Читать книгу A Secret Service - Fred M. White - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Nine hundred and ninety-nine, Piccadilly, as all the world knows, is the sporting outfitters' shop, which is run by the Honorable John Glasgow. The Honorable John, familiar to a wide circle of friends as "The Mixture," which is a pun when you come to think of it, is the third son of the Earl of Clyde, and in his day was an Admirable Crichton in the world of sport. There is no occasion to tell the public that John Glasgow was a triple blue and a test match player. To the man in the street, however, he merely represents the typical, healthy British animal who has only one object in life.

It was considered a pretty brainy idea when be started business on his own account, which did surprisingly well. If society women could make money out of hats, he argued, there was no reason why a society man should not make money out of hats, especially when he was a finished judge of the article. And for some years now John Glasgow had been making several thousands a year at 999, Piccadilly. He lived over the shop, and had a comfortable set of chambers and a suite of offices devoted to the requirements of a sporting agency. Many of the finest deer forests, grouse moors, and Continental game preserves passed through his hands, for Glasgow was popular, and boasted more acquaintances and a greater knowledge of Europe than any man of his time.

He appeared to be a chubby-faced, rotund, good-natured man, but he was something more than that. It had been his pose to call himself a sportsman and nothing else. He had always affected that sport and brains were absolutely incompatible. This pose suited him, because, unknown to any of his friends, he was practically at the head of the Secret Service. Under him were a dozen lynx-eyed assistants, who constantly travelled Europe from end to end—in the interests of sport, of course, or so people thought. But these assistants, invariably public school and Varsity men, and field experts themselves, easily commanded the entree to the best houses on the Continent.

Glasgow sat at his desk in his private room, talking over matters with Inspector Trafford, of Scotland Yard.

"Now, look here, Trafford," he said, "this is your business and not mine. As I have already told you, Mr. Arnold Gray left Berlin three days ago carrying important dispatches to the Foreign Office here. You people never interfere with the diplomatic side; it is your peculiar view that the Secret Service doesn't exist. In an ordinary way your interference would be a nuisance to us. But when a valuable and trusted diplomatic servant disappears, then we slide discreetly in the background and you come on the stage. I want you to forget for a moment what you said about the dispatches. I simply inform you that my friend, Mr. Arnold Gray, either fell out of a train or was thrown out of a train whilst travelling between Dover and Charing Cross. That he was in the train when it started I can prove. And, er—um, an assistant of mine, called Evans saw him and spoke to him as the train was starting."

"Did the train stop at all, Mr. Glasgow?"

"Well, as a matter of fact it did, though usually a non-stop. An obstruction was found on the line and the train pulled up for a few minutes. You will probably agree that the obstruction was placed on the line on purpose. But that's in your department. No one knows as yet that Gray has disappeared, and at present I don't propose to make it public property. If you can find Gray, or his body, before those confounded newspapers hear of the affair I shall be infinitely obliged to you."

"Is there any sort of clue?"

"None whatever. Evans told me he felt suspicious when the train stopped, and he it was who discovered that Mr. Gray was missing. And that's all I can tell you. You have a free hand to do what you please."

Trafford departed a moment or two later and Glasgow returned to his desk. He had hardly taken up his pen when his private telephone rang.

"What is it?"

"Is that you, Glasgow?" a voice asked. "It's Hepburn. Hepburn, of the 'Daily Sentinel.' What's that? Oh, yes! I'm absolutely alone in the office. I suppose you are, too. Then I can speak freely. One of our 'specials' has just come into the office with what looks like an exclusive story. He's a good man, and reliable, and I've never known him stick us with anything in the way of a fake yet. I don't know how he manages it, but he's up against some very queer people, and from time to time brings us some exceedingly odd stories. What he's told me is this—He says that Arnold Gray was sent from Berlin suddenly three days ago with most important dispatches for the Foreign Office. He declares that Gray was spirited out of the express between Dover and Charing Cross, and has not been heard of. The poor chap may be dead or he may not, but that does not affect the truth of our man's story. There's about a column of it altogether, and it's real live stuff. It will make the feature of to-morrow's paper."

Glasgow swore softly under his breath. This was the thing he had dreaded from the first, the contingency he was most afraid of. If he could have his own way there would be a rigid censorship of newspapers, and nothing should be published likely to do any harm to the country.

"Oh, your man's very clever, no doubt," he said. "But one of these days you newspaper people will bring about a European war. What will you gain by publishing that?"

"My dear chap, we are a business proposition, not an Imperial Defence League. I didn't call you up to chortle at your expense, but to consult you on the matter. If you tell me it will do any harm, then I will suppress the story. You can rely on my man keeping his mouth shut. We may be commercially minded, but nobody can say we are not patriotic."

"That's really very good of you." Glasgow responded gratefully.

"I'll run round and have a chat with you. I know that after 10 o'clock at night's your busy time, but you can give me a few minutes. As your writer knows so much, he may have a clue. Of course, I don't want this thing spoken about. You've helped me several times, and I think I have done my best to return your good offices. You are one of the very few outsiders who know of my connection with the Secret Service. I'll be round in about ten minutes."

Less than a quarter of an hour later Glasgow was closeted with the editor of the "Daily Sentinel." On the latter's desk was a proof of the journalist's story. It contained a good deal of information which was new to Glasgow.

"This seems to be a mighty shrewd man of yours," he said. "I wonder if he'd come over to us. A hound with a nose like his would be very useful in my pack. Besides, he could pick up lots of things he could make use of in a journalistic way without injuring us. You might give me an introduction."

"Certainly not," Hepburn smiled. "Why should I sacrifice the most brilliant man on my staff? Moreover, I doubt if you'd get on with him. He's a queer, taciturn chap, and between ourselves, has served a term of penal servitude. He always declares he was innocent of the charge against him, and I have heard others say the same thing. Still, the trouble has soured and disappointed him, and he would resent anything in the way of discipline. I'm afraid he wouldn't do."

"Then you don't know where he got the stuff?"

"My dear fellow, I haven't the slightest idea. If I began to make impertinent enquiries, my man wouldn't come near the office again, and I should have the pleasure of reading his next story in a rival sheet. I'll see him if you like, and tell him that for diplomatic reasons the article can't go in, which will not annoy him in the least because he's already had his cheque. He told me earlier in the evening he had built up his story out of a torn envelope which had come into his possession. It must have been a very fine piece of reasoning, precisely worked out, because there is no denying that Arnold Gray has disappeared. Of course, the writer must have known where to get the bulk of his information, otherwise the envelope would have been no use to him."

"And, what became of the envelope?"

"How should I know. Destroyed by this time, I expect. And yet I recollect that my man had it in his hand. He seemed rather proud of this exploit, and said more in ten minutes than I have heard him say in the last year. Now, what did he do with that envelope? A scrap of paper would not interest me, as I had the story red-hot upon my desk. The writer must have chucked it away, because he was making a cigarette as he went out. I wonder if he dropped it in the wastepaper basket. Half a minute and I'll look. It may be here after all."

A moment later Hepburn held up triumphantly the back of a torn envelope. It was composed of handmade paper of a pale grey shade with a small red monogram on the flap. Two tiny points of flame seemed to light in Glasgow's eyes as he slipped the paper into his pocket. For the rest his face was calm.

"This may be of use," he said. "You never can tell. Thanks ever so much. I'll be off now."

He made his way back as fast as a taxi could take him to his rooms. There he laid the fragment of the envelope on his table and examined it through a powerful glass. The investigation seemed to please him, for he smiled as he took down the receiver of the telephone and called a number.

"Is that you, Number Three?" he asked. "Mr. Glasgow speaking. Go round to 45A, Grosvenor-square, at once, and ascertain where Miss Valerie Brune is to-night. If she's at home, well and good; if she out, discover where she has gone and how long she is likely to be. Then ring me up from the nearest call office."

The reply came ten minutes later. Miss Brune has gone to the charity ball at Covent Garden, and her return was uncertain.

Glasgow grabbed his hat, raced down the stairs, and hailed a passing taxi.

"Take me to Covent Garden," he said. "No, not the Opera House. I want Barker's, the costumier. Half a sovereign if you get me there inside ten minutes."