The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
Silinski had a sister who was beautiful. She enjoyed a vogue in Madrid as Foudonitya, a great dancer. She went her own way, having no reason for showing respect for her brother, or regard for his authority. This did not greatly exercise Silinski. But her way — so easy a way! — led to outrageous unconventionalities, and there were certain happenings which need not be particularized. She was solemnly excommunicated by the Archbishop of Toledo, and the evening newspapers published her photograph.
Silinski was annoyed.
“Child,” he had said gravely to her, “you did wrong to come into conflict with the Church.”
“It will be a good advertisement,” she said.
Silinski shook his head, and said nothing.
That night Foudonitya was hissed off the stage of the Casino, and came to her brother, not weeping or storming, but philosophically alarmed.
“What am I to do?” she asked.
“Go away into the country and perform good works; be kind to the poor, hire a duenna, and make the acquaintance of the local correspondent of the Heraldo de Madrid.”
“It will cost money,’ 9 said the practical Catherine — this was her name.
“You can do nothing without money,” said Silinski, and would have entered the saying in his notebook, but for the fact that it sounded trite.
So Catherine went into the country, and from time to time there appeared notes of her charity in the Madrid papers. She was still in the country when the ban of excommunication was withdrawn and she did penance at Cordova.
Silinski was not greatly surprised to see her dining at the Hotel de Paris at Burgos, on the night of the eclipse, but her hosts — they could not be her guests, for Catherine was one of the frugal sort — gave him occasion for thought. He stood in the doorway watching them. He had been looking for an empty table when he saw Catherine, and after a first glance he would have turned and departed, waiting until his sister was disengaged, but the fat man saw him.
“Hi!” he bellowed, “there he is — stop him, somebody!”
Silinski required no stopping; rather he came forward with a smile, offering his hand to the beautiful girl.
“That was the fellow who was standing near me when I lost the money,” fumed the fat man, and looked helplessly round for a policeman.
There was a scraping of chairs, a confusion of voices; people rose from their seats craning their necks in an endeavour to secure a better view of what was happening, in the midst of which Mr. Meyers found himself pulled to his chair.
“Keep quiet — you,” hissed Baggin’s voice in his ear; “you fool, you’re getting exactly a million dollars’ worth of the wrong kind of publicity — he knows the girl.” He leaned across the table and smiled crookedly at Silinski. “Sit down, won’t you? My friend thinks he knows you — introduce us, Senora.”
The commotion died down as it had begun, occasional curious glances being thrown at the strange quartette.
“Your brother?” Baggin looked keenly at the bowing stranger. “Well, we’ve met him before, and my friend entertained rather unjust suspicions — but they were preposterous, of course.”
Silinski bowed again with a grave and patient smile.
“He didn’t understand English on the hill, eh?”
Meyers choked as his suspicions found fresh food. “Don’t like it Baggin, don’t like it, I tell you!” He had a trick of dropping pronouns, which gave his speech an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.
“We had the pleasure of meeting your sister in Eonda a few weeks ago,” Baggin went on smoothly, and Silinski nodded. He did not ask by what means this prosperous-looking American had secured an introduction in this land of punctilio. On Catherine’s hand blazed a ring he had not remembered seeing before. “As we are leaving Spain tomorrow, we offered her a parting feast—”
He was feeling his way with Silinski, not quite sure of his ground. Silinski might be the outraged relative, the proud hidalgo, quickly and easily affronted, terrible in his vengeance. The girl needed some explaining away.
As for Silinski, did Baggin but know, the girl had explained her presence when she laid her hand on the white tablecloth and the fires of her ring leaped and fell in the gaslight.
“Senor,” said Silinski benevolently, “I am gratified beyond measure with your courtesy. We Bohemians, we artists, ask nor offer excuse for our departures from the convention. My little one” — he patted Catherine’s white hand— “makes friends quickly, but” — here he shrugged his shoulders and turned a pained face to the wheezing Mr. Meyers— “some observations have been made which reflect upon my honour.”
“No offence,” growled Meyers sulkily.
“Pardon,” Silinski raised his hand, dignity and respect in every pose, “pardon, Senor, I could not fail to comprehend your accusation. I stood by your side on the hill, so absorbed, so rapt in the glories of the phenomena, that I could not bring my elated mind to the level of understanding.” He resolved to remember this phrase. “I understood nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing, but the astral splendour—”
“No offence, no offence,” grumbled the fat man, “didn’t think before I spoke; worried, worried, worried!” He waggled his fat hand to and fro as though illustrating the process of perturbation.
“As to that,” said Silinski, with a magnificent sweep of hand, “we agree to forget; but you lost money—”
“Lost money!” the fat man glared, “lost more than money, important documents, a precioso — precious, savvy — letter from a feller in the city, no possible value except to owner, see?”
“Let us go on with our dinner,” said Baggin roughly; “you talk too much, Louis.”
“Letters have been lost, seemingly, irredeemably lost,” persisted Silinski, who was not at all anxious to change the subject, “yet, by such agencies as I have at present in my mind, have been restored to their grateful and generous owners.”
“Detectives, eh?” Meyers’ glare was now ferocious. “Spying, pryin’, lyin’ detectives? No! by—”
Baggin looked across at the girl in patient despair.
“I was not thinking of detectives — by the way, Burgos seems filled with these gentlemen,” Silinski went on. “I was thinking of a genius who makes this country his home. His name” — Silinski’s voice was emphatic as he created from his mind the wonderful investigator— “his name is Senor don Sylvester de Gracia, and he is a personal friend of mine.”
“Oh! let the thing go,” interrupted Baggin impatiently. “You’ve lost it, and there’s an end to it; the thief will be satisfied with the money and tear the letter up.”
“Unless,” mused Silinski, “the thief is arrested by the police, and the letter is found upon him. Then the authorities might send for Senor T.B. Smith — eh?”
Meyers’ face went ashen, and his thick lips began to quiver like a child on the point of crying.
“Smith? T.B. Smith? Commissioner, Scotland Yard! Not here, eh? Damn it, he’s not here!”
“I passed him in the Plaza Mayos less than an hour ago; a gentleman very easily amused.”
“Smith!” Meyers’ shaking hand poured out a glass of amber wine. “Bah! mistaken!”
“I know him slightly,” said Silinski modestly (it was T.B. Smith who had marked him for deportation under the Undesirable Aliens Act); “I never forget a face.”