Edgar Wallace - The Joker

‘Tea also,’ said Jim, and Mr Harlow inclined his head.

‘I thought that was possible,’ he said; and when the servant had gone he carried his tea back to the writing-table and sat down.

‘You’re a very clever young man,’ he said abruptly, and Jim showed his teeth in a sceptical smile. ‘I could almost wish you would admit your genius. I hate that form of modesty which is expressed in self-depreciation. You’re clever. I have watched your career and have interested myself in your beginning. If you were an ordinary police officer I should not bother with you; but you are something different.’

Again he paused, as though he expected a protest, but neither by word nor gesture did Jim Carlton approve or deny his right to this distinction.

‘As for me, I am a rich man,’ Harlow went on. ‘Yet I need the very help you can give to me. You are not well off, Mr Carlton? I believe you have an income of four hundred a year or thereabouts, apart from your salary, and that is very little for one who sooner or later must feel the need of a home of his own, a wife and a family—’

Again he paused suggestively, and this time Jim spoke.

‘What do you suggest to remedy this state of affairs? he asked.

Mr Harlow smiled.

‘You are being sarcastic. There is sarcasm in your voice! You feel that you are superior to the question of money. You can afford to laugh at it. But, my friend, money is a very serious thing. I offer you five thousand pounds a year.’

He rose to his feet the better to emphasize the offer, Jim thought.

‘And my duties?’ he said quietly.

Harlow shrugged his big shoulders; and put his hands deep into his trousers pockets.

‘To watch my interests.’ He almost snapped the words. ‘To employ that clever brain of yours in furthering my cause, in protecting me when I go—joking! I love a joke—a practical joke. To see the right man squirming makes me laugh. Five thousand a year, and all your expenses paid to the utmost limit. You like play-going? I’ll show you a play that will set you rolling with joy! What do you say?’

‘No,’ said Jim simply; ‘I’m not keen on jokes.’

‘You’re not?’ Harlow made a little grimace. ‘What a pity! There might be a million in it for you. I am not trying to induce you to do something against your principles, but it is a pity.’ It seemed to Jim’s sensitive ear that there was genuine regret in Harlow’s tone, but he went on quickly: ‘I appreciate your standpoint. You have no desire to enter my service. You are, let us say, antipathetic towards me?’

‘I prefer my own work,’ said Jim.

Harlow’s smile was broad and benevolent. ‘There remains only one suggestion: I want you to come to the dinner and reception I am giving to the Middle East delegates next Thursday. Regard that as an olive branch!’

Jim smiled. ‘I will gladly accept your invitation, Mr Harlow,’ he said and then, with scarcely a pause: ‘Where can I find Marling?’

The words were hardly out of his lips before he cursed himself for his folly. He had not the slightest intention of asking such a fool question, and he could have kicked himself for the stupid impulse which, in one fraction of a second, had thrown out of gear the delicate machinery of investigation.

Not a muscle of Stratford Harlow’s face moved.

‘Marling?’ he repeated. His black brows met in a frown; the pale eyes surveyed the detective blankly.. ‘Marling?’ he said again. ‘Now where have I heard that name? You don’t mean the fellow who was my tutor? Good God! what a question to ask! I have never heard of him from the day he left for South Africa or somewhere.’

‘The Argentine?’ suggested Jim.

‘Was it the Argentine? I’m not sure. Yes, I am-Pernambuco—cholera—he died there!’

The underlip came thrusting out. Harlow was passing to the aggressive.

‘The truth is, Marling and I were not very good friends. He treated me rather as though I were a child, and I cannot think of him without resentment. Marling! How that word brings back the most uncomfortable memories! The succession of wretched cottages, of prim, neat gardens, of his abominable Greek and Latin verses—differential calculi, the whole horrible gauntlet of so-called education through which a timid youth must run—and be flayed. Why do you ask?’

Jim had his excuse all ready. He might not recover the ground he had lost, but he could at least consolidate himself against further retirement.

‘I have had an inquiry from one of his former associates.’ He mentioned a name, and here he was on safe ground, for it was the name of a man who had been a contemporary of Marling’s and who was in the same college. Not a difficult achievement for Jim, who had spent that morning looking up old university lists. Evidently it had no significance to Harlow.

‘I seem t remember Marling talking about him.’ he said. ‘But twenty-odd years is a very long time to cast one’s memory! And very probably I am an unconscious liar! So far as I know’—he shook his head—‘Marling is dead. I have no absolute proof of this, but if you wish I will have inquiries made. The Argentine Government will do almost anything I wish.’

‘You’re a lucky man.’ Jim held out his hand with a laugh.

‘I wonder if I am?’ Harlow looked at him steadfastly. ‘I wonder! And I wonder if you are, Mr Carlton,’ he added slowly. ‘Or will be!’

Jim Carlton was not in a position to supply an answer. His foot was on the doorstep when Harlow called him back. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.

Jim supposed that he was talking about the offer he had made, but this was not the case.

‘It was a crude and degrading business, Mr Carlton—but I have a passion for experiment. Such methods were efficacious in the days of our forefathers, and I argued that human nature has not greatly changed.’

Carlton was listening in bewilderment.

‘I don’t quite follow you—’

Mr Harlow showed his teeth in a smile and for a moment his pale eyes lit up with glee.

‘This was not a case of your following me—but of my following you. A crude business. I am heartily ashamed of myself!’

Jim was halfway to Scotland Yard before the solution of this mysterious apology occurred to him. Stratford Harlow was expressing his regret for the attack that had been delivered by his agents in Long Acre.

Jim stopped to scratch his head.

That man worries me!’ he said aloud.

CHAPTER 15

THE NEWS that Mr Stratford Harlow was entertaining the Middle East delegates at his house in Park Lane was not of such vital importance that it deserved any great attention from the London press. A three-line paragraph at the foot of a column confirmed the date and die hour. For Jim this proved to be unnecessary, since a reminder came by the second post on the following day, requesting the pleasure of his company at the reception.

‘They might have asked me to the dinner,’ said Elk. ‘Especially as it’s free. I’ll bet that bird keeps a good brand of cigar.’

‘Write and ask for a box; you’ll get it,’ said Jim, and Elk sniffed.

‘That’d be against the best interests of the service,’ he said virtuously. ‘Do you think I’d get ‘em if I mentioned your name?’

‘You’d get the whole Havana crop,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve got a pick. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of cigars for you on the night of the reception.’

‘Me?’ Elk brightened visibly. ‘He didn’t send me an invite.’

‘Nevertheless you are going,’ said Jim definitely. ‘I’m anxious to know just what this reception is all about. I suppose it’s a wonderful thing to stop these brigands from shooting at one another, but I can’t see the excuse for a full-scale London party.’