Читать книгу The Light Beyond - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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Mr. Stephen Widdowes, Ambassador from the Government of the United States to the Court of St. James, a pleasant, dignified-looking man of slightly over middle age, was standing upon the pavement waiting for his car as Mark left the hotel. The latter raised his hat respectfully, and would have passed on. The ambassador, however, detained him.

“Just the man I was looking for, Mark!” he exclaimed. “Are you in a hurry for half an hour?”

“Nothing whatever to do, sir, this afternoon,” was the prompt admission.

“Step in and drive round with me to Carlton House then,” the other invited. “I have a few little matters to look after down there. They won’t take me more than a few minutes. Brownlow was writing to you this evening.”

Mark, mystified but interested, accepted the invitation, and entered the car. During the short drive his companion spoke only of the weather and some mutual family friends. Arrived at the Embassy, he led the way to his own study where Brownlow, his private secretary, was at work.

“Anything urgent?” the Ambassador enquired.

“Nothing of any importance, sir. They have rung up from Whitehall once or twice, but we were able to deal with their enquiries.”

“That’s good. You know Mark Van Stratton?”

The two young men exchanged greetings.

“Of course you do, though,” the Ambassador continued, “you were at Harvard together, weren’t you, and you must have met here. Give us a few minutes, Brownlow. I want to have a word or two with this young man.”

“I have to go down to the Consul’s office, if you can spare me for half an hour, sir.”

“Capital! Don’t be longer if you can help it.”

Mr. Widdowes waited until the door was closed. Then he motioned his visitor to a chair and seated himself at his desk.

“Am I correct in believing, Mark,” he began, “that you have so far imbibed English habits as to be living the life of a gentleman at ease?”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it, sir,” the other admitted. “Since the War I am afraid I have led rather a useless existence.”

“Should you like some work?”

The question was so unexpected that it came almost as a shock. Mark’s thoughts flashed back to the Ritz, to the girl leaning towards him, her earnest, almost mysterious admonition. If this was coincidence it was coincidence of an amazing sort.

“What kind of work, sir?” he enquired.

“We need help here badly,” Mr. Widdowes explained. “We have all we can do at any time. They don’t overstaff us, as you know, and perhaps you’ve heard—we’ve lost Dimsdale. Influenza, or something of the sort. He’s going home by the next steamer.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” Mark ventured. “He always seemed so keen.”

Mr. Widdowes sighed.

“Well, anyhow, he’s gone, and I don’t know exactly where to replace him for the moment.”

“Do you think I should be of any use, sir?” Mark asked eagerly.

“Of course you would,” was the prompt reply. “Anyway, I want you to try. You could relieve Brownlow here of some of the social stunts he has to get up for Mrs. Widdowes—takes him half his day sometimes to make out her party lists. The work won’t be strenuous, of course. All that we need is someone who knows the social ropes pretty well, and can keep a still tongue in his head if any other little matter happens to come along. Can you dine to-night?”

“I have no engagement, sir.”

“Capital! We’ll have a further talk after dinner. Come early—say, about a quarter to eight. Mrs. Widdowes may want you to help her. She misses Ned rather when we have guests.”

Mark was dismissed with a kindly nod, and walked out feeling a little dazed. With his hands thrust into his overcoat pockets he stood upon the pavement for several seconds. The Ambassador’s offer was not, after all, such a surprising one, as Mark was on cordial terms with the family, and the suggestion of his re-entering the diplomatic service had once or twice cropped up in the course of conversation. The coincidence was that the offer should have come on this precise day. “She couldn’t possibly have guessed,” he reflected. “It’s odd, though—damned odd!” ...

Instead of turning back into Pall Mall, Mark descended the steps and turned towards the Strand, meaning to call upon some friends in the Savoy Court. After a few yards, he turned up the collar of his coat, for the mist which had been hanging about all day was changing into rain, and towards the river there were signs of fog. He had only proceeded a short distance, however, when a long two-seater car, driven by a girl, passed him at a great speed and suddenly, with a discordant grinding of brakes, was brought to a standstill by the kerb a little way ahead. The girl looked round and waved to him. Mark, recognising her with a thrill of pleasure, raised his hat and hurried forward.

“Have I splashed you?” she asked. “If so, I am very sorry. It was wonderful seeing you so unexpectedly. Jump in, please.”

Her invitation, surprising though it was, seemed as she delivered it, to be the most natural thing in the world. Mark obeyed without hesitation, and in a moment they were off again. She was seated very low amongst the cushions, and was completely enveloped in a macintosh driving coat, but she wore no veil, and he realised at once that there was a change in her since luncheon-time. She had lost that becoming tinge of colour, her eyes were set and her expression strained.

“I cannot talk to you yet,” she explained during the short distance they traversed before reaching the Arch. “I wish to drive as quickly as I can, and the traffic is always terrible getting to Northumberland Avenue. I am taking you down to my father’s office in Norfolk Street.”

“Is there anything wrong?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes,” she admitted, “but I cannot tell you about it now.”

“Don’t worry,” he begged her. “If I can help I’ll be proud. Get right along with your driving. If you’re stalled I can take the wheel. I have one of these cars myself.”

She nodded, but it was soon very clear that she needed no help. She threaded her way through the maelstrom of traffic to Northumberland Avenue with scarcely a pause, and, regardless of the disapproving glance of the policeman on duty, swept down on to the Embankment, raced along under the arch, and bearing a little to the left, turned up one of the streets leading to the Strand. At the third house on the left she paused. There was a powerful-looking commissionaire at the door, but no brass plate, or any indication as to the nature of the premises.

“This is where my father interviews people whom he does not wish to meet in the city,” she confided. “Come this way, please.”

Mark followed her into the building. There was nothing whatever to denote the fact that he was in a private retreat of one of the world’s great millionaires. The tesselated stone floor was uncovered. The two rooms through which she led him contained only half a dozen men working at separate desks, and three or four stenographers. She knocked at an inner door and, without waiting for a reply, threw it open.

“Please come in.”

They entered a comfortable but by no means luxuriously furnished apartment. Estelle closed the door, and sank into a chair a little breathlessly. Her father sat at a table upon which were several telephones, a banker’s directory and a few other cloth-bound volumes. He looked up coldly at their entrance, without showing any particular sign of surprise or curiosity. Impossible though it must have been, it seemed to Mark almost as though he might have been expected.

“Olsen had left,” the girl announced. “I must have missed him by five minutes. I found Mr. Van Stratton in the Mall. I don’t know why I brought him, but I did. I have told him nothing.”

Felix Dukane eyed the young man with a frown which was almost a scowl. Mark, who was already sufficiently confused was unable to indulge in even the faintest surmise as to the nature of the thoughts which were passing through the other’s brain. He seemed to have become an object of speculative interest to the great financier but nothing in the latter’s demeanour afforded the slightest indication as to the cause for such interest.

“Since the young man is here,” Felix Dukane decided grudgingly, “we had better perhaps go upstairs and explain our dilemma.”

He rose to his feet, unlocked the door of another exit from the room, by means of a key attached to his watchchain, and led the way across the hall to a small automatic lift into which he motioned his two companions to precede him. Mark, upon their upward journey, ventured upon a somewhat bewildered question, but the girl only shook her head. Her self-control seemed for the moment to have deserted her. Her lips were quivering, and there was an expression almost of horror in her eyes. More than ever Mark wondered how she had been able to drive with such success through the crowded streets. Presently the lift came to a standstill. They all stepped out into a little hall thickly carpeted and having an appearance of luxury which the downstairs premises had entirely lacked. With another key Mr. Dukane opened a heavy oak door, leading into an apartment which, from the number of books which lined the walls and the comfortable easy-chairs, might have been a man’s library. The furniture, however, was in disorder, a couch was overturned, and a small table was lying on its side with a vase of flowers beside it from which the water was trickling across the carpet. Suddenly Mark received a shock. Upon the floor, behind one of the chairs, was the outstretched figure of a man, a rug covering the upper part of the body.

“Good God, what’s happened here?” Mark cried.

“I have had the misfortune,” Dukane explained in his hard dry tone, “during a somewhat heated altercation, to kill an importunate and annoying visitor.”