The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
meet the Sud Express. So they must be in Spain and south of Madrid, otherwise there would be no impossibility about meeting me in Paris tomorrow. Where are they? Within reach of Gibraltar apparently, because they talk of sending round tomorrow. Now, that phrase ‘sending round’ is significant, for it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt exactly in what part of Andalusia they live.”
“How?”
“When people who live within reach of the fortress talk of going to Gibraltar, as you know they either say that they are ‘ going across to Gibraltar’ or that they are ‘ going round.’ By the first, they indicate the route via Algeciras and across the bay; by the latter, they refer to the journey by way of Cadiz and Tangier—”
“Cadiz!”
The exclamation came from his hearer.
“Cadiz,” repeated T.B. He bent his head forward and rested it for a moment in his hands. When he lifted it, his face was grave.
“It’s worth trying,” he muttered. “And,” he continued aloud, “it will be bringing down two birds with one stone.”
“Can I use the instrument again?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the officer readily.
T.B. rose.
“I’m going to Scotland Yard, and I shall not be away for more than ten minutes,” he said; and in a few seconds he was crossing Whitehall at a run. He passed through the entrance and made straight for the big bureau, where day in and day out the silent recorder sat with his pen, his cabinets, and his everlasting dossier.
T.B. knew he would be there, because there was a heavy calendar at the Old Bailey, and the silent man was working far into the night — arranging, sorting, and rearranging.
The detective was back at the Admiralty within the ten minutes, and together the two made their way to the instrument room.
“N.H.C,” responded almost at once, and T.B. sent his message.
“Tell George T. Baggin that another warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
The reply came immediately.
“Thanks. Get further particulars, but do not use names.”
T.B. read the reply and handed it without a word to the other.
“Please God, I’ll hang the man who sent that message,” he said with unusual earnestness.
21. Poltavo Strikes
It was half-past nine when T.B. sent and received the last message; and an hour later he had interviewed the Commissioner.
“Get your lady away all right?” his chief greeted him.
“Well away, sir,” said T.B. serenely. “Out of reach of Poltavo — his agents were watching the flat — there was a burglary there the very night the book arrived.”
“And the lady?”
“She is due in Jamaica in a few days.”
“And now—”
T.B. told the story of the developments. The Commissioner nodded from time to time.
“You’re an ingenious young man,” he said.
“One of these fine days somebody will badly want your blood.”
“It has often happened,” T.B. granted. He sat over a companionable cigar and a whisky and soda, talking until the hands of the clock were near on midnight; then he rose to take his leave.
“You will leave for Spain tomorrow?” asked the chief.
“Yes; by the first train. I shall take Van Ingen, with me; he speaks Spanish with ease, while I can only blunder through with a phrase or two. I can get the warrants from the Yard before I leave,” he continued, “and the Spanish authorities will give me all the help I need.”
“And what of Poltavo?” asked the Chief Commissioner.
T.B. shrugged his shoulders.
“We had a murderer there,” he said. “I am satisfied that he killed Moss. Whether he actually stabbed Hyatt, I am not sure. The man had such a perfect organisation in London that it is possible that one of his cutthroat friends served him in the case of that unfortunate young man. Count Poltavo can wait. If we get the others, we shall get him. He has powerful friends; we must move with caution.
“Goodnight, sir.”
He grasped the proffered hand, and his host ushered him into the silent street.
He took two steps forward, when a man rose apparently from the ground, and two shots rang out. T.B. had drawn his revolver and fired from his hip, and his assailant staggered back cursing as a dark shadow came running from the opposite side of the road to his help.
Then T.B. swayed, his knees bent under him, and he fell back into the Commissioner’s arms.
“I’m done,” he said, and the third man, hesitating a moment in the roadway, heard the words and slipped his revolver back into his pocket and fled.
22. The Convict From Ceutra
The streets of Cadiz were deserted. Only by the Quay was there any sign of life, for here the crew of the Brazilian warship, the Maria Braganza, were languidly embarking stores on flat-bottomed lighters, and discussing, with a wealth of language and in no complimentary terms, the energy of their commander. It was obvious, so they said in their picturesque language, that a warship was never intended to carry cargo, and if the Brazilian Government was foolish enough to purchase war stores in Spain, it should go a little farther, and charter a Spanish merchant ship to carry them.
So they cursed Captain Lombrosa for a dog and the son of a dog, and predicted for him an eternity of particular discomfort.
Captain Lombrosa, a short, swarthy man, knew nothing of his unpopularity and probably cared less. He was sitting in the Cafe of the Five Nations, near the Plaza Mayor, picking his teeth thoughtfully and reading from time to time the cablegram from his Government which informed him that certain defalcations of his had been discovered by the paymaster-general of the navy, and demanding peremptorily his return to Rio de Janeiro.
To say that Captain Lombrosa was unperturbed would be to exaggerate. No man who builds his house upon sand can calmly regard the shifting foundations of his edifice. But he was not especially depressed, for many reasons. The Government had merely anticipated events by a week or so.
He read the cablegram with its pencilled decodation, smiled sadly, put up his feet on a chair, and called for another bottle of Rioja.
There is an unlovely road through the dreary waste that leads from Cadiz to San Fernando. Beyond the city and beyond the Arsenal the road winds through the bleak salt marshes to Jerez, that Xeres de la Frontera which has given its name to the amber wine of Spain.
A solitary horseman cantered into San Fernando, his clothing white with brackish dust. He drew rein before the Cafe Cruz Blanca and dismounted, an untidy barefooted boy leading his horse away. There were few people in the saloon of the café, for a chill wind was abroad, and the cap-pa is a very poor protection against the icy breezes that blow from the Sierras.
A man greeted the horseman as he entered — a stout man with bulging cheeks and puffy eyes. He breathed wheezily, and his hands moved with a strange restlessness.
They hailed each other in the Andalusian dialect, and the newcomer ordered “Cafe c’leche.”
“Well,