Читать книгу Slane's Long Shots - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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SLANE had something of a shock when he glanced at the card which was brought in to him one afternoon toward the end of the week. There it was, however, in black and white:

COLONEL LE BRETTON

LENDALE HOUSE

TRAVELERS' CLUB NORFOLK

"The gentleman is waiting outside, sir," the clerk announced.

"He can come in," Slane decided, after a moment's hesitation.

Le Bretton entered the room, carrying his hat and stick in his hand. His dark serge suit was exceedingly well-cut, his linen and tie well-chosen—a presentable-looking person enough he might have seemed but for that disfiguring scar which gave an ugly twist to his lips, even in repose.

"Hope I'm not bothering you, Slane," he apologized. "The fact of it is I made up my mind just on impulse that I'd like to have a few minutes' chat with you."

"There's no one I'd rather have seen just now," Slane acknowledged. "It's an odd thing, but I was thinking of you not ten minutes ago. Do sit down."

Le Bretton relapsed into a chair and leaned back in the manner of one thoroughly at his ease.

"You were there that night at the Lavender Club," he began. "That's really what made me think of coming to you. You saw what happened. I feel in a way rather stupidly responsible because I opened the window—not that I think that made any real difference. The fellow had already asked for Odane and was waiting for him in the street, when he noticed that the window was open, and took what he thought was a better chance. Have you any theory about that murder, Sir Jasper?"

Slane smiled.

"I say, are you consulting me professionally?" he asked, with apparent carelessness.

"As a matter of fact, I am," Le Bretton replied. "At any fee you like to name, in reason. I can generally think clearly enough for myself, but just now I admit I am bothered. There's no doubt that Brest was murdered by someone who wanted to get hold of a document he brought home from the Foreign Office. He didn't get it, because Brest had already passed it on to this little fellow Odane, who was a kind of pal of Brest, as I dare say you know, and who often helped him with his translations. Odane went on with his job after Brest had been killed, and was on the way to the Foreign Office with the translation—had it actually in his possession—when he was shot."

Slane sat watching his companion, who smoked thoughtfully, for a moment or two before he continued:

"Nothing of importance was found upon Odane when he was searched, but no one thought of his mackintosh until afterward. That, for some reason or other, he had hung on the same peg as mine. I suppose we both started in that shower. The mackintoshes were as nearly as possible identical, and when I got home I found a bulky envelope in the pocket. I drew it out, and looked at it. There was no address. That being so, what would you have done, Sir Jasper?"

"I suppose I should have opened it," Slane admitted.

"I think that anyone would," Le Bretton agreed. "At any rate I did, and you can imagine what a shock I received when the first thing I saw in the middle of the first page of the document was my own name."

"Ah!" Slane murmured.

"I read the document through," Le Bretton continued. "It may have been wrong, but that is what I did. Since then I have found myself placed in a very difficult and awkward situation. That is why I have come to you for advice."

Slane seemed to have retired behind the mask of a strange and stony repression. His face had lost all its human lines. No sign of sympathy or understanding shone from his eyes.

"With the authorities at Tibet, I might explain," Le Bretton went on, "I am on evil terms. They have accused me, or rather two members of my expedition for whom I am held responsible, of having stolen large quantities of jewels and the sacred Buddha from the Holy Temple of Lhassa. I may tell you that none of these are practicable exploits for any sane man.

"That dispatch if properly translated and read at the Foreign Office would have done me a lot of harm. I tore it up."

Slane leaned a little forward in his chair. There was a lump under the carpet, and his foot pressed it—once, twice, three times.

"You have come to me for my advice," he said. "Very well, I will give it to you. I should surrender to the police at once."

Le Bretton half rose to his feet. His eyes were aflame, his mouth more crooked than ever.

"What the devil do you mean?" he demanded. "What have I got to surrender to the police for? Why, I was in the room when Odane was shot from the street, and the night when Montague Brest was murdered I was speaking before the Royal Geographical Society."

Slane opened one of the drawers of his desk, and drew out a slip of paper.

"I have been interesting myself a little in your affairs," he said. "Your record of your movements on those nights is quite correct, but three out of the eighteen members of your expedition—I have a list of their names here—are living in the neighborhood of your house in Highgate, and have been concerned in some very interesting little exploits lately. Wolf, without a doubt the actual murderer of poor Brest and Odane, was arrested this morning.

"Your intelligence department is pretty good, I have no doubt, Colonel Le Bretton," Slane continued, "but it has had one slip- up. Odane was on his way to the Foreign Office when he dined at the Lavender Club, but the substance of his translation had already been in the hands of the Foreign Office since the afternoon. From what I gather, the charges against you and the members of your expedition seem to have been a great deal more serious than your own account of them, and there is a packet of rubies on offer in London which has already been identified."

Le Bretton drew from his waistcoat pocket a battered silver box, opened the lid, and balanced a small black pill between his thumb and forefinger.

"You are certainly a man of some intelligence, Slane," he remarked. "Overzeal on the part of my followers—that is what I must suffer for. You see. Wolf's name was mentioned in that dispatch more than once. It was he who cut the Priest's throat, and brought the jewels away. All the same, I suppose I shall have to accept the responsibility. How long have I?"

"Only a few seconds," Slane said. "Detective Stimpson with his men are downstairs."

Le Bretton swallowed the pill, and tossed the box across to Slane.

"Everyone who travels in countries where torture is rather the fashion has to carry these," he confided. "You lead an adventurous life yourself, Slane. You may find one useful some day."