понеделник, 13 април 2009 г.
"The Mystery of The Blue Train"
CHAPTER 3
HEART OF FIRE
Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful greeting.
“Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van Aldin,” he said.
The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now.”
Van Aldin nodded again.
“Any mail?” he vouchsafed.
“They have all been sent up, Mr. Van Aldin. Oh! Wait a minute.”
He dived into a pigeon hole, and produced a latter.
“Just come this minute,” he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman’s flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed. The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young man was sitting at the desk nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
“Hallo, Knighton!”
“Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?”
“So, so!” said the millionaire unemotionally. “Paris is rather a one-horse city nowadays. Still – I got what I went over for.”
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
“You usually do, I believe,” said the secretary, laughing.
“That’s so,” agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.
“Anything urgent?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite finished sorting it out.”
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple; he gave them a fair trail and dismissed promptly those who were inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional.
Knighton, for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked. Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the young man’s complete astonishment when he had been offered the post of secretary to the great man himself.
“But – but I have no experience of business,” he had stammered.
“That doesn’t matter a cuss,” Van Aldin had replied. “I have got three secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman who – well, knows the ropes – and can attend to the social side of things for me.”
So far, Van Aldin had found his judgment confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct charm of manner.
The secretary indicated three or four letters placed by themselves on the top of the desk.
“It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these,” he suggested. “The top one is about the Colton agreement –“
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.
“I am not going to look at a darned thing tonight,” he declared. “They can all wait till the morning. Except this one,” he added, looking down at the latter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.
“Mrs. Kettering?” he murmured. “She rang up yesterday and today. She seems very anxious to see you at once, sir.”
“Does she, now!”
The smile faded from the millionaire’s face. He ripped open the envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously. Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the table sharply.
“I’ll not stand for this,” he muttered to himself. “Poor little girl, it’s a good thing she has her old father behind her.”
He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from the chair where he had thrown it.
“Are you going out again, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going round to see my daughter.”
“If Colton’s people ring up –“
“Tell them to go to the devil,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said the secretary unemotionally.
Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now. Cramming his hat upon his head, he went towards the door. He paused with his hand upon the handle.
“You are a good fellow, Knighton,” he said. “You don’t worry me when I am rattled.”
Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.
“Ruth is my only child,” said Van Aldin, “and there is no one on this earth who knows quite what she means to me.”
A faint smile irradiated his face. He slipped his hand into his pocked.
“Care to see something, Knighton?”
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly wrapped in brown paper. He tossed off the wrapping and disclosed a big, shabby, red velvet case. In the centre of it were some twisted initials surmounted by a crown. He snapped the case open, and the secretary drew in his breath sharply. Against the slightly dingy white of the interior, the stones glowed like blood.
“My God! Sir,” said Knighton. “Are they – are they real?”
Van Alden laughed a quiet little cackle of amusement.
“I don’t wonder at your asking that. Amongst these rubies are the three largest in the world. Katherine of Russia wore them, Knighton. That centre one there is known as “Heart of Fire”. It’s perfect – not a flaw in it.”
“But,” the secretary murmured, “they must be worth a fortune.”
“Four or five hundred thousand dollars,” said Van Aldin nonchalantly,” and that is apart from the historical interest.”
“And you carry them about – like that, loose in your pocket?”
Van Aldin laughed amusedly.
“I guess so. You see, they are my little present for Ruthie.”
The secretary smiled discreetly.
“I can understand now Mrs. Kettering’s anxiety over the telephone,” he murmured. But Van Aldin shook his head. The hard look returned to his face.
“You are wrong there,” he said. “She doesn’t know about these; they are my little surprise for her.”
He shut the case, and began slowly to wrap it up again.
“It’s a hard thing, Knighton,” he said, “how little one can do for those one loves. I can buy a good portion of the earth for Ruth, if it would be any use to her, but it isn’t. I can hang these things round her neck and give her a moment or two’s pleasure, maybe, but –“
He shook his head.
“When a women is not happy in her home –“
He left the sentence unfinished. The secretary nodded discreetly. He knew, none better, the reputation of the Hon Derek Kettering. Van Aldin sighed. Slipping the parcel back in his coat pocket, he nodded to Knighton and left the room.
HEART OF FIRE
Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful greeting.
“Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van Aldin,” he said.
The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now.”
Van Aldin nodded again.
“Any mail?” he vouchsafed.
“They have all been sent up, Mr. Van Aldin. Oh! Wait a minute.”
He dived into a pigeon hole, and produced a latter.
“Just come this minute,” he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman’s flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed. The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young man was sitting at the desk nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
“Hallo, Knighton!”
“Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?”
“So, so!” said the millionaire unemotionally. “Paris is rather a one-horse city nowadays. Still – I got what I went over for.”
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
“You usually do, I believe,” said the secretary, laughing.
“That’s so,” agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.
“Anything urgent?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite finished sorting it out.”
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple; he gave them a fair trail and dismissed promptly those who were inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional.
Knighton, for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked. Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the young man’s complete astonishment when he had been offered the post of secretary to the great man himself.
“But – but I have no experience of business,” he had stammered.
“That doesn’t matter a cuss,” Van Aldin had replied. “I have got three secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman who – well, knows the ropes – and can attend to the social side of things for me.”
So far, Van Aldin had found his judgment confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct charm of manner.
The secretary indicated three or four letters placed by themselves on the top of the desk.
“It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these,” he suggested. “The top one is about the Colton agreement –“
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.
“I am not going to look at a darned thing tonight,” he declared. “They can all wait till the morning. Except this one,” he added, looking down at the latter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.
“Mrs. Kettering?” he murmured. “She rang up yesterday and today. She seems very anxious to see you at once, sir.”
“Does she, now!”
The smile faded from the millionaire’s face. He ripped open the envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously. Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the table sharply.
“I’ll not stand for this,” he muttered to himself. “Poor little girl, it’s a good thing she has her old father behind her.”
He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from the chair where he had thrown it.
“Are you going out again, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going round to see my daughter.”
“If Colton’s people ring up –“
“Tell them to go to the devil,” said Van Aldin.
“Very well,” said the secretary unemotionally.
Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now. Cramming his hat upon his head, he went towards the door. He paused with his hand upon the handle.
“You are a good fellow, Knighton,” he said. “You don’t worry me when I am rattled.”
Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.
“Ruth is my only child,” said Van Aldin, “and there is no one on this earth who knows quite what she means to me.”
A faint smile irradiated his face. He slipped his hand into his pocked.
“Care to see something, Knighton?”
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly wrapped in brown paper. He tossed off the wrapping and disclosed a big, shabby, red velvet case. In the centre of it were some twisted initials surmounted by a crown. He snapped the case open, and the secretary drew in his breath sharply. Against the slightly dingy white of the interior, the stones glowed like blood.
“My God! Sir,” said Knighton. “Are they – are they real?”
Van Alden laughed a quiet little cackle of amusement.
“I don’t wonder at your asking that. Amongst these rubies are the three largest in the world. Katherine of Russia wore them, Knighton. That centre one there is known as “Heart of Fire”. It’s perfect – not a flaw in it.”
“But,” the secretary murmured, “they must be worth a fortune.”
“Four or five hundred thousand dollars,” said Van Aldin nonchalantly,” and that is apart from the historical interest.”
“And you carry them about – like that, loose in your pocket?”
Van Aldin laughed amusedly.
“I guess so. You see, they are my little present for Ruthie.”
The secretary smiled discreetly.
“I can understand now Mrs. Kettering’s anxiety over the telephone,” he murmured. But Van Aldin shook his head. The hard look returned to his face.
“You are wrong there,” he said. “She doesn’t know about these; they are my little surprise for her.”
He shut the case, and began slowly to wrap it up again.
“It’s a hard thing, Knighton,” he said, “how little one can do for those one loves. I can buy a good portion of the earth for Ruth, if it would be any use to her, but it isn’t. I can hang these things round her neck and give her a moment or two’s pleasure, maybe, but –“
He shook his head.
“When a women is not happy in her home –“
He left the sentence unfinished. The secretary nodded discreetly. He knew, none better, the reputation of the Hon Derek Kettering. Van Aldin sighed. Slipping the parcel back in his coat pocket, he nodded to Knighton and left the room.
неделя, 5 април 2009 г.
"The Mystery of The Blue Train"
***
Chapter 2
M. LE MARQUIS
The man with the white hair continued on his course unhurried, and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. He took a side turning to the right and another one to the left. Now and then he hummed a little air to himself.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a certain sound. It might have been the bursting of a tyre or it might have been – a shot. A curious smile played round his lips for a minute. Then he resumed his leisurely walk.
On turning a corner he came upon a scene of same activity. A representative of the law was making notes in a pocket-book, and one or two late passers-by had collected on the spot. To one of these the man with the white hair made a polite request for information.
“Something has been happening, yes?”
“Mais oui, Monsieur. Two Apaches set upon an elderly American gentleman.”
(mais oui, monsieur – Yes, sir )
“They did him no injury?”
“No, indeed.” The man laughed. “The American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired shots so closely round them that they took alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived too late.”
“Ah!” said the inquirer.
He displayed no emotion of any kind. Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed the Seine and came into the richer areas of the city. It was some twenty minutes later that he came to a stop before a certain house in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.
The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer in antiques, was so known to fame that he needed no advertisement, and indeed most of his business was not done over a counter.
M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment of his own overlooking the Champs Elysees, and it might reasonably be supposed that he would have been found there and not at his place of business at such an hour, but the man with the white hair seemed confident of success as he pressed the obscurely placed bell, having first given a quick glance up and down the deserted street.
His confidence was not misplaced. The door opened and a man stood in the aperture. He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a swarthy cast of countenance.
“Good evening,” said the stranger. “Your master is within?”
“The master is here, but he does not see chance visitors at this time of night,” growled the other.
“I think he will see me. Tell him that his friend M. Marquis is here.”
The man opened the door a little wider and allowed the visitor to enter.
The man who gave his name as M. le Marquis had shielded his face with his hand as he spoke. When the man-servant returned with the information that M. Papopolous would be pleased to receive the visitor a further change had taken place in the stranger’s appearance. The man-servant must have been very unobservant or very well trained for he betrayed no surprise at the small black satin mask which hid the other’s features.
Leading the way to a door at the end of the hall, he opened it and announced in a respectful murmur: “M. le Marquis.”
The figure which rose to receive this strange guest was an imposing one. There was something venerable and patriarchal about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed forehead and a beautiful white beard. His manner had in it something ecclesiastical and benign.
“My dear friend,” said M. Papopolous. He spoke in French and his tones were rich and unctuous.
“I must apologize,” said the visitor, “for the lateness of the hour.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” said M. Papopolous – “an interesting time of night. You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?”
“Not personally,” said M. Le Marquis.
“Not personally,” repeated M. Papopolous, “no, no, of course not. And there is news, eh?”
He cast a sharp glance sideways at the other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or benign in the least.
“There is no news. The attempt failed. I hardly expected anything else.”
“Quite so,” said M. Papopolous, “anything crude –“
He waved his hand to express his intense distaste for crudity in any form. There was indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous nor about the goods he handle. He was well known in most European courts, and kings called him Demetrius in a friendly manner. He had the reputation for the most exquisite discretion. That, together with the nobility of his aspect, had carried him through several very questionable transactions.
“The direct attack –“said M. Papopolous. He shook his head. “It answers sometimes – but very seldom.”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It saves time,” he remarked, “and to fail costs nothing – or next to nothing. The other plan – will not fail.”
“Ah,” said M. Papopolous, looking at him keenly.
The other nodded slowly.
“I have great confidence in your – er – reputation,” said the antique dealer.
M. le Marquis smiled gently.
“I think I may say,” he murmured, “that your confidence will not be misplaced.”
“You have unique opportunities,” said the other, with a note of envy in his voice.
“I make them,” said M. le Marquis.
He rose and took up the cloak which he had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.
“I will keep you informed, M. Papopolous, through the usual channels, but there must be no hitch in your arrangements.”
M. Papopolous was pained.
“There is never a hitch in my arrangements,” he complained.
The other smiled, and without any further word of adieu he left the room, closing the door behind him.
M. Papopolous remained in thought for a moment stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door which opened inwards. As he turned the handle, a young woman, who only too clearly had been leaning against it with her ear to the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise nor concert. It was evidently all quite natural to him.
“Well, Zia?” he asked.
“I did not hear him go,” explained Zia.
She was handsome young woman, built on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes and such a general air of resemblance to M. Papopolous that it was easy to see they were father and daughter.
“It is annoying,” she continued vexed, “that one cannot see through a keyhole and hear through it at the same time.”
“It has often annoyed me,” said M. Papopolous, with great simplicity.
“So that is M. Papopolous,” said Zia slowly. “Does he always wear a mask, father?”
“Always.”
There was a pause.
“It is the rubies, I suppose?” asked Zia.
Her father nodded.
“What do you think, my little one?” he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.
“Of M. le Marquis?”
“Yes.”
“I think,” said Zia slowly, “that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.”
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous, “so that is what you think.”
As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.
“I thought, too,” said Zia, “that his head was an odd shape.”
“Massive,” said her father – “a trifle massive. But then that effect is always created by a wig.”
They both looked at each other and smiled.
Chapter 2
M. LE MARQUIS
The man with the white hair continued on his course unhurried, and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. He took a side turning to the right and another one to the left. Now and then he hummed a little air to himself.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a certain sound. It might have been the bursting of a tyre or it might have been – a shot. A curious smile played round his lips for a minute. Then he resumed his leisurely walk.
On turning a corner he came upon a scene of same activity. A representative of the law was making notes in a pocket-book, and one or two late passers-by had collected on the spot. To one of these the man with the white hair made a polite request for information.
“Something has been happening, yes?”
“Mais oui, Monsieur. Two Apaches set upon an elderly American gentleman.”
(mais oui, monsieur – Yes, sir )
“They did him no injury?”
“No, indeed.” The man laughed. “The American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired shots so closely round them that they took alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived too late.”
“Ah!” said the inquirer.
He displayed no emotion of any kind. Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed the Seine and came into the richer areas of the city. It was some twenty minutes later that he came to a stop before a certain house in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.
The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer in antiques, was so known to fame that he needed no advertisement, and indeed most of his business was not done over a counter.
M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment of his own overlooking the Champs Elysees, and it might reasonably be supposed that he would have been found there and not at his place of business at such an hour, but the man with the white hair seemed confident of success as he pressed the obscurely placed bell, having first given a quick glance up and down the deserted street.
His confidence was not misplaced. The door opened and a man stood in the aperture. He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a swarthy cast of countenance.
“Good evening,” said the stranger. “Your master is within?”
“The master is here, but he does not see chance visitors at this time of night,” growled the other.
“I think he will see me. Tell him that his friend M. Marquis is here.”
The man opened the door a little wider and allowed the visitor to enter.
The man who gave his name as M. le Marquis had shielded his face with his hand as he spoke. When the man-servant returned with the information that M. Papopolous would be pleased to receive the visitor a further change had taken place in the stranger’s appearance. The man-servant must have been very unobservant or very well trained for he betrayed no surprise at the small black satin mask which hid the other’s features.
Leading the way to a door at the end of the hall, he opened it and announced in a respectful murmur: “M. le Marquis.”
The figure which rose to receive this strange guest was an imposing one. There was something venerable and patriarchal about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed forehead and a beautiful white beard. His manner had in it something ecclesiastical and benign.
“My dear friend,” said M. Papopolous. He spoke in French and his tones were rich and unctuous.
“I must apologize,” said the visitor, “for the lateness of the hour.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” said M. Papopolous – “an interesting time of night. You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?”
“Not personally,” said M. Le Marquis.
“Not personally,” repeated M. Papopolous, “no, no, of course not. And there is news, eh?”
He cast a sharp glance sideways at the other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or benign in the least.
“There is no news. The attempt failed. I hardly expected anything else.”
“Quite so,” said M. Papopolous, “anything crude –“
He waved his hand to express his intense distaste for crudity in any form. There was indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous nor about the goods he handle. He was well known in most European courts, and kings called him Demetrius in a friendly manner. He had the reputation for the most exquisite discretion. That, together with the nobility of his aspect, had carried him through several very questionable transactions.
“The direct attack –“said M. Papopolous. He shook his head. “It answers sometimes – but very seldom.”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“It saves time,” he remarked, “and to fail costs nothing – or next to nothing. The other plan – will not fail.”
“Ah,” said M. Papopolous, looking at him keenly.
The other nodded slowly.
“I have great confidence in your – er – reputation,” said the antique dealer.
M. le Marquis smiled gently.
“I think I may say,” he murmured, “that your confidence will not be misplaced.”
“You have unique opportunities,” said the other, with a note of envy in his voice.
“I make them,” said M. le Marquis.
He rose and took up the cloak which he had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.
“I will keep you informed, M. Papopolous, through the usual channels, but there must be no hitch in your arrangements.”
M. Papopolous was pained.
“There is never a hitch in my arrangements,” he complained.
The other smiled, and without any further word of adieu he left the room, closing the door behind him.
M. Papopolous remained in thought for a moment stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door which opened inwards. As he turned the handle, a young woman, who only too clearly had been leaning against it with her ear to the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise nor concert. It was evidently all quite natural to him.
“Well, Zia?” he asked.
“I did not hear him go,” explained Zia.
She was handsome young woman, built on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes and such a general air of resemblance to M. Papopolous that it was easy to see they were father and daughter.
“It is annoying,” she continued vexed, “that one cannot see through a keyhole and hear through it at the same time.”
“It has often annoyed me,” said M. Papopolous, with great simplicity.
“So that is M. Papopolous,” said Zia slowly. “Does he always wear a mask, father?”
“Always.”
There was a pause.
“It is the rubies, I suppose?” asked Zia.
Her father nodded.
“What do you think, my little one?” he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.
“Of M. le Marquis?”
“Yes.”
“I think,” said Zia slowly, “that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.”
“Ah!” said M. Papopolous, “so that is what you think.”
As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.
“I thought, too,” said Zia, “that his head was an odd shape.”
“Massive,” said her father – “a trifle massive. But then that effect is always created by a wig.”
They both looked at each other and smiled.
четвъртък, 2 април 2009 г.
сряда, 1 април 2009 г.
"The Mystery of The Blue Train"
BG
***
Той отново си загриза ноктите.
“ Съди себе си.”
Тя се наклони над камината, сръчно махна въглищата. Под, измежду набръчканите топки от вестник, тя избра само от средата един продълговат пакет обвит с кръгил, мръсен вестник и го връчи на мъжа.
“Гениално,” каза той, кимвайки одобрително.
“Апартаментът е претърсван два пъти. Матракът на леглото ми беше разкъсан.”
“Това е, както казах,” каза той мърморейки. “Има характера да говоти прекалено много. Това се пазари за цената – било е грешка.”
Той имаше вестника. Отвътре беше малка кафева хартиена част. Това на свой ред той неопакован, провери съдържанието и бързо го зави отново. Тъй като той направи това, електрическият звънец иззвъня рязко.
“Американецът е точен,” каза Олга, с един поглед към часовика.
Тя напусна стаята. За минута тя се върна в стаята водейки непознат, голям, плещест мъж, чийто произход очевидно е трансатлантически. Острият му поглед отиде от единия до другия.
“М. Красинайн?” попита той учтиво.
“Аз съм,” каза Борис. “Трябва да се извиня за – за неконвенциалното място на тази среща. Но тайната е спешна. Аз – аз не мога да си позволя да бъда свързан с този бизнес по никакъв начин.”
“Така ли?” каза учтиво американецът.
“Имам думата ви, нали, че няма данните за тази сделка да станат публични? Това е едно от условията на – продажаба.”
Американецът кимна.
“Това вече е договорено,” каза той безучастно. “Сега, може би, ще произвеждате стоки.”
“Имате ли пари – в банкноти?”
“Да,” отговори другият.
Той обаче не направи опит да го направи. След миг на колебание, Краснайн направи жест към малките парчета на масата.
Американецът го взе и разгърна опаковачнатахартия. Той подаде съдържанието към малка електрическа лампа и ги подложи на много задълбочено изследване. Удовлетворен, той извади от джоба си дебел кожен портфейл и извади от него сгънати банкноти. Тези той подаде на руснака, който внимателно ги преброи.
“Всичко наред ли е?”
“Благодаря ви, мосю. Всичко е точно.”
“Ах!” каза другият. Той плъзна кафявото хартиено парче в двоба си. Той се наведе към Олга. “Добър вечер, госпожице. Добър вечер, М. Краснайн.”
Той излезе, заключвайки вратата след себе си. Очите на двамата в стаята се срещнаха. Мъжът прокара език по сухите си устни.
“Чудя се – ще се върне ли някга в хотела си?” измърмори той.
По взаимно съгласие, те двамата се обърнака към прозореца. Направиха го тъкмо на време, за да видят американеца да се появява надолу по улицата.
Той се обърна на ляво и продължи в същото добро темпо, без веднъж да извърне глава. Две сенки се прокраднаха от вратата и го последваха безшумно. Преследвачите и преследвания изчезнаха в нощта. Олга Демироф проговеори.
“Той ще се върне невредим,” каза тя. “Не трябва да се безпокоите – или надявате – което и да е.”
“Защо мислиш, че той ще е в безопасност?” попита Краснайн с любопитство.
“Човек, който е направил толкова пари, както той, не може да е глупак,” каза Олга. “И говорейки за пари – “ Тя погледна многозначително Краснайн.
“А?”
“Моето възнаграждение, Борис Иванович.”
С някакво нежелание, Краснайн връчи две от банкнотите. Тя кимна за благодарност, с пълна липса на емоция, ги сгъна и пъхна в чорапа си.
“Това е добре,” отбеляза тя със задоволство.
“Не съжаляваш ли, Олга Василовна?”
“Съжаление? За какво?”
“За довеждането ти тук. Има жени – повечето жени, вярвам, биха се разгневили при такова нещо.”
Тя кимна отразително.
“Да, казвате истината. Повечето жени биха се ядосали. Аз – не. Чудя се сега – “ се се пречупи.
“Е?” попта другият любопитно.
“Американецът ще бъде ли в безопасност с тях – да, сигурна съм в това. Но след това –“
“А? Какво мислите?”
“Той ще им даде, разбира се, някоя жена,” каза Олга убедено. “Чудя се какво ще се случи след това…”
Тя се разтърси нетърпеливо и отиде към прозореца. Изведнъж тя се удиви и повика компаньона си.
“Вижте, той слиза по улицата – мъжът, искам да кажа.”
И двамата заедно погледнаха надолу. Тънка, елегантна фигура се беше напреднала спокойното си темпо. Той носеше оперна шапка и мантия. Тъй като мина под уличната лампа, светлината освети сламения вид на гъстата бяла коса.
***
Той отново си загриза ноктите.
“ Съди себе си.”
Тя се наклони над камината, сръчно махна въглищата. Под, измежду набръчканите топки от вестник, тя избра само от средата един продълговат пакет обвит с кръгил, мръсен вестник и го връчи на мъжа.
“Гениално,” каза той, кимвайки одобрително.
“Апартаментът е претърсван два пъти. Матракът на леглото ми беше разкъсан.”
“Това е, както казах,” каза той мърморейки. “Има характера да говоти прекалено много. Това се пазари за цената – било е грешка.”
Той имаше вестника. Отвътре беше малка кафева хартиена част. Това на свой ред той неопакован, провери съдържанието и бързо го зави отново. Тъй като той направи това, електрическият звънец иззвъня рязко.
“Американецът е точен,” каза Олга, с един поглед към часовика.
Тя напусна стаята. За минута тя се върна в стаята водейки непознат, голям, плещест мъж, чийто произход очевидно е трансатлантически. Острият му поглед отиде от единия до другия.
“М. Красинайн?” попита той учтиво.
“Аз съм,” каза Борис. “Трябва да се извиня за – за неконвенциалното място на тази среща. Но тайната е спешна. Аз – аз не мога да си позволя да бъда свързан с този бизнес по никакъв начин.”
“Така ли?” каза учтиво американецът.
“Имам думата ви, нали, че няма данните за тази сделка да станат публични? Това е едно от условията на – продажаба.”
Американецът кимна.
“Това вече е договорено,” каза той безучастно. “Сега, може би, ще произвеждате стоки.”
“Имате ли пари – в банкноти?”
“Да,” отговори другият.
Той обаче не направи опит да го направи. След миг на колебание, Краснайн направи жест към малките парчета на масата.
Американецът го взе и разгърна опаковачнатахартия. Той подаде съдържанието към малка електрическа лампа и ги подложи на много задълбочено изследване. Удовлетворен, той извади от джоба си дебел кожен портфейл и извади от него сгънати банкноти. Тези той подаде на руснака, който внимателно ги преброи.
“Всичко наред ли е?”
“Благодаря ви, мосю. Всичко е точно.”
“Ах!” каза другият. Той плъзна кафявото хартиено парче в двоба си. Той се наведе към Олга. “Добър вечер, госпожице. Добър вечер, М. Краснайн.”
Той излезе, заключвайки вратата след себе си. Очите на двамата в стаята се срещнаха. Мъжът прокара език по сухите си устни.
“Чудя се – ще се върне ли някга в хотела си?” измърмори той.
По взаимно съгласие, те двамата се обърнака към прозореца. Направиха го тъкмо на време, за да видят американеца да се появява надолу по улицата.
Той се обърна на ляво и продължи в същото добро темпо, без веднъж да извърне глава. Две сенки се прокраднаха от вратата и го последваха безшумно. Преследвачите и преследвания изчезнаха в нощта. Олга Демироф проговеори.
“Той ще се върне невредим,” каза тя. “Не трябва да се безпокоите – или надявате – което и да е.”
“Защо мислиш, че той ще е в безопасност?” попита Краснайн с любопитство.
“Човек, който е направил толкова пари, както той, не може да е глупак,” каза Олга. “И говорейки за пари – “ Тя погледна многозначително Краснайн.
“А?”
“Моето възнаграждение, Борис Иванович.”
С някакво нежелание, Краснайн връчи две от банкнотите. Тя кимна за благодарност, с пълна липса на емоция, ги сгъна и пъхна в чорапа си.
“Това е добре,” отбеляза тя със задоволство.
“Не съжаляваш ли, Олга Василовна?”
“Съжаление? За какво?”
“За довеждането ти тук. Има жени – повечето жени, вярвам, биха се разгневили при такова нещо.”
Тя кимна отразително.
“Да, казвате истината. Повечето жени биха се ядосали. Аз – не. Чудя се сега – “ се се пречупи.
“Е?” попта другият любопитно.
“Американецът ще бъде ли в безопасност с тях – да, сигурна съм в това. Но след това –“
“А? Какво мислите?”
“Той ще им даде, разбира се, някоя жена,” каза Олга убедено. “Чудя се какво ще се случи след това…”
Тя се разтърси нетърпеливо и отиде към прозореца. Изведнъж тя се удиви и повика компаньона си.
“Вижте, той слиза по улицата – мъжът, искам да кажа.”
И двамата заедно погледнаха надолу. Тънка, елегантна фигура се беше напреднала спокойното си темпо. Той носеше оперна шапка и мантия. Тъй като мина под уличната лампа, светлината освети сламения вид на гъстата бяла коса.
"The Mystery of The Blue Train"
***
He gnawed his nails again.
“Judge for yourself.”
She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing the coals. Underneath, from amongst the crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected from the very middle an oblong package wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and handed it to the man.
“Ingenious,” he said, with a nod of approval.
“The apartment has been searched twice. The mattress on my bed was ripped open.”
“It is as I said,” he muttered. “There ha been too much talk. This haggling over the price – it was a mistake.”
He had newspaper the newspaper. Inside was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn he unwrapped, verified the contents, and quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did so, an electric bell rang sharply.
“The American is punctual, “said Olga, with a glance at the clock.
She left the room. In a minute she returned ushering in a stranger, a big, broad-shouldered man whose transatlantic origin was evident. His keen glance went from one to the other.
“M. Krassnine?” he inquired politely.
“I am he,” said Boris. “I must apologize for – for the unconventionality of the this meeting-place. But secrecy is urgent. I – I cannot afford to be connected with this business in any way.”
“Is that so?” said the American politely.
“I have your word, have I not, that no details of this transaction will be made public? That is one of the conditions of – sale.”
The American nodded.
“That has already been agreed upon,” he said indifferently. “Now, perhaps, you will produce the goods.”
“You have the money – in notes?”
“Yes,” replied the other.
He did not, however, make any attempt to produce it. After a moment’s hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel on the table.
The American took it up and unrolled the wrapping paper. The contents he took over to a small electric lamp and submitted them to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet and extracted from it a wad of notes. These he handed to the Russian, who counted them carefully.
“All right?”
“I thank you, Monsieur. Everything is correct.”
“Ah!” said the other. He slipped the brown paper parcel negligently into his pocket. He bowed to Olga. “Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krassnine.”
He went out, shutting the door behind him. The eyes of the two in the room met. The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.
“I wonder – will he ever get back to his hotel?” he muttered.
By common accord, they both turned to the window. They were just in time to see the American emerge into the street below.
He turned to the left and marched along at a good pace without once turning his head. Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff spoke.
“He will get back safely,” she said. “You need not fear – or hope – whichever it is.”
“Why do you think he will be safe?” asked Krassnine curiously.
“A man who has made as much money as he has could not possibly be a fool,” said Olga. “And talking of money – “
She looked significantly at Krassnine.
“Eh?”
“My share, Boris Ivanovitch.”
With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking.
“That is good,” she remarked, with satisfaction.
He looked at her curiously.
“You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?”
“Regrets? For what?”
“For what has been in your keeping. There are women – most women, I believe, who go mad over such things.”
She nodded reflectively.
“Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I – have not. I wonder now – “She broke off.
“Well?” asked the other curiously.
“The American will be safe with them – yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards – “
“Eh? What are you thinking of?”
“He will give them, of course, to some women,” said Olga thoughtfully. “I wonder what will happen then…”
She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her companion.
“See, he is going down the street now – the man I mean.”
They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illuminated a thatch of thick white hair.
He gnawed his nails again.
“Judge for yourself.”
She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing the coals. Underneath, from amongst the crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected from the very middle an oblong package wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and handed it to the man.
“Ingenious,” he said, with a nod of approval.
“The apartment has been searched twice. The mattress on my bed was ripped open.”
“It is as I said,” he muttered. “There ha been too much talk. This haggling over the price – it was a mistake.”
He had newspaper the newspaper. Inside was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn he unwrapped, verified the contents, and quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did so, an electric bell rang sharply.
“The American is punctual, “said Olga, with a glance at the clock.
She left the room. In a minute she returned ushering in a stranger, a big, broad-shouldered man whose transatlantic origin was evident. His keen glance went from one to the other.
“M. Krassnine?” he inquired politely.
“I am he,” said Boris. “I must apologize for – for the unconventionality of the this meeting-place. But secrecy is urgent. I – I cannot afford to be connected with this business in any way.”
“Is that so?” said the American politely.
“I have your word, have I not, that no details of this transaction will be made public? That is one of the conditions of – sale.”
The American nodded.
“That has already been agreed upon,” he said indifferently. “Now, perhaps, you will produce the goods.”
“You have the money – in notes?”
“Yes,” replied the other.
He did not, however, make any attempt to produce it. After a moment’s hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel on the table.
The American took it up and unrolled the wrapping paper. The contents he took over to a small electric lamp and submitted them to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet and extracted from it a wad of notes. These he handed to the Russian, who counted them carefully.
“All right?”
“I thank you, Monsieur. Everything is correct.”
“Ah!” said the other. He slipped the brown paper parcel negligently into his pocket. He bowed to Olga. “Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krassnine.”
He went out, shutting the door behind him. The eyes of the two in the room met. The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.
“I wonder – will he ever get back to his hotel?” he muttered.
By common accord, they both turned to the window. They were just in time to see the American emerge into the street below.
He turned to the left and marched along at a good pace without once turning his head. Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff spoke.
“He will get back safely,” she said. “You need not fear – or hope – whichever it is.”
“Why do you think he will be safe?” asked Krassnine curiously.
“A man who has made as much money as he has could not possibly be a fool,” said Olga. “And talking of money – “
She looked significantly at Krassnine.
“Eh?”
“My share, Boris Ivanovitch.”
With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking.
“That is good,” she remarked, with satisfaction.
He looked at her curiously.
“You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?”
“Regrets? For what?”
“For what has been in your keeping. There are women – most women, I believe, who go mad over such things.”
She nodded reflectively.
“Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I – have not. I wonder now – “She broke off.
“Well?” asked the other curiously.
“The American will be safe with them – yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards – “
“Eh? What are you thinking of?”
“He will give them, of course, to some women,” said Olga thoughtfully. “I wonder what will happen then…”
She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her companion.
“See, he is going down the street now – the man I mean.”
They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illuminated a thatch of thick white hair.
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