“You have merely exchanged a spy you know for a spy you don’t know,” said George Manfred, “though I never question these freakish acts of yours, Leon. So often they have a trick of turning up trumps. By the way, the police are raiding the Gringo Club in the Victoria Dock Road tonight, and they may be able to pick up a few of Mr. Oberzohn’s young gentlemen who are certain to be regular users of the place.”
The telephone bell rang shrilly, and Leon took up the receiver, and recognized Meadows’ voice.
“I’ve got a queer story for you,” said the inspector immediately.
“Did he talk?” asked the interested Leon.
“After a while. We took a fingerprint impression, and found that he was on the register. More than that, he is a ticket-of-leave man. As an ex-convict we can send him back to finish his unexpired time. I promised to say a few words for him, and he spilt everything. The most interesting item is that Oberzohn is planning to be married.”
“To be married? Who is this?” asked Manfred, in surprise. “Oberzohn?”
Leon nodded.
“Who is the unfortunate lady?” asked Leon.
There was a pause, and then: “Miss Leicester.”
Manfred saw the face of his friend change colour, and guessed.
“Does he know when?” asked Leon in a different voice.
“No. The licence was issued over a week ago, which means that Oberzohn can marry any morning he likes to bring along his bride. What’s the idea, do you think?”
“Drop in this evening and either I or George will tell you,” said Leon.
He put the telephone on the hook very carefully.
“That is a danger I had not foreseen, although it was obviously the only course Oberzohn could take. If he marries her, she cannot be called in evidence against him. May I see the book, George?”
Manfred unlocked the wall safe and brought back a small ledger. Leon Gonsalez turned the pages thoughtfully.
“Dennis—he has done good work for us, hasn’t he?” he asked.
“Yes, he’s a very reliable man. He owes us, amongst other things, his life. Do you remember, his wife was—”
“I remember.” Leon scribbled the address of a man who had proved to be one of the most trustworthy of his agents.
“What are you going to do?” asked Manfred.
“I’ve put Dennis on the doorstep of the Greenwich registrar’s office from nine o’clock in the morning until half-past three in the afternoon, and he will have instructions from me that, the moment he sees Oberzohn walk out of a cab with a lady, he must push him firmly but gently under the wheels of the cab and ask the driver politely to move up a yard.”
Leon in his more extravagantly humorous moods was very often in deadly earnest.
XVII
Mr. Newton’s Dilemma
The most carefully guided streaks of luck may, in spite of all precautions, overflow into the wrong channel, and this had happened to Mr. Montague Newton, producing an evening that was financially disastrous and a night from which sleep was almost banished. He had had one of his little card parties; but whether it was the absence of Joan, and the inadequacy of her fluffy-haired substitute, or whether the wine had disagreed with one of the most promising victims, the result was the same. They had played chemin de fer, and the gilded pigeon, whose feathers seemed already to be ornamenting the headdress of Monty Newton, had been successful, and when he should have been signing cheques for large amounts, he was cashing his counters with a reluctant host.
The night started wrong with Joan’s substitute, whose name was Lisa. She had guided to the establishment, via an excellent dinner at Mero’s, the son of an African millionaire. Joan, of course, would have brought him alone, but Lisa, less experienced, had allowed a young-looking friend of the victim to attach himself to the party, and she had even expected praise for her perspicacity and enterprise in producing two birds for the stone which Mr. Newton so effectively wielded, instead of one.
Monty did not resent the presence of the newcomer, and rather took the girl’s view, until he learnt that Lisa’s “find” was not, as she had believed, an officer of the Guards, but a sporting young lawyer with a large criminal practice, and one who had already, as a junior, conducted several prosecutions for the Crown. The moment his name was mentioned, Monty groaned in spirit. He was, moreover, painfully sober. His friend was not so favourably situated.
That was the first of the awkward things to happen. The second was the bad temper of the player, who, when the bank was considerably over £3,000, had first of all insisted upon the cards being reshuffled, and then had gone banquo—the game being baccarat. Even this contretemps might have been overcome, but after he had expressed his willingness to “give it,” the card which Monty had so industriously palmed, slipped from his hand to the table, and though the fact was unnoticed by the players, the lawyer’s attention being diverted at the moment, it was impossible to recover that very valuable piece of pasteboard. And Monty had done a silly thing. Instead of staging an artistic exhibition of annoyance at remarks which the millionaire’s son had made, he decided to take a chance on the natural run of the cards. And he had lost. On top of that, the slightly inebriated player had decided that when a man had won a coup of £3,000 it was time to stop playing. So Monty experienced the mortification of paying out money, and accompanying his visitor to the door with a smile that was so genial and so full of good-fellowship that the young gentleman was compelled to apologize for his boorishness.
“Come along some other night and give me my revenge,” said Monty.
“You bet I will! I’m going to South Africa tomorrow, but I shall be back early next year, and I’ll
