I.—THE REBUS

Published as “The Four Just Men” in Detective Story Magazine, Jul 2, 1927

AS The Megaphone once said, in its most pessimistic and wondering mood, recording rather than condemning the strangeness of the time:

“Even The Four Just Men have become a respectable institution. Not more than fifteen years ago we spoke of them as ‘a criminal organization’; rewards were offered for their arrest… today you may turn into Curzon Street and find a silver triangle affixed to the sedate door which marks their professional headquarters… The hunted and reviled have become a most exclusive detective agency… We can only hope that their somewhat drastic methods of other times have been considerably modified.”

It is sometimes a dangerous thing to watch a possible watcher.

‘What is Mr. Lewis Lethersohn afraid of?’ asked Manfred, as he cracked an egg at breakfast. His handsome, clean-shaven face was tanned a teak-brown, for he was newly back from the sun and snows of Switzerland.

Leon Gonsalez sat opposite, absorbed in The Times; at the end of the table was Raymond Poiccart, heavy-featured and saturnine. Other pens than mine have described his qualities and his passion for growing vegetables.

He raised his eyes to Gonsalez.

‘Is he the gentleman who has had this house watched for the past month?’ he asked.

A smile quivered on Leon’s lips as he folded the newspaper neatly.

‘He is the gentleman—I’m interviewing him this morning,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, the sleuth hounds have been withdrawn—they were employed by the Ottis Detective Agency.’

‘If he is watching us, he has a bad conscience,’ said Poiccart, nodding slowly. ‘I shall be interested to hear all about this.’

Mr. Lewis Lethersohn lived in Lower Berkeley Street—a very large and expensive house. The footman who opened the door to Leon was arrayed in a uniform common enough in historical films but rather out of the picture in Lower Berkeley Street. Mulberry and gold and knee breeches… Leon gazed at him with awe.

‘Mr. Lethersohn will see you in the library,’ said the man—he seemed; thought Leon, rather conscious of his own magnificence.

A gorgeous house this, with costly furnishings and lavish decorations. As he mounted the wide stairs he had a glimpse of a beautiful woman passing across the landing. One disdainful glance she threw in his direction and passed, leaving behind her the faint fragrance of some exotic perfume.

The room into which he was shown might have been mistaken for a bedroom, with its bric-a-brac and its beauty of appointments.

Mr. Lethersohn rose from behind the Empire writing table and offered a white hand. He was thin, rather bald, and there was a suggestion of the scholar in his lined face.

‘Mr. Gonsalez?’ His voice was thin and not particularly pleasant. ‘Won’t you sit down? I had your inquiry—there seems to be some mistake.’

He had resumed his own seat. Though he might endeavour, to cover up his uneasiness by this cold attitude of his, he could not quite hide his perturbation.

‘I know you, of course—but it is ridiculous that I should set men to watch your house. Why?’

Gonsalez was watching him intently.

‘That is what I have come to learn,’ he said, ‘and I think it would be fairest to tell you that there is no doubt that you are watching us. We know the agency you employed—we know the fees you have paid and the instructions you have given. The only question is, why?’

Mr. Lethersohn moved uncomfortably and smiled. ‘Really… I suppose there is no wisdom in denying that I did employ detectives. The truth is, the Four Just Men is rather a formidable organization—and—er—Well, I am a rich man…’

He was at a loss how to go on.

The interview ended lamely with polite assurances on either side. Leon Gonsalez went back to Curzon Street a very thoughtful man.

‘He’s afraid of somebody consulting us, and the detective people have been employed to head off that somebody. Now who?’

The next evening brought the answer.

It was a grey April night, chill and moist. The woman who walked slowly down Curzon Street, examining the numbers on the doors, was an object of suspicion to the policeman standing on Claridge’s corner. She was in the region of thirty, rather slim, under the worn and soddened coat. Her face was faded and a little pinched. ‘Pretty once,’ mused Leon Gonsalez, observing her from behind the net curtain that covered the window. ‘A working woman without a thought beyond keeping her body and soul together.’

He had time enough to observe her, since she stood for a long time by the kerb, looking up and down the street hopelessly.

‘Notice the absence of any kind of luring finery—and this is the hour when even the poorest find a scarf or a pair of gloves.’

Manfred rose from the table where he had been taking his frugal meal and joined the keen-faced observer.

‘Provincial, I think,’ said Leon thoughtfully. ‘Obviously a stranger to the West End—she’s coming here!’

As he was speaking, the woman had turned, made a brief scrutiny of the front door… They heard the bell ring.

‘I was mistaken—she hadn’t lost her way; she was plucking up courage to ring—and if she isn’t Lethersohn’s bete noire I’m a Dutchman!’

He heard Poiccart’s heavy tread in the passage—Poiccart played butler quite naturally. Presently he came in and closed the door behind him.

‘You will be surprised,’ he said in his grave way. That was peculiarly Poiccart—to say mysterious things gravely.

‘About the lady? I refuse to be surprised.’ Leon was vehement. ‘She has lost something—a husband, a watch, something. She has the “lost” look—an atmosphere of vague helplessness surrounds her. The symptoms are unmistakable!’

‘Ask her to come in,’ said Manfred, and Poiccart retired.

A second later Alma Stamford was ushered into the room.

That was her name. She came from Edgware and she was a widow… Long before she came to the end of preliminaries Poiccart’s promised surprise had been sprung, for this woman, wearing clothes that a charwoman would have despised, had a voice which was soft and educated. Her vocabulary was extensive and she spoke of conditions which could only be familiar to one who had lived in surroundings of wealth.

She was the widow of a man who—they gathered—had not been in his lifetime the best of husbands. Rich beyond the ordinary meaning of the term, with estates in Yorkshire and Somerset, a fearless rider to hounds, he had met his death in the hunting field.

‘My husband had a peculiar upbringing,’ she said. ‘His parents died at an early age and he was brought up by his uncle. He was a terrible old man who drank heavily, was coarse to the last degree, and was jealous of outside interference. Mark saw practically nobody until, in the last year or the old man’s life, he brought in a Mr. Lethersohn, a young man a little older than Mark, to act as tutor—for Mark’s education was terribly backward. My husband was twenty-one when his uncle died, but he retained a gentleman to act for him as companion and secretary.’

‘Mr. Lewis Lethersohn,’ said Leon promptly, and she gasped.

‘I can’t guess how you know, but that is the name. Although we weren’t particularly happy,’ she went on, ‘my husband’s death was a terrible shock. But almost as great a shock was his will. In this he left one half of his fortune to Lethersohn, the other half to me at the expiration of five years from his death, provided that I carried out the conditions of the will. I was not to marry during that period, I was to live at a house in Harlow and never to leave the Harlow district. Mr. Lethersohn was given absolute power as sole executor to dispose of property for my benefit. I have lived in Harlow until this morning.’

‘Mr. Lethersohn is of course married?’ said Leon, his bright eyes fixed on the lady.

‘Yes—you know him?’

Leon shook his head.

‘I only know that he is married and very much in love with his wife.’

She was astounded at this.

‘You must know him. Yes, he married just before Mark was killed. A very beautiful Hungarian girl—he is half Hungarian and I believe he adores her. I heard that she was very extravagant—I only saw her once.’

‘What has happened at Harlow?’ It was the silent, watchful Poiccart who asked the question.

He saw the woman’s lips tremble.

‘It has been a nightmare,’ she said with a break in her voice. ‘The house was a beautiful little place—miles from Harlow really, and off the main road. There I have been for two years practically a prisoner. My letters have been opened, I have been locked in my room every night by one of the two...