Читать книгу The Green Pearl - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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Therrold gazed at the red chalk mark on the desk in amazement. A few minutes and he walked to the windows and stood staring out over the Domain, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Detective Browne went to him.

"Queer business, Captain." The officer spoke in a low voice. "Make anything of it?" Therrold smiled, but did not answer the question. He pointed out of the window towards the Harbour. "One of the finest views in the world, Browne. This country of yours is magnificent. A great pity you cannot attract a big population."

"Not all immigrants are acceptable, sir." Browne stared out of the window, following the line of Therrold's pointing finger. "No! Yet Australia takes any immigrant, so long as he can pass a simple language test, is in fair health and is not a known criminal. I suppose the riff-raff of the European continent come here—Greeks, Italians, Russians, Maltese, Swiss—' The Englishman made quite an appreciable pause between each nationality. At the word 'Swiss' the detective made a slight sign.

"The Swiss make good immigrants, sir," he protested, somewhat loudly. "Mr. Rohmer has quite a number of them in his employ."

"Is that so? I thought there were only three in the hotel."

"That's so; but there is a fourth coming soon." Browne turned. "Mr. Rohmer. I've been telling Mr. Therrold about your Swiss waiters. Is it three or four that you have?"

"The Swiss are the finest hotel men in the world." Rohmer left the Sergeant and came across to Therrold and Browne. "All my waiters are Swiss. I will have no others."

"Then we were both mistaken, Browne." Therrold laughed. He turned to the senior police officer. "What do you propose to do next, sergeant?"

The man scratched his chin, meditatively. "All I can do it to report the matter to headquarters, sir," he announced after an appreciable pause. "Mr. Rohmer's story agrees with yours. The pearl was certainly lying on the desk when you heard the young lady behind the screen, and turned. He says that he is certain that it was lying on the velvet when he jumped up from his chair to come round the desk. As there is no door on that aide of the room, I can't understand how it could have been taken."

"Seems we're all at fault, sergeant." Therrold laughed bitterly. Without detective Browne, he would have been at the mercy of this slow-witted official. "I've lost the pearl that I sacrificed five years of my life to gain. I've failed in my mission, and that at the time when I began to think of success."

Browne looked curiously at Therrold. The Secret Service man was taking the loss of the pearl far too easily. Even if he had not known the Englishman Browne would have been suspicious; but he had worked with the captain, he knew his tenacity of purpose. He guessed that the present attitude of careless ease—of quiet acceptance of defeat—must cover some rapidly evolved scheme.

"By the way, Mr. Rohmer," Therrold continued, speaking directly to the hotel manager for the first time since the police officers had entered the room. "I must apologise for the unceremonious manner in which I held you up. I have apologised to Miss—"

"Miss Easton," supplied the hotel man, hastily. "It is not necessary for m'sieu to apologise. In the excitement of the happening it was a mistake forgivable. In the room happened only M. Therrold, myself and the young lady. Would m'sieu steal his own pearl? No, no!" The little manager held out a white hand. For a moment Therrold hesitated, then barely touched it and turned to Browne.

"Come and see me, sergeant. Any time you're free, and we'll have a yarn over war days. My telephone number is—let me see—Ah, yes, 519. That's it."

"Pardon!" Rohmer interrupted quickly. "M'sieu is mistaken. The number of the telephone is the number of the hotel. It is B0 3175. M'sieu has the room with the number 519."

The Englishman laughed slightly. "I must again apologise to everyone for the trouble I have occasioned."

He walked to the door and opened it. Miss Easton followed him. As he stood aside to let the girl pass out he caught Browne's eyes. A glance, full of significance, passed between the men.

In the big lounge, filled with the usual gay, inconsequent throng, Therrold paused and watched the girl pass through the swing doors leading to the general offices. A slight frown puckered his brow, a frown that deepened as the girl glanced back, and hesitated. For the moment he thought that she was going to return, but with a little shrug she passed out of sight.

Passing to the lifts, Therrold went up to his rooms and dropped wearily into a chair. He had lost the Green Pearl—the Queen of Pearls—he smiled at the title the hotel-manager had bestowed on the jewel. It fitted somehow; fitted a jewel that had glowed in the crown of more than one monarch in Europe and Asia.

Thrice, as he had told Rohmer, the pearl had been stolen from him. And—each time it had come back to him—sometimes in circumstances that might be named decrees of fate. Now he had lost it again—for the fourth time. Well, he would have to recover it.

In the big city under the Southern Cross he had relaxed his precautions. He had thought himself safe, forgetful of the fact that the Soviet agents are scattered all over the world, unmindful of the fact that from the moment he passed the frontier into China every Soviet agent in the world had been apprised of his possession of the jewel—that world-wide orders had proceeded from Moscow that the pearl was to be regained at any cost. The years that he had spent in Russia had convinced him that the Green Pearl in Russian eyes was something very sacred—a belief even held by men, who protested a violent disbelief in God.

His experiences in Asia had convinced him that in some remote corner of that vast continent lived a race that looked upon the jewel with the utmost veneration—that the Romanoff possession of the pearl had made for their great ascendency over the country. He knew that if he escaped from the east with the pearl in his possession—if he succeeded in fulfilling his mission and placing the jewels in the hands of the Grand Duke Paul—that the Russian Government would go to any lengths—even to inciting a fresh world war, to regain it.

They dared not let it rest in the hands of the Romanoffs. The pearl would become the centre of innumerable plots and revolutions. Even in European Russia there were men who looked upon the jewel as a definite sign of empire—men who could follow any aspirant to the Russian throne who carried on his standard the sign of the Green Pearl.

He knew that he would regain possession of the pearl and carry it to England—to the man who had set him a task others had proclaimed impossible. He was confident of his ultimate success. He had worn the Green Pearl over too many weary miles to doubt—carried it through too many trials and dangers to lose confidence now that he again walked under the British flag.

Therrold was aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen by a knock at the door and the entry of detective Browne. A sign from the Secret Service man prevented him closing the door.

"Thought you'd come up," remarked the Englishman. "Sit down. I'll get some drinks." Browne dropped into the Indicated chair and watched Therrold go to the telephone.

"Queer how the pearl disappeared." Therrold spoke inconsequently. "Can't understand it. What did that chalk 'IV' mean? If it means that this is the fourth time the infernal jewel's been stolen from me, the writer isn't far out."

"Keep an eye on the mirror," he whispered, as he passed the detective when returning to his seat. "There's quite a bunch of spies in this house."

Browne glanced up sharply. The door was set at an angle that prevented him seeing through, though in the mirror he had a fair view of the corridor. Therrold's seat commanded a smaller, but direct view, at a different angle. No one could be in the corridor, before the room door, without one of the men being aware of their presence.

"S'pose you haven't formed a theory about that chalk mark, Browne?" Therrold was mixing the drinks. "Say when?"

"Thanks, sir. Not a ghost of an idea. Quite a mystery."

"Many Soviet agents in this city?"

"Reds' you mean, sir? Quite a few but noisy—not dangerous." The Englishman sipped his drink, meditatively. Suddenly he swung to face the detective.

"How many Internationals have there been, Browne?"

The police officer was silent for a minute.

"The Third Conference of the Third International was held at—" He hesitated. "In Europe about a couple of years ago!"

"There'll be no more Conferences." The Secret Service man laid a strong emphasis on the last word.

"You mean that a new International will be held?" Browne asked quietly. "That will be the Fourth International?"

"The Fourth International." The eyes of the two men met. In their minds rose the 'IV' chalked on Rohmer's desk.

"I asked you as to the strength of the Soviet agents in Australia." Therrold spoke after a pause. "You state they are negligible."

"Others might hold a different opinion, sir." Browne looked perplexed. "It is not for me—"

Therrold's hand shot forward and opened. Under the police officer's eye glittered the queerly shaped badge. The man sprang to attention. "Before wife, children land parents." The Englishman spoke as if reciting a ritual. "Before love of women, honour of men, our country, king and Empire."

"Sir?"

"Tomorrow I shall ask the Commissioner of Police to transfer you to special duty—and gazette you for long leave of absence. You will report to me, here. I think you understand that the Green Pearl has to be recovered—at any cost."

Therrold's manner suddenly changed. Again he became the careless English officer travelling for pleasure—an attitude he had assumed on reaching Australian soil. He stood up and held out his hand, cordially, to his subordinate. Some sixth sense drew thee eyes of the two men to the mirror. The door had swung slightly more open. Framed in the glass was a young girl and behind her a slim grey-faced man, on his head a queer-shaped skull cap from beneath which straggled long locks of grey hair. His features were decidedly Asian.