Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

the room from which he had descended, there was a door upon which his name was written upon a small brass plate—Mr. Peter Ruff. He opened and closed it behind him with a swift movement which he had practised in his idle moments. He found himself looking in upon a curious scene.

      Miss Brown, with the radiance of her hair effectually concealed, in plain black skirt and simple blouse—the ideal secretary—had risen from the seat in front of her typewriter, and was standing facing the door through which he had entered, with a small revolver—which he had given her for a birthday present only the day before—clasped in her outstretched hand. The object of her solicitude was, it seemed to Peter Ruff, the most pitiful-looking object upon which he had ever looked. The hours had dwelt with Merries as the years with some people, and worse. He had lost his cap; his hair hung over his forehead in wild confusion; his eyes were red, bloodshot, and absolutely aflame with the terrors through which he had lived—underneath them the black marks might have been traced with a charcoal pencil. His cheeks were livid save for one burning spot. His clothes, too, were in disorder—the starch had gone from his collar, his tie hung loosely outside his waistcoat. He was cowering back against the wall. And between him and the girl, stretched upon the floor, was the body of a man in a huge motor coat, a limp, inert mass which neither moved nor seemed to have any sign of life. No wonder that Peter Ruff looked around his office, whose serenity had been so tragically disturbed, with an air of mild surprise.

      “Dear me,” he exclaimed, “something seems to have happened! My dear Violet, you can put that revolver away. I have secured the door.”

      Her hand fell to her side. She gave a little shiver of relief. Peter Ruff nodded.

      “That is more comfortable,” he declared. “Now, perhaps, you will explain—”

      “That young man,” she interrupted, “or lunatic—whatever he calls himself—burst in here a few minutes ago, dragging—that!” She pointed to the motionless figure upon the floor. “If I had not stopped him, he would have bolted off without a word of explanation.”

      Peter Ruff, with his back against the door, shook his head gravely.

      “My dear Lord Merries,” he said, “my office is not a mortuary.”

      Merries gasped.

      “You know me, then?” he muttered, hoarsely.

      “Of course,” Ruff answered. “It is my profession to know everybody. Go and sit down upon that easy-chair, and drink the brandy and soda which Miss Brown is about to mix for you. That’s right.”

      Merries staggered across the room and half fell into an easy-chair. He leaned over the side with his face buried in his hands, unable still to face the horror which lay upon the floor. A few seconds later, the tumbler of brandy and soda was in his hands. He drank it like a man who drains fresh life into his veins.

      “Perhaps now,” Peter Ruff suggested, pointing to the motionless figure, “you can give me some explanation as to this!”

      Merries looked away from him all the time he was speaking. His voice was thick and nervous.

      “There were three of us lunching together,” he began—“four in all. There was a dispute, and this man threatened us. Afterwards there was a fight. It fell to my lot to take him away, and I can’t get rid of him! I can’t get rid of him!” he repeated, with something that sounded like a sob.

      “I still do not see,” Peter Ruff argued, “why you should have brought him here and deposited him upon my perfectly new carpet.”

      “You are Peter Ruff,” Merries declared. “ ‘Crime Investigator and Private Detective,’ you call yourself. You are used to this sort of thing. You will know what to do with it. It is part of your business.”

      “I can assure you,” Peter Ruff answered, “that you are under a delusion as to the details of my profession. I am Peter Ruff,” he admitted, “and I call myself a crime investigator—in fact, I am the only one worth speaking of in the world. But I certainly deny that I am used to having dead bodies deposited upon my carpet, and that I make a habit of disposing of them—especially gratis.”

      Merries tore open his coat.

      “Listen,” he said, his voice shaking hysterically, “I must get rid of it or go mad. For two hours I have been driving about in a motor car with—it for a passenger. I drove to a quiet spot and I tried to lift it out—a policeman rode up! I tried again, a man rushed by on a motor cycle, and turned to look at me! I tried a few minutes later—the policeman came back! It was always the same. The night seemed to have eyes. I was watched everywhere. The—the face began to mock me. I’ll swear that I heard it chuckle once!”

      Peter Ruff moved a little further away.

      “I don’t think I’ll have anything to do with it,” he declared. “I don’t like your description at all.”

      “It’ll be all right with you,” Merries declared eagerly. “It’s my nerves, that’s all. You see, I was there—when the accident happened. See here,” he added, tearing a pocketbook from his coat, “I have three hundred and seventy pounds saved up in case I had to bolt. I’ll keep seventy—three hundred for you—to dispose of it!”

      Ruff leaned over the motionless body, looked into its face, and nodded.

      “Masters, the bookmaker,” he remarked. “H’m! I did hear that he had a lot of money coming to him over the Cambridgeshire.”

      Merries shuddered.

      “May I go?” he pleaded. “There’s the three hundred on the table. For God’s sake, let me go!”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “I wish you’d saved a little more,” he said. “However—”

      He turned the lock and Merries rushed out of the room. Ruff looked across the room towards his secretary.

      “Ring up 1535 Central,” he ordered, sharply.

      Peter Ruff had descended from his apartments on the top floor of the building, in a new brown suit with which he was violently displeased, to meet a caller.

      “I am sorry to intrude—Mr. Ruff, I believe it is?” Sir Richard Dyson said, a little irritably—“but I have not a great deal of time to spare—”

      “Most natural!” Peter Ruff declared. “Pray take a chair, Sir Richard. You want to know, of course, about Lord Merries and poor Masters.”

      Sir Richard stared at his questioner, for a moment, without speech. Once more the fear which he had succeeded in banishing for a while, shone in his eyes—revealed itself in his white face.

      “Try the easy-chair, Sir Richard,” Ruff continued, pleasantly. “Leave your hat and cane on the table there, and make yourself comfortable. I should like to understand exactly what you have come to me for.”

      Sir Richard moved his head toward Miss Brown.

      “My business with you,” he said, “is more than ordinarily private. I have the honour of knowing Miss—”

      “Miss Brown,” Peter interrupted quickly. “In these offices, this young lady’s name is Miss Violet Brown.”

      Sir Richard shrugged his shoulders.

      “It is of no importance,” he said, “only, as you may understand, my business with you scarcely requires the presence of a third party, even one with the discretion which I am sure Miss—Brown possesses.”

      “In these matters,” Ruff answered, “my secretary does not exist apart from myself. Her presence is necessary. She takes down in shorthand notes of our conversation. I have a shocking memory, and there are always points which I forget. At the conclusion of our business, whatever it may be, these notes are destroyed. I could not work without them, however.”

      Sir Richard glanced a little doubtfully at the