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

never thought she could be so agitated. The discovery had

evidently thrown her off her balance, and she was hardly lucid when she

explained.

 

‘I come here to collect my uncle’s letters,’ she said. ‘He’s abroad… his

name is Jackson,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And every Thursday I have a

woman in to clean up the fiat. I can’t afford the time; I’m working in an

office.’

 

They had left Elk staring at an engraving in the corridor, and it was an

opportunity to make matters a little easier, if at first a little more

uncomfortable, for her.

 

‘Miss Rivers, your uncle is Arthur Ingle,’ said Jim kindly, and she went

very red. ‘It is quite understandable that you shouldn’t wish to

advertise the fact, but I thought I’d tell you I knew, just to save you a

great deal of unnecessary—’ He stopped and seemed at a loss.

 

‘“Lying” is the word you want,’ she said frankly. ‘Yes, Arthur Ingle

lived here, but he lived here in the name of Jackson. Did you know that?’

she asked anxiously.

 

He nodded.

 

‘That’s the door.’ She pointed.

 

The flat was of an unusual construction. There was a very large

dining-room with a low-timbered roof and panelled walls, from which led

three doors—one to the kitchenette, the other two, she explained, to

Arthur Ingle’s bedroom and a spare apartment which he used as a lumber

room. It was the door of the lumber room which she indicated.

 

Jim tried the handle; the door was fast. Stooping down he peered through

the keyhole and had a glimpse of an open window through which the yellow

fog showed.

 

‘Are these doors usually left open?’

 

‘Always,’ she said emphatically. ‘Sometimes the cleaning woman comes

before I return. Tonight she is late and I’m rather early.’

 

‘Where does that door lead?’

 

‘To the kitchen.’

 

She went in front of him into the tiny room. It was spotlessly clean and

had one window, flush with that which he had seen through the keyhole of

the next room. He looked down into a bottomless void, but just beneath

was a narrow parapet. He swung one leg across the sill, only to find his

arm held in a frenzied grip by the girl.

 

‘You mustn’t go, you’ll be killed!’ she gasped and he laughed at her, not

ill pleased, for the risk was practically nil.

 

‘I’ve got a pretty high regard for me,’ he said, and in another instant

he had swung clear, gripped the lower sash of the second window and had

pulled himself into the room.

 

He could see nothing except the dim outlines of three trunks stacked one

on top of the other. He switched on the light and turned to survey the

confusion. Old boxes and trunks which, he guessed, had been piled in some

order, were dragged into the centre of the room to allow the free

operation of the vanished burglar. Recessed into the wall, thus cleared,

was a safe the door of which was open. On the floor beneath was a rough

circle of metal burnt from the door—it was still hot when he touched

it—by the small blowlamp that the burglar had left behind him.

 

He unlocked the door of the room and admitted Elk and the girl.

 

‘That’s good work,’ said Elk, whose detached admiration for the genius of

law-breakers was at least sincere. ‘Safe’s empty! Not so much as a

cigarette card left behind. Good work! Toby Haggitt or Lew

Yakobi—they’re the only two men in London that could have done it.’

 

The girl was gazing wide-eyed at the ‘good work’. She was very pale, Jim

noticed, and misread the cause.

 

‘What was in the safe?’ he asked.

 

She shook her head.

 

‘I don’t know—I didn’t even know that there was a safe in the room. He

will be terrible about this!’

 

Carlton knew the ‘he’ was the absent Ingle. ‘He won’t know for some time,

anyway—’ he began, but she broke in upon his reassurance.

 

‘Next week,’ she said; ‘he is being released on Wednesday.’

 

Elk scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Somebody knew that,’ he said; ‘he

hadn’t a partner either.’

 

Arthur Ingle was indeed a solitary worker. His frauds had been

unsuspected even by such friends as he had in his acting days—for they

had covered a period of twelve years before his arrest and conviction. To

the members of his company he was known as a bad paymaster and an

unscrupulous manager; none imagined that this clever player of character

parts was ‘Lobber & Syne, Manufacturing Jewellers, of Clerkenwell,’ and

other aliases that produced him such golden harvests.

 

‘It was no fault of yours,’ said Jim Carlton; and she submitted to a

gentle pat on the shoulder. ‘There’s no sense in worrying about it.’

 

Elk was examining the blowlamp under the electric light.

 

‘Bet it’s Toby,’ he said, and walked to the window.

 

‘That’s his graft. He’d make a cat burglar look like a wool-eatin’

kitten! Parapets are like the Great West Road to Toby—he’d stop to

manicure his nails on three inches of rotten sandstone.’

 

The identity of the burglar worried Jim less than it did the girl. He had

the brain of a lightning calculator. A hundred aspects of the crime, a

hundred possibilities and explanations flickered through his mind and

none completely satisfied him. Unless—

 

The Splendid Harlow was on the way to becoming an obsession. There was no

immense sum of money to be made from discovering the secrets of a

convicted swindler.

 

That there was money in the safe he did not for one moment believe. Ingle

was not the type of criminal which hid its wealth in safes. He credited

him with a dozen banking accounts in fictitious names, and each holding

money on deposit.

 

They went back into the panelled dining-room. The apartment interested

Jim, for here was every evidence of luxury and refinement. The flat must

have cost thousands of pounds to furnish. And then he remembered that

Arthur Ingle had been convicted on three charges. Evidence in a number of

others, which must have produced enormous profits, was either missing or

of too shaky a character to produce. This apartment represented coups

more successful than those for which Arthur Ingle had been convicted.

 

‘Do you know your uncle very well?’

 

She shook her head.

 

‘I knew him better many years ago,’ she said, ‘when he was an actor,

before he—well, before he got rich! I am his only living relation.’ She

raised her head, listening.

 

Somebody had knocked at the outer door.

 

‘It may be the charwoman,’ she said, and went along the passage to open

the door.

 

A man was standing on the mat outside, tall, commanding, magnificent in

his well-cut evening clothes. His snowy linen blazed and twinkled with

diamonds; the buttons on his white waistcoat were aglitter.

 

It was part of the primitive in the man, so that she saw nothing vulgar

in the display. But something within her shrank under his pale gaze. She

had a strange and inexplicable sensation of being in the presence of a

power beyond earthly control. She was crushed by the sense of his immense

superiority. So she might have felt had she found herself confronted by a

tiger.

 

‘My name is Harlow—we met on Dartmoor,’ he said, and showed a line of

even teeth in a smile. ‘May I come in?’

 

She could not speak in her astonishment, but somebody answered for her.

 

‘Come in, Harlow,’ drawled Jim Carlton’s voice. ‘I’d love to have your

first impression of Dartmoor; is it really as snappy as people think?’