The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (cheapest way to read ebooks .TXT) 📗

man impatiently. “What dog am I that I should wait till six?”

He gave a savage little tug at his beard.

“Six o'clock, eh? You will tell Mr. Kara that I called. Give me those books.”

“But I assure you, sir,—” stammered Fisher.

“Give me those books!” roared the other.

Deftly he lifted his left hand from the pocket, crooked the elbow by some quick manipulation, and thrust the books, which the valet most reluctantly handed to him, back to the place from whence he had taken them.

“Tell Mr. Kara I will call at my own time—do you understand, at my own time. Good morning to you.”

“If you would only wait, sir,” pleaded the agonized Fisher.

“Wait be hanged,” snarled the other. “I've waited three years, I tell you. Tell Mr. Kara to expect me when he sees me!”

He went out and most unnecessarily banged the door behind him. Fisher went back to the library. The girl was sealing up some letters as he entered and looked up.

“I am afraid, Miss Holland, I've got myself into very serious trouble.”

“What is that, Fisher!” asked the girl.

“There was a gentleman coming to see Mr. Kara, whom Mr. Kara particularly wanted to see.”

“Mr. Gathercole,” said the girl quickly.

Fisher nodded.

“Yes, miss, I couldn't get him to stay though.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“Mr. Kara will be very cross, but I don't see how you can help it. I wish you had called me.”

“He never gave a chance, miss,” said Fisher, with a little smile, “but if he comes again I'll show him straight up to you.”

She nodded.

“Is there anything you want, miss?” he asked as he stood at the door.

“What time did Mr. Kara say he would be back?”

“At six o'clock, miss,” the man replied.

“There is rather an important letter here which has to be delivered.”

“Shall I ring up for a messenger?”

“No, I don't think that would be advisable. You had better take it yourself.”

Kara was in the habit of employing Fisher as a confidential messenger when the occasion demanded such employment.

“I will go with pleasure, miss,” he said.

It was a heaven-sent opportunity for Fisher, who had been inventing some excuse for leaving the house. She handed him the letter and he read without a droop of eyelid the superscription:

“T. X. Meredith, Esq., Special Service Dept., Scotland Yard, Whitehall.”

He put it carefully in his pocket and went from the room to change. Large as the house was Kara did not employ a regular staff of servants. A maid and a valet comprised the whole of the indoor staff. His cook, and the other domestics, necessary for conducting an establishment of that size, were engaged by the day.

Kara had returned from the country earlier than had been anticipated, and, save for Fisher, the only other person in the house beside the girl, was the middle-aged domestic who was parlour-maid, serving-maid and housekeeper in one.

Miss Holland sat at her desk to all appearance reading over the letters she had typed that afternoon but her mind was very far from the correspondence before her. She heard the soft thud of the front door closing, and rising she crossed the room rapidly and looked down through the window to the street. She watched Fisher until he was out of sight; then she descended to the hall and to the kitchen.

It was not the first visit she had made to the big underground room with its vaulted roof and its great ranges—which were seldom used nowadays, for Kara gave no dinners.

The maid—who was also cook—arose up as the girl entered.

“It's a sight for sore eyes to see you in my kitchen, miss,” she smiled.

“I'm afraid you're rather lonely, Mrs. Beale,” said the girl sympathetically.

“Lonely, miss!” cried the maid. “I fairly get the creeps sitting here hour after hour. It's that door that gives me the hump.”

She pointed to the far end of the kitchen to a soiled looking door of unpainted wood.

“That's Mr. Kara's wine cellar—nobody's been in it but him. I know he goes in sometimes because I tried a dodge that my brother—who's a policeman—taught me. I stretched a bit of white cotton across it an' it was broke the next morning.”

“Mr. Kara keeps some of his private papers in there,” said the girl quietly, “he has told me so himself.”

“H'm,” said the woman doubtfully, “I wish he'd brick it up—the same as he has the lower cellar—I get the horrors sittin' here at night expectin' the door to open an' the ghost of the mad lord to come out—him that was killed in Africa.”

Miss Holland laughed.

“I want you to go out now,” she said, “I have no stamps.”

Mrs. Beale obeyed with alacrity and whilst she was assuming a hat—being desirous of maintaining her prestige as housekeeper in the eyes of Cadogan Square, the girl ascended to the upper floor.

Again she watched from the window the disappearing figure.

Once out of sight Miss Holland went to work with a remarkable deliberation and thoroughness. From her bag she produced a small purse and opened it. In that case was a new steel key. She passed swiftly down the corridor to Kara's room and made straight for the safe.

In two seconds it was open and she was examining its contents. It was a large safe of the usual type. There were four steel drawers fitted at the back and at the bottom of the strong box. Two of these were unlocked and contained nothing more interesting than accounts relating to Kara's estate in Albania.

The top pair were locked. She was prepared for this contingency and a second key was as efficacious as the first. An examination of the first drawer did not produce all that she had expected. She returned the papers to the drawer, pushed it to and locked it. She gave her attention to the second drawer. Her hand shook a little as she pulled it open. It was her last chance, her last hope.

There were a number of small jewel-boxes almost filling the drawer. She took them out one by one and at the bottom she found what she had been searching for and that which had filled her thoughts for the past three