Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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TWO clown costumes were hanging on a peg in the corner of the room. They were police. Houston had brought them down to the Alamanza early in the evening. They had hung on a peg in the corner waiting—waiting in case it became necessary for the police to invade the dancing floor, inconspicuously, and bring out some wanted person. The Sergeant fetched them and handed one to Knox. The detective threw, it over a chair-back, busying himself restoring the cocaine to the pen and fitting it together.

"Here, Sergeant." He turned with the screw of paper containing the pen in his hand. "Take this. There's no knowing where tonight's work is going to take me. Put it in your pocket and, when we get out of here, go straight to Headquarters and find Inspector Martin of the Dope Squad. Hand this to him and tell him how we came by it. Tell him the whole story and say I'm on the trail and will get word to him somehow. Now, come on!"

He led out of the dressing room across the inner vestibule, to the screen that shielded the dancing floor from the doors. Just as he turned the screen he ran into a tall, melancholy-looking individual, dressed in a weird travesty of Faust. The Inspector was passing without looking at him when the man caught him by the shoulder.

"By little devils! Bob Knox, and at the Artists' Ball." The man spoke in deep, solemn tones. "Had I'd known we were to be favoured I would of had out the Town Band."

"Just as well you didn't—and don't go shouting my name over the heads of this conglomeration of humanity, Bill Loames." Knox shook hands warmly. He glanced around the dancing floor.

"What's here? Been making a collection of all the crooks in the State?"

"A libel!" Loames, one of the leading cartoonists in Sydney, drew back a step. "Will you stand if I fetch block and pencil, Knox? I'm sure there are business friends who would gladly pay large sums for autographed portraits of their favourite—shall I say arrestor—in his true character, a clown."

"Faust—for I suppose your array of rags is intended to represent that personage—and a clown. Gounod never thought of that, did he? Yet, I've often thought that if the tempter of the opera had tucked his tail into trousers—baggy ones, decorated with large crimson spot, he would have been more true to character. But stop rotting, Bill. There's work on hand. You know everyone here?"

"And you stated this gathering as composed of the crooks of the state." There was pained reproach in the artist's voice. "Is anyone exempt from the vile insinuations of the Police Department? Still—"

"Just so. The friends I'm looking for are first, a tall, military looking man, in evening dress. Rather—"

"Evening dress." Loames interrupted. "Then he won't be on the dancing floor. Tried the gallery?"

"Hear that, Houston?" Knox turned to the Sergeant who was standing a pace behind him. "Have a look in the gallery. You'll find me down here on your return, I won't mask."

"Arrest him?" Houston asked the question from behind his hand.

"Arrest your grandmother!" Knox whispered angrily. "It's your word against his about that pen. No, keep a watch on him. We've got his supply of the drug he'll want more. If there's a runner in the hall we may make a find. Anyway, I think he's only one of the small fry in the game. Find out where he is and what he is doing. Get word to me. I'll wait for you here."

The Inspector took Loames's arm and strolled up the room, leaving the Sergeant to make his way to the gallery. The artist lifted his eye-brows at Knox's impatient words, but allowed himself to be dragged away.

"What's the trouble Knox? Want to dance? I'm committee—and what about that little flapper over there? Just your style, I should say."

Knox did not answer. He had paused and was furtively watching a slender, fair-haired woman, well under the medium height, sitting close to where he had stopped. Something in her face attracted his attention. He turned to his companion.

"Who's the girl there—next to the pillar—wearing a shepherdess dress?" he questioned.

"Who? Oh!" The artist caught the eyes of the woman and bowed. "Don't know Mrs Margaret Venne, eh? Come along, I'll introduce you. Pretty and plenty of the needful. What luck to be a policeman. It's the uniform that catches them. Why, they can spot it even under a clown's rig-out.

"Steady, man." Knox moved on quickly. "I'm here on business not for the dance. Who's the woman she's talking to? But they're different."

"Different, I should say so." Loames looked down quizzically at the detective. "Different as chalk and cheese; Margaret Venne's fair and flighty while Isobel Kilgour's staid and dark. Margaret hasn't been out here long. Comes from 'Pommyland' I believe. The only resemblance is that they are both short and slender. What's the trouble man?"

"Dope," the Inspector answered under his breath. "Man came in just before Houston and me. Dropped a fountain pen filled with cocaine. Tall man, military bearing, strange slow way of talking, clean-shaven, florid complexion, rather handsome in a bold, dashing way. Had a woman with him between twenty-five and thirty. Rather over medium height, dark, Spanish-looking, good eyes and teeth, and not frightened of showing them off. Seen either of them about?"

"And there are nearly two thousand people on the floor," the artist grinned. "Think I'm a medium and can walk into that throng and pick out your quarry? So that's why you sent Houston to hunt in the gallery. What costumes did they wear?"

"Had none, so far as I could see." They had reached the head of the hall and halted before the grills hiding the band-stand. "The man certainly had none with him and the woman only carried a small vanity bag. 'Course, they might of had costumes in the hall. But he wasn't in the dressing rooms. Houston and I followed in almost immediately and there were only two men there—costumed as devils."

"Then Houston's found them in the gallery," Loames spoke decidedly.

"Perhaps." Knox was doubtful. "Houston put him wise to some extent, silly fool. If he'd only seen that snow from where he picked up the pen and held his tongue, we'd have them both on toast. As it is—What's through that door? Sitting out lounge?"

The artist turned to the grille swing door Knox pointed at. "The band's behind this open-work grille. We ran it across the width of the hall, making two lounges for tired dancers, one on either side of the band platform. Want to look in there?"

"N-o," the Inspector hesitated. "No, we'll stay out here so that Houston can find us directly he gets down from the gallery. Then, perhaps, we'll have a look through your flirting-shops."

A sudden blare of saxophones, accompanied by what seemed to be a kitchen-full of utensils flung down stairs, startled the detective. He stepped a pace to one side and leaned against the grille, almost beside the swing doors. Loames lit a cigarette and leaned beside him, watching him secretly.

The Inspector had always been a secret delight to Bill Loames; so much so, that whenever he required a police officer in a sketch, his pencil invariably traced the features and characteristics of Robert Knox. The Inspector took the caricatures in good humour and had, in his home, many of the original drawings. Their's was a queer friendship. Knox argued his friend frequently on the necessity of taking life more seriously. Loames, while he admired the energy and dynamic force of the detective, retorted with pleas for more repose and artistic thoughtfulness.

The artist had long wanted to watch Knox on the trail of a criminal. Now he had the opportunity. He watched covertly, his hand stealing towards his pockets, for pencil and paper. With a shrug of regret he found them missing; only from the button of his costume depended a dance programme, with its futile pencil. He twisted the cigarette to a corner of his mouth and on the margin on the card commenced to sketch. Gradually the work enthralled him, as he noted down in black and white the many new characteristics of his friend.

Knox began to grow uneasy. The minutes were passing and Houston had not returned. What was keeping the man? He had had plenty of time to search the gallery. There did not appear to be many watchers. Houston could have passed them in review in a very few minutes and then returned to the dancing floor. He turned restlessly. Should he remain by the grille, or go in search of the man?

The dance ended. Knox stepped a few paces from the grille. Loames returned the programme to his button and glanced at his friend, expectantly. He had come prepared to dance, but he had found a better pursuit. Until the Inspector had run down his quarry, or abandoned the chase, he determined to stick by him. His artistic work was not a task, but a pleasure. He was seeing a new side of the detective, he was gathering material he could use successfully.

The sudden ending of the uproar behind the grille made the following silence more intense. Even the frou-frou of dresses the slithering of feet on the polished floor, sounded loud. Knox again moved a step forward, as if to return to the doors of the rooms then stopped, listening, his head reaching forward, every sense on the alert. Someone was taking, loudly, in the space behind the grille. Knox listened. At first he thought that it was two of the bandsmen, arguing, but soon he realised that the sounds came from the lounge behind him. Two persons were quarrelling. Their voices were rising higher and higher.

He listened, curiously. What were they quarrelling about? He could recognise tones of anger, but he could not distinguish words. One of the voices sounded familiar. Somewhere he had heard those strange, slow, level tones, the inflection marked more by the irregularity of pace than of pitch. He remained listening, straining to find in the storehouse of his memory the voice.

Suddenly he remembered. He turned and ran to the door of the grille. At the door he collided with a woman coming out of the lounge. So heavy was the impact that Knox had to catch her in his arms to save her from a severe fall. As it was, his impetus carried them right on to the swing doors. With a breathless word of apology the detective stepped back.

The woman had not cried out. She had lain, almost passive, in his arms during those brief seconds. Now she stood, leaning against the lintel of the door, breathing heavily. While he had made his apologies, Knox watched her. He saw a slight, small woman, heavily masked and covered with a domino; the hood turned up to conceal her hair, the hem reaching to within a few inches of her ankles. The domino and mask were of a medium grey colour.

A little grey woman! Almost the words escaped his lips as he stared at her. His thoughts must have shown in his eyes for the woman gathered her domino closer around her and moved into the room, acknowledging his apologies with a gentle motion of her head. The Little Grey Woman!

A door opened in Knox's brain. At some period he had recorded the memory of a little grey woman. He shook himself roughly. What had happened to him that night? Where was the memory he was so proud of? A Woman in Grey! Why? He swung round quickly; his eyes searching the swirling throng. He wanted a woman in grey—wanted her badly—and she had escape him; disappearing on that floor of idle, laughing dancers.