Читать книгу The Green Pearl - Aidan de Brune - Страница 8

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"ON THE FACTS, Detective Browne was murdered by Dr. Night," said Mark Therrold.

"Loose reckoning!" Superintendent Dixon grumbled. The head of the Detective Branch of the New South Wales Police was a heavily built man with a square rugged face, relieved only by keen blue eyes, shining from under shaggy eyebrows. "Thought you'd do better, Captain Therrold, with your reputation. All your facts are, that you and Browne saw a Chinese looking individual spying on you—a Chink that Brown thought he could identify with a Dr. Night who gave us some little trouble a few years ago. As to the cause of death—nothing. Can't understand what medical science has come to. We've had half a dozen deaths in this State during the past two years—suspected murders—and the doctors can't tell me what drugs, or means, were used."

"You're forgetting the presence of the Green Pearl in Browne's hands," reminded Therrold. "By the way, Superintendent, you have the pearl. I should like to try a small experiment with it."

Dixon turned to a large safe behind his desk and brought out a small -box. Removing, the lid, he exposed the Green Pearl, lying on a bed of cotton wool.

"There's the cause of Browne's death." The Englishman spoke sadly. He stooped and from a case at his feet took a live rabbit and placed it on the desk. From his pocket he took a pair of strangely shaped pliers.

"What's the game?" inquired Dixon interestedly.

"A little experiment in doctored jewels. I want to find out how close I was to death yesterday."

The Secret Service man picked up the Pearl with the pliers. "Hold that rabbit's head, please."

Very quietly Therrold brought the Green Pearl to the rabbit's nose and rubbed it gently over the nostrils. Then he placed the rodent on the office floor, allowing it to roam at will. In sudden tension, the two men rose to their feet, watching the little animal. For some time it appeared interested in the worn rug, then started to hop across the room. A derisive smile was forming on the Superintendent's lips when the rabbit showed signs of uneasiness. It sat up and rubbed its nose with its forepaws. Suddenly it toppled sideways; a few convulsive struggles and it lay still.

Therrold bent and felt the still-warm body.

"So died Sergeant Thomas Browne." The Englishman spoke with some emotion. He lifted the body into the suitcase.

"The evidence is complete, Dixon. Now we can reconstruct what happened in the hotel corridor. Some time after leaving my room, Browne picked up the Green Pearl, probably in the corridor. He held it clasped in his hand. Why he did not come back to me with the jewel I cannot yet fathom. Perhaps he was close to the elevators and sat down on the bench he sat there until he died. Take care to reason things out first. Anyway, of that pearl, Dixon. It is coated with some subtle poison that acts through he pores of the skin."

"Not very strong," Dixon grumbled. "Why, it took all of ten minutes for the poison to kill that rabbit."

"Possibly the power of the poison is disappearing by evaporation," Therrold answered quickly. "Possibly when Browne handled the pearl the drug was new and very strong."

"But you and Rohmer handled the pearl only a few hours before," objected the Superintendent.

"We handled the Green Pearl." Therrold emphasised the two words.

"What do you mean?"

"That thing is not the Green Pearl." Therrold lifted the pliers holding the jewel with an expression of disgust. "This is an imitation. Why, its weight alone gives it away. This bit of glass weighs possibly thirty grains or more and the Green Pearl's only eighteen and a half grains. I knew it was not the Green Pearl the moment I lifted it from the floor."

For some moments the Superintendent was lost in thought. Therrold lifted the pearl on to it bed of cotton wool and replaced he lid of the box. The pliers he placed in the case with the dead rabbit.

"Where is the Green Pearl, Therrold?" The Superintendent spoke suddenly.

"I should like notice of that question," the Secret Service agent smiled grimly. "Long notice, too. For I guess I'll suggest that the Soviet agents in this city have a better knowledge of the pearl's whereabouts than anyone else."

"They're—" Dixon expressed contempt.

"That is a popular attitude towards Communism." Therrold shook his head. "Surely you know better than that, Dixon. It's all very well to express disbelief in the abilities of the exponents of that creed and to sneer at it a fad that will soon be exploded. Yet, in your heart you realise that it is a great force—one that will have to be very seriously reckoned with in the near future. We know that it is gaining fresh adherents every day, not in ones and twos but by thousands. You know that Communism, as preached by Soviet Russia, has the wealth of a powerful nation behind it."

"The Communists have no political support here. Every party is against them. They've mighty little support anywhere in the world. There's not a Government in the world that has given them anything but the most partial recognition."

"Yet the Communists have active agents in every political party and organisation." The Englishman spoke emphatically. "Even among the 'die-hard' Conservatives they have agents working for the general unrest that is to forerun the world war that is to sweep capitalists and bourgeoisie from this globe. You ask, what are they there for? To encourage unrest; to persuade the unthinking employer to press more rapidly on the working man. They're put there, and provided with capital to establish futile businesses, by the Soviet Government of Russia. Money talks. The exponents of the Third International have unlimited capital for their propaganda—not only from the Russian nation, which they now own, but from the tribute they draw from their adherents all over the world. Of course we know that quite a lot of that money sticks to the fingers of the men who handle it, but there's enough and to spare. Russia, of today, is the big financial centre for the world revolution to Communism."

Dixon shook his head disbelievingly.

"Of course, it is difficult for you to see it," continued the Englishman. "You Australians are living in an era of prosperity, high wages and general comfort. So long as the present standard of living is maintained at the present level there is little to fear from Communism. Let the standard of living be lowered, however, below the line where the working man will have no spare cash to play with; below the margin at which the working man's wife has to forgo the luxuries she has learned to look upon as necessities—and the Soviets will quickly gain adherents."

"Some people would say that you were preaching Communism, Captain!" Dixon laughed.

"There are many rich and powerful men in Sydney who do more than I do to help along the Soviet revolution," Therrold continued. "Let me instance. Some little while ago a body of Australian employers went to the Arbitration Court pleading that the working man required but two shirts a year, and the working man's wife needed only one new dress in every four years. That plan, did more to help Communism among the working classes than all the sermons and speeches delivered in your Domain—more than a whole year's income of Soviet Russia could command."

"There's no Communism in Australia," asserted Dixon, doggedly. "A few talkers, that's all."

"Keep the workers employed and amused and they won't heed Communism," laughed the Englishman. "I've spent five years in Russia, studying their methods: They can only succeed where there is poverty, discontent and envy. While the worker has a neat, comfortable home, plenty of clothes for his family, money for a fair amount of amusements, he won't listen to anything that suggests a change. Why, man, the Communists themselves acknowledge that. They openly state that there can be no revolution unless the workers are starving and discontented. You can hear that any Sunday afternoon in the Domain. But, go among the crowd that cheers the speakers and tell them there's a bookie up the street who is paying greater odds on the favourite for the next big race than is general, and that crowd will melt like snow before the sun. Why? Because they've got money to burn—and while the workers have that Communism can knock at their doors in vain."

Picking up the suitcase, Therrold turned to the door. On the street he hesitated. He had to get rid of the dead rabbit—and he would have to wait until nightfall to do that. He turned and went back to the hotel. Too restless to remain indoors, he came out on the street again. Pangs of hunger reminded him that he had missed his midday meal. He glanced at his watch. It was past three o'clock. He half-turned to retrace his steps to the hotel, then halted. He did not want to go back here; the place held too many unpleasant memories.

At the foot of Hunter Street a sign above a door attracted his attention. It advertised a first-class restaurant. The place looked quiet, and that was what he wanted. He ascended the stairs and looked about him. There was only half a dozen people in the room. He sauntered across to a table. He ordered a meal that made the pert waitress raise her thinned eyebrows, then sat back to await its arrival. He had much to think over.

The Green Pearl had to be recovered, and he had but one solitary clue to the theft. That clue pointed to Carl Rohmer, the hotel manager. He was certain that the man could explain the disappearance of the pearl, if he chose. True, the search of his office had proved abortive, but the pearl was small and easily hidden. There was the girl behind the screen to be taken into account; and the Asian and the girl who had peered into his room while he had talked with Browne. That girl—

The crash of broken china brought Therrold from his reverie. A lady rising from an adjacent table had swept some crockery to the ground. The waitress hurried forward and the lady opened her purse to pay for the damage, accidentally dropping a book she carried. Therrold stooped to retrieve it. As he handed it to her their eyes met. The Englishman stared at the girl in blank amazement. It was the girl who had searched his room the previous night—the girl who had been with Dr. Night a few minutes before Sergeant Tom Browne died.