Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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OUTSIDE the big entrance doors Inspector Paull came to a sudden halt. Should he go up now and see this young man whose name figured in the memorandum book he had found in Anton Sinclair's desk? Would it not be wiser to wait until he had gathered more of the threads of this strange mystery into his hands? Murray Lynnex had had a card-party in his chambers the previous evening. By chance, one of the I playing-card blanks had blown out of his window, coming to rest on the green patch in the centre of the court. It had not happened during the party; the card had not been seen by the attendants during the morning. The card must have come out of the window within the last couple of hours. Why, and how? It seemed strange that anyone should open a pack of cards during the morning hours.

A few brief lines of writing in a manuscript book and a playing-card blank! A broken money-drawer and three empty safes! Behind those four facts stood one of the wealthiest young men in the State and a man who, while entitling himself "financier," was believed to be a blackmailer. The financier-blackmailer disappeared; the wealthy young man held a card-party—the same night. Hours after the two unconnected facts happened a playing-card blank came on the grass in the centre of the court!

With a shrug of bewilderment, Paull turned and entered the building. On the third floor he left the lift and walked down the corridor to Lynnex's rooms. His knock was answered by ah elderly man-servant.

"Mr Lynnex in?"

"I will ask if he will receive you. What name, please?"

Paull took an envelope from his pocket and dropped in it his card. Sealing the envelope he handed it to the servant. The man disappeared, to return in a few seconds and escort him to a room overlooking the court.

"Mr Lynnex will be with you in one moment, sir."

The man slid noiselessly to the door, closing it behind him.

"Damn! Another 'string' man!"

The detective went to the window and stared moodily out. His eyes went up the opposite wall until they came to the windows of Anton Sinclair's chamber. Again the strange lines in the memorandum book occurred to him. What did he mean? They could only bear one construction; the one he had come to Murray Lynnex to verify. He turned from the window and wandered around the room.

At the back of the cabinet were stacked a number of playing cards. Casually the detective ran his finger along their edges. He paused, half the pile being suspended. He drew a card from the stack and compared it with the one he had found in the court. The card showed the same back design. Pulling out a few of the cards he turned them face upwards.

A low exclamation escaped his lips when he saw the fronts were blank.

Eagerly he sought the remaining cards with the same design. He found a pack of playing card blanks. A slight sound from the passage made him hastily restack the cards and step softly to the window.

The door opened and Murray Lynnex entered.

"Inspector Paull?" The detective did not answer. He was studying the young man. No; this man could have nothing to do with the tragedy he believed had happened in Anton Sinclair's chambers.

"Inspector Paull?" Murray spoke again, questioningly.

"Sorry! Wits wandering!" The round face of the police officer broke into an engaging grin. "Didn't think a fat man would send in a police card, did you? Well, well. They keep me in the department as an awful example of what a policeman can come to. Had a party last night, I hear."

"Yes." Lynnex spoke with hesitation. "I don't know—"

"Anton Sinclair one of your guests?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Think I should beg yours, eh?" Paull laughed. "Know anything about the man?"

"Personally, nothing."

"Historically, a lot! Suppose that's what you mean," grumbled the detective. "In plain Aussie you're telling me to mind my own business. D'you know Anton Sinclair's disappeared?"

"Really?" With a big effort Murray prevented himself showing surprise. "Mr. Sinclair's movements are of no interest to me."

"That's not to say your movements—or the movements of your banking account—have no interest for him."

"If you will excuse me, Inspector. I am rather busy this morning."

"'Fraid I'll have to detain you for a few minutes, Mr. Lynnex." The Inspector levered his bulk into a lounge chair before the window. "Say, this is good! Anton Sinclair's not got a decent chair in his rooms. Ever seen a black-leather manuscript book In Anton Sinclair's possession?"

"I do not know Mr. Sinclair. His possessions have no interest for me. Now, Inspector, if you will state your business? I have told you I have an important engagement this morning."

"Your name's in that book, Mr. Lynnex." Paull smiled at the young man's anxiety to get rid of him. "Strange, isn't that? But it's there:

'Murray Lynnex, Tower Square, Sydney, £50,000.'

Quite a lot of money that."

"Mr. Sinclair has no interest for me." Murray could not repress a slight start at the detective's words.

"Owe Mr. Sinclair money, Mr. Lynnex?"

"Owe him money?" The young man exclaimed, indignantly. "Really, Inspector—"

"Sit down!" The police officer interrupted. "There's times when the police have a right to demand information. Maybe people don't like being brought into our cases, but they can't help it. We're appointed to see that laws are obeyed; not because we're different from other people, but because we represent all the people. See, Mr. Lynnex? Put it this way: we're all interested in preserving order, but we all can't devote our time to the job. That's why there's police. But because there's police it doesn't mean the average man can stand aside. Times when he's, got to take his part in the community work or declare himself against law and order—to be classed among the criminals we the police, are appointed to attack."

Murray did not reply. The lecturette struck him. The scene in that room the previous night rose before his eyes. When the blank playing cards had fallen on the green cloth they had wilfully stepped outside community law and order. With a little sigh he dropped into a chair.

"If you will speak plainly, Inspector?"

"That's better." A smile came on the fat face. "There isn't much I want. Just: What does that entry in Sinclair's manuscript book mean?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know why Anton Sinclair values you a fifty thousand pounds, Mr. Lynnex?"

"No."

"We've had suspicions on Anton Sinclair at police headquarters." The detective spoke meditatively. "Trouble has been that we've had nothing definite to work on. Still—" For a few minutes he was silent.

"That manuscript book interests me quite a lot. There are names in it I know well. For instance, there's Mr. Barney Mudge, one-time alderman in the City Council. Got himself mixed up in some graft business. Anton Sinclair values him at one thousand pounds. Then there's Wallace Ownes, the big company promoter, who died some while ago. Lots of his companies went to the churchyard with him. Your name—"

"I have not paid Mr. Sinclair one penny." Murray spoke flatly.

"Fifty thousand pounds." Paull closed his eyes. "Quite a sum of money. And Mr. Sinclair, never suggested that you should make a—er—donation of that amount?"

"That would have been absurd."

"Yet, Mr. Murray Lynnex is reputed to be a very wealthy man?"

"Donation of that amount would soon deplete Mr. Lynnex's wealth, inspector," Murray laughed. "You're inferring that Mr. Sinclair intends to blackmail me."

"Pity." The Inspector shook his head sadly. "Y'know, Mr. Lynnex, if people receiving letters from blackmailers would remember there is a police department, there wouldn't be blackmailers."

"Possibly the fact that there is a police department is as great a protection to the blackmailer, Inspector." Murray rose to his feet. "Is that all you wish to know?"

"One thing more." The detective stopped at the door of the room. He came back to the table. "I believe this belongs to you, Mr. Lynnex?"

For a moment his broad hand rested on the cloth. For a moment he stared into Murray's eyes, then turned and walked out of the room.

Murray glanced down at the blank face of a playing-card, lying where the Inspector's hand had rested. What did the man mean?

Hesitatingly, he picked up the card and turned it over. A cry of amazement broke from his lips when he saw the patterned back. It was one of the deck of cards they had used the previous night, in drawing the lots. Where had it come from? How had Inspector Paull obtained possession of it?

He ran to the door of the room and along the passage to the landing; but the detective had disappeared. What did the man know? Why had he placed the card on the table and left the room without a word?

The Inspector had not looked back as he walked out of the room. In a small mirror concealed in the palm of his hand he witnessed Murray's agitation. When he came out on the landing the lift was at the floor. He entered it and dropped to the ground floor. He had baited his hook—would his fish bite?

Again in the court, Paull hesitated. He had spoken of the black memorandum book. It would be wise to take possession of it. It seemed, that he was on the trail of evidence that would explain Sinclair's absence; evidence that, if the man returned, would place him in the dock, the most despicable of criminals—a blackmailer.

He strode over to the opposite block of buildings and ascended to Anton Sinclair's chambers. As he came in sight of the hall door he saw a swarthy foreigner in earnest conversation with Sanderson. On seeing the police officer the man turned and went to the lift.

"Had a visitor, Sanderson?" Paull pushed past the servant into the passage. "Italian, isn't he?"

"Don't know si—Inspector." The man spoke furtively. "He asked for Mr. Sinclair, and when I said he wasn't at home wanted to come in and wait for him. When I wouldn't let him enter he tried to push in."

"Humph!" The Inspector's face became impassive. "Left a message? No. Well, well! I'll be in the study for a few minutes. No need for you to trouble, but—" his voice hardened—"if anyone calls they're not to be allowed in the flat; that is, not until I tell you. Understand? On no account is anyone, other than you or Mr. Sinclair, allowed inside that hall door, and even you two are barred from the study. Get me?"

"Yes, si—Inspector, But, at nights I usually leave at seven, or thereabouts."

"You won't leave at seven or anywhere near thereabouts until I say so. Understand that, Sanderson. You've got the telephone here. Tell you wife that you're not coming home for the present and remind her that while a silent woman is stated to be an impossibility yet, if she existed she would be very wise. Get me? You stay here, night and day, until Mr. Sinclair returns—or I change my mind. That's all."

The manuscript book lay where Paull had left it. He put it in his pocket. A last look round and he passed out of the chambers.

In Macquarie-street he paused and look around him. A man lying on the grass of the Domain opposite attracted his attention. He watched him for some moments, then strolled across the road.

"'Morning, Peter." The smooth voice held a fat roll. "Out early, ain't you—for a member of your union. Usually work late hours, If you don't always get the credit for them. Health good? No pains anywhere? No, not even in your moral apparatus. Humph! Surely that required investigation."

"You've got nuffin' on me, Mr. Paull."

Peter Duggan rose to his feet, sullenly. "Nuffin' in takin' a rest on th' grass 'ere when a chap's outer work. Besides—"

"Not a thing." Paull spoke cheerfully. "I'd sit down on the grass myself, but for a man of my size to get up again is quite a problem. Wouldn't like to take a little stroll With me—down to Hunter-street, eh?"

"Wot's th' game? You ain't got—"

"Repetition! Peter, when will you learn some new gags and tricks!" A sigh heaved from the Inspector's breast. "I've only asked you to come for a walk—just a little walk; gentle Peter. Walking's good, y'know. Reduces weight and keeps a man fit. Let me see, you weren't quite fit the last time we met and parted—in the way of business. Laid a complaint with the Superintendent. Said you thought the G.P.O. had fallen on you—er-er-er—and it was only Inspector Paull. What if I did sit down sudden on your chest? You tried to get away, didn't you?"

"Orl right, 'ave it yer own way!" Duggan spoke sullenly. "Wot's th' game?"

"Just want to know if you've broken yourself of that nasty habit of biting the tips of your gloves, gentle Peter?" The fat man ambled along beside the crook. "Silly habit, Peter, and dangerous. Gloves don't leave fingermarks, but the bitten end of a rubber glove is almost as distinctive. I was quite intrigued this morning when I saw your sign manual. You should really be more careful, laddie. Try and break yourself of that unbusinesslike habit. Oh, by the way, might as well make this little stroll official. Good to be candid when it's between friends."