The Elusive Dud E-Book

Edgar Wallace

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 104

Beschreibung

The Elusive Dud by Edgar Wallace is a captivating mystery that unravels the enigma of a seemingly insignificant figure whose disappearance sends shockwaves through the criminal underworld. Known only as "The Dud," this elusive character holds secrets that could topple powerful syndicates and expose dark conspiracies. Detective Sergeant Elk, with his sharp instincts and relentless determination, embarks on a thrilling chase to uncover The Dud's true identity and the secrets he guards. As the pursuit intensifies, Elk finds himself entangled in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, where nothing is as it seems. Will Elk succeed in catching The Dud, or will this shadowy figure remain forever elusive? Dive into this riveting tale and discover the truth behind The Elusive Dud.

Leseprobe

The Elusive Dud

Author: Edgar Wallace

Edited by: Seif Moawad

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq eBookstore

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

The Elusive Dud

1. — THE PROFESSIONAL FRIEND

2 — THE RAJAH'S EMERALD

3 — THE SHY MR BARKS

4 — A DEAL IN ECFONTEINS

5 — THE HAUNTED HOUSE

6 — THE PEAR-SHAPED DIAMOND

Landmarks

The Council of Justice

Cover

1. — THE PROFESSIONAL FRIEND

It was Felix Borcham who christened Archibald Dobbly "The Dud." Borcham's words were so many laws, and his appellations carried authority. His factories covered acres of ground on the outskirts of London, and his was the finest house in Brackton, that toney suburb.

It was some time after Brackton had accepted him as the kingpin of dudery that Dob revealed his guilty secret. The occasion was afternoon tea at the club one Sunday, and the boys had been chaffing him.

"What do I do, old thing?" he answered. "I do nothing."

"There are times when you look it," sneered Borcham, who was one of those tall, dark, good-looking men with a fine black silky moustache, and the habit of saying savage things in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

"Possibly, possibly, dear old bird," replied Dob, waving his gloved hands, "but I had five years of doing things in France, old bean, perfectly horrible things. And I'm trying to get out of the habit."

Borcham flushed a deep red. During the period of war his services had been too valuable for the nation to dispense with in his capacity as managing director of Borcham's Manufacturing Company, Limited.

"Some of us were worth battalions of men at home," he almost snarled. "Personally, I volunteered six times, but the Ministry would not let me go."

"Hard luck, hard luck, old thing," murmured Dob. "It was much nicer in Brackton, I assure you. No," he went on, "I haven't quite decided what I am going to do. I've got a perfectly dinky little office and a jolly little typewriter that I'm learning to work, but I haven't decided whether I'll be a manufacturer's agent or a private detective."

There was a roar of laughter at this, but Dob did not join.

"Not so much a private detective as a worldly adviser to the young and innocent," he explained solemnly, and all within hearing of his voice shrieked with merriment. Borcham's guffaw was loudest.

"You'd make a jolly fine friend and mentor to people in trouble," he said sarcastically.

"I think I should," agreed Dob complacently.

"All right," sneered Borcham, "when I want a little advice I'll come to you."

Dob took a notebook from his pocket and solemnly wrote down Felix Borcham's name.

"I'll reckon you as my first client," he said.

He looked up suddenly and fixed May Constance with his steady grey eyes, which were by far the best of his features.

"And you shall be my second, Miss Constance."

The girl flushed, and those who were looking at her saw her lips tremble for a moment: then with a lift of her chin she rose and walked away. Borcham, with a savage look in Dob's direction, followed her.

A little silence followed this incident. Everybody knew that Dob had put his fool in it. There was nothing between Felix Borcham and May Constance. There was hardly likely to be anything "between" a man who was reputedly a millionaire and a girl who occupied a fairly humble position in his city office. He was not the kind of fellow who would marry for love. Felix had social ambitions, but he was nevertheless sweet on May Constance, whose father before his death had been a respected member of the club.

It was one of those attractions which make people feel a little uncomfortable, because not even the most sentimental imagined that Felix contemplated matrimony. There were ugly stories attached to his name, but since those stories were in the category of rumours and the club and its members knew nothing officially, Felix was received in the best houses and amongst the best people; for Brackton was not only a wealthy suburb, but numbered amongst its citizens a millionaire or two, an author or two, an Under-Secretary of State, and innumerable recipients of the honour of knighthood.

Those who know their London and its environs will not have any difficulty in placing Brackton on the map. Its beautiful houses facing the wide sweep of common long ago dedicated to the ancient volunteers, its historic windmill and its countrified atmosphere, despite its proximity to London, have made it famous the world over.

A week later, Kelby, the banker, had occasion to call upon Archie. Kelby was a young man for his position, and had a sneaking regard for the Dud. He had known him in the days of war, and the mud of the Flanders trenches cemented their acquaintance into friendship. He climbed up the two flights of stairs to the floor on which Archie's office was situated, and stood, paralysed, before the inscription upon the glass panel of his door.

ARCHIBALD DOBBLY.

CONFIDENTIAL ADVISER AND

PROFESSIONAL FRIEND.

read the notice.

"Good Lord, Archie," said Kelby, when he entered the diminutive apartment, "what's this game you're playing?"

Archie spun round in his chair, and his long knees almost barked against the opposite wall.

"Sit down, Kelby, old bird," he chuckled. "Yes. I've decided. That's my game."

"But, confidential adviser, Archie? Who's coming to you for advice?"

"Lots of people," answered Archie calmly.

"Rubbish, Archie," replied Kelby with a good-natured laugh. "You silly old owl! The moment your clients see your innocent face they'll fly."

The story was all over Brackton the same night. The Dud had started in business as a professional friend. When Archie made his appearance, as he did every evening, for a game of bridge, loud were the howls of joy which greeted him. Players at other tables with mock seriousness asked his advice on their hands and the calls.

Billy Sand, the club humourist, insisted upon a recipe for rheumatism, but through it all Archie never lost his sang froid. He was a grinning, cheerful young man when he left that night, though he knew the experience would be repeated on the following day. Of course, it died down after a week, and the club accepted Archie and his eccentricities as they accepted Felix Borcham with his unsavoury reputation.

Archie the Dud had not spoken to May Constance since that Sunday afternoon. Consequently he was a little surprised about a fortnight after his going into business, when she came out of the crowded dance-room and sank into a basket-chair on the verandah by his side.

"Aren't you dancing, Mr Dobbly?" she asked.

"No, Miss Constance," replied Archie: "it tires my old feet."

She laughed softly, and then suddenly became serious.

"I've heard about your new bureau," she said. "Is it a success?"

"It takes years to make a thing like that successful," evaded Archie.

"Do you have many clients?"

Archie coughed.

"Well, to be perfectly candid, Miss Constance, they haven't started rolling in yet."

She was silent for a while.

"Whom do you expect to get?" she asked.

Archie shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you know, Miss Constance," he said, very seriously for him, "this jolly old world is filled with people who've got a load of trouble on their shoulders, and who don't know where to turn to get advice. There are lots of people who don't want to go to doctors or to lawyers, and yet who dare not trust their own friends with their secrets."

She nodded.

"Sooner or later," Archie went on, "they are the birds who are coming my way."

"Do you think you can help them?" she inquired.

"Why not?" demanded Archie stoutly.

"But, have you the experience?"

Archie laughed, a low little laugh which surprised the girl, for she detected a note of confidence she had never suspected in this immaculate young man.

"Try me," he suggested softly, and she stiffened.

"Why should I try you?" she asked.

"When I said 'you' I meant the world," replied Archie calmly, but she was not to be put off.

"Do you think I want advice?"

"My dear young miss," explained Archie, "I'm a queer old bird. As you probably know, I usually come out from town very late every other night, which means that I spend my evenings in the West End. I never dine at the same restaurant twice, because I've always found that you get a view of the world, and an understanding of its follies by keeping out of ruts. Now, the other night I was dining at Billilis," he remarked carelessly, and he felt rather than heard her start. "It's not the nicest of places," he mused, as if talking to himself. "It's all right for men who want to see the seamy side, and it's all right for girls who know no other side of life, but Billilis, with its private rooms, is not the restaurant I should take a nice girl to."

"You saw me?" she inquired in a voice a little above a whisper, and Archie nodded. "And—and Mr Borcham?"

He nodded again.

"What did you think?" she asked defiantly.

"Dear Miss Constance," replied the dud, feeling for his cigarette case, "I thought Borcham was a blackguard, but that wasn't a new impression by any means."

"But what did you think of me?"

"I thought you wouldn't have gone there unless you had a very good reason."

She rose a little unsteadily to her feet.

"I'm going to be your first client," she said.

"I thought you would," Archie nodded. "My office hours are from 11 to 4."

"I will be with you to-morrow at half-past eleven," she concluded.

Before twelve o'clock on the Monday Dob the Dud was in possession of her complicated story. He listened in silence, that curious vacant expression on his face, staring at the wall, as, hesitatingly, almost painfully, she revealed her secret.

"Father left no money when he died," she told him. "I've had to bring up my two younger sisters, and it has been a pretty hard struggle. Mr Borcham was very kind. He gave me a position in his London office, and though the salary was small, he promised to give me extra work and an immediate rise. He told me that if he gave me more than the other girls, people would talk, and, understanding that point of view, I did not wish to be favoured any more than the others. About twelve months ago an old debt of my father's was brought to my notice. It was for £400. Of course, I could have declined payment, but I didn't want my father's name to be dragged in the mud, because this debt was one connected with a particularly unpleasant service."

She did not tell him what service it was, nor did he inquire.

"I was distracted and did not know which way to turn, until at last I plucked up courage and went to see Mr Borcham."

She hesitated again.

"I hate telling you all this, Mr Dobbly. In fact, a week ago, if anybody had told me that I should be pouring out my troubles to you, I should have laughed at them."

"Dob the Dud," muttered Archie, and she flushed.

"You've heard that name? I'm so sorry I made you recall it," she apologised.

"Not a bit," said Archie cheerfully, "I rather like it. It's one of the best reputations a man in my business can get. Go on. Miss Constance, you saw Felix Borcham? What did he say?"

"He was very kind," answered the girl, and still she hesitated. "He had been a little too kind, and had asked me out to dinner with him; but there was something so furtive about it, that I had declined."

"I suppose he had asked you not to tell anybody at Brackton," Archie suggested, and she looked at him in surprise.

"Yes, that is what I objected to. Well, anyway, I summoned up courage, and saw Mr Borcham. He was very nice about it. He said he could arrange for me to have the money, but in order that there should be no talk, he would not let me have the money himself, but would arrange with an acquaintance of his, who carried on business as a moneylender. Naturally, I demurred at this, but he told me there would be no fuss, and nobody would be any the wiser. All I had to do was to write to this firm, and they would advance the money."

"What was the name of the firm?" inquired Archie.

"Jeffsons, of Regent Street."

Archie scribbled down the name.