Edgar Wallace - The Joker

Elk was waiting outside, the stub of a cigar between his teeth, a large unfurled umbrella in his hand, and in a few words Jim told him what he had learnt.

‘Pitchers!’ said Elk, shaking his head. ‘Never thought he would lower himself to that! Queer thing how these crooks sort of run to weakness one way or the other. I knew a man, the cleverest safe-breaker in Europe, who’d risk a lagging to get a game of ping-pong! There was another fellow named Moses who had the finest long-firm business in England—’

‘Let us go round and look at the back of the house again,’ Jim interrupted the reminiscences ruthlessly.

The bright light was showing again, clear through the dark green blinds, even as he looked it was extinguished, but when his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see the reflected glow of another light. It was in this room, then, that Mr Ingle was engaged in his new hobby.

Jim looked naturally at the fire-escape. There was a wall to be scaled, or easier perhaps, a door into the courtyard of the building might be opened with one of his keys. But the door needed no forcing; it was unlocked and gave easy entry to a stone-paved yard, whence a flight of iron stairs led up to the roof. An iron bar was fastened across the rails at the bottom, for what purpose was not clear, since it was possible to get either over or beneath it.

‘Maybe it’s to keep it airtight,’ suggested Elk, ‘or to trip up the fellers that are not burnt to death. Going up?’

Jim nodded, and Inspector Elk followed him from landing to landing until they came level with the floor on which Mr Ingle’s flat was situated. Without a word, Jim Carlton swung himself over the rail and, balancing precariously upon the narrow ledge of stone, felt forward and gripped the nearest window-sill. Progress in front of the windows was an easy matter to one with his nerves: it was in the intervening spaces, where he had to depend for his life upon a fine sense of balance, that the danger lay. Elk watched him anxiously as he moved nearer and nearer to the window, flattening himself against the wall and edging forward inch by inch; in this perilous fashion, he came sidling to the window from behind which came the ceaseless rattle of the projector.

The moment he reached his objective Jim knew that his effort had been in vain. Behind blind and window he could see the small projector at work, was dazzled by the flicker of the light, and Arthur Ingle showed clearly in the glow thrown back from the invisible screen. He was staring at the picture which he was projecting, and the first thing the detective noticed was that Mr Ingle was in need of a barber, for his face was covered by a ragged white stubble and his grey hair was long and unkempt.

But what was the picture he was viewing so intently? Jim screwed his head round, but on the left-hand side of the window the blind ran flush with the sash. There was nothing to but to make his way back and noiselessly he edged towards the fire ladder.

He had not gone more than halfway before he had a shock. He felt a stone yield beneath his feet, the edge broke off and fell into the courtyard below. It might be one rotten piece, he argued, but stepped more carefully. If the parapet gave under his weight while he was traversing a wall space, nothing could save him from death; but he did not allow his mind to dwell upon this aspect of the adventure.

He had reached the window nearest to the iron stairs and was feeling cautiously along with his feet when, without warning, the narrow parapet beneath him cracked. He managed to grip the wooden window; and in another second was hanging with his legs in space. He heard Elk’s agitated whisper, saw the elderly detective thrust up the crook of his umbrella, but knew that this was beyond his reach.

There was only one hope; taking off his soft felt hat, he put his hand inside and drove straight at the glass of the window. The shock of the blow almost dislodged him, but clearing off the broken edge of glass, he took a firm grip of the window-sash and drew himself up. A second pane was broken in the same way and, reaching in, with some difficulty he turned the window catch and pushed up the sash.

In another second he was in a room. He stopped to listen.

The smashing of the glass had evidently not aroused the inmates and he passed out the news to the agitated Elk.

‘I don’t know whose flat it is,’ he whispered. ‘Meet me at the front of the building.’

Tiptoeing across the room, he felt for the light and turned it on. He was in a small bedroom, which had evidently not received any attention for a very considerable time, for dust lay thick upon the furniture and upon the folded blankets at the foot of the bed. Yet the room was handsomely furnished and in a style that harmonised with the general furnishings of Ingle’s apartment. Evidently this was one of the rooms which he had not visited.

He opened the door carefully. The dining-hall was in darkness; from the lumber-room came the ceaseless clickety-click of the projector.

Should he risk being discovered and satisfy his curiosity?

It was almost worth while. As he debated the point, the telephone rang noisily in the dining-room and he drew back, pulling the door close. He heard the snap as Ingle turned on the lights…

‘Hullo!—yes, Jackson…oh, is that you? Speaking from a call-box, I hope? Good! Yes, everything is OK…Yes, I’ve heard him—but only on the radio. I shall have to go to a meeting. He’s a good speaker? Huh! So am I! A spell-binder—you can laugh! I’ve had four thousand people cheering for two minutes. Don’t worry…no, thanks, I have all the money I need.’

The receiver thudded down and presently the lights went out and the lumber-room door closed.

A spell-binder? Who was to be bound by the eloquence of Mr Arthur Ingle? He waited until he heard the projector whirring again, and then, tiptoeing across the room, reached the passage. He was sorely tempted to take one look at the film show, but obviously he could only do this with the certainty that he would be seen, and Jim had all a detective’s horror of a ‘police persecution’ charge.

He turned his flashlight on the table: there might be something there which would give him a clue. He saw a fat envelope bearing the name of the Cunard Company. This had not been opened, but he could guess its contents. Mr Ingle contemplated a visit to the United States—or Canada, perhaps.

The turning of the projector ceased. He passed quickly to the hall, opened the door and closed it quietly after him. The elevator was ascending as he went down, and he was spared an explanation of his surprising presence. He found the patient Elk flapping his hands to keep warm and puffing at the last few centimetres of his cigar.

Fortunately Jim’s club was within a quarter of an hour’s walk and as they crossed the park Elk asked:

‘You got into old man Ingle’s flat, didn’t you?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘What’s thrillin’ him?’ asked Elk. ‘I hate admittin’ it, but the cinema’s my favourite sleepin’ place. Or was he runnin’ through the cartoons?’

‘I’d give a lot to know,’ said Jim, and repeated the conversation he had overheard.

‘Never know whether Arthur’s red because he’s wild, or wild because he’s red,’ mused Elk. ‘He’s a bit of a dilly-what’s the word?-dillytanty, that’s it. There’s quite a lot of genuine Reds, but a whole lot of people who hang on in the hope that one of the comrades will break a jeweller’s window so that they can get away with the doin’s. Most people are Red if they only knew it. Take the feller that keeps beehives. He just waits for the old capitalist bee to pile up his honey reserves and then he comes down on his bank-roll…’

He philosophised thus all the way across the park.