Читать книгу The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition) - Edgar Wallace - Страница 46

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“I’ve got two men on to Sir George,” said T.B. — They were at the Yard— “I’ve given them instructions not to leave him day or night. Now, the question is, how will the ‘bears’ discover the fatal day the barrage is to be handed over to the guileless Fellaheen?”

“Through the Egyptian Government?”

“That I doubt. It seems a simple proposition, but the issues are so important that you may be sure our mysterious friends will not strike until they are absolutely certain. In the meantime—”

He unlocked the safe and took out a book. This, too, was fastened by two locks. He opened it, laid it down and began writing on a sheet of paper, carefully, laboriously checking the result.

That night the gentleman who is responsible for the good order of Egypt received a telegram which ran —

PREMIUM FELLOW COLLECT WADY BARRAGE MERIDIAN TAINTED INOCULATE WEARY SULPHER.

There was a great deal more written in the same interesting style. When the Egyptian Chief of Police unlocked his book to decode the message, he was humming a little tune that he had heard the band playing outside Shepheard’s Hotel. Long before he had finished decoding the message his humming stopped.

Ten minutes later the wires were humming, and a battalion of infantry was hastily entrained from Khartoum.

Having dispatched the wire, T.B. turned to the other man, who was sitting solemnly regarding a small gossamer handkerchief and a crushed rosebud that lay on the table.

“Well,” demanded T.B. Smith, leaning over the table, “what do you make of ‘em?”

“They are not Sir George’s,” replied the cautious Elk.

“So much I gather,” said T.B. “A client’s?”

“A very depressed and agitated client — feel.”

T.B.’s fingers touched the little handkerchief; it was still quite damp. He nodded.

“The rosebud?”

“Did you notice our austere banker’s buttonhole?”

“Not particularly — but I remember no flowers.’

“No,” agreed Elk absently, “there were no flowers. I noticed particularly that his buttonhole was sewn and yet—”

“And yet?”

“Hidden in one of those drawers was a bunch of these roses. I saw them when he was getting your balance-sheet.”

“H’m!” T.B. tapped the table impatiently.

“So you see,” Elk went on, “we have an interest in this lady client of his, who comes after office hours, weeps copiously, and leaves a bunch of rosebuds as a souvenir of her visit. It may have been a client of course.”

“And the roses may have been security for an overdraft,” said the ironic T.B. “What do you make of the handkerchief?”

It was an exquisite little thing of the most delicate cambric. Along one hem, in letters minutely embroidered in flowing script, there ran a line of writing. T.B. took up a magnifying glass and read it.

“‘Que Dieu tu garde’,” he read, “and a little monogram — a gift of some sort, I gather. As far as I can see, the lettering is ‘N.H.C.’ — and what that means, heaven knows! I’m afraid that beyond intruding to an unjustifiable extent into the private affairs of our banker, we get no further. Well, Jones?”

With a knock at the door an officer had entered.

“Sir George has returned to his house. We have just received a telephone message from one of our men.”

“What has he been doing tonight — Sir George?”

“He dined at home; went to his club, and returned; he does not go out again.”

T.B. nodded.

“Watch the house and report,” he said, and the man saluted and left.

T.B. turned again to the contemplation of the handkerchief.

“If I were one of those funny detectives who live in books,” he said sadly, “I could weave quite an interesting theory from this.” He held the handkerchief to his nose and smelt it. “The scent is ‘Sympatico,’ therefore the owner must have lived in Spain, the workmanship is Parisian, therefore—” He threw the flimsy thing from him with a laugh. “This takes us no nearer to the Wady Barrage, my friend — no nearer to the mysterious millionaires who ‘bear’ the shares of worthy brewers. Let us go out into the open, Elk, and ask heaven to drop a clue at our feet.”

The two men turned their steps towards Whitehall, and were halfway to Trafalgar Square when a panting constable overtook them.

“There is a message from the man watching Sir George Calliper’s house, sir,” he said; “he wants you to go there at once.”

“What is wrong?” asked T.B. quickly.

“A drunken man, sir, so far as I could understand.”

“A what?”

T.B.’s eyebrows rose, and he smiled incredulously.

“A drunken man,” repeated the man, “he’s made two attempts to see Sir George—”

“Hail that cab, Elk,” said T.B. “We’ll drive round and see this extraordinary person.”

A drunken man is not usually a problem so difficult that it is necessary to requisition the services of an Assistant-Commissioner. This much T.B. pointed out to the detective who awaited him at the corner of St. James’s Square.

“But this man is different,” said the officer; he’s well-dressed; he has plenty of money — he gave the cab-driver a sovereign — and he talks.”

“Nothing remarkable in that, dear lad,” said T.B. reproachfully; “we all talk.”

“But he talks business, sir,” persisted the offcer; “boasts that he’s got Bronte’s bank in his pocket.”

“The devil he does!” T.B.’s eyebrows had a trick of rising. “Did he say anything else?”

“The second time he came,” said the detective, “the butler pushed him down the steps, and that seemed to annoy him — he talked pretty freely then, called Sir George all the names he could lay his tongue to, and finished up by saying that he could ruin him.”

T.B. nodded.

“And Sir George? He could not, of course, hear this unpleasant conversation? He would be out of earshot.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the plain clothes man, “but that’s where you’re mistaken. I distinctly saw Sir George through the half-opened door. He was standing behind his servant.”

“It’s a pity “ began T.B., when the detective pointed along the street in the direction of the Square.

“There he is, sir,” he whispered, “he’s coming again.”

Along the pavement, a little unsteadily, a young man walked. In the brilliant light of a street lamp T.B. saw that he was well dressed in a glaring way. The Assistant-Commissioner waited until the newcomer reached the next lamp, then walked to meet him.

A young man, expensively garbed, red of face, and flashily jewelled — at a distance T.B. classified him as one of the more offensive type of nouveau riche. The stranger would have passed on his way, but T.B. stepped in front of him.

“Excuse me, Mr. “He stopped with an incredulous gasp. “Mr. Moss!” he said wonderingly. “Mr. Lewis Moss, some time of Tokenhouse Yard, company promoter.”

“Here, stash it, Mr. Smith,” begged the young man. He stood unsteadily, and in his eye was defiance. “Drop all that — reformed — me. Look ‘ere” — he lurched forward and caught T.B. by the lapel of his coat, and his breath was reminiscent of a distillery— “if you knew what I know, ah!”

The “Ah!” was triumph in a word.

“If you knew what I know,” continued Mr. Moss with relish, “but you don’t. You fellers at your game think you know toot, as old Silinski says; but you don’t.” He wagged his head wisely.

T.B. waited.

“I’m goin’ to see Calliper,” Mr. Moss went on, with gross familiarity, “an’ what I’ve got to say to him is worth millions — millions, I tell you. An’ when Calliper says to me, ‘Mr. Moss, I thank you!’ and has done the right thing, I’ll come to you — see!”

“I see,” said T.B.; “but you mustn’t annoy Sir George any more tonight.”

“Look here, Smith,” Mr. Moss went off at a tangent, “you want to know how I got acquainted with Silinski — well, I’ll tell you. There’s a feller named Hyatt that I used to do a bit of business with. Quiet young feller who got marvellous tips — made a lot o’ money, he did, all because he bowled out Silinski — see?”

He stopped short, for it evidently dawned upon him that he was talking too much.

“He sent you, eh?” Mr. Moss jerked the point of a gold-mounted stick in the direction of Sir George’s house. “Come down off his high ‘orse” — the third “h” was too much for him— “and very wisely, very wisely.” He shook his head with drunken gravity. “As a man of the world,” he went on, “you bein’ one an’ me bein’ another, it only remains to fix a meeting between self an’ client — your client — an’ I can give him a few tips.”

“That,” said T.B., “is precisely my desire.” He had ever the happy knack of dealing satisfactorily with drunken men. “Now let us review the position.”

“First of all,” said Mr. Moss firmly, “who are these people?” He indicated Elk and the detective. “If they’re friends of yours, ole feller, say the word,” and his gesture was generous, “friends of yours? Right!” Once more he became the man of affairs.

“Let us get to the bottom of the matter,” said T.B. “Firstly, you wish to see Sir George Calliper?”

The young man, leaning against some happily-placed railings, nodded several times.

“Although,” T.B. went on, shaking his head reprovingly, “you are not exactly—”

“A bottle of fizz — a couple, nothing to cloud the mind,” said the young man airily. “I’ve never been drunk in me life.”

“It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,” said T.B., “but that’s beside the matter; you were talking about a man called Hyatt who bowled Silinski.”

The young man pulled himself erect.

“In a sense I was,” he said with dignity, “in a sense I wasn’t; and now I must be toddling.”

T.B. saw the sudden suspicion that came t him. “What do you know about the barrage?” he asked abruptly.

The man started back, sobered.

“Nothing,” he said harshly. “I know nothing. I know you, though, Mr. Bloomin’ Smith, and you ain’t goin’ to pump me. Here, I’m going.”

He pushed T.B. aside. Elk would have stopped him but for a look from his chief.

“Let him go,” he said. “I have a feeling that—”

The young man was crossing St. James’s Street, and disappeared for a moment in the gloom between the street lamps. T.B. waited a time for him to reappear, but he did not come into sight.

“That’s rum,” murmured Elk, “he couldn’t have gone into Sir George’s; his house is on the other side of the street — hello, there he is!”

A man appeared momentarily in the rays of the lamp they were watching, and walked rapidly away.

“That isn’t him,” said T.B., puzzled, “he’s too tall; it must be somebody from one of the houses. Let us stroll along and see what has become of Mr. Moss.”

The little party crossed the street. The thoroughfare was deserted now, save for the disappearing figure of the tall gentleman.

The black patch where Moss had disappeared was the entrance of the mews.

“He must have mistaken this for a thoroughfare,” said T.B. “We’ll probably find him asleep in a corner somewhere.” He took a little electric lamp from his pocket and shot a white beam into the darkness.

“I don’t see him anywhere,” he said, and walked into the mews.

“There he is!” said Elk suddenly.

The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly.

“Drunk!” said T.B., and leaned over him. Then he saw the blood and the wound in the man’s throat.

“Murder! by the Lord!” he cried.

He was not dead, but even as the sound of Elk’s running feet grew fainter, T.B. knew that this was a case beyond the power of the divisional surgeon. The man tried to speak, and the detective bent his head to listen. “Can’t tell you all,” the poor wreck whispered, “get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower — they know. His sister’s got the book — Hyatt’s sister — down in Falmouth — you’ll find N.H.C. I don’t know who they are, but you’ll find them.” He muttered a little incoherently, and T.B. strained his ears, but heard nothing. “N.H.C,” he repeated under his breath, and remembered the handkerchief.

The man on the ground spoke again— “The Admiralty — they could fix it for you.”

Then he died.