Edgar Wallace: The Joker

‘Cold? I told you to put on your scarf, you stupid chap!’ Mr Harlow was good-humoured even in his annoyance.

‘Conic along, we’ll go down.’

In the room below he fastened the door and gazed approvingly round the comfortable apartment. He took up one of the eight volumes that lay on a table. They still wore the publishers’ wrappers and had arrived that day.

‘Reading maketh a full man—you will find the Augustan histories a little heavy even for a graduate of Oxford, eh? Good night. Marling—sleep well.’

He locked the door and went out on to the landing with Mrs Edwins. Her hard eyes were fixed on his face, and until he spoke she was silent.

‘He’s quite all right,’ he said.

‘Is he?’ Her harsh voice was disagreeable. ‘How can he be all right if he’s reading and writing?’

‘Writing?’ he asked quickly. ‘What?’

‘Oh, just stuff about the Romans, but it reads sensible.’

Mr Harlow considered this frowningly. ‘That means nothing. He gives no trouble.’

‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I get worried,’ she went on, ‘but he’s quiet. Who is Mr Carlton?’

Harlow drew a quick breath. ‘Has he been here?’

She nodded. ‘Yes—this afternoon. He asked me if I was Miss Mercy’s old maid—she must have died soon after he was born.’

‘He’s older than that—well?’

‘I thought it was queer, but he said he’d been asked to trace Mr Saul Marling.’

‘By whom?’

She confessed her ignorance with a look. ‘I don’t know; but it was a proper inquiry. He showed me the papers. They were from Eastbourne. I told him Marling was dead. “Where?” he said. “In South America,” I told him.’

‘Pernambuco,’ emphasised Mr Harlow, ‘in the plague epidemic. Humph! Clever…and unscrupulous. Thank you.’

She watched him pass into the elevator and drop out of sight, then she went into the second room that opened from the landing. This too, was pleasantly furnished. Turning on the lights she sat down and opened a big chintz bag.

From this she took an unfinished stocking and adjusted her knitting needles. And as her nimble fingers moved, so did her lips.

‘Pernambuco-in the plague epidemic,’ she was saying.

CHAPTER 6

AILEEN RIVERS lived in Bloomsbury, which had the advantage of being near her work. She had spent a restless night, and the day that followed had been full of vexation. Mr Stebbings, her immediate chief, was away nursing a cold; and his junior partner, with whom she was constantly brought into contact that day, was a tetchy and disagreeable man, with a habit of mislaying important documents and blaming the person who happened to be most handy for their disappearance.

At six o’clock in the evening she locked up her desk with a sigh of thankfulness, looking forward to a light dinner and an early bedtime. Through her window she had seen the car drawn up by the kerb, and at first had thought it was waiting for a client, so that she was a little surprised, and by no means pleased, when, as she came down the steps of the old-fashioned house where the office was situate, a young man crossed the broad sidewalk towards her and lifted his hat.

‘Oh, you!’ she said in some dismay,

‘Me, or I, as the case may be; I’m not quite certain which,’ said Jim Carlton. ‘And your tone is offensive,’ he said sternly. ‘By rights Elk or I should have been interviewing you at all sorts of odd hours during the day.’

‘But what on earth can I tell you?’ she asked, exasperated. You know everything about the burglary—I suppose that is what you mean?’

‘That is what I mean,’ said Jim. ‘It is very evident that you know nothing about policemen. You imagine, I suppose, that Scotland Yard says “Hallo, there’s been a burglary in Victoria. How interesting! Nobody knows, anything about it, so we’ll let the matter drop.” You’re wrong!’

‘I’m much too hungry to talk.’

‘So I guessed,’ he said. ‘There is an unpretentious restaurant at King’s Cross, where the sole bonne femme is worthy only of the pure of heart.’

She hesitated. ‘Very well,’ she said a little ungraciously. ‘Is that your car? How funny!’

‘There’s nothing funny about my car,’ he said with dignity, ‘and it is not my car. I borrowed it.’

It was a clear night of stars and there was a touch of frost in the air and, although she would not have admitted as much for untold wealth, she enjoyed the short run that brought them to the side entrance of a large restaurant filled with people in varying stages of gastronomic enjoyment.

‘I have booked a table,’ he said, piloting her through an avenue of working jaws to a secluded corner of the annexe.

The atmosphere of the place was very satisfying. The pink table-lamps had a soothing effect, and she could examine him at her leisure. In truth it had been one of the sources of irritation of that very unhappy day that she could not quite remember what he looked like. She knew that he was not repulsive, and had a misty idea that he was rather good-looking, but that his nose was too short. It proved on inspection to be of a reasonable length. His eyes were blue and he was a little older than she had thought. Half her disrespect was based on the illusion of his youth.

‘Now ask all your horrid questions,’ she said as she took off her gloves.

‘Number one,’ he began. ‘What did Harlow offer you when I so discreetly withdrew last night?’

‘That has nothing to do with the burglary,’ she answered promptly. ‘But as it wasn’t very important, I will tell you. He offered me a position.’

‘Where?’ he asked quickly.

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know. We didn’t get as far as that; I told him I was perfectly happy with Mr Stebbings—who, by the way, used to be the lawyer of the Harlow family.’

‘Did you tell him that?’ He thrust his head forward eagerly.

‘Why, no—he told me, though of course I knew,’ she said. ‘He knew, the moment I mentioned Stebbings’s name.’

‘Was he impressed?’ he asked after a pause and she laughed.

‘How ridiculous you are! Seriously, Mr—‘she paused insultingly.

‘Carlton,’ he murmured; ‘half-brother to the hotel but no relation to the club.’

‘You worked that one last night,’ she said.

‘And I shall work it every night you pretend to forget my name! Anyway, it is a confession of crass ignorance which no modern young woman can afford to make. I am one of the most famous men in London.’

‘I think I’ve heard you say that before,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Now tell me seriously, Mr Carlton—’

‘Got it!’ he murmured.

‘What do you want to know about the burglary?’

‘Nothing,’ was the shameless reply. ‘As a matter of fact, I have saved you a great deal of trouble by supplying headquarters with all the details they need. Your uncle emerges tomorrow; do you know that?’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said, with a pang of apprehension.

‘And Elk is going to meet him and take some of the sting out of his anger. I suppose he will be very angry?’

‘He’ll be furious,’ said the girl, troubled. And then, with a quick sigh, ‘I’ll be awfully glad when he has “emerged,” as you call it. He allows me two pounds a week for my trouble, but I can well spare that.’

‘Arthur Ingle ought to be ashamed of himself to drag you into the light which shines so brightly upon the unjust,’ he said. ‘There is only one thing I want to know about him, and perhaps you can tell me—was your uncle a great speculator?’

‘I don’t think so. But really I don’t know. He never spoke to me about any investments. Is that what you mean?’

‘That is just what I mean,’ said Jim. He found it difficult to put the question without offence. ‘You’ve had interviews with him and I dare say you’ve discussed his business to some extent. I shouldn’t ask you to betray his confidence and I don’t suppose for one minute you will. Did he ever talk about foreign gilt-edged investments?’