Read Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog for Free Online
Authors: Edgar Wallace
the house again, scarcely believing his eyes. The windows were unclean, the soiled curtains visible were ragged, and the tiny forecourt bore an appearance of neglect. And this was the home of Ezra Maitland, a master of millions, the man who gave PS5,000 to the London hospitals! It was incredible.
He made up his mind, and, walking to the door, knocked. For some time there was no reply, and then he heard the shuffle of slippered feet in the passage, and an old woman with a yellow face opened the door.
“Excuse me,” said Elk “I think the gentleman who just came in dropped this.” He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and she glared at it for a moment, and then, reaching out her hand, took it from him and slammed the door in his face.
“And that’s the last of my good handkerchief,” thought Elk bitterly.
He had caught one glimpse of the interior. A grimy-looking passage with a strip of faded carpet, and a flight of uncovered stairs. He proceeded to make a few local inquiries. “Maitland or Mainland, I don’t know which,” said a tradesman who kept a general store at the corner. “The old gentleman goes out every morning at nine, and comes home just about this hour. I don’t know who or what he is. I can tell you this, though: he doesn’t eat much! He buys all his goods here. What those two people live on, an ordinary healthy child would eat at one meal!”
Elk went back to the west, a little mystified. The miser was a common figure of fiction, and not uncommonly met with in real life. But old Maitland must be a super-miser, he thought, and decided to give the matter a little further attention. For the moment, he was concentrating his efforts upon Miss Lola Bassano, that interesting lady.
In one of the fashionable thoroughfares leading from Cavendish Square is a block of flats, occupied by wealthy tenants. Its rents are remarkably high, even for that exclusive quarter, and even Elk, who was not easily surprised, was a little staggered when he learnt that Lola Bassano occupied a suite in this expensive building.
It was to Caverley House that he made his way after returning to Maitland’s office, to find the premises closed. There was no indicator on the wall, but the lift-man, who regarded Elk with some suspicion, as he was entitled to do, announced that Miss Bassano lived on the third floor. “How long has she been here?” asked Elk.
“That’s no business of yours,” said the lift-man; “and I think what you want, my friend, is the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“I’ve often wondered,” ruminated Elk, “what people like you do their thinking with.”
“Now look here—!” began the lift-man indignantly. “Look here,” retorted Elk, and at the sight of his badge the man grew more polite and more informative.
“She’s been here two months,” he said. “And, to tell you the truth, Mr. Elk, I’ve often wondered how she got a suite in Caverley House. They tell me she used to run a gambling joint on Jermyn Street. You haven’t come to raid her, have you?” he asked anxiously. “That’d get Caverley House a pretty bad name.”
“I’ve come to make a friendly call,” said Elk carefully. “That’s the door.” The man stepped out of the lift and pointed to one of the two sober mahogany doors on the landing. “This other flat belongs to an American millionaire.”
“Is there such a thing?” asked Elk. He was about to say something more when the lift-man walked to the door and peered at one of its polished panels. “That’s queer,” he said. “What do you make of this?” Elk joined him, and at a glance saw and understood. On the panel had been stamped a small white frog—an exact replica of those he had seen that morning on the photographs that Dick Gordon had shown him. A squatting frog, slightly askew.
He touched it. The ink was still wet and showed on his finger. And then the strangest thing of all happened. The door opened suddenly, and a man of middle age appeared in
He made up his mind, and, walking to the door, knocked. For some time there was no reply, and then he heard the shuffle of slippered feet in the passage, and an old woman with a yellow face opened the door.
“Excuse me,” said Elk “I think the gentleman who just came in dropped this.” He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and she glared at it for a moment, and then, reaching out her hand, took it from him and slammed the door in his face.
“And that’s the last of my good handkerchief,” thought Elk bitterly.
He had caught one glimpse of the interior. A grimy-looking passage with a strip of faded carpet, and a flight of uncovered stairs. He proceeded to make a few local inquiries. “Maitland or Mainland, I don’t know which,” said a tradesman who kept a general store at the corner. “The old gentleman goes out every morning at nine, and comes home just about this hour. I don’t know who or what he is. I can tell you this, though: he doesn’t eat much! He buys all his goods here. What those two people live on, an ordinary healthy child would eat at one meal!”
Elk went back to the west, a little mystified. The miser was a common figure of fiction, and not uncommonly met with in real life. But old Maitland must be a super-miser, he thought, and decided to give the matter a little further attention. For the moment, he was concentrating his efforts upon Miss Lola Bassano, that interesting lady.
In one of the fashionable thoroughfares leading from Cavendish Square is a block of flats, occupied by wealthy tenants. Its rents are remarkably high, even for that exclusive quarter, and even Elk, who was not easily surprised, was a little staggered when he learnt that Lola Bassano occupied a suite in this expensive building.
It was to Caverley House that he made his way after returning to Maitland’s office, to find the premises closed. There was no indicator on the wall, but the lift-man, who regarded Elk with some suspicion, as he was entitled to do, announced that Miss Bassano lived on the third floor. “How long has she been here?” asked Elk.
“That’s no business of yours,” said the lift-man; “and I think what you want, my friend, is the tradesmen’s entrance.”
“I’ve often wondered,” ruminated Elk, “what people like you do their thinking with.”
“Now look here—!” began the lift-man indignantly. “Look here,” retorted Elk, and at the sight of his badge the man grew more polite and more informative.
“She’s been here two months,” he said. “And, to tell you the truth, Mr. Elk, I’ve often wondered how she got a suite in Caverley House. They tell me she used to run a gambling joint on Jermyn Street. You haven’t come to raid her, have you?” he asked anxiously. “That’d get Caverley House a pretty bad name.”
“I’ve come to make a friendly call,” said Elk carefully. “That’s the door.” The man stepped out of the lift and pointed to one of the two sober mahogany doors on the landing. “This other flat belongs to an American millionaire.”
“Is there such a thing?” asked Elk. He was about to say something more when the lift-man walked to the door and peered at one of its polished panels. “That’s queer,” he said. “What do you make of this?” Elk joined him, and at a glance saw and understood. On the panel had been stamped a small white frog—an exact replica of those he had seen that morning on the photographs that Dick Gordon had shown him. A squatting frog, slightly askew.
He touched it. The ink was still wet and showed on his finger. And then the strangest thing of all happened. The door opened suddenly, and a man of middle age appeared in