Читать книгу The Man Without Nerves - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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Pauline suddenly gripped at her brother’s arm. They were walking down the long pine plantation which bordered the twelfth hole of the famous Paradise Golf Links and Anthony was already dangling between his fingers the key which unlocked the gate of exit.

“What was that, Tony?” she exclaimed.

He had paused to light his pipe and looked round a little doubtfully.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he admitted.

Pauline moved nearer to the edge of the wood, followed by her brother. Just as they reached the boundary, the sound was repeated—the unmistakable flop of a golf ball upon a well-kept green.

“Jove! There’s some one playing at this hour of the night,” Anthony Sarson observed in puzzled fashion. “He’ll catch it, if old Townley finds him.”

“But how could any one get on to the links at all?” Pauline demanded. “You know how strict they are here. Every gate is closed at eight and there was not a soul in the clubhouse when we came away.”

“One of the apprentices,” Anthony suggested.

“Don’t be silly,” his sister answered. “You know quite well that the professionals themselves are not allowed to play on the course except with a member. It is the snobs’ paradise of the whole world for that sort of thing. There’s another!”

They moved stealthily forward and stopped under the shadow of the trees. The twelfth green was only a yard or two away and around the pin, within a foot or so, were five or six golf balls. Anthony Sarson stared at them in amazement.

“But where on earth did they come from like that?” he exclaimed. “There’s not a soul in sight.”

“I’ll tell you where they came from,” Pauline whispered with a little breath of excitement. “Do you see that single oak tree just off the course on the left-hand side? There’s a man beside it! I saw him stoop down—just now—as though to place a ball. Wait!”

Again there came a flop upon the green. This time the ball broke with a curious little spin to the left and stopped within a couple of feet of the hole.

“Must be Bobby Jones dropped down from the skies,” Anthony Sarson declared. “I never saw any one else put that sort of spin on a two-hundred-yard shot. He must have used a wooden club too.”

“Put out your pipe, Tony,” his sister begged. “I want to see who it is. He will have to come down to collect the balls.”

Anthony stepped obediently back into the wood and parted with the contents of his newly lit pipe. Then he rejoined his sister. The figure of the player was dimly visible now. He was making his way down the strip of pinewood on the fairway, keeping well within the shadow of the trees, and he was walking with the curious slouch affected by poachers or men bent on secret errands. The two watchers felt their excitement grow.

“We have not a man in the club who could have played those six shots,” Anthony observed, “and as for the pros—well, there isn’t one of them would dare risk his job. A golfing poacher! I never heard of such a thing. Look at him stealing along. He’s only got one club, too. Well, he’ll have to come here,” he chuckled. “What on earth are we going to say to him? I couldn’t raise my little finger in anger against a man who can play shots like that. I’m not sure that I could even make up my mind to report him!”

“I should think,” Pauline suggested in a low tone, “that it is some one who has been refused a ticket to play and who has been lying hidden all day.”

“Might be that,” her brother assented doubtfully. “This is the only club I know of in the world where a friend cannot put you down if he plays with you. On the other hand, he is not attempting to play a round. He seems to have just played those six balls from the same spot, and on to the one green where he is entirely out of sight from the clubhouse.”

“Keep quiet!” Pauline enjoined. “You see what his game is? He is coming down as far as the fence, then he is going along by the side of it. He will have to pass right by us all the same.”

They waited in patience. The moon had gained in strength during the last ten minutes. Suddenly Pauline uttered a stifled exclamation.

“Tony—isn’t there something familiar to you about the way he walks? It looks like some one I have seen lately.”

Her brother’s hand grasped her wrist.

“Well, I’m damned!” he muttered. “It’s that clumsy fellow, Tyssen, who plays tennis and who is down here fiddling about with novel writing!”

“It can’t be,” she murmured incredulously.

“I tell you it is,” he whispered.

Tyssen had suddenly become unmistakable. Sheltered as he seemed to be from all possible observation, he was walking upright now, his hands in his pockets and his club under his arm. He was within a few yards of them when Anthony stepped forward.

“Hello, my young friend!” he exclaimed. “Having a little night practice, eh?”

Tyssen stood perfectly still. To Pauline, who was watching him the more closely, there seemed something inexplicable in his suddenly drawn face and flashing eyes. He made no response at all for the moment. Instead, he turned his back upon them, crossed the green, picked up the balls and dropped them into the pocket of his loose tweed coat. Then he strolled back towards Anthony and his sister. The eyes of the former were riveted upon the club which Tyssen was carrying under his arm.

“What’s that club you’ve got?” he asked.

“A light iron,” Tyssen answered. “It’s an English club—one of Taylor’s, I think. I bought it at Lockwood and Brown’s.”

“Look here—am I going crazy?” Anthony demanded, in a tone of perplexity. “Where are the rest of your clubs?”

“Haven’t got any—not here, at any rate,” was the brief rejoinder.

“Did you play those balls on to this green,” Anthony asked, “from the other side of the oak tree?”

“You must have seen me, if you have been standing here watching.”

Anthony measured the distance with his eye.

“But it’s a matter of two hundred yards,” he pointed out.

“I daresay,” was the careless reply. “I was always thought to be rather a long hitter when I played.”

“When you played!” Anthony repeated vaguely.

Pauline had a sudden idea.

“Tony,” she said, “don’t you think we had better be moving on? We can take Mr. Tyssen with us. I don’t know how you got on to the links, Mr. Tyssen,” she went on, with a smile, “but there might be a little trouble if you were found here at this hour of the night, and Hegges, the gamekeeper, is due in about a quarter of an hour. You had better come out with us and we can talk crossing the Common.”

“That is very kind of you, Miss Sarson,” Tyssen acknowledged. “I’m not particularly keen upon being found here, I must admit.”

“Come on,” Anthony invited. “We can talk afterwards.”

They passed down by the side of the plantation along the tall, wooden-slatted fence and through the postern gate on to the Common. Anthony secured the lock, produced his pipe and filled it.

“There are two things I should like to ask you, Tyssen,” he said a little shortly.

“Go ahead.”

“First of all, what made you take to practising golf shots in a forbidden spot at this hour of the night?”

“Firstly, because I like doing it,” Tyssen replied. “I could not get even a temporary membership here if I wanted it and the Paradise Golf Links are as good as any in the world. Secondly, I have a peculiar, a ridiculous, but none the less a real reason for not wanting any one around here to know that I play golf a little.”

“Play golf a little!” Anthony repeated. “Well, I have seen the Walker Cup played for twice, but I have never seen any one play iron shots like yours.”

“I used to practise a good deal,” Tyssen mumbled uneasily. “May I ask a favour of you?”

“What is it?”

“I told you that I had a special reason for keeping my golf to myself. Would you mind not giving me away? If you will do that, I will promise not to trespass upon your golf links again.”

“Why, of course we’ll promise! Won’t we, Tony?” his sister broke in eagerly.

Her brother smoked his pipe in silence for a moment.

“It’s a queer thing to ask,” he observed. “I suppose you realise, Tyssen, that on the strength of those few shots we have seen you play, I know that you would rank amongst the half-dozen best players in the world! I have been captain of the Oxford team for two years and I know what I am talking about.”

“I understand something about the game, of course,” Tyssen admitted, “and I realise that I am in your hands. If you do as I ask, though, I promise that you will never regret it and you will do a fellow human being a wonderful turn.”

“Tony,” Pauline begged, “you must consent.”

Anthony smiled pleasantly.

“Well,” he conceded, “there are not many things in the world I could refuse to a man who can get cut on an iron shot at two hundred yards with a trajectory no higher than poor old Jimmie Braid’s! I’ll promise. Yes. On one condition. I shan’t tell you what that condition is for the present, but it won’t do you any harm.”

“I’m terribly obliged to you—and to you, Miss Sarson,” the young man said, turning towards her awkwardly.

They had reached the gate of the Sarsons’ abode. Anthony placed his hand upon his companion’s arm in friendly fashion.

“Look here,” he invited, “we are all late. My sister and I are not going to change; we stayed having cocktails with some friends up at the club. Come in and have something with us. The old man has stayed up for a City dinner and we are going to sit down alone, just like this. Come along—there’s a good fellow. I promise that we won’t talk golf! In fact, I’ve got to push off to a dance later on.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Please, Mr. Tyssen,” Pauline murmured.

“Very kind of you,” he accepted huskily.