Читать книгу The Big Four: Crooks of Society - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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Two men sat outside the Cafe de Paris in Monte Carlo. They were both well-dressed, both clean-shaven, and had the appearance of citizens of the world, which meant that they may have been of any nationality, but were probably American.

The elder of the two was sucking a cigar thoughtfully, and nodding his replies to the other.

Presently he said:

"I have never met him, but I've heard a lot about him. Jimmy, this place is not going to be healthy after Monday. I think we'll skip by the Sunday morning train. That gives us four days to draw dividends. What is this Brewer like?"

Jimmy shrugged.

"Search me!" he said. "I know as much about him as you do."

"You are sure he is coming?" asked Reddy.

"Sure," said the other emphatically. "I saw the telegram engaging rooms on the clerk's counter this morning. It was sent from Paris, and asked for the best suite overlooking the entrance to the Casino. It said he would arrive on Monday, but if he didn't the rooms were to be held for him until he did arrive."

Reddy nodded again.

"That gives us four days, and I think we shall get the stuff," he added confidently. "Little William certainly looks like easy money."

He nodded towards the hotel, on the steps of which stood a resplendent figure in a shepherd's plaid suit and a Homburg hat of dazzling whiteness.

"He almost sparkles from here," said Reddy admiringly. "Gee! That fellow is the nearest approach to cash in hand that I have ever struck."

"What is he?" asked Jimmy curiously. "I saw you talking with him in the rooms last night."

"He is William Ford. His pa made enough out of fuses to settle the British National Debt. When the war finished so did pa. He died off and left a cartload of money to Willie, and Willie's seeing life for the first time."

"What did you get him with?" asked Reddy.

"With my Montana silver mine," replied the other. "He just fell for it. Come over and shake hands with him."

Mr. Ford stood with his hands in his pockets, a long amber cigarette-holder between his teeth, staring about him, and apparently oblivious to the beauties of the scene. Walking slowly across the broad, well-swept roadway to the Municipal Gardens, he bought a newspaper at the little kiosk, and returned to a long garden seat facing the Casino. It was here that they accosted him.

"Good morning, Mr. Ford, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Kennedy, one of our millionaire ranchers from Texas."

Mr. Ford blinked up at the newcomer, and offered a limp hand.

"Good morning," he said to Reddy, "it's beastly hot, and I can't read this beastly French newspaper. Do you understand this beastly language?"

"Why, sure, Mr. Ford," said the other, taking the newspaper from the young man's hand. "I have seen it, and there's nothing at all worth reading about unless you are interested in French racing."

"I hate racing. I think it's beastly," said Mr. Ford, adjusting a glass in his eye with apparent difficulty. "I am a business man y'know, Mr. Redwood; gambling doesn't appeal to me. I risk a few thousands at the beastly table, but it bores me."

"Quite right," said Mr. Redwood cordially; "that's a fool way of spending your money."

"Of course," said Mr. Ford modestly, "I can afford to lose. I brought a million francs in ready money."

"Which I hope you keep in the hotel safe," said Reddy warningly. "There are a great many dishonest people in Monte Carlo."

"Not much," said Mr. Ford scornfully. "I always say if a man can't look after his beastly money he doesn't deserve to have it. No; I keep it in my room."

Mr. Reddy drew a long breath.

"I haven't come to Monte Carlo to learn how to protect myself," went on Mr. Ford. "But look here, as a business man, and without any beastly beating about the bush, what do you want for this fifth share in your mine?"

"Well, I don't know that I want to sell," Reddy said modestly. "I have come to Monte Carlo to enjoy myself, and not to deal in stocks and shares."

"You do too much of that at home, Mr. Redwood," chimed in Jimmy, feeling it was his turn to speak. "Why, Mr. Redwood is known from one end of Colorado to the other end of Montana as the biggest man in the mining world. I suppose you deal in five million shares a year, don't you, Mr. Redwood?"

"About that," said the modest Reddy; "probably not so many, but somewhere about that figure."

The young man was staring at him with an amused smile.

"You can't frighten me with talk of millions," he said. "I understand that your Montana mine is capitalised at a million dollars; that is about £200,000."

Mr. Redwood nodded.

"You say you want £40,000; that is two hundred thousand dollars for a fifth interest!"

Mr. Redwood nodded again.

"The shares stand at 2.50 in the open market," he said; "and a fifth share is worth more than twice as much as I am asking for it. I am tired of mining, tired of making profits. I am going to get out of my holdings, Jimmy," he said, turning to the "rancher." "This gentleman wants to buy a share of the Montana Deep. He's a business man, and there is something about him that I like."

"But surely," said the shocked "rancher," "you are not going to sell out your holdings in the Montana Deep? Why, they are the richest mines in the West. There would be a sensation if this were known in Wall Street."

Reddy made no reply. He took from his inside pocket a thick package, and, unrolling it, disclosed some beautifully-printed share certificates, stamped and sealed. These he looked at musingly, even regretfully.

"When I think," he said, "of the trouble I have taken to make this mine a success, why, I hate the idea of parting with them. I shall be giving them to you, Mr. Ford, for a mere bagatelle. Exactly the amount you have brought to Monte Carlo in ready money expecting to lose."

"Of course, I haven't made up my mind that I am going to buy them," said the young man hastily.

"And I haven't made up my mind that I'm going to sell them either," smiled the other. "Come and have a drink."

He was too wily a bird to press his victim, and made no further reference to the deal for two days.

"The time is getting short," said Reddy on the Saturday after lunch. "Did you hear from Paris?"

Jimmy nodded, and produced a telegraph form.

"Brewer is staying at the Hotel Meurice," he said. "That was the hotel his telegram was sent from. I wired him last night in the name of the hotel to ask if he still wanted the rooms, and I watched the counter all morning to see if he replied. Here's a copy of the telegram. It came just before lunch."

He handed the scribbled slip of paper to the other who read:

"Yes, of course I want the rooms.—Brewer."

"The hotel people were a bit puzzled by the wire, but that's nothing. We shall be gone, anyway, before he arrives. Now, what about this boob?"

"He has bitten, but he looks like taking a few days to land," said Reddy. "I had a chat with him in the rooms, exchanged confidences with him, told him that I always kept my money under the pillow, and went out this morning forgetting to take it with me. He said he kept his money in the bottom drawer of his bureau under his clothes," he chuckled. "If we don't get his stuff to- day legitimately, Jimmy, we are going to get it to-night by coarse, violent methods. Don't trouble to cancel the sleeper, but we are going to get away by another route."

"How's that?" said Jimmy.

"I have ordered a car from Nice to meet me outside the Post Office at two o'clock to-morrow morning. We will take the road as far as Marseilles, slip on through Narbonne, across the frontier into Spain, and lie low at Barcelona for a little while. I fixed another car to meet us at Marseilles on Sunday afternoon outside the Hotel d'Angleterre."

"Good," said Jimmy.

"Our room is on the same floor as his. It is easy to swing from one balcony to another, and he sleeps with his windows open. I will get into the room and open the door. You will come in, and if he gives any trouble put him to sleep. We ought to make Marseilles before midday."

They strolled through the big pillared hall, passed through the doors into the sale, and spent the next half-hour wandering from table to table in the track of their victim, who occasionally hazarded a louis upon a number but was not apparently engaged in any serious betting.

Mr. Ford at last saw the two Americans, and favoured them with a pitying smile.

"Beastly nonsense, don't you think," he said. "I say, let's get out of this place. It makes me ill to see people wasting their money."

They followed him obediently and he went back to his favourite garden seat before the Casino.

"I have been thinking about that mining proposition, and do you know I nearly decided to buy your shares; then it struck me that Montana was a beastly long way off, I and I know nothing about mining."

"Fortunately you don't have to know," said Reddy. "There is just nothing for you to do but to sit tight in your beautiful home in London and watch the dividends pile up."

"That's all right my friend," said the young man in a superior tone, "but suppose they don't pile up, hey? I will tell you what I'll do. I will write to a friend of mine, my broker, a beastly clever fellow, who does all my work for me, and I will get him to telegraph me. Or suppose I wired him. Telegrams are so much quicker. You don't mind, do you, Mr. Redwood?"

"Not at all," said Mr. Redwood calmly; "and if he replies favourably, as of course he will, you will give me a cheque."

"Oh, no," said the young man, "I will pay you cash."

"I thought you might have put the money into the bank," said Mr. Redwood, greatly relieved.

'"Not a bit of it! Not a bit of it! I always say that if a fellow can't look after his beastly money himself he doesn't deserve to have it. Oh, by the way, I have had a telegram from a fellow named"—he fumbled in his pockets—"from a fellow named Brewer. A beastly impertinent telegram, telling me to do nothing until I have seen him. Who the deuce is Brewer?"

"Brewer," said Mr. Redwood with great earnestness, "is one of the worst crooks on the Continent. Whatever he lays his hands on is as good as lost."

"You don't say so," gasped Mr. Ford. "Well, of all the cheek! Do you think I ought to notify the police?"

"It is quite unnecessary." Reddy was thoroughly enjoying the humour of the situation.

Ford looked at his watch.

"I am going up to La Turbie. I have ordered a motor-car. Would you two gentlemen like to come up?"

"No, thanks," said Reddy; "I have got a lot of work to do this afternoon—letters to write and all that sort of thing."

The work that Reddy had to do was peculiar to his profession. He had to study road maps and improvise time-tables. He had to telegraph to one of the Big Four of Crime, who was in temporary retirement at Montdidier to fix a passport which would enable him to cross the frontier. He had to pack his scanty belongings and make a further reconnaissance of Mr. Ford's room.

He had already discovered that it was impossible to get into the room by day. By special arrangement with the hotel proprietors a man stood on guard in the corridor all the time Mr. Ford was out—a guard which, owing to the young man's confidence in himself, was removed at night. Each big room had its own oblong balcony, and between the balconies was a space of two feet which a bold and an agile man could easily negotiate—and Reddy and his partner were both bold and agile. Patience was one of his virtues, and most patiently he waited for the night to fall.

At midnight the rooms closed and a big crowd flocked out, the doors of limousines banged, the engines of limousines purred; there was a great melting away of people, and presently the space before the Casino was clear.

By one o'clock most of the regular habitues of the Casino had either gone home or had passed across to the Sporting Club, which did not close until four in the morning, and where baccarat was played for high stakes, and when Reddy stepped out on to the balcony there was not a soul in sight.

He listened for a full minute, then swung himself over the iron rail of the balcony, reached out for the next and in this way traversed the three balconies which separated him from Mr. Ford's room.

The windows were wide open, only the wooden jalousies being closed, and these he opened easily and noiselessly. He slipped into the room and closed the wooden doors behind him. To make his way across the room and unlock the door leading to the corridor was the work of a few seconds. He had listened intently on entering the room, and had been rewarded by hearing the regular breathing not to say occasional snore of his victim.

As he unlocked the outer door, Jimmy slipped in, closing it noiselessly behind him, and turning the key. Reddy felt for the bottom drawer of the bureau. He had pulled it open, and his hand was dexterously searching amidst a mass of clothing, when the room was suddenly flooded with light.

Mr. Ford was sitting up in bed balancing a wicked-looking Browning pistol on his knees.

"Put up your hands, Reddy," he said.

"What do you mean?" said Reddy indignantly. "I have got into the wrong room. I am surprised at you, Mr. Ford."

Mr. Ford slipped from his bed, and Reddy noticed that he was fully dressed save for his coat.

"I have been waiting for you, Reddy," Mr. Ford went on. "I am taking you into custody on a charge of burglary, attempted fraud by misrepresentation and impersonation. I am taking your pal, too."

"Who are you?" demanded Reddy. "My name is Bob Brewer," said the young man. "You may have heard of me. I am a notorious crook who takes everything I can lay my hands on. Put out yours, I am going to lay hands on you."