Читать книгу Slane's Long Shots - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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DETECTIVE Inspector Stimpson suddenly abandoned the attitude of casual caller which he had assumed during the first few minutes of his visit to Sir Jasper Slane, his acquaintance and occasional fellow worker. He drew his chair nearer to the desk. He was a small, sandy man, neatly dressed, with a freckled face and a mass of unruly hair. His queer, shrewd little eyes were studying Slane speculatively.

"Sir Jasper," he acknowledged, "we are in some slight trouble down at the Yard."

"The Montague Brest affair?"

"It isn't only that. Let me explain. If you'll believe me. Sir Jasper, there is scarcely a job done in London that we don't know who's behind it, even when we can't get the evidence to make an arrest. There are plenty of people walking down Piccadilly and Bond Street at this moment whom we know to be guilty of certain offenses. We can't touch them, but we don't worry. Their time will come.

"Just now, we're up against a different proposition. There's a new body of criminals at work, and they've got us guessing. They don't link up anywhere with any of the old gangs. My conviction is that this new crowd comes from a different class of society altogether. I'll give you one example: There's an amazing packet of precious stones—mostly rubies—being discreetly offered amongst the high-class fences, and the curious part of it is that they don't correspond in the least with any missing jewelry we have on our list. They are far more magnificent, and unique.

"Where did they come from, Sir Jasper? Certainly they are not being handled by any one of the known jewel thieves in Europe. That's why I'm pretty well convinced that there's a new organization at work with whom we have not yet clicked."

Slane, from the depths of his easy-chair, smiled in tolerant and comprehending assent. He was a cheery-looking person, with humorous eyes and mouth, the complexion of a Devonshire farmer, and with scarcely a line upon his face. There was nothing whatever in his appearance to suggest any abnormal intelligence. Only every now and then, at odd moments, there was a quick flash of his blue eyes, a tightening of the lips, an incisive word, the subtleties of a partially concealed personality.

"I shouldn't be at all surprised. A very intelligent assumption of yours as a matter of fact. We've too many amateur bookmakers, wine merchants, stockbrokers' representatives, motor car agents, and all that sort of thing. Why not a course in crime for the indigent aristocrat? Your idea appeals to me, Stimpson!"

"Then perhaps you will help me to find out who killed Montague Brest." Sir Jasper leaned back a little in his chair.

"I am not a detective," he observed.

"What else are you, Sir Jasper?" his visitor asked him bluntly.

"I am interested in research," was the indulgent reply. "It amuses me to attempt to solve any social problem which is baffling my friends. Criminology attracts me. The science of detection excites my admiration, but I am not a detective, Stimpson. You will never find me in competition with Scotland Yard."

"That may be so, but it was you who discovered, and returned to her, Lady Darnwell's jewels after we'd been months trying in vain. It was owing to your influence that Maurice Grayson left the country at a moment's notice, and—"

"That will do," Slane interrupted. "Precisely what do you want of me this afternoon? You haven't traveled all the way up to Hampstead for the sake of a friendly little chat?"

"You have this immense advantage over us," the detective continued thoughtfully, avoiding for the moment a direct reply. "You are able to penetrate easily and naturally into a class of society from which we are debarred. It isn't that we can't go there, but when we do we are noticeable, and our quarry is on guard all the time. Club life, too, is unfortunately barred to us. Now you are a member, I believe, Sir Jasper, of the Lavender Club."

"No place in London where I am happier," was the enthusiastic admission. "A very delightful gathering of cultured cosmopolitans, Stimpson. You must dine with me there one night."

The detective shook his head.

"No place for me, sir," he acknowledged frankly, "but we have come now to the object of my visit. We were talking a few minutes ago about the murder of Montague Brest. I should like you to go to the Lavender Club as often as you can during the next few days with this idea always in your brain—that one of those with whom you are lunching or dining, or playing bridge, or drinking a cocktail, killed, or knows who killed, Montague Brest. You are something of a psychologist. I will leave it at that. At the end of a day or two, ask yourself which of the men with whom you have conversed could possibly have been the murderer? Tell me their names. A little tactful and harmless espionage will hurt no one."

"Anything to go on?" Slane inquired, with a sudden gravity.

"A trifle, sir. No more than that."

The other considered for a few moments.

"What you ask is, after all, not a difficult matter," he decided, "and commits me to nothing. I will do as you wish."