Death of an Ambassador , livre ebook

Death of an Ambassador
by Manning Coles

Firstpublished in 1957
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
Trava2909@gmail.com
All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.

The fatal shooting of the much publicized Esmeraldanambassador shocked London and gave Scotland Yard a dramaticpuzzle to unravel. Immediately the Esmeraldan Embassy complicatedthe Yard’s work by holding a suspected Frenchman beyondreach of the police.
This sent Tommy Hambledon of the Foreign Office’s intelligenceservice to Paris and to his old friend Letord in the FrenchSûreté. Together they set themselves to tracking down the ambassador’sdark past and a murderer’s present whereabouts.
Just how the crisscrossing clues and numerous suspects tiedinto the ambassador’s death was the big problem to untie beforeit could snare Hambledon and Letord in new deaths—that couldbe their own.
Scene: London and Paris.
This novel has not appeared in any form prior to book publication.

Favorite Sleuth
DEATH OF
AN AMBASSADOR


BY MANNING COLES
To
A. H. G. Hoggarth M.A., F. R. Hist. S.
“Forty Years On.”

All of the characters in this book are fictitious
and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CAST

Pedro Maximilio Teluga , the Esmeraldan Ambassador to the Court of St. James, otherwise Enrigo le Canif
Gaston Dubois of Paris
Thomas Elphinstone Hambledon
Commander Bagshott of the C.I.D.
Antoine Letord , Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté in Paris
Madame Dubois
The Reverend Nicolaas van Leyst of Alkdam, Holland
Inspector Georges Guernan of the Sûreté
François de Montargent de la Sainte Croix
Robert Écritet , a criminal lawyer in Paris
Paul Joseph , an art dealer in Paris
Gogo , a dwarf
Jean Saucisse , Jacques le Delicat , Fréchant , Veron , Pepi l’Agneau , Eddi le Chou and others, all crooks
Police , café proprietors , etc.

SCENE , Paris

TIME , the present day
ONE
Murder in Mayfair
The sun was going down upon a gloriously hot Juneday; level rays came over the roofs of the terraced houses uponthe west side of Whatmore Street, Mayfair, to shine directly intothe attic windows of the similar terrace of houses upon the eastside. Whatmore Street runs from Curzon Street into Piccadillyand, like its neighbours upon either hand, Stratton Street andBolton Street, is a road of the most impeccable dignity.
There were a number of people strolling slowly along thepavements, in twos and threes, in the cool of the evening; asthey passed one of the tall houses in the middle of the westside the passers-by glanced interestedly at it, for this was thenew Esmeraldan Embassy. The house had recently been repaintedwhite from roof to pavement level and all the woodworkwas a deep emerald green. There were three steps up to thefront door, which had a pillared portico; over the portico was aflagstaff leaning forward, from which hung the emerald-greenflag of Esmeralda, the small Central American state which, underan energetic and enlightened President, was making such stridesin the world of progress.
The passers-by were hoping, vaguely, that something amusingwould happen, for although the Esmeraldan Embassy in Londonhad only been open a matter of weeks, the high spirits of thepleasure-loving Spanish American staff had already caused commentin the West End.
There was not much to interest the strollers on this June eveningexcept the lights in the open, uncurtained windows of theAmbassador’s drawing-room. Three magnificent glittering chandeliershung from the ceiling of this room; they were all lit upand displayed plainly the large looking glasses upon the greenwalls and the expensive furniture recently installed by a well-knownfirm. Also displayed was the Ambassador.
He was a young man to hold such a post, not more than thirtyor so, one would say, but already beginning to run to seed a littleround the jaw and under the eyes. He wore a moustacheand a small pointed beard and was in full evening dress; hewas talking in the most animated manner with a small man in alounge suit. They were both, it seemed, arguing vehemently; theirwords were not audible in the street, but their gestures spoke forthemselves.
The three adjoining houses opposite to the Esmeraldan Embassywere thrown together in 1883 by one Euphemia Morley onher retirement as housekeeper in the Bishop’s Palace of a west-countrydiocese. She knew exactly what was wanted in the way ofquiet respectable accommodation for country clergy and theirladies when visiting the metropolis; such accommodation waspractically non-existent in 1883 and Euphemia supplied a realneed. It is no longer quite so exclusive as it was in Euphemia’s lifetime,nor is it so inexpensive, but its name is still the first to risein the minds of provincial clergy when planning a visit to London.
The door of Morley’s was standing wide open upon this fineevening. A Canon from one of the remoter dioceses, pleasantlyreplete and mildly excited on the first evening of one of hisrare visits to London, came out of the door and stood upon the topstep to look happily about him.
His attention was claimed by the lighted windows of theEmbassy opposite, especially those of the room with the sumptuouschandeliers. There were two men arguing visibly. Theydanced about, gesticulating widely, and occasionally shooktheir fists at each other, and the Canon could not but be entertained.He watched for a few minutes and was then seizedin conscience for window peeping.
“These foreigners,” he murmured gently, “so excitable always.The Latin temperament.”
He was on the point of going on his way when the smaller ofthe two men raised both arms in the air and shook his fists abovehis head as though appealing to heaven to remedy some injustice.At precisely the same moment the younger and taller of thetwo leaned suddenly forward and fell to the ground out of theCanon’s sight.
“That man,” said the Canon, half aloud, “has had some kindof seizure.”
The smaller man uttered a loud cry which was audible inthe street, and instantly the scene changed. People came runninginto the lighted room from both sides at once, some of thembent over the fallen man while others seized the smaller one byboth arms and dragged him back. A man in green livery rushedto the windows, unhooked the curtains and drew them close.The scene was over.
A quarter of an hour later, every blind was drawn down inthe Esmeraldan Embassy and next morning the emerald flag washanging dismally at half-mast. His excellency, the EsmeraldanAmbassador to the Court of St. James, had been rudely hustledto the company of his ancestors.
The news came out too late for any edition of the eveningpapers but it was in time for the last news summary of the B.B.C.“We regret to announce,” said the measured voice, “that HisExcellency, Señor Pedro Maximilio Teluga, the Esmeraldan Ambassador,died suddenly this evening at the Esmeraldan Embassyin Whatmore Street.” The announcement issued from the Embassyhad stated bluntly that Teluga had been shot dead by aman whom he was interviewing, but the B.B.C. does not broadcastsensational stories until they have been officially confirmed.In any case the Canon was in bed and sound asleep long beforethat news was broadcast.
The editor of the Daily Wire , however, was not—far from it.This was the sort of thing he liked; good meaty stuff with plentyof thrills and not too much grief, well situated in the middle ofLondon’s West End and well timed in a period when as a rulethere is precious little news to be had. He lifted an office telephoneand said: “Send in Biggs, now.”
Biggs was his star reporter, a thin sallow man with a nose fornews like that of a bloodhound who has just been offered a murderer’sboot.
“Biggs, the Esmeraldan Ambassador’s been murdered. Shotdead by a man visiting him; at least, that’s what they say.”
“Man get away?”
“No, the staff collared him.”
“I wonder what they’ll do with him. I suppose they could holdon to him. Extra-territorial, embassies,” said Biggs. “Bit awkward.British nationality?”
“No details. You know the place?”
“Oh yes. In Whatmore Street, opposite The Dog-Collar.”
“The what?”
“Morley’s. Where all the parsons go.”
“Oh yes, of course. Biggs, if you can’t do anything at the Embassy,you’d better take a front room at Morley’s and keep an eyeon the place. I’ll send a photographer up to keep you company.”
Biggs glanced at his watch. “There’s half an hour. Morley’s locksup at midnight.” He left the room and borrowed a suitcase on hisway out. One does not arrive at Morley’s without luggage.
There was no crowd in Whatmore Street, since the news wasnot yet public; the street was, in fact, almost deserted except fortwo metropolitan policemen on duty at the front door of theEmbassy. Biggs went up to the door, one of them stopped himand he said: “ Daily Wire .”
“No good,” said the policeman. “No admission, no interviews,no statements, no callers.”
“No hawkers,” said Biggs, “no circulars, no nothing.”
“That’s right.”
“Want to keep it all to themselves, do they? What happens ifI walk up and ring the bell?”
“They don’t open. They ring up Scotland Yard and ask whythe two muttonheaded dummies outside the door—that’s us—areletting tiresome people ring their bell.”
“How do you know they’d do that?”
“Because they’ve done it twice already.”
“Looks as though I’m wasting my time,” said Biggs, who knewfinality when he met it.
“That’s right. Come back in the morning; they’ll open up sometime,I suppose.”
“I suppose so. Well, thanks very much. Good night.”
Biggs took his hat off, brushed it with his sleeve, straightenedthe brim and put it on again, afte