Emanuel Legge was half-way home before he could sort out his
impressions. He went back to the Bloomsbury Hotel where he was
staying. There was no message for him, and there had been no callers.
It was now seven o’clock. He wondered whether Jeff had restrained his
impatience. Jeff must be told and warned. Johnny Gray, dead or maimed
in a hospital, had ceased to be a factor. Peter Kane, for all his
cunning and his vengefulness, might be dismissed as a source of
danger. It was Mr. J.G. Reeder who filled his thoughts: the bored
Civil Servant with a weak voice, who had such a surprising knowledge
of things, and whose continuous pointed references to Jeffrey filled
him with unquiet. Jeffrey must clear out of the country, and must go
while the going was good. If he hadn’t been such a fool, he would have
moved that night. Now, that was impossible.
Peter had not arrived at the Charlton, or the men whom Legge had set
to watch would have reported. If it had not been for the disturbing
interview he had had with Reeder, he would have been more worried
about Peter Kane; for when Peter delayed action, he was dangerous.
At eight o’clock that night, a small boy brought him a note to the
hotel. It was addressed “E. Legge,” and the envelope was grimy with
much handling. Emanuel took the letter to his room and locked the door
before he opened it. It was from a man who was very much on the inside
of things, one of Jeff’s shrewd but illiterate assistants, first
lieutenant of the Big Printer, and a man to be implicitly trusted.
There were six closely written pages, ill-spelt and blotted. Emanuel
read the letter a dozen times, and when he finished, there was panic
in his heart.
“Johnny Gray got out of the tunnel all right, and he’s going to squeak
to Reeder,” was the dramatic beginning, and there was a great deal
more.…
Emanuel knew a club in the West End of London, and his name was
numbered amongst the members, even in the days when he had little
opportunity of exercising his membership. It was a club rather unlike
any other, and occupied the third and fourth floor of a building, the
lower floors being in the possession of an Italian _restaurateur_.
Normally, the proprietor of a fairly popular restaurant would not hire
out his upper floors to so formidable a rival; but the proprietors of
the club were also proprietors of the building, the restaurant keeper
being merely a tenant.
It suited the membership of the Highlow Club to have their premises a
little remote. It suited them better that no stairway led from the
lower to the upper floors. Members of the club went down a narrow
passage by the side of the restaurant entrance. From the end of the
passage ran a small elevator, which carried them to the third floor.
The County Council, in granting this concession, insisted upon a very
complete fire escape system outside the building--a command which very
well suited the members. Some there were who found it convenient to
enter the premises by this latter method, and a window leading into
the club was left unfastened day and night against such a contingency.
On the flat roof of the building was a small superstructure, which was
never used by the club members; whilst another part of the building
which also belonged exclusively to the Highlow, was the basement, to
which the restaurant proprietor had no access--much to his annoyance,
since it necessitated the building of a wine storage room in the
limited space in the courtyard behind.
Stepping out of the elevator into a broad passage, well carpeted, its
austere walls hung with etchings, Emanuel Legge was greeted
respectfully by the liveried porter who sat behind a desk within sight
of the lift. There was every reason why Emanuel should be respected at
the Highlow, for he was, in truth, the proprietor of the club, and his
son had exercised control of the place during many of the years his
father had been in prison.
The porter, who was a big ex-prize fighter, expressly engaged for the
purpose for which he was frequently required, hurried from his tiny
perch to stand deferentially before his master.
“Anybody here?” asked Legge.
The man mentioned a few names.
“Let me see the engagement book,” said the other, and the man produced
from beneath the ledge of his desk a small, red book, and Emanuel
turned the pages. The old man’s hand ran down the list, and suddenly
stopped.
“Oh, yes,” he said softly, closing the book and handing it back.
“Are you expecting anybody, Mr. Legge?” asked the porter.
“No, I’m not expecting anybody… only I wondered…”
“Mr. Jeffrey got married to-day, I hear, sir? I’m sure all the staff
wish him joy.”
All the staff did not wish Mr. Jeffrey Legge joy, for neither he nor
his father were greatly popular, even in the tolerant society of the
Highlow, and moreover, strange as it may appear, very few people knew
him by sight.
“That’s very good of you, very good indeed,” murmured Emanuel
absently.
“Are you dining here, sir?”
“No, no, I’m not dining here. I just looked in, that is all.”
He stepped back into the elevator, and the porter watched it drop with
pleasure. It was half-past eight; the glow was dying in the sky, and
the lights were beginning to twinkle in the streets, as Emanuel walked
steadily toward Shaftesbury Avenue.
Providentially, he was at the corner of a side street when he saw
Peter Kane. He was near enough to note that under his thin overcoat
Peter was in evening dress. Slipping into the doorway, he watched the
man pass. Peter was absorbed in thought; his eyes were on the ground,
and he had no interest for anything but the tremendous problem which
occupied his mind.
Legge came back to the corner of the street and watched him furtively.
Opposite the club, Peter stopped, looked up for a while, and passed
on. The watcher laughed to himself. That club could have no pleasant
memories for Peter Kane that night; it was in the Highlow that he had
met the “young Canadian officer” and had “rescued” him, as he had
thought, from his dangerous surroundings. There had Peter been
trapped, for the introduction of Jeff Legge was most skilfully
arranged. Going into the club one night, Peter saw, as he thought, a
young, good-looking soldier boy in the hands of a gang of
cardsharpers, and the “rescued officer” had been most grateful, and
had called upon Peter at the earliest opportunity. So simple, so very
simple, to catch Peter. It would be a more difficult matter, thought
Emanuel, for Peter to catch _him_.
He waited until the figure had disappeared in the gloom of the
evening, and then walked back to the Avenue. This comedy over, there
remained the knowledge of stark tragedy, of danger to his boy, and the
upsetting of all his plans, and, the most dreadful of all
possibilities, the snaring of the Big Printer. This night would the
battle be fought, this night of nights would victory or defeat be in
his hands. Reeder--Johnny--Peter Kane--all opposed him, innocent of
their co-operation, and in his hands a hostage beyond price--the body
and soul of Marney Legge.
He had scarcely disappeared when another person known to him came
quickly along the quiet street, turned into the club entrance, and,
despite the expostulations of the elevator man, insisted upon being
taken up. The porter had heard the warning bell and stood waiting to
receive her when the door of the elevator opened.
“Where’s Emanuel?” she asked.
“Just gone,” said the porter.
“That’s a lie. I should have seen him if he’d just gone.”
She was obviously labouring under some emotion, and the porter, an
expert on all stages of feminine emotionalism, shrewdly diagnosed the
reason for her wildness of manner and speech.
“Been a wedding to-day, hasn’t there?” he asked with heavy jocularity.
“Now, Lila, what’s the good of kicking up a fuss? You know you
oughtn’t to come here. Mr. Legge gave orders you weren’t to be
admitted whilst you were at Kane’s.”
“Where is Emanuel?” she asked.
“I tell you he’s just gone out,” said the porter in a tone of
ponderous despair. “What a woman you are! You don’t believe anything!”
“Has he gone back to his hotel?”
“That’s just where he has gone. Now be wise, girl, and beat it.
Anybody might be coming here--Johnny Gray was in last night, and he’s
a pal of Peter’s.”
“Johnny knows all about me,” she said impatiently. “Besides, I’ve left
Peter’s house.”
She stood undecidedly at the entrance of the open elevator, and then,
when the porter was preparing some of his finest arguments for her
rapid disappearance, she stepped into the lift and was taken down.
The Highlow was a curious club, for it had no common room. Fourteen
private dining-rooms and a large and elegantly furnished card-room
constituted the premises. Meals were served from the restaurant below,
being brought up by service lift to a small pantry. The members of the
club had not the club feeling in the best sense of the word. They
included men and women, but the chief reason for the club’s existence
was that it afforded a safe and not unpleasant meeting-place for
members of the common class, and gave necessary seclusion for the
slaughter of such innocents as came within the influence of its more
dexterous members. How well its inner secrets were kept is best
illustrated by the fact that Peter Kane had been a member for twenty
years without knowing that his sometime companion in crime had any
official connection with its control. Nor was it ever hinted to him
that the man who was directing the club’s activities during Emanuel’s
enforced absence, was his son.
Peter was a very infrequent visitor to the Highlow; and indeed, on the
occasion of his first meeting with the spurious Major Floyd, he had
been tricked into coming, though this he did not know.
The porter was busy until half-past nine. Little parties came, were
checked off in the book, and then--he looked at his watch.
“Twenty-five to ten,” he said, and pushed a bell button.
A waiter appeared from the side passage.
“Put a bottle of wine in No. 13,” he said.
The waiter looked at him surprised.
“No. 13?” he said, as if he could not believe his ears.
“I said it,” confirmed the porter.
* * * * *
Jeffrey ate a solitary dinner. The humour of the situation did not
appeal to him. On his honeymoon, he and his wife were dining, a locked
door between them. But he could wait.
Again he tried the queer-shaped pliers upon the key of the second
bedroom. The key turned readily. He put the tool into his pocket with
a sense of power. The clatter of a table being cleared came to him
from the other room, and presently he heard the outer door close and a
click of the key turning. He lit his fourth cigar and stepped out on
to the balcony, surveying the crowded street with a dispassionate
interest. It was theatre time. Cars were rolling up to the Haymarket;
the long queue that he had seen waiting at the doors of the cheaper
parts of the house had disappeared; a restaurant immediately opposite
was blazing with lights; and on a corner of the street a band of
ex-soldiers were playing the overture of “Lohengrin.”
Glancing down into the street, he distinguished one of the “minders”
his father had put there for his protection, and grinned. Peter could
not know; he would have been here before. As to Johnny…? Emanuel had
been very confident that Johnny presented no danger, and it rather
looked as though Emanuel’s view was right. But if Peter knew, why
hadn’t he come?
He strolled back to the room, looked at the girl’s door and walked
toward it.
“Marney!” he called softly.
There was no answer. He knocked on the panel.
“Marney, come along. I want to talk to you. You needn’t open the door.
I just wanted to ask you something.”
Still there was no answer. He tried the door: it was locked.
“Are you there?” he called sharply, but she did not reply.
He pulled the pliers from his pocket, and, pushing the narrow nose
into the keyhole, gripped the end of the key and turned it. Then,
flinging open the door, he rushed in.
The room was empty, and the big bathroom that led out of the suite was
empty also. He ran to the passage door: it was locked--locked from the
outside. In a sweat of fear he flew through the saloon into the
corridor, and the first person he saw was the floor waiter.
“Madam, sir? Yes, she went out a little time ago.”
“Went out, you fool? Where?” stormed Jeff.
“I don’t know, sir. She just went out. I saw her going along the
corridor.”
Jeff seized his hat and went down the stairs three at a time. The
reception clerk had not seen the girl, nor had any of the pages, or
the porter on the door. Oblivious to any immediate danger, he dashed
out into the street, and, looking up and down, saw the minder and
called him.
“She hasn’t come out this entrance. There’s another in Pall Mall,” he
explained. “Jimmy Low’s there.”
But the second man on the Pall Mall entrance had not seen her either.
Jeff went back to interview the manager.
“There is no other way out, sir, unless she went down the service
stairs.”
“It was that cursed maid, the Welsh woman,” snarled Jeffrey. “Who is
she? Can I see her?”
“She went off duty this afternoon, sir,” said the manager. “Is there
anything I can do? Perhaps the lady has gone out for a little walk?
Does she know London?”
Jeff did not stop to reply: he fled up the stairs, back to the room,
and made a quick search. The girl’s dressing-case, which he knew had
been taken into the bedroom, was gone. Something on the floor
attracted his attention. He picked it up, and read the few scribbled
lines, torn from a notebook; and as he read, a light came into his
eyes. Very carefully he folded the crumpled sheet and put it into his
pocket. Then he went back to his sitting-room, and sat for a long time
in the big arm-chair, his legs thrust out before him, his hands deep
in his trousers pockets, and his thoughts were not wholly unpleasant.
The light was now nearly gone, and he got up.
“Room thirteen,” he said. “Room thirteen is going to hold a few
surprises to-night!”