Regis No. 13 Toroni

A Mystery
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-3-7364-1611-6
Verlag: anboco
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 334 Seiten

PART I. THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON CHAPTER 'DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE' THE GIRL IN GREY 'HE FRIGHTENED ME' STEPS THAT GROW SILENT THE OTHER DREYEL THE TRACK OF THE 'INVISIBLE' ONE DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN PART II. THE WOODEN DOLLS ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY RICARDO FERAIL A 'WELCOME' GIFT AT SEATTLE WILLIAM ROBERTSON FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE HOTEL 'GOLDEN SNAKE' THE 'ARIADNE' PART III. HURRICANE ISLAND TORONI RE-ASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME THE STORY OF 'KING SOLOMON' WHERE THOMAS FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES ELAINE TELLS THE TRUTH TEN FATHOMS FROM THE GOAL MADAME LORRAINE'S SURPRISE GO SHARES ... THEN PART AFTER THE CONFLICT

Autoren/Hrsg.

Regis, Julius

Leseproben

"How did you get here? Who are you?"

She rose from, her chair and said in a listless tone: "I had to hide, I want to get out of here."

She bent down to pick up her bag and burst into tears, then leaving the satchel on the floor, she made wildly for the door, but as Tom did not move she stopped short in front of him with bowed head, her whole form shaking.

"Let me go," she said. "Oh, God, let me get away from here!"

"The house is full of police," he answered deliberately. "They declare that Victor Dreyel met with his death at the hands of a girl in grey."

She staggered as though she had been struck. She moaned pitifully, lifted her hands to her throat and fixed her eyes upon his face as if dazed. The silent appeal in her feverishly burning eyes made him regret his harshness.

"It is not true," she said, closed her eyes and fell back in a dead faint. He caught her in his arms and carried her to the easy chair; her white blouse showed through the open grey coat. A wave of compassion surged through his brain as he saw how frail and helpless she was; small, pearly teeth gleamed between her half-open lips. She breathed faintly and her deathly pallor accentuated the thinness of her face; her expression was one of childhood innocence. For a moment he touched her hand, which was soft and warm. Could it be that these small hands were stained with the lifeblood of Victor Dreyel? He shuddered at the bare thought and yet how could the situation be explained? Here he was in his own room alone with a girl ... an entire stranger to him ... wanted by the police ... in a dead faint. He was at his wits' end.

"This can't go on," he reflected. "What on earth am I to do?"

She had not entirely lost consciousness, and he saw that her dark eyes were fixed upon his with a puzzled expression. Presently in a broken voice she said:

"I was hiding behind your door when you opened it; I heard people about and ran in here."

"You ran in here? And what for, may I ask?" he queried in despair.

"I did not want to fall into the hands of the police...."

"Then you must have some reason for being afraid of them?"

She looked down without answering; after a few seconds she glanced up again and asked, "Is there any one about who could hear me?"

The unexpected question startled him; he was about to reply in the negative, but his suspicious were roused, and he made a hasty examination of his rooms.

His quarters comprised three rooms—his study littered with sketches, plans and models; his living—or as he preferred to call it his smoke-room, with comfortable leather chairs; and his bedroom. At first he had intended to make his household a model one, but his various housekeepers having proved failures he had turned his domestic offices into lumber rooms. Returning from his investigation he said:

"There is no one about, and now, I trust, you will explain how you came to be found in the studio?"

"And supposing I can't?" she whispered.

"In that case I am afraid the police will make you!"

At that moment there was a violent ring at the outer door and Tom caught the buzz of voices. The ringing was renewed from time to time, accompanied by loud knocking; and he went towards the hall—as in a dream.

The girl jumped up without a word and threw her arms round him in order to hold him back. Her tears broke out afresh, and her flaming eyes made her look like a little fury; but he pushed her away and said in a decisive tone:

"Look here, this won't do, I must open the door."

"No, no," she whimpered, "you must help me.... I can swear ... Oh, do help me!" She covered her face with her hands and he heard her murmur: "There is no one in the world who will help me."

He did not release his hold of her and the small figure seemed to dwindle in his grasp: without knowing how it happened he found her head resting on his shoulder.

"Well, well, try to be calm," he said austerely "I never said I should hand you over to the police, did I?"

"No, you did not," she replied gravely "you did not."

She sighed and dried her tears.

"Go into the next room and keep quiet," he said hurriedly.

The girl hesitated, but another furious ring scared her and the next minute she had disappeared. Tom stuffed her satchel under some papers, looked round once more and found a grey glove on the chair which he bundled into his pocket and went to open the door. Superintendent Aspeland walked in.

"So this is where you live," he grunted, looking about him. "Yes, you seem to have all you want here. Have you heard anything of the woman since you came down from the studio? Have you seen her? What about that window there, does that look into the street?"

Tom drew a long breath.

"Are you referring to the girl in grey, Inspector?"

"Yes, of course."

"I know nothing more about her," said the young man in a loud voice; "but that window over there does look into the street," he added.

"Hm!" said the superintendent, who had already thrown open the window, and was looking up and down the road. He closed it rather noisily.

"I see," he mumbled, tugging at his mustache, "and what about that door over there?"

"Goes into the next room," Tom said, inwardly quaking. "It is..."

"Oh," remarked Aspeland carelessly, taking out pocket-book and pencil. "Oh, I say, I just picked up a telegram here."

He made Tom tell him what he knew about the telegram from Gothenburg, then he said rather crossly, "It seems to me as if no one here were capable of giving any explanation of this tiresome business! Oh, well, I haven't done with it yet; we shall see."

He stood still for a while without appearing to be looking at anything in particular, then he slowly walked out, shutting the door after him. Tom began to feel dizzy and to wonder what he really had been doing; had he really in cold blood been trying to bamboozle a police superintendent?

The door of the next room was gently opened and the girl came out. They looked at one another in silence. Tom essayed to speak, but his voice failed him. In his mind's eye he still beheld the lifeless body, and his wrath and indignation against the murderer broke out afresh.

"Anyhow, you were there," he said, hardness and suspicion in his tone.

The girl hung her head.

"Then you don't believe me?" she said in a low voice. "I ... I can't explain. It is so hard ... I am so awfully lonely."

Tom went a step nearer to her.

"If only you..." he began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. What had he been going to say? What did he know?

"Won't you tell me who you are?" he continued more gently. She shivered.

"No, I had better go; thanks for what you have done, and ... goodbye."

She put out her hand without raising her eyes, and let the small, soft fingers rest for a moment in his own. She withdrew them with a nervous exclamation. There was again a ring at the door as the church clock struck nine, and without uttering a word the girl ran back into the smoking room. "She trusts me," he thought, and he felt oddly touched, but quickly pulled himself together.

He went out into the hall, fully determined to tell the inspector everything. Was it not his duty? But when he opened the door he was completely taken aback; for without any ado, a tall, well set-up man in a mackintosh crossed the threshold, hung his hat on a peg and unbuttoned his coat.

"Good evening," he said in a deep, mellow voice, "this house seems more lively than I was led to believe. Where is your mysterious friend Dreyel?"

Tom stood as if turned to stone.

"Maurice Wallion, by Jove!" he said panting, "I had quite forgotten you were coming."

The journalist looked at him as he wiped the rain drops from his face. Tom felt like a guilty schoolboy before those calm grey eyes, and went hot all over. A sudden smile passed over the detective's usually grave and impassive features.

"I begin to suspect," he said, "that you ought to have called me in sooner. You promised me an interesting evening and the first persons I run into are two men from the police. What has happened? Has Victor Dreyel got himself into a mess?"

"He was murdered half-an-hour ago." said Tom.

Maurice Wallion bit his lip and cast a peculiarly keen look at the young man; then he slowly took his way to the study, looked round and said: "Too late, I see. Where and how did it happen?"

Tom, in an incoherent manner, told him. He mentioned his conversation with Dreyel at eight o'clock, the wooden doll, the telegram and the mysterious footsteps, finishing up with the suspicions of the police in regard to a certain young girl in grey.

But he went no further. Now, having recapitulated all the details in order, he himself for the first time got a clear insight as...