The Law of the Four Just Men · The Man Who Was Plucked (2/3)

“Birn, who of course is Bingley, is the proprietor of three, and probably more, big gambling-houses in London, at least he is the financial power behind them. I should not imagine that he himself frequents any of them. The house in Mayfair was, of course, shut up tonight and I did not attempt to locate it. They were afraid that our poor friend would inform the police. But oh, my dear Manfred, how can I describe to you the beauties of that lovely house in Bayswater Road, where all that is fashionable and wealthy in London gathers every night to try its luck at baccarat?”

“How did you get there?” asked Manfred.

“I was taken,” replied Gonsalez simply. “I went to dinner at Martaus Club. I recognised Mr. Welby and greeted him as an old friend. I think he really believed that he had met me before I went to the Argentine and made my pile, and of course, he sat down with me and we drank liqueurs, and he introduced me to a most beautiful girl, with a most perfectly upholstered little runabout.”

“You weren’t recognised?”

Leon shook his head.

“The moustache which I put on my face was indistinguishable from the real thing,” he said not without pride. “I put it on hair by hair, and it took me two hours to manufacture. When it was done you would not have recognised me. I danced with the beautiful Margaret and⁠—” He hesitated.

“You made love to her,” said Manfred admiringly.

Leon shrugged.

“My dear Manfred, it was necessary,” he said solemnly. “And was it not fortunate that I had in my pocket a diamond ring which I had brought back from South America⁠—it cost me 110 guineas in Regent Street this afternoon⁠—and how wonderful that it should fit her. She wasn’t feeling at her best, either, until that happened. That was the price of my admission to the Bayswater establishment. She drove me there in her car. It was a visit not without profit,” he said modestly. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a stiff bundle of notes.

Manfred was laughing softly.

Leon was the cleverest manipulator of cards in Europe. His long delicate fingers, the amazing rapidity with which he could move them, his natural gift for palming, would have made his fortune either as a conjurer or a cardsharper.

“The game was baccarat and the cards were dealt from a box by an intelligent croupier,” explained Leon. “Those which were used were thrown into a basin. Those in the stack were, of course, so carefully arranged that the croupier knew the sequence of them all. To secure a dozen cards from the basin was a fairly simple matter. To stroll from the room and rearrange them so that they were alternately against and for the bank, was not difficult, but to place them on the top of those he was dealing, my dear Manfred, I was an artist!”

Leon did not explain what form his artistry took, nor how he directed the attention of croupier and company away from the “deck” for that fraction of a second necessary⁠—the croupier seldom took his hands from the cards⁠—but the results of his enterprise were to be found in the thick stack of notes which lay on the table.

He took off his coat and put on his old velvet jacket, pacing the room with his hands in his pockets.

“Margaret Vane,” he said softly. “One of God’s most beautiful works, George, flawless, gifted, and yet if she is what she appears, something so absolutely loathsome that⁠ ⁠…”

He shook his head sadly.

“Does she play a big part, or is she just a dupe?” asked Manfred.

Leon did not answer at once.

“I’m rather puzzled,” he said slowly. He related his experience in Mr. Birn’s office, the glimpse of the red-haired man and Mr. Birn’s fury with him.

“I do not doubt that the ‘she’ to whom reference was made was Margaret Vane. But that alone would not have shaken my faith in her guilt. After I left the Bayswater house I decided that I would discover where she was living. She had so skilfully evaded any question on this matter which I had put to her that I grew suspicious. I hired a taxicab and waited, sitting inside. Presently her car came out and I followed her. Mr. Birn has a house in Fitzroy Square and it was to there she drove. A man was waiting outside to take her car, and she went straight into the house, letting herself in. It was at this point that I began to think that Birn and she were much better friends than I had thought.

“I decided to wait, and stopped the car on the other side of the Square. In about a quarter of an hour the girl came out, and to my surprise, she had changed her clothes. I dismissed the cab and followed on foot. She lives at 803 Gower Street.”

“That certainly is puzzling,” agreed Manfred. “The thing does not seem to dovetail, Leon.”

“That is what I think,” nodded Leon. “I am going to 803 Gower Street tomorrow morning.”

Gonsalez required very little sleep and at ten o’clock in the morning was afoot.

The report he brought back to Manfred was interesting.

“Her name is Elsie Chaucer, and she lives with her father, who is paralysed in both legs. They have a flat, one servant and a nurse, whose business it is to attend to the father. Nothing is known of them except that they have seen better times. The father spends the day with a pack of cards, working out a gambling system, and probably that explains their poverty. He is never seen by visitors, and the girl is supposed to be an actress⁠—that is, supposed by the landlady. It is rather queer,” said Gonsalez thoughtfully. “The solution is, of course, in Birn’s house and in Birn’s mind.”

“I think we will get at that, Leon.”

Leon nodded.

“So I thought,” said he. “Mr. Birn’s establishment does not present any insuperable difficulties.”

Mr. Birn was at home that night. He was at home most nights. Curled up in a deep armchair, he puffed at a long and expensive cigar, and read the London Gazette which was to him the most interesting piece of literature which the genius of Caxton had made possible.

At midnight his housekeeper came in. She was a middle-aged Frenchwoman and discreet.

“All right?” queried Mr. Birn lazily.

“No, monsieur, I desire that you should speak to Charles.”

Charles was Mr. Birn’s chauffeur, and between Charles and Madame was a continuous feud.

“What has Charles been doing?” asked Mr. Birn with a frown.

“He is admitted every evening to the kitchen for supper,” explained madame, “and it is an order that he should close the door after he goes out. But, m’sieur, when I went this evening at eleven o’clock to bolt the door, it was not closed. If I had not put on the lights and with my own eyes have seen it, the door would have been open, and we might have been murdered in our beds.”

“I’ll talk to him in the morning,” growled Mr. Birn. “You’ve left the door of mademoiselle’s room unfastened?”

“Yes, m’sieur, the key is in the lock.”

“Good night,” said Mr. Birn resuming his study. At half past two he heard the street door close gently and a light footstep passed through the hall. He looked up at the clock, threw away the end of his cigar and lit another before he rose and went heavily to a wall safe. This he unlocked and took out an empty steel box, which he opened and placed on the table. Then he resumed his chair.

Presently came a light tap at the door.

“Come in,” said Mr. Birn.

The girl who was variously called Vane and Chaucer came into the room. She was neatly but not richly dressed. In many ways the plainness of her street costume enhanced her singular beauty and Mr. Birn gazed approvingly upon her refreshing figure.

“Sit down, Miss Chaucer,” he said, putting out his hand for the little linen bag she carried.

He opened it and took out a rope of pearls and examined every gem separately.

“I haven’t stolen any,” she said contemptuously.

“Perhaps you haven’t,” said Mr. Birn, “but I’ve known some funny things to happen.”

He took the diamond pin, the rings, the two diamond and emerald bracelets, and each of these he scrutinised before he returned them to the bag and put the bag into the steel box.

He did not speak until he had placed them in the safe.

“Well, how are things going tonight?” he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I take no interest in gambling,” she said shortly and Mr. Birn chuckled.

“You’re a fool,” he said frankly.

“I wish I were no worse than that,” said Elsie Chaucer bitterly. “You don’t want me any more, Mr. Birn?”

“Sit down,” he ordered. “Who did you find tonight?”

For a moment she did not reply.

“The man whom Welby introduced last night,” she said.

“The South American?” Mr. Birn pulled a long face. “He wasn’t very profitable. I suppose you know that? We lost about four thousand pounds.”

“Less the ring,” said the girl.

“The ring he gave you? Well, that’s worth about a hundred, and I’ll be lucky to get sixty for it,” said Mr. Birn with a shrug. “You can keep that ring if you like.”

“No thank you, Mr. Birn,” said the girl quietly. “I don’t want those kinds of presents.”

“Come here,” said Birn suddenly, and reluctantly she came round the table and stood before him.

He rose and took her hand.

“Elsie,” he said, “I’ve got very fond of you and I’ve been a good friend of yours, you know. If it hadn’t been for me what would have happened to your father? He’d have been hung! That would have been nice for you, wouldn’t it?”

She did not reply but gently disengaged her hand.

“You needn’t put away those jewels and fine clothes every night, if you’re sensible,” he went on, “and⁠—”

“Happily I am sensible, if by sensible you mean sane,” said the girl, “and now I think I’ll go if you don’t mind, Mr. Birn. I’m rather tired.”

“Wait,” he said.

He walked to the safe, unlocked it again and took out an oblong parcel wrapped in brown paper, fastened with tapes and sealed.

“There’s a diamond necklace inside there,” he said. “It’s worth eight thousand pounds if it’s worth a penny. I’m going to put it in my strong box at the bank tomorrow, unless⁠—”

“Unless⁠—” repeated the girl steadily.

“Unless you want it,” said Mr. Birn. “I’m a fool with the ladies.”

She shook her head.

“Does it occur to you, Mr. Birn,” she said quietly, “that I could have had many necklaces if I wanted them? No, thank you. I am looking forward to the end of my servitude.”

“And suppose I don’t release you?” growled Mr. Birn as he put back the package in the safe and locked the door. “Suppose I want you for another three years? How about that? Your father’s still liable to arrest. No man can kill another, even if he’s only a croupier, without hanging for it.”

“I’ve paid for my father’s folly, over and over again,” said the girl in a low voice. “You don’t know how I hate this life, Mr. Birn. I feel worse than the worst woman in the world! I spend my life luring men to ruin⁠—I wish to God I had never made the bargain. Sometimes I think I will tell my father just what I am paying for his safety, and let him decide whether my sacrifice is worth it!”

A momentary look of alarm spread on the man’s face.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said sharply. “Just as you’ve got into our ways! I was only joking about asking you to stay on. Now, my dear,” he said with an air of banter, “you’d better go home and get your beauty sleep.”

He walked with her to the door, saw her down the steps and watched her disappear in the darkness of the street, then he came back to lock up for the night. He drank up the half glass of whisky he had left and made a wry face.

“That’s a queer taste,” he said, took two steps towards the passage and fell in a heap.

The man who had slipped into the room when he had escorted Elsie Chaucer to the door came from behind the curtain and stooping, loosened his collar. He stepped softly into the dimly lit passage and beckoned somebody, and Manfred came from the shadows, noiselessly, for he was wearing rubber over-boots.

Manfred glanced down at the unconscious man and then to the dregs in the whisky glass.

“Butyl chloride, I presume?”

“No more and no less,” said the practical Leon, “in fact the ‘knockout-drop’ which is so popular in criminal circles.”

He searched the man, took out his keys, opened the safe and removing the sealed packet, he carried it to the table. Then he looked thoughtfully at the prostrate man.

“He will only be completely under the ‘drop’ for five minutes, Manfred, but I think that will be enough.”

“Have you stopped to consider what will be the pathological results of twilight sleep on top of butyl?” asked Manfred. “I saw you blending the hyocine with the morphia before we left Jermyn Street and I suppose that is what you are using?”

“I did not look it up,” replied Gonsalez carelessly, “and if he dies, shall I weep? Give him another dose in half an hour, George. I will return by then.”

He took from his pocket a small black case, and opened it; the hypodermic syringe it contained was already charged, and rolling back the man’s sleeve, he inserted the needle and pressed home the piston.

Mr. Birn woke the next morning with a throbbing headache.

He had no recollection of how he had got to bed, yet evidently he had undressed himself, for he was clad in his violet pyjamas. He rang the bell and got on to the floor, and though the room spun round him, he was able to hold himself erect.

The bell brought his housekeeper.

“What happened to me last night?” he asked, and she looked astounded.

“Nothing, sir. I left you in the library.”

“It is that beastly whisky,” grumbled Mr. Birn.

A cold bath and a cup of tea helped to dissipate the headache, but he was still shaky when he went into the room in which he had been sitting the night before.

A thought had occurred to him. A terrifying thought. Suppose the whisky had been drugged (though what opportunity there had been for drugging his drink he could not imagine) and somebody had broken in⁠ ⁠… !

He opened the safe and breathed a sigh of relief. The package was still there. It must have been the whisky, he grumbled, and declining breakfast, he ordered his car and was driven straight to the bank.

When he reached his office, he found the hatchet-faced young man in a state of agitation.

“I think we must have had burglars here last night, Mr. Birn.”

“Burglars?” said Mr. Birn alarmed. And then with a laugh, “well, they wouldn’t get much here. But what makes you think they have been?”

“Somebody has been in the room, that I’ll swear,” said the young man. “The safe was open when I came and one of the books had been taken out and left on your table.”

A slow smile dawned on Mr. Birn’s face.

“I wish them luck,” he said.

Nevertheless he was perturbed, and made a careful search of all his papers to see if any important documents had been abstracted. His promissory notes were at the bank, in that same large box wherein was deposited the necklace which had come to him for the settlement of a debt.

Just before noon his clerk came in quickly.

“That fellow is here,” he whispered.

“Which fellow?” growled Mr. Birn.

“The man from Jermyn Street who stopped the payment of Eden’s cheques.”

“Ask him in,” said Mr. Birn. “Well, sir,” he said jovially, “have you thought better about settling those debts?”

“Better and better,” said Gonsalez. “I can speak to you alone, I suppose?”

Birn signalled his assistant to leave them.

“I’ve come to settle all sorts of debts. For example, I’ve come to settle the debt of a gentleman named Chaucer.”

The gambling-house keeper started.

“A very charming fellow, Chaucer. I’ve been interviewing him this morning. Some time ago he had a shock which brought on a stroke of paralysis. He’s not been able to leave his room in consequence for some time.”

“You’re telling me a lot I don’t want to hear about,” said Mr. Birn briskly.

“The poor fellow is under the impression that he killed a red-haired croupier of yours. Apparently he was gambling and lost his head, when he saw your croupier taking a bill.”

“My croupier,” said the other with virtuous indignation. “What do you mean? I don’t know what a croupier is.”