Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 45

Table of Contents

T.B. Smith was dressing for dinner in his room at the Savoy, his mind occupied by speculations that centered round a mill dam, when there came a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” he said, having all but completed his somewhat elaborate toilet — he was ever a little fastidious in the matter of personal adornment.

The door opened, and there came into his room a gentleman in evening dress, very beautiful to behold.

His shirt-front was soft and pleated, and there were three little diamond buttons to fasten it. His dress suit fitted him almost as well as the white gloves on his hands, and if the velvet collar of his coat was a little daring, he had the distinguished air of the educated and refined foreigner to carry off his sartorial extravagance.

“Come in, Silinski,” said T.B., without turning round. “Twentyfour hours I gave you — when do you leave?”

“May I take a chair?”

Silinski was suave, polite, deferential, all the things that a wellbred man of the world should be.

“Sorry — chuck those things of mine from the chair by the bed.”

So far from “chucking” anything anywhere, Silinski removed the various articles of attire one by one, folded them, and placed them in a neat pile on the bed.

Then he seated himself carefully.

“Mr. Smith,” he began, “it was written by the illustrious philosopher Epictetus—”

“Do not,” begged T.B., in the throes of manipulating a dress tie, “do not quote any of your disreputable friends, I beg.”

“Then,” said Silinski, unabashed, “let me put the matter in another way? Medical authority has it that all human-kind changes once in every seven years. New tissues replace the old, of superior or inferior quality according to age and temperament; but assuredly an entire change comes to every man.”

“The last man who cited to me the born-again theory — which, by the way, is an old one in criminal circles,” interrupted T.B., “is now living in retirement near Princetown because unfortunately, there was enough of the old tissue left in him to induce him to commit crimes for which, I do not doubt. the shame and indignation…”

“It it foolish.”

“It is,” said T.B., confronting him now.

“Because years ago I was,” pursued Silinski, “a poor waif without a friend in this vast city, hungry, alone, half mad with solitude and starvation; because in the far-off days I stole a little. Is my fate to be visited on my head in the days of my affluence?”

The unsympathetic T.B. grinned.

“What a liar you are, Silinski,” he said admiringly. “Friendless! starving! why, you beggar, you were living on the fat of Europe I Have you forgotten the reason for your deportation? A friend of yours threw a bomb—”

Silinski raised a protesting hand.

“There is no need to go farther,” he said with dignity, “the circumstances of my persecution had for the moment escaped my memory. I must got!”

T.B. nodded. He nodded most emphatically.

Silinsky took from the breast pocket of his coat a highly-coloured picture postcard, and handed it to the detective.

“You might not know but La Belle Espagna…

The wonder was that one of Silinski’s experience should have been deceived by the bluff T.B. was making.

“Because I know of these things,” continued T.B. Smith, enjoying the mystery he was creating, “I desire your absence. Let us, however, extend the period of grace to three days, at the end of which time I would have you in a land where your genius is appreciated to a greater extent than in this land of England.”

Silinski stood in the centre of the room, his head bent forward, his whole attitude suggestive of feline activity, and suddenly T.B. felt the airy badinage of his own tone ring hollow, and there came to him a realization that in some indefinable way he was in deadly peril.

What secret had he surprised — what strange devilment was behind this man?

T.B. had no other regard for Silinski than as a political extremist, a mischievous egger-on of other and bolder spirits. He had never thought of Silinski as a source of danger. T.B. Smith was prompt to act.

“My man,” he said evenly, “for some reason I do not like your present state of mind, and if you do monkey tricks I shall take you by the scruff of your neck and drop you out of the window.”

Silinski’s face was extraordinarily pale, but he did not move.

“You know — what?” he said steadily. “I am anxious, monsieur, to see where I stand. If you know what you may know, I have bungled — and if I have not, then somebody else has.”

“As to my information,” said T.B., “I am not prepared to extend my confidence to you. I can only warn you that you will be watched, and any attempt on your part to further certain political propaganda” — he saw a look of relief come to the other’s face, and was satisfied— “will be instantly and violently suppressed.”

He escorted his visitor to the lift and exchanged conventional farewells for the benefit of the liftman, and returned slowly to his room. Then he sat down to untangle the mystery.

1. Silinski, an anarchist (see Dossier R.P.D., 9413, Record Department), and by his own confession.

2. Deported for inciting to murder.

3. His sister comes to London to fulfil an engagement at a first-class music-hall. (“No particular significance in this,” thought T.B. “We are all liable to be cursed with unspeakable relations.”)

“By the way!”

He walked across the room to where a telephone stood on the little table, and called up Elk at Scotland Yard.

“Is anything known about La Belle Espagna — the dancing girl at the Philharmonic? Yes, I know all about her brother. Eh, what’s that? — people desperately in love with her? You surprise me! Who? A young lord? Elk, there is so much awe in your voice that I could not catch that last. Who is the lord? Carleby? Never heard of him. Is that all? Thanks.”

He hung the receiver up.

4. Silinski reappears, imposingly prosperous. He knows Moss, frankly, a thief.

Could they have business together, fearing detection in which, Silinski goes white? Hardly.

Then what was Silinski doing in London? Was he — a bear! T.B. had not connected the man with the bear raid. But that sort of thing was not in Silinski’s line.

He sat meditating till he realized that he was hungry, and taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, struggled into it and went out.

Elk met him at ten o’clock, and together they drove back to the Yard. There was need to dismiss Silinski from his mind.

This business of the Egyptian barrage was sufficient to occupy his thoughts.

Dimly, he began to see the workings of the gigantic combination that was spreading destruction throughout the world, anticipating disaster profitably.

Who they were he might guess; where their headquarters were situated he could not understand. In two days telegraph and cable office had been systematically ransacked for evidence upon this point. Every code, private and official, had been employed in the deciphering of messages that had arrived in London on the day of the slump and the day preceding it. The secret police of a dozen countries were acting in concert; for now that Scotland Yard had begun its investigations, many things were remembered. The Berlin financial crisis, coincided with the discovery of stolen plans, which had all but precipitated a war with Austria. Every country had its tale to tell of unaccountable depression, and their secret forces worked in unison to discover wherefore.