Читать книгу The Treasure House of Martin Hews - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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I never doubted but that this was a job for me in my new capacity as protector of the household, and I sprinted off down the corridor towards the hall, meaning to ascend at once to my employer’s room. I had scarcely gone half a dozen paces, however, before Miss Essiter appeared round the corner, coming towards me. There was no sign of alarm in her face. She was calm indeed and unruffled.

“Didn’t you hear that cry?” I exclaimed. “There is something wrong in your uncle’s room.”

“There’s nothing wrong which need concern you, Major Owston,” she assured me coldly. “When you are wanted, you will be summoned.”

Her demeanour seemed to me, with the echoes of that cry in my ears, stupefying. There was a supercilious turn to her lips as she stood there, barring my progress. It flashed into my mind that she had probably seen Rachel run laughing to her room.

“But surely,” I protested, “something must be wrong up there? Some one must be in distress of some sort?”

“Nothing that is happening is any concern of yours,” she insisted. “When your services are needed, you will be sent for. I was on my way to speak to you.”

“Will you come into my room?” I invited, turning back reluctantly.

She followed me. I lingered upon the threshold, listening, and, reassured to some extent by the silence which now reigned in the house, I closed the door. She stood for a moment looking around the room. Then she walked to the window and drew the curtain a little closer. Afterwards she tried the catch of the outer door and finally made her way to my easy-chair, into which she sank with a slight gesture of relief, and sat gazing at me with almost disconcerting intentness. She had changed her dress, but she was still wearing black—a gown of cunningly devised simplicity which seemed to fall in one line from her neck to the hem of her skirt. She wore no ornaments, and her strangely coloured hair was arranged in unfashionable and severely simple coils. Nevertheless, I was beginning to realise that notwithstanding her apparent indifference to the fact, she was really an unusually beautiful young woman. Although her voice, her eyes, her changeless poise seemed to bespeak a curious lack of human sensibility, she had the air of living in a world of her own from which she emerged upon necessity with a certain amount of resentment. I seated myself in another chair and waited, a little obstinate in my silence. She had sought me out. It should be for her, I decided, to explain her errand. This she did, after a somewhat prolonged interval.

“You are wondering, of course, Major Owston,” she remarked, “why I tried to persuade you to go away.”

“It was scarcely a kind action,” I complained, with some trace of indignation still in my tone, “and, if you will forgive my reminding you of the fact, what you told me was not the truth. I have been looking for a job so long that I think if I had failed with your uncle I should have given up hope.”

“You must acquit me of any personal malevolence,” she said. “I simply followed out exactly my uncle’s instructions. He wished to test your tenacity of purpose and your intelligence. A mean action, of course. My uncle is a Jesuit, however. He believes that the end justifies the means, and we who live with him have to think as he does.”

“Yet,” I ventured, “you seem to me to have a will of your own.”

“I have,” she admitted dryly, “but it is in subjection to a much stronger one.”

There was a brief silence. Then my companion, who had been looking steadily into the fire, turned towards me and disclosed the reason of her visit.

“My uncle,” she confided, “does not wish you to look upon yourself only as a mercenary in connection with your engagement here. In other words, he does not want you to be forced into a desperate position without some idea of what you are fighting for. You must have questions which you wish to ask.”

“I certainly have,” I confessed. “I really have only the vaguest idea as to what it is all about. Are we expecting a raid upon the place with the object of rescuing this young woman, and what do they exist for, anyhow, these bands of criminals? How does Mr. Martin Hews happen to be connected with them?”

“That is one of the things which I must explain,” she said. “You have probably read in the newspapers of rival gangs of hooligans who are supposed to frequent race courses and carry on feuds connected with racing affairs, bogus bookmaking and that sort of thing.”

“Certainly I have read of them,” I acknowledged.

“Well, that is newspaper bluff to a great extent,” she continued. “The gangs exist all right, and the fierce fights take place. Very much more serious they are, too, than anything reported in the newspapers. The truth is, however, that these gangs are composed not of mere desperadoes and pickpockets, but of really organised criminals, who are a serious menace to the police. Their race-course activities are mostly bluff. From their headquarters have been planned all the great burglaries of recent days, the counterfeit money exploits, the holding up of banks, and even murders, both here and on the Continent. Donkin was the nominal head of one band; Joseph of the other. My uncle’s sympathies and interests have always lain with Donkin—unfortunately, as it seems at present. Donkin was under my uncle’s protection—for services rendered, you might say—which accounts for this afternoon’s exploit. He was holding his own against Joseph, but as usual these men must complicate everything by their ridiculous love affairs. Are you a susceptible person, Major Owston?” she asked, looking across at me with an insolent little droop of her eyelids.

“I don’t think so,” I rejoined. “I have had very little time for women in my lifetime, even as playthings.”

She bit her lip for a moment, but remained otherwise unmoved.

“That is so much to the good,” she said. “Owing to his ridiculous infatuation, Donkin has become a fugitive—his gang of course would be useless without him—and Joseph, we understand, at some time or other during the near future, means to risk his security and the security of his adherents, by an attack upon this house for the purpose of recovering the girl. You have a vague idea of the situation now?”

“A vague idea,” I admitted. “What I should like to understand, though, is this. What is the precise quid pro quo which your uncle has received as a return for his support to Donkin’s gang of criminals?”

“Yes, I imagined you would ask that,” she observed thoughtfully. “I am not sure that I can entirely satisfy your curiosity. I might tell you as much as this, though. My uncle is one of the most famous collectors of art treasures in the world. There are many which are not for sale. Sometimes they come into the hands of thieves by illegal methods. They have to be sold to some one. My uncle buys them through an agent, without asking inconvenient questions. There are pictures, for instance, in his gallery, for which he has paid—not their value, perhaps, but a great deal—which would never have been parted with by their owners voluntarily. That is all I can tell you for the moment, Major Owston.”

I nodded assent. It was quite as much as I wanted to know; perhaps a little more.

“At any rate,” she went on, the disagreeable note creeping once more into her tone, “your first enterprise in defence of the household will be one of chivalry. You can picture yourself, if you will, a Sir Galahad, or any other hero of romance. Your task will be to aid in the protection of that most enslaving young woman from Shoreditch whom I saw fluttering out of this room a few minutes ago.”

I ignored the subject of Rachel’s visit. My conscience was quite clear on that account anyhow.

“Very well,” I said, “I am quite ready to take that on. I want to ask you another question, though. Don’t look upon it as a sign of cowardice. It is simply a matter of common sense. If your uncle knows that there is going to be an attack upon the house for the purpose of carrying off that young woman, why doesn’t he inform the police?”

“You’re terribly logical,” she remarked. “The police will be summoned if it becomes absolutely necessary, but only as a last resource. It has been a matter of etiquette between both gangs to fight their quarrels out without reference to the common enemy. I suppose my uncle is obeying a precedent. There have been many fights,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “between these men, and the plans of the attacking party have often leaked out, but neither side yet has ever appealed to the police. It is slightly different now, of course, and at the proper moment the authorities will be summoned.”

I must have seemed to her almost stupidly obstinate, but I felt that she was not giving me her whole confidence.

“I can’t see,” I persisted, “why we shouldn’t just ring up the police station and give them an idea of what is likely to happen.”

She half closed her eyes. She had the air of a patient school-mistress dealing with a backward child.

“I should have thought,” she pointed out, “that after what I have told you, you would have understood why my uncle does not care for a police visitation in this house except in a matter of emergency.”

A footman entered the room for the second time, to lay the cloth for my evening meal. She waved him impatiently away, but rose to her feet.

“There is another very important matter which I have to explain to you,” she said. “Come over here, please.”

She produced a small, stubby key of complicated pattern and unlocked a desk which stood against the wall. It contained all the ordinary writing materials and three telephone instruments, the receivers of which, and the uprights, were painted different colours—yellow, white and red. She touched the first.

“This,” she explained, “is the one most in use. It communicates with my uncle’s room. He will speak to you upon it, or you can speak to him. The white telephone is used merely for domestic purposes. That will bring you a servant for orders, or if the staff have anything to ask you that is the telephone they will use.”

“And the red one?” I asked, as she paused.

Perhaps it was my fancy, but I had an idea that she shivered slightly before she answered.

“The red one means danger,” she warned me. “Just at present you are scarcely likely to use it yourself—you are not sufficiently involved in any of my uncle’s enterprises. It is only used, at any time, as a last resource. If my uncle had news to communicate to you, even serious news of impending danger, he would still use the yellow telephone. You understand?”

“I think so,” I assented.

She pointed to three bulbs projecting from the wainscotting. One was yellow, one was white, one was red.

“Directly the telephone rings,” she continued, “the light will flash out there from the one in use. They are duplicated in your bedroom, with a bell under each. Remember the red telephone is only used in cases of direct extremity. Its ringing for you will mean the greatest danger which could happen to the household—danger to my uncle. You are quick on your feet?”

“Moderately,” I admitted. “No, I won’t be modest. I think that I am quicker than most men in getting off the mark.”

“Then, if that summons should come, take your gun—you should always have it ready—and hurry by the way I am going to show you to my uncle’s room. Come with me now, please, and afterwards I shall leave you to your dinner.”

She led me to the wainscotting of the farther wall, and for a minute her fingers played with the scrolled design of the woodwork. There was a little burr, like the muffled ringing of a telephone, and a panel rolled back.

“Follow me,” she enjoined.

I obeyed in silence. The thrill of adventure was creeping once more into my senses, and the depression of months was passing. We were almost in the darkness, and so close together that once her hand swinging back touched mine. There was a curiously indistinguishable perfume about her hair or clothing which reminded me of some of the byways of the bazaars at Constantinople, where nameless essences are brewed. Presently she came to a standstill. Her fingers rested upon my arm.

“We mount the stairs here,” she whispered. “Not many, because, as you realise, we have been walking on an incline all the time.”

I followed her, and we faced a ruby lamp. There she stopped.

“All that you have to do,” she continued, “is to place your hand upon that lamp and push forward. You will find yourself in the recess where my uncle sent you when Donkin and the girl arrived. You know your way out of that into the room?”

“Perfectly,” I assured her.

She led me back to my sitting-room, where my table was now prepared.

“I am afraid,” she said, “that a portion of your dinner will be spoilt. It was necessary, however, that you should understand these things. Joseph is a man of very quick action, and there is no telling how soon he may strike.”

“We ought to have some scheme of defence,” I suggested to her, “and I should like some other weapon besides a gun—a heavy stick or a life preserver. I am not very fond of shooting in a scrap of this sort.”

“I will tell my uncle what you say,” she promised. “He will very likely send Minchin to talk to you.”

She was moving towards the door, sphinxlike and cold as ever, when a sudden instinct of the hostess seemed to possess her. She covered over one of my dishes and jerked my cocktail shaker gently, as though to be sure that the ice had not all melted.

“I hope you will find everything all right,” she said. “Please don’t hesitate to tell Miles if you have any special wishes.”

“I am sure that I shall not find it necessary,” I told her. “You wouldn’t let me—shake you a cocktail, I suppose?”

She demurred for a moment.

“That is very nice of you,” she said. “Please do.”

We drank together, and for a moment she seemed more human.

“I am afraid your fish will be cold,” she regretted.

“Miss Essiter,” I confided, “I told your uncle the truth, as I didn’t wish to come here under false pretences. My last meal was yesterday at five o’clock, when I had two cups of tea, and two slices of thick bread and butter, for which I paid fourpence. I had a cup of coffee this morning, before I came down to see your uncle, and that is all. You don’t seem to realise that you are feeding a starving man.”

Then indeed for a moment she changed from a cold and lifeless being into a creature of sympathies and kindness.

“But, my dear man!” she expostulated. “Why didn’t you ask for something before? Now that I look at you—why, I believe you’re half starved!”

I felt a sudden weakness. I had told her the truth, and more than once during the day the dizziness had come. She hurried to the door, but the farewell glance that she sent me was sufficient to turn any man’s head.

“Not another word,” she ordered. “Sit down this instant.”

She waved me away from the door, and with her departure I abandoned the struggle for appearances. The perfect cooking and the delicate sauces were half wasted on me. I sat down and ate as only a ravenous man can.

Unforgettable, that moment when, some five hours later, wakened out of a profound sleep, I sat up amidst the cool sheets I had found so delicious, striving for realisation. The room was unfamiliar to me. The silk pyjamas which clung to my limbs were strange. Nothing seemed to be my own. Nowhere could I piece together those fragments of memory in my mind. Then my eyes leaped towards something on the wall exactly opposite the bed, and everything flashed back. The red light was burning!