Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 17

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Sir George Calliper lived in St. James’s Street. A bachelor — some regarded him as a misogynist — his establishment was nevertheless a model of order; and if you had missed the indefinable something that betrays a woman’s hand in the arrangement of furniture, you recognised that the controlling spirit of the household was one possessed of a rigid sense of domesticity, that found expression in solid comfort and sober luxury. The banker sat in his study engaged in writing a letter. He was in evening dress, and the little French clock on the mantel had just chimed seven. He finished the note and folded it in its envelope. Then he pressed a bell. A servant entered.

“I am dining out,” said Sir George shortly.

“I shall be home at eleven.” It was characteristic that he did not say “may be home,” or “at about eleven.”

“Shall I order the car, Sir George?”

“No; I’ll take a cab.”

A shrill whistle brought a taxicab to the door. A passing commissionaire stopped to ask the cabman which was the nearest way to Berkeley Square as the banker came down the two steps of the house.

“Meggioli’s,” he instructed the cabman, and added, “the Vine Street entrance.”

The commissionaire stood back respectfully as the whining taxi jerked forward.

“Meggioli’s!” murmured the commissionaire, “and by the private doorl That’s rum. I wonder whether Van Ingen has started for Cornwall yet?”

He walked into St. James’s Square, and a smart one-horse brougham, that had been idly moving round the circle of garden in the centre, pulled up at the curb by his side.

“Meggioli’s — front entrance,” said the commissionaire.

It was a uniformed man who entered the carriage; it was T.B. Smith in his well-fitting dress clothes who emerged at Meggioli’s.

“I want a private room,” he informed the proprietor, who came to meet him with a bow.

“I’m ver’ sorry, Mr. Smith, but I have not—”

“But you have three,” said T.B. indignantly.

“I offer a thousand regrets,” said the distressed restaurateur; “they are engaged. If you had only—”

“But, name of dog! name of a sacred pipe!” expostulated T.B. unscrupulously. Was it not possible to pretend that there had been a mistake; that one room had already been engaged?

“Impossible, m’sieur! In No.1 we have no less a person than the Premier of Southwest Australia, who is being dined by his fellow-colonists; in No.2 a family party of Lord Redlands; in No.3 — ah! in No. 3—”

“Ah, in No. 3!” repeated T.B. cunningly, and the proprietor dropped his voice to a whisper.

“‘La Belle Espagnole’!” he murmured. He named the great Spanish dancer with relish.

“She, and her fiancé’s friend, eh?”

“Her fiancé? I didn’t know—”

“It is a secret—” He looked round as if he were fearful of eavesdroppers. “But it is said that ‘La Belle Espagnole’ is to be married to a rich admirer.”

“Name?” asked T.B. carelessly.

The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.

“I do not enquire the name of my patrons,” he said, “but I understand that it is to be the young Lord Carleby.”

The name told T.B. nothing.

“Well,” he said easily, “I will take a table in the restaurant. I do not wish to interrupt a tête-à-tête.”

“Oh, it is not Carleby tonight,” the proprietor hastened to assure him. “I think mamzelle would prefer that it was — no; it is a stranger.”

T.B. sauntered into the brilliantly lighted room, having handed his hat and coat to a waiter. He found a deserted table. Luck was with him to an extraordinary extent; that Sir George should have chosen Meggioli’s was the greatest good fortune of all.

At that time Count Menshikoff was paying one of his visits to England. The master of the St. Petersburg secret police was a responsibility. For his protection it was necessary that a small army of men should be detailed, and since Meggioli’s was the restaurant he favoured, at least one man of the Criminal Investigation Department was permanently employed at that establishment.

T.B. called a waiter, and the man came swiftly. He had a large white face, big unwinking black eyes, and heavy bushy eyebrows, that stamped his face as one out of the common. His name — which is unimportant — was Vellair, and foreign notabilities his specialty.

“Soup — consommé, crème de—”

T.B., studying his menu, asked quietly, “Is it possible to see and hear what is going on in No. 3?”

“The private room?”

“Yes.”

The waiter adjusted the table with a soft professional touch. “There is a small anteroom, and a ventilator, a table that might be pushed against the wall and a chair,” said the waiter concisely. “If you remain here I will make sure.”

He scribbled a mythical order on his little pad and disappeared.

He came back in five minutes with a small tureen of soup. As he emptied its contents into the plate before T.B. he said, “All right; the key is on the inside. — The door is numbered 11.” T.B. picked up the wine list.

“Cover me when I leave,” he said.

He had finished his soup when the waiter brought him a note. He broke open the envelope and read the contents with an expression of annoyance.

“I shall be back in a few minutes,” he said, rising; “ — reserve this table.”

The waiter bowed.