Читать книгу The Squealer - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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FRANK SUTTON stared at his companion.

“You buy things cheap and you sell them dear,” he repeated slowly, “and you fill in your time—squealing? That’s Greek to me.”

“It would be,” said John Leslie with a smile. “You haven’t had my intensive education!”

And then, as swiftly as he had turned from cheeriness to gravity, Frank reversed the process.

“You’re an enigma to me,” he said. “I don’t think I have ever met your kind before.”

“You have missed something,” was the cool reply.

“I won’t even ask you what ‘squealing’ means—it sounds like something rather disreputable!”

Leslie was not offended.

“I am disreputable,” he confessed; “so disreputable that all my sympathies are with the admirable Mr. Lew Friedman. Now, if I were in your place, Sutton, and you were in mine, I should certainly forbid your seeing Miss Beryl Stedman. I’m not so sure but that, if I were Frank Sutton, I shouldn’t hand John Leslie his pay envelope and show him to the door. You’re a fool—you don’t object to my candour?—to employ me at all, remembering my—er—antecedents. Not one in a thousand rising young merchants would take the risks you’re taking in having me in your office, and not one in a million would allow me to meet a nice girl like Beryl Stedman. You’re unique!”

Frank chuckled at this, as though he were guiltily conscious of his uniqueness.

“Perhaps I am,” he said, and abruptly, as a thought struck him, he asked:

“How’s that man Tillman shaping?”

“I don’t see much of him—why?” asked Leslie, stopping a few paces from the door of his office.

Frank Sutton fondled his chin thoughtfully.

“I don’t know. He’s as queer a bird as you. I’m rather suspicious of him, though his credentials were all right. I wish you would let me know what you think.”

“If you’re suspicious of him, why don’t you fire him?” asked Leslie shortly, and Frank Sutton made a little grimace.

“My weakness is humanity. The poor devil wanted a job, and I’d hate to turn him into the street because I don’t like his face.”

Somebody hailed him from the far end of the corridor, and with a wave of his hand he sprinted up the passage. There came back to the waiting Leslie the gurgle of laughter which was Frank Sutton’s very own, and presently he and the man who had greeted him disappeared round the angle of a side passage.

Leslie walked to the door of his office, turned the handle noiselessly, and went in.

It was a comfortably furnished room, its most distinguished feature being a large safe recessed into the wall. In addition to his own desk, there was a smaller writing table, for the general manager shared offices with Frank Sutton’s secretary.

That lady was not in the room when Leslie entered—but there was somebody else. Leaning over the desk and evidently conducting a search of the papers was a man. Leslie stood watching the spare figure, a gleam of amusement in his eyes, and then:

“Have you lost anything, Tillman?”

Tillman turned swiftly, and on his lean, brown face was a momentary look of consternation. He was approaching middle age, his hair an iron-gray.

“Yes. I mislaid an account.”

Except that his hand strayed to his mouth and that he stroked his little moustache mechanically, he betrayed no sign of embarrassment. His voice was cool, almost insolently so.

“How long have you been in this establishment, Tillman?”

The man looked up at the ceiling as though he were considering the question.

“A month,” he said.

Leslie nodded.

“And in that period of time I have found you twice examining my private papers! I don’t think we are going to—er—know each other very long, Tillman.”

Tillman met his eyes, and the ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. He was the type of man who was never definitely amused.

“I should be sorry to believe that,” he said. “In fact, I was hoping, Captain Leslie, that you and I would become better acquainted.”

Leslie was examining the papers on his desk. None of them was very important, and the drawers where he kept documents of any moment were locked. He thought it wise to change the subject.

“Has anybody been here?”

Tillman did not look at him. That was another peculiarity of Tillman’s: he had a habit of staring out of the window absent-mindedly.

“Yes,” he said, “a Mr. Graeme called—Mr. Larry Graeme.”

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the face of Leslie harden.

“Graeme?” said Leslie sharply. “What did he want?”

“I gather he wanted to see you,” replied Tillman, still staring out of the window. “In fact, he was rather urgent.”

And now for the first time he turned his eyes in Leslie’s direction, and again that little smile of his came and vanished. Leslie was perturbed: his straight eyebrows had gathered in an angry frown.

“He said he’d call again to-night about six,” Tillman went on, watching the general manager keenly. “From what he said—and he was not at all reticent—I gathered that he had just come out of prison. Did you know him?”

“Slightly,” said Leslie. His voice was gruff. Then suddenly he snapped: “What the devil do you mean by putting me through a cross-examination?”

He dismissed Tillman with a jerk of his head, and as the man went slowly to the door, he said:

“Tillman—in case you are not aware of the fact, I have the greatest objection to being spied upon; and the next time I find you taking so keen an interest in my correspondence, I shall take you by the scruff of the neck and kick you out of the office. Is that clear?”

For the fraction of a second, it looked as though Tillman would break the habit of a lifetime and laugh, but his face grew set again.

“That would be a novel experience,” he said, and in another instant was gone.

For a minute Leslie scowled after him, but then the humour of the situation became apparent, and he laughed softly.

Sutton’s secretary was away that afternoon, and he had the room to himself. Yet for some reason, though there was work enough to do, he could not settle down to his job. Every few minutes, he rose from his desk and walked to the window, examining the street below, and it was not until the dusk came down and the first street lamps were lit that he saw his man. He was not difficult to distinguish, for Mr. Larry Graeme stood under a street lamp, a cigar between his teeth, his hands thrust into his pockets. Again and again Leslie went back to the window. The watcher was still there.