Читать книгу The Framing of Inspector Denvers - Aidan de Brune - Страница 3

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MARTHA TAYNE sat at her desk, close to the door leading into Luther Banke's private office. She was leaning forward, her elbows on the desk-top, her hands cupping her chin. A heavy frown drew down her brows, half-closing her eyes. Her foot tapped, impatiently, the mat under her desk.

The office was small, though comfortably furnished. Three tall lines of steel filing-cabinets and a door occupied one of the walls. Another wall held two large windows, and under them was a long, comfortable-looking lounge. The third wall was vacant except for a rather mediocre steel engraving. Against the fourth wall stood Martha's desk and close by it was the door leading into the inner office.

Martha had reason to frown. That morning should have been devoted by Luther Banke to the overseas mail; and Alec Kempton, senior partner in Walls, Kempton & Co., the leading solicitors of the city, had been engaged with Luther Banke for the past two hours. Impatiently, the girl's eyes wandered to the pile of correspondence awaiting attention. The beat of her foot beneath the desk increased perceptibly.

Really, the position was intolerable! More than one business man in the city had openly stated that Martha Tayne was "Luther Banke & Co., Jewellers." Outside her door—opening directly into the handsome, but discreetly, furnished shop—were half-a-dozen immaculately garbed assistants prepared to swear that if Martha married, handed in her resignation, or inconsistently "sacked" the firm, the shutters would have to be erected and a modest notice inserted in the Government Gazette in the section headed "Bankruptcy."

Yet Martha was a girl and, without the present frown, a remarkably pretty one. Tall, with dark hair containing more than a hint of gold; a lithe almost faultless figure, and a clear complexion, she attracted immediate attention.

From under rather heavy brows looked out keen, brown eyes which ever held a glint of laughter, even when discussing the gravest intricacies of business. A note in Luther Banke's private ledger informed the reader that Martha Tayne had entered the employ of the firm some three years previous and at that time had given her age at twenty years.

A little silver gong struck three clear notes as the door from the shop opened. Martha looked up quickly. A young man stood in the doorway. For a minute he hesitated then, in response to her quick nod of recognition, came to the desk and placed close to the girl's elbow a long, narrow case. A' quick movement of his tapered, well manicured fingers sprang back the lid, revealing six large, well-matched emeralds lying on a white velvet bed. For a moment the girl looked at the jewels a slight smile on her well-formed lips.

"Mr. Banke still engaged, Miss Tayne?"

"Yes." The girl leaned back in her chair, letting her hands fall to her lap, in a helpless gesture. "The Montgomery emeralds, Mr. Forde?"

The assistant nodded. He placed a slip of paper on the blotting-pad before the girl. Martha scanned the few lines and initialled them.

"Very well, Mr. Forde. I will take charge of the emeralds."

Fred Forde bowed and turned to the door. As his hand touched the doorknob the little silver bell chimed again. He looked round at the girl, a thin smile on his lips. She nodded, rising impatiently from her chair. For some minutes she paced the little room, continually glancing at the door of the inner office. Once she went to it and, after a moment's hesitation, bent her head to the panel, to listen. She could hear no sounds from the room, not even the murmur of voices. Her hand caught at the door-knob, then dropped to her side and she resumed her idle pacing.

Luther Banke was a man of routine. Alec Kempton was a methodical, matter-of-fact solicitor. Both men well knew that Thursday morning was strictly reserved for the overseas post—that to infringe on that time meant the possibility of disorganising for that week the large interests Luther Banke & Co. had in all parts of the world, and especially in Europe and America.

Martha glanced at her wrist-watch then went to the pile of correspondence on her desk and fumbled through the papers. She had no necessity to glance at one of them, she knew their contents by heart. Again she glanced at her watch. Another half-hour and her work would be too late for that day's mail. For the first time in the three years she had been Luther Banke's private secretary' the overseas mail would leave Sydney without including the very important correspondence from Luther Banke & Co. Again she turned to face the door of the inner room.

Then her eyes fell on the case of emeralds—six large stones, each about the size of a filbert. She lifted the case, letting the light from the window play on the facets of the jewels, admiring the quick changing of colours, the marvellous depth and brilliancy, then abruptly closed the case and replaced it on the desk.

Another glance at her wrist-watch, checking the time by a swift look at the clock perched on top of the centre filing-cabinet, and she turned to the inner office-door. A moment's hesitation and she knocked. There was no response. A full half-minute she waited, then knocked again, this time louder. Almost as her hand fell to her side the door was partly opened and a short, florid man peered around the edge.

"I wish to speak to Mr. Banke, Mr. Kempton."

Martha spoke coldly. "Mr. Banke is engaged, Miss Tayne."

"Mr. Banke cannot be engaged." A quick flush rose to the girl's face. "He cannot have forgotten that this is mail-day and that many important matters require his immediate attention, Mr. Kempton."

"It doesn't matter if this is the Day of Judgment!" The solicitor's florid face grew ruddy. "I have told you, Mr. Banke is engaged and cannot attend to any business just for the moment."

Martha gasped. The door had almost closed before she regained her wits; then with a quick forward movement she pushed the door from the man's hand. It swung back against the wall with a crash.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Martha spoke contritely, for Alec Kempton was rubbing his' wrist. Yet the little smile on her lips detracted from the words of her apology. Her quick glances travelled past the solicitor to the man seated at the desk on the other side of the room. He was sitting well forward, his body pressed against the edge of the desk. One hand was raised to his brow, shielding his face, his elbow resting on the blotting-pad. Something in his attitude—a reflection of dejection—called to the girl.

She stepped forward.

"Mr. Banke, this is mail-day. I must have your instructions at once or we shall miss the mail this week."

"I have told you, Miss Tayne! Mr. Banke is engaged on important business and cannot attend to the mail today."

Alec Kempton had followed the girl into the room and now interposed between her and the seated man. "I take my instructions only from Mr. Banke, Mr. Kempton." Martha faced the solicitor defiantly.

"Mr. Banke is not in a condition to—er—attend to routine business this morning," the solicitor persisted. "Mr. Banke has not said so."

The girl tried to pass the solicitor, but he moved again between her and the desk. "Will you allow me to pass, please, Mr. Kempton!"

"No." The man spoke brusquely. "Please go back to your office, Miss Tayne."

The girl shook her head, but the action was rather uncertain. For a moment she hesitated, then again stepped quickly to one side. Something in the attitude of the man at the desk alarmed her. She turned and faced the solicitor.

"Is Mr. Banke unwell, Mr. Kempton?" she asked.

"Mr. Banke has had a—er—shock." The man's reply came after a deliberate pause. "I have told you he is not able to attend to routine business. You must deal with those matters of which you are cognisant, and allow other matters to remain over until the next mail."

Martha gasped. Bewildered she looked from the solicitor to the seated man. "I don't think you understand, Mr. Kempton," she said slowly. "The overseas mail of this firm is entirely apart from the ordinary shop business and local trade. Mr. Banke attends to it personally, nearly every detail of it requires his personal attention. It is quite Impossible for any of it to be dealt with without Mr. Banke's personal decisions and instructions."

"Then I am afraid this mail will have to be missed." A slight smile played about the legal lips. "What is the matter with Mr. Banke?" "He—I have told you. He has received a shock."

"A shock?"

"Yes." The solicitor hesitated. "Do you understand now?" A little smile broke the line of the girl's compressed lips. Slightly taller than the man before her, she looked down on him. For a moment she caught sight of steel-blue eyes that held a hint of fear. Martha moved suddenly, catching the solicitor by the arm and swinging him to one side. A couple of quick steps and she was standing before the desk.

"Mr. Banke!" The man did not look up. For an instant the girl waited, fear growing in her heart. Shaking herself, mentally, she reached forward and touched his hand—to have her wrist grasped firmly by Alec Kempton. "Mr. Kempton!"

"Miss Tayne; you must not."

"What is the matter with Mr. Banke?"

"I have told you—a shock."

"Then he should be attended to." A quick movement brought the girl to the side of the desk. Kempton made a feeble effort to prevent her, but Martha wrenched her arm free.

"Mr. Banke!"

The man at the desk did not answer, or even change his position. The girl looked at him, in perplexity. Something was wrong in that room; something was wrong with the man seated at the desk. He had not moved since she had come into the room. He had taken no notice of her presence, or of her questions. Tentatively, hesitatingly, she stretched out her hand again to the man. This time the lawyer grasped her wrist firmly.

"Mr. Kempton, how dare you touch me!"

"Miss Tayne." The solicitor's voice held entreaty. "I ask you to be careful—to leave this matter to me. Please go back to your office."

"I refuse."

"I assure you that if you continue to interfere you may do irreparable harm."

"I think—" Martha hesitated, "I think there is something very wrong here." Her words were spoken slowly.

"What do you mean?" Kempton was staring at the girl, his face greying.

"This." With a sudden movement the girl released herself. She caught at the seated man's arm, jerking it sideways. "This, Mr. Kempton. This man is not Luther Banke!"