The Clue of the Twisted Candle

She bent her head.

“Lexman’s the writer of a great many mystery stories, but you’ve probably read his books.”

She nodded again, and again T. X. noticed the suppressed eagerness in her eyes.

“You’re not ill or sickening for anything, are you?” he asked anxiously; “measles, or mumps or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said; “go on and tell me something about Mr. Lexman.”

“He’s going to America,” said T. X., “and before he goes he wants to give a little lecture.”

“A lecture?”

“It sounds rum, doesn’t it, but that’s just what he wants to do.”

“Why is he doing it!” she asked.

T. X. made a gesture of despair.

“That is one of the mysteries which may never be revealed to me, except—” he pursed his lips and looked thoughtfully at the girl. “There are times,” he said, “when there is a great struggle going on inside a man between all the human and better part of him and the baser professional part of him. One side of me wants to hear this lecture of John Lexman’s very much, the other shrinks from the ordeal.”

“Let us talk it over at lunch,” she said practically, and carried him off.

CHAPTER XIX

One would not readily associate the party of top-booted sewermen who descend nightly to the subterranean passages of London with the stout viceconsul at Durazzo. Yet it was one unimaginative man who lived in Lambeth and had no knowledge that there was such a place as Durazzo who was responsible for bringing this comfortable official out of his bed in the early hours of the morning causing him—albeit reluctantly and with violent and insubordinate language—to conduct certain investigations in the crowded bazaars.

At first he was unsuccessful because there were many Hussein Effendis in Durazzo. He sent an invitation to the American Consul to come over to tiffin and help him.

“Why the dickens the Foreign Office should suddenly be interested in Hussein Effendi, I cannot for the life of me understand.”

“The Foreign Department has to be interested in something, you know,” said the genial American. “I receive some of the quaintest requests from Washington; I rather fancy they only wire you to find if they are there.”

“Why are you doing this!”

“I’ve seen Hakaat Bey,” said the English official. “I wonder what this fellow has been doing? There is probably a wigging for me in the offing.”

At about the same time the sewerman in the bosom of his own family was taking loud and noisy sips from a big mug of tea.

“Don’t you be surprised,” he said to his admiring better half, “if I have to go up to the Old Bailey to give evidence.”

“Lord! Joe!” she said with interest, “what has happened!”

The sewer man filled his pipe and told the story with a wealth of rambling detail. He gave particulars of the hour he had descended the Victoria Street shaft, of what Bill Morgan had said to him as they were going down, of what he had said to Harry Carter as they splashed along the low-roofed tunnel, of how he had a funny feeling that he was going to make a discovery, and so on and so forth until he reached his long delayed climax.

T. X. waited up very late that night and at twelve o’clock his patience was rewarded, for the Foreign Office messenger brought a telegram to him. It was addressed to the Chief Secretary and ran:

“No. 847. Yours 63952 of yesterday’s date. Begins. Hussein Effendi a prosperous merchant of this city left for Italy to place his daughter in convent Marie Theressa, Florence Hussein being Christian. He goes on to Paris. Apply Ralli Theokritis et Cie., Rue de l’Opera. Ends.”

Half an hour later T. X. had a telephone connection through to Paris and was instructing the British police agent in that city. He received a further telephone report from Paris the next morning and one which gave him infinite satisfaction. Very slowly but surely he was gathering together the pieces of this baffling mystery and was fitting them together. Hussein Effendi would probably supply the last missing segments.

At eight o’clock that night the door opened and the man who represented T. X. in Paris came in carrying a travelling ulster on his arm. T. X. gave him a nod and then, as the newcomer stood with the door open, obviously waiting for somebody to follow him, he said,

“Show him in—I will see him alone.”

There walked into his office, a tall man wearing a frock coat and a red fez. He was a man from fifty-five to sixty, powerfully built, with a grave dark face and a thin fringe of white beard. He salaamed as he entered.

“You speak French, I believe,” said T. X. presently.

The other bowed.

“My agent has explained to you,” said T. X. in French, “that I desire some information for the purpose of clearing up a crime which has been committed in this country. I have given you my assurance, if that assurance was necessary, that you would come to no harm as a result of anything you might tell me.”

“That I understand, Effendi,” said the tall Turk; “the Americans and the English have always been good friends of mine and I have been frequently in London. Therefore, I shall be very pleased to be of any help to you.”

T. X. walked to a closed bookcase on one side of the room, unlocked it, took out an object wrapped in white tissue paper. He laid this on the table, the Turk watching the proceedings with an impassive face. Very slowly the Commissioner unrolled the little bundle and revealed at last a long, slim knife, rusted and stained, with a hilt, which in its untarnished days had evidently been of chased silver. He lifted the dagger from the table and handed it to the Turk.

“This is yours, I believe,” he said softly.

The man turned it over, stepping nearer the table that he might secure the advantage of a better light. He examined the blade near the hilt and handed the weapon back to T. X.

“That is my knife,” he said.

T. X. smiled.

“You understand, of course, that I saw ‘Hussein Effendi of Durazzo’ inscribed in Arabic near the hilt.”

The Turk inclined his head.

“With this weapon,” T. X. went on, speaking with slow emphasis, “a murder was committed in this town.”

There was no sign of interest or astonishment, or indeed of any emotion whatever.

“It is the will of God,” he said calmly; “these things happen even in a great city like London.”

“It was your knife,” suggested T. X.

“But my hand was in Durazzo, Effendi,” said the Turk.

He looked at the knife again.

“So the Black Roman is dead, Effendi.”

“The Black Roman?” asked T. X., a little puzzled.

“The Greek they call Kara,” said the Turk; “he was a very wicked man.”

T. X. was up on his feet now, leaning across the table and looking at the other with narrowed eyes.