Читать книгу The India-Rubber Men - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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LATE that night John Wade reported to his immediate chief.

"We found in his blouse about six ounces of platinum setting; I think, from their style, they are part of the effects of the jewel robbery," he said. "The curious thing about the man is that he was dumb. At least, the doctor says so. No identity marks that one can find. I've had his finger-prints taken, and I had a big man in the Chinese colony down to see him, but he hasn't been recognised."

It was past midnight when John Wade arrived at 'Mecca', and this time he did not come alone. Golly, in his shirt-sleeves, was sitting in the serving-room, smoking a short and foul clay pipe.

"Mum's in bed, I suppose?" Wade asked.

"She's been out to-night."

"I know very well she's been out," said Wade shortly. "That's what I want to see her about."

Golly got down from the table on which he had been sitting, shot a baleful glare at the two detectives in the background, and disappeared. When he returned it was to summon him to Mum's presence. She was in her sitting-room, a tight-lipped, resentful figure of a woman.

"What's the idea?" she asked sharply.

"For the moment," said John, "the idea is murder, and it's a pretty bad idea."

He saw her face fall.

"Murder?" she said incredulously.

"A Chinaman was murdered to-night by one of two men, who, previous to the murder, admitted themselves into a small house in Langras Road, where you had been earlier in the evening with Lila."

She was not acting—her surprise was genuine. But she was not so startled that she would betray herself. Almost instantly she came back with her excuse.

"That's right, I was in the house in Langras Road to-night. It belongs to my sister-in-law; we've been trying to let it for years."

"You took Lila there?" challenged John.

"Did I say I didn't?" she asked sourly. "I took her there to change her things. She was meeting "—there was a pause—"her father. Do you want to know who he is, Mr. Busy, because if you do, you're going to be disappointed."

John Wade's eyes narrowed. "Be very civil, Mrs. Oaks, and this will be a more or less pleasant visit. If you want to be associated with this murder you can get fresh with me. I'm not threatening you, I'm telling you the truth. If I can't get all the information I want here, I shall take you to the station. Is that clear?"

He saw fury in the woman's eyes, but her voice was meekness itself.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wade, but naturally I'm a little upset. Where was he killed—in the house?"

"Did you know Chinamen used that place?" asked John.

She shook her head emphatically. "I never knew anybody used it except me. I go there every few months to tidy it up—me and Lila go."

"Who is Lila's father?"

But here she was adamant. "I'm not going to create any scandal—you understand what I mean. The gentleman's got another family."

"Does Lila know that?"

Mrs. Oaks hesitated. "No, she doesn't. She thinks that he's a friend interested in her. He pays for Lila's keep, and when he's in England, he sends me the money to dress her up and take her out to dinner with him."

"Is he English?"

"American." The answer came a little too quickly. "He lives on Long Island or New York or somewhere. An American gentleman. I've never seen Chinamen in the house, Mr. Wade, I'll swear it. If there was any there to-night, I didn't know about them—Chinamen frighten me anyway. You're not going to upset the poor child by cross-examining her? She's only just gone to bed."

"How many sets of keys are there—I mean to the house in Langras Road?"

She considered. "I've only seen one set."

"Do you keep it all the time?" She nodded. "Do you know anybody who had another set?" She was equally emphatic on this point.

Wade was convinced that she spoke the truth. At any rate, she had made no attempt to conceal the happenings of the evening. It was unprofessional in him that he felt terribly sorry for Lila at that moment: this explanation of 'the experience' was so obviously plausible.

Nothing could be gained by speaking to the girl—Mum Oaks seemed only too anxious to supply him with information.

"Has 'Mr. Brown' got a key of the house?"

She was rather startled when he used the name by which the old man was known to her. "So far as I know he hasn't a key, and I don't see why he should have. I've never told him about the house in Langras Road."

John Wade thought a moment. "Give me those you have," he said.

She searched a bag that was on the table, producing a ring on which one key dangled. John Wade eyed her steadily. "And the key of the cupboard."

For a fraction of a second he saw alarm in her eyes. Cupboard? Which cupboard?"

"There's a cupboard in the bedroom where Lila changed."

She shook her head. "I don't know anything about that. That's the only key I have."

The detective smiled. "Then I'm afraid we shall have to break open that cupboard," he said pleasantly.

She had recovered herself immediately. "I'm afraid you will," she said coolly. And then, suddenly, she snapped: "What do you want?"

John turned his head. Lila was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a dingy old kimono; the elegance of her hair and the whiteness of the manicured hands that held the shabby gown in place seemed oddly incongruous. She looked in surprise from Mum to John Wade.

"I—I thought—you told me to come down for some milk—"

"You can go up again," said the woman harshly.

"Do you think she murdered the Chinaman?" asked Mum, heavily humorous. "She looks like a murderer, doesn't she?"

He ignored her sarcasm.

"I want the name and address of Lila's father—the man she dined with to-night."

"I can't give it to you," said the woman defiantly. "I don't know it, I tell you. You know as much as I do—he's a Mr. Brown. Where he lives I don't know. I usually get a telegram from him."

"And he doesn't know the house in Langras Road, you say?" said Wade quietly. "How does he pick her up?"

For a moment the woman was nonplussed. "A hired car comes for her, and I take her as far as St. Paul's Churchyard, if you want to know; then I get out and he gets in."

"Yet he brought the girl back to Langras Road," persisted Wade. "You're tying yourself in knots, Mrs. Oaks."

But she was dogged on one point: the mysterious Mr. Brown had never been inside the villa.

John Wade drove back to the house of mystery, admitted himself with the key, and, there being no further need for secrecy, he carried out a very complete search of the house.

He had one shock; he found the cupboard open and empty. Somebody had been there since he left. Lila's clothes had been thrown on to the floor, evidently to make space for the contents of the wardrobe.

The room in which the conference between the two Chinamen and the European had taken place yielded another curious clue. There was a certain dampness about this room; he found patches of wet on the floor, and one of the chairs was still moist. It had been raining steadily in the region of Wapping, and a heavy downpour came on immediately after the discovery of the murder, so that, when the dead man was taken away, his clothes were saturated. There was a reason why the European should be dry: he wore a long raincoat. But the second Chinaman...he wore only his blouse, yet he had not left any evidence of his presence.

How had they come to the house? Had they walked? Nobody had seen them, not even the taxi-driver he had left at the end of the street, and who was still waiting for him, as John Wade remembered, after the discovery of the murder, his taximeter ticking expensively.

In the man's blouse had been found a scrap of Chinese writing on a thin, narrow slip of paper. By the time Wade returned to the police station this had been interpreted. This might have been done earlier, but the paper was not found until the head of the Chinese colony had viewed the body and failed to identify it.

The sergeant at the desk handed the translation with a smile.

"No clue here, Mr. Wade. It's just directions for finding this police station."

John read and frowned. "He was coming here and they intercepted him. I wondered if that was the idea."

"Was he putting up a squeak?" asked the sergeant.

"It almost looks like it."

He went into his room. On his desk there had been laid out the twisted trinkets which had been taken from the Chinaman's blouse. Most of them were settings from which we stones had been wrenched, and, except for one article, they were of platinum. The exception was a man's gold signet ring, heavily worn. There was a half obliterated crest on the flat seal—a temple before which was a figure in classic robes. This was so faint that it was difficult to recover the outlines. On the inside, almost worn from visibility, were the words: "Lil to Larry."

The room which John Wade used as an office was a small apartment leading from the charge-room, and approached from behind the sergeant's desk. There was a window, heavily barred, and a second door leading to the courtyard. The desk was under the barred window, and the two men were leaning across this, turning over the settings, when John felt a cold draught playing about his legs. It was ordinarily a draughty room, but this discomfort was unusual, and he looked round idly to discover the cause. And then he saw something which made him turn with a jerk...

"Don't move, either of you!" said a muffled voice behind the rubber mask. "If you shout, you'll finish it in hell!"

Two men were in the room—one half in and half out of the doorway, the other between the door and the desk. They wore coarse black overalls; their faces were hidden behind light gas-masks, their hands were covered in tight red rubber gloves. Two heavy-calibred automatics covered the police officers.

"Step back to that wall," said the man in the doorway, coming farther into the room, and John Wade and the sergeant obeyed. "Keep up your hands, please. It will be easier to shoot and clear then, you know."

The man nearest the desk took two noiseless strides forward, peered down at the trinkets, selected something and backed towards the door.

John Wade was no fool. He was unarmed; the nearest pistol was in the drawer of the desk, and he had no doubt at all that, in sacrificing his own life, he would sign the death-warrant of the sergeant.

The two figures moved with uncanny quietness. John, glancing down, saw that their feet were covered with thick felt overshoes, attached to which, he guessed, were rubber soles.

They were out of the room, and the door slammed and locked, in three seconds. John made a dive for the table, pulled open the drawer, and, gun in hand, rushed into the charge-room, almost knocking down the policeman on duty at the door. He saw two figures flying along the street, but did not see the slowly moving car until he was within a dozen yards of it. The two men leaped aboard, the car accelerated noisily, and sped at a tremendous pace along the deserted thoroughfare. There was no chance of catching them. He flew back to the station, to find that the sergeant had already mustered every possible reserve.

"You'll not catch them. Phone all stations," said John shortly, and went back to the charge-room..

He saw at a glance what the intruders had taken—the gold signet ring had disappeared. He could now reconstruct the story of the murdered Chinaman. This man had come to betray his masters, and had brought this setting as evidence. He was dumb and unable to make himself understood, and had either brought the ring to prove the identity of some member of the gang, or had stolen it as an act of revenge. This latter seemed most likely. The India-Rubber Men would not have taken the risk to recover the ring if some especial importance was not attached to it. A sentimental one, perhaps.

The case was clearer now. It was a crime definitely nailed to this remarkable gang.

The next morning the police threw a wide net. Every Chinese suspect was pulled in for examination. Haunts that regarded themselves as sacrosanct, so long was it since they had been raided, were subjected to police visitation. The long riverside area, the Chinese lodging-houses, the queer little dens where Orientals congregate—they were all combed. It added to the difficulties that there were in the Pool of London at that period a dozen ships which contained a fair sprinkling of Chinese hands: they were employed as cooks and stewards, and in some cases as deck-hands; but no information of any value reached police headquarters from there.

Mum Oaks had paid two visits to Scotland Yard, and had been interrogated, but she could not lighten the mystery. It was unfortunate that this period followed a new order, issued by the Secretary of State, limiting the power of police interrogation; but Wade had an idea that even the terrors of the Spanish Inquisition would not have made Mum Oaks tell all she knew.

On her second and last visit he accompanied her down the stone stairs into New Scotland Yard.

"Angel," he said extravagantly, "you are doing a very silly thing. Why the dickens don't you tell pap all you know?"

She was in a white heat of fury. As the days had passed without the realisation of her fears, and as she had discovered the limitations of police action, her assurance and insolence had grown.

"Is that all you want of me?" she demanded.

Golly, who had been waiting for her outside, came timidly towards her, a pathetic figure.

"My poor, persecuted wife—" he began.

"You shut up!" she snapped. "Have you anything more to say to me?"

"Nothing, child," said Wade, unpleasantly, "except that when I do get the India-Rubber Men—"

"The India-Rubber Men!" she sneered. "A fat lot you'll do with the India-Rubber Men! Didn't they come into the police-station and pinch a ring—"

She had said too much. Her lips closed like a rat-trap; but it was too late.

"How did you know that, Mrs. Oak?" His voice was silky. "Now, who's been telling you all about that ring?" She did not answer. "Nobody knew but four people; I was one of them, Sergeant Crewe was one; the other two were the gentlemen who made the call." He waited.

"It's all over London," she said at last. "You don't suppose fellows would do a thing like that without telling the world, do you?"

She expected to be held for further cross-examination. To her surprise and relief, he waved his hand at the archway standing at the entrance of the Yard. "Pass along," he said good-humouredly. And then, as a parting shot: "Remember me to your boy friend in the wardrobe." When he winked at her, Mum Oaks could have killed him.

By a peculiar combination of circumstances Inspector Wade was within twenty-four hours of meeting the boy friend face to face.

What the police called the Haymarket incident occurred about ten o'clock that night. This is the hour when the West End is more or less of a wilderness. The theatres are full; the waiting cars stand in rows along dark back streets in their vicinity; and the traffic in Piccadilly Circus is so light that there is practically no need for control. Later, when the theatres empty, there will be chaos, but at ten o'clock the streets are a paradise for the timid motorist.

Two men walked down the Haymarket at a leisurely pace and turned towards St. James's Square. They were talking together as they sauntered, and apparently did not notice the woman who stood on the corner of the square. A policeman who was walking in the same direction, and following them, saw the woman suddenly dart forward to one of the men and grip him by the coat. The policeman saw the scuffle, heard the shrill, screaming voice of the man's assailant, and, running forward, pulled the woman away. "I know you!" she screamed.

By this time two other officers were running towards the four people, and one of those crowds which come from nowhere in London had gathered.

"No, I don't know the woman," said the taller man. "She just flew at me. Let her go—I think she's drunk."

"I'm sober—you know I'm sober, Starcy. That's your name—Starcy!"

She struggled violently in the grip of the two policemen.

"I'm afraid you'll have to charge her, sir," said the officer who had been first on the spot.

The man who had been assaulted would have made his escape, but now it was impossible.

"I shan't prosecute. Here's my card...no, my name is not Starcy. I've never seen the woman before."

He said something under his breath to the policeman, but the constable shook his head.

"Can't be done, sir," he said.

And then there appeared another in the queer little drama. A stout, red-faced man pushed his way through the crowd. He was slightly inebriated, and evidently the policeman knew him, for he touched his helmet.

"Good evening, m'lord."

"What's the trouble, eh? Bit of a scrap?"

"It's all right, Lord Siniford, there's just a little disturbance. I don't think I'd wait here if I were you."

The gaunt-faced woman, held by the two policemen, suddenly strained forward and peered at the lordly intruder.

"Tommy!" she breathed. "You remember Anna, Tommy?...I used to give you cakes, Tommy. You remember Anna?"

The newcomer gasped at her.

"Good God!" he croaked. "Why, Anna..."

And then, with a sudden jerk, she released herself from the policeman's grasp, and, gripping the man by the shoulder, began to speak in a rapid undertone.

"Eh? What's that?" Lord Siniford's voice was shrill. "What's that?"

The policeman pulled her back, and began to edge her through the crowd. Lord Siniford stood, staring after her, oblivious of the curious glances which were turned upon him. Then, with an oath, he followed the policemen and their prisoner. His face had lost some of its colour; he was breathing heavily, and was considerably more sober than he had been when he had intruded upon the scene.