Читать книгу Leathermouth - Carlton Dawe - Страница 6

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ON returning to my rooms, void of all enthusiasm for the progress I had made, I rang up George Mayford, and about half an hour later he came clattering in looking redder than ever. I was sure, unless he went on a strict diet, that one of these days he would succumb to a stroke of apoplexy. That he was disappointed with the meagre result of my visit to the City was undeniable, but that he was greatly disappointed I beg leave to doubt. For had not he and all his satellites been upon the job for the last three weeks and come up against a dead end? All the same, I saw that he had expected more from me, though why he should heaven only knows—unless he hoped that I might once more blunder correctly. But flukes never answer the call. Like most other influences in this world they are a law unto themselves.

"What did you make out of Goldberg?" he asked.

"He seemed a very ordinary sort of person."

"Punctilious?"

"Extremely."

"I'm disappointed."

"What did you expect?"

"It looks to me as though your heart is not in the job."

"It's not. I don't think it was ever so little in any job."

"That sounds promising."

"I'm promising nothing. I'm not interested in the job; I wasn't from the first, and for nobody but you would I have made such a fool of myself. I'm through."

"Rubbish! You're only beginning. Anyway, you must have formed some opinion, come to some sort of conclusion?"

"None whatever. Your youngest messenger boy would have done as well. Better put him on the job. He would probably give complete satisfaction.

"You found Morris Goldberg so difficult?"

There was a certain intonation in this that I did not like. It slyly suggested many things; among others, that my brain had possibly not been at its brightest.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It didn't strike you that he might be holding back information?"

"He answered all my questions readily enough."

"But was not what one would call communicative?"

"I don't think he had anything really important to communicate."

"Not even about Benabbas?"

"Not more than we already knew."

"Of course he abused him?"

"In a most gentlemanly way."

"And that didn't strike you as being strange?"

"Not particularly."

"Evidently a magnanimous opponent?"

"Much more than you are."

"I don't pretend to be. Well," here he glanced at me from under his jutting brows. "What's the next move?"

"I shall run down into Sussex and have a look at the old place—and Edna. I've been neglecting her shamefully."

Edna was my young sister who came into this world of trouble some fifteen years after I had made the mistake of entering it, much to her father's joy and sorrow; for it meant my mother's death, a blow from which my father never really recovered. Accordingly I became father, mother, and everything else to her. There, on the windswept Downs, from which one could look across the ancient town of Lewes to the sea, she passed her life in apparent content with three ancient servants, for whose sake I believe she held on to the old home. At any rate I could never get her to leave it; and as to marrying, I often feared that she would die an old maid, which would have been a great pity. But she was as impervious to the young men about as to my chaffing, and always reminded me of the bad example I set her. Nor was it any use my protesting that there was a difference in our respective cases. A man, especially one who had no wish to propagate his ugly mug, could get along all right with his work, but a woman had to think of her future. And what was to become of Old Lizzie, and Charlotte, and Fred the gardener, she would ask. Besides, she was quite happy, or so she stoutly declared. She had her home, her car, tennis, golf, friends, and never knew what it was to feel lonely. All of which I begged to doubt. I wanted to see her settle down with her youngsters about her, and pointed out what an admirable uncle I would make, and how jolly fond the kiddies would be of me. But she said she would wait until she saw my youngsters, which I fancied would be a long waiting. Personally, I hate to see a pretty girl unmarried, or one who is not on the verge of matrimony, for I hold that beauty has no right to go barren to the grave. The world cannot afford to lose the higher species. The law should insist on this point. There were times when I grew righteously indignant over it.

Old George cocked up his ears and questioned me with a look. Did I mean what I said; had I no further intention of interesting myself in the disappearance of Sir Julius Ashlin?

"A good blow on the Downs mightn't do you any harm," he admitted, "and you could cultivate thought among the cabbages."

"Just what I intend to do."

"But you can't," he grinned.

"Why not?"

"Because you're not that sort. I've handcuffed you, Peter my lad, and you can't break loose. I counted on this initial difficulty."

"Oh, did you? Very clever."

"If it had all been plain sailing. . . . Well, your interest might have waned, but as it is you're going through with it."

"I'm going down to see Edna, and I'm going to stay with her."

"Give her my love, and tell her Molly wants to know when she's coming up to town."

"Tell Molly, with my compliments. . . ."

"I will. She was asking after you, too. You've no idea how fond that girl is of you."

"No, I haven't."

"In fact, everybody's fond of you, Peter. You have a way with you, my son, that is simply irresistible to young and old. Just ring me up; or better, look me up when you think you've found anything worth communicating."

"I shall neither ring you up nor look you up."

"Then you don't think there's much in this affair?"

"Never did."

"The latest news from Palestine doesn't square with your view of the situation."

"You old devil!"

"It's a fact, Peter. The local government has sent through a rather alarming report of unrest among the tribes. There is even talk of an imminent open rebellion, and the name of Abu Benabbas is beginning to circulate rather too freely."

"Is he out there?"

"No one seems to know where he is at present."

"It ought to be easy enough to trace him."

"It ought to be, but it isn't. Meanwhile Palestine is in a ferment. As you know, some of our Continental friends view with not unconcerned amusement our endeavour to keep the peace out there. There are even one or two who might be prepared to take on the mandate if we relinquished it. For all we know Benabbas may be in league with an administration not too favourably impressed by the Zionist Movement."

"Then you really think he is the stormy petrel?"

"We are almost certain of it, but dare not lay hold of him without more proof."

"First catch your hare."

"We might be able to do that."

"I suppose he has been in this country?"

"Frequently. He may even be here now."

"Your system seems to be as near perfection as anything human can be."

"I want none of your cheap sneers," he growled.

"Yet an Arab ought to be easily distinguished among us."

"You don't suppose he goes about dressed in his national costume? Besides, from all accounts, he might easily pass for a Latin or a Greek, and he speaks French and Italian fluently as well as English."

"An Admirable Crichton of an Arab."

"Perhaps you are beginning to see the connection? The fellow is a plotter, but as far as we know a constitutional one. Awhile back, in the best social circles of America, he was quite a drawing-room success."

"Perhaps he is still in America?"

"No. He left there about six months ago and landed from the Berengaria at Cherbourg. We traced him to Paris and Genoa. Then he vanished."

"You think he would avoid this country?"

"There's no reason why he should. There's nothing against him that we could really act on."

"But you would know of his arrival?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Others have slipped in."

"And, of course, you can't be everywhere?"

"Are you never going to be serious?"

"But I am—most serious in my intention to run down and take a squint at Edna."

He looked as though about to consign Edna to eternal perdition, but thinking this might not meet with my approval slapped me on the shoulder, grinned in that most exasperating way of his, and said he'd let me know as soon as anything turned up.

"It seems to me," I ventured, "that Benabbas is almost as important as Sir Julius?"

"If not more so."

He marched off grinning complacently, much to my annoyance; for that grin said as plainly as a grin could, "I've got you, my boy. You may wriggle and twist and squirm, deny me as your namesake did One of old, but you're with me in this, and you know it." And I'm rather afraid he was right. In spite of myself I felt my interest grow in Abu Benabbas. There was something about that mysterious denizen of the desert which held a peculiar attraction. Perhaps it was on account of the grim potentiality in him, perhaps of his elusiveness. I found myself wondering where he was, and the exact nature of the game he thought he was playing.

Of undercurrents in Palestine there were many rumours, the truth of which could only be known to the men on the spot, who would probably be chary of forwarding them to headquarters, facts and not rumours being what was required. Moreover, the Home Authorities had a pernicious habit of ignoring the man on the spot, which was not always conducive to good service. Ministers never seemed to realise this till they were out of office. Then those who had supplanted them heard all about it.

Just how a man might be expected to deal with rumours I could not say, but it seemed to me that George's rumours and his fears merited a little attention. Accordingly I began seriously to grapple with them, though telling myself I was not particularly interested. In all this Abu Benabbas loomed large. True, he might be a stirrer-up of revolt in Trans-Jordania, but how could that connect him with the disappearance of Sir Julius Ashlin? George Mayford seemed to think there was a connection, though he could not satisfactorily explain it. On the face of it, was there likely to be? How could a wandering Arab, an enemy in religion and politics, affect the destiny of the great City magnate?

All the same, I feared that visit to Edna would not immediately materialise. But I would send her a present and tell her I was employed on a most important mission; which, of course, she would believe, being under the impression that I was most necessary to the welfare of the State. So, having cleared my mind on that point, I set a pipe going and tried to concentrate on the more important matter of what was taking place, and what might take place, in the mandated territory. I saw slipping through our hands the land that had cost our fellows so much to win; I saw our rivals waiting to pounce on that which we had abandoned; I saw the desert warriors sweeping like a cyclone over their enemy, laying the land in ruins; I saw Abu Benabbas large and terrible in his might, and Sir Julius Ashlin fleeing before him with white lips and frightened eyes. But I could not see the two connect, and in this I suffered much frustration of spirit.

Then Albert came into the room, an apology on his lips. Having reached a dead-end I was rather glad of the interruption.

"About your visit to Miss Edna, sir? I suppose we go by car?"

"We're not going, Albert."

"No, sir. Perhaps a little farther afield?" suggested the sly fellow.

"This time no farther than Belgrave Square. Find Sir Julius Ashlin's number." This he did. "Ever heard of Sir Julius Ashlin?"

"Yes, sir."

"What?"

"He's very rich."

"Anything else discreditable?"

"Very little, except that he was mixed up in the Sovonin Scandal."

"I've forgotten it."

"Inside information, sir; Government tip. They say he cleaned up a cool million."

"I remember now. Albert, you have a wonderful memory."

"For everything that don't do me no good, sir."

Of course he was mixed up in that Sovonin Scandal, and a few other distinguished persons with him. But the blame was not so much with him as with those who had supplied what Albert called "inside information"—and incidentally shared the plunder. No, I couldn't condemn Sir Julius on that account. Patriotism would need be very ardent to deny the call of the purse, and a clear million was not picked up every day even by eminent financiers.

"What else do you know about him?"

"Only what I've seen in the papers, sir. He seems to be one of the leaders of the Zionist Movement."

"Do you approve of it?"

"Well, sir, if it was for that, I don't think any of our chaps knew what they was fighting for. Might just as well have let the Turks carry on."

"Precisely."

He stood watching me, knowing quite well that something unusual was stirring. Seeing my pipe had gone out he advanced with a light. I looked up at him and nodded my thanks. Then I told him that Sir Julius was missing, and that no one knew what had become of him. Readily he grasped the situation.

"I suppose we've got to find him, sir?"

"Something like that."

"When do we start?"

"We've started."

"I mean for abroad?"

"I don't know. Perhaps not at all. Mr. Mayford—"

"I guessed there was something in the wind."

"Henceforth there may be certain persons who will take an uncommon interest in us. You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir. Pity Mr. Wally isn't in England. He'd like to be in on it."

I agreed; but heaven only knows where he was at that moment. Perhaps shooting in the Rockies or fishing in Kentucky, or sailing that yacht of his in the South Seas. A born nomad, he was not likely to rest long in any place. But when given a job that interested him he clung to it with bull-dog tenacity. Moreover, he was worth his place in any show if it was only for his invariable cheeriness, and I believe that had he been born in the direst poverty he would have found much in his unhappy condition to tickle his sense of the ridiculous. If this business should eventually resolve itself into a journey abroad, I should regret still more having to undertake it without him. With him on one side of me and Albert on the other I would have faced confidently any adventure. Both were men of great courage and resource, as had been proved over and over again, and if the one had certain advantages not possessed by the other, our sense of comradeship made light of the distinction. He was as fond of Albert Floyd as I was, and had openly bribed him to enter his service. He used to say, "I'll steal that guy from you, Pete, as sure as my name's John C. Wallington." But Albert laughed and turned a deaf ear to the charmer, and Wally knew he would have to wait until I had gone West.

So I rang up Belgrave Square and asked for Lady Nathling, such being the name of Sir Julius's widowed daughter, and, after not a little questioning concerning my credentials, was informed by a shrill feminine voice that Lady Nathling was not at home. Explaining that I wished to see her on a very important matter, I suggested that the following message might be conveyed to her ladyship: namely, that unless I heard to the contrary I would call at eleven o'clock on the following morning.

As no message came through I duly presented myself at the door, and upon giving my name was shown into a room on the left of the hall. It was a large room, handsome and heavy, with a large window which looked out on to the Square. Here, a few moments later, I was joined by a middle-aged woman with a sharp bony nose and a keen pair of eyes, who looked at me through horn-rimmed pince-nez.

"Mr. Gantian?" she queried.

"Yes. Lady?"

"No. I am Lady Nathling's secretary. Her ladyship will see you in a minute or two."

"Thank you."

She continued to look at me without speaking. Then suddenly her lips moved, but no word came from them. Second thoughts evidently suggested discretion. Without further word she turned and left me.

Lady Nathling did not keep me waiting long. She was a tall, handsome woman with a splendid figure and a fine head well set on splendid shoulders. Her eyes were dark and languorous, her mouth rather fascinating, her complexion well preserved. But the nose was rather prominent. It labelled her beyond the shadow of a doubt. She was probably about my own age.

She came forward with a smile and held out her hand, a warm hand with a genuine pressure in it. Yet there was surprise on her face, too. I don't know what she expected, but whatever it was she evidently failed to find it. A delicious perfume emanated from her person.

"I'm glad you've come," she said, after indicating a chair. "This suspense is becoming unendurable. Have you any news of my father?"

"I regret to say none whatever."

"But isn't it terrible that such a thing should happen in a country like this?"

I admitted sadly that it was, and added a few words about the difficulty of making preparations to meet unforeseen contingencies. Then I asked her plainly if she thought Sir Julius might not have been a party to his own disappearance. This surprised her, as I thought it would. She stared at me incredulously. My fall in her estimation was great and immediate.

"I am at a loss to know what you mean," she said. But if I might judge from her cold manner of saying it she meant a good deal more than this. It was clearly evident to her that I sadly lacked both tact and imagination.

"Men have been known to disappear for various reasons."

"There was no reason why my father should do such a foolish thing."

"As far as you know," I suggested.

"Had there been I should have known it." The atmosphere grew suddenly tense and chill.

"Then that disposes of the theory of self-effacement."

"Absolutely."

"A man in his position would naturally have enemies?" I ventured.

"Why 'naturally'? He never harmed anyone in his life."

"He was very successful."

"Is that a crime?"

"In the eyes of many who are unsuccessful. You will pardon me, Lady Nathling, but as I am selected for the investigation of this case I must go into every detail that may have a possible bearing on it."

"I understand perfectly. Please put any questions you choose."

"Suppose, then, we put aside for the moment any financial or personal motive, what of politics? Sir Julius was known actively to support the Zionist Movement in Palestine. That would provoke opposition in a certain quarter, if not personal enmity. Sir Julius was a large contributor to the funds?"

"You are not questioning his right to do what he liked with his own?" she asked sharply, her manner stiffening once more.

"Decidedly not—in a way."

"In a way," she echoed contemptuously, her languorous eyes suddenly leaping to life. "I don't think I follow you, Mr.—Mr.—"

"Gantian," I informed her. "You see, Lady Nathling, money is not entirely without its obligations to the public peace. What if its exploitation were to cause unrest?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind trying to be a little more explicit."

"This trouble in Palestine . . ."

"Is due, you think, to my father's interest?"

"May it not be contributory; may it not even be the cause of personal enmity? Are you prepared to admit there may be personal enmity?"

She was now looking at me in a new way. The angry flame failed out of her eyes. She dropped her heavy lids over them. Her brows knitted in perplexity. For the first time she seemed uncertain of herself.

"Yes," she said in a low voice.

"To your knowledge, has he ever been threatened?"

"He has often been abused."

"But never personally threatened?"

"Not that I know of."

But it was a half-hearted denial. I saw indecision in her eyes, caught it in the tone of her voice.

"You quite realise that if I am to be of service I must know everything that is to be known. You are quite sure that you are withholding no information?" Again she hesitated. "Unless you are going to trust me entirely I'm afraid I can be of no further service to you."

"I never said I didn't trust you. I do. But—"

"But?"

Again her brows came together; her lids lowered and she peered at me through her lashes. The mouth, too, was working a little tremulously. Then she said, "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Please wait a minute."

She rose suddenly and left the room and the sweet smell of scent behind her. I sat back wondering what this move meant. Clearly she had been hiding something from me after all. What it was I should probably know very soon. Meanwhile I must admit that interest was deepening. That indifference with which I had endeavoured to clothe myself was now an ill-fitting garment, and threadbare at that. The wind blew through it, the rain drenched it. Quite willingly I took it off and cast it from me.

She returned inside of five minutes. I noticed how carefully she closed the door. In her hand was a slip of paper. This she held out to me.

"Read it," she said.

It was a sheet of ordinary notepaper, but on it was typed the following words:

"Your father has gone on a journey, but you need have no fear for his personal safety. He is with friends who will take the greatest care of him—while you remain silent."

The last four words were heavily underlined. There was neither signature, initial, nor date.

Examining the missive closely I found nothing to occasion surprise. I held it up to the light, but the spaces between the lines were quite clear, and I didn't know enough about typewriters to guess what make of machine had been used. The only thing I noticed was that the a's and l's were slightly out of alignment, the former being below, the latter above the line.

Looking up at her I met an eager, anxious glance.

"What do you make of it?" she asked.

"Little, I'm afraid, but what it says. There may, however, be a possibility in it," I added by way of consolation. "When did you receive it?"

"The morning after my father disappeared. He did not come home on the Friday night, which worried me greatly. We had arranged to spend the week-end at our country place."

I saw she was holding another paper in her other hand.

"Is that the envelope it came in?"

"Yes."

The postmark showed that it had been posted in the S.W. district at 9.15 p.m. This would ensure the letter reaching its destination on the following morning, and not before.

"It enjoins silence," I said.

"What was I to do?" she asked despairingly. "You think I was wrong in going to the authorities?"

"In not going sooner."

"So Mr. Goldberg thought. He is my father's secretary," she explained. I nodded. "He said I ought to have communicated with the police at once, but I was afraid to speak."

"Do the authorities know of this letter?"

"No. No one knows of it but Mr. Goldberg."

"Did he offer any advice on it?"

"He thought it might be better to keep its existence secret."

"Then you, Mr. Goldberg and I, are the only persons who have seen it?"

"Yes."

"Where do your father's friends think he is?"

"Abroad. I thought it best to give that explanation." Then, doubtfully, "One may trust the police in these matters?"

"Implicitly."

"What do you make of it, Mr. Gantian? Do you think they have murdered my father?"

"No; rest assured of that."

"But if they should know I have ignored their warning of silence?"

"How should they? Who is to tell them?"

The situation, though heavily clouded, was not without a ray or two of light. Nor was that warning of silence utterly void of meaning. I was convinced that Sir Julius was still in the land of the living, and that he would remain alive—while he could be of service! There were great possibilities in a live millionaire, but none at all in a dead one. I rose to go.

"Thank you very much for your confidence, Lady Nathling."

"But what are you going to do, what do you think of it all? This suspense is becoming unbearable. Anxiety is driving me mad."

"I quite appreciate, but I think you need have no fear about your father's safety. His value as a hostage will protect him from any serious injury. This may be merely a question of money after all."

"Money?"

"Of a rich man being held to ransom."

"But he—we—will pay anything. Only find him for me, Mr. Gantian."

"Trust me to do my best."

"Thank you ever so much. When may I expect to hear from you?"

"As soon as I have anything important to communicate. In the meantime, I shouldn't ignore that warning if I were you. If anything comes along you will find my number in the directory. If I'm not in you may give my man the message. He is to be trusted."

I'm afraid I spoke here without thinking. I saw her eyes open at the mention of "my man." It probably struck her as odd that a detective should possess a "man." For of course I had hitherto been nothing but a detective to her. She smiled rather curiously, rather enigmatically, and probably came to the conclusion that we are all given to pretence at times—even a policeman.