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

Richard looked at him.

      “What?” he exclaimed.

      “Five hundred guineas,” Ruff repeated.

      “For a consultation?” Sir Richard asked.

      Peter Ruff shook his head.

      “More than that,” he said. “You are a brave man in your way, Sir Richard Dyson, but you are going about now shivering under a load of fear. It sits like a devil incarnate upon your shoulders. It poisons the air wherever you go. Write your cheque, Sir Richard, and you can leave that little black devil in my wastebasket. You are under my protection. Nothing will happen to you.”

      Sir Richard sat like a man mesmerised. The little man with the amiable expression and the badly fitting suit was leaning back in his chair, his finger tips pressed together, waiting.

      “Nothing will happen!” Sir Richard repeated, incredulously.

      “Certainly not. I guarantee you against any inconvenience which might arise to you from this recent unfortunate affair. Isn’t that all you want?”

      “It’s all I want, certainly,” Sir Richard declared, “but I must understand a little how you propose to secure my immunity.”

      Ruff shook his head.

      “I have my own methods,” he said. “I can help only those who trust me.”

      Sir Richard drew a cheque book from his pocket. “I don’t know why I should believe in you,” he said, as he wrote the cheque.

      “But you do,” Peter Ruff said, smiling. “Fortunately for you, you do!”

      It was not so easy to impart a similar confidence into the breast of Colonel Dickinson, with whom Sir Richard dined that night tete-a-tete. Dickinson was inclined to think that Sir Richard ad been “had.”

      “You’ve paid a ridiculous fee,” he argued, “and all that you have in return is the fellow’s promise to see you through. It isn’t like you to part with money so easily, Richard. Did he hypnotise you?”

      “I don’t think so,” Sir Richard answered. “I wasn’t conscious of it.”

      “What sort of a fellow is he?” Dickinson asked.

      Sir Richard looked reflectively into his glass.

      “He’s a vulgar sort of little Johnny,” he said. “Looks as though he were always dressed in new clothes and couldn’t get used to them.”

      Three men entered the room. Two remained in the background. John Dory came forward towards the table.

      “Sir Richard Dyson,” he said, gravely, “I have come upon an unpleasant errand.”

      “Go on,” Sir Richard said, fingering something hard inside pocket of his coat.

      “I have a warrant for your arrest,” Dory continued, “in connection with the disappearance of Job Masters on Saturday, the 10th of November last. I will read the terms of the warrant, if you choose. It is my duty to warn you that anything you may now say can be used in evidence against you. This gentleman, I believe, is Colonel Dickinson?”

      “That is my name, sir,” Dickinson answered, with unexpected fortitude.

      “I regret to say,” the detective continued, “that I have also a warrant for your arrest in connection with the same matter.”

      Sir Richard had hold of the butt end of his revolver then. Like grisly phantoms, the thoughts chased one another through his brain. Should he shoot and end it—pass into black nothingness—escape disgrace, but die like a rat in a corner? His finger was upon the trigger. Then suddenly his heart gave a great leap. He raised his head as though listening. Something flashed in his eyes—something that was almost like hope. There was no mistaking that voice which he had heard in the hall! He made a great rally.

      “I can only conclude,” he said, turning to the detective, “that you have made some absurd blunder. If you really possess the warrants you speak of, however, Colonel Dickinson and I will accompany you wherever you choose.”

      Then the door opened and Peter Ruff walked in, followed by Job Masters, whose head was still bandaged, and who seemed to have lost a little flesh and a lot of colour. Peter Ruff looked round apologetically. He seemed surprised not to find Sir Richard Dyson and Colonel Dickinson alone. He seemed more than ever surprised to recognize Dory.

      “I trust,” he said smoothly, “that our visit is not inopportune. Sir Richard Dyson, I believe?” he continued, bowing—“my friend, Mr. Masters here, has consulted me as to the loss of a betting book, and we ventured to call to ask you, sir, if by any chance on his recent visit to your house—”

      “God in Heaven, it’s Masters!” Dyson exclaimed. “It’s Job Masters!”

      “That’s me, sir,” Masters admitted. “Mr. Ruff thought you might be able to help me find that book.”

      Sir Richard swayed upon his feet. Then the blood rushed once more through his veins.

      “Your book’s here in my cabinet, safe enough,” he said. “You left it here after our luncheon that day. Where on earth have you been to, man?” he continued. “We want some money from you over Myopia.”

      “I’ll pay all right, sir,” Masters answered. “Fact is, after our luncheon party I’m afraid I got a bit fuddled. I don’t seem to remember much.”

      He sat down a little heavily. Peter Ruff hastened to the table and took up a glass.

      “You will excuse me if I give him a little brandy, won’t you, sir?” he said. “He’s really not quite fit for getting about yet, but he was worrying about his book.”

      “Give him all the brandy he can drink,” Sir Richard answered.

      The detective’s face had been a study. He knew Masters well enough by sight—there was no doubt about his identity! His teeth came together with an angry little click. He had made a mistake! It was a thing which would be remembered against him forever! It was as bad as his failure to arrest that young man at Daisy Villa.

      “Your visit, Masters,” Sir Richard said, with a curious smile at the corners of his lips, “is, in some respects, a little opportune. About that little matter we were speaking of,” he continued, turning towards the detective.

      “We have only to offer you our apologies, Sir Richard,” Dory answered.

      Then he crossed the room and confronted Peter Ruff.

      “Do I understand, sir, that your name is Ruff—Peter Ruff?” he asked.

      “That is my name, sir,” Peter Ruff admitted, pleasantly “Yours I believe, is Dory. We are likely to come across one another now and then, I suppose. Glad to know you.”

      The detective stood quite still, and there was no geniality in his face.

      “I wonder—have we ever met before?” he asked, without removing his eyes from the other’s face. Peter Ruff smiled.

      “Not professionally, at any rate,” he answered. “I know that Scotland Yard you don’t think much of us small fry, but we find out things sometimes!”

      “Why didn’t you contradict all those rumours as to his disappearance?” the detective asked, pointing to where Job Masters was contentedly sipping his brandy and water.

      “I was acting for my client, and in my own interests,” replied Peter. “It was surely no part of my duty to save you gentlemen at Scotland Yard from hunting up mare’s nests!”

      John Dory went out, followed by his men. Sir Richard took Peter Ruff by the arm, and, leading him to the sideboard, mixed him a drink.

      “Peter Ruff,” he said, “you’re a clever scoundrel, but you’ve earned your five hundred guineas. Hang it, you’re welcome to them! Is there anything else I can do for you?”