Читать книгу The Framing of Inspector Denvers - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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MARTHA came out of Luther Banke's room, closed the door and went to the seat behind her desk, sitting down wearily.

For more than an hour she had been in her employer's private office, recounting the details of the raid on the jewellery establishment by the notorious crook who styled himself "Cain."

For more than an hour she had withstood the searching questioning by Detective-Sergeant Davidson, striving to answer intelligently and fully while her brain had been in a whirl, and the keen eyes of the police officer had seemed to stare down into her secret thoughts accusingly.

Now, in the semi-privacy of her own office she smiled at the tremors that had assailed her while under examination. She had nothing to fear, in fact the detective had, at the end of his questioning, complimented her on the brave stand she had made against a feared and notorious criminal.

"Cain" had departed with the Montgomery emeralds—and no one had seen him take them from her desk. Martha was almost prepared to swear that he had never approached the desk. Fred Forde, the assistant, had that he believed the jewels to be on Martha's desk when he had entered the office to be confronted by the much-advertised crook, and that from thence on he had been between the crook and the desk.

Detective-Sergeant Davidson had laughed, suggesting that they had seen the jewels where Forde had placed them, because they had expected them to be there. He would not explain that cryptic remark.

If only Alec Kempton had given her one hint of what had happened in the inner office after she had shown him in to the man she had mistaken for her employer. Her fine lips curled in disdain as thoughts of the little man came to her.

What sort of a man was he? He had allowed himself to be intimidated, to be awed into silence, almost forced to be an accessory to the theft of the jewels.

Almost Martha could find admiration in her heart for the man who had named himself "Cain"—"Cain," the legendary criminal who had been driven from his kind with the curse that every human hand should henceforth be lifted against him. She had to admire the absolute nerve that had brought him to that establishment, so well guarded, disguised as the owner, intent on the theft of the famous Montgomery emeralds. She had to admire the steadfast confidence which had held him to his task, the fear of discovery ever beside him.

She could not but admire the strength of will which had allowed him to overawe the little solicitor and force the man to do his bidding. Now Martha believed she could trace the crime step by step.

Now she knew of the false telephone message which had taken Luther Banke into a distant suburb of the city and there detained him during the first hours of the morning. She could visualise the big, unnerving moment for the crook when Alec Kempton had unexpectedly walked into his presence. She conceived the swift swoop on the jewels he coveted, and knew, far too well, the details of the daring escape. Against her will she sighed.

That was adventure!

"Well, Miss Tayne?" Martha looked up suddenly, to see the detective standing in the doorway, surveying her quizzically. "Do you want me, Mr—Sergeant?"

"Mister will do, please." Detective-Sergeant Davidson, a tall, well-set-up man of about thirty years of age, smiled as he closed the door of Luther Banke's office and came to Martha's desk.

"Cain was quite an experience, wasn't he, Miss Tayne?"

"I can hardly believe him real yet," the girl smiled. "And to think he was in that room for nearly two hours—and Mr Luther Banke's safes contain many thousands of pounds worth of jewels!"

"Safes are not Cain's meat." The detective grinned. "Cain has never put his mark on a safe yet. No, he is a picker-up of—well, considered trifles. The Montgomery emeralds were quite to his taste and in his line—and they were lying on your desk ready to his hand, so to speak."

"I'm sorry." the girl answered contritely. "I never thought of them." She hesitated a moment. "You know, so many important pieces of jewellery lie on this desk at times. With the door to the shop protected by the electric bolt and the bell, I never believed a theft could be accomplished in this room."

"Quite a number of things we think impossible prove possible sooner or later, Miss Tayne." Davidson spoke meditatively.

"Is that a hint, a warning, or an accusation." Martha looked up quickly.

"Neither one of the three." The detective smiled broadly. "This is your first experience of a robbery, I believe—and you have been in Mr Luther Banke's employ for three years. You are lucky, Miss Tayne."

"Mr Luther Banke does not think so," the girl returned quickly. "The Montgomery emeralds are very valuable."

"They may be recovered."

"Do you think so?"

"Jewels of that nature are difficult to dispose of."

"For Cain to dispose of?"

"What do you know of Cain?" The question came after a pause.

"Nothing, but what happened here this morning," the girl said slowly, "but, I saw him and—and—"

"And—What?"

"I wonder now if I saw the real man." Martha spoke as if communing with herself.

"The real man!" There was a note of seriousness in the detective's voice. "Do you know what you mean by that, Miss Tayne?"

"I know he came here disguised as Mr Luther Banke. Then he wore a short, close-cropped beard and moustache. He appeared to be a middle-aged man wearing signs of long-standing illness—Mr Banke had been a partial invalid for many years. He acted the part—No, he was the man in every sense. When he came out of Mr Luther Banke's room into my office he was younger, more virile, every poise of body showing supreme confidence in himself. I held him under my gun—" The girl looked up quickly. "—and I can shoot, Mr Davidson. I would have shot him if Mr Kempton had but given me one hint of the truth of what happened in that office."

Her lips curled at thought of the pusillanimous solicitor. "And I would have shot to kill. Yet—" Again she paused. "Yet he never showed one sign of fear. He—he laughed!"

"A testimonial, Miss Tayne?" Davidson smiled broadly.

"It may be. I—"

The telephone on the girl's desk shrilled. Martha lifted the receiver and spoke the name of her firm. She listened for a moment then pushed the instrument toward the police officer.

"Someone is asking for you, Mr. Davidson."

"For me?" The man looked surprised. For a moment he hesitated.

"Will you take a message for me, Miss Tayne. Say—say that I am engaged."

The girl looked surprised, but obeyed.

For some minutes she listened, then drew a scribbling-pad toward her and wrote rapidly. Davidson watched the girl for a moment, then came round the desk and glanced over the girl's shoulder. He chuckled slightly and Martha looked up, slightly flushed.

"There is the message, Mr—er—Davidson." The girl's eyes were watchful and her tones cold.

"What do you think should be done with it, Miss Tayne?"

"I suppose I should hand it to Mr Luther Banke." A slight smile came on Martha's lips. "You must acknowledge, the position is—er—unique."

"And the message—awkward, now that Mr Kempton has left us." The man laughed gently.

"So sorry Detective-Sergeant Davidson met with an—accident—er—Cain—you spell it with an 'I,' do you not?" Martha's heart was beating fast yet her hand was steady as it stole along the line of her desk to where the automatic rested in the drawer.

"Invariably." Mirth grew in the man's eyes. "If you will forgive me, Miss Tayne—" He caught her hand gently and drew it to her lap. "I have not had experience of your ability with that little toy, so—" He picked up the automatic. "May I? I should greatly appreciate it as a—a—memento of—"

"Surely you don't expect to escape again?" The girl's brows arched.

"I may be lucky—again." Cain smiled slightly. "Why not?"

The girl did not answer immediately. "If I call out—" she said at length.

"You will not."

"No?"

Martha paused. "I think I shall."

"But—you have bolted the door."

"Mr Luther Banke will hear me."

"Will that affect the—er—situation?"

Martha shook her head, decidedly.

"No. Mr Luther Banke is not well. No, I shall not call out.'

"Then—?"

"Why did you come back here?"

"I wonder if you would be offended if I told you?"

"And you—a thief?"

"And yet—a man."

"Is—Can a thief be a—man?"

Cain turned and strode across the room. Martha's eyes went to the drawer where still lay her automatic. Almost her hand went out to it; then she drew back. No, she could not do that!

Yet the man was a thief. He had gone from, that, room a little more than a couple of hours before carrying with him the Montgomery emeralds. He might have them on him at that moment. If she snatched at her automatic; bailed him up and called for help; the man could not evade capture. She would be praised—rewarded—and he—Somehow she could not visualise him in prison—a creature behind bars. Always she would see him as he stood in that room, alone, playing a dangerous game against the enemies surrounding him. "Cain," alone, the outcast, fighting against every man—every man's hand against him!

The warm colour surged to her face and neck. What was she thinking; what was she doing? The man was a criminal—one of those beings the newspapers and fiction writers named "master-criminals." He was a danger to society—yet, somehow, he made her think of the wild animals, following out the dictates of their instincts in the jungle, fighting, lone-handed, against Nature and their natural enemies in the age-old war of self-preservation.

A wave of sympathy for him—hunted and friendless—swept over her, and again the warm colour rose to her face.

"Well?" Cain swung violently on his heels to face her. "What do you want to do?"

"Why did you come back?" Martha dare not look up as she asked the question.

"Don't you know?"

The girl did not answer. She could not. For moments she sat, impotent, then reached under the desk and released the door-lever.

The slight sound made the man turn quickly. Immediately he recognised what she had done, and laughed, quaintly and happily.

"And—the gun, Miss—Martha?"

Without speaking, she took it from the drawer and held it out to him.

"You—you are on my side?" The words came in a low, fierce whisper.

"No." Martha spoke firmly, yet her heart betrayed her words.

"Then—"

He went to the desk in a few quick strides, standing before the girl and looking down on her. Martha knew he was there, but she dared not look up.

"If you will excuse me, Ser—Mr Davidson, I have important work waiting. As no doubt you remember, we missed the overseas mail this morning and that has entailed a lot of—a lot of—"

The hot tears came to her eyes and she brushed them away, angrily, with the back of her hand; but the tears only came faster. She groped for her handkerchief, and rubbed her eyes vigorously, angrily. When she looked up, she was alone in the room.

And, at her elbow stood the familiar long, narrow box—open, and blazing brilliantly on their bed of white velvet—the Montgomery emeralds!