Edgar Wallace

Again the Ringer

Warsaw 2018

Contents

The Man With The Red Beard

Case Of The Home Secretary

The Murderer Of Many Names

A Servant Of Women

The Trimming Of Paul Lumière

The Blackmail Boomerang

Miss Brown’s £7,000 Windfall

The End Of Mr. Bash—The Brutal

The Complete Vampire

The Swiss Head Waiter

The Escape Of Mr. Bliss

The Man With The Beard

The Accidental Snapshot

The Sinister Dr. Lutteur

The Obliging Cobbler

The Fortune Of Forgery

A “Yard” Man Kidnapped

I. THE MAN WITH THE RED BEARD

To the average reader the name of Miska Guild is associated with slight and possibly amusing eccentricities. For example, he once went down Regent Street at eleven o’clock at night at sixty miles an hour, crippled two unfortunate pedestrians, and smashed a lamp standard and his car. The charge that he was drunk failed, because indisputably he was sober when he was dragged out of the wreckage, himself unhurt.

Nevertheless, an unsympathetic magistrate convicted, despite the conflict of medical evidence. Miska Guild went to the Sessions with the best advocates that money could buy and had the conviction quashed.

The inner theatrical set knew him as a giver of freakish dinner parties; had an idea that he gave other parties even more freakish but less descriptive. Once he went to Paris, and the French police most obligingly hushed up a lurid incident as best they could.

They could not quite hush up the death of the pretty chorus-girl who was found on the pavement outside the hotel, having fallen from a fifth- floor window, but they were very helpful in explaining that she had mistaken the french windows for the door of her sitting-room. Nobody at the inquiry asked how she managed to climb the balcony.

The only person who evinced a passionate interest in the proceedings was one Henry Arthur Milton, a fugitive from justice, who was staying at the hotel–not as Henry Arthur Milton, certainly not as “The Ringer”, by which title he was known; indeed, he bore no name by which the English police could identify him as the best-wanted man in Europe.

Mr. Guild paid heavily for all the trouble he had caused divers police officials and came back to London and to his magnificent flat in Carlton House Terrace quite unabashed, even though some of the theatrical celebrities with whom he was acquainted cut him dead whenever they met him; even though the most unpleasant rumours surrounded his Paris trip.

He was a man of thirty, reputedly a millionaire three times over. It is certain that he was very rich, and had the queerest ideas about what was and what was not the most amusing method of passing time. Had the Paris incident occurred in London neither his two nor his three millions would have availed him, nor all the advocacy of the greatest lawyers averted the most unpleasant consequences.

One bright November morning, when the sun rose in a clear blue sky and the leafless trees of Green Park had a peculiar splendour of their own, the second footman brought his breakfast to his bedside, and on the tray there was a registered letter. The postmark was Paris, the envelope was marked “Urgent and confidential; not to be opened by the secretary.”

Miska Guild sat up in bed, pushed back his long, yellowish hair from his eyes, bleared for a moment at the envelope and tore it open with a groan. There was a single sheet of paper, closely typewritten. It bore no address and began without a conventional preamble: ‘On October 18 you went to Paris, accompanied by a small party. In that party was a girl called Ethel Seddings, who was quite unaware of your character. She committed suicide in order to escape from you. I am called The Ringer; my name is Henry Arthur Milton, and Scotland Yard will furnish you with particulars of my past. As you are a man of considerable property and may wish to have time to make arrangements as to its disposal, I will give you a little grace. At the end of a reasonable period I shall come to London and kill you.’

That was all the letter contained. Miska read it through; looked at the back of the sheet for further inspiration; read it through again.

“Who the devil is The Ringer?” he asked.

The footman, who was an authority upon such matters, gave him a little inaccurate information. Miska examined the envelope without being enlightened any further, and then with a chuckle he was about to tear the letter into pieces but thought better “Send it up to Scotland Yard,” he commanded his secretary later in the morning, and would have forgotten the unpleasant communication if he had not returned from lunch to find a rather sinister-looking man with a short black beard who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Bliss from Scotland Yard.

“About that letter? Oh, rot! You’re not taking that seriously, are you?”

Bliss nodded slowly. “So seriously that I’m putting on two of my best men to guard you for a month or two.”

Miska looked at him incredulously.

“Do you really mean that? But surely…my footman tells me he’s a criminal; he wouldn’t dare come to London?”

Inspector Bliss smiled grimly. “He dared go into Scotland Yard when it suited him. This is the kind of case that would interest him.”

He recounted a few of The Ringer’s earlier cases, and Miska Guild became of a sudden a very agitated young man.

“Monstrous…a murderer at large, and you can’t catch him? I’ve never heard anything like it! Besides, that business in Paris–it was an accident. The poor, silly dear mistook the window for her sitting-room door–”

“I know all about that, Mr. Guild,” said Bliss quietly. “I’d rather we didn’t discuss that aspect of the matter. The only thing I can tell you is that, if I know The Ringer–and nobody has better reason for knowing him and his methods–he will try to keep his word. It’s up to us to protect you. You’re to employ no new servants without consulting me. I want a daily notification telling me where you’re going and how you’re spending your time. The Ringer is the only criminal in the world, so far as I know, who depends entirely upon his power of disguise. We haven’t a photograph of him as himself at Scotland Yard, and I’m one of the few people who have seen him as himself.”

Miska jibbed at the prospect of accounting for his movements in advance. He was, he said, a creature of impulse, and was never quite sure where he would be next. Besides which, he was going to Berlin–”If you leave the country I will not be responsible for your life.” said Bliss shortly, and the young man turned pale.

At first he treated the matter as a joke, but as the weeks became a month the sight of the detective sitting by the side of his chauffeur, the unexpected appearance of a Scotland Yard man at his elbow wherever he moved, began to get on his nerves.

And then one night Bliss came to him with the devastating news, “The Ringer is in England,” he said.

Miska’s face was ghastly.

“How–how do you know?” he stammered.

But Bliss was not prepared to explain the peculiar qualities of Wally the Nose, or the peculiar behaviour of the man with the red beard.

When Wally the Nose passed through certain streets in Notting Dale he chose daylight for the adventure, and he preferred that a policeman should be in sight. Not that any of the less law-abiding folk of Netting Dale had any personal reason for desiring Wally the least harm, for, as he protested in his pathetic, lisping way, “he never did no harm” to anybody in Notting Dale.

He lived in a back room in Clewson Street, a tiny house rented by a deaf old woman who had had lodgers even more unsavoury than Wally, with his greasy, threadbare clothes, his big, protruding teeth, and his silly, moist face.

He came one night furtively to Inspector Stourbridge at the local police station, having been sent for.

“There’s goin’ to be a ‘bust’ at Lowes, the jewellers, in Islington, to-morrer, Mr. Stourbridge; some lads from Nottin’ Dale are in it, and Elfus is fencin’ the stuff. Is that what you wanted me about?”

He stood, turning his hat in his hands, his ragged coat almost touching the floor, his red eyelids blinking. Stourbridge had known many police informers, but none like Wally.

He hesitated, and then, with a “Wait here,” he went into a room that led from the charge room and closed the door behind him.

Chief Inspector Bliss sat at a table, his head on his hand, turning over a thick dossier of documents that lay on the table before him.

“That man I spoke to you about is here, sir–the nose. He’s the best we’ve ever had, and so long as he hasn’t got to take any extraordinary risk–or doesn’t know he’s taking it–he’ll be invaluable.”

Bliss pulled at his little beard and scowled. “Does he know why you have brought him here now?” he asked.

Stourbridge grinned. “No–I put him on to inquire about a jewel burglary–but we knew all about it beforehand.”

“Bring him in.”

Wally came shuffling into the private room, bunked from one to the other with an ingratiating grin.

“Yes, sir?” His voice was shrill and nervous.

“This is Mr. Bliss, of Scotland Yard,” said Stourbridge, and Wally bobbed his head.

“Heard about you, sir,” he said, in his high, piping voice. “You’re the bloke that got The Ringer–”

“To be exact, I didn’t,” said Bliss gruffly, “but you may.”

“Me, sir?” Wally’s mouth was open wide, his protruding rabbit’s teeth suggested to Stourbridge the favourite figure of a popular comic artist. “I don’t touch no Ringer, sir, with kind regards to you. If there’s any kind of work you want me to do, sir, I’ll do it. It’s a regular ‘obby of mine–I ought to have been in the p’lice. Up in Manchester they’ll tell you all about me. I’m the feller that found Spicy Brown when all the Manchester busies was lookin’ for him.”

“That’s why Manchester got a bit too hot for you, eh, Wally?” said Stourbridge.

The man shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, they was a bit hard on me –the lads, I mean. That’s why I come back to London. But I can’t help nosing, sir, and that’s a fact.”

“You can do a little nosing for me,” interrupted Bliss. And thereafter a new and a more brilliant spy watched the movements of the man with the red beard.

He had arrived in London by a ship which came from India but touched at Marseilles. He had on his passport the name of Tennett. He had travelled third-class. He was by profession an electrical engineer. Yet, despite his seeming poverty, he had taken a small and rather luxurious flat in Kensington.

It was his presence in Carlton House Terrace one evening that had first attracted the attention of Mr. Bliss. He came to see Guild, he said, on the matter of a project connected with Indian water power. The next day he was seen prospecting the house from the park side.

Ordinarily, it would have been a very simple matter to have pulled him in and investigated his credentials; but quite recently there had been what the Press had called a succession of police scandals. Two perfectly innocent men had been arrested in mistake for somebody else, and Scotland Yard was chary of taking any further risks.

Tennett was traced to his flat, and he was apparently a most elusive man, with a habit of taking taxicabs in crowded thoroughfares. What Scotland Yard might not do officially, it could do, and did do, unofficially. Wally the Nose listened with apparent growing discomfort.

“If it’s him, he’s mustard,” he said huskily. “I don’t like messing about with no Ringers. Besides, he hasn’t got a red beard.”

“Oh, shut up!” snarled Bliss. “He could grow one, couldn’t he? See what you can find out about him. If you happen to get into his flat and see any papers lying about, they might help you. I’m not suggesting you should do so, but if you did…”

Wally nodded wisely.

In three days he furnished a curious report to the detective who was detailed to meet him. The man with the red beard had paid a visit to Croydon aerodrome and had made inquiries about a single-seater taxi to carry him to the Continent. He had spent a lot of his time at an electrical supply company in the East End of London, and had made a number of mysterious purchases which he had carried home with him in a taxicab.

Bliss consulted his superior.

“Pull him in,” he suggested. “You can get a warrant to search his flat.”

“His flat’s been searched. There’s nothing there of the slightest importance,” reported Bliss.

He called that night at Carlton House Terrace and found Mr. Miska Guild a very changed man. These three months had reduced him to a nervous wreck.

“No news?” he asked apprehensively when the detective came in. “Has that wretched little creature discovered anything? By gad, he’s as clever as any of you fellows! I was talking with him last night. He was outside on the Terrace with one of your men. Now, Bliss, I’d better tell you the truth about this girl in Paris–”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Bliss, almost sternly.

He wanted to preserve, at any rate, a simulation of interest in Mr. Guild’s fate.

He had hardly left Carlton House Terrace when a taxicab drove in and Wally the Nose almost fell into the arms of the detective.

“Where’s Bliss?” he squeaked. “That red-whiskered feller’s disappeared…left his house, and he’s shaved on his beard, Mr. Connor. I didn’t recognise him when he come out. When I made inquiries I found he’d gorn for good.”

“The chief’s just gone,” said Connor, worried.

He went into the vestibule and was taken up to the floor on which Mr. Guild had his suite. The butler led him to the dining-room, where there was a phone connection, and left Wally the Nose in the hall. He was standing there disconsolately when Mr. Guild came out.

“Hullo! What’s the news?” he asked quickly.

Wally the Nose looked left and right.

“He’s telephonin’ to the boss,” he whispered hoarsely, “But I ain’t told him about the letter.”

He followed Miska into the library and gave that young man a piece of news that Mr. Guild never repeated.

He was waiting in the hall below when Connor came down.

“It’s all right–they arrested old red whiskers at Liverpool Street Station. We had a man watching him as well.”

Wally the Nose was pardonably annoyed, “What’s the use of having me and then puttin’ a busy on to trail him?” he demanded truculently. “That’s what I call double-crossing.”

“You hop off to Scotland Yard and see the chief,” said Connor, and Wally, grumbling audibly, vanished in the darkness.

The once red-bearded man sat in Inspector Bliss’s private room, and he was both indignant and frightened. “I don’t know that there’s any law preventing me taking off my beard, is there?” he demanded. “I was just going off to Holland, where I’m seeing a man who’s putting money into my power scheme.”

Bliss interrupted with a gesture. “When you came to England you were broke, Mr. Tennett, and yet immediately you reached London you took a very expensive flat, bought yourself a lot of new clothes, and seemingly have plenty of money to travel on the Continent. Will you explain that?”

The man hesitated, “Well, I’ll tell you the truth. When I got to London I was broke, but I got into conversation with a fellow at the station who told me he was interested in engineering. I explained my power scheme to him, and he was interested. He was not the kind of man I should have thought would have had any money, yet he weighed in with two hundred pounds, and told me just what I had to do. It was his idea that I should take the flat. He told me where to go every day and what to do. I didn’t want to part with the old beard, but he made me do that in the end, and then gave me three hundred pounds to go to Holland.”

Bliss looked at him incredulously.

“Did he also suggest you should call at Carlton House Terrace and interview Mr. Guild?”

Tennett nodded. “Yes, he did. I tell you, it made me feel that things weren’t right. I wasn’t quite sure of him, mind you, Mr. Bliss; he was such a miserable-looking devil–a fellow with rabbit’s teeth and red eyelids…”

Bliss came to his feet with a bound, stared across at Stourbridge, who was in the room.

“Wally!” he said.

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