The Law of the Four Just Men · The Man Who Was Plucked (1/3)

The Man Who Was Plucked

On Sunday night Martaus Club is always crowded with the smartest of the smart people who remain in Town over the weekend. Martaus Club is a place of shaded lights, of white napery, of glittering silver and glass, of exotic flowers, the tables set about the walls framing a parallelogram of shining floor.

Young men and women, and older folks too, can be very happy in Martaus Club⁠—at a price. It is not the size of the “note” which Louis, the head waiter, initials, nor the amazing cost of wine, nor the half-a-crown strawberries, that breaks a man.

John Eden could have footed the bill for all he ate or drank or smoked in Martaus, and in truth the club was as innocent as it was gay. A pack of cards had never been found within its portals. Louis knew every face and the history behind the face, and could have told within a few pounds just what was the bank balance of every habitué. He did not know John Eden, who was the newest of members, but he guessed shrewdly.

John Eden had danced with a strange girl, which was unusual at Martaus, for you bring your own dancing partner, and never under any circumstances solicit a dance with a stranger.

But Welby was there. Jack knew him slightly, though he had not seen him for years. Welby was the mirror of fashion and apparently a person of some importance. When he came across to him. Jack felt rather like a country cousin. He had been eight years in South Africa, and he felt rather out of it, but Welby was kindness itself, and then and there insisted upon introducing him to Maggie Vane. A beautiful girl, beautifully gowned, magnificently jewelled⁠—her pearl necklace cost £20,000⁠—she rather took poor Jack’s breath away, and when she suggested that they should go to Bingley’s, he would not have dreamt of refusing.

As he passed out through the lobby Louis, the head waiter, with an apology, brushed a little bit of fluff from his dress-coat, and said in a voice, inaudible, save to Jack:

“Don’t go to Bingley’s,” which was of course a preposterous piece of impertinence, and Jack glared at him.

He was at Bingley’s until six o’clock in the morning, and left behind him cheques which would absorb every penny he had brought back from Africa, and a little more. He had come home dreaming of a little estate with a little shooting and a little fishing, and the writing of that book of his on big-game hunting, and all his dreams went out when the croupier, with a smile on his bearded lips, turned a card with a mechanical:

“Le Rouge gagnant et couleur.”

He had never dreamt Bingley’s was a gambling-house, and it certainly had not that appearance when he went in. It was only when this divine girl introduced him to the inner room, where they played trente-et-quarante and he saw how high the stakes were running, that he began to feel nervous. He sat by her side at the table and staked modestly and won. And continued to win⁠—until he increased his stakes.

They were very obliging at Bingley’s. They accepted cheques, and, indeed, had cheque forms ready to be filled in.

Jack Eden came back to the flat he had taken in Jermyn Street, which was immediately above that occupied by Manfred and Leon Gonsalez, and wrote a letter to his brother in India⁠ ⁠…

Manfred heard the shot and woke up. He came out into the sitting-room in his pyjamas to find Leon already there, looking at the ceiling, the whitewash of which was discoloured by a tiny red patch which was growing larger.

Manfred went out on to the landing and found the proprietor of the flats in his shirt and trousers, for he had heard the shot from his basement apartment.

“I thought it was in your room, sir,” he said, “it must be in Mr. Eden’s apartment.”

Going up the stairs he explained that Mr. Eden was a new arrival in the country. The door of his flat was locked, but the proprietor produced a key which opened it. The lights were burning in the sitting-room, and one glance told Manfred the story. A huddled figure was lying across the table, from which the blood was dripping and forming a pool on the floor.

Gonsalez handled the man scientifically.

“He is not dead,” he said. “I doubt if the bullet has touched any vital organ.”

The man had shot himself in the breast; from the direction of the wound Gonsalez was fairly sure that the injuries were minor. He applied a first-aid dressing and together they lifted him on to a sofa. Then when the wound was dressed, Gonsalez looked round and saw the telltale letter.

“Pinner,” he said, holding the letter up, “I take it that you do not want to advertise the fact that somebody attempted to commit suicide in one of your flats?”

“That is the last thing in the world I want,” said the flat proprietor, fervently.

“Then I’m going to put this letter in my pocket. Will you telephone to the hospital and say there has been an accident. Don’t talk about suicide. The gentleman has recently come back from South Africa; he was packing his pistol, and it exploded.”

The man nodded and left the room hurriedly.

Gonsalez went to where Eden was lying and it was at that moment the young man’s eyes opened. He looked from Manfred to Gonsalez with a puzzled frown.

“My friend,” said Leon, in a gentle voice as he leant over the wounded man, “you have had an accident, you understand? You are not fatally injured; in fact, I think your injury is a very slight one. The ambulance will come for you and you will go to a hospital and I will visit you daily.”

“Who are you?” whispered the man.

“I am a neighbour of yours,” smiled Leon.

“The letter!” Eden gasped the words and Leon nodded.

“I have it in my pocket,” he said, “and I will restore it to you when you are recovered. You understand that you have had an accident?”

Eden nodded.

A quarter of an hour later the hospital ambulance rolled up to the door, and the would-be suicide was taken away.

“Now,” said Leon, when they were back in their own room, “we will discover what all this is about,” and very calmly he slit open the envelope and read.

“What is it?” asked Manfred.

“Our young friend came back from South Africa with £7,000, which he had accumulated in eight years of hard work. He lost it in less than eight hours at a gambling-house which he does not specify. He has not only lost all the money he has but more, and apparently has given cheques to meet his debts.”

Leon scratched his chin.

“That necessitates a further examination of his room. I wonder if the admirable Mr. Pinner will object?”

The admirable Mr. Pinner was quite willing that Leon should anticipate the inevitable visit of the police. The search was made, and Leon found a chequebook for which he had been looking, tucked away in the inside pocket of Jack Eden’s dress-suit, and brought it down to his room.

“No names,” he said disappointedly. “Just ‘cash’ on every counterfoil. All, I should imagine, to the same person. He banks with the Third National Bank of South Africa, which has an office in Throgmorton Street.”

He carefully copied the numbers of the cheques⁠—there were ten in all.

“First of all,” he said, “as soon as the post office is open we will send a telegram to the bank stopping the payment of these. Of course he can be sued, but a gambling debt is not recoverable at law, and before that happens we shall see many developments.”

The first development came the next afternoon. Leon had given instructions that anybody who called for Mr. Eden was to be shown up to him, and at three o’clock came a very smartly dressed young man who aspirated his h’s with suspicious emphasis. “Is this Mr. Eden’s flat?”

“Is this Mr. Eden’s flat?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Gonsalez. “It is the flat of myself and my friend who are acting for Mr. Eden.”

The visitor frowned suspiciously at Leon.

“Acting for him?” he said. “Well, you can perhaps give me a little information about some cheques that have been stopped. My governor went to get a special clearance this morning, and the bank refused payment. Does Mr. Eden know all about this?”

“Who is your governor?” asked Leon pleasantly.

“Mr. Mortimer Birn.”

“And his address?”

The young man gave it. Mr. Mortimer Birn was apparently a bill-discounter, and had cashed the cheques for a number of people who did not want to pass them through their banks. The young man was very emphatic as to the cheques being the property of a large number of people.

“And they all came to Mr. Birn. What a singular coincidence,” agreed Leon.

“I’d rather see Mr. Eden, if you don’t mind,” said the emissary of Mr. Mortimer Birn, and his tone was unpleasant.

“You cannot see him because he has met with an accident,” said Leon. “But I will see your Mr. Birn.”

He found Mr. Birn in a very tiny office in Glasshouse Street. The gentleman’s business was not specified either on the doorplate or on the painted window, but Leon smelt “moneylender” the moment he went into his office.

The outer office was unoccupied when he entered. It was a tiny dusty cupboard of a place with just room enough to put a diminutive table, and the space was further curtailed by a wooden partition, head high, which served to exclude the unfortunate person who occupied the room from draughts and immediate observation. A door marked private led to Mr. Birn’s holy of holies and from this room came the sound of loud voices.

Gonsalez listened.

“… come without telephoning, hey? She always comes in the morning, haven’t I told you a hundred times?” roared one voice.

“She doesn’t know me,” grumbled the other.

“She’s only got to see your hair⁠ ⁠…”

It was at that moment that the young man who called at Jermyn Street came out of the room. Gonsalez had a momentary glimpse of two men. One was short and stout, the other was tall, but it was his bright red hair that caught Leon’s eye. And then Mr. Birn’s clerk went back to the room and the voices ceased. When Gonsalez was ushered into the office, only the proprietor of the establishment was visible.

Birn was a stout bald man, immensely affable. He told Leon the same story as his clerk had told.

“Now, what is Eden going to do about these cheques?” asked Birn at last.

“I don’t think he’s going to meet them,” said Leon gently. “You see, they are gambling debts.”

“They are cheques,” interrupted Birn, “and a cheque is a cheque whether it’s for a gambling debt or a sack of potatoes.”

“Is that the law?” asked Leon, “and if it is, will you write me a letter to that effect, in which case you will be paid.”

“Certainly I will,” said Mr. Birn. “If that’s all you want, I’ll write it now.”

“Proceed,” said Leon, but Mr. Birn did not write the letter.

Instead he talked about his lawyers; grew virtuously indignant on the unsportsmanlike character of people who repudiated debts of honour (how he came to be satisfied that the cheques represented gambling losses, he did not explain) and ended the interview a little apoplectically. And all the time Leon was speculating upon the identity of the third man he had seen and who had evidently left the room through one of the three doors which opened from the office.

Leon went down the narrow stairs into the street, and as he stepped on to the pavement, a little car drove up and a girl descended. She did not look at him, but brushing past ran up the stairs. She was alone, and had driven her own luxurious coupe. Gonsalez, who was interested, waited till she came out, which was not for twenty minutes, and she was obviously distressed.

Leon was curious and interested. He went straight on to the hospital where they had taken Eden, and found the young man sufficiently recovered to be able to talk.

His first words betrayed his anxiety and his contrition.

“I say, what did you do with that letter? I was a fool to⁠—”

“Destroyed it,” said Leon, which was true. “Now, my young friend, you’ve got to tell me something. Where was the gambling-house to which you went?”

It took a long time to persuade Mr. John Eden that he was not betraying a confidence and then he told him the whole story from beginning to end.

“So it was a lady who took you there, eh?” said Leon thoughtfully.

“She wasn’t in it,” said John Eden quickly. “She was just a visitor like myself. She told me she had lost five hundred pounds.”

“Naturally, naturally,” said Leon. “Is she a fair lady with very blue eyes, and has she a little car of her own?”

The man looked surprised.

“Yes, she drove me in her car,” he said, “and she is certainly fair and has blue eyes. In fact, she’s one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. You needn’t worry about the lady, sir,” he said shaking his head. “Poor girl, she was victimised, if there was any victimisation.”

“196 Paul Street, Mayfair, I think you said.”

“I’m certain it was Paul Street, and almost as sure it was 196,” said Eden. “But I hope you’re not going to take any action against them, because it was my own fault. Aren’t you one of the two gentlemen who live in the flat under me?” he asked suddenly.

Leon nodded.

“I suppose the cheques have been presented and some of them have come back.”

“They have not been presented yet, or at any rate they have not been honoured,” said Leon. “And had you shot yourself, my young friend, they would not have been honoured at all, because your bank would have stopped payment automatically.”

Manfred dined alone that night. Leon had not returned, and there had been no news from him until eight o’clock, when there came a District Messenger with a note asking Manfred to give the bearer his dress clothes and one or two articles which he mentioned.

Manfred was too used to the ways of Leon Gonsalez to be greatly surprised. He packed a small suitcase, sent the messenger boy off with it and he himself spent the evening writing letters.

At half past two he heard a slight scuffle in the street outside, and Leon came in without haste, and in no wise perturbed, although he had just emerged from a rough-and-tumble encounter with a young man who had been watching the house all the evening for his return.

He was not in evening dress, Manfred noticed, but was wearing the clothes he had on when he went out in the morning.

“You got your suitcase all right?”

“Oh yes, quite,” replied Leon.

He took a short stick from his trousers pocket, a stick made of rhinoceros hide, and called in South Africa a “sjambok.” It was about a foot and a half in length, but it was a formidable weapon and was one of the articles which Leon had asked for. He examined it in the light.

“No, I didn’t cut his scalp,” he said. “I was afraid I had.”

“Who was this?”

Before he replied, Leon put out the light, pulled back the curtains from the open window and looked out. He came back, replaced the curtains, and put the light on again.

“He has gone away, but I do not think we have seen the last of that crowd,” he said.

He drank a glass of water, sat down by the table and laughed.

“Do you realise, my dear Manfred,” he said, “that we have a friend in Mr. Fare, the Police Commissioner, and that he occasionally visits us?”

“I realise that very well,” smiled Manfred. “Why, have you seen him?”

Leon shook his head.

“No, only other people have seen him and have associated me with the Metropolitan Constabulary. I had occasion to interview our friend Mr. Bingley, and he and those who are working with him are perfectly satisfied that I am what is known in London as a ‘split,’ in other words a detective, and it is generally believed that I am engaged in the business of suppressing gambling-houses. Hence the mild attention I have received and hence the fact, as I recognised when I was on my way back to Jermyn Street today⁠—luckily I had forgotten to tell the cabman where to stop and he passed the watchers before I could stop him⁠—that I am under observation.”

He described his visit to the hospital and his interview with Mr. Birn.