THE DARK EYES
OF LONDON
BY
EDGAR WALLACE
_Few dared whisper their
name--the gang of blind
giants that lurked in
London’s foulest corners!
But Inspector Larry Holt
challenged them to a
monstrous game in the dark._
PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK, 1929
CONTENTS
I. LARRY HOLT IN PARIS
II. SIR JOHN HASON
III. THE SECRETARY
IV. FLASH FRED SEES A CLIENT
V. THE WILL
VI. THE WRITING IN BRAILLE
VII. A TELEGRAM FROM CALGARY
VIII. THE MEMORIAL STONE
IX. THE MAN WHO LOST A FINGER
X. MR. STRAUSS “DROPS”
XI. BURGLARS AT THE YARD
XII. FANNY WELDON TELLS THE TRUTH
XIII. TODD’S HOME
XIV. FANNY HAS A VISITOR
XV. THE FIGHT IN THE DARK
XVI. MR. GROGAN MEETS A LADY
XVII. THE INSURANCE MONEY
XVIII. AT THE PAWNBROKER’S
XIX. IN FLASH FRED’S FLAT
XX. THE WOMAN WHO DREW THE INSURANCE MONEY
XXI. WHEN DIANA FAINTED
XXII. THE MAN WHO WAS DEAF
XXIII. THE DISAPPEARANCE OF DIANA WARD
XXIV. THE LAUNDRY YARD
XXV. WHAT HAPPENED TO DIANA
XXVI. BACK AGAIN
XXVII. “JOHN DEARBORN IS NOT BLIND”
XXVIII. WHO RUNS DEARBORN?
XXIX. FLASH FRED’S STORY
XXX. IN THE TUBULAR ROOM
XXXI. FRED LENDS HIS KEYS
XXXII. A BREAKFAST PROPOSAL
XXXIII. LEW
XXXIV. LARRY INSPECTS A HOUSE
XXXV. THE DEATH ROOM
XXXVI. THE WOMAN IN THE GARAGE
XXXVII. THE HEIRESS
XXXVIII. THE END OF JAKE
XXXIX. THE GET-AWAY
XL. A LETTER FROM LARRY
XLI. DIANA PULLS A LEVER
XLII. IN THE TRAP
XLIII. THE PASSING OF DAVID
XLIV. THE END OF THE CHASE
XLV. THREE CIGARETTES
THE DARK EYES OF LONDON
CHAPTER I.
LARRY HOLT IN PARIS
Larry Holt sat before the Café de la Paix, watching the stream of
life flow east and west along the Boulevard des Italiens. The breath
of spring was in the air; the trees were bursting into buds of vivid
green; the cloud-flecked skies were blue; and a flood of golden
sunshine brought out the colours of the kiosks, and gave an artistic
value even to the flaring advertisements. Crowded motor-buses rumbled
by, little taxis dashed wildly in and out of the traffic, to the
mortal peril of unsuspecting pedestrians.
A gendarme, with cloak over his shoulder, stood in a conventional
attitude on the kerb, his hand behind him, staring at nothing, and
along the sidewalk there were hurrying bareheaded girls, slow-moving
old men, and marching poilus. Itinerant vendors of wares loafed past
the tables of the café, dusky-faced Arabs with their carpets on their
arms, seedy-looking men who hawked bundles of picture post cards and
would produce, at the slightest encouragement, cards which were not
for the public gaze. All these things and people were a delight to
Larry Holt, who had just returned from Berlin after four years’
strenuous work in France and Germany, and felt in that holiday spirit
to which even the mind of a detective will ascend.
The position occupied by Larry Holt was something of a mystery to the
officials of Scotland Yard. His rank was Inspector, his work was the
administrative work of a Commissioner; and it was generally understood
that he was in the line for the first vacant assistant
commissionership that came along. The question of his rank, of his
prospects, did not trouble Larry at that particular moment. He sat
there, absorbing the sweetness of spring with every breath he drew.
His good-looking face was lit up with the sheer joy of living, and
there was in his heart a relief, a sense of rest, which he had not
experienced for many a long day.
He revealed himself a fairly tall man when he rose, after paying the
waiter, and strolled round the corner to his hotel. It was a slow
progress he made, his hands in his pockets, his soft felt hat at the
back of his head, a half-smile on his parted lips as he gripped a long
black cigarette holder between his white teeth.
He came into the busy vestibule of the hotel, the one spot in Paris
where people hustle and rush, where bell-boys really run, and even the
phlegmatic Briton seems in a frantic hurry, and he was walking towards
the elevator, when, through the glass door leading to the palm court,
he saw a man in an attitude of elegant repose, leaning back in a big
chair and puffing at a cigar.
Larry grinned and hesitated. He knew this lean-faced man, so radiantly
attired, his fingers and cravat flashing with diamonds, and in a
spirit of mischief he passed through the swing doors and came up to
the lounger.
“If it isn’t my dear old friend Fred!” he said softly.
Flash Fred, Continental crook and gambler, leapt to his feet with a
look of alarm at the sight of this unexpected visitation.
“Hullo, Mr. Holt!” he stammered. “You’re the last person in the world
I expected to see----”
“Or wanted to see,” said Larry, shaking his head reproachfully. “What
prosperity! Why, Fred, you’re all dressed up like a Christmas tree.”
Flash Fred grinned uncomfortably, but made a brave show of
indifference.
“I’m going straight now, Mr. Holt,” he said.
“Liar you are, and liar you will always be,” said Larry without heat.
“I swear to you on the Book----” began Fred vigorously.
“If,” said Larry without resentment, “you stood between your dead aunt
and your failing uncle, and took an oath on _Foxe’s Book of Martyrs_,
I wouldn’t believe you.”
He gazed admiringly at Fred’s many adornments, at the big pin in his
tie, at the triple chain of gold across his neatly tailored waistcoat,
at his white spats and patent shoes, and then brought his eyes back to
the perfectly brushed hair.
“You look sweet,” he said. “What is the game? Not,” he added, “that I
expect you to tell me, but it must be a pretty prosperous game, Fred.”
The man licked his dry lips.
“I’m in business,” he said.
“Whose business are you in now?” asked Larry, interested. “And how did
you get in? With a jemmy or a stick of dynamite? That’s a new line for
you, Fred. As a rule, you confine yourself strictly to picking crumbs
of gold off the unwary youth of the land--and,” he added
significantly, “in picking the pockets of the recently deceased.”
The man’s face went red.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with that murder in
Montpellier?” he protested heatedly.
“I don’t think you shot the unfortunate young man,” admitted Larry,
“but you were certainly seen bending over his body and searching his
clothes.”
“For identification,” said Fred virtuously. “I wanted to find out who
did it.”
“You were also seen talking to the man who did it,” said Larry
remorsefully. “An old lady, a Madame Prideaux, looking out of her
bedroom window, saw you holding him and then saw you let him go. I
presume he ‘dropped.’”
Fred said nothing at first. He hated a pretended gentleman who
descended to the vulgarity of employing the word “drop” for “bribe.”
“That’s two years ago, Mr. Holt,” he said. “I don’t see why you should
rake that thing up against me. The examining magistrate gave me a
clean bill.”
Larry laughed and dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Anyway, I’m off duty now, Fred. I’m going away to enjoy myself.”
“You ain’t coming to London, I suppose?” asked the man, looking at him
quickly.
“No,” said Larry, and thought he saw signs of relief.
“I’m going over to-day,” said Fred, in a conversational tone. “I was
hoping we’d be fellow-passengers.”
“I’m grieved to shatter your hopes,” said Larry, “but I’m going in the
other direction. So long.”
“Good luck!” said Fred, and looked after him with a face which did not
indicate any desire for Larry Holt’s fortune.
Larry went up to his room and found his man brushing his clothes and
laying them out on his bed. Patrick Sunny, the valet he had endured
for two years, was a serious young man with staring eyes and a round
face, and he grew suddenly energetic on Larry’s appearance. He brushed
and he hissed, for he had been in a cavalry regiment.
Larry strolled to the window and looked down on the Place de l’Opéra
at the busy scene.
“Sunny,” he said, “you needn’t brush those dress things of mine. Pack
’em.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sunny.
“I’m going to Monte Carlo by the night train.”
“Indeed, sir?” said Sunny, who would have said exactly the same if
Larry had expressed his intention of going to the Sahara or the North
Pole.
“To Monte Carlo, Sunny!” chortled Larry. “For six bright, happy,
expensive weeks--start packing at once.”
He picked up the telephone from the writing-table and called the
Travel Bureau.
“I want a sleeper and a first-class reservation for Monte Carlo by
to-night’s train,” he said. “Monte Carlo,” he repeated louder. “No,
not Calais. I have not the slightest intention of going to
Calais--thanks.” He hung up the receiver and stood looking at his
servitor. “I hate talking to you, Sunny,” he said, “but I must talk to
somebody, and I hate your name. Who gave you that horrible name?”
“My forefathers,” said Sunny primly, continuing his brushing without
looking up.
“They rather missed the ’bus, didn’t they?” asked Larry. “For if there
is anything less like a bright spring day than you, I should like to
avoid it. But we’re southward bound, Sunny, to this Côte d’Azur, to
the land of flowers and folly, to the orange-groves--do you like
oranges, Sunny?”
“I prefer walnuts, sir,” said Sunny, “but fruit of any kind means
nothing to me.”
Larry chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed.
“We’re going to be criminals and take people’s money from them,” he
said, “instead of nosing about the criminal practices of others. No
more robberies, defalcations, forgeries, and murders, Sunny. Six weeks
of _dolce far niente_.”
“I don’t play that game myself, sir,” said Sunny. “I prefer cribbage.”
Larry picked up the afternoon paper and had turned its columns. There
were quite a few items of news to remind him of his profession and its
calls. There was a big bank robbery at Lyons, a mail coach had been
held up in Belgium by armed robbers; and then he came to a paragraph.
The body of a man picked up on the steps leading down from the Thames
Embankment has been identified as Mr. Gordon Stuart, a rich Canadian.
It is believed to be a case of suicide. Mr. Stuart had been spending
the evening with some friends at the theatre, and disappeared between
the acts, and was not seen again until his body was discovered. A
coroner’s inquest will be held in due course.
He read the paragraph twice, and frowned.
“A man doesn’t usually go out between the acts of a play and commit
suicide--unless the play is very bad,” he said, and the obedient Sunny
said, “No, sir.”
He threw the newspaper down.
“Sunny, I’m getting into bad habits. I’m taking an interest in lunacy,
and for that same reason I notice that you’ve folded my trousers so
that the crease comes down the side. Unfold ’em, you lazy devil!”
He spent the afternoon making preparations for his journey, and at
half-past six, with his trunks in the hands of the porters and Sunny
carrying his overcoat, he was settling his bill at the cashier’s desk,
had folded up the receipt and was putting it in his pocket when a
bell-boy came to him.
“Monsieur Holt?” he asked.
“That’s my name,” said Larry, and looked suspiciously at the thing in
the boy’s hand. “A telegram?” he said. “I don’t want to see it.”
Nevertheless, he took it in his hand and opened the blue paper with a
disapproving grimace and read:
Very urgent, on special police service. Clear the line. Larry Holt,
Grand Hotel, Paris.
Very worried about Stuart drowning stop case presents unusual features
stop would be personally grateful if you would come over at once and
conduct investigation.
It was signed by the Chief Commissioner, who was not only his superior
but his personal friend, and Larry put the telegram in his pocket with
a groan.
“What time do we arrive in Monte Carlo, sir?” asked Sunny when he
joined him.
“About this day twelvemonth,” said Larry.
“Indeed, sir?” said Sunny, politely interested. “It must be a very
long way.”