|
|
|
The Return of the Yellow Beetle
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter One The Chinese Puzzle Box “Paula.” “Yes Mr Blake?” “Is that supposed to be a skirt or a belt?” Paula Dane looked at her employer. He was sitting behind his desk without a trace of humour on his lean face. “It’s called a miniskirt. It’s just come in. It’s quite the thing with the Chelsea set.” “Really.” “Yes. There’s a new des—” “Thank you, Paula.” Sexton Blake’s beautiful blonde secretary moved out of the doorway and into his office. She placed a document folder in front of him. From the reception area behind her, the sound of a door opening was followed by a cheerful whistle. “I’ve finished typing up the Benny Tatler case, sir. Do you want to go through it?” The detective eyed the folder distastefully. “Send it straight to Fleetway,” he growled. “I suppose they’ll do the usual hatchet job on it.” Paula Dane bit her bottom lip. “Um, actually…” He looked up. “What?” “Well, the thing is… Fleetway haven’t published any of your cases for quite some time.” “Ah.” “Sales were down and… um.” Blake picked up a pen, unscrewed the end, and shook out an empty ink cartridge. “I hardly think it will be a loss to the literary world,” he muttered. “Oh I rather miss them!” exclaimed Paula. “I still read them when I can find them… you know, on market stalls and in second-hand shops and… er…” Sexton Blake lay down the pen and glared at her. She stumbled on. “I was reading the one about that beauty queen incident. Do you remember? They called it ‘High Heels and Homicide’!” She giggled. “I’m seriously starting to doubt your taste,” growled Blake. He opened a desk drawer and took out a box of fresh cartridges. Edward Carter’s head poked around the door frame. “Hiya folks! What’s wrong with Paula’s taste, Chief?” “She’s developed a liking for high skirts and low fiction.” Carter — otherwise known as ‘Tinker’ — entered. “Get with the times, Boss!” he laughed. Blake’s face remained hard and expressionless as his assistant sat on the corner of his desk, swinging a leg carelessly. “Excuse me?” “You need to get with the beat!” The detective pursed his lips and jammed a fresh cartridge into the pen before reaching for a chequebook. He opened it, filled in a rather generous sum of money, signed it, and tore it from the book. “Here,” he said, offering the cheque to Carter. “This is payment in lieu. You’re fired.” “What?” asked Edward Carter, taking the slip of paper with a puzzled look on his youthful face. “Since you speak the language so fluently, I suggest you use the money to book passage to America. You could set up business as a hard-bitten private eye. Maybe you could trace a few unfaithful husbands, lost pets and absconding bank clerks.” And with that, Sexton Blake pushed his chair back, rose and stalked out of the office. Paula Dane and Edward Carter gazed at each other in astonishment. “He doesn’t mean it of course!” exclaimed Paula. “Of course,” agreed Carter. “But I wonder what’s eating him?” Sexton Blake trudged the streets of London without thinking where he was going or how much time it was taking to get there. His tall and broad figure cut through the milling throngs of shoppers and loiterers. It was summer and uncommonly hot and he was feeling unsettled and didn’t know why. It had nothing to do with Paula’s fashion sense. Lord knows, all the youngsters were wearing the most extraordinary outfits these days; women and men alike. And it wasn’t Tinker’s absurd Americanisms either. The United States had been an unstoppable force since the war and the English language had mutated accordingly. Blake was quite content to ‘go with the flow’, as his young assistant would no doubt phrase it. The question, thought Blake, is whether ‘the flow’ could be classed as ‘Progress’; whether they were sailing upon it to a better way of life. It sometimes seemed very unlikely. He raised his eyes and, for the first time in almost an hour, took notice of his surroundings. He was on Tottenham Court Road. Empty cartons danced in the gutter as a scooter screamed past. Its owner had removed the engine’s silencer and the resultant noise assaulted his eardrums like a swarm of angry wasps. Discordant music blared from a window above a shop front. Somewhere, a woman voiced something halfway between a scream and a laugh. And all of a sudden Blake found himself wondering, for the umpteenth time, whether the Berkeley Square office had been a good idea. Paula Dane, Marion Lang and Miss Pringle were invaluable, likeable and thoroughly trustworthy — but were they somehow making everything slightly too safe and predictable? With an unexpected ache in the pit of his stomach, Blake found himself missing the old days, when it had been just himself and Tinker receiving clients at their fireside in Baker Street. The uncomplicated days, when Mrs Bardell provided sustenance, Tinker provided companionship, and criminal master-minds provided a straight challenge. He sighed and glanced at a large black car which had just stopped by the curb a little way ahead. Its windows were dark and it looked sinister and dangerous. He automatically tensed as he drew close to it, imagining the side window lowering and a pistol emerging. Sexton Blake had many enemies. The pace of change seemed to run ever faster. He didn’t even know what to call Tinker any more. Edward? Ed? Ted? Or, God forbid, Eddie? Were he and his youthful assistant growing apart? Was that it? Had the Berkeley Square office come between them? What if he closed it down? He clenched his jaw, wondered how many times he had asked himself that question, and watched the car from the corner of his eye as he came alongside. The window did open — just an inch — but instead of a gun there came a voice; a dry whisper like rustling parchment: “Get in Blake. I want to speak with you.” It was instantly recognisable. Blake reached down, pulled the door open, and slid onto the back seat where he found himself next to Eustace Craille. Head of an organisation more secret even than MI5 or MI6, Eustace Craille was a very old man who clung onto life through sheer bloody-mindedness. His opponents hated him, so he stuck around simply to annoy them. No-one knew how old he really was. Craille himself had probably forgotten. It wasn’t something that mattered to him. As long as his brain was sharp enough to pierce the shadows cast by criminal organisations and espionage networks, he would keep going, however cracked and wrinkled his skin became; however thin and brittle he might seem; however much his associates doubted his fitness to lead. In fact, the more they doubted, the better he felt. Craille specialised in wrong-footing his adversaries. The old man leaned forward and slid back a small panel in the glass partition which divided the front of the car from the back. “Drive,” he ordered the chauffeur. “Anywhere.” He closed the panel and turned to Blake. His eyes were bright and penetrating. “You look tired,” he croaked. Blake shrugged. “A bit. I might take a break. Somewhere remote.” “Hmmph. What will you do? Lie on a beach and look for animal shapes in the clouds?” “If necessary. How did you know I was here?” “I didn’t. We were passing. I saw you. We stopped.” Blake looked out of the window. They had turned into Oxford Street. Blank-faced mannequins ignored him from behind plate glass. A youth kicked a telephone box for no apparent reason. An old lady walked along in the bright sunlight with her umbrella up. “Look at this,” said Craille. Blake turned and looked at the small cube in the old man’s hand. “What is it?” “You tell me.” He took it and examined it. Exquisitely carved, it was about three inches square; black, a hardwood inlaid with creamy white jade. There was no obvious lid. “Chinese” he said. “A puzzle box. Where did you find it?” Eustace Craille took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. One of his ears whistled. “It was delivered through the post to Bernard Stone four days ago. He’s one of my agents.” Blake raised an eyebrow. “Bernard Stone of Thistle Wood Manor? Isn’t he the man with the private museum?” “Of Oriental antiquities. Yes. A great collector but, unfortunately, not a great secret agent. He’s disappeared.” “I see.” “A few hours after receiving that. Can you open it?” “Probably. Can you?” “No,” snapped the old man. “So open it.” Blake examined the delicate patterns decorating each plane of the cube. He turned it this way and that and felt its surface with his long sensitive fingers. From the corner of his eye he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Marble Arch and someone waving his arms about at Speakers’ Corner. He pressed and manipulated, feeling the carvings move slightly beneath his touch. A faint click came from the box and a thin line appeared around it an eighth of an inch in from one side. He pressed the centre of what was now obviously the lid and felt, after an initial resistance, a spring pressing it back against his fingertip. As he withdrew his finger, the lid hinged open. “There,” he muttered and looked inside. His hand shook. He gasped for air and clawed at Craille’s arm. “This is…” he hissed. “This is… impossible!” |