CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips Oppenheim

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      She laughed.

      “Never you mind,” she said. “I have done what you asked me anyway. If Mr. Ruff had not found me an agreeable companion he would not have bothered about getting Spencer to meet me. And now he’s done it,” she added, “I do believe he’s a little jealous.”

      John Dory glared, but he said nothing. It seemed to him that his hour of revenge was close at hand!

      It was the first occasion upon which words of this sort had passed between Peter Ruff and his secretary. There was no denying the fact that Miss Violet Brown was in a passion. It was an hour past the time at which she usually left the office. For an hour she had pleaded, and Peter Ruff remained unmoved.

      “You are a fool!” she cried to him at last. “I am a fool, too, that I have ever wasted my thoughts and time upon you. Why can’t I make you see? In every other way, heaven knows, you are clever enough! And yet there comes this vulgar, commonplace, tawdry little woman from heaven knows where, and makes such a fool of you that you are willing to fling away your career—to hold your wrists out for John Dory’s handcuffs!”

      “My dear Violet,” Peter Ruff answered deprecatingly, “you really worry me—you do indeed!”

      “Not half so much as you worry me,” she declared. “Look at the time. It’s already past seven. At eight o’clock Mrs. Dory—your Maud—is coming in here hoping to find her old sweetheart.”

      “Why not?” he murmured.

      “Why not, indeed?” Miss Brown answered angrily. “Don’t you know—can’t you believe—that close on her heels will come her husband—that Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, if ever he comes to life in this room, will leave it between two policemen?”

      Peter Ruff sighed.

      “What a pessimist you are, my dear Violet!” he said.

      She came up to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders.

      “Peter,” she said, “I will tell you something—I must! I am fond of you, Peter. I always have been. Don’t make me miserable if there is no need for it. Tell me honestly—do you really believe in this woman?”

      He removed her hands gently, and raised them to his lips.

      “My dear girl,” he said, “I believe in every one until I find them out. I look upon suspicion as a vice. But, at the same time,” he added, “there are always certain precautions which one takes.”

      “What precautions can you take?” she cried. “Can you sit there and make yourself invisible? John Dory is not a fool. The moment he is in this room with the door closed behind him, it is the end.”

      “We must hope not,” Peter Ruff said cheerfully. “There are other things which may happen, you know.”

      She turned away from him a little drearily.

      “You do not mind if I stay?” she said. “I am not working to-night. Perhaps, later on, I may be of use!”

      “As you will,” he answered. “You will excuse me for a little time, won’t you? I have some preparations to make.”

      She turned her head away from him. He left the room and ascended the stairs to his own apartments.

      Eight o’clock was striking from St. Martin’s Church when the door of Peter Ruff’s office was softly opened and closed again. A man in a slouch hat and overcoat entered, and after feeling along the wall for a moment, turned up the electric light. Violet Brown rose from her place with a little sob. She stretched out her hand to him.

      “Peter!” she cried. “Peter!”

      “My name,” the newcomer said calmly, “is Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald.”

      “Oh, listen to me!” she begged. “There is still time, if you hurry. Think how many clever men before you have been deceived by the woman in whom they trusted. Please, please go! Hurry upstairs and put those things away.”

      “Madam,” the newcomer said, “I am much obliged to you for your interest, but I think that you are making a mistake. I have come here to meet—”

      He stopped short. There was a soft knocking at the door. A stifled scream broke from Violet Brown’s lips.

      “It is too late!” she cried. “Peter! Peter!”

      She sank into her chair and covered her face with her hands. The door was opened and Maud came in. When she saw who it was who sat in Peter Ruff’s place, she gave a little cry. Perhaps after all, she had not believed that this thing would happen.

      “Spencer!” she cried, “Spencer! Have you really come back?”

      He held out his hands.

      “You are glad to see me?” he asked.

      She came slowly forward. The man rose from his place and came towards her with outstretched hands. Then through the door came John Dory, and one caught a glimpse of others behind him.

      “If my wife is not glad to see you, Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald,” he aid, in a tone from which he vainly tried to keep the note of triumph, “I can assure you that I am. You slipped away from me cleverly at Daisy Villa, but this time I think you will not find it so easy.”

      Maud shrank back, and her husband took her place. But Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald looked upon them both as one who looks upon figures in a dream. Miss Brown rose hurriedly from her seat. She came over to him and thrust her arm through his.

      “Peter,” she said, taking his hand in hers, “don’t shoot. It isn’t worth while. You should have listened to me.”

      The little man in the gold-rimmed spectacles looked at her, looked at Mr. John Dory, looked at the woman who was shrinking back now against the wall.

      “Really,” he said, “this is the most extraordinary situation in which I ever found myself!”

      “We will help you to realise it,” John Dory cried, and the triumph in his tone had swelled into a deeper note. “I came here to arrest Mr. Fitzgerald, but I hear this young lady call you ‘Peter.’ Perhaps this may be the solution—”

      The little man struck the table with the flat of his hand.

      “Come,” he said, “this is getting a bit too thick. First of all—you,” he said, turning to Miss Brown—“my name is not Peter, and I have no idea of shooting anybody. As for that lady against the wall, I don’t know her—never saw her before in my life. As for you,” he added, turning to John Dory, “you talk about arresting me—what for?”

      Mr. John Dory smiled.

      “There is an old warrant,” he said, “which I have in my pocket, but I fancy that there are a few little things since then which we may have to enquire into.”

      “This beats me!” the little man declared. “Who do you think I am?”

      “Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, СКАЧАТЬ