Читать книгу The Strange Boarders of Palace Crescent - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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The end of that amazing day, however, had not arrived for Roger Ferrison. In the very act of crossing the threshold of his room and before he could have closed the door, which would effectually have blocked his hearing, his footsteps were arrested by one of those ordinary but quaintly disturbing sounds, of no account whatever in the busy daytime but curiously impressive in the dead silence of the night. The telephone bell in the hall near the front door rang.

Roger Ferrison stepped back, leaned over the banisters and listened. Save for the persistent clatter of the bell from the somewhat ancient instrument below, the whole house was wrapped in darkness and silence. The summons ceased. There was still no sound, no light anywhere in the house, no open door. Roger’s first impulse was to decide that this was no affair of his and to go back to his room. Then he remembered the unreturned latchkeys and remembered, too, the somewhat isolated position of the instrument. It was just possible that with every one’s door closed, the summons might remain unanswered. He himself, in a state of curious exaltation that night, was disposed to help the whole world, much more to do a trifling service to his landlady. He kicked off his shoes, descended the stairs, took off the receiver and spoke.

“Hello! Who’s there?”

A gruff, but in a queer sort of way, vaguely familiar, voice answered him.

“Is that West Kensington thirteen-thirteen?”

“Yes.”

“The boarding house of Mrs. Dewar?”

“Yes.”

“Kindly ask Mrs. Dewar to come to the telephone.”

“Who is speaking?” Roger asked.

“That doesn’t matter. Fetch Mrs. Dewar at once, if you please.”

“Look here,” Ferrison explained. “I’m just a lodger in the house, who happened to be going to bed late. I scarcely know which Mrs. Dewar’s room is. Why on earth do you want to disturb her at this time of night? Is it anything serious?”

“It is very serious indeed,” was the curt reply. “Kindly fetch the lady at once.”

“I’m not going to disturb her unless I know who it is,” Roger retorted with sudden doggedness.

“It is the sergeant of Bartels Street Police Station,” the voice confided, “and if you don’t do as I ask, you will get into trouble.”

“All right. Hold on,” Roger acquiesced.

He turned on the light in the hall and made his way to the office on the ground floor at the back of the house, where Audrey had told him Mrs. Dewar’s sleeping apartment was also situated. Arrived there, and with his hand already outstretched to venture upon a gentle summons, he suddenly stiffened. It was an old house and the fittings and woodwork alike were warped and shrunken. From underneath the door itself and through the keyhole he could distinctly see the glimmer of a light.... Furthermore, although he knew that Mrs. Dewar was a widow of unimpaired respectability, he was suddenly conscious of low, muffled voices inside. More than ever he disliked his self-imposed task but, having gone so far, he had no alternative but action. He knocked softly but firmly upon the door. The voices inside ceased at once. He could almost sense in the abrupt silence the shock which his summons must have been. Furthermore, in a few seconds, the light also was extinguished. There was absolute stillness in the room. The time for hesitation was past, however. He struck the panel of the door sharply once more and this time not without effect.

“Who is that?” was the swift demand from the inside.

He recognised Mrs. Dewar’s voice—cold, level and curiously unmoved, even under these strange conditions.

“It is I—Roger Ferrison—your new boarder. The telephone is ringing in the hall. I heard it as I was going to bed and I thought you ought to know.”

There was a fluttering murmur which might have been due to an indrawn breath but Mrs. Dewar’s voice continued a few seconds later calmly enough.

“The telephone? At this hour of the night? You must be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken,” Rogers insisted. “As a matter of fact, I have already answered the call.”

“You answered it! Who is speaking, then?”

“The sergeant at Bartels Street Police Station. He insisted upon speaking to you at once.”

In an incredibly short space of time the door was opened. Mrs. Dewar stood upon the threshold in a dingy, dark red dressing gown. She might have been undressed but she gave Ferrison the impression that she was not. She held the door only slightly open.

“This is absurd,” she said calmly. “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Ferrison, all the same.”

She stepped into the passage and closed the door behind her.

“I will not trouble you further,” she continued. “I will speak to the sergeant myself. I suppose some one has left a window open or has forgotten to close a door at the back. I find the police in this neighbourhood very officious.”

Her level tone had its effect upon him. The whole affair seemed suddenly to lose its sense of drama. Ferrison smiled to himself at the state of excitement into which he had been thrown. He held open the green baize door.

“I expect that’s it,” he assented. “I noticed, however—I came in late myself—that there were a couple of latchkeys short. That made me think that it might have been an accident to one of your boarders.”

“I expect some one has taken his upstairs with him and will return it in the morning,” Mrs. Dewar explained. “It is against the rules but one cannot expect everything from gentlemen who come in so late. Don’t wait up any longer, please, Mr. Ferrison. I will deal with this troublesome sergeant.”

“You would not like me to stay, in case I can be of help?” he asked, as they reached the hall.

“It really would not be worth while,” she assured him. “I am quite certain that it is only an ordinary message. With your work to see to in the morning, it is time that you were in bed.”

Mrs. Dewar showed no signs of haste about answering the telephone. As Ferrison mounted the stairs, he looked behind and found that she was watching him. She had practically reached the instrument but she was waiting until he had turned the corner before she held the receiver to her ear. He shrugged his shoulders. The atmosphere of the place was growing more and more mysterious, but he was no busybody and he had many thoughts to occupy him. He went on to the second landing. Then he paused. He had made up his mind not to look round again but an indefinable impulse, far stronger than any ordinary curiosity, glued his feet to the floor, impelled the slow turning of his head. He looked downwards into the well of shadows and with difficulty repressed an almost irresistible desire to call out. Mrs. Dewar was still standing before the telephone; her left hand was grasping the receiver, the palm of her right hand was pressed against the wall as though for support. She was standing or leaning side face to him, but no view of her features was necessary to indicate her state of suppressed but mortal terror. He almost expected at any moment to see her crumple up and collapse. Instead, she spoke a single inaudible monosyllable into the transmitter, then dropped the receiver from her fingers so that it hung downwards by its quivering cord. Roger knew that she was struggling for composure—and winning... She picked up the receiver again and spoke. The words were inaudible but he felt that her tone was steadier. Mrs. Dewar was becoming once more normal. She hung up the receiver and rang off. Then she turned slowly away. In her movement towards the passage leading to her room, she paused before the switch to the light which still lit the hall. She hesitated here for a moment and then, to Roger’s surprise, she passed on, leaving it burning. He heard her footsteps upon the oil-cloth, the swinging of the green baize door, her entrance into her own apartment. With a shiver of relief, he stood up and stretched himself. The little drama, whatever its meaning might have been, was played out. But was it? The light was still burning in the hall. Not only that, but Mrs. Dewar, the most parsimonious of all boarding-house keepers on the subject of lights, had purposely left it burning....

Roger moved up a stair and waited. The same dogged obstinacy which had kept him showing his unwanted machine to at least a hundred unwilling buyers was with him now. He was rewarded. In a very few minutes—although it seemed longer—he heard again the swinging of the baize door and footsteps once more along the passage. Mrs. Dewar, holding in her right hand some invisible object, passed underneath and turned into the alcove. She was there no more than a few seconds but when she returned her hand was empty. This time she made leisurely progress down the hall and extinguished the light. There was an air of finality about her movements. When he heard the swing door close again, he felt sure that he had seen the last of Mrs. Dewar. He waited ten minutes, then he slipped downstairs again in his stockinged feet. He turned at once into the alcove, lit his briquet and glanced eagerly at the long line of keys. This time there was only a single one, under the printed name of Colonel Dennett, missing. The other vacant space had been filled up and the name upon the card above was the name of Mr. Luke.