The Man Who Bought London (17 page)

‘So you’ve come?’ said Hermann.

‘For the last time,’ said the other.

‘Assuredly’ – then – ‘What is that?’ Hermann asked quickly.

King Kerry had laid down upon the table a newspaper he had purchased on his way. He had been suspicious of Hermann’s intentions, and had bought the journal to learn the sailing dates and to discover whether the South American mail sailed the following day.

It happened that, as far as he could gather from a perusal of the shipping-list, Zeberlieff had spoken the truth.

Hermann snatched up the paper, his face was drawn and haggard of a sudden. Over his shoulder the millionaire read in the largest headlines –

Hermann read the lines rapidly. The arrested man was Micheloff – and he would tell – everything. Everything would come out now, the little Russian would not hesitate to implicate anybody and everybody to save his own skin or to bring about a mitigation of his sentence.

So he made a full confession! Of what! The paper only had the brief and most guarded account: ‘The prisoner made a long statement, which was being investigated,’ said the journal, and went on to explain that the police sought the owner of a large sum of money which was found upon the prisoner.

So it was all out. He threw down the paper on the table. The game was up. He was at his last desperate throw, and then ‘Farewell, Hermann Zeberlieff!’

‘That has upset you rather?’ said King Kerry. He had skimmed the account on his way to the house.

‘It doesn’t upset me so very much,’ said the other. ‘It alters my plans a little – it may very easily alter yours. I have very little time.’ He looked at his watch. Kerry saw a packed bag and an overcoat on a chair, and guessed that Zeberlieff was making immediate preparations for departure.

‘But that little time,’ Hermann went on, ‘must be profitably spent. For the last time, King Kerry, will you help me?’

‘With money? No! How often have I helped you, and invariably you have employed the assistance I have given you to combat me?’

‘I want exactly a million,’ said the other. ‘I am going away to South America, where there is ample scope for a gentleman of enterprise.’

‘You will get nothing from me.’

‘Reconsider your decision – now!’

Kerry turned. A revolver covered him.

‘Reconsider it, or you’re a dead man!’ said Zeberlieff, calmly. ‘I tell you I am in desperate straits. I must get out of this country today – unless you stand by me – not only with money, but in every other way –’

There was a loud knock at the door below. Zeberlieff’s haggard face went white, yet he edged to the window and looked out. Three men, unmistakable policemen in plain clothes, were standing about the door.

‘This is the end,’ said Zeberlieff, and fired.

As he did so, King Kerry sprang forward and knocked up his arm. The two closed, the white hands sought for his throat, but Kerry knew the other’s strength – and weakness.

There was a sharp scuffle, but Zeberlieff was powerless in his arms. He swung him round as the door burst open and two men dashed in.

Before they could grasp their prisoner he had stooped to the floor and picked up the revolver that had fallen in the struggle. There was a quick report, and, with that little smile which was particularly Hermann Zeberlieff’s, he collapsed sideways on to the floor.

Kerry went down on his knees by his side and lifted the fallen head.

‘Hullo, Kingy!’ coughed the dying Hermann. ‘This is pretty lucky for you – you and your Elsie!’

A frown gathered over the fast-glazing eyes, and it was with that frown on that handsome face that Hermann Zeberlieff went to the Judge Who knows all things.

One of the policemen leant over him.

‘He’s dead!’ he said as he loosened the shirt about the neck of the silent figure.

He stood up sharply.

‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘It’s a woman!’

King Kerry nodded.

‘My wife,’ he said, and looked down at the dead woman at his feet.

‘I had never suspected it – never.’ Vera’s eyes showed signs of tears. ‘And yet, now I come to think of it, she never allowed me
in her room, never allowed a servant to valet her, and there are lots of little things I can remember which might have aroused my suspicion.’

‘It was her mother’s fault,’ said King Kerry. ‘Her mother was ignorant of the laws of the United States, and was under the impression that your father’s estate would go automatically to a son, and that a daughter had no powers of inheritance. She craved for that son, and when Henrietta arrived, the poor soul was distracted. The doctor was bribed to certify the child as a boy, and her aunt and her mother brought her up as a boy. She was assisted in this deception by Henrietta’s character – for Henrietta had a man’s way and a man’s reason. She was a man in this, that she had neither pity nor remorse. She allowed a beautiful girl to fall in love with her without letting her know her secret. When it was discovered the girl committed suicide – you probably know the circumstances.’

‘I know,’ said the faltering Vera. ‘But I thought –’

‘Everybody thought that,’ said Kerry. ‘One other aunt was frightened and had the girl sent to her at Denver – she had a farm there. She allowed her hair to grow and dressed her as a girl – it was there that I met her and married her.

‘But the fascination of the old life – she had got into a speculating set on Wall Street – was too much for her.

‘She wanted to be thought a man, to hear her business abilities and her genius praised – as a man. She made one or two very wise speculations which were her undoing. She left me and went back to Wall Street. I pleaded with her, but there was nothing to be gained by appealing to Henrietta’s better instincts. She laughed. The next day she turned a “corner” against me – she smashed my market – with my money,’ he added grimly. ‘I did not mind
that, one can always get money, but she pursued it. I was a “bear” in corn, pulling the prices down; she and her friends “cornered” the world’s supply, so she thought. I smashed her and gave her a million to start afresh, but she hated me from that moment and pursued me with malignant –’ He stopped. ‘God help her!’ he said sadly. ‘God help all women – good or bad!’

‘Amen,’ said Vera Zeberlieff.

King Kerry came to see Elsie two months later. He arrived unexpectedly at Geneva, where she was holiday-making, and she met him upon Quai des Alpes, and was staggered at the sight of him.

He was young again – the lines were gone from his face – the lines of care and memory – and his eyes were bright with health.

‘I have just come along from Chamonix,’ he said. ‘I have been fixing up a villa.’

‘Are you going to live there?’ she asked in consternation.

He shook his head smilingly.

A carriage drove past, and she had some work to restrain a smile.

‘Who is that?’ he asked.

‘Do you remember Mr Hubbard?’

He nodded. He remembered the ‘Beauty’ very well.

‘He has married the most dreadful woman. And they have come here on their honeymoon,’ she said.

He nodded again.

‘His landlady,’ he said grimly. ‘That’s poetic justice.’

‘But the most poetical of all the pieces of justice,’ she laughed, ‘is that Vera and Mr Bray are staying at the same hotel on their honeymoon.’

‘That is rough luck,’ admitted King Kerry with a smile, ‘and as you say, horribly just.’

‘It is rather terrible, though,’ she said, ‘the number of honeymoon folks who are in Geneva.’

He took her by the arm and walked her along the quay.

‘We shall not add to the number,’ he said. ‘We will go to Chamonix.’

‘When?’ asked the girl faintly.

‘Next week,’ said King Kerry.

‘I love Chamonix,’ she said after a while. ‘It is so splendid – Mont Blanc with his white smooth head always above you. I wish we could take Mont Blanc to England with us,’ she added whimsically.

‘I’ll ask the price of it,’ said the Man who Bought London.

Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace was born in London on 1 April 1875, the son of a widowed actress. He was fostered by a fish porter at Billingsgate market and his wife, and later adopted by them.

Having left school at the age of twelve, he began his working life by selling newspapers at Ludgate Circus near Fleet Street. At the age of twenty-one, Wallace joined the army but transferred as swiftly as possible to the Royal Army Medical Corps. It was not until he finally transferred again to the Press Corps and he began writing, that he at last found his calling.

During the Boer War, he worked as a war correspondent for the
Daily Mail
, as well as publishing poems and columns in various newspapers. He would go on to write over 170 novels, 18 stage plays and 957 short stories. Famously prolific, it has been estimated that one in four books read in the UK in 1928 was written by Wallace. He remains known today for his thrilling tales and for writing the early screenplay to the enduring classic film,
King Kong
.

Wallace died in Los Angeles in 1932, survived by his second wife and four children.