Nude in Mink, Sax Rohmer [free children's ebooks pdf TXT] 📗
- Author: Sax Rohmer
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A shocked coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of death from natural causes, brought about through infection by a tropical germ, which suited Ives very well. But, as Sumuru had predicted, sensational reports concerning the state of the body were soon in circulation and someone writing over the signature “Medico” contributed a letter to a daily newspaper pointing out that rigor Kubus was not only a tropical disease, but also a very rare one, and suggesting that further investigation was indicated concerning the manner of infection.
Inspector Ives drew Donovan’s attention to this letter.
“I called at the office and saw the original. It was typed on notepaper headed with a Harley Street address, and signed ‘Montague Worthington. M.D.’! I was round there ten minutes later. The house is entirely occupied by dental surgeons!”
“Worthington again! That man’s impudence passes belief. Of course, it’s all part of a plan to notify whomever it may concern that Sumuru has handed out what she probably regards as justice. But, after all, there are several people we know who could identify Dr. Worthington. What are you doing about him?”
Ives sat on the edge of Donovan’s desk, looking at him sideways.
“How many tall men with dark moustaches do you suppose there are in London? Am I expected to arrest them all and hold a parade to be inspected by yourself, Constable Kent, and Dr. Maitland?”
“What about this girl Jean Barlow who was Claudette’s co-worker in Africa, and who evidently had her kidnapped?”
“Her existence has been confirmed, Mr. Donovan, and her duties in the French service. But both she and Miss Duquesne were relieved of further duties about the time they left Algiers. And they have both disappeared. We are trying to trace Jean Barlow’s family. Nothing like this case has ever come my way. As yet. I haven’t seen one of the principals. The best I have to go upon is just shadowy descriptions, and most of the people concerned seem to have vanished!”
“Has no clue been picked up at Sir Miles’s house?”
“Ask Dr. Maitland. He’s working on the thing for the Intelligence people. He knows far more about it than I do.”
Inspector Ives was in a bad humour, and Donovan did not press him further.
During the considerable time which elapsed before he found himself again deeply involved in the mesh of Sumuru’s mysterious web, Donovan never entirely threw off a sickly fear that there might be some aftermath of the unknown drugs administered by Dr. Worthington. He knew that Maitland shared this dread. But, in fact, neither suffered any ill effects. Spasmodic pain in the eyes, in Donovan’s case, disappeared quickly.
“I knew already,” Maitland told him, “that this formidable woman had gone far ahead of the recognised pharmaceutists. Whether she, herself, is a highly accomplished chemist or whether she employs one, we don’t know. But her knowledge of drugs is phenomenal.”
Donovan did not know how Maitland was employed at this period. But he suspected that he deliberately kept his own counsel in order to protect him from Sumuru. That he was afraid of her he was at no pains to disguise. On one occasion he said:
“Although all the powers of law and order are behind me, Donovan, I don’t think, frankly, that I have a chance…”
In his secret heart, Donovan doubted it, too. But overriding every other doubt, every other fear, was his hopeless longing for Claudette. Her image was eternally before him. He recalled each intonation of her voice, and every one of those quaint, graceful gestures which betrayed her French parentage. It is true that the figure of Sumuru haunted his dreams, but as something aloof from his life, not, indeed, of this world, as a vision of Isis unveiled in a secret shrine; lovely but terrible.
He fought against the insupportable idea that he should never see Claudette again. Yet—he hadn’t a notion where to look for her! The usual routine of advertising, and circulating photographs Ives had dismissed as worse than useless. “She is in a prison. But we don’t know where.”
“WHAT are you writing, Donovan?”
A rattle of typewriter keys ceased abruptly. Mark Donovan looked up from his work.
“An account of the history of Sumuru, Maitland—what I know of it—to date.”
Maitland dropped into his favourite armchair and lighted a cheroot which smelt like a prairie fire.
“Good. Should make fine confused reading.”
“It does.” Donovan stood up and stared out of the window. “It’s bewildering. Do you know, sometimes I just can’t believe we have really known this woman—seen her— listened to her voice. It beats me. You escaped her clutches by a sheer miracle. But I go through hell every time you are out after dark.”
Maitland nodded.
“I never go far, alone—after dark. Anyway, it’s my job, Donovan. I have to take chances. Just think. A prominent man, Miles Tristram, is murdered here in London, by means of the horrible infection called rigor Kubus. So far we have no clue to his murder … I know what you’re going to say, but we have no evidence, Donovan. Claudette Duquesne, the daughter of a famous French writer, is spirited away—”
Donovan clenched his hands.
“Good God! Where is she? Where is she? Sometimes I wonder shall I ever see her again!”
Mainland’s expression was sympathetic as he stared at the broad shoulders of the man by the window.
“I know how you feel—I know. But we are all doing our best. We can do no more. And, so far, there’s no clue to her whereabouts. I can’t guess if there’s any connection, but I learn now that her father has vanished from his Paris flat.”
Donovan turned quickly.
“What do you say, Maitland?”
“It’s true. He has just—disappeared!… Then, we have both been attacked, drugged, and hauled before this amazing criminal. She seems to live in some place like an Eastern palace. She employs highly efficient thugs of various nationalities. She has a private laboratory in charge of a distinguished looking scientist known to you and me as Dr. Worthington—”
Perhaps unconsciously, Donovan tightened his fists again.
“Ha! One day I mean to balance my account with Dr. Worthington!”
“I have a few small points of difference to settle with him myself,” said Maitland dryly. “But the thing is—we don’t know the location of this Arabian Nights abode. We don’t know how to find Dr. Worthington.”
Donovan stirred restlessly, but didn’t turn.
“There’s this house recently used as an Embassy. I have hopes that some clue may be found there.”
“It will be too late, Donovan.” Maitland shook his head. “Every possible diplomatic obstacle has been put in our way. By the time the police get permission to investigate, there’ll be nothing to see. A more promising line of inquiry is the girl, Jean Barlow–-”
“Jean Barlow? You mean Claudette’s alleged friend?”
“Yes—the ‘friend’ who arranged her abduction by Sumuru! We have got in touch at last with Jean’s father. He is a country vicar—up in Cumberland. The story Claudette told you is true enough. Both girls were employed in the French propaganda department—”
And now Donovan turned and took a step towards Maitland.
“Well?”
“Well—the Reverend Lawrence Barlow has regular letters from his daughter, it seems. I have seen some of them. Jean states that she is at present employed on a confidential job in London. But the address, Scotland Yard has just reported, is merely an accommodation one—a stationer’s shop in Kensington.”
“But—”
“Oh, the next person to call for letters addressed to Jean will be held, I promise you!”
“But the letters themselves?”
“Rather wild. I should say that the missing Jean is desperately unhappy—Hullo!”
The phone bell interrupted him. Donovan crossed and took the call.
“This is Mark Donovan… Yes, I’ll tell him… Inspector Ives, for you, Maitland.”
“Thanks.” Maitland took Donovan’s place. “Hullo, Ives— what is it?… What?… Great Scott! that’s a bit of luck!… You want me to come round? Right… Yes—I’ll be along right away… I am hoping for big things from this … Good—starting now … I shall bring Donovan.”
Maitland replaced the receiver and stood staring at Donovan.
“What’s happened?”
Maitland smiled grimly.
“An almost incredible slice of luck—at last. Do you know Ian Forrester?”
“Not personally, but many critics think he’s the best of the younger actors on the London stage. As a matter of fact, I was assigned to attend his opening tonight in Hamlet. But I passed the job on to a junior. I had no heart for it.”
Maitland’s gaze remained fixed upon him.
“Yet—I think you may be there after all, Donovan—’
2
In Chief Inspector Ives’s office at Scotland Yard, a man was pacing up and down, up and down, before the large, tidy desk at which the chief inspector remained seated. His dark blue suit was almost too well tailored, for he was of a build and bearing which could have carried rags with distinction. His thick, light brown hair was brushed in a manner deliberately negligent, a manner which accorded well with the pale, classic features.
Ives, who had never met Ian Forrester before, found himself wondering if that ivory pallor was habitual, and if Forrester’s blue eyes had always held a haunted expression.
“I understand that it’s a painful business, Mr. Forrester, but I must ask you to go right back to your first meeting with Miss Barlow.”
Forrester nodded, squaring his jaw.
“Of course, Inspector.” His voice, which had gone far to make his great reputation, possessed a music rarely heard on the modern stage. “I want to tell you everything that can possibly help us to trace her. Well, it was in Algiers, late in ‘44. I was touring with an Ensa party, and the French authorities had invited me to contribute an item to a programme—an excerpt from Tartuffe.”
He illustrated the allusion with a Gallic gesture.
“It was at this concert that I met Jean.”
Forrester paused in his promenade, and stood, arms folded, looking out of the window across the Embankment. Ives did not interrupt him. He was trying to make up his mind how deeply Forrester cared and how much of his despair was Thespian…
“You have never seen her, and so it is hard for me to make you understand. She was employed at that time by the French authorities in some sort of secretarial capacity. She is a remarkable linguist—”
There was a rap on the door.
“Excuse me,” Ives muttered. “Come in.”
A man announced, “Dr. Steel Maitland and Mr. Donovan,” and withdrew as they entered.
Ives made the introductions.
“How do you do, Mr. Forrester?” Donovan said, studying the actor’s pale features with sincere sympathy. “I have gathered a rough idea of the facts from my friend Maitland. This is all very disturbing for a man with a big first night to face up to.”
“Oh my God!” Forrester spoke on a note of despair. “I had dreamed for years of playing Hamlet in London, as the realisation of my wildest hopes. Now—I don’t give a damn whether I play or don’t play!”
“You have all my sympathy, Mr. Forrester,” Maitland assured him. “Inspector Ives has given me a brief outline of the story. Don’t give in yet. You are not the only one—is he, Donovan?”
“Mr. Forrester, a girl I—well, I’m crazy about her—has vanished in just the same way!”
“What do you mean? Recently?”
“Quite recently,” Maitland replied, in a deliberately cool way. “And we suspect by the same agency. Now, take it
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