MR. J. G. REEDER SERIES: 5 Mystery Novels & 4 Detective Stories. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
the left of the table was an aperture like the opening of a service lift. It was a continuation of the shaft which led from the basement, and it had this value, that, however clever the police might be, long before they could break into the engraver’s room all evidence of his guilt would have been flung into the opening and consumed in the furnace fire. Jeffrey’s idea. “What a mind!” said the admiring Lacey. “It reduces risk to what I might term a minimum. It is a pleasure working for Jeff, Mr. Legge. He takes no chances.”
“I suppose Pietro is always on the spot?”
Mr. Lacey smiled. He took up a plate from the table and examined it back and front.
“That is one I spoilt this morning,” he said. “Spilt some acid on it. Look!”
He went to the opening, put in his hand, and evidently pressed a bell, for a faint tinkle came from the mouth of the shaft. When he withdrew his hand, the plate that it held had disappeared. There came the buzz of a bell from beneath the table.
“That plate’s running like water by now,” he said. “There’s no chance of a squeak if Pietro’s all right. Wide! That’s Jeffrey! As wide as Broad Street! Why, Mr. Legge, would you believe that I don’t know to this day where the stuff’s printed? And I’ll bet the printer hasn’t got the slightest idea where the plates are made. There isn’t a man in this building who has got so much as a smell of it.”
Emanuel passed down to his own office, a gratified father, and, securely closing the pigeonhole door, he went out into the club premises to look at Room 13. The table was already laid. A big rose-bowl, overflowing with the choicest blooms, filled the centre; an array of rare glass, the like of which the habitues of the club had never seen on their tables, stood before each plate.
His brief inspection of the room satisfied him, and he returned, not to his office but to Stevens, the porter.
“What’s the idea of telling the members that all the rooms are engaged tonight?” asked Stevens. “I’ve had to put off Lew Brady, and he pays.”
“We’re having a party, Stevens,” said Emanuel, “and we don’t want any interruption. Johnny Gray is coming. And you can take that look off your face; if I thought he was a pal of yours, you wouldn’t be in this club two minutes. Peter Kane’s coming too.”
“Looks to me like a rough house,” said Stevens. “What am I to do?” he asked sarcastically. “Bring in the police at the first squeal?”
“Bring in your friend from Toronto,” snapped Emanuel, and went home to change.
Chapter XXVI
Johnny was the first of the guests to arrive, and Stevens helped him to take off his raincoat. As he did so, he asked in a low voice: “Got a gun, Captain?”
“Never carry one, Stevens. It is a bad habit to get into.”
“I never thought you were a mug,” said Stevens in the same voice.
“Any man who has been in prison is, ex officio, one of the Ancient Order of Muggery,” said Johnny, adjusting his bow in the mirror by the porter’s desk. “What’s going?”
“I don’t know,” said the other, bending down to wipe the mud from Johnny’s boots. “But curious things have happened in No. 13; and don’t sit with your back to the buffet. Do you get that?”
Johnny nodded.
He had reached the end of the corridor when he heard the whine of the ascending lift, and stopped. It was Peter Kane, and to him in a low voice, Johnny passed on the porter’s advice.
“I don’t think they’ll start anything,” said Peter under his breath. “But if they do, there’s a nurse at Charing Cross Hospital who’s going to say: ‘What, you here again?”
As Johnny had expected, his two hosts were waiting in Room 13. The silence which followed their arrival was, for one member of the party, an awkward one.
“Glad to see you, Peter,” said Emanuel at last, though he made no pretence of shaking hands. “Old friends ought to keep up acquaintances. There’s my boy, Jeffrey. I think you’ve met him,” he said with a grin.
“I’ve met him,” said Peter, his face a mask.
Jeffrey Legge had apparently recovered fully from his unpleasant experience.
“Now sit down, everybody,” said Emanuel, bustling around, pulling out the chairs. “You sit here, Johnny.”
“I’d rather face the buffet; I like to see myself eat,” said Johnny, and, without invitation, sat down in the position he had selected.
Not waiting, Peter seated himself on Johnny’s left, and it was Emanuel himself, a little ruffled by this preliminary upset to his plans, who sat with his back to the buffet. Johnny noticed the quick exchange of glances between father and son; he noticed, too, that the buffet carried none of the side dishes for which it was designed, and wondered what particular danger threatened from that end of the room.
By the side of the sideboard, in one corner, hung a long, blue curtain, which, he guessed, hid a door leading to No. 12. Peter, who was better acquainted with the club, knew that No. 12 was the sittingroom, and that the two made one of those suites which were very much in request when a lamb was brought to the killing.
“Now, boys,” said Emanuel with spurious joviality, “there is to be no bickering and quarrelling. We’re all met round the festive board, and we’ve nothing to do but find a way out that leaves my boy’s good name unsullied, if I may use that word.”
“You can use any word you like,” said Peter. “It’ll take more than a dinner party to restore his tarnished reputation.”
“What long words you use, Peter!” said Emanuel admiringly. “It’s my own fault that I don’t know them, because I had plenty of time to study when I was away ‘over the Alps’. Never been over the Alps, have you, Peter? Well, when they call it ‘time,’ they use the right word. The one thing you’ve got there is time!”
Peter did not answer, and it was Jeffrey who took up the conversation.
“See here, Peter,” he said, “I’m not going to make a song about this business of mine. I’m going to put all my cards on the table. I want my wife.”
“You know where Lila is better than I,” said Peter. “She’s not in my employment now.”
“Lila nothing!” retorted Jeffrey. “If you fall for that stuff, you’re getting soft. I certainly married Lila, but she was married already, and I can give you proof of it.”
The conversation flagged here, for the waiter came in to serve the soup.
“What wine will you have, sir?”
“The same as Mr. Emanuel,” said Peter.
Emanuel Legge chuckled softly.
“Think I’m going to ‘knock you out,’ eh, Peter? What a suspicious old man you are!”
“Water,” said Johnny softly when the waiter came to him.
“On the water-wagon, Johnny? That’s good. A young man in your business has got to keep his wits about him. I’ll have champagne, Fernando, and so will Major Floyd. Nothing like champagne to keep your heart up,” he said.
Peter watched, all his senses alert, as the wine came, bubbling and frothing, into the long glasses.
“That will do, Fernando,” said Emanuel, watching the proceedings closely.
As the door closed, Johnny could have sworn he heard an extra click.
“Locking