To Parker, the valet, as he laid out Johnny’s dress clothes, there
was a misfortune and a tragedy deeper than any to which Johnny had
been a spectator. Johnny, loafing into his bedroom, a long, black,
ebonite cigarette-holder between his teeth, found his man profoundly
agitated.
“The buckle of your white dress waistcoat has in some unaccountable
way disappeared,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m extremely sorry,
sir, because this is the only white dress waistcoat you have.”
“Be cheerful,” said Johnny. “Take a happier view of life. You can tie
the tapes behind. You could even sew me together, Parker. Are you an
expert needle-worker, or do you crochet?”
“My needlework has been admired, sir,” said Parker complacently. “I
think yours is an excellent suggestion. Otherwise, the waistcoat will
not sit as it should. Especially in the case of a gentleman with your
figure.”
“Parker,” said Johnny, as he began to dress leisurely, “have you ever
killed a man?”
“No, sir, I have never killed a man,” said Parker gravely. “When I was
a young man, I once ran over a cat--I was a great cyclist in my
youth.”
“But you never killed a man? And, what is more, you’ve never even
wanted to kill a man?”
“No, sir, I can’t say that I ever have,” said Parker after a few
moments’ consideration, as though it were possible that some
experience had been his which had been overlooked in the hurry of his
answering.
“It is quite a nice feeling, Parker. Is there a hip pocket to
these--yes, there is,” he said, patting his trousers.
“I’m sorry there is,” said Parker, “very sorry indeed. Gentlemen get
into the habit of carrying their cigarette cases in the hip pocket,
with the result that the coat tail is thrown out of shape. That is
where the dinner jacket has its advantages--the Tuxedo, as an American
gentleman once called it, though I’ve never understood why a dinner
jacket should be named after a Scottish town.”
“Tuxedo is in Dixie,” said Johnny humorously, “and Dixie is America’s
lost Atlantis. Don’t worry about the set of my tail coat. I am not
carrying my cigarette case there.”
“Anything more bulky would of course be worse, sir,” said Parker, and
Johnny did not carry the discussion any farther.
“Get me a cab,” he ordered.
When Parker returned, he found his master was fully dressed.
“You will want your cane, sir. Gentlemen are carrying them now in
evening dress. There is one matter I would like to speak to you about
before you go--it is something that has been rather worrying me for
the past few days.”
Johnny was leaving the room, and turned.
“Anything serious?” he asked, for a moment deceived.
“I don’t like telling you, sir, but I have discussed the matter with
very knowledgeable people, and they are agreed that French shapes are
no longer worn in silk hats. You occasionally see them in theatrical
circles----”
Johnny put up a solemn hand.
“Parker, do not let us discuss my general shabbiness. I didn’t even
know I had a hat of French shape.” He took off his hat and looked at
it critically. “It is a much better shape than the hat I was wearing a
week ago, Parker, believe me!”
“Of course I believe you, sir,” agreed Parker, and turned to the door.
Johnny dismissed his cab in Shaftesbury Avenue and walked down toward
the club. It was dark now; half-past nine had chimed as he came along
Piccadilly.
It was a point of honour with all members of the Highlow that nobody
drove up to the club, and its very existence was unknown to the
taximen. That was a rule that had been made, and most faithfully
adhered to; and the members of the Highlow observed their rules, for,
if a breach did not involve a demand for their resignation, it
occasionally brought about a broken head.
Just before he reached the club, he saw somebody cross the road. It
was not difficult to recognise Jeff Legge. Just at that moment it
would have been rather embarrassing for Johnny to have met the man. He
turned and walked back the way he had come, to avoid the chance of
their both going up in the elevator together.
Jeff Legge was in a hurry: the elevator did not move fast enough for
him, and he stepped out on to the third floor and asked a question.
“No, sir, nobody has come. If they do, I’ll send them along to you.
Where will you be? You haven’t a room engaged--your own room is taken.
We don’t often let it, but we’re full to-night, and Mr. Legge raised
no objection.”
“No, I don’t object,” said Jeff; “but don’t you worry about that. Let
me see the book.”
Again the red-covered engagement book was opened. Jeff read and
nodded.
“Fine,” he said. “Now tell me again who is here.”
“There is Mr. George Kurlu, with a party of friends in No. 3; there’s
Mr. Bob Albutt and those two young ladies he goes about with--they’re
in No. 4.” And so he recited until he came to No. 13.
“I know all about No. 13,” said Jeff Legge between his teeth. “You
needn’t bother about me, however. That will do.”
He strode along the carpeted hallway, turned abruptly into the
right-angled passage, and presently stopped before a door with a neat
golden “13” painted on its polished panel. He opened the door and went
in. On the red-covered table was a bottle of wine and two glasses.
It was a moderately large room, furnished with a sofa, four dining
chairs and a deep easy chair, whilst against one wall was a small
buffet. The room was brilliantly lighted. Six bracket lamps were
blazing; the centre light above the table, with its frosted bulbs, was
full on. He did not shut the door, leaving it slightly ajar. There was
too much light for his purpose. He first switched out the bracket
lamps, and then all but one of the frosted bulbs in the big shaded
lamp over the table. Then he sat down, his back to the door, his eyes
on the empty fire-grate.
Presently he heard a sound, the whining of the elevator, and smiled.
Johnny stepped out to the porter’s desk with a friendly nod.
“Good evening, Captain,” said the porter with a broad grin. “Glad to
see you back, sir. I wasn’t here last night when you came in. Hope you
haven’t had too bad a time in the country?”
“Abroad, my dear fellow, abroad,” murmured the other reproachfully,
and the porter chuckled. “Same old crowd, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Same old bolt down the fire-escape when the ‘busies’ call--or have
you got all the ‘busies’ straightened?”
“I don’t think there’s much trouble, sir,” said the porter. “We often
have a couple of those gentlemen in here to dinner. The club’s very
convenient sometimes. I shouldn’t think they’ll ever shut us up.”
“I shouldn’t think so, either,” said Johnny. “Which of the ‘busies’ do
you get?”
“Well, sir, we get Mr. Craig, and--once we had that Reeder. He came
here alone, booked a table and came alone! Can you beat it? Came and
had his dinner, saw nobody and went away again. I don’t think he’s
right up there”--he tapped his forehead significantly. “Anything less
like a ‘busy’ I’ve never seen.”
“I don’t know whether he is a detective,” said Johnny carelessly.
“From all I’ve heard, he has nothing whatever to do with the police.”
“Private, is he?” said the other in a tone of disappointment.
“Not exactly private. Anyway,” with a smile, “he’s not going to bother
you or our honourable members. Anybody here?”
The porter looked to left and right, and lowered his voice.
“A certain person you know is here,” he said meaningly.
Johnny laughed.
“It would be a funny club if there wasn’t somebody I knew,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll find a little corner for myself.…”
Jeff looked at his watch; it was a quarter to ten, and he glanced up
at the light; catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror of the
buffet, was satisfied.
Room 13! And Marney was his wife! The blood surged up into his face,
gorging the thick veins in his temples at the thought. She should pay!
He had helped the old man, as he would help him in any graft, but he
had never identified himself so completely with the plan as he did at
that moment.
“Put her down to the earth,” had said Emanuel, and by God he would do
it. As for Johnny Gray…
The door opened stealthily, and a hand came in, holding a Browning. He
heard the creak of the door but did not look round, and then:
“_Bang!_”
Once the pistol fired. Jeff felt a sharp twitch of pain, exquisite,
unbearable, and fell forward on his knees.
Twice he endeavoured to rise, then with a groan fell in a huddled
heap, his head in the empty fire-place.