Chapter XXIII: 'mr. Robertson'

Bobby Manvers rose unusually early next morning, and before seven he was in Quebec Street, walking casually past No. 60. Seven A.M. is a trying hour for a fashionable young man, and, to make matters worse, Bobby was very anxious. The date was worrying him. Tuesday, June the 9th. It rang in his head like the ominous tolling of a bell. June the 9th! And on June the 10th....

Then he saw the postman come round the corner, stepping along with the busy air that postmen invariably wear. Bobby waited till he heard the rat-tat at the door of No. 58, and then, producing Jerry's latchkey, let himself into No. 60. As he guessed, the house was as silent as the grave. Bobby left the door open, and waited. The postman came and, seeing the open door, hesitated. Bobby bade him a cheerful good morning, and added: 'Shall I take the letters?'

'Thank you, sir. Quite a number this morning.'

The postman handed them over, and went off. Bobby ran through the letters quickly. There was one addressed to Michael in Jerry's handwriting. Bobby slipped it into his pocket, dropped the others on the mat, and went out, shutting the door softly behind him. He walked briskly to the nearest Tube station, and entering a call-box, opened Jerry's letter. It was dated June 8th.

DEAR MICHAEL,

I want you to come to-morrow night to Isaac Jacob's shop in Quay
Street. It's a sort of clothier's, next door to a pub called The
Sailmaker's Arms. You can't miss it. Go in and speak to old Jacob.
The password is 'V.L.S.' When you say that, he will bring you
upstairs to us. Nick has a room above the shop.

I can't tell you much now, but Nick is William's friend--the man
who gave him the envelope. Nick has found out who Mr. Robertson is,
and he's worked out all his plans to catch him. You remember the
10th of June? Well, that's the day when Nick will take action, but
he wants to see you first, so will you come down to-morrow--the
9th--between 10 and 11 P.M. I shall be there, too, and will tell
you all about our adventures since I last saw you.

Nick says be sure not to tell anyone about this, not even Bobby,
until the show's over. We don't want the news to leak out.

Yours ever
JERRY

Bobby stuffed the letter into his pocket, and wiped his forehead. He was conscious of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It had been a close shave. If he had not managed to get this letter, things might have been alarming. As it was, he must let the Chief know immediately. Plans would have to be altered a good deal. Jacob's shop in Quay Street! And all this time he had had a man watching an innocent house in Leman Street, while Vive le Sport had come and gone freely elsewhere. Bobby took off the telephone receiver and rang up the Chief.

Three minutes later he emerged from the call-box, and took a bus to Commercial Road. Turning down Leman Street he found his assistant, propping up the walls of a public-house. In a few guarded sentences Bobby explained himself.

'Right y' are,' said the watcher, nodding. 'Ikey Jacob's. I know 'im. No point in worryin' abaht it till s'arternoon, is there?'

'I want you to be there by three, at the latest,' said Bobby. 'Watch who goes in and comes out, and let me know. I shall be back about half-past ten to-night.'

'Right-o, guv'nor.' The watcher nodded again, and Bobby made his way back to the West End.

As a matter of fact, it was barely ten past ten when he arrived in Quay Street, this time accompanied by a tall man with a black beard. The watcher arose from the darkness to greet them.

'Lots o' blokes 'ave bin in and out,' he whispered. 'But there's one went in two hour ago, and ain't shown up since. Tall bloke, clean-shaven, an' 'ad a gal with 'im.'

Bobby glanced at his companion with an expression of triumph, not unmixed with apprehension. Mr. Robertson smiled faintly, but made no comment.

'Good' said Bobby to the watcher. 'Keep on at your post till we come out. We may need you, but you know what to expect.'

'Yessir. Right y' are.' He lifted up his voice in the true beggar's whine: 'Spare us a tanner, gentlemen. Ain't 'ad a bite since day 'fore yesterday, swelp me, Bob! Thank ye, sir. Gawd bless yer!'

Bobby and his companion entered the shop.

It was a dingy little place, lit by a flaring gas jet. Jacob himself, with his bright boot-button eyes, sat behind the counter, and sniffed into his straggling grey beard. The room smelt of cheese and oilskins and escaping gas. A long, lanky fellow in blue trousers and sweater leant up against the far end of the counter. He was talking in an undertone to Jacob, and did not look up as the newcomers entered.

Bobby nodded curtly.

'V.L.S.,' he said, without preface.

'That's right,' said Jacob, waving his hand towards a door at the back of the shop. 'Upstairs and the first on your right. But you know the way, maybe?'

Bobby nodded, and crossed the little room. His companion followed him, with a curious glance over his shoulder at the lanky sailor, who was struggling to pull on a pair of sea-boots, and cursing under his breath in vivid Cockney. They passed out into a narrow passage, shutting the shop door behind them, and began to mount the stairs. At the top Bobby hesitated. His companion glanced at him and smiled.

'I suppose ... er ... I suppose this is the right way?' said Bobby in an undertone.

There was a shadow of doubt in his voice, and his companion heard it. Without a word he stepped in front of him, and knocked sharply on the door. Nick's voice answered. 'Come in, Michael!' they heard him say.

The man with the beard entered the room, revolver in hand. Bobby followed close. Jerry and Nick were sitting over the fire talking gravely, and as they turned Nick leapt to his feet, with a startled exclamation.

'Don't move, please,' said the man with the beard. 'Let me explain at once that this little weapon of mine has a silencer. I find it very handy. My secretary here, whom I believe you have met, always uses the same type.'

Nick bowed.

'May I introduce Miss Mitchell?' he said. 'Jerry, this is Mr. Robertson, whom you have been so anxious to meet. Also his second-in-command, Mr. Manvers. You remember him?'

'I do indeed,' said Jerry. She surveyed Bobby coolly, and gave a contemptuous little laugh. 'How absurd!' she said.

Bobby flushed, and scowled. The man with the beard smiled appreciatively.

'I'm delighted to meet you both,' he said, 'but forgive me if I talk business. Time's getting short. May I have that list of names, Nicholson?'

'I'm afraid not,' said Nick. 'It's not in my possession.'

Robertson turned to Jerry.

'Perhaps you can help me. I want the letter given to your father in the Jameson Club on the night of April 24th. It was stolen from me that evening by this most efficient burglar, Mr. Nicholson.'

Jerry smiled.

'I'm afraid it's no good, Mr. Robertson. Surely you must see that, as my father's executor, my hands are tied. I have his instructions, and must carry them out.'

'I see that you are indeed your father's daughter,' said the bearded man, 'but, believe me, you're being rather foolish. I must have that paper. I would rather not resort to force if I can make you see reason without it. In fact, I shrink from the idea of hurting either you or your secretive friend. By the way, he ought to have confided in you a little more fully. If he had, you would not be in this awkward position. But, as I was saying, I beg you to be reasonable, and not force me to use drastic measures. I have felt the keenest affection for Vive le Sport ever since he began his romantic career, and I cannot but admire a young lady of your courage.'

'Thank you,' said Jerry, and her voice had an edge to it. 'I wonder if you admired my father?'

'Immensely. I regretted having to use force there more than I can say, but he gave me no alternative. That is why I implore you to be more sensible.'

'It's a form of insanity that runs in our family, this keeping of promises,' said Jerry. 'We call it common decency, when we have to refer to it, but generally one takes it for granted. I don't suppose you understand that, though.'

The appreciation in the man's eyes deepened as he watched her. Then, suddenly, he turned to Nick.

'For Heaven's sake, be reasonable, Nicholson,' he said. 'I know only too well that you enjoy risking your own life, but you have no right to risk Miss Mitchell's. Hand me over that list and let's have done.'

'I'm afraid you can't have heard me,' said Nick. 'The list is not in my possession.'

'Have you sent it to Scotland Yard?'

Nick raised his eyebrows.

'Mr. Robertson,' he said gently, 'your memory is failing you. If you remember, I told you that if you were not out of the country by June the 10th I should be obliged to take steps against you. I also said that I should make every effort to save the rank and file of your maniac army, although I intended to expose you. I always endeavour to keep my word. The police have _not_ got that list ... yet.'

Mr. Robertson smiled.

'You know,' he said, 'you're a man after my own heart. I wish you weren't. It would save me considerable regret. I suppose you wouldn't consider--no, of course you wouldn't. Well, it's a great pity. I could have worked with you.'

'We should have clashed on every question of ethics,' said Nick. 'But, apart from that, I believe you're right. By the way, I've always wanted to know--and I may never get another chance to ask you--why did you choose Manvers as your second-in-command? It makes me think of the numbers of brilliant men and women who deliberately marry congenital idiots. A common occurrence, but it never ceases to amaze me.'

'Oh, our Bobby has his uses,' said Mr. Robertson tolerantly. 'He hasn't really made a mess of any job before. It was when you crossed his path that Bobby lost his head, and that was partly luck. You must admit you've been lucky, you know. That railway smash, for instance. I'm not decrying your skill, but people like Vive le Sport don't grow on every blackberry bush. It wasn't all Bobby's stupidity, though I must confess he's lamentably weak on psychology.'

'Oh, good God!' broke in Bobby, with an irritation that betrayed nervousness. 'Do get on with the job. It's getting late!'

'But I'm enjoying myself,' protested Mr. Robertson. 'As a student of human nature, Nicholson interests me enormously. But I dare say you're right. I take it'--he turned to Nick--'that in spite of all my advice you refuse to return my property?'

'You take it correctly.'

'You do realise that you're in my power, don't you?'

'I admit it looks like it.'

'Looks?' Mr. Robertson raised his eyebrows. 'You're not expecting a dramatic rescue by Michael Doone, are you? I'm afraid there's no hope of that. To tell you the truth, he never got your letter asking him to come.'

There was no answer, but Mr. Robertson, watching closely, saw Nick bite his lip. Jerry's face was averted.

'Think it over, Nicholson,' he advised. 'For a quixotic idea you're proposing to sacrifice not only yourself but this charming young lady. You're not very chivalrous, are you? And martyrdom is out of date.'

'Don't worry about me, Nick,' said Jerry clearly. 'I'm with you ... whenever you like!'

Their eyes met. Nick took an impulsive step towards her, and then checked himself, throwing up his hands with a despairing, half-comic gesture of helplessness. They both smiled; a smile of complete understanding.

'You have at least one loyal supporter,' said Mr. Robertson.

Nick's eyes narrowed.

'You're wasting time, Mr. Robertson,' he said coldly. 'I tried to make the position clear to you last April. Either you leave the country and call off your crusade by to-morrow, or else Scotland Yard will receive the list of your supporters. That stands. Nothing you may do to me will alter it. If I had guessed that you would deliberately murder an innocent man, I should have made my terms rather different.'

Mr. Robertson sighed, weighing his revolver thoughtfully in his hand.

'It was a pity about Mitchell,' he said; 'but he was so hasty. I assure you, Nicholson, I regretted the necessity. You see, he refused to tell me where the list was, and attempted to telephone for the police. It was essential that I should search his room, and so I had no alternative. Then, as it happened, I was not able to look for the list, for I heard someone moving in the room above me. However, we had a look later.'

'Yes,' said Nick. 'I shall never forget Bobby's disappointed face when he realised it wasn't there.'

'You saw him? Upon my word, my admiration for you increases every minute. Yes, it was a pity. If only he had told me that the envelope was in his bank we should have all been saved this regrettable affair.'

'I think your own psychology was not too good there.'

Mr. Robertson shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, there's no more to be said, I suppose. Will you be so good as to sit down in that chair, Nicholson? Though I may not look like a desperate man, I admit frankly that the time has come when I can take no chances, and I respect your physical attributes as much as I do your mentality. I have a vivid memory of seeing you engaged in a little--er--argument in Nightingale Lane one evening. While Bobby is tying you to the chair, I shall keep Miss Mitchell covered, and if you resist I shall shoot. You do believe me, don't you?'

'Surely,' said Nick, sitting down obediently. 'Come along, Bobby. Do your stuff.'

Bobby Manvers advanced with some hesitation. Nick watched him with unconcealed amusement.

'Isn't his caution flattering?' he said to Jerry. 'It's all right, Bobby. Do your duty and fear not. I'm helpless.'

'Shut your mouth, damn you!' snarled Bobby, jerking viciously at the rope.

Mr. Robertson glanced at him reprovingly.

'Bobby, Bobby, remember your manners,' he said. 'I must apologise for him, Nicholson. His temperament is just a _little_ too excitable. You understand?'

'Perfectly,' said Nick, submitting to be tied to the chair.

Mr. Robertson crossed the room and tried the door on the far side. It was locked and there was no key.

'Where does this lead to?' he asked.

'The Sailmaker's Arms, next door.'

'Have you the key?'

'No.'

'Then who has? The proprietor--or Jacob?'

'Neither. The landlord has it. These two houses were originally one.'

'I see. Well, Bobby, stand by Nicholson, and gag him if he attempts to speak. I don't think he will, but one never knows. Miss Mitchell, I want to speak to you. Won't you sit down?'

Jerry leaning against the table, shook her head. Mr. Robertson slipped his revolver into his pocket, and studied her face thoughtfully.

'In the first place,' he began, 'please don't think I am actuated by any malice against Nicholson. When I said just now that he was a man after my own heart, I meant it, every word. I like him better than any man I have ever met. I like his courage, his audacity, and, above all, his sense of humour, which is only another way of saying balance. In fact'--he smiled--'may I congratulate you? He's one in a thousand.'

Jerry bowed.

'But--I hate to say it--but he has his failings. He has all the Irish pride. He expects to be believed, whether he explains himself or not. If you don't trust him implicitly, you can go to the devil. _He'll_ not bother to state his case. And no man on earth is always right, Miss Mitchell. Vive le Sport! He takes up the cudgels and wades into the fray without stopping to think. Just now he's fighting most gallantly--on behalf of a man who doesn't desire or need defence. It's enough to make one weep, although his utter sincerity compels one's affection and respect.'

He paused. Jerry gripped the edge of the table, and tried to shut her ears to the charm of his voice.

'I wonder if you really understand what I am driving at,' he went on. 'This Fraternity of mine--you don't look upon it as a mob of revolutionaries, do you? That's the difficulty, so often. Whenever a man wants to start a reform of any kind, three-quarters of the population immediately conjure up a horrid vision of a vast crowd of frenzied insurgents, armed with knives and pitchforks, sweeping through the streets of London, by the light of flaming torches, and leaving havoc and slaughter in their wake. It's curious, for the English as a race are deeply attached to the English of all classes. If you could only meet some of my crowd you'd believe me when I say that riot is the last thing they would contemplate or allow. They really care about England, and they care enough to want to do something about it. No one in his senses can fail to see that all is not well with the country under the present system. Four years of the most ghastly war in history have almost wrecked England. You have only to use your own eyes. Aliens, and, worse still, English profiteers who care nothing for England, are in power. Our best men are left in the mud. Take Nicholson's own case. Whatever he may or may not have told you, I am certain he has concealed nothing of his previous career from you. Why did he take to burglary? Simply because he was bitterly angry--and quite rightly bitter--at the sight of the injustice around him. Because of the rottenness of the system that let such men as he die like dogs of starvation, after they had risked life and health and sanity to save their country. I want to alter that; and who shall say I am not right?'

'It's a great ideal, Mr. Robertson,' said Jerry steadily. 'But your methods don't appeal to me. I find it hard to believe that you will save England by murder.'

There was another pause, and the silence was electric.

'You're in love, of course,' said Mr. Robertson slowly, almost as if he were explaining something to himself. 'Also, you're a woman. "Launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same." I've never met it before. It's curious.'

He regarded her musingly for a while, and then straightened his shoulders.

'Well, you force my hand,' he said abruptly. 'I'll give you three minutes in which to tell me where and how I can get that list.'

'And if I don't, you'll murder me as you did my father,' said Jerry.

'No, not quite like that. I killed him in self-defence, but I am becoming rather annoyed with you. I hit him over the head with a loaded cane I often carry; a handy little weapon in an emergency. I think that your death will not be so pleasant, nor so swift. Shall I tell you how I propose to deal with you?'

'No, thanks,' said a voice behind him. 'Put your hands up.'

Bobby Manvers, standing by Nicholson, gave a strangled gasp, and Jerry, turning, saw Jack Strickland with two other men.

'The landlord, I presume,' said Mr. Robertson. 'At any rate, he appears to have the key of that door.'

'As a matter of fact, his is the spare key,' said Nick. 'I'm afraid I forgot to mention it. This is Inspector Strickland of Scotland Yard. Jack, Sir Toby Ward. Hullo, gone away!'

Bobby Manvers had bolted. He tore open the door behind him, and collided violently with a man who had been waiting patiently outside; the long, lanky seaman who had been buying boots when they entered.

'Don't!' he said, pushing Bobby back into the room. 'I hate having my arm jerked when I've got a gun in my hand. It might go off.'

'Come in, Michael, and shut the door,' said Nick.

'By God, it's a trap!' Bobby's voice rose to a scream.

'Quite,' said Michael pleasantly. 'What intuition!'

White and shaking, Bobby turned back to the room. One of the men who had entered with Jack was untying Nicholson. The other stood by the far door, while Michael effectively blocked the one behind him. Jack, hands in pockets, was watching Sir Toby, who stood regarding the proceedings with a faint, detached smile.

'Sir Toby Ward,' said Jack quietly, 'I arrest you for the wilful murder of William Mitchell on the morning of May 24th. I may say that the statements you have made during the last half-hour have been taken down in full. Would you care to sign the document?'

'In my capacity of lawyer I am aware that it will make very little difference whether I do or not,' said Sir Toby; 'so if it would give you any pleasure I will certainly sign it. May I sit down? To tell the truth, I feel a little shaky. It's my infernal heart again. Thanks, very much. By the way, here is my revolver. I presume you require it.'

Jack took the gun in silence, and Nick, watching him, knew that he, too, was conscious of the man's queer charm. Sir Toby smiled suddenly.

'You won't be able to add "in unlawful possession of firearms" to my list of charges,' he told Jack. 'I've got the necessary licence.'

Jack found himself responding to the smile. It was impossible not to admire a man who took a beating so gamely. Then he turned to Bobby.

'Robert Oliver Manvers----' he began, but Bobby interrupted him.

'I wasn't in that murder!' he burst out. 'I can prove it. _He_ did it! And as for the Fraternity, I acted only under compulsion. I didn't want a revolution--I did only what he told me. And, anyway, there are hundreds of others in it. Nicholson's got a list of their signatures. You aren't going to arrest me and let them off scot-free?'

Jack turned sharply to Nick.

'If this is true I must ask you for that list.'

'No good, I'm afraid. I've destroyed it.'

'Destroyed it?' Bobby stared blankly. 'When?'

Nick's smile held more than a trace of contempt.

'Miss Mitchell and I burnt it, with appropriate ceremony, just before you and Sir Toby came in.'

Sir Toby nodded with deep satisfaction.

'I always knew I should like to work with you,' he said.

'It's easy enough for you to take it calmly,' Bobby screamed. 'You won't live long, anyway. Look here, Strickland, I know all the leaders of this show. There are sixty-seven of them. I can tell you their names. If you'll let me off I'll turn King's evidence and----'

A revolver cracked suddenly. Bobby crumpled up curiously, sank to the floor, twitched convulsively, and lay still. Jerry gave a little gasp. Nick put out a hand to her, but his eyes were on Sir Toby, who was handing a small automatic to Jack.

'Forgive me for startling you,' he said gently, 'but, really, I could not allow him to continue that sentence. I usually keep a spare for emergencies, but in this case I felt his need was greater than mine.'

'I retract,' said Nick. 'On some ethical points we obviously see eye to eye.'

Sir Toby smiled.

'Vive le Sport!' he said. 'We should have made a good team. I might even have felt it worth while to adapt myself to your conscience. Nicholson, I would have killed you this evening, if necessary, but I should have hated doing it as I've never hated anything in my life.'

'You'd kill anybody,' said Jerry suddenly, in a curiously colourless voice. 'Human life means nothing to you.'

Sir Toby looked at her with mild surprise.

'My dear young lady, if you had seen as much of human life as I have--and Heaven send you never may--you would attach as little importance to it as I do. Human beings, generally speaking, are a poor lot, and such specimens as _that_'--he nodded to the still body by the door--'are worth less than a rat, fighting for existence in a sewer.'

Jerry walked over to the window, and stood looking out. Sir Toby glanced at Nick, but his eyes were on the girl. Thoughtfully the man regarded him. Nick could not, and never would, understand. He loved life and people, and had nothing but pity for those who did not share his views. Sir Toby shrugged his shoulders philosophically, and his eyes travelled slowly round the company. Jack was looking annoyed. Sir Toby had made a messy job of a clean arrest, and _he_ would get the blame. He was speaking to one of his plain-clothes men. The other still stood by the door, his face an impassive mask.

Then Sir Toby's eyes fell on Michael Doone, and he smiled. Michael was staring reflectively at the body at his feet, and he looked up and caught Sir Toby's eye. He understood that smile, and answered it. Michael alone, by virtue of his Australian blood, was capable of understanding and to some extent sympathising with that supreme indifference.

'I'd ha' done it if you hadn't,' he drawled.

'It's time we were moving,' said Jack curtly. 'Sir Toby, would you prefer to keep your disguise until we reach the station?'

'My beard? Yes, I think I'll go to jail as Mr. Robertson. I doubt very much if you will ever get me to the dock as Toby Ward. I know the law, and the slowness of its processes. Would you mind giving me an arm? Thanks, very much.'

As the door shut behind them, Nick went over to Jerry.

'I take off my hat to you,' he said quietly. 'You're the finest partner in the world.'

Jerry bit her lip, and then, as Nick's arms came round her, buried her face in his coat.

Michael turned to go. This seemed to him an anticlimax. 'See you at breakfast,' he said casually.