Читать книгу The Fortune-Telling House - Aidan de Brune - Страница 4

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"—NINETY-SIX, ninety-seven, ninety-eight—" Sam Laske was bending over the bar-counter counting the gold coins from the billy and piling them up in twenties, in ordered rows.

"Lor', Bart., there's five hundred of them!"

Skirlington nodded. He glanced from the piles of gold to the swaggie, huddled in a corner of the settee. A puzzled frown came in his eyes and he walked through the gate in the counter and came round to stand before the man. The tramp looked up, bewilderedly, then mechanically stretched out his hand and took the pot of beer, heavily laced with brandy, standing on the settee beside him.

The hotel-man took it out of his hands. "You've had enough for the present," he said. "Now you hand over some information."

"Wha' for?" grumbled the man.

"We want to know what you've been doing for the past twenty-four hours, and where you got that money."

Skirlington spoke without stress in his voice, only a definite and suppressed curiosity. "Now, where did you camp last night?"

"At th' big house."

"The big house, You mean the Darrington place?"

"I sed th' 'ouse in th' bush." Sam Laske, back to the bar, his elbows on it, gazed on the swaggie with curiosity. He noted the strange change of accent. Up to that moment the man had spoken fairly good English—now he had dropped into patter of the road.

"Where?" asked the baronet.

"Abart 'arf a-mile up th' road."

"That's Darrington House."

"Is it? I dunno. It's the big grey-stone 'ouse set in th' bush—"

"What's your name?" questioned the newspaperman suddenly. "Th' Jay Bird," The swaggie grinned.

Sam turned to the hotel-keeper. "This man is acting dumb," he stated, flatly. "You noticed that when he came in here, tensed with excitement, he could speak decently. Now he's putting up bush talk. Where's this Darrington House?"

"Up Sydney way, about half-a-mile," Skirlington said briefly, not taking his eyes from the man on the settee. "About the oldest house in this part of the country. I believe it was built in the early colonial days. Big rambling place, hidden in the bush, nearly a quarter of a mile from the main road."

"Who does it belong to?" continued the newspaperman.

"Jess Markham." Skirlington, half-turning, pointed through the bar-door across the road. "Daresay you noticed his place, over the ridge, when you were outside this afternoon."

"Who lives at Darrington House?" asked the journalist, intent on one line of thought.

"No one. No one has lived in the house since I came here." Skirlington paused a moment. "I heard talk that when he first came here after buying the ground hereabouts, Jess Markham moved into Darrington House. He is said to have stated that the place was too big for him, and then built the house across the fields. Got it up in pretty quick time, too."

"Why?" Sam was puzzled. "Why did he want a new house when he had a well-built stone house of respectable, size on hand? There doesn't seem to be much sense in that!"

Skirlington grinned.

"There's a rumour about here that the old house is haunted. I asked Jess Markham if that was the reason, for his move when he was in here one day, and though he got real wild, he didn't deny it. Just shifted the conversation—and when I showed signs of working back to the subject, drank up and moved off, quick time."

For some seconds the journalist pondered. The queer instinct that some newspaperman have for news in the course of their work, insisted that here was a mystery awaiting exploration—that close to him was a subject that would probably make excellent copy, if properly probed. He glanced at Skirlington questioningly and the man stared back at him, his face expressionless.

"Then you believe that yarn?" There was more assertion than question in the journalist's words. When the hotel keeper did not answer, Sam continued: "You say that house stands in a belt of bushland. How big?"

"Some few hundred acres."

Sam whistled. "What sort of land?" he asked.

"All the land round here is good." There was no inflection in Skirlington's words.

"Then Jess Markham chooses to leave good lands uncleared and uncultivated. Of course there's no grazing in the bush?"

The swaggie laughed suddenly. "Grazin'," he snorted. "Why, a rabbit couldn't push his way through some of that bush."

"Good land, uncultivated and ungrazed, allowed to litter with bush." Sam spoke meditatively. He did not look directly at either of the men before him, yet he did not miss one expression, or involuntary movement they made. Long experience had taught him that where country matters are concerned the countryman erects an impenetrable barrier against the city-bred man.

"How much land does Jess Markham own?"

"Nearly two thousand acres—more or less,"

A snore from the swaggie, seated on the bench behind the hotel-keeper drew their attention. Sam passed Skirlington and shook the man roughly by the shoulder. His head rolled and he toppled forward and would have fallen to the ground had not the newspaperman thrust him back, holding him there while Skirlington pulled his legs out, so that he reclined in the corner.

"Drunk!" Sam bent to the man, then faced the hotel-keeper. His attitude became more friendly. "You've made him drunk, Bart., 'course, you laced that beer prettily heavily, with brandy, and I suppose the poor devil had nothing to eat to-day."

"Had to." The growing hostility in Skirlington's manner was disappearing. He smiled suddenly. "Can't have an old fool about the place drooling about a pot of gold he's found. There'd be something like a riot if any of Markham's hands walked in and heard him. They'd pull Darrington House down, stone by stone, for half what's in that billy."

"Well?" queried Sam, with a sudden grin.

"I'll call the police station at Southbury," decided the hotel-man. He moved to the telephone, nodding back at the bar on which stood the billy of gold. "Get that out of the way, Laske. If anyone comes in and sees it, there'll be awkward questions asked."

Sam nodded. He went round the bar and found some brown paper and string. In this he wrapped the billy, first filling it with the rouleaus of gold he had previously made. He had just tied the last knot when Skirlington hung up the receiver and came to him.

"Sergeant Adson, of the Southbury police, is coming out at once. He's got a motor-bike and side-car, and pushes it a bit, so he won't be long."

"Got a side-car," said Sam. "You might have asked him to bring out a tin of petrol for me."

"Never thought of that." Skirlington grinned. "Besides, if he brought you out gas, I'll lose my guest—and you're the first intelligent man I've had staying in this hotel since I first came here." He paused and fingered the parcel Sam had made of the billy and gold. "Say, what shall we do with this?"

"Lock it up in your safe."

"It belongs to that fellow." Skirlington nodded, doubtfully at the sleeping man.

"Nowadays gold can only belong to a government," stated the newspaperman sententiously. "We, the common herd are not fitted to handle so precious a thing; we're only allowed to have printed bits of paper."

Skirlington nodded. He picked up the parcel and went into the bar parlour. Sam heard the rattle of keys, and the groan of a heavy door opening. He glanced at the sundowner, sleeping heavily in a corner of the settee. On impulse, he went to the man and bent, listening to his breathing.

"Still asleep?" asked the hotel-keeper as he re-entered the bar-room.

"Fast asleep—and he'll sleep for hours." Sam turned to the hotel-keeper with a grin. "Say, Bart., that police-sergeant will have it for you when he arrives. He won't be able to get a word out of this fellow tonight."

"I had to dose him," the hotel-keeper defended. "He was half-crazy. There would have been trouble if I hadn't laced his beer with brandy. Beer alone would only have made him more talkative."

Sam nodded agreement. He spoke meditatively: "Wonder what he will do with it? Drink it all up in a week or so, more than likely, then go on the bum again, to boast of his mates on the road of the time he found the billy of gold. All the men of the bush have tales like that—of wonderful fortunes that have been in their hands—sometime. Lor', the luck's queer—always goes to those to whom it's little good. Now, Bart., if you or I had found that pot of gold—" He broke off, grinning: "Pot o' gold! And we spend our days chasing the pot o' gold at the foot of the rainbow!"

He turned sharply, walked to where the swaggie sat, caught him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. The man's head rolled grotesquely on his shoulders; he mumbled thick words of protest.

"If only we could make him talk!" Sam spoke with exasperation. He turned to Skirlington. "What did he tell us, Bart.? Found the gold in the old house! Wonder if there's any more there?"

He looked down at the sleeping man. "Damn! He's just got to talk! The 'John' will be along any minute now."

With a sharp exclamation of remembrance, Sam ran out of the bar room to the interior of the house. In a few minutes he returned, carrying a small bottle.

"Forgot all about this," he said. "Saw it in the cupboard in the bathroom when I was cleaning up. Ammonia. This will cock him up!"

He withdrew the cork and thrust the neck of the bottle under the swaggie's nose. "Hold his head up, Bart., we'll give him a full breather of it."

The roughly applied strong ammonia roused the man. He struggled, coughed and sneezed; then wrenched his head from Skirlington's detaining hands and fell back against the corner of the settee.

"Warsthmatr!"

"That's better!" Sam thrust the bottle under the man's nose again. The Jay Bird fought out, almost sweeping the drug from the newspaperman's hands. "Worcestershire sauce and soda-water, in a big glass, please, Bart. That'll finish him up."

For long minutes the two men worked over their "patient," half-dragging, half-carrying him out into the night-air. It was not a pleasant business and when Skirlington went back to the bar and brought out a whiskey-soda, Sam accepted it with gratitude.

"There's the sergeant!"

Skirlington stiffened, listening. On the still night air came the throbbing of a swiftly ridden motor-cycle. The two men waited, standing one on either side of the swaggie, now seated on the bench under the hotel window. Presently a bright light shone on the brow of the hill. It rolled down the long slope swiftly, then came the sounds of brakes and into the halo of light from the hotel glided a cycle, bearing the hunched figure of a man. He dismounted and came quickly to where Sam and the hotel-keeper waited.

"What's the trouble, Bart.?"

A tall, sturdily built man in sergeant's, uniform stopped before the trio under the bar window. He looked at Sam and smiled. Then his eyes went to the sundowner and his lips tightened. Again he looked at the newspaperman.

"Trouble!" he repeated. "Of course there's trouble if Mr. Sam Laske is about. What are you doing in these parts, Mr. Laske?"

The newspaperman peered up at the police officer. A sudden knowledge came to him.

"Jack Adson!" Sam held out his hand eagerly. "Why, what are you doing here? Haven't set eyes on you since that Long Bay affair."

Sergeant Adson laughed quietly.

"They gave me a step in rank for that, and boosted me into the back-blocks." Adson shook Sam's hand warmly. "That's the penalty a good police-corporal gets for doing his work efficiently—when you newspapermen take notice and ladle on the praise too thickly—" He looked down on the sundowner. "Who's this? What's he done?" His eyes were raised to Skirlington: "You've not called me out of Southbury at this time of night for a drunk and disorderly, Bart.?"

"'The Jay Bird.'" introduced Sam. "Got over the drunk, hasn't been disorderly, but has to explain how he became inordinately rich on prohibited gold, in a poor man's country. Give me a hand, Sergeant, and we'll get him inside. And you'll want a drink, too, after swallowing your quota of the Southbury District Council's precious road dust. I did; I had two — no, three. Bart. almost gave notice that he would retire on a fortune if I would ride between here and Southbury every day for a fortnight." He turned to the hotel-keeper. "Think the Jay Bird wants another dose of sauce, or will a soda straight be more to his liking?"

"No more sauce for me!" Skirlington shuddered. "Let's get him inside. Adson wants to question him."

The efforts of the three men journeyed the swaggie into the bar parlour. Skirlington left the door ajar, so that he could keep watch on the bar-room, then dragged up a chair beside Sam and the sergeant. For some moments the three men watched the half-somnolent swaggie. Suddenly Sam spoke:

"What's your name?"

"Th' Jay Bird." The sundowner grinned.

"Know him?" The newspaperman turned to the police-officer.

"No," Yet Adson spoke doubtfully. He went closer to the man, peering into his face.

"Know me, Jay Bird?"

The man shook his head.

"No, I don't think he's been through our hands."

"The Jay Bird!" Sam was thoughtful. "I've got an idea I've heard that moniker before." He bent closer to the man. "Say, Jay Bird, you've spoken two or three dialects since you've been here. Now, get this. I know you're an educated man, so get rid of all pretence or the sergeant will deal with you effectively."

"All right." The man answered in a different tone. "That what you want?"

"The Jay Bird!" The newspaperman was raking a good memory. "I've heard that moniker before—and not in the bushland. Ah!—There was a man in Sydney who bore that nickname—quite some time ago." He bent closer until his eyes were a bare six inches from the man he was questioning. "Yes, there was a 'Jay Bird' in Sydney, in the days when I was a callow youth in journalism. Now—" He paused suddenly, leaned back in his chair, and spoke triumphantly: "I've got you, Mr. Jay Bird! Say, Mr. Jay Bird, there are some gentlemen who work in a large building at the corner of King and, Elizabeth Streets, Sydney, who'd like quite a time with you."

He turned to his puzzled listeners, explaining: "Sergeant, Bart. meet Mr. Solomon Birder, once a prominent financier and company promoter of our glorious capital city—who disappeared on the eve of the day he was to attend his first examination in bankruptcy." He turned swiftly, on the man: "I'm right, Mr. Jay Bird, aren't I? You're Solomon Birder.

"Well, what do you propose to do. Talk to us now, or let Sergeant Adson take you into Southbury and lock you up until he hears from the Registrar-General in Bankruptcy."

"Here!" Sergeant Adson expostulated. "You can't bargain—"

"Give him another beer, Bart." Sam spoke soothingly, motioning to the police officer. "He's wagging too dry a tongue."

"Of course, if there isn't a warrant out—" explained Sergeant Adson judicially. He accepted the beer and buried his nose in the pot.

"I don't think there is." Sam spoke regretfully. "Solomon Birder disappeared, as I have said, on the eve of his first examination in bankruptcy. There's very little doubt that the examination wouldn't have gone far before a charge, or charges, of fraud were laid against him. He disappeared—and peculiarly, and lucky for the Jay Bird, a man was found next morning at the foot of the Gap. That man was sadly battered about the head. In physique he was own brother to the Jay Bird. Certain people swore the corpse was. Solomon Birder, others were doubtful. In the end, as the man was never identified, it was assumed the financier had taken the coward's way out."

He noted the flush that for a moment suffused the swaggie's face.

"The search for Solomon Birder slackened with that, and eventually it became accepted that the incident, so far as the man was concerned, was closed." He turned to the police officer: "Surely Adson, you remember the alarming statements that were made regarding Solomon Birder's companies. Fraud stank all over them! Now, I wonder! If anyone communicated with the bankruptcy authorities, and offered to make an affidavit that a certain man in the cells at Southbury was—"

"You wouldn't do that!" expostulated the Jay Bird, unthinkingly.

"Why not," queried the newspaperman, in assumed surprise.

"Because you want to know about that billy of gold." The man grinned offensively.

"You're optimistic!" Sam Laske laughed. "That billy of gold is an added count against you. Of course! Well, I'll tell you, things have happened since you were a big noise in the city of Sydney; for instance, the possession of gold coins to-day is perilously near an offence. You can be locked up and fined for their possession."

Sergeant Adson frowned. He thought Sam Laske was stretching the meaning of certain financial Acts of Parliament somewhat dangerously.

"What do you want to know?" asked the Jay Bird.

"We want to know how you came to be in possession of five hundred-gold sovereigns, most of them bright and new." The journalist paused, to add impressively. "Now, Jay Bird, you can't get away with it. You can't spend that gold, if we give it back to you, you can't change it into Treasury signatures, you're just—just—"

"I can melt the sovereigns down and sell the gold." The swaggie leered slyly at the three men. "Who's to tell then?"

"The first expert you hand that lump of gold to," Sam Laske laughed. "Don't be a fool, man. Open up—and darned quick, or I'll advise Sergeant Adson to take you to Southbury and let the magistrate question you."

"Well, what do you want to know?" asked the Jay Bird again.

"Just what's happened to you since, say five o'clock last night. That's about the time you fellows of the road doss down for the day. Now, where were you at five p.m. last night?"

"At the old house—at the Darrington place." The man answered reluctantly. "I got there about half-past four or five."

"Well?" the journalist queried sharply as the man paused.

"We all camp there," said the Jay Bird, inconsequently.

"Who's we?" queried the sergeant.

"The boys on the road," the Jay Bird explained surlily. "Mr. Markham doesn't mind us camping there, so long as we do no damage. He lets us take wood from the bush, to cook with."

"That's right!" Skirlington interposed. "I asked Jess Markham about it one day and he said he didn't mind swaggie's camping there so long as they didn't do any mischief. I told him his attitude was only encouraging them to infest the district."

"Go on with your story," said Sam, turning to the swaggie.

"Well, when I got to the old house there was no one there—so I guessed I was going to have the place to myself for the night. I made camp and lit a bit of a fire and fried some sausages I got in Waitamine. Then, after dark I dossed down and had a bit of sleep. Then—"

"Then?" the newspaperman prompted, when the sundowner paused.

"Then I had a dream—" the Jay Bird spoke reluctantly, watching to see if his questioners were laughing at his tale. "I did, truth! I had a queer dream. I dreamed I found a sack-full of gold."

"Kid stakes!" ejaculated the sergeant. "Tell us the truth, or—"

"I think he is telling the truth," Sam Laske interposed. "Get on with your story, Jay Bird."

"I dreamed I found a sack of gold." The man repeated, glaring defiantly at the police sergeant. "And—" He paused as if he had been about to add corroborative details, but thought better of it. "Then I went to sleep again—and when I woke up, it was morning."

"What did you do when you woke up?" asked Skirlington, interestedly.

"I made a billy of tea."

"In that billy," Sergeant Adson pointed to the billy containing the gold which Skirlington had brought from his safe and placed on the table.

"No. My billy's up at the old house. I left it there when I found the gold and ran down here, along with m' swag."

"Where did you find the gold?" asked the sergeant.

"Under one of the stones bordering the old well, in the inner yard."

"What made you search by the old well?" asked the newspaperman.

"Because I dreamed the gold was there."

"Always go where your dreams bid you?", asked the hotel-keeper, sarcastically.

"Thought I might as well have a look." The Jay Bird grinned.

"You got up at daybreak, made a billy of tea, and had some tucker; then searched for the gold—yet you didn't arrive here until after sundown?" queried Sam relentlessly.

"That's because I forgot just where the gold was—where I dreamed the gold was," explained the Jay Bird reluctantly.

For long minutes there was silence. The three inquisitors were mentally examining the man's statements. In the main they were convincing, but certainly contained elements of fiction. Sam had a distinct doubt regarding the dream. He believed the Jay Bird had some knowledge of buried treasure.

A buried treasure! The newspaperman thrilled, as every man will to a story of hidden treasure. They had the evidence of their eyes that The Jay Bird had found treasure. At that moment Sergeant Adson was unrolling one of the rouleaus of gold, and Sam's eyes caught the gleam of the metal.

Yet Sam doubted. There were many points requiring explaining. For instance, how long had the treasure been hidden at the old house? The coins were almost new.

"A tall story." Sam looked with almost professional envy at the Jay Bird. "Wouldn't like to amend your statement, Jay Bird? No? Then—" He paused and turned to Skirlington and the police-officer. "The Jay Bird's told a tall story—one we don't quite believe; yet he has produced evidence of his story in the gold." The newspaperman paused, then continued: "I've got an explanation if you like to call it that."

"Get on with it," said Skirlington impatiently, and the sergeant nodded assent.

"It's this. Solomon Birder was once a wealthy man. Like quite a number of speculators he happened on a patch of bad luck. In some cases the luck takes a turn after a time—but it didn't in Solomon Birder's case. He went on plunging into failure after failure—the Commonwealth Bank couldn't have stood up against such luck!" Sam paused, looked at his audience, and again fixed the sundowner with his eyes. "It seems to me that when Birder found bad luck was stuck on to him permanently he thought it might be wise to make some provision for the future, and against the holy smash he foresaw was due. I'll suggest he did that by realising some of his assets in gold, and chose Darrington House for his hiding place. You know, Birder was reputed to be a great motorist. He boasted that when he had to go to Melbourne he always motored down—couldn't stand the train, he said. Well, if he was along this road much he'd possibly hear of Darrington House. I don't know if it was uninhabited then, but if it was, then a rambling old place like what you describe, Skirlington, would be just the ideal spot."

"That's a bit thin," objected the police officer. "If your tale's right, why didn't Birder go and retrieve his gold before this. Why, Solomon Birder crashed two years before the war."

"I'll answer that," said the journalist excitedly, "by stating that something happened to cause him to forget just where he hid the gold. I'll say that since he's been on the road, the Jay Bird has visited Darrington House many times, seeking the hiding place. I'll suggest that last night, in what he calls his dream, the Jay Bird had a return of memory and remembered where he had hidden his treasure." He swung round on the swaggie. "That's right, isn't it? Jay Bird?"

The man gave no sign, his eyes were closed and he appeared to be fast falling asleep.

"Won't answer that one!" The journalist laughed. "Then I'll take my theory as correct." Again he turned to the man on the couch. "Look here, Jay Bird, we believe, you found your secret cache in your search to-day. In the excitement of finding what you believed to be irretrievably lost, you forgot your present circumstances and charged down here with your treasure—to get the drink you of late years have come to crave. Am I right?"

Again the sundowner gave no sign of having heard the question. Sam glanced at the police officer, and then at Skirlington. Both men nodded assent to his theories.

"There's just one matter that might be explained," said the newspaperman after a pause. "It's this—" While he was telling us about his dream and his search for the treasure, the Jay Bird hesitated once or twice, picking his words carefully. Now, I have a theory that he was concealing something. Was it about his treasure, or his dream? Ah!"

The journalist grinned at an involuntary movement by the man on the couch.

"It was the dream, then." He went and bent over the recumbent man. "Now, Jay Bird, open your eyes and sit up and tell us the rest of your story. What, else did you dream?"

The slowly opening eyes of the sundowner startled the three watching men. The Jay Bird sat up slowly, looking past the walls of the room, into some future that held terror for him. He hesitated, started to speak and fell silent.

"Come clean!" Sam Laske spoke insistently. "We're going to have the whole truth if we keep you here all night, questioning you. You dreamed where the gold was located, and then—"

"I dreamed." The Jay Bird spoke very slowly; his face was pale and strained. "I dreamed that a man came into the yard while I was reaching into the hole for the gold, crept up behind me—and struck me—"

He stopped speaking, and despite the efforts of the three men refused to continue.