Читать книгу Sergeant Sir Peter - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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LONG before Peter Dunn had succeeded to the baronetcy, when he was plain Detective Dunn, he met Henry Drewford Lesster, though he never retained a very vivid impression of that unfortunate young man. It was on a night when he met other graduates of the great university—to be exact on Boat Race night—and Mr. Lesster was one of half-a-dozen boisterous and hilarious young gentlemen whom he had been called upon to eject from a West End theatre.

Mr. Lesster had appeared before a police magistrate and had paid his fine. The only thing that Peter ever remembered about him was that he spelt his name with two S's. It was just this odd circumstance of memory, that he should retain as an identity amongst thousands of other arrests and detentions.

Two years later the accident occurred on the Worthing Road. A big touring car, driving towards London late one Sunday night in June, crashed into a small car, in which a London doctor was driving his wife and two friends back to town. One of the men passengers was badly injured. The big car had its radiator and bonnet smashed, the small machine was a wreck,

Fortunately there was near the spot a cyclist policeman who was practically an eye-witness of the accident, if such events can be witnessed in the dead of the night. He came up, rendered first aid and sent the injured man in a passing car to a hospital, before he carried out the routine of taking numbers, examining licences and jotting down particulars of the accident.

The big car was undoubtedly on the wrong side of the road. The driver, a dazed young man, smelt strongly of drink. His licence bore the name of Henry Drewford Lesster.

The constable was young and inexperienced, or he would have known that it was his duty to take the driver to the police station and to charge him with a very serious offence—that of being drunk whilst in charge of a motor car—or, at any rate, to submit him to the tests which a police surgeon would impose. Instead, he took particulars from the licence, warned the delinquent that he would be summoned and allowed him to proceed on his way.

There was no question—the man was drunk. The driver of the small car was emphatic on that point, and when in the night the injured man died, the unhappy constable was suspended by his inspector for his failure to make the arrest.

Scotland Yard was communicated with, and it fell to Peter Dunn to make inquiries about the motorist—one of those odd jobs that make up the life of a sergeant of the C.I.D.

The address was an expensive flat in Park Lane, but he found it in the possession of a wealthy stockbroker who had taken it for two years.

"Mr. Lesster has been ill for some time and he is living in the country with an aunt."

He had the address, which Peter copied into his book—Deeplands, Kensham, Berks.

Deeplands was an old Queen Anne house that lay in the middle of about six acres of unkept ground. There was a general air of neglect about the place. The windows, except two or three that lit the drawing-room, were shuttered and dirty. There was about it an atmosphere of mystery which appealed even to one who professed to despise mysteries as creations of imaginative writers.

He knocked and pulled the big-iron-handled bell. It was a long time before he heard the bars being removed and a key turn. A tall, broad-shouldered young man. with a red, unshaven face and hair that had not been brushed or combed. opened the door. Peter thought he was a caretaker until he heard him speak, and then he realised that it was the voice of an educated man.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked suspiciously. When Peter stated his business he shook his head, "He is not staying here; he is abroad. He went abroad six months ago."

"Is this his house?" asked Peter.

The man hesitated. and as he did so a voice spoke from the hall behind him. He opened the door a little wider, and a middle-aged woman came sweeping across the parquet floor. "Sweeping" literally—she wore a dress which had almost a train. Her hair was brassily golden. Her face, an old-looking face, was powdered and rouged. On one arm was a mass of diamond bracelets.

"You want to see my nephew?" she asked harshly. "He went to the Continent this morning. He came home last night with his car smashed up, and took his smaller car and left very early. He said he was going to Paris."

Peter was puzzled. He recognised a relationship between the sot who had opened the door and the grotesque woman, and learned soon after that they were mother and son.

"This gentleman told me he had been away for months—" he began.

"My son knows nothing about it," she said harshly. "He went to bed early last night, and be didn't know that Henry had returned. He only comes here occasionally. Would you like to see the car?"

How would she have known that he bad come to make inquiries about the accident? This woman was a shrewd guesser, he thought, and became suddenly interested in her. It was not an unusual type, the woman who refused to grow old and clung to the illusion that art could revive the past glories of youth.

Picking up the train of her dress, she led the way to a big garage, and he saw the damaged car and made one or two notes in his book.

"You are a police officer, aren't you? I expected somebody would call. Henry is very wild. He is consumptive, you know, and he started drinking about a year ago. He is a great worry to me."

"Where do you think I shall find him?"

She shook her head.

"I haven't the slightest idea. He disappears for months at a time and never takes me into his confidence."

"Who are his lawyers?" asked Peter.

Again she shook her bead.

"I don't think he has any. I hold his power of attorney, but I never had to use it."

The cabman who drove Peter back to the station gave him one or two interesting items of news about Deeplands.

"We have had some queer fish living there," he said. "One was a German who called himself Schmidt. I am the only man who knows what his real name was—Egolstein. Is there such a name?"

"Egolstein'?"

Peter was immediately interested. Was it a coincidence?

"He is the fellow that got twenty years for robbing a mail boat—I saw his picture in an old paper. That's how I knew it was he...."

Then it was Egolstein, the most dramatic and sensational bank smasher of his age.

Peter asked a question.

"Oh, no, he was no relation of Mrs. Lewing or Mr. Lesster—Mr. Lesster took the house after Egolstein went away. It belongs to a parson."

The driver had never seen young Mr. Lesster, though he knew he used to stay at Deeplands when he was ill.

"Funny thing, there has been another man after the house," said the loquacious driver (his conveyance was an open touring car, and Peter sat by his side). "There was a young gentleman down here only last week who tried to look over it, but Mrs. Lewing and young Mr. Lewing were out —"

"And the servants would not admit them?" said Peter.

"There are no servants. The old lady and her son do the work in the house. Rum lot, ain't they?"

Peter agreed that they were a rum lot; but then, the world was full of rum lots, and he took no further interest in Deeplands until Jo Loless called upon him.

Peter Dunn did not like old lags. He steadfastly refused to believe in their penitence, and when they told him that they were going straight and that all they needed was a couple of pounds to buy a new kit of tools so that they could start work next Monday morning, it was his practice to say things which would have sounded cruel and harsh to the sentimentalist who did not know the peculiar psychology of the professional wrongdoer.

There had been a time when he had taken the trouble to look up the records and to discover exactly the trade for which the mythical kit of tools was intended, but now he turned down the ill-written pleas automatically. Naturally, there was a certain variation in the begging letters which came to him. Sometimes it was requested that he should advance eighteen and two-pence for the purpose of taking the writer to his dying father, brother, aunt, sister or wife, who lived in a town just that distance from London. Occasionally the appeal was a pathetic request that he should make a small loan to get an overcoat out of pawn.

It may seem curious to all except those who understand the queerly intimate relationship between the police and the criminal, that such requests should be made at all; but those who are acquainted with the inner working of Scotland Yard know how frequently they come to every officer, and especially to an officer reputedly as rich as Sergeant Sir Peter Dunn.

The request of Jo Loless might have shared the fate of its fellows but for its unusual character. Jo wanted nothing less than a letter of recommendation, not to the landlord of a house which he was desirous of renting, but to its present tenant. It was apparently a fairly large house; he wrote of it vaguely as being "in the suburbs of London," and the rent was two hundred a year. which is an unusually high one for a house in such a situation, and amazingly expensive for a man in Jo's position.

Peter was on the point of throwing it into the waste-paper basket when something peculiar in the phraseology, caught his eye, and he read it again.

"During the time I was in Dartmoor, as you know, Sir Peter, I have been just released. I worked out a formula for making malleable glass. I put a little money by and have enough to furnish the place and pay the rent for two years besides keeping myself. The house I have decided upon is ideal for my purpose. I think the present tenants could be persuaded to let me have the house if they knew you were interested in me. Frankly, my outrageous request is that you should help me by giving me a letter to them telling them not that you are a friend of mine, but that you are interested in my acquiring the house."

Peter read the letter and frowned. It sounded like a lie, and yet Jo Loless would not lie. He was a shrewd confidence man, a glib teller of stories, who had gone down for five years for a brilliant job which had miscarried owing to the activities and intelligence of the man to whom he was writing.

Jo Loless had had a good education, was a clever business man. Peter read the letter for the third time and, taking a sheet of paper from his stationery rack, scribbled an invitation for Joe to call.

He liked this suave, rather good-looking rogue, who had graduated from one of the medical schools into a more or less strenuous method of gaining a livelihood, who never ceased to jest about his appropriate name and its psychological influence in the determination of his career, and never adopted any other. He was indeed one of the few crooks whose names appeared in the annals of Scotland Yard who had never adopted an alias.

Joe called after dinner the next night. a debonair figure in correct evening dress, and not even the most suspicious of mortals, seeing his fashionably cut clothes, would have imagined he had a few months before been working behind the walls of Dartmoor prison. His hands were perfectly, manicured, his hair glossy and well-brushed. He wore pearls in his white shirt front, and the thin cigarette case he took from his white waistcoat pocket bore a monogram in diamonds.

"Sit down. Joe. and help yourself to a drink," said Peter. "Had a bad time?"

Joe pulled up the knees of his trousers very carefully and exposed his silk-covered ankles, then sat down.

"I do not drink—you've forgotten my habits," he said. "No, it wasn't so bad as you could have wished."

"What's the idea of this house? What is it called, by the way?"

"Deeplands." said Joe, and Peter stared at him. "May I?"

Joe took out a cigarette and poised it inquiringly. Peter nodded and he lit it.

"I like the place; it's got about six acres. The house is in a shocking condition, and a couple of ghastly specimens are living there, but I will have the place put right. It is away from the beaten track. Incidentally. it is just outside the Metropolitan Police area."

"Malleable glass." Peter's eyebrows rose.

"Why not?" said the other coolly. "It is one of the dreams of scientists, more practicable than the philosopher's stone, but only just. There is, I believe, a big, old kitchen in the house that would make a marvellous laboratory—I was in the laboratory at Gresham, if you will examine my dossier, and I was rather keen on chemical research work. I have cached enough of my illicit gains to keep me comfortably for a year or two, and I might have a very amusing time, without troubling you fellows, with a possibility that in the end I can build up a big fortune."

Peter was watching him keenly.

"Do you think you will succeed?"

Jo pursed his lips.

"I don't know. The trouble with me, Dunn, is that I have principles. Before now I have sacrificed a considerable fortune rather than stray from what to me are the permissible paths of wrong-doing. Possibly I shall lose another."

"But why that house?" asked Peter. "And why should a letter from me influence the tenants you are trying to dispossess?"

Jo shrugged his shapeless shoulders.

"I don't know."

He looked at Peter for a long time.

"You have never done time in Dartmoor, of course—it's a pity; it is a humanising experience. There was a man there—a German—one of the biggest smashers of his time —Egolstein."

Peter nodded.

"You knew, of course. that he lived at Deeplands? I was in the village yesterday, and the gentleman who hires cars to the unsuspecting stranger informed me that he had told you. Egolstein and I worked in the same shop. He loved Deeplands; he wove about it a certain glamour which it probably does not deserve. To me it became synonymous with quiet and calm and restfulness. I admit I was shocked when I saw the place, but the illusion of its peacefulness appealed—"

"Marvellous." murmured Peter.

"You think that I am pulling one, but I am not." Jo was earnest. or appeared earnest.

"Poor old Egolstein, who died, as you know, in the prison hospital, gave me a dream to realise. It was terrible to find the house in the possession of a wicked old lady who drinks and her son who soaks. The first time I saw them she wanted to let the place; the second time she would not open the door to me, and the letter I sent her was answered with a rudeness which was unbecoming in one who has passed the meridian of life."

He stopped and looked at Peter.

"How can a letter from me help you?" Peter asked. "Is there any special potency in my name?"

Jo shrugged again.

"I have an idea there is." be said.

What was behind this?

Peter's mind was working quickly. He was receiving no very satisfactory reactions.

"Who is the landlord?"

Jo took a card from his pocket and laid it on the table. "That's the address—The Reverend William Walkier. He is a rural dean and rolling in money. It's a shame that such things should be, but there you are! We must take the world as we find it."

Peter took up the card, read it, and slipped it into his pocket.

"Give me twenty-four hours to think about it, and I will see what can be done."

Jo Loless rose and stood hesitant for a minute. and then: "Be kind to me?" he said, and left with that cryptic request.

Evidently the Reverend William Walkier was a gentleman of some substance. Not every rural dean can afford the luxury of a town house in Eton Place, even though that house is a flat. Peter discovered this from the directory of the south-west of London.

He was sufficiently interested to make a call. For his own satisfaction he badly wished to solve the mystery—possibly two. Mr. Lesster had disappeared. A warrant had been issued for his arrest for manslaughter, but the matter had been dealt with by the local police and had not again come within the purview of Scotland Yard.

He found the Rev. William Walkier a very charming, good-natured man, who confessed ruefully that he had more than his share of this world's goods, and admitted that he would be glad if Deeplands was off his hands.

"Yes, I have had an offer from Mr. Loless to rent the place with the idea of purchase, but I have been so bitten by one rascal who rented it that I am a little shy, and, moreover, my present tenant, Mrs. Lewing, shows no disposition to clear out. My would-be tenant, however, has told me that he would get a letter which would scare the lady out."

Peter smiled.

"Mine, I presume—or am I flattering myself?"

Mr. Walkier smiled.

"Anyway, he is not likely to have his wishes fulfilled. I have heard from Mrs. Lewing, taking up the option which she has for another five years lease. I have just written off to Mr. Loless telling him what has happened; so I am afraid your letter will be unnecessary."

"It would certainly be necessary, but it was never possible," said Peter,

Two months later there came through an urgent call to Scotland Yard, and because Peter Dunn had some remote association with Deeplands he was called in.

A mounted constable riding. on the edge of the Deeplands estate had seen a flash of light near the house. He was a local man and knew that both Mrs. Lewing and her son had left that morning for Brighton. He rode his horse through a gap in the hedge and galloped up to the mansion. As he did so, he saw the figure of a man slip into a plantation near the back of the house, and shouted to him. From the fact that the man broke into a run it was evident that he had no business there.

The policeman made no attempt to pursue this suspicious-looking intruder, but, continuing to the house. he dismounted and made a brief survey. By the light of his pocket lamp he discovered that a pane of glass had been broken, a window sash raised and the shutters forced. Thinking there might be a caretaker in the house. he rang the bell, hut, receiving no reply, had ridden back and telephoned his report to the nearest police station.

At this period there had been a number of country house robberies and Scotland Yard had been called in. Peter Dunn drove down to Deeplands, and, joining a local inspector, came to the house the same way as the robber.

There was a considerable amount of silver in the untidy dining-room, and this had not been disturbed. One of the back doors had been unlocked and opened, they discovered—it was near this that the light had been seen.

Their search of the house revealed nothing. except a number of rooms which were shut and locked, a considerable state of disorder and uncleanliness, an immense number of empty wine bottles. but nothing which gave the slightest clue to the intruder's identity, except that on one of the tables there was a small basket which contained the remains of a meal.

In such a big and rambling house the search could only be brief and unsatisfactory, Peter was inclined to accept the theory of the local inspector that the thief "had been disturbed".

Attempts to get into communication with Mrs. Lowing and her son failed—he learned this the next day by telephone.

There was another and more important work for Peter—a big fur robbery in the East End of London.

When he returned home that night, the butler, who admitted him, told him that there was a man waiting to see him.

"The gentleman who came a couple of months ago, sir —Mr. Loless."

Peter frowned.

"Loless? What does he want?"

He had almost forgotten the existence of the confidence man.

Jo was sitting in a deep armchair, thoroughly at home. He wore a lounge suit, and by the side of his chair was a small attache case. to which he waved his hand with a smile as Peter entered.

"Foresight!" he said.

"What do you want?" asked Peter.

Mr. Loless smiled again.

"I require an interpretation of the law," he said. "You will observe that I have come prepared for immediate arrest. Do you know the old Latin tag about a cobbler sticking to his last? I have departed from that excellent advice and have tried burglary."

Peter looked at him with astonishment.

"Are you surrendering?"

Jo nodded his head gracefully.

"In a sense," he said. "Of course, the story of the malleable glass was a lie. It deceived most people, but it did not deceive you. I certainly wanted to scare her ladyship from her domain, because I was pretty sure she had something to be scared about. She and her son were drunk for a week after you paid them a visit. Can I have a drink?" Peter rang the bell, and no word was spoken until the servant had left the visitor with a whisky and soda.

"I have been drinking steadily since yesterday morning," said Jo, sipping the amber liquor. "It is not as amusing as I thought it would be, but it does take away unpleasant memories,"

"Well?" Peter was curious.

"I was orderly in the hospital at Dartmoor," said Jo, "and attended Egolstein in his last moments. He told me that he had buried thirty thousand pounds' worth of currency in the cellar of his house, Deeplands. Very naturally I was anxious to secure that money, but in the meantime a new tenant had moved in and was difficult to shift. When they went off to Brighton—they are staying at 34 Lieland Crescent. by the way—I broke into the house."

"You were the burglar?"

Again Jo inclined his head.

"There is a cellar, and underneath that another cellar. You will find the door behind a large packing case, and beneath that cellar Egolstein had buried his money. I dug down to it. I hate manual labour: it makes one hot and blisters one's hands: but thirty thousand pounds! It didn't want a great deal of digging, because somebody had already loosened the earth. I noticed the bricks had been replaced. When I searched...."

The hand that lit his cigarette trembled a little.

"Odd that they should have chosen the same place, eh?.... That poor young devil must have died or been murdered a year ago, but they kept it quiet. You will he able to determine the exact cause of death. As an embryonic medico. I should say he had been shot. The old lady held his power of attorney and a lot of blank cheques. The son used his motor-car and his licence. He had lost his own, you will find, through drunkenness."

Jo sighed heavily as he threw his just lighted cigarette into the fireplace.

"If I had been a heartless brute. I could have gone on digging and got the money; but I have my principles, Dunn. It is a nice point of law: do I get five years for burglary, or a large reward for discovering a couple of cold-blooded murderers?"