Bramah ERNEST BRAMAH Ultimate Collection: 20+ Novels & Short Stories (Including Max Carrados Mysteries and Kai Lung Fantasy Stories)

The Secret of the League, The Coin of Dionysius, The Game Played In the Dark, The Tilling Shaw Mystery, Kai Lung's Golden Hours, The Confession of Kai Lung, The Mirror of Kong Ho and many more
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-80-268-5258-2
Verlag: e-artnow
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 1110 Seiten

This carefully crafted ebook: 'ERNEST BRAMAH Ultimate Collection: 20+ Novels & Short Stories (Including Max Carrados Mysteries and Kai Lung Fantasy Stories)' is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents. Ernest Bramah (1868-1942) was an English author. He published numerous thriller books, detective stories and supernatural tales, creating the characters Kai Lung and Max Carrados. Bramah's detective stories were ranked with Conan Doyle, his politico-science fiction with H. G. Wells, his supernatural stories with Algernon Blackwood and his humorous works with Jerome K Jerome. George Orwell acknowledged that Bramah's book, The Secret of the League, influenced his Nineteen Eighty-Four. Table of Contents: Max Carrados The Coin of Dionysius The Knight's Cross Signal Problem The Tragedy at Brookbend Cottage The Clever Mrs. Straithwaite The Last Exploit Of Harry the Actor The Tilling Shaw Mystery The Comedy at Fountain Cottage The Game Played In the Dark The Wallet of Kai Lung The Transmutation of Ling The Story of Yung Chang The Probation of Sen Heng The Experiment of the Mandarin Chan Hung The Confession of Kai Lung The Vengeance of Tung Fel The Career of the Charitable Quen-Ki-Tong The Vision of Yin, the Son of Yat Huang The Ill-Regulated Destiny of Kin Yen, the Picture-Maker Kai Lung's Golden Hours: A Novel Other Novels The Mirror of Kong Ho The Secret of the League: The Story of a Social War

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bramah, Ernest

Leseproben

The Last Exploit of Harry the Actor Table of Contents The one insignificant fact upon which turned the following incident in the joint experiences of Mr Carlyle and Max Carrados was merely this: that having called upon his friend just at the moment when the private detective was on the point of leaving his office to go to the safe deposit in Lucas Street, Piccadilly, the blind amateur accompanied him, and for ten minutes amused himself by sitting quite quietly among the palms in the centre of the circular hall while Mr Carlyle was occupied with his deed-box in one of the little compartments provided for the purpose. The Lucas Street depository was then (it has since been converted into a picture palace) generally accepted as being one of the strongest places in London. The front of the building was constructed to represent a gigantic safe door, and under the colloquial designation of “The Safe” the place had passed into a synonym for all that was secure and impregnable. Half of the marketable securities in the west of London were popularly reported to have seen the inside of its coffers at one time or another, together with the same generous proportion of family jewels. However exaggerated an estimate this might be, the substratum of truth was solid and auriferous enough to dazzle the imagination. When ordinary safes were being carried bodily away with impunity or ingeniously fused open by the scientifically equipped cracksman, nervous bond-holders turned with relief to the attractions of an establishment whose modest claim was summed up in its telegraphic address: “Impregnable.” To it went also the jewel-case between the lady’s social engagements, and when in due course “the family” journeyed north—or south, east or west—whenever, in short, the London house was closed, its capacious storerooms received the plate-chest as an established custom. Not a few traders also—jewellers, financiers, dealers in pictures, antiques and costly bijouterie, for instance—constantly used its facilities for any stock that they did not requite immediately to hand. There was only one entrance to the place, an exaggerated keyhole, to carry out the similitude of the safe-door alluded to. The ground floor was occupied by the ordinary offices of the company; all the strong-rooms and safes lay in the steel-cased basement. This was reached both by a lift and by a flight of steps. In either case the visitor found before him a grille of massive proportions. Behind its bars stood a formidable commissionaire who never left his post, his sole duty being to open and close the grille to arriving and departing clients. Beyond this, a short passage led into the round central hall where Carrados was waiting. From this part, other passages radiated off to the vaults and strong-rooms, each one barred from the hall by a grille scarcely less ponderous than the first one. The doors of the various private rooms put at the disposal of the company’s clients, and that of the manager’s office, filled the wall-space between the radiating passages. Everything was very quiet, everything looked very bright, and everything seemed hopelessly impregnable. “But I wonder?” ran Carrados’s dubious reflection; as he reached this point. “Sorry to have kept you so long, my dear Max,” broke in Mr Carlyle’s crisp voice. He had emerged from his compartment and was crossing the hall, deed-box in hand. “Another minute and I will be with you.” Carrados smiled and nodded and resumed his former expression, which was merely that of an uninterested gentleman waiting patiently for another. It is something of an attainment to watch closely without betraying undue curiosity, but others of the senses—hearing and smelling, for instance—can be keenly engaged while the observer possibly has the appearance of falling asleep. “Now,” announced Mr Carlyle, returning briskly to his friend’s chair, and drawing on his grey suede gloves. “You are in no particular hurry?” “No,” admitted the professional man, with the slowness of mild surprise. “Not at all. What do you propose?” “It is very pleasant here,” replied Carrados tranquilly. “Very cool and restful with this armoured steel between us and the dust and scurry of the hot July afternoon above. I propose remaining here for a few minutes longer.” “Certainly,” agreed Mr Carlyle, taking the nearest chair and eyeing Carrados as though he had a shrewd suspicion of something more than met the ear. “I believe some very interesting people rent safes here. We may encounter a bishop, or a winning jockey, or even a musical comedy actress. Unfortunately it seems to be rather a slack time.” “Two men came down while you were in your cubicle,” remarked Carrados casually. “The first took the lift. I imagine that he was a middle-aged, rather portly man. He carried a stick, wore a silk hat, and used spectacles for close sight. The other came by the stairway. I infer that he arrived at the top immediately after the lift had gone. He ran down the steps, so that the two were admitted at the same time, but the second man, though the more active of the pair, hung back for a moment in the passage and the portly one was the first to go to his safe.” Mr Carlyle’s knowing look expressed: “Go on, my friend; you are coming to something.” But he merely contributed an encouraging “Yes?” “When you emerged just now our second man quietly opened the door of his pen a fraction. Doubtless he looked out. Then he closed it as quietly again. You were not his man, Louis.” “I am grateful,” said Mr Carlyle expressively. “What next, Louis?” “That is all; they are still closeted.” Both were silent for a moment. Mr Carlyle’s feeling was one of unconfessed perplexity. So far the incident was utterly trivial in his eyes; but he knew that the trifles which appeared significant to Max had a way of standing out like signposts when the time came to look back over an episode. Carrados’s sightless faculties seemed indeed to keep him just a move ahead as the game progressed. “Is there really anything in it, Max?” he asked at length. “Who can say?” replied Carrados. “At least we may wait to see them go. Those tin deed-boxes now. There is one to each safe, I think?” “Yes, so I imagine. The practice is to carry the box to your private lair and there unlock it and do your business. Then you lock it up again and take it back to your safe.” “Steady! our first man,” whispered Carrados hurriedly. “Here, look at this with me.” He opened a paper—a prospectus—which he pulled from his pocket, and they affected to study its contents together. “You were about right, my friend,” muttered Mr Carlyle, pointing to a paragraph of assumed interest. “Hat, stick and spectacles. He is a clean-shaven, pink-faced old boy. I believe—yes, I know the man by sight. He is a bookmaker in a large way, I am told.” “Here comes the other,” whispered Carrados. The bookmaker passed across the hall, joined on his way by the manager whose duty it was to counterlock the safe, and disappeared along one of the passages. The second man sauntered up and down, waiting his turn. Mr Carlyle reported his movements in an undertone and described him. He was a younger man than the other, of medium height, and passably well dressed in a quiet lounge suit, green Alpine hat and brown shoes. By the time the detective had reached his wavy chestnut hair, large and rather ragged moustache, and sandy, freckled complexion, the first man had completed his business and was leaving the place. “It isn’t an exchange lay, at all events,” said Mr Carlyle. “His inner case is only half the size of the other and couldn’t possibly be substituted.” “Come up now,” said Carrados, rising. “There is nothing more to be learned down here.” They requisitioned the lift and on the steps outside the gigantic keyhole stood for a few minutes discussing an investment as a couple of trustees or a lawyer and a client who were parting there might do. Fifty yards away, a very large silk hat with a very curly brim marked the progress of the bookmaker towards Piccadilly. The lift in the hall behind them swirled up again and the gate clashed. The second man walked leisurely out and sauntered away without a backward glance. “He has gone in the opposite direction,” exclaimed Mr Carlyle, rather blankly. “It isn’t the ‘lame goat’ nor the ‘follow-me-on,’ nor even the homely but efficacious sand-bag.” “What colour were his eyes?” asked Carrados. “Upon my word, I never noticed,” admitted the other. “Parkinson would have noticed,” was the severe comment. “I am not Parkinson,” retorted Mr Carlyle, with asperity, “and, strictly as one dear friend to another, Max, permit me to add, that while cherishing an unbounded admiration for your remarkable gifts, I have the strongest suspicion that the whole incident is a ridiculous mare’s nest, bred in the fantastic imagination of an enthusiastic criminologist.” Mr Carrados received this outburst with the utmost benignity. “Come and have a coffee, Louis,” he suggested. “Mehmed’s is only a street away.” Mehmed proved to be a cosmopolitan gentleman from Mocha whose shop resembled a house from the outside and an Oriental divan when one was within. A turbaned Arab placed cigarettes and cups of coffee spiced with saffron before the customers, gave salaam and withdrew. “You know, my dear chap,” continued Mr Carlyle, sipping his black...