Читать книгу The Bat Flies Low - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 5

Hayes contrived to slip away early on the plea of urgent business, taking the distinguished Egyptian with him. Slim, his town chauffeur, was waiting at the stage door. Hayes had inherited his father’s genius for appointing the right man to the right job, and Slim was a traffic wizard. Guided apparently by some extra sense, he rose superior to lights. They never seemed to be against him. And he could insinuate the big French car into narrow gaps which one would have sworn inadequate to accommodate a perambulator.

“Your driver is uncannily skillful, Mr. Hayes.”

The Egyptian spoke without seeming effort, yet his voice was clearly audible above the agonizing din of Broadway.

Lincoln Hayes nodded.

“What I have him for.”

They reached the Hayes home—a rather somber stone-faced building, a relic of an older, more dignified New York—in roughly the same time that a fast car could have done it if, instead of the after-theater block, the streets had been quite empty.

The door was opened by an English butler so perfectly in character that he seemed unreal. He might have been any age between forty and fifty. His straight, dark-brown hair showed no trace of graying; his short side-whiskers, sometimes called “pantry panels,” were razor-squared to perfection. He was pale and thoughtful. His dark eyes were expressionless.

They stepped into the warmly lighted lobby, one of New York’s show places. Stairs led up right and left to a gallery broken by pointed arches. The staircase and the gallery had come from the Gandolfo Palace in Venice. There was a piece of all but priceless tapestry on one wall, and the silver standard lamps which occupied the two recesses as one entered were converted candelabra and had come from the workshop of Benvenuto Cellini. Immediately facing the door was a Correggio which had been insured for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The mosaic floor was from a Roman villa in Capri; the Persian and Arab carpets were unique, each designed and loomed to the order of the late Lincoln Hayes senior and never repeated. It was a very beautiful place but quite unhomely. It resembled a stage-set for Othello; but Hayes’ father had devoted years to assembling it and had loved it. And so it remained as it had been in his lifetime.

Mohammed Ahmes Bey surrendered a fur-lined coat and a silk hat to the butler. He was looking about him speculatively.

“One has heard of your Venetian lobby, Mr. Hayes,” he said, his musical voice echoing about the lofty place, “but it is something one must see to appreciate.”

“Frankly, theatrical,” Lincoln Hayes replied, his rather harsh, monotonous voice a strange contrast to the music of the Egyptian’s. “But my father worked to build it—here it is—here it stays.”

“It is very beautiful.”

The butler reappeared, bowed, and:

“A cold buffet in the oak room, sir,” he said, addressing Hayes. “Are you expecting other guests?”

“No.”

“Captain Rorke is in the library.”

“Yes?”

“And Miss Wayland would like a word with you at your convenience, sir.”

“It is possible,” said the Egyptian with delicate courtesy, “that I find myself here at an inconvenient moment. Please, Mr. Hayes, do not hesitate to say so.”

“My dear Mohammed Bey, shall not be detained more than a few minutes.”

Hayes turned to the butler.

“Lurgan—Miss Wayland to join us in oak room. Please come this way, Mohammed Bey. I will see you are taken care of until I return.”

They walked along a short corridor to an oak paneled room. Heavy curtains were drawn before the windows. But the room was well lighted by standard lamps set upon a refectory table, upon which a cold repast was spread.

“Would suggest a glass of wine, Mohammed Bey——”

“But you fear I am a Moslem? Although I am not a Moslem, Mr. Hayes, I am, nevertheless, a total abstainer. Thank you. Here, I see, are tomato sandwiches, and here is dry ginger ale.”

“Cigar?”

“I thank you, but I never smoke.”

At which moment Ann Wayland came in. She was quite simply dressed. She was very attractive, with her wavy chestnut hair, peach-like skin, and slender, athletic figure.

Such a secretary, for she was Lincoln Hayes’ secretary, in any bachelor household but that of Lincoln Hayes must have created comment. She was the daughter of a lifelong friend of Hayes’ father and belonged to a family which without patchwork could trace back to the Mayflower settlers.

At first, it was true, when Lincoln Hayes had employed her, she had been conscious of pique. She was no slave of vanity, but she was used to attention from almost any man with whom she came in contact. Sometimes Hayes would squeeze her shoulders appreciatively when she had done something particularly clever or self-sacrificing, but he seemed to be blankly unaware of the fact that she was a very pretty girl. She had nearly been in love with him—as later she realized. But now she had settled down to the truth, as she saw it: that Lincoln Hayes was an adorable monk; a sort of charming young uncle. No doubt this frame of mind had been induced, or assisted, by the arrival of someone else....

On the threshold of the oak room she pulled up suddenly, looking from face to face. Her eyes, which were dark blue, appeared black in the dim lighting.

“Come in, Ann,” said Hayes. “Mohammed Ahmes Bey. And as I am going to leave you to this young lady’s mercies for a while, I think you should know she is Ann Wayland, daughter of very old family friend, and best secretary in New York City.”

Mohammed Ahmes Bey bowed deeply.

“Want to see me alone?” Hayes went on.

“No, not at all. I only wanted to tell you that Paddy ... Rorke——”

The interval between the two names she had been unable to mask.

Lincoln Hayes reached out a long arm and squeezed her shoulder. Ann colored like a blush rose and went on hurriedly:

“That is—he asked me directly he arrived ...”

“How long here?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes. The Berengaria docked tonight, after all, and he asked me to tell you to see him the moment you returned and to phone for Ulric Stefanson. I phoned at once.”

“Rorke wants him tonight?”

“Yes. He was out, but I left a message.”

“Right, Ann.”

There was nothing in the voice or in the appearance of Lincoln Hayes to suggest that he was moved in any way. One watching closely and knowing him as well as Ann Wayland knew him, for instance, might have noted that he brushed imaginary cigarette ash from the lapel of his dress-coat. He turned to Mohammed Ahmes Bey.

“If I leave you, I leave you in good company. Whenever you please, Miss Wayland will show you around the museum. Originally built for ballroom; museum during my late father’s lifetime. Rejoin you very soon.”

He inclined his head and turned to go, when:

“There was something else I wanted to mention,” said Ann rather breathlessly.

Hayes glanced back.

“What?”

Lurgan came in and stepping behind the table began to officiate.

“There is no hurry,” said Ann; “it will do later.”

“Whisky-and-soda and sandwiches are served in the library, sir,” Lurgan murmured.

“Thank you.”

Lincoln Hayes went out.

A few moments later he entered the library, one of the two finest rooms of its kind in New York City. The volumes, in massive mahogany cases which lined the walls, were many of them unique first editions. There were specimens of early printing; rare bindings; a Shakespeare First Folio; a Book of Hours which had belonged to Marguerite de Valois, and a hundred and one other rare pieces, in addition to the normally fine books which comprised this magnificent collection.

Although absent from the lobby, the queer, mystic note of Egypt might be heard here. There were busts and statuettes from that home of ancient learning; fragments of mural decorations framed upon those walls not occupied by bookcases.

A log fire blazed in the open hearth.

Upon a large writing table littered with books there was a steel dispatch box, and a man was standing in the hearth, kicking a burning log back into the fire. He turned as Lincoln Hayes entered.

He was dressed in a well-worn but well cut flannel suit; and, as he came about, his eyes opened widely, and his habitually gloomy expression became that of a boy just home for the holidays.

“Lincoln!” he cried, and literally sprang forward.

“Paddy!—good to see you!”

Their hands became locked in a grip which would have extracted howls of agony from a normal townsman. They grinned into each other’s faces with a gladness only possible in deep friendship.

“You’ve got it, Paddy?”

With his left hand, for Lincoln Hayes still grasped his right, Captain Rorke pointed to the dispatch box upon the big table.

“There must be millions in it, Lincoln; there have been three attempts upon me since I got it——”