Читать книгу A King by Night - Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace - Страница 18

Mr. Locks closed the door behind him, strolled to a rosewood counter, and, leaning his arms upon it, nodded pleasantly to the hard-faced girl at the one desk in the tiny lobby office.

"Is Marcus in?" he asked pleasantly, beaming at her through his gold-rimmed spectacles.

"I don't know; I'll see," she said.

"You may see, but you know," said Mr. Locks good-humouredly. "Tell him that the Marquis of Mugville has called to inspect the Crown jewels. You have no sense of humour," said Mr. Locks sadly. "It is tragic to see a young woman of your surpassing loveliness without a sense of humour! Smile, Daphne!"

She scowled at him, and went through a baize door out of sight. Mr. Locks lit a cigar and examined the office with curiosity, as though he were seeing it for the first time. Presently the girl came back.

"Mr. Fleet will see you," she snapped, and opened a flap of the counter.

"If your eyesight's good, even you can see me. You ought to go down on your knees, my good girl, and thank the Lord for your bonny blue eyes. Forgive my embarrassment, but pretty women always worry me."

She jerked open the door, her black eyes blazing with anger.

"You're too fresh, Locks. You'll get what's coming to you one of these days."

"Mister Locks," he murmured. "Politeness costs nothing, Virginia."

She slammed the door behind him.

He was in a large, luxuriously furnished room, the walls of which were panelled with expensive woods. At an ornate ormolu Empire writing table sat a man who was no stranger to Goldy Locks. He would have been dressed sombrely but for the flaming splendour of his cravat.

A sleek man was Mr. Marcus Fleet. Sleek was his raven-black hair, brushed back from his forehead; sleek were his plump white hands, ornamented with a big ring on one finger. Heavy-jowled, clean-shaven, sleepy-eyed, expressionless, he watched his client with an unfriendly eye.

"Good morning, Locks. What do you want?"

"Money," said Mr. Locks gently, and without invitation took a chair from its place against the wall and drew it up to the desk.

"Say, Locks, don't get fresh with that girl of mine. She hates you as it is, and I don't like it. You just get her mad at you, and the fit doesn't wear off all day."

"Get a new girl," suggested Mr. Locks, smiling expansively at the financier.

"There's another way," said Fleet significantly, "and that is to tell you to keep out of this office!"

"I should take not the slightest notice of any such order," said Mr. Locks calmly. "You're a financier; I'm a financier; and we've got to get together. That's what your office is for, Marcus. That is why you sit here day after day."

"There was a burglary at the Chatterton Hotel last night. The Duchess of Leaport lost her diamonds," said Fleet presently.

The other made no reply, but put his hand carefully into his pocket and took out a large and bulky package wrapped in a silk handkerchief, which he laid on the desk and slowly unfolded. Inside was a thick pad of cotton wool, and inside this again he disclosed a blue and white paper, carefully rolled, which he opened. Here was another layer of cotton wool, and Marcus Fleet watched him with incurious eyes as he opened it fold by fold.

"There they are," said Mr. Locks admiringly. "What loveliness! What exquisite beauty! And to think that those rare and gorgeous sparklers reposed in mother earth for ten million years, hidden through the ages until they were dug up and cut and fixed in rare golden settings for me to lift!"

"I don't want them," said Fleet slowly. "I never deal in stolen property—you know that."

Mr. Locks' lean face creased in a smile.

"There are twelve thousand pounds' worth there—sixty thousand dollars' worth. By the way, the exchange is going up; have you seen this morning's newspaper? You haven't? I'm surprised at a financier not reading the morning newspapers. Twelve thousand pounds' worth, and I'm taking a thousand! You'll make twelve hundred per cent. profit with practically no risk. 'All the wonder and wealth are mine'—do you ever read Browning? Personally I prefer Boswell. I read it both times when I was in Dartmoor, and Wesley's 'Life of St. Paul.'"

"I don't want your diamonds. I want no dealings with you whatever, Locks," said Mr. Fleet steadily. "You can wrap them up and take them away. If I wasn't a friend of yours, I should send for the police."

He looked at the gems that sparkled on his desk, and his nose wrinkled.

"They're a bad colour, anyway. None of these old families has got good jewels. If I paid you a hundred, I should be robbing myself."

"Try that for a change," pleaded Locks. "A change is as good as a rest, and a rest is as good as a meal."

Marcus Fleet rose deliberately, walked to a safe in the wall, opened it and took out a bundle of American bills. He counted five hundred dollars on to the table, and then stopped.

"Be not weary of well-doing," quoted Locks.

"I'll throw in a hundred for luck," said the other.

"It will be bad luck for me if you only throw a hundred. Five thousand dollars is my bottom price."

Mr. Marcus Fleet picked up the bills from the table, placed them in a wad and slipped a rubber band round them.

"Good morning, Locks, and don't call again," he said.

The burglar watched him go back to the safe without comment. With the door in his hand, Fleet turned.

"You can do a lot with a thousand dollars," he said.

"Five thousand dollars," snarled the burglar, his voice and mien changing. "Cut out all that bazaar stuff; I'm not selling a carpet. Five thousand, or lock your safe, you Armenian reptile!"

It seemed as though the financier was taking him at his word, for he banged the safe door closed.

"Three thousand," he said slowly.

But Locks was folding up his jewels, and with a sigh Mr. Fleet pulled open the door, counted out some notes and, walking back, flung them on the table. The burglar stopped his wrapping to count the notes.

"Two short, you daylight robber."

"There were five thousand when I put them on that table," grumbled Fleet, producing two hundred-dollar bills that he had kept concealed in the palm of his hand. "You're no profit to me, Locks. It's only because you're a friend of mine that I oblige you."

He wrapped up the jewels deftly, put them into an envelope he took from the stationery rack, and placed the envelope in the safe, locking it. He had hardly done so when a bell in the corner of the room rang softly twice, and Fleet glowered round upon his visitor, his eyes hard with suspicion.

"What's this, Locks, a 'shop'? If it is, by God, I'll get you!"

"Shop nothing," said Locks, guessing the meaning of that warning. "I've got a clean-cut alibi that you couldn't get past."

There was no time for further conversation, for the door opened and two men followed the angry-faced clerk into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Fleet," said Detective Inspector Timms, and then, with an exaggerated start of surprise: "Why, if it isn't old Goldy Locks! How are you, Locks? And how is the diamond trade? I haven't seen you since I was staying with my friend, the Duchess of Leaport, the other week-end."

"I didn't know you were that kind of man," said Locks, unabashed. "As for diamonds, why, I haven't used one since I left the window-glass trade."

Mr. Fleet was a picture of bewilderment.

"Do you know this man?" he asked the detective. "I sincerely hope that he is not a member of the criminal classes."

"I wouldn't go so far as that," said Timms good-humouredly. "Has he any business with you, Mr. Fleet?"

"He came to ask for a job," said Marcus Fleet volubly. "I used to know him years ago, and I always like to help a man if it is humanly possible."

At the first note of the alarm, Locks had slipped the money from his pocket and dropped it into an open drawer of the financier's desk. This Mr. Fleet had seen out of the corner of his eye, and noted, too, the dexterity with which the burglar had closed the drawer with his foot.

"Now I'm going to be perfectly straight with you, Locks," said Timms. He was the blunt, honest type of police officer that very rarely reaches the front rank of the profession. "I've been 'tailing you up' all morning. You're living at Southdown Street, Lambeth; you were out last night, and last night the Duchess of Leaport lost jewellery worth twelve thousand pounds. We've searched your rooms, and you haven't had a chance of getting rid of the stuff this morning, that I'll swear."

"Neither the chance nor the inclination," said Locks reproachfully. "I'm surprised at you, inspector! I was out last night because I'm the victim of insomnia and couldn't sleep. I didn't go near"—he corrected himself quickly, and the pause was almost indistinguishable to the detective and his assistant—"the West End of London."

"Maybe you didn't, but I'm going to take you to the station to search you," began Timms.

"Search me here," said the other innocently, and spread out his hands in the professional manner.

Timms hesitated for a moment, then, stepping forward, ran his hands over the passive body.

"Nothing here," he said. "I didn't expect you'd have it. Turn out your pockets."

The contents of Mr. Locks' pockets were put upon the table, and there was another scientific search. Timms looked round.

"I've got a search warrant, Mr. Fleet. It is a very unpleasant duty I have to perform, but it must be done."

"A search warrant for this office?" said the stout man indignantly. "You're exceeding your duty, officer. This is monstrous! Do you suggest——"

"I am suggesting that Locks may have concealed the loot in this room without your knowing," said the other soothingly. "I've got nothing against you. A gentleman like you, naturally, would know nothing about it. But Goldy is pretty artful."

"Flatterer," said Goldy, gratified.

"If you have a warrant," said Fleet, with an air of resignation, "I must submit, but I shall write to the Secretary of State—this is the most disgraceful thing that has ever happened."

Inspector Timms, being a wise and experienced police officer, said nothing. The drawers of the desk were examined quickly and then:

"Have you the key of that safe?"

Without a word, Fleet took the key from his pocket and handed it to the inspector. For a second, Locks' heart sank. He followed the police officer to the wall and watched with a detached interest while the safe door was pulled open. With the exception of a few account books, the safe was empty. There was neither money nor jewels.

It was with difficulty that he suppressed the gasp of surprise which rose involuntarily to his lips.

"Nothing there," said Timms. "I am extremely sorry, Mr. Fleet, to have subjected you to this inconvenience, but I am fairly certain that Locks did the job, and I am equally certain that he had the jewels when he left his house this morning. One of my men saw his pocket bulging, but did not tell me till it was too late."

"I know nothing about this infernal scoundrel!" said Marcus violently. "All I know is that I, a respectable merchant, a free-man of the City, a man whose name stands as high as anybody's in London, have been the victim of a gross police outrage, and you shall hear more of this, inspector!"

Timms let him rave on, and when he had finished:

"I'm not taking you, Goldy," he said. "That is a pleasure in store. Coming my way?"

"I'd rather stop and talk with real gentlemen," said Mr. Locks gently.

The door of the outer office had closed on the detective when Fleet turned furiously upon his visitor.

"You swine!" he hissed. "You ought to have known they were 'tailing you up,' an old lag like you! To bring them straight to my office, you dog!"

"I have been so often likened to domestic animals," said Locks wearily, "that nothing you say hurts my feelings. I'll take that five thousand if you don't mind."

Without asking permission, he pulled the drawer open, gathered the bills together and stuffed them in his pocket.

"There's one thing I'd like to ask you before I go, Marcus, and that is: how did you work the safe? That was certainly the most ingenious——"

"Get out!" howled the man, his placid face distorted with rage. "Get out and don't come back here again."

Mr. Locks bowed slightly. He had the air of one who was accepting a polite dismissal. As he passed into the office of the scowling girl, he smiled and lifted his hat.

"Tearing myself away," he said apologetically. "I wanted to stay and have a little chat with you—come and have a bit of lunch one day."

She slipped past the counter opening and pushed him through the door, shutting it behind him.

"Temper," murmured Mr. Locks as he stepped blithely down the stairs. He admired women of spirit.