The Cheyne Mystery , livre ebook

Rare Treasure Editions - Freeman Wills Crofts

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

128 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

In a country hotel Maxwell Cheyne sits down to lunch with the pleasant stranger he has just met. Then, as the meal ends, he sinks into a drugged sleep and, on waking, learns that his house has been burgled (though nothing is missing)... This is only the first of his encounters with a gang of very persistent criminals. But what are they after? It falls to Inspector French of Scotland Yard to expose their desperate and unguessable conspiracy.

Sujets

Policier & Thriller

Policier

Fiction

Mystery

Detective

Traditional

Informations

Publié par	Rare Treasure Editions
Date de parution	05 novembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781774643006
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Cheyne Mystery
by Freeman Wills Crofts

First published in 1926
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

THE CHEYNE MYSTERY

by
FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS

CHAPTER I
The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel
When the White Rabbit in Alice asked where he shouldbegin to read the verses at the Knave’s trial the Kingreplied: “Begin at the beginning; go on till you come tothe end; then stop.”
This would seem to be the last word on the subject ofnarration in general. For the novelist no dictum moreentirely complete and satisfactory can be imagined—intheory. But in practice it is hard to live up to.
Where is the beginning of a story? Where is the beginningof anything? No one knows.
When I set myself to consider the actual beginning ofMaxwell Cheyne’s adventure, I saw at once I should haveto go back to Noah. Indeed I was not at all sure whetherthe thing could be adequately explained unless I carriedback the narrative to Adam, or even further. For Cheyne’sadventure hinged not only on his own character and environment,brought about by goodness knows how manythousands of generations of ancestors, but also upon thecontemporaneous history of the world, crystallized in thehappening of the Great War and all that appertainedthereto.
So then, in default of the true beginning, let us commencewith the character and environment of MaxwellCheyne, following on with the strange episode which tookplace in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth, and from whichstarted that extraordinary series of events which I havecalled The Cheyne Mystery.
Maxwell Cheyne was born in 1891, so that when hisadventure began in the month of March, 1920, he was justtwenty-nine. His father was a navy man, commander ofone of His Majesty’s smaller cruisers, and from him theboy presumably inherited his intense love of the sea andof adventure. Captain Cheyne had Irish blood in his veinsand exhibited some of the characteristics of that irritatingthough lovable race. He was a man of brilliant attainments,resourceful, dashing, spirited and, moreover, a fineseaman, but a certain impetuosity, amounting at times torecklessness, just prevented his attaining the highest rankin his profession. In character he was as straight as a die,and kindly, generous, and openhanded to a fault, but hewas improvident and inclined to live too much in thepresent. And these characteristics were destined to affecthis son’s life, not only directly through heredity, but indirectlythrough environment also.
When Maxwell was nine his father died suddenly, andthen it was found that the commander had been living upto his income and had made but scant provision for hiswidow and son and daughter. Dreams of Harrow andCambridge had to be abandoned and, instead, the boy waseducated at the local grammar school, and then enteredthe office of a Fenchurch Street shipping firm as juniorclerk.
In his twentieth year the family fortunes were againreversed. His mother came in for a legacy from an uncle,a sheep farmer in Australia. It was not a fortune, but itmeant a fairly substantial competence. Mrs. Cheyne boughtback Warren Lodge, their old home, a small Georgianhouse standing in pleasant grounds on the estuary of theDart. Maxwell thereupon threw up his job at the shippingoffice, followed his mother to Devonshire, and settled downto the leisurely life of a country gentleman. Among otherhobbies he dabbled spasmodically in literature, producinga couple of novels, one of which was published and soldwith fair success.
But the sea was in his blood. He bought a yacht, andwith the help of the gardener’s son, Dan, sailed her infair weather and foul, thereby gaining skill and judgmentin things nautical, as well as a first-hand knowledge of theshores and tides and currents of the western portion of theEnglish Channel.
Thus it came to pass that when, three years after thereturn to Devon, the war broke out, he volunteered for thenavy and was at once accepted. There he served withenthusiasm if not with distinction, gaining very much thereputation which his father had held before him. Duringthe intensive submarine campaign he was wounded in anaction with a U-boat, which resulted in his being invalidedout of the service. On demobilization he returned home andtook up his former pursuits of yachting, literature, andgenerally having as slack and easy a time as his energeticnature would allow. Some eighteen months passed, andthen occurred the incident which might be said definitelyto begin his Adventure.
One damp and bleak March day Cheyne set out forPlymouth from Warren Lodge, his home on the estuary ofthe Dart. He wished to make a number of small purchases,and his mother and sister had entrusted him with commissions.Also he desired to consult his banker as to somequestion of investments. With a full program before himhe pulled on his oilskins, and having assured his motherhe would be back in time for dinner, he mounted hismotor bicycle and rode off.
In due course he reached Plymouth, left his machine ata garage, and set about his business. About one o’clock hegravitated towards the Edgecombe Hotel, where after acocktail he sat down in the lounge to rest for a few minutesbefore lunch.
He was looking idly over The Times when the voice ofa page broke in on his thoughts.
“Gentleman to see you, sir.”
The card which the boy held out bore in fine script thelegend: “Mr. Hubert Parkes, Oakleigh, Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham.”Cheyne pondered, but he could not recall anyoneof the name, and it passed through his mind that the pagehad probably made a mistake.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Here sir,” the boy answered, and a short, stoutly builtman of middle age with fair hair and a toothbrushmustache stepped forward. A glance assured Cheyne thathe was a stranger.
“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” the newcomer inquired politely.
“My name, sir. Won’t you sit down?” Cheyne pulled aneasy-chair over towards his own.
“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Mr.Cheyne,” the other went on as he seated himself, “thoughI knew your father fairly intimately. I lived for many yearsat Valetta, running the Maltese end of a produce companywith which I was then connected, and I met him whenhis ship was stationed there. A great favorite, CaptainCheyne was! The dull old club used to brighten up whenhe came in, and it seemed a national loss when his shipwas withdrawn to another station.”
“I remember his being in Malta,” Cheyne returned,“though I was quite a small boy at the time. My motherhas a photograph of Valetta, showing his ship lying in theGrand Harbor.”
They chatted about Malta and produce company worktherein for some minutes, and then Mr. Parkes said:
“Now, Mr. Cheyne, though it is a pleasure to make theacquaintance of the son of my old friend, it was not merelywith that object that I introduced myself. I have, as amatter of fact, a definite piece of business which I shouldlike to discuss with you. It takes the form of a certainproposition of which I would invite your acceptance, Ihope, to our mutual advantage.”
Cheyne, somewhat surprised, murmured polite expressionsof anxiety to hear details and the other went on:
“I think before I explain the thing fully another smallmatter wants to be attended to. What about a little lunch?I’m just going to have mine and I shall take it as a favorif you will join me. After that we could talk business.”
Cheyne readily agreed and the other called over a waiterand gave him an order. “Let us have a cocktail,” he wenton, “and by that time lunch will be ready.”
They strolled to the bar and there partook of a wonderfulAmerican concoction recommended by the young ladyin charge. Presently the waiter reappeared and led the way,somewhat to Cheyne’s surprise, to a private room. Therean excellent repast was served, to which both men did fulljustice. Parkes proved an agreeable and well informedcompanion and Cheyne enjoyed his conversation. The newcomerhad, it appeared, seen a good deal of war service,having held the rank of major in the department of supply,serving first at Gallipoli and then at Salonica. Cheyneknew the latter port, his ship having called there on threeor four occasions, and the two men found they had variousexperiences in common. Time passed pleasantly until atlast Parkes drew a couple of armchairs up to the fire,ordered coffee, and held out his cigar case.
“With your permission I’ll put my little proposition now.It is in connection with your literary work and I’m afraidit’s bound to sound a trifle impertinent. But I can assureyou it’s not meant to be so.”
Cheyne smiled.
“You needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings,” hedeclared. “I have a notion of the real value of my work.Get along anyway and let’s hear.”
Parkes resumed with some hesitation.
“I have to say first that I have read everything that youhave published and I am immensely impressed by yourstyle. I think you do your descriptions extraordinarily well.Your scenes are vivid and one feels that one is livingthrough them. There’s money in that, Mr. Cheyne, in thatgift of vivid and interest-compelling presentation. Youshould make a good thing out of short stories. I’ve workedat them for years and I know.”
“Huh. I haven’t found much money in it.”
Parkes nodded.
“I know you haven’t, or rather I guessed so. And if youdon’t mind, I’ll tell you why.” He sat up and a keenerinterest crept into his manner. “There’s a fault in thosestories of yours, a bad fault, and it’s in the construction.But let’s leave that for the moment and you’ll see whereall this is leading.”
He broke off as a waiter arrived with the coffee, resuming:
“Now I have a str