Читать книгу The Grassleyes Mystery - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 6

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David Granet, who had no superstitions and who would have laughed at the mere idea of having been at any time afflicted by nerves, was nevertheless conscious of a queer disturbance in his mind as, having rounded the last curve of the hilly approach to the domain later on that evening, he entered the gate and drove slowly along the main avenue to the Manoir. He decided, however, at the last moment to proceed direct to his bungalow and turning down between the two white stones which marked the way he drove along the newly made road to where the dim outline of "The Lamps of Fire" presented itself. The door of the garage had been left open and he drove straight in. He had no sooner turned off his engine and stepped out of the car than he was aware of a queer, shrill voice behind him. A miniature duplicate of Pooralli was advancing through the dim light. He seemed to be the image of the other, except for his smaller stomach and thin frame.

"I am Postralli," he announced gravely. "The brother of Pooralli who you saw this afternoon. I come to tell you that the door of your bungalow is open. I give you the key and carry your things inside."

"That is very thoughtful of some one," Granet said, after a moment's amazed contemplation of the youth. "Perhaps you can help me with these cases."

"It is the young mistress who sent me," Postralli explained. "She told me expect you to-night. I can carry cases by myself. I am small but I am strong. Gentleman can go inside. I will bring all that is in car."

Granet took his suit case, a proceeding which was viewed with disapproval by his new attendant, entered the bungalow and looked about him. The lounge into which he stepped seemed very empty and silent but it was a different place when he had touched the electric switch and the light had flooded the room. He saw then that there were flowers in many vases, the furniture had been rearranged and portières were carefully drawn over the three doors. He made his way into the bedroom, from which came the strong odour of pine and lavender, and looked with satisfaction at the silk coverlet on the bed and the softly shaded reading lamp. He had scarcely succeeded in his task of unlocking his case and throwing out some pyjamas before he heard Postralli's footsteps in the lounge. He returned there to find his case of whisky, a crate of Perrier Water, two tins of biscuits and some other oddments already placed upon the hearthrug.

"Gentleman like whisky in sideboard," Postralli decided. "Only six bottles. Not worth opening cellar. Good cellar other side of kitchen. Master would like bottle whisky opened?"

Granet threw himself into an easy chair with a smile.

"Get along with it, young fellow," he enjoined. "Make me comfortable."

"All gentlemen are comfortable here," Postralli declared gravely. "Gentleman sit still and watch. I show him."

In five minutes there was an opened bottle of whisky on the table, a glass by its side, a bottle of Perrier on a tray and oblong pieces of ice fresh from the refrigerator in a small dish. There were also a box of matches and an ash tray. The remainder of the whisky was neatly arranged in the sideboard. There were packets of tea, coffee, sugar and a bottle of milk upon another and smaller table. Postralli was busy with a duster wiping some china from the sideboard.

"Gentleman could have tea or coffee from the house, or he can make himself here or I make."

"How is your mistress?" Granet asked.

"Very sad," the youth replied. "Aunt went dead very suddenly. Very sad indeed. Plenty policemen and doctors about place all evening. Two policemen up at house now."

He stood up and surveyed the result of his labours. Finally he disappeared, carrying off the empty boxes and the brown paper. He came back with a broom, swept up a few pieces of packing from the otherwise spotless carpet and nodded approval.

"More things to-morrow?"

"Yes, there will be a few things to-morrow," Granet assented.

"You telephone to house and ask and I come and help. Master got servant?"

"Not yet."

"I do everything until servant comes," Postralli promised cheerfully. "I have pass-key all doors," he added proudly. "I come in master's room, take his shoes and clean them early in morning."

"Don't you do anything of the sort, young fellow," Granet replied. "I shall bolt my door. You can come down at eight o'clock, if you like."

"I make the tea at eight o'clock for master. I clean the shoes and I take the glass if he has had drink."

"How many bungalows do you look after?"

"Only this one. The rest of the bungalows each have servant. My brother, he butler in house."

"Where did you learn to speak English?"

The boy waved his hand vaguely. It was almost as though he were acquainted with some place which he believed nobody else could see.

"Home," he confided, "and on ship and here. Very easy."

"And where is home?"

He shook his head.

"You not understand. Fine country but no money."

"Well be off with you now, then," Granet enjoined. "Come and look after my tea in the morning."

He drew a coin from his pocket. Postralli shook his head once more.

"Not now, please, gentleman," he begged. "My brother very greedy man. When I go in he ask me what you give. I tell him. He take it away. Gentleman give it me some other time. Good night, gentleman."

The boy took his leave, closing the door gently behind him. Granet looked out of the window. Postralli had no sooner stepped on to the little paved way outside than he had commenced that queer, slouching run. He seemed to make no effort, but in a few moments he was out of sight. Granet laughed quietly to himself as he filled his pipe and mixed himself a drink. He pulled his chair up to the low window and looked out across the rock-strewn space of open country to where, some distance beyond the Manoir, the pine-woods opened up again towards the mountains. He turned to the right and caught the gleam of the stream between the gently fluttering leaves of the olive and acacia trees.

"Queer place," he muttered to himself. "Queer people. Don't know what I am doing here anyway."

He smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he dragged his chair outside and sat in the balmy stillness, breathing in that wonderful air which seemed fragrant with the scent of honey-suckle and wild roses, clusters of which were climbing up the pillars and over the front of the bungalow. Granet was not given to self-analysis, yet in those moments he was conscious of a curious conflict of emotions. He was content—drowsy, almost, with content. At the same time he was expectant. The domain which had become his home, so peaceful and in a way so beautiful, seemed to lie dreaming in an almost ghostly tranquillity. Something, he felt, must happen soon. He scarcely knew what it might be but something must happen. The stillness was like the unnatural quiet before a storm ...

The end of the almost drugged silence brought with it a queer note of unreality. From the darkest corner of the strip of pine-wood in front of him he heard the crackling of dry twigs, saw the long branches of the trees being drawn slowly back. Through the little space something moved—a human being—some one who, save for the face, an oval of white, seemed as black as the trees themselves. He leaned forward curiously. There was nothing much to be startled at, after all—a girl in dead-black clothes standing there with the branches still in her hands looking across at him from some fifty feet away. But from the first he realized the momentary unearthliness of her. She glided rather than moved up to the green border of turf which separated them. When he spoke his words sounded to him, in that tense moment, the most banal he had ever heard.

"Hello! What do you want?"

She came towards him. He scarcely knew whether the strangeness of her was a relief or otherwise. It was some one, most certainly, whom he had never before seen in his life—a girl who might have been beautiful save that some emotion seemed to have drawn all expression from her pallid face. Only in her eyes lay the light of distress. Then she spoke, and all those first unearthly impressions of her passed away. Granet felt as though the land of dreams had vanished. He was back again, spending his first evening in a bungalow belonging to the Grassleyes Manoir, and this was apparently a neighbour in distress.

"Who are you?" she asked.

He rose to his feet and approached the little paling. She was standing now with white ringless hands resting upon the top of it. Every moment seemed to reveal her as being some one more definitely human.

"I thought that this place was empty," she continued. "It startled me to see you here. Please tell me who you are."

"A very insignificant person," he replied. "My name is David Granet. I am an Englishman. I have just taken this bungalow. Do you, too, live in this strange encirclement of lunatics?"

They were side by side now and they were near enough to one another for him to mark the rapid rise and fall of her breasts under the black taffeta of her dress; near enough to perceive the slimness of her body, notwithstanding the faintly voluptuous curve of the hips; near enough to discover that everything about her was not entirely black and white, for her eyes were grey-blue and her lips were red.

"I am Carlotta di Mendoza. You have heard of me—no? My sister is a singer."

He hesitated.

"I am not sure," he admitted truthfully.

"Ah, well, it is not I who am famous. Perhaps I never shall be. When I listen to the nightingales in this wood I am sure I shall not, because human beings were not made to sing."

"Will you come in?" he invited. "Are you looking for anybody? Are you in any sort of distress?"

"I am frightened," she told him, and with the re-establishment of her composure her delicately pencilled eyebrows were lifted in an almost humorous fashion. "I cannot tell you exactly why, but I am frightened. I came here to share a bungalow with my sister who is singing at the Méditerranée. I did not know how strange her habits had become. She is in bed all day. She leaves here at seven in the evening and returns at four in the morning—sometimes later. I heard her come home to-day. Some one brought her in a car and drove away. I have tried her door three times. She is locked inside. She has not appeared. The little man who runs has been down to bring me the news. He tells me that something terrible has happened at the Manoir."

"Come and sit down for a moment," Granet suggested. "I will tell you all about it."

"You are alone?"

"Absolutely. Take my chair and I will fetch another."

He opened the small gate and the girl passed through after a moment's hesitation. She sank willingly into his chair. He fetched out another and also a box of cigarettes. She pounced gratefully upon the latter but he noticed when he held out the match towards her that the cigarette was shaking between her lips.

"Thank you," she said. "To smoke would be good for me. You have just come here?"

"An hour ago," he replied.

"I love quiet," she confessed. "I came for quiet. But the deathly stillness of this place frightens me."

Granet looked at her curiously. He was rather a good judge of his fellow human beings. He had once, indeed, written a book about them. But this girl puzzled him.

"You are not English?"

"No. I hope some day to sing in English, in German and in French, but my mother was an Italian and my father a Spaniard."

"You have been there—in Spain?"

"Not since I was a child. You are trying to account for the fact that I am frightened. You need not, Mr.—what did you say—Granet. I will tell you presently why I am frightened. It is something that has happened this very day. It is because of the woman who lies up at the Manoir. She looked so strong and well. It frightens me when people like that die."

He leaned towards her. She felt her wrists suddenly gripped in his light but firm fingers. There was a warning flash in his grey eyes. She opened her lips to speak and closed them again. She glanced instead over her shoulder. Only a few yards away from them a man was leaning over the paling, a man with a squat, ungainly figure and creased tweed clothes, a Homburg hat slightly on the back of his head, and—although he had arrived in silence and done nothing to break it—a man of menacing appearance. Granet rose slowly to his feet. The girl clung to his arm.