GUNMAN’S BLUFF
BY
EDGAR WALLACE
Wharf rats and millionaires, gangland and Mayfair, the love of a
banker and the love of a crook--a ruthless battle between upper
world and underworld!
PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, 1929
[COPYRIGHT]
COPYRIGHT, 1928, 1929
BY EDGAR WALLACE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION
CONTENTS
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
GUNMAN’S BLUFF
CHAPTER I
“But you _are_ going to marry him, Peggy?”
There was an agitation in the voice of Rex Leferre that almost
startled his sister: it certainly diverted for the moment the
resentment that was growing toward her unpunctual fiancé.
“What makes you say that?” she asked. “Does it mean that I am breaking
off my engagement because Luke is a bad host and has kept us waiting
ten minutes?”
They were in the palm court of the Carlton, and the remainder of the
guests, mercifully occupied with their cocktails and gossip, were
apparently unaware of Luke’s bad manners.
She stood apart with the young man who was her only relation, and no
stranger seeing them would imagine them to be brother and sister. Rex
was red haired, weak chinned, a fretful young man with a nervous trick
of adjusting his dress tie every few minutes.
Margaret Leferre had the carriage and poise of the great lady. She was
fair skinned, faultless of feature, gray eyed--a model of cold
dignity. She had never succumbed to the fashion in short hair: her own
was braided about her head so that she seemed to be wearing a coronet
of dull gold.
“I don’t know.” Rex was nibbling at his nails; he could not be cured
of this ugly habit. “Only Luke is a good fellow--in a way. Rather a
tightwad.”
“What is a tightwad?” she asked, her steady eyes on him.
“Well--I mean--he’s not terribly generous with his own money. He gives
tips and things, but somehow I’ve never been able to get into the
market in time to benefit. My own fault, of course.”
He tried to avoid her gaze, but she was the stronger character.
“Have you been borrowing money again?” she asked, and he wriggled
uncomfortably.
“No--what rot! Only Danty and I had a scheme…”
She looked round at that moment. Somehow she knew that the dark-eyed
Danton Morell was watching them. Danton was rather a dear and she had
come to rely upon him. He seemed to sense her trouble now, and
detaching himself from the group of which he was a silent member, made
his way toward her.
“Oh, shut up, Peggy. Don’t talk to Morell about it. If you’re going to
make a scene…”
With a shrug he turned and left her as Danty came up.
Danty, that splendid man of the world, was amused at her fears. He was
on the borderline of forty, a handsome, entertaining bachelor, and she
had come to know him through Rex.
“No, I don’t think he has been borrowing. Rex is an improvident devil
who will be broke for the next ten years. Then he will settle down and
be terribly successful. Your young man is rather late.”
She knew instinctively that he did not like Luke Maddison; she had
always known this. Luke, she told herself, was rather a prig in his
way. He was “county”--was related to or friendly with almost every
great family in England. Only once had he spoken disparagingly of
Danton.
“Where did _he_ spring from? I’ve never heard of him before,” he
asked.
She might have told him that Danton had spent the greater part of his
life in the Argentine, but she had stiffened at the disparagement of
her brother’s friend--and hers. And then Luke had made it worse.
“He’s a rum bird. I shouldn’t be surprised if he was one of those
light-fingered fellows who are known to the police--if one only made
inquiries.”
“You had better make inquiries,” she said icily.
This was before she had taken the plunge and had sent an ecstatic Luke
Maddison to his house walking on air.
As she listened to Danton she was looking absently at the solitaire
diamond ring which was the outward and visible sign of her engagement.
“… Rex is volatile and a bit unstable--sometimes there is nothing too
bad he can say about Maddison. Sometimes nothing too good. Hullo,
here’s our blessed host!”
Luke Maddison came through the vestibule with long strides. He paused
to strip his overcoat and take off his silk hat, which he almost threw
at an attendant, and took one step toward the door. As he did so his
foot slipped sideways on the marble floor and he would have fallen
unpleasantly but for the hand that suddenly gripped his arm.
The man who held him must have been unusually strong, for he
literally, and in the most effortless fashion, lifted Luke Maddison
bodily and placed him on his feet. Luke turned with a half smile of
dismay and found himself looking into a hard, lined face, the colour
of teak; into two unsmiling eyes, expressionless.
“Thank you--awfully!”
The stranger nodded.
“It might have been a very nasty fall. I’m greatly obliged to you!”
“Not at all,” said the unknown.
He was in evening kit, a perfectly fitted man; you saw the ghost of an
efficient valet behind him. Maddison saw lines in the face which were
not entirely nature’s handiwork. He could not know that the two scars
which disfigured the right cheek of his helper were souvenirs of an
encounter with the late Lew Selinski of New York City. Lew used a
knife when he was annoyed and he had been very annoyed with the
well-dressed man when he had left his mark upon his enemy’s face.
“I am glad I was here. Fortunately, I always wait in the lobby when I
am expecting people to dinner. Good-night.”
He half turned away as though he objected to the attention he had
called to himself, and Luke went in to his party full of apologies.
Two lives touched at the Carlton that January night--touched and went
looping away one from the other, to touch again in a moment of crisis.
Rough roads they were: a bitter, heart-aching road for one, a
methodical hell for the less favoured, to be tramped with that cynical
smile with which “Gunner” Haynes met every misfortune.
Luke Maddison saw life like that--a bewildering mass of crossing and
parallel paths. If he fell into error it was in believing that his own
was the straight-as-a-ruler highway to which and from which all other
paths inclined or diverged.
Eight generations of gentlemen bankers, all gently bred and belonging
to the class which produces statesmen and commanders by divine right
of appointment, were responsible for his wealth and his six feet of
good-looking humanity. He was fair, blue eyed, straight of back, in
his happier moments irresponsible. He was extravagant, a free spender
of money and an idealist, which means that he was spendthrift of the
material which keeps men in the City solid and comfortable. Something
of a gambler, he took chances at which his more conservative friends
might shudder. Yet, as somebody said, “With half a million of
gilt-edged securities on deposit, who could not gamble to a ten per
cent. margin?”
Gunner Haynes, whose strong arm had saved him from a fractured wrist
or worse, had no collateral worth speaking about. His principal assets
were an immaculate dress suit, a cultured voice, and perfect manners,
which more than overcame the handicap represented by his lean, dark,
sinister face. He lived God knew where, but was to be seen at such of
the best hotels as did not know him for an expert jewel thief.
They called him “Gunner” because of certain happenings in New York
City. It was said, but never proved, that he was the man who bumped
off Lew Selinski, that notorious gang leader, and shot his way through
Lew’s gunmen to the safety represented by a cattle boat which sailed
from the Hudson River an hour after the police reserves answered a
riot call.
Nobody had ever seen him with a pistol in England; but the detectives
who arrested him a year after his return to his native land fully
expected gun play and came armed.
When he came up for trial, nobody came near him: not his pretty wife
or his best friend Larry Vinman. Larry was a prince of confidence men,
young, good-looking, plausible.
There might be excellent reason why Larry should not wish to draw
attention to himself by appearing in court; no reason why Millie
should not write or do something. She had a thousand pounds in hard
cash; a good lawyer could have been briefed; but when the Gunner sent
for her, she had left the lodging they had occupied. He never saw her
again. A few months before his release from prison he heard that she
had died in a workhouse infirmary.
The Gunner’s smile when he heard this was a grim one. He always smiled
when he was hurt--and as he smiled now, his heart was one great
throbbing wound.
So he came from prison, and in due course to the Carlton Hotel, where
Mr. Luke Maddison was celebrating his engagement. Of Luke he knew
nothing--what had brought him there was a jewel box which a rich
American lady kept in the hotel safe all day and in her bedroom
between 9 P.M. and 1 A.M. Gunner Haynes had taken a room on the same
floor.
“I really am at your feet and prostrate,” said Luke, not for the first
time in the course of the dinner. “The truth is, my car hit a taxicab
sideways--it was the cabby’s fault--and up came an officious Robert
and must take down all particulars very laboriously in his little
book! Why don’t they teach policemen to write shorthand?”
“My dear, it doesn’t matter--really.”
Margaret’s voice was a little weary. Everything and everybody was
going wrong to-night. Even Danty was distressed about something and
was not his usual self. Luke was late; he had made an acrobatic
entrance, performing wild gyrations in the arms of a strange
gentleman. What had upset Danty? She had seen his face turn a sickly
white when Luke came in. Rex was grumpy and silent, scarcely speaking
to Lady Revellson on his left. And Luke had insisted on sitting next
to her, after she had arranged the table, with the result that
everybody at the table was in his or her wrong place.
“If that fellow hadn’t been on the spot I should certainly have broken
something--I couldn’t possibly have saved myself. It has been trying
to snow and I must have got some caked on the sole of my shoe--I
walked the last hundred yards or so. The car was caught in a traffic
jam in Piccadilly Circus.…”
“What was he like--in appearance?”
Danton’s voice sounded a little hoarse, as though he were speaking
from a dry throat.
“Who--the man who held me up?” And when the other nodded Luke went on:
“A dark-looking fellow--I thought he might be a German--two scars
across his right cheek--the sort of wound that duelling students love
to acquire. I remember when I was at school in Bonn…”
Danton was not listening now. Two scars across the right cheek! Then
he had not been mistaken. The question was, had the Gunner recognized
him? It was seven years since they had met--Danton had been clean
shaven and rather towheaded in those days. Millie Haynes used to call
him “the gold-hair boy” in the days of her fascination. He had grown a
moustache and darkened his hair down since then--he no longer filled
the police description of Larry Vinman. He made the change long after
he had thrown over Millie and left her to drift to a workhouse
infirmary. It had been rendered necessary by the success of a trick
which had left an Australian squatter poorer by eight thousand pounds,
and the subsequent activities of Scotland Yard’s confidence squad.
Gunner Haynes! He breathed a little faster. Down his back ran a cold
shiver of apprehension. Suppose he had recognized his old friend;
suppose he packed a gun, suppose he was waiting out there in the
lobby…
Danty wiped his moist forehead, caught the eye of his hostess, and,
with an appealing glance for permission, left his seat.
“Just remember I had to telephone,” he mumbled as he passed her.
He went down the broad steps into the palm court. The Gunner was not
there. He crossed the court into the lobby--empty. There were two
lobbies, one in Haymarket, the other in Pall Mall. They were connected
by a passage, and down this he went silently.
As he came to the second vestibule he saw his man and drew back.
Gunner was stepping into the elevator and his back was half turned to
the watcher.
It was he; there was no question of it. Gunner Haynes! The lift door
closed on him. Danton looked around. He recognized the quiet-looking
gentleman who was lounging by the revolving door.
“You’re the hotel detective, aren’t you?” he asked.
(When Danty Morell was plain Larry Vinman he knew most hotel
detectives by sight and could guess the others.)
“Yes, sir--anything wrong?”
“Who was that man?”
The detective told him. It was one of the assumed names that the
Gunner invariably used, and the heart of Mr. Morell leaped.
“Like hell he is! Number 986 is his room, eh? He’s Gunner Haynes and
he’s after jewellery. Get Scotland Yard--they’ll check him up in a
second. But my name doesn’t come into this, do you understand?”
He left the man busy at the telephone exchange and went back to the
party, exulting.
It was too good a secret to be kept. Moreover, he loved an audience;
he had the table’s breathless attention for five minutes.
“He’s got a room here, number 986. I know the fellow rather well--I
was very friendly with the district attorney in New York and he showed
me his portrait. One of the most dangerous men in New York--a gunman.
I hope there is no trouble. I recognized him as soon as I saw him, but
I had to go out and make sure.”
“What have you done?”
Luke’s face was troubled. He was on the soft side, as Danty knew.
“Naturally I put the hotel detective on his track--I left him ’phoning
the Yard.”
Luke Maddison fetched a long sigh.
“Poor devil!” he said.
Margaret shook her head at Danty helplessly.
“You’ve spoiled Luke’s evening,” she said, and her fiancé winced at
the mild sarcasm.
“Not a bit, only--will you excuse me?”
He was gone before the astonished girl could protest.
“How like Luke--and how everything fits into the scheme of this
wretched evening!” she said.
“Where has he gone?” Danty was momentarily alarmed.
She shrugged milky shoulders.
“What does one do? Bail him out? Give him money for his
breakfast--something horribly philanthropic,” she said.
Luke went straight to the second vestibule and into the elevator.
“Where is number 986?” he asked, as the lift went up.
The attendant stopped the lift on the fourth floor and pointed to the
door. For a second only did Luke Maddison hesitate, the door handle in
his grasp, and then he turned and walked into the room.
The occupant of the room was standing by the window, his back to the
visitor.
“Well, sir?”
He did not look round, and Luke realized that he was being viewed
through the medium of a mirror which was fixed on a bureau in an angle
of the wall.
Luke closed the door behind him.
“If you’re Gunner Haynes, I advise you to clear out,” he said in a low
voice. “If you’re not, I owe you an apology.”
Haynes swung round at the mention of his name.
“Oh!” he said. A pause, and then: “I am greatly obliged to you.”
“Have you any money?”
Another pause.
“Yes--I have all the money I want. Thank you.”
The Gunner was smiling, his underlip pouted. Something had amused him
in his secretive way.
“Thank you--I think I understand. I wasn’t quite sure if it was Larry.
After big pickings, eh?”
All this was Greek to Maddison. He saw the Gunner pick up an overcoat
from the footrail of the bed, and then the door was thrown open and a
big man strode in, followed by two others. There was authority in his
voice.
“Hullo, Gunner!”
The Gunner nodded.
“’Lo, Sparrow--you carry your age very well!”
The big man chuckled.
“Don’t I?” His hands passed quickly round the hips of his prisoner.
“Got a gat?” he asked, in the friendliest way.
“No, sir.” The Gunner was still smiling. “The legend that I carry a
lethal weapon dies very hard. My condition of disarmament would earn
three hearty cheers from the League of Nations.”
The big detective snapped handcuffs on his quarry; then he looked
shrewdly at Luke.
“This man hasn’t anything belonging to you, Mr. Maddison?” he asked.
Luke was staggered to discover that he was known.
“No--I am sorry to say,” he said.
“Mr. Maddison--I’ll remember that name,” said the Gunner, and gave a
friendly nod to Luke as they hustled him from the room.
“Poor devil!” said Luke Maddison for the second time that night, and
went back to his party.
This time Margaret Leferre did not accept his apologies, and when he
told her where he had been, her face grew as white as Danty Morell’s.
It was fully three weeks before that little rift was closed.