Читать книгу Seven Sins - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 11

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Somewhat later the same morning—that is to say, not long after break of day—an incident occurred which bore no apparent relation to the mystery of South Audley Street but which, in fact, later fell into its place in the design of that tragedy. A coffee-stall keeper, named William Sawby, had established a highly lucrative business during the heavy London raids by serving coffee to wardens, firemen, police and others whose duties compelled them to remain abroad. He operated in part of the shell of a once popular West End public house, which had fallen an early victim to German bombs.

This astute caterer had fitted up a radio in his stall, so that customers might listen to the seven o'clock news bulletin, whilst refreshing themselves after their night's labor. The enterprise had outlived the blitz. William Sawby's coffee-stall on the morning following those remarkable occurrences at the house of Lord Marcus Amberdale, was well patronised at five minutes to seven by workers of all kinds, who sipped their tea or coffee whilst waiting to hear the early news.

After a night of intermittent rain, sunrise had produced a steamy mist, almost meriting the description of fog. Visibility was reduced to a few yards, and Sawby's stall with its bright urns and lights, around which a cheerful rattle of cups prevailed, formed a welcome oasis. In once orderly Bond Street hard by, a street which had come to resemble the lower jaw of a giant following extensive dental operations (and extraction by bomb is by no means painless dentistry), early traffic was just beginning to stir. But wartime London that morning, much of it still wearing its black-out night cap, possessed a sort of hollow, echoing quality, vaultlike, cavernesque and alien. The soul of a city is its people; and Mayfair had lost its soul.

Many of Sawby's patrons were regular customers: Sergeant Roper from Vine Street, his bicycle resting against the stall; Tom Wilkins, the milkman, his white pony, forefeet on the pavement, eating biscuits out of his hand; Smith, the postman, setting forth on his round; a steel helmeted warden, who in private life was a famous King's Counsel; and Mrs. Ryley, the charlady who "did for" the silversmiths on the corner. One or two others stood by; but these were accredited members of this unique early morning club, good companions between whom no social barriers existed.

"Going to be a hot day, I think," said the K.C. in his cheery forensic voice.

"It certainly 'as the smell of one, Mr. Corcoran, sir," Mrs. Ryley agreed.

"Quite so. Don't know what I shall do when I have to give up my morning visits, Sawby. Always look forward to my spells of duty."

"If you always had to get up in the middle of the night," the milkman observed, "you'd leave off looking forward to it."

"Hear, hear!" chuckled the postman. "Not that I don't enjoy a cup of coffee meself."

"It's in the winter you're a boon, Bill," said the police sergeant. "I reckon it was Vine Street, during the blitz, made your fortune."

Sawby, red-faced, blue-eyed, and wearing a moustache resembling a gnome's grotto, grinned appreciatively, clearing away empty cups and plunging them into the washing tub.

"Some o' them mornings was shockin', wasn't they, sergeant?" remarked Mrs. Ryley reflectively. "I won't never forget standin' at this 'ere counter one Wen'sday and wonderin' what 'ad become of my offices. Clean gone they was."

"Nothing left to scrub, what?" said the K.C. "Othello's occupation gone."

A lorry pulled up. It had come from Southampton during the night, and the driver and his mate climbed out of the cab, stretching their cramped limbs, and joined the group at the stall.

"We ain't late for the news, Bill, are we?" asked the driver.

"Two minutes yet," was the prompt reply. "Bread and butter with yours?"

"Bread an' what!" growled the other. "Give it its right name, chum."

"Margarine is good for us, as a matter of fact; Lord Woolton told me so," said Michael Corcoran. "Got to prefer it to butter, myself."

"Every man to his fancy," muttered the milkman. "But give me the stuff what I used to bring round in the good old days. Cows makes better butter than what coconut trees does."

Another customer appeared. He glanced in a doubtful way at the group about the stall, and then diffidently joined it.

This was a young Royal Air Force officer, a tall slim fellow with the lines of an athlete. He had dark brown wavy hair and very steadfast blue eyes, beneath straight brows. But in the group about the stall, there were two trained observers. The hair which showed beneath the new arrival's cap was slightly dishevelled; his shoes were dirty; and palpably he had not shaved that morning. This, in conjunction with the type of man and the tradition of the Royal Air Force, gave rise to speculation in the mind of the officer from Vine Street, and in that of Michael Corcoran, K.C. Charitably, they formed identical, but inaccurate deductions (a thick night); Corcoran furtively winked at the police sergeant, and the sergeant winked back. They understood one another.

The young Flight Lieutenant ordered coffee, in a nervous manner, glancing about him almost apologetically. Learned counsel, who noted his accent, determined that the officer was a man of culture and a citizen of the United States. However, as such was the rule at the Sawby Club, no one paid any further attention to him, except Mrs. Ryley, who said: "Good mornin', sir. Going to be 'ot, I fancy."

"Maybe you are right," he replied; and his momentary smile was that not of a rather careworn man but that of a likeable boy.

Sawby turned on the radio. The young airman, making an effort to set himself at ease, took out his cigarette case, and as Mrs. Ryley stood immediately beside him, offered it to her.

"Thank you kindly, sir. But I don't 'old with ladies smokin' in public."

"That's too bad." He smiled again and lighted one himself, then returned the case to his pocket as the announcer began to read the news bulletin.

This was commonplace enough, a brief and uninspiring report. Then, nearly at the end, the following item occurred:—

"Listeners who are familiar with his popular postscripts will regret to learn that Sir Giles Loeder was killed in the West End of London last night in mysterious circumstances."

The effect of this announcement on the group in general was not marked by any profound sympathy. Someone said, "Poor devil!" and someone else said: "I heard 'im broadcast only last night." Sergeant Roper shook his head. "Too many of these thugs getting busy in the black-out," he muttered. "No news of the case when I left." But to this apathy the Air Force pilot proved an exception.

He took so large a mouthful of hot coffee that he almost choked. Mrs. Ryley helpfully patted him on the back. He thanked her, his eyes streaming. As he had dropped his cigarette, he took out and lighted another. Then, disposing of his nearly boiling coffee in huge gulps until he had swallowed sufficient to justify his departure, with a muttered "Good morning" he walked off.

Michael Corcoran, his distinguished features marked by a puzzled frown, watched the slim blue figure seemingly dissolve into mist. At one moment the man was there, then he began to fade; and before he had reached the corner, he was gone ...

Later still on this misty morning Fay Perigal, having changed into uniform in the nurses' room at Otterly Hospital, looked up with a start, for she had been in a reverie, as the door opened and the matron came in.

"Good morning, dear," said Mrs. Maddison. "I expect you are rather tired."

It was unusual for matron to address any of the nurses in her charge as "dear," but Fay Perigal, perhaps because she was pretty, or because she was highly efficient, or because (for these accidents are said to count) she was related to the Marquis of Ord, had been a great favorite of Mrs. Maddison's from the first.

She was "Nurse Perigal" in public, but "Fay," or "dear" in private.

"Yes, I am rather tired, matron. In many ways I had a dreadful time."

"Was it such a wild party?"

Mrs. Maddison, her beautiful graying hair never disarranged, her poise unchangeably serene, permitted a worldly twinkle to animate her eyes which few had seen there.

Fay shook her head. "No, it was gay enough, as wartime parties go. Julie and I were at school together: I should have hated not to be there. But first of all, owing to some mistake, and I am not blaming anybody, I found myself alone in London with nowhere to sleep! And then—" she repressed a shudder—"I found myself mixed up in a murder."

"A murder?" The twinkle disappeared from Mrs. Maddison's eyes; her expression became one of some gravity.

"Yes. You see, in despair I went to my cousin's house."

"Lord Marcus Amberdale?"

"Yes, Marcus. It was pouring with rain, there wasn't a taxi in sight, and I hoped to be able to slip in and sleep on the couch, or anywhere."

"At what time was this, dear? And how did you propose to slip in?"

"Oh, the door is always practically open—at least, everybody knows where he keeps the key. But when I did get in, I found the place in the hands of the police. There was a murdered man lying in the lobby!"

"Fay! whatever do you mean? What had happened?"

"Nobody knows what had happened. At least, no one knew up to the time that I left this morning. Haven't you heard the news, matron?"

"No, I have not."

"It was Sir Giles Loeder."

"Dead?"

"Yes—murdered; at least they think so."

"Gracious heavens, child! Most charming man! Why, he was here only last month. You yourself showed him round."

"I know I did."

Fay remembered telling the police that she had disliked Sir Giles. Now she knew that she must not tell matron why: that in exercising his charm upon Mrs. Maddison Sir Giles had been endeavoring to serve a purpose. The reason of Fay's dislike was that Sir Giles had made urgent overtures to his charming guide, pressing her to dine with him in London the same night, and undertaking to use his influence to obtain the necessary leave.

"But how perfectly terrible!"

"I can't tell you what it was like. As though I hadn't been unhappy enough before."

"Unhappy, dear, about what?"

And now, without warning, as Mrs. Maddison watched, tears welled up in Fay's eyes. "My dear, what is it?" The matron stooped and clasped the girl's shoulders. "Whatever is the matter? Can't you tell me?"

"It's sweet of you," said Fay, exercising a tremendous effort and conquering her weakness. "It is such an old story, and so silly. I haven't the courage to tell you."

"Knowing you, dear, I am sure it is not silly, although it may be old."

"Well, you see—there's someone I am very fond of."

"Do I know him?"

Fay shook her head sadly.

"No, I don't think so. I don't mean that there was any understanding between us; I just mean that I am in love with him. We are quite old friends. We have known one another—oh, for ever so long. Somehow, very stupidly, I sort of took it for granted that—"

"It isn't your special patient?"

Fay shook her head again. "No, it isn't Dan. Dan and I are old friends too, as you know. But ours isn't that kind of friendship. I can't imagine why I should bother you at all—but I just had to. You have always been so kind to me, matron, always ready to help ... No, this is someone you have never met, but someone I am desperately fond of. And at the party, without wanting to know at all, I was just forced to hear the story of his hopeless entanglement with a quite worthless girl."

"You mean she is not—"

"I believe you were going to say, 'a lady'. No, she is not. Worse than that, she is not even straight. But he ... wants to marry her!"

"Oh, my dear! I think I understand. I am most terribly sorry. He must be mad, whoever he is. For his own sake, as well as for yours, something should be done to save him. Have you spoken to Lord Marcus about it?"

"No, I tried to, before I left this morning, but somehow it couldn't be done. Besides—think of what happened there last night—"

"Good gracious, dear, of course! Even now, I find it hard to believe. Do you mean that poor Sir Giles was actually murdered in your cousin's house?"

Fay shook her head wearily. "No one knows. He was just found there." She stood up resolutely, and faced the matron. "Thank you ever so much for listening," she said. "Now really I must hurry along. I am late already."

Mrs. Maddison observed that Fay's usually clear eyes were heavy. "Under those circumstances, you poor child, you cannot possibly have slept well."

"No. I am afraid I didn't sleep at all ..."