Nude in Mink - Sax Rohmer (fun books to read for adults txt) 📗

“WHAT are you writing, Donovan?”

A rattle of typewriter keys ceased abruptly. Mark Donovan looked up from his work.

“An account of the history of Sumuru, Maitland—what I know of it—to date.”

Maitland dropped into his favourite armchair and lighted a cheroot which smelt like a prairie fire.

“Good. Should make fine confused reading.”

“It does.” Donovan stood up and stared out of the window. “It’s bewildering. Do you know, sometimes I just can’t believe we have really known this woman—seen her— listened to her voice. It beats me. You escaped her clutches by a sheer miracle. But I go through hell every time you are out after dark.”

Maitland nodded.

“I never go far, alone—after dark. Anyway, it’s my job, Donovan. I have to take chances. Just think. A prominent man, Miles Tristram, is murdered here in London, by means of the horrible infection called rigor Kubus. So far we have no clue to his murder … I know what you’re going to say, but we have no evidence, Donovan. Claudette Duquesne, the daughter of a famous French writer, is spirited away—”

Donovan clenched his hands.

“Good God! Where is she? Where is she? Sometimes I wonder shall I ever see her again!”

Mainland’s expression was sympathetic as he stared at the broad shoulders of the man by the window.

“I know how you feel—I know. But we are all doing our best. We can do no more. And, so far, there’s no clue to her whereabouts. I can’t guess if there’s any connection, but I learn now that her father has vanished from his Paris flat.”

Donovan turned quickly.

“What do you say, Maitland?”

“It’s true. He has just—disappeared!… Then, we have both been attacked, drugged, and hauled before this amazing criminal. She seems to live in some place like an Eastern palace. She employs highly efficient thugs of various nationalities. She has a private laboratory in charge of a distinguished looking scientist known to you and me as Dr. Worthington—”

Perhaps unconsciously, Donovan tightened his fists again.

“Ha! One day I mean to balance my account with Dr. Worthington!”

“I have a few small points of difference to settle with him myself,” said Maitland dryly. “But the thing is—we don’t know the location of this Arabian Nights abode. We don’t know how to find Dr. Worthington.”

Donovan stirred restlessly, but didn’t turn.

“There’s this house recently used as an Embassy. I have hopes that some clue may be found there.”

“It will be too late, Donovan.” Maitland shook his head. “Every possible diplomatic obstacle has been put in our way. By the time the police get permission to investigate, there’ll be nothing to see. A more promising line of inquiry is the girl, Jean Barlow–-”

“Jean Barlow? You mean Claudette’s alleged friend?”

“Yes—the ‘friend’ who arranged her abduction by Sumuru! We have got in touch at last with Jean’s father. He is a country vicar—up in Cumberland. The story Claudette told you is true enough. Both girls were employed in the French propaganda department—”

And now Donovan turned and took a step towards Maitland.

“Well?”

“Well—the Reverend Lawrence Barlow has regular letters from his daughter, it seems. I have seen some of them. Jean states that she is at present employed on a confidential job in London. But the address, Scotland Yard has just reported, is merely an accommodation one—a stationer’s shop in Kensington.”

“But—”

“Oh, the next person to call for letters addressed to Jean will be held, I promise you!”

“But the letters themselves?”

“Rather wild. I should say that the missing Jean is desperately unhappy—Hullo!”

The phone bell interrupted him. Donovan crossed and took the call.

“This is Mark Donovan… Yes, I’ll tell him… Inspector Ives, for you, Maitland.”

“Thanks.” Maitland took Donovan’s place. “Hullo, Ives— what is it?… What?… Great Scott! that’s a bit of luck!… You want me to come round? Right… Yes—I’ll be along right away… I am hoping for big things from this … Good—starting now … I shall bring Donovan.”

Maitland replaced the receiver and stood staring at Donovan.

“What’s happened?”

Maitland smiled grimly.

“An almost incredible slice of luck—at last. Do you know Ian Forrester?”

“Not personally, but many critics think he’s the best of the younger actors on the London stage. As a matter of fact, I was assigned to attend his opening tonight in Hamlet. But I passed the job on to a junior. I had no heart for it.”

Maitland’s gaze remained fixed upon him.

“Yet—I think you may be there after all, Donovan—’

2

In Chief Inspector Ives’s office at Scotland Yard, a man was pacing up and down, up and down, before the large, tidy desk at which the chief inspector remained seated. His dark blue suit was almost too well tailored, for he was of a build and bearing which could have carried rags with distinction. His thick, light brown hair was brushed in a manner deliberately negligent, a manner which accorded well with the pale, classic features.

Ives, who had never met Ian Forrester before, found himself wondering if that ivory pallor was habitual, and if Forrester’s blue eyes had always held a haunted expression.

“I understand that it’s a painful business, Mr. Forrester, but I must ask you to go right back to your first meeting with Miss Barlow.”

Forrester nodded, squaring his jaw.

“Of course, Inspector.” His voice, which had gone far to make his great reputation, possessed a music rarely heard on the modern stage. “I want to tell you everything that can possibly help us to trace her. Well, it was in Algiers, late in ‘44. I was touring with an Ensa party, and the French authorities had invited me to contribute an item to a programme—an excerpt from Tartuffe.”

He illustrated the allusion with a Gallic gesture.

“It was at this concert that I met Jean.”

Forrester paused in his promenade, and stood, arms folded, looking out of the window across the Embankment. Ives did not interrupt him. He was trying to make up his mind how deeply Forrester cared and how much of his despair was Thespian…

“You have never seen her, and so it is hard for me to make you understand. She was employed at that time by the French authorities in some sort of secretarial capacity. She is a remarkable linguist—”

There was a rap on the door.

“Excuse me,” Ives muttered. “Come in.”

A man announced, “Dr. Steel Maitland and Mr. Donovan,” and withdrew as they entered.

Ives made the introductions.

“How do you do, Mr. Forrester?” Donovan said, studying the actor’s pale features with sincere sympathy. “I have gathered a rough idea of the facts from my friend Maitland. This is all very disturbing for a man with a big first night to face up to.”

“Oh my God!” Forrester spoke on a note of despair. “I had dreamed for years of playing Hamlet in London, as the realisation of my wildest hopes. Now—I don’t give a damn whether I play or don’t play!”

“You have all my sympathy, Mr. Forrester,” Maitland assured him. “Inspector Ives has given me a brief outline of the story. Don’t give in yet. You are not the only one—is he, Donovan?”

“Mr. Forrester, a girl I—well, I’m crazy about her—has vanished in just the same way!”

“What do you mean? Recently?”

“Quite recently,” Maitland replied, in a deliberately cool way. “And we suspect by the same agency. Now, take it