Number Six E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 142

Beschreibung

Number Six by Edgar Wallace is a thrilling dive into the world of espionage, danger, and deceit. When a mysterious figure known only as "Number Six" becomes the target of an international manhunt, the stakes are higher than ever. This elusive and highly skilled operative must navigate a treacherous landscape of double agents, secret codes, and deadly traps. With enemies closing in from all sides, Number Six's only chance for survival lies in outsmarting those who seek to capture him. Can he uncover the truth behind the conspiracy and stay one step ahead, or will he be ensnared in a deadly game of cat and mouse? Immerse yourself in this high-octane adventure and discover the secrets of Number Six.

Leseprobe

Number Six

Author: Edgar Wallace

Edited by: Seif Moawad

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq eBookstore

Published as “Number Six and the Borgia” in The Popular Magazine, Dec 7, 1920

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Number Six

I. — THE BEGINNING OF THE HUNT

II. — TRAY-BONG SMITH

III. — THE HOUSE OF CÆSAR

IV. — THE CHAINED LADY

V. — CÆSAR REVEALS HIMSELF

VI. — CÆSAR TELLS OF NUMBER SIX

VII. — THE STORY OF WELLAND

VIII. — A NOTE FROM NOWHERE

IX. — MR. SMITH IS BURGLED

X. — THE LADY WHO MODELLED

XI. — JOHN WELLAND

XII. — THE MYSTERIOUS MR. ROSS

XIII. — A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE

XIV. — THE LAST COUP

XV. — THE END

Landmarks

The Council of Justice

Cover

I. — THE BEGINNING OF THE HUNT

THE most mysterious and baffling thing about Cæsar Valentine was to discover the reason for his mystery. It was a mystery which belonged to the category of elusive thought, the name that is on the tip of your tongue, the fact that is familiar, yet defies exact remembrance.

When the International Police Conference held its yearly meeting in 19— in Geneva, and after three strenuous days’ discussion which embraced matters so widely different as the circulation of forged Swedish notes and the philanderings of the Bosnian Ambassador (the conference did its best to prevent his assassination, which occurred six months later), the question of Cæsar Valentine came up for examination. It was an informal discussion, a mere drift of conversation arising out of the Gale case.

“I don’t quite know what is this man’s offence,” said Lecomte of the Surêté. “He is very rich and very popular and immensely good-looking—but none of these qualities is criminal.”

“Where does he get his money?” demanded Leary of Washington. “We had him in America for five years and he did nothing but spend.”

“Neither in France nor in America is that a crime,” smiled Lecomte.

“People who have done business with him have had an unfortunate habit of dying suddenly.”

It was Hallett of the London C.I.B. who put the matter so bluntly, and Leary nodded.

“That’s so,” he said. “Providence has been very good to Mr. Valentine. He was in a big wheat deal in Chicago in ’13 and the market went against him. The principal operator was Burgess—John Boyd Burgess. He had a grudge against Valentine and would have ruined him. One morning Burgess was discovered dead at the bottom of an elevator shaft in his hotel. He had dropped nineteen floors.”

M. Lecomte shrugged his broad shoulders.

“An accident?” he suggested.

“Listen,” said Hallett. “This man Valentine got friendly with a banker in our country—a man named George Gale. Gale financed him out of the bank funds—but that was never proved. Gale was in the habit of taking a nerve tonic. He used to bring one dose in a tiny bottle to the office. He was found one night dead in his office with the little bottle in his hand. It bore the tonic label but it had contained prussic acid. When the auditors came to examine the books of the bank they found a hundred thousand pounds had disappeared. Valentine’s account was in perfect order. Gale went to a suicide’s grave—Valentine, sent a wreath.”

“Well,” said Lecomte with another shrug, “I am not defending M. Valentine. But it might have been suicide. Valentine might have been innocent. Where is your evidence to the contrary? There was an investigation, was there not?”

Hallett nodded.

“And nothing was discovered unflattering to the monsieur! You think he is a bad man? I tell you that I will place the full strength of my department at your disposal to prove it. I will have him watched day and night, for he is in France for six months in the year, but frankly I would desire more solid foundations for your suspicions.”

“He ran away with a man’s wife——” began Hallett, and Lecomte laughed.

“Pardon!” he apologised. “That is not an offence under the Code Napoleon!”

So the conversation drifted elsewhere.

A year later Hallett of the C.I.B. sat hunched up in his chair, frowning gloomily at a typewritten report which was spread on his desk.

He sat for half an hour, thinking; then he touched a bell and somebody came in.

“My friend,” said the chief—and when he began “my friend” he was very serious indeed—“six months ago you came to me with certain theories about Mr. Cæsar Valentine. I don’t want you to interrupt me,” he said brusquely as his subordinate seemed likely to speak; “just hear me through. I like you—you know that. I trust you or I wouldn’t send you out on what looks like a hopeless search. What is more, I think your theories have some foundation. I have always thought so. That is why I’ve put you into training and accepted you for this department.”

A nod was the reply.

“Police work,” said Hallett, “is a big game of solitaire in every sense of the word. If you watch every card and keep your mind concentrated on the game and you have luck, it comes out. If you start wool-gathering in the earlier stages you’ll just miss putting up the right card, and you’ll be stuck with the deuce of hearts, that should have gone up, lying snug and useless at the bottom of the pack. Patience is everything. Burns sent a man into the mining camps with the scrap of a photograph showing only a murderer’s right eye and it was three years before this fellow of Burns nailed his man. Lecomte of the Surêté waited five years before he caught Madam Serpilot; and I myself as a young man trailed the Cully Smith gang for three years, eight months, and twelve days before I put Cully where I wanted him—and it will probably take you as long to pull down Cæsar Valentine.”

“When do I start?” asked his companion.

“At once,” replied Hallett. “Nobody must know of your movements—not even at this office. Your pay and expenses will be sent to you and you will be entered in the books as ‘on special service abroad.’”

The other smiled.

“That will be difficult, chief; my name——”

“You have no name. Henceforth you will be Number Six and there will be nothing to identify you with—who you are. I shall give instructions that suggestions, wishes, or such S.O.S. messages as you send will be acted upon. Now get out and pull Valentine. This man may be the biggest thing of his kind—and the most dangerous man in the world. On the other hand, all the stories that come to Police Headquarters may be lies. It’s a weird job you’ve taken on. You can’t jail a man for living expensively or for running away with men’s wives, and that’s his known record. Naturally he isn’t popular with men and hatred breeds lies. You’ve got to be bold and discreet, because I have reason to believe he has the most complete espionage bureau in the world. It was discovering that he subsidised a man here in this office that opened my eyes to the possibilities of the case. A man doesn’t spend thousands to plant an ear at Headquarters unless he has something to fear.”

Number Six nodded again.

“Now, here’s the world before you, my friend,” said Hallett, “and a great reward if you succeed. Find his friends—you can have the entree to every prison in Britain and maybe that will help you.”

“It’s a big job,” said Number Six, “but it is the one job in the world I want.”

“That I know,” agreed Hallett. “It will be lonely, but you’ll probably find a dozen people who will help you—the men and women he has ruined and broken; the fathers of daughters and the husbands of wives he has sent to hell. They’ll be pretty good allies. Now go! I’ve given you the finest intensive training that I can give, but maybe I haven’t taught you just the thing you’ll want to know.”

He rose abruptly and offered his hand and Number Six winced under the crushing grip.

“Good-bye and good luck, Number Six,” he smiled. “Don’t forget I shall never know you again if I meet you in the street. You are a stranger to me until you step into the witness-box at the Old Bailey and give the evidence which will put Mister Valentine permanently out of the game!”

So Number Six went out, nodding to the man at the door—the grim visaged custodian of the custodians—and for some years Scotland Yard lost sight of one against whose name in the Secret and Confidential Register of the Criminal Investigation Bureau Hallett wrote in his own hand:

“On very particular service. No reference to be made to this agent in any report whatever.”

A year later Hallett summoned Chief Detective Steel to his office and told him just as much of his interview with Number Six as he deemed advisable.

“I haven’t heard from Number Six for months,” he said. “Go to Paris and keep a fatherly eye on Cæsar Valentine.”

“Tell me this about Number Six, chief,” said Detective Steel. “Is it a man or a woman?”

Hallett grinned.

“Cæsar has been six months trying to find out,” he said. “I’ve fired three clerks for enquiring—don’t tell me that I’ve got to fire you.”

II. — TRAY-BONG SMITH

WHEN in prison at Brixton, a man who has no defence and is waiting his trial on a charge of murder finds time hanging pretty heavily upon his hands. It was due to this ennui of his that “Tray-Bong” Smith, usually an extremely reticent man, condescended to furnish certain particulars which enabled the writer to fill in the gaps of this story which began for our purpose in Chi So’s tea-room, which isn’t more than a hundred metres from the Quai des Fleurs.

Chi So was that rarity, a Jap who posed as a Chinee. He ran a restaurant in Paris, which, without being fashionable, was popular. People used to come across the river to eat the weird messes he prepared, and as many as a dozen motor-cars have been seen parked at the end of the narrow street in which “The Joyous Pedlar”—that was the name of his joint—was situated.

Tray-Bong Smith had never eaten at Chi So’s, but Had been there quite a lot. The restaurant was built on a corner lot and was a fairly old house. It was probably an inn in the days of Louis, for beneath the building was one of the most spacious cellars in Paris. It was a great, vaulted room, about thirty feet from the keystone to the floor, and Chi So had turned this into what he called a “lounge” for his regular customers.

For weeks Tray-Bong Smith had turned into the “lounge” regularly at twelve o’clock every night, to bunk down with a pipe and a few busy thoughts till four o’clock in the morning.

There were lots of reasons why he shouldn’t wander about Paris at night. At this time some sort of international conference was going on, and it was impossible to stroll from the Place de la Concorde to the Italiennes without falling over a Scotland Yard man who would know him.

Whether other visitors would have recognised the gaunt unshaven man with the shabby suit and the discoloured shirt as the man who won the 100 yards’ sprint and the long jump at the Oxford and Cambridge Sports is doubtful. Certain sections of the police, however, knew him very well indeed.

In a little cafe in Montmartre where he spent his evenings they had christened him “Tray-Bong Smith,” because of his practice of replying to all and sundry who addressed him with this cockneyfied version of “très bien.” Even when he discovered that his French was faultless and his “tray bong” an amusing mannerism, the name stuck and it came with him to Chi So’s, where he was accounted a dangerous man.

There were days when he counted his sous, days and nights when he would disappear from view and come back flush with money, changing thousand-franc notes with the nonchalance of a Monte Carlo croupier.

But when he was visible at all he was a regular attendant at Chi So’s.

If he was regular in his habits, so was Cæsar Valentine. On Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, at two o’clock to the minute, he used to make his appearance in what the habitues of Chi So’s called the private box. In one wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, there was a moon-shaped opening, in which had been built, either by Chi So or his predecessor, a sort of Swiss balcony. It was unlighted and heavily curtained and it was suspected that Chi So made quite a respectable income out of letting the box to respectable people who wanted to be thrilled by the dope horrors of Paris and peregrinating journalists who were writing up Chinatown stories.

Cæsar Valentine, as a rule, came through a private door direct into the cellar, but sometimes he would stalk through the “lounge” looking from side to side with that insolent stare of his, and go out through a small door in the wall which communicated, by means of a circular iron staircase, with the private box above. And there he would sit for exactly one hour, peering down at the smokers, his eyes ranging the whitewashed cavern, which with its big Chinese lanterns, its scarlet dado, and the brightly covered bunks was not without its picturesque qualities.

Chi So said that he was a “beautiful man,” and the description was not extravagant. He was invariably in evening dress which fitted him like a glove. About six feet in height, with such a face as the old Greek sculptors loved to reproduce, his head was covered with a mass of small brown curls, slightly—very slightly—tinged with grey. The first time Tray-Bong Smith saw him he thought he was a man of twenty-eight. The second time, when a shaft of light from a torn lantern caught him square, he guessed he was nearer fifty. He had big, brown, melancholy eyes, a straight nose, a chin a little too rounded for the fastidious taste, and on his cheeks just a faint flush of colour.

The night this story begins, Tray-Bong Smith had turned in at Chi So’s by the side door which was used by the smokers and taken off his mackintosh in the hall. Chi So was there rubbing his hands, a sly and detestable little figure, in blue silk blouse and trousers, and he helped him off with his coat.

“It’s raining, Mr. Thmith?” he lisped.

“Like the devil,” growled Tray-Bong. “A poisonous night, even for Paris.”

Chi So grinned.

“You thmoke plenty to-night, Mr. Thmith. I have thome good thtock in from China. Plenty people here to-night.”

Smith grunted a reply and went down the stone stairs and found his bunk. Chi always reserved the same bunk for regular customers and Smith’s was just opposite the “private box.”

O San, the pipe man, gave him his instrument of delight, made and lit a pill, and then hurried off.

There was the usual queer lot of people there that night. Society folks, a woman or two, the old camelot who sells the story of his life at the corner of the Rue Royale, and a gentleman whom Smith recognised as an official attached to one of the numerous embassies in Paris. Him he noted for future use and profit.

Old Lefèbre, the camelot, noted the complacent, self-satisfied attitude of Tray-Bong and shuffled off to the bunk of a crony.

“Smit’ has had a good hunting,” he wheezed. “He is lucky … a month ago he came from Enghien with pockets full of mille notes, and the body of Tosseau, the racing man was found in the Seine… . Chi So should keep this place for respectable people.”

His audience cursed him vilely for interrupting his pleasant dream and the camelot went back to his own tangled visions.

Tray-Bong lay curled up in his bunk, supporting himself on his elbow, and dreamt his dreams, which were not the kind of dreams which anybody else in the lounge would indulge in.

At two o’clock precisely came Cæsar Valentine, and with him Chi So, who usually accompanied him if he came through the lounge. Chi So’s attitude was servile, his voice a wheedling whine, but Valentine said nothing. He strode down between the bunks and paused opposite that on which Tray-Bong Smith lay with wide eyes and wakeful.