The Dorset House Affair by Norman Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

brother is talking to a perky little man in a brown suit. Who on earth can he be? I must say, she looks very distinguée. She’s had her hair done by Madame Leblanc in Bond Street, and that green watered silk dress is from the salon of Monsieur Worth at Paris, unless I’m very much mistaken.’
    ‘Well, of course, she is a beautiful girl,’ said her husband. ‘One must concede that, even if one doesn’t like her. She and that brother of hers are as thick as thieves. I’m convinced that he uses perfume. Every time I see him, the toe of my boot itches to kick him downstairs.’
    ‘He and that little man in brown have gone off through the arch into the writing-room,’ said Sarah. ‘And – oh, look! There’s Maurice. He’s leaving that crowd of gambling friends that he’s invited, and going off somewhere with Elizabeth! How very interesting .’
    ‘They were very close, you know,’ said Edwin Claygate. ‘Father, of course, was all for their getting married, but Mother was always uneasy, though she never said anything.’
    ‘I expect Elizabeth thought she’d got him hooked,’ said Sarah. ‘The advent of this Julia Maltravers queered her pitch, didn’t it?’
    ‘I don’t know where you learn these vulgar expressions, Sarah,’ said her husband, laughing. ‘It’s certainly not from me. And you’re most unkind. I think she had very good reason to believe that Maurice would pop the question one day. Anyway, he didn’t. He met Julia, and that was that. He and Elizabeth parted amicably, and she returned to France. I don’t think she minds about Maurice at all.’
    ‘Well, Edwin, they’ll be gone by the weekend. Let’s go down now, and see if there’s any food left.’
    ‘Oh, there will be, I’m sure. Father’s used to victualling whole armies, let alone battalions. Feeding a hundred guests will be child’s play to him!’

    ‘Detective Inspector Box? I am Monsieur de Bellefort. Our business should not take more than a few moments.’
    Arnold Box had begun to wonder whether the collector of indiscretions was going to make contact with him at all. Nearly two hours had passed since Box had arrived at the reception, during which time he had observed the impressive foreigner attaching himself to various little coteries of guests, and engaging in conversation. The Frenchman spoke excellent English, though with a distinct accent.
    And then, at twenty to eight, De Bellefort had sought him out, made himself known, and suggested that they slip unobtrusively into a deserted writing-room, which was reached by a short passage leading off the grand saloon.
    Box watched the Frenchman as he removed an envelope from the inner pocket of his dress coat. At first sight, he seemed as impressive as his photograph had suggested: a powerful, commanding personality in his mid thirties, with abundant dark hair and deep-set eyes. But tonight, thought Box, there were signs that the man was containing some kind of overweening fear by a massive effort of will. His body seemed to be trembling, and a pulse was beating rapidly at his temple. What ailed the man?
    ‘This envelope, Mr Box,’ said De Bellefort, ‘contains the document which the third party known to both of us wishes to possess. I believe you have something for me in return?’
    Yes, thought Box, I know who you remind me of, my friend. You resemble a man called Peter Sullivan, who stood trembling like that in the living-room of his house in Shoreditch, truculentlyclaiming that he had no idea where his wife was, when all the time he was standing in front of the papered-over cupboard where he’d hidden her murdered body.
    Box, in his turn, removed an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to De Bellefort.
    ‘The third party would like you to check that the contents of that envelope are satisfactory, sir,’ said Box. De Bellefort raised a haughty eyebrow, and then opened the envelope. He glanced briefly at the Treasury cheque, and then put the envelope and its contents