The Complete Four Just Men by Edgar Wallace

Author:Edgar Wallace [Wallace, Edgar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wordsworth Editions Ltd
Published: 2012-09-11T23:00:00+00:00

The Man who hated Amelia Jones

There was a letter that came to Leon Gonsalez, and the stamp bore the image and superscription of Alphonse XIII. It was from a placid man who had written his letter in the hour of siesta, when Cordova slept, and he had scribbled all the things which had come into his head as he sat in an orange bower overlooking the lordly Guadalquivir, now in yellow spate.

‘It is from Poiccart,’ said Leon.

‘Yes?’ replied George Manfred, half asleep in a big armchair before the fire.

That and a green-shaded reading lamp supplied the illumination to their comfortable Jermyn Street flat at the moment.

‘And what,’ said George, stretching himself, ‘what does our excellent friend Poiccart have to say?’

‘A blight has come upon his onions,’ said Leon solemnly and Manfred chuckled and then was suddenly grave.

There was a time when the name of these three, with one who now lay in the Bordeaux cemetery, had stricken terror to the hearts of evil-doers. In those days the Four Just Men were a menace to the sleep of many cunning men who had evaded the law, yet had not evaded this ubiquitous organisation, which slew ruthlessly in the name of Justice.

Poiccart was growing onions! He sighed and repeated the words aloud.

‘And why not?’ demanded Leon. ‘Have you read of the Three Musketeers?’

‘Surely,’ said Manfred, with a smile at the fire.

‘In what book, may I ask?’ demanded Leon.

‘Why, in The Three Musketeers, of course,’ replied Manfred in surprise.

‘Then you did wrong,’ said Leon Gonsalez promptly. ‘To love the Three Musketeers, you must read of them in The Iron Mask. When one of them has grown fat and is devoting himself to his raiment, and one is a mere courtier of the King of France, and the other is old and full of sorrow for his love-sick child. Then they become human, my dear Manfred, just as Poiccart becomes human when he grows onions. Shall I read you bits?’

‘Please,’ said Manfred, properly abashed.

‘H’m,’ read Gonsalez, ‘I told you about the onions, George. “I have some gorgeous roses. Manfred would love them . . . do not take too much heed of this new blood test, by which the American doctor professes that he can detect degrees of relationship . . . the new little pigs are doing exceedingly well. There is one that is exceptionally intelligent and contemplative. I have named him George.’’ ’

George Manfred by the fire squirmed in his chair and chuckled.

‘ “This will be a very good year for wine, I am told,” ’ Leon read on, ‘ “but the oranges are not as plentiful as they were last year . . . do you know that the finger-prints of twins are identical? Curiously enough the fingerprints of twins of the anthropoid ape are dissimilar. I wish you would get information on this subject . . . ” ’

He read on, little scraps of domestic news, fleeting excursions into scientific side-issues, tiny scraps of gossip – they filled ten closely written pages.

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