THE COMPLETE FOUR JUST MEN SERIES (6 Detective Thrillers in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ question was directed to Sir Philip Ramon as he sat huddled up in the capacious depths of his office chair.

      “You want to use me as a bait?” he asked sharply.

      The detective expostulated.

      “Not exactly that, sir; we want to give these men a chance — —”

      “I understand perfectly,” said the Minister, with some show of irritation.

      The detective resumed:

      “We know now how the infernal machine was smuggled into the House; on the day on which the outrage was committed an old member, Mr. Bascoe, the member for North Torrington, was seen to enter the House.”

      “Well?” asked Sir Philip in surprise.

      “Mr. Bascoe was never within a hundred miles of the House of Commons on that date,” said the detective quietly. “We might never have found it out, for his name did not appear in the division list. We’ve been working quietly on that House of Commons affair ever since, and it was only a couple of days ago that we made the discovery.”

      Sir Philip sprang from his chair and nervously paced the floor of his room.

      “Then they are evidently well acquainted with the conditions of life in England,” he asserted rather than asked.

      “Evidently; they’ve got the lay of the land, and that is one of the dangers of the situation.”

      “But,” frowned the other, “you have told me there were no dangers, no real dangers.”

      “There is this danger, sir,” replied the detective, eyeing the Minister steadily, and dropping his voice as he spoke, “men who are capable of making such disguise are really outside the ordinary run of criminals. I don’t know what their game is, but whatever it is, they are playing it thoroughly. One of them is evidently an artist at that sort of thing, and he’s the man I’m afraid of — today.”

      Sir Philip’s head tossed impatiently.

      “I am tired of all this, tired of it” — and he thrashed the edge of his desk with an open palm— “detectives and disguises and masked murderers until the atmosphere is, for all the world, like that of a melodrama.”

      “You must have patience for a day or two,” said the plain-spoken officer.

      The Four Just Men were on the nerves of more people than the Foreign Minister.

      “And we have not decided what is to be our plan for this evening,” he added.

      “Do as you like,” said Sir Philip shortly, and then: “Am I to be allowed to go to the House tonight?”

      “No; that is not part of the programme,” replied the detective.

      Sir Philip stood for a moment in thought.

      “These arrangements; they are kept secret, I suppose?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “Who knows of them?”

      “Yourself, the Commissioner, your secretary, and myself.”

      “And no one else?”

      “No one; there is no danger likely to arise from that source. If upon the secrecy of your movements your safety depended it would be plain sailing.”

      “Have these arrangements been committed to writing?” asked Sir Philip.

      “No, sir; nothing has been written; our plans have been settled upon and communicated verbally; even the Prime Minister does not know.”

      Sir Philip breathed a sigh of relief.

      “That is all to the good,” he said, as the detective rose to go.

      “I must see the Commissioner. I shall be away for less than half an hour; in the meantime I suggest that you do not leave your room,” he said.

      Sir Philip followed him out to the anteroom, in which sat Hamilton, the secretary.

      “I have had an uncomfortable feeling,” said Falmouth, as one of his men approached with a long coat, which he proceeded to help the detective into, “a sort of instinctive feeling this last day or two, that I have been watched and followed, so that I am using a car to convey me from place to place: they can’t follow that, without attracting some notice.” He dipped his hand into the pocket and brought out a pair of motoring goggles. He laughed somewhat shamefacedly as he adjusted them. “This is the only disguise I ever adopt, and I might say, Sir Philip,” he added with some regret, “that this is the first time during my twentyfive years of service that I have ever played the fool like a stage detective.”

      After Falmouth’s departure the Foreign Minister returned to his desk.

      He hated being alone: it frightened him. That there were two score detectives within call did not dispel the feeling of loneliness. The terror of the Four was ever with him, and this had so worked upon his nerves that the slightest noise irritated him. He played with the penholder that lay on the desk. He scribbled inconsequently on the blottingpad before him, and was annoyed to find that the scribbling had taken the form of numbers of figure 4.

      Was the Bill worth it? Was the sacrifice called for? Was the measure of such importance as to justify the risk? These things he asked himself again and again, and then immediately, What sacrifice? What risk?

      “I am taking the consequence too much for granted,” he muttered, throwing aside the pen, and half turning from the writing-table. “There is no certainty that they will keep their words; bah! it is impossible that they should — —”

      There was a knock at the door.

      “Hullo, Superintendent,” said the Foreign Minister as the knocker entered. “Back again already!”

      The detective, vigorously brushing the dust from his moustache with a handkerchief, drew an official-looking blue envelope from his pocket.

      “I thought I had better leave this in your care,” he said, dropping his voice; “it occurred to me just after I had left; accidents happen, you know.”

      The Minister took the document.

      “What is it?” he asked.

      “It is something which would mean absolute disaster for me if by chance it was found in my possession,” said the detective, turning to go.

      “What am I to do with it?”

      “You would greatly oblige me by putting it in your desk until I return”; and the detective stepped into the anteroom, closed the door behind him and, acknowledging the salute of the plainclothes officer who guarded the outer door, passed to the motorcar that awaited him.

      Sir Philip looked at the envelope with a puzzled frown.

      It bore the superscription Confidential and the address, Department A, C1D, Scotland Yard.

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