Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 19

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Pentonby Mansions are within a stone’s throw of Baker Street Station. T.B. jumped out of his cab some distance from the great entrance hall, and paid the driver. Just before he turned into the vestibule a man, strolling towards him, asked him for a match.

“Well?”

“She came straight from the restaurant and has been inside ten minutes,” reported the man, ostentatiously lighting his pipe.

“She hasn’t sent a telegram?”

“So far as I know, no, sir.” In the vestibule a hall porter sat reading the evening paper.

“Can I telephone from here?” asked T.B.

“Yes, sir,” said the man, and T.B.’s heart sank, for he had overlooked this possibility.

“I suppose you have ‘phones in every room?” he asked carelessly.

But the man shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said; “there is some talk of putting ’em in, but so far this ‘phone in my office is the only one in the building.”

T.B. smiled genially.

“And I suppose,” he said, “that you’re bothered day and night with calls from tenants?” He waited anxiously for the answer.

“Sometimes I am, and sometimes I go a whole day without calls. No; to-day, for instance, I haven’t had a message since five o’clock.”

T.B. murmured polite surprise and began his ascent of the stairs. So far, so good. His business was to prevent the girl communicating with Poltavo.

He had already formed a plan in his mind.

Turning at the first landing, he walked briskly along the corridor to the left.

“29. 31. 33,” he counted, “35, 37. Here we are.” The corridor was empty; he slipped his skeleton-key from his pocket and deftly manipulated it.

The door opened noiselessly. He was in a dark little hallway. At the end was a door, and a gleam of light shone under it. He closed the door behind him, stepped softly along the carpeted floor, and his hand was on the handle of the further door, when a sweet voice called him by name from the room.

“Adelante! Senor Smit’,” it said; and, obeying the summons, T.B. entered.

The room was well, if floridly, furnished; but T.B. had no eyes save for the graceful figure lounging in a big wicker-chair, a thin cigarette between her red lips, and her hands carelessly folded on her lap.

“Come in,” she repeated, this time in French.

“I have been expecting you.”

T.B. bowed slightly.

“I was told that I should probably receive a visit from you.”

“First,” said T.B. gently, “let me relieve you of that ugly toy.”

Before she could realise what was happening, two strong hands seized her wrists and lifted them. Then one hand clasped her two, and a tiny pistol that lay in her lap was in the detective’s possession.

“Let us talk,” said T.B. He laid her tiny pistol on the table, and with his thumb raised the safety-catch.

“You are not afraid of a toy pistol?” she scoffed.

“I am afraid of anything that carries a nickel bullet,” he confessed without shame. “I know by experience that your ‘toy’ throws a shot that penetrates an inch of pinewood and comes out on the other side. I cannot offer the same resistance as pinewood,” he added modestly.

“I have been warned about you,” she said, with a faint smile.

“So you were warned?” T.B. was mildly amused and just a trifle annoyed. It piqued him to know that, whilst, as he thought, he had been working in the shadow, he had been under a searchlight.

“You are — what do you call it in England? — smug,” she said, “but what are you going to do with me?”

She had let fall her cloak and was again leaning back lazily in the big armchair. The question was put in the most matter-of-fact tones.

“That you shall see,” said T.B. cheerfully. “I am mainly concerned now in preventing you from communicating with your friends.”

“It will be rather difficult?” she challenged, with a smile. “I am not proscribed; my character does not admit—”

“As to your character,” said T.B. magnanimously, “we will not go into the question. So far as you are concerned, I shall take you into custody on a charge of obtaining property by false pretences,” said T.B. calmly.

“What?”

“Your name is Mary Brown, and I shall charge you with having obtained the sum of £350 by a trick from a West Indian gentleman at Barbadoes last March.”

She sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing.

“You know that is false and ridiculous,” she said steadily. “What is the meaning of it?”

T.B. shrugged his shoulders.

“Would you prefer that I should charge ‘ La Belle Espagnole ‘ with being an accessory to murder?” he asked, with a lift of his eyebrows.

“You could not prove it!” she challenged.

“Of that I am aware,” he said. “I have taken the trouble to trace your movements. When these murders were committed you were fulfilling an engagement at the Philharmonic, but you knew of the murder, I’ll swear — you are an agent of N.H.C.”

“So it was you who found my handkerchief?”

“No; a discerning friend of mine is entitled to the discovery. Are you ready — Mary Brown?”

“Wait.”

She stood plucking at her dress nervously.

“What good can my arrest do to you? — tomorrow it will be known all over the world.”

“There,” said T.B., “you are mistaken.”

“To arrest me is to sign your death-warrant — you must know that — the Nine Men will strike—”

“Ah!”

T.B.’s eyes were dancing with excitement.

“Nine men!” he repeated slowly. “Neuf hommes — N.H. What does the ‘C.’ stand for?”

“That much you will doubtless discover,” she said coldly, “but they will strike surely and effectively.”

The detective had regained his composure.

“I’m a bit of a striker myself,” he said in English.