Читать книгу The Treasure of the Bucoleon - Arthur D. Howden Smith - Страница 4

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The steamship company telephoned while Hugh and I were at breakfast to say that the Aquitania was just docking. When we reached the pier West Street was swarming with out-going automobiles loaded with the first contingents of debarking passengers. We pushed our way upstairs into the landing-shed, surrendered our passes and dived into the swirling vortex of harried travelers, hysterical relatives and impassive Custom's officials.

The Purser's office in the Main Saloon was vacant, but Hugh buttonholed a passing steward.

"Lord Chesby, sir? Yes, sir, he was one of the first ashore. There was a gentleman to meet him, I think, sir."

"That's queer," muttered Hugh as we returned to the gangway.

"Our best bet is to go straight to the C space in the Customs lines," I said.

"But who could meet him besides us?" objected Hugh.

"It's damned queer," I agreed. "What does your uncle look like?"

"He's small, stocky, not fat. Must be around sixty," said Hugh vaguely.

We surveyed the space under the letter C, where porters were dumping trunks and bags and passengers were arguing with the inspectors.

"No, he's not here," said Hugh. "Wait, though, there's Watkins!"

"Who's Watkins?" I asked, boring a passage beside him through the crowd.

"He's Uncle James's man."

Watkins was the replica of Hugh's description of his uncle. He was a chunky, solid sort of man, with the masklike face of the trained English servant. He was clean-shaven, and dressed neatly in a dark suit and felt hat. When we came upon him he was sitting forlornly on a pile of baggage, watching the confusion around him. with a disapproving eye.

"Hullo, Watty?" Hugh greeted him. "Where's my uncle?"

The valet's features lighted up, and he scrambled to his feet.

"Ah, Mister Hugh! I'm very glad to see you, sir, if I may say so. "Is ludship, sir? Why, 'e went off with your messenger, sir."

"My messenger?" Hugh repeated blankly.

"Yes, sir, the dark gentleman. Your man, 'e said 'e was, sir."

"My man!" Hugh appealed to me. "Did you hear that, Jack?"

Watkins became suddenly anxious.

"There's nothing wrong, I 'ope, sir? The gentleman came aboard to find us, and told 'is ludship how you'd been delayed, and 'e was to come along to your rooms, sir, whilst I saw the luggage through the Customs. Wasn't that right, sir?"

Hugh sat down on a trunk.

"It's right enough, Watty," he groaned, "except that I never sent such a message and I haven't a man."

"What sort of fellow was this messenger?" I asked.

Watkins turned to me, a look of bewilderment in his face.

"An Eastern-looking gentleman, 'e was, sir, like the Gypsies 'is ludship occasionally 'as down to Chesby. Strange, I thought it, sir, Mister Hugh, that you should be 'aving a gentleman like that to valet you—but as I said to 'is ludship, likely it's not easy to find servants in America."

"How long ago did Uncle James leave, Watty?" asked Hugh.

"Nearly an hour, sir."

"Time enough for him to have reached the apartment. Jack, do you mind telephoning on the off-chance? I'll fetch an inspector to go over this stuff."

I had no difficulty in getting the apartment. The cleaning woman who "did" for us answered. No, nobody had called, and there had been no telephone messages. I hastened back to the C space with a sense of ugly forebodings. Hugh I found colloguing with Watkins, while two Customs men opened the pile of Lord Chesby's baggage.

"Do you know, Jack," said Hugh seriously, "I am beginning to think that something sinister may have happened? Watty tells me that he and Uncle James are just come from Constantinople. He says my uncle went there convinced that he had discovered the key to the treasure's hiding-place, but in some unexplained way Uncle James was deterred from carrying out his plans, and they returned hurriedly to England."

"And now I think of it, sir," amended Watkins, "we 'ave been shadowed ever since we went to Turkey. I never paid much attention to them, considering it was coincidence like, but its been one dark gentleman after another—at the Pera Palace Hotel in Constantinople, on the Orient Express, in London when we called on 'is ludship's solicitors—"

"What was that for?" interrupted Hugh—and to me: "Uncle James hated business. He couldn't be brought to any kind of business interview unless he had a pressing motive."

"Why, sir, Mister Hugh, I don't know rightly—leastways, 'twas after 'is conversation with Mr. Bellowes 'e sent the cablegram to you, sir. And 'e 'ad the Charter Chest sent up from the safe deposit vaults—but that was before we went to Turkey, to be sure, sir.'

"It was, eh?" Hugh was all interest. "How was that?"

"Why, sir, 'e rang for me one day at Chesby, and 'e was rubbin' 'is 'ands together like he does when 'e's pleased, and 'e said: 'Watkins, pack the small wardrobe and the portmanteau. We're goin' to run down to Constantinople.' 'Yes, sir,' I said, 'and do we go direct to Dover?' 'No,' 'e said, 'we'll go up to London. Wire Mr. Bellowes to 'ave the Charter Chest sent up from the bank. I must 'ave another look at it—' 'e was talkin' to himself like, sir—'I wonder if the hint might not 'ave been in the Instructions, after all.'"

Hugh jumped.

"By Jove, he has been after the treasure! The Instructions is the original parchment on which Hugh the First inscribed his command to his son to go after the treasure—carefully leaving out, however, the directions for finding it. And what happened then, Watty?"

"Why, sir, we went up to London, and Mr. Bellowes, 'e tried to persuade 'is ludship not to go. They were together 'alf the morning, and when they came from the private office I 'eard Mr. Bellowes say: 'I'm afraid I can't follow your ludship. There's not a word in the Instructions or any of the other documents to shed a ray of light on the matter.' 'That's what I wished to make sure of, Bellowes,' said 'is ludship, with a chuckle."

"Cryptic, to put it mildly," barked Hugh. "Dammit, I knew the old boy was up to some foolishness. If he's taken on some giddy crew of crooks for a piratical venture—"

"He wouldn't have called on you for help," I cut him off.

"True," assented Hugh. "But I wish I could take some stock in the nonsense at the bottom of it."

"I wonder!" I said. "I'm drifting to Betty's belief that there is more in the treasure story than you think."

"It's bunk, I tell you," said Hugh, thoroughly disgusted. "Well, the Customs men are through. Watty, collect some porters, and get this baggage down to the taxi stand."

The cleaning-woman was still in the apartment when we returned, and she reiterated her assertion that nobody had called. We had some lunch, and then, on Watkins's suggestion, I rang up hotels for two hours—without any result. At the end of my tether I hung up the receiver and joined Hugh in gloomy reflection on the couch. Watkins hovered disconsolately in the adjoining dining room.

"There's one thing more to do," said Hugh suddenly. "Telephone the police."

"That would involve publicity," I pointed out.

"It can't be helped."

The telephone jangled harshly as he spoke, and I unhooked the receiver. Hugh started to his feet. Watkins entered noiselessly.

"Is this Mr. Chesby's apartment?" The voice that burred in my ear was strangely thick, with a guttural intonation. "Tell him they are taking what's left of his uncle to Bellevue. It's his own fault the old fool got it. And you can tell his nephew we will feed him a dose of the same medicine if he doesn't come across."

Brr-rring!

"Wait! Wait!" I gasped into the mouthpiece. "Who—"

"Number, please," said a stilted feminine voice.

"My God!" I cried. "Hugh, they've killed him, I think."

Hugh's face went white as I repeated the message. Watkins' eyes popped from his head.

"Where is this hospital?" stammered Hugh.

"Over on the East Side."

"We must catch a taxi. Hurry!"

Watkins came with us without bidding. In the taxi none of us spoke. We were all dazed. Things had happened too rapidly for comprehension. We could scarcely realize that we were confronting stark tragedy. As we turned into East Twenty-sixth Street and the portals of the huge, red-brick group of buildings loomed ahead of us, Hugh exclaimed fiercely:

"It may not be true! I believe it was a lie!"

But it was not a lie, as we soon learned in the office to which we were ushered by a white-uniformed orderly. Yes, the nurse on duty told us, an ambulance had brought in an elderly man such as Hugh described within the half-hour. The orderly would show us the ward.

We traversed a maze of passages to a curtained doorway where a young surgeon, immaculate in white, awaited us.

"You want to see the old man who has been stabbed?" he said.

Hugh gripped my arm.

"Stabbed! Is he—"

The surgeon nodded.

"Yes. He must have made a hell of a fight. He's all slashed up—too old to stand the shock."

Watkins caught his breath sharply.

"Of course, he may not be your man," the surgeon added soothingly. "This way."

He led us into a long room lined with beds. A high screen had been reared around one of them, and he drew it aside and motioned for us to enter. An older surgeon stood by the head of the narrow bed with a hypodermic needle in his hand. Opposite him kneeled a nurse. Two bulky men in plainclothes, obvious policemen, stood at the foot.

And against the pillow lay a head that might have been Hugh's, frosted and lined by the years. The gray hair grew in the same even way as Hugh's. The hawk-nose, the deep-set eyes, the stubborn jaw, the close-clipped mustache, the small ears, were all the same. As we entered, the eyes flashed open an instant, then closed.

"Uncle James!"

"'Is ludship! Oh, Gawd!"

The policemen and the nurse eyed us curiously, but the surgeon by the bed kept his attention concentrated on the wan cheeks of the inert figure, fingers pressing lightly on the pulse of a hand that lay outside the sheets. Swiftly he stooped, with a low ejaculation to the nurse. She swabbed the figure's arm with a dab of cotton, and the needle was driven home.

"Caught him up in time," remarked the surgeon impartially. "Best leave him while it acts."

He turned to us.

"I take it you recognize him, gentlemen."

"He is my uncle," answered Hugh dully.

"Ah! I fancy you will be able to secure a few words with him after the strychnia has taken hold, but he is slipping fast."

One of the policemen stepped forward.

"I am from the Detective Bureau," he said. "Do you know how this happened?"

"We know nothing," returned Hugh. "He landed from the Aquitania this morning. We were late in reaching the pier. When we reached it—"

Some instinct prompted me to step on Hugh's foot. He understood, hesitated and shrugged his shoulders.

"—he was gone, ostensibly to seek my apartment."

"Name?" asked the detective, thumbing a notebook.

"His? Chesby. It is mine, too."

"Initials?"

"His full name is James Hubert Chetwynd Crankhaugh Chesby."

"English?"

"Yes."

"Business or profession?"

"Well, I don't know how to answer that question. He is a scholar—and then he's a member of the House of Lords."

A subtle change swept over the faces of the policemen. They became absurdly deferential. Their interest, which had been perfunctory, grew intent. The surgeons and the nurse, hardened to such deathbed scenes, responded also to the element of drama which Hugh's words had injected into the drab story.

"Gee-roosalum!" exclaimed the policeman. "This begins to look big. Who could have wanted to bump off a guy like him? Was he—a gay sorter old boy, eh?"

"Positively, no. He was the last man to suspect of anything like that. He has been a traveler and student all his life."

"What was his specialty?"

"Gypsy dialects and history, and the ancient history of Constantinople.'

"Gypsies, eh?" The detective was all alert. "He was picked up corner of Thirteenth Street and Avenue C. There's a plenty of Gypsy dumps in that neighborhood. A man and three women saw him dropped from a closed auto. The Gyps are a bad people to get down on you, clannish as hell and awful suspicious. It may be this here Lord Chesby crossed some family of 'em in his studying and they went out to knife him.'

"It may be," agreed Hugh, "but I haven't a thing to back up the assertion with."

"Well, we'll start to work on that clue anyhow."

The detective stepped around the screen, and Hugh touched the senior surgeon on the arm.

"How long?"

"Probably only a few minutes."

As he spoke, the deep-sunk eyes flickered open, surveyed us almost quizzically one by one.

Hugh bent forward, Watkins beside him.

"Do you know me, Uncle James?"

The lips parted, framed words that were barely audible.

"Good lad! Where's—Watkins?"

"'Ere, your ludship," volunteered the valet, with a gulp.

"Send—others—"

Hugh looked up to the senior surgeon.

"Do you mind, sir?"

"Not at all. Just a moment, though."

He stooped to feel the pulse, reached for the needle and shot in a second injection. Its effect was instantaneous. The dying man's eyes brightened; a very faint tinge of color glowed in his ashen face.

"I'm afraid that second shot will hasten the end," the surgeon muttered to me, "but it will give the poor old fellow more strength while he lasts. Make the most of your opportunity."

He shepherded his assistants outside the screen, and Hugh pulled me to my knees beside him.

"This is Jack Nash, Uncle James," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. "He is my friend—your friend. He will be with me in whatever I have to do for you."

Lord Chesby's eyes, a clear gray they were, examined me closely.

"Looks—right." The syllables trickled almost soundless from his lips. "It's—treasure—Hugh." His eyes burned momentarily with triumph. "Know—where—"

"But who stabbed you?"

I have often wondered what would have happened if Hugh had let him talk on of the treasure, instead of switching the subject.

"Toutou," answered the dying man, with sudden strength. "Tiger—that chap—others—against—him."

"But why? Why did he do it?"

Once more the smile of triumph in the eyes.

"Wouldn't—tell—him—treasure—said—torture—broke—away—Gypsies—"

Exhaustion overcame him. His eyes closed.

"Is he going?" I murmured.

Hugh crouched lower and held his watch-case to the blue lips. A mist clouded the polished surface.

"Give him time," he said. "Watty, who is Teuton!"

"Never 'eard of 'im, sir. Oh; Mister Hugh, sir, is 'is ludship—"

The gray eyes opened; the lips began to move.

"Watch—out—that—gang—desperate—be—after—you."

"But who are they, Uncle James?"

"Toutou—worst—Beran—many—bad—lot."

"Where did they take you? Tell us, and we shall have them arrested?"

The gray eyes glittered.

"No—no—lad—avoid—police—don't—talk—treasure—"

"Where is the treasure?" I interposed.

"Bull—cedars—li—"

His breathing dwindled to little, fluttering gasps, but he fought on.

"How did you find it, Uncle James?" asked Hugh softly.

That gay smile of triumph shone in his eyes for the last time.

"Used—my—brain—all—laughed—me—in—Hugh's—"

And the life flickered out of him as we watched.

Two big tears rolled down Watkins' cheeks.

"'E was a good master. Oh, Mister Hugh, sir, I do hope we can punish those bloody villains!"

"We will," said Hugh coldly, rising to his feet. "For the time being, Watkins, remember to keep your mouth shut about all this. Uncle James was right about the police. They can't help us in such a matter. If there is anything in the treasure story we should wreck any chance of finding it by advertising our purpose."

"The less said the better," I agreed. "If the police ask us, he rambled at the end about Gypsies and family affairs."

There were several details to be settled with the hospital authorities. The British Consulate had to be notified. Reporters had to be seen. It was early evening when the three of us returned to the apartment in West Eleventh Street, and the newsboys were yelling an extra.

"English nobleman murdered on the East Side! Horrible death of Lord Chesby!"

I bought a copy, and we read it as we walked down Fifth Avenue:

"'One of the strangest murder mysteries in the criminal annals of New York has been presented to the police for solution through the death in Bellevue Hospital this afternoon of James Hubert Chetwynd Crankhaugh Chesby, twenty-ninth Baron Chesby in the Peerage of Great Britain, thirty-fifth Lord of the Manor of Chesby and Hereditary Ranger of Crowden Forest.

"'After landing from the Cunarder Aquitania this morning, Lord Chesby, a dignified, scholarly man of fifty-eight, was lured away from the pier into the purlieus of the East Side, where, apparently after a valiant fight for life, he was set upon and hacked with knives. His body, still living, was left by an automobile—"

"Skip it," ordered Hugh impatiently. "What do they say of the object of the crime?"

"'From the fact that Lord Chesby has made a life-long study of Gypsy lore and dialects,' I read on, 'the police suspect that some criminal of these nomad tribes may have slain the distinguished nobleman, either for personal gain or vengeance. Lord Chesby's nephew and heir, the Hon. Hugh James Ronald Howard Chesby, who is a Wall Street bond-broker, received a telephone message during the afternoon, notifying him of his uncle's fate and warning him that the same end would be his if he made any attempt to run down the assassins.'

"'The new Lord Chesby when interviewed at—'

"I don't like it," interrupted Hugh again, frowning, "but it will have to stand. Uncle James wanted it that way, and his word is law. It will do no good to add to the story. The police can't help us. We are playing a lone hand. All rules are off."

"A lone hand?" I repeated. "Does that mean that Nikka is out of it? Remember, we agreed after the Armistice that if we ever did forsake the fleshpots for the call of danger it would be together."

"I hate to drag him away from his concerts," answered Hugh, considering. "He's makin' pots of money. But if there's a Gypsy angle to this he'd be priceless to us."

"And he'd never forgive us if we left him out," I added.

"I suppose he wouldn't. Tell you what, we'll cable him to meet us in London at my solicitors' office. We've got a long way to go, Jack. We don't even know who we have to fight. As for the treasure— Well, I want to talk to Bellowes first and have a look at the Charter Chest."