Читать книгу The Veiled Man - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 3

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He stopped short and turned about. One of the busy stream of workmen amongst whom he had been moving jostled and almost overset him. The laborer rapped out an oath and passed on.

Simon Vickars staggered to the grass border of the asphalt footpath, and there, out of danger of further collision, peered at the crowd with anxious eyes. Six o'clock had struck, but the summer sun still fiercely blazed. "Who called me?" he muttered, and dabbed his perspiring face with a moist handkerchief.

A young woman presently attracted his attention. She carried a valise in one hand, and waved the other excitedly aloft. She was vulgarly dressed, and rather pretty.

"Nell!" he exclaimed.

She hastened up to him, panting for breath.

"There," she gasped, and dropping the valise at his feet she began to fasten under her hat a coil of hair which her exertions had caused to wander.

Simon Vickars picked up the valise, and without a word strode across the lawn at a right angle from the hive-like path. The girl followed him, a sullen expression gradually settling upon her face. The man's want of consideration annoyed her. She had taken a deal of trouble to serve him, and he had not even thanked her.

"Where on earth are you going?" she called out in angry tones.

Simon Vickars halted. He showed her a pallid countenance. "When did it happen?" he demanded.

"This after—about two." The girl forgot her irritation in concern. She had not seen the man so deeply moved before. "I kidded them I was a new servant just come," she continued glibly. "Luckily ma was out. They kept me for a goodish bit puttin' me through a reg'lar catechism about you. But I swore I'd never set eyes on you in me natural, an' as soon as I could—while they were searching your room—I sneaked to mine, shoved on me hat, collared that bag o' yours you asked me to keep for you, and did a git through the window and out the back way. They'd left a trap in the parlor to watch the front o' the house, but never thought o' the back, the fools."

Simon Vickars nodded his approval of her cleverness. "You must have been waiting here for hours," he said.

"Yes, I have, just hours, and it is as hot as blazes, too. And I nearly missed you in the end, in the crowd; you're so little, you see. It was just a chance I spotted you. You'd got a hundred yards ahead as it was. But I knew you by your hat."

Vickars removed the article mentioned, a straw, with a scarlet band, and mopped his forehead. His first panic had subsided, but he still trembled a little.

"You are a good sort, Nelly. I knew I could depend on you," he said.

The girl flushed with pleasure. "That's all right." She waved her hand as though to deprecate further acknowledgment. "What are you going to do?"

"Slip up the cops, if I can, curse 'em. I think I can. I've had some experience."

"How will you?"

"By doing the thing they are least likely to expect me to."

He put his hand in his pocket and drew out some gold coins. "Ten quid," he observed, after counting them. "They are all I have in the world, but take what you want, Nelly; take what you want."

He extended his open palm towards the girl. Nelly, however, with an indignant gesture put her hand behind her back.

"What do you take me for?" she cried.

"The brick you are." The man had expected his offer to be refused. He grinned and slipped the coins back into his pocket. "Never mind, old girl, I'll give you a royal time as soon as I come back," he added warmly.

"Are you goin' away, Simon?"

"I'll have to for a bit, my girl."

"Where?" Nelly looked inclined to cry.

"Up country somewhere."

"Not out of the country?"

"Strike me—no."

Nelly brightened up. "You'll write to me; won't you?"

"Rather." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, lovey. I'll have to leave you now."

"Without a kiss?" The voice was pitiful.

Simon Vickars kissed her on the mouth. Nelly watched him through her tears until he had disappeared from her view. Long, however, before that moment arrived Simon had forgotten her. He was wondering how he could make good his boast and escape the police.

"They will look for me in the old haunts, search the trains, the intercolonial boats, the public houses, and cheap hotels. That's a dead cert. Well, I guess I can't do better than put up for the present at the swellest place in the city!"'

Three cabs were drawn up in line before the Domain gates. Simon chose the second and got in. "Hotel Australia, cabby," he said cheerily. Three minutes later he climbed the hotel steps, paid four shillings at the office, and was handed the key to a room on the fifth story. He signed his name in the book as Samuel Carson, and immediately afterwards entered a waiting lift.

A tall man, with high cheekbones and a villainous squint, who was seated in the vestibule awaiting his turn at the public telephone, watched Simon's every movement, with interested eyes. When Simon had disappeared, he arose and sauntered quietly over to the office.

"Just let me see that book, please," he said to the clerk. "Humph!" he muttered presently. "Samuel Carson, eh! What's the artful up to now, I wonder?"

"I beg your pardon, Detective Hammond," said the clerk.

The tall man gave the clerk a look of concentrated rage. "I just remarked," he replied in tones of savage scorn, "that I'm needing a bell-ringer to dog my heels and advertise the fact that I am a detective. Are you looking for a job, Mr. Jones?"

The clerk turned crimson, but said nothing.

Five hours later Detective Hammond was invited to a conference in the office of his chief.

"I have sent for you, my dear Hammond," said the head of the police, "because you are the only officer I have who never botches his work."

"Something special?" asked the detective.

The chief sighed. "The Artful," he answered. "A warrant was issued this morning—felony too—he has been uttering valueless cheques. You were out—so I gave the business to Chalmers, who was idiot enough to let himself be tricked by a woman—the 'Artful's' mistress, I believe. We have her, but the bird has flown. I want you to take the matter up."

Detective Hammond made a grimace. "A tough job," he remarked. "There is not a smarter criminal in Sydney than Simon Vickars."

"The more credit to you, my dear fellow, if you effect his capture."

"Oh, I'll do that all right. Can I see the woman?"

"Here is an order. She is at the Central."

Hammond put the order in his pocket. "Any reward?" he asked.

"Five pounds."

"Good. I'll claim it in the morning."

"You know something then?"

"I know the Artful, sir; well enough, at any rate, to make a shrewd guess at what he'd likely to do under the circumstances. Have the trains been watched?"

"Yes, and the boats, too."

"What about the pubs?"

"They have all been visited."

"Then my work is easy. I won't even bother about looking up the woman. I'll have the Artful lodged at the Water Station before breakfast in the morning. Will that do?"

"Do! Have a cigar, Hammond," cried the chief warmly. "No, take a couple. I wish I had a dozen more of your sort in the force."

Hammond suppressed a grin, and absentedly-minded abstracted four cigars from his chief's box. Ten minutes later he was seated in a comfortable armchair in the private office of the Hotel Australia, smoking and softly chuckling to himself. He would have arrested Simon Vickars there and then, except that such a capture would have appeared a trifle too smart. He wished to make his chief believe that he had exercised his genius for at least half a dozen hours. He had, in fact, a considerable reputation to sustain, and he did not care to monkey with so valuable an asset.

By-and-bye he fell asleep. A waiter, acting on instructions, aroused him soon after daylight. Detective Hammond spent the next hour glancing over a newspaper that was still damp from the press. Six o'clock struck. The detective rolled up the paper and put it in his pocket. The journal was the property of the hotel, but his acquisitive facility was handsomely developed. He strolled out of the office and began to climb the stairs. His shoes were shod with felt, so he made no noise, and he did not trouble to inform the nodding porter of his intentions. He arrived at the fifth storey somewhat out of breath, but he was rested and ready for anything when he reached the door of Simon Vickar's room. There he paused for a moment in order to oil his master-key, and also to loosen his handcuffs and revolver.

The lock, answering his expectations, moved soundlessly. The detective pushed open the door and entered the room. Simon Vickars was asleep. The detective shut and locked the door without arousing the sleeper. He then approached the bed, pistol in hand, treading like a cat. In the half light of the chamber the Artful's face looked strangely small and childlike. It seemed a shame to disturb such peaceful slumbering. Hammond paused and eyed his quarry keenly. He thought it possible he might be shamming sleep. But no, the narrow chest rose and fell too regularly, and the long black eyelashes rested upon the cheek without a quiver. Hammond felt rather pitiful. It was such a small man, such a small face, and not ill-looking. A secretive, shut in face, perhaps, yet less wicked than cunning. "What business has such a hairless little rat to be a criminal," reflected the detective.

"Come, wake up," he commanded gruffly.

The long black lashes lifted and a pair of soft brown eyes gazed up at the detective.

"Simon Vickars," called Hammond. "The game is up. I arrest you in the Queen's name."

The little man raised himself upon his pillow. "Hammond!" he gasped.

"At your service."

Simon rubbed his eyes. "I was dreaming," he muttered.

"Were you?"

"What am I wanted for?"

"Forgery and uttering. I warn you that whatever you say will be used against you. Get up and dress yourself, look alive."

Simon Vickars looked hard at the detective. "I was dreaming," he said, and of a sudden his lips began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears. "I was dreaming of my poor old mother." He covered his face with his hands and burst into a storm of weeping. Hammond gave a disgusted smile and put his revolver in his pocket. "Stow that," he growled. "Try and be a man."

"I—I—can't. I'm a guilty wretch I—I—know," sobbed Simon. "But I'm that miserable!"

"Get up."

Simon with one hand plucked off the bedclothes, and then very slowly put his feet to the floor. His body was shaking like a shrub in a gale; he still kept his face hidden.

"Hand me my trousers," he entreated piteously. He had slept in his shirt.

The trousers were hanging at the foot of the bed. Detective Hammond moved to procure them, and like an arrow Simon Vicars leaped at his throat. The detective was a powerful man, but he was taken entirely unawares, and before he could collect his energies his neck was imprisoned in a steel grip. The "Artful" moreover had attacked him from the side, and, with a desperate wriggle ere the struggle had well begun, managed to get astride his victim's back, and to wind a pair of sinewy legs around the detective's middle.

Hammond tore at the hands which bound his throat; he failed to remove them; he felt for his revolver, it was barred in his pocket with a knee, against which he pushed and hammered in vain. He tried to shout for help, but not a sound escaped him. He was choking. He made a tremendous effort and staggered on a blind impulse towards the door, clutching madly at the air with frantically extended hands. He fell ere he reached it, face downwards on the carpet, utterly insensible.

Simon Vickars arose, and stealing to open the door, peered out. The corridor was deserted.

Returning, he bound the detective's hands and legs with strips torn from a sheet, and carefully gagged his victim, who was now breathing heavily, with a toothbrush wrapped in a towel. With a strength amazing in so small a man, he then lifted the unconscious body, and, having bestowed it upon the bed, bound it to the posts by hands and feet. Ten minutes later Simon was dressed and ready for the street. He wore a check suit, a crush hat, a small black moustache, and an imperial. He searched the detective's pockets, and removed therefrom the morning newspaper which Hammond had abstracted from the office, a revolver, the detective's badge of office, a cigar, and a handful of silver change.

Simon thereupon pulled the curtains of the bed about his yet unconscious victim, and departing from the room, valise in hand, locked the door behind him. In the passage he lighted a cigar.

A man carrying an armful of boots was the only person he encountered until he had reached the ground floor. There, however, he was stopped by the hall porter.

"You are up early, sir," said the man suspiciously.

But Simon knew how to treat fellows of that sort.

"What the devil has that to do with you?" he snapped. "Call me a cab."

The hall porter was confounded. He apologised and obeyed. Simon drove straight to the Metropole Hotel, an establishment only second in importance to the Hotel Australia. He paid ten shillings, and was conducted to a handsomely furnished apartment on the ground floor. His name was now George Lamb.

Sitting down he began to read the advertisements in the newspaper which had been stolen twice. Presently, in a column of "Wanteds," the following caught his eye:—

"Wanted for the s.s. Moravian, sailing to-day at noon, three cabin stewards. Apply personally with references before 8 a.m. at the offices of Dalgety and Company Ltd."

Simon Vickars put down the paper and sprang to his feet. His eyes roved the room and discovered a desk, pens and ink. From his valise he produced a bundle of blank letter heads, stamped with the address of several fashionable London hotels. Simon Vickars had always made it a practice of carrying away some letter paper from each hotel he visited. By dint of writing hard and fast, the clock had only struck a quarter past seven when he issued forth from the Metropole armed with testimonials which announced to the unwary that one, Simon Le Couvrier had been variously employed at the Hotel Cecil, the Carlton, St. Ermin's, the Hotel Victoria, and the Savoy, at all of which places he had given quite astonishing satisfaction.

Dalgety and Company's manager at once perceived that he had discovered a treasure.

Behold Simon, therefore, an hour and a half later, clad in a steward's uniform of the s.s. Moravian (the trousers were many sizes too large for him), busily engaged in polishing glass and silverware on the steamer's lower deck, explaining his position meanwhile to a pair of brother menials similarly employed, in a tongue admirably adapted to his most recent alias, "Mais oui, messieurs. Zis gonntree ees not feet for un chien—ze dog—to lif in. I hat him. I come her a—vat you say—a gentilhomme, gentleman. But I my money spend—sacre! who care? Zey take him—my money. Ah, oui! To me, zey say, 'Va t'en!' I am gentlemon—vraiment, mais, vat to do? you see me now—ze steward. Bah! Mais donc, que voulez vous? Et is necessaire zat I go home."