Читать книгу The Little Grey Woman - Aidan de Brune - Страница 9

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THERE was a long silence in the room, following Inspector Knox's decision. Denys rose from his chair with a slight shrug of his shoulders, flinching slightly as the constable's heavy hand fell on him. Loames took a step forward, to find the detective interposing between him and the prisoner.

"It's no good, Mr. Loames." Knox spoke in a low voice. "I can't help it. Mr. Gerlach's identification leaves me no option."

"Identification!" The artist turned angrily towards the couch on which the wounded man lay. "Identification by two crooks, one of whom—" The glare in Knox's eyes silenced the artist. Pushing the detective to one side, Loames held out his hand to his friend.

"Don't worry, Denys. We'll have you out of this, quick. That man doesn't know what he is talking about—or else he is lying. Wait! I'm coming with you!" He almost ran from the room, colliding with the ambulance men in the doorway.

Knox shrugged his shoulders and motioned to the constable to await Gerlach's removal.

Denys sat down again, heavily. His head still ached from the effects of the drug and he was beginning to understand the serious position in which he stood. For the moment, after the formal words of arrest, he had almost uttered a protest, but his legal training prevented him. He knew he must obtain full possession of his senses and calmly consider the evidence he had heard but dimly understood, before he spoke.

He knew he was innocent of the attack on Gerlach. He had studied the man while he stood beside the couch, awaiting the words that framed him for attempted murder. He, as well as Dr. Pate, had witnessed the quick interchange of glances between Burle and Gerlach, and had puzzled over them. He knew there was some understanding between the two men, both strangers to him. They had accused him of attempted murder, Burle by implication when he spoke to his friend; Gerlach in considered words.

A touch on his shoulder and he looked up. The wounded man was being carried from the room and the constable was motioning him to his feet, he stood up and followed Inspector Knox to the door. Someone caught him by the arm. He looked round and smiled as Loames linked his arm in his; his face tense with grave concern. Good man Loames; though not too logical. He felt keenly the kindly comradeship that prompted the action. He walked slowly towards the door. Knox stood to one side and he passed into the vestibule.

The place was crowded and he hesitated. Why were they here? Why did they stare at him? Why had silence descended on them when he appeared in the doorway? Did they believe he shot the man? Squaring his shoulders he pushed forward, intent on getting into the open air. Suddenly, out of the crowd, a girl darted towards him, throwing her arms around his neck in wild abandonment.

"Denys! Denys! What is it all about? What are they saying? You never shot that man! I know you didn't! You couldn't! You couldn't!"

"Hush, dearest." He bent his head over the weeping girl. "There's some mistake that time will put right. No, dear, I didn't shoot the man. I hadn't a gun with me. Yet he says I did—but he is ill; dazed, like I am. When he recovers he will understand and tell the police what really happened."

"But, these men?" The girl looked around wildly. "Why are they with you? What do they want? They haven't—Oh! They haven't arrested you, Denys. They couldn't be so stupid."

"Bill!" Denys' agonised eyes ought his friend. "Where are Doris' friends? She came, with Mrs. Matherson and her party. Can't you—?" His eyes fell on slender, middle aged woman with dark, kindly eyes, standing by.

"Mrs Kilgour, will you take charge of Miss Lyall? You know Mrs. Matherson? Will you find her and ask her to take Doris home? I—I have to go with Inspector Knox to the Police Station to—"

Again he bent over the girl.

"Doris, you must be brave. It is only for to-night. I will come to you to-morrow and show you it is all a mistake. Dear! Dear! You must let me go. We are keeping Inspector Knox waiting."

"Doris!" Isobel Kilgour caught the girl around the waist while Denys gently disengaged her clinging fingers. "You must be brave, dear. There's a mistake, a big mistake, and Mr Fahney is not in danger. It will all be cleared up to-morrow and Inspector Knox will come and tell us he has made a big mistake. That's right. Mr Fahney, isn't it?"

Denys nodded; he could not speak. As the girl turned in the woman's arms he stepped swiftly past, towards the entrance of the hall. Inspector Knox followed him. Again Loames linked arms with him, urging him forward The constable strode ahead. A moment and the crowd closed in between him and the girl.

"Go back and look after Doris." Denys halted before the taxi into which Inspector Knox had disappeared. "No, Bill, you can't do any good to-night. I want to rest and get my head clear from that drug. Come tomorrow, if you like, but first go and see Peter Causton. Tell him I want him to defend me. This is going to be a serious matter."

"Serious?" Loames flashed a glance of anger at the taxi. "The thing's ridiculous. That man, Gerlach, will recant all he said, tomorrow—when he gets back his senses."

"No." Denys lowered his voice to a whisper. "There's more behind this than you dream of, Bill. I've been framed for this shooting and they're not bunglers. Now, get off, old man, and, by the way, send me some clothes. I don't want to appear in this rig-out at the Central Police Court tomorrow morning."

He wrung his friend's hand and entered the taxi. The constable followed and the car drove off. Denys sat between his captors, striving to regain full command of his brain. Already he had outlined a plan of action. For the time he must listen and say nothing. Not until he knew he had full control of his faculties must he allow himself to even think. He had witnessed the strange glance that passed between the wounded man and his friend, James Burle. It had not been a glance of friendship; yet full of understanding. The men were antagonistic, yet acting in some common cause. They had an understanding—a full understanding—yet they hated each other. He leaned back in his seat, striving to put thought from him.

He must sleep before he thought. Sleep only would dispel the potent drug that had been held under his face when he bent to pick up his match-box in the Alamanza balcony.

The car rolled smoothly down George Street and turned into the narrow lane leading to the Central Police Station. A few yards and it swerved to the right and ran under an arch, into a courtyard. The door was opened and the constable backed out. At a command from the Inspector, Denys alighted and walked beside the constable, into the office.

The man led to a little barred enclosure at the side of the room. Unconsciously, Denys drew himself more erect as the bar fell into place, confining him. The usual questions relating to name, age, address and occupation followed. Then a droning voice read the charge. He was asked if he wished to make a statement, but shook his head. The bar was lifted and he was ordered to follow the warder.

They walked down a long concreted corridor and the man opened an iron-barred door: Denys entered the cell and the door clanged shut behind him. For some time after the receding footsteps died in the corridor, Denys sat on the narrow bed, his head in his hands.

Thoughts crowded to his brain, but he resolutely put them from him. Then Doris's tear-stained face rose before his eyes. He could not put that from him. He could still feel her arms holding him, as if defying the officers to take him from her. He visioned again his last sight of her, weeping in the arms of the kindly woman, Isobel Kilgour.

Long years of training came to his relief. He rolled over on the narrow bed and fell asleep, to be awakened by the entry of a warder with his suit-case. He looked up at the little barred window. It was barely daybreak.

"Sorry to awaken you." The man spoke civilly. "Mr Loames brought down a bag of things for you. Want breakfast brought in?"

Denys nodded. He found some coins and gave them to the man. Then he opened the suit-case and changed from the fancy dress. In his own clothes he found renewed spirits and strength. He could think clearly now. The effects of the drug had worn off while he slept. He went to the corner of the cell and found a bucket of water. Splashing it over, his head he dried himself on a towel he found packed in the suit-case; then sat down on the edge of the bed.

He had been framed for murder—or rather, attempted murder. Had the shooter of Gerlach intended to kill the man? He did not think so. Yet again to his memory rose the strange look that had passed between Gerlach and Burle. Had Burle been the man who had shot Gerlach? Something in the man's voice as he answered the Inspector had sounded familiar. He had the build, the action, of the man on the balcony who had asked him for a match—the man who had drugged him. But if Burle had shot Gerlach would he have come to the manager's room of the Alamanza and professed concern at the condition of his victim?

Denys knew well he had never seen Gerlach before. If Burle had shot the man, then Gerlach had been the attendant who had followed Sergeant Houston to the corner of the balcony and flung him into the lounge. He had come up softly behind him as he was talking to the man who had asked him for the match. He must have shot him over his shoulder. That theory would negative his remembrance of the affair. He had thought the shot had come from behind him. Had it? If Burle had fired the shot then it had come from before him. Or, had he been twisted round while partially insensible so that he became confused as to where the shot really came from? Lastly, had the shot been intended for him?

No. He must go farther back in memory to obtain an explanation of the shooting. He must find the reason why he should be framed for the wounding of Gerlach. Somewhere in the past, before the opening of the Artists Ball, lay the clue to the mystery.

A little door of memory clicked open in his brain. He reviewed the incidents of the day. Could he connect them with the strange happenings of the Alamanza balcony?

When he had arrived at his chambers the previous morning he had found a message from the Premier, Sir Roger Westerton, asking him to call as soon as possible. Fortunately, he had no engagements in Court that day. He had gone round to the Premier's office, full of anticipation. Had the chance he had long wished for, to enter Parliament, arrived?

He had been astounded at the conversation that followed his entry to the Ministerial room. Sir Roger had spoken of his work and of his strange gift of deduction. He had waited, wondering to where this conversation would tend. Then Sir Roger had opened out a new line.

The Government were amazed and bewildered at the rapid growth of the drug habit in the State. Months before, a Drug Squad, attached to the Police Department had been established to deal with the evil. The Drug Squad had accomplished marvellous work during the short time it had been established, but the Squad could only reach certain classes of the community. It could not penetrate into exclusive circles of society. There the noxious drugs were traded unchecked. Men and women of high standing had become slaves of the dangerous habit. The Cabinet had pondered many days over the problem; then Sir George had, himself, proposed a solution of their difficulty.

Here the Premier had halted in his monologue, to refer again to Denys' exceptional powers of deduction of his knowledge of the underworld of the great city. The barrister had waited, feeling that some task was to be offered him that would strain his utmost strength. Would he undertake to penetrate the secrets of the drug-ring, amid the exclusive circles of society in the State; obtain the evidence necessary to stamp out the evil and hand it over to the police? It was a blunt question, following an ambiguous and rambling statement of the Government's difficulties.

Denys had seen the doors of success flung wide open to him. He knew that if he undertook the task and succeeded his future would be assured. He would have stepped out on the high-road to success. There could be no limits to his ambition—to what he could attain! He had accepted the task, eagerly, scorning the warning that Sir Roger had gravely uttered—that he would have to work entirely unaided by the organised police of the State. He would have to gain the confidence of the drug circle. He would have to go down into the underworld and become a member of the obnoxious drug ring.

He had laughed at the warning that his life would be in danger. He had asked only one thing of the Premier—that, from that moment, his name be never mentioned in connection with any scheme for the suppression of the trade. Sir Roger had promised, with the reservation that he be allowed to report Denys' acceptance of the mission to his Cabinet.

Could he connect that conversation, behind the closed doors of the Minister's room, with the attack on him at the Artists' Ball? It appeared impossible. The conversation was but a day old. Sir Roger had not yet had time to convey to his Cabinet Denys' acceptance of the task. It was not possible for the drug ring to know of happenings in the inner and most secret Government circles.

Yet, the attempt to frame him for the murder of Carl Gerlach could only be fitted with that conversation. There was no other reason—there could be no other reason. In some manner the drug ring had obtained the knowledge that he had accepted the commission offered by Sir Roger. The frame-up had been their answer—their attempt to remove from their trail a menace they feared.

The opening of the cell door brought Denys from his reverie. He looked up. The warder entered with a breakfast tray. Behind him came Inspector Knox. Denys waited until the warder had left the cell.

"Inspector." His confident air impressed the detective favourably. "Will you tell me, in confidence, why you were at the Artist's Ball, last night? What were you after?"

"Why?" Knox smiled. He was studying his prisoner. Almost he began to believe he had made a mistake. This man was not a potential murderer.

"I came to ask if you knew Carl Gerlach or James Burle?"

"Never heard of them before last night." Denys answered promptly. "Now will you answer my question?

"Sure." The detective paused a moment. "I'd like to say, first, Mr Fahney, that I am beginning to believe that you were framed for that attempted murder. I've evidence pointing that way; but, I tell you plainly, I don't intend to bring it before the magistrate this morning. Still, that's by the way. Here's the answer to your question. I was after a snow-runner when I barged into that little affair in the balcony of the Alamanza. I'm beginning to believe it was staged for my especial benefit."

"A snow-runner!" Denys laughed. "I thought so."