Читать книгу Jeremiah and the Princess - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Tom Hansard’s installation of burglar alarms and signal bells was in its way marvellous. There were only three men summoned by the bell which Jere had pressed, and they were in his room within two minutes. The first was his host in dressing-gown, with tousled hair and—under his arm—a very short shot-gun in which he had more confidence than in any revolver. Second and third were Brodie and a very powerful assistant of his, whose place in the household was that of cellarman.

“Thank God you’re all right!” Tom Hansard exclaimed, as he jerked the door open. “What’s all this about?”

“I woke up and found a man in the room,” Jere explained. “We both drew and I got home first. I’m sorry but I don’t see what else I could have done.”

“What you did you did pretty effectually,” Brodie observed, bending down and casually passing his hand over the body of the dead man. “You’d teach some of those West side gangsters something, Mr. Strole, if you shoot like that every time.”

“Just luck,” Jere acknowledged. “I aimed a trifle lower down as a matter of fact.”

Brodie rose to his feet.

“Kind of interesting,” he remarked. “This is that little fellow Sachs from the country one scarcely ever heard of—Jakovia—the man who was talking to Colonel Grogner the night when he was here to dinner. He’s been through Mr. Strole’s things once before to-day. Queer what brought him in again.”

“Well, in here he came at any rate,” Jere rejoined. “Am I in deep for this, Brodie? The man was a killer all right.”

Brodie stroked his long chin.

“No, I shouldn’t say you were in very deep, Mr. Strole,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll probably get you out of this with half an hour of police headquarters. Luckily for you the man was carrying a gun and we’d got tabs on him for his first expedition. You won’t be troubled in any way. We’re the ones to get the headache. The little devil had turned your things all inside out once. What the hell was he after?”

“Search me,” Jere muttered.

Brodie’s eyes wandered round the room.

“If this is your salon, Mr. Strole, it don’t seem to me that I see as many signs of Mr. Hansard’s hospitality as usual.”

“Want a drink?” the latter inquired.

“It’s a kind thought,” Brodie acquiesced. “A drink’s the first thing I need before I settle down to think.”

“And it’s the first thing I need after I’m wakened up suddenly like that,” Hansard declared, turning towards the door. “I’ll have some things up in a jiffy.”

“Follow Mr. Hansard down and help him,” Brodie directed his subordinate. “Get a move on.”

The man obeyed. Jere and the detective were left alone. The latter closed the door carefully and stood with his back to it.

“So you shot this little rat, Mr. Strole?”

“What else was there to do?” Jere demanded. “I wasn’t likely to sit still and let an obvious thief or burglar pump lead into me.”

“I should say not,” Brodie agreed. “By-the-by, where did you get the gun from?”

“My servant borrowed it,” Jere confided. “On the whole I am just as glad that he did.”

Brodie picked up the revolver, drew out one of the shells from the breech and looked at it, then he glanced across the room at the open window which led on to the balcony.

“Would you be so kind as to close that,” he begged. “I’m feeling a draught.”

Jere kicked the window to with his foot.

“You’re a cold-blooded devil then, Brodie,” he remarked. “The room seems as hot as hell to me.”

“That may be so,” the man observed. “I’m not suffering from cold exactly myself, but there was one little thing I wanted to point out to you without any fear of listeners. This revolver Sam found for you is a Smith & Wesson. There’s a Smith & Wesson bullet in the wainscotting up there, about two feet above the head of that little devil, even if he stood on tip-toe. The bullet that made that hole in his shirt-front was from about the smallest calibre revolver ever made, I should say. Deadly enough to kill in that particular spot, but nowhere else.”

Jere frowned gloomily across the room.

“Seems to me I’m not much use as a detective or a criminal,” he observed.

“Not an atom,” Brodie agreed cheerfully. “The lucky thing is that you don’t need to be. If you can get the young lady’s gun away from her in the morning perhaps you’d be on the safe side. Otherwise it doesn’t matter.”

“What young lady?”

“You make me tired, Mr. Strole,” the other complained. “No wonder you young gentlemen all read detective stories. You’re looking out for Dickens’ Inspector Bucket all the time, I should think. Use a little common-sense, sir. That bullet was fired from a lady’s pistol. This little skunk had done your rooms once. He didn’t come here of his own accord. He wouldn’t want to pull everything to pieces again. He comes from Jakovia and he was talking to the Chief of Police of Pletz the other day. The young lady in the next apartment is a Princess of Jakovia. It is well known that you and she are on friendly terms, and he was after what one of you is supposed to have in your possession. The Princess Marya’s rooms are within a few yards of yours. That’s where he came from, without a doubt, and where the bullet came from you and I both know. That doesn’t mean that either of us is ever going to tell, but don’t try to put the new-mown hay over an old hand!”

“Sorry,” Jere apologised. “The man’s dead all right, isn’t he?”

“Dead as mutton,” the other agreed. “To judge from the look of him, he’d have been better dead a good many years ago.”

“It doesn’t matter who killed him then, does it?”

“Not one little tinker’s curse. The story’s going up to headquarters straight enough. You killed him in your room, and that’s all there is to it so far as I’m concerned. There’s no one to interfere. The local chaps would accept my word about anything. The only thing I would suggest, Mr. Strole, although it’s long odds that it would ever matter, is that you should get possession of the little lady’s weapon. Gee, I should like to see her shoot!”

“I’ve never seen her handle a gun,” Jere admitted, “but I should say she’d be pretty capable at anything she attempted....”

The drinks were brought in and disposed of. The body of the dead man was removed under Brodie’s auspices. The latter returned with a final request just as his employer was saying good night to Jere.

“If you could spare me two minutes, sir,” he begged.

“You don’t want me?” Hansard asked.

“No, sir. Just a word with Mr. Strole.”

Hansard yawned his way back to bed. Brodie obeyed Jere’s gesture and re-entered the small sitting-room. He stood on the hearthrug with his hands behind his back.

“Mr. Strole,” he said, “I am not here to ask for anything, but I want you to realise that I’m seeing you through this bit of trouble in great shape. Neither you nor the young lady are going to be bothered, and I’m the only man who could have done that for you.”

“I don’t imagine you’ll find me ungrateful,” Jere said significantly.

Brodie held out a protesting hand.

“It isn’t that, sir. Don’t think it for a minute. What I want is your complete confidence about this matter.”

“You know as much about it now as I do,” Jere assured him.

“Look here, sir,” the man went on. “Let’s look at the matter this way. Your rooms and your private belongings have been thoroughly searched during the day by an expert, whom we can safely say was the little chap from Jakovia who got in here probably with false credentials. I know something about Jakovia, and, though it may not cut any ice over this side, it does amount to something in Europe. Very well, then. This is how things shape out to me. This secret agent, or whatever he may have been, not finding what he wanted amongst your belongings, attempts the same game with the Princess. He’d evidently got to know that she was leaving soon, so he had to take risks which he didn’t take with you, and he suffered for it. There you are, sir. Her Royal Highness didn’t stand on ceremony; she just shot him as dead as mutton when she found him rummaging amongst her belongings. What was he after, sir? That’s what I’d like to know. This is not any ordinary attempt at robbery. There is something pretty big behind it all, and I should like to get wise to it. Can’t you help me, Mr. Strole?”

“I would if I could,” Jere declared earnestly, “but I can assure you that I’m just as ignorant of what it all means as you are.”

“You have been a great deal with the Princess during the last few days.”

“That’s quite true,” Jere admitted, “but you’ve been here long enough, Brodie, to know that it’s not an unusual thing for young people at a house party to be a great deal together.”

“That’s right, sir. Don’t think I’ve been spying or anything of that sort, because I haven’t. Observation comes natural to me. All the same, no one could help noticing that you and the Princess had many conversations together, which were different from the chaff and flirting which goes on usually amongst a crowd of young people.”

Jere felt himself becoming irritated.

“Brodie, listen here,” he begged. “I am very much in your debt, I know, but you can’t expect me to talk to you about any private conversations I may have had with the Princess.”

“Put it in this way then, sir,” the man persisted. “In this house, or in its vicinity, is or was a spy from Jakovia, the Princess of Jakovia, the head of the police of Jakovia, and you. The spy and the head of the police are in communication. Your rooms are searched, the Princess’ were searched. What was that man after? can’t you give me the dope on this? I’m a friend, not an enemy. Those serious conversations of yours must have given you an idea.”

“You shall know as much as I know,” Jere promised him. “I believe the Princess is in possession of secret information which might upset the apple-cart in Jakovia if it were known, but I couldn’t tell you whether that secret information is committed to paper or documents or whether it is just something she knows. There you have the full extent of my definite information. Side-by-side with it there is this. The Princess is very anxious to find a capitalist who would help to open up the industries of Jakovia. Now, you could ask me questions till daylight, Brodie, but I could tell you no more than that.”

“I guess I shall ask you only one more simple thing. Were you by any chance thinking of going to Jakovia?”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” Jere admitted, “I am.”

“You’ve got the money behind you,” Brodie reflected. “You might be thinking of doing a little investing yourself?”

“I might,” Jere agreed.

“Mr. Strole—take me with you as your valet,” the man begged. “I’ll look after you, I promise you that, and I have a kind of itch that I might be able to keep you out of trouble.”

“It’s an idea,” Jere mused. “I have my own servant, though.”

“He won’t want to come to Jakovia. I’ve had a word or two with him on the quiet, and you can give him a holiday for a time. It’ll pay you.”

“But what do you know about valeting? I don’t need much looking after, but I do need my trousers pressed and my shoes treed and that sort of thing.”

“I know everything a mortal man needs to know,” was the prompt reply. “There isn’t a thing your servant can do I can’t do better. Apart from that, there’s one thing I may be able to do which he couldn’t attempt, and that is to bring you home alive! I’ve been in these sorts of mix-ups before in Europe, Mr. Strole. They think our gangsters are a bit ruthless over here. They’re nothing to what goes on sometimes in these out-of-the-way countries. I’ve lived in Turkey and I spent a winter in Bulgaria when Mr. Croombs was Minister there. If it paid me to open my mouth, I could tell some horrible stories about that part of the world.... I’ll be ready to start when you like. No wages. Just a trifle to be going on with now and then if I need it. You shall give me just what I’ve been worth to you when we get back home together. Does it go?”

“It does,” Jere agreed.

Jere was awakened about nine o’clock that morning by the tinkling of the telephone bell by his side. He raised the receiver to his ear and was astonished to be greeted by his father’s precise and cultivated voice.

“Why, Dad!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t heard your voice over the telephone for a good many years—and at such an hour in the morning, too.”

“I trust that I have not disturbed you,” was the placid reply.

“Ought to have been up long ago,” Jere avowed. “I generally like to get a swim here before breakfast.”

“I rang up to be sure that you are coming back to-day,” his father continued. “I wish to have some conversation with you. Perhaps it would be convenient for you to dine here?”

“Suits me O.K.,” was the prompt reply. “Is it a crowd?”

“You and I alone, Jere. I shall expect you then. I understand from Parker that your rooms are all prepared.”

“Righto ...!”

A harmless conversation! It scarcely sounded like the message of fate it turned out to be. Jere sprang out of bed, donned his bathing clothes, and made his way to the swimming pool. For a quarter of an hour he dived, plunged and stretched out his limbs in the salt blue water, filled with the healthy young man’s joy of the coursing of his blood, of the tang of the cool water, the joy of the sunlit air. Afterwards he lay for some time on the warm needles of the pine wood, watching the sway of the boughs overhead and breathing in their wonderful aroma. It was almost reluctantly that he turned at last to the house which still seemed wrapped in silence. In his sitting-room he was assailed by the mingled odours of coffee, bacon and other breakfast delicacies. One of the footmen had just brought in his tray.

“Mr. Hansard thought, sir, that as nearly everyone was breakfasting in their rooms, you would prefer to have yours here.”

“Quite right,” Jere agreed hungrily. “Here, Sam, get me out a suit of travelling flannels.”

“Your chauffeur would be glad of orders, sir,” the footman remarked, before leaving the room.

“Tell him to bring the car round at eleven,” Jere directed.

A spray, a rub-down, the pleasant feel of silk upon his skin, the leisurely toilet of the young man with a long, thrilling day before him. In what sort of humour would he find Marya, he wondered, after the drama of the night. Fortunately she was not a very late riser. At ten—eleven o’clock at the latest—he might hope to see her come stealing out of the house. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to ten. Not so bad. He made his servant carry the tray out on to the balcony so that he could run no risk of missing her.

“Any mail, Sam?” he asked.

“Only a small parcel, Mr. Strole,” the man replied. “It was brought in by hand.”

Jere glanced carelessly enough at the square brown packet with its thick seals. Then he gave a start of interest. There was a crown upon the seals, and the thin spidery hand-writing was familiar. He cut the strings, threw off the paper and removed the lid of the plain cardboard box. Then, for a moment, he sat quite still. He drew a long breath. Its sole contents was a small miniature revolver with a beautifully carved ivory butt. He looked up. Sam was in the next room putting out clothes. He searched once more with eager fingers. There was nothing in the box but the revolver, which he slipped into his pocket.

“Sam,” he called out, “was there no note or message with this parcel?”

“Nothing at all, sir. It was just handed to me by the Princess’ maid.”

“How long ago.”

“Oh, long before you were up, sir,” Sam replied. “The Princess and the Baroness and all the servants left at seven o’clock.”

Jere swung round in his chair incredulously.

“Left?” he repeated.

“Left for New York, sir. There were three car loads of them with the servants and luggage. They were taking the train at the crossing.”

“Sure there’s no note, Sam?”

“Absolutely certain, sir. Just the parcel. Made a regular mystery about that, the maid did.”

Jere pushed back his plate and lit a cigarette. He had lost all appetite for his breakfast.