Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 34

Table of Contents

It must have been whilst Poltavo was in Paris that the ruling spirit of the Maria Braganza discovered that Count Poltavo was indispensable, and that strange reconciliation occurred. Through what agency Baggin and he came into touch is not known. It is generally supposed that the warship ventured close to the French or Spanish coast and sent a message of good will flickering through space, and that some receiving station, undiscovered and undemolished — there must have been a score of such stations — received it, and transmitted it to Poltavo.

News of him came to Smith from Van Ingen, who, following a faint clue of the Spanish dancer, had gone to Tangier. Work at the Embassy had become unendurable to him, since the disappearance of the Nine Men had marked also the disappearance of Doris, and despite the expostulations of the ambassador, who was sorely distressed by certain international complications of the situation — for both Baggin and Grayson were Americans — despite also the detective’s blunt advice to let the business alone and return to the Embassy, Van Ingen had set forth on his wild-goose chase.

The afternoon of his arrival, he climbed to the Marshan, the plateau that commands Tangier. Here are villas, in which Moorish, Spanish, and English styles of architecture, struggling for supremacy, have compromised in a conglomerate type. And here, idling along the promenade, scanning every figure as it passed, he had come face to face with Catherine Dominguez.

At his start of surprise, for he had not expected such good fortune, the lady paused, uncertainly. The young man uncovered with a sweeping bow.

“Pardon!” he exclaimed gallantly, in Spanish, “but so often have I seen the lovely face of the ‘Belle Espagnole’ in the newspapers that I recognised it before I was aware!”

Catherine nodded amiably, and, at a word of invitation, Van Ingen fell into step beside her.

That night he cabled to the detective:

POLTAVO IN TANGIER. C. DOMINGUEZ WILL SELL HIS WHEREABOUTS FOR £5,000. VAN INGEN.

To this he received the laconic reply, “Coming.”

The trap which the detective laid, as the Sud Express fled shrieking through the night, was simple. To capture Count Poltavo while the “Mad Terror” remained afloat would be imbecile. But to frighten him by a pseudo-attack out into the open, and then follow him to the Nine — Smith smiled over the commonsense of his little scheme, and fell asleep.

His interview, two mornings later, with Catherine Dominguez was most amiable — both ignored their last meeting — and satisfactory, save in one small particular. Upon reflection, the lady had raised her price. For £10,000 she would divulge her secret. And the detective, after a few protests, acceded to her demands. After all, she ran a certain risk in betraying a man like the count. He thought, grimly, of Hyatt and Moss.

At the conclusion of the conference, he wrote her a check.

She shook her head, smiling.

“I should prefer banknotes,” she said gently. Smith appeared to hesitate. “Very well,” he replied finally. “But, in that case, you must wait until tomorrow. If your information is good — the check will be also.”

She took it from his hand, and he rose.

“Ver’ good, Senor Smit’,” she replied, looking up at him with an engaging smile. “I will trust you.” She fingered the paper absently. Smith looked down at her. Something, he knew, she had left untold, and he waited.

“One small thing I had almost forgot,” she murmured pensively. “Count Poltavo leaves for — Lolo — tonight.”

Catherine Dominguez had not lied. Perhaps, she had some secret grudge against the Nine, whose faithful agent she had been, or perhaps she was tired of obscure flittings, and wished to buy indemnity by confession. The detective never knew. Nevertheless, he felt grateful to her.

*

That night, a slender man, wearing a felt hat and a cappa, descended the steps of one of the villas of the Marshan, and walked through the garden.

There was a man standing in the middle of the white road, his hands in his overcoat pocket, the red glow of his cigar a point of light in the gloom. Farther away, he saw the figures of three horsemen.

“Count Poltavo, I suppose,” drawled a voice — the voice of T.B. Smith. “Put up your hands or you’re a dead man.”