T. B. Smith sat alone in his office in Scotland Yard. Outside, the Embankment, the river, even the bulk of the Houses of Parliament were blotted1 out by the dense2 fog. For two days London had lain under the pall3, and if the weather experts might be relied upon, yet another two days of fog was to be expected.
The cheery room, with its polished oak panelling and the chaste5 elegance6 of its electroliers, offered every inducement to a lover of comfort to linger. The fire glowed bright and red in the tiled fireplace, a silver clock on the mantelpiece ticked musically, and at his hand was a white-covered tray with a tiny silver teapot, and the paraphernalia7 necessary for preparing his meal--that strange tea-supper which was one of T. B. Smith's eccentricities8.
He glanced at the clock; the hands pointed9 to twenty-five minutes past one.
He pressed a little button let into the side of the desk, and a few seconds later there was a gentle tap at the door, and a helmetless constable10 appeared.
"Go to the record room and get me"--he consulted a slip of paper on the desk--"Number G 7941."
The man withdrew noiselessly, and T. B. Smith poured out a cup of tea for himself.
There was a thoughtful line on his broad forehead, a look of unaccustomed worry on the handsome face, tanned with the suns of Southern France. He had come back from his holiday to a task which required the genius of a superman. He had to establish the identity of the greatest swindler of modern times, Montague Fallock. And now another reason existed for his search. To Montague Fallock, or his agent, must be ascribed the death of two men found in Brakely Square the night before.
No man had seen Montague; there was no photograph to assist the army of detectives who were seeking him. His agents had been arrested and interrogated11, but they were but the agents of agents. The man himself was invisible. He stood behind a steel network of banks and lawyers and anonymities, unreachable.
The constable returned, bearing under his arm a little black leather envelope, and, depositing it on the desk of the Assistant Commissioner12, withdrew.
T. B. opened the envelope and removed three neat packages tied with red tape. He unfastened one of these and laid three cards before him. They were three photographic enlargements of a finger print. It did not need the eye of an expert to see they were of the same finger, though it was obvious that they had been made under different circumstances.
T. B. compared them with a smaller photograph he had taken from his pocket. Yes, there was no doubt about it. The four pictures, secured by a delicate process from the almost invisible print on the latest letter of the blackmailer13, proved beyond any doubt the identity of Lady Dex's correspondent.
He rang the bell again and the constable appeared in the doorway14.
"Is Mr. Ela in his office?"
"Yes, sir. He's been taking information about that Dock case."
"Dock case? Oh yes, I remember; two men were caught rifling the Customs store; they shot a dock constable and got away."
"They both got away, sir," said the man, "but one was shot by the constable's mate; they found his blood on the pavement outside where their motor-car was waiting."
T. B. nodded.
"Ask Mr. Ela to come in when he is through," he said.
Mr. Ela was evidently "through," for almost immediately after the message had gone, the long, melancholy15 face of the superintendent16 appeared in the doorway.
"Come in, Ela," smiled T. B.; "tell me all your troubles."
"My main trouble," replied Ela, as he sank wearily into the padded chair, "is to induce eyewitnesses17 to agree as to details; there is absolutely no clue as to the identity of the robbers, and nearly murderers. The number of the car was a spurious one, and was not traced beyond Limehouse. I am up against a blank wall. The only fact I have to go upon is the very certain fact that one of the robbers was either wounded or killed and carried to the car by his friend, and that his body will have to turn up somewhere or other--then we may have something to go on."
"If it should prove to be that of my friend Montague Fallock," said T. B. humorously, "I shall be greatly relieved. What were your thieves after--bullion?"
"Hardly! No, they seem to be fairly prosaic18 pilferers. They engaged in going through a few trunks--part of the personal baggage of the _Mandavia_ which arrived from Coast ports on the day previous. The baggage was just heavy truck; the sort of thing that a passenger leaves in the docks for a day or two till he has arranged for their carriage. The trunks disturbed, included one of the First Secretary to a High Commissioner in Congoland, a dress basket of a Mrs. Somebody-or-other whose name I forget--she is the wife of a Commissioner--and a small box belonging to Dr. Goldworthy, who has just come back from the Congo where he has been investigating sleeping sickness."
"Doesn't sound thrilling," said T. B. thoughtfully; "but why do swagger criminals come in their motor-cars with their pistols and masks--they were masked if I remember the printed account aright?" Ela nodded. "Why do they come on so prosaic an errand?"
"Tell me," said Ela, laconically20, then, "What is your trouble?"
"Montague," said the other, with a grim smile, "Montague Fallock, Esquire. He has been demanding a modest ten thousand pounds from Lady Constance Dex--Lady Constance being a sister of the Hon. and Rev19. Harry21 Dex, Vicar of Great Bradley. The usual threat--exposure of an old love affair.
"Dex is a large, bland22 aristocrat23 under the thumb of his sister; the lady, a masterful woman, still beautiful; the indiscretion partly atoned24 by the death of the man. He died in Africa. Those are the circumstances that count. The brother knows, but our friend Montague will have it that the world should know. He threatens to murder, if necessary, should she betray his demands to the police. This is not the first time he has uttered this threat. Farrington, the millionaire, was the last man, and curiously25, a friend of Lady Dex."
"It's weird--the whole business," mused26 Ela. "The two men you found in the square didn't help you?"
T. B., pacing the apartment with his hand in his pocket, shook his head.
"Ferreira de Coasta was one, and Henri Sans the other. Both men undoubtedly27 in the employ of Montague, at some time or other. The former was a well-educated man, who may have acted as intermediary. He was an architect who recently got into trouble in Paris over money matters. Sans was a courier agent, a more or less trusted messenger. There was nothing on either body to lead me to Montague Fallock, save this."
He pulled open the drawer of his desk and produced a small silver locket. It was engraved28 in the ornate style of cheap jewellery and bore a half-obliterated monogram29.
He pried30 open the leaf of the locket with his thumbnail. There was nothing in its interior save a small white disc.
"A little gummed label," explained T. B., "but the inscription31 is interesting."
Ela held the locket to the light, and read:
"Mor: Cot.
God sav the Keng."
"Immensely patriotic32, but unintelligible33 and illiterate," said T. B., slipping the medallion into his pocket, and locking away the dossier in one of the drawers of his desk.
Ela yawned.
"I'm sorry--I'm rather sleepy. By the way, isn't Great Bradley, about which you were speaking, the home of a romance?"
T. B. nodded with a twinkle in his eye.
"It is the town which shelters the Secret House," he said, as he rose, "but the eccentricities of lovesick Americans, who build houses equally eccentric, are not matters for police investigation34. You can share my car on a fog-breaking expedition as far as Chelsea," he added, as he slipped into his overcoat and pulled on his gloves; "we may have the luck to run over Montague."
"You are in the mood for miracles," said Ela, as they were descending35 the stairs.
"I am in the mood for bed," replied T. B. truthfully. Outside the fog was so thick that the two men hesitated. T. B.'s chauffeur36 was a wise and patient constable, but felt in his wisdom that patience would be wasted on an attempt to reach Chelsea.
"It's thick all along the road, sir," he said. "I've just 'phoned through to Westminster Police Station, and they say it is madness to attempt to take a car through the fog."
T. B. nodded.
"I'll sleep here," he said. "You'd better bed down somewhere, David, and you, Ela?"
"I'll take a little walk in the park," said the sarcastic37 Mr. Ela.
T. B. went back to his room, Ela following.
He switched on the light, but stood still in the doorway. In the ten minutes' absence some one had been there. Two drawers of the desk had been forced; the floor was littered with papers flung there hurriedly by the searcher.
T. B. stepped swiftly to the desk--the envelope had gone.
A window was open and the fog was swirling38 into the room.
"There's blood here," said Mr. Ela. He pointed to the dappled blotting39 pad.
"Cut his hand on the glass," said T. B. and jerked his head to the broken pane4 in the window. He peered out through the open casement40. A hook ladder, such as American firemen use, was hanging to the parapet. So thick was the fog that it was impossible to see how long the ladder was, but the two men pulled it up with scarcely an effort. It was made of a stout41 light wood, with short steel brackets affixed42 at intervals43.
"Blood on this too," said Ela, then, to the constable who had come to his ring, he jerked his orders rapidly: "Inspector44 on duty to surround the office with all the reserve--'phone Cannon45 Row all men available to circle Scotland Yard, and to take into custody46 a man with a cut hand--'phone all stations to that effect."
"There's little chance of getting our friend," said T. B. He took up a magnifying glass and examined the stains on the pad.
"Who was he?" asked Ela.
T. B. pointed to the stain.
"Montague," he said, briefly47, "and he now knows the very thing I did not wish him to know."
"And that is?"
T. B. did not speak for a moment. He stood looking down at the evidence which the intruder had left behind.
"He knows how much I know," he said, grimly, "but he may also imagine I know more--there are going to be developments."
收听单词发音 |
1
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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eyewitnesses
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| 目击者( eyewitness的名词复数 ) | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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31
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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42
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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45
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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