Читать книгу Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 117

Quest took the dispatch which the hotel clerk handed to him one afternoon a fortnight later, and read it through without change of expression. Lenora, however, who was by his side, knew at once that it contained something startling.

“What is it?” she asked.

He passed his arm through hers and led her down the hall to where the Professor and Laura were just waiting for the lift. He beckoned them to follow him to a corner of the lounge.

“There’s one thing I quite forgot, a fortnight ago,” he said, slowly, “when I suggested that we should none of us look at a newspaper all the time we were in California. Have you kept to our bargain, Professor?”

“Absolutely!”

“And you, girls?”

“I’ve never even seen one,” Lenora declared.

“Nor I,” Laura echoed.

“I made a mistake,” Quest confessed. “Something has happened which we ought to have known about. You had better read this message—or, wait, I’ll read it aloud:—

“To Sanford Quest, Garfield Hotel, San Diego.

“Injured in wreck of Limited. Recovered consciousness today. Craig reported burned in wreck but think you had better come on.”

“French, Samaritan Hospital, Allguez.”

“When can we start?” Laura exclaimed excitedly.

Lenora clutched at Quest’s arm.

“I knew it,” she declared simply. “I felt perfectly certain, when they left San Francisco, that something would happen. We haven’t seen the end of Craig yet.”

Quest, who had been studying a time-table, glanced once more at the dispatch.

“Look here,” he said, “Allguez isn’t so far out of the way if we take the southern route to New York. Let’s get a move on to-night.”

Laura led the way to the lift. She was in a state of rare discomposure.

“To think that all the time we’ve been giddying round,” she muttered, “that poor man has been lying in hospital! Makes one feel like a brute.”

“He’s been unconscious all the time,” Quest reminded her.

“Might have expected to find us there when he came-to, any way,” Laura insisted.

Lenora smiled faintly as she caught a glance from Quest.

“Laura’s got a heart somewhere,” she murmured, “only it takes an awful lot of getting at!”…

They found French, already convalescent, comfortably installed in the private ward of a small hospital in the picturesque New Mexican town. Laura almost at once established herself by his side.

“You’re going to lose your job here, nurse,” Quest told her, smiling.

The nurse glanced at French.

“The change seems to be doing him good, any way,” she remarked. “I haven’t seen him look so bright yet.”

“Can you remember anything about the wreck, French?” Quest enquired.

The Inspector passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

“It seems more like a dream—or rather a nightmare—than anything,” he admitted. “I was sitting opposite Craig when the crash came. I was unconscious for a time. When I came to, I was simply pinned down by the side of the car. I could see a man working hard to release me, tugging and straining with all his might. Every now and then I got a glimpse of his face. It seemed queer, but I could have sworn it was Craig. Then other people passed by. I heard the shriek of a locomotive. I could see a doctor bending over some bodies. Then it all faded away and came back again. The second time I was nearly free. The man who had been working so hard was just smashing the last bit of timber away, and again I saw his face and that time I was sure that it was Craig. Anyway, he finished the job. I suddenly felt I could move my limbs. The man stood up as though exhausted, looked at me, called to the doctor, and then he seemed to fade away. It might have been because I was unconscious myself, for I don’t remember anything else until I found myself in bed.”

“It would indeed,” the Professor remarked, “be an interesting circumstance—an interesting psychological circumstance, if I might put it that way—if Craig, the arch-criminal, the man who has seemed to us so utterly devoid of all human feeling, should really have toiled in this manner to set free his captor.”

“Interesting or not,” Quest observed, “I’d like to know whether it was Craig or not. I understand there were about a dozen unrecognisable bodies found.”

The nurse, who had left the room for a few minutes, returned with a small package in her hand, which she handed to French. He looked at it in a puzzled manner.

“What can that be?” he muttered, turning it over. “Addressed to me all right, but there isn’t a soul knows I’m here except you people. Will you open it, Miss Laura?”

She took it from him and untied the strings. A little breathless cry escaped from her lips as she tore open the paper. A small black box was disclosed. She opened the lid with trembling fingers and drew out a scrap of paper. They all leaned over and read together:—

“You have all lost again. Why not give it up? You can never win.

“The Hands.”

Lenora was perhaps the calmest. She simply nodded with the melancholy air of satisfaction of one who finds her preconceived ideas confirmed.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed softly. “I knew it at the depot. Craig’s time has not come yet. He may be somewhere near us, even now.”

She glanced uneasily around the ward. Quest, who had been examining the post-mark on the package, threw the papers down.

“The post-mark’s all blurred out,” he remarked. “There’s no doubt about it, that fellow Craig has the devil’s own luck, but we’ll get him—we’ll get him yet. I’ll just take a stroll up to police head-quarters and make a few inquiries. You might come with me, Lenora, and Laura can get busy with her amateur nursing.”

“I shall make inquiries,” the Professor announced briskly, “concerning the local museum. There should be interesting relics hereabouts of the prehistoric Indians.”