was a great deal of work for Emanuel to do. For example, there was the matter of a certain house in Berkeley Square to be cleared off. Though he was no longer in active work, he did a lot of crooked financing, and the house had been taken with his money. It was hired furnished for a year, and it was the intention of his associates to run an exclusive gambling club. Unfortunately, the owner, who had a very valuable collection of paintings and old jewellery, discovered the character of the new tenant (a dummy of Legge’s) and had promptly cancelled the agreement. Roughly, the venture had cost Emanuel a thousand, and he hated losing good money.
It was late that night when he left the club. He was sleeping in town, intending to travel down to his convalescent son by an early train in the morning. It had been raining heavily, and the street was empty when he went out of the club, pulling the collar of his macintosh about his neck.
He had taken two strides when a man stepped out of the shadow of a doorway and planted himself squarely in his path. Emanuel’s hand dropped to his pocket, for he was that rarest variety of criminal, an English gunman.
“Keep your artillery out of action, Legge,” said a voice that was strangely familiar.
He peered forward, but in the shadow he could not distinguish the stranger’s face.
“Who are you?”
“An old friend of yours,” was the reply. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all your pals! Why, you’ll be passing a screw in the street one of these days without touching your hat to him.”
And then it dawned upon Emanuel.
“Oh… you’re Fenner, aren’t you?”
“I’m Fenner,” admitted the man. “Who else could I be? I’ve been waiting to see you, Mr. Emanuel Legge. I wondered if you would remember a fellow you sent to the triangle… fifteen lashes I had. You’ve never had a ‘bashing,’ have you, Legge? It’s not so nice as you’d think. When they’d took me back to my cell and put that big bit of lint on my shoulder, I laid on my face for a week. Naturally, that interfered with my sleeping, though it helped me a whole lot to think. And what I thought was this, Emanuel, that a thousand a stroke wouldn’t be too much to ask from the man who got it for me.”
Legge’s lip twisted in a sneer.
“Oh, it’s ‘the black’ you’re after, is it? Fifteen thousand pounds, is that your price?”
“I could do a lot with fifteen thousand, Legge. I can go abroad and have a good time – maybe, take a house in the country.”
“What’s the matter with Dartmoor?” snarled Emanuel. “You’ll get no fifteen thousand from me – not fifteen thousand cents, not fifteen thousand grains of sand. Get out of my way!”
He lurched forward, and the man slipped aside. He had seen what was in the old man’s hand.
Legge turned as he passed, facing him and walking sideways, alert to meet any attempt which was launched.
“That’s a pretty gun of yours, Legge,” drawled the convict. “Maybe I shall meet you one of these days when you won’t be in a position to pull it.”
A thought struck Emanuel Legge, and he walked slowly back to the man, and his tone was mild, even conciliatory.
“What’s the good of making a fuss, Fenner? I didn’t give you away. Half a dozen people saw you cosh that screw.”
“But half a dozen didn’t come forward, did they?” asked Fenner wrathfully. “You were the only prisoner; there was not a screw in sight.”
“That’s a long time ago,” said Emanuel after a pause. “You’re not going to make any trouble now, are you? Fifteen thousand pounds is out of the question. It is ridiculous to ask me for that. But if a couple of hundred will do you any good, why, I’ll send it to you.”
“I’ll have it now,” said Fenner.
“You won’t have it now, because I haven’t got it,” replied Emanuel. “Tell me where you’re to be found, and I’ll send a boy along with it in the morning.”
Fenner hesitated. He was surprised even to touch for a couple of hundred.
“I’m staying at Rowton House, Wimborne Street, Pimlico.”
“In your own name?”
“In the name of Fenner,” the other evaded, “and that’s good enough for you.”
Emanuel memorised the address.
“It will be there at ten o’clock,” he said. “You’re a mug to quarrel with me. I could put you on to a job where you could have made not fifteen, but twenty thousand.”
All
