The First Sexton Blake Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFO3

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER4

  A CONFIDENTIAL REPORT6

  MY LORD THE BABY19

  THE SILVER CANDLESTICK28

  THE TATTOOED EYE36

  MRS. LAMBERT’S LODGER45

  A SLIP OF THE PEN55

  AN ARTIFICIAL CLUE65

  A MODERN ALCHEMIST74

  THE ANCIENT MONK84

  THE BLACK CAT92

  AN OLD MAN’S DARLING101

  THE BLUE LINE110

  THE AMATEUR BURGLAR119

  PY PONK127

  THE YOUNG EARL135

  NO ROBBERY143

  A HOLIDAY TASK151

  FOR SAFE DEPOSIT159

  THE BARTON TUNNEL MYSTERY167

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE COFFEE-POT175

  THE BLACK PEARL OF BAHREIN183

  THE BLACK DIAMOND192

  THE MISSING WILL200

  Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series208

  COPYRIGHT INFO

  The Sexton Blake MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2018 by Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

  * * * *

  The MEGAPACK® ebook series name is a trademark of Wildside Press, LLC. All rights reserved.

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Sexton Blake is a fictional character, a detective who has been featured in many British comic strips, novels, and dramatic productions since 1893. As the years passed, Blake’s character experienced various permutations. He was originally created to be similar to earlier 19th-century detectives but during the late 1890s, Blake’s authors consciously modeled him on Sherlock Holmes.

  Sexton Blake adventures were featured in a wide variety of British and international publications (in many languages) from 1893 to 1978, comprising more than 4,000 stories by some 200 different authors. Blake was also the hero of numerous silent and sound movies, radio serials, and a 1960s ITV television series.

  This volume contains 23 tales, originally published in 1908 and 1909.

  Enjoy!

  —John Betancourt

  Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  ABOUT THE SERIES

  Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

  The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Sam Cooper, Helen McGee and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

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  Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can post them on our message board at http://wildsidepress.forumotion.com/ (there is an area for Wildside Press comments).

  Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

  TYPOS

  Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

  If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

  A CONFIDENTIAL REPORT

  Originally published September 12, 1908.

  “URGENT. COME AT ONCE.—TREVELYAN, MOSTYN MANOR.”

  That was all the telegram said; and, apart from the fact that Sir Otto Trevelyan, of Mostyn Manor, in Surrey, was one of the best-known financial magnates in the City of London, that was all that Sexton Blake knew of the case when he left his rooms in Baker Street and drove to Waterloo.

  It was then half-past seven in the morning. An hour later he reached Mostyn, where Sir Otto’s motor met him at the station. By a quarter to nine he was at the Hall, a fine old Tudor mansion, surrounded by an extensive park.

  Sir Otto, pale and distracted, was awaiting him in the library.

  “I thought you weren’t coming!” he exclaimed, seizing the detective by the hand, and dragging him into the room. “I’ve been robbed of a document worth a hundred thousand pounds! My secretary, who apparently surprised the thief, has been shot and is now unconscious. The police, of course, have the matter in hand; but I’ve no faith in these rural police so I sent for you. Find the thief and recover the stolen document before it falls into He hands of old Picot—for he’s at the bottom of the business, I’ll swear—and I’ll pay you any fee—”

  The detective interrupted him with an impatient gesture.

  “We can discuss the question of fee afterwards,” he said. “At present we are merely wasting time. Pray calm yourself, and begin at the beginning, and tell me what has happened.”

  “If I am to begin at the beginning,” said Sir Otto, “I must tell you that I have large financial interests in Peru. Another firm, with equally large interests in that country, is the well-known financial firm of Picot et Fils, of Paris. Between their firm and mine there has been for many years the keenest commercial rivalry, amounting, in the case of old Picot and myself, to something in the nature of a bitter personal feud.

  “About six months ago I sent an expert over to Peru to inspect and report on certain properties which had been offered to me. His confidential report, written in Spanish, reached London yesterday. I do not wish to weary you with details; so I will simply say that if that report falls into the hands of Picot et Fils before noon tomorrow, the result will be a loss to me and my firm of at least a hundred thousand pounds.

  “I glanced through the report at my office in London, and brought it home with me last evening. I sat up until after midnight reading it; then I locked it up in a small safe in my study an I went to bed.”

  “Excuse my interrupting you,” said Sexton Blake. “How many persons knew you had brought the report home with you?”

  “Two,” said Sir Otto. “My confidential clerk, in London, and my private secretary, a young fellow named Percival, who lives here.”

  “At six o’clock this morning,” he continued, “I was roused by one of the servants with the startling news that the study window had been broken open during the night, the lock of the safe had been picked, and the unconscious form of my secretary had been found lying outside the study window. He had evidently heard a suspicious noise in the study, had come down to investigate, had surprised the thief at work, and had jumped out of the window after him.

  “The burglar had then apparently fired at him, for there was a wound on the side of his head, which the doctor declares must have been caused by a revolver-shot fired at close quarters. Fortunately, the bullet did not enter the skull, and the doctor has every hope that he will recover.”

  “Did anybody in the house hear a shot fired?” asked Sexton Blake.

  “No. But there was a violent thunderstorm here between two and three this morning—no rain, but terrific thunder and lightning—so that, if the shot was fired at any time between two and three, it is not surprising that nobody heard it.

  “On hearing the servant’s news,” continued Sir Otto, “I rushed down to the study. The lock of the safe had not been picked, as the servant had said. It had been opened
by means of a duplicate key, which was still in the keyhole. And the only thing which was missing from the safe was the confidential report—which proves, to my mind, at least, that the thief was an agent of old Picot’s.”

  The detective shook his head.

  “Your theory doesn’t impress me at present,” he said. “However, may I see the room in which the robbery was committed?”

  Sir Otto conducted him to the study, which was on the ground floor and overlooked the park. The window had been opened by the well-known device of scratching a circle with a diamond on the outside of one of the panes, sticking a lump of putty in the centre of the circle, and pulling out the disc of glass. A hand had then apparently been thrust through the opening, and the catch had been forced back.

  Sexton Blake examined the safe and the duplicate key; then he opened the window. On the ground outside was the disc of glass which had been cut out of the window-pane, and which had been overlooked by the servants and the village constable. The putty was still adhering to it, and on one side if the putty was a beautifully clear impression of a thumb, whilst on the other was an equally clear impression of a finger.

  “Clue number 1!” said Sexton Blake. “These fingerprints may prove of incalculable help in identifying the thief.”

  He opened the window, climbed out, and examined the ground outside, where the secretary had been found. Suddenly he uttered a low whistle of astonishment, and, to Sir Otto’s surprise, he began to walk slowly away from the house with his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Where are you going?” asked Sir Otto, vaulting through the window and joining him.

  The detective made no reply. With his eyes still fixed on the ground, and followed by Sir Otto, he walked across the lawn, round the end of the shrubbery, and ultimately pulled up at a small rustic gate, which opened into a deserted lane on the south side of the park. Just outside the gate were the prints of a horse’s hoofs—dozens of impressions—and a number of cigarette-ends.

  “A man on horseback evidently role up to this gate, either last night or early this morning,” said Sexton Blake. “He waited here. Judging by the number of hoof-prints, he waited a considerable time. See!”

  He picked up and counted the cigarette-ends. There were five of them.

  “Turkish,” he said. “Evidently not a poor man. Allowing a quarter of an hour for each cigarette, that means he waited here for upwards of an hour.”

  Suddenly his eyes fell on a yew-tree, which grew beside the gate. Several of the fresh young shoots had been recently torn off. On one of the branches were the marks of teeth.

  “Splendid!” said Sexton Blake. “Magnificent. The man whiled away his time whilst he was waiting here by smoking Turkish cigarettes. The horse amused himself by munching the leaves of this yew-tree. If you recover that confidential report it’ll be the horse you’ll have to thank!”

  “Why?” said Sir Otto, completely mystified.

  The detective smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “And now,” he said. “I’d like to see your private secretary.”

  They returned to the house. Percival, the secretary, had been carried up to his bedroom and put to bed. He was still unconscious, and the district nurse had been pressed into service, till one from London could be obtained. Without a word, the detective removed the bandage from Percival’s head and examined the wound. It was a peculiar, burnt-looking wound. The skin was scorched and blackened, and the hair on each side was singed.

  “Where are his clothes?” asked Sexton Blake, after replacing the bandage.

  “There, sir,” said the nurse, pointing to a chair at the foot of the bed.

  The detective calmly felt in the pockets, and drew out a knife. He opened one of the blades, and requested the nurse to lend him a needle.

  When she had complied, he laid the needle on the bed and touched it with the blade of the knife. The blade picked up the needle and held it, exactly as a magnet would have done.

  “That’s curious,” said Sir Otto. “But, upon my word, I don’t see what it points to.”

  “It points to the fact that your secretary wasn’t shot at all,” said Sexton Blake. “I guessed what had happened when I saw the wound, and now I know. He was struck by lightning, and, as often happens in such cases, all the steel articles in his pockets were converted into magnets.”

  He picked up the piece of putty, which he had brought upstairs with him, and compared the impressions on each aide with the finger and thumb of Percival’s right hand.

  Sir Otto turned suddenly pale.

  “Mr. Blake,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice, “you—you don’t suggest that—that—”

  “I do,” said Sexton Blake. “Come downstairs, and I’ll tell you.”

  They retraced their steps to the library.

  “When I examined the ground outside the study window,” said Sexton Blake, “I discovered a double track of bare feet, leading away from and back to the window. I traced them to that rustic gate, and found, as you know, that a man and a horse had been standing there for an hour at least. That gave me my first, inkling of the truth. I returned to the house, examined your secretary’s wound, and his finger and thumb, and then I knew my theory was correct.”

  “And what is your theory?”

  “It was your secretary who opened the safe and took out the report. The duplicate key had probably been in his possession for months, and he cut the piece out of the window to make it appear that the house had been broken into from outside.

  “After he had secured the report, he climbed out through the window, and walked to that gate, where he handed the report to a confederate, who had arrived on horseback, and who had been waiting there for more than an hour. He then walked back to the house, but, just as he reached the window, he was struck by lightning and rendered unconscious.”

  “And to think how I trusted him!” Sir Otto said, in a hollow voice. “Who do you think was his confederate?”

  “That’s just what I’m going to find out,” said Sexton Blake, rising to his feet. “May I borrow the car? It’s still outside, I see.”

  “Certainly,” said Sir Otto. “But where are you going?”

  “To find your secretary’s confederate, of course,” said Sexton Blake, “and to compel him to disgorge his booty.”

  And, before the mystified baronet could question him further, Sexton Blake had left the house, and was speeding down the drive in a motor-car.

  II.

  FEW things escaped Sexton Blake’s observation. Whilst passing through the village, on his way from the station to the Hall, he had observed on the door of one of the houses a brass plate bearing the inscription “Mr. Dawson, Veterinary Surgeon.” It was to this house that he now directed Sir Otto’s chauffeur to drive him.

  Mr. Dawson was standing at his window. He saw the detective alight from the car, and hurried to the door.

  “You know who I am, I see!” said Sexton Blake, as the vet welcomed him with effusive cordiality. “I want some information from you, if you’re willing to give it to me.”

  “Any information I can give you is at your service,” said Mr. Dawson, “What do you want to know?”

  “You attend most of the horses hereabouts when they are ill, I suppose.”

  “All of them, I think.”

  “Have you one on your list at present suffering from the effects of yew-poisoning?”

  “Why, yes!” replied the vet, in evident surprise. “I was called out early this morning to sec one—a valuable hunter, belonging to Major Brett.”

  “Taken ill this morning?”

  “Yes; quite suddenly.”

  “And you’ve no doubt that the horses’s illness has been caused by eating yew-leaves?”

  “Not the slightest, though it’s a mystery where the beast found the leaves, as there are no yew-trees in the major’s grounds. But
why do you ask?”

  “I’m asking questions, not you!” said the detective, with a laugh. “Where does Major Brett live?”

  “At Tapton Lodge, about three miles from here.”

  The detective looked him full in the face.

  “Don’t answer this if you’d rather not?” he said. “What sort of a character does the major bear?”

  “Very bad,” said Mr. Dawson frankly.

  “Do you happen to know if he’s a friend of Mr. Percival, Sir Otto Trevelyan’s private secretary?”

  “He is. Sir Otto doesn’t know, and I’m sure he wouldn’t approve of it if he did, but Brett and Percival have been as thick as thieves for the past few weeks.”

  That was all the detective wished to know.

  “Good-morning!” he said, holding out his hand. “Thank you for your information, and especially for asking no questions. By the way, I suppose the chauffeur will know where Tapton Lodge is?”

  “Oh, yes! But if you want to see Major Brett, it’s no use your going to Tapton Lodge. He has gone away this morning.”

  “Gone away?” echoed Sexton Blake, in dismay. “Already?”

  “Yes. He left by the 8.30 for London. I drove him to the station in my trap after I had seen the hunter. He’s off to Paris by the eleven train from Victoria. He told me so himself.”

  “Can I get from here to London in time to reach Victoria by eleven?” Sexton Blake asked.

  Mr. Dawson glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to ten.

  “I’m afraid you can’t,” he said. “The 9.25 will have gone now. The next train doesn’t leave till 10.10, and isn’t due to reach Waterloo till 11.25.”

  The detective groaned. Then he suddenly bethought himself of the motor-car. Victoria was only twenty-five miles away, and he had an hour and a quarter.

  He turned to the vet.

  “One last favour,” he said. “What is the major like—in personal appearance, I mean?”

  Mr. Dawson pointed to a framed photograph on the wall of the consulting-room. It represented a meet of the local hunt.

  “That’s Major Brett,” he said, pointing to one of the mounted figures.