The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ with its green trees and its sunny river and its very pleasant sights — none of which the Recorder ever sees, being shortsighted from overmuch study of criminal records.

8. The Ambassador Takes a Hand

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      Mr. John Hammond Bierce, American Ambassador and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of Saint James, sat in his spacious private office, and listened with an air of grave attention to the story his young protégé poured into his ears. As Van Ingen concluded, the great man leaned back in his swivel-chair until the spring creaked, and stifled a yawn behind a white, well-groomed hand.

      “My dear boy,” he said, “this is a very sad tale, and I am genuinely sorry for Miss Grayson. Her father appears to have been a rascal. But,” he smiled across at his youthful visitor, “I do not quite see what the American ambassador has to do with the business. I understand you consulted me in my official capacity.”

      “I — I thought perhaps you might wish to take some action—”

      “But the man is dead!” exclaimed the ambassador. “Dead and buried.”

      “That is just the question!” cried Cord eagerly. “Is he dead? For my part, I suspect he is very much alive and kicking. His suicide was only a ruse, to mask his plans from the public.”

      “A very successful one!” retorted the older man drily. “His daughter identified the body and was present at its burial. It was in all the papers.”

      “That is another point!” exclaimed Van Ingen.

      “Not once was I permitted to view the body. I was even denied admittance to the house until three days after the funeral. Throughout the affair the utmost secrecy was observed.”

      “That seems natural, under the circumstances.”

      Van Ingen coloured warmly. “Pardon me, it is not natural, sir, when you know all the circumstances. I was an intimate of the family — almost, one might say, in the position of a son.” He halted, and then continued, with a certain dignity:

      “I have not spoken on the subject to you before, sir, chiefly because there has been nothing definite to say. But Miss Grayson is, I hope and pray, sir, my future wife.”

      “Ah!” The ambassador surveyed him with a keen but kindly glance.

      “I feel bound,” he observed thoughtfully, “to make a few remarks, both as your guardian and as a man who has seen something of the world. The wife of a rising young diplomat must be, like Caesar’s wife, above reproach. In short, my dear boy, to marry Miss Grayson will absolutely ruin your career.”

      Van Ingen sprang to his feet; his face was livid with anger.

      “Then, sir,” he cried hotly, “I shall ruin my career, with the greatest pleasure in life. Miss Grayson — Doris — is worth inestimably more to me than any paltry success, or material advantage. Moreover,” he continued, composing himself with a strong effort, “I disagree with you, even upon worldly grounds. Marriage with Doris will not mar me — it will make me. Without her, I shall be ineffectual, a nobody to the end of my days. Without her, living has no aim, no purpose. She justifies existence. I can’t explain these things, sir, even to you. I — I love her!”

      “So it would seem!” murmured the ambassador. The sternness had melted out of his face, leaving a whimsical tenderness.

      “Sit down, my dear boy! Other people have been as hot in love as you before now — and as rashly headstrong.” A shade passed over his features. “Come, let us get down to business. What is it you wish me to do — administer a love-potion to the young woman? Or restore the father to life?”

      “I want you to investigate the case,” Cord replied simply. “Or rather, give me the power to do so.”

      “There’s Scotland Yard, you know,” suggested his friend mildly.

      “They could cooperate with us. In fact, that is what I should like to ask. That you send for Mr. T.B. Smith, who is already in charge of the business, and tell him that a certain strangeness in the circumstances has aroused your suspicions, and that you wish to sift the affair to the bottom. But since you cannot move openly, on account of your conspicuous position, you desire to join forces secretly, and to that end you offer a bonus of £500 to clear up the mystery — to prove, satisfactorily, that Grayson either is, or is not,, dead.”

      “Five hundred pounds!” mused the ambassador. “You are in love!”

      Van Ingen flushed at the thrust. “I am in earnest,” he said simply.

      The ambassador studied his fingertips. “I might say,” he observed gravely, “that such a course as you outline — minus the £500 — had already occurred to me. Certain financial — er — adventures in which Grayson was engaged, with others, have come before my attention, and it appeared advisable to throw a searchlight upon the somewhat shadowy obscurity of his death. But my attitude in the investigation differs slightly from yours.” His eyes, suddenly upraised, were slightly quizzical.

      Van Ingen leaned forward breathlessly. He appeared to hang on his companion’s words. “Go on! Go on, sir!” he urged.

      The older man continued: “I do not ask, then, as you, where is Mr. Grayson? I ask, where is Mr. Grayson’s money? The gentleman may be in heaven, or — ah! — elsewhere; presumably the latter. But, in either case, his money is not with him. Where is it, then? These, and several other interesting queries, I am waiting to put to Mr. Smith, who “ — he took out his watch—” is due here in precisely ten minutes.”

      He smiled blandly at the young man, who seized his hand and wrung it fervently.

      “And you will let me work under him, for you?”

      “That was my intention before this interview. But, since your revelation, I doubt its wisdom. Coolness, impartiality of judgment—”

      “Oh, come, sir!” protested Van Ingen, reddening. “I think I’ve had enough!”

      The ambassador laughed. “Perhaps you have,” he conceded. “Especially as the young lady has not yet struck her colours — eh?”

      “Nor shows the slightest signs of doing so,” replied Van Ingen ruefully. “There’s another fellow making the running — that foreign beggar, Poltavo.”

      The ambassador looked up swiftly. “Not Count Poltavo, distantly related to the Czar?”

      “Related to the devil!” muttered Van Ingen gloomily. “The way he gets around Doris—”

      His guardian looked a little disturbed. “I am sorry for you, my boy. Poltavo is a strong man. I fancy he will give you quite a fight.” There was a discreet knock at the door, and, at the ambassador’s call, Jamieson entered. He bore a card, which he laid upon the table.

      “I told him that you were engaged, Mr. Bierce, but he said he came in answer to your note.”

      “Quite right!” replied the ambassador briskly.

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