Detective Sergeant Stokes was a big,
dark, florid man, the word “constable”
written all over him. Indeed, as Wessex had complained
more than once, the mere sound of Stokes’s footsteps
was a danger signal for any crook. His respect
for his immediate superior, the detective inspector,
was not great. The methods of Wessex savoured
too much of the French school to appeal to one of
Stokes’s temperament and outlook upon life,
especially upon that phase of life which comes within
the province of the criminal investigator.
Wessex’s instructions with regard
to Nicol Brinn had been succinct: “Watch
Mr. Brinn’s chambers, make a note of all his
visitors, but take no definite steps respecting him
personally without consulting me.”
Armed with these instructions, the
detective sergeant had undertaken his duties, which
had proved more or less tedious up to the time that
a fashionably attired woman of striking but unusual
appearance had inquired of the hall porter upon which
floor Mr. Nicol Brinn resided.
In her manner the detective sergeant
had perceived something furtive. There was a
hunted look in her eyes, too.
When, at the end of some fifteen or
twenty minutes, she failed to reappear, he determined
to take the initiative himself. By intruding
upon this prolonged conference he hoped to learn something
of value. Truth to tell, he was no master of
finesse, and had but recently been promoted from an
East End district where prompt physical action was
of more value than subtlety.
As a result, then, he presently found
himself in the presence of the immovable Hoskins;
and having caused his name to be announced, he was
requested to wait in the lobby for one minute.
Exactly one minute had elapsed when he was shown into
that long, lofty room, which of late had been the
scene of strange happenings.
Nicol Brinn was standing before the
fireplace, hands clasped behind him, and a long cigar
protruding from the left corner of his mouth.
No one else was present, so far as the detective could
see, but he glanced rapidly about the room in a way
which told the man who was watching that he had expected
to find another present. He looked into the unfathomable,
light blue eyes of Nicol Brinn, and became conscious
of a certain mental confusion.
“Good evening, sir,” he
said, awkwardly. “I am acting in the case
concerning the disappearance of Mr. Paul Harley.”
“Yes,” replied Brinn.
“I have been instructed to keep an eye on these
chambers.”
“Yes,” repeated the high voice.
“Well, sir” again
he glanced rapidly about-"I don’t want to intrude
more than necessary, but a lady came in here about
half an hour ago.”
“Yes,” drawled Brinn. “It’s
possible.”
“It’s a fact,” declared
the detective sergeant. “If it isn’t
troubling you too much, I should like to know that
lady’s name. Also, I should like a chat
with her before she leaves.”
“Can’t be done,” declared Nicol
Brinn. “She isn’t here.”
“Then where is she?”
“I couldn’t say. She went some time
ago.”
Stokes stood squarely before Nicol
Brinn a big, menacing figure; but he could
not detect the slightest shadow of expression upon
the other’s impassive features. He began
to grow angry. He was of that sanguine temperament
which in anger acts hastily.
“Look here, sir,” he said,
and his dark face flushed. “You can’t
play tricks on me. I’ve got my duty to
do, and I am going to do it. Ask your visitor
to step in here, or I shall search the premises.”
Nicol Brinn replaced his cigar in
the right corner of his mouth: “Detective
Sergeant Stokes, I give you my word that the lady to
whom you refer is no longer in these chambers.”
Stokes glared at him angrily.
“But there is no other way out,” he blustered.
“I shall not deal with this
matter further,” declared Brinn, coldly.
“I may have vices, but I never was a liar.”
“Oh,” muttered the detective
sergeant, taken aback by the cold incisiveness of
the speaker. “Then perhaps you will lead
the way, as I should like to take a look around.”
Nicol Brinn spread his feet more widely
upon the hearthrug. “Detective Sergeant
Stokes,” he said, “you are not playing
the game. Inspector Wessex passed his word to
me that for twenty-four hours my movements should
not be questioned or interfered with. How is it
that I find you here?”
Stokes thrust his hands in his pockets
and coughed uneasily. “I am not a machine,”
he replied; “and I do my own job in my own way.”
“I doubt if Inspector Wessex would approve of
your way.”
“That’s my business.”
“Maybe, but it is no affair
of yours to interfere with private affairs of mine,
Detective Sergeant. See here, there is no lady
in these chambers. Secondly, I have an appointment
at nine o’clock, and you are detaining me.”
“What’s more,” answered
Stokes, who had now quite lost his temper, “I
intend to go on detaining you until I have searched
these chambers and searched them thoroughly.”
Nicol Brinn glanced at his watch.
“If I leave in five minutes, I’ll be in
good time,” he said. “Follow me.”
Crossing to the centre section of
a massive bookcase, he opened it, and it proved to
be a door. So cunning was the design that the
closest scrutiny must have failed to detect any difference
between the dummy books with which it was decorated,
and the authentic works which filled the shelves to
right and to left of it. Within was a small and
cosy study. In contrast with the museum-like
room out of which it opened, it was furnished in a
severely simple fashion, and one more experienced in
the study of complex humanity than Detective Sergeant
Stokes must have perceived that here the real Nicol
Brinn spent his leisure hours. Above the mantel
was a life-sized oil painting of Mrs. Nicolas Brinn;
and whereas the great room overlooking Piccadilly
was exotic to a degree, the atmosphere of the study
was markedly American.
Palpably there was no one there.
Nor did the two bedrooms, the kitchen, and the lobby
afford any more satisfactory evidence. Nicol Brinn
led the way back from the lobby, through the small
study, and into the famous room where the Egyptian
priestess smiled eternally. He resumed his place
upon the hearthrug. “Are you satisfied,
Detective Sergeant?”
“I am!” Stokes spoke angrily.
“While you kept me talking, she slipped out
through that study, and down into the street.”
“Ah,” murmured Nicol Brinn.
“In fact, the whole business
looks very suspicious to me,” continued the
detective.
“Sorry,” drawled Brinn,
again consulting his watch. “The five minutes
are up. I must be off.”
“Not until I have spoken to Scotland Yard, sir.”
“You wish to speak to Scotland Yard?”
“I do,” said Stokes, grimly.
Nicol Brinn strode to the telephone,
which stood upon a small table almost immediately
in front of the bookcase. The masked door remained
ajar.
“You are quite fixed upon detaining me?”
“Quite,” said Stokes, watching him closely.
In one long stride Brinn was through
the doorway, telephone in hand! Before Stokes
had time to move, the door closed violently, in order,
no doubt, to make it shut over the telephone cable
which lay under it!
Detective Sergeant Stokes fell back,
gazed wildly at the false books for a moment, and
then, turning, leaped to the outer door. It was
locked!
In the meanwhile, Nicol Brinn, having
secured the door which communicated with the study,
walked out into the lobby where Hoskins was seated.
Hoskins stood up.
“The lady went, Hoskins?”
“She did, sir.”
Nicol Brinn withdrew the key from
the door of the room in which Detective Sergeant Stokes
was confined. Stokes began banging wildly upon
the panels from within.
“That row will continue,”
Nicol Brinn said, coldly; “perhaps he will shout
murder from one of the windows. You have only
to say you had no key. I am going out now.
The light coat, Hoskins.”
Hoskins unemotionally handed coat,
hat, and cane to his master and, opening the front
door, stood aside. The sound of a window being
raised became audible from within the locked room.
“Probably,” added Nicol Brinn, “you
will be arrested.”
“Very good, sir,” said Hoskins. “Good-night,
sir...”