Читать книгу The Thief in the Night and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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AUXILIARY Inspector Jack Danton turned into the office of the Second Commissioner perfectly certain in his own mind as to the reason his chief had re-called him urgently from Paris.

On the way up from Dover he had read all the newspaper accounts of the latest adventure of the mysterious jewel thief, with whose activities the local police were, apparently, quite unable to cope.

It was a job after Jack's own heart. He was one of the new police: the type that had found its way to Scotland Yard from the commissioned ranks of the Army, and although he had already to his credit a wholly meritorious capture of warehouse thieves, the real big case had not as yet come along. And here it was!

The story of the last jewel theft was an exact replica of all the earlier robberies. Mrs. Crewe-Sanders had a house-party. The jewel (a diamond plaque with a centre composed of three triangular emeralds) had been stolen on the night before the majority of the house party had dispersed.

That was the story he expected to hear repeated when he walked into his chief's office.

"Sit down, Danton," nodded the chief, "I want you rather badly."

Jack smiled.

"I think I know why, sir," he said. "That last theft seems to have been a particularly daring one."

He saw the chief frown, and wondered.

"What are you talking about?" asked the Commissioner, and it was Jack Danton's turn to be puzzled."

"I am referring to the Crewe-Sanders jewel robbery in Shropshire," he said.

"Oh, that!" The Commissioner shrugged his shoulders. "It is the 'Candid Friend' I am looking for rather than the burglar, and, anyway, the local police have not asked for our assistance."

Jack laughed.

"I am all at sea, sir; I don't even know who the Candid Friend is!"

The chief consulted some papers on the desk before him.

"The Candid Friend," he said slowly, "is an anonymous letter writer who has been directing his or her attention to some of the best people in society. The result of this scoundrel's activities has been disastrous. Whoever the writer is, he or she knows some of the grisly secrets which certain society people hide within their breasts, and which, I suppose, they firmly believed would never be dragged into the light of day. Honestly, I think the writer is a woman. The letters are in a woman's handwriting, disguised, but undoubtedly feminine. Here is one."

He passed a letter across the table, and Jack read it with a little grimace of disgust.

"That is rather poisonous," he said. "To whom was it addressed?"

"It was sent to the Earl of Widdicombe and it deals, as you see, with the Countess of Widdicombe and a supposed indiscretion. Happily, Lord Widdicombe is an intelligent, well-balanced man, with absolute faith in Lady Widdicombe, to whom the letter has been shown, and who has sent it to us. I want you to go down into Shropshire; you will have the entrée to the best houses—and probably you would have it without my assistance. You know the county?"

"Very well indeed, sir," said Jack with a half-smile. "As a matter of fact, the Widdicombes are old friends of mine, and I have already been asked down."

Now that the disappointment of what he had considered to be the more exciting task had passed away, Jack looked forward with considerable interest to a stay in his beloved Shropshire.

He took the available data into his office, and spent the morning comparing the various handwritings in the letters which the Commissioner had collected. Then he put them down and sat for some time thinking.

"Shropshire," he mused.

And Barbara May came from Shropshire. The thought of her made him glance at the clock and rise hurriedly. There was a chance—the dimmest chance—that she was riding in the Row that morning. That chance had taken him a dozen times to watch the riders, and eleven times he had been disappointed; he would probably be disappointed again, he thought, but nevertheless, he would take the chance.

A taxi dropped him at Hyde Park Corner, and he strolled along the crowded path, his eyes searching the equestrians. Suddenly his heart gave a little leap. Near the rail, and talking to a man whom he recognized as a Member of Parliament, was the girl he sought. She sat astride a big black horse, a beautiful, virile figure.

"Why, Mr. Danton," she said, bending down to give him her gloved hand; "I thought you were in Paris."

"I thought I was too, yesterday morning," he said good- humouredly, "but my—er—people wired me to come back."

He had had many talks with Barbara May; in fact they had first met at Lady Widdicombe's house in town, but not once had he confided to her the nature of his profession. She for her part, evinced very little curiosity.

He knew that she was the daughter of a Foreign Office official, and that she herself had worked within that stately mansion during the war. This, and the fact that she was very poor, and that Lady Widdicombe was looking for a desirable match, were the only facts that he knew about her, save this: that every time he met her he grew more and more impatient for their next meeting.

"You swore you would come riding with me," said Barbara May accusingly, "and now you have lost your opportunity, Mr. Danton; I am leaving town to-morrow."

She saw the look of dismay on his face and laughed.

"I am going down into Shropshire," she said; "the Widdicombes are having their 'week.' Are you coming?"

He heaved a deep sigh of relief. For once duty and pleasure went hand in hand.

"Yes, curiously enough I am leaving for the Widdicombe's place to-morrow evening—we shall have that ride yet!"

She nodded.

"Have you been in town all the time?"

For a second she hesitated.

"No. I have been staying at Morply Castle with Mrs. Crewe- Sanders."

He stared at her for a second.

"The lady who lost the jewellery?"

It seemed to him that a queer look came into the girl's eyes, and that her colour deepened.

"Yes," she said shortly; and then, with a curt nod, turned her horse's head and rode away, leaving him staring after her.

Had he said anything to annoy her? That was the last thing in the world he desired. He had never known her so touchy before. So she had been at Morply Castle when the plaque was stolen. It was a thousand pities, he thought regretfully, that he had not been put on that job; he would have been frantically interested in hearing the story of the crime from the girl.

Danton went back to Scotland Yard with an uncomfortable feeling, though he failed to analyse the cause of his discomfort. Usually any such vague irritation can be traced to a cause, but Jack was wholly incapable of finding a reason for his present perturbation.

He was in the midst of his work that afternoon when there came a diversion. The telephone rang and the Chief Commissioner's voice hailed him.

"Whilst you are at the Widdicombe's—keep an eye open for the Plaque Fiend. I have an idea he will pay you a visit."

He heard the Commissioner laugh as he hung up the receiver, and wondered why.