'MR. ROBERTSON'
Bobby Manvers rose unusually early next morning, and before seven he
was in Quebec Street, walking casually past No. 60. Seven A.M.
is a trying hour for a fashionable young man, and, to make matters
worse, Bobby was very anxious. The date was worrying him. Tuesday, June
the 9th. It rang in his head like the ominous tolling of a bell. June
the 9th! And on June the 10th....
Then he saw the postman come round the corner, stepping along with the
busy air that postmen invariably wear. Bobby waited till he heard the
rat-tat at the door of No. 58, and then, producing Jerry's latchkey,
let himself into No. 60. As he guessed, the house was as silent as
the grave. Bobby left the door open, and waited. The postman came
and, seeing the open door, hesitated. Bobby bade him a cheerful good
morning, and added: 'Shall I take the letters?'
'Thank you, sir. Quite a number this morning.'
The postman handed them over, and went off. Bobby ran through the
letters quickly. There was one addressed to Michael in Jerry's
handwriting. Bobby slipped it into his pocket, dropped the others on
the mat, and went out, shutting the door softly behind him. He walked
briskly to the nearest Tube station, and entering a call-box, opened
Jerry's letter. It was dated June 8th.
DEAR MICHAEL,
I want you to come to-morrow night to Isaac Jacob's shop in Quay
Street. It's a sort of clothier's, next door to a pub called The
Sailmaker's Arms. You can't miss it. Go in and speak to old Jacob.
The password is 'V.L.S.' When you say that, he will bring you
upstairs to us. Nick has a room above the shop.
I can't tell you much now, but Nick is William's friend--the man
who gave him the envelope. Nick has found out who Mr. Robertson is,
and he's worked out all his plans to catch him. You remember the
10th of June? Well, that's the day when Nick will take action, but
he wants to see you first, so will you come down to-morrow--the
9th--between 10 and 11 P.M. I shall be there, too, and will tell
you all about our adventures since I last saw you.
Nick says be sure not to tell anyone about this, not even Bobby,
until the show's over. We don't want the news to leak out.
Yours ever
JERRY
Bobby stuffed the letter into his pocket, and wiped his forehead.
He was conscious of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It
had been a close shave. If he had not managed to get this letter,
things might have been alarming. As it was, he must let the Chief
know immediately. Plans would have to be altered a good deal. Jacob's
shop in Quay Street! And all this time he had had a man watching an
innocent house in Leman Street, while Vive le Sport had come and gone
freely elsewhere. Bobby took off the telephone receiver and rang up the
Chief.
Three minutes later he emerged from the call-box, and took a bus to
Commercial Road. Turning down Leman Street he found his assistant,
propping up the walls of a public-house. In a few guarded sentences
Bobby explained himself.
'Right y' are,' said the watcher, nodding. 'Ikey Jacob's. I know 'im.
No point in worryin' abaht it till s'arternoon, is there?'
'I want you to be there by three, at the latest,' said Bobby. 'Watch
who goes in and comes out, and let me know. I shall be back about
half-past ten to-night.'
'Right-o, guv'nor.' The watcher nodded again, and Bobby made his way
back to the West End.
As a matter of fact, it was barely ten past ten when he arrived in Quay
Street, this time accompanied by a tall man with a black beard. The
watcher arose from the darkness to greet them.
'Lots o' blokes 'ave bin in and out,' he whispered. 'But there's
one went in two hour ago, and ain't shown up since. Tall bloke,
clean-shaven, an' 'ad a gal with 'im.'
Bobby glanced at his companion with an expression of triumph, not
unmixed with apprehension. Mr. Robertson smiled faintly, but made no
comment.
'Good' said Bobby to the watcher. 'Keep on at your post till we come
out. We may need you, but you know what to expect.'
'Yessir. Right y' are.' He lifted up his voice in the true beggar's
whine: 'Spare us a tanner, gentlemen. Ain't 'ad a bite since day 'fore
yesterday, swelp me, Bob! Thank ye, sir. Gawd bless yer!'
Bobby and his companion entered the shop.
It was a dingy little place, lit by a flaring gas jet. Jacob himself,
with his bright boot-button eyes, sat behind the counter, and sniffed
into his straggling grey beard. The room smelt of cheese and oilskins
and escaping gas. A long, lanky fellow in blue trousers and sweater
leant up against the far end of the counter. He was talking in an
undertone to Jacob, and did not look up as the newcomers entered.
Bobby nodded curtly.
'V.L.S.,' he said, without preface.
'That's right,' said Jacob, waving his hand towards a door at the back
of the shop. 'Upstairs and the first on your right. But you know the
way, maybe?'
Bobby nodded, and crossed the little room. His companion followed him,
with a curious glance over his shoulder at the lanky sailor, who was
struggling to pull on a pair of sea-boots, and cursing under his breath
in vivid Cockney. They passed out into a narrow passage, shutting the
shop door behind them, and began to mount the stairs. At the top Bobby
hesitated. His companion glanced at him and smiled.
'I suppose ... er ... I suppose this is the right way?' said Bobby in
an undertone.
There was a shadow of doubt in his voice, and his companion heard it.
Without a word he stepped in front of him, and knocked sharply on the
door. Nick's voice answered. 'Come in, Michael!' they heard him say.
The man with the beard entered the room, revolver in hand. Bobby
followed close. Jerry and Nick were sitting over the fire talking
gravely, and as they turned Nick leapt to his feet, with a startled
exclamation.
'Don't move, please,' said the man with the beard. 'Let me explain at
once that this little weapon of mine has a silencer. I find it very
handy. My secretary here, whom I believe you have met, always uses the
same type.'
Nick bowed.
'May I introduce Miss Mitchell?' he said. 'Jerry, this is Mr.
Robertson, whom you have been so anxious to meet. Also his
second-in-command, Mr. Manvers. You remember him?'
'I do indeed,' said Jerry. She surveyed Bobby coolly, and gave a
contemptuous little laugh. 'How absurd!' she said.
Bobby flushed, and scowled. The man with the beard smiled
appreciatively.
'I'm delighted to meet you both,' he said, 'but forgive me if I
talk business. Time's getting short. May I have that list of names,
Nicholson?'
'I'm afraid not,' said Nick. 'It's not in my possession.'
Robertson turned to Jerry.
'Perhaps you can help me. I want the letter given to your father in the
Jameson Club on the night of April 24th. It was stolen from me that
evening by this most efficient burglar, Mr. Nicholson.'
Jerry smiled.
'I'm afraid it's no good, Mr. Robertson. Surely you must see that, as
my father's executor, my hands are tied. I have his instructions, and
must carry them out.'
'I see that you are indeed your father's daughter,' said the bearded
man, 'but, believe me, you're being rather foolish. I must have that
paper. I would rather not resort to force if I can make you see reason
without it. In fact, I shrink from the idea of hurting either you
or your secretive friend. By the way, he ought to have confided in
you a little more fully. If he had, you would not be in this awkward
position. But, as I was saying, I beg you to be reasonable, and not
force me to use drastic measures. I have felt the keenest affection for
Vive le Sport ever since he began his romantic career, and I cannot but
admire a young lady of your courage.'
'Thank you,' said Jerry, and her voice had an edge to it. 'I wonder if
you admired my father?'
'Immensely. I regretted having to use force there more than I can say,
but he gave me no alternative. That is why I implore you to be more
sensible.'
'It's a form of insanity that runs in our family, this keeping of
promises,' said Jerry. 'We call it common decency, when we have to
refer to it, but generally one takes it for granted. I don't suppose
you understand that, though.'
The appreciation in the man's eyes deepened as he watched her. Then,
suddenly, he turned to Nick.
'For Heaven's sake, be reasonable, Nicholson,' he said. 'I know only
too well that you enjoy risking your own life, but you have no right to
risk Miss Mitchell's. Hand me over that list and let's have done.'
'I'm afraid you can't have heard me,' said Nick. 'The list is not in my
possession.'
'Have you sent it to Scotland Yard?'
Nick raised his eyebrows.
'Mr. Robertson,' he said gently, 'your memory is failing you. If you
remember, I told you that if you were not out of the country by June
the 10th I should be obliged to take steps against you. I also said
that I should make every effort to save the rank and file of your
maniac army, although I intended to expose you. I always endeavour to
keep my word. The police have _not_ got that list ... yet.'
Mr. Robertson smiled.
'You know,' he said, 'you're a man after my own heart. I wish you
weren't. It would save me considerable regret. I suppose you wouldn't
consider--no, of course you wouldn't. Well, it's a great pity. I could
have worked with you.'
'We should have clashed on every question of ethics,' said Nick. 'But,
apart from that, I believe you're right. By the way, I've always wanted
to know--and I may never get another chance to ask you--why did you
choose Manvers as your second-in-command? It makes me think of the
numbers of brilliant men and women who deliberately marry congenital
idiots. A common occurrence, but it never ceases to amaze me.'
'Oh, our Bobby has his uses,' said Mr. Robertson tolerantly. 'He hasn't
really made a mess of any job before. It was when you crossed his path
that Bobby lost his head, and that was partly luck. You must admit
you've been lucky, you know. That railway smash, for instance. I'm not
decrying your skill, but people like Vive le Sport don't grow on every
blackberry bush. It wasn't all Bobby's stupidity, though I must confess
he's lamentably weak on psychology.'
'Oh, good God!' broke in Bobby, with an irritation that betrayed
nervousness. 'Do get on with the job. It's getting late!'
'But I'm enjoying myself,' protested Mr. Robertson. 'As a student of
human nature, Nicholson interests me enormously. But I dare say you're
right. I take it'--he turned to Nick--'that in spite of all my advice
you refuse to return my property?'
'You take it correctly.'
'You do realise that you're in my power, don't you?'
'I admit it looks like it.'
'Looks?' Mr. Robertson raised his eyebrows. 'You're not expecting a
dramatic rescue by Michael Doone, are you? I'm afraid there's no hope
of that. To tell you the truth, he never got your letter asking him to
come.'
There was no answer, but Mr. Robertson, watching closely, saw Nick bite
his lip. Jerry's face was averted.
'Think it over, Nicholson,' he advised. 'For a quixotic idea you're
proposing to sacrifice not only yourself but this charming young lady.
You're not very chivalrous, are you? And martyrdom is out of date.'
'Don't worry about me, Nick,' said Jerry clearly. 'I'm with you ...
whenever you like!'
Their eyes met. Nick took an impulsive step towards her, and then
checked himself, throwing up his hands with a despairing, half-comic
gesture of helplessness. They both smiled; a smile of complete
understanding.
'You have at least one loyal supporter,' said Mr. Robertson.
Nick's eyes narrowed.
'You're wasting time, Mr. Robertson,' he said coldly. 'I tried to make
the position clear to you last April. Either you leave the country and
call off your crusade by to-morrow, or else Scotland Yard will receive
the list of your supporters. That stands. Nothing you may do to me
will alter it. If I had guessed that you would deliberately murder an
innocent man, I should have made my terms rather different.'
Mr. Robertson sighed, weighing his revolver thoughtfully in his hand.
'It was a pity about Mitchell,' he said; 'but he was so hasty. I
assure you, Nicholson, I regretted the necessity. You see, he refused
to tell me where the list was, and attempted to telephone for the
police. It was essential that I should search his room, and so I had no
alternative. Then, as it happened, I was not able to look for the list,
for I heard someone moving in the room above me. However, we had a look
later.'
'Yes,' said Nick. 'I shall never forget Bobby's disappointed face when
he realised it wasn't there.'
'You saw him? Upon my word, my admiration for you increases every
minute. Yes, it was a pity. If only he had told me that the envelope
was in his bank we should have all been saved this regrettable affair.'
'I think your own psychology was not too good there.'
Mr. Robertson shrugged his shoulders.
'Well, there's no more to be said, I suppose. Will you be so good
as to sit down in that chair, Nicholson? Though I may not look like
a desperate man, I admit frankly that the time has come when I can
take no chances, and I respect your physical attributes as much as I
do your mentality. I have a vivid memory of seeing you engaged in a
little--er--argument in Nightingale Lane one evening. While Bobby is
tying you to the chair, I shall keep Miss Mitchell covered, and if you
resist I shall shoot. You do believe me, don't you?'
'Surely,' said Nick, sitting down obediently. 'Come along, Bobby. Do
your stuff.'
Bobby Manvers advanced with some hesitation. Nick watched him with
unconcealed amusement.
'Isn't his caution flattering?' he said to Jerry. 'It's all right,
Bobby. Do your duty and fear not. I'm helpless.'
'Shut your mouth, damn you!' snarled Bobby, jerking viciously at the
rope.
Mr. Robertson glanced at him reprovingly.
'Bobby, Bobby, remember your manners,' he said. 'I must apologise for
him, Nicholson. His temperament is just a _little_ too excitable. You
understand?'
'Perfectly,' said Nick, submitting to be tied to the chair.
Mr. Robertson crossed the room and tried the door on the far side. It
was locked and there was no key.
'Where does this lead to?' he asked.
'The Sailmaker's Arms, next door.'
'Have you the key?'
'No.'
'Then who has? The proprietor--or Jacob?'
'Neither. The landlord has it. These two houses were originally one.'
'I see. Well, Bobby, stand by Nicholson, and gag him if he attempts to
speak. I don't think he will, but one never knows. Miss Mitchell, I
want to speak to you. Won't you sit down?'
Jerry leaning against the table, shook her head. Mr. Robertson slipped
his revolver into his pocket, and studied her face thoughtfully.
'In the first place,' he began, 'please don't think I am actuated by
any malice against Nicholson. When I said just now that he was a man
after my own heart, I meant it, every word. I like him better than any
man I have ever met. I like his courage, his audacity, and, above all,
his sense of humour, which is only another way of saying balance. In
fact'--he smiled--'may I congratulate you? He's one in a thousand.'
Jerry bowed.
'But--I hate to say it--but he has his failings. He has all the Irish
pride. He expects to be believed, whether he explains himself or not.
If you don't trust him implicitly, you can go to the devil. _He'll_
not bother to state his case. And no man on earth is always right,
Miss Mitchell. Vive le Sport! He takes up the cudgels and wades into
the fray without stopping to think. Just now he's fighting most
gallantly--on behalf of a man who doesn't desire or need defence. It's
enough to make one weep, although his utter sincerity compels one's
affection and respect.'
He paused. Jerry gripped the edge of the table, and tried to shut her
ears to the charm of his voice.
'I wonder if you really understand what I am driving at,' he went
on. 'This Fraternity of mine--you don't look upon it as a mob of
revolutionaries, do you? That's the difficulty, so often. Whenever
a man wants to start a reform of any kind, three-quarters of the
population immediately conjure up a horrid vision of a vast crowd of
frenzied insurgents, armed with knives and pitchforks, sweeping through
the streets of London, by the light of flaming torches, and leaving
havoc and slaughter in their wake. It's curious, for the English as a
race are deeply attached to the English of all classes. If you could
only meet some of my crowd you'd believe me when I say that riot is
the last thing they would contemplate or allow. They really care
about England, and they care enough to want to do something about it.
No one in his senses can fail to see that all is not well with the
country under the present system. Four years of the most ghastly war
in history have almost wrecked England. You have only to use your own
eyes. Aliens, and, worse still, English profiteers who care nothing
for England, are in power. Our best men are left in the mud. Take
Nicholson's own case. Whatever he may or may not have told you, I am
certain he has concealed nothing of his previous career from you. Why
did he take to burglary? Simply because he was bitterly angry--and
quite rightly bitter--at the sight of the injustice around him. Because
of the rottenness of the system that let such men as he die like dogs
of starvation, after they had risked life and health and sanity to save
their country. I want to alter that; and who shall say I am not right?'
'It's a great ideal, Mr. Robertson,' said Jerry steadily. 'But your
methods don't appeal to me. I find it hard to believe that you will
save England by murder.'
There was another pause, and the silence was electric.
'You're in love, of course,' said Mr. Robertson slowly, almost as if he
were explaining something to himself. 'Also, you're a woman. "Launched
for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same." I've never met it
before. It's curious.'
He regarded her musingly for a while, and then straightened his
shoulders.
'Well, you force my hand,' he said abruptly. 'I'll give you three
minutes in which to tell me where and how I can get that list.'
'And if I don't, you'll murder me as you did my father,' said Jerry.
'No, not quite like that. I killed him in self-defence, but I am
becoming rather annoyed with you. I hit him over the head with a loaded
cane I often carry; a handy little weapon in an emergency. I think that
your death will not be so pleasant, nor so swift. Shall I tell you how
I propose to deal with you?'
'No, thanks,' said a voice behind him. 'Put your hands up.'
Bobby Manvers, standing by Nicholson, gave a strangled gasp, and Jerry,
turning, saw Jack Strickland with two other men.
'The landlord, I presume,' said Mr. Robertson. 'At any rate, he appears
to have the key of that door.'
'As a matter of fact, his is the spare key,' said Nick. 'I'm afraid I
forgot to mention it. This is Inspector Strickland of Scotland Yard.
Jack, Sir Toby Ward. Hullo, gone away!'
Bobby Manvers had bolted. He tore open the door behind him, and
collided violently with a man who had been waiting patiently outside;
the long, lanky seaman who had been buying boots when they entered.
'Don't!' he said, pushing Bobby back into the room. 'I hate having my
arm jerked when I've got a gun in my hand. It might go off.'
'Come in, Michael, and shut the door,' said Nick.
'By God, it's a trap!' Bobby's voice rose to a scream.
'Quite,' said Michael pleasantly. 'What intuition!'
White and shaking, Bobby turned back to the room. One of the men who
had entered with Jack was untying Nicholson. The other stood by the far
door, while Michael effectively blocked the one behind him. Jack, hands
in pockets, was watching Sir Toby, who stood regarding the proceedings
with a faint, detached smile.
'Sir Toby Ward,' said Jack quietly, 'I arrest you for the wilful murder
of William Mitchell on the morning of May 24th. I may say that the
statements you have made during the last half-hour have been taken down
in full. Would you care to sign the document?'
'In my capacity of lawyer I am aware that it will make very little
difference whether I do or not,' said Sir Toby; 'so if it would give
you any pleasure I will certainly sign it. May I sit down? To tell the
truth, I feel a little shaky. It's my infernal heart again. Thanks,
very much. By the way, here is my revolver. I presume you require it.'
Jack took the gun in silence, and Nick, watching him, knew that he,
too, was conscious of the man's queer charm. Sir Toby smiled suddenly.
'You won't be able to add "in unlawful possession of firearms" to my
list of charges,' he told Jack. 'I've got the necessary licence.'
Jack found himself responding to the smile. It was impossible not to
admire a man who took a beating so gamely. Then he turned to Bobby.
'Robert Oliver Manvers----' he began, but Bobby interrupted him.
'I wasn't in that murder!' he burst out. 'I can prove it. _He_ did it!
And as for the Fraternity, I acted only under compulsion. I didn't
want a revolution--I did only what he told me. And, anyway, there are
hundreds of others in it. Nicholson's got a list of their signatures.
You aren't going to arrest me and let them off scot-free?'
Jack turned sharply to Nick.
'If this is true I must ask you for that list.'
'No good, I'm afraid. I've destroyed it.'
'Destroyed it?' Bobby stared blankly. 'When?'
Nick's smile held more than a trace of contempt.
'Miss Mitchell and I burnt it, with appropriate ceremony, just before
you and Sir Toby came in.'
Sir Toby nodded with deep satisfaction.
'I always knew I should like to work with you,' he said.
'It's easy enough for you to take it calmly,' Bobby screamed. 'You
won't live long, anyway. Look here, Strickland, I know all the leaders
of this show. There are sixty-seven of them. I can tell you their
names. If you'll let me off I'll turn King's evidence and----'
A revolver cracked suddenly. Bobby crumpled up curiously, sank to the
floor, twitched convulsively, and lay still. Jerry gave a little gasp.
Nick put out a hand to her, but his eyes were on Sir Toby, who was
handing a small automatic to Jack.
'Forgive me for startling you,' he said gently, 'but, really, I could
not allow him to continue that sentence. I usually keep a spare for
emergencies, but in this case I felt his need was greater than mine.'
'I retract,' said Nick. 'On some ethical points we obviously see eye to
eye.'
Sir Toby smiled.
'Vive le Sport!' he said. 'We should have made a good team. I might
even have felt it worth while to adapt myself to your conscience.
Nicholson, I would have killed you this evening, if necessary, but I
should have hated doing it as I've never hated anything in my life.'
'You'd kill anybody,' said Jerry suddenly, in a curiously colourless
voice. 'Human life means nothing to you.'
Sir Toby looked at her with mild surprise.
'My dear young lady, if you had seen as much of human life as I
have--and Heaven send you never may--you would attach as little
importance to it as I do. Human beings, generally speaking, are a poor
lot, and such specimens as _that_'--he nodded to the still body by the
door--'are worth less than a rat, fighting for existence in a sewer.'
Jerry walked over to the window, and stood looking out. Sir Toby
glanced at Nick, but his eyes were on the girl. Thoughtfully the man
regarded him. Nick could not, and never would, understand. He loved
life and people, and had nothing but pity for those who did not share
his views. Sir Toby shrugged his shoulders philosophically, and his
eyes travelled slowly round the company. Jack was looking annoyed. Sir
Toby had made a messy job of a clean arrest, and _he_ would get the
blame. He was speaking to one of his plain-clothes men. The other still
stood by the door, his face an impassive mask.
Then Sir Toby's eyes fell on Michael Doone, and he smiled. Michael
was staring reflectively at the body at his feet, and he looked up
and caught Sir Toby's eye. He understood that smile, and answered
it. Michael alone, by virtue of his Australian blood, was capable
of understanding and to some extent sympathising with that supreme
indifference.
'I'd ha' done it if you hadn't,' he drawled.
'It's time we were moving,' said Jack curtly. 'Sir Toby, would you
prefer to keep your disguise until we reach the station?'
'My beard? Yes, I think I'll go to jail as Mr. Robertson. I doubt very
much if you will ever get me to the dock as Toby Ward. I know the law,
and the slowness of its processes. Would you mind giving me an arm?
Thanks, very much.'
As the door shut behind them, Nick went over to Jerry.
'I take off my hat to you,' he said quietly. 'You're the finest partner
in the world.'
Jerry bit her lip, and then, as Nick's arms came round her, buried her
face in his coat.
Michael turned to go. This seemed to him an anticlimax. 'See you at
breakfast,' he said casually.