“I could do a lot with fifteen thousand, Legge. I can go abroad and have a good time – maybe, take a house in the country.”
“What’s the matter with Dartmoor?” snarled Emanuel. “You’ll get no fifteen thousand from me – not fifteen thousand cents, not fifteen thousand grains of sand. Get out of my way!”
He lurched forward, and the man slipped aside. He had seen what was in the old man’s hand.
Legge turned as he passed, facing him and walking sideways, alert to meet any attempt which was launched.
“That’s a pretty gun of yours, Legge,” drawled the convict. “Maybe I shall meet you one of these days when you won’t be in a position to pull it.”
A thought struck Emanuel Legge, and he walked slowly back to the man, and his tone was mild, even conciliatory.
“What’s the good of making a fuss, Fenner? I didn’t give you away. Half a dozen people saw you cosh that screw.”
“But half a dozen didn’t come forward, did they?” asked Fenner wrathfully. “You were the only prisoner; there was not a screw in sight.”
“That’s a long time ago,” said Emanuel after a pause. “You’re not going to make any trouble now, are you? Fifteen thousand pounds is out of the question. It is ridiculous to ask me for that. But if a couple of hundred will do you any good, why, I’ll send it to you.”
“I’ll have it now,” said Fenner.
“You won’t have it now, because I haven’t got it,” replied Emanuel. “Tell me where you’re to be found, and I’ll send a boy along with it in the morning.”
Fenner hesitated. He was surprised even to touch for a couple of hundred.
“I’m staying at Rowton House, Wimborne Street, Pimlico.”
“In your own name?”
“In the name of Fenner,” the other evaded, “and that’s good enough for you.”
Emanuel memorised the address.
“It will be there at ten o’clock,” he said. “You’re a mug to quarrel with me. I could put you on to a job where you could have made not fifteen, but twenty thousand.”
All the anger had died out of the burglar’s tone when he asked:
“Where?”
“There’s a house in Berkeley Square,” said Emanuel quickly, and gave the number.
It was providential that he had remembered that white elephant of his. And he knew, too, that at that moment the house was empty but for a caretaker.
“Just wait here,” he said, and went back into the club and to his little office on the third floor.
Opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a small bunch of keys, the duplicates that had been made during the brief period that the original keys had been in his possession. He found Fenner waiting where he had left him.
“Here are the keys. The house is empty. One of our people borrowed the keys and got cold feet at the last minute. There’s about eight thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in a safe – you can’t miss it. It is in the principal drawingroom – in show cases – go and take a look at it. And there’s plate worth a fortune.”
The man jingled the keys in his hand.
“Why haven’t you gone after it, Emanuel?”
“Because it’s not my graft,” said Emanuel. “I’m running straight now. But I want my cut, Fenner. Don’t run away with any idea that you’re getting this for nothing. You’ve got a couple of nights to do the job; after that, you haven’t the ghost of a chance, because the family will be coming back.”
“But why do you give it to me?” asked Fenner, still suspicious.
“Because there’s nobody else,” was the almost convincing reply. “It may be that the jewellery is not there at all,” went on Emanuel frankly. “It may have been taken away. But there is plenty of plate. I wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d got the right man – I doubt whether I’m going to get my cut from you.”
“You’ll get your cut,” said the other roughly. “I’m a fool to go after this, knowing what a squeaker you are, but I’ll take the risk. If you put a point on me over this, Emanuel, I’ll kill you. And I mean it.”
“I’m sick of getting news about my murder,” said Emanuel calmly. “If you don’t want to do it, leave it. I’ll send you up a couple of hundred in the morning, and that’s all I’ll do for you. Give me back those keys.”
“I’ll think about it,” said the man, and tumed away without another word.
It was one o’clock, and Emanuel went back to the club, working the automatic lift himself to the second floor.
“Everybody gone, Stevens?” he asked.
The porter stifled a yawn and shook his head.
“There’s a lady and a gentleman” – he emphasised the word – “in No. 8. They’ve been quarrelling since nine o’clock. They ought to be finished by now.”
“Put my office through to the exchange,” said Emanuel. Behind the porter’s desk was a small switchboard, and he thrust in the two plugs. Presently the disc showed him that Emanuel was through.
Mr. Legge had many friends amongst the minor members of the Criminal Investigation Department. They were not inexpensive acquaintances, but they could on occasion be extremely useful. That night, in some respects, Emanuel’s luck was in, when he found Sergeant Shilto in his office. There had been a jewel theft at one of the theatres, which had kept the sergeant busy.
“Is that you, Shilto?” asked Legge in a low voice. “It’s Manileg.” He gave his telegraphic address, which also served as a nom de plume when such delicate negotiations as these were going through.
“Yes, Mr. Manileg?” said the officer, alert, for Emanuel did not call up police headquarters unless there was something unusual afoot.
“Do you want a cop – a real one?” asked Legge in a voice little above a whisper. “There’s a man named Fenner—”
“The old lag?” asked Shilto. “Yes, I saw him to-day. What’s he doing?”
“He’s knocking off a little silver, from 973, Berkeley Square. Be at the front door: you’ll probably see him go in. You want to be careful, because he’s got a gun. If you hurry, you’ll get there in front of him. Goodnight.”
He hung up the receiver and smiled. The simplicity of the average criminal always amused Emanuel Legge.
Chapter XXIV
Peter wrote to tell of the invitation which Legge had extended to him. Johnny Gray had the letter by the first post. He sat in his big armchair, his silk dressing-gown wrapped around him, his chin on his fists; and seeing him thus, the discreet Parker did not intrude upon his thoughts until Johnny, reading the letter again, tore it in pieces and threw it into the wastepaper-basket.
He had a whimsical practice of submitting most of his problems, either in parable form or more directly, to his imperturbable manservant.
“Parker, if you were asked to take dinner in a lion’s den, what dress would you wear?”
Parker looked down at him thoughtfully, biting his lip.
“It