The Twister E-Book

Edgar Wallace

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

Beschreibung

Edgar Wallace’s „The Twister”, published in 1928, is a tale of murder, high finance, and intrigue. Lord Frensham knows exactly who’s swindling him in the stock market – Anthony „Tony” Braid, who many call The Twister. And he’s not about to believe Braid’s crazy notion that his own nephew, his flesh and blood, is behind the embezzlement... Then Frensham is found dead in his office, but Inspector Elk of the Scotland Yard knows it’s not suicide, no matter the elaborate scheme the murderer invented. But who is the murderer? It is a highly entertaining little thriller. The characters are broadly drawn but vivid, the plot movers along at a breakneck pace, and it’s rather luridly sensationalistic for its era.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 1

There was once a little trainer of racehorses and a jockey who were at variance. The third party to the dispute was a bookmaker of dubious reputation and the trouble arose over a horse called Ectis, which was favourite for the Royal Hunt Cup. Both jockey and trainer were under suspicion; they lived so near a warning-off notice that they could afford to take no risks.

This dispute was whether the horse should be scientifically left at the post or (as the jockey suggested) whether all risks should be eliminated by a small dose of a certain drug before the race. Both men were foreseeing certain contingencies; for if the horse were left, the jockey was to blame, and if the stewards thought the animal had been “doctored” and there was an inquiry, the trainer would most certainly depart from the turf with some violence.

Eventually, the trainer had his way; Ectis was to be caught at the gale “flat-footed”. The bookmaker who acted for both laid the horse continuously, and from favourite he became second favourite, and from second favourite, third: from thence he drifted into the 100 to 6 class.

“I can’t understand it,” said the trainer to the owner on the day before the race. “The horse was never better, Mr. Braid.”

Mr. Braid drew thoughtfully at a long cigar, and his dark eyes fixed on the wizened little trainer. He was new to the game–in England, at any rate–an easygoing man, very rich, very amenable. He had no racing friends and knowledgeable racing men regarded curiously the slim figure with the dark, greying hair and the long sallow face and, without pitying him, expressed their regret that so profitable a mug had fallen into the hands of Lingford the trainer and his conscienceless partner, Joe Brille, the jockey.

Mr. Anthony Braid did not, apparently, pity himself. He had a small but lovely house at Ascot where he lived alone even during The Week, and he was content with his loneliness. You saw him standing aloof in various members’ enclosures smoking his long cigar and looking a little vacantly into space. He seldom betted, but when he did, he betted in modest tens; he never disputed the suggestions of his trainer; he made no inquiries of his jockey. You had the impression that racing bored him.

“Possibly,” he drawled when the trainer paused, “possibly the bookmakers fancy something else?”

“That’s right, sir–they think Denford Boy is a certainty.”

Often did Mr. Lingford regret that he could not run Ectis to win –there might be a fortune for him. But he owed a lot of money to the bookmaker who was ‘laying’ the horse, and it meant the greater part of two thousand to lose.

An hour before the Royal Hunt Cup was run, Anthony Braid took his trainer aside.

“My horse has shortened a little in price,” he said.

Mr. Lingford had noticed the fact. “Yes, sir–somebody has been backing him all over the country.”

He was somewhat uneasy, because that morning the book-maker most concerned had accused him of double dealing.

“Yes,” said Tony Braid in his deep rich voice. “I have been backing him all over the country! I stand to win thirty thousand pounds.”

“Indeed, sir!” The trainer was relieved. He thought it might have been a confederate of Brille, and that the jockey was twisting him. “Well, you’ll have a good run for your money, Brille says–”

“What Brille says doesn’t interest me,” said the owner, gently. “He doesn’t ride the horse–I’ve brought over a jockey from France. And, Mr. Lingford, I’ve changed my trainer, I personally handed over the horse to Mr. Sandford half an hour since, and if you go near him I’ll have you before the Stewards. May I offer you a word of advice?”

The dazed trainer was incapable of reply.

“My advice,” said Anthony Braid, “falls under two heads. One; go into the ring and back Ectis to win you enough to live on for the rest of your life, because I don’t think you’ll ever train another horse; two: never try to swindle a man who graduated on the Johannesburg Stock Exchange. Good morning!”

Ectis won by three lengths, and amongst the disreputable section of the racing crowd Mr. Anthony Braid acquired a new nickname. He who had been “The Case” and “The Mug” (the terms being synonymous) was known as “The Twister”. And the name stuck. He had it flung at him one day in his City office, when he caught Aaron Trosky, of Trosky Limited, for considerably over fifty thousand. It is true Mr. Trosky, in the innocence of his heart, had tried to ‘catch’ Mr. Anthony Braid for a larger sum over a question of mining rights, but that made no difference. “You’re no better than a twister,” wailed the quavering Aaron. “That’s what they call you, and that’s what you are!”

“Shut the door as you go out.” said Anthony.

Undeterred by Mr Trosky’s experience, one Felix Fenervy brought a platinum proposition to The Twister. He should have known better. Anthony examined the maps, read the engineer’s vague reports (they would not have deceived a Commissioner Street office-boy) and invited Mr. Fenervy to lunch. Anthony had also a platinum proposition–a strip of territory in Northern Rhodesia. Why not, suggested the gentle Tony, combine the two properties under the title of the Consolidated Platinum Trust and take the complete profit on both flotations? The idea fired Fenervy. The next morning he paid to his victim twenty-three thousand pounds deposit and was under the impression that he was making money.

This was Anthony Braid whose wealth none but his banker knew, until that morning he came to call upon a man who closed the door in his face, a man who liked yet was irritated by him. Whether Tony Braid liked Lord Frensham or not is beside the point. His attentions were, perhaps, so concentrated upon another member of the family, that Lord Frensham’s suspicion and Julian Reef’s hatred were matters of supreme indifference.

“Mr. Anthony Braid, my Lord,” said the butler.

Lord Frensham shifted back into his deep desk chair, ran his ringers impatiently through his thick gray hair and frowned.

“Oh!” he growled, looked at the man, and then with an impatient wave of his hand: “All right–show him in, Charles!”

A square-shouldered man, untidily dressed, unshaven at the moment, strong-featured, big-handed, gruff of voice, abrupt of manner, this was the eighth Earl of Frensham. An obstinate and loyal man, who had gone into the City to repair a family fortune which was beyond repair, the simple, lovable qualities of his nature everlastingly fought against the remorseless requirements of his circumstances.

When Charles had gone he pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a folder bulging with documents, opened it and turned paper after paper. But, his mind was not on the affair of the Lulanga Oil Syndicate: he was framing in his mind a definite and crushing response to the suggestion which would be made to him in a few minutes.

“Mr. Anthony Braid, m’lord.”

The man who came into the library demonstrated all that a good tailor and careful valeting could contribute towards a perfect appearance. His spare build gave the illusion of height. His black coat was carefully cut: his grey waistcoat had onyx buttons; his striped trousers bore a knife-edged crease. Mr. Anthony Braid was forty and as straight as a gun- barrel. His hair was almost black and emphasized the sallowness of the long and not unpleasant face. His eyes were dark and inscrutable. He stood, his eyes fixed upon his host, and no word was spoken until they were alone.

“Well?” challenged Frensham impatiently. “Sit down–sit down, will you, Braid? Or are you dressed to sit?”

Mr. Braid put his hat, gloves and stick with meticulous care upon a small table, hitched his trouser-knees with great deliberation and sat down. “A lovely morning,” he said. He had a deep sweet voice and a smile that was disarming. “I trust you are well, Frensham–and Ursula?”

Lord Frensham was not in the mood to discuss the weather or his daughter.

“I had your letter,” he said gruffly, “and to tell you the truth I thought it was rather an–er-“

“Impertinence,” said Mr. Braid, the ghost of a smile in his eyes.

“Exactly,” said the other jerkily. “If not worse. What you tell me in effect is that Julian Reef, who is not only my nephew but a fellow- director, is ‘bearing’ Lulanga Oils–in fact, that he is doing his best to ruin me. To tell you the truth, Braid, I was rather surprised that you put such a monstrous charge in writing. Naturally I shall not show your letter to Reef, otherwise–”

The dark eyes of Mr. Braid lit up. “Why not show him the letter?” he asked gently. “I have not the slightest fear of an action for libel. I have some six hundred thousand pounds–perhaps a little more. No jury ever awarded so much damages. There would still be sufficient to live on.”

His hearer scowled at him.

“I dare say–but that is not the kind of publicity I wish.” he said. “I’ll be frank with you. Braid. Somebody is ‘bearing’ this stock –the prices are dropping daily–and that somebody is you! Don’t interrupt, please! You have a certain reputation–a nickname-“

“The Twister,” murmured the other. “I’m rather proud of it. It is the name that crooks give to a man who cannot be caught. And my dear friend Reef has tried to catch me in so many ways!”

“You are a racing man with a peculiar reputation–”

Again the dark-eyed man interrupted him. “Say ‘unsavoury’ if it pleases you. It isn’t quite true, but if it makes things easier for you, my dear Frensham, say ‘unsavoury’–or, as an alternative, may I suggest ‘sinister’?”

Lord Frensham’s gesture betrayed his irritation.

“It may not be true–but there it is. You are The Twister to more people than you are Tony Braid. You really can’t expect me to believe that my best friend is working to ruin me–is betraying me and the board.”

The Twister smiled slowly, put his hand in his pocket and took out a gold cigarette-case, arched an inquiring eyebrow and accepted the other’s nodded permission. He lit his cigarette with great care, put away the match as carefully.

“Doesn’t it strike you that if I have been ‘bearing’ your stock it is a little crude to put the blame on your friend? If I am a ‘twister’, would I do anything so uncunning as to bring an accusation against a man you trust? Credit me at least with intelligence…”

The door opened suddenly and two people came in. The elegant Mr. Braid rose at the sight of the girl. The beauty of Ursula Frensham caught his breath afresh every time he saw her. She came towards him, her hand outstretched, surprise and delight in her eyes.

“Tony, you’re a bad man!” she said. “You haven’t been to see us for months!”

She could not have been aware of her father’s disapproving frown, though she might have guessed that the smiling young man who had followed her into the room was no longer smiling.

“I haven’t come because I haven’t been invited.” said Tony Braid. “Nobody loves me, Ursula–I am an outcast on the face of the earth.”

“Don’t talk like a fool,” growled Frensham.

Mr. Reef, momentarily startled by the unexpectedness of seeing the man he loathed, recovered his smile.

He smiled perpetually, this red-faced man with the thick auburn hair and wonderful white teeth. He was curiously youthful-looking despite his thirty years, and had a boyish habit of blurting painful truths. Mainly they were truths that cut like the lash of a whip, and not even his frank and delighted smile soothed the smart of them. Sometimes they only sounded like truth.

“Nonsense–you’re getting sorry for yourself, Braid! You fellows in the fifties may keep your hair suspiciously dark and your waists suspiciously small but you can’t stop yourself getting dull, old boy! I used to ask you to parties–but, lord, a wet blanket was a dry summer compared with you!”

The Twister was unruffled.

“Your parties bore me,” he said lightly, “and when I’m bored I’m dull. I gave up your parties on my thirty-ninth birthday, which was last year. And I don’t like your friends.”

Julian Reef smiled thinly.

“Don’t be cats,” said Ursula reproachfully. “Father, ask Tony to lunch today. And, Tony, behave!”

Lord Frensham was obviously uncomfortable. “I’m not asking Braid to lunch because I’m lunching at my club,” he said “And, Ursula, my dear–” He paused.

“You’ve got some business to talk–and, Father, you haven’t shaved!”

She nodded to Tony and went out of the room. Mr. Julian Reef looked from one to the other. “I’m in the way, I suppose?”

Tony Braid answered: “No. This concerns you. Show him the letter I sent to you, Frensham.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” snapped Frensham. “I’ve already told you–”

“That you do not want a scandal,” said Tony Braid quietly; “and I assure you that there will be no scandal.”

He walked slowly to the desk and tapped the polished edge to emphasize every word he spoke.

“Until six months ago you and I were very good friends. I think I helped you in many ways–I have a larger knowledge of stock transactions, than you. But I am not offering that as an argument or as a reproach. I came to your house, and you had no objection to my meeting Ursula. And then you sent me a note asking me not to call, and requesting that I should not see your daughter. This morning you have made the discovery that City sharps and racecourse adventurers call me The Twister –you have been well aware of that fact for years! You told me that I am ‘bearing’ your stock, selling Lulanga Oils behind your back. I anticipated that accusation by stating categorically that the man who is selling Lulanga Oil Shares, and who has brought you to the verge of ruin, is your nephew, Mr. Julian Reef, who, for some reason–and that reason can only be for his own profit–has been selling Lulangas for the last three weeks.”

Julian Reef’s face was suddenly distorted with rage. He laid one hand on the other’s shoulder and jerked him round.

“You’re a damned liar!” he said, and the next instant was sprawling on the floor, overturning a chair in his fall.

“That will do, Braid!”

Frensham was on his feet and between the two men in a second. “Now you can get out!”

The Twister picked up his hat, carefully smoothed the nap of it. A smile showed at the corner of his mouth.

“I owe you an apology, Frensham,” he said; “but no man has ever called me a liar to my face and got away with it. I believe Mr. Reef is administering certain monies which are the property of your daughter. May I suggest that you send your accountants to examine that fund? It takes money to buy even yellow diamonds.”

He collected his gloves and stick at leisure. Reef, who had come to his feet holding his damaged jaw, glared death at him as he passed, but made no effort to stop him.

CHAPTER 2

After Tony Braid’s departure there was a long–and to one man a painful–silence. Frensham stood by his desk, his eyes moodily surveying the blotting-pad, and fiddled with a paperknife. He was a poor man. His incursion into the City had been, in a sense, an act of desperation. There were directorships to be had. At first he had accepted every offer, but had learned by painful experience the necessity for discriminating.

Lulanga Oils was his pet; he had bought a large block of shares, mortgaging his every asset, and had refused to sell. He had faith in this stock, more faith perhaps in this clever nephew of his who had preceded him in the City by a few years.

The very success of Julian Reef, who had started almost penniless and was now accounted in certain circles as a man with a great financial future, was the shining a advertisement which led the older man into the troubled waters of finance.

It was on Julian’s advice that he had bought Lulangas and assumed the Chairmanship of the Company. Julian it was who had suggested the administration of a fund when Ursula’s aunt had died leaving her ú60,000. The investments had prospered: the gilt edge of the stocks originally purchased had deepened auriferously.

“What does he mean about yellow diamonds?” Lord Frensham broke the silence.

“Oh, that!” Julian was his laughing self. “The brute has discovered my hobby. I’m rather fond of diamonds, but unfortunately I can’t afford to buy them, so I’ve trained myself into a proper appreciation of tinted stones, particularly the yellow ones which are, of course, worth only a tenth of the white diamonds.”

The other man suddenly remembered that a certain amount of sympathy was due to his nephew.

“Oh lord, no, he didn’t hurt me,” said Julian lightly, though his jaw was throbbing painfully. “He hooked me so suddenly I didn’t see it coming and, of course, I couldn’t retaliate–not in your house.”

“It’s the last time he comes here,” said Frensham. He looked to the door and frowned warningly Ursula came in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt–but where is Anthony?” she asked, looking round in surprise.

Lord Frensham cleared his voice.

“Anthony has gone and he’ll not put his foot in my house again. He committed a brutal and unprovoked attack on Julian. It’s the most outrageous thing I have ever seen.”

She stared at him in amazement.

“Hit Julian? Why?”

“It was my own fault.” Julian broke in “I called him a liar and to him that is the unpardonable sin. I should have done the same to him.”

She was troubled, worried by the news.

“I an sorry. I am very fond of Tony. Father, are you really serious about his not coming again?”

“I am quite serious,” said Frensham curtly.

She looked at Julian and was about to speak, but changing her mind, went out of the room, Reef’s sly eyes following her.

“It seems incredible,” he said, as one who is speaking aloud his thoughts.

“What?” Frensham looked up quickly. “There’s nothing incredible about a friendship like that. I should imagine he’s a fascinating man with impressionable people”

Julian shook his head. “Ursula isn’t an impressionable girl,” he said, and something in his tone alarmed the older man.

“You don’t mean he’s been making love to her, or anything of that sort?”

Julian Reef was on dangerous ground, but there was greater danger elsewhere. He preferred to play with this particular peril rather than risk the attention of his uncle straying back to another matter.

“I wouldn’t say he’s made love to her or that he’s said anything. People don’t do that sort of thing nowadays: they drift into an understanding and drift from there into marriage. I don’t think you kicked him out a minute too soon.” He took up his hat. “Must dash to the office. My Mr. Guelder is an exacting taskmaster.”

“Where did you pick up that Dutchman?” asked Frensham.

“I knew him in Leyden twelve years ago,” said Julian patiently. Frensham’s memory was not of the best, and he had asked that question at least a dozen times before. “I was taking a chemistry course at the University and he was one of the minor professors. An extraordinarily clever fellow.”

Lord Frensham plucked at his lower lip thoughtfully.

“A chemist…what does he know about finance? Yes,” he said slowly, “I remember you told me he was a chemist, and he knew nothing about finance. Why on earth do you keep him in your office in a confidential position?”

“Because he knows something about chemistry,” smiled the other; “and when I am dealing with mining propositions and the wild-cat schemes that are always coming to me, I like to have someone who can tell me exactly the geological strata from which a piece of conglomerate is taken.”

His hand was on the door when: “One minute. Julian: you’re not in such a great hurry. Of course, I don’t take the slightest notice of what that fellow said about Ursula’s money, but it’s all right, I suppose? I was looking at a list of the securities the other day: they seem fairly good and fairly safe properties.”

Julian’s mouth was very expressive. At the moment it indicated good- natured annoyance.

“I seem to remember that Ursula had dividends at the half year,” he said. Of course, if you want to go into the thing as The Twister suggests –that fellow’s getting terribly honest and proper in his old age –send your accountant down, my dear uncle, and let him check the securities, or turn them over to your bank.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Frensham interrupted abruptly. “Nobody has suggested that you can’t handle the fund as well as any bank manager. I suppose none of the securities has been changed?”

“Naturally they’ve been changed,” said Julian quickly. “When I see stock, that promises to be unproductive I get rid of it and buy something more profitable. Ursula’s money has given me more thought than all the other business I do in the course of a year. For example, I had the first news of that slump in Brazil, and got rid of all her Brazilian Rail before the market sagged. I saved her over a thousand pounds on that contract. And if you remember, I told you I was selling the Kloxon Industrials shares–”

“I know, I know,” said the other hastily. “I’m not suggesting that you haven’t done splendidly. Only I’m a poor man–and a reckless man: and I must think of the future where Ursula is concerned.”

Mr. Julian Reef left him on this note; and all the way to the office he was wondering what would have happened if his uncle had accepted his suggestion and had placed Ursula Frensham’s money in the hands of a discriminating banker.

For the sixty thousand pounds’ worth of shares which be held in her name were no longer as gilt-edged as they had been.

CHAPTER 3

Ursula Frensham had a small car, and Lord Frensham’s small Hampstead estate offered her an opportunity of getting away from the house without observation. She knew Tony’s habits. He was a great walker. It was his practice when he called to dismiss his car and pick it up again at the park end of Avenue Road. He was half-way down Fitzjohn’s Avenue when she drew into the kerb and she called him by name. He looked round with such a start that she knew she had surprised him in a moment of deepest agitation.

“Get in–brawler,” she said sternly.

“Many things I am: brawler I am not,” he said as he took his place by her side.

“Really, Tony,” she said, “I am very, very hurt with you. Father is furious. Poor Julian!”

“I’m rather ashamed of myself,” he confessed. I have never quite got out of my old Barberton ways.”

“You mean barbarian,” she said. “Tony, what is the trouble? What did you say that made everybody so angry? I know it was you who really provoked Julian. Was it about my money?”

He looked round at her in consternation. “Did they tell you that?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I guessed it,” she said quietly. “I’m rather worried, too, Tony–not that I’m afraid for my own sake, but I think if anything happened to my money Father would die. You see, poor dear, he’s been working so hard all his life and living so shabbily and the title brought none of those broad lands that a missing heir inherits, only a lot of mortgaged old country houses full of snuffy tenants. And I’m quite sure he knows nothing whatever about the City.”

“And Julian?” asked Tony, looking straight ahead.

She did not reply to this for some time.

“I’m not sure about Julian; and one really ought to be sure about the man one is going to marry.”

He opened his eyes wide at this. “Do you mind stopping the car? I feel sick,” he said, with heavy irony. “Whose idea is this–Julian’s?”

“Father’s.” She was frowning. “Of course, it’s all very much in the air. Tony, do you really think that Julian is a good financier? I don’t.”

“Why?” he asked. He thought that Julian Reef’s little secret belonged to a very exclusive City circle.

“Well, for one thing, he sold some stock of mine called Bluebergs. Do you know them?”

He nodded. “Yes, a very sound company; paying an enormous dividend. Why on earth did he sell it?”

She shook her head.

“I haven’t asked. Only Sir George Crater–he’s the head of the Blueberg Company–” Tony nodded. “–I met him at a dance last night and he said he was going to have a long serious talk with Father about selling the shares–he knows in some mysterious way-“

“There’s nothing mysterious about share transfers, my dear,” said Tony, his eyes twinkling. He was serious again in a moment. “Perhaps he bought something better,” he said, and felt a hypocrite–for he knew Julian could find nothing better on the market than Blueberg Consolidated.

They had reached the end of Avenue Road and were turning to skirt the park when a very tall man, leaning against a lamp–post, raised a languid hand and lifted his hat with tremendous effort and almost let it fall on his head again.

“Do you want to speak to him?” asked Ursula as Tony half-turned.

“Yes, I’d rather like you to meet this gentleman,” said Tony, “unless you have a rooted objection to hobnobbing with detective officers from Scotland Yard.”

She jerked on the brake and brought the car to a jarring standstill. “I’d love to, Tony,” she said as she got out of the car.

The tall man was walking towards them with such a pained expression on his face that she sensed his boredom. Tony introduced him as Inspector Elk.

So this was the great Elk! Even she had heard about this lank, unhappy man–which was not surprising, for he had figured in half the sensational cases which forced their attention upon the newspaper reader for as long as she could remember.

“Glad to know you. Lady Ursula,” said Elk, and offered a large, limp hand. “Aristocracy’s my weakness lately. I pinched a ‘sir’ last week for selling furniture that he hadn’t paid for.”

He looked at Tony thoughtfully.

“I haven’t taken a millionaire for I don’t know how long, Mr. Braid; and according to what I hear about twisters and twisting–” He surveyed a possible victim blandly. “Education’s at the bottom of all crime,” he went on to his favourite theme. “It’s stuffin’ children’s heads with William the Conqueror, 1066, and all that kind of junk that fills Borstal University. If people couldn’t write there’d be no forgers; if they couldn’t read there’d be no confidence men. Take geography; what does it do, miss? It just shows these hard–boiled murderers where they can go when they get out of the country. I never knew an educated policeman that ever lasted more than three years in the force.” He shook his head sadly. “What’s goin’ to win the Stewards’ Cup, Mr. Braid? Not that I hold with racin’ unless I get a tip that can’t lose. Racing an’ betting are the first steps to the gallows. I had four pounds on a horse at Newmarket last week. It was given to me by a criminal friend of mine and it lost. The next time I catch him I’ll get him ten years!”

There was a twinkle in his kindly grey eyes that belied the horrific threat.

Tony had first met the detective in Johannesburg when he went out to bring home a defaulting bankrupt. They had met since in London. Tony Braid liked this lazy man, with his everlasting railings at education; knew him for what he was, the shrewdest thief-catcher in London and though he had no occasion to ask his services, it had frequently happened that the inspector’s presence at his Ascot home had enlivened many a dull evening.

“Are you looking for criminals now, Inspector?” asked Ursula, trying hard not to laugh for fear she offended him.

He shook his head. “No criminals live in St. John’s Wood, my lady. I’m looking for my fellow-lodger. I realise I’m not doing my duty, which is to leave him to an active and intelligent police constable.”

“Has he stolen something?” asked Ursula.

“No, miss, he has stolen nothing,” said Elk, shaking his head. “He has merely put an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains. Which is in the Prayer Book. He’s an intelligent man when he’s sober, but talkative when he’s soused, it you’ll excuse the foreign expression. He’s probably lying on the canal bank asleep, or maybe in the canal. When he’s sober he talks rationally, and it’s a pleasure and an education to listen to his talks about the flora and fauna of Africa; but when he’s tight he talks about Lulanga Oilfields and how the wells are all dry, what he thinks of the chief engineer–well, he’s a trial.”

He caught Tony’s eye at that moment. The Twister was staring at him as if he had seen a ghost.