The Seven Conundrums E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

British author E. Phillips Oppenheim achieved worldwide fame with his thrilling novels and short stories concerning, mystery, international espionage and intrigue. Many of his novels have been adapted for the screen. Mr. Oppenheim can be depended upon to give his plots that turn which is as admirable as it is unexpected, and „The Seven Conundrums” is one of the best of his many good and exciting books. His plotting is as smooth as silk, with the virtue of creating believable characters of genuine sophistication and wit. Readers of Mr. Oppenheim’s novels may always count on a story of absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with dexterous craftsmanship. Highly recommended!

Leseprobe

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CONUNDRUM NUMBER ONE

CONUNDRUM NUMBER TWO

CONUNDRUM NUMBER THREE

CONUNDRUM NUMBER FOUR

CONUNDRUM NUMBER FIVE

CONUNDRUM NUMBER SIX

CONUNDRUM NUMBER SEVEN

INTRODUCTION–THE COMPACT

The wind, storming up from the sea, beat against the frail little wooden building till every rafter creaked and groaned. The canvas sides flapped and strained madly at the imprisoning ropes. Those hanging lamps which were not already extinguished swung in perilous arcs. In the auditorium of the frail little temporary theatre, only one man lingered near the entrance, and he, as we well knew, with sinister purpose. In the little make-up room behind the stage, we three performers, shorn of our mummer’s disguise, presented perhaps the most melancholy spectacle of all. The worst of it was that Leonard and I were all broken up with trying to make the best of the situation for Rose’s sake, yet prevented by circumstances from altogether ignoring it.

“Seems to me we’re in rather a tightish corner, Leonard,” I ventured, watching that grim figure in the doorway through a hole in the curtain.

“First turn to the left off Queer Street,” Leonard admitted gloomily.

Rose said nothing. She was seated in the one chair which went with the portable property, and her head had fallen forward upon her arms, which were stretched upon the deal table. Her hat, a poor little woollen tam-o’-shanter, was pushed back from her head. Her jacket was unfastened. The rain beat down upon the tin roof.

“I’d sell my soul for a whisky and soda,” Leonard, our erstwhile humourist, declared wistfully.

“And I mine,” I echoed, thinking of Rose, “for a good supper, a warm fire and a comfortable bed.”

“And I mine,” Rose faltered, looking up and dabbing at her eyes with a morsel of handkerchief, “for a cigarette.”

There was a clap of thunder. The flap of canvas which led to the back of the stage shook as though the whole place were coming down. We looked up apprehensively and found that we were no longer alone. A clean-shaven man of medium height, dressed in a long mackintosh and carrying a tweed cap in his hand, had succeeded in effecting a difficult entrance. His appearance, even at that time, puzzled us. His face was perfectly smooth, he was inclined to be bald, his eyes were unusually bright, and there was a noticeable curve at the corners of his lips which might have meant either humour or malevolence. We had no idea what to make of him. One thing was certain, however,–he was not the man an interview with whom we were dreading.

“Mephistopheles himself could scarcely have made a more opportune entrance,” he remarked, as the crash of thunder subsided into a distant mutter. “Permit me.”

He crossed towards us with a courteous little bow and extended a gold cigarette case, amply filled. Rose took one without hesitation and lit it. We also helped ourselves. The newcomer replaced the case in his pocket.

“I will take the liberty,” he continued, “of introducing myself. My name is Richard Thomson.”

“A very excellent name,” Leonard murmured.

“A more than excellent cigarette,” I echoed.

“You are the gentleman who sat in the three-shilling seats,” Rose remarked, looking at him curiously.

Mr. Richard Thomson bowed.

“I was there last night and the night before,” he acknowledged. “On each occasion I found with regret that I was alone.”

No one likes to be reminded of failure. I answered a little hastily.

“You have established your position, sir, as a patron of our ill-omened enterprise. May I ask to what we are indebted for the honour of this visit?”

“In the first place, to invite you all to supper,” was the brisk reply. “Secondly, to ask if I can be of any service in helping you to get rid of that bearded rascal Drummond, whom I see hanging about at the entrance. And in the third place–but I think,” he added, after a queer and oddly prolonged pause, “that we might leave that till afterwards.”

I stared at him like a booby, for I was never a believer in miracles. The quiver on Rose’s lips was almost pathetic, for like all sweet-natured women she was an optimist to the last degree. Leonard, I could see, shared my incredulity. The thing didn’t seem possible, for although he was obviously a man of means, and although his manner was convincing and there was a smile upon his lips, Mr. Richard Thomson did not look in the least like a philanthropist.

“Come, come,” the latter continued, “mine is a serious offer. Are you afraid that I shall need payment for my help and hospitality? What more could you have to give than the souls you proffered so freely as I came in?”

“You can have mine,” Leonard assured him hastily.

“Mine also is at your service,” I told him. “The only trouble seems to be to reduce it to a negotiable medium.”

“We will make that a subject of discussion later on,” our new friend declared. “Mr. Lister,” he added, turning to me, “may I take it for granted that you are the business head of this enterprise? How do you stand?”

I choked down the pitiful remnants of my pride and answered him frankly.

“We are in the worst plight three human beings could possibly find themselves in. We’ve played here for six nights, and we haven’t taken enough money to pay for the lighting. We owe the bill at our lodgings, we haven’t a scrap of food, a scrap of drink, a scrap of tobacco, a scrap of credit. We’ve nothing to pawn, and Drummond outside wants four pounds.”

“That settles it,” our visitor declared curtly. “Follow me.”

We obeyed him dumbly. It is my belief that we should have obeyed any one helplessly at that moment, whether they had ordered us to set fire to the place or to stand on our heads. We saw Drummond go off into the darkness, gripping in his hand unexpected money, and followed our guide across the windy space which led to the brilliantly lit front of the Grand Hotel, whose luxurious portals we passed for the first time. We had a tangled impression of bowing servants, an amiable lift man, a short walk along a carpeted corridor, a door thrown open, a comfortable sitting room and a blazing fire, a round table laid for four, a sideboard set out with food, and gold-foiled bottles of champagne. A waiter bustled in after us and set down a tureen of smoking hot soup.

“You needn’t wait,” our host ordered, taking off his mackintosh and straightening his black evening bow in the glass. “Miss Mindel, allow me to take your jacket. Sit on this side of the table, near the fire; you there, Cotton, and you opposite me, Lister. We will just start the proceedings so,” he went on, cutting the wires of a bottle of champagne and pouring out its contents. “A little soup first, eh, and then I’ll carve. Miss Mindel–gentlemen–your very good health. I drink to our better acquaintance.”

Rose’s hand shook and I could see that she was on the verge of tears. It is my belief that nothing but our host’s matter-of-fact manner saved her at that moment from a breakdown. Leonard and I, too, made our poor little efforts at unsentimental cheerfulness.

“If this is hell,” the former declared, eyeing the chickens hungrily, “I’m through with earth.”

“Drink your wine, Rose,” I advised, raising my own glass, “and remember the mummers’ philosophy.”

Rose wiped away the tears, emptied her glass of champagne and smiled.

“Nothing in the world,” she declared fervently, “ever smelt or tasted so good as this soup.”

The psychological effect of food, wine, warmth and tobacco upon three gently nurtured but half-starved human beings became even more evident at a later stage in the evening. Its immediate manifestations, however, were little short of remarkable. For my part, I forgot entirely the agony of the last few weeks, and realised once more with complacent optimism the adventurous possibilities of our vagabond life. Leonard, with flushed cheeks, a many times refilled glass, and a big cigar in the corner of his mouth, had without the slightest doubt completely forgotten the misery of having to try and be funny on an empty stomach to an insufficient audience. With a little colour in her cheeks, a smile once more upon her lips, and a sparkle in her grey eyes, Rose was once more herself, the most desirable and attractive young woman in the world as, alas! both Leonard and I had discovered. The only person who remained unmoved, either by the bounty he was dispensing or by the wine and food of which he also partook, was the giver of the feast. Sphinxlike, at times almost saturnine looking, his eyes taking frequent and restless note of us, his mouth, with its queer upward curve, a constant puzzle, he remained as mysterious a benefactor when the meal was finished as when he had made his ominous appearance behind the stage at the framework theatre. He was an attentive although a silent host. It was never apparent that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I, watching him more closely, perhaps, than the other two, realised that most of the time he was living in a world of his own, in which we three guests were very small puppets indeed.

Cigars were lit, chairs were drawn around the fire, Rose was installed on a superlatively comfortable couch, with a box of cigarettes at her elbow, and her favourite liqueur, untasted for many weeks, at her side.

“Let me try your wits,” our host proposed, a little abruptly. “Tell me your life history in as few words as possible. Mr. Lister? Tabloid form, if you please?”

“Clergyman’s son, without a shilling in the family,” I replied; “straight from the ‘Varsity, where I had meant to work hard for a degree, to the Army, where after three and a half years of it I lost this,”–touching my empty left coat sleeve. “Tried six months for a job, without success. Heard of a chap who had made a concert party pay, realised that my only gifts were a decent voice and some idea of dancing, so had a shot at it myself.”

“Mr. Cotton?”

“Idle and dissolute son of a wine merchant at Barnstaple who failed during the war,” Leonard expounded; “drifted into this sort of thing because I’d made some small successes locally and didn’t want to be a clerk.”

“Miss Mindel?”

The girl shook her head.

“I am quite alone in the world,” she said. “My mother taught music at Torquay and she died quite suddenly. I put my name down for a concert party, and in a way I was very fortunate,” she added, glancing sweetly at Leonard and at me. “These two men have been so dear to me and I don’t think it’s any one’s fault that we’re such a failure. The weather’s been bad, and people stay in their hotels and dance all the time now.”

She held out a hand to each of us. She knew perfectly well how we both felt, and she treated us always just like that, as though she understood and realised the compact which Leonard and I had made. So we sat, linked together, as it were, while our host studied us thoughtfully, appreciating, without a doubt, our air of somewhat nervous expectancy. A fine sense of psychology guided him to the conviction that we were in a properly receptive state of mind. The smile which had first puzzled us played once more upon his lips.

“And now,” he said, “about those souls!”

CONUNDRUM #1.–THE STOLEN MINUTE BOOK

Rose always insisted that she was psychic, and I have some faith myself in presentiments. At any rate, we both declared, on that Monday night before the curtain went up, that something was going to happen. Leonard had no convictions of the sort himself but he was favourably disposed towards our attitude. He put the matter succinctly.

“Here we are,” he pointed out, “sold to the devil, body and soul, and if the old boy doesn’t make some use of us, I shall begin to be afraid the whole thing’s coming to an end. Five pounds a week, and a reserve fund for costumes and posters suits me very nicely, thank you.”

“I don’t think you need worry,” I told him. “It doesn’t seem reasonable to imagine that we’ve been sent to the slums of Liverpool for nothing.”

“Then there are those posters,” Rose put in, “offering prizes to amateurs. I’m quite certain there’s some method in that. Besides–-“

She hesitated. We both pressed her to go on.

“You’ll think this silly, but for the last three nights I’ve had a queer sort of feeling that Mr. Thomson was somewhere in the audience. I can’t explain it. I looked everywhere for him. I even tried looking at the people one by one, all down the rows. I never saw any one in the least like him. All the same, I expected to hear his voice at any moment.”

“Granted the old boy’s Satanic connections,” Leonard observed, “he may appear to us in any form. Brimstone and horns are clean out of date. He’ll probably send his disembodied voice with instructions.”

I strolled to the wings and had a look at the house. Although it still wanted a quarter of an hour before the performance was due to commence, the hall was almost packed with people. The audience, as was natural considering the locality, was a pretty tough lot. It seemed to consist chiefly of stewards and sailors from the great liners which lay in the river near by, with a sprinkling of operatives and some of the smaller shopkeepers. The study of faces has always interested me, and there were two which I picked out from the crowd during that brief survey and remembered. One was the face of a youngish man, dressed in the clothes of a labourer and seated in a dark corner of the room. He was very pale, almost consumptive-looking, with a black beard which looked as though it had been recently grown, and coal black hair. His features were utterly unlike the features of his presumed class, and there was a certain furtiveness about his expression which puzzled me. A quietly dressed girl sat by his side, whose face was even more in the shadow than his, but it struck me that she had been crying, and that for some reason or other there was a disagreement between her and the young man. The other person whom I noticed was a stout, middle-aged man, with curly black hair, a rather yellow complexion, of distinctly Semitic appearance. His hands were folded upon his waistcoat, he was smoking with much obvious enjoyment a large cigar, and his eyes were half-closed, as though he were enjoying a brief rest. I put him down as a small shopkeeper, for choice a seller of ready-made garments, who had had a long day’s work and was giving himself a treat on the strength of it.

At half-past seven the hall was crammed and the curtain rang up. We went through the first part of our programme with a reasonable amount of success, Leonard in particular getting two encores for one of his humorous songs. At the beginning of the second part, I came out upon the stage and made the little speech which our mysterious patron’s wishes rendered necessary.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I have much pleasure in announcing, according to our posters outside, that if there are any amateurs here willing to try their luck upon the stage, either with a song or a dance, we shall be very happy to provide them with music and any slight change of costume. A prize of one pound will be given to the performer whose song meets with the greatest approval, and a second prize of five shillings for the next most successful item.”

I gagged on for a few more minutes, trying to encourage those whom I thought likely aspirants, amidst the laughter and cheers of the audience. Presently a showily dressed young woman threw aside a cheap fur cloak, displaying a low-cut blue satin gown, jumped nimbly on to the stage, ignoring my outstretched hand, and held out a roll of music to Rose, who came smilingly from the background.

“I’ll try ‘The Old Folks down Wapping Way’, dear,” she announced, “and don’t you hurry me when the sloppy stuff comes. I like to give ‘em time for a snivel or two. Sit you down at the piano. I’m that nervous, I can’t stand fussing about here.”

They bent over the music together and I turned back to the audience. There were only two others who showed any disposition to follow the example of the lady in blue satin. One was the young man whom I had previously noticed, and who had now risen to his feet. It was obvious that the girl by his side was doing all she could to dissuade him from his purpose. I could almost hear the sob in her throat as she tried to drag him back to his place. I myself felt curiously indisposed to interfere, but Leonard, who was standing by my side, and who saw them for the first time, imagining that a word of encouragement was all that was necessary, concluded the business.

“Come along, sir,” he called out. “You look as though you had a good tenor voice, and nothing fetches ‘em like it. You let him come, my dear, and he’ll buy you a new hat with the money.”

The young man shook himself free and stepped on to the platform, obviously ill at ease at the cheer which his enterprise evoked. He was followed, to my surprise, by the middle-aged man whom I had previously noticed.

“Here, Mister,” was his greeting, as he stepped on to the platform, “I’ll have a go at ‘em. Sheeny patter and a clog dance, eh?”

“You must find me some sort of a change,” the young man insisted hurriedly.

“And I’ll tidy up a bit myself,” his rival observed. “We’ll let the gal have first go.”

I conducted them behind and showed the young man into the men’s dressing room.

“You’ll find an old dress suit of mine there,” I pointed out. “Change as quickly as you can. I don’t fancy the young lady will hold them for long.”

He nodded and drew me a little on one side. His manner was distinctly uneasy, and his clothes were shabbier even than they had seemed at a distance, but his voice was the voice of a person of education, pleasant, notwithstanding a queer, rather musical accent which at the moment was unfamiliar to me.

“Shall I be able to lock my things up?” he asked, in an undertone. “No offence,” he went on hastily, “only I happen to be carrying something rather valuable about with me.”

I handed him the key of the dressing room, for which he thanked me.

“How long will that screeching woman be?” he asked impatiently.

“You can go on directly she’s finished murdering this one,” I promised him. “I don’t think they’ll stand any more.”

He nodded, and I turned back towards where the other aspirant was standing in the shadow of the wings.

“Now what can I do for you, sir?” I asked. “I don’t think you need to change, do you?”

There was no immediate reply. Suddenly I felt a little shiver, and I had hard work to keep back the exclamation from my lips. I knew now that Rose had been right. It was a very wonderful disguise, but our master had at last appeared. He drew a little nearer to me. Even then, although I knew that it was Richard Thomson, I could see nothing but the Jew shopkeeper.

“I shall pretend to make some slight change behind that screen,” he said in a low tone. “Come back here when you’ve taken him on the stage. I may want you.”

He disappeared behind a screen a few feet away, and I stood there like a dazed man. From the stage I could still hear the lusty contralto of the young lady candidate. I heard her finish her song amidst moderate applause, chiefly contributed by a little group of her supporters. There was a brief pause. The young lady obliged with an encore. Then the door of the men’s dressing room opened, was closed and locked. The young man, looking a little haggard but remarkably handsome, came towards me, clenching the key in his hand.

“I was a fool to take this on,” he confided nervously. “You are sure my things will be all right in there?”

I pointed to the key in his hand.

“You have every assurance of it,” I told him.

He fidgeted about, listening with obvious suffering to the girl’s raucous voice.

“Ever been in the profession?” I enquired.

“Never,” was the hasty reply.

“What’s your line to-night?”

“Tenor. Your pianist will be able to do what I want. I’ve heard her.”