Delphi collected works o.., p.456
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 456
“Blandon,” he laughed... “that pretty damn good... Blandon!”
The girl sagged on my arm. She had fainted. I picked her up and hurried on.
“Come on, Onlooker,” I said. “Let’s get out of this!”
CHAPTER XIX
LITTLE WAS SAID on the journey back to London. Personally I had no desire to talk, the events of the evening having left me nearly speechless, besides which I was very tired. Marion Varney, with her head on my shoulder, was sleeping quietly, and the Onlooker, after one whimsical glance in our direction, closed his eyes and gave a very fair imitation of being asleep for an hour or so.
We left Marion at her flat in Knightsbridge, the Onlooker promising that he would communicate with her in the afternoon. Then we returned to the street to find Ling and the car gone! The Onlooker grinned.
“I thought the Chink would take the opportunity of making a get-away whilst we were upstairs,” he said. “Still, it doesn’t matter much.”
We commenced to walk towards Berners Street. The Onlooker was silent for some minutes, then he put his arm through mine, and said: —
“Well, John Relph, I think the balloon will go up in a minute, and at last we’re going to come out into the open. Now, as regards yourself, you’ve got to be back at the Cannon Street office on time. I’ve got an idea that Brandon isn’t going to have any notion as to what happened last night for quite a bit, and Stahlhaube and his bunch are going to sit back and think, too. Von Gratz is dead — that Chink is the slickest neck-breaker I’ve ever met in my life — and without the services of von Gratz Stahlhaube has got to go slow. Incidentally he thinks that last night’s work was a job of Brandon’s... Thank goodness he didn’t recognise me! Brandon has got to do something in a minute, so I think that we must get old man Jevons prepared for the grand slam. Keep your eye on Brandon, Relph. Watch everybody who comes into that office to-morrow, and, if you can, remember them. Also, if you get the chance, search Brandon’s private office. He’s got to try and make a clean-up and a get-away in a minute, and he’s liable to get careless. I’ll get in touch with you some time in the afternoon. In the meantime, when you get home, have a hot bath and some coffee — you need it.” He patted me on the shoulder. “So long, Relph....” He turned off abruptly and disappeared.
Four and a half hours later, having bathed and lain down for a couple of hours, I reached the office. Brandon arrived at 10 o’clock. His blue eyes were gleaming, and there was an expression on his face which boded no good for someone. He had closed the office door behind him and walked over to where I sat.
“I regret to tell you, Mr. Relph, that I shall not need your services after to-morrow. I’ve made up my mind to close down in the course of a few days. Of course, you will receive a week’s wages in lieu of notice. Incidentally, I have a business meeting in my office this afternoon, and you will please tell anyone who calls to see me after three o’clock that I am out, and not expected back to-day.” He went into his office, and I heard the lock click behind him.
As I entered Brennan’s Buildings after my lunch a small boy slipped a note into my hand, and disappeared promptly. I stood on the steps and opened the envelope. The note was from the Onlooker, and read:
Dear John Relph:
Things are coming our way at last! Get in touch with Jevons immediately and request him to meet you at Conway’s flat at 8 o’clock to-night. Then bring him along to No. 564 Park Lane. You’ll find me in the first floor flat. Stahlhaube has the Cannon Street offices under observation, and Brandon is repeating the process at Frimley. Either of them may strike at any moment, except that I do not think Stahlhaube will move for a day or two. If by any chance you come across Ling try and find out if the Chinese are still at Grosvenor Square. I don’t suppose he’ll tell you, but there is no harm in trying. I shall expect you at 8.30.
Yours,
The Onlooker.
So things were moving at last! I wondered as I mounted the stairs what the last acts of the drama would be like and who would play the leading parts.
At five minutes past three five men arrived at the offices and asked for Brandon, who admitted them into his room and locked the door behind them.
They were an extraordinary-looking lot. Two of them had the appearance of Turks, one was obviously German, another a Frenchman, and the last an extraordinary, overdressed young Englishman whose scented handkerchief made me want to kick him.
I listened at Brandon’s keyhole, but could hear nothing except the monotone of Brandon’s voice, talking continuously, with an occasional exclamation from one of the others. The meeting continued until a quarter past four, when it broke up, and the members departed one by one.
Half an hour later Brandon came out. He looked in good spirits, and his eyes twinkled vivaciously.
“I shall be here at ten o’clock in the morning, Mr. Relph,” he said, “and we shall close the offices for good to-morrow afternoon. Don’t be late.” He hurried off.
Directly the door had shut behind him I telephoned Jevons at the Yard and made the appointment for him to meet me at Conway’s flat at eight, ringing off before he could ask for explanations, which I preferred the Onlooker to make himself. Then, without further ado, I proceeded to smash the lock on the door of Brandon’s office. I searched the room thoroughly, but without result. There was no sign of anything which could associate Brandon personally with any of the previous events. I stood by his desk, disappointed, and, after a moment, took up two or three of the account books which lay on his table.
I ran through the leaves casually, and as my fingers turned the pages of the last book my heart gave a leap. Pasted at the back of the book, which was a “bought-and-sold” ledger, was a plan of Frimley Abbey!
Jevons arrived at the flat at 8 o’clock punctually. It was obvious that he was bursting with curiosity, although he endeavoured to hide his eagerness under an air of unconcern.
“You know this is all very irregular, Mr. Relph,” he said, “and I hope it will turn out all right. After all, it won’t be very nice for you if anything goes wrong and you’re placed in the position of having withheld information.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see that, Inspector,” I replied. “After all, I’m not a policeman, and if I like to do a little investigation on my own I don’t see what there is to stop me. Besides which I understand you had theories of your own. Haven’t you discovered anything at all?”
“It looks to me as if there isn’t anything to be found out,” grumbled Jevons. “You’ve got to have something to start from, and I’ve never known a case with less to go on than this one. From the start there’s been nothing at all.”
“If that is so, how did Jaffray find out as much as he did in one day?” I asked. “After all, when he met me at Salvatori’s shop on the night of the murder he must have had some sort of idea as to what he was up against to speak as he did.”
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I don’t like it.” he said. “But it’s no good talking about it We’d better be getting along.”
DURING our walk round to Park Lane the inspector maintained a dignified silence. Eventually we arrived at the house and were shown up to the first floor and into a room at the end of a passage. It was essentially a man’s room, and the big leather arm chairs drawn up in front of the fire looked inviting.
The Onlooker rose from the depths of one of them as we entered. He invited us to it down, and we did so, Jevons looking very stiff and suspicious.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the Onlooker. “I suppose it’s up to me to satisfy your curiosity as far as I can. And, as regards yourself, Inspector, I may as well make my apology straight away....”
“Apology,” said Jevons. “What for?”
“For leading you up the garden path generally,” said the Onlooker, grinning. “I guess some of us have been — what we call in America— ‘making a monkey of you’, Inspector. However, that’s all over. I’ve got an idea you may have heard of me, some time or other, Jevons,” he continued. “They used to call me Paris John...”
Jevons sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes almost starting out of his head.
“My God!” The exclamation was almost forced from his lips.... “Paris John!”
The Onlooker threw over to him a small black leather case. Jevons examined it carefully and handed it back.
“That’s good enough for me, sir,” he said. “I’m proud to meet you. I might have known that there was something behind all this. I suppose you’ve been in this from the start.”
“That’s right, Inspector,” said the Onlooker.
“You see, Jaffray and myself knew, more or less, what we were up against. It was an old business, and after his exit I was rather keen on somebody getting on with the job in an official capacity. Somebody who wasn’t going to get anywhere at all just because there wasn’t any way of getting started. Mind you, I won’t say that you didn’t get fairly warm once or twice. When you went after Ling, for instance. The man you got at Hop Fi’s in Limehouse was Ling all right, but Mr. Relph refused to identify him on my orders. Ling had nothing to do with the Salvatori and Zweitt murders except that he did his best to stop them coming off. Now, I’ll start from the beginning and tell you how this business originally started.
“My name, as you know, Inspector, is Steel, Jerome T. Steel, commonly called Paris John. Fifteen years ago I was chief of the Narcotic Squad at New York Headquarters, and, at the end of 1912, I was faced with one of the most extraordinary propositions that I have ever come up against — a gang of dope dealers who had beaten us to a frazzle for the very simple reason that we could never find out where they got the stuff from. The business was obviously international, and the police of other countries found themselves up against the same brick wall. Eventually it was arranged that certain officers selected from the different national detective forces should work together. I was selected to run this international bureau, and took up my headquarters in Paris. Jaffray was the officer selected by Scotland Yard to represent British interests.
“After some time we got tabs on two men — an Englishman and a German. They were operating from Milan, and called themselves Moreatte and Co., wine and spirit importers. They were Brandon, who called himself Varley, and a Prussian named von Eisen — the man known as ‘Stahlhaube.’”
CHAPTER XX
JEVONS WHISTLED QUIETLY.
“Brandon!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I suspect?”
“There was no reason for you to do so,” said the Onlooker. “There was nothing against Brandon over there except what Jaffray and myself knew. Anyway, that explains the story that Salvatori started to tell you, Relph, on the night of his murder. Salvatori — and Zweitt were both frightened to death. Zweitt had come to the conclusion, that you were a brave man, and that, as he had done you a good turn in getting you a job, you would help him and Salvatori to get out of the country.”
“But what were they afraid of?” I asked.
“I’ll come to that presently,” said the Onlooker. “In the meantime, I’ll go back once more to the beginning. Directly I obtained this information about these two men I got into touch with the Italian section, who arranged to keep the premises of Moreatte and Co. under observation. Just when things were beginning to move, the war came along and spoiled our plans. We had to split our headquarters in Paris, and return to our respective countries, but as my own country didn’t come into the war till fairly late I was able to carry on on my own.
“Fortune favoured me. I struck a man in New York who had known von Eisen in Milan. This man told me that von Eisen had left for Germany immediately war was declared, as he was on the Reserve of Officers. I made up my mind that somehow I would get to Germany, and see this von Eisen for myself. I did in 1916, when America was still neutral, and I went there on one of the Prisoners of War Committee stunts. When I got there it didn’t take long to find von Eisen, for he was Commandant of the first prison camp we visited. Here an interesting thing happened. I met Harry Varney—”
“Varney!” I exclaimed. “In a prison camp... but they reported him missing, believed dead.”
“Exactly,” said the Onlooker. “That was a cute bit of business on Stahlhaube’s part. The suggestion was made that Harry Varney had tried to escape and had been shot by a frontier guard. I was interested in Varney because Stahlhaube himself pointed him out to me as an interesting case of shell shock. Varney had completely lost his memory, but he remembered all the details of his profession — he was an analytical chemist before the war. Something in Stahlhaube’s attitude when he was talking to Varney (who had, of course, been introduced to me by another name) made me suspect that the Boche had something in his mind with regard to the young man. Long afterwards, in 1922, when I had come over to England, I thought I would make some inquiries about Varney, and I began to see through Stahlhaube’s little game. This Varney had been one of the cleverest analytical experts extant, and was employed in the pathological department at Scotland Yard. Drugs were his speciality. See? Next thing I heard was from the Italian police, who reported that von Eisen was back in his old haunts in Milan. In the meantime I had made the acquaintance of Miss Varney, and suggested to her that her brother might still be alive.
“Just about this time two new sorts of drug came on to the market, and we couldn’t get the slightest idea where they were coming from, but at the back of my head was the idea that Stahlhaube had got young Varney in his clutches and was forcing him to manufacture the drugs for Stahlhaube’s drug syndicate.
“In 1924 Jaffray and myself started our old Paris headquarters again, and we felt that in a few months we should have the whole gang well set. Well, directly Relph here told Jaffray the tale which Salvatori had begun to tell, and mentioned the name Moreatte and Co., Jaffray realised that we had stumbled on the same old crowd once more. He got into touch with me immediately, and we agreed to work together, although we knew little of the actual facts of the murder then, or why it had been committed.”
“But you don’t mean that you haven’t found out who murdered Salvatori....” said Jevons. “I thought you said Brandon....”
“I know that Brandon was one of the original partners in Moreatte and Co., but I don’t know that he murdered Salvatori or Zweitt,” said the Onlooker. “Another thing, supposing that Brandon had murdered Zweitt, who was it took the trouble to send back the body to Brandon’s office? Mind you, I’m not saying that Brandon didn’t murder these fellows. I’m simply saying that we have no actual facts pointing that way. Salvatori was stabbed between 20 minutes to ten and ten o’clock. I’m absolutely certain of this, because I didn’t leave the shop myself till twenty to ten.”
“So you were in Salvatori’s shop on the night of the murder, too?” said the astonished Jevons.
“I followed Miss Varney there,” said the Onlooker. “She arrived there immediately after Relph left, and it was because Salvatori did not want Relph to meet anyone that he asked him to leave. We had a conversation concerning Varney, and Salvatori produced Harry Varney’s identification bracelet — the bracelet which was stolen from Relph’s room that night. Ling had nothing to do with this theft. The bracelet was stolen by one of Stahlhaube’s gang, who, foolishly enough, left that warning with the steel helmet drawn on it. Stahlhaube wanted that bracelet back; it was the only thing which, to his mind, would connect Varney with the man he had kidnapped, and who was in his power. By the same token one might easily come to the conclusion that Stahlhaube was responsible for the murder of Salvatori. I don’t believe this, though. The murder wasn’t scientific enough for Stahlhaube.”
“I wonder what the motive was for the Salvatori and Zweitt murders?” said Jevons. “Another thing, who and what is Ling, and what have these Chinese to do with it all?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said the Onlooker. “I’m beginning to get an idea, though. One thing is certain. Hop Fi, for some reason best known to himself, was keen on looking after the safety of Relph, Miss Varney, and myself. From what happened down at Frimley it is also certain that Stahlhaube was sure that we were, all of us, connected with Brandon, and you will remember how amused Ling was at this idea.
“It seems to me,” said the Onlooker, “that the gang split some time previous to the war, and that Brandon must have transferred his sphere of activities to England, taking his own particular pals with him. We’ve got enough on them to clean up Stahlhaube and Brandon and as many of their respective gangs as we can lay our hands on right now, but if we do so what good do we do? All we know is that Stahlhaube stole an identification bracelet from Relph’s rooms. We believe that Stahlhaube or Brandon had something to do with the Salvatori-Zweitt murders, but we can prove nothing. We know that Brandon is preparing to make a get-away, and that he came to this decision about the time that Zweitt’s body arrived in the packing case, but why we don’t know. We know that Stahlhaube is out to get Brandon and that Brandon doesn’t love Stahlhaube. We don’t know anything about Hop Fi and his bunch — who they are or what they are after. But it stands to reason,” he continued, “that something is going to happen soon, and that something will give us a lead. Brandon’s next move is going to give us the big thing in this job, and I think I know what it will be.”
I told the Onlooker about my search in Brandon’s office, and produced the plan which I had taken from the account book. He studied it carefully.
“Good work,” he said, “although it doesn’t tell me a great deal that I have not already guessed. These vaults may have been used in pre-war days by the gang or, on the other hand, and I think more likely, Brandon may have information about the secret passages in the vaults which is unknown to Stahlhaube. I think—”
The telephone on the table beside me jangled. The Onlooker reached for the instrument, and then stayed his hand.
“Take that call, Relph,” he said suddenly. “Your voice isn’t known. There isn’t a soul in London who knows my telephone number except two men, neither of whom would be ringing me at this hour. It may be a wrong number....”
