Читать книгу Marivosa - Baroness Orczy - Страница 13

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A high-powered American car was outside, with a dark-skinned chauffeur in immaculate livery. Timothy, as soon as he landed in Monsataz and caught the first glimpse of the fine city with its magnificent custom-house, post-office, railway station and so on, buildings which would have put the London or Paris ones to shame, had already made up his mind that nothing here would astonish him. Monsataz, except for its cobble stones and the narrow streets of the old town, was just as much an up-to-date seaport city as Marseilles or Genoa. Neither the latest model Chrysler, therefore, nor the chauffeur’s perfectly tailored livery caused him so much as to lift an eyebrow.

He entered the car on the heels of Fra Martino, and the Chrysler went bumping along the cobbles until it turned into the beautiful wide Avenida, bordered with fine trees, with private houses on either side, and the handsome Hotel Americano with its outdoor café occupying a large portion of the sidewalk.

Fra Martino’s talk was chiefly of the people whom Timothy was to meet this evening; their host, Dom Manoël da Lisbao, one of the most popular as he was one of the richest members of the fashionable set in Monsataz; ‘and kind and generous, my dear Major! You haven’t an idea! Speaks English like a native, better than I do, and French or German—anything you like. And a great favourite with the ladies—a wealthy bachelor, you see, so the mammas with marriageable daughters are all after him—but, so far, nothing—although there is talk that his engagement to Teresa da Pinto, the daughter of the senhor doutor cavalheiro, will shortly be announced. Oh! a lovely girl, the reigning beauty of Monsataz, and none of your modern young women who think they know everything. She has no mother, poor dear! And her father—well! well! He has led a rough life, in a remote province—only vaqueiros and peasants and half-breeds for company. But Teresa was educated in the Convent of the Visitation in Sao Paolo. And then the doctor had a great piece of luck ... Dom Manoël da Lisbao got to know him, took a liking to him and brought him to Monsataz, where he soon became the fashionable practitioner—still very rough in his ways, but some people like that in a doctor, the brusque manner, don’t you know?’

And while Fra Martino’s talk meandered on and on in mellifluous tones Timothy’s thoughts harked back on the business that had brought him to this far-away corner of the civilized world, where everything was strange, every man and woman a foreigner to him; their views of things, their ideas, their political and religious ideals as far removed from him as these tropical shores from the mist-bound coasts of his beloved Ireland.

What chance would he have to get to the bottom of things? To the bottom of this amazing conspiracy which had deprived him of wealth and of home? That it was a conspiracy he felt somehow more convinced than ever before. He had not met anyone yet who had been directly connected with it, had spoken to no one on the subject, and yet he felt it in his bones that there was something—Fra Martino’s name had never been mixed up with the affair; nevertheless, Tim O’Clee was absolutely certain that the old priest knew something about the mysterious life or death of Dudley Stone. And as the car sped along from the old city to the new, from cobbled pavements to smooth tarred roads, Timothy seemed to see the enigmatical figure of Dudley Stone mocking him with its fancied appearances and swift evanescence at every street corner, under the awnings of the cafés, in crowded tramcars or elegant motors. And, through the dust of the streets and the fast-gathering twilight, he saw the no less elusive and still more provocative face of Hold-Hands Juliana, grinning at him through the windows of the car, and taunting him with full, red lips that laughed, and gleaming white teeth ready to bite. ‘Trace Dudley Stone?’ she jeered. ‘Find out when he died? Bah! You are a fool, Timothy O’Clerigh. Six years is a long time, and those who swore affidavits then are ready to swear again. Their wits are sharper than yours, my friend, and they are not likely to give themselves away for any Irish blandishments you may try upon them. The motive, my friend, was a strong one, remember.’

The motive? Yes! That was it. The entry in Uncle Justin’s diary: ‘I gave my beloved the fifty thousand pounds she wanted.’ Uncle Justin’s money had bought those perjurers, and there was nothing in the balance, save Irish wit, to force them to disgorge.