(1929) The Three Just Men by Edgar Wallace Page A

hall came flying into the annexe.
    “What happened—the main fuse gone?”
    “No,” said the hall-keeper sourly, “some fool turned over the switch.”
    The agitated waiter protested that nobody had been near the switch-box.
    “There was a lady and gentleman here, and another gentleman outside.” He pointed to the open door.
    “Where are they now?”
    “I don’t know. The lady was faint.”
    The three had disappeared when the manager went out into a small courtyard that led round the corner of the building to a side street. Then he came back on a tour of inspection.
    “Somebody did it from the yard. There’s a window open—you can reach the switch easily.”
    The window was fastened and locked.
    “There is no lady or gentleman in the yard,” he said. “Are you sure they did not go into the big hall?”
    “In the dark—maybe.”
    The waiter’s nervousness was understandable. Mr. Gurther had given him a five-pound note and the man had not as yet delivered the change. Never would he return to claim it if all that his keen ears heard was true.
    Four men had appeared in the annexe: one shut the door and stood by it. The three others were accompanied by the manager, who called Phillips, the waiter.
    “This man served them,” he said, troubled. Even the most innocent do not like police visitations. “What was the gentleman like?”
    Phillips gave a brief and not inaccurate description.
    “That is your man, I think, Herr Fluen?”
    The third of the party was bearded and plump; he wore a Derby hat with evening dress.
    “That is Gurther,” he nodded. “It will be a great pleasure to meet him. For eight months the Embassy has been striving for his extradition. But our people at home…!”
    He shrugged his shoulders. All properly constituted officials behave in such a manner when they talk of Governments.
    “The lady now”—Inspector Meadows was patently worried—“she was faint, you say. Had she drunk anything?”
    “Orangeade—there is the glass. She said there was something nasty in the straws. These.”
    Phillips handed them to the detective. He wetted his fin from them, touched his tongue and spat out quickly.
    “Yes,” he said, and went out by the little door.
    Gonsalez, of course: but where had he gone, and how, with a drugged girl on his hands and the Child of the Snake? Gurther was immensely quick to strike, and an icy-hearted man: the presence of a woman would not save Leon.
    “When the light went out—” began the waiter, and the trouble cleared from Mr. Meadows’s face.
    “Of course—I had forgotten that,” he said softly. “The lights went out!”
    All the way back to the Yard he was trying to bring something from the back of his mind—something that was there, the smooth tip of it tantalizingly displayed, yet eluding every grasp. It had nothing to do with the lights—nor Gonsalez, nor yet the girl. Gurther? No. Nor Manfred? What was it? A name had been mentioned to him that day—it had a mysterious significance. A golden idol! He picked up the end of the thought…Johnny! Manfred’s one mystery. That was the dust which lay on all thought. And now that he remembered he was disappointed. It was so ridiculously unimportant a matter to baffle him.
    He left his companions at the corner of Curzon Street and went alone to the house. There was a streak of light showing between the curtains in the upstairs room. The passage was illuminated—Poiccart answered his ring at once.
    “Yes, George and Leon were here a little time back—the girl? No, they said nothing about a girl. They looked rather worried, I thought. Miss Leicester, I suppose? Won’t you come in?”
    “No, I can’t wait. There’s a light in Manfred’s room.”
    The ghost of a smile lit the heavy face and faded as instantly.
    “My room also,” he said. “Butlers take vast liberties in the absence of their masters. Shall I give a message to George?”
    “Ask him to call me at the Yard.”
    Poiccart closed the door