The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
afraid it’s quite impossible for me to go out with somebody I have never met before,” she said, with just a trace of amusement in her eyes.
“I recognise the difficulty,” laughed Tailing. “Here is one of my cards. I’m afraid I am not very famous in this country, so you will not know my name.”
She took the card and read it.
“A private detective?” she said in a troubled voice. “Who has sent you? Not Mr.—”
“Not Mr. Lyne,” he said.
She hesitated a moment, then threw open the door wider.
“You must come in. We can talk here in the hall. Do I understand Mr. Lyne has not sent you?”
“Mr. Lyne was very anxious that I should come,” he said. “I am betraying his confidence, but I do not think that he has any claim upon my loyalty. I don’t know why I’ve bothered you at all, except that I feel that you ought to be put on your guard.”
“Against what?” she asked.
“Against the machinations of a gentleman to whom you have been—” he hesitated for a word.
“Very offensive,” she finished for him.
“I don’t know how offensive you’ve been,” he laughed, “but I gather you have annoyed Mr. Lyne for some reason or other, and that he is determined to annoy you. I do not ask your confidence in this respect, because I realise that you would hardly like to tell me. But what I want to tell you is this, that Mr. Lyne is probably framing up a charge against you — that is to say, inventing a charge of theft.”
“Of theft?” she cried in indignant amazement. “Against me? Of theft? It’s impossible that he could be so wicked!”
“It’s not impossible that anybody could be wicked,” said Tarling of the impassive face and the laughing eyes. “All that I know is that he even induced Mr. Milburgh to say that complaints have been made by Milburgh concerning thefts of money from your department.”
“That’s absolutely impossible!” she cried emphatically. “Mr. Milburgh would never say such a thing. Absolutely impossible!”
“Mr. Milburgh didn’t want to say such a thing, I give him credit for that,” said Tarling slowly, and then gave the gist of the argument, omitting any reference, direct or indirect, to the suspicion which surrounded Milburgh.
“So you see,” he said in conclusion, “that you ought to be on your guard. I suggest to you that you see a solicitor and put the matter in his hands. You need not move against Mr. Lyne, but it would strengthen your position tremendously if you had already detailed the scheme to some person in authority.”
“Thank you very, very much, Mr. Tarling,” she said warmly, and looked up into his face with a smile so sweet, so pathetic, so helpless, that Tarling’s heart melted towards her.
“And if you don’t want a solicitor,” he said, “you can depend upon me. I will help you if any trouble arises.”
“You don’t know how grateful I am to you, Mr. Tarling, I didn’t receive you very graciously!”
“If you will forgive my saying so, you would have been a fool to have received me in any other way,” he said.
She held out both hands to him: he took them, and there were tears in her eyes. Presently she composed herself, and led him into her little drawingroom.
“Of course, I’ve lost my job,” she laughed, “but I’ve had several offers, one of which I shall accept. I am going to have the rest of the week to myself and to take a holiday.”
Tarling stopped her with a gesture. His ears were superhumanly sensitive.
“Are you expecting a visitor?” he asked softly.
“No,” said the girl in surprise.
“Do you share this flat with somebody?”
“I have a woman who sleeps here,” she said. “She is out for the evening.”
“Has she a key?”
The girl shook her head.
The man rose, and Odette marvelled how one so tall could move so swiftly, and without so much as a sound, across the uncarpeted hallway. He reached the door, turned the knob of the patent lock and jerked it open. A man was standing on the mat and he jumped back at the unexpectedness of Tarling’s appearance. The stranger was a cadaverous-looking man, in a brand-new suit of clothes, evidently ready-made, but he still wore on his face the curious yellow tinge which is the special mark of the recently liberated gaolbird.
“Beg pardon,” he stammered, “but is this No. 87?”
Tarling shot out a hand, and gripping him by the coat, drew the helpless man towards him.
“Hullo, what are you trying to do? What’s this you have?”
He wrenched something from the man’s hand. It was not a key but a flat-toothed instrument of strange construction.
“Come in,” said Tarling, and jerked his prisoner into the hall.
A swift turning back of his prisoner’s coat pinioned him, and then with dexterousness and in silence he proceeded to search. From two pockets he took a dozen jewelled rings, each bearing the tiny tag of Lyne’s Store.
“Hullo!” said Tarling sarcastically, “are these intended as a loving gift from Mr. Lyne to Miss Rider?”
The man was speechless with rage. If looks could kill, Tarling would have died.
“A clumsy trick,” said Tarling, shaking his head mournfully. “Now go back to your boss, Mr. Thornton Lyne, and tell him that I am ashamed of an intelligent man adopting so crude a method,” and with a kick he dismissed Sam Stay to the outer darkness.
The girl, who had been a frightened spectator of the scene, turned her eyes imploringly upon the detective.
“What does it mean?” she pleaded. “I feel so frightened. What did that man want?”
“You need not be afraid of that man, or any other man,” said Tarling briskly. “I’m sorry you were scared.”
He succeeded in calming her by the time her servant had returned and then took his leave.
“Remember, I have given you my telephone number and you will call me up if there is any trouble. Particularly,” he said emphatically, “if there is any trouble tomorrow.”
But there was no trouble on the following day, though at three o’clock in the afternoon she called him up.
“I am going away to stay in the country,” she said. “I got scared last night.”
“Come and see me when you get back,” said Tarling, who had found it difficult to dismiss the girl from his mind. “I am going to see Lyne tomorrow. By the way, the person who called last night is a protégé of Mr. Thornton Lyne’s, a man who is devoted to him body and soul, and he’s the fellow we’ve got to look after. By Jove! It almost gives me an interest in life!”
He heard the faint laugh of the girl.
“Must I be butchered to make a detective’s holiday?” she mocked, and he grinned sympathetically.
“Any way, I’ll see Lyne tomorrow,” he said.
The interview which Jack Tarling projected was destined never to take place.
On the following morning, an early worker taking a short cut through Hyde Park, found the body of a man lying by the side of a carriage drive. He was fully dressed save that his coat and waistcoat had been removed. Wound about his body was a woman’s silk nightdress stained with blood. The hands of the figure were crossed on the breast and upon them lay a handful