Elk 02 The Joker (22 page)

‘We’ve got to get out of here, and quick,’ said Elk, and looked round for the means of escape. ‘Penultimate joke hasn’t raised a laugh yet - looks like the penultimate joke’s goin’ to put my relations in mournin’!’

He tried to climb one of the greasy hydraulic cylinders, but although, with the assistance of Jim, he managed to touch the platform, he could derive little comfort from his achievement. The platform was of steel and concrete.

Neither knew anything of the mechanism of an hydraulic lift, and indeed the controls were out of reach under a locked steel grating.

The door behind the wardrobe was the only possible means of egress. Elk searched the car, and the tool chest beneath.

‘We’re safe for a bit - he’d be scared of using any kind of gas for fear there was a blow-up and he hasn’t the means of manufacturing something quick and sudden. Carlton, did you notice anything in the house!’

‘I noticed many things. To which do you refer?’

‘Notice that we never saw Mrs Edwins or Edwards, or whatever her name was, after the old man said “get”!’

That fact had not occurred to Jim; though they had searched the house from roof to basement, he had not seen the hard-faced woman again.

‘Where she is,’ said Elk, ‘the other feller can be - what’s ‘is name - Marling? And I know pretty well where that was - in the little elevator!’

It was true! Jim had seen the elevator when Harlow waited upon the top floor, but after that it had disappeared. It was the easiest thing in the world to slip from floor to floor, missing the search party.

The door was immovable; he could secure no leverage, and even if he had, it was unlikely that it would yield. They must attack the concrete-covered brickwork. This was the only section of the wall that was not built of stone.

Fortunately for them, there were tool chests in all the cars, and moreover in one of the machines was a big car jack, the steel lever of which they disconnected and used as a crowbar.

The work was an anodyne to Jim Carlton’s jangled nerves, set further on edge every time he saw the white face of Ellenbury.

The lawyer crouched by the bed watching them and muttering all the time under his breath. Once, in a pause, Jim heard him say: ‘You can’t measure principles with a yard stick; such a beautiful girl! And very young!’ And then he started weeping softly.

‘Don’t notice him,’ snarled Elk; ‘get on with the work!’

To move only an inch of concrete was an arduous and difficult business, and not without its danger if the sound were heard by the master of the house. But after an hour’s work they cleared a square foot of the hard plaster and revealed the brick lining beneath. Using screwdrivers for chisels, they managed to dislodge the first brick in the course and enlarge the hole. The second brick course was easier; but now the necessity for caution was brought home to them dramatically.

Jim was fitting the jagged edge of his driver into a small hole in the mortar, when a muffled voice almost at his elbow said: ‘Leave them alone: they can wait until tomorrow.’

It was Harlow, and Jim almost jumped.

But the phenomenon had a simple explanation. His voice had been carried down the shaft of the lift. They heard a gate slam, again came the whine of the motor and the lift stopped just above them, the gate was fastened again, and by a trick of acoustics Jim could hear the man’s foot tapping on the tiled floor of the vestibule.

They had till the morning; that was a comfort. Working and listening at intervals, they dislodged the inner brick, drew it out, a second followed, and in half an hour there was a jagged hole through which a lean man might wriggle.

Jim was that lean man. He found himself in the greasy pit of the elevator shaft, stumbling over beams and pulleys in a darkness which was unrelieved by a single ray from above.

He reached back into the room for his torch and made an inspection. The bottom of the lift was at least twelve feet above where he stood and hanging from it were two thick electric cables. Reaching up, he could just touch the lowest of the loops. He told Elk the position, and all the car cushions that could be gathered were thrust through the hole and piled by Jim, one on top of the other.

Balancing himself on these, he took a steady grip of the cable and rested his weight. The wires held. Pulling himself up, hand over hand, he managed to reach a thick steel bar which connected with the safety brake, and began to push the elevator floor, hoping to find a trap door. But evidently this little lift was too small for a mechanic’s trap, the floor did not yield under his pressure, and he was debating whether he should drop on to the cushions when he heard a quick step in the vestibule, a heavy foot stepped into the lift and the door slammed to. In another second he was mounting rapidly. On the top floor the lift stopped with a jerk which almost loosened his hold, though he had braced his feet upon the dangling cables below.

The upper floors were not as deep as the two lower. As he hung, his knee was on a level with the top of the elevator entrance to the second floor. There was a footledge there, and if he could reach it, it would be a simple matter to climb over the tiny grille. It was worth trying. Gently he slid down the cable until, swinging his feet, he could just touch the six inches of floor space between the pit and the grille.

Then, concentrating all his strength, he leapt forward, snatching at the breast-high gate - his feet slipping from under him. He recovered in a second, and was over the top.

He crept noiselessly up the stairs and was almost detected by the tall woman who was standing on the landing, her ear to the closed door of the room in which, he suspected, Aileen was a prisoner. From where he stood, concealed by a turn of the stairs, he could hear Harlow’s voice raised in complaint.

‘It was so vulgarly theatrical! I’m not annoyed, I’m hurt! To write messages on a card was stupid…and with a pin. If I had known…’

There was an agitated, murmured reply, and then unexpectedly Harlow laughed.

‘Well, well, you’re a foolish fellow; that is all I have to say to you. And you must never do such a thing again. Luckily the police couldn’t read your writing.’

Jim had almost forgotten the existence of the bearded man. He heard the door open and went quickly down the stairs until he was in the vestibule. The hands of the little silver clock over the marble mantelpiece pointed to five.

The lift was coming down again, and crouching back into a recess, Jim saw the big man pass into the library. The door shut behind him. In a second the detective was in the elevator and had pressed the top button.

If Aileen were there, he would find her; he dare not allow himself even to debate the sanity of the little man he had left in the garage.

Was she here?…dead? He closed his eyes to shut out the dreadful picture that the lawyer had drawn…the axe…the pit…

Just as the elevator reached the top floor something happened. For a few seconds Carlton did not grasp the explanation.

The two lights in the roof of the lift went out, and down below something flashed bluely - Jim saw the lightning flicker of it.

He pushed at the grille which, on the top floor alone, reached from ceiling to floor. It did not budge. He kicked at the gates, but they were of hammered steel.

Trapped for a second time in three hours, Jim swore softly through his teeth. He heard the street door close below and silence.

‘Elk!’ From a distance came Elk’s hollow answer. ‘He has cut out a fuse - can you climb to the hall?’

‘I’ll try.’

Facing where he stood, caged and impotent, was the door of Mrs Edwins’ room and as he looked he saw the handle turning slowly…slowly.

Mrs Edwins? She had been left behind then…The door opened a little…a little more, and then Aileen Rivers walked out.

‘Aileen!’ he cried hoarsely.

She looked at him, gripping the gate, his haggard face against the bars. ‘The philandering constable,’ she said, bravely flippant; and then, ‘please - take me home!’

‘Who brought you here?’ he asked, hardly believing the evidence of his senses.

‘I came of my own free will - oh, Jim he’s such a darling!’

‘Oh, God!’ groaned the man in the cage, ‘and I never noticed it!’

NEARLY TWELVE hours before that poignant moment a gum-chewing chauffeur had found himself in an awkward position.

‘A lunatic and a fainting female!’ mused the chauffeur. ‘This is most embarrassing!’

Stooping, he lifted the girl and laid her limply over his shoulder. With his disengaged hand he dragged the dazed old lawyer to his feet.

‘You hit me!’ whimpered Ellenbury.

‘You are alive,’ said the chauffeur loftily, ‘which is proof that I did not hit you.’

‘You choked me!’

The chauffeur uttered a tut of impatience. ‘Go ahead, Bluebeard!’ he said.

Apparently one hundred and forty pounds of femininity was not too great a tax on the chauffeur’s strength, for as he walked behind the weeping little man, one hand on the scruff of his collar, he was whistling softly to himself.

Up the stone steps he walked and into the hall. The ancient maid came peeping round the corner, and almost fell down the kitchen stairs in her excitement, for something was happening at Royalton House - where nothing had happened before.

The chauffeur lowered the girl into a little armchair. Her eyes were open; she was feeling deathly ill.

‘There is nothing in the world like a cup of tea,’ suggested the chauffeur, and called in the maid, so imperiously that she never even glanced at her master. He seemed dwindled in stature. In his hand he still held the wet haft of the axe.

He was rather a pathetic little man.

‘I think you had better put that axe away,’ said the chauffeur gently.

Aileen only then became aware of his presence. He had a funny moustache, walrus-like and black, and as he spoke it waggled up and down. She wanted to laugh, but she knew that laughter was half-way to hysteria. Her eyes wandered to the axe; a cruel-looking axe - the handle was all wet and slippery. With a shiver she returned her attention to the chauffeur; he was holding forth in an oracular manner that reminded her of somebody. She discovered that he was watching her too, and this made her uneasy.

‘You’ve got to help me, young lady,’ said the man gravely.

She nodded. She was quite willing to help him, realising that she would not be alive at that moment but for him.

The chauffeur rolled his eyes round to Ellenbury.

‘O, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!’ he said reproachfully; and stripped his black moustache with a grimace of pain.

‘Thank God that’s gone!’ he said, and pulled up a chair to the fire. ‘I was once very useful to Nova - Nova has this day paid his debt and lost a client. Why don’t you take off your overcoat? It’s steaming.’

He glanced at the axe, its wet haft leaning against the fireplace and then, reaching out his hand, took it on to his knees and felt its edge.

‘Not very sharp, but horribly efficient,’ he said, and laid his hand on the shoulder of the shrinking man. ‘Ellenbury, my man, you’ve been dreaming!’ Ellenbury said nothing. ‘Nasty dreams, eh? My fault. I had you tensed up - I should have let you down months ago.’

Now Ellenbury spoke in a whisper.

‘You’re Harlow?’

‘I’m Harlow, yes.’ He scarcely gave any attention to the two suitcases; one glance, and he did not look at them again. ‘Harlow the Splendid. The Robber Baron of Park Lane. There’s a good title for you if you ever write that biography of mine!’

Mr Harlow glanced round at the girl and smiled; it was a very friendly smile.

Ellenbury offered no resistance when the big man relieved him of his wet coat and held up the dressing-gown invitingly. ‘Take off your shoes.’ The old man obeyed; he always obeyed Harlow. ‘When are you leaving?’

‘Tomorrow,’ The admission was wrung from him. He had no resistance.

‘One suitcase full of money is enough for any man,’ said Harlow. ‘I’ll take a chance - you shall have first pick.’

‘It’s yours!’ Ellenbury almost shouted the words.

‘No - anybody’s. Money belongs to the man who has it. That is my pernicious doctrine - you will go to Switzerland, get as high up the mountains as you can. St Moritz is a good place. Very likely you’re mad. I think you are. But madness cannot be cured by daily association with other madmen. It would be stupid to hide you up in an asylum - stupid and wicked. And if you will not think of killing people any more, Ellenbury. You - are - not - to - think - about - killing!’

‘No!’ The old man was weeping foolishly.

‘Our friend Ingle leaves for the Continent tomorrow - join him. If he starts talking politics, pull the alarm cord and have him arrested. I don’t know where he is going - anywhere but Russia, I guess…’

All the time he was talking, Aileen sensed his anxiety. Just then the maid brought in the tea and the big fellow relaxed.

‘Drink that hot,’ he ordered, and when the servant had gone he moved nearer to the girl and lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t respond. You noticed that? No reflexes, I’m certain. I dare not try; he’d think I was assaulting him. It was my own fault. I kept him too tense - too keyed up. If I had let him down…umph!’ He shook his head; the thick lips pursed and drooped. Presently he spoke again. ‘I’ll have to bring you both away - you can be very helpful. If you insist upon going to Carlton and telling him about…this’ - he nodded to the unconscious man by the fire - ‘I shan’t stop you. This is the finish, anyway.’

‘Of what?’ she asked.

‘Harlow the Joker,’ he said. ‘Don’t you see that? Here’s a man who tried to murder you - a madman. Why? Because he thought you knew he was bolting. Here’s Harlow the magnificent masquerading like a fiction detective with a comic moustache! Why? Imagine the police asking all these questions. And Ellenbury of course would tell them quite a lot of things - some silly, some sane. The police are rather clever - not very, but rather. They’d smell - all sorts of jokes. I want a day if I can get it. Would you come to Park Lane for a day?’