Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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FOR the moment the impulse came to Knox to go in search of the little grey woman. Then, came the memory of the voice he had heard in the lounge—the strange, slow voice of the man who had dropped the fountain pen on the steps of the Alamanza Rooms.

He swung round and charged through the still swinging doors. The lounge was empty. His eyes swept over the litter of potted plants, chairs and tables. There was no one there; yet he knew he had heard voices in the lounge, raised high in anger. Where had been the speakers? Had one of them been the little grey woman. If so who was the other? He-could not possibly have mistaken that voice. But, where had the man gone to? There was no door to the lounge other than the swing doors at which He had stood; and those doors he had never taken his eyes from, even while recovering from the collision with the woman.

"What's the matter, Bob?" The detective swung round to see the artist watching him.

"Matter! Hell!" Again Knox searched the space with his eyes. "I heard that man arguing with someone in here. When I come in I find the place empty. Did that woman collide with me on purpose? If so, then she's an accomplice. 'Course, I got her now. She's wanted in London and elsewhere. Have her records at Headquarters—a little grey woman—wears a grey silk mask while at work and usually a grey cloak—said to be one of the most dangerous members of the international drug circle.

"Phew!" For the moment Loames dropped his air of indolence. "So that's the big idea! The man and the woman! But you sent Houston to the gallery for the man?"

"And he was down here all the time," Knox laughed, gratingly. "I'm the mug to-night, that's all. I had him under my hands and let him go. Oh, yes. Smile, damn you, smile! I'd smile, too, but I might hurt my lips."

Loames was not smiling, he was carefully scanning the lounge. It was not a big place, but so crowded with palms and shrubs to create sitting out nooks, that it was difficult to examine without much moving about. He looked up. Above his head, about ten feet from the ground, was the rake of the gallery. Could the man have left the lounge that way? It was possible if the man was a good athlete. But if he had left by the gallery for what reason?

Knox had been very silent while standing beside the swing doors. He had hardly uttered a word. Had the man known he was there. When he had seen the detective at the entrance he had been in evening dress. Now the detective was disguised as a clown. Even had the man peeped through the grille he could not have recognised him.

The artist moved slowly forward, peering into each alcove. Suddenly he uttered a short exclamation. In the far corner of the lounge, where the balcony curved back to the corner of the room, a number of plants were disturbed, some of them lying across seats and tables. The artist passed quickly to them, stifling the cry that rose to his lips. In a second the detective was by his side. Amid a welter of destruction lay the body of a man.

Pushing the artist aside Knox bent and lifted the still form amid the overturned pots and greenery. The man was curiously limp. Carrying him to the centre of the lounge the detective lowered him to the floor and fumbled amid his clown's attire. He found his torch and flashed the light on the insensible man's face. With a grunt he straightened himself.

"Houston."

"God!" Loames pressed forward, falling to his knees beside the body. With trembling fingers he tore away the clown costume and opened the man's shirt. A few seconds and he turned to the detective.

"All right, Bob, he's breathing—Get some cushions and make him comfortable, I'll find a doctor."

In tense silence, Knox obeyed the artist's commands He gathered from the chairs and lounges a number of cushions and, on the floor beside the insensible police officer, made a soft resting place. With gentle hands he lifted Houston on to the cushions, then bent his ear to the man's breast. He could hear his heart beating slowly but regularly. He searched for some wound to find only a growing bruise on the head, just above the left ear.

A bruise above the left ear, what did that indicate? Had Houston found the man he sought in the balcony? But, that was impossible! The man had been in the lounge while Houston was on the search. Yet, if the police officer had found the man in the balcony, how had the bruise come above his left ear? Had the men been facing each other when the blow was struck?

That would appear to be the only explanation of the bruise, for, if the blow had been struck from behind it would have been on the right-hand side of the head, unless—of course, unless the assailant had been left-handed. The creaking of the swing doors aroused Knox from his speculations. He looked up. Loames was coming across the lounge accompanied by a stocky, elderly man, in Elizabethan costume. Instinctively the detective moved to one side.

"Dr. Harry Pate." The artist muttered the introduction, glancing down at the man on the floor.

"Lucky to find him so quickly, in this pack. He's a good fellow Bob, and can hold his tongue. Doctor, this is Inspector Knox."

The doctor acknowledged the introduction with a short grunt, devoting his attention to the insensible police-officer. A moment, and he looked up with a little smile.

"Stunned!" The delicate fingers rested a moment on the colouring bruise. "Get water and something to bandage this with, Bill. He'll be all right in half an hour but, of course, he'll have to go home. Only his thick head saved him from concussion."

Loames left the lounge again. For a moment Knox stood watching the detective, at work, then strolled to the overturned greenery and table at which Houston had fallen.

Houston had gone to the gallery to find the man who had dropped the fountain pen. He had found him, or one of his confederates—the bruise on his head showed that. For the moment Knox thought the police officer might have turned aside on some other quest, but dismissed the idea with a shake of the head. Houston was a stolid unimaginative officer. He was working under the immediate supervision of a superior officer. He would not be led from the trail, no matter what the temptation. Yet, Houston had not found his man, for he had not been in the balcony. The man had been in the lounge beneath. It was certain the man who had dropped the fountain pen had an accomplice in the Alamanza Rooms. If so, that would fit into the theory the detective was forming.

Houston had searched the balcony and had not found his quarry. He had gone to the edge of the balcony thinking he might have a chance of spotting his man in the swirling throng below. He had been watched and some confederate of the wanted man had seized the opportunity to stun him and throw his body over into the lounge.

For what reason? If Houston had been knocked insensible, why had not his assailant disposed of the body in some manner less likely to attract attention? It would have been safer to leave the body in the shadows of the darkened balcony. There must be some other reason for the officer being thrown into the lounge.

Knox found the explanation in a flash of inspiration. The wanted man had been in the lounge below. The accomplice watched in the gallery. The assailant had seen him on guard at the doors of the lounge and had thought he had tracked the man there. The tipping of the unconscious police officer over amid the plants and furniture of the lounge, had been to warn the man in the lounge that he was in danger.

Unconsciously the police officer's eyes lifted to the edge of the balcony, a few feet above his head. He heard footsteps stealthy and close to the railing. He stepped back a few paces, craning his head to try and get a view of the man he believed was watching him from above. He waited, listening intently, Someone was talking just above his head. He could not distinguish the words for the tone was too low but he thought he recognised the voice—the slow unequal speech. Knox shook his head. Was he imagining that every man who spoke in that hall used the same inflections? He thrust his hand into the wide pockets of his clown costume and walked back to where Houston lay. Loames had returned and was kneeling by the cushions, holding the basin for the doctor.

"All right, Bob." The artist spoke in a low voice. "He's coming out of it. Just a bruised head."

"Who did it, Arthur?" The detective dropped to his knees beside his brother officer, bending forward to peer into the strangely white face. "Tell me who did it. I'll get them."

The man's head rolled uneasily on the cushions; he strove to speak. Dr. Pate held up a warning hand.

"Not now, Mr. Knox," he whispered. "I've sent for some of the attendants who will move him to the manager's room. Give him half an hour and you can ask what questions you like."

"Half an hour! Hell!" The detective bent forward, scrutinising the bruise. Slowly his eyes travelled down the man's form, taking in every detail of his costume. There was nothing visible that would explain the attack. He had only the theory he had created to go on, unless—

There was the fountain pen. But he and Houston had been alone in the dressing-room when he had given it to the Sergeant for safe keeping. No, there had been another person there. Just as Houston had taken the pen, screwed up in the piece of newspaper, one of the attendants had entered the room. They had not considered him, hardly noticed him. Had that attendant been an accomplice of the snow-runner?

Brushing aside the doctor's detaining hand, Knox searched the Sergeant's semi-conscious form. He remembered that Houston had thrust the pen into one of his interior pockets. He tore open the costume and searched. The pen was not there!

The Inspector rose to his feet with a grunt of disgust. The snow-runner was well served. Every instinct and training, urged him to leave the place and take up the trail. He had a desire to rush into the hall, amid the dancers, and compel every man who bore the slightest resemblance to the snow-runner to unmask.

The affair had passed out of the ordinary phase of police protection of the public. It had become a personal affair between the assailant and his friends and the officers of the Department. One of their men had been assaulted, nearly killed. Knox swore he would get that man, if he had to tear Sydney apart in the search. Again he looked up at the edge of the balcony. If Houston could be made to speak but a couple of words he would be free from this inaction. He could leave his mate in charge of the doctor and Loames, confident he would receive every attention. He could go to that balcony—into the main hall—and search. Perhaps there—

A loud cry came from above

With a jerk Knox drew one of the small tables under the edge of the balcony and mounted it. He could just reach the bottom of the balcony. Tip toeing up, he caught at part of the woodwork. With a light spring he obtained a hold with both hands. He was off his feet, swinging easily. A moment and he would obtain a better grip, then—

The short, sharp crack of an automatic sounded above his head. In sudden surprise the detective released his hold and fell to the floor bringing the table down on top of him. In a moment he was on his feet again, jerking the table upright. As he was about to climb on it again his arms were grasped from behind.

"Let go, you fool!" His voice was hoarse and angry. "What the—?"

"Hurt, Bob?" The artist spoke in a strained whisper.

"Hurt be damned! Let go my arms or you'll be hurt."

"But there was a shot?"

"Not at me. Let go, I say!" The detective stepped back. "That shot was fired in the balcony. If you want to help, Bill, get round to the stairs and guard them. Take someone with you. Hurry, man, and let me go!"

With a single spring he reached the top of the table and swung himself up the front of the balcony. A moment, and he obtained knee-hold and fell over the barrier. As he regained his feet he looked towards the back of the balcony. Close to the head of the stairs he saw a man, fantastically attired—and at his feet a sinister-looking bundle.