The Greatest Works of J. S. Fletcher (64+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). J. S. Fletcher
Читать онлайн книгу.
he must make a still more definite move against Ransford. He must strengthen and deepen the suspicions which the police already had: he must give them chapter and verse and supply them with information, and get Ransford into the tightest of corners, solely that, in order to win Mary Bewery, he might have the credit of pulling him out again. That, he felt certain, he could do—if he could make a net in which to enclose Ransford he could also invent a two-edged sword which would cut every mesh of that net into fragments. That would be—child’s play—mere statecraft—elementary diplomacy. But first—to get Ransford fairly bottled up—that was the thing! He determined to lose no more time—and he was thinking of visiting Mitchington immediately after breakfast next morning when Mitchington knocked at his door.
Bryce was rarely taken back, and on seeing Mitchington and a companion, he forthwith invited them into his parlour, put out his whisky and cigars, and pressed both on them as if their late call were a matter of usual occurrence. And when he had helped both to a drink, he took one himself, and tumbler in hand, dropped into his easy chair again.
“We saw your light, doctor—so I took the liberty of dropping into tell you a bit of news,” observed the inspector. “But I haven’t introduced my friend—this is Detective-Sergeant Jettison, of the Yard—we’ve got him down about this business—must have help, you know.”
Bryce gave the detective a half-sharp, half-careless look and nodded.
“Mr. Jettison will have abundant opportunities for the exercise of his talents!” he observed in his best cynical manner. “I dare say he’s found that out already.”
“Not an easy affair, sir, to be sure,” assented Jettison. “Complicated!”
“Highly so!” agreed Bryce. He yawned, and glanced at the inspector. “What’s your news, Mitchington?” he asked, almost indifferently.
“Oh, well!” answered Mitchington. “As the Herald’s published tomorrow you’ll see it in there, doctor—I’ve supplied an account for this week’s issue; just a short one—but I thought you’d like to know. You’ve heard of the famous jewel robbery at the Duke’s, some years ago? Yes?—well, we’ve found all the whole bundle tonight—buried in Paradise! And how do you think the secret came out?”
“No good at guessing,” said Bryce.
“It came out,” continued Mitchington, “through a man who, with Braden—Braden, mark you!—got in possession of it—it’s a long story—and, with Braden, was going to reveal it to the Duke that very day Braden was killed. This man waited until this very morning and then told his Grace—his Grace came with him to us this afternoon, and tonight we made a search and found—everything! Buried—there in Paradise! Dug ‘em up, doctor!”
Bryce showed no great interest. He took a leisurely sip at his liquor and set down the glass and pulled out his cigarette case. The two men, watching him narrowly, saw that his fingers were steady as rocks as he struck the match.
“Yes,” he said as he threw the match away. “I saw you busy.”
In spite of himself Mitchington could not repress a start nor a glance at Jettison. But Jettison was as imperturbable as Bryce himself, and Mitchington raised a forced laugh.
“You did!” he said, incredulously. “And we thought we had it all to ourselves! How did you come to know, doctor?”
“Young Bewery told me what was going on,” replied Bryce, “so I took a look at you. And I fetched old Harker to take a look, too. We all watched you—the boy, Harker, and I—out of sheer curiosity, of course. We saw you get up the parcel. But, naturally, I didn’t know what was in it—till now.”
Mitchington, thoroughly taken aback by this candid statement, was at a loss for words, and again he glanced at Jettison. But Jettison gave no help, and Mitchington fell back on himself.
“So you fetched old Harker?” he said. “What—what for, doctor? If one may ask, you know.”
Bryce made a careless gesture with his cigarette.
“Oh—old Harker’s deeply interested in what’s going on,” he answered. “And as young Bewery drew my attention to your proceedings, why, I thought I’d draw Harker’s. And Harker was—interested.”
Mitchington hesitated before saying more. But eventually he risked a leading question.
“Any special reason why he should be, doctor?” he asked.
Bryce put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and looked half-lazily at his questioner.
“Do you know who old Harker really is?” he inquired.
“No!” answered Mitchington. “I know nothing about him—except that he’s said to be a retired tradesman, from London, who settled down here some time ago.”
Bryce suddenly turned on Jettison.
“Do you?” he asked.
“I, sir!” exclaimed Jettison. “I don’t know this gentleman—at all!”
Bryce laughed—with his usual touch of cynical sneering.
“I’ll tell you—now—who old Harker is, Mitchington,” he said. “You may as well know. I thought Mr. Jettison might recognize the name. Harker is no retired London tradesman—he’s a retired member of your profession, Mr. Jettison. He was in his day one of the smartest men in the service of your department. Only he’s transposed his name—ask them at the Yard if they remember Harker Simpson? That seems to startle you, Mitchington! Well, as you’re here, perhaps I’d better startle you a bit more.”
Chapter XIX. The Subtlety of the Devil
There was a sudden determination and alertness in Bryce’s last words which contrasted strongly, and even strangely, with the almost cynical indifference that had characterized him since his visitors came in, and the two men recognized it and glanced questioningly at each other. There was an alteration, too, in his manner; instead of lounging lazily in his chair, as if he had no other thought than of personal ease, he was now sitting erect, looking sharply from one man to the other; his whole attitude, bearing, speech seemed to indicate that he had suddenly made up his mind to adopt some definite course of action.
“I’ll tell you more!” he repeated. “And, since you’re here—now!”
Mitchington, who felt a curious uneasiness, gave Jettison another glance. And this time it was Jettison who spoke.
“I should say,” he remarked quietly, “knowing what I’ve gathered of the matter, that we ought to be glad of any information Dr. Bryce can give us.”
“Oh, to be sure!” assented Mitchington. “You know more, then, doctor?”
Bryce motioned his visitors to draw their chairs nearer to his, and when he spoke it was in the low, concentrated tones of a man who means business—and confidential business.
“Now look here, Mitchington,” he said, “and you, too, Mr. Jettison, as you’re on this job—I’m going to talk straight to both of you. And to begin with, I’ll make a bold assertion—I know more of this Wrychester Paradise mystery—involving the deaths of both Braden and Collishaw, than any man living—because, though you don’t know it, Mitchington, I’ve gone right into it. And I’ll tell you in confidence why I went into it—I want to marry Dr. Ransford’s ward, Miss Bewery!”
Bryce accompanied this candid admission with a look which seemed to say: Here we are, three men of the world, who know what things are—we understand each other! And while Jettison merely nodded comprehendingly, Mitchington put his thoughts into words.
“To be sure, doctor, to be sure!” he said. “And accordingly—what’s their affair, is yours! Of course!”
“Something