Читать книгу Gentleman Jack, Bushranger - Don Delaney - Страница 6

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Sir Francis Maynard, the Superintendent of Police, or, as he was generally called, the "Commissary," was in anything but a good temper as he sat at breakfast in his comfortable official residence on the outskirts of Goulburn.

In the first place he had "made a night of it" on the previous evening, with a select party of friends is his own rank of life. He had drunk more champagne than was good for him, and he was rather hazy as to the exact amount of his losses at baccarat.

In the second place, he was decidedly uneasy at the prospect of an extended visit from his niece, the 18 year old daughter of the Honorable Mrs. Thellusson, of Oldborough Castle, Dorset. As a widower of many years standing, he was not at all sure how he would get on with a girl to run his domestic establishment, even if she was a kind of connection by marriage. And then again he was sure that she was flightly and unmethodical. Why, she had actually written to him from Sydney saying that she intended to pay him a surprise visit, and that he need not expect her until he saw her.

In the third place there were those confounded bushrangers.

Sir Francis had a personal grievance against the bushrangers. Their depredations destroyed his leisure and his peace of mind. Instead of being able to cultivate the society of one or two charming women whom he had discovered, and to spend convivial little evenings at the houses of the "best people," this is to say the richest people in the neighborhood, he was obliged to be in the saddle every day planning the captures that so rarely came off and angrily complaining about the curt demands made by the Government down in Sydney that he should "suppress bushranging."

Suppress bushranging, indeed. He only wished he could.

With his mind running on such thoughts as these, he was making a languid attempt to eat his ham and eggs when a knock came at the door, and in response to his irritable "Come in," Constable Roche appeared in the doorway.

The constable saluted. His impassive face showed no signs of emotion or agitation. He simply reported that the mail coach from Sydney had just arrived about eight hours behind time, and the driver, James Feeney, reported that he had been stuck up by a bushranger two miles the other side of Macdonald's place. The losses were unusually heavy. Mr. John Goss, storekeeper, had been robbed of £102, and Mr. Herbert Henderson, inspector of the Royal Bank, had lost £5, which was his own money, and notes to the value of £5,000, the property of the bank. Monsieur Jules Ducroz had lost rough gold to the value of £1,000.

Sir Francis gave a long whistle. "I suppose Mr. Henderson has the numbers of the notes, Roche?" he said.

"Yes, Sir Francis. But ten of the ten pound notes were cashed this morning at the Bank of Australia as soon as it opened and also the cheque for £100 drawn by Mr. Goss."

"Did Feeney identify the bushranger?"

"No, Sir Francis, but he thinks it was Gentleman Jack."

"Wait a moment, Roche, until I get Lieutenant Molyneux here. We shall have to go into this very thoroughly."

Sir Francis tapped a gong and from an adjoining room his chief assistant, Lieutenant Arthur Molyneux, made his appearance. Lieutenant Molyneux wore his dashing uniform with an air of distinction, he was a good-looking young fellow of seven and twenty, immaculately dressed, clean shaven except for a small brown moustache; and very alert in his manner.

"I want you to take a few notes of Roche's report, Molyneux," said Sir Francis. "The Sydney mail has been stuck up again, and it's serious this time. About £6,000 lost."

Lieutenant Molyneux looked decidedly interested. "By Jove, sir, that's a big haul," he said with a laugh. "Have you any idea who it is this time. Dan Wall's gang again I suppose."

"Can't say as yet. Now, Roche, just tell us as near as you can exactly how Feeney describes the bushranger."

"I have Feeney himself outside," said the constable. "Perhaps you would like to question him yourself, sir."

"A very good idea, Roche. Fetch him in."

So Jim, the driver, shuffled into the room and shamefacedly told his story. In his opinion it would have been useless to resist, because the bushranger undoubtedly had his mates handy. He was a big man about same height as Lieutenant Molyneux and he had a heavy red beard. Jim reckoned that he must have been a man of about forty. He seemed wonderfully well informed about the passengers and he addressed him, the driver, by his Christian name. He (Jim) had never seen him before to the best of his knowledge, and he certainly did not want to see him again. The Frenchman, Monsieur Ducroz, had quite recovered from his crack on the head, but was terribly upset by the loss of his chamois leather bag full of gold and nuggets.

"Didn't you make any attempt to protect the lives and property of those under your charge?" asked Lieutenant Molyneux severely.

Jim only scratched his head. "Why should I get my brains blown out tryin' to save other folk's money?" he grumbled. "I didn't 'ave nothin' to lose 'cept my life, and that's worth as much to me as any other man's life is to him. Now, it's my belief that if it 'adn't been for the lady——"

"Lady, what lady!" exclaimed Sir Francis, pushing back his chair excitedly, "that's the first time that you've mentioned anything about a lady. What is her name?"

"She's down on my passenger list as Miss Hope Thellusson, that's all as I knows about her," replied the driver sulkily.

Sir Francis Maynard jumped from his chair as if he was shot. "Good God, man," he said, "she's my niece, who has come out from England to stay with me."

Lieutenant Molyneux gave a start of surprise and dropped his notebook in which he was taking down a "precis" of the driver's evidence. He had not heard a word from his chief on the subject of this feminine invasion of the official residence of the commissary. However, he quickly recovered his equanimity and proceeded to cross-examine Jim with much keenness and ability.

"Surely you saw the horse that the fellow was riding, Feeney? These bushrangers always ride the very best and I suppose you must know pretty well every decent horse in the district."

"That's just it, lieutenant," said Feeney with a puzzled air. "I thought I knew the 'orse directly I clapped eyes on 'im, but I soon found I was mistaken. He was the dead spit of Mr. Campbell's Ringleader, that won the Publican's Purse at Wagga on Christmas Day in everything 'cept the color. In make and shape he was the same 'orse, but this chap's 'orse had a big blaze on his face and two white stockings behind, while Ringleader is all chesnut, without a white hair on him anywhere."

"Ringleader has not been stolen from Mr. Campbell's place has he, Roche?" asked Sir Francis sharply.

"Not as I knows of, sir," replied the constable. "Leastways it hasn't been reported to us. Oh! by the way, I just remember that I saw him in Mr. Campbell's paddock as I came along just now. I was thinking that it was a bit risky to have him there with Dan Wall and Hulbert Gunn and the rest of them always ready to lift a good one."

"Yes, yes, that'll do, Roche; what you think is not of any particular value just at present. Ask the chief constable to come and see me at his earliest convenience. Now you can——"

Rat-tat-tat.

Who on earth was that?

The commissary's butler answered the hall door and the swish of skirts could be plainly heard in the passage. There was a low-toned colloquy outside, and then the butler opened the door of the commissioner's breakfast room and announced with becoming gravity, "Miss Hope Thellusson."

Constable Roche and Jim, the driver, slipped out of the room as unostentatiously as possible, and Miss Thellusson, looking decidedly pale and tired, came forward with rather a weary little smile, and held out her hand to the commissioner.

"How do you do, Uncle Francis," she said, proffering her cheek for the perfunctory peck which the amazed commissary bestowed upon it. "I'm sure you're very much surprised to see me. And oh, I've had such terrible adventures in this wonderful country already."

"We have just been hearing about them, my dear child," said Sir Francis. "I am so thankful to think it was no worse. By the way, let me present to you my right hand man, Lieutenant Molyneux, the terror of all the evildoers in the district. I am in hopes that he will be able to lay hands on your bushranger within a very few days, and possibly within a very few hours. And when we do get hold of him I hope we shall be able to hang him as high as Haman. Eh, Molyneux?"

"Quite so, Sir Francis," said the lieutenant cheerily. "It's the only way to deal with those fellows. If they won't respect the rights of property they have no right to exist at all. That's sound doctrine, I take it."

Sir Francis smiled rather grimly. "You're just about right, Molyneux," he said. "And now, my dear child," he added to Miss Thellusson, "Mrs. Higgs, my estimable housekeeper, will show you your room, and I've no doubt you'll be glad of a rest after all your excitement during the night. We lunch at one o'clock."

He opened the door and politely bowed the pretty Miss Thellusson out. Then he began to pace anxiously up and down the room while the butler removed the breakfast things.

"Gordon ought to be here soon now," he ejaculated, pulling out his watch and consulting it anxiously. "The less time we lose the more chance we have in a case like this."

"Certainly, Sir Francis," replied Molyneux. "I can be in the saddle in ten minutes if you wish it." He looked out of the window, which commanded a view of the garden and the road beyond the neat white paling fence. "Ah, here comes Gordon at last."

Chief Constable Gordon was a burly official with grizzled hair and keen, steel-grey eyes. He saluted and stood at attention as he entered the room.

"Have you heard of any new recruits in Wall's gang, Gordon?" asked the commissary, lighting a cigar and sitting back comfortably in his easy chair. "Anybody, for instance, who is middle aged and wears a thick red beard?"

"No, Sir Francis. And I hardly think that the man we have to look for is associated with Wall and his lot. Seems to me that he plays a lone hand."

"Reasons?" said Sir Francis curtly.

"Well, in the first place, Wall's gang, as you know, is the tail end of Frank Jardine's gang, and those in it have always been young fellows. Never known a middle-aged man to be associated with them yet. When Jardine ran away to Queensland with another man's wife and Rourke was shot up Bathurst way, and O'Malley was killed by Mr. Macdonald, whose station he was holding up, the gang was reduced to three. Those three were, Wall, Hulbert and Gunn. As far as I know those three men are still working the Southern-road and they have taken in no new recruits. They have certainly not enlisted a middle-aged, red-bearded man. That individual is the biggest mystery I've struck yet."

"But there is no mystery that cannot be solved by brains and energy," remarked the commissary, blowing a cloud of smoke from his expensive Havana, "and I want you to help me solve this one, Gordon, in double quick-time."

"Very good, sir."

"The Minister down in Sydney is getting extremely nasty on the subject of the bushrangers," continued the commissary testily. "He seems to think that all that I have to do is to put a little salt on their tails."

"We can give them pepper at any rate," put in Lieutenant Molyneux, with a ringing laugh, "that is to say if only we can get near enough. But, so far, we have not succeeded in obtaining the slightest hint as to the identity of this red-bearded marauder. I tried to get a description from Feeney of the bushranger's horse, but he was very vague. He seemed to think that the animal was extremely like Mr. Campbell's crack racer, old Ringleader, except for a white blaze on the forehead, and two white stockings on the hind feet. But of course it could not be Ringleader. Roche says he saw the horse in the paddock this morning."

Chief Constable Gordon knitted his brow. "That's the queerest thing about the whole affair," he said. "I went into Mr. Campbell's paddock this morning and had a good look at the horse. He is covered all over with caked sweat and is completely done up. Somebody must have been riding him last night and riding him far and fast too."

"By George, you don't say so," exclaimed Sir Francis, thoroughly roused.

"But there's something else," continued the chief constable, with a gleam in his steel grey eyes. "I passed my left hand down the horse's forehead, and my right hand down his hind legs. Look here." He held out the palms of both hands for inspection. Streaks of white paint adhered to the fingers.

"Whew!" ejaculated Lieutenant Molyneux, "the red-bearded man must have faked the white blaze and the white stockings so as to disguise the horse."

"Exactly," said Chief Constable Gordon. "But the point that chiefly puzzles me is this. I have known many bushrangers who have stolen racehorses out of paddocks, and a good many who have faked the animals so that they became practically unrecognisable, but I have never, till now, heard of a bushranger who stole a crack racer at night and put him back in the owner's paddock next morning. The man that did that is no ordinary bushranger."

"Have you found out anything else, Gordon," asked Sir Francis, with a touch of unwilling admiration for the shrewdness of his subordinate.

"I have," replied the chief constable, with just a trace of pardonable pride. "I have ascertained from Monsieur Ducroz that the red-bearded man addressed him in perfect French. None of Wall's gang can speak French as far as I am aware. It seems to me that we are in for a tough job. Our man is no ordinary dull-brained criminal; he is well-educated and resourceful as well as courageous. He is likely to give us a long chase before we catch him. He is evidently the same man who stuck up the two gold buyers last week. 'Gentleman Jack' my men call him."

"I quite agree with you, Gordon," said Lieutenant Molyneux, with an enigmatical smile. "I congratulate you on your shrewdness and also on your hopefulness."

The conference closed and Molyneux, taking with him the chief constable and two troopers, rode away to inspect the scene of the sticking up and to collect any threads of evidence that might be found there.

Hope Thellusson experienced a feeling of vague disappointment when she emerged for lunch, much refreshed by the morning's rest, and found that she was to have a tete-a-tete with her uncle. She had begun to take quite an interest in Lieutenant Molyneux already.