“Pinner,” he said, holding the letter up, “I take it that you do not want to advertise the fact that somebody attempted to commit suicide in one of your flats?”
“That is the last thing in the world I want,” said the flat proprietor, fervently.
“Then I’m going to put this letter in my pocket. Will you telephone to the hospital and say there has been an accident. Don’t talk about suicide. The gentleman has recently come back from South Africa; he was packing his pistol, and it exploded.”
The man nodded and left the room hurriedly.
Gonsalez went to where Eden was lying and it was at that moment the young man’s eyes opened. He looked from Manfred to Gonsalez with a puzzled frown.
“My friend,” said Leon, in a gentle voice as he leant over the wounded man, “you have had an accident, you understand? You are not fatally injured; in fact, I think your injury is a very slight one. The ambulance will come for you and you will go to a hospital and I will visit you daily.”
“Who are you?” whispered the man.
“I am a neighbour of yours,” smiled Leon.
“The letter!” Eden gasped the words and Leon nodded.
“I have it in my pocket,” he said, “and I will restore it to you when you are recovered. You understand that you have had an accident?”
Eden nodded.
A quarter of an hour later the hospital ambulance rolled up to the door, and the would-be suicide was taken away.
“Now,” said Leon, when they were back in their own room, “we will discover what all this is about,” and very calmly he slit open the envelope and read.
“What is it?” asked Manfred.
“Our young friend came back from South Africa with £7,000, which he had accumulated in eight years of hard work. He lost it in less than eight hours at a gambling-house which he does not specify. He has not only lost all the money he has but more, and apparently has given cheques to meet his debts.”
Leon scratched his chin.
“That necessitates a further examination of his room. I wonder if the admirable Mr. Pinner will object?”
The admirable Mr. Pinner was quite willing that Leon should anticipate the inevitable visit of the police. The search was made, and Leon found a chequebook for which he had been looking, tucked away in the inside pocket of Jack Eden’s dress-suit, and brought it down to his room.
“No names,” he said disappointedly. “Just ‘cash’ on every counterfoil. All, I should imagine, to the same person. He banks with the Third National Bank of South Africa, which has an office in Throgmorton Street.”
He carefully copied the numbers of the cheques—there were ten in all.
“First of all,” he said, “as soon as the post office is open we will send a telegram to the bank stopping the payment of these. Of course he can be sued, but a gambling debt is not recoverable at law, and before that happens we shall see many developments.”
The first development came the next afternoon. Leon had given instructions that anybody who called for Mr. Eden was to be shown up to him, and at three o’clock came a very smartly dressed young man who aspirated his h’s with suspicious emphasis. “Is this Mr. Eden’s flat?”
“Is this Mr. Eden’s flat?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Gonsalez. “It is the flat of myself and my friend who are acting for Mr. Eden.”
The visitor frowned suspiciously at Leon.
“Acting for him?” he said. “Well, you can perhaps give me a little information about some cheques that have been stopped. My governor went to get a special clearance this morning, and the bank refused payment. Does Mr. Eden know all about this?”
“Who is your governor?” asked Leon pleasantly.
“Mr. Mortimer Birn.”
“And his address?”
The young man gave it. Mr. Mortimer Birn was apparently a bill-discounter, and had cashed the cheques for a number of people who did not want to pass them through their banks. The young man was very emphatic as to the cheques being the property of a large number of people.
“And they all came to Mr. Birn. What a singular coincidence,” agreed Leon.
“I’d rather see Mr. Eden, if you don’t mind,” said the emissary of Mr. Mortimer Birn, and his tone was unpleasant.
“You cannot see him because he has met with an accident,” said Leon. “But I will see your Mr. Birn.”
He found Mr. Birn in a very tiny office in Glasshouse Street. The gentleman’s business was not specified either on the doorplate or on the painted window, but Leon smelt “moneylender” the moment he went into his office.
The outer office was unoccupied when he entered. It was a tiny dusty cupboard of a place with just room enough to put a diminutive table, and the space was further curtailed by a wooden partition, head high, which served to exclude the unfortunate person who occupied the room from draughts and immediate observation. A door marked private led to Mr. Birn’s holy of holies and from this room came the sound of loud voices.
Gonsalez listened.
“… come without telephoning, hey? She always comes in the morning, haven’t I told you a hundred times?” roared one voice.
“She doesn’t know me,” grumbled the other.
“She’s only got to see your hair …”
It was at that moment that the young man who called at Jermyn Street came out of the room. Gonsalez had a momentary glimpse of two men. One was short and stout, the other was tall, but it was his bright red hair that caught Leon’s eye. And then Mr. Birn’s clerk went back to the room and the voices ceased. When Gonsalez was ushered into the office, only the proprietor of the establishment was visible.
Birn was a stout bald man, immensely affable. He told Leon the same story as his clerk had told.
“Now, what is Eden going to do about these cheques?” asked Birn at last.
“I don’t think he’s going to meet them,” said Leon gently. “You see, they are gambling
