Читать книгу The Treasure House of Martin Hews - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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We drew up, after a ghastly six-mile drive across the wilderness of my destination, at the end of what was little better than a rough cart track leading down to the river. My companion, with a final groan, stepped heavily out, and looked with anxious eyes first along the road by which we had come, and afterwards at the motor launch moored a score of yards out in the sluggish stream. He stepped into the dinghy which was waiting under the bank, and for the first time the strained look of apprehension seemed to pass from his face.

“He’s a rum little devil, but he’s kept his word,” he muttered, as I helped him in. “I knew if any one could get me away, he could. Tell Rachel I’m safe.”

There was no other word of farewell. He clambered on to the motor launch, the dinghy was drawn up, and the former swung round and started off seaward, the spray already breaking over her as she crept into speed. I watched her for several moments, until she disappeared into the grey, drifting mist. Then, just as I was turning around, the chauffeur touched me on the shoulder. He pointed along the road by which we had come, and I saw a motor car approaching, furiously driven.

“This road don’t lead anywhere, sir,” he confided. “There’s no room to pass, and the dykes are full. I am thinking it means a bit of trouble for us.”

“Anyhow, we’ve done our job,” I remarked, peering forward. “We’ve got our man away, according to orders.”

“Yes, and they’ll never catch him now,” the chauffeur agreed. “There aren’t any boats round here, and not a launch that could touch that one nearer than Rotherhithe.”

“I wonder if it’s the police?” I suggested.

“I don’t think!” he rejoined grimly. “It’s my belief it’s some of the gang he’s been scrapping with. Ugly fellows they are, too.”

The car rushed towards us, swaying from side to side, splashing the water lying in the sunken pools of the road high into the air, more than once only just avoiding a dangerous skid. When at last, with grinding of brakes and tearing of gears, the vehicle came to a standstill about a dozen yards away from us, we were completely ignored by its occupants for several moments. An apparently young man, wearing a long motoring coat of fashionable cut, a cap pulled down over his forehead, and unusually large spectacles, slipped from his seat by the driver and strolled to the edge of the muddy bank beneath which lapped the waters of the river. His eyes followed the trail left by the disappearing motor boat, and he seemed to be doing his best to peer through the gathering gloom to her possible destination. Whilst he watched, his hand as though mechanically sought his pocket, and mine immediately followed suit. He pulled out a cigarette case, lit a cigarette, and, with a last look down the river, turned away and swung round towards us. He glanced at the chauffeur cursorily and addressed himself to me. He kept at least half a dozen paces away, and his features were completely hidden.

“To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?” he asked, a faint note of truculence lurking in his tone.

“My name is Owston—Major Owston—at your service,” I answered.

“I have to thank Martin Hews for this, I suppose?” he demanded, pointing down the river.

“I am not here to answer questions,” I told him.

“Mine was only a matter of form,” he assured me. “You have spent, I trust, a pleasant afternoon assisting in the escape of a cowardly murderer. Present my compliments to Mr. Martin Hews and my congratulations upon his organisation. You, I imagine, are one of his new mercenaries.”

I made no reply. It was an extraordinarily silent stretch of country, and there was no sound whatever, except the gentle gurgling of the water against the river bank. Curiously enough, the memory of those few seconds remained in my mind for long afterwards—the car, splashed with mud, steam rising from its bonnet, drawn up by the side of the road, its three very formidable-looking occupants staring menacingly across at us, the young man facing me, so thoroughly disguised by his coat and hat and spectacles, yet with strangely subtle suggestions of something sinister and threatening in his bitter words.

“I wonder,” he speculated at last, and his tone seemed to grow in insolence, “whether you are likely to be any trouble to me in the future? Why not a life for a life, eh? It’s a sound doctrine, a lonely spot, and the river’s deep just here.”

I answered him, I hope, with equal coolness. At all events, I know that the hand which gripped the butt end of my automatic was firm and steady.

“Your car leaves tracks,” I reminded him. “Your presence here was expected. There is no part of that river so deep but that it gives up its secrets with the flow of the tide.”

Perhaps he saw the dull glitter of metal raised an inch or two from my pocket. He waved his hand contemptuously towards it.

“We kill when the need comes,” he said, “without fear or scruple, but we are not butchers. Add this to my message. Tell Mr. Martin Hews that I hear his gewgaw castle has become the asylum for damsels in distress. Nevertheless, when the fancy takes me to recover Rachel, I shall come and fetch her.”

He touched his hat and mounted again to his place by the side of the chauffeur. The car, with its evil-looking load, moved slowly back in the reverse until it reached a turning place, when it was driven off at such a reckless pace that it was speedily out of sight. My first enterprise in the service of Martin Hews was over. Not a blow had been struck. The afternoon had ended, in fact, a little tamely, but I could very well guess what would have happened if the young man who had accosted me—and his friends—had arrived before Donkin had boarded the motor boat.

Again I sat in the fixed chair of audience and made my report to the master of Breezeley Mansion. He listened to me with a changeless, sardonic smile. It was almost as though he found food for humorous reflection in the tardy arrival of Joseph and his friends.

“So we are in the position,” he remarked, when I had finished, “of holding an unwilling Helen, with Hector flying for his life and Joseph advancing to the assault. Dear me, what troubles our good nature may lead us into. Come Major Owston, do you feel inclined to help in the defence of this eagerly sought-for young woman?”

“At your bidding, sir,” I replied. “May I take it from the suggestion that I am engaged?”

“You are engaged,” he told me calmly. “Your salary will be a thousand a year, and if you fail to give me satisfaction I shall ask you to walk out at a moment’s notice.”

“What about my duties?” I queried.

“Your first and principal one is to guard my person. I have enemies. The man Joseph, whom you probably saw to-day, is one of them. So long as Donkin’s gang was in existence, I was comparatively safe. Now that they are wiped out, Joseph will look this way. I have treasures, bought and paid for, which he thinks should have gone to him. He is a fool. He was outwitted. He will always be outwitted.”

“The man with whom I spoke to-day,” I ventured, “seemed to me anything but a fool.”

My new employer scowled. The effect upon his features was singular. His lips were withdrawn, showing his white teeth, and his beady eyes seemed to recede a little into his head. He rather resembled the statuette of some malevolent oriental deity.

“You are right,” he acknowledged. “Joseph is not a fool. He has a cunning brain, he has genius, he is a great opponent. He has moments of weakness, though. He smarts always under the sense of fancied wrongs. He permits himself to hate—he hates me. Passion of that sort disturbs judgment. Feeling for my throat, he will some day thrust his neck into the noose.”

One of the telephones upon Martin Hews’ desk tinkled gently. He listened and spoke into it a nearly inaudible word. Almost before he had replaced the receiver, the white light above the door flashed. He touched a button upon his desk, the door swung open, and the girl who had intruded upon my hiding place with her singular offer entered the room. I watched her as she walked with measured footsteps towards an easy-chair set behind a small, Chippendale desk. Of me she took not the slightest notice, nor did any gesture or word of greeting pass between her and Martin Hews.

“Since you are joining my establishment, Major Owston,” the latter said, with a little wave of his hand, “let me introduce you to my niece—my lay-secretary, if I may call her so, for she does nothing except act as intermediary between myself and my bureau of information, into whose secrets you shall be one day initiated. My dear,” he went on, turning to her, “a young Goliath who has guaranteed to protect me against the assassins of Shoreditch—Major Owston—Miss Essiter.”

I rose to my feet. Her eyes met mine, expressionless and vacant. She inclined her head very slightly and took no further notice of me.

“Where are you staying in London?” Martin Hews enquired.

“At Rowton House last night,” I told him. “I imagine it would have been the Embankment to-night.”

“Your clothes?”

“Mostly pawned. I have nothing except what I stand in.”

He studied me thoughtfully—a pudgy little finger played with the end of his chin.

“I am, as a rule,” he admitted, “suspicious of such destitution. In your case, however, you will receive the benefit of the doubt. Beatrice, my dear, fifty pounds from your coffer, if you please.”

The young woman leaned forward, opened a wonderful ivory box with clasps which seemed to me of solid gold, and counted out fifty pounds from what appeared to be an inexhaustible supply. She took the notes across and laid them on her uncle’s desk. He passed them over to me. I had to hold them very tightly in my hand to be sure that I was not dreaming.

“I will take it for granted,” he continued, “that you are not on speaking terms with your tailor, and I will telephone to mine. You must have some clothes. Most other things we can provide you with. For the present, you will sleep here, until I have decided what to do with this fair Helen of Shoreditch. Before the week is over, I shall probably have other work for you in the West End. That must wait, however, until you have your clothes, and until your rooms are engaged. Do you happen to belong to any clubs in town?”

“I am still a member of the Rag, sir,” I told him—“rather a matter of kindly sufferance, I am afraid, but I am supposed to be out of England.”

“Service clubs are not the slightest use,” he snapped. “What about Ciro’s, the Embassy, the Blue Skies, and that sort of thing?”

“I know them, of course,” I admitted. “If I had been able to pay their subscriptions, I should have spent the money on food before now.”

He made a note upon some tablets by his side. A bell rang softly. The white light flashed out, the door opened. My employer’s expression became almost benevolent.

“Come in, Minchin,” he invited—“come in.”

A man entered and approached the table respectfully. He was dressed in sober black, and there were many points about him which seemed to indicate the well-trained gentleman’s servant. He was a person of curiously nondescript appearance, with small features, bald head, and slanting eyes set rather wide apart. Suitably attired, he could have passed anywhere for a Chinaman. On the spot I took an instinctive but violent dislike to him.

“Minchin,” his master announced, “this gentleman, Major Owston, has accepted a post of responsibility in the household. He will sleep here to-night. You will give him the laurel suite on the ground floor. He will need a great many articles for his toilet, most of which you will doubtless be able to provide.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“In five minutes,” Martin Hews concluded, “return and show Major Owston to his rooms.”

The man departed. My new employer turned towards me, and the indifferent note left his tone. His expression had become almost ferocious. He looked at me intensely, his eyes seeking mine, holding them with an almost portentous concentration. I was as nearly afraid of him as I have ever been of any man in my life.

“Owston,” he said, “from now on, until we part, you are my man. Don’t question my orders. If you fail to carry them out or neglect to obey them, scuttle away as fast as you can, but I warn you now, as I warned you before, that my enterprises in life are not undertaken for purposes of philanthropy. Sometimes it may happen that I am actually aiding and abetting criminals. Often I am against the law. I alone plan; you, my servants, obey. You may refuse to carry out my instructions and quit my service, but if a breath of my doings reaches the outside world or a confidence of mine is betrayed, you pay—you pay to a very ugly limit. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” I assured him. “I have my own principles left, such as they are, and nothing will make me swerve from them, but the world has treated me badly, and I am not squeamish.”

With that, he touched a button under his desk, Minchin reappeared, and I became an inmate of Breezeley Mansion.