Sign of Silence , livre ebook

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125 pages

English

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INTRODUCES A GENTLEMAN. Then it's an entire mystery? Yes, Phrida. But it's astounding! It really seems so utterly impossible, declared my well-beloved, amazed at what I had just related. I've simply stated hard facts. But there's been nothing about this affair in the papers. For certain reasons the authorities are not exactly anxious for any publicity. It is a very puzzling problem, and they do not care to own themselves baffled, I replied. Really, it's the most extraordinary story of London life that I've ever heard, Phrida Shand declared, leaning forward in her chair, clasping her small white hands as, with her elbows upon the table-a-deux, she looked at me with her wondrous dark eyes across the bowl of red tulips between us.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819908227
Langue	English

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CHAPTER I.
I NTRODUCES AGENTLEMAN. "Then it's an entire mystery?" "Yes, Phrida." "But it'sastounding! It really seems so utterly impossible," declared mywell-beloved, amazed at what I had just related. "I've simplystated hard facts." "But there's been nothing about this affair inthe papers." "For certain reasons the authorities are not exactlyanxious for any publicity. It is a very puzzling problem, and theydo not care to own themselves baffled," I replied. "Really, it'sthe most extraordinary story of London life that I've ever heard,"Phrida Shand declared, leaning forward in her chair, clasping hersmall white hands as, with her elbows upon the table-à-deux ,she looked at me with her wondrous dark eyes across the bowl of redtulips between us.
We were lunching together at the Berkeley, inPiccadilly, one January day last year, and had just arrived at thedessert. "The whole thing is quite bewildering, Teddy – an utterenigma," she exclaimed in a low, rather strained voice, her pretty,pointed chin resting upon the back of her hand as she gazed upon mefrom beneath those long, curved lashes. "I quite agree," was myanswer. "The police are mystified, and so am I. Sir Digby Kemsleyis my friend, you know." "I remember," she said. "You onceintroduced me – at the opening of the Motor Show at Olympia, Ibelieve. A very brilliant and famous man, isn't he?" "Rather! Afamous engineer. He made the new railway across the Andes, andpossesses huge rubber interests in Peru. His name, both in Seinaand Valparaiso, is one to conjure with," was my reply; "but – – ""But what?" queried my well-beloved. "Well, there's one fact whichgreatly increases the mystery – a fact which is yet to be told.""What's that?" she asked eagerly.
I hesitated. "Well, I've been making inquiries thismorning," I replied with some reluctance, "and I learn to my blankamazement that there is no such person as my friend." "No suchperson!" she echoed, staring at me, her lips parted. Being seatedin a corner, no one could overhear our conversation. "I don'tfollow you!" "Well, Sir Digby died somewhere in South America abouta year ago," was my quiet response. "What? Was your friend a fraud,eh?" "Apparently so. And yet, if he was, he must have been a man ofmarvellous cunning and subterfuge," I said. "He was most popular atthe club, known at the Ritz and the Savoy, and other places abouttown." "He struck me as a man of great refinement – a gentleman, infact," Phrida said. "I recollect him perfectly: tall, rather thin,with a pointed, grey beard, a long, oval face, and thinnish, greyhair. A very lithe, erect man, whose polite, elegant manner wasthat of a diplomat, and in whose dark eyes was an expression ofconstant merriment and good humour. He spoke with a slight accent –Scotch, isn't it?" "Exactly. You remember him perfectly, dear. Amost excellent description," I said; "and that same description hasbeen circulated this morning to every police office throughout theUnited Kingdom, as well as to the prefectures of police in all theEuropean capitals. All the ports are being watched, as it isexpected he may make his way abroad." "But what do the authoritiessuspect?" asked Phrida, with a serious look. "Ah, that's just it!They haven't yet decided what to suspect."
I looked across at her and thought, though slightlymore pale than usual, she had never appeared more charming.
Sweet-faced, slim, with a soft, sibilant voice, anddainty to her finger-tips, she did not look more than nineteen,though her age was twenty-four. How shall I describe her save tosay that her oval, well-defined features were perfect, her dark,arched brows gave piquancy to a countenance that was remarkedwherever she went, a merry face, with a touch of impudence in hersmile – the face of an essentially London girl.
Only daughter of my father's late partner, JamesShand, we had been friends from childhood, and our friendship had,three years ago, blossomed into a deep and mutual affection. Bornand bred in Kensington, she cared little for country life. Sheloved her London, its throbbing streets, its life and movement, itsconcerts, its bright restaurants, and, most of all, its theatres –for she was an ardent playgoer.
My father, Edward Royle, was head of the firm ofwell-known chemical manufacturers, Messrs. Royle and Shand, whoseworks were a feature of the river landscape close to Greenwich, andwhose offices were in St. Mary Axe. He had died two years before,pre-deceasing his partner by a year. The business – a big one, forwe were the largest chemical manufacturers in England – had beenleft solely in my hands. Shand's widow still lived with Phrida inCromwell Road, drawing from it an income of seven thousand poundsyearly.
As for myself, I was a bachelor, aged thirty-two,and if golf be a vice I was greatly addicted to it. I occupied acosy set of chambers, half-way up Albemarle Street, and am thankfulto say that in consequence of my father's business acumen, mybalance at my bankers was increasing annually. At the works atGreenwich nearly two thousand hands were employed, and it hadalways been the firm's proud boast that they laboured under themost healthy conditions possible to secure in the manufacture ofchemicals.
My father, upon his deathbed, had held my hand andexpressed to me his profoundest satisfaction at my engagement withthe daughter of his partner, and almost with his last breath hadpronounced a blessing upon our union.
Yes, I loved Phrida – loved her with all my heartand all my soul. She was mine – mine for ever.
Yet, as I sat at that little table in thewhite-enamelled restaurant gazing at her across the bowl of tulips,I felt a strange, a very curious misgiving, an extraordinary mistysuspicion, for which I could not in the least account.
I experienced a strange intuition of doubt and vagueuncertainty.
The facts we had just been discussing were, to saythe least, amazing.
Only the Metropolitan Police and myself were awareof the astounding discovery which had been made that morning – adiscovery of which the ever-vigilant London evening newspapers hadas yet no inkling.
The affair was being carefully hushed up. In certainquarters – high official quarters, I believe – a flutter ofexcitement had been caused at noon, when it had become known that amystery had occurred, one which at the outset New Scotland Yard hadacknowledged itself utterly without a clue.
About the affair there was nothing usual, nothingcommonplace. The murder mysteries of London always form excitingreading, for it is surely the easiest work of the practisedjournalist to put forward from day to day fresh clues and excitingpropositions.
The present case, however, was an entirely fresh andunheard-of mystery, one such as London had never before known.
In the whole annals of Scotland Yard no casepresenting such unusual features had previously been reported."Have you no theory as to what really occurred?" Phrida askedslowly, after a very long and pensive silence. "None whatever,dear," I replied.
What theory could I form? Aye, what indeed?
In order that the exact truth should be madeentirely plain to the reader and the mystery viewed in all itsphases, it will be best for me to briefly record the main factsprior to entering upon any detail.
The following were the circumstances exactly as Iknew them.
At twenty-five minutes to ten on the previous night– the night of January the sixth – I was at home in AlbemarleStreet, writing letters. Haines, my man, had gone out, and I wasalone, when the telephone bell rang. Taking up the receiver I heardthe cheery voice of Sir Digby Kemsley asking what I was doing. Myprompt reply was that I was staying at home that night, whereuponhis voice changed and he asked me in great earnestness to come overto his flat in Harrington Gardens, South Kensington, at eleveno'clock. "And look here," he added in a confidential tone, "theoutside door will be closed at half-past ten and the porter offduty. I'll go down just before eleven and leave the door ajar.Don't let anyone see you come in. Be extremely careful. I havereasons I'll explain afterwards." "Right," I replied, and shutoff.
His request seemed just a little curious. It struckme that he perhaps wished to consult with me over some privatematter, as he had done once before. Therefore, just before eleven Ihailed a taxi in Piccadilly and drove westward past Gloucester RoadStation, and into the quiet, eminently select neighbourhood wheremy friend lived.
At eleven o'clock Harrington Gardens – that longthoroughfare of big rather gloomy houses, most of them residencesof City merchants, or town houses or flats of people who have seatsin the country – was as silent as the grave, and my taxi awoke itsechoes until, about half way up, I stopped the man, alighted, andpaid him off.
Then, after walking a couple of hundred yards, Ifound the door ajar and slipped into the hall unobserved.
Ascending the wide carpeted steps to the secondfloor, the door of the flat was opened noiselessly by the ownerhimself, and a few seconds later I found myself seated before a bigfire in his snug sitting-room.
My friend's face was grey and entirely changed, yethis manner was still as polished, cheery, and buoyant as ever.
The flat – quite a small one, though very expensiveas he had once remarked to me – was furnished throughout withelegance and taste. Upon its walls everywhere hung curios andsavage arms, which he had brought from various parts of the world.The drawing-room was furnished entirely in Arab style, withcedar-wood screens, semi-circular arches, low, soft divans andsilken rugs, which he had bought in Egypt, while, in contrast, thelittle den in which we were sitting at that moment was panelled inwhite with an old-rose carpet, rendering it essentially bright andmodern.
The tall, grey-bearded, elegant man handed me a boxof Perfectos Finos, from which we selected, and then, throwingmyself into a chair, I slowly lit up.
His back was turned from me at t