The Joker by Edgar Wallace (best inspirational books .txt) 📕

bank. There was a side

door, which Mr Harlow opened and stood courteously aside to allow his

companion to pass.

 

They went up a long flight of stairs to another door, which Harlow

unlocked.

 

‘Here we are, my dear fellow,’ he said, closing the door gently. ‘This is

what is called a labour-saving flat; one of the modern creations designed

by expensive architects for the service of wealthy tenants who are so

confoundedly mean that they weigh out their servants’ food! Here we shall

live in comparative quiet for a week or two.’

 

‘What has happened?’ asked Marling.

 

The big man shrugged his shoulders.

 

‘I do not know—I rather imagine that I recognise the inevitable, but I

am not quite sure. Your room is here, at the back of the house. Do you

mind?’

 

Marling saw that it was a more luxurious apartment than that which he had

left. Books there were in plenty. The only drawback was that the windows

were covered with a thin coating of white paint which made them opaque.

 

‘I prepared this place for you two, nay, three years ago,’ said Harlow.

‘For a week or two, until we can make arrangements, I am afraid we shall

have to do our own housework.’

 

He patted the other on the shoulder.

 

‘You’re a good fellow,’ he said. ‘There are times when I would like to

change places with you. Vivit post funera virtus! I, alas! have no

virtues, but a consuming desire to make wheels turn.’

 

He pursed his thick lips and then said, apropos of nothing: ‘She is

really a very nice girl indeed!… And she has a sense of humour. How rare

a quality in a woman!’

 

‘Of whom are you talking?’ asked the bearded man, a little bewildered.

 

‘The might-have-been,’ was the flippant reply. ‘Even the wicked cannot be

denied their dreams. Would you call me a sentimentalist, Marling?’

Marling shook his head, and Mr Harlow laughed not unkindly. ‘You’re the

most appallingly honest man I’ve ever met,’ he said, in admiration; ‘and

I think you’re the only human being in the world for whom I have a

genuine affection.’

 

His companion stared at him with wide-open eyes. And Mr Harlow met the

gaze without faltering. He was speaking the truth. His one nightmare in

the past twenty years was that this simple soul should fall ill; for if

that catastrophe had occurred, Stratford Harlow would have risked ruin

and suffering to win him back to health. Marling was the only joke in

life that he took seriously.

 

Every morning for three years, two newspapers had been thrust under the

door of Harlow’s flat and had been disposed of by the hired servant who

came to keep the place in order. Every morning a large bottle of milk had

been deposited on the mat and had been similarly cleared away by the

servant, who would come no more, for she had received a letter dispensing

with her services on the morning Harlow and his companion arrived. The

letter was not signed ‘Stratford Harlow,’ but bore the name by which she

knew her employer.

 

The first day was a dull one. Harlow had nothing to do and inactivity

exasperated him. He was down early the next morning to take in milk and

newspapers; and for a long time sat at his ease, a thin cigar between his

teeth, a cup of cooling coffee by his side, reading of his disappearance.

The ports were watched; detectives were on duty at the termini of all

airways. The flying squad was scouring London. The phrase seemed

familiar. The flying squad from police headquarters spend their lives

scouring London, and London seems none the cleaner for it.

 

There was his portrait across three columns, headed ‘The Splendid

Harlow,’ and only hinting at the charge which would be laid against him.

He learnt, without regret or sorrow, of the arrest of Mrs Edwins—he had

a lifelong grudge against Mrs Edwins, who had a lifelong grudge against

him. She was wholly incapable of understanding his attitude to life. She

had wondered why he did not live abroad in the most luxurious and exotic

atmosphere. She would have excused a seraglio; she could not forgive his

industry and continence.

 

She had made no statement, the newspapers said, and he suspected her of

making many of a vituperative character.

 

There was a hint of Marling in the paragraph:

 

‘The police are particularly desirous of getting into touch with the man

who left the Park Lane house at the same time as Harlow. He is described

as tall, rather pale, with a long yellow beard. None of the servants of

the house has ever seen him. It may be explained that Mr Harlow’s

domestic arrangements were of an unusual character. All the servants

slept out in a house which Harlow had hired… ‘

 

Mr Harlow turned over the page to see the sporting cartoon. The humour of

Tom Webster never failed to amuse him. Then he turned back to the Stock

Exchange news.

 

Markets were recovering rapidly. He made a calculation on the margin of

the paper and purred at his profits.

 

He could feel a glow of satisfaction though he was a fugitive from

justice; though all sorts of horrid possibilities were looming before

him; though it seemed nothing could prevent his going the dreary

way-Brixton Prison, Pentonville, Wormwood Scrubs, Dartmoor… if not

worse. If not worse.

 

He took out his cigar and looked at it complacently. Mrs Gibbins had died

a natural death, though that would take some proving. It was a most

amazingly simple accident. Her muddy shoes had slipped on the polished

floor of his library; and when he had picked her up she was dead. That

was the truth and nothing but the truth. And Miss Mercy Harlow had died

naturally; and the little green bottle that Marling had seen had

contained nothing more noxious than the restorative with which the doctor

had entrusted him against the heart attack from which she succumbed.

 

He rose and stretched himself, drank the cold coffee with a wry face, and

shuffled along leisurely in his slippered feet to call Saul Marling. He

knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Turning the handle, he went

in. The room was empty. So, too, was the bathroom.

 

Mr Harlow walked along the passage to the door leading down to the

street. It was open. So also was the street door. He stood for a while at

the head of the stairs, his hands in his pockets, the dead cigar between

his teeth. Then he descended, closed the door and, walking back to the

sitting-room, threw the cigar into the fireplace, lit another and sat

down to consider matters; his forehead wrinkled painfully.

 

Presently he gave utterance to die thought which filled his mind.

 

‘I do hope that poor fellow is careful how he crosses the road—he isn’t

used to traffic!’

 

But there were policemen who would help a timid, bearded man across the

busy streets, and it was rather early for heavy traffic.

 

That thought comforted him. He took up the newspaper and in a second was

absorbed in the Welbury divorce case which occupied the greater part of

the page.