The Clue of the Twisted Candle, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  Assistant Commissioner of Police T. X. Meredith did not occupy officesin New Scotland Yard. It is the peculiarity of public offices that theyare planned with the idea of supplying the margin of space aboveall requirements and that on their completion they are found whollyinadequate to house the various departments which mysteriously come intoprogress coincident with the building operations.

  "T. X.," as he was known by the police forces of the world, had a bigsuite of offices in Whitehall. The house was an old one facing the Boardof Trade and the inscription on the ancient door told passers-by thatthis was the "Public Prosecutor, Special Branch."

  The duties of T. X. were multifarious. People said of him--and like mostpublic gossip, this was probably untrue--that he was the head of the"illegal" department of Scotland Yard. If by chance you lost the keys ofyour safe, T. X. could supply you (so popular rumour ran) with a burglarwho would open that safe in half an hour.

  If there dwelt in England a notorious individual against whom the policecould collect no scintilla of evidence to justify a prosecution, and ifit was necessary for the good of the community that that person shouldbe deported, it was T. X. who arrested the obnoxious person, hustledhim into a cab and did not loose his hold upon his victim until he hadlanded him on the indignant shores of an otherwise friendly power.

  It is very certain that when the minister of a tiny power which shall benameless was suddenly recalled by his government and brought to trialin his native land for putting into circulation spurious bonds, it wassomebody from the department which T. X. controlled, who burgled HisExcellency's house, burnt the locks from his safe and secured thenecessary incriminating evidence.

  I say it is fairly certain and here I am merely voicing the opinion ofvery knowledgeable people indeed, heads of public departments who speakbehind their hands, mysterious under-secretaries of state who discussthings in whispers in the remote corners of their clubrooms and the morefrank views of American correspondents who had no hesitation in puttingthose views into print for the benefit of their readers.

  That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it was thatflippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home Office Administrationis popularly supposed to have sent one Home Secretary to his grave, whotraced the Deptford murderers through a labyrinth of perjury and whobrought to book Sir Julius Waglite though he had covered his trail ofdefalcation through the balance sheets of thirty-four companies.

  On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner office interviewing adisconsolate inspector of metropolitan police, named Mansus.

  In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, for hisface was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at him closelyand saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting of his straightmouth, that you guessed he was on the way to forty. In his early dayshe had been something of a poet, and had written a slight volumeof "Woodland Lyrics," the mention of which at this later stage wassufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.

  In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at timesmarked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction ofhaving provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen the light,the comment of a former Home Secretary that "it was unfortunate thatMr. Meredith did not take his position with the seriousness which wasexpected from a public official."

  His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent andunusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on land or sea,and illustrating his instruction or his admonition with the quaintestphraseology.

  Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle,scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of a chair atthe other side of his desk.

  "But, T. X.," protested the Inspector, "there was nothing to be found."

  It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon hisassociates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earntdisapproval in the highest quarters.

  "Nothing is to be found!" he repeated wrathfully. "Curious Mike!"

  He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police officer to startback in alarm.

  "Listen," said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in his handand tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, "you're a pie!"

  "I'm a policeman," said the other patiently.

  "A policeman!" exclaimed the exasperated T. X. "You're worse than a pie,you're a slud! I'm afraid I shall never make a detective of you," heshook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus who had been in thepolice force when T. X. was a small boy at school, "you are neither Wisenor Wily; you combine the innocence of a Baby with the grubbiness of aCounty Parson--you ought to be in the choir."

  At this outrageous insult Mr. Mansus was silent; what he might havesaid, or what further provocation he might have received may be neverknown, for at that moment, the Chief himself walked in.

  The Chief of the Police in these days was a grey man, rather tired, witha hawk nose and deep eyes that glared under shaggy eyebrows and he was aterror to all men of his department save to T. X. who respected nothingon earth and very little elsewhere. He nodded curtly to Mansus.

  "Well, T. X.," he said, "what have you discovered about our friendKara?"

  He turned from T. X. to the discomforted inspector.

  "Very little," said T. X. "I've had Mansus on the job."

  "And you've found nothing, eh?" growled the Chief.

  "He has found all that it is possible to find," said T. X. "We do notperform miracles in this department, Sir George, nor can we pick up thethreads of a case at five minutes' notice."

  Sir George Haley grunted.

  "Mansus has done his best," the other went on easily, "but it is ratherabsurd to talk about one's best when you know so little of what youwant."

  Sir George dropped heavily into the arm-chair, and stretched out hislong thin legs.

  "What I want," he said, looking up at the ceiling and putting his handstogether, "is to discover something about one Remington Kara, a wealthyGreek who has taken a house in Cadogan Square, who has no particularposition in London society and therefore has no reason for cominghere, who openly expresses his detestation of the climate, who hasa magnificent estate in some wild place in the Balkans, who is anexcellent horseman, a magnificent shot and a passable aviator."

  T. X. nodded to Mansus and with something of gratitude in his eyes theinspector took his leave.

  "Now Mansus has departed," said T. X., sitting himself on the edge ofhis desk and selecting with great care a cigarette from the case he tookfrom his pocket, "let me know something of the reason for this suddeninterest in the great ones of the earth."

  Sir George smiled grimly.

  "I have the interest which is the interest of my department," he said."That is to say I want to know a great deal about abnormal people. Wehave had an application from him," he went on, "which is rather unusual.Apparently he is in fear of his life from some cause or other and wantsto know if he can have a private telephone connection between his houseand the central office. We told him that he could always get the nearestPolice Station on the 'phone, but that doesn't satisfy him. He has madebad friends with some gentleman of his own country who sooner or later,he thinks, will cut his throat."

  T. X. nodded.

  "All this I know," he said patiently, "if you will further unfold thesecret dossier, Sir George, I am prepared to be thrilled."

  "There is nothing thrilling about it," growled the older man, rising,"but I remember the Macedonian shooting case in South London and I don'twant a repetition of that sort of thing. If people want to have bloodfeuds, let them take them outside the metropolitan area."

  "By all means," said T. X., "let them. Personally, I don't care wherethey go. But if that is the extent of your information I can supplementit. He has had extensive alterations made to the house he bought inCadogan Square; the room in which he lives is practically a safe."

  Sir George raised his eyebrows.

  "
A safe," he repeated.

  T. X. nodded.

  "A safe," he said; "its walls are burglar proof, floor and roof arereinforced concrete, there is one door which in addition to its ordinarylock is closed by a sort of steel latch which he lets fall when heretires for the night and which he opens himself personally in themorning. The window is unreachable, there are no communicating doors,and altogether the room is planned to stand a siege."

  The Chief Commissioner was interested.

  "Any more?" he asked.

  "Let me think," said T. X., looking up at the ceiling. "Yes, theinterior of his room is plainly furnished, there is a big fireplace,rather an ornate bed, a steel safe built into the wall and visible fromits outer side to the policeman whose beat is in that neighborhood."

  "How do you know all this?" asked the Chief Commissioner.

  "Because I've been in the room," said T. X. simply, "having by anunderhand trick succeeded in gaining the misplaced confidence of Kara'shousekeeper, who by the way"--he turned round to his desk and scribbleda name on the blotting-pad--"will be discharged to-morrow and must befound a place."

  "Is there any--er--?" began the Chief.

  "Funny business?" interrupted T. X., "not a bit. House and man are quitenormal save for these eccentricities. He has announced his intention ofspending three months of the year in England and nine months abroad. Heis very rich, has no relations, and has a passion for power."

  "Then he'll be hung," said the Chief, rising.

  "I doubt it," said the other, "people with lots of money seldom gethung. You only get hung for wanting money."

  "Then you're in some danger, T. X.," smiled the Chief, "for according tomy account you're always more or less broke."

  "A genial libel," said T. X., "but talking about people being broke, Isaw John Lexman to-day--you know him!"

  The Chief Commissioner nodded.

  "I've an idea he's rather hit for money. He was in that Roumanian goldswindle, and by his general gloom, which only comes to a man when he'sin love (and he can't possibly be in love since he's married) or whenhe's in debt, I fear that he is still feeling the effect of that rosyadventure."

  A telephone bell in the corner of the room rang sharply, and T. X.picked up the receiver. He listened intently.

  "A trunk call," he said over his shoulder to the departing commissioner,"it may be something interesting."

  A little pause; then a hoarse voice spoke to him. "Is that you, T. X.?"

  "That's me," said the Assistant Commissioner, commonly.

  "It's John Lexman speaking."

  "I shouldn't have recognized your voice," said T. X., "what is wrongwith you, John, can't you get your plot to went?"

  "I want you to come down here at once," said the voice urgently, andeven over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress. "I have shot aman, killed him!"

  T. X. gasped.

  "Good Lord," he said, "you are a silly ass!"