Edgar Wallace - The Joker

‘Buying house property?’ asked Elk.

Jim rolled up the plan carefully and put it into his drawer.

‘The real estate business,’ Elk went on, ‘is the easiest way of getting money I know. You can’t be pinched for it, and there’s no come-back. Friend of mine bought a cow field at Finchley and built a lot of ready-to-wear villas on it—he drives his own Jaguar nowadays. I know another man—’

‘Would you like to assist me in a little burglary tonight?’ interrupted Jim.

‘Burglary is my long suit,’ said Elk. ‘I remember once—’

‘There was a time,’ mused Jim, ‘when I could climb like a cat, though I’ve not seen a cat go up the side of a house, and I’ve never quite understood how “cat burglar” can be an apposite description.’

‘Short for caterpillar,’ suggested Elk. ‘They can walk up glass owing to the suckers on their big feet. That’s natural history, the same as flies. Where’s the “bust”?’

‘Park Lane, no less,’ replied Jim. ‘My scheme is to inspect one of the stately homes of England—the ancestral castle of Baron Harlow.’

‘He ain’t been knighted, has he?’ asked Elk, who had the very haziest ideas about the peerage. ‘Though I don’t see why he shouldn’t be; if—’ he mentioned an illustrious political figure—‘was in office, Harlow would have been a duke by now, or an earl, or somethin’.’

Jim looked out of the window at the Thames Embankment, crowded at this rush hour with homeward-bound workers. It was raining heavily, and half a gale was blowing. Certainly the fog which had been predicted by the Weather Bureau showed no sign of appearance.

‘The Weather people are letting me down,’ he said; ‘unless there’s a fog we shall have to postpone operations till tomorrow night.’

Elk, who had certain views on the Weather Bureau, expressed them at length. But he had also something encouraging to say.

‘Fog is no more use to a burglar than a bandaged eye. Rain that keeps policemen in doorways and stops amacher snoopin’ is weather from heaven for the burglar.’

Rain was falling in sheets on the Thames Embankment when the police car, which Jim Carlton drove, came through the arched gateway, and at the corner of Birdcage Walk he met a wind that almost overturned the car. He was blown across to Hyde Park Corner.

No. 704, Park Lane was one of the few houses in that thoroughfare which was not only detached from other houses but was surrounded by a wall. It could boast that beyond the library annexe was a small garden, in which a cherry tree flourished. A police sergeant detailed for the service appeared out of the murk and took charge of the car. In two minutes they were over the wall, dragging after them the hook ladders which had been borrowed during the afternoon from fire headquarters.

The domed skylight of the library was in darkness, and they gained its roof with little trouble. Here Jim left Elk as an advanced post. He had no illusions as to the difficulty of his task. All the upper windows were barred or secured by shutters; but he had managed to secure an aerial photograph which showed a little brick building on the roof, which was probably a stair cover and held a door that gave entrance to the floors below.

Jim drew himself up to the level of the first window, the bars of which made climbing a comparatively easy matter, and, detaching the hook of the ladder, he reached up and gripped the bars of the window above. Fortunately he was on the lee side of Greenhart House and the wind that shrieked about its corners did not greatly hamper him.

In ten minutes he was on the flat roof of the house, walking with difficulty in his felt-soled shoes towards the square brick shed. Now he caught the full force of the gale and was glad of the shelter which the parapet afforded.

As he had expected, in the brick superstructure there was a stout door, fastened by a patent lock. Probably it was bolted as well. He listened, but could hear nothing above the howl of the wind, and then continued his search of the roof, keeping the rays of his torch within a few inches of the ground. There was nothing to be discovered here, and he turned to the stairway. From his pocket he took a leather case of tools, fitted a small auger into a bit, and pushed it in the thickness of the door. He had not gone far before the point of the bit ground against something hard. The door was steel-lined. Replacing the tool, he pulled himself up to the roof of the shed, and he had to grip the edge to prevent being blown off.

The roof was of solid concrete, and it would need a sledge-hammer and unlimited time to break through.

Possibly there was an unguarded window, though he did not remember having seen any. He leaned across the parapet and looked down into the side street that connected Park Lane with the thoroughfare where he had left his car. As he did so, he saw a man walk briskly up to the door, open it and enter. The sound of the slamming door came up to him. It was obviously Harlow; no other man had that peculiar swing of shoulders in his walk. What had he been doing out on such a night? Then it occurred to Jim that he had come from the direction of his garage.

He heard a clock strike eleven. What should he do? It seemed that there was no other course but to return to the waiting Elk and confess his failure; and he had decided to take this action when he heard above the wind the snap of a lock being turned; and then the voice of Harlow. The man was coming up to the roof, and Jim crouched down in the shadow of the shed.

‘…yes, it is raining, of course it is raining, my dear man. It is always raining in London. But I have been out in it and you haven’t! Gosh, how it rained!’

Though the words themselves had a querulous tone, Mr Harlow’s voice was good-humoured; it was as though he were speaking to a child.

‘Have you got your scarf? That’s right. And button your overcoat. You have no gloves, either. What a lad you are!’

‘I really don’t want gloves,’ said another voice. ‘I am not a bit cold. And, Harlow, may I ask you again…’

The voice became indistinct. They were walking away from the listener, and he guessed they were promenading by the side of the parapet. Unless Harlow carried a light he would not see the ladder. Jim went stealthily to the back of the shed and peered round the corner. Presently he discerned the figures of the two men: they were walking slowly towards him, their heads bent against the wind.

Quickly he drew back again.

‘…you can’t have it. You are reading top much and I won’t have your mind overtaxed by writing too much! Be reasonable, my dear Marling…’

Marling! Jim held his breath. They were so near to him now that by taking a step and stretching out his hand he could have touched the nearest man.

The lights in the street below gave him a sky-line against the parapet, and he saw that Harlow’s companion was almost as tall as himself, save for a stoop. He caught a glimpse of a beard blown all ways by the gale…The voices came to him again as they returned; and then a sudden scraping sound and an exclamation from the financier.

‘What the devil was that?’

From far below came a faint crash. Jim’s heart sank.

Harlow must have brushed against the hook ladder and knocked it from the parapet.

‘You pushed something over,’ said the stranger’s voice.

‘Felt like a hook,’ said Harlow, and Jim could imagine him peering down over the parapet. ‘What was it?’ he said again.

This was Jim Carlton’s opportunity. He could steal round the side of the building, slip through the door which he guessed was open, and make his escape. Noiselessly he crept along, and then saw a band of light coming from the open doorway. Against such a light he must be inevitably detected unless he chose a moment when their backs were turned.