The Stone-­Cold Dead in the Market Affair - Oram John (читать книги онлайн бесплатно регистрация .txt) 📗

A plain street door adjoined the club. Above the letter-box a square board carried the message in gold letters: NEW BEGINNINGS, FIRST FLOOR, GO STRAIGHT UP.

"This is it," Solo said. He pressed against the wood. The door held firm.

Illya crossed the street, looked up and came back again. He said, "No lights showing anywhere."

"Fine!" Solo took a length of metal from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole and twisted. The lock clicked back. They slipped quickly into the musty-smelling hallway. Solo shut the door and pressed the button of his flashlight. The beam played over walls that needed repainting and came to rest on linoleum-covered stairs.

They stood listening for a few moments. Only the sounds of traffic outside disturbed the stillness. They went forward cautiously.

The stairs ended at a short landing. A door in the wall was marked: NEW BEGINNINGS. KNOCK AND ENTER.

"We won't bother to knock," Solo said. He tried the handle. It turned in his hand and the door opened. Reflected light from the uncurtained windows lit the room grayly. It was a small office, furnished only with a plain table, a filing cabinet and a couple of hard-seated chairs. A calendar from a religious publishing house hung over the filing cabinet. Above the mantelpiece of the empty grate there was a text that promised: "All things are possible to him that believeth."

Solo went over to the filing cabinet. It was unlocked. He went through the drawers rapidly. They contained nothing but case-histories of pathetically inept villains.

He said, "There's no joy here. It's obviously where Price Hughes interviewed the customers. Let's try up top.

Another stairway almost opposite the office led up to a white-enameled door. It had two locks that made Solo wince. He said, "These are going to be difficult." While Illya held the flashlight he worked on them with picks of a dozen designs. After five minutes he stood back, defeated.

Illya said consolingly, "You could always try a ferret."

"It could come to that. But we'll try brute force first." Solo lifted his right foot and turned the rubber heel on the shoe. He removed two plastic capsules from the cavity underneath, pinched the ends to points and inserted them in the keyholes of the locks. He said, "Stand clear," flicked a cigarette lighter and tipped the flame to the capsules. They went phutt! like damp cherry bombs. The door sagged and swung open.

The flashlight beam lit up a hall in almost shocking contrast to the office below. The floor was covered with thick carpet in a rich deep blue. The walls, like the door, were enameled white, with panels of glowing tapestry. A Regency sofa-table held a bowl of exquisite Chinese workmanship.

Illya said, "It looks like this is where the New Beginnings really start. You know, like charity begins at home."

Three doors opened off the hall. Solo pushed through the first, then whipped out fast. He pulled the Luger from his shoulder holster and flattened against the wall, signaling to Illya to douse the light.

In the darkness Illya moved silently over the carpet to his side. "What gives?" he whispered.

"There's a gang in there," Solo breathed. "About a dozen of them."

They waited tensely. Minutes passed, but the silence remained unbroken.

Illya whispered, "They're keeping mighty quite. Should we stir them up?"

"Hold it!" Solo's hand, moved carefully up the door jamb, found the light switch and depressed it. A soft pink glow flooded through the doorway. Nothing else happened.

Solo stepped forward, gun ready, and stared into an empty bathroom. Then he burst out laughing. "Brother!" he exclaimed. "How kinky can you get?"

The four walls and ceiling were covered completely with small squares of mirror glass which reflected his figure a thousand times. It was those images, seen like shadows in the light from the flash, which had made him bolt for cover.

Illya said wondering, "Now I've seen everything. Will you look at the marble bathtub and the gold-plated dolphin taps?"

"And the celluloid ducks," Solo grinned. "Imagine the pride of Cwm Carrog sitting there, playing with those."

"Must I? Let's find something less Freudian."

The second door opened into the sitting room. Solo crossed to the windows, pulled the heavy velvet curtains and switched on a standard lamp. Like the hall, the room was decorated and furnished richly and with good taste. Two or three antique pieces blended comfortably with the modern armchairs and long settee. A Steinway piano stood at an angle to the windows. The walls were hung with Durer engravings in slim black frames.

Solo looked at the smooth, meticulously arranged cushions on the chairs and settee. He walked to the piano and ran a finger over its surface. It came away with a thin film of dust. He said, "It looks as though nobody has been in here for weeks."

"Or as if everything has been stage-managed," Illya amended. "The place is too tidy."

He pulled open the drawers of a Georgian bureau. They were all empty. "You see? It isn't reasonable. Everybody leaves a few papers around, even if they are only old bills."

"Could be," Solo admitted. "We'll take a look at the bedroom."

Their search there was equally unrewarding. The gold satin cover on the bed was uncreased. The pillows and sheets beneath it might have been new. Silver-backed toilet articles stood in geometrically perfect array on the walnut dressing-table. Only a row of hangers occupied the wardrobe. There was not even a smell of mothballs.

Solo said, "You're right. It doesn't add up. Somebody's tried to arrange the impression that the old man's flown the coop. But it's too perfect." He pointed to the silver gleaming on the dressing table. "If he had time to pack all his clothes and all his papers, he'd have taken those things, too. Ever see a bald-headed man travel without a hairbrush?"

"And they're valuable, too. Do you think he rigged it himself?"

"Unlikely."

"Then who?"

"I don't know — but we're going to find out. And as openers I think we'll pay a call on Gloriana downstairs.

The kid in the sequin uniform was still at the doorway of the club. She said, "Changed your mind, boys?"

"It's the gypsy in us," Illya said.

They went through a foyer that was a mixture of Tenth Avenue and the Taj Mahal. A cloakroom girl dressed in a grubby sari said, "That will be one guinea each, gentlemen."

"What for?" Illya asked.

"For the hats."

"We never wear hats."

"Too bad, ducks. It'll still cost you a guinea."

They paid and pushed open swinging doors emblazoned with scarlet dragons.

The big room beyond had the kind of lighting that is called discreet. It was fighting a losing battle against the swirling clouds of tobacco smoke. The only bright spot was the cone of light that picked out the three-piece combo of piano, guitar and bass. Half a dozen couples were moving like sleep-walkers on the pocket-size dance floor. The rest of the customers sat drinking at formica-topped tables, each with its own dim, scarlet-shaded lamp.

As Solo and Illya stood inside the door, letting their eyes get accustomed to the gloom, a man in a dinner jacket came toward them. He was young, of middle height, with broad shoulders tapering to a thirty-two-inch waist. His straight black hair was glossy with Brylcreem, but his good looks were spoiled by a knife scar that extended from right ear to chin. He looked like a Greek Cypriot.