The Law of the Four Just Men · The Man Who Loved Music (1/2)

The Man Who Loved Music

The most striking characteristics of Mr. Homer Lynne were his deep and wide sympathies, and his love of Tschaikovsky’s 1812. He loved music generally, but his neighbours in Pennerthon Road, Hampstead, could testify with vehemence and asperity to his preference for that great battle piece. It had led from certain local unpleasantness to a police-court application, having as its object the suppression of Mr. Homer Lynne as a public nuisance, and finally to the exchange of lawyers’ letters and the threat of an action in the High Court.

That so sympathetic and kindly a gentleman should utterly disregard the feelings and desires of his neighbours, that he should have in his bedroom the largest gramophone that Hampstead had ever known, and a gramophone, moreover, fitted with an automatic arm, so that no sooner was the record finished than the needle was switched to the outer edge of the disc and began all over again, and that he should choose the midnight hour for his indulgence, were facts as strange as they were deplorable.

Mr. Lynne had urged at the police court that the only method he had discovered for so soothing his nerves that he could ensure himself a night’s sleep, was to hear that thunderous piece.

That Mr. Lynne was sympathetic at least three distressed parents could testify. He was a theatrical agent with large interests in South America; he specialised in the collection of “turns” for some twenty halls large and small, and the great artists who had travelled through the Argentine and Mexico, Chile and Brazil, had nothing but praise for the excellent treatment they had received at the hands of those Mr. Lynne represented. It was believed, and was in truth, a fact, that he was financially interested in quite a number of these places of amusement, which may have accounted for the courtesy and attention which the great performers received on their tour.

He also sent out a number of small artists⁠—microscopically small artists whose names had never figured on the play bills of Britain. They were chosen for their beauty, their sprightliness and their absence of ties.

“It’s a beautiful country,” Mr. Homer Lynne would say.

He was a grave, smooth man, clean-shaven, save for a sign of grey side-whiskers, and people who did not know him would imagine that he was a successful lawyer, with an ecclesiastical practice.

“It’s a beautiful country,” he would say, “but I don’t know whether I like sending a young girl out there. Of course, you’ll have a good salary, and live well⁠—have you any relations?”

If the girl produced a brother or a father, or even a mother, or an intimate maiden aunt, Mr. Lynne would nod and promise to write on the morrow, a promise which he fulfilled, regretting that he did not think the applicant would quite suit his purpose⁠—which was true. But if she were isolated from these connections, if there were no relations to whom she would write, or friends who were likely to pester him with enquiries, her first-class passage was forthcoming⁠—but not for the tour which the great artists followed, nor for the bigger halls where they would be likely to meet. They were destined for smaller halls, which were not so much theatre as cabaret.

Now and again, on three separate occasions to be exact, the applicant for an engagement would basely deceive him. She would say she had no relations, and lo! there would appear an inquisitive brother, or, as in the present case, a father.

On a bright morning in June, Mr. Lynne sat in his comfortable chair, his hands folded, regarding gravely a nervous little man who sat on the other side of the big mahogany desk balancing his bowler hat on his knees.

“Rosie Goldstein,” said Mr. Lynne thoughtfully, “I seem to remember the name.”

He rang a bell and a dark young man answered.

“Bring me my engagement book, Mr. Mandez,” said Mr. Lynne.

“You see how it is, Mr. Lynne,” said the caller anxiously⁠—he was unmistakably Hebraic and very nervous. “I hadn’t any idea that Rosie had gone abroad until a friend of hers told me that she had come here and got an engagement.”

“I see,” said Mr. Lynne. “She did not tell you she was going.”

“No, sir.”

The dark young man returned with the book and Mr. Lynne turned the pages leisurely, running his finger down a list of names.

“Here we are,” he said. “Rosie Goldstein. Yes, I remember the girl now, but she told me she was an orphan.”

Goldstein nodded.

“I suppose she thought I’d stop her,” he said with a sigh of relief. “But as long as I know where she is, I’m not so worried. Have you her present address?”

Lynne closed the book carefully and beamed at the visitor.

“I haven’t her present address,” he said cheerfully, “but if you will write her a letter and address it to me, I will see that it goes forward to our agents in Buenos Aires: they, of course, will be able to find her. You see, there are a large number of halls in connection with the circuit, and it is extremely likely that she may be performing upcountry. It is quite impossible to keep track of every artist.”

“I understand that, sir,” said the grateful little Jew.

“She ought to have told you,” said the sympathetic Lynne shaking his head.

He really meant that she ought to have told him.

“However, we’ll see what can be done.”

He offered his plump hand to the visitor, and the dark young man showed him to the door.

Three minutes later Mr. Lynne was interviewing a pretty girl who had the advantage of stage experience⁠—she had been a member of a beauty chorus in a travelling revue. And when the eager girl had answered questions relating to her stage experiences, which were few, Mr. Lynne came to the real crux of the interview.

“Now what do your father and mother say about this idea of your accepting this engagement to go abroad?” he asked with his most benevolent smile.

“I have no father or mother,” said the girl, and Mr. Lynne guessed from the momentary quiver of the lips that she had lost one of these recently.

“You have brothers, perhaps?”

“I have no brothers,” she answered, shaking her head. “I haven’t any relations in the world, Mr. Lynne. You will let me go, won’t you?” she pleaded.

Mr. Lynne would let her go. If the truth be told, the minor “artists” he sent to the South American continent were infinitely more profitable than the great performers whose names were household words in London.

“I will write you tomorrow,” he said conventionally.

“You will let me go?”

He smiled.

“You are certain to go, Miss Hacker. You need have no fear on the subject. I will send you on the contract⁠—no, you had better come here and sign it.”

The girl ran down the stairs into Leicester Square, her heart singing. An engagement at three times bigger than the biggest salary she had ever received! She wanted to tell everybody about it, though she did not dream that in a few seconds she would babble her happiness to a man who at that moment was a perfect stranger.

He was a foreign-looking gentleman, well dressed and good-looking. He had the kind of face that appeals to children⁠—an appeal that no psychologist has ever yet analysed.

She met him literally by accident. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she came down, and missing her footing she tell forward into his arms.

“I am ever so sorry,” she said with a smile.

“You don’t look very sorry,” smiled the man. “You look more like a person who had just got a very nice engagement to go abroad.”

She stared at him.

“However did you know that?”

“I know it because⁠—well, I know,” he laughed, and apparently abandoning his intention of going upstairs, he turned and walked with her into the street.

“Yes, I am,” she nodded. “I’ve had a wonderful opportunity. Are you in the profession?”

“No, I’m not in the profession,” said Leon Gonsalez, “if you mean the theatrical profession, but I know the countries you’re going to rather well. Would you like to hear something about the Argentine?”

She looked at him dubiously.

“I should very much,” she hesitated, “but I⁠—”

“I’m going to have a cup of tea, come along,” said Leon good-humouredly.

Though she had no desire either for tea or even for the interview (though she was dying to tell somebody) the magnetic personality of the man held her, and she fell in by his side. And at that very moment Mr. Lynne was saying to the dark-skinned man:

“Fonso! She’s a beaut!” and that staid man kissed the bunched tips of his fingers ecstatically.

This was the third time Leon Gonsalez had visited the elegant offices of Mr. Homer Lynne in Panton Street.

Once there was an organisation which was called the Four Just Men, and these had banded themselves together to execute justice upon those whom the law had missed, or passed by, and had earned for themselves a reputation which was worldwide. One had died, and of the three who were left, Poiccart (who had been called the brains of the four) was living quietly in Seville. To him had come a letter from a compatriot in Rio, a compatriot who did not identify him with the organisation of the Four Just Men, but had written vehemently of certain abominations. There had been an exchange of letters, and Poiccart had discovered that most of these fresh English girls who had appeared in the dance halls of obscure towns had been imported through the agency of the respectable Mr. Lynne, and Poiccart had written to his friends in London.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful country,” said Leon Gonsalez, stirring his tea thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re awfully pleased with yourself.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” said the girl. “Fancy, I’m going to receive £12 a week and my board and lodging. Why, I shall be able to save almost all of it.”

“Have you any idea where you will perform?”

The girl smiled.

“I don’t know the country,” she said, “and it’s dreadfully ignorant of me, but I don’t know one single town in the Argentine.”

“There aren’t many people who do,” smiled Leon, “but you’ve heard of Brazil, I suppose?”

“Yes, it’s a little country in South America,” she nodded, “I know that.”

“Where the nuts come from,” laughed Leon. “No, it’s not a little country in South America: it’s a country as wide as from here to the centre of Persia, and as long as from Brighton to the equator. Does that give you any idea?”

She stared at him.

And then he went on, but confined himself to the physical features of the subcontinent. Not once did he refer to her contract⁠—that was not his object. That object was disclosed, though not to her, when he said:

“I must send you a book. Miss Hacker: it will interest you if you are going to the Argentine. It is full of very accurate information.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said gratefully. “Shall I give you my address?”

That was exactly what Leon had been fishing for. He put the scrap of paper she had written on into his pocketbook, and left her.

George Manfred, who had acquired a two-seater car, picked him up outside the National Gallery, and drove him to Kensington Gardens, the refreshment buffet of which, at this hour of the day, was idle. At one of the deserted tables Leon disclosed the result of his visit.

“It was singularly fortunate that I should have met one of the lambs.”

“Did you see Lynne himself?”

Leon nodded.

“After I left the girl I went up and made a call. It was rather difficult to get past the Mexican gentleman⁠—Mandez I think his name is⁠—into the sanctum but eventually Lynne saw me.”

He chuckled softly:

“I do not play on the banjo; I declare this to you, my dear George, in all earnestness. The banjo to me is a terrible instrument⁠—”

“Which, means,” said Manfred with a smile, “that you described yourself as a banjo soloist who wanted a job in South America.”

“Exactly,” said Leon, “and I need hardly tell you that I was not engaged. The man is interesting, George.”

“All men are interesting to you, Leon,” laughed Manfred, putting aside the coffee he had ordered, and lighting a long, thin cigar.

“I should have loved to tell him that his true vocation was arson. He has the face of the true incendiary, and I tell you George, that Lombroso was never more accurate than when he described that type. A fair, dear, delicate skin, a plump, babylike face, hair extraordinarily fine: you can pick them out anywhere.”

He caressed his chin and frowned.

“Callous destruction of human happiness also for profit. I suppose the same type of mind would commit both crimes. It is an interesting parallel. I should like to consult our dear friend Poiccart on that subject.”

“Can he be touched by the law?” asked Manfred. “Is there no way of betraying him?”

“Absolutely none,” said Leon shortly. “The man is a genuine agent. He has the names of some of the best people on his books and they all speak loudly in his praise. The lie that is half a lie is easier to detect than the criminal who is half honest. If the chief cashier of the Bank of England turned forger, he would be the most successful forger in the world. This man has covered himself at every point. I had a talk with a Jewish gentleman⁠—a pathetic old soul named Goldstein, whose daughter went abroad some seven or eight months ago. He has not heard from her, and he told me that Lynne was very much surprised to discover that she had any relations at all. The unrelated girl is his best investment.”

“Did Lynne give the old man her address?”

Leon shrugged his shoulders.

“There are a million square miles in the Argentine⁠—where is she? Cordoba, Tucuman, Mendoza, San Louis, Santa Fe, Rio Cuario, those are a few towns. And there are hundreds of towns where this girl may be dancing, towns which have no British or American Consul. It’s rather horrible, George.”

Manfred looked thoughtfully across the green spaces in the park.

“If we could be sure,” said Gonsalez softly. “It will take exactly two months to satisfy us, and I think it would be worth the money. Our young friend will leave by the next South American packet, and you, some time ago, were thinking of returning to Spain. I think I will take the trip.”

George nodded.

“I thought you would,” he said. “I really can’t see how we can act unless you do.”

Miss Lilah Hacker was amazed when she boarded the Braganza at Boulogne to discover that she had as fellow passenger the polite stranger who had lectured so entertainingly on the geography of South America.

To the girl her prospect was rosy and bright. She was looking forward to a land of promise, her hopes for the future were at zenith, and if she was disappointed a little that the agreeable Gonsalez did not keep her company on the voyage, but seemed forever preoccupied, that was a very unimportant matter.

It was exactly a month from the day she put foot on the Braganza that her hope and not a little of her faith in humanity were blasted by a stout Irishman whose name was Rafferty, but who had been born in the Argentine. He was the proprietor of a dance hall called “La Plaza” in a cattle town in the interior. She had been sent there with two other girls wiser than she, to entertain the half-breed vaqueros who thronged the town at night, and for whom “La Plaza” was the principal attraction.

“You’ve got to get out of them ways of yours,” said Rafferty, twisting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “When Señor Santiago wanted you to sit on his knee last night, you made a fuss, I’m told.”

“Of course, I did,” said the girl indignantly. “Why, he’s coloured!”

“Now see here,” said Mr. Rafferty, “there ain’t no coloured people in this country. Do you get that? Mr. Santiago is a gentleman and he’s got stacks of money, and the next time he pays you a little attention, you’ve got to be pleasant, see?”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the girl, pale and shaking, “and I’m going straight back to Buenos Aires tonight.”

“Oh you are, are you?” Rafferty smiled broadly. “That’s an idea you can get out of your head, too.”

Suddenly he gripped her by the arm.