# The Ringer/Chapter 9

pp. 120–136.

### CHAPTER IX

IT was fully ten minutes before the man had recovered sufficiently to talk plain business. John Lenley had come straight to the lawyer's for money.
"How much do you think is due to you!" asked Meister sarcastically.
For answer the caller took from his pocket a small package and opened it on the desk. Inside, wrapped in cotton wool, was a little jewelled bangle.
"I don't know how much is due: this will make it more."
Meister took the bangle and carried the glittering thing to the light.
"What is this?" he asked.
"I collected it on my way here: it was left with a friend of mine. That is all I had for my seven years," he said bitterly. "The man who was working with me got away with the rest. Why did you tell my sister that I knew where it was planted?"
Meister looked at him thoughtfully, and in that second was born his plan.
"Because I know," he said slowly. And then, in a more confidential tone: "Your friend never got away with it."
"What!"
"He hid it. He told me before I got him off to South Africa. There was an empty house in Camden Crescent—where the burglary was committed—there is still."
Johnny Lenley nodded.
"I know. We went through the house to do the job. Well?"
Meister was thinking quickly."He planted the stuff behind the cistern on the roof, and it's there now."
The returned convict fixed his questioning eyes upon the lawyer, but not an eyelid quivered.
"I thought you had had it. Why did you pay my sister an allowance?"
"Because I knew where it was, and that when you came out you'd get it—that's why," he said. "I could have got half a dozen men to lift it—but I didn't trust them."
Irresolution showed in Lenley's face; the weak mouth drooped a little.
"Let it stay where it is," he said, but he did not speak with any great earnestness.
Meister laughed. It was the first genuine laugh of his that the day had brought forth.
"You're a fool," he said in disdain. "You've done your seven, and what have you got for it? This!" He held up the trinket. "If I give you twenty pounds for it I'm robbing myself. There's eight thousand pounds' worth of good stuff behind that tank—yours for the taking. After all, Johnny," he said, adopting a tone of persuasion, "you've paid for it—on the Moor!"
"By God I have!" said the other between his teeth. "I've paid for it all right."
Meister was thinking quickly, planning, cross-planning, organizing, in that few seconds of time. "Knock it off to-night," he suggested, and again Lenley hesitated.
"I'll think about it. If you're trying to shop me——"
Again Meister laughed.
"My dear fellow, I'm trying to do you a good turn and, through you, your sister."
"What is the number of the house! I've forgotten."
Meister knew the number well enough: he forgot nothing.
"Fifty-seven. I'll give you the twenty pounds for this bracelet now."
He opened his desk, took out his cash box and unlocked it.
"That will do to go on with." Lenley was still undecided; nobody knew that better than the lawyer. "I want full value for the rest if I go after it—or I'll find another fence."
It was the one word that aroused the lawyer to fury.
"'Fence'! That's not the word to use to me, Johnny."
"You're too sensitive," said his dour client.
"Just because I help you fellows when I ought to be shopping you." The lawyer's voice trembled. "Get another fence, will you? Here's your twenty." He threw the money on the table, and Lenley, counting it, slipped it into his pocket. "Going into the country, eh? Taking your little sister away? Afraid I'd be doing her harm?"
"I'd hate to hang for you," said John Lenley, rising.
"Rather have the Ringer hang, eh? You think he'll come back with all that time over his head, with the gallows waiting for him? Is he a lunatic? Anyway—I'm not scared of anything on God Almighty's earth."
The little table phone buzzed, and he picked up the receiver.
"Eh?... Who? ..." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and jerked his head to the door where the girl had gone. "Beat it—it's Wembury."
Lenley sprang to his feet, frowning at him suspiciously.
"Wembury? What does he want?"
"Does he know you?" asked Meister quickly.
"He was the man who arrested me."
"Then get out. Ask your sister to show you the way down."
He waited till Lenley had left the room, and then:
"Send him up, Haggitt."
When they walked in, Mr. Meister was apparently intent upon the examination of a letter which lay on the blotting pad before him, and he roused himself with an exaggerated start.
"You're the very man I wanted to see," he said, beaming at the visitor. "I can't thank you enough for coming along this morning—though what made that idiot ring you, I don't know. The fact is, I am subject to very bad dreams. I don't know why it should be so—old age probably. That is a disease from which you are not suffering, and you can't be sufficiently grateful. Now, my boy ..."
Alan Wembury let him talk on, and the interested Mr. Haggitt, who had accompanied the detective into the room, listened with mild amusement, until he remembered the visitor of the morning.
"Who do you think's been here, Wembury?" he began.
"That will do," said Meister loudly. "You can go downstairs, Haggitt: there's no need for you to stay."
Mr. Haggitt closed his eyes in patient resignation.
"You don't give me half a chance to get sweet with the police, do you? Want to do all the kidding yourself?"
Wembury's eyes were twinkling as the door closed upon the indignant man, but Meister was not so much amused.
"That's the worst of having a criminal practice—one has to meet the scum of the earth," he growled.
Wembury smiled.
"You bear up very well. He was trying to tell me that Johnny Lenley is out of prison."
This time Meister's start was not feigned.
"Is that so?" he said.
"Yes." Alan looked at him thoughtfully. "He was in this room a few minutes ago. I saw him come into the house."
And now Meister's discomfiture could not be disguised.
"One doesn't expect a lawyer to betray his clients' secrets, eh, Mr. Meister?"
He pulled up a chair to the table and sat down.
"He's no client of mine, except that I—I helped him when he was in trouble—— Yes?"
It was Mary Lenley with some papers to sign. She smiled cheerfully at the detective as she put them before her employer.
"Am I in the way?" she asked.
"Has your brother gone, my dear?" asked Meister archly, and she was embarrassed. "Naturally Wembury knew he was here. The police know everything," chuckled the lawyer. "Wonderful fellows the police!"
He saw by her manner that she had something to say to him, and guessed what that something was.
"Can I see you for one moment, Mr. Meister?"
Alan rose and strolled to the window, fingering the heavy bars reflectively. He hated the girl being in this house, hated her daily association with the man of whose character he had no illusions. The return of John Lenley was in a way providential, for he guessed that this would put a period to Mary Lenley's work in Flanders Lane. Meister had not brought Mary Lenley to the house because he was in need of an assistant. A shrewd judge, he had watched her at her work, and guessed she was anything but an efficient stenographer. There were stories told about the lawyer, frank hints and libellous confidences exchanged between police officers when they met in their hours of relaxation.... Johnny's arrival had merely anticipated, perhaps by a day or so, Alan Wembury's unofficial intrusion into the lawyer's game.
"I want to go early to-day, Mr. Meister—now if I can," she was saying anxiously. "You see, Johnny's back, and there are so many things I have to do for him. His room has to be got ready, and——"
"You can't go." Meister's voice was low but insistent. "Wait till this man's gone and we'll discuss the whole matter. I can't be inconvenienced on a morning like this, when I am expecting some most important letters."
He ended the interview abruptly.
"I'll settle that business later," he said loudly. "I can't be bothered now."
Wembury walked down the room to intercept the girl.
"It was a pleasant surprise for you, wasn't it, Miss Lenley?"
"A wonderful surprise," she said. And then, earnestly: "Alan, you're going to give my brother a chance, aren't you?"
He nodded.
"We spend all our lives giving chances to men, and they spend all their lives not taking them! Why, surely, Miss Lenley, we shan't worry him or harass him, if that is what you mean. It's traditional of the police to give the old lag a chance. Your brother isn't an old lag, but at the same time he's been unfortunate and he's had his lesson."
She nodded gravely.
"I wish you would have a little talk with Johnny, Alan? I think he would listen to you and give your words more value than he would give to mine."
"Pshaw!" Meister guffawed at the suggestion. "Don't be silly, my dear—the inspector has something better to do than run around after your brother. Bless my life! police officers aren't nursery governesses. I'll talk to Johnny."
"I will see him," said Alan, without any seeming notice of what the lawyer had said. "Suppose I come round to your place to-morrow morning? And, Mary, apart from your brother, if you yourself are in any difficulty at any time, you know where to find me? This is a quaint world, operated generally by people who aren't exactly what they appear to be—generally they're something worse!"
She shook his hand and, without a word, went back to her little office; a sudden and unaccountable silence fell upon the two men.
"What difficulties could she have?" said Meister contemptuously.
Alan looked him in the eye.
"I don't know—if you don't know."
Here was a challenge which Meister was not prepared to accept.
"She's a nice girl. Pity her brother is such a bad lot," he said carelessly, as he resumed his unprofitable study of the letter on his desk.
"Is he a bad lot?" asked Wembury. "The story I heard was that he had his first burglary given to him by somebody who worked out the details of the job and got most of the plunder. The master criminal was never caught."
Mr. Meister was amused. The hand that held his cigar trembled a little.
"The master criminal! I thought that phenomenon only occurred in detective stories! You don't believe that?"
"I believe a lot that I never confess," said Alan quietly.
"You're wise," said the other. "He's a wrong 'un is Johnny, dead wrong." He looked down at the pad and examined his cigar attentively. "Why, he's hardly out of prison before he's thinking up another job."
Alan shot a swift, startled glance at him.
"They plan these things in prison, Wembury. Jail is the master criminal. It is not only the master criminal but the college where novices get their education in the art of lifting."
"What sort of a job?"
Mr. Meister returned his cigar to his teeth and sent a ring of smoke whirling up to the ceiling, and watched it until it broke bluely.
"Post a couple of men on the roof of 57, Camden Gardens to-night," he said.
Alan's heart sank.
"Oh, the fool, the imbecile!" he muttered, and as though his words were a reflection upon himself, Meister went on hastily:
"Any lawyer is an officer of the court: you know that, Wembury. If I know a man is about to commit a felony, whether he is a client or whether he isn't, it is my business to inform the police. I have queer people to deal with, but I must preserve my self-respect. I have invariably made it a practice, if any man has told me of an intended crime, to inform the police without delay."
"And to tell your clients that you have informed the police?" asked Wembury savagely.
"N—no, I don't go so far as that. After all, I must earn my living, and I must retain the confidence of my clients. If they are foolish enough and, may I say, wicked enough to give me this kind of information, what am I to do?"
"To-night—what time?"
Meister shook his head.
"I don't know."
The detective strolled to the window and stared out. His duty to the State came before all else, before Mary's broken heart or her brother's liberty. Meister had made no mistake in telling him. He could not warn this lunatic of his impending fate. And Johnny Lenley was a clever boy: that was the queerness of it—a clever boy who knew Meister for what he was. Yet he had placed himself in this man's hands ... had risked surrendering his guardianship of the one being in the world he loved.
"You didn't want to see me about anything?" Meister's voice recalled him to the object of his visit.
"Yes, I did." The detective came back with difficulty to the object of his call. "I have arranged for an officer to watch this house."
Meister leapt up from his chair, his face purple with anger.
"What! That will cost you your job, Wembury. Do you think I'm crook——?"
The detective's hand waved him down.
"What I think doesn't matter much. The officer is coming here to protect you."
"Protect me?" The lawyer squealed the words. "From whom?"
Too well he knew.
"From a man who will never be happy until you're dead," said the other slowly.
Meister swallowed.
"You mean—the Ringer?"
Wembury nodded.
"You think he's here?"
"Yes, I think he's here."
"Peter told you? I don't believe it," cried the stout man violently. "It's a fake story—one of the Laners' bogies that they put up to scare people. The Ringer here! He's in Australia: why should he come back? What have I to do——?"
"You're not to leave this house after dark unless my man accompanies you," said Wembury. "Do you mind ringing the bell?"
Mechanically the lawyer obeyed, and in a few seconds Haggitt answered.
"Send up Sergeant Atkins," said Wembury, and Sam went out to return accompanied by a smart-looking man whom Meister recognized without the introduction which followed.
"This is Sergeant Atkins, C.I.D. You know Mr. Meister?"
Atkins nodded.
"You will keep this house under observation to-day—and after to-day—from dark to daylight, Sergeant. If Mr. Meister goes out, you will follow him at six paces. If he rides, you ride with him, either with the driver or in the car in which he travels. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"I have permission for you to carry a gun, and you won't hesitate to use it if it comes to real trouble. I'll leave you to decide what kind of trouble is real."
Atkins grinned, and, touching his hat, moved to the door.
"Don't let him go, don't let him go!" said Meister, his teeth chattering. "Why couldn't he stay here? I could give him a little room downstairs. Haggitt can sleep somewhere else."
Alan shook his head.
"No, he must watch the house from outside. There have been one or two people hanging about during the last week. The constable on point reported that a weird-looking stranger who described himself as a private detective, but who was obviously a suspicious character, had been seen in the neighbourhood. You can give Atkins the key of the outer door, so that he can come in if he sees or hears anything suspicious. He will be on duty at night. I will arrange for his relief during the daytime. Have you a key?"
Meister unlocked a drawer of his desk, took out a small cash box and, throwing out a big wad of bank-notes, rummaged at the bottom and produced a key. Mr. Haggitt was more than an interested spectator: his eyes almost started from his head at the sight of so much real money.
"Haggitt!"
Mr. Haggitt blinked and brought himself to earth.
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't look at that money: it isn't good for you."
"Money, sir?" Sam's face was a picture of astonishment. "I thought it was curling paper!"
He watched, fascinated, whilst the box was closed and replaced in the drawer, and Atkins had to touch him on the shoulder before he returned again to the world of poverty-stricken reality.
Alan Wembury's mind was not upon the Ringer, nor upon the imminent danger to this man who, all Deptford knew, had grossly betrayed his fellow thief. He was thinking of Mary Lenley, of the drear years ahead, and of the shocking reaction from her present happiness. Insensibly he said:
"Poor little girl!"
And Meister looked up and a slow smile spread on his pale face.
"You're thinking of that girl, Wembury? She'll be happier without him. In a way she'll be better off. She's in a good job, she has me to look after her——"
Wembury held out his hand with a smile.
"Yes, that's what I'm afraid of. Good-morning, Mr. Meister."