Читать книгу Okewood of the Secret Service - Valentine Williams - Страница 6

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There is a sinister ring about the word "murder," which reacts upon even the most hardened sensibility. Edgar Allan Poe, who was a master of the suggestive use of words, realized this when he called the greatest detective story ever written "The Murders in the Rue Morgue." From the very beginning of the war, Desmond had seen death in all its forms but that word "murdered," spoken with slow emphasis in the quiet room, gave him an ugly chill feeling round the heart that he had never experienced on the battlefield.

"Murdered!" Desmond repeated dully and sat down. He felt stunned. He was not thinking of the gentle old man cruelly done to death or of the pretty Barbara prostrate with grief. He was overawed by the curious fatality that had plucked him from the horrors of Flanders only to plunge him into a tragedy at home.

"Yes," said the Chief bluntly, "by a burglar apparently—the house was ransacked!"

"Chief," he broke out, "you must explain. I'm all at sea! Why did you send for me? What have you got to do with criminal cases, anyway? Surely, this is a Scotland Yard matter!"

The Chief shook his head.

"I sent for you in default of your brother, Okewood!" he said. "You once refused an offer of mine to take you into my service, but this time I had to have you, so I got the War Office to wire … "

"Then my appointment for ten o'clock to-day was with you?" Desmond exclaimed in astonishment.

The Chief nodded.

"It was," he said curtly.

"But," protested Desmond feebly, "did you know about this murder beforehand!"

The Chief threw back his head and laughed.

"My dear fellow," he said; "I'm not quite so deep as all that. I haven't second sight, you know!"

"You've got something devilish like it, sir!" said Desmond. "How on earth did you know that I was at the Palaceum last night?"

The Chief smiled grimly.

"Oh, that's very simple," he said. "Shall I tell you some more about yourself? You sat … " he glanced down at the desk in front of him," … in Stall E 52 and, after Nur-el-Din's turn, Strangwise took you round and introduced you to the lady. In her dressing-room you met Mr. Mackwayte and his daughter. After that … "

"But," Desmond interrupted quickly, "I must have been followed by one of your men. Still, I can't see why my movements should interest the Secret Service, sir!"

The Chief remained silent for a moment. Then he said:

"Fate often unexpectedly takes a hand in this game of ours, Okewood. I sent for you to come back from France but old man Destiny wouldn't leave it at that. Almost as soon as you landed he switched you straight on to a trail that I have been patiently following up for months past. That trail is … "

The telephone on the desk rang sharply.

"Whose trail?" Desmond could not forbear to ask as the Chief took off the receiver.

"Just a minute," the Chief said. Then he spoke into the telephone:

"Marigold? Yes. Really? Very well, I'll come straight along now … I'll be with you in twenty minutes. Good-bye!"

He put down the receiver and rose to his feet.

"Okewood," he cried gaily, "what do you say to a little detective work? That was Marigold of the Criminal Investigation Department … he's down at Seven Kings handling this murder case. I asked him to let me know when it would be convenient for me to come along and have a look round, and he wants me to go now. Two heads are better than one. You'd better come along!"

He pressed a button on the desk.

The swift and silent Matthews appeared.

"Matthews," he said, "when Captain Strangwise comes, please tell him I've been called away and ask him to call back here at two o'clock to see me."

He paused and laid a lean finger reflectively along his nose.

"Are you lunching anywhere, Okewood?" he 'said. Desmond shook his head.

"Then you will lunch with me, eh? Right. Come along and we'll try to find the way to Seven Kings."

The two men threaded the busy corridors to the lift which deposited them at the main entrance. A few minutes later the Chief was dexterously guiding his Vauxhall car through the crowded traffic of the Strand, Desmond beside him on the front seat.

Desmond was completely fogged in his mind. He couldn't see light anywhere. He asked himself in vain what possible connection could exist between this murder in an obscure quarter of London and the man at his side who, he knew, held in his firm hands lines that stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth? What kind of an affair was this, seemingly so commonplace that could take the Chief's attention from the hundred urgent matters of national security that occupied him?

The Chief seemed absorbed in his driving and Desmond felt it would be useless to attempt to draw him out. They wended their way through the city and out into the squalid length of the Mile End Road. Then the Chief began to talk.

"I hate driving through the City," he exclaimed, "but I always think it's good for the nerves. Still, I have a feeling that I shall smash this old car up some day. That friend of yours, Strangwise, now he's a remarkable man! Do you know his story?"

"About his escape from Germany?" asked Desmond.

The Chief nodded.

"He told me something about it at dinner last night," said Desmond, "but he's such a modest chap he doesn't seem to like talking about it!"

"He must have a cool nerve," replied the Chief, "he doesn't know a word of German, except a few scraps he picked up in camp. Yet, after he got free, he made his way alone from somewhere in Hanover clear to the Dutch frontier. And I tell you he kept his eyes and ears open!"

"Was he able to tell you anything good" asked Desmond.

"The man's just full of information. He couldn't take a note of any kind, of course, but he seems to have a wonderful memory. He was able to give us the names of almost every unit of troops he came across."

He stopped to skirt a tram, then added suddenly:

"Do you know him well, Okewood?"

"Yes, I think I do," said Desmond. "I lived with him for about three months in France, and we got on top-hole together. He's a man absolutely without fear."

"Yes," agreed the Chief. "But what about his judgment? Would you call him a well-balanced fellow? Or is he one of these harum-scarum soldier of fortune sort of chaps?"

"I should say he was devilish shrewd," replied the other. "Strangwise is a very able fellow and a fine soldier. The Brigadier thought a lot of him. There's very little about artillery work that Strangwise doesn't know. Our Brigadier's a good judge, too … he was a gunner himself once, you know."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," answered the Chief, "because there are some things he has told us, about the movements of troops, particularly, that don't agree in the least with our own Intelligence reports. I am an old enough hand at my job to know that very often one man may be right where fifty independent witnesses are dead wrong. Yet our reports from Germany have been wonderfully accurate on the whole."

He stopped.

"Tell me," he asked suddenly, "is Strangwise a liar, do you think?"

Desmond laughed. The question was so very unexpected.

"Let me explain what I mean," said the Chief. "There is a type of man who is quite incapable of telling the plain, unvarnished truth. That type of fellow might have the most extraordinary adventure happen to him and yet be unable to let it stand on its merits. When he narrates it, he trims it up with all kinds of embroidery. Is Strangwise that type?"

Desmond thought a moment.

"Your silence is very eloquent," said the Chief drily.

Desmond laughed.

"It's not the silence of consent," he said, "but if you want me to be quite frank about Strangwise, Chief, I don't mind telling you I don't like him overmuch. We were very intimate in France. We were in some very tight corners together and he never let me down. He showed himself to be a very fine fellow, indeed. There are points about him I admire immensely. I love his fine physique, his manliness. I'm sure he's got great strength of character, too. It's because I admire all this about him that I think perhaps it's just jealousy on my part when I feel … "

"What?" said the Chief.

"Well," said Desmond slowly, "I feel myself trying to like something below the surface in the man. And then I am balked. There seems to be something abysmally deep behind the facade, if you know what I mean. If I think about it much, it seems to me that there is too much surface about Strangwise and not enough foundation! And he smiles … Well, rather often, doesn't he?"

"I know what you mean," said the Chief. "I always tell my young men to be wary when a man smiles too much. Smiles are sometimes camouflage, to cover up something that mustn't be seen underneath! Strangwise is a Canadian, isn't he?"

"I think so," answered Desmond, "anyhow, he has lived there. But he got his commission over here. He came over some time in 1915, I believe, and joined up."

"Ah, here we are!" cried the Chief, steering the car down a turning marked "Laleham Villas."

Laleham Villas proved to be an immensely long terrace of small two-story houses, each one exactly like the other, the only difference between them lying in the color of the front doors and the arrangement of the small strip of garden in front of each. The houses stretched away on either side in a vista of smoke-discolored yellow brick. The road was perfectly straight and, in the dull yellow atmosphere of the winter morning, unspeakably depressing.

The abode of small clerks and employees, Laleham Villas had rendered up, an hour before, its daily tribute of humanity to the City-bound trains of the Great Eastern Railway. The Mackwayte's house was plainly indicated, about 200 yards down on the right-hand side, by a knot of errand boys and bareheaded women grouped on the side-walk. A large, phlegmatic policeman stood at the gate.

"You'll like Marigold," said the Chief to Desmond as they got out of the car, "quite a remarkable man and very sound at his work!"

British officers don't number detective inspectors among their habitual acquaintances, and the man that came out of the house to meet them was actually the first detective that Desmond had ever met. Ever since the Chief had mentioned his name, Desmond had been wondering whether Mr. Marigold would be lean and pale and bewildering like Mr. Sherlock Holmes or breezy and wiry like the detectives in American crook plays.

The man before him did not bear the faintest resemblance to either type. He was a well-set up, broad-shouldered person of about forty-five, very carefully dressed in a blue serge suit and black overcoat, with a large, even-tempered countenance, which sloped into a high forehead. The neatly brushed but thinning locks carefully arranged across the top of the head testified to the fact that Mr. Marigold had sacrificed most of his hair to the vicissitudes of his profession. When it is added that the detective had a small, yellow moustache and a pleasant, cultivated voice, there remains nothing further to say about Mr. Marigold's external appearance. But there was something so patent about the man, his air of reserve, his careful courtesy, his shrewd eyes, that Desmond at once recognized him for a type, a cast from a certain specific mould. All services shape men to their own fashion. There is the type of Guardsman, the type of airman, the type of naval officer. And Desmond decided that Mr. Marigold must be the type of detective, though, as I have said, he was totally unacquainted with the genus.

"Major Okewood, Marigold," said the Chief, "a friend of mine!"

Mr. Marigold mustered Desmond in one swift, comprehensive look.

"I won't give you my hand, Major," the detective said, looking down at Desmond's proffered one, "for I'm in a filthy mess and no error. But won't you come in, sir?" he said to the Chief and led the way across the mosaic tile pathway to the front door which stood open.

"I don't think this is anything in your line, sir," said Mr. Marigold to the Chief as the three men entered the house, "it's nothing but just a common burglary. The old man evidently heard a noise and coming down, surprised the burglar who lost his head and killed him. The only novel thing about the whole case is that the old party was shot with a pistol and not bludgeoned, as is usually the case in affairs of this kind. And I shouldn't have thought that the man who did it was the sort that carries a gun … "

"Then you know who did it?" asked the Chief quietly.

"I think I can safely say I do, sir," said Mr. Marigold with the reluctant air of one who seldom admits anything to be a fact, "I think I can go as far as that! And we've got our man under lock and key!"

"That's a smart piece of work, Marigold," said the Chief.

"No, sir," replied the other, "you could hardly call it that. He just walked into the arms of a constable over there near Goodmayes Station with the swag on him. He's an old hand … we've known him for a receiver for years!

"Who is it?" asked the Chief, "not one of my little friends, I suppose, eh, Marigold!"

"Dear me, no, sir," answered Mr. Marigold, chuckling, "it's one of old Mackwayte's music-hall pals, name o' Barney!"