THE COMPLETE FOUR JUST MEN SERIES (6 Detective Thrillers in One Edition). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
smile that came to his lips was reflected on the editor’s face.
Walking through the echoing corridors of Megaphone House, Charles whistled that popular and satirical song, the chorus of which runs —
By kind permission of the Megaphone,
By kind permission of the Megaphone. Summer comes when Spring has gone,
And the world goes spinning on,
By permission of the Daily Megaphone.
Presently, he found himself in Fleet Street, and, standing at the edge of the curb, he answered a taxidriver’s expectant look with a nod.
‘Where to, sir?’ asked the driver.
‘37 Presley Street, Walworth — round by the “Blue Bob” and the second turning to the left.’
Crossing Waterloo Bridge it occurred to him that the taxi might attract attention, so halfway down the Waterloo Road he gave another order, and, dismissing the vehicle, he walked the remainder of the way.
Charles knocked at 37 Presley Street, and after a little wait a firm step echoed in the passage, and the door was half opened. The passage was dark, but he could see dimly the thickset figure of the man who stood waiting silently.
‘Is that Mr. Long?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said the man curtly.
Charles laughed, and the man seemed to recognize the voice and opened the door a little wider.
‘Not Mr. Garrett?’ he asked in surprise.
‘That’s me,’ said Charles, and walked into the house.
His host stopped to fasten the door, and Charles heard the snap of the well-oiled lock and the scraping of a chain. Then with an apology the man pushed past him and, opening the door, ushered him into a well-lighted room, motioned Charles to a deepseated chair, seated himself near a small table, turned down the page of the book from which he had evidently been reading, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
‘I’ve come to consult you,’ said Charles.
A lesser man than Mr. Long might have been grossly flippant, but this young man — he was thirty-five, but looked older — did not descend to such a level.
‘I wanted to consult you,’ he said in reply.
His language was the language of a man who addresses an equal, but there was something in his manner which suggested deference.
‘You spoke to me about Milton,’ he went on, ‘but I find I can’t read him. I think it is because he is not sufficiently material.’ He paused a little. ‘The only poetry I can read is the poetry of the Bible, and that is because materialism and mysticism are so ingeniously blended—’
He may have seen the shadow on the journalist’s face, but he stopped abruptly.
‘I can talk about books another time,’ he said. Charles did not make the conventional disclaimer, but accepted the other’s interpretation of the urgency of his business.
‘You know everybody,’ said Charles, ‘all the queer fish in the basket, and a proportion of them get to know you — in time.’ The other nodded gravely.
‘When other sources of information fail,’ continued the journalist, ‘I have never hesitated to come to you — Jessen.’
It may be observed that ‘Mr. Long’ at the threshold of the house became ‘Mr. Jessen’ in the intimacy of the inner room.
‘I owe more to you than ever you can owe to me,’ he said earnestly; ‘you put me on the track,’ he waved his hand round the room as though the refinement of the room was the symbol of that track of which he spoke. ‘You remember that morning? — if you have forgotten, I haven’t — when I told you that to forget — I must drink? And you said—’
‘I haven’t forgotten, Jessen,’ said the correspondent quietly; ‘and the fact that you have accomplished all that you have is a proof that there’s good stuff in you.’
The other accepted the praise without comment.
‘Now,’ Charles went on, ‘I want to tell you what I started out to tell: I’m following a big story. It’s the Four Just Men story; you know all about it? I see that you do; well, I’ve got to get into touch with them somehow. I do not for one moment imagine that you can help me, nor do I expect that these chaps have any accomplices amongst the people you know.’
‘They have not,’ said Jessen; ‘I haven’t thought it worth while inquiring. Would you like to go to the Guild?’
Charles pursed his lips in thought.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s an idea; yes, when?’
‘Tonight — if you wish.’
‘Tonight let it be,’ said Charles.
His host rose and left the room.
He reappeared presently, wearing a dark overcoat and about his throat a black silk muffler that emphasized the pallor of his strong square face.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said, and unlocked a drawer, from which he took a revolver.
He turned the magazine carefully, and Charles smiled.
‘Will that be necessary?’ he asked.
Jessen shook his head.
‘No,’ he said with a little embarrassment, ‘but — I have given up all my follies and fancies, but this one sticks.’
‘The fear of discovery?’
Jessen nodded.
‘It’s the only folly left — this fear. It’s the fly in the ointment.’
He led the way through the narrow passage, first having extinguished the lamp.
They stood together in the dark street, whilst Jessen made sure the fastening of the house.
‘Now,’ he said, and in a few minutes they found themselves amidst the raucous confusion of a Walworth Road market-night.
They walked on in silence, then turning into East Street, they threaded a way between loitering shoppers, dodged between stalls overhung by flaring naphtha lamps, and turned sharply into a narrow street.
Both men seemed sure of their ground, for they walked quickly and unhesitatingly, and striking off through a tiny court that connected one malodorous thoroughfare with the other, they stopped simultaneously before the door of what appeared to be a disused factory.
A peaky-faced youth who sat by the door and acted as doorkeeper thrust his hand forward as they entered, but recognizing them drew back without a word.
They ascended the flight of ill-lighted stairs that confronted them, and pushing open a door at the head of the stairs, Jessen ushered his friend into a large hall.
It was a curious scene that met the journalist’s eye. Well acquainted with ‘The Guild’ as he was, and with its extraordinary composition, he had never yet put his foot inside its portals. Basing his conception upon his knowledge of working-men’s clubs and philanthropic institutions for the regeneration of degraded youth, he missed the inevitable billiard-table; he missed, too, the table strewn with month-old literature, but most of all he missed the smell of free coffee.
The floor was covered with sawdust, and about the fire that crackled and blazed at one end of the room there was a semicircle of chairs occupied by men of varying ages. Old-looking young men and young-looking old men, men in rags, men well dressed, men flashily attired in loud clothing and resplendent with shoddy jewellery. And they were drinking.
Two youths at one end of the crescent shared a quart pewter pot; the flashy man whose voice dominated the conversation held a glass of whisky in one beringed