Название | THE WHODUNIT COLLECTION: British Murder Mysteries (15 Novels in One Volume) |
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Автор произведения | Charles Norris Williamson |
Жанр | Языкознание |
Серия | |
Издательство | Языкознание |
Год выпуска | 0 |
isbn | 9788075832160 |
She smiled winningly at him.
"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the train."
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him. "Now, what the devil does she mean by that?" he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it.
"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. "I do hope he is still well."
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red-hot, and the woman laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late now.
"So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle's?" she went on, and though her voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. "He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself."
"The pleasure is mine," said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him.
"Smoke, if you like," she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. "I know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating."
He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her identity.
"Indeed," he said grimly. "I thought you had met Mr. Foyle. In fact, I believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a cigarette?"
She selected one daintily.
"Thank you. But that was different. I don't think it quite nice of you to refer to it. It was all a mistake. Mr. Foyle will tell you so, if you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes?"
Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "I made a mistake just now in coming on this train alone."
She laughed musically in pure amusement.
"I believe the man is afraid of me," she said, addressing the ceiling. Then more directly, "Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do to a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought you'd greater sense."
"Common sense is my strong point," he parried.
"And therefore you are afraid," she laughed. "Come—Mr.—Mr.——"
"Smith—John Smith."
"Mr. John Smith, then. It's a good English name. I shan't do you any harm. But if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool——"
"Well?"
"It would be worth £50 to you."
He shook his head. "I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was my strong point."
She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had returned to their own compartment, and the train was nearing Liverpool, that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a daintily-jewelled enamelled case.
"Won't you try one of mine?" she asked. "That is, if you care for Egyptian."
He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet, in half an hour's time, when the train slowed into Lime Street Station, the Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the compartment Blake slumbered stertorously.
Chapter XXXIII
Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.
"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.
"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"
Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.
"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?"
"For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.
"Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing."
"Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting boats. "Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've got to go into it."
Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow.
"Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather quaint thing happened at our office. You know they're excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big paper parcel, came up to the Wire office and Brashton saw them.
"'Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery to-day. Seeing as the Wire is an enterprising paper an' pays for news, we thought as 'ow we'd come along.'
"'Always glad to pay for information if we use it,' says Brashton.
"'We'll leave it to you,' says the spokesman, undoing the parcel. 'Look at this.'
"Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but put a few more questions to the men, and they went away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M'Gregor, the news editor, happened in. Mac's hair stood on end, and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger.
"'What's that?' he demanded.
"Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing. 'That,' he said calmly. 'Oh, that's not necessarily for publication; it's just a guarantee of good faith.' And he explained.
"Mac was horror-struck. He stared at Brashton as though he had taken leave of his senses.
"'Good God, man,' he cried, 'why did you let them leave it here? It might have died of the plague or something.' And, stepping back into the corridor, he