The Complete Detective Sgt. Elk Series (6 Novels in One Edition). Edgar Wallace
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the memorandum. Zillier was the only man who knew. By the oddest of chances, Baggin had confided his plans to the one man who might have found them useful if Providence had given him one chance of escape. But the French Government had him safe enough on Devil’s Island.
For the rest, the “note” needed much more explanation than he could give it.
He took a pen and began to group the sentences he could not understand.
“Must be some spot; yet that would be dangerous; otherwise, must be figures easily remembered.”
A spot would be dangerous? He was perplexed and showed it. What was meant by “spot”?
“On the 1st of Ju we rendezvous at Lolo — nowhere!”
“This is absolute nonsense!” The detective threw down his pen and jumped up. He called in the Chief Commissioner’s office and was received cordially.
“Any news, T.B.; what do you make of your puzzle?”
T.B. made a little grimace.
“Nothing,” he said, “and if the original had not been stolen I should not have troubled to study it.”
He gained the Strand by a short cut.
A contents bill attracted his attention, and he stopped to buy an evening newspaper.
LOSS OF A WARSHIP
He turned the paper before he discovered the small paragraph that justified so large a bill.
“The Brazilian Government has sent another cruiser to search for the Brazilian man-of-war, Maria Braganza, which is a month overdue. It is feared that the warship foundered in the recent cyclone in the South Atlantic.”
“Maria Braganza?” thought T.B., and remembered where he had seen the vessel.
The ship and her fate passed out of his mind soon afterward, for he had a great deal of routine work requiring his attention, but the name cropped up again in the course of the day and in a curious manner.
*
A drunken sailor, obviously of foreign extraction, was ejected, fighting, from a small public-house in the Edgware Road. He rose from the ground slowly, and stood apparently debating in his mind whether he should go away quietly or whether he should return to the attack. It is not too much to say that had he decided upon the pacific course, the mystery of the whereabouts of the Nine Bears might never have been elucidated. In that two seconds of deliberation hung the fates of Baggin and his confederates, and the reputation of Scotland Yard.
The foreign sailor made up his mind. Back to the swing-doors of the tavern he staggered, pushed them open, and entered.
A few minutes later a police-whistle blew, and a commonplace constable strolled leisurely to the scene of the disturbance and took into custody the pugnacious foreigner on a charge of “drunk and disorderly.”
This was the beginning of the final fight with the “Bears,” a fight which cost Europe over a million of money and many lives, but which closed forever the account of the Nine Bears of Cadiz.
“Here is a case that will amuse you, T.B.,” said the Chief, strolling into his bureau; “ — a man, giving the name of Silva, who has been taken to the police-station on the prosaic charge of ‘D. and D.,’ is found to be a walking cash deposit. Twelve hundred pounds in Bank of England notes and 26,000 francs in French money was found in his possession. He speaks little or no English, has the appearance of being a sailor — will you go down and see what you can make of him?”
In a quarter of an hour the Assistant-Commissioner was at the police-station.
“Yes, sir,” said the station sergeant, “he’s quiet now. I don’t think he’s so very drunk, only pugilistically so.”
“What do you make of him?”
“He’s a sailor; a deserter from some foreign navy, I should say. He has underclothes of a uniform type, and there’s a sort of device on his singlet — three stars and a number.”
“Brazilian Navy,” said T.B. with promptness.
“Talkative?”
The sergeant smiled.
“In his own language, very,” he said drily.
“When I searched him, he said a great number of things which were probably very rude.”
T.B. nodded.
“I’ll see him,” he said.
A gaoler led him down a long corridor. On either side were long stone-painted doors, each with a little steel wicket.
Stopping before one door, he inserted his bright key in the lock, snapped back a polished bolt, and the door swung open.
A man who was sitting on a wooden bench with his head in his hands, jumped to his feet as the Assistant-Commissioner entered, and poured forth a volume of language.
“Softly, softly,” said T.B. “You speak French, my friend.”
“Oui, monsieur,” said the man. “Though I am Spanish.”
“You are a deserter from a Brazilian warship,” said T.B.
The man stared at him defiantly.
“Is not that so, friend?”
The prisoner shrugged his shoulders.
“I should like to smoke,” was all that he said. T.B. took his gold case from an inside pocket and opened it.
“Many thanks,” said the sailor, and took the lighted match the gaoler had struck. If he had known the ways of the English police, he would have grown suspicious. Elsewhere, a man might be bullied, browbeaten, frightened into a confession. In France, Juge d’Instruction and detective would combine to wring from his reluctant lips a damaging admission. In America, the Third Degree, most despicable of police methods, would have been similarly employed.
But the English police do most things by kindness, and do them very well.
The sailor puffed at his cigarette, from time to time looking up from the bench on which he sat at the detective’s smiling face.
T.B. asked no questions; he had none to ask; he did not demand how the man came by his wealth; he would not be guilty of such a crudity. He waited for the sailor to talk. At last he spoke.
“Monsieur,” he said, “you wish to know where I got my money?”
T.B. said nothing.
“Honestly,” said the sailor loudly, and with emphatic gesture; “honestly, monsieur;” and he went on earnestly, “By my way of reckoning, a man has a price.”
“Undoubtedly,” agreed T.B.
“A price for body and soul.” The sailor blew a ring of smoke and watched it rising to the vaulted roof of the cell.
“Some men,” continued the man, “in their calm moments set their value at twenty million dollars — only to sell themselves in the heat of a foolish moment for—” He snapped his fingers.
“I have never,” thought T.B., “come into contact with so many philosophical criminals in my life.”
“Yet I would beg you to believe,” said the sailor, “it is a question of opportunity and need. There are moments when I would not risk my liberty for a million pesetas — there have been days when I would have sold my soul for ten milreis.” He paused again, for he had all the Latin’s appreciation of an audience; all the Latin’s desire for dramatic effect.
“Sixty thousand pesetas is a large sum, monsieur; it amounts to more than £2,000 in your money — that was my price!”
“For what?”
“I will set