# The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 14

Willie Jakobs Tells
Left alone, the man whom they had called Farmer waited a few minutes. Then he took down his coat, which hung behind the door, put on his hat and gloves deliberately and thoughtfully, and left the house. He walked in the direction which Black and Sir Isaac had taken, but their taxi-cab was flying northward long before he reached the spot where it had waited.
He pursued his way into the Camberwell Road and boarded a tram-car. The street lamps and the lights in the shop windows revealed him to be a good- looking man, a little above the average height, with a pale refined face. He was dressed quietly, but well.
He alighted near the Elephant and Castle and strode rapidly along the New Kent Road, turning into one of the poorer streets which lead to a labyrinth of smaller and more poverty-stricken thoroughfares in that district which is bounded on the west by East Street and on the east by the New Kent Road. A little way along, some of the old houses had been pulled down and new buildings in yellow brick had been erected. A big red lamp outside a broad entrance notified the neighbourhood that this was the free dispensary, though none who lived within a radius of five miles needed any information as to the existence of this institution.
In the hall-way was a board containing the names of three doctors, and against them a little sliding panel, which enabled them to inform their visitors whether they were in or out. He paused before the board.
The little indicator against the first name said “Out.”
Farmer put up his hand and slid the panel along to show the word “In.” Then he passed through the door, through the large waiting-room into a small room, which bore the name “Dr. Wilson Graille.”
He closed the door behind him and slipped a catch. He took off his hat and coat and hung them up. Then he touched a bell, and a servant appeared.
“Is Dr. O’Hara in?” he asked.
“Yes, doctor,” replied the man.
“Ask him to come along to me, will you, please?”
In a few minutes a man of middle height, but powerfully built, came in and closed the door behind him.
“Well, how did you get on,” he inquired, and, uninvited, drew up a chair to the table.
“They jumped at the bait,” said Gonsalez with a little laugh. “I think they have got something on. They were most anxious to know whether we were moving at all. You had better notify Manfred. We’ll have a meeting to-night. What about Despard? Do you think he would object to having his name used?”
His voice lacked the mock culture which had so deceived Black.
“Not a bit. I chose him purposely because I knew he was going abroad to-night.”
“And the others?”
“With the exception of the art man, they are non-existent.”
“Suppose he investigates?”
“Not he. He will be satisfied to take the most prominent of the four—Despard, and the other chap whose name I have forgotten. Despard leaves to-night, and the other on Wednesday for America. You see, that fits in with what I told Black.”
He took from his pocket the two ten-pound notes and laid them on the table. “Twenty pounds,” he said, and handed them to the other man. “You ought to be able to do something with that.”
The other stuffed them into his waistcoat pocket.
“I shall send those two Brady children to the seaside,” he said. “It probably won’t save their lives, but it will give the little devils some conception of what joy life holds—for a month or so.” The same thought seemed to occur to both, and they laughed.
“Black would not like to know to what base use his good money is being put,” said Graille, or Farmer, or Gonsalez—call him what you will—with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Were they anxious to know who was the fourth man?” asked Poiccart.
“Most keen on it,” he said. “But I wondered if they would have believed me if I had confessed myself to be one of the four, and had I at the same time confessed that I was as much in the dark as to the identity of the fourth as they themselves.”
Poiccart rose and stood irresolutely, with his hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, looking into the fire.
“I often wonder,” he said, “who it is. Don’t you?”
“I’ve got over those sensations of curiosity,” said Gonsalez. “Whoever he is, I am of course satisfied that he is a large-hearted man, working with a singleness of purpose.”
The other nodded in agreement.
“I am sure,” said Graille enthusiastically, “that he has done great work, justifiable work, and honourable work.”
Poiccart nodded gravely.
“By the way,” said the other, “I went to old Lord Verlond—you remember, No. 4 suggested our trying him. He’s a pretty bitter sort of person with a sharp tongue.”
Poiccart smiled. “What did he do? Tell you to go to the devil?”
“Something of the sort,” said Dr. Gonsalez. “I only got a grudging half-guinea from him, and he regaled me all the time with more than half a guinea’s worth of amusement.”
“But it wasn’t for this work,” said the other.
Gonsalez shook his head. “No, for another department,” he said with a smile.
They had little more time for conversation. Patients began to come in, and within a quarter of an hour the two men were as busy as men could be attending to the injuries, the diseases and the complaints of the people of this overcrowded neighbourhood.
This great dispensary owed its erection and its continuance to the munificence of three doctors who appeared from nowhere. Who the man was who had contributed £5,000 to the upkeep, and who had afterwards appeared in person, masked and cloaked, and had propounded to three earnest workers for humanity his desire to be included in the organization, nobody knew, unless it was Manfred. It was Manfred the wise who accepted not only the offer, but the bona fides of the stranger—Manfred who accepted him as a co-partner.
Casual observers described the three earnest medicos not only as cranks, but fanatics. They were attached to no organization; they gave no sign to the world that they could be in any way associated with any of the religious organizations engaged in medical work. It is an indisputable fact that they possessed the qualifications to practise, and that one—Leon Gonsalez—was in addition a brilliant chemist.
No man ever remembered their going to church, or urging attendance at any place of worship. The religious bodies that laboured in the neighbourhood were themselves astonished. One by one they had nibbled at the sectarian question. Some had asked directly to what religious organization these men were attached. No answer was offered satisfactory to the inquirers.
It was nearly eleven o’clock that night when the work of the two dispensers had finished. The last patient had been dismissed, the last fretful whimper of an ailing child had died away; the door had been locked, the sweepers were engaged in cleaning up the big waiting-room.
The two men sat in the office—tired, but cheerful. The room was well furnished; it was the common room of the three. A bright fire burnt in the fire-place, big roomy arm-chairs and settees were in evidence. The floor was carpeted thickly, and two or three rare prints hung on the distempered walls.
They were sitting discussing the events of the evening—comparing notes, retailing particulars of interest in cases which had come under their notice. Manfred had gone out earlier in the evening and had not returned. Then a bell rang shrilly. Leon looked up at the indicator. “That is the dispensary door,” he said in Spanish. “I suppose we’d better see who it is.”
“It will be a small girl,” said Poiccart. “Please will you come to father; he’s either dead or drunk.’” There was a little laugh at this reminiscence of an incident which had actually happened.
Poiccart opened the door. A man stood in the entrance. “There’s a bad accident just round the corner,” he said. “Can I bring him in here, doctor?”
“What sort of an accident?” said Poiccart.
“A man has been knifed.”
“Bring him in,” said Poiccart. He went quickly to the common room. “It’s a stabbing case,” he said. “Will you have him in your surgery, Leon?”
The young man rose swiftly. “Yes,” he said; “I’ll get the table ready.”
In a few minutes half a dozen men bore in the unconscious form of the victim. It was a face familiar to the two. They laid him tenderly upon the surgical table, and with deft hands ripped away the clothing from the wound, whilst the policeman who had accompanied the party pushed back the crowd from the surgery door.
The two men were alone with the unconscious man. They exchanged glances.
“Unless I am mistaken” said carefully, “this is the late Mr. Willie Jakobs.”
That evening May Sandford sat alone in her room reading. Her father, when he had come in to say good-bye to May before going to a directors’ dinner, had left her ostensibly studying an improving book, but the volume now lay unheeded at her side.
That afternoon she had received an urgent note from Black, asking her to meet him “on a matter of the greatest importance.” It concerned her father, and it was very secret. She was alarmed, and not a little puzzled. The urgency and the secrecy of the note distressed her unaccountably. For the twentieth time she began to read the improving plays of Monsieur Moliere, when a knock at the door made her hastily conceal the paper.
“There is a man who wishes to see you,” said the girl who had entered in response to her “Come in.”
“What sort of man?”
“A common-looking man,” said the maid.
She hesitated. The butler was in the house, otherwise she would not have seen the visitor.
“Show him into father’s study,” she said. “Tell Thomas this man is here and ask him to be handy in case I ring for him.”
She had never seen the man whom she found waiting. Instinctively she distrusted his face, though there was something about him which compelled her sympathy. He was white and haggard, black shadows encircled his eyes, and his hands, by no means clean, shook.
“I am sorry to bother you, miss,” he said, “but this is important.”
“It is rather a late hour,” she said. “What is it you want?”
He fumbled with his hat and looked at the waiting girl. At a nod from May she left the room.
“This is rather important to you, miss,” said the man again. “Black treated me pretty badly.”
For a moment an unworthy suspicion flashed through her mind. Had Frank sent his man to her to shake her faith in Black? A feeling of resentment arose against her visitor and the man she thought was his employer.
“You may save your breath,” she said coolly, “and you can go back to the gentleman who sent you and tell him—”
“Nobody sent me, miss,” he said eagerly. “I come on my own. I tell you they’ve done me a bad turn. I’ve kept my mouth shut for Black for years, and now he’s turned me down. I’m ill, miss, you can see that for yourself,” he said, throwing out his arms in despair. “I’ve been almost starving and they haven’t given me a bean. I went to Black’s house to-day and he wouldn’t see me.” He almost whimpered in his helpless anger. “He’s done me a bad turn and I’m going to do him one,” he said fiercely. “You know what his game is?”
“I do not want to know,” she said again, the old suspicion obscuring her vision. “You will gain nothing by speaking against Colonel Black.”
“Don’t be foolish, miss,” he pleaded, “don’t think I’ve come for money. I don’t expect money—I don’t want it. I dare say I can get help from Mr. Fellowe.”
“Ah!” she said, “so you know Mr. Fellowe: it was he who sent you. I will not hear another word,” she went on hotly. “I know now where you come from—I’ve heard all this before.”
She walked determinedly across the room and rang the bell. The butler came in. “Show this man out,” said May.
The man looked at her sorrowfully.
“You’ve had your chance, miss,” he said ominously. “Black’s Essley, that’s all!”
With this parting shot he shuffled through the hall, down the steps into the night.
Left alone, the girl shrank into her chair. She was shaking from head to foot with indignation and bewilderment. It must have been Frank who sent this man. How mean, how inexpressibly mean!
“How dare he? How dare he?” she asked.
It was the policeman in Frank which made him so horrid, she thought. He always believed horrid things of everybody. It was only natural. He had lived his life amongst criminals; he had thought of nothing but breaches of the law. She looked at the dock: it was a quarter to ten. He had wasted her evening, this visitor. She did not know exactly what to do. She could not read; it was too early to go to bed. She would have liked to have gone for a little walk, but there was nobody to take her. It was absurd asking the butler to walk behind her; she smiled at the thought.
Then she started. She had heard the distant ring of the front-door bell. Who could it be?
She had not long to wait in doubt. A few minutes afterwards the girl had announced Colonel Black. He was in evening dress and very cheerful.
“Forgive this visit,” he said, with that heartiness of voice which carried conviction of his sincerity. “I happened to be passing and I thought I’d drop in.”
This was not exactly true. Black had carefully planned this call. He knew her father was out; knew also, so bitter had been a discussion of that afternoon, that he would not have sanctioned the visit. May gave him her hand, and he grasped it warmly.
She came straight to the point. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’ve been awfully bothered.” He nodded sympathetically, though a little at sea. “And now this man has come?”
“This man—which man?” he asked sharply.
“I forget his name—he came this evening. In fact, he’s only been gone a little time. And he looked awfully ill. You know him, I think?”
“Not Jakobs?” he breathed.
She nodded. “I think that is the name,” she said.
“Jakobs?” he repeated, and his face went a little white. “What did he say?” he asked quickly.
She repeated the conversation as nearly as she could remember it. When she had finished he rose. “You’re not going?” she said in astonishment.
“I’m afraid I must,” he said. “I’ve a rather important engagement and—er—I only called in passing. Which way did this man go? Did he give you any idea as to his destination?”
She shook her head. “No. All that he said was that there were people who would be glad of the information he could give about you.”
“He did, did he?” said Black, with an heroic attempt at a smile. “I never thought Jakobs was that kind of man. Of course, there is nothing that I should mind everybody knowing, but one has business secrets, you know. Miss Sandford. He is a discharged employe of mine who has stolen some contracts. You need not worry about the matter.”
He smiled confidently at her as he left the room.
He drove straight from the house to his city office. The place was in darkness, but he knew his way without the necessity of lighting up. He ran upstairs into the boardroom.
There was a little door in one corner of the room, concealed from view by a hanging curtain.
He closed the shutters and pulled down the blinds before he switched on the light. He pushed the curtain aside and examined the face of the door. There was no sign that it had been forced. Jakobs knew of the existence of this little retiring-room, and had, in his indiscretion, mentioned its existence in one of his letters of demand.
Black drew from his pocket a small bunch of keys attached to a silver chain. The door of the room opened easily. There was a smaller room disclosed—no larger than a big cupboard. A single incandescent electric burner slung from the ceiling supplied all the light necessary. There was a dressing-table, a chair, a big looking-glass, and a number of hooks from which were suspended a dozen articles of attire. Air was admitted through two ventilators let into the wall and communicating with the main ventilating shaft of the building.
He opened the door of the dressing-table and drew out a number of wigs. They were wigs such as only Fasieur can supply—perfectly modelled and all of one shade of hair, though differently arranged.
He tossed them on to the table impatiently, groping for something which he knew should be there, and was there unless a thief skilled in the use of skeleton keys, and having, moreover, some knowledge of the office, had taken it. He stopped his search suddenly and examined a pad of paper which lay on the table. It was a pad which he kept handy for note—taking—to jot down memoranda. On the white face of the paper was a large brown thumb-mark, and though Colonel Black knew little of the science of anthropology, he was sufficiently well acquainted with the sign to know that it was the mark of a thumb which ought never to have been in this secret office of his.
Then it was Willie! Willie Jakobs, the befriended, the pensioned, and the scorned, who had removed a certain green bottle, the duplicate of which was in his pocket at that moment.
Black did not lose his nerve. He went to a drawer in the desk of his outer office and took out a Browning pistol. It was loaded. He balanced it in his right hand, looked at it reflectively, then put it back again. He hated firearms; they made a great deal of unnecessary noise, and they left behind them too sure an indication of the identity of their user. Men have been traced by bullets.
There were other ways. He lifted from the drawer a long thin knife. It was an Italian stiletto of the sixteenth century—the sort of toy a man might use in these prosaic days for opening his letters. And indeed this was the ostensible reason why Black kept the weapon at hand.
He drew it from its ornate leather sheath and tested its temper, felt its edge and gingerly fingered its point; then he put the stiletto in its case in his overcoat pocket, switched out the light and went out. This was not a case which demanded the employment of the little bottle. There was too little of the precious stuff left, and he had need of it for other purposes.
There were two or three places where he might find the man. A little public-house off Regent Street was one. He drove there, stopping the cab a few paces from the spot. He strode into the bar, where men of Jakobs’ kind were to be found, but it was empty. The man he sought was not there.
He made a tour of other likely places with no better success. Willie would be at home. He had moved to lodgings on the south side of the Thomas.
It was coming from a little public-house off the New Kent Road that Black found his man. Willie had been spending the evening brooding over his grievance, and was on his way home to prepare for his big adventure when Black clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hullo, Willie,” he said.
The man turned round with a start. “Keep your hands off me,” he said hastily, stumbling against the wall.
“Now, don’t be silly,” said Black. “Let’s talk this matter out reasonably. You’re a reasonable man, aren’t you? I’ve got a cab waiting round the corner.”
“You don’t get me into no cabs,” said Jakobs. “I’ve had enough of you, Black. You’ve turned round on me. You cast me out like a dog. Is that the way to treat a pal?”
“You’ve made a mistake, my friend,” said Black smoothly. “We’re all liable to make mistakes. I’ve made many, and I dare say you’ve made a few. Now, let’s talk business.”
Willie said nothing. He was still suspicious. Once he thought he saw the other’s hand steal to his breast-pocket. He guessed the motive of the action. This, then, was where the bottle was.
Black was an adept in the art of cajolery. He knew the weak places of all the men who had been associated with him. Very slowly he led the other aimlessly, so it seemed, from one street to another until they reached a little cul-de-sac. Stables occupied one side of the tiny street and artisan houses the other. One street-lamp half-way down showed a dim light.
Willie hesitated. “There’s no thoroughfare,” he said.
“Oh yes, there is,” said Black confidently. “I know this neighbourhood rather well. Now, there’s one thing I want to ask you, Willie. I’m sure you are feeling more friendly towards me now, aren’t you?”
His hand rested almost affectionately on the other’s shoulder.
“You didn’t play the game,” persisted the other.
“Let bygones be bygones,” said Black. “What I want to know is, Willie, why did you take the bottle?” He asked the question in a matter-of-fact tone. He did not raise his voice or give the query unusual emphasis.
The other man was taken off his guard. “Well, I felt sore,” he said.
“And I suppose,” said Black, with gentle reproach, “you’re waiting to hand that bottle to our friend Fellowe?”
“I haven’t handed it to anybody yet,” said Willie, “but to tell you the truth—”
He said no more. The big man’s hand suddenly closed round his throat with a grip like steel. Willie struggled, but he was like a child in the grasp of the other.
“You dog,” breathed Black.
He shook the helpless man violently. Then with his disengaged hand he whipped the tell-tale phial from the other’s pocket and pushed him against the wall. “And I’ll teach you that that’s nothing to what you’ll get if you ever come across me again.”
Jakobs dropped, white and ghastly, against the wall. “You’ve got the bottle, Black.” he said, “but I know everything that you’ve done with it.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yes, everything,” said the other desperately. “You’re not going to cast me off, do you hear? You’ve got to pension me, same as you’ve done other people. I know enough to send you for a lagging without—”
“I thought you did,” said Black.
Something glittered in the light of the lamp, and without a cry Jakobs went down in a huddled heap to the ground.
Black looked round. He wiped the blade of the stiletto carefully on the coat of the stricken man, carefully replaced the weapon in its leather case, and examined his own hands with considerable care for any signs of blood. But these Italian weapons make small wounds.
He turned and, pulling on his gloves, made his way back to where the cab was still waiting.