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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ drunken sailor, obviously of foreign extraction, was ejected, fighting, from a small public-house in the Edgware Road. He rose from the ground slowly, and stood apparently debating in his mind whether he should go away quietly or whether he should return to the attack. It is not too much to say that had he decided upon the pacific course, the mystery of the whereabouts of the Nine Bears might never have been elucidated. In that two seconds of deliberation hung the fates of Baggin and his confederates, and the reputation of Scotland Yard.

      The foreign sailor made up his mind. Back to the swing-doors of the tavern he staggered, pushed them open, and entered.

      A few minutes later a police-whistle blew, and a commonplace constable strolled leisurely to the scene of the disturbance and took into custody the pugnacious foreigner on a charge of “drunk and disorderly.”

      This was the beginning of the final fight with the “Bears,” a fight which cost Europe over a million of money and many lives, but which closed forever the account of the Nine Bears of Cadiz.

      “Here is a case that will amuse you, T.B.,” said the Chief, strolling into his bureau; “ — a man, giving the name of Silva, who has been taken to the police-station on the prosaic charge of ‘D. and D.,’ is found to be a walking cash deposit. Twelve hundred pounds in Bank of England notes and 26,000 francs in French money was found in his possession. He speaks little or no English, has the appearance of being a sailor — will you go down and see what you can make of him?”

      In a quarter of an hour the Assistant-Commissioner was at the police-station.

      “Yes, sir,” said the station sergeant, “he’s quiet now. I don’t think he’s so very drunk, only pugilistically so.”

      “What do you make of him?”

      “He’s a sailor; a deserter from some foreign navy, I should say. He has underclothes of a uniform type, and there’s a sort of device on his singlet — three stars and a number.”

      “Brazilian Navy,” said T.B. with promptness.

      “Talkative?”

      The sergeant smiled.

      “In his own language, very,” he said drily.

      “When I searched him, he said a great number of things which were probably very rude.”

      T.B. nodded.

      “I’ll see him,” he said.

      A gaoler led him down a long corridor. On either side were long stone-painted doors, each with a little steel wicket.

      Stopping before one door, he inserted his bright key in the lock, snapped back a polished bolt, and the door swung open.

      A man who was sitting on a wooden bench with his head in his hands, jumped to his feet as the Assistant-Commissioner entered, and poured forth a volume of language.

      “Softly, softly,” said T.B. “You speak French, my friend.”

      “Oui, monsieur,” said the man. “Though I am Spanish.”

      “You are a deserter from a Brazilian warship,” said T.B.

      The man stared at him defiantly.

      “Is not that so, friend?”

      The prisoner shrugged his shoulders.

      “I should like to smoke,” was all that he said. T.B. took his gold case from an inside pocket and opened it.

      “Many thanks,” said the sailor, and took the lighted match the gaoler had struck. If he had known the ways of the English police, he would have grown suspicious. Elsewhere, a man might be bullied, browbeaten, frightened into a confession. In France, Juge d’Instruction and detective would combine to wring from his reluctant lips a damaging admission. In America, the Third Degree, most despicable of police methods, would have been similarly employed.

      But the English police do most things by kindness, and do them very well.

      The sailor puffed at his cigarette, from time to time looking up from the bench on which he sat at the detective’s smiling face.

      T.B. asked no questions; he had none to ask; he did not demand how the man came by his wealth; he would not be guilty of such a crudity. He waited for the sailor to talk. At last he spoke.

      “Monsieur,” he said, “you wish to know where I got my money?”

      T.B. said nothing.

      “Honestly,” said the sailor loudly, and with emphatic gesture; “honestly, monsieur;” and he went on earnestly, “By my way of reckoning, a man has a price.”

      “Undoubtedly,” agreed T.B.

      “A price for body and soul.” The sailor blew a ring of smoke and watched it rising to the vaulted roof of the cell.

      “Some men,” continued the man, “in their calm moments set their value at twenty million dollars — only to sell themselves in the heat of a foolish moment for—” He snapped his fingers.

      “I have never,” thought T.B., “come into contact with so many philosophical criminals in my life.”

      “Yet I would beg you to believe,” said the sailor, “it is a question of opportunity and need. There are moments when I would not risk my liberty for a million pesetas — there have been days when I would have sold my soul for ten milreis.” He paused again, for he had all the Latin’s appreciation of an audience; all the Latin’s desire for dramatic effect.

      “Sixty thousand pesetas is a large sum, monsieur; it amounts to more than £2,000 in your money — that was my price!”

      “For what?”

      “I will set you a riddle: on the Maria Braganza we had one hundred officers and men—”

      T.B. saw light.

      “You are a deserter from the Maria Braganza,” he said — but the man shook his head smilingly.

      “On the contrary I have my discharge from the navy, properly attested and signed by my good captain. You will find it at my lodgings, in a tin trunk under a picture of the blessed Saint Teresa of Avila, or, as some say, Sergovia. No, monsieur officer, I am discharged honourably. Listen.”

      His cigarette was nearly finished, and T.B. opened his case again, and the man, with a grateful inclination of his head, helped himself. Slowly, he began his story, a story which, before all others, helps the mind to grasp the magnitude of a combination which made the events he described possible.

      “I was a sub-officer on the Maria Braganza,” he began, and went on to narrate the history of the voyage of that remarkable battleship from the day it left Rio until it steamed into the roadstead off Cadiz.

      “We stayed at Cadiz much longer than we expected, and the men were grumbling — because our next port was to have been Rio. But for some reason our Captain Lombrosa did not wish to sail. Then one day he came on board — he spent most of his time ashore СКАЧАТЬ