The Green Lantern
Dear Partan,
In a thoughtless moment I promised J. M. D. W. to try to write for your especial delectation a yarn about London—one of those knuckle-duster and thick-ear yarns that you like so much, with a West End hotel of sybaritic splendour, and a sinister little riverside tavern run by an unpleasant yellow-faced man with narrow eyes and a benign suavity of manner, and a heroine of Madonna-like beauty, and, of course, missing documents of vital importance. Here you are, then; and one evening when you loll back in your lofty aerie in the Adelphi with your feet desecrating an Adam mantelpiece, exhausted after a long day of grappling with problems of British trade, it may amuse you for an hour, if it does not lull you placidly to sleep.
CHAPTER I
LORD JOHN
In the partners’ private room at the back premises of Messrs. Ferrars & d’Arblay, the West End jewellers and silversmiths, the lights were still burning although the hour was nearly ten o’clock at night.
In Mr. Ferrars’ chair a man sat reading. He was between thirty and forty years of age, dark-haired, with rather sallow skin, and was dressed in a black jacket and striped trousers. He was finding it difficult to concentrate his mind on the book in front of him, and every few minutes he sat upright in his chair and listened. The door was open, and he could see along the passage into the front premises of the shop, where the lights were also burning. A heavy iron grille, its sections interlocked by a special device, protected the plate-glass windows on Cranbrooke Street.
Putting down his book, the man took up the evening paper that lay on the desk in front of him. His eyes went to a front-page news item which he had already perused at least half a dozen times:
‘Considerable alarm was caused in Russell Square this afternoon when passers-by witnessed the final stages of a daring daylight raid on a branch of the London and Northern Bank.
‘Three masked men were seen to emerge from the back premises and drive rapidly away in a grey closed car. An attempt was made to give chase, but the raiders made good their escape in the fog which has enveloped London since an early hour this morning.
‘The staff of the bank was taken completely by surprise, and a considerable quantity of notes of low denomination as well as negotiable securities are missing.
‘This is the third daring robbery that has taken place in London in the last month. The theft of Lady Willborough’s jewels from her house in Eaton Square is still fresh in public memory, and from some of the methods employed the police suspect that in each case it has been the work of the criminal known as “Lord John.”
‘So far his identity has not been discovered. But several important clues in the possession of Scotland Yard point to his being a man of some social standing, with many influential acquaintances in the West End.
‘It is understood that Chief Inspector Tripp, the officer responsible for the arrest last January of Monsen, the notorious Soho murderer, is now exclusively engaged on the “Lord John” case.’
The man at the desk put down the newspaper with a smile, and sat back in his chair. Ten chimed on the tiny clock on the mantelpiece, and as the last note died away the telephone bell rang. He drew the instrument towards him and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes, Haydon speaking,’ he said. ‘Oh, is that you sir? I didn’t know you’d got back from Manchester. Yes, everything’s quite all right, Mr. Ferrars. They’ve put extra police on this beat to-night . . . Beg pardon? . . . Armed? Yes, I’ve got a revolver here on the desk. If the gentleman they call Lord John cares to pay me a visit, I’m ready for him! . . . I can get on to Vine Street at a moment’s notice if necessary—the ’phone’s plugged through to the exchange on the office switchboard upstairs. All the same, sir, I won’t be sorry when nine o’clock to-morrow comes. . . . Yes, Jacobs from Hatton Garden is to call for it at nine—he’s coming himself to make quite certain. Mr. Ireland arranged it last thing this evening. Many thanks for ringing up, sir; it was kind of you to think of it. Goodnight. . . . What’s that, sir? The fog? Oh, very bad—one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Just as bad out Wimbledon way? Yes, filthy. . . . Good night, Mr. Ferrars.’
‘Damned silly old woman,’ he muttered under his breath, and was about to hook up the receiver when the thin and querulous tones came again over the wire:
‘One moment, Haydon. It’s in the strong-room, of course?’
‘No, sir. At the last minute we decided on a better place.’
‘Better place, Haydon?’
At the anxiety in the voice Mr. Haydon smiled.
‘As a matter of fact, it’s in the old safe in the clerks’ room upstairs, sir. Yes, in beside the cash-books and ledgers. You see, sir, no burglar would dream of looking there. . . . Well, Mr. d’Arblay himself approved of the idea. . . . I beg pardon?’
Mr. Haydon ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of weary impatience as he listened, and when he replied his voice took on a slightly sharper edge.
‘Well, of course we did, sir! Insured at Lloyd’s until nine o’clock to-morrow morning. After that, it’s Jacobs’ look-out. . . . Oh, quite, sir; I realize how important it is. We all do. That’s why I’m spending the night here . . . Yes, Mr. d’Arblay saw His Highness personally at Claridge’s this evening. . . . That all, sir? I beg pardon—I can’t hear. . . . The burglar alarms? Please don’t worry, sir! They’re quite all right. A couple of men from Bristowe-Halley Company were here this afternoon checking them over. I can assure you, Mr. Ferrars, we’ve done everything possible. . . . I beg pardon? Lord John——’ The man smiled. ‘Haven’t you seen the evening papers, sir? Lord John pulled off a daylight raid on a branch bank in Bloomsbury this afternoon. He’ll be too busy counting his spoils to bother about us to-night. I suggest you ring up Mr. d’Arblay—he’ll put your mind at rest. . . . Very good.’
He was about to hang up the receiver when the voice at the other end of the wire said:
‘Look into the passage, Mr. Haydon!’
‘Everything’s quite all right, sir!’ he snapped out impatiently.
‘Look into the passage and tell me what you see.’
Mr. Haydon stiffened. There was something about the voice . . . ‘Is—is that Mr. Ferrars?’ he gasped.
‘Mr. Ferrars is in Manchester,’ was the reply. ‘This is the gentleman you choose to call Lord John. I’m talking from the switch-board in the room above you. I thought you’d like to know that one of my men is in the passage and has you covered.’
White-lipped, Mr. Haydon sat clutching the telephone. The voice, which had spoken in a veritable echo of the familiar high-pitched tones of the senior partner, was now low and suave, with the faintest suspicion of a drawl.
It continued:
‘I apologize to you and your firm for any inconvenience I may be causing you. As you’ve just explained to me, His Highness’s property is amply covered by insurance, so I don’t suppose your people will lose anything. Not that I care a damn if they do!’ added the voice good-humouredly. ‘My men have just started on the safe at the top of the stairs. Perhaps you can hear them? I don’t expect they’ll be long. Are you listening? One final hint, Mr. Haydon. If you make the slightest disturbance, my man downstairs has orders to put a bullet through you. That quite plain? Then I wish you good-night.’