Elk 04 White Face (14 page)

“This is all I can offer you. I keep it exclusively for my visitors. Personally, I never drink after ten o’clock in the evening.”

He had no suggestions to offer with regard to Rudd.

“He’ll turn up,” he said confidentially, “and I prophesy that he’ll turn up with a headache and be quite incapable of transacting any kind of business for a day or two.”

“What on earth do you think he’s done?” asked Mason, and the doctor smiled.

“I would rather not say.”

“You’d rather not say things about quite a lot of people, Doctor.” Mason helped himself to some whisky and splashed in soda.

“They tell me you could hang half Gallows Court and send the other half to prison for the term of their natural lives?”

“If I could, I should do it,” said Marford. “Believe me, I have no sympathy with that ghastly crowd—”

“Except Gregory Wicks?” suggested Mason, and a shadow passed over the doctor’s face.

“Except Gregory Wicks,” he said slowly.

“Gregory Wicks,” began Bray, “is one of the nicest people living in this area—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure the doctor will agree,” said Mason. “But why not Gregory Wicks?”

“For many reasons,” replied Marford. “He’s a good fellow—”

“What is the matter with him? You attend him, don’t you?”

Dr. Marford smiled faintly.

“I attend a good many people, but I never say what is the matter with them, even to entertain eminent police officers.”

“There’s something the matter with him, isn’t there?” insisted Mason, and Marford nodded.

“Anno Domini! You can’t get to the age of seventy-six without running a little threadbare. There are worn spots in men of that age, certain weaknesses, peculiar mental and physical failings which no doctor can patch. It’s amazing to me that he can do what he does at his age. I’ve never seen him really sick or sorry—he has certainly got the loudest voice in Tidal Basin; and I can testify, for I attended the victim, that he can still deliver a blow that would knock out the average pugilist. Why are you interested?”

He stepped back from Mason and surveyed him with a troubled face.

“Do you know, Mr. Mason,” he said slowly, “I’ve got an instinctive idea that you’ve come here not to talk about Mr. Rudd but to talk about this old taxi-driver. There is a half-witted man who lives in the court, whose name I forget—he used to be a shoeblack—who has an obsession about Gregory. Every time I go into the court he catches my arm and asks me what is wrong with Gregory Wicks—I wonder if he’s been asking you the same thing?”

Mason was momentarily embarrassed. It did not add to his self-esteem that he should have been detected acting as a lunatic’s mouthpiece.

“Well, yes,” he said, and laughed awkwardly. “I’ve heard the man—in fact, he’s asked me the same question. But of course I shouldn’t be stupid enough to come round in the middle of the night to pass on a crazy inquiry. I’m interested in the old boy.”

The doctor was behind his desk, leaning down on his outstretched arms, looking terribly tired. Mason found himself being thankful that he had not been born in so favourable a position that his parents could afford to educate him as a doctor.

“You’ll have to ask the old man in the morning. I’m very sorry; I’d like to oblige you, Mr. Mason. It isn’t entirely a question of professional secrecy—I certainly wouldn’t let that stand in my way with a police officer who was investigating a very serious crime—though what poor old Gregory’s got to do with it I can’t imagine. But I owe Gregory something more than perfunctory loyalty. He’s by way of being a crony of mine, and I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him yourself to-morrow.”

“He has something the matter with his face, hasn’t he?”

Marford hesitated.

“Yes,” he said; “you could describe it that way.”

And then he raised his eyes slowly to Mason.

“You will not suggest”—his lips twitched—“that the old man is your White Face?”

“I’m suggesting nothing of the sort,” said Mason hastily and reproachfully. “Of course I’m not! I’m merely curious. That crazy fellow’s got on my nerves—I’ll admit it. Certainly, I’ll ask Gregory himself in the morning. I’d ask him to-night if it wasn’t for disturbing that mackerel who’s been sleeping on Gregory’s doorstep ever since midnight.”

“Is it a very red-nosed man?” asked Bray, interested. “If it is, he’s often there. I’ve seen him myself. I very often go through Gallows Court alone—more or less alone. A drunken-looking man with a red nose—

“I never inspected his nose,” said Mason icily. “It probably went red through sticking it into other people’s investigations.”

“Very likely,” said Mr. Bray, and Shale could only marvel at his clouded intelligence.

“Do you believe every man who wears a lint mask is a criminal?” Marford asked quietly. “Of course you don’t: you’re too sensible. Any more than you believe that all Chinamen are wicked. I ask you this,”—he spoke very slowly—“because the man of whom you spoke earlier this evening is coming”—he looked at his watch—“in less than ten minutes.”

“White Face?” said Mason in amazement.

“He telephoned me just before you came.”

“Tell me, Dr. Marford”—Bray could not be repressed—“how is this White Face man dressed when you see him?”

Marford considered a moment.

“He usually wears a very long coat reaching almost to his heels, and a soft dark hat.”

“Black?” asked Bray eagerly.

“It may be. I’ve never really noticed.”

“Why is he coming this morning?” asked Mason.

“He said he would have come earlier in the night, but the streets were full of policemen. I’m telling you what he told me. It doesn’t sound too good of any man that he’s afraid of the police. But anyone super-sensitive as this fellow is, might very easily shrink from being seen.”

“He telephoned you from where?”

“I’m not sure. It certainly wasn’t our local exchange, because the calls we get through on the local exchange are always indicated by continuous ringing, and these signals came at intervals.”

He walked to the big window, drew aside the blind and looked out.

“There’s somebody out there,” he said. “Is it a police officer? No, it isn’t, I see. It’s the reporter, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Ask him to come in.”

Mason nodded to his subordinate, and Sergeant Shale went out to admit the reporter.

“If I could stop you getting a big beat I would, Michael, but this matter isn’t entirely in my hands. You’ll probably have to use your well-known discretion—I think I can trust you to keep out of your paper just what I want you to keep out.”

“The idea being?” asked Michael.

“White Face,” said Mr. Bray, and coughed when he caught his superior’s chilly eye.

“As that active and discreet officer said, it’s somebody with a white face; a man who’s been seen in this neighbourhood, and probably in other neighbourhoods—I think you met him at the Howdah Club. And he’s due here almost at once. I don’t suppose he wants to see a lot of people here”—he addressed Marford—“but you realise I’ll have to ask him to give an account of himself.”

The doctor, who was arranging an instrument that looked like a huge aluminium funnel, nodded his agreement.

“As a matter of fact, he’s very shy, but if I am to betray anybody in the interests of justice I might as well betray him. It isn’t very admirable and I can’t say that I’m very proud of myself.”

He brought the lamp nearer to his desk and turned the switch, and Mason saw a circle of green light appear on the floor. The shadows which the other lights cast ran through the circle redly. Marford turned off the lamp and explained that the current came, not from the main electric supply, but from an accumulator.

“I warn you,” he said, “that this man may refuse to enter the surgery. It took me a long while to persuade him the last time he was here.”

“Which way does he come?”

“Through the yard and up that passage to that door.” He pointed to the door near the medicine cupboard. “He gives me a signal—two long rings and two short ones; that was my own arrangement un account of his incurable shyness. I shall never get him in if he sees any of you.”

Mason tried the door; it was locked. The telephone bell rang at a moment when all nerves were tense. Marford sat on the desk and took up the instrument.

“Yes, he’s here,” he said. “It is Dr. Marford speaking…better, is she? I’m glad of that…Certainly.”

He handed the instrument to Mason.

“The woman Weston is quite conscious and wants to come to the station to see you.”

Mason listened, giving monosyllabic interruptions. He put up the receiver and looked very thoughtful.

“She wants to come to the station. It was Elk—I thought I recognised the voice. I wonder if I could get him here in time,” said Mason thoughtfully. “He’d be very much interested to meet White Face—he’s met him once this evening.”

“There may be time—” began Marford.

A bell in the room rang shrilly and long, rang again, then came two short rings. The men looked at one another.

“That is your White Face, is it?”

Mason’s voice was husky. His hand dropped mechanically to his pocket, and Bray was satisfied now: the rumour that Mason always carried a gun was true.

Michael Quigley, a silent participator, felt a little shiver run down his spine as Mason made a gesture to his two subordinates.

“Behind those curtains, you two fellows. Michael, you’d better go out into the front hall. I’ll get behind the desk if you don’t mind.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Marford, as he took a key from his pocket.

“Let him in, that’s all. I’ll see that he doesn’t get out again,” said Mason. “You can help us by shutting and locking the door on him.”

Marford nodded. He turned the key and pulled open the door slowly. Watching him from the cover of the desk, Mason saw him smile.

“Good evening,” he said. “Won’t you come in?” He went a little out of sight and they heard the rumble of a voice saying something which was indistinguishable. It might have been a voice that spoke behind a muffling mask.

“My dear fellow,” they heard Marford say, “I have never promised you that I can be absolutely alone, but you have nothing to fear—come along.”

He disappeared from view into the passage and Mason held his breath. Then suddenly the door slammed; there was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and in another second:

“Help!” It was Marford’s voice. “Mason…Mason! For God’s sake!”

Then came an unearthly scream that turned the hearers’ blood cold.

Mason was on his feet instantly. He was half-way to the door when the lights of the room went out. From the passage came the faint sound of a struggle.

“Bray! Go to the front door, quick! Go with him, Shale!”

They came to the front door to find it was locked from the inside and did not yield to their frantic tugging. Mason remembered that the doctor had told him he kept that part of the premises which contained the surgery locked and double-locked, and that he invariably used the back door himself.

They stumbled back through the darkness, and as Mason picked up a chair and sent it smashing a the panel, a ray from Bray’s torch glittered on the lamp.

“This works.”

He fumbled for the switch and found it, and the ghostly green circle appeared on the floor. It gave them enough light to work by. Within a few moments two panels were gone. Bray, the taller, reached through, found the bolt and drew it. There was another at the bottom, and it was some minutes before the third panel was broken and enabled them to reach this.

Bray was the first in the passage. It was empty. The door at the end stood wide open. He ran out into the yard—there was nobody in sight.

“There’s blood here,” he said. “I can’t see Marford. Can you bring the lamp out?”

Shale examined the flex: there was enough to carry the ray lamp into the corridor. It revealed nothing except patches of something red and shining on the floor and walls The doctor and his assailant had vanished.

“Doctor,” said White Face pleasantly, “I’m afraid I shall have to take you for an uncomfortable journey.”

He could have left him behind for the detectives to find, but it was most undesirable that this medical practitioner should tell his experience; for he had seen White Face without his mask.

The car ran swiftly into the street. As he passed he thought he could hear somebody trying to get out of the front door. He passed a policeman on the corner of the street; the man shouted out to him, “Good night, Gregory.” White Face smiled to himself.

The hands which gripped the wheel were wet and stained with the red liquid which he had poured from a bottle on to the floor and walls of the passage. He hoped it would look like blood, would at least throw his pursuers off the track until the morning.

He hadn’t too much time. Mentally he calculated how long it would take Mason to telephone a description of the cab to Scotland Yard, and just how much longer time would be wasted whilst the description was being circulated through London. He gave himself a good half-hour, providing he kept to the outskirts. So he made his way northward, and in half an hour had reached the outskirts of Epping Forest. It was certain that the Yard would telephone to the outlying stations the number of the cab, and that made it imperative that he should keep to the secondary roads and avoid those key points where the Essex police patrols could establish a barrage.

With any luck he could reach the little farm undetected. It lay between Epping and Chelmsford, not a long journey if he had dared the direct route.

He came at last to a place where an uninviting country lane ran off at right angles to the road, and turned his car down this. He had to move with the greatest caution, for he had extinguished his lamps. The road was uneven, but not quite so bad as the cart track into which he guided the taxi. Here he had to move very carefully. The only thing that concerned him was whether the noise of the car in low gear would attract the attention of an inquisitive policeman, but apparently it had not.

Without any knowledge of the time, he could make a rough guess—thought it must be four o’clock. There was no sign of dawn in the sky.

He came at last to an old barn, which was built by the side of a squat and shapeless building, and, stopping the cab without stopping the engine, he got down, opened the cab door and, lifting out the unconscious doctor, laid him on the grass. Then he backed the machine into the barn and, closing the big gate of it, went back to open the door of the house. This done, he returned to the place where he had left the doctor and half carried, half dragged him into the passage.

Except for a few ugly, dilapidated articles which the previous owner had not thought it worthwhile to move, the house was unfurnished. There was a dingy carpet running the length of the hall, and in the room to where White Face carried his burden, an old sofa to which he hoisted the doctor. He stood for some time looking at his prisoner. “It was a great mistake for you to try to set the police on me, and I hope no harm comes to you,” he said.

Lately White Face had acquired the habit of talking aloud.

He finished his examination of the unconscious man, then went out to the barn, and presently came back with a small bottle of champagne and a box of biscuits: emergency rations which he kept in a box under the cab seat.

The taxi was of no more use to him. He must make his way across country to Harwich by another means. And those means were ready to his hand. He had compiled from week to week, with scrupulous care, a list of motor excursions out of London. There was one leaving in the morning from Forest Gate to Felixstowe, and he had already decided that this was the route he would take. He would not be noticed in an excursion crowd.

The doctor was a difficulty. Almost he wished he had not brought him; but he was too dangerous to leave.

White Face drank his wine out of an old cup he found in the kitchen, poured out another cup and took it back to where he had left his charge. Placing the lamp which he carried on the table, and by the side of this the cup, White Face sat on the edge of the bed and waited. Presently he saw the doctor’s eyes flicker; they opened, looked wonderingly round the room and fixed themselves finally upon the man who was sitting on the bed.

“Where is this place?” he spoke huskily.

“This place is a little farm near Romford,” said the other calmly. “And may I tell you what your friend Mason has already guessed—that I am White Face.”

The doctor looked at him incredulously. “You?”

The man nodded.

“Weird, isn’t it? But I think you guessed it yourself and were prepared to tell your friends of Scotland Yard. I am not going to chloroform you or drug you again or do any of the things which I might do. Unless I am greatly mistaken, you will go to sleep and you will sleep for a very long time; and when you wake up you will find your way to the nearest police station. If you drive a car, I must tell you there is a taxi in the barn—I invariably use a taxi. My landlord”—he laughed at the word—“was Mr. Gregory Wicks. I invarialy use a taxi—Gregory Wicks’s taxi. That may or may not convey something to you, but I rather fancy your mind is incapable of grasping important essentials.”

The doctor was staring at him.

“Turn on your side,” commanded White Face, and was obeyed instantly. “Close your eyes.”

He waited a few minutes until the drugged man was asleep, and then he went out, taking the lamp with him. He made another journey to the garage, brought in a suitcase and laid out such toilet articles as he required.