Читать книгу Find This Man - Aidan de Brune - Страница 6

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FOR some seconds Ivy could not speak. Her god-father had died, owing money on every hand. Yet, the lawyer had said that his debts had amounted to only about fifteen hundred pounds, Then, when he had made that statement he had not known of this debt.

Five thousand pounds—and the knowledge of it had come to her over the telephone, from some unknown man. The girl sat holding on to the edge of the desk, bemused. What was she to answer? How was she to deal with this new development?

"Why—" She hesitated. "Why come to me—Who are you?"

"Does that matter?" The man at the other end of the wire laughed! shortly. "I'll put in my claim soon enough. There's five thousand golden boys owing to me and I'll collect—you bet! Now, what are you going to do about it?"

The man's coarseness irritated the girl. For a minute she did not answer.

"Nothing to say, eh? Oh, well, you'll talk fast enough when we get down to tin-tacks. I thought I'd ring you up and let you know. That's all."

"But, why me?" Ivy was amazed. "I have nothing to do with the estate. Go—Mr. Sixsmith only left me a memento. His estate goes to Mrs. Western, his half-sister."

"So!" The man laughed shortly. "What did the old man leave you, then?"

"The buhl box." Almost without thinking, Ivy spoke. She was sorry immediately afterwards. Why should she give this man information?

"The buhl box?" There was a meditative note in the male voice. "Now—I wonder!"

Ivy replaced the receiver, in sudden indignation. She was angry with herself that she had told the man anything. If, as he claimed, he was a creditor of the estate it was his duty to go to Mr. Kithner, the solicitor and executor for the estate; not to ring her up, asking absurd, coarse questions.

Then, again came the thought. Why had her godfather done this thing? He had borrowed money from Mr. Patterson—and no doubt from this man who refused to give his name. What had come over her godfather? Ostensibly a rich man he had, for months, been living on borrowed money—borrowing in large sums.

Ivy tried to remember if, during the past year—the last year of the old man's life—her godfather had ever hinted at financial losses. Immediately to her mind had came casual remarks, small boastings, showing that Basil Sixsmith had gained, not lost, in his speculations. What did that mean? Had he become childish, losing his memory during those last days; pretending that his life-long success had remained with him; forgetting the material losses in a fantasy of dream winnings.

No, that would not answer her questions. Her godfather had been hale and hearty up to the commencement of his last illness—that had only lasted three short days. His memory had been phenomenal; his judgment accurate. Then, why these debts?

The girl had remained seated before the desk, the telephone under her hand, as her mind raced through the past, in wild speculation. Suddenly the ball rang. She stiffened, raising the receiver to her ear. She spoke her name, mechanically.

"So you're Still there." The coarse voice, slightly mocking came over the wire. "Thought you might have rung off—while I was thinking. S'pose the line got disconnected, somehow. These automatic things do play tricks—Well, what have you to say?"

"What do you expect me to say?"

"Not 'thank you' for the information that the estate you thought to inherit is five thou. short?" The grating, laugh sounded again. "Still—"

"I told you, I have not inherited Mr. Sixsmith's estate. If you want information regarding that you must apply to Mr. Kithner, or to Mrs. Martha Western—"

"S'pose I prefer to deal with you?"

"The matter does not interest me."

"Yet, the old man left you the buhl box. Willing to sell it, eh?"

"No."

"Well, you needn't be so short on the subject. Block of bonds in it?"

"A letter and a photograph." Ivy bit her lips, angry with herself for speaking to the man; giving him information.'

"A letter and a photograph." There was silence for some seconds. "Well, think of that! Much of a letter?"

"No."

"You're very informative. Say, Basil get vain in his old age and leave you his photograph? You won't get fat on that."

"It was not his photograph."

"Not his photograph?" Again silence, the man at the other end of the wire evidently digesting the information. "Male or female?"

"What interest have you in that?"

"All grist to the mill, old dear. So it was a male, eh? Good-looking fellow like me?"

The girl did not reply; yet she did not put down the telephone. In spite of her repulsion against the voice she thought she might perhaps gather information.

"Photograph of good-looking fellow and a short letter." A hint of laughter crept in the coarse voice. "So that's it? Find the man?"

"What do you know?" Ivy gasped. The man had been too accurate in his guess for her to conceal her surprise. "Who are you?"

"Must know who you're speaking to, eh? Well, curiosity's bad for little girls. I'd come up and have a look at the photograph, if I thought you'd show it to me. S'pose you won't? Oh well, good-night."

She heard the click of the receiver being replaced no the hook. For a moment she waited, then turned to the door. There she hesitated.

She had betrayed her secret. Some instinct told her that the contents of the buhl box should be kept a strict secret. But what could this man, who had spoken to her over the telephone, do? It was ridiculous to believe that he would break into the house during the night to steal the contents of the buhl box.

She was alone in the house, except for the two servants. What protection were they to her, and the box? They slept on the top storey—two middle-aged women who slept soundly and were often late for work in the morning. She slept on the lower floor. There was no one near her, to help if—

She laughed. She was imagining things. Yet she returned to the desk and picked up the buhl box, tucking it under her arm. Again at the door, she hesitated. If she took the box with her to her room! Would the man, if he came to the house in search of it, come to her room, guessing that she had carried it there?

No. She would leave the box in the library. But was there a way to protect its secret? She looked around the room. Was there nothing there that could help her? Yes. She went to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer. A brief search and she found a photograph of a young man. She placed this photograph in the buhl box, taking from the room the photograph of the man she was instructed to find.

In her room, the door locked, she laughed again. Why should she imagine that anyone was interested in her search? Yet, she hid the photograph away amid layers of lingerie. It would be safe there—with the other photograph in the buhl box.

The moonlight was streaming in at the open windows when Ivy awoke suddenly. She lay still, listening, but could hear nothing. Restless, annoyed at being awakened at that hour, she turned on her side and snuggled under the covers again—to spring to sudden wakefulness.

There was movement in the house. Cautiously raising her head from the pillows, she listened. Yes, there was the sound again. She slid out of bed and went to the door, opening it but a crack.

Someone was on the ground floor of the house. She opened the door wider. Now she could distinctly hear the slow movements of someone feeling a way cautiously around the hall. She went to the head of the stairs and peered down. She thought she could see a dark shadow move slowly within the lighter shadows.

Running silently back to her room, she found a robe and threw it around her. Then she returned to the head of the stairs—and waited. She could not see anyone, now. Where had the shadow gone? Instinctively, she answered her own question. The man, if there was a man in the house—if she had not been mistaken—had gone into the library.

She stole silently down the stairs until she stood in the hall, peering into the shadows, listening intently.

Presently she heard a slight sound again. Where did it come from? She thought, the library.

Careful to make no sound, she went to the library door and waited, her hand on the handle. She thought she could hear someone moving within the room. Still she waited.

For a brief moment she thought of going upstairs and awakening the servants, but would that help her? Would not their terrors at finding the house invaded by a burglar but add to her perplexities? No, she decided that she would deal with the matter herself. She could not telephone for help, for the only instrument in the house was in the library. Perhaps, if she could spring a surprise on the man she could baffle him, put him to flight.

Bracing herself, she flung open the door and marched into the room. Immediately she was blinded by a sudden flare of intense light. She staggered back, her hands clasped to her eyes. Something brushed past her, throwing her against the wall. She heard a hard laugh and then the slamming of the street door.

For some moments Ivy stood just within the library, dazed and almost blinded. What had happened? She knew now that there had been someone in the house. She believed that she recognised the laugh. What had the man wanted? What had he taken?

It was some minutes-before she felt herself normal, and could grope for the light-switch. She found it and pressed, to stand blinking in the sudden glare. Instinctively, her eyes turned to the desk, to the buhl box.

It was there, safe. She lifted it and I pressed the spring. The lid flew up, and she looked down on the photograph and the letter.

But, had she left them like that? Some instinct told her that someone had touched them since she had left the library. She was certain that she had placed the letter in the box first and then dropped the photograph on it. Now the letter lay on the photograph. Cautiously she turned the box upside-down on the desk. With a paper-knife she turned over the photograph.

It was the photograph she had placed in the box—the one that she had taken from the cabinet. The girl turned to the desk-lamp and switched it on. She moved the photograph under the light, careful not to touch it with her fingers. Immediately she saw the imprint of a thumb on the glazed surface.

Someone had been in the house; someone had found the secret spring that opened the lid of the buhl box. But, why was the thumb mark almost exactly in the centre of the photograph?

Here was mystery. For a moment Ivy stood and considered, then pulled out a drawer of the desk. From the drawer she took a powerful magnifying glass and again scrutinised the photograph. Now she came on further mystery. Against two corners of the card on which the photograph was mounted were semi-circles, about the size of half a threepenny piece.

For seconds she was puzzled, glancing about the room for help to solve this new problem. Her eyes lit on something that glistened bright in the lamp-light, close to the wall. She went to it and picked it up. It was a drawing-pin. Now she understood.

Someone had pinned the print to the wall while they photographed it. That was the reason for the sudden blaze of light as she entered the library. Her hesitation and sudden blindness had been all that the intruder had required to make his escape. He had wrenched the photograph from the wall and dropped it and the letter in the buhl box, snapping down the lid; then he had swept past her, carrying with him the camera he had used.

For minutes Ivy stood, leaning against the desk, laughing at her thoughts. Her nocturnal visitor had been the man who had telephoned her during the evening. She had been right in guessing that he would come to the house in search of the photograph. If she had not changed the photographs, if she had not awakened and come down stairs, he would have copied the letter and the photograph of the young man and escaped, undetected. And—he had copied the photograph of the wrong man!

What did he want a copy of the photograph for? What secret lay behind the photograph of the man now lying amid her intimate things in one of her drawers.

What did this man, who claimed that her godfather owed him five thousand pounds, know of the mystery that was fast enclosing her—the mystery she was coming to believe was partly of her godfather's own making? He must know something—as she believed Mark Kithner did—or he would not have ventured so much for so little ostensible purpose. Who was this man, pictured in the photograph? What was the mystery surrounding him and her godfather? Why was she instructed to find him—and for what purpose?

Breathless with the thoughts that crowded her brain, Ivy dropped into the chair before the desk, propping her chin with her hands. She bad to solve this problem. She had to safeguard that photograph. A grim smile came on her lips. There were other people who could take photographs. Godfather Sixsmith had been a keen snap shooter. Somewhere in the library was a camera—a fine powerful instrument.

She went to her room and carried the photograph of the young man to the library, propping it upright on the desk against some books. In one of the drawers of the cabinet she found the camera. She had no magnesium flash, but she could give long time exposures. Three times she replaced the film in the camera and pressed the bulb, giving varying exposures. One of them must prove right. Then, before she replaced the camera in the drawer she photographed the fake photograph she had left in the buhl box. The thumbprint might be valuable. The man had left it on the print when he was pinning it against the wall. The next day she would try and discover whose fingerprint it was. Something told her that it would be useless to apply to the police. The man was not an ordinary burglar; the police would only have imprints from men who had passed through their hands. She would have to make her own inquiry.

Then she replaced the photograph and the letter in the buhl box.

Again she hesitated. Should she take the buhl box to her room? No, there was no necessity for that. The intruder had obtained what he came to get. He had copies of the photograph, and perhaps the letter. Again Ivy laughed. Who was the man whose photograph the burglar had risked so much to obtain? Would the burglar discover the original—and what would he do then?

Some instinct told Ivy that she had stirred up trouble for the unknown man whose photograph she had substituted in the buhl box. The burglar, if he was the man who had telephoned her, would strive to get on the unknown's track. He would want to find the man—as she wanted to find a man. But they would not be the same man.

She turned to the door, switching out the lights and taking with her the original photograph that had been in the buhl box. As she opened the door it was swung suddenly back. Something soft was pressed over her face, something overpowering filled her lungs. She felt herself lifted and carried back into the library. Then unconsciousness came.