Title: Flat 2 (1927)
Author: Edgar Wallace
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Title: Flat 2 (1927)
Author: Edgar Wallace




CONTENTS

1  A Shot in the Night
2  The Little Man who Caused a Riot
3  The Woman who Escaped
4  The Girl who Ran Away
5  The Beaded Casket
6  The Man who Waited
7  Beryl Martin
8. The Girl Who Had Lost
9  The Man Behind the Curtain
10 The Man who Cut the Alarm
11 The Man who Took What he Wanted
12 The Man in the Flat
13 The Watchers
14 The Burner of Letters
15 The Woman with the Gloves
16 The Man who was Suspected
17 The Man who was Arrested
18 Things that Miller Forgot
19 Charlie and Kate
20 Miller has a Theory
21 The Trailer of Charlie
22 The Man who had Disappeared
23 The Man on the Stairs
24 The Man under the Seat
25 The Man who Followed Louba
26 The Man Without an Overcoat
27 The Man who had Boasted
28 The Idea of Charles Berry
29 The Man in the Fog
30 The Commissioner who Disappeared
31 Miller
32 The Story
33 The Killing
34 The End


* * * * *



1: A SHOT IN THE NIGHT


A shot rang out sharply, and Captain Hurley Brown did not need the
direction of the sound to guide him to Robert Weldrake's door. He had
tried to intercept the white-faced boy, who had brushed him aside and
entered his room, slamming the door and locking it.

Hurley Brown had seen that expression on a man's face before, and that
man, too--just such another promising young officer as Robert
Weldrake--had worn it on his return from the last of several interviews
with Emil Louba. A shot had followed on that occasion also. Lingering
outside, uneasy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, unable to seek his
own quarters with the memory of that stricken-face before him, he was
debating whether to insist on the boy opening his door to him when the
shot stabbed the silence and sent him tearing up the half-dozen shallow
stairs to the locked door.

There was no answer to his knock, and he scarcely waited for any,
Putting his shoulder to the door, he had already forced it inwards,
straining at the lock, when McElvie, Weldrake's batman, and two officers
joined them; and their combined efforts burst the lock, sending them
staggering a few paces into the room.

There was little need to raise him. They saw at a glance that Robert
Weldrake was dead. The room was still full of an acrid smell, his
stiffening fingers clutched at his service revolver.

'That damned Louba!' muttered Brown, the first to break the silence, and
more than one of his companions spat out vicious curses.

'If somebody would shoot him. Malta'd be a lot cleaner,' declared
McElvie wrathfully. Nobody disagreed with him. That Louba was the cause
of the tragedy was accepted without debate. It was not an isolated case.

Hurley Brown hated Louba. He had seen too many men ruined by him and his
kind. He had determined to drive him out of Malta, and had already taken
steps to interest the military authorities in the evil influence his
establishment exercised over the men stationed on the island.

He had seen the disaster towards which Robert Weldrake drifted, had
tried to gain his confidence, to warn him; but the boy had been too deep
in to extricate himself.

When nothing more was to be done, and they left the still figure to its
loneliness. Brown separated from the others and walked briskly towards
Louba's establishment. As he entered the cabaret, which was a gaudy mask
for the remaining and more important part of the establishment, he
became aware that there was something unusual happening.

The music had ceased and general conversation had died y away. Glasses
were neglected and all heads were turned in the same direction. So far
as Hurley Brown could see, it appeared to be an altercation between a
customer and one of the performers, a scantily dressed dancer or singer
who still had one foot on the low platform at the end of the room. The
man she faced was plump and voluble, dark-eyed, with a full florid face
and a flamboyant style of dress.

As Brown moved towards the doorway leading to the gaming rooms, the
curtains were pulled aside to admit Emil Louba, followed by a
weasel-faced fellow who immediately returned to his place in the meagre
orchestra which flanked the platform.

'I'm glad your man fetched you!' shouted the disturber. 'It saves me the
trouble of finding you.'

'Ah, da Costa! My friend da Costa!' remarked Louba, with a purring
suavity.

'Your ruin I'll be!' roared da Costa, approaching him. He was small
beside the big broad-shouldered Louba, and quivered with a fresh access
of rage as the other looked down on him, a smile beneath the black
sweeping moustache. 'Again you have done it!--when will you be content?
Do you think I am to be crossed by you everywhere I turn?'

'All is fair in love and business, my dear da Costa--surely you know
that! We can be trade rivals and yet remain the best of friends. But we
interrupt the entertainment.'

He took da Costa's arm in a grip that was savage, despite the smile
still on his face, and tried to draw him out of sight and hearing of the
gaping crowd.

'I mean to interrupt it!' cried da Costa, dragging himself free. 'That
girl is under contract to me--I pay her a salary three times what she is
worth--I trained her--she owes everything to me--'

'It's a lie!' screamed the woman. 'I'm perfectly free to go where I
like, and--'

'And the lady prefers Malta to Tripoli,' exclaimed Louba. 'That is all
there is about it.'

'It is not all nor nearly all what you have done to me!' exploded da
Costa. 'Whenever I am in a good place, you come and set up in opposition
or you take my performers away, or--'

'Or in other ways prove myself the better man,' assented Louba.
'Business is a ver' good game, da Costa, if you know how to play it.
Come, now, and leave these good people to their entertainment.' His
fingers sank into da Costa's plump arm, and be dragged him a step or two
towards the curtained doorway.

'You ungrateful hussy, you shall come back to Tripoli, or you shall pay
for your breach of contract and for all the while I kept and trained
you, before you earned one penny,' threatened da Costa, tearing his arm
free from Louba's grasp and springing towards the woman, shaking his
fists in her face.

She was more than equal to his abuse, screaming and gesticulating,
defying him in scraps of half a dozen languages, until Louba interfered.

'Go up there and get on with your work,' he commanded, taking her by the
shoulders and bundling her back on to the platform.

He made a sign to the musicians, and also to two waiters.

As though there had been no interruption, the woman and the orchestra
burst forth together, she spreading a smile over her shrewish features,
and proceeding to twist and turn with great vigour. The waiters seized
da Costa and ran him down the length of the room and out into the
street, where they scuffled with him for some time on the steps,
preventing his re-entrance.

Louba bowed to the company, the overhead lights glistened on his smooth
black hair.

'A t'ousand pardons,' he murmured. 'One cannot have the best
establishment of its kind without rivals!'

He was about to leave by the way he had come, when Hurley Brown
approached him.

'Nor without retribution, I hope,' added Brown.

'Why, Captain Hurley Brown!' Louba bowed with mocking exaggeration. 'I
take this very kind of you, Captain. It is not often I have the pleasure
of seeing you here, although...your young friend, Lieutenant Weldrake,
is a frequent visitor.'

'He will not be in the future,' came the grim reply.

'No?' Louba laughed softly. 'Well, we shall see! I t'ink you have tried
to keep him away before, but...unless my memory is ver' bad, without
much success. Eh?'

'I shall succeed this time. I promise you.'

'That is so? Well'--he shrugged his shoulders--'so long as he settles up
like a gentleman before he go, I will not complain. He is leaving us?'

'He has already left us. And you will leave us soon. You will leave us,
Louba, if I have to tie a brick round your neck and drop you in the
middle of the sea.'

'What do you mean by saying he has left us? He has not settled his
obligations to me yet. It is not much more than an hour ago since I had
to remind him of all that stuff about British officers and gentlemen.'

'Louba,' said Hurley Brown, very softly, 'I really don't know how I keep
my hands off you!'

'Perhaps it is because you know I should have you t'rown out if you
raised a finger to me, dear friend.'

'You--!' His arm was caught as he raised it.

'You will really not gain anything by violence,' said Louba. 'And it
would be very unbecoming. Eh? Tell me what you mean by saying that boy
has gone.'

'He's just been murdered.'

'Murdered? By whom?'

'By you, Louba.'

'Oh--oh, I see,' said Louba after a moment. 'So that is it. And what do
you want here, then?'

'Just to tell you that if you are not driven out of Malta by the
authorities, I'll kick you out myself, and I'll kick you out of any
place I find you in. We have met elsewhere, Louba, and the longer you
live the viler you become.'

'What nonsense! You mean the longer I live the more fools I
meet--naturally. As for your aut'orities just that to them!' He snapped
his fingers. 'I am not to be held responsible for every young fool who
is incapable of taking care of himself. If you want to kick anybody, go
and kick them. I assure you, it is ver' good sport. Captain Brown. I
have tried it,' he grinned.

'One day,' said Hurley Brown, 'you will try it once too often.'

A sneer twisted Louba's coarse features. 'If that is a threat,' he
returned, 'it makes me laugh. I am Emil Louba. I go my way, trampling or
stepping over whatever is in my path. It is for others to choose whether
I trample or step over. But I do not turn aside.'

With a muttered exclamation. Hurley Brown swung away from the man, and
strode through the throng, who were now loudly applauding the panting
and smiling performer.

He had known no good purpose could be served by going to the place, but
indignation had sent him there. It was outrageous to think of Weldrake
lying dead on his narrow bed, whilst Emil Louba pursued his brazen
course unharmed.

A violent voice broke on his ears from across the narrow street.

'I'll make you pay yet! I'll make you pay if I wait twenty years!' It
was da Costa, shaking his fists in the direction of Louba's place,
dishevelled and still breathless from the effects of rage and his tussle
with the waiters.



2: THE LITTLE MAN WHO CAUSED A RIOT


It was not a pleasant task to meet Robert Weldrake's father when he
arrived in Malta.

The dead boy had been popular both with the men and his
brother-officers, and some satisfaction was felt when it was known that
his father was expected. McElvie voiced the general wish when he said
that he hoped Mr. Weldrake, senior, was a hefty fellow handy with his
fists, who was coming with the express purpose of interviewing Emil
Louba.

'And there's no other reason why he should come,' observed McElvie
hopefully. 'He doesn't wear any uniform, and he can jolly well give
Louba what for!'

Nevertheless, the task of greeting him and giving him details of his
boy's death was not a coveted one, and Hurley Brown undertook it with
misgivings.

He looked for a tall resolute man, an old and stronger edition of Robert
Weldrake, and was amazed when his gaze fell on the small shrinking
figure of Mr. Weldrake. If general indignation had reigned before, it
was intensified by the pathetic little man upon whom the blow had
fallen. It was obvious that his boy had been his world, his death a
devastating shock.

He uttered no complaints, asked for no sympathy; he was touchingly
grateful for the kindness shown him, tremblingly eager for any and every
story, however trivial, anyone could tell him of his son. He sat in the
boy's quarters alone for hours together, touching his belongings,
reading his last note. He went to the grave every day, a small solitary
figure.

Sympathy for Robert Weldrake was transferred to his father, and the very
sight of the forlorn little man acted as fuel to the rage which burned
against Louba.

It was da Costa who stirred the fire to a blaze. Meeting Weldrake one
night, wandering aimlessly after his fashion, he stopped him, and
pointed out Louba's place.

'That is where your son got his death-blow,' he said. 'That's where many
another has been ruined. That is where Emil Louba is growing rich by
ruining men and driving them to suicide.'

Weldrake's thin face turned in the direction of the red lights which
illuminated the outside of the building and he nodded slowly.

Da Costa had sown the seed, and he was not surprised when Weldrake
continued his quick nervous walk, going straight towards Louba's. He had
been to all the places that his son had frequented, except to Louba's.

Da Costa knew the treatment he would receive from Louba, and ran to the
barracks.

'Your little man has gone to Louba! Likely Louba will hoist him on the
platform and make him dance for them!'

It was enough.

The soldiers outdistanced him, but he arrived in time to see Weldrake
being led away with a cut on his face, looking dazed and shaken.

Inside was pandemonium. The orchestra was playing wildly in an apparent
effort to drown the disturbance. People were standing on tables, others
protesting shrilly, whilst in the centre were waiters and a dancing-girl
trying to keep back excited and angry soldiers.

'We will see Louba!' came the insistent shout.

'Louba had nothing to do with it!' cried the girl. 'He never saw him. He
sent down word he wouldn't see him. He was busy.'

'Yes, busy spinning the wheel upstairs and ruining as many more as he
can!'

'He gave orders for him to be thrown out!'

'He didn't! It was the little man who wouldn't understand and wouldn't go.'

'We put him out gently at first.'

'He would come back.'

'Where's Louba?'

The babble was at its height when Louba appeared.

'Really, Gentlemen, really!' The oil of his manner fell on flames.

More soldiers were crowding into the place. Da Costa, jumping up and
down to get a view, missed the beginning of it, only he knew that his
hopes were being realised. Louba refused to be intimidated, and refused
to restrain his mockery. It was when he drawled out that there was a
great deal of fuss over a degenerate young fool who had not even honesty
enough to pay his debts of honour that the first blow was struck. Louba
returned it instantly. His bullies sprang into the fray; the soldiers
welcomed them.

'We'll smash everything in the place!'

The threat was taken up with enthusiasm, and sealed by a loud crash, as
a bottle of wine splintered against a long mirror.

Joyous hands snatched up every bottle within reach, trays and chairs in
lieu of better missiles, and a deafening crash of glass announced the
breaking of every mirror in the garish place.

Women screamed and ran, and some of their escorts also chose the better
part of valour.

People came running in from the street, adding to the confusion.

'Upstairs, boys, and throw his paraphernalia out of the window!'

'Grab his winnings and send 'em out with the tide!'

The gamblers upstairs objected to the invasion of the wreckers, knowing
nothing of the meaning of it, and the tumult did not diminish.

Da Costa, rejoicing, leapt over the performers' platform, gaining the
tiny dressing-room at the back. This was deserted.

There were several candles on the high bench which served as a dressing
table. Flimsy dresses hung on the walls: muslin draped the
looking-glass. Da Costa soon had a blaze there.

Going out into the hall again, which was deserted except for the crowd
clustering and struggling about the entrance leading to the stairs,
striving to join the throng upstairs, or endeavouring to find out what
it was all about, he flung a shower of lighted matches over the floor,
where pools of fiery spirits lay soaking into the carpet amid the litter
of broken bottles which had contained them.

The flames leapt along the group, and were climbing up to the
inflammable decorations suspended from the roof before a scream called
attention to them.

No one attempted to put them out. It was 'safety first'.

Da Costa was one of the first to reach the street and to run to a safe
distance. From there he watched the deep blue of the sky take on an
ominous glow, and gradually lighten to a spreading rose colour that
flickered, alternately dull and fierce, whilst the flames of the burning
building leapt into view.

It was not late and the streets were full of people, asking what was on
fire. Officers and military police hastened down, summoned by news of
the riot.

Hurley Brown hurried by with an anxious face. It was one thing to have
Louba's house sacked and burned, another for soldiers to suffer for it.

Da Costa, aching for someone with whom to rejoice, seized on Weldrake,
when his small figure appeared in sight.

'It's Louba's,' he announced, exulting. 'It's Louba's place that's on
fire!'

The sky was lit up with an angry crimson that glowed and sank in the
breeze; the surrounding buildings stood out in beautiful and uncanny
distinctness.

As the crimson became sullen, screened by black smoke, Hurley Brown
returned, and paused beside Weldrake. Only da Costa chattered.

Men drifted back to the barracks and Louba, coatless, for he had taken
it off to wrap round his face as he fought his way to the streets,
strode up to them with a threatening air,

'T'ere will be something to pay for this, Captain Hurley Brown!' he
exclaimed. 'We'll see what those military aut'orities you spoke of will
say to this!'

'If you have any sense, Louba, you will just sail away and say nothing
about it,' put in da Costa. 'If you start them asking questions they may
ask a great deal more than you'll like.'

'What, you? You've had a hand in this, da Costa! I know; Eulalie saw you
there.'

'Does she want to come back to Tripoli?' jeered da Costa.

'Perhaps she will--and I, too! Hear that? I drove you out of Port Said,
and I'll drive you out of Tripoli.'

'Don't you threaten me, Louba! I'm more than a match for you! You've
done me some injuries in the past, but I'll make you regret it,' cried
da Costa, truculently, transported with triumph.

'I never regret anything,' returned Louba insolently, and turned from
him. 'If you think this will drive me from Malta, Captain Hurley Brown,
you will live to discover your mistake.'

'It did not need this, Louba. I have said you'll go, and you will go,'
said Brown. 'Tonight is only another addition to the harm you've
done--the men implicated in this business are only a few more added to
the number of those who've suffered through you.'

'And I'll see they do suffer,' muttered Louba, between his teeth. 'I'll
make them sorry they ever lifted a hand against me.'

'The only thing they had to be sorry for,' ejaculated da Costa, 'is that
you weren't burned along with your house.'

Louba turned his baleful eyes upon him. 'Very well, very well,' he said.
'Time is before me.'

'Time and Nemesis,' added Hurley Brown.

'Time and me!' boasted da Costa.

'I take you,' sneered Louba. 'I take you both--and as many more as you
like to bring.'

Weldrake remained silent, looking from the defiant Louba to the two who
hated him. Captain Hurley Brown, grim with mouth hard-set and da Costa,
alive with unrestrained passion.

Weldrake slipped away.

An hour later, whilst Hurley Brown made anxious inquiries about him, he
was kneeling in the dark beside his boy's grave.

'It's all right, Robert,' he was whispering reassuringly. 'You'll be
avenged. I'll see to it. I'll never forget. I won't stay home until he's
paid...I know it will be all right. You'll be avenged, Robert...'



3: THE WOMAN WHO ESCAPED


The room looked little like that of a flat in the West End of London.

Oriental tapestries and embroidered silks, emblazoned with every hue,
were strewn about, cushions of exotic design in pro-fusion. A gold
hookah stood near a wide settee, its pale-blue smoke mingling with that
from the perfumed cigarette which the girl smoked, seated amongst the
cushions, her feet on a carved footstool.

In a high slender brazier of bronze burned pungent spices, and the only
illumination came from a grotesquely carved bronze lantern suspended by
chains, from which a pale-green light spread eerily, shining on the
polished black head of the man beside the hookah. His Western clothes
were covered by an embroidered robe, and to the girl whose dreams of the
East were realised by the bizarre effects about her, the dim light, the
scent of the smoke and the spices, he was a figure of rich romance.

His imperfect English was in itself an added charm.

'But you seem to know somet'ing of Cairo already,' he remarked.

'No. Just a little that Jimmy told me. He used to tell me interesting
things once.'

'But is interesting no longer?' inquired Louba.

She frowned.

'He soon became more talkative about crime and police work out there,
than Cairo and Baghdad themselves. Don't let's talk about him. When I'm
here, I want to forget I'm in England: I want to forget humdrum places
and ordinary people and live in a beautiful dream.'

'You are ver' good to say I make beautiful dreams for you. You do not
now regret our meetings? You are not now troubled by the little
inconveniences they entail?'

'I don't care for anything so long as I escape for an hour to a new
wonderful world.'

'But it is great pity you should have to escape to it,' he observed.
'Would it not be so much more wonderful if you lived there all the time?
If your East was not conjured out of a few Eastern hangings and
carvings, bound by four walls, but you stood in the secret heart of it,
steeped in the soul of its age-old mystery...'

'Oh, don't--you make me so envious, and miserable. Because I shall never
see it, and I want to more than anything in the world.'

'And why not, Kate? It is only the shackles of that humdrum society
which you dislike that holds you back. If only--'

'Who's that?' she broke in, her lips parted fearfully, the cigarette
held far from her as though she prepared to cast it aside hastily.

He turned his head at the sound of the bell.

'I do not expect anyone,' he said. 'Miller will see to it.'

But Miller, his man, opened the door to two visitors whom he dared not
take upon himself to send away. He begged them to wait whilst he took
their names.

'Who is it?' called Louba, as the man knocked on the locked door.

The girl leapt to her feet in terror when the names were given. 'Daddy!
Oh, get me out! Get me out! Which way can I go?'

She seized her coat and hat, flinging them on in trembling haste.

'You cannot go by the service passage now. There's only the window.
Perhaps I'd better not see them,' said Louba.

'Oh, you must! Otherwise he might suspect. How can I get out by the
window?'

'Down the fire escape. I'll release the ladder, but when you get to the
bottom of it, the alarm will ring. You must run round by the back of the
house quickly, before anyone can see you. Don't be frightened. You will
get away safely.'

He had unlatched the window, and was tugging furiously to open it. It
withstood all his efforts. He went to the door, outside which Miller
waited.

'What's the matter with the confounded window, Miller?' he cried.

'The screws, sir, the screws at the bottom!'

Louba switched on the light and returned to the window, where the girl
stooped agitatedly to assist, half sobbing as she fumbled vainly at the
small tightened screws.

'He can't suspect it's you,' said Louba, as he tore his fingers and
cursed inwardly in his endeavours to loosen the screws. 'I'd better send
them away.'

'No, no!' The girl was in a panic. 'He's seen us exchange a private word
or two occasionally--I'm always afraid he'll guess. I must get away if
we break the window!'

At last he had the screws out, and the window dragged open.

Without a word and possessed only by her guilty desire to escape, she
fled through the window and down the fire escape, jumping the last few
steps in a frenzy of fright as the burglar-alarm clanged harshly and
sent her fleeing into the misty darkness.

'Show them in!' called Louba to Miller, unlocking the door. Hastily he
collected a few of the tapestries and cushions and threw them through
the doorway into his bedroom, slamming the door shut and wrapping a
handkerchief about his torn finger before he went forward to meet his
guests.

'Pray pardon me that I keep you waiting, dear friends,' he apologised.
'I had fallen asleep and was far away in the land of dreams. But you
bring me a ver' pleasant awakening.'

His visitors had doubts and, despite Louba's efforts, it plain that they
felt themselves intruders and were anxious to take their leave.

After a very short while they rose to go. He accompanied them to the
door himself, still talking vivaciously, and expressing his regret that
they could not be persuaded to stay longer.

It was after the door had closed on them that the suavity vanished from
his face and was replaced by a scowl.

'Miller!'

'Yes, sir,' said the man, appearing in response to the peremptory call.

'What is the meaning of that window being stuck fast as if it was never
to be opened this side eternity? I have broken my nails and torn my skin
trying to open it. Why was it screwed down?'

'There's always been screws there, sir, at night-time. With the fire
escape outside, it's safer.'

'Need you hammer them in so that I must needs root up the whole building
to get them out?' demanded Louba, still visibly irritated and flurried
by the contretemps.

'I only screwed 'em right as I always do, sir, particularly on a misty
night. You may be glad of those screws some day,' he added, with a
feeble attempt at lightness; but if he sought to dispel the gloom, he
failed dismally.

'What do you mean by that?' exclaimed Louba suspiciously.

'Nothing, sir,' replied the man innocently. 'I only meant they do keep
the burglars out, don't they?'

Louba uttered an impatient exclamation, and went back into the
disordered room.

He glanced at the window, even went close and peered out until he could
see the faint outline of the fire escape. It certainly would be easy for
anyone to enter that way, but for the burglar-alarm connected with the
ladder.

He pulled the curtains close across, and returned to the centre of the
room, where he stood, biting a finger.

He was a much-hated man. There were people...

Bah!

He shook his shoulders scornfully.

Who dare touch Louba?



4: THE GIRL WHO RAN AWAY


Not many days after her escape from Louba's flat, the same girl stood
talking in a low voice to a man in white overalls. The man held a
test-tube in his hand, and a broad patch of purple lay across his heavy
and unprepossessing face, thrown by a lingering ray of sun slanting
through the violet panes of the window.

He kept his eyes on the tube, as though prepared for interruption and
desirous of appearing engrossed in his work. The girl herself only
leaned inside the door, whispering hastily.

'If you understand, you'd better go now,' he said, without turning his
head. 'We don't want to be seen talking together.'

'No. I'm afraid he's seen us before.' She swung round, and started as
she met the grave kindly eyes of the one man she least desired to find
her there. 'Why, Daddy...I didn't hear you. I just looked in the
laboratory to see if you were here,' she stammered. 'Won't you come and
have some tea before you start work?'

'Yes, Kate. I came to see if you were going to give me any. I was afraid
you were out.' He spoke a few words to his assistant, then walked with
the girl to the living-rooms.

'I used to think you didn't care for Berry,' he observed, a short while
afterwards, as he sat drinking tea.

'Well, I didn't at first,' she replied. '...But I think it was only his
manner I misunderstood.'

'That might well be. He had a great deal to learn there; though he's a
good worker...a bit irregular in his hours lately, and...'

He wrinkled up his forehead, pursing his lips dubiously.

He said no more to the girl, but he had growing doubts of the integrity
of his assistant, Mr. Charles Berry. Valuable equipment had disappeared
from the laboratory since Berry's coming.

The girl rose early the next morning and wrote a letter which she put in
her handbag. Going out, she met the housekeeper.

'Why, Miss Kate, you're never going out so early?' exclaimed the woman.
'Before breakfast?'

'Yes, I am. I'm going to Covent Garden to buy some flowers, and then I'm
meeting a friend. Perhaps I shall stay out to lunch, too,' she replied,
hastening to the door.

'Well, she does do some strange things,' soliloquised the woman, as she
watched Kate out of sight.

The letter which the girl had written was delivered at the house the
following morning and the envelope bore the Dover postmark.

Charles Berry did not come to work on the day that Kate left, nor was he
seen at his employer's house again.

Inquiries elicited no news of him, but the girl whose dislike of him had
been succeeded by civility and hurried conferences was steeping her
romantic soul in the East which had for so long filled her dreams, and
it was Louba who sat beside her, looking down on the flat-roofed town,
with its maze of narrow streets, its medley of colour and costume,
scorching under the midday sun. Beyond the town lay a dust-hued plain
over which a faint line marked the slow progress of a camel caravan.

'Oh, I can't believe it--I can't believe it's real, even yet!' Kate
ejaculated.

'It is very real,' he answered, with deep satisfaction. 'You have left
stagnation behind, and are just beginning to live. I knew we should be
in the East together, one day.'

'How could you know? I--'

'Because I wished to bring you here, and I always get what I want. I
meant to take you away from that fellow...and I have done so.'

'Jimmy?'

'Yes.' His teeth showed viciously as he spoke the word.

'Why, Emil, you say it as if you hate him.'

He laughed softly. 'No. It is not worth my while to hate those who cross
me. It is sufficient that I always get the better of them.'

'But Jimmy has never done you any injury?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Jimmy, as you call him, does not exist. Let
us talk of some-t'ing else.'

They went down into the bazaar towards sundown where she revelled in the
sights and sounds and smells, all equally delightful to her infatuated
imagination. Even the filthy beggars, in their nondescript tatters of
clothing, were powerless to offend her. Were they not truly of the East?

The bargaining, the frequent pretence of breaking off negotiations, the
raised hands and protestations when Louba made an offer for the things
which caught his or his companion's fancy, all captivated her. It was
the Eastern method of buying and selling, and as such it was delightful.

She resented the intrusion of anything English, and therefore viewed
with hostile eyes the obviously English man who tugged furtively at her
sleeve when Louba had disappeared within the low dark opening leading to
the inside stores of the vendor whose varied goods she was examining.

'Excuse me, but is it all right with you?' asked the man, in a manner at
once timid and eager. 'You seem to be without friends here...with Louba.
This is a long way from England, and--'

'It is a long way, but I don't think that a sufficient excuse for
impertinence,' returned Kate, flushing. 'I don't know you.'

'No; but you see I know Louba, and you don't look as if you do.'

'I know him well enough to be content with his...friendship, without
requiring the advice of a stranger,' she said, moving away.

She was the more angry because of that burning flush on her face, the
keen sense of her position, according to Western ideas, brought back to
her by this reminder of home, and all the conventions she had
overthrown. She told herself it was like being wakened from the exotic
joys of a gorgeous dream by the sound of a suburban milkman.

'Yes, I know I'm a stranger,' said the mild voice. 'And I don't ask you
to trust or confide in me, only I would suggest to you that you go back
home. Whatever your home is like and whatever awaits your return, leave
Louba, my dear, and go back before you lose heart, and while life still
seems worth another effort.'

Before she could find any reply his mild eyes glanced past her and he
darted backwards, out of sight round a pile of carpets and mats, up one
of the narrow alleyways running from the main thoroughfare of the
bazaar.

It was Louba who had frightened him away. He had come to the doorway and
stood beside the youth who was in charge of the place, and he was
looking at a customer who strode away through the meandering throng with
something held close under his arm, and a suggestion of tremendous haste
in his step.

'Somet'ing interesting about that,' observed Louba, as he rejoined Kate.
'A tawdry t'ing, of no value, yet he has given a ridiculous price for it
and made off as if he were afraid they would take it from him. Look at
the boy!'

The boy, otherwise the proprietor's son, was rubbing his hands gleefully
as he watched the tall form of his late customer disappear. A moment
later, he was telling the tale of his good bargain to his father who,
blear-eyed and soiled, listened with an indifference that quickly
changed to anger.

'What, he offered that for it, and you let him have it for double the
price?' he cried, according to Louba's quick translation to Kate. 'He
offered that?--in the beginning?--and you let him have it for double,
dolt!'

'But, that was a dozen times more than it was worth!'

'How do you know that, fool? Would he have offered six times its value
at the first if it were only worth what we thought? Fool, dolt! He so
anxious to get it that he--! Oh, why was I cursed with such a son!'

Leaving the old man to his lamentations, Louba and Kate resumed their
walk.

'What was it?' asked Kate.

'Just a casket stitched over with beads and stuck with coloured glass.'
His eyes were narrowed. If there was anything to be gained, he disliked
another than himself to be the gainer. 'M'm. I should much like to know
the meaning of that.'

Kate was less gay on the homeward journey than she had been when they
set out. Though she recalled it with anger and resentment, yet the
episode with the little Englishman had dimmed the brightness of her
romance.

The sun was sinking as they climbed the low hill; looking back, the town
appeared flat and drab. She drew closer to Louba.

'I do hate those little insignificant men,' she said, and he pressed her
arm against his side. She did not tell him that she was expressing her
dislike of another, not her admiration of himself.

She listened with even more than her usual avidity to his extravagant
compliments and conceits, clinging the more passionately to her romance
because of the chill touch of reality which had approached it.

Though she was smiling when they reached the walled-in garden of the
house on the hill, she halted with a sudden start as the figure of
Charles Berry loomed before them. She shrank against Louba, glimpsing
the hate in the man's eyes, though he raised them to her for but a
moment. If she had tried to forget her aversion for him, he had not
forgotten her former slights.

Her new-found smile froze. She shivered.

'Let's go in,' she said to Louba. 'I'm cold.'



5: THE BEADED CASKET


'My dear Kate, not'ing will give me greater pleasure than to relieve you
of my short-comings. I beg you not to distress yourself about them any
more.'

She looked up at him dully, inured to the sneer on his lips, the oily
mockery of his voice. Even the insulting glance, the open contempt in
his bold eyes, had long since ceased to make her wince.

Only she waited with parted lips to know the meaning of his last words,
apprehensive of fresh indignities. The light banter of his tone, his
good spirits, boded her no good, following-upon his brutally unconcealed
weariness of her, his coarse ill-humours; particularly upon his anger of
only an hour ago.

'I have had the misfortune to be unable to please you for some time
past,' he went on, and made an airy gesture. 'It pains me! But I hope I
shall always put a lady's happiness before my own.' He lit a cigar
carefully, throwing the match out into the dim garden. There was no
light in the room except that which came through the long open windows.
She had fled away from the garish lighted rooms, where Louba pursued his
old methods of enriching himself at other people's expense, to the small
private room at the back of the house, sitting there until the light
faded and the summer night closed in.

'You were not when you made me look on just now, while you cheated that
young American,' she said.

'We will not speak of that, my dear Kate,' he rejoined, an ominous note
in his voice. 'Your behaviour was...indiscreet, and might have been
disastrous, but for my own quick wits. We will not go into details at
all; I t'ink it better not. It is sufficient that you are not even of
use to me in my business. If I had asked you to dance in the cabaret,
you might have suggested it was a great departure from your habits, but
I have done no more than to ask you to preside at the tables, and look
pretty.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'It may no longer be your fault if
you do not look pretty, but t'ere seems no reason why you should not
look pleasant.'

'Well?' she asked. She knew all this was mere preliminary.

'I have decided that as I can no longer make you happy, I had better
pass you over to one who may.'

'Pass me...!' She half rose from her seat, her white face clear in the
gloom. He put up his hand.

'Do not do me the injustice of misunderstanding, Kate. It is a husband I
am speaking of, and I will myself see you safely married.'

She put her hand up to her throat, but could not speak.

'Such an old friend, too--Mr. Charles Berry. Is he not?' asked Louba
smoothly.

'Marry Charles Berry?' she gasped. 'Never as long as I live!'

'Oh, yes you will, my dear Kate. You certainly will. I say it.'

'I will not!'

'And I doing my best for you, as your guardian!' he ejaculated
reproachfully. 'How could I ever go back to England again, if I knew I
had left you here unprotected! Really, do you t'ink I have no
conscience?'

He was thoroughly enjoying himself but, before he could continue, the
door behind them opened, showing a lighted passage and a brilliant and
crowded room beyond, before it was quickly closed upon the newcomer.

'Louba, are you there?' asked a hoarse breathless voice.

'Yes. Who is it?'

'Vacilesco. Will you hide something for me?--just until I have thrown
them off.'

He stopped, listening. Hurried feet could be heard thudding down the
passage from the great lighted room. 'They followed me in! They were too
close. Hide this--you shall have your share, Louba!'

As the door behind him was flung open, he sprang away from it, thrust
something into Louba's outstretched hands, jumped over the low sill of
the window and ran across the dark garden towards the narrow lane
running at the bottom. Louba thrust the object behind the nearest
cushion, before he spoke to the intruders. 'What is this? Who are you?'

He moved to the switch and put the light on. Turning her head, Kate
beheld three men of villainous aspect, panting like the man they
pursued.

'Someone came in here--he's got stolen property. Have you seen him?'

'He's just entered with the same delightful unceremoniousness as
yourselves, gentlemen. You pushed him away from the J door as you came
in.'

Louba pointed down the garden, and without waiting for more they leapt
forward, and were lost in the darkness.

'Stay here and see no one touches that!' ordered Louba, before she went
after the men. Vacilesco had promised him a share, but he had never
cared for the sharing system.

The others had jumped over the low wall into the lane, but Louba,
careful of his immaculate clothes, stayed to open the wooden door. He
followed the sound of the steps over the rough path leading along the
backs of the gardens. He could hear the men's feet slipping over the
stones.

A little farther along there was a high wall and on the opposite side
one or two trees stretched their arms across the narrow path, shutting
out the light.

It was at this point that the pursuers came up with their quarry, making
a desperate effort to do so. Louba stood still, his keen eyes and ears
taking in the struggling mass of figures, the scuffling of feet, the
murmur of voices; then a choked sound, a smothered scream, and unbroken
silence.

In case they came back the same way, he stepped softly over to the
blackness under the tallest tree--standing on the little hillock
surrounding it.

He could guess what they were doing over there by the high wall. He
could even hear a few whispered curses and queries as their search
proved futile.

After a while they moved into the middle of the path, where he could
distinguish their three figures against the paler sky. They hesitated,
evidently debating amongst themselves, after which they took to their
heels and ran off in the opposite direction to Louba's house.

He waited for a minute or two, then crossed over to the prone figure
they had left, stooped and touched him carefully. With a light step he
returned to his house.

Kate was sitting where he had left her. He looked at his fingers and
gleaming shirt-front when he came into the light. They were spotless.

'What has happened?' she asked quickly, roused by the significant
inspection.

'I'm afraid they've stabbed Vacilesco, but it has noting to do with us.
You understand?' he asked threateningly. 'We know not'ing.'

'You have what they were after.'

'I have not'ing. He left not'ing here. Do not make any mistake about
that, my dear Kate. I shall be very annoyed if you do. Have you looked
at it?' he queried, stepping to the cushion behind which he had
concealed Vacilesco's abandoned treasure.

She shook her head.

He closed the windows and pulled the curtains across before he examined
his booty.

It was a casket, covered with beads of all colours, worked in a crude
but effective design, having imitation jewels in the centre of the
largest pattern. He opened it eagerly, and paused in disappointment at
the sight of its empty interior.

'It seems Vacilesco made off with it too late,' he remarked. '...Yet it
was not locked. He would surely look inside.'

The casket was lined with white kid, but the bottom was encrusted with
beads and coloured glass like the outside. Examining it both inside and
outside, Louba gave a grunt of hopefulness, and began running his
fingers over the bottom of the inside. He was rewarded by finding the
spring which released the false bottom.

An exclamation of pleasure was followed quickly by one of anger, as he
saw that the space beneath was quite empty.

He regarded the basket with a scowl for a moment or two before he
conquered his chagrin, and shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, it is Vacilesco who has paid for it,' he observed. 'Not I.'

'Will you go on with what you were saying?' asked Kate. 'What do you
mean by saying I am to marry Charles Berry?'

'Just that. We part company, you and I, but I will see you married to
him first. Flat 2, Braymore House, London, where you have spent such
pleasant hours is still mine, and I shall shortly return. For reasons
which you will readily guess, it is convenient for me to have you Mrs.
Charles Berry.'

'But you can't mean this! It's too bad even for you!' she burst out.

'Bad? The ingratitude! My dear Kate, just think how I might have left
you! Why...' He paused with his eyes on the casket, which apparently put
her and her affairs out of his thoughts. 'Now I remember!' he exclaimed.
'I have seen this t'ing before. Yes! It was at--'

'I don't want to hear about it!' she cried. 'Will you keep to the
subject?'

'Oh, but this was at a time which you would like to hear about,' he
mocked. 'A time of tender memories! Do you not remember once, in those
precious early days, someone gave an incredible price for a worthless
casket? It was once when we were in the bazaar--'

'Oh, don't!' She made a gesture of intolerable pain.

He laughed. 'I said they were tender memories! What a pity such times do
not last for ever.'

'I was not regretting the times,' she rejoined bitterly. 'I was thinking
of a man who warned me...whose advice I despised...that day...' She
turned her face away from his cruel eyes.

'That day? I cannot remember anyone who could give you advice; but it
does not matter. I must go back to my guests--well, my victims, if you
like it better.' His gaze wandered again to the casket. 'I will keep it
in memory of you, dear Kate...a memento of our very charming idyll.'

He turned to the door to throw one last gibe. 'You, of course, will need
no reminder! I flatter myself to that extent.'

He laughed again, and the door closed behind him.



6: THE MAN WHO WAITED


'Don't you know me, Miller?'

The years had not dealt kindly with Mr. Charles Berry, but Miller had no
difficulty in recognising him. He had once been reprimanded by Louba, as
a result of endeavouring to satisfy his natural curiosity concerning
Berry's visits to the flat and the quality of his relations with Louba;
so that he had a personal reason for remembering him. 'How are you,
Miller?' went on Berry affably, extending his hand.

'Oh, fair. How's things?' returned Miller. Berry had not formerly been
very cordial with him, but it was evident that he wished now to be
amiable.

They were outside Braymore House, one cold, damp evening.

'Just got back to England,' said Berry. 'Going anywhere particular?'

'I'm taking some letters down to Mr. Louba at the Elect Club.'

'Oh, so he's there?'

'Yes. Do you want to see him?'

'That's what I've come to England for. He's not treating me as he ought,
and if he doesn't make a change, I think of making it unpleasant for
him--I say, come and have one, can't you? I should like a talk to you.
Not in a particular hurry, are you?'

'Not for five minutes or so.'

They walked side by side, a moist wind in their faces.

'How is Mr. Louba not treating you properly?' asked Miller, seeing Berry
inclined to be communicative.

'Well--he's not paying me all he owes me. How do you think he is for
money? Anything gone wrong?'

'Why?'

'Do you know anything?'

They regarded each other uncertainly.

'Look here,' said Berry. 'We may as well be frank with each other.
Perhaps it'll help us both. He's behindhand in his payments to me, and
I'm wondering if he's getting short of cash. How's he with you?'

'Well,' said Miller. 'My wage is behind too.'

'Oh.' Mr. Berry became thoughtful. Turning his head, he drew Miller's
attention to a little man who was following at their heels. 'Who's that
fellow?' he asked. 'I seem to have seen him often, but I don't remember
where.'

'I don't know. I've seen him hanging about this neighbourhood: but he
looks harmless enough.'

They went into the nearest saloon bar, and it was when they were seated
together at a table with glasses before them, that Berry decided to take
Miller yet more into his confidence.

'The truth is,' he said, 'I've already seen Louba.'

'What, since your return?'

'Yes. You were out. And he told me that he was broke, and that he was
clearing out of the country with as much money as he could get
together.'

Miller whistled. 'That's lively! What about my wages?'

'I thought it was just a bluff, to avoid paying me, but if it's true,
it's pretty dismal, isn't it?'

'Rotten,' responded Miller gloomily.

'If it's true, he'll take every cent he can lay hands on, and you and
I'll never see a penny of our money.'

Miller's countenance expressed a wrathful agreement.

'He's a bad lot is Louba,' said Berry.

'I can believe it,' nodded Miller. 'If I thought he was really going to
do me--'

Berry laughed.

'He'll not treat you any better than anybody else, you can rely on that,
Miller,' he said, and came to an abrupt halt.

The little man they had seen in the street had entered the place after
them, and had seated himself at a table near by He blinked guilelessly
at Berry's rude stare.

'See that man?' muttered Berry. 'Come in to have a lemonade,' he
scoffed, not doubting the man's harmlessness, yet somehow rendered
uneasy by his proximity.

'After all the years I've served him!' exclaimed Miller, his mind still
on Louba and his own grievance. 'But I've had my suspicions.'

'What's made you suspicious?'

'I know his companies aren't doing any too well, and he's had to pay out
a good bit; and I saw something only a couple of days ago that made me
open my eyes, but he's always doing something odd, and I couldn't be
sure it meant a get-away.'

'What did you see?' asked Berry eagerly.

'A passport made out in another name, but with his photograph on it.'

'Then it's true. He's going to run.' Berry drained his glass and slapped
it on the table. 'And we're left in the soup! Married?'

'I'm going to be.'

'Nice little wedding-present for you--absconding employer. Have
another.'

They had two others, and Miller, usually an abstemious man, began to
feel himself a disgracefully used person.

'All these years I've been with him!' he ejaculated.

'Earned a nice fat wedding-present, if any man has,' sympathised Berry.

'And the wages he owes me!'

'Mean rogue. Might have paid you, at least.'

Berry was well content with Miller's condition of mind, when he was
again irritated by the little man at his elbow, who was undisguisedly
listening to what portions of the conversation reached his ears.

'Excuse me,' said Berry loudly. 'Are we saying anything to interest you,
sir?'

'I beg your pardon,' said the little man. 'I couldn't help hearing that
you were speaking of Mr. Louba.'

'Friend of yours?'

'No. But I'm very interested in him.'

'Really? A lot of people are.'

'Yes. I'm particularly interested in him just now.'

'Oh, why?'

The little man brought his glass of lemonade and seated himself at their
table.

'Why,' he explained. 'I find that da Costa has a flat above his in
Braymore House.'

'Yes, he has,' said Miller. 'But he's not a friend of Mr. Louba's'.'

'Oh, no, I wouldn't call him that,' returned the little man. 'That is
why I'm very hopeful just now. He said if he waited twenty years...and
it isn't twenty years yet.'

'Don't seem much to be hopeful about, if you're talking about Mr.
Louba,' said Miller dejectedly.

'What do you know about Louba?' queried Berry.

'Oh, nothing much,' replied the little man gently. 'I met him years
ago...a long while. Only I've never lost faith--particularly in da
Costa. They've quarrelled again since then: rivals, you know, and da
Costa doesn't forget.'

'Well, what's it all about, anyway?' demanded Berry, impatient to
continue his manipulation of Miller's grievances.

The little man looked at him blankly.

'Any special business with us?' asked Berry rudely.

'Oh, no, thank you. Pardon me for interrupting you. I'm always
interested in anything concerning Louba. It helps me along. Not that I
ever lose faith,' he said, getting to his feet. 'Faith is a great thing,
gentlemen. I've been living on it for years now. Keeps me cheerful when
otherwise I should die--but I'm always cheerful. I have faith. And I
wait.'

He drank his lemonade, made a little bow, and went out. Berry tapped his
forehead.

'Well, now, look here. Miller,' he said. 'Louba's treating us both
badly, and he's a rogue, anyhow. Why should we let him grab all the
money he can and clear off with it?

'How can we stop him?'

'We can't stop him from clearing off, but we can go shares in his
plunder.'

'He'll see to that! Whoever goes short, you can be sure he'll have
enough to live in luxury. Trust him.'

'If we're fools enough to let him. You're in the house with him,
Miller.'

Miller put down his glass so hastily that some of its contents splashed
over on to the marble-topped table.

'What if I am? D'you take me for a thief?'

'I shouldn't be sitting here talking to you if you were,' replied Berry,
with a slightly overdone haughtiness.

'Then what's my being in the house got to do with it?'

'Well, you can see that whoever benefits by the money he manages to
collect, it won't be him. Why, I'd rather send the whole lot to a
hospital, and go without my own arrears, than that scoundrel should have
it,' declared Berry virtuously. 'To take money from him, who only uses
it for other people's ruin, is no different from taking a loaded
revolver from a man who'd only use it for murder! There's stealing, and
there's taking, Miller, and I tell you I'd think nothing of taking cash
from a scoundrel like Louba!'

'H'mph, that's all right in theory,' rejoined Miller. 'I'm with you. But
when it comes to practice...' He shook his head. 'I'm not going to take
the chance of explaining the difference between stealing and taking to a
judge and jury!'

'If you're willing to make it easy, I'll run the actual risk,' promised
Berry. 'If you can keep your eyes skinned, see when a large sum comes
in, and let me know, between us we can fix it. I'll do the actual
taking, if you'll help and cover me. And we'll go fifty-fifty, just as
if you ran an equal risk. Now, what do you say to that?'

For some time, Miller had not much to say. He was not inclined to
discuss the project seriously: but he continued to drink, and his face
grew darker as his wrongs grew bigger.

Charles Berry did not lose patience, and continued to call for fresh
drinks.



7: BERYL MARTIN


'What is it, Mr. Louba?'

'If you will honour me...just for ten minutes, Miss Martin. T'ere is
somet'ing important I have to say to you.'

Beryl Martin moved across to a window recess of the room they were in,
away from the crowded table.

'You are not playing tonight?' he murmured.

She shook her head. Her face was anxious.

'Mr. Louba, I wish you'd tell me just how much I owe you. I must stop
playing. I shall never win back what I lost, and I must make some
definite arrangements to get out of debt. You've always said it wasn't
very much, and put me off, but I want you to let me have a clear
statement. I've been crazy to go on as I've done, and I'm just coming to
my senses.'

'It is on this subject I wish to talk to you,' he replied. 'But we
cannot do so here. Come to where we can talk quietly.'

After a moment's hesitation, she followed him out of the room to a small
apartment on the ground floor, looking out on to the drive at the side
of the house.

They were in Sir Harry Marshley's house, but Louba always appeared very
much at home there.

'Believe me, I am ver' reluctant to mention such a matter to you. Miss
Martin,' said Louba. 'And if I t'ought it would distress you, I would
rather bear any loss myself t'an speak of it...but I have other hopes.'

She drew back before the look in his bold eyes.

'Of course, I don't expect you to bear any loss, Mr. Louba,' she
responded hastily. 'I think you hold all the IOUs I have signed?'

'I believe I do,' he purred.

'Then will you tell me how much they amount to?'

'Fifty t'ousand pounds.'

'What?'

She rose from her seat with an expression of incredulity on her face.

'It can't be!...fifty thousand...!' she gasped, the colour draining from
her cheeks.

He watched her as she sank back into the chair, overwhelmed, her eyes
dilated, fixed on his as though imploring him to contradict himself.

'Is it possible?' she exclaimed at last.

'It is so. I will show you the IOUs if you wish. But I beg you I not to
distress yourself.'

'But I--I haven't that much money in the world! And my mother has only
enough to live on in comfort. Besides, she's an invalid--I daren't let
her know I've gambled away so much. It would kill her.'

'I t'ink that very likely,' he agreed. 'But why tell her?'

'Are you sure there's no mistake?' she asked desperately.

'I am ver' sure.'

He took out a bundle of IOUs bearing her signature, and passed them to
her.

'I'd no idea I was signing for such large amounts!' she ejaculated, and
handed them back to him. 'And you want payment?

That is what you wanted to see me about?'

'Dear lady, t'ey would all have been burned, but for the unfortunate
conditions of my own affairs,' he returned. 'But I have myself suffered
heavy losses, and I am compelled to call in all that is due to me.'

'You mean you cannot wait?'

'I fear I cannot. I am leaving London very shortly, and I need money to
settle my obligations before I go.'

'Of course, it's your right. I'm sorry I haven't settled up before, but
I--I--'

She caught her trembling lip between her teeth.

'T'ere is no hurry for one or two days,' he said smoothly.

'I really don't know how I can pay you!' she exclaimed desperately. 'I
mean in a few days. I--'

'Oh, you can, quite easily,' he replied, drawing a chair up close to
hers. 'You can pay me a hundred times over--if you will.'

'How?' she said, withdrawing herself as far from him as the arm of her
chair permitted, the anxiety over her financial position temporarily
receding before the tide of aversion, of creeping distrust and fear,
which his changed manner evoked.

He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away from him.

'T'ere are treasures greater t'an money,' he said. 'T'ere are those
between whom and ourselves t'ere can be no debt, no mine or t'ine. If
you were my wife, ten t'ousand times fifty t'ousand pounds were but a
little ting to give you pleasure! And I would soon be rich again, Beryl.
With you by my side, t'ere is not'ing I could not do--you need not fear
I would take you to poverty. Out of England, t'ere are still--'

'But I'm engaged--you know it, surely!' she cried, and held out her left
hand.

His lips curled as he looked at the ring.

'T'at poor fool! I will soon teach you to forget him.'

'I don't wish to forget him, Mr. Louba. I'm going to marry him.'

'I t'ink not,' he rejoined confidently.

'But I certainly am. Also, it has nothing to do with this business.'

'It has everyt'ing. I have told you: if you are to become my wife, of
course your debts are mine, and I will burn the IOUs on our
wedding-day--which will be at once, before I leave London. But you
persist in marrying this Leamington fellow why, his wife-to-be is
not'ing to me, naturally, and I expect to be paid, and promptly. As you
say you have not money enough to pay them, tomorrow morning I will come
to see your mother--'

'Oh, no, nor She couldn't bear a shock like that!'

'Well,' he said coarsely, 'in your bereavement perhaps you will be glad
to let me comfort you.'

She turned her head sharply aside, her instinctive, subconscious dislike
of him waking to a sudden outraged repulsion.

Almost immediately she started back in her chair.

'Oh, who's that?' she cried.

'Where?' He looked round quickly.

'The window. Someone had his face pressed against the glass, It looked
horrible.'

He rose and crossed swiftly to the window, peering out.

'T'ere is no one that I can see,' he commented.

'He went when he saw me looking at him.' She had recovered from her
fright. 'Perhaps one of the staff, or someone who'd been to deliver
something to the kitchen, and looked in at the gap in the curtains. It
startled me, that's all. Faces always look so horrible pressed against a
window.'

'Yes, that is so.' He was unlatching the window. 'But all the same, I do
not like people who look through windows.'

The cold air blew in as he lifted the sash and leaned out. Beryl
shivered, and drew her coat closer, for she had been on the point of
leaving when Louba had addressed her.

'I do not see anyone,' he said, withdrawing himself from the outer air
and pulling the window down. 'What was he like?'

'I couldn't see. His face was pressed against the glass.'

He drew the curtains together, taking care that there was no gap between
them.

'Had he a full moustache and a high-coloured face?--eh?'

'I don't think so. But I really couldn't see.'

'T'at is a pity. I like to know who is interested in my movements,' he
observed, frowning a little.

There was a slight pause. For a moment he seemed to have forgotten her,
pulling at his moustache, immersed in other thoughts.

It was Beryl who resumed the interrupted conversation. 'You can surely
give me a day or two?' she asked.

'No. I go to your mother tomorrow morning. Also, why a day or two? Where
would you get the money from?'

'I...might get it,' she murmured.

'You are t'inking of Leamington. He is a young man, ambitious, just
climbed to success. Do you t'ink of showing your love for him by ruining
him? You don't suppose he could find fifty t'ousand pounds without
breaking himself and mortgaging his future, do you?'

She bent her face to one clenched fist.

'No...you're right. I couldn't cripple him at the beginning of his life,
like that...even if he could find the money,' she muttered.

'And why should you? Do you t'ink I could not make you happier than he
could?--such an ordinary young man! There are a hundred t'ousand in
England alone like him! You will look back and laugh at the time when
you dreamed of marrying such as he.'

He had taken hold of her hands, bending his dark face to hers, though
she turned her head aside to avoid it.

'If I seem cruel, Beryl, it is only to be kind,' he whispered. 'I will
make such happiness for you...'

'If you meant that, you wouldn't press me now!' she exclaimed. 'If you
can do without the money if I marry you, you can do without it for a
while if I don't.'

'I can do without the money, Beryl, but I cannot do without you!'

'You must!' she cried, dragging her hands free. 'You must, because I
cannot think of marrying you.'

'Then,' he said coolly, 'I cannot t'ink of allowing you further time for
payment.'

'And you pretend you want to make me happy!'

'You, I t'ink, profess to love your mother. Yet you will not save her
from what may prove a fatal shock.' She sat staring at the pattern on
the carpet, trying to keep her lips steady. 'And you profess to care for
Alan Leamington,' he went on. '...But you will contemplate making him a
victim, at the very outset of his career, of your foolish gambling.'

'I had no idea I owed anything like that!' she exclaimed. 'I never
dreamed I couldn't pay.'

'That merely showed a greater folly, does it not, Beryl?'

She set her lips struggling for composure.

'So t'ere are two of us,' he observed. 'Only I am not quite so great a
culprit as you, for if I am inconsiderate, it is out of regard for you,
but if you kill your mother and ruin this man it is solely out of regard
for yourself. After all, it is your own folly; should you not pay?'

'Yes,' she said, very low, standing up. 'I should pay. And I will.'

She put up her hand to keep him off, as he made an exultant step
forward, and he caught and kissed it ardently.

'Believe me, it is a payment that shall bring in ver' great interest,'
he said. 'I promise you. I t'ink we will not burn these IOUs, for one
day they shall be ver' precious to you...One day when you know the
happiness to which they have led you.'

She made no reply, only released her hand and fastened the collar of her
coat.

'I must go now,' she said. 'It's late.'



8: THE GIRL WHO HAD LOST


With such patience as a young man could command, Alan Leamington waited
for the girl to come down. The vestibule of Lady Marshley's big house
was crowded with the last of the departing guests. But still neither
Beryl nor the other members of the bridge party made an appearance.

Sir Harry strolled out of the ballroom, a bald, wizened man with a
habitual leer.

'Hullo, Leamington, not gone yet? Had a good time?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Why don't you play? Her ladyship tells me that you never go into the
card-room. Beryl's playing--she's a great girl.'

Alan checked the words that came to his lips, and then he remarked: 'I
can't afford the stakes your friends play for, and Beryl can't either. I
love bridge, but bridge at a pound a point is ruinous.'

Sir Harry wrinkled up his red nose in a sneer. 'I think Beryl is the
best judge,' he said. 'She has money of her own. Her father left her a
fortune, my dear fellow.'

'He left her very little,' said Alan warmly, and Sir Harry shrugged his
thin shoulders.

'May I suggest that, as Beryl is engaged--or supposed to be engaged--to
you, nobody is more competent to give her advice than yourself?' he
asked sarcastically. 'It is hardly likely, if you cannot persuade her to
stop playing, that I can succeed.'

Men and women were drifting down the broad stairs, Alan watched them,
but Beryl was not there. She came last of all, and with her was a tall,
burly man who was talking to her with some show of confidence which
brought an angry flush to the young man's cheek.

They stopped at the foot of the stairs, the big man talking in a low
voice. Alan saw the girl nod, and then she came hurriedly across to him.

'I'm sorry you waited,' she said quickly. 'I could quite well have gone
home by myself.'

He thought she was looking very white and weary, and he did not speak to
her until she was seated by him in his car.

'Beryl, dear, I'm worried,' he said.

'Are you, Alan? Of course you are.'

'It's this damned card-playing, my dear. I've no right what-ever to
lecture you, and I don't want to. But you know the Marshleys. Their
place is nothing but a gambling-den, and the dances they give are only a
blind for the big game upstairs. People say that Louba is behind them.
Five years ago, Marshley was in the bankruptcy court, and then suddenly
he blossoms forth as the owner of this huge establishment, gives
parties, has cars of his own and, of course, gets the very clientele
that he wants. It isn't only bridge they play.'

'I know that,' she said.

He took her hand in his, but she withdrew it gently.

'Alan, I want to tell you something--take this.'

Now he felt something in his palm, something round and hard. Before his
fingers touched the diamond, he knew it was her engagement-ring.

'Beryl!'

'I'm sorry--truly sorry. But I'm going to marry Emil Louba. No, no,
don't ask me why--Alan dear--please.'

He sat stunned, incapable of thinking.

'That--beast!' he said at fist. 'You're mad, Beryl! Do you owe him
money?'

She did not reply.

'You shan't do it! By God, I'll kill him first! That's why you've been
shepherded to that hell hole! Louba wanted you--wanted to ruin you. And
now that he's cheated you, he gives you the alternative of marrying or
paying.'

'There's Mother to consider,' she said in a low voice, so low that he
scarcely heard her. 'I've been a fool--oh, such a fool, Alan! Oh Lord!'

She covered her face with her hands and burst into a fit of passionate
sobbing, and he could only sit silent and helpless, listening to the
grief of the girl for whose sake he would have sacrificed life and soul.

Presently she sat up and dried her eyes. I'm tired,' she said weakly.
'Don't talk about it any more, Alan. These things have happened before,
and they'll happen again. No, no, don't kiss me--see me tomorrow when
I'm sane, and we're both sane.'

He helped her out of the car and walked with her to the door of the
little house in Edwards Square, where she, lived, with her invalid
mother.

'Good night, Alan,' she said, and kissed him.

She had slipped from his arms and closed the door in his face before he
realised that she was gone. For a moment he stood staring at the door,
and then he turned and walked slowly back to the car, and in his heart
was murder.

Braymore House was a block of flats facing Regent's Park and backing
onto Clive Street. It had six storeys, and each floor constituted a
suite.

Alan knew the place, and, as a successful and brilliant architect, he
had been interested in the erection of this most expensive block of
residential flats in London. Almost the first task Alan had had when he
entered the office of an architect, was to, prepare quantities for its
foundations.

A red-brick building, disfigured from the aesthetic standpoint by the
fire escape which had been erected after completion to satisfy municipal
requirements, it offered a darkened facade, with the exception of one
broad band of light on the second floor.

That, he knew, was Louba's flat. He hoped to arrive before the
Levantine. To reach him now was impossible, for the great rosewood doors
of the entrance hall would be closed, as also would be the staff door at
the back. He glanced up at the fire escape. And then, after a moment's
reflection, he walked through the gates into the garden in which
Braymore House stood and, taking a side path, he reached the stiffly
extended iron ladder that led to the fire escape landing above. Heavy
counterweights held it horizontally. He remembered that there was an
automatic alarm attached to the ladder in case it was pulled down by
enterprising burglars. His reconnaissance completed, he went back to the
car.

Tomorrow he would see the place in daylight. He was interested to
discover where the wire of the alarm was fixed. A thin fog was drifting
from Regent's Park when he reached his own flat in Gate Gardens. So much
the better, he thought.



9: THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN


Well pleased, Louba returned to Braymore House.

He had never thought to pay so high a price as marriage for any woman,
but Beryl Martin, so different from the foolish women who had at
different times been fascinated by his unwholesome attractions, was
worth it--even apart from the money she would bring with her.

'I shall not need you any more. Miller,' he said cheerfully, as he came
into his flat, and passed on to where a light supper stood in readiness.

He lit a cigar, and stood on the hearth, smoking and contemplating his
position with complacency. His finances had received a nasty jog, but he
was pulling through.

He sat down at the table and began to eat.

His back was to the windows, and after a while he had a sense of
uneasiness. He turned his head once or twice but he was sure the windows
must be closed. Miller always shut them before he came in.

With a frown he recalled Beryl's assertion that she had seen a face
pressed to the window in Sir Harry Marshley's house.

He heard Miller close his bedroom door; as he pushed the tray away from
him and lit a second cigar, Louba became conscious of the silence...and
something else. Cursing himself for his fancifulness, he got up
impatiently and went to the window behind him, pushing the silken
curtain aside to assure himself that the window was closed.

He recoiled with a guttural exclamation, then flung the curtains aside
and dragged out the man who was hidden behind them.

'Da Costa!'

'Well?' demanded da Costa, his hand going suggestively to his hip
pocket.

The years which had passed since he had pursued his star performer to
Malta had set some white amongst his wavy mop of hair, his cheeks hung
down beneath the baggy dark eyes, his figure was a little heavier, but
otherwise he was as vigorous as ever, and little changed. His mouth
pouted red and moist beneath the full, untrained moustache.

'Ver' well, ver' well!' exclaimed Louba, making a motion for him to
leave his weapon where it was. 'I will merely ask what you are doing in
my house?'

'I was just waiting until you'd gone to bed, Louba.'

'And what then?' queried Louba, with a sharpness that made da Costa
laugh.

'Don't be frightened. I wasn't coming in to murder you,' he said.

'I see. Merely to steal?'

'No. Just to unfasten the window and go home. You see, Miller came in
and fastened it before I could get out, and then you came in. So, as I
am so fond of your society, I was waiting till you had gone to bed.'

'You do your stealing when I am not near? Yes, I can imagine you are not
a ver' daring thief.'

Da Costa stepped up to him threateningly.

'You'll do that once too often,' he warned. 'That sneer of yours, Louba,
will cost you dear.'

'I shall never have more to pay than I can well afford. When I caught
you lurking about outside the window a week ago, you denied that you had
any intention of entering...you were merely taking the air, I believe.'

'Neither had I any intention of entering. I always come in when the
window is open and you are out,' replied da Costa insolently.

'So you do come in? You pretended to go away, to shut your flat up,
after I had spoken to you, simply to put me off my guard?'

Da Costa shrugged his shoulders. 'I have business in your apartments,
and you interrupt it when you are sniffing at my doings like a
suspicious dog,' he said.

Louba snatched at his arm and swung him round until his face was in the
full light.

'You have got what you came for?' he snarled. 'That is why you are so
bold, and in such high spirits?'

'If I have, you will never find it,' laughed da Costa.

Louba shook him. 'Tell me what you have taken! Tell me!'

'Let go!'

There was a quick struggle before da Costa stood back, panting, eyes and
cheeks blazing.

'Do that again, Louba,' he bit out from between his sharp white teeth,
'and I will settle my account with you at last, and finally.'

'Are you going to give up what you have taken from me?'

'Are you going to give up what you have taken from me at different times
these many years past?' demanded da Costa, and suddenly smiled. 'Yes,'
he added softly, 'you are!'

Louba eyed him darkly, his eyes narrowed till they were mere slits. 'You
will not leave this room until you have given up what you have taken,'
he said.

'I will do so if you can find it, my dear Louba,' assented da Costa
cheerfully. 'Come: play no tricks and you shall search me.'

Smiling tantalisingly, he lifted his arms, leaving his pockets
invitingly uncovered.

Suspiciously, and after a moment's indecision, Louba went through his
pockets, da Costa enjoying his discomfiture. He looked down at his feet.

'Oh, certainly,' said da Costa. 'Look in my shoe. It is no inconvenience
as they are only slippers. And I might have a nice layer of notes there,
mightn't I?' He kicked them off. 'We live in such pleasant proximity
that I do not need to overdress before I come to visit you.'

Louba watched him put his slippers on again.

'Well,' he remarked. 'After your little joke, perhaps now you will tell
me what is the real meaning of your presence here?'

'No, I don't feel inclined to tell you any more,' rejoined da Costa,
stepping to the window where he stooped to remove the screws with an
ease that spoke of former acquaintanceship with them.

'Then I will see if you will be more communicative to me police.'

'Bah! Do you think to frighten me with that?' asked da Costa, in
disgust, and he pulled open the window.

'You either explain, or I give you in charge,' threatened Louba
savagely, making a spring at da Costa who was propelled forward until
only the rail of the fire escape outside prevented him from falling head
first into the gardens below.

Louba leapt after him, forcing him round until he was leaning backwards
over the rail, with Louba's fingers at his throat.

'Now, what have you taken?' muttered Louba. 'Tell me what you have taken
or I'll throw you over.' He forced da Costa's head back till the man's
thick neck swelled.

'I can't...if you strangle me,' choked da Costa.

'Well, now,' said Louba, relaxing his grip a little.

'I haven't taken anything. You've seen for yourself.'

'What were you doing there, then?'

'I came to look for something.'

'Oh, you did! And what is it you seek?'

Da Costa had improved his position by slow degrees, and now gave Louba a
blow which sent him crashing backwards into the room behind him, where
he reeled heavily against a writing-table in the centre of the room, and
fell to the floor, striking his head against a chair.

'The next time you lay hands on me, Louba,' said da Costa, leaning
inside the room, a little breathless, 'will be the last time you'll lay
hands on anything. Mark that.'

Louba was struggling to his feet.

'You accursed son of a--'

'And if I haven't got what I came for,' interrupted da Costa, 'I know
now where to look for it--and you needn't put any more screws on the
window...because I don't need to come in again,' he added.

'I won't--because I'll see that you are in charge of the police by
tomorrow morning,' rejoined Louba, reaching for the telephone.

'Oh, send for the police,' mocked da Costa. 'It's your word against
mine, that's all. And if I chose to admit I'd been here, chose to admit
I'm going to take something from you...I don't think you'd like the
police to call upon you to account for your possession of that
something, Louba. Think about it. Good-night.' He ran up the iron steps
with his slippered feet and disappeared through the window of one of his
own rooms.

Louba put back the receiver. There was more than one of his possessions
for which he would have been unwilling to account.

His brows met as he looked about him, trying to guess what it was that
da Costa coveted.

He picked up one thing after another, weighing it in his hand, turning
it over, searching for hidden value.

Going to a recess in a far corner, he came to a carved brass chest which
he had not opened for a long time: it was full of curios of relatively
little value, of which he had wearied and thrust out of sight.

He began to lift them out of the chest. He noticed they were in great
disorder, but he could not be sure whether this was the result of da
Costa's search. One small image with a weight disproportionate to its
size he carried hopefully to the table, but a very little chipping with
a knife scraped the top layer of gold-tinted metal away, and revealed
the lead beneath which accounted for its weight.

Baffled, he returned to the chest, but only one or two things remained
there. Reaching down to seize something that sparkled, he brought up the
beaded casket that had fallen into his hands in a darkened room in
Bucarest. Releasing the spring in the false bottom, he gazed at the
empty space beneath. A slow smile curved his lips. Was it possible? Did
da Costa really think the thing could remain in his hands without
discovering the simple secret of it? Did those who knew of the treasure
it had apparently once contained still believe it lay hidden there?

He did not know, but he could not miss the chance of a sardonic joke.

He replaced the curios in the chest, and on the top he set the beaded
casket. Below the false bottom lay a slip of paper on which he had
written a note to da Costa.

'With compliments. If I had only known what it was you desired, I beg
you to believe I would have asked your acceptance of so small a token of
my regard.'

'He was quite right,' muttered Louba, as he went into his bedroom.
'...No need to secure the window if that is all he wants!'



10: THE MAN WHO CUT THE ALARM


Alan Leamington rose the next morning undecided whether to go to see
Beryl or not.

If she kept to her resolution to marry Louba, he would rather not see
her. She might only weaken his own resolve to save her at any cost. Yet
she had asked him to go when they were both sane: perhaps it would be
she whose determination would weaken. Sober thought might have forced
her to reconsider her decision.

Hoping desperately, he went to her home, and found her waiting to
receive him alone.

'I shouldn't have asked you to come,' she said, as her eyes fell on his
white face. 'It would have been better to end it last night. Indeed, it
is ended,' she added, sinking dejectedly into a chair.

'Oh, no,' he returned. 'It is very far from ended, Beryl.'

'Alan, you must believe me. I am going to marry Louba, so it is all at
an end between us.'

'That may be so--that our engagement is ended. But you are certainly not
going to marry that man.'

She glanced at him apprehensively.

'Alan, you're not going to make it--difficult?' she asked, substituting
the last word for one more significant.

'I'm going to make it impossible. Nothing will induce me to stand aside
and let you marry Louba. You don't know what he is.'

'Don't tell me. I'm going to marry him, whatever he is.'

'It's because you owe him money, isn't it?' She set her lips. 'Well, you
needn't answer. I can guess. Yet...couldn't you have come to me, Beryl?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'There's no reason why you should pay my debts.'

'Isn't there? I thought there was the best of all reasons,' he said
reproachfully.

'The best of all reasons why I should consider you,' she amended.

'Is it considering me to turn me down for that brute?'

'It is...it really is. You may not believe it now, but...' She twisted
her handkerchief between her hands.

'I don't, Beryl. Won't you tell me what you owe? Believe me, however
much it is--it would be less than I may have to pay for your freedom!'

'Alan! What are you thinking of doing?'

'Just anything that's necessary to save you from Louba--anything,
Beryl!'

'No!' She laid her hand urgently on his sleeve. 'Alan, I'm not trying to
ruin your life...I'm not trying to visit my follies on you or
Mother...you won't surely make--make--'

'Your sacrifice futile? So you are sacrificing yourself? You admit it?
And you think the loss of you is less than the loss of everything I
have?'

'I don't think you could pay it even if I let you! And if you could, it
would cripple you; you'd never recover. Then there's Mother--you know
how careful I have to be...and he wouldn't wait, not a day. Besides,
it's too late now. I've promised.'

'Promised!--a man you know to be so vile that he'll force you into
marriage by holding your debts over your head! Whatever else you don't
know about him, you know that, and yet, you'll marry him!'

'I'm doing what I think is best, Alan. I'm responsible for the
situation, and I'm trying to bear the consequences,' she replied, her
voice shaking despite her efforts to control it.

'And that's your last word?' he asked. 'We finish?'

'Yes,' she answered faintly. 'You'll forget, Alan...in a little while,
and you'll be happy with someone else. It's better for you to be hurt
now, with time to recover and make a new life, than to be ruined without
a chance of recovery.'

He laughed harshly. 'It doesn't much matter what happens to me, Beryl,
so long as I save you from that creature, but you're not going to marry
him. If you won't put a stop to it, I will.'

'Alan, what are you going to do?' she cried, following him as he went to
the door. 'You're not going to him? It wouldn't be any use. I'm sure he
wouldn't listen to you for a moment.'

'So am I. He'd like to see me on my knees to him; he'd gloat over
prayers for mercy, if I were fool enough to make them. I know that,
Beryl. You need not think I shall waste time talking to him.'

'Then what can you do? Alan!' She gasped, her frightened eyes on his
white face. 'You wouldn't--you wouldn't--'

'I'd kill him!' he cried fiercely. 'And I will. Rather than have you
marry that unclean beast, I'll see him dead!'

He strode out of the room, leaving her with her hand to her mouth,
breathing quickly, trying to repress the sobs that struggled into her
throat. She ran to the window, and saw his set face as he passed.
Rushing out of the room, she put on a hat and coat quickly, snatched up
a pair of gloves, and let herself out of the house, hurrying in the
direction taken by Alan Leamington.

She increased her speed almost to a run as she saw him approaching
Braymore House.

'Alan,' she gasped, laying her hand on his arm. 'Don't go--you mustn't.
I shall come with you, if you do.'

'Don't be afraid,' he said bitterly. 'He's safe for the present. 'Look!'

With a nod of his head, he indicated a taxi which was passing, and she
saw the dark, coarse features of Emil Louba, as he studied a morning
paper.

'Shall I get you a taxi?' asked Leamington.

'No. I'll walk. Are you coming back with me...as far as the door?'

'No, thank you. I have business...this way.'

'You're still going to Braymore House?'

'I have business there. Hadn't you better be getting back? Louba has
doubtless gone to visit his fiancee.'

'Oh, Alan...' He pressed her arm contritely.

'Forgive me, Beryl. I know you're doing what you think is right. Go now.
We can only both of us act as we think right. There's nothing more to be
said.'

He lifted his hat and stood with it in his hand until she turned and
walked away.

Continuing his way to Braymore House, he entered the building and
addressed the hall porter with an assumption of ease and cheerfulness.

'Good morning! You're still here, then?' he remarked, smiling.

'Why, yes, I--well, it's Mr. Leamington!' exclaimed the man,

'You remember me? Yet it's some time now since I assisted to build this
block.'

'Yes, time's getting on, sir.'

'And you haven't had a fire, for all they insisted on spoiling the
building by adding a fire escape,' he observed.

'No, fortunately, we haven't,' laughed the man. 'I dare say it is a
shame, from an architect's point of view: yet a fire escape's a nice
handy thing on occasions, sir.'

'You're quite right, and this one, I remember, is very well arranged.
That's really why I've called. I'm putting one in a new building I'm
engaged on, and I want to know how the wiring's done. Can you show me?'

'Certainly, sir. You know how it works as a burglar-alarm, don't you?'

'Yes, I know the alarm rings when anyone pulls down the ladder to reach
the first fire escape landing. Can you show me where the wire of the
alarm is fixed?'

'Come with me, sir.'

The porter was proud to be consulted by the rising young architect,
eager to explain all he knew, ready to do anything to oblige.

'And I suppose it's in perfect order, the alarm?' asked Leamington.

'Oh, yes. I test it every week, of course.'

'Would it make a commotion if you tested it now? Don't do it if it would
be inconvenient, only--'

'It's no trouble, sir. So long as I just give the warning--if you don't
mind waiting.'

'No. It's awfully good of you.'

He took a pair of steel-cutters out of his pocket, and waited tensely
for the alarm to ring. It seemed a long wait, and there was moisture
under his hair when at last the bell clanged. He started, waited rigidly
for a moment or two to make sure the man was not going to repeat the
test, then quickly he snapped the wire in two, and thrust the cutters
into his pocket.

'Yes, acts beautifully. I shall certainly install this system,' he said
hurriedly, when the man returned. 'Any of the old tenants here?'

He chatted for quite five minutes, long enough to divert the man's
attention from the wire to which his queries had directed it, and walked
back with him to the main entrance, after slipping a welcome
contribution into his band.

'Good day. I'm much obliged to you.'

'Good day, sir. No trouble, I'm sure.'

The man watched him out of sight.



11: THE MAN WHO TOOK WHAT HE WANTED


Stretching his well-polished shoes to the blaze of the smoking-room
fire, Hurley Brown looked thoughtfully at the little flames which edged
a nugget of new coal that the waiter had added.

'Your views are fundamentally immoral, Louba. I am using the word
immoral in the larger sense--that your sense of right and wrong has
departed from normal standards.'

Emil Louba chuckled. His big, broad-shouldered figure, heavy build and
coarse features formed a contrast to his companion.

His hair was as thick, as black and glossy, his moustache as large and
sweeping as when he and Hurley Brown had first met years ago, and the
decorum of a London club had laid no restraint upon their conversation.
Louba never ceased to take pleasure in the circumstance which permitted
him to belong to the same club as the man who had once shown such
contempt for him, nor in the fact that their mutual friendship for Dr.
John Warden bound Hurley Brown to a civility very different from his
former demeanour towards Louba.

'That is a point of view,' replied Louba, puffing serenely. 'T'rough
life I have had only one code, eh? To get what I want, to deny myself
nodding. Is that right or wrong, eh? For me it is right. I am myself;
the world revo'ves about me once in twenty-four hours. I am the god of
my universe, answerable to myself. I have ruined men because that was
the only way to become rich. I desire riches; to get that money it is
necessary to hurt. So I hurt. You see, my dear Hurley Brown?'

'I see,' said Captain Hurley Brown, without conviction.

'Over there, writing so industriously, is our friend Warden. 'He is a
kind man, has never ruined anyone, and he is poor. But suppose you and I
were run over by a bus. Would his hand tremble when he cut off our legs?
No! He is trained to disregard suffering. Tomorrow if I stole a watch,
or broke into a house or stole, would you t'ink twice before you
arrested me? No, you would send me to the scaffol' and never worry. That
is the trained mind.'

It was Saturday afternoon on a foggy December day, and the smoking-room
of the Elect Club was deserted save for the two who sprawled before the
fire and Dr. John Warden, who had been detained in London over an
operation. Presently the doctor sealed the letter he was writing and,
handing it to a club servant for posting, strolled across to the two,
filling his pipe as he came.

'I wish you had been here before. Warden; this fellow has been
expounding his philosophy.'

'Which, of course, was rather distasteful,' said the doctor with a
smile. 'I've never quite known whether Louba is as bad as he says he is,
or whether his views are designed to shock.'

'It would take a whole lot to shock me,' responded Hurley Brown drily.
'I graduated in a shocking school, and even Scotland Yard has taught me
little in the way of horrors.'

Again Louba chuckled. 'Yet I could tell you things--I made my money in
the Levant, as I think you know,' he said daringly, with a side-glance
at Brown's unmoved countenance. 'Yes--I could tell you t'ings.'

'Well, don't,' said the doctor comfortably. 'Tell us something pretty.
I've been living in an atmosphere of anaesthetics and antiseptics for
three hours, and I want to be soothed.'

Louba made a wry face.

'That is horrible,' he said with a shudder, 'and I am reminded of the
pain I had, Doctor. Just here.' He touched a part of his huge frame,
just above the waistline. 'Some day you must come and see me, yet I am
scairt! I fear doctors. If I have anyt'ing that is very bad I do not
want to know it; if it is not bad, you may tell me, eh?'

Dr. Warden laughed softly. 'I'll see you today. I want to fill in the
time. I expect all that is the matter with you is over-feeding and lack
of exercise. In London for the week-end, Brown?'

Hurley Brown nodded. 'We are clearing up the Berkeley Square jewel
robbery, and I expect to make an arrest tonight. An ingenious crime. The
man who committed it--but you've read the newspaper story?'

Mr. Louba looked at his watch and rose slowly. 'Crime to me is as
interesting as operations,' he said. 'Perhaps tonight you could come.
Doctor?'

'Any time--any time before dinner preferably, because I've an engagement
to dine here.'

'At seven--is that too late?'

'No, at seven. You are still living at Braymore House? Good! I'll come
along and see you.'

When the big man had gone. Hurley Brown turned to the doctor with a look
of fierce distaste on his thin, tanned face. 'I don't like Louba, John!'

'Don't you?' asked the doctor lazily. 'He is probably over-painted. Some
men delight in exaggerating their wickedness. Louba is one of them. I
have never made a study of his peculiar complex, but I should say that
he is no worse than men of his type. He is immensely rich and immensely
Eastern. His mother was a Turkish woman, he told me once, his father a
Maltese who was the result of an alliance between a Greek and a woman of
Smyrna.'

'How long have you known him?' asked Brown after a long silence.

'Eh?' The doctor was dozing. 'Who, Louba? Oh, years and years. There's
nothing really the matter with him. In some ways I like him. He was very
helpful once. I shall never forget his kindness at that critical period
of my life.'

He closed his eyes and dozed again, and Hurley Brown returned to his
contemplation of the blazing coal and to his thoughts that centred about
the Berkeley Square burglary.

'Louba is going to be married.'

The doctor blinked himself awake. He was on the sunny side of sixty,
when intellectual men doze easily. 'What's that? Married--Louba?'

'Yes, he is marrying Beryl Martin, that very pretty girl.'

'Is he? Good gracious, I never thought of Louba as a marrying man!' The
doctor struggled to a sitting position and adjusted his horn-rimmed
glasses. 'And Beryl Martin--I thought she was engaged to that admirable
young man, Leamington. Dear, dear!'

'So I thought. Apparently the engagement is broken off. She is marrying
Louba by special licence on Wednesday, and they are going off to Paris
for their honeymoon.'

The doctor pulled thoughtfully at his chin. 'Strange,' he said. 'I never
thought that Louba would ever marry.'



12: THE MAN IN THE FLAT


At six o'clock, Dr. Warden reached his rooms in Devonshire Street and
changed. He had arranged to meet an old professional friend for dinner,
and he had forgotten his appointment with Louba until he was half-way
down the stairs. He returned for his stethoscope and slipped it into his
overcoat pocket.

Louba! No, he had never struck Dr. Warden as a marrying man. He rather
liked Louba, with his magnificent vices and his queer accent and
overpowering method of shouting down opposition.

The fog was thinner in the neighbourhood of Braymore House, a fact which
the liveried hall porter remarked upon.

'You're Dr. Warden, aren't you, sir?' he asked.

'Yes,' smiled the doctor. 'You have a good memory for faces.'

'I ought to have,' replied the man. 'I've been here since the house was
built. There was a gentleman came in this morning that I remembered,
though I hadn't seen him since Braymore was in the hands of the
painters--Mr. Leamington. He used to be a sort of assistant to the
architect, though he has a business of his own now.'

'Mr. Leamington!' The doctor was interested. 'What did he want?'

'Just came to have a look round, sir,' answered the man. 'He said he was
building a new block of flats and wanted to know how the wiring was
done. I showed him. Would you like me to take you up?'

The doctor shook his head. He had worked the automatic elevator before.
The door of Flat 2 was a little way along a windowed corridor, and at
the pressure of his finger on the bell the door was opened.

'Dr. Warden, sir? Come in, sir.'

The gaunt-faced valet recognised him instantly. To the doctor's surprise
he was wearing his overcoat, and Miller's first words explained this
circumstance.

'It's my night off, and Mr. Louba said I could go, but I knew you were
coming. Doctor, and besides, I wanted to wait until the gentleman had
gone.'

'Has Mr. Louba a visitor?'

Miller's eyebrows rose. 'A visitor--can't you hear them?'

The doctor had already heard, though between the hall and Louba's
sitting-room were a pair of heavy doors and a curtain.

The words were indistinguishable, but Louba's roar and the hoarse voice
of his visitor could be heard distinctly.

'They've been going at it hammer and tongs for a quarter of an hour,'
said Miller. He frowned at the ancient face of the hall clock. 'Doctor,
would you mind waiting here? I can show you into the dining room, if you
like--only--'

'Don't trouble,' said the doctor good-humouredly. 'I'll wait. Are you
going out?'

'I've got my young lady waiting for me,' said Miller urgently. 'I can't
keep her hanging about on a night like this. I'll arrange to meet her
later. I shan't be more than a quarter of an hour.'

It was then three minutes past seven, and the doctor's engagement was
for half past.

'Hark at 'em!' said Miller in an awe-stricken whisper. The voices of the
quarrelling men had risen. The doctor heard the words: 'She'll do what I
want!' It was Louba speaking.

'You can go, Miller, but please don't keep me waiting longer than a
quarter of an hour.'

The gratified Miller slipped out and was back again in exactly fourteen
minutes. He found the doctor sitting under a lamp, reading. The sound of
the quarrelling men had ceased.

'I wish you would tell Mr. Louba that I can't wait any longer,' he said,
folding up his paper. 'I'm sure the visitor must have gone, for I
haven't heard anybody raving for five minutes.'

Miller took off his overcoat and tidied his hair with his hand before he
departed. Dr. Warden heard him knocking and rose expectantly. Presently
Miller came back.

'He won't answer, sir,' he said. 'He's like that sometimes--sort of too
sulky to curse. Will you try, sir?'

Dr. Warden gave an impatient cluck and followed the man to the folding
doors. He turned the handle; the doors were locked. 'Louba!' he called.

There was no answer.

'He's in his bedroom--it leads out of the library,' suggested Miller.
'But I don't think he'll see you. He's terrible sometimes. I've known
him to smash up the furniture when something put him out. At other times
he'll sit in his bedroom and won't have anybody near him.'

'I didn't hear the visitor go,' said the doctor.

'Wait a minute, sir.' Miller ran along the passage towards the kitchen;
a narrower passage ended in a door that was ajar. Facing him was a
flight of stone stairs, the tradesmen's entrance to the flats. 'He must
have gone that way. He came that way, and I thought it funny.'

'What sort of man was he?'

'A flashy-looking fellow, about thirty-five, very sporty-looking--he
seemed to me a bit drunk. I didn't see him very well because the light
in the service hall wasn't burning. But as soon as Mr. Louba heard him,
he came out and told him to come in.'

The doctor fingered the stethoscope in his overcoat pocket. 'If he asks
for me, I'll come in after eleven,' he said. 'You must phone a message
that he wants me to the Elect Club.'

Going back to the club he found a message waiting for him, but not from
Louba. His guest had contracted a chill and, with many regrets, had
cancelled the engagement. Hurley Brown looked up as the doctor came into
the dining-room. 'Hasn't your man turned up?' he asked. 'Sit with me.
I'm bored. How's Louba?'

Warden smiled. 'Louba, according to the faithful Miller, is sulking.
When I arrived, our friend from the Levant was engaged in a row with
somebody or other, and he couldn't or wouldn't see me.'

They finished dinner and returned to the smoking-room. They were the
only occupants, the doctor and his pipe, Hurley Brown with a cigarette
between his thin lips. No word was spoken for fully an hour after they
had settled down; and it was Brown who broke the silence.

'When I was stationed in Malta, Louba was the moneylender who had half
the mess in his grip,' he said.

'Oh? You're rather obsessed with Louba today.'

'I am,' said the other grimly. 'It makes me sick to see him in my
club--a member. And to think that he's going to marry Alan's girl!'

He felt the pressure of the doctor's shoe on his and looked up. Alan
Leamington had just come into the room.

The first thing that the doctor noticed was the man's deathly pallor. He
seemed to be oblivious of their presence, but crossed to the reference
bookshelves which covered one wall of the room and, taking down a book,
turned the pages hastily. He found what he wanted after a while and went
out. Hurley Brown rose and, crossing the room, examined the book. It was
a time-table.

'I wonder where Alan is going?' he asked as he came back to the doctor.

At nine-thirty Hurley Brown went out. He was going to Scotland Yard.

'I'll drive over to Louba. Perhaps he's recovering from his fit of
temper,' said Dr. Warden, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and they
went out together.

Again Warden went up to the second floor, and this time the porter went
with him and left him pressing the bell of No. 2.

After a while, the elevator bell rang. Looking at the indicator, the
porter went up to the third floor. The patient doctor was still standing
at the door as the elevator passed. There was nobody at the grille on
the third floor, and the porter brought the elevator down.

'Did you ring, sir?'

'No; I think it was somebody above. I don't think I'll wait any longer.
I've just remembered that Miller is out,' said Dr. Warden.

'He'd have gone down the tradesmen's stairs, sir,' said the porter. 'I
never see them going in and coming out. This is the only block of flats
where the tradesmen have a different entrance.'

The doctor looked at his watch. 'A quarter to ten,' he said. 'Your clock
appears to have stopped.'

The porter glanced round. 'Yes, it went wrong this afternoon.'

Dr. Warden waited for a minute on the doorstep and went out into the
fog; as he walked along to the waiting taxi, a man passed him. The dimly
diffused rays of a street lamp showed his face for the fraction of a
second. It was Alan Leamington!

The doctor stopped and looked round. There was no doubt whatever. He was
wearing the grey overcoat he had worn when he came to the club.

John Warden was panic-stricken as a thought struck him. This man must
hate Louba. Why was he there? Suppose, with a desire for revenge against
the man who had taken Beryl Martin from him, he found his way into the
flat? It was a fairly improbable supposition. He took a step in the
direction the man had gone, but Alan was out of sight. A coincidence
probably, thought the doctor, and lit his pipe.

When he got back to the club. Hurley Brown was sitting before the fire.

'There's a message for you. It arrived just before I came in,' said
Hurley.

As he spoke, the smoking-room waiter brought a slip of paper on a
salver. The doctor adjusted his glasses and read: 'Mr. Louba would like
to see Dr. Warden at eleven o'clock tomorrow.'

'That's strange!' The doctor read the message aloud. 'He must have been
telephoning to me a few minutes after I left Braymore House.'

'Damn him!' said Hurley Brown with such vehemence that the doctor was
startled. He made no comment, however, and in a few minutes the
commissioner was talking shop. His man had been arrested and the raid
which he had planned on a small house in Lambeth had been carried out
satisfactorily.

Seemingly reluctant to face the foggy night, they lingered before the
cheerful blaze of the fire. At a quarter past eleven the doctor jumped
up. 'Come along. Brown, we're keeping the club servants awake when they
ought to be sleeping.'

They were being helped into their overcoats when the telephone on the
hall steward's desk rang violently.

'For me?' asked the doctor, as he hurried into the glass-walled box.

'Is that you, Doctor?' It was Miller's voice. 'Will you come at once,
please?' Miller's voice was charged with terror, and Warden could almost
hear the chattering of the man's teeth.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'The tenants of the flat below, sir, they've come up to say that blood
is dripping through their ceiling from Mr. Louba's bedroom.'



13: THE WATCHERS


As the gloomy winter day darkened to its close, Beryl Martin's fears
increased. What had been Leamington's business at Braymore House she
could not conceive; only, with the memory of his face before her, she
could not rid herself of the suspicion that he had been to look at the
building in the daytime with a view to finding the best means of
entering it at dark.

Pulling the curtain aside, and peering out into the fog, she realised
what a perfect night it was for him to carry out such a desperate
enterprise, and she wandered from room to room in a state of
uncontrollable agitation, answering her mother's questions distractedly.

At last, when suspense became intolerable, when it transformed fears
into certainties, until in her mind she could almost see him entering
the flat and confronting Louba, she put on her outdoor clothes and let
herself out into the street, almost running towards Braymore House, as
though he were at that moment gaming entrance and she might be too late
to prevent him.

When she arrived outside Louba's flat, she was breathless. The various
windows in the building showed blurred through the mist. It was easy for
her to loiter without being observed, but equally easy for Leamington to
pass her without her knowledge.

If only she knew exactly which window was Louba's, she thought, she
could at least fix her eyes on it, and see if anyone entered that way.

Once there, she realised the futility of her presence, the unlikelihood
of being so fortunate as to take him in the act and win him to reason.
It was also both too early and too late for Louba to be at home. Almost
certainly, if Alan were coming, he would come in the night, probably
long after Louba's return from his evening diversion.

Yet she could not tear herself away.

Whenever footsteps came by, she pretended to be walking past, but always
she returned to the spot from which she believed she could see Louba's
windows.

She gave a suppressed cry as a hand fell on her arm.

'Oh!--who is it?' she gasped, trembling, and breathed more easily as she
realised that it was not a policeman who had touched her.

'You must be cold. You've been waiting a long time,' said a mild voice
at her elbow, and she saw that it was a little man, with a thin, gentle
face, who addressed her.

'How do you know?' she exclaimed.

'Because I'm waiting too,' he replied.

Waiting?--for what?'

'Just to see what goes on. It's Louba's windows you're watching, isn't
it?'

'How--no...I'm not watching any. I'm...I'm just walking by,' she said,
and began to move away from him. Who could he be? Could he possibly be
connected with the police, and waiting to trap Alan? She condemned the
thought as absurd, yet her anxiety was increased.

She walked rapidly round the block of buildings, and came again to the
place where the little man had addressed her.

No one was in sight. She leaned against the railing surrounding the
gardens. She wondered if she could warn Louba to keep away from his flat
during the remainder of his stay in England, and dismissed the idea at
once. That would only implicate Alan, and she wanted to save him.

'Those are Louba's windows,' said the same mild voice, and there came
the same touch on her arm.

'Why are you here?' she asked. 'You say you're waiting to see what
happens. What do you expect to happen?'

'Oh, I don't know, but I've felt in very good spirits lately. It's been
a long wait, but I feel it's nearly over now.'

'How long have you been waiting?'

'Oh, many years...many years.'

'Years? I mean how long have you been waiting outside here?'

'Oh, nearly ever since dark.'

'And have you seen anyone go in?' she asked breathlessly.

'You mean by the window?' He smiled. 'The window's been used, certainly.
It has on other occasions too. I remember, years ago--'

'Who has gone in by the window?'

'A man...a man I have great hopes of...He's come out too, and I'm not
quite sure--'

'How long ago? How long since he came out?'

'Oh, a long while ago.' He looked at her attentively, as she hesitated
between relief and dread. 'It wasn't the one you think,' he added.

'What do you mean? How do you know?' she exclaimed.

'Aren't you the young lady Louba is forcing to marry him?'

'What...you...' She paused in amaze.

'I was looking through the window last night,' he said quietly. 'I
didn't hear a word, but I knew just what passed. I saw your faces. I saw
the papers he showed you...I know Louba very well,' he finished, with a
kind of contented pride.

She drew away from him. 'Who are you?' she asked.

'My name's Weldrake. I'm nobody in particular...only I had a son once.
He wasn't like me: he was a big, fine fellow. He--'

'And you look through windows?' she remarked with faint contempt.

'Yes,' he answered thoughtfully. 'I suppose it sounds very bad. It would
once, I know. But that's a long time ago. You see when you're living on
hope, as I have done, you must have an occasional--'

'What are you hoping for?' she interrupted.

'I promised my boy he'd be avenged. I promised I wouldn't stay at home
until he was, and it's a long time we've waited, now. And every year
adds to Louba's enemies. It can't be long, now. You mustn't worry. Delay
your marriage with him only a little while, and you'll be free of him.
Indeed, it may be that tomorrow morning...'

Though he looked mild enough, his smile frightened her with his
confidential manner; there seemed to her something uncanny about him.
And what did he know or suspect about Alan?

'I don't want to be free,' she said. 'I'm here now only because I'm
anxious about him.'

'Yes. You were engaged to that young man you drove home with last night,
and you're afraid he'll kill Louba.'

'No, I never thought of such a thing!' she cried. 'I don't know what you
mean...nor why you're waiting here. I think you'd better go away before
the police want to know why you're loitering about.'

For all she tried to make her voice brave, she was shaking as she walked
away.

She dared not return to the same place, and so she walked across the
road, gazing up at the chinks of light from Louba's windows with eyes
that longed to pierce the walls and see what was actually taking place
within them.

If she had been able to do so, she would have seen that which would have
made blindness appear preferable.

Emil Louba lay dead on his bed, the marks of a violent death upon him,
and beside the bed, gazing down at him, stood Alan Leamington.

He had sworn to kill Louba, rather than permit Beryl to marry him, but
now that the deed was done there was horror in his face as he looked
down on the hideous remains of the man he had hated.

He stepped backwards towards the window, almost as though he
contemplated flight, but restrained himself by an effort. The man had
deserved his death, anyway. Beryl was saved from him. He would complete
his business.

He passed into the next room, and listened intently. He put his ear
against the locked door, but there came no sound to alarm him.

He crossed back to the writing-table, and feverishly began to search the
drawers. He found no trace of the IOUs, and his ears straining for every
sound, he abandoned the search and went back to the bedroom. With
scarcely a glance at the stark figure on the bed, he hurried past it and
descended the fire escape, the bottom landing of which was now connected
with the ground by the ladder which he had noiselessly pulled down.

The fog was thicker than it had been when Beryl left her home, and
combined with the darkness to make it necessary to grope his way from
the foot of the ladder to the gate. It was his outstretched hand which
came in contact with another person, and as he recoiled Beryl stifled a
scream.

'Who is it!' he exclaimed.

'Alan!'

'You, Beryl? Come away quickly!' He seized her hand and hurried with her
to the street and away from the building. 'What are you doing here,
Beryl?' he asked.

'I was going to go in...to Louba...I couldn't bear it any longer.'

'You were going to Louba?'

'Yes. It seemed the only way. I've seen someone waiting about, and I was
going to tell him...a little man it was.'

'You were going to Louba at this time of night?'

'I didn't know whether you were there, or had been, or were coming...I
couldn't go home until I knew. So I made up my mind to go and see, and
if Louba was there, I could say I'd seen that man waiting outside, and
warn him. Is he there?--Louba? Is he in?'

'Yes...he's in.'

'And you've seen him? Alan, you've quarrelled with him?--you've...' She
dared not ask more plainly for the news she dreaded.

'You must go home, Beryl. And don't tell anyone you've been here. Did
anyone see you come out?'

'I don't know. I think not. But tell me what you've done, Alan.' There
was a sob of terror in her voice as she clung to his coat. 'Please tell
me. I must know, Alan!'

'I've done nothing. Now go home, Beryl. I want to think things out.'

'You say Louba's there. Something must have happened between you.'

'Beryl, I couldn't find any IOUs of yours. How much were they for? He
did hold them? You saw them yourself?'

'Yes. Fifty thousand pounds. He had them with him at Sir Harry
Marshley's last night.'

'And he didn't destroy them after you'd promised to marry him?'

'Not until we were married. He said he was going to give them to me
then. Oh, don't worry about them or me! It's you, Alan. Tell me what's
happened?'

'I don't suppose it matters if they're found, so far as you're
concerned. Nobody could accuse you...and he has no heirs that I know
of...' Yet he looked back at Braymore House as though contemplating
going back for another search.

'How could you look for the things if he was there?...Unless...' The
words froze on her lips. Her teeth were chattering.

'Go home, Beryl, go home!' he implored, urging her in the direction of
Edwards Square. 'And know nothing about to-night! You didn't come here,
you didn't see me...go home quickly, and forget you came out.'

'I can't, Alan, unless I know...'

'Beryl,' he said, bending his face to hers. 'I've seen Louba...but I
swear I've done him no harm. Don't ask me any questions. Just believe
that, and go home.'

She believed him thankfully, almost collapsing in the unutterable
relief. She did not want to ask any more questions about his visit to
Louba; she was more than content to clutch at his assurance and shun
anything which might shake it.

'Then won't you walk home with me?' she asked.

'No, Beryl. Please excuse me.'

'Why are you going to wait about here?'

'I'm not. I've a friend to meet, that's all.'

He almost ran away from her, disappearing so suddenly in the fog that
the agitation of his voice seemed still trembling on the air when the
sound of his footsteps had died away.

He forced himself to a walk, presently, and jumped round nervously as
light small feet sounded behind him. He drew back against the wall,
waiting for the steps to pass, instead they paused beside him.

'How is Louba?' came in an eager whisper.

'What the...what do you mean?' he growled, peering into the face before
him.

'I'm so interested in Louba,' murmured the gentle voice. 'I saw you go
in...and come out. I'm glad you've sent the young lady home. It wouldn't
do for her to be mixed up in it.'

'In what?' snapped Leamington.

'Why...did you say anything had happened to Louba?' he inquired.

'No, I didn't!'

'Of course, you're quite right to say nothing about it,' agreed the
little man amiably.

There was a tightness in Leamington's throat, but he forced himself to
fight. 'You're making some mistake,' he said. 'I don't know anyone of
the name you mentioned, and I've not been in anywhere.'

'No, of course not,' rejoined the other, in an agreement that, to Alan's
overwrought nerves, held more of menace than the most stinging
contradiction. 'But get away now. Don't stay round here. Get away as
quickly as you can.'

'Why should I get away? What are you talking about?' Alan's Voice rose
as his self-control fled.

'Hush! He murdered my boy, and I always knew he'd pay. I never lost
faith...no, not for a moment all these years. You can't commit murder
and go to your grave unpunished. Murder will not be washed out even in
this world. I've waited. I've followed him a long way, but--I think I
can go home at last!' he said, with a smile that, in its happiness, was
ghastly at that moment to Alan Leamington.

Panic took him. He wanted to get away from this little man,



14: THE BURNER OF LETTERS


In a few words Dr. Warden conveyed the gist of the message to the
waiting commissioner, and Hurley Brown went out into the night to find a
taxi.

In spite of the thickness of the fog, they reached Braymore House in
less than ten minutes and found two policemen in the hall, talking to
the hall porter and the pallid, shivering Miller.

'Thank heaven you've come. Doctor!' quavered the man. 'I tried to get
into Mr. Louba's room, but it was locked. I sent for these policemen.'

'You did right,' said Hurley Brown soothingly. 'One of you men had
better come up; the other remain below. I'm Assistant Commissioner
Hurley Brown of Scotland Yard.'

On the way up in the elevator they got some sort of a story from Miller.
He had been out with his fiancee and had returned at eleven o'clock. He
noticed nothing unusual except that his master's doors were still
closed, and he was on his way to the bedroom, when the hall porter had
arrived accompanied by the valet from the flat below. There and then he
had telephoned. He knew nothing more.

'What time did you return to the flat?' asked Hurley Brown.

'At half past ten, sir, exactly. The half-hour was chiming on the clock
as I came in the door.'

'At nine-fifty he was certainly alive. At ten-thirty you heard no sound.
A quarter of an hour later the tenants of the flat below see the crimson
stains on the ceiling. That would take at least ten minutes to soak
through,' said Brown, as they entered the hall.

'Perhaps it isn't blood after all. Perhaps he upset some red ink,'
suggested the doctor. 'Is there any ink in his bedroom?'

'Yes, sir. There's a bottle in the writing-table there.'

'Let's hope for the best,' said Brown.

They tried the double doors of the library without success.

'Get an axe,' ordered Brown, and in a few minutes a police-man had
returned with a large fire axe and was attacking the panels. At the
second blow the panel was smashed, and Hurley Brown put in his hand and
felt for the key.

'There's no key there,' he said. 'Smash the lock.'

A rain of blows by the stalwart policeman, and the door sagged inwards.
They looked into a large, luxuriously furnished room; deep settees stood
against two of the walls, and the floor was covered by a magnificent
Turkish carpet that must have cost a fortune. In the centre of the room
was an ormolu writing-table, on which stood a telephone. Near the
shallow bay windows, which were hidden by silken curtains, was a small
writing-bureau. They looked around, and there was no sign of Louba.

'What's that, sir?'

The policeman pointed. It was a silk dressing-gown flung over the back
of a chair. Brown took it up and immediately uttered an exclamation and
looked at his hands, for the front and sleeves were wet with crimson
stains.

'Don't touch that,' he said and laid it down again on the chair. 'And be
careful, Doctor--there's more crimson on the floor.'

In one wall was a large and beautifully designed fireplace. The grate
was empty, save for a scrap of black ashes. At the left of the fireplace
was a door which Miller pointed out with trembling fingers.

'There's the bedroom; there, sir,' he said fearfully.

Hurley Brown threw open the door and walked in. The lights were burning,
and on an ornate bed lay all that was mortal of Emil Louba. There was no
need for the doctor to look very closely. The man's head was terribly
battered.

'The window is open,' said Hurley Brown. 'Where does that lead to?' He
crossed the room and looked out. 'A fire escape here,' he said.
'Constable, go down to your friend in the hall and tell him to make a
careful search of the garden. This explains the absence of the key from
the door; the man who committed the murder escaped that way--with the
key in his pocket.'

He took up the receiver and called Scotland Yard.

When his conversation was finished, he returned to the bedroom.

'I've sent for one of our best men, Inspector Trainor. It's a case that
I've no wish to touch myself. I was prejudiced against Louba, and I want
somebody who'll put a little more heart into the search than I can. You
didn't see anybody when you came here the last time, did you, Doctor?'

Dr. Warden remembered the face in the fog, but shook his head. 'I saw
nobody except the hall porter,' he said.

'How long has he been dead?'

The doctor was standing beside the bed, looking thoughtfully down at the
wreck. 'He's been dead an hour--probably less than that,' he said. 'He
was struck by something very heavy.'

'I haven't attempted to make a search of the room, but I dare say we
shall find it,' said Brown.

They had not far to look. On the writing-table stood a big silver
candlestick, so placed that it seemed certain that there were originally
two. Its fellow was found in the dining-room and, from its battered and
stained condition, it was evidently the weapon which had been used.

Soon afterwards, Inspector Trainor arrived and immediately took charge
of affairs. He went from room to room, nosing like a well-trained dog,
inspected every article of furniture, drew back the silk curtains, and
went out of the window down the fire escape in the dark.

'Nothing there,' he reported, when he returned. He contemplated the
body, biting his lip. 'He wasn't killed on that bed,' he said. 'There's
a trail of crimson leading from the sitting-room. Somebody carried him
in there. That somebody must have been a fairly strong man. Another
curious fact--I don't know whether you've noticed it, sir--is that he's
not wearing his collar and tie; they're in the sitting-room in the
waste-basket.'

'I hadn't noticed that,' said Brown shortly.

The telephone is rather important, sir,' said Trainor. 'It should be
covered with finger-prints. Who was the last to handle it?'

'I'm afraid I was the culprit,' said Hurley Brown. 'Why?'

'Because, after he was murdered, the telephone must have been moved from
the table. The cord comes across the room and it would be in the way of
the man who was carrying the body. He was killed to the right of the
desk--that is, the right looking towards the door, and left looking
towards the window. The carpet is covered with crimson stains, and the
trail of crimson is between the desk and the window, but it doesn't
appear on the telephone line.'

'That seems sound reasoning,' said the doctor, nodding approvingly. 'But
why was the dressing-gown taken off?'

Trainor did not reply; he was gazing at a brass chest, its luxuriant
carving gleaming out of a recess. It was closed, but on the floor beside
it lay a piece of tapestry and an Oriental robs of lilac silk,
embroidered heavily in gold and purple.

'What are these?' he asked Miller. 'What are they doing on the floor? Do
you know?'

'No, sir,' replied Miller. 'The tapestry goes over the top of the chest,
and I think the robe used to be inside, but I don't know. It's a long
time since I've seen him wear it, or since I looked in the chest.'

'It's kept locked?' asked Trainor, trying in vain to lift the heavy lid.
'Where's the lock?'

'There isn't one. It opens with a spring. See.' He pressed his fingers
on the largest of a bunch of grapes projecting out of the carving at
each side, and raised the lid. Inside was a medley of curios mixed up
with a length of tapestry and a piece of rich embroidery. 'Those used to
be on the top!' exclaimed Miller. 'I've never noticed those other things
before. They must have been under the stuff.'

'And the robe? You're sure the robe used to be inside?'

Well, it has been. I haven't seen it lately. The tapestry I know was on
the outside. He sometimes put his coffee there, and it was to save
marking the brass. You see, it's plain and polished on the top and soon
scratches.'

'And you don't know positively what was in the chest?' asked Hurley
Brown.

'No, sir. I've seen some of these things before, but I couldn't tell if
anything was missing.'

'That's a pity,' murmured Trainor, as he turned the curios over. 'Some
of these appear to be fairly valuable. If it was a case of theft, and we
knew the missing articles...h'm.'

He prowled about the room.

'Had he taken his dressing-gown off in order to put on this robe?' asked
Dr. Warden.

'That's something to be considered when we try to reconstruct the
crime,' returned Trainor, and turned his attention to the little bureau
near the window.

'What do you make of this, sir?' he asked. 'Don't touch it,' he added
quickly. 'There may be some sort of fingerprint there.'

It was a sheet of Louba's embossed notepaper, and on it was written a
single letter--the letter P.

'Whoever wrote that was interrupted,' said Trainor. 'And look how shaky
it is.'

'What's your theory?' asked Brown.

But Trainor was not prepared to offer any theory.

'It might be that he had sat down to write some message after the man's
death, and lost his nerve. That it was written after is proved by the
agitation in that letter.'

'Could Louba have written it himself?'

It was Dr. Warden that answered. 'Absolutely impossible,' he said
emphatically. 'Death was very nearly instantaneous; it was humanly
impossible that he could have walked to the bureau.'

Trainor was searching the writing-table for the second time and pulled
up the writing-chair.

'He was sitting here, apparently wearing his dressing-gown, which is
quite plausible, for it's a chilly night and he had no fire.'

'Which reminds me that I saw something in the grate when I came in,'
said Brown, and Trainor went in search.

'It's almost intact,' he said exultantly. 'Where's the man? Can we take
these firebars out?'

For answer Miller lifted the silver grid of the grate, and then gingerly
and with the utmost caution the inspector inserted the thin edge of a
sheet of paper under the burnt ashes and carried them intact to the
table. Against the dull black of the burnt paper the lighter sheen of
the letters showed clearly.

'It can be read without photography,' said Trainor. 'But somebody has
torn off a corner, unless it's dropped off in the grate.'

He went back to make an inspection.

'No, it's all there. The corner has been torn off--probably the
address.'

'The address?' repeated Hurley Brown absently. 'You mean of the writer?'

'Yes, sir. Will you scribble it down, sir, as I read it?' asked Trainor,
bending over the carbonised sheet. 'There is no address and no prefix.'

'"Only you have power to save me. You know what my life is with--"
Somebody whose name I can't read. "And you know what you owe me. Emil,
you know--"

'The signature is...'--he screwed his head round to get a better
view--'it looks like a K, or it may be an R or a B. I'd give a lot of
money to have that address.'



15: THE WOMAN WITH THE GLOVES


Trainor had opened his lips to speak when--'Clang, clang.' Both men
looked up and the room reverberated with the deep-toned thud of a bell.

'What was that?' asked Hurley Brown quickly.

'The alarm, sir!' gasped Miller, pointing through the open door to the
bedroom window.

'Clan