Читать книгу Michael's Evil Deeds - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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My round of golf with the man who was the declared hunter of my life and liberty afforded me no apprehension whatever, although I must confess that the first sight of Norman Greyes seated in the club luncheon room, only an hour or so after he had witnessed the abortive attempt to arrest me, was something of a shock. I came to the conclusion, however, that his presence here was accidental, and in no way connected with that harmless and respectable inhabitant of the neighbourhood, James Stanfield. I played golf steadily and with success. It was not until that startling discovery close to the eighteenth tee that my equanimity was seriously disturbed. As we looked down upon the dead body of the plain-clothes policeman whom I had last seen in Woollerton Road, we both recognized him. No hint of anything of the sort, however, escaped from my lips.

After the first few seconds of stupefaction, Greyes naturally took charge of the affair. He set the caddies to search all around for a weapon, and begged me to summon my gardener, or any one who might be of assistance. I called for Soale in vain, however, and remembering that he had asked leave to visit his brother at Mayford, I abandoned the quest. Subsequently, one of the men working on the course appeared, and we carried the body into my tool shed. Greyes locked the door and telephoned for the police and doctor.

“You will excuse my apparent officiousness,” he said, “but I once had some connection with Scotland Yard.”

“There is nothing to excuse,” I assured him. “I am only too thankful that you happened to be here. Do you think that it is a case of suicide?”

“I have reasons for doubting it,” he replied, “apart from which, if it were suicide, the weapon would have been found. As the event happened so close to your house and actually on your path, Mr. Stanfield, you will not mind, I am sure, if I ask your servants a few questions.”

“I shall be only too pleased,” I told him. “My staff is rather limited as I am only here occasionally. My gardener is out for the afternoon, so there only remains my maidservant.”

I led the way into the house. Janet was busy in the kitchen but came at once at our summons. As usual, she was wonderfully neat, and her manner, although reserved, was perfectly open.

“We want to know,” my companion asked, “whether there have been any callers at the house this afternoon?”

“None, sir,” she replied, “except the boy with the chicken I ordered for the master’s dinner.”

“Have you seen any one about the place?”

“No one, sir.”

“Did you hear anything which might have been the report of a pistol?”

“Nothing at all, sir.”

“Have you been outside the house yourself?”

The girl shook her head.

“I have had no occasion to go out, sir,” she replied. “I have been busy in the kitchen.”

Greyes nodded and dismissed her after a few more unimportant questions. Soon a police inspector arrived, and the doctor. I let them visit the scene of the crime alone. As soon as they had gone, I went upstairs. I looked in my tie drawer for the small revolver. It had gone. I looked in the bottom drawer, which I had left locked, for the clothes which I had worn when I had made my escape. The drawer had been forced open and they, too, had disappeared. Then I realised that I was faced with a problem. Some one had penetrated my defences. I had been—I probably still was—in danger. I went down to the study and summoned Janet once more to my presence. When she arrived, I took a seat between her and the door. I made her face the window. Down in the straggling plantation, the police inspector was still talking to Greyes.

“Do you know anything about this affair which you did not tell Sir Norman Greyes?” I asked her.

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

I looked at her thoughtfully. She was very straight and shapely in the grey twilight. Her eyes met mine without flinching. I have been an indifferent student of women’s looks, but I realised then that they were a very beautiful though rather a cruel colour, greeny-brown of a light shade, with delicate lashes and finely cut eyebrows. There was a passionate curve to her lips which I had never before noticed. Her neatly braided hair was brown and lustrous.

“You had better tell me everything, Janet,” I enjoined.

“Soon after you had gone out,” she said, “the man who lies in the outhouse came here and asked me questions about you. He made his way into your bedroom. He was anxious to see the clothes in which you had travelled down. He opened the bottom drawer of your wardrobe and found them.”

“There was a revolver in the top drawer,” I remarked.

“I had discovered that and hidden it,” she replied.

“And after he had found my clothes?”

“He went down to the plantation to wait for you.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“He had told me that he was an officer of the police.”

“And then?”

“I went down the other path, and I made my way across the spongy turf to where he was standing. When I was so near that there was no chance of missing him, I shot him dead.”

I am a man to whom courage is second nature, and I have seen death trifled with, and have trifled with it myself, like the juggler with his ball, but I have never heard it spoken of with more indifference. Outside, the figures of the detective and his companion were still visible in the little wood. The body of the dead man was only a few yards away. I leaned forward and looked at the girl, striving to get past the almost cynical impenetrability of her speech.

“Why did you do this, Janet?” I asked.

“He did what no man in the world has ever dared to do before, sir,” she replied. “He kissed me—upon the lips! I wonder that I did not kill him where he stood!”

“Had you no other reason except this, Janet?” I persisted.

“I wished to save you, sir,” she answered.

“To save me from what?”

“From the Law.”

“You think that I was in danger?”

“I know that you were.”

“Who or what do you think I am?”

“A great criminal,” she answered.

I was staggered, for it was plain to me now that I must have been at this girl’s mercy many a time. She went on slowly.

“I have always believed,” she continued, “that you were leading a double life. The few visitors you have had have come at night, and secretly. Whenever you have arrived here and Mr. Stanfield has recommenced to play golf, there has been a tragedy or a great robbery in the newspapers on the following morning. I always felt that some day or other this would happen. Now that it has come, I am glad.”

“You realise that you have killed a man in cold blood?” I persisted, determined to try her to the limit.

“I am glad that I have,” she replied.

“For a domestic servant,” I said, “you have a wonderful sense of your obligations.”

“You need not scoff at me,” she complained. “I am a woman, a dangerous woman but a clever one. I was not brought up to be a servant. I am fit to be your companion. That is my hope.”

“I have never trusted a woman in my life,” I told her.

“You will trust me,” she declared, in a low tone. “You will remember what I have done for you to-day. I am the woman who was made to complete your life. You had better realise it and make use of me. You will not regret it.”

She came a little closer to me, and though women have never been more than the toys of my idle moments, I felt the passion of her strike into my heart. My senses were aflame. I saw life differently. Her voice became softer and more sibilant. She was like some beautiful animal. Her eyes were appealing but inhuman.

“You shall marry me,” she continued. “I have a fancy about that and I insist. Then think of the benefit. If disaster should come, I shall never be able to give evidence against you. But there will be no disaster. I know how clever you are. I, too, have brains. My master, say that this means something to you. I have given you proof of my devotion. Repay me.”

I took her into my arms. There was a savage fire about her lips which warmed my blood, a fierce delight in her strange-coloured eyes which amazed whilst it enthralled me. This modern Borgia seemed to have fastened herself on to my life. The figures of the men in the little wood grew more shadowy.

“Where is the pistol?” I whispered, holding her away from me for a moment.

“Where no one will ever find it,” she answered.

“And the clothes?”

“Burned. I run no risks when your safety is in question.”

The searchers came back to the house half an hour or so later. I was busy rebinding the handle of my putter. Janet was in the kitchen, preparing my dinner. Greyes accepted a whisky and soda. He looked tired and a little dejected.

“Any luck?” I asked him, under my breath, as he prepared to take his leave.

He shook his head.

“So far as circumstantial evidence is concerned,” he admitted, “I am afraid we shall be in a bad way. A more brutal murder I never remember. A young man, too, with a wife and three or four children, simply out to do his duty. If——”

He stopped short, swallowed a little sob in his throat, and turned away.

“I hope that you will give me another game of golf some day, Mr. Stanfield,” he said, as he prepared to take his leave.

“With great pleasure,” I assented.