MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest

matter if he recognized? You see?”

      “Surely you exaggerate, Monsieur Dompierre,” contributed Carrados. “I may yet pay tribute to your industry. Perhaps I regret the circumstance and the necessity but I am here to make the best of it. Let me see the things Madame has spoken of, and then we can consider the detail of their price, either for myself or on behalf of others.”

      There was no immediate reply. From Dompierre came a saturnine chuckle and from Madame Dompierre a titter that accompanied a grimace. For one of the rare occasions in his life Carrados found himself wholly out of touch with the atmosphere of the situation. Instinctively he turned his face towards the other occupant of the room, the man addressed as “Stoker,” whom he knew to be standing near the window.

      “This unfortunate business has brought me an introduction,” said a familiar voice.

      For one dreadful moment the universe stood still round Carrados. Then, with the crash and grind of overwhelming mental tumult, the whole strategy revealed itself, like the sections of a gigantic puzzle falling into place before his eyes.

      There had been no robbery at the British Museum! That plausible concoction was as fictitious as the intentionally transparent tale of treasure trove. Carrados recognized now how ineffective the one device would have been without the other in drawing him—how convincing the two together—and while smarting at the humiliation of his plight he could not restrain a dash of admiration at the ingenuity—the accurately conjectured line of inference—of the plot. It was again the familiar artifice of the cunning pitfall masked by the clumsily contrived trap just beyond it. And straightway into it he had blundered!

      “And this,” continued the same voice, “is Carrados, Max Carrados, upon whose perspicuity a government—only the present government, let me in justice say—depends to outwit the undesirable alien! My country; O my country!”

      “Is it really Monsieur Carrados?” inquired Dompierre in polite sarcasm. “Are you sure, Nina, that you have not brought a man from Scotland Yard instead?”

      “Basta! he is here; what more do you want? Do not mock the poor sightless gentleman,” answered Madame Dompierre, in doubtful sympathy.

      “That is exactly what I was wondering,” ventured Carrados mildly. “I am here—what more do you want? Perhaps you, Mr Stoker——?”

      “Excuse me. ‘Stoker’ is a mere colloquial appellation based on a trifling incident of my career in connection with a disabled liner. The title illustrates the childish weakness of the criminal classes for nicknames, together with their pitiable baldness of invention. My real name is Montmorency, Mr Carrados—Eustace Montmorency.”

      “Thank you, Mr Montmorency,” said Carrados gravely. “We are on opposite sides of the table here to-night, but I should be proud to have been with you in the stokehold of the Benvenuto.”

      “That was pleasure,” muttered the Englishman. “This is business.”

      “Oh, quite so,” agreed Carrados. “So far I am not exactly complaining. But I think it is high time to be told—and I address myself to you—why I have been decoyed here and what your purpose is.”

      Mr Montmorency turned to his accomplice.

      “Dompierre,” he remarked, with great clearness, “why the devil is Mr Carrados kept standing?”

      “Ah, oh, heaven!” exclaimed Madame Dompierre with tragic resignation, and flung herself down on a couch.

      “Scusi,” grinned the lean man, and with burlesque grace he placed a chair for their guest’s acceptance.

      “Your curiosity is natural,” continued Mr Montmorency, with a cold eye towards Dompierre’s antics, “although I really think that by this time you ought to have guessed the truth. In fact, I don’t doubt that you have guessed, Mr Carrados, and that you are only endeavouring to gain time. For that reason—because it will perhaps convince you that we have nothing to fear—I don’t mind obliging you.”

      “Better hasten,” murmured Dompierre uneasily.

      “Thank you, Bill,” said the Englishman, with genial effrontery. “I won’t fail to report your intelligence to the Rasojo. Yes, Mr Carrados, as you have already conjectured, it is the affair of the Countess X. to which you owe this inconvenience. You will appreciate the compliment that underlies your temporary seclusion, I am sure. When circumstances favoured our plans and London became the inevitable place of meeting, you and you alone stood in the way. We guessed that you would be consulted and we frankly feared your intervention. You were consulted. We know that Inspector Beedel visited you two days ago and he has no other case in hand. Your quiescence for just three days had to be obtained at any cost. So here you are.”

      “I see,” assented Carrados. “And having got me here, how do you propose to keep me?”

      “Of course that detail has received consideration. In fact we secured this furnished house solely with that in view. There are three courses before us. The first, quite pleasant, hangs on your acquiescence. The second, more drastic, comes into operation if you decline. The third—but really, Mr Carrados, I hope you won’t oblige me even to discuss the third. You will understand that it is rather objectionable for me to contemplate the necessity of two able-bodied men having to use even the smallest amount of physical compulsion towards one who is blind and helpless. I hope you will be reasonable and accept the inevitable.”

      “The inevitable is the one thing that I invariably accept,” replied Carrados. “What does it involve?”

      “You will write a note to your secretary explaining that what you have learned at 7 Heronsbourne Place makes it necessary for you to go immediately abroad for a few days. By the way, Mr Carrados, although this is Heronsbourne Place it is not No. 7.”

      “Dear, dear me,” sighed the prisoner. “You seem to have had me at every turn, Mr Montmorency.”

      “An obvious precaution. The wider course of giving you a different street altogether we rejected as being too risky in getting you here. To continue: To give conviction to the message you will direct your man Parkinson to follow by the first boat-train to-morrow, with all the requirements for a short stay, and put up at Mascot’s, as usual, awaiting your arrival there.”

      “Very convincing,” agreed Carrados. “Where shall I be in reality?”

      “In a charming though rather isolated bungalow on the south coast. Your wants will be attended to. There is a boat. You can row or fish. You will be run down by motor car and brought back to your own gate. It’s really very pleasant for a few days. I’ve often stayed there myself.”

      “Your recommendation carries weight. Suppose, for the sake of curiosity, that I decline?”

      “You will still go there but your treatment will be commensurate with your behaviour. The car to take you is at this moment waiting in a convenient spot on the other side of the park. We shall go down the garden at the back, cross the park, and put you into the car—anyway.”

      “And if I resist?”

      The man whose pleasantry it had been to call himself Eustace Montmorency shrugged his shoulders.

      “Don’t be a fool,” he said tolerantly. “You know who you are dealing with and the kind of risks we run. If you call out or endanger us at a critical point we shall not hesitate to silence you effectively.”

      The blind man knew that it was no idle threat. In spite of the cloak of humour and fantasy thrown over the proceedings, he was in the power of coolly desperate men. The window was curtained and shuttered against sight and sound, the door behind him locked. Possibly at that moment a revolver threatened him; certainly weapons lay within reach of both his keepers.

      “Tell me what to write,” he asked, with capitulation in his voice.

      Dompierre twirled his mustachios in relieved approval. Madame laughed