The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [47]
“So?” said the general. “My young friend Jones. And Master Andrews. You will come up, please, all of you.”
The Three Investigators and the Dobsons came up into the kitchen. The ceiling light was on, and Eloise Dobson gasped at the sight of Farrier, the jaunty fisherman, sitting in one of The Potter’s straight chairs, pressing a handkerchief against his right wrist. A splash of red showed on his smart white jacket.
“The sight of blood upsets Madame?” asked General Kaluk. “Do not be alarmed.
The man is not badly hurt.” He placed a chair for Mrs Dobson and indicated that she should sit down. “I do not approve of violence unless it is necessary,” he told her. “I fired upon this intruder only to prevent his firing upon me.”
Mrs Dobson sat down. “I think we should call the police,” she said shakily.
“There’s a call box on the highway. Tom, why don’t you—”
General Kaluk waved her to silence, and the younger Lapathian, Demetrieff, went to stand in the kitchen doorway. He held a gun — an efficient-looking revolver.
“I think, Madame, that we may dismiss this person as being of no importance,”
said General Kaluk, nodding towards the wretched Farrier. “I was not aware that he was in the area, or I would have taken steps to see that he did not annoy you.”
“You sound like old friends,” prompted Jupiter. “Or should I say old enemies?”
The general laughed a short, ugly laugh. “Enemies? This creature is not important enough to be an enemy. He is a criminal — an ordinary criminal. A thief!” The general placed a chair for himself and sat down. “You see, Madame, it is my business to know these things. Among my other duties in Lapathia, I supervise the national police. There is a dossier on this person. He calls himself many names — Smith, Farrier, Taliaferro — it is all the same. He steals jewels. You will agree, Madame, that this is a wicked thing to do?”
“Dreadful!” said Eloise Dobson quickly. “But . . . but there are no jewels in this house. What did he … why are you here?”
“We saw from our terrace, Madame, that this wicked person seemed to be interfering with you and my young friends, so naturally we came to your assistance.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Mrs Dobson. She bounced up from her chair. “Thank you so much. Now we can call the police and —”
“All in good time, Madame. You will please sit down.”
Mrs Dobson sat down.
“I have neglected to introduce myself,” said the general. “I am Klas Kaluk. And you, Madame?”
“I am Eloise Dobson. Mrs Thomas Dobson. And this is my son, Tom.”
“And you are a friend of Alexis Kerenov?”
Mrs Dobson shook her head. “Never heard of him.”
“He is called The Potter,” said General Kaluk.
“Of course Mrs Dobson’s a friend of Mr. Potter,” said Jupiter quickly. “From the Midwest. I told you that.”
The general scowled at Jupiter. “Allow Madame to answer for herself, if you please,” he ordered. He turned back to Mrs Dobson. “You are a friend of the man who is known as The Potter?”
Eloise Dobson looked aside. She had the wary look of an unskilled swimmer who suddenly finds herself in deep water. “Yes,” she said softly, and her face coloured.
General Kaluk smiled. “I think Madame is not telling me the whole truth,” he said.
“Bear in mind, if you please, that I am an expert at this sort of game. Now, perhaps Madame would care to tell me how she met the person known as Mr. Potter?”
“Well,” said Mrs Dobson, “by … by letter. You see, we wrote, and …”
“The Potter does a big mail-order business!” said Pete quickly.
“Yeah!” said Bob. “And he mailed stuff to Mrs Dobson, and she wrote and one thing led to another and —”
“Stop that!” the general shouted to Bob. “What nonsense. Do you expect me to believe that? This woman writes letters to an old man who makes pots, and what they have to write to one another is so interesting that she comes to this small village and moves into his house — and on that day he vanishes? I am not a fool!”
“Don’t shout!” cried Eloise Dobson. She was shouting herself. “You have some nerve, barging in here! And I don’t care if this Farrier swiped the royal crown of England.