Читать книгу The League of Five - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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JUDD CHAMBERS, a narrow, three-storied building, with low, oblong windows set in dingy red bricks, stands within one hundred yards of the juncture of Pitt-street and Barton-street, fronting Circular Quay. The ground floor is occupied by a feed-merchant. There is no entrance hall; visitors to the upper stories having to pass through the shop and climb the narrow, squeaking stairs. The house extends far in the rear, towards George-street.

A tenants' board, on the wall of the seed man's shop, bears the name of Jabul Ardt. The numbers of the rooms allocated are 32 and 33. To the name no business designation is attached, not even the general term 'agent' following nearly every other firm on the indicator.

Jabul Ardt's visitors do not complain of the lack of an elevator in the building. They prefer to slink in, as if seeking some rare but unobtrusive plant. They watch an opportunity to climb the rickety stairway unobserved, casting furtive glances over their shoulders. On the third floor they turn to their left and walk the length of the corridor. Jabul Ardt's offices are the last two rooms on the right-hand side. Their dirty windows, seldom cleaned, seldom opened, overlook a narrow alley-way.

Half-past eight was chiming at irregular intervals from city clocks when Charlie Budd, a sandy-headed youth of nineteen years arrived at Judd Chambers and sauntered up the stairs, pulling a large door-key from his pocket.

For more than two years he had climbed those stairs, daily hating them more and more. He hated his work; facetiously declaring himself watch-dog to the worst money-lender in Sydney. He had ambitions. Bitten by the wireless craze, he spent most of his leisure writing letters for employment, to radio companies.

He had just turned the key in the lock of room 32 when the smart, tapping of high-heels on the uncovered boards of the stairs caused him to look round. He lifted his hat with an elegant sweep and waited for the girl.

"Morning, Bessie. Bright an' early an' all that." He grinned as the girl swept past him with a dignified how. "What was it, last night? The pictures, or 'la dance'? And, more important, what was 'he' like?"

"Good morning, Mr. Budd." The girl, smart, pert and dark, crossed to a cracked mirror on the wall. From her handbag she produced various articles. For some minutes she worked over her fresh, young face, repairing the ravages of travel from her suburban home.

"Boss not in yet?"

"No trumpets 'ave sounded." Charlie cupped his ear with his hand. "No horns of the well-known Rolls-Royce in the street. No, Miss Trent. 'Is 'ighness still lingers over the matutinal chop and hegg."

"Chop and egg, indeed!" The girl tossed her head. Seating herself, she uncovered a battered typewriter. "Jabul's too mean for 'chop and egg'. More'n likely he's dunning some poor goat for interest—and a cup of tea and toast with it."

"Hard heart!" Charlie sighed lugubriously. "Not even for our kind boss has she a soft word. Oh, woman! Woman!"

"Chuck it, Charlie! You make me tired." Bessie took some papers from a drawer. "Damn! Charlie, shove another piece of card under the leg of this desk. It's rocking again. Got the borers in it—like some people I know."

The youth grinned, and, finding a piece of cardboard, stuffed it under the rickety leg. He rose to his feet with a grunt: "There!"

"You really are a darling, sometimes." The girl spoke judicially.

"My duty, m'am," Charlie's grin broadened. "Am I to take that for a proposal? It's leap-year, y'know."

"Marry you!" Bessie's bright eyes-swept the youth. "No-o, I don't think so, Charlie; but don't die of a broken heart. You're not my style—wouldn't be if you had all Jabul's money."

"Which ain't such a—" He broke off as a well-known step sounded in the corridor. "Setting your cap at the boss? Oh, my!"

The girl started to move, to dive down to one of the drawers as a red-faced, portly man loomed in the door-way. With a curt "Good morning," Charlie crossed to the other desk and dropped the door-key in a drawer.

Jabul Ardt stood in the door-way surveying his staff with small, rat-like eyes. He was slightly over medium height, and gross in build. His head was small and set far back on his shoulders. His eyes were close-set and well above the line of his ears. He was dressed in a greasy frock-coat and wore a "hard-hitter" hat many sizes too small for him.

"Good morning, Charlie! Good morning Bessie! Ha! Ha! It's the early bird that catches the worm."

"Damn-fool worm." The girl muttered. "If he'd stayed in bed he wouldn't have provided 'chop and egg' for the hungry bird."

"Anything for me, Charlie?" Jabul grinned at the few words of the girl's aside he had caught. "Expecting a parcel—parcel of papers—not too big. No? You look bright and happy this fine morning, Bessie."

"Miss Trent, to you, please, Mr. Ardt."

The rattle of the keys of the typewriter increased, viciously. "I leave the 'Bessie' under the hall-mat at home."

"No parcels, Mr. Ardt." Charlie spoke carelessly. He opened the letter-box behind the door and produced half a dozen letters. "Small mail! That means journeys to Liverpool-street for me, I guess."

"No parcels?" The big man's face blanched. He recovered his composure with an effort. "Liverpool-street, Charlie? Oh, you mean the Summons Court! Think I'm as hard-hearted as that?"

"Don't have to think! Only 'ardt' in name, so far as I knows," the youth muttered as the man turned to the next office. "Of all the glorified—"

A bell rang shrilly. Charlie slid from his stool and went out of the door. He returned quickly. "Got to ring up Anton Sinclair, at Tower Square," he muttered, "Why the blazes couldn't he have told me that before he left the room. Making me run after him."

"Anton Sinclair!" Bessie looked up. "Say, Charlie, Jabul's mighty fond of Sinclair these past few weeks."

"Lent him money, I suppose."

"Don't be silly." The girl laughed. "Why, Sinclair's a millionaire. He could, eat up Jabul every hour of the day—and forget it."

"By weight? Might before lunch, then."

The youth grinned. He turned to the telephone and dialled a number. "Say, Bessie, what's the joke? Inviting himself to lunch at Tower Square? Jabul never uses the 'phone unless he gets something out of it. That B07659? Yes. Mr. Anton Sinclair's chambers? Mr. Sinclair in?"

He listened, a puzzled frown growing on his face. With a word of thanks he replaced the receiver and turned to the girl.

"Anton went out last night, hasn't returned. Told his man at seven o'clock that he didn't want him any more that day. When he came back this morning he found that Anton wasn't in his room, though someone had lain down on the bed. He seems worried."

"Tell it to the boss." Bessie shook her curls. "No use to me unless someone's found out that he's dead and that I'm the long-lost infant he abandoned on a doorstep eighteen years ago. And ma's against that. She weighs eighteen stone and a bit."

"Gosh. A stone for every year of your age. Say, Bessie, what's going to happen when your annual arithmetic fails? Ma'll have to take to reducing tablets."

He went out of the door, to return with his face alight with wonder. "Say Bessie, there's something up."

He spoke in a loud whisper. "When I told Jabul he went white. Put his head down in his hands and groaned. 'Lor'! I took it for a groan. Sounded like a young calf wanting a drink."

"Missed his lunch." Bessie giggled.

"Oh!" Charlie swung round to face a swarthy-featured man, standing in the door-way. The new-comer was a foreigner. His eyes were dark and sparkling; across his upper lip straggled a long, narrow moustache, the ends twisted tight and curled upwards. From the small ears were dependant two gold ear-rings.

"Mistar Jabul Ardt—he is in?" The man spoke in smooth, southern-European accents. "Ye-es? I would see heem."

"What name?" Charlie shoved a chair towards the man. "Sit down. It's the only thing we don't charge for here."

"There es no name. Say to Mistar Ardt thees: 'Flem-ming wanta heem!'"

A gesture refused the chair. The man learned against the door-post, moving slightly to allow the youth to pass. His eyes wandered over the room to come to rest on the girl. He remained staring at her.

"Next door. Go on in." Charlie spoke from the corridor. He watched until the man entered Ardt's room then sped to Bessie's desk.

"Say, old thing! There's a beano on. When I told Jabul, 'Flemming wanta heem' I thought he'd have a fit. Just doubled up and gasped like a shark out of water; Lord! You should have seen his face. Thought I'd have to—"

"Mr. Jabul Ardt in?" Charlie swung round to see a slight, medium-built man sidle in at the door. "Name is Duggan—Peter Duggan."

"Mr. Ardt's engaged. Someone just gone in."

"That's all right, sonny." The man sat down on a chair. "Jest tell 'im I'm 'ere an' waitin.' See?" He slipped back to the seat. The youth hesitated.

Jabul Ardt was particular that he should not he disturbed when he had a client with him. But, was the foreigner a client? Was this newcomer a client? He could ask that.

"Want to see him on business?"

"Yep. Hurry up'!"

Reluctantly, Charlie went to the door to room 33. He knocked and listened. There was no answer. He turned the handle, pushed open the door and peered in, There was no one in the office.

Where had Jabul Ardt and his visitor gone to? Charlie knew he would have seen or heard them, if they had come down the passage. Jabul was a man of weight, walking heavily. The foreigner was lighter, but the floor-hoards creaked. He could always hear the money-lender moving about his office end suddenly remembered that for some minutes the place had been remarkably silent.

A sound behind him attracted his attention. He turned to face the predatory eyes of the crook.

"Wot's th' matter, sonny?"

Without waiting for an answer Duggan pushed past the clerk, flinging the door right back. For a moment he searched the room with quick eyes, then entered. Charlie followed him.

"Gone!" The crook looked around him, inquisitively. "Thought you sed 'e wos engaged?"

"A man came to see him, just before you arrived," the clerk exclaimed. "I'll swear he came in here."

"Then where is 'e?" Duggan grinned, perplexedly. He crossed to the window and flung it up, peering down on the little lane. He learned far out, testing the strength of a pipe passing down the wall.-"Wot sort ov a bloke wos this 'ere chap?"

"Foreigner; moustache curled at the ends; gold rings on his ears; dark." Charlie ticked off the points of the man.

"Seafaring man could'a done it." Duggan drew in his head. "Close the door, sonny. We don't wanter crowd ere."

Charlie caught the edge of the door, and swung it; to jump back with a cry of amazement.

Trussed up with ropes and gagged, Jabul Ardt stood behind the door, straining at them with wide, frightened eyes.

The shrill ring of the telephone hell broke the spell that had fallen over man and youth. Duggan sprang forward, searching his pockets for a knife with which to cut the ropes. Charlie ran to the public office. When he returned the money-lender was seated in his chair, in earnest conversation with the crook.

"Mr. Ardt!" The youth spoke breathlessly. "Sanderson has just telephoned. Wants to know If you've seen Mr. Sinclair today. When I said you'd been inquiring for him he said he believed something had happened, and that he was going to call in the police."

"The police!" Jabul sprang to his feet. "The fool! The damned fool! He'll ruin us!"

"Sit down!" Duggan forced the agitated man back in his chair. He turned to the clerk. "You—you get ter 'ell outer this! Quick!"