Wallace The Complete Four Just Men Series (6 Detective Thrillers in One Edition)

Enriched edition.
1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-80-272-0164-8
Verlag: Musaicum Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 960 Seiten

Edgar Wallace's 'The Complete Four Just Men Series' offers readers a thrilling collection of six detective novels featuring the enigmatic team of vigilantes known as the Four Just Men. Set in a vivid literary context of early 20th-century London, these fast-paced and suspenseful stories showcase Wallace's signature style of combining intricate plots with sharp dialogue and clever twists. Each novel in the series presents a unique mystery for the Four Just Men to solve, highlighting their ingenuity and moral ambiguity in seeking justice. Edgar Wallace, a prolific writer and journalist, drew inspiration from the social and political unrest of his time, which is reflected in the Four Just Men's unconventional methods of dispensing justice. His background in investigative reporting gave him a keen eye for detail and a knack for crafting engaging narratives that keep readers on the edge of their seats. I highly recommend 'The Complete Four Just Men Series' to readers who enjoy classic detective thrillers with a touch of moral complexity. Wallace's masterful storytelling and the compelling dynamics of the Four Just Men make this collection a must-read for fans of the genre.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Wallace, Edgar

Weitere Mitwirkende

Whitaker, Troy

Leseproben

Chapter VIII
The Pocket-Book

Table of Contents

Final warning was brief and to the point:

We allow you until tomorrow evening to reconsider your position in the matter of the Aliens Extradition Bill. If by six o’clock no announcement is made in the afternoon newspapers of your withdrawing this measure we shall have no other course to pursue but to fulfil our promise. You will die at eight in the evening. We append for your enlightenment a concise table of the secret police arrangements made for your safety tomorrow. Farewell.
(Signed) FOUR JUST MEN

Sir Philip read this over without a tremor. He read too the slip of paper on which was written, in the strange foreign hand, the details that the police had not dared to put into writing.

“There is a leakage somewhere,” he said, and the two anxious watchers saw that the face of their charge was grey and drawn.

“These details were known only to four,” said the detective quietly, “and I’ll stake my life that it was neither the Commissioner nor myself.”

“Nor I!” said the private secretary emphatically.

Sir Philip shrugged his shoulders with a weary laugh.

“What does it matter? — they know,” he exclaimed; “by what uncanny method they learnt the secret I neither know nor care. The question is, can I be adequately protected tomorrow night at eight o’clock?”

Falmouth shut his teeth.

“Either you’ll come out of it alive or, by the Lord, they’ll kill two,” he said, and there was a gleam in his eye that spoke for his determination.

The news that yet another letter had reached the great statesman was on the streets at ten o’clock that night. It circulated through the clubs and theatres, and between the acts grave-faced men stood in the vestibules discussing Ramon’s danger. The House of Commons was seething with excitement. In the hope that the Minister would come down, a strong House had gathered, but the members were disappointed, for it was evident soon after the dinner recess that Sir Philip had no intention of showing himself that night.

“Might I ask the right honourable the Prime Minister whether it is the intention of His Majesty’s Government to proceed with the Aliens Extradition (Political Offences) Bill,” asked the Radical Member for West Deptford, “and whether he has not considered, in view of the extraordinary conditions that this Bill has called into life, the advisability of postponing the introduction of this measure?”

The question was greeted with a chorus of ‘hear-hears’, and the Prime Minister rose slowly and turned an amused glance in the direction of the questioner.

“I know of no circumstance that is likely to prevent my right honourable friend, who is unfortunately not in his place tonight, from moving the second reading of the Bill tomorrow,” he said, and sat down.

“What the devil was he grinning at?” grumbled West Deptford to a neighbour.

“He’s deuced uncomfortable, is JK,” said the other wisely, “deuced uncomfortable; a man in the Cabinet was telling me today that old JK has been feeling deuced uncomfortable. ‘You mark my words,’ he said, ‘this Four Just Men business is making the Premier deuced uncomfortable,’” and the hon. member subsided to allow West Deptford to digest his neighbour’s profundities.

“I’ve done my best to persuade Ramon to drop the Bill,” the Premier was saying, “but he is adamant, and the pitiable thing is that he believes in his heart of hearts that these fellows intend keeping faith.”

“It is monstrous,” said the Colonial Secretary hotly; “it is inconceivable that such a state of affairs can last. Why, it strikes at the root of everything, it unbalances every adjustment of civilisation.”

“It is a poetical idea,” said the phlegmatic Premier, “and the standpoint of the Four is quite a logical one. Think of the enormous power for good or evil often vested in one man: a capitalist controlling the markets of the world, a speculator cornering cotton or wheat whilst mills stand idle and people starve, tyrants and despots with the destinies of nations between their thumb and finger — and then think of the four men, known to none; vague, shadowy figures stalking tragically through the world, condemning and executing the capitalist, the corner maker, the tyrant — evil forces all, and all beyond reach of the law. We have said of these people, such of us as are touched with mysticism, that God would judge them. Here are men arrogating to themselves the divine right of superior judgment. If we catch them they will end their lives unpicturesquely, in a matter-of-fact, commonplace manner in a little shed in Pentonville Gaol, and the world will never realise how great are the artists who perish.”

“But Ramón?”

The Premier smiled.

“Here, I think, these men have just overreached themselves. Had they been content to slay first and explain their mission afterwards I have little doubt that Ramon would have died. But they have warned and warned and exposed their hand a dozen times over. I know nothing of the arrangements that are being made by the police, but I should imagine that by tomorrow night it will be as difficult to get within a dozen yards of Ramon as it would be for a Siberian prisoner to dine with the Czar.”

“Is there no possibility of Ramon withdrawing the Bill?” asked the Colonies.

The Premier shook his head.

“Absolutely none,” he said.

The rising of a member of the Opposition front bench at that moment to move an amendment to a clause under discussion cut short the conversation.

The House rapidly emptied when it became generally known that Ramon did not intend appearing, and the members gathered in the smoking-room and lobby to speculate upon the matter which was uppermost in their minds.

In the vicinity of Palace Yard a great crowd had gathered, as in London crowds will gather, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the man whose name was in every mouth. Street vendors sold his portrait, frowsy men purveying the real life and adventures of the Four Just Men did a roaring trade, and itinerant street singers, introducing extemporised verses into their repertoire, declaimed the courage of that statesman bold, who dared for to resist the threats of coward alien and deadly anarchist.

There was praise in these poor lyrics for Sir Philip, who was trying to prevent the foreigner from taking the bread out of the mouths of honest working men.

The humour of which appealed greatly to Manfred, who, with Poiccart, had driven to the Westminster end of the Embankment; having dismissed their cab, they were walking to Whitehall.

“I think the verse about the ‘deadly foreign anarchist’ taking the bread out of the mouth of the homemade variety is distinctly good,” chuckled Manfred.

Both men were in evening dress, and Poiccart wore in his buttonhole the silken button of a Chevalier of the Legion d’Honneur.

Manfred continued:

“I doubt whether London has had such a sensation since — when?”

Poiccart’s grim smile caught the other’s eye and he smiled in sympathy.

“Well?”

“I asked the same question of the maitre d’hotel,” he said slowly, like a man loath to share a joke; “he compared the agitation to the atrocious East-End murders.”

Manfred stopped dead and looked with horror on his companion.

“Great heavens!” he exclaimed in distress, “it never occurred to me that we should be compared with — him!”

They resumed their walk.

“It is part of the eternal bathos,” said Poiccart serenely; “even De Quincey taught the English nothing. The God of Justice has but one interpreter here, and he lives in a public-house in Lancashire, and is an expert and dexterous disciple of the lamented Marwood, whose system he has improved upon.”

They were traversing that portion of Whitehall from which Scotland Yard runs.

A man, slouching along with bent head and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his tattered coat, gave them a swift sidelong glance, stopped when they had passed, and looked after them. Then he turned and quickened his shuffle on their trail. A press of people and a seeming ceaseless string of traffic at the corner of Cockspur Street brought Manfred and Poiccart to a standstill, waiting for an opportunity to cross the road. They were subjected to a little jostling as the knot of waiting people thickened, but eventually they crossed and walked towards St Martin’s Lane.

The comparison which Poiccart had quoted still rankled with Manfred.

“There will be people at His Majesty’s tonight,” he said, “applauding Brutus as he asks, ‘What villain touched his body and not for justice?’ You will not find a serious student of history, or any commonplace man of intelligence, for the matter of that, who, if you asked, Would it not have been God’s blessing for the world if Bonaparte had been assassinated on his return from Egypt? would not answer without hesitation, Yes. But we — we are murderers!”

“They would not have erected a statue of Napoleon’s assassin,” said Poiccart easily, “any more than they have enshrined Felton, who slew a profligate and debauched Minister of Charles I. Posterity may do us justice,” he spoke half mockingly; “for myself I am satisfied with the approval of my conscience.”

He threw away the cigar he was smoking, and put his hand to the inside pocket of his coat to find another. He...