CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

shrug of the shoulders, as one who would say—“I have done my best. What would you have?”

      Dory put his shoulder to the door.

      “Listen,” he shouted through the keyhole, “Mr. Sick Waiter, or whoever you are, if you do not unlock this door, I am coming in!”

      “I have no key,” said a faint voice. “I am locked in. Please break open the door.”

      “But that is not the Voice of Francois!” Antoine exclaimed, in amazement.

      “We’ll soon see who it is,” Dory answered.

      He charged at the door fiercely. At the third assault it gave way. They found themselves in a small back bedroom, and stretched on the floor, very pale, and apparently only half-conscious, lay Peter Ruff. There was a strong smell of chloroform about. John Dory threw open the window. His fingers trembled a little. It was like Fate—this! At the end of every unsuccessful effort there was this man—Peter Ruff!

      “What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.

      Peter Ruff groaned.

      “Help me up,” he begged, “and give me a little brandy.”

      Antoine set him in an easy-chair and rang the bell furiously.

      “It will come directly!” he exclaimed. “But who are you?”

      Peter Ruff waited for the brandy. When he had sipped it, he drew a little breath as though of relief.

      “I heard,” he said, speaking still with an evident effort, “that Lemaitre was here. I had secret information. I thought at first that I would let you know—I sent you a note early this morning. Afterwards, I discovered that there was a reward, and I determined to track him down myself. He was in here hiding as a sick waiter. I do not think,” Peter Ruff added, “that Monsieur Antoine had any idea. I presented myself as representing a charitable society, and I was shown here to visit him. He was too clever, though, was Jean Lemaitre—too quick for me.”

      “You were a fool to come alone!” John Dory said. “Don’t you know the man’s record? How long ago did he leave?”

      “About ten minutes,” Peter Ruff answered. “You must have missed him somewhere as you came up. I crawled to the window and I watched him go. He left the restaurant by the side entrance, and took a taxicab at the corner there. It went northward toward New Oxford Street.”

      Dory turned on his heel—they heard him descending the stairs. Peter Ruff rose to his feet.

      “I am afraid,” he said, as he plunged his head into a basin of water, and came into the middle of the room rubbing it vigorously with a small towel, “I am afraid that our friend John Dory will get to dislike me soon! He passed out unnoticed, eh, Antoine?”

      Antoine’s face wore a look of great relief.

      “There was not a soul who looked,” he said. “We passed under the nose of the gentleman from Scotland Yard. He sat there reading his paper; and he had no idea. I watched Jean step into the motor. Even by now he is well on his way southwards. Twice he changes from motor to train, and back. They will never trace him.”

      Peter Ruff, who was looking amazingly better, sipped a further glass of liqueur. Together he and Antoine descended to the street.

      “Mind,” Peter Ruff whispered, “I consider that accounts are squared between me and ‘Double-Four’ now. Let them know that. This sort of thing isn’t in my line.”

      “For an amateur,” Antoine said, bowing low, “Monsieur commands my heartfelt congratulations!”

      Mrs. BOGNOR’S STAR BOARDER

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      In these days, the duties of Miss Brown as Peter Ruff’s secretary had become multifarious. Together with the transcribing of a vast number of notes concerning cases, some of which he undertook and some of which he refused, she had also to keep his cash book, a note of his investments and a record of his social engagements. Notwithstanding all these demands upon her time, however, there were occasions when she found herself, of necessity, idle. In one of these she broached the subject which had often been in her mind. They were alone, and not expecting callers. Consequently, she sat upon the hearthrug and addressed her employer by his Christian name.

      “Peter,” she said softly, “do you remember the night when you came through the fog and burst into my little flat?”

      “Quite well,” he answered, “but it is a subject to which I prefer that you do not allude.”

      “I will be careful,” she answered. “I only spoke of it for this reason. Before you left, when we were sitting together, you sketched out the career which you proposed for yourself. In many respects, I suppose, you have been highly successful, but I wonder if it has ever occurred to you that your work has not proceeded upon the lines which you first indicated?”

      He nodded.

      “I think I know what you mean,” he said. “Go on.”

      “That night,” she murmured softly, “you spoke as a hunted man; you spoke as one at war with Society; you spoke as one who proposes almost a campaign against it. When you took your rooms here and called yourself Peter Ruff, it was rather in your mind to aid the criminal than to detect the crime. Fate seems to have decreed otherwise. Why, I wonder?”

      “Things have gone that way,” Peter Ruff remarked.

      “I will tell you why,” she continued. “It is because, at the bottom of your heart, there lurks a strong and unconquerable desire for respectability. In your heart you are on the side of the law and established things. You do not like crime; you do not like criminals. You do not like the idea of associating with them. You prefer the company of law-abiding people, even though their ways be narrow. It was part of that sentiment, Peter, which led you to fall in love with a coal-merchant’s daughter. I can see that you will end your days in the halo of respectability.”

      Peter Ruff was a little thoughtful. He scratched his chin and contemplated the tip of his faultless patent boot. Self-analysis interested him, and he recognized the truth of the girl’s words.

      “You know, I am rather like that,” he admitted. “When I see a family party, I envy them. When I hear of a man who has brothers and sisters and aunts and cousins, and gives family dinner-parties to family friends, I envy him. I do not care about the loose ends of life. I do not care about restaurant life, and ladies who transfer their regards with the same facility that they change their toilettes. You have very admirable powers of observation, Violet. You see me, I believe, as I really am.”

      “That being so,” she remarked, “what are you going to say to Sir Richard Dyson?”

      Peter Ruff was frank.

      “Upon my soul,” he answered, “I don’t know!”

      “You’ll have to make up your mind very soon,” she reminded him. “He is coming here at twelve o’clock.”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “I shall wait until I hear what he has to say,” he remarked.

      “His letter gave you a pretty clear hint,” Violet said, “that it was something outside the law.”

      “The law has many outposts,” Peter Ruff said. “One can thread one’s way in and out, if one knows the ropes. I don’t like the man, but he introduced me to his tailor. I have never had any clothes like those he has made me.”

      She sighed.

      “You are a vain little person,” she said.

      “You are an impertinent young woman!” he answered. “Get back to your work. Don’t you hear the lift stop?”

      She