Читать книгу The Silvered Cage - John Russell Fearn - Страница 6

CHAPTER ONE

The young lady with the extremely pretty face, somewhat ostentatious gold tooth, and innocent blue eyes made no apparent emotional impression upon Detective-Sergeant Whittaker of the Yard’s murder squad. But then, Whittaker was trained to maintain a poker face under all circumstances and whatever his inward reaction to this remarkably delectable young woman he took care to keep it under control. Besides, he had a wife.

“I had rather hoped,” the young woman said, “that I would be able to see Chief-Inspector Garth, your superior. Believe me, sergeant, that is not meant as a reflection upon your capabilities, only—”

“The Inspector is away at the moment, Madam. Murder case down in Kent. I’m sure I will be able to handle whatever may be troubling you.”

“Yes—of course you will. For that matter I’m not at all sure whether Scotland Yard will interest itself. You men of the law have little time for a woman’s fancies and fears, I’m afraid.”

Whittaker cleared his throat gently and passed a finger over his crisp, toothbrush moustache. He was a solid, stiff-necked, unimaginative young man, known to his contemporaries as “Feet-on-the-earth” Whitty. Only rarely did he get an inspiration, and then it was usually something outstanding.

“At least, Madam,” he said, glancing down at the visiting card on the desk, “your niche in society places you above the average caller....”

The visiting card, daintily edged with gold leaf to represent lace, read:

Vera de Maine-Kestrel

The Marlows

West Kensington

Added to this were three telephone numbers. That “The Marlows, West Kensington” was sufficient postal address was enough in itself. Vera de Maine-Kestrel was the daughter of Victor de Maine-Kestrel, shipper, banker, chain store owner, and railway magnate, this latter empire being entirely Colonial. In a word, the delightfully persuasive girl with the blatant gold tooth and hat like an inverted pie-dish was worth not one packet, but several.

“I am here,” Vera continued, with a troubled droop of her long eyelashes, “because I require police protec­tion. Quite frankly, I am in fear of my life.”

“I see.” Whittaker looked at her squarely. “And your reason for this disturbing suspicion, Miss Kestrel?”

“It’s rather complicated.” She made an embarrassed little movement. “It is mixed up with my fiancé, certain monetary deals, an incident in the past— Oh, lots of things. I surely don’t have to explain all those harrow­ing details in order to get police protection?”

“Not if you don’t wish. Suppose we take another angle: who do you think is going to attack you?”

“I can’t say. It may be one or several men or women. In my position I am unfortunately the target for many enemies of my father and.... Anyway, I’ve always understood that if one asks for police protection it is provided.”

“If the circumstances make it justified, yes,” Whittaker assented, solidly obliging. “We cannot, how­ever, undertake some indefinite kind of surveillance based purely upon a suspicion. You would have to offer some definite proof. Men are still scarce in the force, Miss Kestrel, and time is valuable.”

“I realize that, of course,” she said, “but this isn’t in the nature of an indefinite surveillance. If an attack is made on me it will be tomorrow evening. I only require police protection for that period. For that matter the protection could serve two purposes, for amongst the many guests some of them may not be genuine and our home contains quite a number of valuables.”

Whittaker did not say openly that he wished she could get to the point, so he remained silent and with a kind of dull interest watched the gold tooth as it occasionally gleamed near the back of Vera’s otherwise perfect upper set.

“Tomorrow evening,” she continued, apparently realizing it was time she pinned something down, “there will be a big magical display at my home, following a dinner. The magician will be Crafto the Great, of whom you may have heard?”

Whittaker nodded. Since one of his own hobbies was a bottomless egg-bag, he kept track of all magicians, professional and amateur.

“Well now,” Vera continued, “whilst Crafto is entirely above suspicion, I do feel that there is one particular illusion of his which may make things awkward for me. Foolishly, I have already volunteered to be a ‘vanishing lady’.”

“Indeed?” Whittaker endeavoured to look impressed.

“What, though, if certain enemies took advantage of my disappearing act to kill me, at some moment when I am out of sight of everybody and everything? You do understand, don’t you?”

Whittaker got to his feet, his usual action when he was not dead sure of himself. Gripping the back of his chair he looked down on the fetchingly pretty girl thoughtfully.

“In brief, Miss Kestrel, there is to be one act in this magical display which involves you in a disappearance. You suspect that may be chosen as the ideal moment to either make you really vanish, or perhaps do you a fatal injury. Is that it?”

“That’s it!” Vera looked relieved.

“But surely such an attack would involve the magician himself, and I am sure the Great Crafto is an entirely honest performer? Only he will know where you really are during this vanishing act, won’t he?”

“Unfortunately, no. To make the trick effective he had to reveal its secret to me, and in a weak moment I told my fiancé and some of his friends. I don’t suppose they’ll betray anything, but on the other hand they might. I want to feel that I have the law present in case of trouble.”

“I see....” Whittaker reflected for a moment. “Can you possibly explain the trick to me so that if anything happens I may know where to look?”

Vera shook her blonde head stubbornly. “No. I think I’ve already said too much. You will see the entire trick performed and if anything does happen, well obviously I’ll be somewhere in the house. That’s all I can say.”

“I shall see the trick performed?” Whittaker raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I shall have to forego that pleasure, Miss Kestrel. I shall not attend personally, but I’ll see to it that a reliable man keeps a watch on things.”

“I don’t want a reliable man; I want you. You’re a Detective-Sergeant, and from your very rank alone you must have more acumen than an ordinary plainclothes man. Or don’t you realize that my life may be at stake?”

Whittaker hesitated. Had this not been a matter wherein life seemed to be endangered he would have been reluctantly compelled to direct Vera to other quar­ters of the Yard, quarters of the Yard less exclusively concerned in homicide. But in this case there were unusual circumstances. She was the daughter of a rich and powerful man; she was asking an especial favor, and if anything did happen to her Whittaker might find himself on the carpet for delegating the surveillance to an underling. Added to all this, he was not engaged on anything of pressing importance at the moment.

“Very well,” he said finally. “The circumstances being as they are I’ll attend the demonstration personally.”

“Not just the demonstration, Sergeant. Come as a guest, to the dinner and everything. I want you to meet everybody—and particularly my fiancé. If anything goes wrong. I’ll gamble that he’ll be at the back of it.”

Whittaker smiled wryly. “Apparently your faith in your fiancé is at a pretty low ebb, Miss Kestrel. I’m surprised that you remain engaged to him.”

“I shall break it off before long. I’m quite resolved on that. But let us get this immediate matter straight. Can I introduce you as my friend, Mr. Naughton, an engineer whom I last saw in France?”

“I see nothing against it,” Whittaker replied. “Pro­viding you do not expect me to speak French!”

“Of course not! You’re a solid Englishman whose business as an engineer takes you to all sorts of places.”

“Fair enough,” Whittaker smiled. “And at what time am I to present myself?”

“If you arrive about six that will be fine—looking the part of course, and ridding yourself as much as possible of that inevitable ‘policeman’ look which you gentlemen carry around with you.”

“It’s a promise,” Whittaker said solemnly, moving to the office door as Vera rose to her feet and picked up her gloves and handbag....

* * * * * * *

And, as with all his promises, Whittaker kept it—to the split second. It was exactly six the following evening when he arrived at the great Maine-Kestrel mansion in West Kensington. At first he experienced a certain sense of confusion amidst the guests and servants who floated around him, but eventually he found himself taken in tow by Vera herself, bewitchingly attired in one of the very latest cocktail gowns. As on the previous day, as he was piloted through the labyrinth of the great lounge, Whittaker could not help but notice that gold tooth which kept peeping into view as Vera laughed and talked.

Then he forgot all about this trifle as he was intro­duced to Crafto the Great. The great illusionist, pro­bably known in every variety hall in the country, broke off his conversation with a gushing middle-aged lady as Vera commandeered his attention.

“Mr. Crafto—meet Mr. Naughton, a very good friend of mine. An engineer. We first met in Paris two years ago.”

“Delighted,” the magician murmured, shaking hands—and as far as Whittaker could tell the illusionist seemed one of the most easy-going and genial of men. He was short in build, wide-shouldered, and podgy-­faced. Amazingly immaculate, a stick-pin gracing the center of his stock-tie—a stick-pin with an enormous pearl for its head. The remainder of his sartorial magni­ficence was made up of an impeccable grey suit with cutaway tails, white spats, and shoes gleaming as brilliantly as his hair.

“You will forgive the unorthodox attire?” he smiled, as he realized Whittaker was studying him. “For the purposes of my act I always wear this suit. I shall not be present at dinner: That is the time when I make arrangements for the show.”

“Mmm, quite,” Whittaker assented, not wishing to commit himself too far.

“And here is my fiancé, Sidney Laycock,” Vera con­tinued, and almost immediately Whittaker found him­self shaking bands with a burly six-footer whose face was remarkable for its squareness and lack of refined detail. Here definitely was a man who would pursue an objective through hell and high water and never count the cost. Anybody more unlike the sparkling, bright-eyed Vera, Whittaker could hardly imagine, but this was no concern of his.

He spent perhaps five minutes with Sidney Laycock, and in that time arrived at the conclusion that he did not like him. He was assertive to the point of rudeness, had an exceedingly low opinion of women, and by and large appeared to view life generally from a very coarsened standpoint. Whittaker was quite glad when at last he freed himself and was moved on to meet other guests, ending with Vera’s father, who had only just arrived and was still in his normal lounge suit.

The rugged face of the celebrated Victor de Maine-Kestrel was by no means unfamiliar to Whittaker. On this occasion he warmed immediately to the big fellow’s personality—blunt, forthright, and obviously dictated by a sterling honesty. At the very first opportunity he piloted Whittaker away from the general gathering and buttonholed him beside the cocktail cabinet.

“You don’t have to pull any false identity on me, boy,” Kestrel said. “I know who you are, and why you’re here. Frankly, I’m damned surprised you spared the time just because of my daughter’s crazy notions.”

Whittaker gave his serious smile. “She is valuable ‘property’, Sir—if I may use the expression. It might have gone badly with me if I’d refused her request for protection.”

“You believe all that bunkum about somebody want­ing to attack her, then?”

“Well, she certainly made it sound convincing.”

“Damned diplomatic reply! You’re a policeman, all right! Personally, although Vera is my own daughter, I think she lets her fancies get right out of hand some­times! Somebody liable to murder her, indeed! It’s plain rubbish, Sergeant. Her only object in having you here is so that she can satisfy her ego. It makes her feel important to think that Scotland Yard is keeping watch on her interests. If you like, you’ve my permission to leave at any moment you want.”

“Matter of fact, Mr. Kestrel, I’d rather stay. I’m a bit of an amateur magician and I’d like to see Crafto’s performance. He’s quite an expert.”

The industrialist gave a snort. “No time for such bosh, Sergeant! Making things appear and disappear! What kind of a living is that...?” He broke off and grinned. “Well, wouldn’t do for us all to have the same outlook, would it? See you at dinner. I’ve got to change.”

Whittaker nodded and, left to himself for a while, took the opportunity to do a little private thinking—­and particularly weigh up in retrospect those people he had so far met. Of them all he liked Sidney Laycock the least.

He was still thinking when dinner was announced, and throughout the meal, when he was not answering the most preposterous questions in regard to his engineering activities abroad, he relapsed into intervals of medi­tation, a habit born of his calling as a police officer. Indeed, he did not really begin to take a definite interest in affairs around him until he was in the great ball­room-cum-hall, where the entertainment for the guests was to be held. He would much have preferred to sit between two people with whom it would not be neces­sary to talk; but instead he found himself saddled with Maine-Kestrel himself, immensely expansive in his even­ing-dress and surrounded by the aroma of his thick and fragrant Havana cigar.

“All twaddle, Sergeant—nothing else but twaddle,” he declared, motioning vaguely. “I wouldn’t tolerate such clap-trap for a moment if it were not for Vera wanting it. Hard to refuse her anything, y’know.”

“I can imagine,” Whittaker smiled; then to his satis­faction further conversation was made unnecessary by the striking up of the specially hired orchestra—and from this point the special concert, if such it could be called, got really into its stride, complete with an open­ing number by the chorus.

“Good job the wife’s on the Continent,” Kestrel grinned, as the opening leg-show continued. “She’d take a dim view of my enjoying this.”

Whittaker nodded but did not speak. He was trying to remember that he had come here for a specific reason and that it was just possible that, crazy or otherwise, the delectable Vera might have had very real reason for her request for police protection.... There was too the quite unfounded possibility that Kestrel himself was doing so much talking for the specific purpose of distracting attention.... Such were the thoughts that drifted through Whittaker’s intensely analytical mind—­then when at last the curtains went up on the Great Crafto, he became definitely interested.

Being something of a magician himself, however amateur, Whittaker was more interested in the set-up of the stage itself rather than in Crafto as he made his preliminary tricks to the accompaniment of the custom­ary unconvincing patter. But, as far as Whittaker could see, there was nothing unusual about the stage. It was of average size and bounded at either side of its proscenium by two immensely fat imitation granite pillars. The backdrop was black—by no means un­common for a magician—as were the drapes to the side wings. On the stage itself there was a table, presumably a trick one, and the usual supply of mystic cabinets and equipment.

There was no doubt about it: the Great Crafto was good at his job. Even Kestrel admitted it, so there was no doubt any more; then after a superbly executed routine with the Chinese Rings, Crafto held up his hand and stilled the applause.

“And now, my good friends, we come to the greatest trick of all—the mightiest vanishing trick ever attempted. I tell you, in confidence, that so far this illusion has not been presented anywhere, not even to the Magic Circle, the proving ground for most feats of the unbelievable.... What is even more significant, our charming hostess, Vera de Maine-Kestrel herself, has offered to be the ‘victim’ of the vanishment....”

Applause drowned the remainder, and Crafto smiled broadly; then be added, “Whilst our back-stage friends set up the apparatus I must make a quick change. An illusion such as this demands the appropriate attire.”

With that he bowed quickly and hurried away on closing the curtains. The lights came up and the orchestra resumed its activities. Whittaker looked about him sharply, and finally towards Kestrel himself.

“Should I go back-stage, do you think?” Whittaker asked.

“What in hell for?”

“Merely to make sure there are no characters there who haven’t a good reason to be. After all, Mr. Kestrel, I am here to protect your daughter, and for that reason I feel I should take every precaution.”

Kestrel grinned round his Havana. “Give yourself a rest, Sergeant, and let my daughter’s cockeyed notions take care of themselves. If anything happens—which is about as likely as the end of the world—I’ll take the responsibility.”

Whittaker hesitated, then slowly relaxed again. After all, it was no part of his job to snoop and prowl against the wishes of the master of the house unless—absurd suspicion again!—the industrialist was deliberately pre­venting a back-stage investigation. It seemed hard to reconcile this, though, with his craggy, good-natured face and tolerant grin.

“This fellow Crafto’s a good showman; I’ll hand him that much,” he said. “Even changes his clothes to get in the mood. Doesn’t mean a thing, of course, but it’s good atmosphere. There are even some mugs who believe the clothes might have a direct bearing on the illusion. One born every minute, Sergeant.”

Whittaker was spared the need of answering as the curtains swept back and the Great Crafto was visible once more. This time he was attired in a cloak festooned with glittering stars and crescents. Upon his sleek black head was the conical hat of a wizard, and in his hand the inevitable wand. These, of course, were merely the stock-in-trade of his act: in the main, attention was centered on the apparatus in the center of the stage itself.

Hanging from the flies on a strong, brightly glittering chain was a giant edition of a normal birdcage. It gleamed with the brilliance of silver, though obviously could not have been made of this metal because of the cost. The bars were about six inches apart, bending inwards to join the big hub and clip at the summit, whilst at the bottom they were set into a base about two inches thick. There was nothing else on the stage at all—just this silvered cage, perhaps six feet high, suspended so that one could see through it, under it, and around it. To further satisfy the now silent audience Crafto walked around the cage and was visible as he passed behind it, then he thumped it with his wand to prove the metallic content of the equipment.

“My friend—The Silvered Cage!” he exclaimed, with a flourish. “Nobody anywhere near it, and our hostess Vera Kestrel least of all. And yet—watch!”

He clapped his hands and a girl assistant brought to him a folded cloth. With a few deft movements, as the girl disappeared again into the wings, Crafto had the cloth draped around the cage and a zipper down its length made sure it could not slip off.

“Lights!” Crafto boomed, and two brilliant limes from high in the flies concentrated their brilliance on the covered cage.

“This chap’s damned original,” Kestrel muttered, as Whittaker watched fixedly. “Most of these gentry work in half-gloom. This stunt’s so brilliant it nearly hurts the eye.”

“And now—behold!” Crafto cried. He tapped the cage twice, whipped away the cloth zipper, and there in the cage, clear for everybody to see, was Vera her­self! There was no possible doubt about it. Her cock­tail gown was recognizable, and, even more surprising, she was bound about with strong cords. She moved her head and smiled a little.

“Speak to us, dear lady,” Crafto cooed. “Are you quite comfortable?”

“Roped up like this?” Vera demanded. “Hardly! But all for the love of art! I know how I got into this cage, ladies and gentlemen, but do any of you?”

The response to this was a thunderous round of applause in which Whittaker joined. He was so carried away by the brilliance of the illusion that he had for­gotten his real task.... But the end was not yet. Crafto, at the side of the cage, surveyed the bound girl in the midst of the bars, then he waved his wand mysteriously towards her—again and again. The reason for this became apparent after a moment or two.

Here, surely, was the ultimate in stage illusions, for without any covering over the cage, with only Crafto near her, with the cage suspended on its chain two feet above the floor, Vera actually began to fade! She smeared mysteriously, vanished in dim vapours, and at length had gone entirely. The bars that had been behind her were in view again, but of she herself there was no trace or sign.

“First class!” roared Sidney Laycock, jumping up and leading the clapping. “What a pity you can’t do that with all women, Crafto! Fade ’em out when they get a damned nuisance, eh?”

“That ape talks to much,” Kestrel growled. “One of these days I’ll kick him out of the damned house. Can’t think what Vera sees in him.”

“And now,” Crafto murmured, bowing and smiling “we bring the little lady back to you, safe and sound, and devoid of her ropes.”

He held out his hand dramatically towards the left wings and waited. Vera did not appear. Crafto frowned very slightly and held out his hand again.... Silence, and a tension that seemed as though it would make a distinct bang when it broke.

“Vera!” Crafto called anxiously. “Vera! Come on!”

He was no longer a clever illusionist: he was a much-worried ordinary man. He moved quickly towards the wings, then the chorine who had brought him the cage cloth came in view. Her words came distinctly to the audience.

“She’s not back here, Mr. Crafto. We haven’t seen her.”

“But—but you must have!” Crafto gasped. “Here, let me take a look.”

He dashed into the wings, and in that moment Whittaker was on his feet, cursing himself for his lapse in surveillance. The tycoon jumped up beside him, biting hard on his cigar.

“What blasted monkey business are they up to with my girl?” he barked. “I’ll soon settle this....”

He led the way to the stage, gaining it by climbing the four steps at the side. Whittaker, Sidney Laycock, and a whole host of guests were right behind him.

“Crafto!” Kestrel boomed. “Where are you? Come here!”

For the moment Whittaker was not vitally interested in Crafto; he was looking at the hanging cage, standing now right beside it. The limelights were extinguished now, but he could see the cage details clearly enough, and there certainly did not seem to be anything odd about it. It was metal all right and, at first glance, there were no signs of traps, movable bars, or anything of a magical nature.

Then Crafto reappeared, pulling off his wizard’s hat. There were beads of perspiration coursing down his forehead as he faced the smolderingly angry tycoon.

“Where’s my daughter?” Kestrel demanded.

“I just don’t know, Mr. Kestrel—”

“Don’t know! Stop talking like an idiot! You per­formed this trick and you must know where she is!”

“But I don’t!” Crafto insisted. “She should have been in the wings, ready to come out when I called her. But she isn’t. She’s utterly disappeared.”

“I think,” Whittaker put in, with heavy calm, “that I had better take over from here.”

Kestrel glanced at him. “Yes, maybe you had.”

Crafto waited, still glancing around him. Whittaker studied him, quite satisfied that the man was genuinely flustered. No actor, no matter how good, could have faked this anxiety of mind.

“Just what is the procedure of this illusion?” Whittaker questioned. “When we know that, we may have a better idea of how to act.”

“Why should I give away a cherished secret to a complete stranger?” Crafto snapped. “Who are you any­way?”

Whittaker held out his warrant-card, which plainly took the magician by surprise. Just the same his mouth was still stubborn.

“Your being a police officer naturally makes a differ­ence,” he admitted, “but I’m not giving away the secret of this illusion, even to you. I will tell you what should have happened in regard to Miss Kestrel, though. Fol­lowing her disappearance from the cage, performed by a means which is my secret—­and hers too—Miss Kestrel should have been able to reappear in the wings there and then come on the stage.”

“How would she get into the wings?” Kestrel de­manded. “That is what we wish to know.”

“There is a passage under this stage which leads to a trap-door in the wings. In fact there is one both sides. Let it suffice that she should have passed along that tunnel to the wings—only she didn’t, and she isn’t any­where in the tunnel below stage either. I’ve just looked.”

“Then it’s time we looked,” the magnate decided. “Follow me, the rest of you.”

Crafto himself showed no hesitancy over revealing the position of the wing trapdoor, which was still open from his own emergence therefrom. Light was gleaming below and he led the way quickly down the steps into the narrow passage that went directly under the stage. Crafto pointed above his head to the outline of a closed trap set in the stage floor itself.

“That’s where she should have come through,” he explained. “Never mind how, but that’s the truth.”

“Half a story is no damned good to us!” Kestrel de­clared, his eyes hard. “My daughter’s gone and I want this whole idiotic illusion explained! Out with the facts, Crafto!”

“No,” the magician replied stubbornly. “I flatly re­fuse. This trick is worth a fortune on the halls to me and with the secret gone I’ll be nowhere.”

“Since Vera knows the trick already I don’t see what you’re so cautious about,” Sidney Laycock remarked cynically. “Whoever heard of a woman able to keep her mouth shut?”

Whittaker was not taking much notice of the conver­sation. He was looking back and forth along the corri­dor, putting into practice the powers of observation in which he was trained. Not that he saw anything very interesting. The passage was a normal one of rough brick, and at either end of it were the bases of the two imitation granite pillars that stood at either end of the proscenium. Down here, though, they were no longer surfaced with imitation granite: they were plain brick-built in cylindrical style after the fashion of a factory chimney.

“Well, all right,” came Kestrel’s growling voice. “Since you see fit to be obstinate about this business, Crafto, we’d better finish our journey along this passage to the other side of the stage. Maybe she took the wrong direction and lost herself in the opposite wings, or some­thing.”

Such a possibility was obviously unlikely in the case of a girl as bright as Vera. Whittaker ponderously fol­lowed the party down the remaining length of the pas­sage and eventually they climbed the few steps at its other end, emerging into the midst of the crowd of guests who were by now hunting around in all corners of the stage, assisted by the artistes themselves, most of whom had not yet changed back into everyday attire.

“Has anybody looked outside the house?” Whittaker asked, abruptly taking charge as he moved to the center of the stage.

“Madge and I did,” one of the chorus girls volun­teered. “We went right out onto the driveway and had a look round the paths generally, but we didn’t see any­thing unusual. In any case, to get away from the back stage here Vera would have had to pass us, and we were standing in the wings there all the time watching the show.”

“You watched the illusion, you mean?” Whittaker questioned.

“Yes....” The girl hesitated and her shoulders shrugged. “Not that that solves anything. We’re as mystified as everybody else.”

Whittaker made up his mind and turned to Kestrel. “Mr. Kestrel, I’m leaving it to you to see that nobody leaves here whilst I’m absent. I’m going to ring up the Yard and have your daughter’s description circulated immediately. I’m also getting some experts down here to take photographs, statements, and so forth. I’ll be back in a moment—and none of you are to touch any­thing, if you please.”

Definitely worried Whittaker descended from the stage and went as quickly as possible into the house regions. He was decidedly worried. It was rare that the onus rested squarely on him: he was accustomed to sharing it with his dyspeptic superior, Chief-Inspector Garth, but on this occasion the whole thing had dropped right in his lap.

“Whittaker here,” he said briefly, when finally he had made phone contact with the Yard. “Send a couple of men down to Victor de Maine-Kestrel’s place immediately—The Marlows, West Kensington: they’ll be needed for guard duty. Also a photographer. I’ll wait.”

“What about Inspector Garth, Sergeant?” came the voice at the other end. “Don’t you want him, too?”

“More than anything else on earth, but he’s in Kent.”

“He was. He came in half an hour ago, and right now he’s in his office, cleaning up accumulated reports and correspondence. I’ll switch you through.”

With a sense of vast relief Whittaker waited, then Mortimer Garth’s gravelly voice came through.

“Yes? Garth here. Chief-Inspector Garth, C.I.D.”