The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “OVERTURE AND BEGINNERS, PLEASE!”

  The shrill voice of the call-boy wailed through the bare corridors of the Frivolity Theatre, and No. 7 dressing-room emptied with a rush. The stone stairs leading down to the stage level were immediately crowded with chattering chorus girls, arrayed in the fantastic costumes of the opening number.

  Belle Straker lagged a little behind the crowd, for she had neither the heart nor the inclination to discuss the interminable nothings which were so fascinating to her sister artistes.

  At the foot of the stairs a tired looking man in evening dress was waiting. Presently he saw the girl and raised his finger. She quickened her pace, for the stage-manager was an irascible man and somewhat impatient.

  “Miss Straker,” he said, “you are excused tonight.”

  “Excused?” she replied in surprise. “I thought…”

  The stage manager nodded.

  “I didn’t get your note saying you wanted to stay off,” he said. “Now hurry up and change, my dear. You’ll be in plenty of time.”

  In truth he had received a note asking permission to miss a performance, but he had not known then that the dinner engagement, which Belle Straker was desirous of keeping, was with the eminent Mr. Covent. And Mr. Covent was not only a name in the City, but he was also a director of the company owning the Frivolity Theatre.

  The girl hesitated, one foot on the lower stair, and the stage manager eyed her curiously. He knew Mr. Covent slightly, and had been a little more than surprised that Mr. Covent was “that kind of man.” One would hardly associate that white-haired and benevolent gentleman with dinner parties in which chorus girls figured.

  As for the girl, some premonition of danger made her hesitate.

  “I don’t know whether I want to go,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” said the stage-manager, with a little smile. “Never miss a good dinner, Belle—how are those dancing lessons getting on?”

  She knew what he meant, but it pleased her to pretend ignorance.

  “Dancing lessons?” she said.

  “Those you are giving to the Rajah of Butilata,” said the stage-manager. “What sort of a pupil does he make? It must be rather funny teaching a man to dance who cannot speak English.”

  She shrugged her shoulders in assumed indifference.

  “He’s not bad,” she said, and turned quickly to run up the stairs.

  The stage-manager looked after her, and his smile broadened. Then, of a sudden, he became grave. It was no business of his, and he was hardened to queerer kinds of friendship than that which might exist between a chorus girl and an Eastern potentate, even though rumour had it that His Highness of Butilata was almost white.

  Even friendships between young and pretty members of the chorus and staid and respectable City merchants were not outside the range of his experience. He, too, shrugged and went back to the stage, for the strains of the overture were coming faintly through the swinging doors.

  Belle Straker changed swiftly, wiped the make-up from her face, and got into her neat street clothes. She stopped on her way out of the theatre to enquire at the stage door-keeper’s office whether there had been any letters.

  “No, miss,” said the man. “But those two men came back again this evening to ask if you were playing. I told them that you were off.”

  She nodded gratefully. Those two men were, as she knew, solicitors’ clerks who had writs to serve upon her. She had large and artistic tastes which outstripped her slender income. She was in debt everywhere, and nobody knew better than she how serious was her position.

  The theatres were filling up, so that there were plenty of empty taxicabs, and with a glance at the jewelled watch upon her wrist and a little exclamation of dismay, she gave directions and jumped into the first cab she could attract.

  Five minutes later she was greeting an elderly man, who rose from a corner table in Penniali’s Restaurant.

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Covent. That stupid stage-manager did not get my note asking to stay off, and I went to the theatre thinking my request had been refused. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”

  Mr. Covent beamed through his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  “My dear child,” he said pleasantly, “I have reached the age in life when a man is quite content to wait so long as he has an evening paper, and when time indeed runs too quickly.”

  He was a fine, handsome man of sixty-five, clean-shaven and rubicund. His white hair was brushed back from his forehead and fell in waves over his collar, and despite his years his frank blue eyes were as clear as a boy’s.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “I have ordered dinner, and I’m extremely grateful that I have not to eat it alone.”

  She found him, as she had found him before, a very pleasant companion, courteous, considerate and anecdotal. She knew very little about him, except that he had been introduced about two months before, and all that she knew was to his credit. He had invariably treated her with the deepest respect. He was by all accounts a very wealthy man—a millionaire, some said—and she knew, at any rate, that he was the senior partner of Covent Brothers, a firm of Indian bankers and merchants with extensive connections in the East.

  They came at last to the stage when conversation was easier. And then it was that Mr. Covent opened up the subject which was nearer to his heart, perhaps, than to the girl’s.

  “Have you thought over my suggestion?” he asked.

  The girl made a little grimace.

  “Oh yes, I’ve thought it over,” she said. “I don’t think I can do it, I really don’t, Mr. Covent.”

  Mr. Covent smiled indulgently. In all the forty-five years in which he had been in business he had never approached so delicate or so vital a problem as this; but he was a man used to dealing with vital problems, and he was in no way dismayed by the first rebuff.

  “I hope you will think this matter over well before you reject it,” he said. “And I am afraid you will have to do your thinking tonight, because the Rajah is leaving for India next week.”

  “Next week!” she said in surprise, and with that sense of discomfort which comes to the opportunist who finds her chance slipping away before her eyes. “I thought he was staying for months yet.”

  John Covent shook his head.

  “No, he’s going back to his country almost immediately,” he said. “Now, Miss Straker, I will speak plainly to you. I happen to know, through certain agencies with which I am associated, that you are heavily in debt, and that you have tastes which are—just a little beyond your means, shall I say? You love the good things of life—luxury, comfort and all that sort of thing; you hate sordid surroundings—er—landladies, shall I say?”

  Belle shivered at the thought of an interview she had had that morning with “Ma” Hetheridge, who had demanded with violence the payment of two months’ arrears.

  “Here is a man,” John Covent went on, ticking off the points on his fingers, “who is madly in love with you. It is true that he is an Indian, though he would pass for a European and is admitted to the very best of English society. But against his colour and his race there is the fact that he is enormously wealthy, that he can give you not a house but a palace, a retinue of servants, and the most luxurious surroundings that it is humanly possible to imagine. He can give you a position beyond your wildest dreams and make you famous.”

  The girl shook her head, half in doubt, but did not reply.

  “I know the kingdom of Butilata very well,” mused Mr. Covent reminiscently. “A gorgeous country, with the most lovely gardens. I particularly remember the Ranee’s garden—that would be you, of course, and the garden would be your own property. A place of marble terraces, of fragrant heliotrope, of luxurious growths of the most exotic plants. And then the Ranee’s Court! That, of course, would be yours, Miss Str
aker—a columned apartment, every pillar worth a fortune. A wonderful bathing-pool in the centre, lined with blue tiles. And then, of course, you would have riding, and a car of your own—the Prince has half a dozen cars in his garage, and has just bought another half a dozen—and all the best people in India would call upon you. You would be received by the Viceroy…and all that sort of thing.”

  The girl fixed her troubled eyes upon the man who sketched this alluring picture.

  “But isn’t it true,” she said, “that rajahs have more than one wife? What would be my position supposing he got tired of me and——”

  “Oh, tut, tut! Nonsense!” said Mr. Covent, smiling benignly. “Don’t forget that you are an English girl, and you would have special claims! No, no, the Government of India would not allow that sort of thing to happen, believe me.”

  She twisted the serviette with her nervous fingers.

  “When would he want——”

  “The marriage ceremony should be performed tonight,” said Mr. Covent. “It is a very simple ceremony, but, of course, quite binding.”

  “Tonight?” she said, looking at him in consternation, and Mr. Covent nodded.

  “But couldn’t I go out to India and marry there?”

  “No, no,” said John Covent. “That is impossible. Here is your opportunity to marry a man who is worth millions, occupying one of the most wonderful positions in India, tremendously popular with all classes—a man who loves you—don’t forget that, my child, he loves you.”

  The girl laughed—a short, bitter laugh.

  “I’m not worrying about that,” she said. “The only thing that concerns me—is me.”

  John Covent inclined his head graciously.

  “That I can well understand,” said that grave man. “It is, of course, a very serious step in a girl’s life, but few, I think, have been faced at such a crisis of their career with so pleasant a prospect.”

  He took from his pocket a notecase and opened it.

  “It is a very curious position,” he said. “Here am I, a very respectable old gentleman who should be in bed, engaged in a West End restaurant negotiating the marriage of an Indian Rajah.”

  He laughed pleasantly as he took from the case a wad of folded notes. The girl looked at the money with hungry eyes, and saw they were notes of high denomination.

  “There is two thousand pounds here,” he said slowly, “much more really than I can afford, although the Rajah is a great client of mine.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “This was the wedding present that I was giving you,” he said. “I thought of many presents which might be acceptable, but decided that after all perhaps you would prefer the money. Two thousand pounds!”

  The girl drew a deep breath. Two thousand pounds!…And Butilata was not more unpleasant than the average young man. He had already treated her decently, and…

  “All right,” she said recklessly, and jerked on the squirrel cape which lay over the back of her chair. “Produce your Rajah!”

  They left the restaurant together and drove in Mr. Covent’s handsome little electric brougham to a big house off Eaton Square, and were instantly admitted by an Indian servant. She had been there before, but never so late. She expected to find the big saloon blazing with light, for here the Rajah loved to sit. She was surprised, however, to find only a small reading-lamp placed by the side of the big blue divan on which he lolled.

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and came towards her, both hands outstretched.

  “So you have come,” he said. He spoke perfect English, but there was a thickness in his speech and a glaze to his eye which suggested that he too had dined well.

  He took her by both hands and led her to the divan, then turned to the waiting Englishman. The girl looked across almost appealingly to John Covent. Strange it was that in that dim light the mask of benevolence should slip from his face, and there should be something menacing, sinister, in his mien. It was a trick of the light, perhaps, for his voice was as soft and as kindly as ever.

  “I think you’re doing very wisely, Miss Straker,” he said; “very wisely indeed.”

  Yet she seemed to detect a hint of nervousness in the voice, and for a second became panic-stricken.

  “I don’t think I’ll go on with this, Mr. Covent,” she said unsteadily. “I don’t think I want to—go on with this.”

  “My dear child”—his voice had a soothing quality, “don’t be foolish.”

  The Rajah was looking down at them, for John Covent had seated himself on the divan by the girl’s side, and on the Rajah’s brown face was a little smile. Presently he clapped his hands.

  “There shall be a ceremony,” he said. “It shall be a small ceremony, my beautiful child.”

  A man appeared at the far end of the room in answer to his summons, and he fired a volley of sharp, guttural words at the attendant.

  Half an hour later John Covent was rolling smoothly westward, leaning back in his car alone. A long cigar was between his white teeth and there was a smile in his eyes.

  “Very satisfactory, very satisfactory,” said John Covent.

  Thus, on the 14th day of May, 1909, was Isabelle Straker, who, had she been married in a prosaic registry office, would have described herself as “Spinster, aged seventeen-and-a-half,” married to His Highness Dal Likar Bahadur, Rajah of Butilata, by the custom of his land. She was his eighth wife—but this she did not know.

  I

  The Partners

  In the year of grace 1919 there were two partners to the firm of Covent Brothers. John Covent had died suddenly in India, and the business had passed into the hands of his son and his nephew, the latter of whom had inherited his mother’s share in a business which had been in the same family for two hundred years.

  Martin Covent was a tall, well-dressed man of twenty-seven. He had none of his late father’s genial demeanour. The lips were harder, the brow straighter and the face longer than the expansive representative of the firm who had preceded him.

  He sat at his great table, his elbows on the blotting-pad, and looked across toward his junior partner. And a greater contrast between himself and his cousin could not be imagined. Tom Camberley was two years his junior and looked younger. He had the complexion of a man who lived an open-door life, the eyes of one who found laughter easy. He was not laughing now. His forehead was creased into a little frown, and he was leaning back in his chair regarding Martin Covent through narrowed eyelids.

  “I hate to say so, Martin,” he said quietly, “but I must tell you that, in my judgment, your scheme is not quite straight.”

  Martin Covent laughed.

  “My dear boy,” he said, with a hint of patronage in his tone, “I am afraid the mysteries of the banking profession are still—mysteries to you.”

  “That may be so,” returned Tom Camberley coolly. “But there are certain basic principles on which I can make no mistake. For example, I am never mystified in distinguishing between right and wrong.”

  Martin Covent rose.

  “I have often thought,” he said, with a hint of irritation in his voice, “that you’re wasted on the Indian banking business, my dear Tom. You ought to be running the literary end of a Bible Mission. There’s plenty of scope in India for you if your conscience will not permit you to soil your hands with sordid business affairs.”

  The other laughed quietly.

  “You’re always suggesting I should clear out of the firm, and I should love to oblige you. But, bad business man as I am, I know the advantage of holding a position which brings me in the greater part of ten thousand a year. Anyway, there’s no sense in getting angry about it, Martin. I merely offer you an opinion that to employ clients’ money for speculative purposes without having secured the permission of those clients is dishonest. And reall
y, I don’t know why you should do it. The firm is on a very sound basis. We are making big profits, and the prospect is in every way healthy.”

  The other did not immediately reply. He paced the big private office with his hands in his pockets, whistling softly. Suddenly he stopped in his stride and turned.

  “Let me tell you something, Tom Camberley,” he said, “and stick this in your mind. You think you’re on a good thing in holding shares in Covent Brothers. So you are. But ten years ago this firm was on the verge of bankruptcy, and your shares would have been worth about twopence net.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows.

  “You’re joking,” he said.

  “I’m serious,” said the other grimly. “We’re talking as man to man and partner to partner, and I tell you that ten years ago we were as near bankruptcy as that.” He snapped his fingers. “Fortunately, the governor got hold of that fool Butilata. Butilata was rich; we were nearly broke. The governor took his finances in hand and rebuilt the firm.”

  “This is news to me,” said Tom. “I was at school at the time.”

  “So was I, but the governor told me,” said Martin. “It was touch and go whether Butilata put his affairs in the hands of Covent Brothers or not. Happily the governor was able to render him a service. Butilata was staying in this country, and when he wasn’t drinking like a fish he was mad keen on dancing, and fell in love with a girl—an actress at one of the theatres here, who taught him a few steps. He married her——”

  “Married?” said Tom incredulously. “Is the Ranee of Butilata an English girl?”

  Martin nodded.

  “It was the governor who brought it about. Clever old devil, God rest him! was the governor. Of course, he had his qualms about it. He often told me that he thought it wasn’t playing the game. He knew the kind of life that she was going to; but after all she was only a chorus girl, and probably she had a much better time than you or I.”

  Tom Camberley made a little grimace.

  “That sounds rather horrible,” he said. “What happened to the girl?”