The Just Men of Cordova

I

Three Men of Cordova

The man who sat at the marble-topped table of the Café of the Great Captain—if I translate the sign aright—was a man of leisure. A tall man, with a trim beard and grave grey eyes that searched the street absently as though not quite certain of his quest. He sipped a coffee con leche and drummed a little tune on the table with his slender white hands.

He was dressed in black, which is the conventional garb in Spain, and his black cloak was lined with velvet. His cravat was of black satin, and his well-fitting trousers were strapped under his pointed boots, in the manner affected by certain caballero.

These features of his attire were the most striking, though he was dressed conventionally enough—for Cordova. He might have been a Spaniard, for grey eyes are a legacy of the Army of Occupation, and many were the unions between Wellington’s rollicking Irishmen and the susceptible ladies of the Estremadura.

His speech was flawless. He spoke with the lisp of Andalusia, clipping his words as do the folk of the South. Also, there was evidence of his Southern origin in his response to the whining beggar that shuffled painfully to him, holding out crooked fingers for largess.

“In the name of the Virgin, and the Saints, and the God who is above all, I beseech you, señor, to spare me ten centimos.”

The bearded man brought his farseeing eyes to focus on the palm.

“God will provide,” he said, in the slurred Arabic of Spanish Morocco.

“Though I live a hundred years,” said the beggar monotonously, “I will never cease to pray for your lordship’s happiness.”

He of the velvet-lined cloak looked at the beggar.

The mendicant was a man of medium height, sharp-featured, unshaven, after the way of his kind, terribly bandaged across his head and one eye.

Moreover, he was lame. His feet were shapeless masses of swathed bandages, and his discoloured hands clutched a stick fiercely.

“Señor and Prince,” he whined, “there is between me and the damnable pangs of hunger ten centimos, and your worship would not sleep this night in comfort thinking of me tossing in famine.”

“Go in peace,” said the other patiently.

“Exalted,” moaned the beggar, “by the chico that lay on your mother’s knee”—he crossed himself—“by the gallery of the Saints and the blessed blood of martyrs, I beseech you not to leave me to die by the wayside, when ten centimos, which is as the paring of your nails, would lead me to a full stomach.”

The man at the table sipped his coffee unmoved.

“Go with God,” he said.

Still the man lingered.

He looked helplessly up and down the sunlit street. He peered into the cool dark recess of the café, where an apathetic waiter sat at a table reading the Heraldo.

Then he leant forward, stretching out a slow hand to pick a crumb of cake from the next table.

“Do you know Dr. Essley?” he asked in perfect English.

The cavalier at the table looked thoughtful.

“I do not know him. Why?” he asked in the same language.

“You should know him,” said the beggar; “he is interesting.”

He said no more, shuffling a painful progress along the street. The caballero watched him with some curiosity as he made his way slowly to the next café.

Then he clapped his hands sharply, and the apathetic waiter, now nodding significantly over his Heraldo, came suddenly to life, collected the bill, and a tip which was in proportion to the size of the bill. Though the sky was cloudless and the sun threw blue shadows in the street, those same shadows were immensely cold, for these were the chilly days before the first heat of spring.

The gentleman, standing up to his full height—he was well over the six-feet mark—shook his cloak and lightly threw one end across his shoulder; then he began to walk slowly in the direction taken by the beggar.

The way led him through narrow streets, so narrow that in the walls on either side ran deep recesses to allow the boxes of cartwheels to pass. He overtook the man in the Calle Paraiso, passed him, threading the narrow streets that led to San Fernando. Down this he went, walking very leisurely, then turned to the street of Carrera de Puente, and so came to the shadows of the mosque-cathedral which is dedicated to God and to Allah with delightful impartiality. He stood irresolutely before the gates that opened on to the courtyards, seemed half in doubt, then turned again, going downhill to the Bridge of Calahorra. Straight as a die the bridge runs, with its sixteen arches that the ancient Moors built. The man with the cloak reached the centre of the bridge and leant over, watching with idle interest the swollen yellow waters of the Guadalquivir.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the beggar come slowly through the gate and walk in his direction. He had a long time to wait, for the man’s progress was slow. At last he came sidling up to him, hat in hand, palm outstretched. The attitude was that of a beggar, but the voice was that of an educated Englishman.

“Manfred,” he said earnestly, “you must see this man Essley. I have a special reason for asking.”

“What is he?”

The beggar smiled.

“I am dependent upon memory to a great extent,” he said, “the library at my humble lodgings being somewhat limited, but I have a dim idea that he is a doctor in a suburb of London, rather a clever surgeon.”

“What is he doing here?”

The redoubtable Gonsalez smiled again.

“There is in Cordova a Dr. Cajalos. From the exalted atmosphere of the Paseo de Gran Capitan, wherein I understand you have your luxurious suite, no echo of the underworld of Cordova comes to you. Here”—he pointed to the roofs and the untidy jumble of buildings at the farther end of the bridge—“in the Campo of the Verdad, where men live happily on two pesetas a week, we know Dr. Cajalos. He is a household word—a marvellous man, George, performing miracles undreamt of in your philosophy: making the blind to see, casting spells upon the guilty, and creating infallible love philtres for the innocent! He’ll charm a wart or arrest the ravages of sleeping sickness.”

Manfred nodded.

“Even in the Paseo de la Gran Capitan he is not without honour,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I have seen him and consulted him.”

The beggar was a little astonished.

“You’re a wonderful man,” he said, with admiration in his voice. “When did you do it?”

Manfred laughed softly.

“There was a certain night, not many weeks ago, when a beggar stood outside the worthy doctor’s door, patiently waiting till a mysterious visitor, cloaked to his nose, had finished his business.”

“I remember,” said the other, nodding. “He was a stranger from Ronda, and I was curious—did you see me following him?”

“I saw you,” said Manfred gravely. “I saw you from the corner of my eye.”

“It was not you?” asked Gonsalez, astonished.

“It was I,” said the other. “I went out of Cordova to come into Cordova.”

Gonsalez was silent for a moment.

“I accept the humiliation,” he said. “Now, since you know the doctor, can you see any reason for the visit of a commonplace English doctor to Cordova? He has come all the way without a halt from England by the Algeciras Express. He leaves Cordova tomorrow morning at daybreak by the same urgent system, and he comes to consult Dr. Cajalos.”

“Poiccart is here: he has an interest in this Essley—so great an interest that he comes blandly to our Cordova, Baedeker in hand, seeking information of the itinerant guide and submitting meekly to his inaccuracies.”

Manfred stroked his little beard, with the same grave thoughtful expression in his wise eyes as when he had watched Gonsalez shuffling from the Café de la Gran Capitan.

“Life would be dull without Poiccart,” he said.

“Dull, indeed—ah, señor, my life shall be your praise, and it shall rise like the smoke of holy incense to the throne of Heaven.”

He dropped suddenly into his whine, for a policeman of the town guard was approaching, with a suspicious eye for the beggar who stood with expectant hand outstretched.

Manfred shook his head as the policeman strolled up.

“Go in peace,” he said.

“Dog,” said the policeman, his rough hand descending on the beggar’s shoulder, “thief of a thief, begone lest you offend the nostrils of this illustrious.”

With arms akimbo, he watched the man limp away, then he turned to Manfred.

“If I had seen this scum before, excellency,” he said fiercely, “I should have relieved your presence of his company.”

“It is not important,” said Manfred conventionally.

“As for me,” the policeman went on, releasing one hand from his hip to curl an insignificant moustache, “I have hard work in protecting rich and munificent caballeros from these swine. And God knows my pay is poor, and with three hungry mouths to fill, not counting my wife’s mother, who comes regularly on feast days and must be taken to the bullfight, life is hard. More especially, señor, since she is one of those damned proud Andalusian women who must have a seat in the shade at two pesetas.1 For myself, I have not tasted rioja since the feast of Santa Therese—”

Manfred slipped a peseta into the hand of the uniformed beggar.

The man walked by his side to the end of the bridge, retailing his domestic difficulties with the freedom and intimacy which is possible nowhere else in the world. They stood chattering near the principal entrance to the Cathedral.

“Your excellency is not of Cordova?” asked the officer.

“I am of Malaga,” said Manfred without hesitation.

“I had a sister who married a fisherman of Malaga,” confided the policeman. “Her husband was drowned, and she now lives with a señor whose name I forget. She is a pious woman, but very selfish. Has your excellency been to Gibraltar?”

Manfred nodded. He was interested in a party of tourists which was being shown the glories of the Puerta del Perdon.

One of the tourists detached himself from his party and came towards them. He was a man of middle height and strongly built. There was a strange reserve in his air and a saturnine imperturbability in his face.

“Can you direct me to the Passeo de la Gran Capitan?” he asked in bad Spanish.

“I am going that way,” said Manfred courteously; “if the señor would condescend to accompany me—”

“I shall be grateful,” said the other.

They chatted a little on divers subjects—the weather, the delightful character of the mosque-cathedral.

“You must come along and see Essley,” said the tourist suddenly. He spoke in perfect Spanish.

“Tell me about him,” said Manfred. “Between you and Gonsalez, my dear Poiccart, you have piqued my curiosity.”

“This is an important matter,” said the other earnestly. “Essley is a doctor in a suburb of London. I have had him under observation for some months. He has a small practice—quite a little one—and he attends a few cases. Apparently he does no serious work in his suburb, and his history is a strange one. He was a student at University College, London, and soon after getting his degree left with a youth named Henley for Australia. Henley had been a hopeless failure and had been badly ploughed in his exams, but the two were fast friends, which may account for their going away together to try their luck in a new country. Neither of them had a relation in the world, except Henley, who had a rich uncle settled somewhere in Canada, and whom he had never seen. Arrived in Melbourne, the two started off up country with some idea of making for the new gold diggings, which were in full swing at that time. I don’t know where the diggings were; at any rate, it was three months before Essley arrived—alone, his companion having died on the road!”

“He does not seem to have started practising,” Poiccart went on, “for three or four years. We can trace his wanderings from mining camp to mining camp, where he dug a little, gambled a lot, and was generally known as Dr. S.—probably an abbreviation of Essley. Not until he reached Western Australia did he attempt to establish himself as a doctor. He had some sort of a practice, not a very high-class one, it is true, but certainly lucrative. He disappeared from Coolgardie in 1900; he did not reappear in England until 1908.”

They had reached the Passeo by now. The streets were better filled than they had been when Manfred had followed the beggar.

“I’ve some rooms here,” he said. “Come in and we will have some tea.”

He occupied a flat over a jeweller’s in the Calle Moreria. It was a well-furnished apartment, “and especially blessed in the matter of light,” explained Manfred as he inserted the key. He put a silver kettle on the electric stove.

“The table is laid for two?” questioned Poiccart.

“I have visitors,” said Manfred with a little smile. “Sometimes the begging profession becomes an intolerable burden to our Leon and he enters Cordova by rail, a most respectable member of society, full of a desire for the luxury of life—and stories. Go on with yours, Poiccart; I am interested.”

The “tourist” seated himself in a deep armchair. “Where was I?” he asked. “Oh, yes. Dr. Essley disappeared from Coolgardie, and after an obliteration of eight years reappeared in London.”

“In any exceptional circumstances?”

“No, very ordinarily. He seems to have been taken up by the newest kind of Napoleon.”

“A Colonel Black?” asked Manfred, raising his eyebrows.

Poiccart nodded.

“That same meteor,” he said. “At any rate, Essley, thanks to what practice he could steal from other practitioners in his own suburb—somewhere in the neighbourhood of Forest Hill—and what practice Napoleon’s recommendation gives him, seems to be fairly well off. He first attracted my attention—”

There came a tap at the door, and Manfred raised his finger warningly. He crossed the room and opened the door. The concierge stood outside, cap in hand; behind him and a little way down the stairs was a stranger—obviously an Englishman.

“A señor to see your excellency,” said the concierge.

“My house is at your disposal,” said Manfred, addressing the stranger in Spanish.

“I am afraid I do not speak good Spanish,” said the man on the stairs.

“Will you come up?” asked Manfred, in English.

The other mounted the stairs slowly.

He was a man of fifty. His hair was grey and long. His eyebrows were shaggy, and his under-jaw stuck out and gave his face an appearance which was slightly repulsive. He wore a black coat and carried a big, soft wideawake in his gloved hand.

He peered round the room from one to the other.

“My name,” he said, “is Essley.”

He pronounced the word, lingering upon the double “ss” till it sounded like a long hiss.

“Essley,” he repeated as though he derived some satisfaction from the repetition—“Dr. Essley.”

Manfred motioned him to a chair, but he shook his head.

“I’ll stand,” he said harshly. “When I have business, I stand.” He looked suspiciously at Poiccart. “I have private business,” he said pointedly.

“My friend has my complete confidence,” said Manfred.

He nodded grudgingly. “I understand,” he said, “that you are a scientist and a man of considerable knowledge of Spain.”

Manfred shrugged his shoulders. In his present role he enjoyed some reputation as a quasi-scientific litterateur, and under the name of “de la Monte” had published a book on Modern Crime.

“Knowing this,” said the man, “I came to Cordova, having other business also—but that will keep.”

He looked round for a chair and Manfred offered one, into which he sat, keeping his back to the window.

“Mr. de la Monte,” said the doctor, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and speaking very deliberately, “you have some knowledge of crime.”

“I have written a book on the subject,” said Manfred, “which is not necessarily the same thing.”

“I had that fear,” said the other bluntly. “I was also afraid that you might not speak English. Now I want to ask you a plain question and I want a plain answer.”

“So far as I can give you this, I shall be most willing,” said Manfred.

The doctor twisted his face nervously, then—“Have you ever heard of the ‘Four Just Men’?” he asked.

There was a little silence.

“Yes,” said Manfred calmly, “I have heard of them.”

“Are they in Spain?”

The question was put sharply.

“I have no exact knowledge,” said Manfred. “Why do you ask?”

“Because—” The doctor hesitated. “Oh, well—I am interested. It is said that they unearth villainy that the law does not punish; they—they kill—eh?” His voice was sharper, his eyelids narrowed till he peered from one to the other through slits.

“Such an organization is known to exist,” said Manfred, “and one knows that they do happen upon unpunished crime—and punish.”

“Even to—to killing?”

“They even kill,” said Manfred gravely.

“And they go free!”—the doctor leapt to his feet with a snarl and flung out his hands in protest—“they go free! All the laws of all nations cannot trap them! A self-appointed tribunal—who are they to judge and condemn? Who gave them the right to sit in judgment? There is a law, if a man cheats it—”

He checked himself suddenly, shook his shoulders and sank heavily into the chair again.

“So far as I can secure information upon the subject,” he said roughly, “these men are no longer an active force—they are outlawed—there are warrants for them in every country.”

Manfred nodded.

“That is very true,” he said gently; “but whether they are an active force, time must reveal.”

“There were three?”—the doctor looked up quickly—“and they usually find a fourth—an influential fourth.”

Manfred nodded again.

“So I understand.”

Dr. Essley twisted uncomfortably in his chair. It was evident that the information or assurance he expected to receive from this expert in crime was not entirely satisfactory to him.

“And they are in Spain?” he asked.

“So it is said.”

“They are not in France; they are not in Italy; they are not in Russia; nor in any of the German States,” said the doctor resentfully. “They must be in Spain.”

He brooded awhile in silence.

“Pardon me,” said Poiccart, who had been a silent listener, “but you seem very interested in these men. Would it be offensive to you if I asked you to satisfy my curiosity as to why you should be anxious to discover their whereabouts?”

“Curiosity also,” said the other quickly; “in a sense I am a modest student of crime, as our friend de la Monte is.”

“An enthusiastic student,” said Manfred quietly.

“I hoped that you would be able to give me some help,” Essley went on, unmindful of the significant emphasis of the other’s tones; “beyond the fact that they may be in Spain, which, after all, is conjectural, I have learnt nothing.”

“They may not even be in Spain,” said Manfred, as he accompanied his visitor to the door; “they may not even be in existence—your fears may be entirely groundless.”

The doctor whipped round, white to the lips. “Fears?” he said, breathing quickly. “Did you say fears?”

“I am sorry,” laughed Manfred easily; “my English is perhaps not good.”

“Why should I fear them?” demanded the doctor aggressively. “Why should I? Your words are chosen very unwisely, sir. I have nothing to fear from the ‘Four Just Men’—or from any other source.”

He stood panting in the doorway like a man who is suddenly deprived of breath. With an effort he collected himself, hesitated a moment, and then with a stiff little bow left the room.

He went down the stairs, out to the street, and turned into the Passeo. There was a beggar at the corner who raised a languid hand.

“Por deos—” he whined.

With an oath, Essley struck at the hand with his cane, only to miss it, for the beggar was singularly quick and, for all the discomforts he was prepared to face, Gonsalez had no desire to endure a hand seamed and wealed—those sensitive hands of his were assets to Gonsalez.

The doctor pursued a savage way to his hotel.

Reaching his room, he locked the door and threw himself into a chair to think. He cursed his own folly—it was madness to have lost his temper even before so insignificant a person as a Spanish dilettante in science.

There was the first half of his mission finished—and it was a failure. He took from the pocket of his overcoat, hanging behind the door, a Spanish Baedeker. He turned the leaves till he came to a map of Cordova. Attached to this was a smaller plan, evidently made by somebody who knew the topography of the place better than he understood the rules of cartography.

He had heard of Dr. Cajalos first from a Spanish anarchist he had met in some of his curious nocturnal prowlings in London. Under the influence of good wine this bold fellow had invested the wizard of Cordova with something approaching miraculous powers—he had also said things which had aroused the doctor’s interest to an extraordinary degree. A correspondence had followed: the visit was the result.

Essley looked at his watch. It was nearly seven o’clock. He would dine, then go to his room and change.

He made a hasty ablution in the growing darkness of the room—curiously enough he did not switch on the light; then he went to dinner.

He had a table to himself and buried himself in an English magazine he had brought with him. Now and again as he read he would make notes in a little book which lay on the table by the side of his plate.

They had no reference to the article he read; they had little association with medical science. On the whole, they dealt with certain financial aspects of a certain problem which came into his mind.

He finished his dinner, taking his coffee at the table. Then he rose, put the little notebook in his pocket, the magazine under his arm, and made his way back to his room. He turned on the light, pulled down the blinds, and drew a light dressing-table beneath the lamp. He produced his notebook again and, with the aid of a number of closely-written sheets of paper taken from his valise, he compiled a little table. He was completely engrossed for a couple of hours. As if some invisible and unheard alarm clock warned him of his engagement, he closed the book, locked his memoranda in the valise, and struggled into his coat. With a soft felt hat pulled down over his eyes, he left the hotel and without hesitation took the path which led down to the Calahorra Bridge. The streets through which he passed were deserted, but he had no hesitation, knowing well the lawful character of these unprepossessing little Spanish suburbs.

He plunged into a labyrinth of narrow streets—he had studied his plan to some purpose—and only hesitated when he reached a cul-de-sac which was more spacious than the street from which it opened. One oil lamp at the farther end added rather to the gloom. Tall, windowless houses rose on either side, and each was pierced by a door. On the left door the doctor, after a moment’s hesitation, knocked twice.

Instantly it opened noiselessly. He hesitated.

“Enter,” said a voice in Spanish; “the señor need not fear.”

He stepped into the black void and the door closed behind him.

“Come this way,” said the voice. In the pitch darkness he could make out the indistinct figure of a little man.

The doctor stepped inside and surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his forehead. The old man lit a lamp, and Essley took stock of him. He was very little, scarcely more than four feet in height. He had a rough white beard and head as bald as an egg. His face and hands were alike grimy, and his whole appearance bore evidence of his aversion to water.

A pair of black twinkling eyes were set deeply in his head, and the puckering lines about them revealed him as a man who found humour in life. This was Dr. Cajalos, a famous man in Spain, though he had no social standing.

“Sit down,” said Cajalos; “we will talk quietly, for I have a señora of high quality to see me touching a matter of lost affection.”

Essley took the chair offered to him and the doctor seated himself on a high stool by the table. A curious figure he made, with his dangling little legs, his old, old face and his shining bald pate.

“I wrote to you on the subject of certain occult demonstrations,” began the doctor, but the old man stopped him with a quick jerk of the hand.

“You came to see me, señor, because of a drug I have prepared,” he said, “a preparation of ———”2

Essley sprang to his feet.

“I—I did not tell you so,” he stammered.

“The green devil told me,” said the other seriously. “I have many talks with the foot-draggers, and they speak very truly.”

“I thought—”

“Look!” said the old man. He leapt down from his high perch with agility. In the dark corner of one of the rooms were some boxes, to which he went. Essley heard a scuffling, and by and by the old man came back, holding by the ears a wriggling rabbit.

With his disengaged hand he unstoppered a little green bottle on the table. He picked a feather from the table, dipped the point gingerly into the bottle. Then very carefully he lightly touched the nose of the rabbit with the end of the feather—so lightly, indeed, that the feather hardly brushed the muzzle of the animal.

Instantly, with no struggle, the rabbit went limp, as though the life essence had been withdrawn from the body. Cajalos replaced the stopper and thrust the feather into a little charcoal fire that burnt dully in the centre of the room.

“P——e,” he said briefly; “but my preparation.” He laid the dead animal on the floor at the feet of the other. “Señor,” he said proudly, “you shall take that animal and examine it; you shall submit it to tests beyond patience; yet you shall not discover the alkaloid that killed it.”

“That is not so,” said Essley, “for there will be a contraction of the pupil which is an invariable sign.”

“Search also for that,” said the old man triumphantly.

Essley made the superficial tests. There was not even this invariable symptom.

A dark figure, pressed close to the wall outside, listened. He was standing by the shuttered window. He held to his ear a little ebonite tube with a microphonic receiver, and the rubber which covered the bell-like end was pressed against the shutter.

For half an hour he stood thus, almost motionless, then he withdrew silently and disappeared into the shadows of the orange grove that grew in the centre of the long garden.

As he did so, the door of the house opened and, with lantern in hand, Cajalos showed his visitor into the street.

“The devils are greener than ever,” chuckled the old man. “Hey! there will be happenings, my brother!”

Essley said nothing. He wanted to be in the street again. He stood quivering with nervous impatience as the old man unfastened the heavy door, and when it swung open he almost leapt into the street outside.

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Go with God,” said the old man, and the door closed noiselessly.