The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
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There was no apparent connection between Homborgstrasse 22, Berlin, and No. 14, Rue de Cent, Paris, nor between the big, barren-looking house in the Calle de Recoletos in Madrid and 375, St. John Street, W.C. Nor, for the matter of that, between the little house perched upon one of the seven hills overlooking the Tagus and the pension near Nevski Prospekt in Petersburg.
One feature they had in common, and that was a stout flagstaff, upon which on festal days fluttered the flag of the respective nations.
Silinski, who was responsible, for the hiring or purchasing of all these properties, could have told you another connection less apparent, but Silinski was a notoriously silent man, and said little or nothing.
He sat in his well-furnished study in St. John Street, and round him and about was evidence of his refinement and taste. Rare prints hung on the wall, the furniture was sombrely magnificent, the carpet beneath his feet soft and thick and of sober hue, the desk before him such an one as a successful man of letters might affect.
There were photographs of eminent personages, kings, statesmen, ambassadors, great prima donnas. Some of these were autographed “a cher Silinski”; some were framed in silver, and, in the case of royalties, surmounted by tiny gilt crowns.
Silinski had never met royalty in his life, though he had once robbed a grand duke at Monte Carlo, and the autographs and loving messages written upon the purchased photographs were in Silinski’s own hand, though this fact was not generally known. This was Silinski’s weakness; many a greater man has shared it.
There came a gentle tap at his door and a man entered.
“Well?” demanded Silinski suavely.
“The police, illustrious,” said the man in Spanish, and with no particular sign of agitation.
Silinski nodded gravely.
“Admit,” he said, and in a few seconds T.B. Smith walked into the room.
“And what is your pleasure, gentlemen!” demanded Silinski.
“Little enough, Silinski,” said the other blandly. He looked round as though seeking a comfortable chair. In reality he was taking a rapid survey of the apartment. “I have a few questions to ask you.”
Silinski bowed, and motioned the Assistant-Commissioner to a seat.
“It is my misfortune,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, “that I have incurred your enmity; none the less, it will give me the greatest pleasure to afford you such assistance as lies in my power.”
T.B. smiled grimly.
“You have incurred nobody’s enmity, as I understand the situation,” he said. He looked again round the room. “You are very comfortably circumstanced, Silinski.”
“Fortune has been kind,” said the Pole suavely.
“One successful speculation,” mused T.B. aloud, “might found the fortunes of such a man as you.”
“I am no speculator,” said the other hastily. “It is too risky — I do not approve of gambling.”
“Yet you had dealings with Moss?”
“Investments, m’sieur — not speculations.”
“And with Hyatt?”
“As to Hyatt — I do not know him. I have never heard of him.”
“And the man,” T.B. paused, “from the — er — Eiffel Tower?”
Perhaps Silinski’s face grew a shade whiter, and the lines about his mouth hardened.
“These riddles you set me are beyond my understanding,” he said harshly. In a moment, however, he had recovered his equanimity.
“You are much too clever for me, Mr. Smith,” he said, with a smile.
“There is a fourth person who would seem to be in some way associated with your complicated financial affairs,” T.B. resumed. “Do you know a Monsieur Escoltier?”
Silinski sprang to his feet.
“Fourth person — M’sieur Escoltier?” he stammered. “What do you mean? I tell you, you are speaking in riddles. I do not understand you — I do not wish to understand you.” His voice grew louder and louder as he spoke. His energy seemed out of all proportion to the importance of the topic, and T.B. knit his brows in perplexity.
Then he suddenly sprang to his feet.
“Stop!” he said, l ‘ stop talking! You are bellowing because something is happening in this house that you do not wish me to hear — stop!”
But the frenzy of the Pole rose. He roared indignant, unintelligible protestations; he shouted denunciations of police espionage.
T.B., with bent head and every sense alert, stood before him. Through the flood of impassioned words he detected the sound; it was a noise strangely like the rattling of dried peas in a tin can.
Then as suddenly as he began, Silinski ceased, and the two men faced one another in silence.
“Silinski,” said T.B. at last, “before God, I believe you are a wicked murderer.”
“Then arrest me,” challenged the man; “call in the police who have been watching this house day and night since the death of Moss. Arrest me, as you did my sister!”
T.B. had all his work to suppress the exclamation of surprise that came to his lips.
“Extradite me under a false name, as you did her,” sneered Silinski; “carry me up to Liverpool in the dead of night and smuggle me on board a West Indian steamer.”
“I am not as a rule a curious man,” said T.B. slowly, “but I must confess that I should like to know where you secured all these valuable data.”
“Pooh!”
It was the old Silinski who paced the floor and snapped his fingers — the Silinski assured, arrogant, the hint of a swagger in his walk.
“You think, you English police, that the world goes blind at your command. My friend” — he stopped and pointed a lean forefinger at the other— “I can tell you many things. The hour you left London, the hour you arrived, the number of the stateroom in which you placed my poor, illused sister; your very words to her at parting.”
He stopped, biting his lips; he had said too much, and he knew it. In the enjoyment of puzzling an astute member of a profession regarded by him as made up of his natural enemies, he had allowed boastfulness to outrun discretion.
“So you know my last words to her,” repeated T.B., more slowly than ever, “although she and I were alone, although a thousand miles of sea separate you at this moment. I see.”
He said no more, but with a slight nod, and without any further talk, he descended the stairs that led to the big entrance-hall, and Silinski, pulling nervously at his moustache, heard the great door of the house close behind him.
XVII. The Man From the Eiffel Tower
In the holy of holies, the inner room within the inner room, wherein the editor of the London Morning Journal saw those visitors who were privileged to pass the outer portal, T.B. Smith sat, a sorely puzzled man, a scrap of disfigured paper in his hands.
He read it again and looked up at the editor.
“This might, of course, be a fake,” he said.
“It doesn’t read like a fake,” said the other.
“Admitting