# The Law of the Four Just Men/The Man Who Loved Music

| “ | Mr. Lynne was a theatrical agent with large interests in South America; he specialised in the collection of "turns" for some twenty halls large and small, and the great artists who had travelled through the Argentine and Mexico, Chile and Brazil, had nothing but praise for the excellent treatment they had received at the hands of those Mr. Lynne represented. It was believed, and was in truth, a fact, that he was financially interested in quite a number of these places of amusement, which may have accounted for the courtesy and attention which the great performers received on their tour. He also sent out a number of small artists—microscopically small artists whose names had never figured on the play bills of Britain. They were chosen for their beauty, their sprightliness and their absence of ties.... | ” |
MAN WHO LOVED MUSIC
The most striking characteristics of Mr. Homer Lynne were his deep and wide sympathies, and his love of Tschaikovsky's "1812." He loved music generally, but his neighbours in Pennerthon Road, Hampstead, could testify with vehemence and asperity to his preference for that great battle piece. It had led from certain local unpleasantness to a police-court application, having as its object the suppression of Mr. Homer Lynne as a public nuisance, and finally to the exchange of lawyers' letters and the threat of an action in the High Court.
That so sympathetic and kindly a gentleman should utterly disregard the feelings and desires of his neighbours, that he should have in his bedroom the largest gramophone that Hampstead had ever known, and a gramophone, moreover, fitted with an automatic arm, so that no sooner was the record finished than the needle was switched to the outer edge of the disc and began all over again, and that he should choose the midnight hour for his indulgence, were facts as strange as they were deplorable.
Mr. Lynne had urged at the police court that the only method he had discovered for so soothing his nerves that he could ensure himself a night's sleep, was to hear that thunderous piece.
That Mr. Lynne was sympathetic at least three distressed parents could testify. He was a theatrical agent with large interests in South America; he specialised in the collection of "turns" for some twenty halls large and small, and the great artists who had travelled through the Argentine and Mexico, Chile and Brazil, had nothing but praise for the excellent treatment they had received at the hands of those Mr. Lynne represented. It was believed, and was in truth, a fact, that he was financially interested in quite a number of these places of amusement, which may have accounted for the courtesy and attention which the great performers received on their tour.
He also sent out a number of small artists—microscopically small artists whose names had never figured on the play bills of Britain. They were chosen for their beauty, their sprightliness and their absence of ties.
"It's a beautiful country," Mr. Homer Lynne would say.
He was a grave, smooth man, clean-shaven, save for a sign of grey side-whiskers, and people who did not know him would imagine that he was a successful lawyer, with an ecclesiastical practice.
"It's a beautiful country," he would say, "but I don't know whether I like sending a young girl out there. Of course, you'll have a good salary, and live well—have you any relations?"
If the girl produced a brother or a father, or even a mother, or an intimate maiden aunt, Mr. Lynne would nod and promise to write on the morrow, a promise which he fulfilled, regretting that he did not think the applicant would quite suit his purpose—which was true. But if she were isolated from these connections, if there were no relations to whom she would write, or friends who were likely to pester him with enquiries, her first-class passage was forthcoming—but not for the tour which the great artists followed, nor for the bigger halls where they would be likely to meet. They were destined for smaller halls, which were not so much theatre as cabaret.
Now and again, on three separate occasions to be exact, the applicant for an engagement would basely deceive him. She would say she had no relations, and lo! there would appear an inquisitive brother, or, as in the present case, a father.
On a bright morning in June, Mr. Lynne sat in his comfortable chair, his hands folded, regarding gravely a nervous little man who sat on the other side of the big mahogany desk balancing his bowler hat on his knees.
"Rosie Goldstein," said Mr. Lynne thoughtfully, "I seem to remember the name."
He rang a bell and a dark young man answered.
"Bring me my engagement book, Mr. Mandez," said Mr. Lynne.
"You see how it is, Mr. Lynne," said the caller anxiously—he was unmistakably Hebraic and very nervous. "I hadn't any idea that Rosie had gone abroad until a friend of hers told me that she had come here and got an engagement."
"I see," said Mr. Lynne. "She did not tell you she was going."
"No, sir."
The dark young man returned with the book and Mr. Lynne turned the pages leisurely, running his finger down a list of names.
"Here we are," he said. "Rosie Goldstein. Yes, I remember the girl now, but she told me she was an orphan."
Goldstein nodded.
"I suppose she thought I'd stop her," he said with a sigh of relief. "But as long as I know where she is, I'm not so worried. Have you her present address?"
Lynne closed the book carefully and beamed at the visitor.
"I haven't her present address," he said cheerfully, "but if you will write her a letter and address it to me, I will see that it goes forward to our agents in Buenos Aires: they, of course, will be able to find her. You see, there are a large number of halls in connection with the circuit, and it is extremely likely that she may be performing up-country. It is quite impossible to keep track of every artist."
"I understand that, sir," said the grateful little Jew.
"She ought to have told you," said the sympathetic Lynne shaking his head.
He really meant that she ought to have told him.
"However, we'll see what can be done."
He offered his plump hand to the visitor, and the dark young man showed him to the door.
Three minutes later Mr. Lynne was interviewing a pretty girl who had the advantage of stage experience—she had been a member of a beauty chorus in a travelling revue. And when the eager girl had answered questions relating to her stage experiences, which were few, Mr. Lynne came to the real crux of the interview.
"Now what do your father and mother say about this idea of your accepting this engagement to go abroad?" he asked with his most benevolent smile.
"I have no father or mother," said the girl, and Mr. Lynne guessed from the momentary quiver of the lips that she had lost one of these recently.
"You have brothers, perhaps?"
"I have no brothers," she answered, shaking her head. "I haven't any relations in the world, Mr. Lynne. You will let me go, won't you?" she pleaded.
Mr. Lynne would let her go. If the truth be told, the minor "artists" he sent to the South American continent were infinitely more profitable than the great performers whose names were household words in London.
"I will write you tomorrow," he said conventionally.
"You will let me go?"
He smiled.
"You are certain to go, Miss Hacker. You need have no fear on the subject. I will send you on the contract—no, you had better come here and sign it."
The girl ran down the stairs into Leicester Square, her heart singing. An engagement at three times bigger than the biggest salary she had ever received! She wanted to tell everybody about it, though she did not dream that in a few seconds she would babble her happiness to a man who at that moment was a perfect stranger.
He was a foreign-looking gentleman, well dressed and good-looking. He had the kind of face that appeals to children—an appeal that no psychologist has ever yet analysed.
She met him literally by accident. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she came down, and missing her footing she tell forward into his arms.
"I am ever so sorry," she said with a smile.
"You don't look very sorry," smiled the man. "You look more like a person who had just got a very nice engagement to go abroad."
She stared at him.
"However did you know that?"
"I know it because—well, I know," he laughed, and apparently abandoning his intention of going upstairs, he turned and walked with her into the street.
"Yes, I am," she nodded. "I've had a wonderful opportunity. Are you in the profession?"
"No, I'm not in the profession," said Leon Gonsalez, "if you mean the theatrical profession, but I know the countries you're going to rather well. Would you like to hear something about the Argentine?"
She looked at him dubiously.
"I should very much," she hesitated, "but I——"
"I'm going to have a cup of tea, come along," said Leon good-humouredly.
Though she had no desire either for tea or even for the interview (though she was dying to tell somebody) the magnetic personality of the man held her, and she fell in by his side. And at that very moment Mr. Lynne was saying to the dark-skinned man:
"Fonsio! She's a beaut!" and that staid man kissed the bunched tips of his fingers ecstatically.
This was the third time Leon Gonsalez had visited the elegant offices of Mr. Homer Lynne in Panton Street.
Once there was an organisation which was called the Four Just Men, and these had banded themselves together to execute justice upon those whom the law had missed, or passed by, and had earned for themselves a reputation which was world-wide. One had died, and of the three who were left, Poiccart (who had been called the brains of the four) was living quietly in Seville. To him had come a letter from a compatriot in Rio, a compatriot who did not identify him with the organisation of the Four Just Men, but had written vehemently of certain abominations. There had been an exchange of letters, and Poiccart had discovered that most of these fresh English girls who had appeared in the dance halls of obscure towns had been imported through the agency of the respectable Mr. Lynne, and Poiccart had written to his friends in London.
"Yes, it's a beautiful country," said Leon Gonsalez, stirring his tea thoughtfully. "I suppose you're awfully pleased with yourself."
"Oh, it's wonderful," said the girl. "Fancy, I'm going to receive £12 a week and my board and lodging. Why, I shall be able to save almost all of it."
"Have you any idea where you will perform?"
The girl smiled.
"I don't know the country," she said, "and it's dreadfully ignorant of me, but I don't know one single town in the Argentine."
"There aren't many people who do," smiled Leon, "but you've heard of Brazil, I suppose?"
"Yes, it's a little country in South America," she nodded, "I know that."
"Where the nuts come from," laughed Leon. "No, it's not a little country in South America: it's a country as wide as from here to the centre of Persia, and as long as from Brighton to the equator. Does that give you any idea?"
She stared at him.
And then he went on, but confined himself to the physical features of the sub-continent. Not once did he refer to her contract—that was not his object. That object was disclosed, though not to her, when he said:
"I must send you a book. Miss Hacker: it will interest you if you are going to the Argentine. It is full of very accurate information."
"Oh, thank you," she said gratefully. "Shall I give you my address?"
That was exactly what Leon had been fishing for. He put the scrap of paper she had written on into his pocket-book, and left her.
George Manfred, who had acquired a two-seater car, picked him up outside the National Gallery, and drove him to Kensington Gardens, the refreshment buffet of which, at this hour of the day, was idle. At one of the deserted tables Leon disclosed the result of his visit.
"It was singularly fortunate that I should have met one of the lambs."
"Did you see Lynne himself?"
Leon nodded.
"After I left the girl I went up and made a call. It was rather difficult to get past the Mexican gentleman—Mandez I think his name is—into the sanctum but eventually Lynne saw me."
He chuckled softly:
"I do not play on the banjo; I declare this to you, my dear George, in all earnestness. The banjo to me is a terrible instrument——"
"Which, means," said Manfred with a smile, "that you described yourself as a banjo soloist who wanted a job in South America."
"Exactly," said Leon, "and I need hardly tell you that I was not engaged. The man is interesting, George."
"All men are interesting to you, Leon," laughed Manfred, putting aside the coffee he had ordered, and lighting a long, thin cigar.
"I should have loved to tell him that his true vocation was arson. He has the face of the true incendiary, and I tell you George, that Lombroso was never more accurate than when he described that type. A fair, dear, delicate skin, a plump, babylike face, hair extraordinarily fine: you can pick them out anywhere."
He caressed his chin and frowned.
"Callous destruction of human happiness also for profit. I suppose the same type of mind would commit both crimes. It is an interesting parallel. I should like to consult our dear friend Poiccart on that subject."
"Can he be touched by the law?" asked Manfred. "Is there no way of betraying him?"
"Absolutely none," said Leon shortly. "The man is a genuine agent. He has the names of some of the best people on his books and they all speak loudly in his praise. The lie that is half a lie is easier to detect than the criminal who is half honest. If the chief cashier of the Bank of England turned forger, he would be the most successful forger in the world. This man has covered himself at every point. I had a talk with a Jewish gentleman—a pathetic old soul named Goldstein, whose daughter went abroad some seven or eight months ago. He has not heard from her, and he told me that Lynne was very much surprised to discover that she had any relations at all. The unrelated girl is his best investment."
"Did Lynne give the old man her address?"
Leon shrugged his shoulders.
"There are a million square miles in the Argentine—where is she? Cordoba, Tucuman, Mendoza, San Louis, Santa Fe, Rio Cuario, those are a few towns. And there are hundreds of towns where this girl may be dancing, towns which have no British or American Consul. It's rather horrible, George."
Manfred looked thoughtfully across the green spaces in the park.
"If we could be sure," said Gonsalez softly. "It will take exactly two months to satisfy us, and I think it would be worth the money. Our young friend will leave by the next South American packet, and you, some time ago, were thinking of returning to Spain. I think I will take the trip."
George nodded.
"I thought you would," he said. "I really can't see how we can act unless you do."
Miss Lilah Hacker was amazed when she boarded the Braganza at Boulogne to discover that she had as fellow passenger the polite stranger who had lectured so entertainingly on the geography of South America.
To the girl her prospect was rosy and bright. She was looking forward to a land of promise, her hopes for the future were at zenith, and if she was disappointed a little that the agreeable Gonsalez did not keep her company on the voyage, but seemed for ever preoccupied, that was a very unimportant matter.
It was exactly a month from the day she put foot on the Braganza that her hope and not a little of her faith in humanity were blasted by a stout Irishman whose name was Rafferty, but who had been born in the Argentine. He was the proprietor of a dance hall called "La Plaza" in a cattle town in the interior. She had been sent there with two other girls wiser than she, to entertain the half-breed vaqueros who thronged the town at night, and for whom "La Plaza" was the principal attraction.
"You've got to get out of them ways of yours," said Rafferty, twisting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "When Señor Santiago wanted you to sit on his knee last night, you made a fuss, I'm told."
"Of course, I did," said the girl indignantly. "Why, he's coloured!"
"Now see here," said Mr. Rafferty, "there ain't no coloured people in this country. Do you get that? Mr. Santiago is a gentleman and he's got stacks of money, and the next time he pays you a little attention, you've got to be pleasant, see?"
"I'll do nothing of the sort," said the girl, pale and shaking, "and I'm going straight back to Buenos Aires tonight."
"Oh you are, are you?" Rafferty smiled broadly. "That's an idea you can get out of your head, too."
Suddenly he gripped her by the arm.
"You're going up to your room, now," he said, "and you're going to stay there till I bring you out tonight to do your show, and if you give me any of your nonsense—you'll be sorry!"
He pushed her through the rough unpainted door of the little cell which was termed bedroom, and he paused in the doorway to convey information (and there was a threat in the course of it) which left her white and staring.
She came down that night and did her performance and to her surprise and relief did not excite even the notice of the wealthy Mr. Santiago, a half-bred Spaniard with a yellow face, who did not so much as look at her.
Mr. Rafferty was also unusually bland and polite.
She went to her room that night feeling more comfortable. Then she discovered that her key was gone, and she sat up until one o'clock in the morning waiting for she knew not what. At that hour came a soft footfall in the passage; somebody tried the handle of her door, but she had braced a chair under the handle.
They pushed and the rickety chair creaked; then there was a sound like a stick striking a cushion, and she thought she heard somebody sliding against the wooden outer wall of the room. A tap came to her door.
"Miss Hacker," the voice said. She recognised it immediately. "Open the door quickly. I want to get you away."
With a trembling hand she removed the chair, and the few little articles of furniture she had piled against the door, and opened it. By the light of the candle which was burning in her room she recognised the man who had been her fellow passenger on the Braganza.
"Come quietly," he said. "There is a back stair to the compound. Have you a cloak? Bring it, because you have a sixty-mile motor journey before we come to the railway ..."
As she came through the door she saw the upturned toes of somebody who was lying in the passage, and with a shudder she realised that was the thumping sound she had heard.
They reached the big yard behind the "Plaza" crowded with the dusty motor-cars of ranchers and their foremen, who had come into town for the evening, and passed out through the doorway. A big car was standing in the middle of the road, and to this he guided her. She threw one glance back at Rafferty's bar. The windows blazed with light, the sound of the orchestra came faintly through the still night air, then she dropped her head on her hands and wept.
Leon Gonsalez had a momentary pang of contrition, for he might have saved her all this.
It was two months exactly from the day he had left London, when he came running up the stairs of the Jermyn Street flat and burst in upon Manfred.
"You're looking fit and fine, Leon," said George, jumping up and gripping his hand. "You didn't write and I ever expected that you would. I only got back from Spain two days ago."
He gave the news from Seville and then:
"You proved the case?"
"To our satisfaction," said Leon grimly. "Though you would not satisfy the law that Lynne was guilty. It is, however, a perfectly clear case. I visited his agent when I was in Buenos Aires, and took the liberty of rifling his desk in his absence. I found several letters from Lynne and by their tone there can be no doubt whatever that Lynne is consciously engaged in this traffic."
They looked at one another.
"The rest is simple," said Manfred, "and I will leave you to work out the details, my dear Leon, with every confidence that Mr. Homer Lynne will be very sorry indeed that he departed from the safe and narrow way."
There was no more painstaking, thorough or conscientious workman that Leon Gonsalez. The creation of punishment was to him a work of love. No General ever designed the battle with a more punctilious regard to the minutest detail than Leon.
Before the day was over he had combed the neighbourhood in which Mr. Lynne lived of every vital fact. It was then that he learnt of Mr. Lynne's passion for music. The cab which took Leon back to Jermyn Street did not go fast enough: he literally leapt into the sitting-room, chortling his joy.
"The impossible is possible, my dear George," he cried, pacing about the apartment like a man demented. "I thought I should never be able to carry my scheme into effect, but he loves music, George! He adores the tuneful phonograph!"
"A little ice water, I think," suggested Manfred gently.
"No, no." said Leon, "I am not hot, I am cool: I am ice itself! And who would expect such good luck? To-night we will drive to Hampstead and we will hear his concert."
It was a long time before he gave a coherent account of what he had learnt. Mr. Lynne was extremely unpopular in the neighbourhood, and Leon explained why.
Manfred understood better that night, when the silence of the sedate road in which Mr. Lynne's detached house was situated was broken by the shrill sound of trumpets, and the rolling of drums, the clanging of bells, the simulated boom of cannon—all the barbarian musical interjection which has made "1812" so popular with unmusical people.
"It sounds like a real band," said Manfred in surprise.
A policeman strolled along, and seeing the car standing before the house, turned his head with a laugh.
"It's an awful row, isn't it?"
"I wonder it doesn't wake everybody up," suggested Manfred.
"It does," replied the policeman, "or it did until they got used to it. It's the loudest gramophone in the world, I should think: like one of those things you have at the bottom of the tube stairs, to tell the people to move on. A stentaphone, isn't it?"
"How long does this go on? All night?" asked Manfred.
"For about an hour, I believe," said the policeman. "The gentleman who lives in that house can't go to sleep without music. He's a bit artistic, I think."
"He is," said Leon grimly.
The next day he found out that four servants were kept in the establishment, three of whom slept on the premises. Mr. Lynne was in the habit of returning home every evening at about ten o'clock, except on Fridays when he went out of Town.
Wednesday evening was the cook's night out, and it was also the night when Mr. Lynne's butler and general factotum was allowed an evening off. There remained the housemaid, and even she presented no difficulty. The real trouble was that all these people would return to the house or the neighbourhood at eleven o'clock. Leon decided to make his appointment with Mr. Lynne for Friday night, on which day he usually went to Brighton. He watched the genial man leave Victoria, and then he called up Lynne's house.
"Is that Masters?" he asked, and a man's voice answered him.
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
"It is Mr. Mandez here," said Leon, imitating the curious broken English of Lynne's Mexican assistant. "Mr. Lynne is returning to the house tonight on very important business, and he does not want any of the servants to be there."
"Indeed, sir," said Masters and showed no surprise. Evidently these instructions had been given before. Leon had expected some difficulty here, and had prepared a very elaborate explanation which it was not necessary to give.
"He wouldn't like me to stay, sir?"
"Oh, no," said Leon. "Mr. Lynne particularly said that nobody was to be in the house. He wants the side door and the kitchen door left unlocked," he added as an afterthought. It was a brilliant afterthought if it came off, and apparently it did.
"Very good, sir," said Masters.
Leon went straight from the telephone call-box, where he had sent the message, to the counter and wrote out a wire, addressed to Lynne, Hotel Ritz, Brighton. The message ran:
"THE GIRL GOLDSTEIN HAS BEEN DISCOVERED AT SANTA FÉ. TERRIBLE ROW. POLICE HAVE BEEN MAKING ENQUIRIES. HAVE VERY IMPORTANT INFORMATION FOR YOU. I AM WAITING FOR YOU AT YOUR HOUSE."
He signed it Mandez.
"He will get the wire at eight. There is a train back at nine. That should bring him to Hampstead by half past ten," said Leon when he had rejoined Manfred who was waiting for him outside the post office. "We will be there an hour earlier: that is as soon as it is dark."
They entered the house without the slightest difficulty. Manfred left his two-seater outside a doctor's house, a place where an unattended car would not be noticed, and went on foot to Lynne's residence. It was a large detached house, expensively furnished, and as Leon had expected, the servants had gone. He located Lynne's room, a big apartment at the front of the house.
"There is his noise box," said Leon pointing to a handsome cabinet near the window. "Electrical, too. Where does that wire lead?"
He followed the flex to a point above the head of the bed, where it terminated in what looked like a hanging bell push.
Leon was momentarily puzzled and then a light dawned upon him.
"Of course, if he has this infernal noise to make him go to sleep, the bell push switches off the music and saves him getting out of bed."
He opened the lid of the gramophone cabinet and examined the record.
"1812," he chuckled. He lifted the needle from the disc, turned the switch and the green table revolved. Then he walked to the head of the bed and pushed the knob of the bell push. Instantly the revolutions stopped.
"That is it," he nodded, and turned over the soundbox, letting the needle rest upon the edge of the record.
"That," he pointed to a bronze rod which ran from the centre to the side of the disc and fitted to some adjustment in the sound-box, "is the repeater. It is an American invention which I saw in Buenos Aires, but I haven't seen many on this side. When the record is finished the rod automatically transfers the needle to the beginning of the record."
"So that it can go on and on and on," said Manfred interested. "I don't wonder our friend is unpopular."
Leon was looking round the room for something and at last he found what he was seeking. It was a brass clothes peg fastened to a door which led to a dressing-room. He put all his weight on the peg but it held firm.
"Excellent," he said, and opened his bag. From this he took a length of stout cord and skilfully knotted one end to the clothes hook. He tested it but it did not move. From the bag he took a pair of handcuffs, unlocked and opened them and laid them on the bed. Then he took out what looked to be a Field-Marshal's baton. It was about fourteen inches long, and fastened around were two broad strips of felt; tied neatly to the baton were nine pieces of cord which were fastened at one end to the cylinder. The cords were twice the length of the handle and were doubled over neatly and temporarily fastened to the handle by pieces of twine.
Leon looked at one end of the baton and Manfred saw a red seal.
"What on earth is that, Leon?"
Leon showed him the seal, and Manfred read:
"Prison Commission."
"That," said Leon, "is what is colloquially known as the 'cat'. In other words, the 'cat of nine tails'. It is an authentic instrument which I secured with some difficulty."
He cut the twine that held the cords to the handle and let the nine thongs fall straight. Manfred took them into his hands and examined them curiously. The cords were a little thinner than ordinary window line, but more closely woven: at the end of each thong there was a binding of yellow silk for about half an inch.
Leon took the weapon in his hands and sent the cords whistling round his head.
"Made in Pentonville Gaol," he explained, "and I'm afraid I'm not as expert as the gentleman who usually wields it."
The dusk grew to darkness. The two men made their way downstairs and waited in the room leading from the hall.
At half past ten exactly they heard a key turn in the lock and the door close.
"Are you there, Mandez?" called the voice of Mr. Lynne, and it sounded anxious.
He took three steps towards the door and then Gonsalez stepped out.
"Good evening, Mr. Lynne," he said.
The man switched on the light.
He saw before him a figure plainly dressed, but who it was he could not guess, for the intruder's face was covered by a white semi-diaphanous veil.
"Who are you? What do you want?" gasped Lynne.
"I want you," said Leon shortly. "Before we go any further, I will tell you this, Mr. Lynne, that if you make an outcry, if you attempt to attract attention from outside, it will be the last sound you ever make."
"What do you want of me?" asked the stout man shakily, and then his eyes fell upon Manfred similarly veiled and he collapsed into the hall chair.
Manfred gripped his arm and led him upstairs to his bedroom. The blinds were pulled and the only light came from a small table-lamp by the side of the bed.
"Take off your coat," said Manfred.
Mr. Lynne obeyed.
"Now your waistcoat."
The waistcoat was discarded.
"Now I fear I shall have to have your shirt," said Gonsalez.
"What are you going to do?" asked the man hoarsely.
"I will tell you later."
The stout man, his face twitching, stood bare to the waist, and offered no resistance when Manfred snapped the handcuffs on him.
They led him to the door where the hat peg was, and deftly Leon slipped the loose end of the rope through the links and pulled his manacled hands tightly upwards.
"Now we can talk," said Gonsalez. "Mr. Lynne, for some time you have been engaged in abominable traffic. You have been sending women, who sometimes were no more than children, to South America, and the penalties for that crime are, as you know, a term of imprisonment and this."
He picked the baton from where he had placed it, and shook out the loose cords. Mr. Lynne gazed at them over his shoulder, with a fascinated stare.
"This is colloquially known as the 'cat of nine tails'," said Gonsalez, and sent the thongs shrilling round his head.
"I swear to you I never knew——" blubbered the man. "You can't prove it——"
"I do not intend proving it in public," said Leon carefully. "I am here merely to furnish proof to you that you cannot break the law and escape punishment."
And then it was that Manfred started the gramophone revolving, and the blare of trumpets and the thunder of drums filled the room with strident harmony.
The same policeman to whom Manfred and Gonsalez had spoken a few nights previously paced slowly past the house and stopped to listen with a grin. So, too, did a neighbour.
"What a din that thing makes," said the aggrieved householder.
"Yes it does," admitted the policeman. "I think he wants a new record. It sounds almost as though somebody was shrieking their head off, doesn't it?"
"It always sounds like that to me," grumbled the neighbour, and went on.
The policeman smiled and resumed his beat, and from behind the windows of Mr. Lynne's bedroom came the thrilling cadences of the "Marseillaise" and the boom of guns, and a shrill thin sound of fear and pain for which Tschaikovsky was certainly not responsible.