Edgar Wallace: The Joker

‘He always is vague,’ interrupted Harlow with a faint smile, ‘and he’s always unscrupulous—remember that, Ellenbury. Sub-Inspector James Carlton is the most unscrupulous man that Scotland Yard has ever employed. Some day he will be irretrievably ruined or irretrievably promoted. I have a great admiration for him. I know of no man in the world I rate higher in point of intelligence, acumen and—unscrupulousness! He has a theory which is both admirable and baffling. Which means that he has the right theory. For rectitude is the most baffling of all human qualities, because you never know, if a man is doing right, what he will do next. I think that is almost an epigram, Ellenbury: you had best jot it down, so that if ever you are called upon to write my biography you may have material to lighten its pages.’ He looked at his watch. I shall be at Park Lane at eleven o’clock on Friday night, and I can give you ten minutes,’ he said.

Ellenbury twiddled his fingers unhappily.

‘Isn’t there a risk—to you, I mean?’ he blurted. ‘Perhaps I’m stupid, but I can’t see why you do…well, why you take chances. With all your money—’

Mr Harlow leaned back in the cushioned seat, amusement faintly visible in his pale eyes.

‘If you had millions what would you do? Retire, of course. Build or buy a beautiful house—and then?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the older man vaguely. ‘One could travel…’

‘The English people have two ideas of happiness: one comes from travel, one from staying still! Rushing or rusting! I might marry but I don’t wish to marry. I might have a great stable of race-horses, but I detest racing. I might yacht—I loathe the sea. Suppose I want a thrill? I do! The art of living is the art of victory. Make a note of that. Where is happiness in cards, horses, golf, women-anything you like? I’ll tell you: in beating the best man to it! That’s An Americanism. Where is the joy of mountain climbing, of exploration, of scientific discovery? To do better than somebody else—to go farther, to put your foot on the head of the next best.’

He blew a cloud of smoke through the open window and waited until the breeze had torn the misty gossamer into shreds and nothingness.

‘When you’re a millionaire you either get inside yourself and become a beast, or get outside of yourself and become a nuisance to your fellows. If you’re a Napoleon you will play the game of power, if you’re a Leonardo you’ll play for knowledge—the stakes hardly matter; it’s the game that counts. Accomplishment has its thrill, whether it is hitting a golf ball farther than the next fellow, or strewing the battle fields with the bodies of your enemies. My thrill is harder to get than most people’s. I’m a millionaire. Sterling and dollars are my soldiers—I am entitled to frame my own rules of war, conduct my forays in my own way. Don’t ask any further questions!’

He waved his hand towards the door and Mr Ellenbury was dismissed; and shortly afterwards his hired car rattled loudly up the hill and past the gates of the jail. Mr Ellenbury studiously turned his face in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER 2

SOME EIGHT months later there was an accident on the Thames Embankment. The girl in the yellow raincoat and the man in the black beret were of one accord—they were anxious, for different reasons, to cross the most dangerous stretch of the Embankment in the quickest possible space of time. There was a slight fog which gave promise of being just plain fog before the evening was far advanced. And through the fog percolated an unpleasant drizzle which turned the polished surface of the road into an insurance risk which no self-respecting company would have accepted.

The mudguard of the ancient Ford caught Aileen Rivers just below the left elbow, and she found herself performing a series of unrehearsed pirouettes. Then her nose struck a shining button and she slid romantically to her knees at the feet of a resentful policeman. He lifted her, looked at her, put her aside with great firmness and crossed to where the radiator of the car was staring pathetically up a bent lamp-post.

‘What’s the idea?’ he asked sternly, and groped for his notebook.

The young man in the beret wiped his soiled face with the back of his hand, a gesture which resulted in the further spread of his griminess.

‘Was the girl hurt?’ he asked quickly.

‘Never mind about the girl; let’s have a look at your licence.’

Unheeding his authoritative demand, the young man stalked across to where Aileen, embarrassed by the crowd which gathered, was assuring several old ladies that she wasn’t hurt. She was standing on her two feet to prove it.

‘Waggle your toes about,’ suggested a hoarse-voiced woman. ‘If they won’t move, your back’s broke!’

The experiment was not made, for at that moment the tall young man pushed his way to the centre of the curious throng.

‘Not hurt, are you?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I’m awfully sorry—really! Didn’t see you till the car was right on top of you.’

A voice from the crowd offered advice and admonition.

‘You orter be careful, mister! You might ‘a’ killed somebody.’

‘Tell me your name, won’t you?’

He dived into his pocket, found an old envelope and paused.

‘Really it isn’t necessary, I’m quite unhurt,’ she insisted, but he was also insistent.

He jotted down name and address and he had finished writing when the outraged constable melted through the crowd.

‘Here!’ he said, in a tone in which fierceness and reproach were mingled. ‘You can’t go running away when I’m talking to you, my friend! Just you stand still and show me that licence of yours.’

‘Did you see the blue Rolls?’ demanded the young man. ‘It was just ahead of me when I hit the lamp-post.’

‘Never mind about blue Rolls’s,’ said the officer in cold exasperation. ‘Let me have a look at your licence.’

The young man slipped something out of his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. It was not unlike a driver’s licence and yet it was something else.

‘What’s the idea?’ asked the policeman testily.

He snatched the little canvas-backed booklet and opened it, turning his torch on the written words.

‘Humph!’ he said. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Not at all,’ said Sub-Inspector James Carlton of Scotland Yard. ‘I’ll send somebody down to clear away the mess. Did you see the Rolls?’

‘Yes sir, just in front of you. Petrol tank dented.’

Carlton chuckled. ‘Saw that too? I’ll remember you, constable. You had better send the girl home in a taxi—no, I’ll take her myself.’

Aileen heard the proposal without enthusiasm. ‘I much prefer to walk,’ she said definitely.

He led her aside from the crowd now being dispersed, authoritatively. And in such privacy as could be obtained momentarily, he revealed himself.

‘I am, in fact, a policeman,’ he said; and she opened her eyes in wonder.

He did not look like a policeman, even in the fog which plays so many tricks. He had the appearance of a motor mechanic, and not a prosperous one. On his head was a black beret that had seen better days; he wore an old mack reaching to his knees; and the gloves he carried under his arm were black with grease.

‘Nevertheless,’ he said firmly, as though she had given oral expression to her surprise, ‘I am a policeman. But no ordinary policeman. I am an inspector at Scotland Yard—a sub-inspector, it is true, but I have a position to uphold.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘He had already hailed a taxi and now he opened the door. ‘You might object to the escort of an ordinary policeman,’ he said airily, ‘but my rank is so exalted that you do not need a chaperon.’