The Dark Eyes of London Read Online

"For six bright, happy, expensive weeks—start packing at once." He picked up the telephone from the writing-table and called the Travel Bureau.

    "I want a sleeper and a first-class reservation for Monte Carlo by tonight's train," he said. "Monte Carlo," he repeated louder. "No, not Calais. I have not the slightest intention of going to Calais—thanks." He hung up the receiver and stood looking at his servitor. "I hate talking to you, Sunny," he said, "but I must talk to somebody, and I hate your name. Who gave you that horrible name?"

    "My forefathers," said Sunny primly, continuing his brushing without looking up.

    "They rather missed the 'bus, didn't they?" asked Larry. "For if there is anything less like a bright spring day than you, I should like to avoid it. But we're southward bound, Sunny, to this Cote d'Azur, to the land of flowers and folly, to the orange groves—do you like oranges, Sunny?"

    "I prefer walnuts, sir," said Sunny, "but fruit of any kind means nothing to me."

    Larry chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. "We're going to be criminals and take people's money from them," he said, "instead of nosing about the criminal practices of others. No more robberies, defalcations, forgeries and murders, Sunny. Six weeks of dolce far niente."

    "I don't play that game myself, sir," said Sunny. "I prefer cribbage."

    Larry picked up the afternoon paper and had turned its columns. There were quite a few items of news to remind him of his profession and its calls. There was a big bank robbery at Lyons, a mail coach had been held up in Belgium by armed robbers; and then he came to a paragraph.

    "The body of a man picked up on the steps leading down from the Thames Embankment has been identified as Mr Gordon Stuart, a rich Canadian. It is believed to be a case of suicide. Mr Stuart had been spending the evening with some friends at the theatre, and disappeared between the acts, and was not seen again until his body was discovered. A coroner's inquest will be held in due course." He read the paragraph twice, and frowned.

    "A man doesn't usually go out between the acts of a play and commit suicide—unless the play is very bad," he said, and the obedient Sunny said, "No, sir." He threw the newspaper down.

    "Sunny, I'm getting into bad habits. I'm taking an interest in lunacy, and for that same reason I notice that you've folded my trousers so that the crease comes down the side. Unfold 'em, you lazy devil!" He spent the afternoon making preparations for his journey, and at half-past six, with his trunks in the hands of the porters and Sunny carrying his overcoat, he was settling his bill at the cashier's desk, had folded up the receipt and was putting it in his pocket when a bell-boy came to him.

    "Monsieur Holt?" he asked.

    "That's my name," said Larry, and looked suspiciously at the thing in the boy's hand. "A telegram?" he said. "I don't want to see it." Nevertheless, he took it in his hand and opened the blue paper with a disapproving grimace and read: "Very urgent, on special police service. Clear the line. Larry Holt, Grand Hotel, Paris.

    "Very worried about Stuart drowning stop case presents unusual features stop would be personally grateful if you would come over at once and conduct investigation." It was signed by the Chief Commissioner, who was not only his superior but his personal friend, and Larry put the telegram in his pocket with a groan.

    "What time do we arrive in Monte Carlo, sir?" asked Sunny when he joined him.

    "About this day twelvemonth," said Larry.

    "Indeed, sir?" said Sunny, politely interested. "It must be a very long way."

    Flash Fred, whose other name was Grogan, had a genuine grievance; for, after he had been solemnly assured by a reputable officer of the law that he intended going to Monte Carlo, he had found him on the Paris boat train, and though he carefully avoided him he knew that Larry was well aware that they were fellow-passengers.

    At Victoria Fred made a rapid exit from the station, not being perfectly satisfied in his mind that Larry's business in London was altogether unconnected with Fred's own activities. Larry saw the disappearing back of the crook, and smiled for the first time since he had left Paris.

    "Take my things to the flat," he said to Sunny. "I'm going to Scotland Yard. I may be home tonight, I may not be home until tomorrow night."

    "Shall I put out your dress things?" said Sunny. All that concerned him was the gentlemanly appearance of his employer. To Sunny the day was divided into three parts—tweed, broadcloth and pyjamas.

    "No—yes—anything you like," said his master.

    "Yes, sir," responded the obliging Sunny.

    Larry drove straight to the Yard, and had some difficulty in making an entry, because he was unknown to the local officials; but presently he was ushered into the big room where Sir John Hason rose from his desk and came across to meet him with outstretched hand.

    "My dear Larry," he said, "it is awfully good of you to forgo your holiday. You are a brick! Of course I knew you would come, and I've given you room forty-seven and the smartest secretary I have seen in Scotland Yard for many a day." They were old friends and old school-mates, John Hason and Larry Holt, and between the two men there was an affection and a confidence which is rarely found between men in the same profession.

    "I don't know forty-seven," said Larry, taking off his overcoat with a smile, "but I'll be happy to know the smartest secretary in Scotland Yard.