The Silvered Cage. John Russell Fearn
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see the entire trick performed and if anything does happen, well obviously I’ll be somewhere in the house. That’s all I can say.”
“I shall see the trick performed?” Whittaker raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I shall have to forego that pleasure, Miss Kestrel. I shall not attend personally, but I’ll see to it that a reliable man keeps a watch on things.”
“I don’t want a reliable man; I want you. You’re a Detective-Sergeant, and from your very rank alone you must have more acumen than an ordinary plainclothes man. Or don’t you realize that my life may be at stake?”
Whittaker hesitated. Had this not been a matter wherein life seemed to be endangered he would have been reluctantly compelled to direct Vera to other quarters of the Yard, quarters of the Yard less exclusively concerned in homicide. But in this case there were unusual circumstances. She was the daughter of a rich and powerful man; she was asking an especial favor, and if anything did happen to her Whittaker might find himself on the carpet for delegating the surveillance to an underling. Added to all this, he was not engaged on anything of pressing importance at the moment.
“Very well,” he said finally. “The circumstances being as they are I’ll attend the demonstration personally.”
“Not just the demonstration, Sergeant. Come as a guest, to the dinner and everything. I want you to meet everybody—and particularly my fiancé. If anything goes wrong. I’ll gamble that he’ll be at the back of it.”
Whittaker smiled wryly. “Apparently your faith in your fiancé is at a pretty low ebb, Miss Kestrel. I’m surprised that you remain engaged to him.”
“I shall break it off before long. I’m quite resolved on that. But let us get this immediate matter straight. Can I introduce you as my friend, Mr. Naughton, an engineer whom I last saw in France?”
“I see nothing against it,” Whittaker replied. “Providing you do not expect me to speak French!”
“Of course not! You’re a solid Englishman whose business as an engineer takes you to all sorts of places.”
“Fair enough,” Whittaker smiled. “And at what time am I to present myself?”
“If you arrive about six that will be fine—looking the part of course, and ridding yourself as much as possible of that inevitable ‘policeman’ look which you gentlemen carry around with you.”
“It’s a promise,” Whittaker said solemnly, moving to the office door as Vera rose to her feet and picked up her gloves and handbag....
* * * * * * *
And, as with all his promises, Whittaker kept it—to the split second. It was exactly six the following evening when he arrived at the great Maine-Kestrel mansion in West Kensington. At first he experienced a certain sense of confusion amidst the guests and servants who floated around him, but eventually he found himself taken in tow by Vera herself, bewitchingly attired in one of the very latest cocktail gowns. As on the previous day, as he was piloted through the labyrinth of the great lounge, Whittaker could not help but notice that gold tooth which kept peeping into view as Vera laughed and talked.
Then he forgot all about this trifle as he was introduced to Crafto the Great. The great illusionist, probably known in every variety hall in the country, broke off his conversation with a gushing middle-aged lady as Vera commandeered his attention.
“Mr. Crafto—meet Mr. Naughton, a very good friend of mine. An engineer. We first met in Paris two years ago.”
“Delighted,” the magician murmured, shaking hands—and as far as Whittaker could tell the illusionist seemed one of the most easy-going and genial of men. He was short in build, wide-shouldered, and podgy-faced. Amazingly immaculate, a stick-pin gracing the center of his stock-tie—a stick-pin with an enormous pearl for its head. The remainder of his sartorial magnificence was made up of an impeccable grey suit with cutaway tails, white spats, and shoes gleaming as brilliantly as his hair.
“You will forgive the unorthodox attire?” he smiled, as he realized Whittaker was studying him. “For the purposes of my act I always wear this suit. I shall not be present at dinner: That is the time when I make arrangements for the show.”
“Mmm, quite,” Whittaker assented, not wishing to commit himself too far.
“And here is my fiancé, Sidney Laycock,” Vera continued, and almost immediately Whittaker found himself shaking bands with a burly six-footer whose face was remarkable for its squareness and lack of refined detail. Here definitely was a man who would pursue an objective through hell and high water and never count the cost. Anybody more unlike the sparkling, bright-eyed Vera, Whittaker could hardly imagine, but this was no concern of his.
He spent perhaps five minutes with Sidney Laycock, and in that time arrived at the conclusion that he did not like him. He was assertive to the point of rudeness, had an exceedingly low opinion of women, and by and large appeared to view life generally from a very coarsened standpoint. Whittaker was quite glad when at last he freed himself and was moved on to meet other guests, ending with Vera’s father, who had only just arrived and was still in his normal lounge suit.
The rugged face of the celebrated Victor de Maine-Kestrel was by no means unfamiliar to Whittaker. On this occasion he warmed immediately to the big fellow’s personality—blunt, forthright, and obviously dictated by a sterling honesty. At the very first opportunity he piloted Whittaker away from the general gathering and buttonholed him beside the cocktail cabinet.
“You don’t have to pull any false identity on me, boy,” Kestrel said. “I know who you are, and why you’re here. Frankly, I’m damned surprised you spared the time just because of my daughter’s crazy notions.”
Whittaker gave his serious smile. “She is valuable ‘property’, Sir—if I may use the expression. It might have gone badly with me if I’d refused her request for protection.”
“You believe all that bunkum about somebody wanting to attack her, then?”
“Well, she certainly made it sound convincing.”
“Damned diplomatic reply! You’re a policeman, all right! Personally, although Vera is my own daughter, I think she lets her fancies get right out of hand sometimes! Somebody liable to murder her, indeed! It’s plain rubbish, Sergeant. Her only object in having you here is so that she can satisfy her ego. It makes her feel important to think that Scotland Yard is keeping watch on her interests. If you like, you’ve my permission to leave at any moment you want.”
“Matter of fact, Mr. Kestrel, I’d rather stay. I’m a bit of an amateur magician and I’d like to see Crafto’s performance. He’s quite an expert.”
The industrialist gave a snort. “No time for such bosh, Sergeant! Making things appear and disappear! What kind of a living is that...?” He broke off and grinned. “Well, wouldn’t do for us all to have the same outlook, would it? See you at dinner. I’ve got to change.”
Whittaker nodded and, left to himself for a while, took the opportunity to do a little private thinking—and particularly weigh up in retrospect those people he had so far met. Of them all he liked Sidney Laycock the least.
He was still thinking when dinner was announced, and throughout the meal, when he was not answering the most preposterous questions in regard to his engineering activities abroad, he relapsed into intervals of meditation, a habit born of his calling as a police officer. Indeed, he did not really begin to take a definite interest in affairs around him until he was in the great ballroom-cum-hall, where the entertainment for the guests was to be held. He would much have preferred to sit between two people with whom it would not be necessary to talk; but instead he found himself saddled with Maine-Kestrel himself, immensely expansive in his evening-dress and surrounded by the aroma of his thick and fragrant Havana cigar.
“All twaddle, Sergeant—nothing else but twaddle,” he declared, motioning vaguely. “I wouldn’t tolerate such clap-trap for a moment if it were not for Vera wanting it.