Читать книгу The Opium King; The Brady's Great Chinatown Case - Francis Worcester Doughty - Страница 5

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“My assistant, Young King Brady, otherwise known as Harry,” said the old detective, waving his hand.

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Barclay,” replied the young man.

Ben responded, looking so mystified that both Bradys burst into a hearty laugh.

“Look here,” said Old King Brady, “there is no great mystery about this.”

“None at all,” added Harry. “The governor asked me to meet him here, so I did. Naturally, I took the next room to yours, finding it vacant, and when I heard him come in I gave the signal, to which he responded—that’s all.”

“Simple enough to you, no doubt,” replied Ben, “but I heard no signals either on one side of the door or the other.”

“Of course not. We do not make our signals so that any chance person can understand them.”

“Yes, but——”

“Well?” said Old King Brady, as Ben paused.

“The grip.”

“You are wondering how I got it?”

“I am.”

“My dear sir, I don’t let grass grow under my feet. You gave me forty-eight hours to work up this case, ten of which have already passed.”

“But the grip?”

“You mentioned it and I sent Harry up to Summerville after it—he has just returned.”

“Back since an hour,” said Harry, lighting a cigar, first passing the weeds around.

“Learn anything more than your dispatch stated, Harry?” asked Old King Brady, supplying the lighted match.

“Not much.”

“What?”

“Woman in black took down train at Poughkeepsie.”

“Ah, that’s important. Where did she come from?”

“Give it up.”

“And the team?”

“I couldn’t trace it.”

“You ought to have done so.”

“Confound it, I didn’t have time, governor. I was under orders to get back.”

“Young blood, young blood,” mused Old King Brady. “Never mind, Harry, you’ll learn in time.”

“What would you have done?” demanded Harry, hotly.

“Started a local after the team.”

“Well, so I did.”

“Good boy!”

“Satisfied?”

“Perfectly. Where’s the report to come?”

“Here, care of Mr. Barclay, with duplicate to the office.”

“Good! Couldn’t have done better myself.”

Rat—tat—tat!

Just then some one knocked at the door.

It was a bell boy, who handed in a dispatch.

Old King Brady tore it open and read as follows:

“Team was shipped to New York on midnight train from Fishkill Landing, driver going with it. The address was Peter O’Brien,—Carmine street.

P. Manning.”

“O’Brien’s livery stable, by gracious!” cried Harry. “Here’s a clue.”

“Don’t amount to shucks!” cried Old King Brady, snapping his fingers. “You’ll see.”

Harry subsided.

He determined to visit O’Brien’s livery stable, however.

Meanwhile Old King Brady took up the grip.

“Manning did all he could and you did all you could,” he said.

“I think so,” replied Young King Brady, “and I have faith in the clue.”

“Go then.”

“I intend to.”

“And you’ll find that the team was engaged by a stranger, who left a deposit equal to its full value.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Might I ask why?”

“Because the same trick was played in both cases in which this woman in black figured.”

“Oh!”

“You give in?”

“Suppose I’ve got to.”

“Go there all the same; be sure. Now for the grip. Confound this lock! I can’t make it work.”

“It’s not locked; I’ve had it open,” said Harry, taking the grip.

He had it open again in an instant, and Ben, who was reduced to amazed silence by all these strange developments, watched him eagerly as he proceeded to empty the bag.

There were only three articles in the grip.

An oblong package done up in newspaper, a bottle of whiskey, and a letter unsealed.

“What have we here?” demanded Old King Brady.

“Clues,” replied Harry, “all but the whiskey. Of course that is no clue.”

“Hardly! Hum! An opium layout! Well!”

Harry had opened the package.

It contained a handsome silver-mounted opium pipe, a “flute”—as the opium fiends call it—a lamp, a bottle of alcohol, a tin box containing a small supply of opium, and that was all.

“Any name in this?” asked Old King Brady, taking the pipe.

“No,” replied Harry, “but there’s one here.”

He opened the envelope and handed his preceptor a scrap of paper contained inside.

It was scribbled over with a lot of unmeaning letters arranged in three lines without stops.

Below was the name, La Vine.

Old King Brady studied the paper attentively for a moment and then handed it over to Ben.

“Make anything out of it?” he asked Harry.

“No; I can’t make head nor tail of it. I’m not up on cipher, as you know.”

“Hum! And you, Mr. Barclay?”

“Of course to me it is all Greek,” replied Ben, studying the letters, which we reproduce below:

“augognea

“tosnhisr

“qntitnhp.

“La Vine.”

“Well,” said Old King Brady, “I don’t wonder. These ciphers are very complicated things.”

“Can you read it, Mr. B.?” demanded Young King Brady abruptly.

“Certainly,” replied the old detective. “Plain as print.”

“Don’t assent to that. Is it a clue?”

“Decidedly. You ought to understand part of it.”

“I do.”

“La Vine?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you could not be so dead slow as to miss that. He’d better go with you.”

“Oh, I’m to go, am I?”

“Yes, I’ve other fish to fry.”

“I’ll go anywhere or do anything!” cried Ben hurriedly.

“Oh, it’s only a case of identification,” said Old King Brady. “You may see your woman in black to-night and you may not.”

“If I see her, heaven help her.”

“He’d better not go,” said Young King Brady emphatically, “if he’s going to talk that way.”

“I’m in your hands, gentlemen,” said Ben. “Do with me as you will.”

“Can you keep your mouth shut and restrain yourself in case you should suddenly be brought face to face with your woman in black?” the old detective asked.

Ben thought he could.

Old King Brady rose to depart.

“You two had better go at once,” he said. “Probably you won’t see her, but you may learn something.”

“Hadn’t we better all act together?” asked Ben.

He had pinned his faith to the old detective, and did not altogether like being turned over to the younger man.

“Not at all,” replied Old King Brady. “Where I go tonight you are not wanted. There’s no use in us both chasing the same dog.”

“Oh, I’ll take care of you,” said Harry. “You needn’t be afraid of me; besides, our errand is quite a necessary one.”

“Decidedly necessary,” added Old King Brady, buttoning up his coat.

“Keep up your courage, Mr. Barclay,” he added. “We have made decided headway. Do you want to speak to me, Harry, before we go?”

“Yes,” replied Young King Brady, “if Mr. Barclay will excuse us.”

“Oh, I’ll step outside,” said Ben.

He did so and when the two detectives found themselves alone Young King Brady said, with an injured air:

“What about that cipher? You have only begun to teach me how to work with those things, you know.”

“Of course I know, my boy. I’m finding no fault with you.”

“Yet you spoke as though you expected me to read that cipher offhand.”

“Which you could easily have done if you had paid closer attention to my instructions.”

“Explain.”

“Look at it again. Here it is.”

“Yes, and it is the same mystery.”

“Let me copy it—let me separate the letters.”

“It would be no use. I did that.”

“Did you read them down the column instead of across?”

“Thunder, no! What a fool I am!”

“Not at all. You have made wonderful headway in this business. You can read it now.”

Anybody could read the cipher after the hint Old King Brady had given. By the simple transposition of the letters indicated, it read as follows:

“At Quong’s to-night nine sharp.

La Vine.”