The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
his chief.
“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 Elk, “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 Elk suddenly.
The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly.
“Drunk!” said T.B., and leaned 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 Elk’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.”
Then he died.
IX. 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 he walked back to his chambers in the early hours of the morning.
“Hyatt — the man on the Eiffel Tower — the Wady Barrage — the mysterious bears — what connection was there one with another”
“I want a private room,” he informed the proprietor, who came to meet him, with a bow.
“I’m ver’ sorry, Mr. Smith, but I have not—”
“But you have three,” said T.B. indignantly.
“I offer a thousand regrets,” said the distressed restaurateur; “they are engaged. If you had only—”
“But, name of dog! name of a sacred pipe!” expostulated T.B. unscrupulously. Was it not possible to pretend that there had been a mistake; that one room had already been engaged?
“Impossible, m’sieur! In No. 1 we have no less a person than the Premier of SouthWest Australia, who is being dined by his fellow-colonists; in No. 2 a family party of Lord Redlands; in No. 3 — ah! in No. 3—”
“Ah, in No. 3!” repeated T.B. cunningly, and the proprietor dropped his voice to a whisper.
“La Belle Espagna!” he murmured. He named the great Spanish dancer with relish. “She, and her fiance’s friend, eh?”
“Her fiancé’s?” I didn’t know—”
“It is a secret “ he looked round as if he were fearful of eavesdroppers, “but it is said that La Belle Espagna is to be married to a rich admirer.”
“Name?” asked T.B. carelessly.
The proprietor shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not inquire the name of my patrons,” he said, “but I understand that it is to be the young Lord Carleby.”
The name told T.B. nothing.
“Well,” he said easily, “I will take a table in the restaurant. I do not wish to interrupt a tête-à-tête.”
“Oh, it is not Carleby tonight,” the proprietor hastened to assure him. “I think mamzelle would prefer that it was — not; it is a stranger.”
T.B. sauntered into the brilliantly lighted room, having handed his hat and coat to a waiter. He found a deserted table. Luck was with him to an extraordinary extent; that Sir George should have chosen Meggioli’s was the greatest good fortune of all
At that time Count Menshikoff was paying one of his visits to England. The master of the St. Petersburg secret police was a responsibility. For his protection it was necessary that a small army of men should be detailed, and since Meggioli’s was the restaurant he favoured, at least one man of the Criminal Investigation Department was permanently employed at that establishment.
T.B. called a waiter, and the man came swiftly. He had a large white face, big unwinking black eyes, and heavy bushy eyebrows, that stamped his face as one out of the common. His name — which is unimportant — was Vellair, and foreign notabilities his specialty.
“Soup — consommé, crème de—”
T.B., studying his menu, asked quietly, “is it possible to see and hear what is going on in No. 3?”
“The private room?”
“Yes.”
The waiter adjusted the table with a soft professional touch. “There is a small anteroom, and a ventilator, a table that might be pushed against the wall, and a chair,” said the waiter, concisely. “If you remain here I will make sure.”
He scribbled a mythical order on his little pad and disappeared.
He came back in five minutes with a small tureen of soup. As he emptied its contents into the plate before T.B. he said, “All right; the key is on the inside. The door is numbered 11.”
T.B. picked up the wine list. “Cover me when I leave,” he said.
He had finished his soup when the waiter brought him a note. He broke open the envelope and read the contents with an expression of annoyance.
“I shall be back in a few minutes,” he said rising; “reserve this table.”
The waiter bowed.
XI. The Dancing Girl
T.B. reached the second floor. The corridor was deserted; he walked quickly to No. 11. The door yielded to his push. He closed it behind him and noiselessly locked it. He took a tiny electric lamp from his pocket and threw the light cautiously round.
He found the table and chair placed ready for him, and blessed Vellair silently.
The ventilator was a small one, he had located it easily enough when he had entered the room by the gleam of light that came through it. Very carefully he mounted the table, stepped lightly on to the chair, and looked down into the