Читать книгу The Fortune-Telling House - Aidan de Brune - Страница 5

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VERY early in the morning the of following day, Sam Laske drove the two miles between the Rainbow Hotel and Barralong station, to meet the train from Southbury and obtain the tin of petrol. When he returned to the hotel he found breakfast ready and Skirlington waiting to discuss with him at length, the events of the preceding night.

Sam replied to questions guardedly and refused to comment. Not that he distrusted the hotel-keeper, but during the previous night he had evolved his future plans, in outline, and they required still further thought before he could confide them to others, even to one he believed had neither the will nor the wish to interfere.

Immediately after breakfast he made a careful overhaul of "Matilda's Little Boy," filled his tank with the petrol he had brought from the station, and set out on his journey to Southbury, to which city Sergeant Adson had escorted the Jay Bird the previous evening.

After consideration, the sergeant had decided to charge the swaggie with the possession of gold and being unable to give a reasonable account of how he had come by it. The Jay Bird had laughed at the charge, when Sergeant Adson had informed him he was under arrest, declaring that he would be free again within twenty-four hours.

Sam was sceptical. He did not believe that any magistrate would believe the tramp's story of a dream. The occupant of the Bench would look with great disbelief on a sundowner in possession of gold he could not completely account for.

The city clocks were chiming half-past nine when Sam steered his motor-cycle down the main street of Southbury, turned into Cresswell Street and into the garage where he had parked it on his first visit to the city. Instructing the attendant to have the tank refilled and the machine ready for a quick departure at any moment, the newspaperman went down to Police Headquarters. He met Sergeant Adson on the steps of the building, and was immediately informed that the Jay Bird would make his appearance in Court that morning and that he, Sam, would be required to give evidence.

"Believe the Jay Bird's little talk last night, Sergeant?" asked Sam, after he had requested the police officer to take the case as late in he morning as possible.

Sergeant Adson grinned: "Do you?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. In spite of his belief, confidently uttered the previous evening, that the Jay Bird might have found the gold, as he had stated, he had a feeling that he was still far from the truth—the story behind the story that the strange swaggie had told.

"What's going to happen in court?" he asked. "Going to tell the magistrate that the Jay Bird is an absconding bankrupt?"

For moments the sergeant stared at the journalist, a thoughtful frown on his good-tempered face.

"Would you?" he asked at length.

"I would not." Sam repressed the tingle of excitement that swept over him. "That is, if I wanted to solve the mystery that's lying behind the Jay Bird's story."

"Then—" The police officer paused suddenly.

"I think I would just state that I had been called by telephone to Barralong and had there found a sundowner drunk and in possession of a large amount of gold for which he could not reasonably account."

"Humph!" The police officer appeared doubtful. "Well, if I did that—what about a name for the prisoner?"

"You've got it—'the Jay Bird.' You can't want a better one." Sam grinned. "You mustn't forget that when I accused him of being Solomon Birder he neither denied or acknowledged the charge."

"What if the magistrate asks his name and he gives his right name?"

"I can't see the Jay Bird doing that!" Sam jeered. "The Jay Bird's no fool. He knows well that if he gave the magistrate the name of Solomon Birder there would be quite a lot doing. The magistrate would tumble to quite an amount of old history, and certainly remand him until you had communicated with Sydney. The bankruptcy officials would crowd here like a flock of sheep. Solomon Birder would go to Long Bay—and when he would get out again—who knows? You know how those city officials string out their inquiries. Why, they'd be a couple of years before they thought of framing charges against him—and then they'd be charges of fraud—that would mean a trial and a certain sentence of some duration—And more, the ending of the mystery of how the Jay Bird acquired that Billy of gold. No, Jack Adson, take it from me! The Jay Bird won't give himself away. He'll stick to his present nomenclature, and trust to luck to pull him through."

Sergeant Adson did not reply. A frown came on his face and he tugged viciously at his rather full military moustache.

"Take it from me, Sergeant." Sam Laske could be very persuasive when he chose. "We don't' know half the story, yet. If you spill the facts we do know this morning, the Jay Bird will go to Sydney, and those fellows at Headquarters will get their talons on the story. What chance then will you have to get any kudos out of this affair? They'll take the inquiry over; they'll send you orders to do this and that; they'll keep you working half your days and all your nights on the affair—and when the story is fully told, they'll take all the credit. You know that's the truth!"

Involuntarily the police officer nodded. Although he had been but a few years in the provinces he had acquired all the distrust of the provincial police officer for his metropolitan comrade. Sam knew this and believed it was the best card he had to play.

"What say?" The newspaperman asked when the silence had lasted for a full minute.

"Sounds all right." Still the Sergeant spoke doubtfully. "It all depends on the Jay Bird though. If he holds his tongue and sticks to his Jay Bird business, we might get away with it. But if he gets an attacks of nerves and spills his name to the magistrate, I'll be in a fine fuss-up."

"He won't—and if he does, you can claim that I challenged him on his name being Solomon Birder and that he would not admit it." A sudden thought came to the journalist. "Say, Adson! Let me have a talk with him. I'll see that he keeps his mouth shut."

For a further moment the police officer stood undecided, then, with a lift of his shoulders he turned and re-entered the building, motioning for Sam to follow him. He led through the charge-room to a door, and knocked on it. Immediately it was opened and a uniformed warder looked at him inquiringly.

"Warder Saxon, meet Mr. Sam Laske, a Sydney journalist. Will you let him have a word with the man I brought in from Barralong last night—the Jay Bird is the only name he gives?"

As the warder nodded and turned to lead the way down the concrete corridor, Adson called softly: "By the way, Saxon, Mr. Laske is O.K.—you understand."

The warder looked back and nodded. Sergeant Adson shut the door and went to the charge desk.

Sam followed his guide. Half-way down the corridor Saxon halted and indicated a door in which, mouth-high, appeared a small grill. He opened the covering door and called: "Hi, Jay Bird! Here's a visitor for you."

Almost before the man in the cell had left his plank bunk and rolled to his feet, the warder was walking up the corridor. Sam grinned. Now he understood what the significant "O.K." uttered by Sergeant Adson meant.

"Hullo!" The Jay Bird peered nonchalantly through the grill. "Who're you? Oh, I remember! You're the bloke who put me away to the police last night."

"Put yourself away, you meant. Forget it!" Sam smiled disarmingly. "Last night and this morning belong to two different days. Get that? Good! Now, when you go before the Big Boy remember you're the Jay Bird. No one's going to utter a word about Solomon Birder. Understand?"

"See the cop?"

"He's wise." Sam made to turn from the grill. "Get some sense under your hat, man. Keep the 'Jay Bird' and you'll pull out. Talk about anything else and you'll go up to Long Bay for a while and then over the hill for quite a rest."

"But—" The man showed bewilderment

"Neither Long Bay nor Goulburn are desirable homes-from-home," The journalist spoke curtly. "Still, it's your affair. I've had my say—and that's all I came for."

Without waiting for a reply he turned and strode up the corridor. At the door to the charge-room the warder was waiting for him.

"Get anything out of him, sir?" The man inquired, inquisitively.

Sam caught at the clue. "Not a word of sense—just a mouthful of abuse. Hope the fool goes up for the rest of his life!"

The warder grinned and opened the door. Sam shrugged as he passed into the charge-room. Sergeant Adson, standing by the charge-desk looked across to him, eyebrows raised inquiringly. Sam nodded and passed quickly through to the street.

The newspaperman's next call was at the post office. At the counter he obtained some press-forms and went to the desk. There for a moment he considered, then started to write. He was quite safe to send his information to the Sydney Daily Post. The newspaper, like the Southbury Valuator was a morning daily. The two newspapers would have the story but on the streets at the same time. That would suit him.

The message completed, and it was a long one, Sam read it carefully and turned to the telegraph counter, then hesitated. A further period of consideration and he went to the telephone department and demanded "press connection" with the Sydney Daily Post. He had to wait some time before the connection was made.

At length he was given a booth-number and in a few seconds found himself talking to Claude McInnes, the morning shift editor.

A couple of words identified himself.

"Want you, Laske," McInnes, grumpy and sour as only morning editors of big dailies can be, spoke crabbily. "You should have reported here at nine o'clock this morning. There's an assignment on the book for you. When will you be in?"

"Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps next week, sweetheart." Sam spoke airily. "Listen, I've got something for you."

"But you only had forty-eight hours leave," McInnes shrilled into the telephone. "How the devil—You young journalists have ruined the profession. You think you can do as you like—but you can't. In my young days—"

"In your young days the world was green—but not so green as morning editors of present days." Sam grinned and winked at his reflection in the windows of the booth. "Now, listen Claude darling! I'm in Southbury, and I've got a big story. S-C-O-O-P! Did they have such things in your young and innocent days, beloved. No? Well, take my word for it scoops are stuff newspaper proprietors feed oh. Head, it 'Fortune Telling House,' and put a man on the line who knows shorthand from gin-slings. Now—Are you there? Ready? O.K. 'Last night Sergeant Adson, who will be remembered for his great work in—"

Speaking rapidly, yet clearly, in that strange half-whisper that only telephone linesmen and experienced newspapermen seem able to acquire, Sam read out the message he had intended to telegraph. When he concluded his "copy" he called "repeat." The matter was read to him, and he made a few corrections. Just as he gave the signal that he had finished dictation, McInnes again came on the line:

"When will you be back in Sydney, Sam?" The morning editor's voice sounded almost cordial—and Sam laughed. He well knew how a story that bore the outward semblance of a scoop affected the old newspaperman.

"Damn you, you old desk-fossil!" Sam balled. "Don't you recognise a good story when you see one? In Sydney? Well, I'm going back to Barralong and—" He paused, reflecting quickly "—more than probable I'll sleep at Darrington House myself to-night and see if I dream of a pot of gold to divide with you. How's that for bribery and corruption, Claude? But, in return for that promise, you'll have to pacify the police for me—tell him I gave you the story this morning and that you told me to stick down here and follow it up. Understand?"

Without waiting for the obvious retort he knew was trembling on the morning-editor's lips Sam hung up the receiver and left the telephone booth. Outside the post office he glanced up at the Town Hall clock. It was twenty minutes to eleven. For a moment he hesitated, then walked quickly to the Valuator office.

The Valuator newspaper-offices were barely fifty yards from the post office. Sam drew a deep breath as he pushed through the swing-doors. Refusing to wait for the lumbering elevator, he ran up the stairs to the first floor. Facing the inquiry desk he greeted the damsel in charge with a beaming smile.

"Hullo, sweetheart! The Big Boy in? O.K. Tell him I'll spare him ten minutes to learn my business." While he was speaking his finger sought his left-hand waistcoat pocket to fumble with a much-defaced and worn sixpenny-piece he carried "for luck." He rubbed the smooth surface between his fingertips, muttering invocations to the god of Luck. Like most journalists he was superstitious.

The inquiry desk girl frowned disapprovingly.

"Mr. Parkinson is engaged," she said shortly.

"Then disengage him, darling, for the love of little Sam! I'm in a hurry."

Very leisurely the lady of the desk placed a pad of appointment blanks and a much chewed pencil on the shelf of the desk before Sam. He pushed them impatiently aside. "Say, beautiful, do you think I should trust you with the scoop I am about to present to the god of this machine? Not on your little life, Tootsie! Now be a good girl and wander into the Big Boy's room and tell him dear old pal, Sam Laske, is here with the story of his life in his bosom."

"Your life?" asked the girl acidly. "I don't think he would be interested."

"There are secrets in my life I dare not confide to anyone, even to so cherished a lover-jewel as you. No, no, sweetheart, I wouldn't sully your abysmal innocence with them. Tell Arthur I have a story—another man's story—and that he can head it 'Hoards of Gold.'"

For a few moments the girl stared at the man, disbelief in every expression of her face, then made a connection on her switchboard. She repeated Sam's words, almost literally, into the mouthpiece, then looked up.

"You can wait clever boy," she said, very sweetly, and returned to the perusal of the raggedy-edged novelette on the desk before her. For more than a quarter of an hour Sam paced the section of the corridor before the inquiry desk, idly watching the journalists, copy-boys and visitors to the newspaper hurrying to and fro. He grew impatient, but the girl at the desk paid not the slightest attention to his requests to "hurry up."

At length a bell rang, and momentarily she forsook her novel.

"Third door on the left, cheeky—and I hope you get your fat-head snapped right off. He's in a beautiful temper, from the sounds that came through on the switch."

Sam walked down the corridor, counting the doors. He came to the door through which he had emerged the previous afternoon, disgruntled and disappointed, and knocked. A snarling voice bade him enter.

"Well, what do you want now?"

Arthur Parkinson, proprietor of Southbury's leading morning newspaper, looked up from a sheaf of papers.

"I told you yesterday there's nothing doing here. Are you coming in here every day for a month to have that repeated? Get me, I'm making no changes."

"Not even in your mind." Sam strolled across the room and sat down, uninvited, in the visitor's chair. "Well, I suppose you'd buy a scoop? If that's barred also, I'll go to the Farmers' Weekly, across the road. They'll deal, I know."

"'Hoards of Gold.'" The white-haired old-young man behind the big desk read the line from a sheet of copy-paper. "What's in it? Another of those faked stories you clever Sydney men think you can put over us provincial folk?"

"It's a scoop." Sam spoke firmly. "A scoop that any intelligent newspaperman would jump at. If you want to refuse it before you get on to its A.B.C., just say so. I've told you what I propose to do then—and to-morrow morning you'll have the satisfaction of reading a fine story in the reptile contemporary, and curse your old bones that you missed."

"Clever, aren't you?" The close-set eyes in the long face flashed ominously.

"I'm not." Sam flushed. He rose from his chair and turned to the door. "If you don't want a good story no one else in the town has yet been offered, just say so."

Almost fearfully, Sam strolled to the door and grasped the handle. For a moment he thought his bluff had failed, yet he knew he was acting right. Arthur Parkinson was known in the newspaper-world as a queer, hard man, not over-scrupulous and a definite bully. As he pulled the door open the man behind the desk spoke: "I don't buy scoops unless I know what's in them."

Sam shut the door, his heart aglow, and went back to the desk, seating himself. He smiled, broadly, into Parkinson's scowling face.

"Of course, Mr. Parkinson, I'll tell you everything—and trust to your well-known generosity to do the right thing. That's so well known that I should be a fool not to take advantage of it. Now, there's your telephone. Ring up Sergeant Adson, at the police station, and ask him if I have a good story. He knows quite a lot of it."

"I can get it from Adson myself, if that's all there is in it."

The newspaper-magnate laughed harshly. "I don't think much of you as a scoop merchant."

"Adson won't tell you more than the bare fact that I have a very interesting story, known only to him, one other and myself—and that the other two don't know more than the bare, surface facts. All you'll get from Adson is the affirmation that I have a story worth listening to. Get that!"

For a full minute Parkinson sat thoughtful, then reached for his telephone and lifted the receiver. He asked the switch-attendant for "Police Station and Sergeant Adson," then replaced the receiver, and waited.

Presently the telephone bell rang, and the newspaper-proprietor lifted the receiver again. He spoke into the instrument, and Sam realised that Sergeant Adson was on the line. For some minutes the line clattered with question and answer, then Parkinson replaced the receiver, shoved the instrument from him, and glared across at the journalist.

"All Adson will say is that you have a very interesting story. He confirms your statement that only himself and another person know the story, beside yourself. He says the subject of your story is in gaol, and will be brought before the magistrate's bench this morning. Well, if he's told the truth, our Court reporter will get the story. What else?"

"Just the guts—the essence, the story behind the story—and most of the details of the scoop." Sam laughed, in sheer relief. "That you can only get from one person—and he's before you, offering to sell it."

"What do you want?"

"The assignment of the story at metropolitan, senior rates while it is developing, metropolitan lineage rates for what you publish, and a bonus to start with."

"Ridiculous!"

"Take it, or leave it—and remember that I have to be in Court to give evidence in the case, and it's due on any minute now."

Sam watched the newspaper-proprietor for some seconds with anxiety, then got up from his seat with as creditable an air of finality as he could assume.

"Oh, well! Good-day, Mr. Parkinson. I'm sure you'll be interested when you read tomorrow's issue of the Farmers' Weekly. I'll see them after the Court proceedings are finished—and Southbury people will be interested to compare their account with your bald statement of what happened in Court."

Again the newspaperman turned toward the office door. He knew that there was exaggerated enmity between the two papers, the Farmers' Weekly partly owned and edited by a former member of the Valuator's staff. Again his hand was on the door-handle before Parkinson spoke.

"Come back, and sit down." The words were quietly spoken, yet dripped with venom.

"You buy?"

The newspaper-proprietor did not reply. He pressed a bell-push on his desk and waited until a clerk knocked and entered the room. Then he spoke abruptly.

"Bring me an open cheque for ten pounds, made out to Mr. Same Laske. Quick!"

There was silence between the two men in the office while the clerk was absent. When he hastily returned and handed the newspaper-proprietor the cheque, he was waved impatiently from the room.

"Tell me the story you're going to write to-day, and some details of what you have for the future, and I'll sign this for you." Parkinson's voice was low and monotonous. "Those are my terms. If there's anything in your boast, I'll deal fairly with you."

"Good!" Sam realised that he had won his victory. He had no fear for the effect of his story, on the man on the other side of the desk. "Now listen!"

Speaking rapidly and with the trained journalist's conciseness of expression, Sam recounted the incidents of the previous night. When he had completed his narrative, Parkinson shook his head.

"An incident, not a story," he decided. "Not worth ten pounds."

"Not with the Jay Bird's real name attached?" asked Sam, with a smile.

"Who is the Jay Bird?" Arthur Parkinson leaned back in his chair. "Some bum you picked up on the road, I suppose."

"A bum, yes." The newspaperman paused a moment. He leaned forward across the desk, lowering his voice. "Mr. Parkinson, I'm going to tell you the Jay Bird's real name, and trust to your honour not to mention it to a soul without my permission."

"Well?" Parkinson's thin lips curled in a smile of derision.

"The Jay Bird is Solomon Birder, one-time company promoter and financier of Sydney and Melbourne. He—"

The journalist paused, gazing at the man before him in utter astonishment. "Why, what's the matter, Mr. Parkinson?"

"Who did you say?" The words came like a strangled cry from the man's hoarse throat. His clutching fingers tore at his immaculate collar and tie, as if he sought air.

"The Jay Bird is Solomon Birder, a well-known Sydney identity of some years ago." Sam elaborated, when he recovered from his astonishment. He added: "I see I need not go into further particulars."

"Where is he?" gasped the stricken man.

"In Southbury police station cells." Some compunction for the shock Parkinson had evidently sustained came to the journalist. He added: "You needn't fear him giving away his right name. He's been warned of the consequences of such action."

"Write the story, but suppress the man's real name. He's the Jay Bird. Remember that—the Jay Bird. His—Solomon Birder is not to be mentioned—ever! Write the story—and bring it to me—to this room—at three o'clock this afternoon. I'll see you're admitted at once."

"Very good, Mr. Parkinson." Sam spoke quietly. He looked down at the cheque lying on the blotting-pad before the newspaper-proprietor. "The bank shuts at three o'clock, Mr. Parkinson."

"Here! Take it!" Parkinson seized a pen and scribbled his name at the foot of the cheque. "Take it—and come back here with that story at three sharp. Remember, you're not to let anyone else see that story. You're to bring it direct to me. Understand?"

Arthur Parkinson watched the journalist lean across the desk, blot his signature on the cheque, and fold and slip it into his waist-coat pocket.

As Sam Laske moved to the door, he spoke again: "What are you going to do when you have written that story?" he asked, with some inquisitiveness.

Sam was glad he had already forwarded his story to the Sydney Daily Post. He replied, easily. "When I have been to Court, heard the case against the Jay Bird and given the evidence I have in mind to offer I'm going to cash that cheque, write the story, bring it to you, and then get back to Barralong. To-night I propose to sleep in Darrington House. I've got a hunch there's something interesting about that place we know nothing of at present. I'll sleep there and—" He stopped speaking suddenly, remembering that he had little reason, by personal knowledge or repute, to trust the man before him.

Parkinson nodded.

Sam left the room, closing the door behind him. On the pavement before the newspaper-offices, Sam paused and lit a cigarette. He thrust his cap to the back of his head and rubbed his hair, perplexedly.

"Now, what's the matter with that old crook?" he muttered, "Seems like he doesn't love the Jay Bird, by that name or any other. That's queer! Sam, my boy, you've fumbled into something you don't understand—and unless you get the low-down on it quick, you'll be sorry. There won't be any further lushings from Mister Arthur Parkinson of the Valuator newspaper, Southbury—and that will be just too bad! What the devil does it all mean? Umph! Perhaps a dive back into the past—" "Yes. I think that'll fit, Sam, my boy, it's interesting—damned interesting—"