Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Mr. John Hammond Bierce, American Ambassador and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Saint James, sat in his spacious private office, and listened with an air of grave attention to the story his young protégé poured into his ears. As Van Ingen concluded, the great man leaned back in his swivel-chair until the spring creaked, and stifled a yawn behind a white, well-groomed hand.

“My dear boy,” he said, “this is a very sad tale, and I am genuinely sorry for Miss Grayson. Her father appears to have been a rascal. But,” he smiled across at his youthful visitor, “I do not quite see what the American ambassador has to do with the business. I understand you consulted me in my official capacity.”

“I — I thought perhaps you might wish to take some action—”

“But the man is dead!” exclaimed the ambassador. “Dead and buried.”

“That is just the question!” cried Cord eagerly. “Is he dead? For my part, I suspect he is very much alive and kicking. His suicide was only a ruse, to mask his plans from the public.”

“A very successful one!” retorted the older man drily. “His daughter identified the body and was present at its burial. It was in all the papers.”

“That is another point!” exclaimed Van Ingen.

“Not once was I permitted to view the body. I was even denied admittance to the house until three days after the funeral. Throughout the affair the utmost secrecy was observed.”

“That seems natural, under the circumstances.”

Van Ingen coloured warmly. “Pardon me, it is not natural, sir, when you know all the circumstances. I was an intimate of the family — almost, one might say, in the position of a son.” He halted, and then continued, with a certain dignity:

“I have not spoken on the subject to you before, sir, chiefly because there has been nothing definite to say. But Miss Grayson is, I hope and pray, sir, my future wife.”

“Ah!” The ambassador surveyed him with a keen but kindly glance.

“I feel bound,” he observed thoughtfully, “to make a few remarks, both as your guardian and as a man who has seen something of the world. The wife of a rising young diplomat must be, like Caesar’s wife, above reproach. In short, my dear boy, to marry Miss Grayson will absolutely ruin your career.”

Van Ingen sprang to his feet; his face was livid with anger.

“Then, sir,” he cried hotly, “I shall ruin my career, with the greatest pleasure in life. Miss Grayson — Doris — is worth inestimably more to me than any paltry success, or material advantage. Moreover,” he continued, composing himself with a strong effort, “I disagree with you, even upon worldly grounds. Marriage with Doris will not mar me — it will make me. Without her, I shall be ineffectual, a nobody to the end of my days. Without her, living has no aim, no purpose. She justifies existence. I can’t explain these things, sir, even to you. I — I love her!”

“So it would seem!” murmured the ambassador. The sternness had melted out of his face, leaving a whimsical tenderness.

“Sit down, my dear boy! Other people have been as hot in love as you before now — and as rashly headstrong.” A shade passed over his features. “Come, let us get down to business. What is it you wish me to do — administer a love-potion to the young woman? Or restore the father to life?”

“I want you to investigate the case,” Cord replied simply. “Or rather, give me the power to do so.”

“There’s Scotland Yard, you know,” suggested his friend mildly.

“They could cooperate with us. In fact, that is what I should like to ask. That you send for Mr. T.B. Smith, who is already in charge of the business, and tell him that a certain strangeness in the circumstances has aroused your suspicions, and that you wish to sift the affair to the bottom. But since you cannot move openly, on account of your conspicuous position, you desire to join forces secretly, and to that end you offer a bonus of £500 to clear up the mystery — to prove, satisfactorily, that Grayson either is, or is not,, dead.”

“Five hundred pounds!” mused the ambassador. “You are in love!”

Van Ingen flushed at the thrust. “I am in earnest,” he said simply.

The ambassador studied his fingertips. “I might say,” he observed gravely, “that such a course as you outline — minus the £500 — had already occurred to me. Certain financial — er — adventures in which Grayson was engaged, with others, have come before my attention, and it appeared advisable to throw a searchlight upon the somewhat shadowy obscurity of his death. But my attitude in the investigation differs slightly from yours.” His eyes, suddenly upraised, were slightly quizzical.

Van Ingen leaned forward breathlessly. He appeared to hang on his companion’s words. “Go on! Go on, sir!” he urged.

The older man continued: “I do not ask, then, as you, where is Mr. Grayson? I ask, where is Mr. Grayson’s money? The gentleman may be in heaven, or — ah! — elsewhere; presumably the latter. But, in either case, his money is not with him. Where is it, then? These, and several other interesting queries, I am waiting to put to Mr. Smith, who “ — he took out his watch—” is due here in precisely ten minutes.”

He smiled blandly at the young man, who seized his hand and wrung it fervently.

“And you will let me work under him, for you?”

“That was my intention before this interview. But, since your revelation, I doubt its wisdom. Coolness, impartiality of judgment—”

“Oh, come, sir!” protested Van Ingen, reddening. “I think I’ve had enough!”

The ambassador laughed. “Perhaps you have,” he conceded. “Especially as the young lady has not yet struck her colours — eh?”

“Nor shows the slightest signs of doing so,” replied Van Ingen ruefully. “There’s another fellow making the running — that foreign beggar, Poltavo.”

The ambassador looked up swiftly. “Not Count Poltavo, distantly related to the Czar?”

“Related to the devil!” muttered Van Ingen gloomily. “The way he gets around Doris—”

His guardian looked a little disturbed. “I am sorry for you, my boy. Poltavo is a strong man. I fancy he will give you quite a fight.” There was a discreet knock at the door, and, at the ambassador’s call, Jamieson entered. He bore a card, which he laid upon the table.

“I told him that you were engaged, Mr. Bierce, but he said he came in answer to your note.”

“Quite right!” replied the ambassador briskly.

“Show him in at once.” As the secretary vanished, the older man held up the bit of engraved pasteboard before the astonished eyes of his young friend. “Apropos!” he murmured.

Van Ingen reached for his hat. “I must be going,” he said hurriedly.

“Not so fast!” The ambassador waved him back to his chair. “Sit still. The investigation has begun!”

The door opened, and Count Poltavo entered the room.

The ambassador received him cordially. “It was good of you to come so promptly,” he said.

“I daresay my note puzzled you.”

“I shall not deny it,” smiled the count. He bowed politely to Van Ingen. “As you see, I have come directly on the heels of it, to hear the question.”

“I shall not keep you in suspense, Count Poltavo,” replied the ambassador gravely, “but come at once to the point. Briefly, some data which lie before me “ — he tapped a typewritten report upon the table—” connect you, somewhat vaguely, with a certain recent event. For reasons, I propose to investigate that event, and a truthful statement on your part—”

The count elevated his eyebrows slightly.

“Pardon me! I withdraw the unnecessary adjective.”

The count bowed. “And a statement on my part— “he murmured.

“Would be of great value to me at the present moment. And so I have ventured to write to you, as one gentleman to another, to beg your assistance.”

“And the question?” The count’s voice was like velvet. He outlined a pattern of the carpet with his cane.

The ambassador regarded him somewhat sternly. “How did you spend the evening of the eighteenth of thisfmonth?”

The count’s composure did not fail him. Not a muscle of his face moved under the sharp scrutiny of his questioner, but he hesitated a perceptible moment.

“The eighteenth?” He wrinkled his brows, in an effort at recollection. “Pardon me!” He took out a small, black, leather-bound book. “I sometimes scribble in it my random thoughts,” he explained. “It may contain something which will aid my memory of that particular night. Ah!” His face beamed. “Here it is! The night of the eighteenth, I was at the opera with Lady Dinsmore and her charming niece. Afterwards, I had a most interesting conversation with Mr. Van Ingen, in which he confided to me — ah! — his age.” He looked up brightly.

“Is that helpful?”

The ambassador smiled grimly. “And then?”

“Then we parted. I strolled for perhaps ten minutes, and took a taxicab home.” He appeared to reflect a moment. “I went directly to my study, and wrote for some time — several hours, perhaps. Later, I read.” He paused, and then added: “I am not, at any time, an insatiable sleeper. Four, or five hours at best, are all that I can manage. That morning it was dawn when I retired, and a faint, ghostly light was filtering through the shutters. I remember flinging them wide to look out, and wondering what the new day would bring to the world. It brought,” he concluded quietly, “great grief to my dear friends.”

He rose as he finished. “And now I regret that another engagement — with Lady Dinsmore, in truth — cuts short my time. I am glad if I have been able to aid you. And you will let me know if I can be of further service to you in this lamentable business.” He held out his hand. The ambassador sat still in his chair, smiling.

“One moment, my dear count, and, if Lady Dinsmore complains, refer her to me.”

The count looked at him amiably. “There is still another question?” he murmured.

“A small part of the same one,” the ambassador emended smoothly. “Where were you in the early part of the evening — before the opera?”

Poltavo laughed softly. “That is true,” he admitted. “For the moment I had completely forgotten. I dined at an unconscionably early hour with a business associate — I regret that I cannot give you his name—”

The ambassador glanced down at his report.

“Baggin?” he suggested.

The count turned a little white, but he answered composedly. “It is true. I dined with Mr. Baggin.”

“And did not Mr. Grayson call you up over the telephone during dinner?”

“Some one called Mr. Baggin,” responded the count indifferently. “I remember, because the fish grew cold and had to be sent away.”

“And then?”

“Then — we discussed — business. I have a little money lying idle which I desired Mr. Baggin to invest for me. Unfortunately, the sum was too small for his purpose.”

“And when did you join Mr. Grayson?”

The count stared. “Not at all!” He glanced down at the typewritten sheets, and an ironical smile touched his lips. “Your report appears to be — ah! — defective.

“It is,” agreed the ambassador. “I had hoped to supplement it by your information. May I ask you again — Did you not see Mr. Grayson at some time during the evening of the eighteenth?”

The count shook his head. “I did not,” he replied simply. “I affirm it, upon the honour of a Poltavo.”

The ambassador sighed. “Then we are still in the dark,” he said ruefully. “But I thank you for your courtesy. Would you care to know why I have sought you out, openly, in this extraordinary fashion?”

“Because you are an extraordinary man,” returned the count, with a deep bow. The ambassador made a motion of dissent.

“Because I am your well-wisher, Count Poltavo,” he said earnestly. “You are, I believe, a poet, a philosopher, a dreamer — not a common, base money-grabber. And, therefore, I should deeply regret to find you connected in any way with this present investigation, and I sincerely trust that in the future your name will not appear in these — ah! — defective reports. Frankly, I like you, Count Poltavo.” He held out his hand. “Good-morning. I thank you for your extreme good nature in answering my questions.”

The count appeared moved. Throughout his life, this strange man remained deeply susceptible to expressions of regard from his associates, and was always melted, for the moment, by sincere affection. Indeed, his natural tenderness, offspring of his heart, and his haughty ambitions, offspring of his head, were ever in deadly conflict, and his hardness conquered only by the supremest act of his will.

He grasped the outstretched hand cordially.

“You are very kind!” he said. “And I shall repay you by endeavouring that my name does not again appear in that reprehensible report.” He laid a hand upon the sheaf of papers. “I should like to see it?” he asked simply.

The ambassador laughed outright. “My dear count,” he exclaimed, “your powers are wasted as a private gentleman! You should be the ambassador of your imperial kinsman. There, your abilities would have adequate scope.”

The count laughed, and glanced again at the report. “I shall see you next week at the Duke of Manchester’s,” he said. “The duchess read me yesterday her list of names. I was rejoiced to see it included yours.” He bowed again, and withdrew.

The ambassador stared after him somewhat gloomily, took a turn about the room, and stopped in front of the young man. At sight of his doleful countenance, his own face brightened.

“Well?” he demanded.

Van Ingen looked sheepish. “I give up!” he replied. “The rascal’s as deep as a well. But he seemed to me to be telling the truth.”

“He was!” agreed the ambassador promptly.

“He is a great man — and a dangerous one. He has an unquenchable spirit.”

He took out his watch. “Smith has failed us,” he remarked. “But it is no matter. He sent in this morning his detailed report. I will turn that over to you, my boy, since you have volunteered your services in this business. Read it with care — it contains some remarkable statements — and return it to Mr. Smith, in person. Why not drop around to his chambers, this evening and see what has detained him? Wait! I’ll give you a line to him.”

He scribbled a note hastily, and thrust it and the report into the young man’s hands. “And now, clear out!” He waved his hands laughingly.

“Don’t return until you can explain — everything! Off with you!”

On the way out, Cord paused to examine his mail. One letter was from Doris. He broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly. It contained but a single sentence.

“Can you come to me at nine o’clock? DORIS.”

Despite his joy at receiving such a token of friendship, his face clouded. Nine o’clock! It was an awkward hour. He had planned to spend the entire evening with the detective. He determined to read the report, dine with Smith, if he could catch him, and go on later to Lady Dinsmore’s. His spirits rose with a bound at the prospect.

But he was destined to disappointment. Mr. Smith was not to be found at his chambers, nor at Scotland Yard, nor in any of his accustomed haunts. Nor had he left any instructions with his man. At five o’clock, after repeated attempts, Cord gave up the project, somewhat sulkily, and sent two messages. He would stay for a short half-hour with Doris, and then drive around to the apartment of the detective, trusting that he might have returned.

That evening, at nine o’clock, he was ushered into Lady Dinsmore’s drawingroom by a deferential footman, who went to announce his presence. Cord moved about restlessly. His forehead throbbed madly with overwrought nerves, for, since the reading of the report, he had felt wildly excited. It was safely folded away in an inner pocket, together with a telegram from T.B. Smith, bearing the single word, “Delighted!”

When at length Doris appeared, Cord was struck with the pallid beauty of the girl. Her animation and glow had departed, and her red lips, usually a Cupid’s-bow of laughter, drooped pitifully at the corners. Her high-necked gown of deepest black gave her the look of a sorrowing nun. Nor did her manner reassure him; it was vague and remote, and Cord, who had meant to pour out his heart in sympathy, found himself chilled, and stammering forth absurd inanities. The half-hour passed on leaden foot. Doris explained, in a listless voice, that she was leaving soon, with her aunt, for the Continent, to travel indefinitely. She had meant to go away, quietly, without a word, but she found that she wished to see him once more — she faltered piteously.

Cord stood up abruptly. The interview had suddenly become unendurable to him.

“I shall see you again tomorrow!” he assured her.

She shook her head sadly. “This is the end, dear Cord. Our paths lie apart in the future. Yours is a fair, shining one, with success just ahead. Mine— “She gave a gesture of despair. “Goodbye!”

Cord took both her hands in his. “Goodnight! I shall come again in the morning.” He felt an almost overmastering desire {o take her into his arms, to whisper into her ear the secret of the report.

She walked with him to the outer door and let him out into the cool darkness of the night.

“Goodbye!” she said again. She seemed vaguely uneasy, and bent forward, peering about her. “Is that your taxicab?” she asked sharply. Cord reassured her.

“I — I have a presentiment that something is going to happen.” She spoke in a low voice, full of emotion. “You will be careful — for my sake?”

Cord laughed, with a commingling of the joy and tender pride which a man feels toward the anxiety of the one woman in the world.

“I will be most careful,” he promised, “and I will report my welfare to you in the morning!”

The door closed between them, and he went down the steps, whistling cheerfully.

The taxicab drew alongside. He gave the address to the driver, and sprang in, triumphant, hopeful. In front of the house of the detective, he descended and halted a moment upon the pavement, searching in an inner pocket for change. Something rushed upon him from behind; he swerved, instinctively, and received a stinging blow across the head and neck. As he sank helplessly to his knees, blinded by pain, but still conscious, a hand from behind inserted itself into his pocket. Cord resisted with all his strength. “Smith!” he shouted. Something heavy descended upon his head. There was a sudden blaze of falling stars all about him, — and then blackness, oblivion. When he regained consciousness, he was lying upon a couch, and Smith was bending over him.

“That was a narrow squeak, my friend!” he said cheerfully. “You may thank your lucky stars that you missed the full force of that first blow.” Van Ingen blinked feebly. There was still a horrid buzzing in his ears, and Smith’s voice sounded as from a great distance. The room swam in great circles around him.

“The report?” he asked faintly.

“They got it!” admitted Smith, who did not seem deeply downcast at its loss. “But they didn’t get you, my boy! So that I think we may regard their job as a failure.”