Читать книгу Envoy Extraordinary - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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The doctor was in the inner surgery making up a bottle of medicine. Matresser watched until he had finished, then he drew him back into the cosy sitting-room.

“What about a small peg before we take the road again, Andrews?” he suggested.

“An excellent idea,” was the cheerful reply.

The doctor mixed the drinks. His visitor lolled back in the well-worn leather chair watching him. When his tumbler arrived, he took a contemplative sip and set the glass down.

“I am going to let you into a secret, Andrews,” he announced. “Your patient upstairs was bringing a rather important message down to me from an official source in London. He was attacked on the road but he seems to have got down here all right.”

“The devil!” the doctor murmured. “Has he handed the letter over?”

“He thinks he has,” Matresser replied, “but as a matter of fact he hasn’t. It appears to have been stolen.”

Andrews set down his glass and stared across the room.

“I can’t follow you,” he said simply.

“Trifle confusing, isn’t it?” Matresser observed. “Well then, this is what happened. Fergus—his name is Fergus—told me in which pocket of his coat to find the letter. I searched that pocket and I found the oilcloth in which the letter had been enclosed carefully cut open, also the pieces of cardboard. The place where the letter 41 should have been was there. The letter itself was gone.”

“Who does he think could have got at it?”

“He doesn’t know that it was not there,” Matresser explained patiently. “Listen, Andrews. The man’s ill—I’m sure of that. He needs sleep and rest. He would not get either if I told him that the letter had been stolen. I let him think, therefore, that it was in my pocket and that his job had been safely accomplished. You must back me up if he asks any questions.”

“If the letter was of any importance,” the doctor observed, “you are being very decent about it, Matresser.”

“Not at all. There is nothing to be gained by worrying Fergus and I am not at all sure that he is pulling through quite as well as you think. However, that’s not the point for the moment. Accepting his story of the whole affair, which I am willing to do without reservation, who is there who has had a chance of stealing that letter?”

Andrews reflected.

“The person who attacked him on the road,” he suggested.

“Impossible,” was the calm reply. “The oilcloth and cardboard were cut through with a pocket knife and without undue haste. That could not have been done during a struggle. Nothing happened to him in the inn, where he stopped for water, therefore the first opportunity was whilst he was lying unconscious in that field of roots. Humphreys was the first to find him and he was brought straight here.”

“Precisely. My household consists of Mrs. Foulds and myself. You cannot suspect either of us of pocket-picking.”

“Granted,” Matresser agreed. “Anyone else possess a key to your surgery?”

“Not a—not a soul,” Andrews declared.

“Why the break in your sentence?”

“It’s a queer coincidence, but it can’t amount to anything,” the doctor meditated. “It seemed funny at the time, that’s all. You see,” he went on, “I always keep my surgery key in the right-hand pocket of my overcoat. When we reached here to-night you saw me fumble about for some time. I ultimately discovered it in the left-hand pocket of my coat.”

“You think someone may have borrowed it while you were dining, eh?”

“I left it in one pocket when I gave my things to your butler,” Andrews declared obstinately. “It was in a different pocket when I reached home to-night. If you can make anything of that, do. I can’t.”

“Mystery upon mystery,” Matresser said lightly as he rose to his feet. “We will let the matter rest there for the moment, I think. Don’t let the man know that the letter is missing, and have another look at him before you go to bed. I didn’t exactly like his appearance, but it may have been fancy. Are you ready to take me back now or have you any late visits?”

“Taking you back right away.”

“Do you remember the place,” Matresser asked as soon as they had started, “where that mysterious vehicle nearly ran into us?”

“I shall never forget it.”

“Just stop there for a minute, then, there’s a good fellow.”

The doctor, who was driving with full headlights on, did as he was asked.

“Got a torch?” Matresser enquired.

His companion produced one from the pocket of the 43 car. Matresser disappeared for several moments, but when he returned he was smiling.

“Andrews,” he declared as he took his place in the automobile, “if I were to start life again I should choose to be a detective.”

“Why?”

“I should walk through the world in lowlier mood because I should know what a fool I was.”

Matresser let himself into the Great House by the insignificant side entrance which communicated with the gunroom below and his own private suite of apartments on the first floor. He was scarcely surprised to find Henry Yates, deeply absorbed in a detective story, waiting up for him.

“Anything special?”

Yates gravely marked the page in his story and laid the volume down.

“MI7B rang up about a quarter of an hour ago,” he reported. “They have established a special private line between Norwich and here. They wish to speak to you upon it.”

“You can get them,” Matresser directed.

In five minutes, Matresser found himself speaking to an office in Whitehall. The low confidential voice at the other end was easily recognisable.

“That’s Lord Matresser?”

“Speaking.”

“Sir Francis would like a word or two with you personally. This is a private line upon which we are established now. Could you wait for a few minutes?”

“Certainly,” Matresser replied. “I shall await Sir Francis’ convenience.”

There was a brief silence. Matresser lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Presently a familiar voice spoke.

“Matresser?”

“Speaking.”

“I sent you a long letter yesterday.”

“So I understand. Your messenger, Fergus, is lying in the local doctor’s clinic with concussion. He was attacked on the road and the letter stolen. I have just come from his bedside.”

“Whereabouts was he attacked?”

“Within a few miles of here. Can you send me a copy of the letter?”

“I must consider that. Tell me, have you or Fergus any ideas about this theft?”

“At present none.”

“The French are very busy, of course. Anything stirring in that direction that you know of?”

“Nothing.”

There was a groan either of dissatisfaction or doubt.

“You won’t be leaving the country without notice?”

“I have only one engagement,” Matresser replied. “Sandringham to shoot, dine and sleep on the thirtieth.”

“I shall be there between now and then. We must not clash. Remember that, Matresser. There could not be a worse place for us to meet, and you had better take from the third to the eighth out of your diary. You may find those days exceptionally occupied. The contents of that letter would have explained how. I prefer for the moment to leave it.”

“I am quite content to know nothing about the letter,” Matresser said.

“Better so,” the other approved. “We have just had specifications from our liaison man in the telegraphs of a 45 new invention that taps the telephone by wireless. Still, I will go so far as to tell you this. As regards Colony Number Seven—”

A thin squeaky voice intervened.

“The connection is interrupted,” it announced. “An attempt is being made between Norwich and Holt to tap the private line.”

Matresser replaced his receiver. He looked thoughtfully across at Yates.

“By the by, Henry,” he said, “you don’t happen to have come across her ladyship’s new lady’s maid? Hortense her name is, I think. Brilliant eyes—very Parisian.”

Henry Yates smiled.

“I have received a note from the young lady,” he confided. “She admits to feeling very lonely here because none of the other servants speak French. She asks if half an hour’s conversation now and then would be possible.”

Matresser smiled.

“Go to it, Henry,” he advised. “Mademoiselle Hortense has already the too eager gleam in her eyes. She will give herself away.”

“But what has mademoiselle to learn from us?” Yates proceeded. “We are her allies.”

“France mistrusts everybody,” Matresser told his secretary as he rose to his feet, “but just now, believe me, if there is any nation whom she mistrusts more than any other, it is England.”