“If I am being watched, as is very likely,” he said, “you don’t suppose for one moment that they would fail to keep an eye on the post office? No, the only thing to do with those wretched pearls is to plant them somewhere for a day or two.”
Johnny was biting his nails, a worried look on his face.
“I’ll take them back to the flat,” he said suddenly. “There are a dozen places I could hide them.”
If he had been looking at Maurice he would have seen a satisfied gleam in his eyes.
“That is not a bad idea,” said the lawyer slowly. “Wembury would never dream of searching your flat — he likes Mary too much.”
He did not wait for his companion to make up his mind, but, unlocking the safe, took out a box and handed it to the other. The young man looked at the package dubiously and then slipped it into his inside pocket.
“I’ll put it into the box under my bed,” he said, “and let you have it back at the end of the week.”
He did not stop to speak to Mary as he made his way quickly through the outer room. There was a sense of satisfaction in the very proximity of those pearls, for which he had risked so much, that gave him a sense of possession, removed some of the irritable suspicion which had grown up in his mind since Meister had the handling of them.
As he passed through crowded Flanders Lane a man turned out of a narrow alley and followed him. As Johnny Lenley walked up Tanners Hill, the man was strolling behind him, and the policeman on point duty hardly noticed him as he passed, never dreaming that within reach of his gloved hand was the man for whom the police of three continents were searching — Henry Arthur Milton, otherwise known as The Ringer.
Chapter 11
Long after Lenley had taken his departure Maurice Meister strode up and down his tiny sanctum, his hands clasped behind him.
A thought was taking shape in his mind — two thoughts indeed, which converged, intermingled, separated and came together again — Johnny Lenley and his sister.
There had been no mistaking the manner in Lenley’s voice. Meister had been threatened before and now, so far from moving him from his half-formed purpose, it needed only the youthful and unbalanced violence of Johnny Lenley to stimulate him in the other direction. He had seen too much of Johnny lately. Once there was a time when the young man was amusing — then he had been useful. Now he was becoming not only a bore but a meddlesome bore. He opened the door gently and peeped through the crack. Mary was sitting at her typewriter intent upon her work.
The morning sun flooded the little room, and made a nimbus about her hair. Once she turned her face in his direction without realising that she was being watched. It was difficult to find a fault in the perfect contour of her face and the transparent loveliness of her skin. Maurice fondled his chin thoughtfully. A new interest had come into his life, a new chase had begun. And then his mind came uneasily back to Johnny.
There was a safe and effective way of getting rid of Johnny, with his pomposity, his threats and his stupid confidence.
That last quality was the gravest danger to Maurice. And when Johnny was out of the way many difficulties would be smoothed over. Mary could not be any more adamantine than Gwenda had been in the earliest stages of their friendship.
Inspector Wembury!
Maurice frowned at the thought. Here was a troublemaker on a different plane from Lenley. A man of the world, shrewd, knowledgeable, not lightly to be antagonised. Maurice shrugged his shoulders. It was absurd to consider the policeman, he thought. After all, Mary was not so much his friend as his patroness. She was wholly absorbed in her work when he crossed the room and went softly up the stairs to the little suite above.
As he opened the door he shivered. The memory of Gwenda Milton and that foggy coroner’s court was an ugly one. A little decoration was needed to make this room again as beautiful as it had been. The place must be cleaned out, decorated and made not only habitable but attractive. Would it attract Mary — supposing Johnny were out of the way? That was to be discovered. His first task was to settle with John Lenley and send him to a place where his power for mischief was curtailed. Maurice was a wise man. He did not approach or speak to the girl after the interview with her brother, but allowed some time to elapse before he came to where she was working.
The little lunch which had been served to her was uneaten.
She stood by the window, staring down into Flanders Lane, and at the sound of his voice she started.
“What is the matter, my dear?” Maurice could be very fatherly and tender. It was his favourite approach.
She shook her head wearily. “I don’t know, Maurice. I’m worried — about Johnny and the pearls.”
“The pearls?” he repeated, in affected surprise. “Do you mean Lady Darnleigh’s pearls?”
She nodded. “Why did Johnny lie?” she asked. “It was the first thing he told me when he came home, that there had been a robbery in Park Lane and that Lady Darnleigh had lost her jewels.”
“Johnny was not quite normal,” he said soothingly. “I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he said. His memory seems to have gone to pieces lately.”
“It isn’t that.” She was not convinced. “He knew that he had told me, Maurice: there was no question of his having forgotten.” She looked up anxiously into his face. “You don’t think—” She did not complete the sentence.
“That Johnny knew anything about the robbery? Rubbish, my dear! The boy is a little worried — and naturally! It isn’t a pleasant sensation to find yourself thrown on to the world penniless as Johnny has. He has neither your character nor your courage, my dear.”
She sighed heavily and went back to her desk, where there was a neat little pile of correspondence which she had put aside. She turned the pages listlessly and suddenly withdrew a sheet.
“Maurice, who is The Ringer?” she asked.
He glared back at the word.
“The Ringer?”
“It’s a cablegram. You hadn’t opened it. I found it amongst a lot of your old correspondence.”
He snatched the paper from her. The message was dated three months before, and was from Sydney. By the signature he saw it was from a lawyer who acted as his agent in Australia, and the message was brief: “Man taken from Sydney Harbour identified, not Ringer, who is believed to have left Australia.”
Mary was staring at the lawyer. His face had gone suddenly haggard and drawn; what vestige of colour there had been in his cheeks had disappeared.
“The Ringer!” he muttered…”Alive!”
The hand that held the paper was shaking, and, as though he realised that some reason for his agitation must be found, he went on with a laugh: “An old client of mine, a fellow I was rather keen on — but a scoundrel, and more than a scoundrel.”
As he spoke he tore the form into little pieces and dropped the litter into the wastepaper basket. Then unexpectedly he put his arm about her shoulder.
“Mary, I would not worry too much about Johnny if I were you. He is at a difficult age and in a difficult mood. I am not pleased with him just now.”
She stared at him wonderingly.
“Not pleased with him, Maurice? Why not?”
Maurice shrugged his shoulders.
“He has got himself mixed up with a lot of unpleasant people — men I would not have in this office, and certainly would not allow