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

took from the breast pocket of his coat a highly-coloured picture postcard, and handed it to the detective.

      “You might not know but La Belle Espagna…

      The wonder was that one of Silinski’s experience should have been deceived by the bluff T.B. was making.

      “Because I know of these things,” continued T.B. Smith, enjoying the mystery he was creating, “I desire your absence. Let us, however, extend the period of grace to three days, at the end of which time I would have you in a land where your genius is appreciated to a greater extent than in this land of England.”

      Silinski stood in the centre of the room, his head bent forward, his whole attitude suggestive of feline activity, and suddenly T.B. felt the airy badinage of his own tone ring hollow, and there came to him a realization that in some indefinable way he was in deadly peril.

      What secret had he surprised — what strange devilment was behind this man?

      T.B. had no other regard for Silinski than as a political extremist, a mischievous egger-on of other and bolder spirits. He had never thought of Silinski as a source of danger. T.B. Smith was prompt to act.

      “My man,” he said evenly, “for some reason I do not like your present state of mind, and if you do monkey tricks I shall take you by the scruff of your neck and drop you out of the window.”

      Silinski’s face was extraordinarily pale, but he did not move.

      “You know — what?” he said steadily. “I am anxious, monsieur, to see where I stand. If you know what you may know, I have bungled — and if I have not, then somebody else has.”

      “As to my information,” said T.B., “I am not prepared to extend my confidence to you. I can only warn you that you will be watched, and any attempt on your part to further certain political propaganda” — he saw a look of relief come to the other’s face, and was satisfied— “will be instantly and violently suppressed.”

      He escorted his visitor to the lift and exchanged conventional farewells for the benefit of the liftman, and returned slowly to his room. Then he sat down to untangle the mystery.

      1. Silinski, an anarchist (see Dossier R.P.D., 9413, Record Department), and by his own confession.

      2. Deported for inciting to murder.

      3. His sister comes to London to fulfil an engagement at a first-class music-hall. (“No particular significance in this,” thought T.B. “We are all liable to be cursed with unspeakable relations.”)

      “By the way!”

      He walked across the room to where a telephone stood on the little table, and called up Elk at Scotland Yard.

      “Is anything known about La Belle Espagna — the dancing girl at the Philharmonic? Yes, I know all about her brother. Eh, what’s that? — people desperately in love with her? You surprise me! Who? A young lord? Elk, there is so much awe in your voice that I could not catch that last. Who is the lord? Carleby? Never heard of him. Is that all? Thanks.”

      He hung the receiver up.

      4. Silinski reappears, imposingly prosperous. He knows Moss, frankly, a thief.

      Could they have business together, fearing detection in which, Silinski goes white? Hardly.

      Then what was Silinski doing in London? Was he — a bear! T.B. had not connected the man with the bear raid. But that sort of thing was not in Silinski’s line.

      He sat meditating till he realized that he was hungry, and taking his overcoat from a peg behind the door, struggled into it and went out.

      Elk met him at ten o’clock, and together they drove back to the Yard. There was need to dismiss Silinski from his mind.

      This business of the Egyptian barrage was sufficient to occupy his thoughts.

      Dimly, he began to see the workings of the gigantic combination that was spreading destruction throughout the world, anticipating disaster profitably.

      Who they were he might guess; where their headquarters were situated he could not understand. In two days telegraph and cable office had been systematically ransacked for evidence upon this point. Every code, private and official, had been employed in the deciphering of messages that had arrived in London on the day of the slump and the day preceding it. The secret police of a dozen countries were acting in concert; for now that Scotland Yard had begun its investigations, many things were remembered. The Berlin financial crisis, coincided with the discovery of stolen plans, which had all but precipitated a war with Austria. Every country had its tale to tell of unaccountable depression, and their secret forces worked in unison to discover wherefore.

VIII. Murder

       Table of Contents

      “I’ve got two men on to Sir George,” said T.B. — They were at the Yard— “I’ve given them instructions not to leave him day or night. Now, the question is, how will the ‘bears’ discover the fatal day the barrage is to be handed over to the guileless Fellaheen?”

      “Through the Egyptian Government?”

      “That I doubt. It seems a simple proposition, but the issues are so important that you may be sure our mysterious friends will not strike until they are absolutely certain. In the meantime—”

      He unlocked the safe and took out a book. This, too, was fastened by two locks. He opened it, laid it down and began writing on a sheet of paper, carefully, laboriously checking the result.

      That night the gentleman who is responsible for the good order of Egypt received a telegram which ran —

      PREMIUM FELLOW COLLECT WADY BARRAGE MERIDIAN TAINTED INOCULATE WEARY SULPHER.

      There was a great deal more written in the same interesting style. When the Egyptian Chief of Police unlocked his book to decode the message, he was humming a little tune that he had heard the band playing outside Shepheard’s Hotel. Long before he had finished decoding the message his humming stopped.

      Ten minutes later the wires were humming, and a battalion of infantry was hastily entrained from Khartoum.

      Having dispatched the wire, T.B. turned to the other man, who was sitting solemnly regarding a small gossamer handkerchief and a crushed rosebud that lay on the table.

      “Well,” demanded T.B. Smith, leaning over the table, “what do you make of ‘em?”

      “They are not Sir George’s,” replied the cautious Elk.

      “So much I gather,” said T.B. “A client’s?”

      “A very depressed and agitated client — feel.”

      T.B.’s fingers touched the little handkerchief; it was still quite damp. He nodded.

      “The rosebud?”

      “Did you notice our austere banker’s buttonhole?”

      “Not particularly — but I remember no flowers.’

      “No,” agreed Elk absently, “there were no flowers. I noticed particularly that his buttonhole was sewn and yet—”

      “And yet?”

      “Hidden in one of those drawers was a bunch of these roses. I saw them when he was getting your balance-sheet.”

      “H’m!” T.B. tapped the table impatiently.

      “So you see,” Elk went on, “we have an interest in this lady client of his, who comes after office hours, weeps copiously, and leaves a bunch of rosebuds as a souvenir of her visit. It may have been a client of course.”

      “And the roses may have been security for an overdraft,”