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

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СКАЧАТЬ suggested his chief flippantly, as he moved towards the door.

      “It is unlikely, sir,” replied T.B. coldly. The Chief Commissioner stood with his hand on the edge of the open door.

      “At any rate, they are finished,” he said, “their power for further mischief is destroyed.”

      “I appreciate your optimism, sir,” said T.B. impertinently, “which I regret to say I do not share.”

      “One thing is evident, and must be remembered,” T.B. went on, as his chief still lingered.

      “Outside of the Nine Men there must be in Europe hundreds of agents, who, without being aware of their principals, have been acting blindly for years in their interest. What of the men who went to the length of murder at Poltavo’s orders? What of the assassins in Europe and America who ‘arranged’ the suicide of the bank president and the wreck of the Sud Express? Not one of these men have we been able to track down. I tell you, sir, that outside of the inner council of this gang, Poltavo organised as great a band of villains as the world has ever seen. They remain; this is an indisputable fact; somewhere in the world, scattered materially, but bound together by bonds of Poltavo’s weaving, are a number of men who formed the working parts of the Nine Men’s great machine. For the moment the steam is absent Yes?”

      A constable was at the door.

      “A message for you, sir.”

      T.B. took the envelope and tore it open mechanically. It was a note from Van Ingen.

      “Saw Poltavo ten minutes ago in a hansom. Positive — no disguise. C.V.I.”

      Smith sat suddenly erect. “Poltavo in London!” he breathed. “It is incredible!”

      He stood up, busily engaged in speculation.

      *

      The little telegraph instrument near the Chief Inspector’s desk began to click. In every police station throughout the metropolis it snapped forth its message. In Highgate, in Camberwell, in sleepy Greenwich, in Ladywell, as in Stoke Newington.

      “Clickerty, clickerty, click,” it went, hastily, breathlessly. It ran:

      TO ALL STATIONS: ARREST AND DETAIN COUNT IVAN POLTAVO. [here the description followed.] ALL RESERVES OUT IN PLAIN CLOTHES.

      All reserves out!

      That was a remarkable order.

      London did not know of the happening; the homeward-bound suburbanite may have noticed a couple of keen-faced men standing idly near the entrance of the railway station, may have seen a loiterer on the platform — a loiterer who apparently had no train to catch. Curious men, too, came to the hotels, lounging away the whole evening in the entrance hall, mildly interested in people who came or went. Even the tram termini were not neglected, nor the theatre queues, nor the boardinghouses of Bloomsbury. Throughout London, from east to west, north to south, the work that Scotland Yard had set silent emissaries to perform was swiftly and expeditiously carried out.

      T.B. sat all that evening in his office waiting. One by one little pink slips were carried in to him and laid upon the desk before him.

      As the evening advanced they increased in number and length.

      At eight o’clock came a wire:

      NOT LEAVING BY HOOK OF HOLLAND ROUTE.

      Soon after nine:

      CONTINENTAL MAIL CLEAR.

      Then in rapid succession the great caravanserais reported themselves. Theatres, bars, restaurants, every place in London where men and women gather together, sent, through the plainclothes watchers, their messages.

      At eleven o’clock T.B. was reading a telegram from Harwich when the telephone at his elbow buzzed.

      He took up the receiver.

      “Hullo,” he said curtly.

      For a second there was no reply, and then, very clear and distinct, came a voice.

      “T.B. Smith, I presume.”

      It was the voice of Count Poltavo.

      If there had been anybody in the room but T.B., he might have imagined it was a very ordinary call the detective was receiving. Save for the fact that his face twitched, as was a characteristic of his when labouring under any great excitement, he gave no sign of the varied emotions Poltavo’s voice had aroused.

      “Yes, I am T.B. Smith; you are, of course, Count Poltavo?”

      “I am, of course, Count Poltavo,” said the voice suavely, “and it is on the tip of your tongue to ask me where I am.”

      “I am hardly as foolish as that,” said T.B. drily, “but wherever you are — and I gather from the clearness of your voice that you are in London — I shall have you.”

      There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.

      T.B.’s hand stole out and pressed a little bellpush that rested on the table.

      “Yes,” said Poltavo’s voice mockingly, “I am in London. I am desirous of knowing where my friends have hidden.”

      “Your friends?” T.B. was genuinely astonished.

      “My friends,” said the voice gravely, “who so ungenerously left me to die on the salt plains near Jerez whilst they were making their escape.”

      A constable entered the room whilst Poltavo was talking, and T.B. raised his hand warningly.

      “Tell me,” he said carelessly, “why you have not joined them.”

      Then, like a flash, he brought his hand down over the transmitter and turned to the waiting constable.

      “Run across to Mr. Elk’s room,” he said rapidly; “call the Treasury Exchange and ask what part of London — what office — this man is speaking to me from.”

      Poltavo was talking before T.B. had finished giving his instructions.

      “Why have I not joined them?” he said, and there was a little bitterness in his voice,—” because they do not wish to have me. Poltavo has served his purpose! Where are they now? — that is what I wish to know. More important still, I greatly desire a piece of information which you alone, monsieur, can afford me.”

      The sublime audacity of the man brought a grin to T.B.’s face.

      “And that is?” he asked.

      “There was,” said Poltavo, “amongst the documents you found at our headquarters in Jerez a scrap of paper written somewhat unintelligibly, and apparently — I should imagine, for I have not seen it — without much meaning.”

      “There was,” said T.B. cheerfully.

      “So much I gathered from Baggin’s СКАЧАТЬ