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

the horrible

things that may not be written about… he could not think back without

feeling physically sick. In truth he would not have stretched out his

hand if, by so doing, he could have opened those cell doors and released

to the world the social sweepings whom it was his professed mission to

salve.

 

His work finished, he lit a cigarette, fitted it carefully into an amber

holder and, adjusting the cushions, lay down on the settee and smoked and

thought till the telephone bell roused him and he got up.

 

The voice that spoke to him was quite unfamiliar. ‘Is that Mr Ingle?’

 

‘Yes,’ he said shortly.

 

‘Will you make a sacrifice of your principles?’ was the astonishing

request, and the man smiled sourly.

 

‘What I have left, yes. What do you wish?’

 

It might be an old friend in need of money, in which case the

conversation would be short. For Arthur Ingle had no foolish ideas about

charity.

 

‘Could you meet me tonight on the sidewalk immediately opposite Horse

Guards Parade?’

 

‘In the park, you mean?’ asked Ingle, astonished. ‘Who are you? I’ll tell

you before you go any further that I’m not inclined to go out of my way

to meet strangers. I’m a pretty tired man tonight.’

 

‘My name is—’ a pause—‘Harlow.’

 

Involuntarily, Ingle uttered an exclamation.

 

‘Stratford Harlow?’ he asked incredulously.

 

‘Yes, Stratford Harlow.’

 

There was a long pause before Arthur Ingle spoke. ‘It’s rather an

extraordinary request, but I realise that it isn’t an idle one. How do I

know you’re Harlow?’

 

‘Call me up in ten minutes at my house and ask for me,’ said the voice.

‘Will you come?’

 

Again Mr Ingle hesitated. ‘Yes, I’ll come,’ he said. ‘At what time?’

 

‘At ten o’clock exactly. I won’t keep you hanging about this cold night.

You can get into my car and we’ll drive somewhere.’

 

Ingle hung up the telephone a little bewildered. He was a cautious man

and after ten minutes had expired he put through the number he discovered

in the phone directory, and the same voice answered him. ‘Are you

satisfied?’

 

‘Yes, I’ll be there—ten o’clock,’ he said.

 

He had two hours to wait. The charwoman did not arrive till nine. He gave

her instructions, made arrangements for the following day; and went back

to the dining-room to think out the extraordinary request which Stratford

Harlow had made of him. And the more he thought, the less inclined he as

to keep the appointment. At last he turned to his writing table, took out

a sheet of paper and scrawled a note.

 

“DEAR MR HARLOW,

 

“I am afraid I must disappoint you. I am in such a position, being an

ex-convict, that I cannot afford to take the slightest risk. I will tell

you I frankly that what I have in my mind is that this may be a frame-up

organised by my friends the police, and I think that it would be, to say

the least, foolish on my part to go any farther until I know your

requirements, or at least have written proof that you have approached me.

 

“Yours sincerely,

 

“ARTHUR INGLE.”

 

He put the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and marked in the corner

in bold letters ‘By hand. Urgent.’ Even now he was not satisfied. He went

to the telephone to call a district messenger, but he did not lift the

receiver. His curiosity was piqued. He felt he must know, with the least

possible delay, just why Stratford Harlow had summoned Arthur Ingle, late

of Dartmoor convict establishment. And why should the meeting be secret?

A man of Harlow’s standing would not lose caste, even if he sent for him

to go to his house. He came to a sudden resolve, pitched the letter on to

the table, went into his bedroom and changed into a dark suit.

 

By the time he had climbed into his overcoat he was satisfied that he was

taking the wisest course. The charwoman was in the kitchen and he opened

the door to pass his last admonition. She was on her knees,

scrubbing-brush in hand, and he looked down into a long, weak face over

which strayed lank wisps of grey-black hair.

 

‘I’m going out. You needn’t wait. Finish your work and be here in the

morning before eight,’ he barked and slammed the door on this

inconsiderable member of the proletariat and went down the stairs in a

spirit of adventure that made him feel almost young.

 

As the Horse Guards clock was chiming the three-quarters he came into

Birdcage Walk and turned along the lonely footpath that runs parallel

with the House Guards and flanks the broad parade ground. There was no

hurry; he fell into a gentle stroll, fast enough to keep him warm and to

avoid any suspicion of loitering within the meaning of the act.

 

It could not be a frame-up, he had decided. A man of Harlow’s character

would hardly lend himself to such a plot; and in his heart of hearts, for

all his bitter gibes at the police, he did not believe seriously in the

prison legend of innocent men being trapped by cunning police plots.

 

He looked at his watch under a street standard; it was five minutes to

ten, and he strolled back the way he had come, and stopped immediately in

a line with the gates that closed the arch of the Horse Guards. As he did

so a car came noiselessly along the sidewalk from the direction of

Westminster.

 

It stopped in front of him and the door opened.

 

‘Will you come in, Mr Ingle?’ said a low voice; and without a word he

stepped inside, pulling the door close after him and sank down on a soft

seat by the side of a man who, he at once recognised, was that Splendid

Harlow, whose name, even in Dartmoor, symbolised wealth beyond dreams.

 

The car, gathering speed, turned into the Mall, swung round towards

Buckingham Palace and across the Corner into Hyde Park. It slackened

speed now, and Stratford Harlow began to talk…

 

For an hour the car moved at a leisurely pace round the Circle. Sleet was

falling. Ingle listened like a man in a dream to the amazing proposition

which his companion advanced.

 

He, at any rate, sat in comfort. Inspector Jim Carlton, following in an

aged convertible was chilled and wet, and the highly sensitive microphone

which he had placed in Harlow’s car failed to transmit the talk it was so

vital he should hear.

 

Arthur Ingle arrived home at his flat soon after eleven. The cleaner had

gone and he was glad; dull clod and unimaginative as she was she yet

might have read and interpreted the light that shone in his eyes or have

sensed the exultation of his heart.

 

Brewing himself some coffee, he sat down at his desk and in to make

notes. Once he rose and, entering his bedroom, turned on the light above

his dressing-table and stared at himself for five minutes in the glass.

The scrutiny seemed to afford him a certain amount of satisfaction, for

he; smiled and returned to his notemaking.

 

That smile did not leave his lips; and once he laughed out loud.

Evidently something had happened that afforded him the most exquisite

happiness.