Читать книгу The Grays Manor Mystery - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4
CHAPTER II
ОглавлениеRICHARD DENING was smiling quietly as he passed down the steps from Altona House into Arundel Street. In his mind was the spectacle of the seven dumbfounded men in the boardroom of the Altona Trading Company; yet, with their outward show of astonishment he believed to be mingled some sense of fear. He had not spoken on sudden impulse, or at the urge of a newly formed theory. He had decided to undertake the inquiry some time before he left the room. His final questions had been carefully calculated to evoke some show of emotion from the men gathered about the table.
Now he wondered if he had succeeded. Had he been able to read more than astonishment into the glances that had followed him from the room? For some moments he stood on the pavement, deep in thought, then, glancing at his watch, walked up the slight incline to the strand. There he again looked at his watch. Should he go back to his chambers and wait for some move, he believed would be made by one of the men he had just left, or immediately start on the plan that was slowly forming in his mind?
A moment's thought and he raised his stick, hailing a passing taxi. He gave the address of the Karmel Club as he entered the vehicle. During the short drive he forced the problem he had undertaken to solve, from his mind. For the moment he would neither wait for his opponents to move nor take any definite step himself. He wanted more information; information that only one of the seven men could provide and Reuben Gray was a member of the Karmel Club.
In the club he sought a quiet corner where he could keep a watch on the members entering the club, then abandoned, himself to reflections. The story Sir John McNiven had told that afternoon had completely intrigued him. Obviously much had been left unsaid; much that was of importance to him in his investigations; much that bore on the connection that bound these men of diverse views and objectives in one common tie. What mutual interest linked these men together? He knew that, individually, they were wealthy, with the exception of Reuben Gray; that collectively they represented a very large power in the financial world. Rapidly he scanned his knowledge of them.
Rumour reported that most of them were none too scrupulous in their methods of conducting business; yet, not one of them had ever wandered outside the rather fragile barriers of commercial morality—or, if they had, they had succeeded in not being found out. He knew that to succeed in his quest he had more to do, than to uncover the identity of Matthew Ashcombe. He had to find the common bond that held these men; men who distrusted, if they did not absolutely hate, one another.
Yes; he was certain that "hate" must be applied to the major emotion that linked these men. Whatever interest had brought them together, hate had replaced it—hatred and fear. That he had read in their glances while he probed the strange story Sir John McNiven had told him, relating to Matthew Ashcombe, blackmailer.
A happy family. Dening smiled grimly as he reviewed his clients. A gambling house manager; a rum-runner of prohibition America; an ex-boxer, night club proprietor; and three financiers, serving opposite national interests. Lastly, a young man, reputed to be financially embarrassed. The younger son of an impoverished house; a loiterer on the fringe of society, swimming with the current, yet owning no visible means by which he kept afloat.
Truly a happy family; so united that they could not depute any one or more of their number to interview him. So distrustful of each other that they had to sit and watch—listen to all that was said.
Again Dening saw, mentally, the gross unwieldy body of Baron Rosenfeld, eyes half-closed, yet probing the hidden meaning of every word that was spoken around him; the sharp ferret eyes of the Frenchman, who had broken the silence with one short statement.
He laughed gently. Had he deceived them? Did they believe that he would proceed on the quest they had set him, blindfold. He asked himself the question: Would he have taken the commission they had offered if they had acted differently? Honestly, he answered himself—he would not.
In spite of his preoccupation, Dening's eyes had searched the moving throng for the man he sought. At half-past six he shrugged slightly and rose from his seat. Reuben Gray would not come to the club that evening. Possibly he had some social engagement. He mounted the wide stairs to the dining room. On the threshold he paused to scan the tables, still seeking his man.
"Lo, Dening." He turned, to face a tall military-looking man, leaning heavily on a stout stick. "Dining with anyone?"
"No engagements, colonel. Going to dine with me? Delighted. Come on, François always keeps a corner table for me."
Dening was genuinely pleased to meet the old man. Colonel Middleton was always an interesting companion. Tonight he was specially welcome, for he was a connection of the Gray family and might possibly be able to impart information of value, if properly handled.
"Well, m'boy?" Colonel Middleton looked up sharply when he had satisfactorily settled with the club waiter the important question of the moment and had time for minor affairs. "What's the latest scandal? Still probing mysteries."
"Yes." The barrister decided on a bold stroke. "Perhaps you can help me, if you will. I'm engaged on a matter that has some relation to the Gray family's old estate. You are some connection with the family, I believe?"
"Grays Manor?" The old man peered up sharply from beneath shaggy white brows. "The Grays sold it years ago. Belongs to Sir John McNiven now. What's he been up to, the damned old scoundrel?"
"So that's your opinion of one of our leading financial props," Dening laughed gently.
"Not mine only. It's public opinion, sir. That man will finish up in jail, mark my word."
"He may engage men to keep him out of it, colonel." The younger man paused a moment. He had his guest on the wrong line. Far better he asked his questions direct. "Colonel, what is your opinion of Reuben Gray? You know him, of course?"
"Ought to." For a few seconds Middleton devoted his attention to his plate, then looked up sharply. "Go on, man. I know him. He's my godson, though I ain't proud of the fact. What's he been up to now?"
"Nothing much. Only a sideline on a lost registered letter, but the case has certain uncommon features." Dening tried to make his voice very careless. "I thought I'd like to get a line on him. You see, I don't know him very well; he's only a club acquaintance."
"Not been up to any mischief, has he?" Again the keen old eyes searched the barrister's face.
"Not to my knowledge. You say he's your godson. Then you ought to know him well. What is your opinion of him?"
"Straight, so far as I know. All the Grays are straight; it's their chief failing in this world of crookedness, otherwise they'd be better off. As for Reuben, he's got ability, if the young scoundrel cared to use it; but all he does is to fool about on nothing a year. How he manages I don't know. Last time he honoured me with a visit I offered him a hundred for the recipe. Damned useful thing to have in these days of income taxes, super-taxes and H.C.L. He laughed in my face; blasted young scoundrel; not a bit of respect for his elders."
"I think you said that the Grays had to sell the family estates," questioned the barrister cautiously.
"Grays Manor. Lord, Reuben's got nothing to do with that place. Why, he wasn't even born until long after it was sold. 'Course I know Grays Manor. Stayed there umpteen times when old Sir Luke had it. He was George's father, y'know. Reuben's George's fifth son. George sold the place; no money for repairs, no money to live in it, and the only thing that kept the roof and walls together were the mortgages. Fact."
"Pity," Dening mused. "Believe the place was in the family for quite a time. The Grays were one of the old Surrey families."
For half a minute there was silence, then Colonel Middleton burst into a great guffaw. "Pumping me for the family history." The old man enjoyed the joke thoroughly. "Well, well. What will you young fellows be up to next? I'd have blackballed you here, young Dening, if I'd known you were going to bring shop into the place. Still, just for once, I'll talk."
For a few seconds he devoted his attention to his dinner; then he looked up, a little smile crinkling his eyes.
"Ever been to Grays? Well, it'd interest you. Fine place, if it is a ruin now. That man, McNiven, ought to be scragged for not making something of it; but he says he can't, it's too far gone, and those scoundrels of architects back him up in it. Grays was a damned fine place when I was your age. I stayed there often enough. They got it from one of the Stuarts, something to do with a love affair, I believe, but that's scandal. Anyway, the Grays held the place and quite a slice of the country for quite a while; in spite of their fondness for the pasteboards and the gee-gees. Sir Luke was the last of the bunch to hold it. When he died it went to George, and he found that he'd inherited half the Jews in London, and that's all. Someone had the sense to advise him to sell. Wisest thing he's done. Moved to London and became a guinea-pig. That's all he's had to live on. Married and brought up a family of five, all boys. As I've said, Reuben's the youngest of the brood. That what you wanted to know?"
"Only one thing more, colonel." Dening spoke directly. "How old is Reuben Gray? You said that Sir George sold the estates before Reuben was born, but Sir John McNiven told me to-day that he had only held the place for the past twenty years."
"Oh, he's in it, eh?" Middleton peered suspiciously across the table. "If he told you that he only bought the place twenty years ago he's a liar, but I knew that before. Let me see; Reuben's twenty-eight or twenty-nine. No, twenty-eight. George sold the place two years before he came to live in London and drag his family name through the Throgmorton Street gutters. That makes thirty years. Then he married about a year after he sold the family pride, as well as the family estates, to the Jews; and Reuben was born six years later. Lord! Why it's nigh on forty years since George left Grays. Now, who'd have thought that?"
"Perhaps there was a previous purchaser before Sir John McNiven?" hazarded the barrister.
"Not on your life," the colonel was, positive. "I was at Grays when Sir John came there to look it over. George was living in the lodge, the only place on the land fit to live in. He and the money-knight had quite a set-to and I sat in the window seat and watched it. Thought it'd come to a dust up, and George could use his hands. Anyway, they got to some sort of terms and the lawyers patched up the sale. That what you want to know, young Dening?"
"Thanks, yes."
"Nothing more?" Colonel Middleton sat back with a sigh of relief. "Now then, Richard Dening, what's Reuben been up to?"
"I don't know." The barrister smiled slightly. "No, colonel, that's the truth. He's in the affair and yet he's not. So far as I know he's one of the innocent parties. What I've got to discover is the identity of the guilty man."
"The guilty man? Who's that?"
"Exactly what I want to know, but he's not Reuben."
Yet the barrister had a doubt. Could he absolve any of the seven men he had met that afternoon?
"Well, I'll take your say-so." Colonel Middleton rose to his feet. "What are you doing, Dening? How about cutting into a game of bridge?"
The barrister shook his head, pleading urgent business. Obtaining hat and stick, he strolled out on to the streets, turning in the direction of the city.
It was not eight o'clock, and he did not feel inclined for work, although plenty awaited him at his chambers. He had no social engagements, and no urge to seek companionship. Idly strolling through the hurrying pleasure-bent crowds, he came to Temple Bar and crossed the old, grey gates that guarded the Temple. Colonel Middleton had had little to tell him. Only the fact that the Grays Manor estates had passed from the family more than thirty years ago. Why had Sir John McNiven deliberately deceived him in that fact?
And Reuben Gray had sat at the table listening. He had known that the financier had not told the truth; yet he had allowed the lie to pass. Dening wondered how many truths and half truths and deliberate lies had been told him that afternoon.
He walked down the lane some hundred and fifty yards, until almost at the narrow entrance to Fern Court, then stopped abruptly. Something had sharply impinged on the Wall close to his head, dropping to the pavement with a little thud. He looked up. There was a new mark on the old bricks, only about an inch above his head. Some brick-dust had fallen on his shoulder. He brushed it away. Whatever had hit the wall had fallen to the pavement almost at his feet.
A few minutes search and he picked up a nickel coated bullet.
For a few moments he stared around him, amazed. Then he glanced up at the mark again, stepping hack to where he had stood when the bullet struck the wall. Turning carefully, he faced the direction from which he believed the bullet had come. He was facing an open court, the centre of which was occupied by a large fountain, surrounded by potted shrubs and palms.
For a moment he stood peering across the roadway, in the gathering evening gloom, then, seeing some movement among the shrubbery, he jumped forward to run across to the fountain. On the edge of the curb his foot slipped and he fell heavily to the road. At the same time he heard the "phut" of a silenced rifle, and another bullet struck the wall of the house.
Springing to his feet, greatly shaken, Dening saw a man running swiftly down the roadway in the direction of the Embankment Gardens.