A Bid for Fortune, Guy Boothby [easy books to read TXT] 📗

for their courtesy. The Inspector gave the driver his orders and we set off. As we went we discussed our next movements, and while we were doing so I idly glanced at the paper I held in my hand. There was a lamp in the cab, and the light showed me on the bottom right-hand corner a round blue india-rubber stamp mark, “W. E. Maxwell, stationer and newsagent, 23, Ipswell Street, Woolahra.”

“Stop the cab!” I almost shouted. “Tell the man to drive us back to the Canary Bird as fast as he can go.”

The order was given, the cab faced round, and in less than a minute we were on our way back.

“What’s up now?” asked the astonished Inspector.

“Only that I believe I’ve got a clue,” I cried.

I did not explain any further, and in five minutes we had brought the landlord downstairs again.

“I’m sorry to trouble you in this fashion,” I cried, “but life and death depend on it. I want you to let me see No. 5 again.”

He conducted us to the room, and once more the gas was lit. The small strip of envelope lay upon the table just as I had thrown it down. I seated myself and again looked closely at it. Then I sprang to my feet.

“I thought so!” I cried excitedly, pointing to the paper; “I told you I had a clue. Now, Mr. Inspector, who wrote those figures?”

“The man you call Nikola, I suppose.”

“That’s right. Now who would have bought this newspaper? You must remember that Thompson only left his box to come in here.”

“Nikola, I suppose.”

“Very good. Then according to your own showing Nikola owned this piece of envelope and this Evening Mercury. If that is certain, look here!”

He came round and looked over my shoulder. I pointed to what was evidently part of the gummed edge of the top of the envelope. On it were these three important words, “⁠—swell Street, Woolahra.”

“Well,” he said, “what about it?”

“Why, look here!” I said, as I opened the Evening Mercury and pointed to the stamp-mark at the bottom. “The man who bought this newspaper at Mr. Maxwell’s shop also bought this envelope there. The letters ‘swell’ before ‘street’ constitute the last half of Ipswell, the name of the street. If that man be Nikola, as we suspect, the person who served him is certain to remember him, and it is just within the bounds of possibility he may know his address.”

“That’s so,” said the Inspector, who was struck with the force of my argument. “I know Mr. Maxwell’s shop, and our best plan will be to go on there as fast as we can.”

Again thanking the landlord for his civility, we returned to our cab and once more set off, this time for Mr. Maxwell’s shop in Ipswell Street. By the time we reached it, it was nearly three o’clock, and gradually growing light.

As the cab drew up alongside the curb the Inspector jumped out and rang the bell at the side door. It was opened after awhile by a shock-headed youth, about eighteen years of age, who stared at us in sleepy astonishment.

“Does Mr. Maxwell live at the shop?” asked the Inspector.

“No, sir.”

“Where then?”

“Ponson Street⁠—third house on the left-hand side.”

“Thank you.”

Once more we jumped into the cab and rattled off. It seemed to me, so anxious and terrified was I for my darling’s safety, that we were fated never to get the information we wanted; the whole thing was like some nightmare, in which, try how I would to move, every step was clogged.

A few minutes’ drive brought us to Ponson Street, and we drew up at the third house on the left-hand side. It was a pretty little villa, with a nice front garden and a creeper-covered verandah. We rang the bell and waited. Presently we heard someone coming down the passage, and a moment later the door was unlocked.

“Who is there?” cried a voice from within.

“Police,” said my companion as before.

The door was immediately opened, and a very small sandy-complexioned man, dressed in a flaring suit of striped pyjamas, stood before us.

“Is anything wrong, gentlemen?” he asked nervously.

“Nothing to affect you, Mr. Maxwell,” my companion replied. “We only want a little important information, if you can give it us. We are anxious to discover a man’s whereabouts before daylight, and we have been led to believe that you are the only person who can give us the necessary clue.”

“Good gracious! I never heard of such a thing. But I shall be happy to serve you if I can,” the little man answered, leading the way into his dining-room and opening the shutters with an air of importance his appearance rather belied. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s this,” I replied, producing the piece of envelope and the Evening Mercury. “You see these letters on the top of this paper, don’t you?” He nodded, his attention at once secured by seeing his own name. “Well, that envelope was evidently purchased in your shop. So was this newspaper.”

“How can you tell that?”

“In the case of the envelope, by these letters; in that of the paper, by your rubber stamp on the bottom.”

“Ah! Well, now, and in what way can I help you?”

“We want to know the address of the man who bought them.”

“That will surely be difficult. Can you give me any idea of what he was like?”

“Tall, slightly foreign in appearance, distinctly handsome, sallow complexion, very dark eyes, black hair, small hands and feet.”

As my description progressed the little man’s face brightened. Then he cried with evident triumph⁠—

“I know the man; he came into the shop yesterday afternoon.”

“And his address is?”

His face fell again. His information was not quite as helpful as he had expected it would be.

“There I can’t help you, I’m sorry to say. He bought a packet of paper and envelopes and the Evening Mercury and then left the shop. I was so struck by his appearance that I went to the door and watched him cross the road.”

“And in which direction did he