Read Online The Complete Four Just Men by Edgar Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edgar Wallace
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bucket.
‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked the electrician daringly.
‘Nothing,’ was the sharp reply. ‘Finish your work, refix these globes, and go.’
The electrician, ill-satisfied and curious, looked at the floating box and the broken length of wire.
‘Curious-looking thing, sir,’ he said. ‘If you ask me – ’
‘I don’t ask you anything; finish your work,’ the great journalist interrupted.
‘Beg pardon, I’m sure,’ said the apologetic artisan.
Half an hour later the editor of the Megaphone sat discussing the situation with Welby.
Welby, who is the greatest foreign editor in London, grinned amiably and drawled his astonishment.
‘I have always believed that these chaps meant business,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and what is more, I feel pretty certain that they will keep their promise. When I was in Genoa – ’ Welby got much of his information first-hand – ‘when I was in Genoa – or was it Sofia? – I met a man who told me about the Trelovitch affair. He was one of the men who assassinated the King of Servia, you remember. Well, one night he left his quarters to visit a theatre – the same night he was found dead in the public square with a sword thrust through his heart. There were two extraordinary things about it.’ The foreign editor ticked them on off his fingers. ‘First, the General was a noted swordsman, and there was every evidence that he had not been killed in cold blood, but had been killed in a duel; the second was that he wore corsets, as many of these Germanised officers do, and one of his assailants had discovered this fact, probably by a sword thrust, and had made him discard them; at any rate when he was found this frippery was discovered close by his body.’
‘Was it known at the time that it was the work of the Four?’ asked the editor.
Welby shook his head.
‘Even I had never heard of them before,’ he said resentfully. Then asked, ‘What have you done about your little scare?’
‘I’ve seen the hall porters and the messengers, and every man on duty at the time, but the coming and the going of our mysterious friend – I don’t suppose there was more than one – is unexplained. It really is a remarkable thing. Do you know, Welby, it gives me quite an uncanny feeling; the gum on the envelope was still wet; the letter must have been written on the premises and sealed down within a few seconds of my entering the room.’
‘Were the windows open?’
‘No; all three were shut and fastened, and it would have been impossible to enter the room that way.’
The detective who came to receive a report of the circumstances endorsed this opinion.
‘The man who wrote this letter must have left your room not longer than a minute before you arrived,’ he concluded, and took charge of the letter.
Being a young and enthusiastic detective, before finishing his investigations he made a most minute search of the room, turning up carpets, tapping walls, inspecting cupboards, and taking laborious and unnecessary measurements with a foot-rule.
‘There are a lot of our chaps who sneer at detective stories,’ he explained to the amused editor, ‘but I have read almost everything that has been written by Gaboriau and Conan Doyle, and I believe in taking notice of little things. There wasn’t any cigar ash or anything of that sort left behind, was there?’ he asked wistfully.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the editor gravely.
‘Pity,’ said the detective, and wrapping up the ‘infernal machine’ and its appurtenances, he took his departure.
Afterwards the editor informed Welby that the disciple of Holmes had spent half an hour with a magnifying glass examining the floor.
‘He found half a sovereign that I lost weeks ago, so it’s really an ill wind – ’
All that evening nobody but Welby and the chief knew what had happened in the editor’s room. There was some rumour in the sub-editor’s department that a small accident had occurred in the
‘Anything wrong, sir?’ asked the electrician daringly.
‘Nothing,’ was the sharp reply. ‘Finish your work, refix these globes, and go.’
The electrician, ill-satisfied and curious, looked at the floating box and the broken length of wire.
‘Curious-looking thing, sir,’ he said. ‘If you ask me – ’
‘I don’t ask you anything; finish your work,’ the great journalist interrupted.
‘Beg pardon, I’m sure,’ said the apologetic artisan.
Half an hour later the editor of the Megaphone sat discussing the situation with Welby.
Welby, who is the greatest foreign editor in London, grinned amiably and drawled his astonishment.
‘I have always believed that these chaps meant business,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and what is more, I feel pretty certain that they will keep their promise. When I was in Genoa – ’ Welby got much of his information first-hand – ‘when I was in Genoa – or was it Sofia? – I met a man who told me about the Trelovitch affair. He was one of the men who assassinated the King of Servia, you remember. Well, one night he left his quarters to visit a theatre – the same night he was found dead in the public square with a sword thrust through his heart. There were two extraordinary things about it.’ The foreign editor ticked them on off his fingers. ‘First, the General was a noted swordsman, and there was every evidence that he had not been killed in cold blood, but had been killed in a duel; the second was that he wore corsets, as many of these Germanised officers do, and one of his assailants had discovered this fact, probably by a sword thrust, and had made him discard them; at any rate when he was found this frippery was discovered close by his body.’
‘Was it known at the time that it was the work of the Four?’ asked the editor.
Welby shook his head.
‘Even I had never heard of them before,’ he said resentfully. Then asked, ‘What have you done about your little scare?’
‘I’ve seen the hall porters and the messengers, and every man on duty at the time, but the coming and the going of our mysterious friend – I don’t suppose there was more than one – is unexplained. It really is a remarkable thing. Do you know, Welby, it gives me quite an uncanny feeling; the gum on the envelope was still wet; the letter must have been written on the premises and sealed down within a few seconds of my entering the room.’
‘Were the windows open?’
‘No; all three were shut and fastened, and it would have been impossible to enter the room that way.’
The detective who came to receive a report of the circumstances endorsed this opinion.
‘The man who wrote this letter must have left your room not longer than a minute before you arrived,’ he concluded, and took charge of the letter.
Being a young and enthusiastic detective, before finishing his investigations he made a most minute search of the room, turning up carpets, tapping walls, inspecting cupboards, and taking laborious and unnecessary measurements with a foot-rule.
‘There are a lot of our chaps who sneer at detective stories,’ he explained to the amused editor, ‘but I have read almost everything that has been written by Gaboriau and Conan Doyle, and I believe in taking notice of little things. There wasn’t any cigar ash or anything of that sort left behind, was there?’ he asked wistfully.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the editor gravely.
‘Pity,’ said the detective, and wrapping up the ‘infernal machine’ and its appurtenances, he took his departure.
Afterwards the editor informed Welby that the disciple of Holmes had spent half an hour with a magnifying glass examining the floor.
‘He found half a sovereign that I lost weeks ago, so it’s really an ill wind – ’
All that evening nobody but Welby and the chief knew what had happened in the editor’s room. There was some rumour in the sub-editor’s department that a small accident had occurred in the
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