MAX CARRADOS MYSTERIES - Complete Series in One Volume. Bramah Ernest
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a photograph of a Mr——What first name, by the way?”
“Austin,” put in Hollyer, who was following everything with a boyish mixture of excitement and subdued importance.
“—of a Mr Austin Creake. I may require you to recognize him.”
Parkinson glanced at the print and returned it to his master’s hand.
“May I inquire if it is a recent photograph of the gentleman, sir?” he asked.
“About six years ago,” said the lieutenant, taking in this new actor in the drama with frank curiosity. “But he is very little changed.”
“Thank you, sir. I will endeavour to remember Mr Creake, sir.”
Lieutenant Hollyer stood up as Parkinson left the room. The interview seemed to be at an end.
“Oh, there’s one other matter,” he remarked. “I am afraid that I did rather an unfortunate thing while I was at Brookbend. It seemed to me that as all Millicent’s money would probably pass into Creake’s hands sooner or later I might as well have my five hundred pounds, if only to help her with afterwards. So I broached the subject and said that I should like to have it now as I had an opportunity for investing.”
“And you think?”
“It may possibly influence Creake to act sooner than he otherwise might have done. He may have got possession of the principal even and find it very awkward to replace it.”
“So much the better. If your sister is going to be murdered it may as well be done next week as next year so far as I am concerned. Excuse my brutality, Mr Hollyer, but this is simply a case to me and I regard it strategically. Now Mr Carlyle’s organization can look after Mrs Creake for a few weeks but it cannot look after her for ever. By increasing the immediate risk we diminish the permanent risk.”
“I see,” agreed Hollyer. “I’m awfully uneasy but I’m entirely in your hands.”
“Then we will give Mr Creake every inducement and every opportunity to get to work. Where are you staying now?”
“Just now with some friends at St Albans.”
“That is too far.” The inscrutable eyes retained their tranquil depth but a new quality of quickening interest in the voice made Mr Carlyle forget the weight and burden of his ruffled dignity. “Give me a few minutes, please. The cigarettes are behind you, Mr Hollyer.” The blind man walked to the window and seemed to look out over the cypress-shaded lawn. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and Mr Carlyle picked up Punch. Then Carrados turned round again.
“You are prepared to put your own arrangements aside?” he demanded of his visitor.
“Certainly.”
“Very well. I want you to go down now—straight from here—to Brookbend Cottage. Tell your sister that your leave is unexpectedly cut short and that you sail to-morrow.”
“The Martian?”
“No, no; the Martian doesn’t sail. Look up the movements on your way there and pick out a boat that does. Say you are transferred. Add that you expect to be away only two or three months and that you really want the five hundred pounds by the time of your return. Don’t stay in the house long, please.”
“I understand, sir.”
“St Albans is too far. Make your excuse and get away from there to-day. Put up somewhere in town, where you will be in reach of the telephone. Let Mr Carlyle and myself know where you are. Keep out of Creake’s way. I don’t want actually to tie you down to the house, but we may require your services. We will let you know at the first sign of anything doing and if there is nothing to be done we must release you.”
“I don’t mind that. Is there nothing more that I can do now?”
“Nothing. In going to Mr Carlyle you have done the best thing possible; you have put your sister into the care of the shrewdest man in London.” Whereat the object of this quite unexpected eulogy found himself becoming covered with modest confusion.
“Well, Max?” remarked Mr Carlyle tentatively when they were alone.
“Well, Louis?”
“Of course it wasn’t worth while rubbing it in before young Hollyer, but, as a matter of fact, every single man carries the life of any other man—only one, mind you—in his hands, do what you will.”
“Provided he doesn’t bungle,” acquiesced Carrados.
“Quite so.”
“And also that he is absolutely reckless of the consequences.”
“Of course.”
“Two rather large provisos. Creake is obviously susceptible to both. Have you seen him?”
“No. As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town. Then, two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest—for he certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might take a sensational turn any time—I went down to Mulling Common myself. Although the house is lonely it is on the electric tram route. You know the sort of market garden rurality that about a dozen miles out of London offers—alternate bricks and cabbages. It was easy enough to get to know about Creake locally. He mixes with no one there, goes into town at irregular times but generally every day, and is reputed to be devilish hard to get money out of. Finally I made the acquaintance of an old fellow who used to do a day’s gardening at Brookbend occasionally. He has a cottage and a garden of his own with a greenhouse, and the business cost me the price of a pound of tomatoes.”
“Was it—a profitable investment?”
“As tomatoes, yes; as information, no. The old fellow had the fatal disadvantage from our point of view of labouring under a grievance. A few weeks ago Creake told him that he would not require him again as he was going to do his own gardening in future.”
“That is something, Louis.”
“If only Creake was going to poison his wife with hyoscyamine and bury her, instead of blowing her up with a dynamite cartridge and claiming that it came in among the coal.”
“True, true. Still——”
“However, the chatty old soul had a simple explanation for everything that Creake did. Creake was mad. He had even seen him flying a kite in his garden where it was bound to get wrecked among the trees. ‘A lad of ten would have known better,’ he declared. And certainly the kite did get wrecked, for I saw it hanging over the road myself. But that a sane man should spend his time ‘playing with a toy’ was beyond him.”
“A good many men have been flying kites of various kinds lately,” said Carrados. “Is he interested in aviation?”
“I dare say. He appears to have some knowledge of scientific subjects. Now what do you want me to do, Max?”
“Will you do it?”
“Implicitly—subject to the usual reservations.”
“Keep your man on Creake in town and let me have his reports after you have seen them. Lunch with me here now. ‘Phone up to your office that you are detained on unpleasant business and then give the deserving Parkinson an afternoon off by looking after me while we take a motor run round Mulling Common. If we have time we might go on to Brighton, feed at the ‘Ship,’ and come back in the cool.”
“Amiable and thrice lucky mortal,” sighed Mr Carlyle, his glance wandering round the room.
But, as it happened, Brighton did not figure in that day’s itinerary. It had been Carrados’s intention merely to pass Brookbend Cottage on this occasion, relying on his highly developed faculties, aided by Mr Carlyle’s description, to inform him of the surroundings. A hundred yards before they reached the house he had given an order to his chauffeur to drop into the