Читать книгу The Dagger and Cord - Aidan de Brune - Страница 10

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DETECTIVE GREYSON turned on his heel and walked off. Roy heard his heavy footsteps cross to the elevator. For some moments he stood in the outer office with Basil Holt's cheque in his hand. Then he turned and re-entered his room, closing the door behind him.

The detective had instructed him to bank the cheque as soon as possible That would mean drawing his own cheque for the balance of the thousand pounds, after deducting his commissions. Where was he to send his cheque to? When Basil Holt had come to him with instructions to purchase the Peyton Place house, he had handed Roy his business card. The broker had slipped it under the corner of his blotter and had believed it to be still there when the man left the office. Greyson had professed to see something sinister in the disappearance of the card.

He had stated that he believed Holt had secretly abstracted it, so that Roy could not trace him. The presumption was that "Basil Holt" was not the man's real name.

The telephone directory would help towards solving the problem. If there was a Basil Holt in the book, Roy determined to ring him up and speak as if he was the man who had instructed him to purchase the Peyton Place house. If the man denied the business, that would go towards proving the detective's theory correct. The telephone directory gave a list of twenty "Holt's," but not one of them was named "Basil."

Roy sat back in his chair and reviewed the conversation he had had with the man the previous day. So far as he remembered, the man had spoken of several well-known dealers in real estate, either as personal friends or acquaintances. Roy turned to the telephone. He believed the man had mentioned Mark Mansell's name. Perhaps the estate agent might know something of him.

"Basil Holt! Never heard of him." Mansell's voice appeared troubled. "Said he knew me? He may, but I don't remember him. By the way, Roy, I had a visit from the police officer this morning. He seems very interested in you. Wanted a specimen of your signature. I thought it best to let him have it."

"Of course." Roy tried to make his voice indifferent. "He's been with me this morning. Did he tell you what he found in the second envelope I took from the dead girl's hand-bag?"

"No. That's interesting. What was it?"

"A cheque in my favour for one thousand pounds and signed by Basil Holt."

"Who is Basil Holt?

"The man who commissioned me to obtain the property for him. Say, Mark, I'm writing you this morning to the effect that I must withdraw my offer for the place. My client has decided not to go on with the deal."

"So? Am I to understand that the cheque found in the second envelope was the cheque Basil Holt gave you on account deposit for purchase of the Peyton Place house? That's awkward for you, isn't it?"

Roy sensed a change in the estate agent's manner. He made some excuse and cut off. Already he was under suspicion, and with only the bare facts known, of the finding of the dead body of a girl. Mark Mansell had been with him when they had chanced on the body. He had left him in the locked house while he went for the police. If any man had cause to believe in Roy's innocence, it should be Mansell, yet, on the flimsy evidence of the two envelopes found in the dead Girl's hand-bag, he was disposed to judge and condemn. If Mansell, with his full knowledge of the happenings of the previous night, condemned him, what was likely to be the attitude of the general public, when the matters became known?

Greyson had warned him that the police report to the newspapers would not be favourable to him. It would be a bare outline: a story, told in cold blood, and Roy well knew the facts told against him. Mansell's tone on the telephone was but the forerunner of the attitude that Roy's many acquaintances would assume when the press commenced its work. Almost immediately a coolness would creep into his intercourse with his fellows. There would be a furtive avoidance of his society. He would walk about the city a pariah, subject to open avoidance by the citizens, and deliberate hostility from the newspapers. He would be tried at the bar of public opinion. His condemnation would follow, and not one word would be demanded from him in his defence. He would be accounted guilty, mainly because some unknown person had framed him to shield the murderer.

The rasp of the telephone bell brought the broker out of his unpleasant speculations. He lifted the receiver from the hook and gave his name and braced himself to receive some unpleasant news.

"Kearney here, Onslay. Should like to see you for a few minutes. Can you come down? Right! I'll wait for you."

As he thrust back the bracket, Roy's eyes fell on the cheque lying on his blotter. Greyson had asked that it be immediately deposited in his bank. Turning it over he scribbled an endorsement and wrote out a pay-in slip. He put both in his pocket and picked up his hat.

His hand was on the communicating door when he heard voices in the outer office. He hesitated; had Basil Holt sent a clerk for his cheque? It would be difficult to explain that it was in the bank—with the cheque in his pocket. There was another door to the corridor. Roy took out his keys and unlocked it. There was no one in the corridor. He slipped out and relocked the door. He ran down a flight of stairs and called the elevator from the lower floor.

If Basil Holt sent, or called, for his cheque he would have to wait until Roy returned to his office. Roy was puzzled at the man's strange actions, and inclined to believe that Greyson had judged right when he said the man had taken a his card from his desk. Why had he backed out of the deal? His reasons were absurd; almost as incomprehensible as the manner in which he was trying to keep him in ignorance of his address and business.

On the street, Roy walked quickly down to Aikin House and went up to Sam Kearney's offices. The speculator was evidently anxious to see him, for he was shown immediately into the private office.

"Glad you were able to come at once, Onslay." Kearney held out his hand bluffly. "I'm going to astonish you. I've changed my mind."

"In the matter of the Peyton Place house?" asked Roy, quickly. "I'm sorry to say my client has just notified me that he is taking the same attitude."

"Has he? The brute!" the speculator's face lost its genial smile. "Thought you were putting a tale up on me and attempting to purchase for yourself."

"Not at that price, Mr. Kearney. The fag-end of a lease is no good to me."

"Not at a price?"

"Not at five thousands, nor anything like it."

"Queer thing about the girl being murdered in that house."

"Sydney's a growing city. We must expect strange things with the new business. So far as I know, it is quite a common sort of murder."

"Hm! That's your opinion. Seen the noon papers? They're asking for your blood."

"Yellow Press sensation!" Roy laughed easily. "Because I was in the house. I'm to be sacrificed to the yellow press ideas of law and order."

For some minutes the big man sat back in his chair and gazed speculatively at his caller.

"I fancy you will have to take things a bit more seriously, Onslay," he said, at length. "They certainly seem to be making a fair case against you."

"Oh. they'd make out a case against the angel Gabriel, if he happened to be found in an empty house with a dead cat. What about Peyton Place? Do you want me to sell it for you?"

"I thought, you might buy it for yourself, or a client."

"Client's disappeared. I might buy—at a price."

"I paid £2700 for the balance of the lease."

"Who owns the freehold?"

"A Miss Judith Warbor. Know her?"

"No. Will she sell?"

"She refused the offer I made her."

"Perhaps you were too careful." Roy was thinking rapidly. The Peyton Place house intrigued him. He had been successful of late, and had a fair sum in the bank. Why not buy the place and probe behind the mystery.

"I offered her a fair price. She didn't attempt to dicker. Turned my offer down cold. Say, are you a buyer?"

"At a price. I'll give you three thousand pounds for the lease."

"Cash?"

"If necessary. I'd rather have terms. I'm going to sell again when I get an offer."

"It's a go. Want any more of them?"

"More of what?"

"The Peyton Place houses. There's six of them all on similar leases. Tell you what! You can have the six for ten thousand pounds; three thousand down and the balance on terms. Suit you?"

It was a gamble. Roy recognised that on his next word depended his future. Out of his own resources he could not provide more then half the sum required without hampering other activities. If he bought he must make quick sales, and those sales would have to be effected before the balance of the purchase money became due. Kearney had warned him that the movement against him had commenced. The newspapers had the story, as supplied by the police. That story, on its bare outline, damned him utterly. Embellished by the fertile pens of the writers, he would, in a few days, walk about the city shunned by friends and acquaintances. Strangers would point him out as a police-protected murderer, if he bought Peyton Place!

A feeling of recklessness, came over him. His purchase would give his enemies another weapon with which to hit him. They would be able to declare that he had purchased the property to baffle the search for clues—clues that, would undoubtedly lead to his conviction, for the murder of the unknown girl.

Roy looked up to meet the keen, unfriendly gaze of the big speculator fixed unwaveringly on him. What did this man know? What schemes were maturing behind that massive face? Roy already believed that, if he could pierce behind that baffling forehead, he would be able to read thoughts that would lead quickly to a solution of the mystery. He was coming to believe that Sam Kearney was in the centre of a gigantic web, holding out enticing bait to tempt him still further into the tangle. Two days ago the unknown girl was alive, and Sam Kearney was willing to sell 7a Peyton Place for what he could get above the price he had paid for it. Yesterday, the girl was dead, and Kearney refused to part with the property at any price. Today, the dead girl had been discovered and the police were in full cry after the murderer, and Kearney was again willing to sell—nay, eager to get rid of the property on almost any terms. What was the reading of the riddle?

For a full minute the two men sat and stared into each other's eyes. Roy felt that he was going to accept Roy's offer, and that the masterful man before him was willing him to that end. Yes. He would accept and the newspapers, and the public opinion that they led and formed, could journey to a nethermost hell.

"Well?" The word came from Kearney's lips, followed by the fragrant smoke from the cigar between his teeth.

"I buy." Roy drew his chair to the desk and wrote a cheque for three thousand pounds. "Six months to complete the purchase or deposit forfeited. One condition. The contract of sale must be in my hands by five o'clock this afternoon. Accepted?"

"You're quick." Kearney scanned the cheque and placed it under a paper weight. "I'll send the receipt round with the papers, all in order, by four-thirty. My clerk will wait and bring back your signature. Good day!"

In the street, Roy looked at his watch. It was twenty past twelve. He determined to go back to his office and see if Basil Holt had sent for his cheque. On the way he would deposit it at his bank and ask for it to be cleared immediately. By five o'clock he would, have thrown down the gage of battle against public opinion.

At the bank, and about the streets, Roy met many friends and acquaintances. He thought there was a growing coolness against him. Men who dabbled in real estate, and had in the past been anxious to meet and talk with him, now crossed the road, or were interested in shop windows. Roy held his head high and walked straight forward. He would fight this out, but the fight must be one of attack, not of defence.

A youth was standing at the counter in his outer office. For a moment Roy thought he had come from Basil Holt. He was about to speak when his typist turned towards him.

"Mr. Basil Holt telephoned to ask you to be in to meet him at a quarter to one, Mr. Onslay."

The broker looked at his watch. It was exactly a quarter to one. As his hand rested on the handle of his private room the outer door opened and Basil Holt entered.

"Ah, good!" Holt, a short, stout man with a very florid face, came quickly round the counter, his hand outstretched.

"I'm glad you waited in for me, Mr. Onslay."

"You've come for your cheque?" Roy felt slightly nervous. "If you will come into my room, Mr. Holt, I will—"

"Keep the cheque, Mr. Onslay." The man waved a podgy hand. "I've determined to go on with the purchase of the house—at any price."