# The Ringer/Chapter 10

pp. 136–154.

### CHAPTER X

THERE were two things which Mr. Lewis Meister dreaded, and the first and greatest of these was physical discomfort. He had courage up to a point; could face without a flicker of eyelid the "client" whom he had defrauded. He could appear in court with every evidence of sincerity and defend the men who owed their arrest to the secret word which he had sent forth. But he dreaded violence of all kinds. The sight of a street fight made him physically ill.
Next in order, he dreaded that life with which his clients were so familiar: the life in the drab prison buildings, where men sit in their lonely cells for sixteen hours out of twenty-four, if they did not go mad. Two men had it in their power to send Lewis Meister before a judge. The first was the Ringer, and for the moment he did not count as an agent of justice; the second was John Lenley. It had required all his ingenuity to persuade Lenley to forsake the thorny path of virtue and become an active instrument of crime. Lewis Meister had been first attracted by the girl, whom he had met by chance in the street, so attracted that he had pursued inquiries which led to his acquaintance with her brother. He was in a fair way to seeing the patient work of years destroyed in a flash.
Ninety-nine out of every hundred men who break the law are victims of some stupid obsession, but there is a kink in the anti-social mind which seems to have been provided by nature for the undoing of its host. Meister's kink was his infatuation for a girl who was young enough to be his daughter, and too good a woman to be anything else.
Police circles were certain that he had "shopped" John Lenley, but police circles did not know the trouble he had had to induce a weak but honest man to take the first step, and in offering that inducement, Meister had betrayed himself hopelessly. Now fate had played into his hands once more. There was no loot behind any cistern on the roof of 57, Camden Gardens. The cistern was there: the man who had brought him the proceeds of the robbery before he had been packed off to Canada had described the place thoroughly. Mr. Meister had been on the roof in his rôle of lawyer for the prisoner. The idea that the jewellery was still there was an inspiration which came to existence in his need. Johnny was easy. Most crooks were easy—that had been Meister's experience. Johnny in prison, he could marry the girl at his leisure. He sat with his head in one hand, scribbling aimless arabesques on his blotting-pad, an unwholesome general developing a plan of operations.
All people are simple. Confidence men in London clean up the greater part of a hundred thousand pounds a year through the simplicity of unlawful men—there never was a victim of a confidence trickster who was not a thief at heart. People would believe anything if it was stated with sufficient authority and gravity. Even intelligent people like Mary Lenley.
He went over in his mind every possible story. Some were rejected as too crude, some were retained in spite of their palpable transparency. Rising from his desk, he went to the wall safe, twirled the combination and pulled open the door. The first thing he saw was the blue envelope which had come that morning from a former client. The letter was headed "Brixton Prison." He replaced it in its cover and put it back in the safe.
Now, if that letter had been—— he took it out again. Would she believe it? Would she fall for the old, old story which is the cliché of every raw melodrama that has been played in fifty years?
He rang the bell. Haggitt was a shrewd devil, by nature suspicious and untrusting. Haggitt came in with the stump of one of Meister's cigars in the corner of his face, and his employer overlooked both his ill manners and patent dishonesty.
"Haggitt, I want to tell you something," he said. "When I am out of the house, I'd like you to keep a very close eye upon this room, and especially upon the safe."
He read the distrust in the man's eyes and was secretly amused.
"What's the big idea?" asked Haggitt. "Are you going to try to kid me there's a million pounds in the safe—so that I'll smash it and give you a chance of shopping me?"
"You're a fool," said the other good-humouredly. "No, there's no money in the safe—if there was, I should certainly not tell you. But there is something else." He sorted his papers and did not meet the ex-convict's eye. "There are half a dozen dossiers there—by 'dossier' I mean envelopes containing particulars about some of our friends. There's sufficient evidence in that safe to hang two or three people."
Haggitt was impressed: he saw that out of the corner of his eye. The man scratched his chin, refixed his glasses, and:
"Why do you keep them here?" he asked.
"That's a fool question. In lawyers' offices you keep those kind of documents. You never know when they will be useful."
Mr. Haggitt suddenly felt a personal concern.
"Have you got anything about me?" he asked. "If you have, you can take it out and drop it in the fire!"
Meister could have laughed, so readily did the fish bite.
"You!" he said scornfully. "What dossiers does one have about burglars, except a record of their past offences?"
"That's so," nodded Haggitt, with some pride. "Up in Scotland Yard they've got a drawerful of me. Three folders full. The busy who pinched me last time told me that if I went on the way I was going, they'd have to build a new wing on to the Yard to hold my—what did you call it?—dosher?"
"Dossier," corrected Mr. Meister. "You'll remember, Haggitt? The liberty of some of your friends depends upon strangers being kept out of this room."
"I get you," said Haggitt, experiencing for the first time an identity of interest with his master.
Haggitt accepted the ancient fiction without hesitation. Would Mary? He was on the point of finding out when Haggitt came back with a letter.
"Boy messenger," he said. "I've given him sixpence for himself."
"It will be stopped out of your wages." Mr. Meister was genuinely annoyed at his servant's munificence, for the lawyer was as mean in little as he was in great matters.
At first he thought that the letter was from a client. The handwriting was big and more or less illiterate. But he had a shock when he tore open the envelope and read the first words:
    I want you to come to Graydon Hall Mansions, Battersea. Come as soon as you can. I've got something important to say to you. Maybe I'm being a life-saver. I'll expect you at one o'clock.
It was signed "Cora Milton."
Meister's hand went up to his mouth. A trap? It could hardly be that. He knew, from what Mary had told him, that the woman was as ignorant of the whereabouts of her husband as any London policeman. Meister had an instinct for the truth. Cora Milton, he was sure, had not lied.
"Is the boy waiting?" he asked huskily.
Haggitt nodded.
"He says there's an answer."
Meister sat down at his table, took a card from the stationery rack and wrote:
    "I will be with you at one o'clock."
He did not sign the note, but put it into an envelope and addressed it to the person who sent the message.
"Give this to the boy, and this." He put his hand in his pocket and took out a larger piece of silver than Mr. Haggitt had ever seen him donate. "Tell him to hurry back."
Haggitt took the letter down to the waiting messenger and pocketed the tip with a comfortable feeling that he had not so much stolen Mr. Meister's property as received four hundred per cent. interest on the tip already given.
Meister read the note again and again and looked at his watch. It would be dead easy for the Ringer to be waiting for him. Who knew that he had gone, or where? It was a great mistake not to take somebody into his confidence, and at the thought he pulled the telephone towards him and gave the station-house number. Wembury was on the premises and answered him after a little wait.
"I am going up to see Cora Milton," said Meister. "I have an appointment at one o'clock."
"Tell Atkins," warned Alan.
Mr. Meister had forgotten the watcher, and had a feeling of relief when his existence was recalled.
"Why does she want you?"
"I don't know."
"Read her note to me."
Meister hesitated, read through the note himself to make sure there was nothing that was in any way compromising to him, and then repeated the message over the telephone.
"That is fairly harmless. She wants to see you about her man, I suppose. Give Atkins instructions that if you're not out of the house within half an hour, he is to call for you."
Graydon Hall Mansions were not quite as magnificent as their title led one to expect. Two houses had been converted into flats, and on the top floor, in what was evidently a furnished apartment, he found Cora Milton. He had seen her once before; a century ago, it seemed; so long ago that he was amazed that she had not altered.
"Come right in and shut the door."
She got up from the divan on which she was lying, a cigarette between her lips, a picture-paper at her side (Cora never read anything that hadn't a picture attached) and then, without preliminary:
"Have you seen my Arthur?" and, without waiting for his answer: "I guess you haven't—you're alive! And he hasn't warned you? Arthur plays fair; he'll tip you off before he comes to get you. See here, Meister, I'm not crazy about you, and I'll tell you that I don't worry a bit whether you're alive or dead. But Arthur's my husband, and I'm not going to see him hanged if I can help it."
"Well?" he asked, when she paused.
"Well," she mimicked, "what are you going to do about it?"
"What can I do? He's altogether wrong in thinking that I've done him the slightest harm——"
She checked him.
"What's the use, Meister? You know you shopped him. I guess, if you got what was due to you, one life wouldn't be enough! No, I want to save you the only life you've got, and there's one way to do it. Get out of England."
Meister glared at her.
"I? Get out of England? What do you mean?"
"Go to America—go to Canada—go to any old place in the world. He'll get tired of looking for you, and maybe I can kid him along to drop these great ideas of his. Go to Australia——"
A slow smile dawned on Mr. Meister's face.
"So that's the idea, eh? You want me to go to Australia? The mountain must go to Mahomet—for a killing! I begin to see daylight now, Cora. Your man's in Australia, and all these stories and rumours that have been started are intended to make me jump for the only place where he can get me. I like your nerve!"
She was regarding him with a speculative interest.
"If I had a head like yours, I should change it for an ivory box," she said. And then, in a more serious tone: "Meister, there is danger—Arthur is here. Everybody knows that; the police know it, you know it. You've put a new set of bars on to your window, fixed new bolts on your doors."
"Who told you that?" asked Meister.
"My eyes," she answered curtly. "I've been past your place and seen the workmen going in and out. You've got a man to watch your house, too; he was on duty when the boy took the letter, and you called him in. Have you seen him?"
"Who—Arthur?" He shook his head. "No, of course I haven't. You don't suppose he'd be at liberty if I had?"
"I don't suppose you'd be alive if you had seen him either," she said, with such cold-blooded indifference that he shivered. "They tell me you're a rich man. There's a lot of fun in the world for a rich man, Lew Meister—fun you wouldn't get in Deptford. Try Spain or South America. I've known old birds like you who've had a good time in Shanghai—there are some cute little places just outside the concessions."
He got up, dusted his coat daintily with his gloved fingers.
"Cora, you're a clever woman, but you're not going to push me into the reach of the Ringer. Shanghai! I might as well be in Australia! No, my dear, you can write and tell your young man that I bear him no malice, that if I can help him with money, why, he's only to ask me. But this little country's good enough for me, and Deptford is my ideal home."
He was making for the door when with a quick movement she placed herself between him and the exit.
"You're not going yet. You can take your hand away from your hip, Meister, because there's no rough house coming. If there was, you're fat enough to deal with me with your hands. My boy's a killer, Lew, and he's after you, and will never be a happy man till he gets you. I've talked to him night after night on the 'phone, trying to persuade him to give up his crazy notion. He wouldn't do it for me, Meister, and he'd do a lot for me. He's somewhere round; I don't know where. I haven't seen him, but I've spoken with him. He was on the 'phone to me the other night."
The colour was fading from his face—he almost believed her.
"If I die, that's the truth."
"You're mistaken. Somebody was kidding you," he mumbled.
"Kid me!" Her laugh was shrill derision. "I know every trick of his voice, you poor boob! If he was talking right there on the street I should hear him above all the noise. He's here—he's in London. And he's seen you and passed you in the street maybe, so that he could have put out his hand and touched you."
Meister gripped the back of a chair and in his twitching face she read all that she wanted to know.
"That's all," she said, as she stood aside to open the door. "There's a whole lot of ships and cars and God-knows-what leaving this country every day. Take one, Meister. There's an expedition going up to the North Pole—join it! Or get yourself lost in one of those African forests—there are wilder beasts in Deptford than you'll find in the jungle."
"I don't believe he's here," he said in a low voice and repeated the words as he stumped heavily down the stairs.
Mary was out when he returned. He remembered that he had asked her to take a copy of an affidavit to a neighbouring solicitor. As he had turned into Flanders Lane from the High Street and had passed through the narrow thoroughfare, he was conscious that his appearance had created a mild stir. Ordinarily he could walk in and out of the Lane without exciting more than casual interest. But now, dirty curtains were pulled aside, drawn faces leered at him; there was a rapid opening of doors (where doors still remained in the black openings); grimy women stretched their scrawny necks to look after him. All Deptford knew. The Ringer was back. Did he himself believe it? He set his teeth and resolutely rejected the evidence of reason.
From the small window at the end of the room he could see Atkins standing on the sidewalk, reading a sporting edition of the evening newspaper, and the sight of this commonplace man brought comfort to him.
Yet Atkins was an advertisement of his fear, and blazoned forth to Flanders Lane and all the world, that terror dwelt behind the high walls and the green jalousies, but Mr. Meister was not particularly affected by the opinion of his fellow men.
To-night, unless the weakling wavered in his pursuit, Johnny Lenley would go back the way he had come. Still remained the problem of Mary. Eminently desirable, fresh, sweet, clean, like a rose plucked at dawn, the bloom and sparkle of her was refreshing to see even at the distance she maintained between them. She would give him some of her youth, some of her indomitable spirit—he breathed more quickly at the thought. She would not marry him. He had no doubts on that score. He was too old a man and she did not like him. Mr. Meister let his thoughts run wild. When the girl returned, he was primed with courage for his project.
"I had a long talk with Wembury this morning." It was a sure opening; her interest in Inspector Wembury was apparent.
"About my brother?"
He nodded.
"Yes. Wembury seems to think that Johnny is—well, just crook. He rather believes that there is something else."
She looked at him with a frown, and walked slowly towards him.
"I don't quite understand, Mr. Meister. What do you mean—'something else'!"
His reluctance to tell her was not wholly feigned. If his preposterous story failed, then he failed altogether, and he was loath to put it to the test. The more he thought of it, the more ridiculous it seemed to expect her to believe a story so well exposed. Before he had made up his mind, he found himself telling her.
"You see, my dear"—the paternal manner came easily to Mr. Meister, and was not inappropriate, since he was fathering the most stupid of inventions—"before Johnny got into trouble with the police, he had escaped other and worse trouble."
She was looking at him straightly.
"Johnny never told me," she said. "When he was arrested, and I saw him before—before he went away, he said that this was his second burglary. He didn't even conceal the first."
"He wouldn't tell you about the other," said Meister. "It is evidently not so much on his conscience as it is on mine. You see, I am an officer of the court; every lawyer in the country, every solicitor, is that. In other words, I am as much part of the machinery of justice as the judge himself. And it is forbidden to me that I should conceal the knowledge of any felony, any crime, of which I may have heard. Johnny's burglary," he proceeded slowly, "was child's play to his first and greatest offence."
For a second she swayed. Her face had grown suddenly marble white; her hands were clasping and unclasping nervously; but no muscle of her face moved.
"I don't believe that," she said steadily.
Mr. Meister shrugged his shoulders, and threw out his plump hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"I can't expect you to believe anything wrong of Johnny—that is natural," he said. "But I know, and Johnny knows, the full extent of his folly." He opened the safe and drew out the blue envelope and looked at it pensively. "There is a lifer for Johnny in this," he said impressively. In such moments he was a perfect actor. The very simplicity of the words, spoken without conscious effort, without change of tone, made the girl go cold.
"In that—envelope? I have never seen it before—I have often been to the safe."
She believed him. It was incredible. He stood wondering at his own success. The old "proof-in-the-envelope" trick that had served so many poverty-minded dramatists, and she a product of the twentieth century, a woman who had read and reasoned!
"What is it—forgery?"
He neither said yes nor no. He was putting the envelope back in the safe.
"Let me see it, please."
She hurried so quickly towards him that he had to hold her at bay with that fatherly hand of his.
"My dear, you ought not to see it. I'm almost sorry I told you. But it is on my mind—my conscience. Long before you came here, I had practically decided to pass on my information to the police, hoping that the fact that Johnny was serving a sentence would mitigate against his further punishment. But you changed me—your presence—the queer influence you exercised, Mary."
His voice was husky; he was not wholly acting.
"Whilst you're around, I feel I can take risks—you understand? But when you're away, cold reason gets to work, and I ask myself why I should jeopardize my—liberty by compounding this felony. That's why I don't want you to go away—into the country. Stupid idea, isn't it! You may think it's a subterfuge of mine, but there's a very real reason behind it."
"I am going to Chichester," she said with an effort. "Can't you be generous, Mr. Meister? Can't you burn these papers?"
He slammed the door, twisting the combination knob, and went slowly back to his desk.
"We'll talk about it, shall we? I can't open my heart to you, Mary, not in a place like this, and at a time like this, when people are coming and going all the while."
Her back was to him and she did not realize his nearness until his hands closed on her arms. He felt her shiver and found a curious satisfaction in the very loathing he aroused.
"Don't talk to Johnny about it, will you? If you do, there will be trouble—well I don't want to do anything that will hurt you, little girl. You know that."
He was rocking her gently to and fro, and she hated it. Suddenly she slipped from his grasp.
"When shall we talk about it?" she said, facing him.
"To-night. Come at about—" He was looking at her steadily—"about twelve."
She gasped.
"Twelve—here! Why, everybody will be in bed."
"We needn't disturb the old woman. Haggitt is going," said Meister. "Come round to the back of the house—you know the way—into Little Holland Street. I'll leave the door open for you, or better still, I'll give you the passkey. You know the garden door and the stairs up?"
He pointed to the mystery door and smiled.
"Many a charming lady has passed up those stairs before you and I were born, my dear—in the days of the frills and the furbelows and the prinking gallants, eh?"
She was slowly shaking her head.
"I can't come. I dare not come. Johnny will be at home. And why couldn't you tell me here, now?"
The flutter of her was very sweet to him.
"If you don't care to come, I'm afraid there'll be no other opportunity. If you would like to examine the proof—I hate using that word, because it sounds like a page torn from a melodrama—there is only one time—my time. Of what are you afraid—the Ringer?" he sneered, and marvelled that the presence of the girl had given him such courage that he could speak the dreadful name without a shudder. This was a happy augury for the future. She would give him just that poise that he could absorb from no other source. "I'll leave you to think it over, my dear." He patted her on the shoulders, his lips for a second brushed a stray strand of the golden-brown hair, and he went up to his room with that queer breathless exhilaration which such heart-thumpings produce in middle age.
Mary stood, numb, and gazed at the door. And then, suddenly, the room began to spin round and she put out her hand and clung to one of the stout doorposts to keep herself from falling.