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

to know a great deal about abnormal people. We have had an application from him,” he went on, “which is rather unusual. Apparently he is in fear of his life from some cause or other and wants to know if he can have a private telephone connection between his house and the central office. We told him that he could always get the nearest Police Station on the 'phone, but that doesn't satisfy him. He has made bad friends with some gentleman of his own country who sooner or later, he thinks, will cut his throat.”

T. X. nodded.

“All this I know,” he said patiently, “if you will further unfold the secret dossier, Sir George, I am prepared to be thrilled.”

“There is nothing thrilling about it,” growled the older man, rising, “but I remember the Macedonian shooting case in South London and I don't want a repetition of that sort of thing. If people want to have blood feuds, let them take them outside the metropolitan area.”

“By all means,” said T. X., “let them. Personally, I don't care where they go. But if that is the extent of your information I can supplement it. He has had extensive alterations made to the house he bought in Cadogan Square; the room in which he lives is practically a safe.”

Sir George raised his eyebrows.

“A safe,” he repeated.

T. X. nodded.

“A safe,” he said; “its walls are burglar proof, floor and roof are reinforced concrete, there is one door which in addition to its ordinary lock is closed by a sort of steel latch which he lets fall when he retires for the night and which he opens himself personally in the morning. The window is unreachable, there are no communicating doors, and altogether the room is planned to stand a siege.”

The Chief Commissioner was interested.

“Any more?” he asked.

“Let me think,” said T. X., looking up at the ceiling. “Yes, the interior of his room is plainly furnished, there is a big fireplace, rather an ornate bed, a steel safe built into the wall and visible from its outer side to the policeman whose beat is in that neighborhood.”

“How do you know all this?” asked the Chief Commissioner.

“Because I've been in the room,” said T. X. simply, “having by an underhand trick succeeded in gaining the misplaced confidence of Kara's housekeeper, who by the way”—he turned round to his desk and scribbled a name on the blotting-pad—“will be discharged to-morrow and must be found a place.”

“Is there any—er—?” began the Chief.

“Funny business?” interrupted T. X., “not a bit. House and man are quite normal save for these eccentricities. He has announced his intention of spending three months of the year in England and nine months abroad. He is very rich, has no relations, and has a passion for power.”

“Then he'll be hung,” said the Chief, rising.

“I doubt it,” said the other, “people with lots of money seldom get hung. You only get hung for wanting money.”

“Then you're in some danger, T. X.,” smiled the Chief, “for according to my account you're always more or less broke.”

“A genial libel,” said T. X., “but talking about people being broke, I saw John Lexman to-day—you know him!”

The Chief Commissioner nodded.

“I've an idea he's rather hit for money. He was in that Roumanian gold swindle, and by his general gloom, which only comes to a man when he's in love (and he can't possibly be in love since he's married) or when he's in debt, I fear that he is still feeling the effect of that rosy adventure.”

A telephone bell in the corner of the room rang sharply, and T. X. picked up the receiver. He listened intently.

“A trunk call,” he said over his shoulder to the departing commissioner, “it may be something interesting.”

A little pause; then a hoarse voice spoke to him. “Is that you, T. X.?”

“That's me,” said the Assistant Commissioner, commonly.

“It's John Lexman speaking.”

“I shouldn't have recognized your voice,” said T. X., “what is wrong with you, John, can't you get your plot to went?”

“I want you to come down here at once,” said the voice urgently, and even over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress. “I have shot a man, killed him!”

T. X. gasped.

“Good Lord,” he said, “you are a silly ass!”