Edgar Wallace - The Joker

He chuckled at the joke as he sat down at his big table and filled his pipe from a tin of tobacco that stood at his elbow.

‘Harlow, Harlow!’ he said, with good-humoured impatience. ‘Everybody is telling me about Harlow! I’m going to have a talk with the fellow. He is giving a dinner-party on Tuesday and I’ve promised to look in before I come to the House.’

‘What is the excuse for the dinner?’ asked Jim, interested.

The Minister laughed.

‘He is a secret diplomatist, if you like. He has fixed up a very unpleasant little quarrel which might have developed in the Middle East—really it amounted to a row between two bloodthirsty brigands!—and he is giving a sort of olive-branch dinner to the ambassadors of the two states concerned. I can’t go to the dinner, but I shall go to the reception afterwards. Well,’ he asked abruptly, ‘what is your news?’

‘I came here to get news, not to give it, Sir Joseph,’ said Jim. ‘That well-known cloud is not developing?’

‘Pshaw!’ said the Minister impatiently. ‘Cloud!’

‘The Bonn incident?’ suggested Jim, and Sir Joseph exploded.

‘There was no incident! It was a vulgar slanging match between an elderly and pompous staff colonel and an impudent puppy of a French sous-officier! The young man has been disciplined by the French; and the colonel has been relieved of his post by the War Office. And that is the end of a so-called incident.’

Jim rejoined the girl soon after and learnt that Parliament had not greatly impressed her. Perhaps her mood was to blame that she found him a rather dull companion; for the rest of the evening, whilst she was with him, she did most of the talking, and he replied either in monosyllables or not at all. She understood him well enough to suspect that something unusual must have happened and did not banter him on his long silence.

At the door other boarding-house he asked: ‘You won’t object to Brown staying on?’

‘I intended speaking about him,’ she said. ‘Why am I under observation—that is the term, isn’t it?’

‘But do you mind?’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It is rather funny.’

‘A sense of humour is a great thing,’ he replied, and that was his farewell.

Elk was not at Scotland Yard. He went up to the Great Eastern Road, where the inspector had rooms; and he was distinctly piqued to learn that Elk knew all about the Harlow dinner.

‘I only got to know this afternoon, though,’ said Elk. ‘If you’d been at the Yard I could have told you—the thing was only organised yesterday. We shouldn’t have heard anything about it, but Harlow applied for two policemen to be on duty outside the house. Swift worker, Harlow.’ His small eyes surveyed Jim Carlton gravely. ‘Tell you something else, son: Ratas have bought up a new office building in Moorgate Street. I forget the name of the fellow who bought it. Anyway, Ellenbury took over yesterday-got in double staff. He is a fellow you might see.’

‘He is a fellow I intend seeing,’ said Jim. ‘What is he now—lawyer or financier?’

‘A lawyer. But he knows as much about finance as law. I’ve got an idea he’s on the crook. We’ve never had a complaint against him, though there was a whisper once about his financial position. In the old days he used to act for some mighty queer people; and I think he lost money on the Stock Exchange.’

‘He’s the man who lives at Norwood?’

Elk nodded.

‘Norwood,’ he said deliberately; ‘the place where the letters were posted to Mrs Gibbins. I wondered you hadn’t seen him before—no, I haven’t, though.’ He reconsidered.

‘You didn’t want to make Harlow think that you are on to that Gibbins business.’ He stroked his nose thoughtfully.

‘Yuh, that’s it. He doesn’t know you. You might call on him on some excuse, but you’ll have to be careful.’

‘How does he get from Norwood to the City?’

Elk shook his head.

‘He’s not the kind of fellow you can pick up in the train, he said. ‘He runs a hired car which Ratas pay for. Royalton House is his address. It’s an old brick box near the Crystal Palace. He lives there with his wife—an invalid. He hasn’t any vices that I know of, unless being a friend of Harlow’s puts him on the list. And he’s not approachable any other way. He doesn’t work in Norwood, but has a little office in Theobald’s Road; and if you call his clerk will see you and tell you that he is very sorry but Mr Ellenbury can’t give you an appointment for the next ten years. But Ellenbury might tell something, if you could get at him.’

‘You are certain that Ellenbury is working with Harlow?’

‘Working with him?’ Elk spat contemptuously but unerringly into the fire. ‘I should say he was! They’re like brothers—up to a point. Do you remember the police station old man Harlow presented to a grateful nation? It was Ellenbury who bought the ground and gave the orders to the builders. Nobody knew it was a police station until it was up. After they’d put in the foundations and got the walls breast-high, there was a sort of strike because foreign labour was employed, and all the workmen had to be sent back to Italy or Germany, or wherever they came from. That’s where Ellenbury’s connection came under notice, though we weren’t aware that he was working for Harlow till a year later.’

Jim decided upon taking the bolder course, but the lawyer was prepared for the visitation.

CHAPTER 13

MR ELLENBURY had his home in a large, gaunt house between Norwood and Anerley. It had been ugly even in the days when square, box-shaped dwellings testified to the strange mentality of the Victorian architects and stucco was regarded as an effective and artistic method of covering bad brickwork. It was in shape a cube, from the low centre of which, on the side facing the road, ran a long flight of stone steps confined within a plaster balustrade. It had oblong windows set at regular intervals on three sides, and was a mansion to which even Venetian blinds lent an air of distinction.

Royalton House stood squarely in the centre of two acres of land, and could boast a rosary, a croquet lawn, a kitchen garden, a rustic summer-house and a dribbling fountain.

Scattered about the grounds there were a number of indelicate statues representing famous figures of mythology—these had been purchased cheaply from a local exhibition many years before at a great weeding-out of those gods chiselled with such anatomical faithfulness that they constituted an offence to the eye of the Young Person.

In such moments of leisure as his activities allowed, Mr Ellenbury occupied a room gloomily papered, which was variously styled ‘The Study’, and ‘The Master’s Room’ by his wife and his domestic staff. It was a high and ill-proportioned apartment, cold and cheerless in the winter, and was overcrowded with furniture that did not fit. Round tables and top-heavy secretaires; a horsehair sofa that ran askew across one corner of the room, where it could only be reached by removing a heavy card-table; there was space for Mr Ellenbury to sit and little more.

On this December evening he sat at his roll-top desk, biting his nails thoughtfully, a look of deep concern on his pinched face. He was a man who had grown prematurely old in a lifelong struggle to make his resources keep pace with ambition. He was a lover of horses; not other people’s horses that show themselves occasionally on a race track, but horses to keep in one’s own stable, horses that looked over the half-door at the sound of a familiar voice; horses that might be decked in shiny harness shoulder to shoulder and draw a glittering phaeton along a country road.

All men have their dreams; for forty years Mr Ellenbury’s pet dream had been to drive into the arena of a horse show behind two spanking bays with nodding heads and high knee action, and to drive out again amidst the plaudits of the multitude with the ribbons of the first prize streaming from the bridles of his team. Many a man has dreamt less worthily.