The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
“First of all,” said Mr. Moss firmly, “who are these people?” He indicated Van Ingen and the detective. “If they’re friends of yours, old feller, say the word “ — and his gesture was generous— “friends of yours? Right!” Once more he became the man of affairs.
“Let us get at the bottom of the matter,” said T.B. “Firstly, you wish to see Sir George Calliper?”
The young man, leaning against some happily placed railings, nodded several times.
“Although,” T.B. went on, shaking his head reprovingly, “you are not exactly—”
“A bottle of fizz — a couple, nothing to cloud the mind,” said the young man airily. “I’ve never been drunk in me life.”
“It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,” said T.B., “ — but that’s beside the matter; you were talking about a man called Hyatt who bawled Poltavo.”
The young man pulled himself erect.
“In a sense I was,” he said, with dignity, “in a sense I wasn’t; and now I must be toddling.” T.B. saw the sudden suspicion that came to him. “What do you know about the barrage?” he asked abruptly.
The man started back, sobered.
“Nothing,” he said harshly. “I know nothing. I know you, though, Mr. Bloomin’ Smith, and you ain’t goin’ to pump me. Here, I’m going.” He pushed T.B. aside. Van Ingen would have stopped him but for a look from his companion.
“Let him go,” he said. “I have a feeling that—”
The young man was crossing St. James’s Street, and disappeared for a moment in the gloom between the street lamps. T.B. waited a time for him to reappear, but he did not come into sight.
“That’s rum,” murmured Van Ingen; “he couldn’t have gone into Sir George’s; his house is on the other side of the street — hello, there he is!”
A man appeared momentarily in the rays of the lamp they were watching, and walked rapidly away.
“That isn’t him,” said T.B., puzzled; “he’s too tall; it must be somebody from one of the houses. Let us stroll along and see what has become of Mr. Moss.”
The little party crossed the street. The thoroughfare was deserted now, save for the disappearing figure of the tall gentleman.
The black patch where Moss had disappeared was the entrance of the mews.
“He must have mistaken this for a thoroughfare,” said T.B. “We’ll probably find him asleep in a corner somewhere.” He took a little electric lamp from his pocket and shot a white beam into the darkness.
“I don’t see him anywhere,” he said, and walked into the mews.
“There he is!” said Van Ingen suddenly. The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly.
“Drunk?” said T.B., and leant over him. Then he saw the blood and the wound in the man’s throat.
“Murder! by the Lord!” he cried. He was not dead, but, even as the sound of Van Ingen’s running feet grew fainter, T.B. knew that this was a case beyond the power of the divisional surgeon. The man tried to speak, and the detective bent his head to listen. “Can’t tell you all,” the poor wreck whispered, “get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower — they know. His sister’s got the book — Hyatt’s sister — down in Falmouth — you’ll find N.H.C. I don’t know who they are, but you’ll find them.” He muttered a little incoherently, and T.B. strained his ears, but heard nothing. “N.H.C.,” he repeated under his breath, and remembered the handkerchief.
The man on the ground spoke again—” The Admiralty — they could fix it for you. Poltavo—”
Then he died.
13. Hyatt
“Get Hyatt or the man on the Eiffel Tower!”
It sounded like the raving of a dying man, and T.B. shook his head as, in the company of Van Ingen, he walked back to his chambers in the early hours of the morning.
Since the night of the assault, the young man had remained as Smith’s guest, at the latter’s express command.
“Not that I believe you stand in immediate danger of having your head broken again by those miscreants,” he said laughingly the next morning, “or that I could protect you if you didl But since you are in on this thing, and the enemy have got wind of it, it is as well to join forces. You can run errands, type my notes, and investigate obscure clues — in short, become a useful other self to me. In that way I double my efficiency, and can be in two places at once!”
And so Van Ingen, nothing loath, had sent for a few necessaries, and had taken up quarters with the detective.
At the suggestion of the latter, he had not acquainted Doris with his mishap, the injuries from which were, indeed, slight enough, consisting only of a bruise, the size of a walnut on the right side of his head, and an accompanying dizziness when, the next morning, he attempted to raise his head from the pillow.
He had scrawled a line to Doris therefore, reporting himself, per agreement, and inviting himself to tea, to discuss an important personal matter, the next afternoon at five.
To this he had received, late the same day, posted from Folkestone, the following reply:
“DEAR CORD :
“Owing to a sudden change of plans, we start for the Continent tonight, and, ‘ tomorrow at five,’ I shall be having my tea with Aunty in Paris — and thinking of you!
“We remain there only for a few days, then on to the Riviera, and eventually cross into Spain.
I had something to ask you last night, which escaped me in the pain of bidding you farewell — something you may do for me, which will add to the great debt of gratitude I already owe you — and crown it all! Abandon this investigation! By our dear friendship of many years, I ask it, — by the love which you profess for me. It will involve you in frightful consequences of which I do not dare to speak. Your bare connection with it fills me with anguish — I cannot sleep!… Thank you for the report of your health. I am nervous and unstrung these days, and filled with imaginary terrors.
In your note, you speak of ‘an important personal matter’ — may I interpret the phrase, candidly, and give you my answer? I esteem you too dear to entangle you in my own melancholy career. This decision is quite unalterable, and,, moreover, I am not free.
“There is nothing left to add. God bless you.
“DORIS.”
This missive Van Ingen did not show to Smith.
With a white bandage about his head, and looking, the detective declared, “pale and interesting,” he sat in an easychair before the open fire, and gloomily reviewed the situation.
She was not free. That meant Poltavo! Could it be true that in truth she loved him, then? For a while, he gave himself to the full bitterness of the idea. Before his mind there arose, vividly, the picture of the two at the opera — Poltavo, elegant, distinguished, speaking in low eager tones, and Doris bending toward him with parted lips, a divine light in her blue eyes. As he pondered all the recent circumstances, he felt the waters of despair pour over his soul. His head still throbbed from the bruise; he felt feverish and agitated, full of a burning turmoil, and a longing that knows but one solace.
Again he turned to the letter, seeking, unconsciously, for some word of comfort to his troubled spirit, and reread it, slowly.
This time her sweet sympathy shone out