Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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THE heavy shade of the lighted lamp on the big desk was tilted at a strange angle, throwing the light on the door. In the padded swivel chair sat a stout, florid man, bending forward, his head resting on his hands, clasped on the blotting-pad. A few inches before his head stood a small, brass Buddha; the passive, carven face looking down in benign satisfaction on the partially bald head.

The room was handsomely furnished. Costly rugs littered the polished boards. Around the room ran a line of dark wood bookcases, well-filled and standing about five feet from the floor. On the book-cases were rare specimens of china and bronze. The walls held half-a-dozen paintings, each an unique example of Australian art.

Immediately opposite the seated man was the door of the room, leading through a short passage to the outer door of the chambers. On the right of the desk were big windows, screened by heavy, velvet curtains. Opposite the windows was another door, and, between it and the interior corner of the room stood two stacks of steel-filing cabinets—the one incongruous note.

A slight "tap-tap" on the panel of the door opposite the desk. The seated man did not move. Again came the tapping. A long pause and the handle turned. The door opened and a head was thrust into the room. The newcomer surveyed the scene inquisitively, his eyes resting for a time on the bowed head of the man at the desk.

"Mr. Sinclair." There was no answer. Again the man called: "Mr. Sinclair!"

The seated man did not stir. The door was pushed open and a short, slight man with thin, furtive face, stole into the room. In spite of the warmth of the night he was dressed in a long, shabby ulster coming almost to his ankles. His hat was pulled low over his eyes.

For moments he stood watching the motionless man at the desk; a puzzled frown on his face. Apparently making up his mind he closed the door. Looking it, he crept to the desk and lightly touched the head of the man. Something in the feel of the punk skin strained over the partially bald skull startled him. He moved round the desk until he stood beside the swivel chair. Again he touched the seated figure, this time on the cheek, withdrawing his hand as if bitten. He caught the man by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. The head, resting on the blotting-pad, rolled grotesquely.

"Gawd!" The man learned forward and grasped the lolling head, drawing it back. The wide-open eyes stared at him, unseeingly. The full-fleshed face was strangely pale. Under the skin a queer greyness showed.

As he pulled the head back the body rose with it; the coarse hands sliding across the blotting-pad. Between them was clasped a quaintly-embossed silver box. The lid was open and on a wisp of cotton-wool rested a large broken capsule. The intruder looked down on it, curiously.

"Struth! 'e never did that?" With a rough movement the crook dragged the corpse back until it rested in the chair. He swung the chair round and bent over the silver box, sniffing at the capsule. There was no smell. With nervous fingers he stirred it. The thing was empty. For moments he stood undecided.

At length he made up his mind. He moved the chair round so that the body faced the desk. From his pocket he took a pair of rubber gloves and drew them on. With the gloves he rubbed the chair and the desk where his hands had rested. Taking the dead man by the shoulders, he forced him forwards towards the blotting-pad, clasping the hands in their former position under the face. He went to the door and unlocked it, rubbing both handles with the gloves.

"May as well get on wi' it."

He glanced questioningly round the room.

"One, two—five sets from the book-cases from the winder, 'e sed. Then, this is it. Well, I'm not stayin' 'ere wi' that longer'n I can 'elp. Wonder wot made him say as Anton wouldn't be 'ome ternight? Looks as if sumthin's slipped."

The man bent to the bookcases. A few moments and he found the secret of the spring. He swung the cases back on their silent castors, revealing a row of three small, circular safes let into the wall. From his pockets he took a collection of tools, placing them on a chair he set handy for his work. Tentatively he fingered the knob of the middle safe—to draw back with a cry of astonishment.

"Strewth! The thin's open!" He thrust his hand into the safe, to withdraw it empty. "Nuthn' there! S'pose I must try th' others. But 'e sed th' middle safe."

The doors of the other safes were also unfastened. For minutes the crook searched vainly. The three safes were empty. With a gesture of impatience he closed the doors and pushed the stack of book-cases back into position.

"Safe's empty!" The man stood biting his glove-fingers. "Now, wot th' 'ell's that mean? 'e told he I'd find th' papers there. Well, they ain't. Now, wo't a chap ter do?"

Again beside the dead man, Duggan hesitated. At length he commenced to search the dead man's pockets. There was little in them. His eyes darted around the room, searching eagerly. Suddenly he moved around the seated figure. A small bunch of keys were hanging from a lock of the desk.

He opened a drawer and searched, unsuccessfully. Rapidly he worked through the desk, finding nothing to attract him. The top drawer on the right-hand side refused to open to any key on the bunch. Immediately the crook turned and picked up a jemmy.

The drawer yielded under pressure. He drew it open and exclaimed with delight. In it lay a small handful of silver and a big bundle of banknotes. He took out the notes and counted them.

"Two 'undred an' thirty-four of th' best, all small." The crook chuckled. "Well, that ain't had fer a 'our's work. Still, there's that." He nodded to the corpse. "Wot's more 'ere?"

His quick eyes swept the room questioningly, coming to rest on the closed door of the inner room. He waked to it and flung it open. The interior was in darkness. His searching fingers found the switch and threw it over. It was a bedroom, cosy and well-furnished. Duggan's eyes sped around the room until they came to the bed. He jumped back with a low cry of alarm. Outside the room his hand went to his hip-pocket, coming forward carrying an automatic. Holding the weapon before him he again advanced into the room.

On the bed lay a young girl, slender, fair and with a mass of corn-coloured hair. Her deep blue eyes, wide open, stared up at the crook. Duggan crept nearer. The girl was lying on the bed—not in it. His eyes swept her slender figure, coming to rest on flesh-coloured stockings. But he was not looking at the girl's legs; his eyes were on the dark cords binding her ankles. He looked at her face. Around it was a thick silk scarf.

With a quick gesture, he pulled his hat low over his eyes. "Wot's th' matter, sister?" His voice changed tone.

"Gr-r-r-r."

"No. S'pose yer can't talk wi' that in yer mouth. Jest as well, I'm thinkin'. Yer might wanter squeal an' then where'd I be? Now, wot's a bloke ter do 'ere?" As if fascinated, he moved closer to the bed, looking down into her wide, frightened eyes..

"Well, I'm damned! No, it ain't no good yer squirmin' like that. Whoever tied yer did a good job." The crook scratched the back of his neck. "Say, miss. What'll yer do if I takes that gag outer yer mouth? Squeal, or just say 'thank yer'? Can't say, of course. Well, jest nod yer 'ead. Will yer act sensible? Good!"

He untied the scarf and dropped it on the floor. Catching her by the feet he swung her round, then lifted her to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

"Wot's yer name?"

"Myrtle Wayne."

"Wot yer doin' 'ere?"

"I came to see Mr. Sinclair."

"Ugh!" The man snorted. "Nice sorter pal t'ave. Wot did yer want wi' 'im? Say, did ye—?"

"Did I what?" The girl looked up, a little smile on her lips.

"Wot did yer come t' see Mr. Anton about?"

The girl did not answer. "Nuffin' ter say, eh? Well, wot'll yer do if I leaved yer tied?"

"Scream." The girl answered promptly. "But you wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't pay yer t'shout." A smile flecked the crook's lips. "Gawd! Wouldn't yer cop it 'ot."

"Why?"

"Cos. Anton's croaked it—dead, if yer understands that best."

"Mr. Sinclair dead! Oh!"

"An' you 'ere in th' rooms wi' 'im, 'an tied up." Duggan chuckled. "Wot a mess! Say, Myrtle, 'adn't yer better spill it?"

"Hadn't you better untie my hands?"

"Ain't decided that, yet. Better get yer tale orf yer chest. Then I'll know wot ter do."

"Hadn't you better take off your hat when you speak to me, Mr. Peter Duggan? Then—"

"Yer knows me?" The crook was startled. "Say, who're you?"

"Untie my hands!"

Much puzzled, the crock advanced and untied the girl's hands. She bent and released the cords binding her ankles. Ignoring the man she shook out her skirts and went to the dressing-table. Switching on the lights she examined her features, then returned to the bed and found her hand-bag. With it she returned tot the mirror, to powder her face and neck. At length, satisfied with her appearance, she seated herself on the edge of the bed, facing the crook.

"How do you come to be here, Peter? Tell me your story," she commanded.

"Wot about yours?" The man spoke roughly. "Wot d'yer think yer doin'? Runnin' th' bloomin' show?"

"If I don't run this show—as you call it—Mr. Peter Duggan may have, a series of sensational adventures, ending in Long Bay goal at an early hour of the morning." The girl laughed lightly, in spite of the serious undertone to her words. "Still, you've been useful, so I'll satisfy your curiosity. Mr. Sinclair was good enough to order me to call on him this evening with—with—No matter. Sufficient for you to know I could not resist him."

"With what?" Duggan was inquisitive. "Say, yer brought 'im that silver box?"

"The silver box! Yes, but—"

"An' the capsule? My, you've got pluck!"

"The capsule?"

"Th' capsule in th' box." The crook spoke impatiently.

"There was no capsule in the silver box when I handed it to Mr. Sinclair. There was a—a—" she hesitated.

"A wot?"

"A very fine ruby ring." With sudden temper the girl sprang to her feet. "I know you, Mr. Peter Duggan. What have you done with that ring?" She bent suddenly, and from underneath her short dress produced a miniature automatic. "If you've stolen it, I'll—"

"I ain't touched it." The man protested. "If I 'ad it I'd give it back ter yer. You're one ov us, ain't yer?"

"One of you?" The girl nodded her head, gravely. "Perhaps I am. Listen, Peter. That man made me bring the ring here. I arrived soon after ten o'clock and gave him the silver box with the ring in it. He kept me talking. Then he said he had to go out for a few minutes—that he had to meet someone. I was to stay and guard the ring. When he came back he would—Oh, I can't tell you what. Anyway, he placed the box on the desk, leaving me in the room. I sat beside the desk, waiting for his return. Suddenly I was seized from behind, tied and gagged. He, or they, carried me in here and threw me on the bed, face downwards. I managed to wriggle on my back but by that time they had left the room. I never saw them. Now, you?"

"I didn't bring 'im anythin'." Duggan chuckled. "I came ter get sumthin' from 'im. When I came inter the room Anton was sitttin' at the desk wi' the silver box in 'is 'ands 'an 'is face in it. I lifted 'im up an' saw th' box. There was a broken capsule in it. That's all, 'cept Anton's dead."

"Dead!" The girl repeated, musingly. "No, that's no good, Peter. You'll have to do better than that. Come, out with it!"

"It's the truth I'm tellin' yer," the crook protested. For a long moment the girl stared at the man; then she passed him and ran to the study room; to start back with a cry of wonder. The crook followed her into the room, to stare at the desk in blank amazement.

The chair before the desk was empty; there was not a sign of the dead man in the room. On the centre of the blotting-pad stood the little silver box, the lid open, showing the cotton-wool and the broken capsule.

"Well, I'm—" With a gesture of warning the girl turned and ran back to the bedroom, beckoning Duggan to follow her. Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage.