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The Earl of Nowhere - ebook
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The Earl of Nowhere - ebook
Every city has its own peculiar voice. Neither the harsh roar of London, the nerve destroying staccato of sound which belongs exclusively to New York, nor the kettledrum buzz of Madrid is comparable with the voice of Paris, which is mainly vocal.""Queer thing about Paris, sir,"” said Jim Selby, „"somebody is always talking.""The staid Vice-Councillor of the British Embassy lifted his head, and, being literally-minded, listened.""I hear nobody–except you,"” he said.""The Earl of Nowhere"” includes the short stories from incomparable Edgar Wallace. Few people today would recognize the name „"Edgar Wallace"” but before his death in 1933 he was a literary force to be reckoned with. He was both prolific and popular and his books reportedly sold at the rate of 5,000 a day.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8148-147-2 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,5 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
I. THE KING’S MESSENGER
EVERY city has its own peculiar voice. Neither the harsh roar of London, the nerve destroying staccato of sound which belongs exclusively to New York, nor the kettledrum buzz of Madrid is comparable with the voice of Paris, which is mainly vocal.
“Queer thing about Paris, sir,” said Jim Selby, “somebody is always talking.”
The staid Vice-Councillor of the British Embassy lifted his head, and, being literally-minded, listened.
“I hear nobody–except you,” he said.
In that quiet room very little sound came through the double windows, nor, situated as it was, and at that hour, was it likely that any sound could penetrate to the sedate bureau.
Jim Selby chuckled to himself, having a sense of humour that was superior to the overwhelming majesty of embassies. A lean, brown faced man, on the optimistic side of thirty, he found life an amusing business and the office of King’s Messenger less humdrum than he had been led to expect.
The hands of the French clock above the fireplace pointed to nine. Outside, an ungentle flurry of sleet and snow was falling, and Jim had an engagement to meet Lady Vyvan Sanclair at ten.
The Vice Councillor, who had resumed his writing, suddenly looked up.
“What are they saying in London about the Earl of Nowhere?” he asked. Jim smiled.
“He’s a weird bird, isn’t he? You mean the Earl of Saltesh, who makes himself so unpleasant to people?”
The Councillor nodded.
“Is it a hoax, or a joke in bad taste?” he asked. “I thought the title had died out.”
“Perhaps that is the reason our mysterious friend uses it,” said Jim dryly. “I can’t say that I approve of people who set themselves above the law, and administer justice in their own peculiar fashion; but whoever he is, mad or sane, lord or commoner, he is doing remarkable work.”
The Embassy chief growled something under his breath.
“It is drastic,” admitted Jim, “and a little risky for his invisible lordship. For a man who shoots up gaming clubs and beats up blackmailers, and is dealing with a hundred-and-one little gangs that abound in London, can’t he a bad fellow at heart, even though he may not be Lord Saltesh.”
The Vice-Councillor leant back in his chair and looked strangely at the messenger. Then, to Jim’s surprise, he said:
“I’m sending you to London to-morrow afternoon, and I’d give a lot of money if I were perfectly certain Lord Saltesh was on the train with you!”
“Why on earth–“ began Jim, in amazement.
“I’ll tell you one of these days. Of course, there is no Lord Saltesh. The old earl was never married; and Lord Felboro, who administered the estate for his cousin years before Saltesh went out, told me there wasn’t enough money left to pay one year’s interest on the mortgages. All the same, I wish I could lay my hands upon the gentleman.”
“Felboro, who administered the estate for his cousin years before Saltesh
“But why?” asked Jim again.
The Vice-Councillor unlocked a drawer, pulled it open and took out an envelope, from which he extracted a sheet of paper.
“Look at this,” he said.
Jim took up the sheet and read:
On Wednesday morning the draft of the Treaty between the Transcaucasian and the British Governments will arrive in Paris from Tiflis. This information has reached certain interested people in London too late for them to intercept your messenger from Transcaucasia. If you wish the Treaty to reach the Foreign Office, avoid ordinary routes; the air route is the most dangerous of all.
It was signed “Saltesh,” and the paper, Jim noted, bore at the top an embossed coronet.
“Do you take any serious notice of this?”
The other nodded.
“Very serious. The Transcaucasian Treaty touches very nearly some of the biggest oil interests in the world. It is a condition of the Tiflis Government that the Treaty shall go through to London without being read even by me. The Tiflis people are not in very good odour with the Soviet Government, and they’re scared of the terms being revealed until they have the support of our people. Otherwise it would have been a simple matter to have telegraphed the Treaty word for word.”
“I see,” said Jim thoughtfully. “And this is the ‘vital document’ I am to take back to town?”
“Exactly. Now I think you’d better run off and meet your lady.”
Jim gasped.
“How did you know––“ he began.
“That you’re supping with Lady Vyvan?” The older man smiled. “My dear Captain Selby, you forget that this is Paris, and that an Embassy is naturally very curious about its servants. You have been watched ever since you came to this city. You see,” he went on, before Jim could speak, “we can’t afford to take risks.”
“By which route do I go back to London?” asked the Messenger.
The Councillor smiled grimly.
“That very important piece of information will not be given to you until five minutes before you leave,” he said.
Ciro’s Restaurant was filled when Jim arrived, and he looked around the crowded room helplessly until a white-gloved hand signalled him, and then he made his way through the dancers to the little alcove table where Vyvan Sanclair was awaiting him. A slim girl in the early twenties, with a flawless complexion and grey eyes, arresting and live, she had, in her manner and poise, something of her French mother, little save the dignity of Lord Felboro, her father.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
“You said ten,” apologized Jim, and she smiled.
“All the same, I thought you weren’t coming. One never knows what’s going to happen to a King’s Messenger once he disappears in the Faubourg St. Honoré. There was even a possibility that you might have been kidnapped by the Earl of Nowhere.”
He laughed.
“Does his lordship interest you, too? By the way, where did he get that name?”
“Father gave it to him,” she said absently. “I should love to meet that bizarre person.”
“As he operates in London,” said Jim, “you’re hardly likely to meet him on the boulevards.”
Vyvan raised her eyes to him.
“Are you sure?” she asked quietly, and, before he could speak, went on; “I have had an uncomfortable feeling that, whenever you and I have been out together, we have been shadowed.” And then, seeing the laughter in his eyes: “You knew?” she asked quickly.
“I knew to-night for the first time. The Vice-Councillor told me that they’d put a watch-dog on my track to see that I came to no mischief.”
Her sigh was one of relief.
“I’m glad,” she said. “You will probably be amused at my fears, but I’m the most easily scared woman in Paris. When are you returning?”
Jim hesitated. She, with her quick intuition, realized that the question was one she ought not to have asked.
“I am afraid I was indiscreet,” she said. “I’ll tell you that I’m going back to London to-morrow night, and if I have you for fellow-passenger I shall be very pleased.”
“Why?” he asked.
She shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely.
“Are you glad to be going back?”
Her lips twitched.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
EVERY city has its own peculiar voice. Neither the harsh roar of London, the nerve destroying staccato of sound which belongs exclusively to New York, nor the kettledrum buzz of Madrid is comparable with the voice of Paris, which is mainly vocal.
“Queer thing about Paris, sir,” said Jim Selby, “somebody is always talking.”
The staid Vice-Councillor of the British Embassy lifted his head, and, being literally-minded, listened.
“I hear nobody–except you,” he said.
In that quiet room very little sound came through the double windows, nor, situated as it was, and at that hour, was it likely that any sound could penetrate to the sedate bureau.
Jim Selby chuckled to himself, having a sense of humour that was superior to the overwhelming majesty of embassies. A lean, brown faced man, on the optimistic side of thirty, he found life an amusing business and the office of King’s Messenger less humdrum than he had been led to expect.
The hands of the French clock above the fireplace pointed to nine. Outside, an ungentle flurry of sleet and snow was falling, and Jim had an engagement to meet Lady Vyvan Sanclair at ten.
The Vice Councillor, who had resumed his writing, suddenly looked up.
“What are they saying in London about the Earl of Nowhere?” he asked. Jim smiled.
“He’s a weird bird, isn’t he? You mean the Earl of Saltesh, who makes himself so unpleasant to people?”
The Councillor nodded.
“Is it a hoax, or a joke in bad taste?” he asked. “I thought the title had died out.”
“Perhaps that is the reason our mysterious friend uses it,” said Jim dryly. “I can’t say that I approve of people who set themselves above the law, and administer justice in their own peculiar fashion; but whoever he is, mad or sane, lord or commoner, he is doing remarkable work.”
The Embassy chief growled something under his breath.
“It is drastic,” admitted Jim, “and a little risky for his invisible lordship. For a man who shoots up gaming clubs and beats up blackmailers, and is dealing with a hundred-and-one little gangs that abound in London, can’t he a bad fellow at heart, even though he may not be Lord Saltesh.”
The Vice-Councillor leant back in his chair and looked strangely at the messenger. Then, to Jim’s surprise, he said:
“I’m sending you to London to-morrow afternoon, and I’d give a lot of money if I were perfectly certain Lord Saltesh was on the train with you!”
“Why on earth–“ began Jim, in amazement.
“I’ll tell you one of these days. Of course, there is no Lord Saltesh. The old earl was never married; and Lord Felboro, who administered the estate for his cousin years before Saltesh went out, told me there wasn’t enough money left to pay one year’s interest on the mortgages. All the same, I wish I could lay my hands upon the gentleman.”
“Felboro, who administered the estate for his cousin years before Saltesh
“But why?” asked Jim again.
The Vice-Councillor unlocked a drawer, pulled it open and took out an envelope, from which he extracted a sheet of paper.
“Look at this,” he said.
Jim took up the sheet and read:
On Wednesday morning the draft of the Treaty between the Transcaucasian and the British Governments will arrive in Paris from Tiflis. This information has reached certain interested people in London too late for them to intercept your messenger from Transcaucasia. If you wish the Treaty to reach the Foreign Office, avoid ordinary routes; the air route is the most dangerous of all.
It was signed “Saltesh,” and the paper, Jim noted, bore at the top an embossed coronet.
“Do you take any serious notice of this?”
The other nodded.
“Very serious. The Transcaucasian Treaty touches very nearly some of the biggest oil interests in the world. It is a condition of the Tiflis Government that the Treaty shall go through to London without being read even by me. The Tiflis people are not in very good odour with the Soviet Government, and they’re scared of the terms being revealed until they have the support of our people. Otherwise it would have been a simple matter to have telegraphed the Treaty word for word.”
“I see,” said Jim thoughtfully. “And this is the ‘vital document’ I am to take back to town?”
“Exactly. Now I think you’d better run off and meet your lady.”
Jim gasped.
“How did you know––“ he began.
“That you’re supping with Lady Vyvan?” The older man smiled. “My dear Captain Selby, you forget that this is Paris, and that an Embassy is naturally very curious about its servants. You have been watched ever since you came to this city. You see,” he went on, before Jim could speak, “we can’t afford to take risks.”
“By which route do I go back to London?” asked the Messenger.
The Councillor smiled grimly.
“That very important piece of information will not be given to you until five minutes before you leave,” he said.
Ciro’s Restaurant was filled when Jim arrived, and he looked around the crowded room helplessly until a white-gloved hand signalled him, and then he made his way through the dancers to the little alcove table where Vyvan Sanclair was awaiting him. A slim girl in the early twenties, with a flawless complexion and grey eyes, arresting and live, she had, in her manner and poise, something of her French mother, little save the dignity of Lord Felboro, her father.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
“You said ten,” apologized Jim, and she smiled.
“All the same, I thought you weren’t coming. One never knows what’s going to happen to a King’s Messenger once he disappears in the Faubourg St. Honoré. There was even a possibility that you might have been kidnapped by the Earl of Nowhere.”
He laughed.
“Does his lordship interest you, too? By the way, where did he get that name?”
“Father gave it to him,” she said absently. “I should love to meet that bizarre person.”
“As he operates in London,” said Jim, “you’re hardly likely to meet him on the boulevards.”
Vyvan raised her eyes to him.
“Are you sure?” she asked quietly, and, before he could speak, went on; “I have had an uncomfortable feeling that, whenever you and I have been out together, we have been shadowed.” And then, seeing the laughter in his eyes: “You knew?” she asked quickly.
“I knew to-night for the first time. The Vice-Councillor told me that they’d put a watch-dog on my track to see that I came to no mischief.”
Her sigh was one of relief.
“I’m glad,” she said. “You will probably be amused at my fears, but I’m the most easily scared woman in Paris. When are you returning?”
Jim hesitated. She, with her quick intuition, realized that the question was one she ought not to have asked.
“I am afraid I was indiscreet,” she said. “I’ll tell you that I’m going back to London to-morrow night, and if I have you for fellow-passenger I shall be very pleased.”
“Why?” he asked.
She shrugged her shapely shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely.
“Are you glad to be going back?”
Her lips twitched.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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