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

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СКАЧАТЬ said the plainclothes man, “but that’s where you’re mistaken. I distinctly saw Sir George through the half-opened door. He was standing behind his servant.”

      “It’s a pity—” began T.B., when the detective pointed along the street in the direction of the Square.

      “There he is, sir,” he whispered; “he’s coming again.”

      Along the pavement, a little unsteadily, a young man walked. In the brilliant light of a street lamp T.B. saw that he was well dressed in a glaring way. The Assistant-Commissioner waited until the newcomer reached the next lamp; then walked to meet him.

      A young man, expensively garbed, red of face, and flashily jewelled — at a distance T.B. classified him as one of the more offensive type of nouveau riche. The stranger would have passed on his way, but T.B. stepped in front of him.

      “Excuse me, Mr. “He stopped with an incredulous gasp. “Mr. Moss!” he said wonderingly. “Mr. Lewis Moss, some time of Tokenhouse Yard, company promoter.”

      “Here, stash it, Mr. Smith,” begged the young man. He stood unsteadily, and in his eye was defiance. “Drop all that — reformed — me. Look ‘ere” — he lurched forward and caught T.B. by the lapel of his coat, and his breath was reminiscent of a distillery—” if you knew what I know, ah!”

      The “ah!” was triumph in a word.

      “If you knew what 1 know,” continued Mr. Moss, with relish; “but you don’t. You fellers at your game think you know toot, as Count Poltavo says; but you don’t.” He wagged his head wisely.

      T.B. waited.

      “I’m goin’ to see Calliper,” Mr. Moss went on, with gross familiarity, “an’ what I’ve got to say to him is worth millions — millions, I tell you. An’ when Calliper says to me, ‘ Mr. Moss, I thank you! ‘ and has done the right thing, I’ll come to you — see?”

      “I see,” said T.B., “but you mustn’t annoy Sir George any more tonight.”

      “Look here, Smith,” Mr. Moss went off at a tangent, “you want to know how I got acquainted with Count Poltavo — well, I’ll tell you. There’s a feller named Hyatt that I used to do a bit of business with. Quiet young feller who got marvellous tips — made a lot o’ money, he did, all because he bowled out Poltavo — see?”

      He stopped short, for it evidently dawned upon him that he was talking too much.

      “He sent you, eh?” Mr. Moss jerked the point of a gold-mounted stick in the direction of Sir George’s house. “Come down off his high ‘orse “ — the third “h” was too much for him— “and very wisely, very wisely.” He shook his head with drunken gravity. “As a man of the world,” he went on, “you bein’ one an’ me bein’ another, it only remains to fix a meeting between self an’ client — your client — an’ I can give him a few tips.”

      “That,” said T.B., “is precisely my desire.” He had ever the happy knack of dealing satisfactorily with drunken men. “Now let us review the position.”

      “First of all,” said Mr. Moss firmly, “who are these people?” He indicated Van Ingen and the detective. “If they’re friends of yours, old feller, say the word “ — and his gesture was generous— “friends of yours? Right!” Once more he became the man of affairs.

      “Let us get at the bottom of the matter,” said T.B. “Firstly, you wish to see Sir George Calliper?”

      The young man, leaning against some happily placed railings, nodded several times.

      “Although,” T.B. went on, shaking his head reprovingly, “you are not exactly—”

      “A bottle of fizz — a couple, nothing to cloud the mind,” said the young man airily. “I’ve never been drunk in me life.”

      “It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,” said T.B., “ — but that’s beside the matter; you were talking about a man called Hyatt who bawled Poltavo.”

      The young man pulled himself erect.

      “In a sense I was,” he said, with dignity, “in a sense I wasn’t; and now I must be toddling.” T.B. saw the sudden suspicion that came to him. “What do you know about the barrage?” he asked abruptly.

      The man started back, sobered.

      “Nothing,” he said harshly. “I know nothing. I know you, though, Mr. Bloomin’ Smith, and you ain’t goin’ to pump me. Here, I’m going.” He pushed T.B. aside. Van Ingen would have stopped him but for a look from his companion.

      “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 Van Ingen; “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 Van Ingen suddenly. The man was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open, one arm moving feebly.

      “Drunk?” said T.B., and leant 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 Van Ingen’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. Poltavo—”

      Then he died.

13. Hyatt

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