The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
T.B. found the Chief Commissioner of Police at his club, and unfolded his plan.
The Chief looked grave.
“It might very easily lead to a horrible catastrophe if you carry that scheme into execution.”
“It might very easily lead to a worse if I don’t,” said T.B. brutally, “I am too young to die. At the worst it can only be a ‘police blunder,’ such as you read about in every evening newspaper that’s published,” he urged, “and I look at the other side of the picture. If this woman communicates with her principals, nothing is more certain than that Thursday will see the blowing up of the Wady Semlik Barrage. These ‘Nine Bears’ are operating on the sure knowledge that Bronte’s Bank is going to break. The stocks they are attacking are companies banking with Bronte, and it’s ten chances to one they will kill Sir George Calliper in order to give an artistic finish to the failure.”
The Commissioner bit his lip thoughtfully. “And,” urged T.B. Smith, “the N. H. C. will be warned, and bang goes our only chance of bagging the lot!”
The Commissioner smiled.
“Your language, T.B.!” he deplored; then, “do as you wish — but what about the real Mary Brown?”
“Oh, she can be sent on next week with apologies. We can get a new warrant if necessary.”
“Where is she?”
“At Bow Street.”
“No; I mean the Spanish lady?”
T.B. grinned.
“She’s locked up in your office, sir,” he said cheerfully.
The Commissioner said nothing, but T.B. declined to meet his eye.
At four o’clock the next morning, a woman attendant woke La Belle Espagna from a fitful sleep, and a few minutes afterwards T.B., dressed for a journey and accompanied by a hardfaced wardress and a detective, came in.
“Where are you going to take me?” she demanded; but T.B. ‘s reply was not very informing.
A closed carriage deposited them at Euston in time to catch the early morning train.
In the compartment reserved for her and the wardress — it was a corridor carriage, and T.B. and his man occupied the next compartment — she found a dainty breakfast waiting for her, and a supply of literature. She slept the greater part of the journey and woke at the jolting of a shunting engine being attached to the carriage.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“We’re there,” was the cryptic reply of the woman attendant.
She was soon to discover, for when the carriage finally came to a standstill and the door was opened, she stepped down on to a wind-swept quay. Ahead of her the great white hull of a steamer rose, and before she could realize the situation she had been hurried up the sloping gangway on to the deck.
Evidently T.B.’s night had been profitably spent, for he was expected. The purser met him.
“We got your telegrams,” he said. “Is this the lady!”
T.B. nodded.
The purser led the way down the spacious companion.
“I have prepared ‘C’ suite,” he said, and ushered the party into a beautifully appointed cabin.
She noticed that a steel grating had been newly fixed to the porthole, but that was the only indication of her captivity.
“I have enlisted the help of the stewardess,” said T.B., “and you will find all the clothing you are likely to require for the voyage. I am also instructed to hand you three hundred pounds. You will find your little library well stocked. I, myself,” he stated with all the extravagance to which the Iberian tongue lends itself, “have denuded my own poor stock of Spanish and French novels in order that you might not be dull.”
“I understand that I am to be deported?” she said.
“That is an excellent understanding,” he replied.
“By what authority?” she demanded. “It is necessary to obtain an order from the Court.”
“For the next fourteen days, and until this ship reaches Jamaica, you will be Mary Brown, who was formally extradited last Saturday on a charge of fraud,” said T.B. “If you are wise, you will give no trouble, and nobody on board need have an inkling that you are a prisoner. You can enjoy the voyage, and at the end—”
“At the end?” she asked, seeing that he paused.
“At the end we shall discover our mistake,” said T.B., “and you may return.”
“I will summon the captain and demand to be put ashore!” she cried.
“A very natural request on the part of a prisoner,” said T.B. meditatively, “but I doubt very much whether it would have any effect upon an unimaginative seaman.”
He left her raging.
For the rest of the day he idled about the ship. The Port Syfyil was due to leave at four o’clock, and when the first warning bell had sounded he went below to take his leave.
He found her much calmer.
“I would like to ask one question,” she said. “It is not like the police to provide me with money, and to reserve such a cabin as this for my use — who is behind this?”
“I wondered whether you would ask that,” said T.B. “Sir George was very generous—”
“Sir George Calliper!” she gasped. “You have not dared—”
“Yes, it needed some daring,” admitted T.B., “to wake an eminent banker out of his beauty sleep to relate such a story as I had to tell — but he was very nice about it.”
She brooded for some moments.
“You will be sorry for this,” she said. “The Nine Men will know much sooner than you imagine.”
“Before they know this, they will know other things,” he said. And with this cryptic utterance he left her.
He stood watching the great steamer moving slowly down the Mersey. He had left the wardress on board to make the voyage, and the other detective had remained to report.
As the vessel swung round a bend of the Mersey out of sight, he murmured flippantly:
“Next stop — Jamaica!”
T.B. reached his chambers at noon that day. He stopped to ask a question of the porter.
“Yes, sir,” said that worthy, “he arrived all right with your card last night. I made him comfortable for the night, got him some supper, and told my mate who is on duty at night to look after him.”
T.B. nodded. Declining the lift-boy’s services, he mounted the marble stairs.
He reached the door of his flat and inserted the key.
“Now for Mr. Hyatt,” he thought, and opened the door.
There was a little hallway to his chambers, in which the electric light still burned, in spite of the flood of sunlight that came from a long window at the end.
“Extravagant beggar!” muttered T.B.
The diningroom was empty, and the blinds were drawn, and here, too, the electric light was full on. There was a spare bedroom to the left, and to this T.B. made his way.
He threw open the door.
“Hyatt!” he called; but there was no answer, and he entered.