Читать книгу Find This Man - Aidan de Brune - Страница 7

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IVY lay back on the couch, inert and helpless, yet her period of unconsciousness was brief. She saw the electric light come on, dispelling the darkness and a shadow move between it and her eyes. She closed her eyes, hopelessly. She had no strength to resist, no will to plan or think.

What was to happen to her? She hardly cared. All she wanted to do now was to sleep, and sleep would not come—only existed that dreadful lethargy in which she seemed to hover between the living world and a world of dreams. She thought she was dropping—and she did not care. Then something caught at her, holding her suspended over space. A bright star gleamed through her eyelids, burning into the nerves of her eyes. It hurt, and she flinched from it. Gradually it drew further and further away, until it disappeared in inimitable space—drawing with it her remaining powers of consciousness.

How long she slept she did not know. She opened her eyes to find the morning sun pouring in at the library windows. She looked around her, vaguely. How did she come to be in the library at that hour of the morning? She shivered in the cold morning air, then looked down at herself, covered only by the thin silk pyjamas from which the flimsy bed robe had fallen away.

Then she remembered and sat up. She glanced around her, fearfully, and sighed with relief to find herself alone. Where had he gone to—the man who had met her at the door, suffocating her with the drugged cloth and carrying her back into the room? She lifted her hands to her head, then looked at them curiously.

When she had gone to the door to leave the library, on the previous evening, she had been carrying the photograph of the "unknown." Where was it now? She stood up and shook her robe. It was not on the lounge with her. She searched the floor. The photograph was not in the room.

Then, the man had taken it! For the moment she was dazed. In some way she must recover it. But, where was it likely to be? Who had taken it?

Not the man who had rung her up on the telephone the previous evening. Yet he had been the burglar who had stolen into the house and copied the fake photograph she had placed in the buhl box. Ivy knew that he had not suspected the exchange of photographs. He had copied the photograph and the letter and had carried his camera from the house when she had surprised him in the library. She had heard the front door clang as he raced into the street.

That man had not lingered about the house to observe her movements. It would have been impossible for him to have guessed her objectives, if he had. She had brought the photograph to the library and had copied it and the fake, photograph with the door shut.

Then someone else was interested in the photograph of the "unknown." Who could that be? She had a dim remembrance that the man who had caught her in his arms and chloroformed her when she opened the door, was tall and well-built. She thought she remembered a head, covered with a mop of rebellious curly brown hair, bending over her. But—

The man of the photograph—the "unknown"—had brown curly hair so Mark Kithner had deduced. But—Ivy gasped. Was her assailant of the previous night the very man she had been instructed to discover? Then, he had taken away with him his own photograph!

Ivy laughed, until she lay back on the couch, exhausted to broken giggles. How absurd was the thought. Her godfather had ordered her to discover a man who did not want to be discovered; a man who was prepared to break the law to prevent her tracing him! What could be the reason behind his conduct? More, for what reason had Basil Sixsmith laid his commands on her, to track down a man who preferred to remain unknown?

Again the girl laughed. The man had obtained the photograph her godfather had placed in the box; but he did not know that, but a few minutes before she had copied it. Ivy rose to her feet and glanced around the room, searchingly. Where was the camera? She remembered, she had placed it in the cabinet. Was it there still? She moved to cross the room, swaying dizzily and holding on to the furniture.

At length, she recovered her sense of balance. She reached the cabinet and found the camera where she had left it. She carried it back to the couch and removed the spool of films. Later in the morning she would take it into town and have it developed and the photographs printed. Then she would have again the pictured features of the man she had been ordered to find—the "unknown."

She glanced at the clock. It wanted a few minutes to half-past seven. Then she had been unconscious for many hours. She stood up and commenced a careful search of the room. Had either of the intruders taken anything but the photograph? So far as she could see, nothing else was missing. But she had not looked in the buhl box! She went to the box and touched the spring. The lid fell back. Neither photograph nor letter were within it!

For many seconds Ivy stood and gazed at the empty box. Why had the man taken the photograph she had placed there? Why had he taken the letter? The lawyer had told her, and she believed, that the letter held nothing of consequence—that Basil Sixsmith had not included, in the few lines, anagram or cipher.

A movement outside the library door brought the girl to a sense of time. She went to the door and listened. A heavy, stolid tread passed along the hall. Ivy knew that was Alice, the cook, going to her kitchens. She opened the door and peered out. Faith, the housemaid, was not in sight. Probably she was in the kitchens, joining Alice in an early morning cup of tea.

She crept through the hall and fled up the stairs to her own room. Only when she closed the door did she realise that she had brought the buhl box with her. What did that matter, now? The box was empty. She placed it on the bedside table and crept under the covers. Before she could take any action she must wait for Faith to call her, when she brought the morning tea-tray. If the woman found her up and dressed she would be suspicious—and for the present Ivy could not afford to have suspicions around her.

The intervening twenty minutes passed slowly. At length, the maid came. Ivy wriggled impatiently while the woman fussed around the room. At last she was alone. She seized the few letters lying on the tray and tore them open, to fling them to the ground. There was nothing of consequence in them.

What was she to do? True, she had the roll of films and on one of the negatives appeared the thumbprint of the man who had invaded the house the previous evening. But what could she do with that? Could she plan to take the fingerprints of all the men she came across? That would he an impossible task.

Again she was back at the point where she had been stopped the previous day. No, she was in a worse position. Then she had the photograph of the "unknown" and her godfather's letter. Now both letters and photograph were missing—but she had the roll of films containing a copy of the photograph. Alos she had a photograph of the thumbprint the intruder had left on the fake photograph. How and where was she to start her quest for, these men?

She slipped from the bed and went into the bathroom, still conning her problem. As she slipped on her bathrobe again, Faith knocked at the door.

"Mrs. Western on the telephone. Miss Ivy." Faith spoke from the passage.

Martha Western! Ivy gasped. What did she want? Fastening her gown the girl ran down the stairs to the library—to the telephone.

"Ivy Breton speaking, Mrs. Western." She spoke into the instrument curtly.

"Oh, Ivy, dear." The voice was gushing. "How are you, this morning, and after your very terrible strain, yesterday? You don't know how I felt for you. It was all so sad and solemn. I know how fond you were of dear Basil—and to lose him like that! After so short an illness, too! Charlie spoke of coming round to see you this morning, but I would not let him. I said you must rest—have a good long rest before you saw anyone. Faith will look after you well, I'm sure—She thinks there is no one in the world like you—"

"Is there anything you want, Mrs. Western?" The girl spoke impatiently. "I am just out of my bath and would like to get some clothes on before I indulge in gossip."

"Oh, how inconsiderate of me." The widow giggled. "But you will forgive me, I'm sure. I rang you up to tell you of a most beautiful plan I have thought of. I'm sure you will like it. It's too delightful—for me, that is, of course—but I'm sure you will approve. It must be awful for you to think of living alone in that dreary place all these—"

"Yes?" Ivy had a premonition of what the lady had in mind.

"Yes. I told Charlie of my plan when I woke this morning. I sent for him to come to my room. My dear, you should have seen him, with his tousled head and unshaven chin—and he looked such a boy—such a charming, dear boy. I really wanted to cuddle him like I used to when he was a baby."

"And your plan, Mrs. Western?" Ivy suppressed a desire to yawn loudly.

"It's so simple, my dear. Just that you should pack up and come and stay with us." Mrs. Western made a pause, as if from the effort of speaking so directly; then continued vivaciously. "It will be lovely to have you—just you and I to ourselves—all day long. Of course, Charlie will only be at home in the evenings, you know. The poor boy has to work. I always say it does young men good to work."

"But what of this house, Mrs. Western?" The girl asked Innocently. "God-dad wanted me to live in it for three months. You remember his will?"

"Such a silly will, wasn't it, dear? Of course, one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but it was silly. To think of a dear child like you being left in those gloomy barracks for three months! If Basil had only spoken to me. Of course, I would have offered you a home—not for three months, dear child, but for ever and ever."

"But I must carry out god-dad's last wishes." The girl was laughing at Martha Western's assumption of ingenuousness. "He particularly wished me to stay here for three months."

"How thrilling!" There was a little trill of anger in the laughter that came over the wire. "But, dear, you can do what he wished you to do from here. We are quite close to the house—"

"And this house, Mrs. Western?"

"Oh, that—of course that can be sold." The lady spoke as if the thought had only just dawned on her mind. "Charlie will look to that. He is such a good business man! I don't know what I should do without him—and he says that house-property is booming now; of course you'll be so much more comfortable here."

"And with this house sold you can pay god-dad's debts!" The girl spoke ironically.

"How clever of you!" Now the anger was showing in the widow's voice. "I shall be glad to do that! My solicitor told me that I could defer payment until I took possession and sold the place, but I don't like to do that. It would be such a slur on my dear brother's name. Of course, I shall pay at once—I would do that in any case. It's only a matter of a few pounds—fifteen hundred, I believe, that dear Mr. Kithner said."

"I am afraid you will find that the debts amount to more than that, Mrs. Western." The girl interrupted. "I had a telephone message from a man last night who claimed that god-dad owed him five thousand—"

"What?" There was almost agony in the exclamation. "What do you mean, girl? The house and contents are not worth more than three thousand pounds."

"Mr. Kithner valued them at between five and six thousand pounds."

"But—five thousand pounds! Oh, that's impossible!"

"I am afraid you will find it very possible. But I really know nothing about the matter. When the—the gentleman spoke to me I advised him to communicate with you or Mr. Kithner."

Ivy listened for some seconds, but there was no reply. She laughed. Her news had greatly disturbed her godfather's half-sister. At the thought of the offer of a home, she laughed again. What sort of a home would Mrs. Western provide for her, once she got her out of the house?

In the hall Faith met her, carrying a flat parcel.

"A man left this at the door just now, Miss Ivy."

Some instinct told Ivy what she would find under the wrapping paper. In her room she undid the parcel, and found in her hand two photographs. The one of the "unknown," and the other containing the thumb print.

Who had sent the photographs back to her? She scanned them eagerly, and searched the wrappings. There was not a mark to identity the sender. Yet she carefully folded the brown paper, and stowed it away.

She placed the two photographs on the dressing-table, scanning them closely. Really, the two men were not very dissimilar; yet she had picked the second photograph at hazard. One of the photographs pictured curly hair—that was the "unknown;" the other—well, his hair could not be called absolutely straight. He looked "nice"—his hair looked "nice"—hair that a nice girl would care to rumple and pull. She glanced from one to the other of the photographs. A pair of nice boys, she decided.

Two brothers? No, they were not enough alike for that. Then she glanced at the clock. How she was dawdling this morning! She turned the photograph face downwards, firmly. She would not look at them again until—

Something had been marked on the back of one of the cards. She bent to examine it more closely. Yes, there was a series of figures indented there, made with a fine, round-pointed instrument. For a minute she puzzled to decipher them. Then read:—

"Ring B42675."