Читать книгу More Cases of a Private Eye: Classic Crime Stories - Ernest Dudley - Страница 6

THE MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER

Burton Malone’s millions had been acquired because a junior public all over the world held a passion for fizzy drinks, and the fizzy drinks which they guzzled through straws always went over much bigger if they had Burton Malone’s name plastered on the bottles.

He’d had three wives. One son by his first wife and a daughter by the third. The boy had been as disappointing as his mother, and had ended a hectic and dissipated career by being smashed to pieces in a car accident after a party at which his father’s fizzy drinks had not been a speciality.

His daughter Claire was a lovely girl. All the society magazines said so, so did the dress-designers and the newspapers. The really astonishing thing about Claire Malone was the fact that she was also a charming girl and a dutiful daughter. Her father used to say only two things in his life had been worthwhile: his fizzy drinks, because they enabled him to indulge in the luxury he loved, and his daughter Claire, whom he idolized.

So when Claire went and got herself engaged to Rozzani the famous violinist, her father, who up to this date had never had much time for music and less for musicians, became a fervent admirer of Rozzani’s.

Craig, who never drank fizzy drinks but liked the pictures of Claire, knew a few things about the private life of the millionaire, though he’d never seen him. That is, until one day when Simone came in and told him there was a client waiting in the outer office.

“Who?” inquired Craig laconically without taking his feet off the desk.

“Burton Malone.”

Craig raised an eyebrow.

“He hasn’t got himself a fourth wife he doesn’t want has he?”

She shrugged.

“Not that I know of.”

“Somebody’s suing him for hiccups caused by too much gas in the fizz?”

She shrugged again. It was a pretty shrug. Craig liked it.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll see him,” Craig said, “and my fees will be extortionate.”

Burton Malone was ushered into the inner sanctum, and came to the point pronto.

“The job I have in mind for you, Mr. Craig, may seem a little strange, I’m afraid, but my daughter needs your help.”

He said it as if that would explain everything.

Craig gazed at him quizzically through a cloud of cigarette-smoke, said what he had said so many times before he was thinking of having a record made of it.

“I’m a private detective, Mr. Malone. Nothing has struck me as strange these last many moons.”

Burton Malone leaned more comfortably back in his chair and eased up his pinstripe trousers. His rather hard-bitten expression was somehow not in harmony with his immaculate dress. Craig mentally decided Claire must take after her mother.

“As I’m sure you have read,” began the millionaire with a certain satisfaction, “my daughter Claire is to be married to Rozzani—” He tilted forward. “The violinist. Have you heard him play, Mr. Craig? No? He is magnificent, magnificent. But tonight he is making his début at the Albert Hall, and that, I think you will agree, is an important occasion.

Craig said he would agree it was.

“My daughter,” the other continued with pride, “was to have been there, naturally.”

“I read it. Very touching story—but you said: ‘Was’?”

Burton Malone nodded.

“That, Mr. Craig, is the crux of the whole matter. Rozzani worships Claire—who doesn’t? And they are very much in love.” The hard expression softened. “And he will be terribly upset if she is not there.”

“What’s the matter? Has she got another date?”

Burton Malone, who had no sense of humour, was shocked. “I told you they were very much in love. Claire had a nasty fall from her horse in the Row this morning. Don’t alarm yourself, it is nothing serious. But enough to keep her in bed for a few weeks.”

Craig obligingly was not alarmed. “I’m so glad,” he murmured.

“What is worrying her is she will not be able to attend the concert tonight and the effect it will have on Rozzani.”

“He doesn’t know about the accident?”

Burton Malone absent-mindedly helped himself to one of Craig’s cigarettes.

“No. We’ve managed to keep it from him,” he replied, fumbling with his lighter.

“Here.”

Craig leant forward applying the necessary flame. The fizzy-drink mogul cleared his throat and went on.

“Thanks. As I was saying, we have so far managed to keep it from him. He is rehearsing all day and won’t be seeing her before the concert. But if my daughter is not in her box tonight, he will realize something is wrong.”

Craig asked:

“And that would be bad?” He was enjoying himself.

“Very bad, Mr. Craig,” the other answered seriously. “He relies on my daughter being there to get him through the concert.”

“Then hadn’t you better explain what’s happened before he is really disappointed?”

Burton Malone shook his head.

“He would be frantic with worry. He wouldn’t be able to play a note.”

“A temperamental cuss,” observed Craig.

“That—and he is mad about Claire.”

Craig eyed him with foreboding. “And I thought of fourth wives and hiccups,” he said. “I imagined I’d covered everything.”

“Eh?”

Craig let it ride. He said: “The gag couldn’t be, I suppose, that you want me to impersonate your daughter tonight? Female impersonation isn’t exactly in my line, in or out of the Albert Hall.”

Burton Malone didn’t laugh, but Craig hadn’t hoped he would.

“Rozzani happens to be short-sighted—” he said. He continued: “I imagine you could find a young woman who could impersonate my daughter sufficiently to fool him during the performance. The platform is some distance away from the box, and if your girl wore a dress belonging to Claire and did her hair in the same way, I’m sure she’d get away with it.”

“I’ll have my chorus out immediately so that you can take your pick.”

Burton Malone frowned.

“I’m perfectly serious, Mr. Craig.”

“Is it really all that important? You really believe all this is necessary?”

Burton Malone assumed the look of somebody whose every whim was always important, no matter what.

“I wouldn’t be taking up your time, or mine, Mr. Craig, if I didn’t think so.”

“Have it your way.” Craig was beginning to feel long-suffering. “Rozzani will know about it afterwards?”

“So long as he gets through the performance, we don’t have to worry about the afterwards. My daughter and Rozzani will have been saved a great deal of anxiety. There is a picture of Claire.”

His hand went to his breast-pocket and reverently drew forth a studio portrait.

Craig glanced at it, saying:

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you much choice.”

He rang for Simone. As she entered and turned an inquiring glance on him, he asked:

“Will she do?”

Burton Malone looked.

“Couldn’t be better,” he approved at once.

Craig grinned.

“Have you heard of Rozzani?” he asked Simone.

“The violinist?”

“You’re going to hear him tonight.”

She smiled uncertainly and managed to look intrigued and surprised simultaneously, and Craig thought the total result entrancing.

“But it would be lovely.” She looked hopefully at Craig. “And you will be coming too?”

“Not me,” he smiled. “Mr. Malone is treating you. You’ll be in his box.”

“Huh?”

“Actually,” said Craig carefully, “you’ll be wearing his daughter’s dress and hair style and you will be impersonating her.”

“Will I? But, why?”

Briefly Craig outlined the way things were and ended tactfully:

“Claire Malone is extremely pretty, so you have only to be yourself and you’re in.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s no danger,” he said sweetly.

Burton Malone rose from his chair.

“Well, that’s settled then. I shall be going to the concert direct from my office, but if this young lady will be at my house this evening, my daughter’s maid will fix her up and my car will take her to the Albert Hall.”

“Nice for you,” said Craig when he had gone. Simone had made her way over to the window.

“I wonder if that’s the car I shall have,” she said dreamily. “It’s huge.”

Craig glanced over her shoulder in time to see the chauffeur open the door for Burton Malone and tuck a rug round his knees.

“Looks like you’re booked for an amusing evening. Even the chauffeur’s a good-looking character.”

* * * * * * *

Their taxi pulled up outside the Regency house just behind Park Lane at four-thirty.

“It gives me masses of time,” Simone remarked as Craig saw her up the steps.

Back on the pavement again, he noticed Burton Malone’s big dark limousine pulled up by the kerb with the chauffeur behind the wheel. Without pausing he drew out his cigarette case and fumbled for his lighter. Then he stopped and walked up to the waiting car.

“Help me out with a light?” he asked pleasantly. “My lighter’s had it.”

The man grunted something and struck a match.

“Thanks,” said Craig and moved off.

* * * * * * *

Simone, up in a bedroom that was two shades of pink from top to bottom with white muslin hangings and thick white rugs on the polished parquet flooring, was being fussed over by Claire’s maid.

“Miss Claire had a new white dress for tonight. It is wonderful. And it will suit you a treat.”

“Poor Miss Malone. She probably hates the idea of me wearing her dress and going to the concert.”

“Oh, no, Miss. She’d hate it a lot more if she thought Mr. Rozzani was going to worry.”

Simone looked at herself in the mirror. “I think,” she murmured, “I ought always to have the opportunity of dressing in white crêpe.”

The maid, her head on one side, raved:

“Miss, it’s beautiful. It looks like it was made for you.”

Apparently Claire Malone had been going to wear her hair on top of her head, and the maid dutifully went to work on Simone.

“It’s funny,” the girl exclaimed when she had finished and Simone was clipping on the diamond earrings, “you do really look like Miss Claire.”

“I hope Mr. Rozzani will think so too.”

Simone caught up the fur cape lying on the bed. “Now for it.”

“Good luck, Miss. You do look lovely—and I do hope you have a beautiful evening. Mr. Rozzani plays ever so nice, I’ve heard.”

Going down the stairs Simone wished privately that Craig was going to be there too.

The waiting chauffeur touched his cap and held the door open for her. So he hadn’t noticed that she was not Miss Claire Malone. Simone mentally patted herself on the back at her initial success.

He slammed the door quickly. So quickly, in fact, that she was flung back into the corner as the car lurched forward with a purr of its muted engine.

It was then she realized with a cold little shock that she was not alone.

The man beside her said softly:

“Good evening, Miss Malone.”

“Who are you?”

She tried to get a better look at him in the gloom. His overcoat collar was turned up to his ears and his slouch hat pulled down well over his face. All she could see of his features were his glittering eyes and the curve of a lean cheek, the rest was lost in shadow.

“Who are you?” she asked again, panic rising, but telling herself not to be a fool at the same time.

He reached out a gloved hand and took her arm in a grip that hurt.

“Take it easy,” he said, “and everything will be all right.”

The awful feeling of panic was climbing so that she felt sick with it. Her throat was frighteningly tight and dry, but she managed to keep her voice steady.

“What do you mean—everything will be all right?”

The voice that answered her in the darkness mocked her.

“What I say, Miss Malone. You be a good girl and no harm will come to you.”

“Harm?”

“This is a snatch job,” he told her succinctly, brutally. “Your father will pay up for your safety.”

With a terrific wrench Simone tore herself free of his grasp and leaned forward beating wildly on the glass partition.

He seized her shoulder and pulled her roughly back into her corner.

“That won’t do you any good. The driver is in on this too.”

Simone tried desperately to think what Craig would do.

“But I’ve got to be at the Albert Hall, You don’t understand—”

The other only laughed.

Craig. If only Craig had been there he would—he would—what? He would light a cigarette and shrug his shoulders, and she could almost hear him say: “Have it your way, son. I never liked music much either.” She held out an imperious little hand. “I’d like a cigarette, please,” she said as calmly as she could. But her French accent was very pronounced. The man obliged and as he struck a match, Simone added: “But you have made one big mistake. I am not Claire Malone.”

“You’re a cool—” he started and then broke off and brought the match nearer to her face so that the flame almost scorched her cheek. “No, my God, you’re not!” he exclaimed. “I thought there was something funny about your voice—foreign.”

“French.”

Simone, congratulating herself she was putting it over in quite the Craig manner, said: “I am Simone Thérèse Marie Antoinette Lamont. You can settle for Simone,” she said. Her courage was coming back fast.

The man muttered: “What the hell is all this?”

Simone retorted:

“You tell me.”

“What the hell—?” But this time the other wasn’t worrying over the problem of Simone. The car was squealing to a standstill. Simone peered out.

They were in one of the quiet back streets near Shepherds Market, and ahead of them two cars were pulling across the road, blocking their route. The big limousine stopped and suddenly shot into reverse, throwing Simone and her companion almost on to their knees. The man scrambled up and took a lightning glance out of the back window.

“Eddie,” he shrieked. “Eddie. For Pete’s sake watch out—there’s another one behind us!”

The driver must have caught a glimpse of the police car behind because before the words were out, he skidded his car violently up on to the pavement.

“Cops!”

The man made a dive for the door. Simone put out her foot and sent him sprawling into the road. Half out of the door she saw Eddie run hell for leather straight into the arms of half a dozen figures emerging from the two cars in front. Her late companion was being lugged roughly to his feet by two more figures from the car behind. Then a familiar voice drawled in her ear.

“I might have known you would have been in the thick of it with your famous trip-gag.”

She spun round just as Craig touched her shoulder and looked up into his smiling face.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m all right. But how—?”

“No questions,” he said as he ducked into the driver’s seat. “Looks like our client not only wanted somebody to impersonate his daughter but his chauffeur as well.” Then as Simone slammed the door, he yelled through the glass partition: “Albert Hall, madam?”

The car mounted further on to the pavement and shot hair-raisingly backwards between the railings of an area and the stationary police car.

They spun through the London streets as though they were speeding on the Great West Road.

“Well,” Simone remarked shakily as she climbed down outside the Albert Hall. “I do not know which was worse. Being kidnapped or driven by you.”

He laughed.

“Depends,” he said, “on whether you find Slouch-Hat more attractive or—me? Anyway, we’re on time.”

Ten minutes later Craig and Burton Maine slipped out of Simone’s box.

“Now I’ve seen everything is all right,” Burton Malone said, mopping his brow. “I want a breath of air. Rozzani certainly thinks it’s Claire in there; did you see him look up and smile?”

There was a touch of naive pride in his voice.

Craig nodded.

“I did. And I’m inclined to agree with you that it was worth it if it has helped him to give a performance like the one he’s putting over now.”

“Worth it?” Burton Malone smiled. “After all, you have been through it is very nice of you to say so. I do hope you’ll forgive me for putting your secretary on the spot like that. Shocking for her, though I must say she looked cool and collected enough when she arrived. A very charming girl. Thank God it wasn’t Claire.”

Craig grinned a trifle bleakly.

“My secretary is a very charming girl. But don’t apologize. It’s all in the day’s work. I won’t say I didn’t offer up a mild prayer of thanks for spotting the chauffeur was a phoney when I did. It was only just a thought I had that he wasn’t the same one I’d seen you with this morning when I noticed the car after dropping Miss Lamont at your house. I have a suspicious mind, so I checked up and when I had a good look at him over the match he offered me, I knew he was a fake. That sent me snooping, and I found your real chauffeur tied up in the garage minus his uniform.”

“Poor fellow,” put in Malone. “He seems to be suffering from shock more than anything.”

“That—and a bump as big as an egg on the back of his head where they slugged him. Anyway, all the rest of the story that some snatch-boys had read about your daughter going to the Albert Hall, stuck out like that phoney chauffeur’s rainbow-corner tie.”

“Tie?”

“His uniform was too tight round the neck and he couldn’t fasten it properly. When he leaned over and lit my cigarette it gaped and showed his own collar and eye-catching tie underneath. That’s what started me thinking.”

“You’re a wonder,” said Burton Malone.

Craig looked modest.

“Just a private dick,” he said blandly.