Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (ebook reader online .TXT) 📖
- Author: Edgar Wallace
Book online «The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace (ebook reader online .TXT) 📖». Author Edgar Wallace
“Mr. Kara will see you, sir,” said Fisher.
“Oh!” said the other glaring at the unoffending Fisher, “that's very good of him. Very good of this person to see a scholar and a gentleman who has been about his dirty business for three years. Grown grey in his service! Do you understand that, my man!”
“Yes, sir,” said Fisher.
“Look here!”
The man thrust out his face.
“Do you see those grey hairs in my beard?”
The embarrassed Fisher grinned.
“Is it grey!” challenged the visitor, with a roar.
“Yes, sir,” said the valet hastily.
“Is it real grey?” insisted the visitor. “Pull one out and see!”
The startled Fisher drew back with an apologetic smile.
“I couldn't think of doing a thing like that, sir.”
“Oh, you couldn't,” sneered the visitor; “then lead on!”
Fisher showed the way up the stairs. This time the traveller carried no books. His left arm hung limply by his side and Fisher privately gathered that the hand had got loose from the detaining pocket without its owner being aware of the fact. He pushed open the door and announced, “Mr. Gathercole,” and Kara came forward with a smile to meet his agent, who, with top hat still on the top of his head, and his overcoat dangling about his heels, must have made a remarkable picture.
Fisher closed the door behind them and returned to his duties in the hall below. Ten minutes later he heard the door opened and the booming voice of the stranger came down to him. Fisher went up the stairs to meet him and found him addressing the occupant of the room in his own eccentric fashion.
“No more Patagonia!” he roared, “no more Tierra del Fuego!” he paused.
“Certainly!” He replied to some question, “but not Patagonia,” he paused again, and Fisher standing at the foot of the stairs wondered what had occurred to make the visitor so genial.
“I suppose your cheque will be honoured all right?” asked the visitor sardonically, and then burst into a little chuckle of laughter as he carefully closed the door.
He came down the corridor talking to himself, and greeted Fisher.
“Damn all Greeks,” he said jovially, and Fisher could do no more than smile reproachfully, the smile being his very own, the reproach being on behalf of the master who paid him.
The traveller touched the other on the chest with his right hand.
“Never trust a Greek,” he said, “always get your money in advance. Is that clear to you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fisher, “but I think you will always find that Mr. Kara is always most generous about money.”
“Don't you believe it, don't you believe it, my poor man,” said the other, “you—”
At that moment there came from Kara's room a faint “clang.”
“What's that?” asked the visitor a little startled.
“Mr. Kara's put down his steel latch,” said Fisher with a smile, “which means that he is not to be disturbed until—” he looked at his watch, “until eleven o'clock at any rate.”
“He's a funk!” snapped the other, “a beastly funk!”
He stamped down the stairs as though testing the weight of every tread, opened the front door without assistance, slammed it behind him and disappeared into the night.
Fisher, his hands in his pockets, looked after the departing stranger, nodding his head in reprobation.
“You're a queer old devil,” he said, and looked at his watch again.
It wanted five minutes to ten.
CHAPTER XIII
“IF you would care to come in, sir, I'm sure Lexman would be glad to see you,” said T. X.; “it's very kind of you to take an interest in the matter.”
The Chief Commissioner of Police growled something about being paid to take an interest in everybody and strolled with T. X. down one of the apparently endless corridors of Scotland Yard.
“You won't have any bother about the pardon,” he said. “I was dining to-night with old man Bartholomew and he will fix that up in the morning.”
“There will be no necessity to detain Lexman in custody?” asked T. X.
The Chief shook his head.
“None whatever,” he said.
There was a pause, then,
“By the way, did Bartholomew mention Belinda Mary!”
The white-haired chief looked round in astonishment.
“And who the devil is Belinda Mary?” he asked.
T. X. went red.
“Belinda Mary,” he said a little quickly, “is Bartholomew's daughter.”
“By Jove,” said the Commissioner, “now you mention it, he did—she is still in France.”
“Oh, is she?” said T. X. innocently, and in his heart of hearts he wished most fervently that she was. They came to the room which Mansus occupied and found that admirable man waiting.
Wherever policemen meet, their conversation naturally drifts to “shop” and in two minutes the three were discussing with some animation and much difference of opinion, as far as T. X. was concerned, a series of frauds which had been perpetrated in the Midlands, and which have nothing to do with this story.
“Your friend is late,” said the Chief Commissioner.
“There he is,” cried T. X., springing up. He heard a familiar footstep on the flagged corridor, and sprung out of the room to meet the newcomer.
For a moment he stood wringing the hand of this grave man, his heart too full for words.
“My dear chap!” he said at last, “you don't know how glad I am to see you.”
John Lexman said nothing, then,
“I am sorry to bring you into this business, T. X.,” he said quietly.
“Nonsense,” said the other, “come in and see the Chief.”
He took John by the arm and led him into the Superintendent's room.
There was a change in John Lexman. A subtle shifting of balance which was not readily discoverable. His face was older, the mobile
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