Читать книгу The Double - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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For a moment their eyes met. In hers was no sign of recognition, only a look of horror and fear.

“You are Mary Dane!”

Dick’s voice was harsh and strained. He hardly recognized it.

Still she did not move. Her hand was closed about the grip of the automatic. He took one step toward her, and at that moment all the lights went out; an arm was flung round his neck and he was jerked backward. Somebody had come noiselessly into the kitchen behind him. Taken by surprise, he could offer no resistance. He lost his balance, cannoned against the man who held him, and fell sprawling outside the door. It closed with a crash; he heard a bolt shot, a whisper of voices, and, as he came to his feet and hammered on the panel, the thud of another door closing.

He looked round. Standing a little way along the passage was an old spade. With this as a lever he attacked the door, and eventually forced the shaky bolt. As he expected, the room was empty, save for the motionless figure on the floor. Dick switched on the lights.

A wild wind filled the kitchen. The outer door, which had been slammed, had come open again, and, running out, he peered into a flooded area.

His first duty was to the bound man. In one of the drawers of the kitchen dresser he found an old carving knife, and with this he cut the ropes that fastened the prisoner.

It was some time before the man could give a coherent account of what had happened. He was caretaker and lived in the back basement room. Every night he went out for a ten minutes’ stroll, keeping within sight of the house. He had seen nobody enter and had returned to have his supper before going to bed. When he was about to eat his supper he thought he heard the front door bell ring and went to answer it. But he found nobody, he said, and after a few minutes’ delay returned to his supper. The remains of the supper were still on the table: a half-filled glass of beer, cold meat and pickles, and a cut loaf of bread. The last thing he remembered was drinking the beer....

“Was the beer poured out before you left to answer the door bell?”

The man thought, his aching head in his hands. He wasn’t sure. But he knew the bottle was opened. Now he came to gather his scattered wits he recalled the fact that he had opened the bottle and filled a glass just before he left to answer the door bell.

“You’ve been doped,” said Dick. “Have you lost anything? They were searching your pockets when I came in.”

The man put his hand into his hip pocket and took out a flat leather case containing keys.

“No, they didn’t take anything.... It was the man who tied me up.”

“The man? Was there a man?”

The caretaker distinctly remembered the man: he had come to consciousness while he was being bound. A thin-faced, wild-looking man, with very short fair hair.

He became suddenly aware of the dishabille of this providential visitor.

“I came in from next door—Lord Weald’s house,” said the detective, interpreting the curious glance the other gave him.

He had a hasty look around the other rooms and came back to the caretaker, who had sufficiently recovered to be searching for the glass of beer.

“Don’t touch that,” said Dick sharply. “Just leave it till the police arrive. You’re connected by telephone—get onto the nearest police station and ask them to send an officer round.”

He walked out into the area. The rain was pelting down, but he was so wet that a little added discomfort meant little or nothing. He found the key in his pocket, admitted himself to Weald’s house, and ten minutes later he was in a hot bath. He dressed himself, put on his heaviest boots and a mackintosh, and went out again into the street. As he did so he saw a motorcycle and sidecar pull up before Derrick’s door and two men, obviously divisional detectives, jump out. They had not seen him, and he waited till they disappeared into the area.

He was still a little stunned by his discovery; but his duty was obvious—to place in the hands of the local police all the information he possessed. What was that information? That a girl whom he had seen only three times and to whom he had spoken only once had, with some other person, engaged in a burglary, and that girl was Mary Dane. He made a little grimace at the thought. It was incredible; but police work was made up of incredible happenings. He could stake his life that he was not mistaken; he could make that stake with equal vehemence that this girl with the clear gray eyes was incapable of a criminal act.

The storm was less violent: with the exception of an occasional crash overhead the rumble of thunder was dying away in the distance; but it still rained. He did not remember ever having seen such rain.

And then, wilfully ignoring the claims of duty, he went inside and closed the door. If the police wanted him they would know where to find him, he told himself. It was not part of his duty to interfere with local detectives, and very likely the divisional inspector would resent his appearance in the case.

All that he could say was that he had seen a girl, handsomely dressed, bejewelled, that she was very pretty.... Inevitably the question would be asked:

“I suppose you didn’t recognize her, Inspector?” Naturally he was acquainted with crooks, male and female. How should he answer?

He carefully considered this and decided upon a formula. He would say:

“I did not recognize her as any person known to the police.”

With this crude sophistry he contented himself.

For some extraordinary reason he was feeling hungry. He made a search for the kitchen, opened a door and went down some stairs, and found himself, not in a kitchen, but in a garage. He stood staring at a fast little Italian car nearest the garage door. He tapped the tank: it sounded full. The car was, indeed, prepared for a surreptitious run in the country by Lord Weald’s second chauffeur, but Dick did not know this.

There was an extraordinary arrangement over the car: a pulley handle, rather like one of those contrivances he had seen in American fire-engine stations. You could sit in the machine, pull the handle, and the garage doors would open, he guessed. He got into the driver’s seat, reached up and pulled—the big doors of the garage folded back noiselessly.

It was raining heavily outside. He put on the headlamps to confirm this belief, though there was no need. Anyway, Tommy had said, “Use one of my cars,” and he did not feel very tired. Very deliberately he started up the car and drove out into the dark mews.

He felt a heavy iron bar across the mouth of the garage sag under him. He was hardly clear before the big doors folded noiselessly back and the garage was closed to him. One of Tommy’s contrivances: he delighted in effects produced by the pressure of buttons or the turn of handles.... Here was the fact, staring starkly at Inspector Richard Staines, that he was in a very dark mews in a small but high-powered car, the garage was closed behind him, the front door of the house was closed before him, and the only key was in his sodden dressing gown pocket in the bathroom.

It wasn’t exactly the night for a joy ride, but he seized eagerly upon the excuse. He must go down and tell Tommy all about this remarkable adventure.... He could not deceive himself: he was going down to make sure that Mary Dane was at Brighton; he had intended that step from the very first, and the only thing he had not considered was the possibility of using one of Tommy’s cars. Moreover, he was running away from inquiry. By now the detectives would be knocking on Tommy Weald’s front door and waiting on the doorstep to interview him; and all the time they were waiting he was putting more and more distance between himself and the scene of the burglary.

“You’re not only a sentimental jackass but you’re a bad police officer,” said Dick Staines aloud, as the car glided over Vauxhall Bridge.

“I am doing my duty,” said Richard Staines virtuously, “and my duty is to confirm or dispel my suspicions.”

He knew better than any man that his suspicions required not so much confirmation as expression.

All of the storm which had not come to London he met outside of Dorking. The car sped along winding roads between high hills, and the lightning flickered and crackled overhead, and the thunder drowned the sound of his engine. With his windshield wiper swinging madly, his mackintosh black with driving rain, Dick Staines came to Brighton. The hour was 1:15.

There was a big fancy-dress dance at the Metropole. Long lines of motor cars stood parked along the front as far as he could see. A porter told him his lordship was in the ballroom, and thither Dick made his way, shedding his sodden coat en route. There were cavaliers and the inevitable pierrots and pierrettes, marvellous circus ladies, and circus ladies who were not so marvellous, sitting out in the lounge. As he came to the entrance of the room, he saw a girl walking toward him across the floor, which at that moment was clear of dancers. She wore a nurse’s uniform and her face was masked. But the walk was already familiar to him, and his heart thumped painfully. Then, to his astonishment, she lifted her hand in greeting and took off the mask in one movement.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Staines. Lord Weald told me your name.”

Indubitably it was Mary Dane. He could only stare at her stupidly; then, recovering his presence of mind, he stammered:

“Has—have you been here all this evening?”

Her eyebrows went up.

“Yes, but you haven’t. Why?”

Dick swallowed something.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asked, feeling extraordinarily foolish.

She opened a little bag that hung from her broad white belt and took out a gold pencil case. Dick recognized it instantly as his own.

“Either earlier in the day, or when you dashed madly to my rescue, you dropped this—the chairman found it. I’ve been trying all the evening to find you to restore it. And I’m terribly thirsty, and—do you think you could find me an ice?”

He went, clumsy-footed, to the buffet, and returned to find her sitting under a palm in a deep armchair. She took the plate with a little smile of thanks.

“I suppose you think I’m rather too frivolous for a staid nurse? The truth is, I came up here to see you after I’d handed over poor Mr. Cornfort to the night nurse, and then I found the ball was on and somebody lent me a mask. What time is it?”

He told her, and she made a little moue.

“You saw Tommy, did you?” he asked.

“Who’s Tommy?—Oh, Lord Weald! Yes, he was very amusing. He wasn’t quite sure who I was and wanted me to unmask. I think he’s rather a dear. He’s a great friend of yours, isn’t he?”

And then, looking at his attire and his somewhat bedraggled appearance:

“I thought you’d gone to London?”

“I did go—I’ve come back to-night to see Tommy on rather an urgent matter,” he said glibly.

That the matter more closely affected Mr. Walter Derrick had not occurred to him until that moment, and he put a question to her. She shook her head.

“Mr. Derrick? He’s the man who tried to run over me to-day. No, I haven’t seen him. He’s probably here somewhere disguised as Juggernaut!”

They both laughed at this. A little later she handed him the plate, and he went with her to find her cloak, and very boldly (he felt it was a bold act, at any rate) he offered to see her home.

He was foolishly pleased when she accepted his invitation, and he went in search of Tommy’s car. When he came back she was waiting for him under the portico. She and her charge were living at a small house on the outskirts of Hove, she told him. Mr. Cornfort did not like boarding houses.

There was a little silence after she had told him this, and then unexpectedly she said:

“Why did you ask me whether I’d been at the dance all the night? As a matter of fact, I hadn’t; I didn’t come till nearly eleven o’clock. You looked so very severe—and—magisterial is the word—when you saw me, I thought you were going to arrest me on the spot—you are a detective. Lord Weald told me all about you. A ‘Robert,’ he calls you.”

Inwardly Dick cursed the loquacious lordling. He was floundering with an excuse when she pointed.

“There’s the house, past the lamp post on the left—thank you.”

He pulled up before a small semidetached villa; a light shone in one of the upper rooms: presumably it was the bedroom of the sick Mr. Cornfort.

“Thank you very much.” She put her warm hand in his and was gone.

He saw her go up the garden path, stop at the door, and evidently she rang, for a few moments after the door was opened by the night nurse and was closed upon her. Dick swung the car round and went back to the Metropole to find Tommy Weald, and had the satisfaction of killing two birds with one stone. For Tommy, in the absurd costume of a bullfighter, was telling what was evidently a very good story to a tall, stout pierrot.

“Very good, my boy, very good!”

Dick grinned and wondered how good would sound the story which he had to tell to Mr. Derrick.

Tommy gaped at the unexpected spectacle of his friend.

“Good heavens!” he piped. “Aren’t you in Scotland?”

Dick led the two men to a quiet spot and told them everything that had happened that night. He did not, for what seemed good and sufficient reason to himself, reveal the amazing resemblance of the woman whom he had discovered in the basement of Derrick’s house to Mary Dane.

Tommy was all a-twitter with excitement.

“This is the most stupendous thing that has ever happened, dear old boy,” he said. “Never in all my experience have I heard anything like it.”

The big Mr. Derrick received the news and became unusually serious.

“This is not the first time this has happened. There was an attempt made to get into my house three or four months ago,” he said. “What they expect to find, heaven knows. I keep no valuables, and certainly my silver doesn’t seem to be worth all the trouble. Was Larkin hurt?”

“Larkin—is that the name of your caretaker? No, he wasn’t at all hurt. I don’t know what his head will be like in the morning: they evidently gave him a pretty stiff dope.”

“You say you saw the woman?” asked Mr. Derrick. “Would you recognize her again?”

“I saw her only for a few seconds; then the light went out. It is very difficult to undertake identification, especially of a woman. I’m not even so sure I should be able to recognize her dress, which was a pretty expensive one.”

“You didn’t see a car outside the house?”

For some extraordinary reason Dick had forgotten the big car that drew up at the corner of the street when the storm broke.

“Yes, I saw a car, but I saw nobody get in or get out. I’m not so sure that it was in the street.” He tugged at his memory. When he reached the top of the steps he had turned to the left toward Weald’s house. He had never dreamed of seeing any trace of the fugitives, who would have had plenty of time to make their escape by the time he got out. It was probable, however, that the car was the means of escape.

“Have you any enemies?” he asked.

Derrick shook his head.

“None whatever. If it had been my poor old father, I could well understand why quite a number of people would have liked to come after his worldly possessions, but I have never had the slightest trouble with the few tenants I have, and it’s very unlikely—no.” He shook his head.

“What are you thinking of?” asked Dick quickly.

But Mr. Walter Derrick did not attempt to explain. However exuberant he might have been before Inspector Staines had told him of the adventure, he was well sobered now.

“I’ll have to get back to Lowndes Square.”

“I can drive you back to-night,” said Tommy eagerly.

“We’ll go in your car,” interrupted Dick, “but I shall want a chauffeur to do the driving. Somehow I don’t think this is my lucky night.”

They routed out Tommy’s chauffeur, who, happily for him, had gone to bed very early that night, and by half-past two in the morning Lord Weald and his neighbour had discarded their fancy costumes and, in the garments of civilization, taken their places in the car.

The journey back to town seemed interminable. Dawn was in the sky when, splashed with mud, the big Rolls pulled up before Derrick’s house. As Dick expected, there was a policeman on duty outside the door. He was a little uncommunicative until Inspector Staines made himself known. The case, he said, had been taken by a detective sergeant and a detective, but they had long since left the house.

Derrick let himself in with a key, and the two men followed. They found that the caretaker was up and dressed. Though he was not a nervous man, he confessed that he had found it impossible to get to sleep that night.

Together the three men made a tour of the house. On the way up Dick had explained the circumstances which had brought him, a trespasser, into Mr. Derrick’s household; and apparently the broken French window on the third floor had been seized upon by the detectives as proof that an entrance had been effected by this means.

“Which shows that Roberts don’t know everything,” said Tommy.

When they came downstairs the caretaker remembered a piece of news which he had omitted to give them.

“The police found a fingerprint on the beer glass. They took the glass away to Scotland Yard to have it photographed,” he said.

This was intensely interesting news to at least one of the three.

It was broad daylight when Lord Weald opened the door of his house and a weary Dick followed him into the hall.

“You’ve got time for a nice bath, a bit of breakfast, and you’ll be able to sleep on the train,” said Tommy. “To tell you the truth, old boy, I’m rather sorry you’re going.”

“I’m not going,” said Dick quietly. “This is a matter which I feel requires a little personal attention. I’m reporting to the Yard this morning, and if I’m in luck I shall get this case allotted to me.”

He had a leisurely breakfast, and at the earliest convenient hour he called upon the assistant commissioner whose guest he was to have been and explained why he would prefer to spend his holiday in London. His host was too keen a policeman to object to this change of plans.

At ten o’clock Dick went on to Scotland Yard, interviewed the chief constable and the superintendent, and had the case given into his hands.

“And it’s a pretty big case, Staines,” said Superintendent Bourke, “bigger than you imagine.”

Dick looked at him in surprise. That it was an unusual case he was well aware, but its importance was not so obvious.

“Nine years ago,” said Bourke very slowly, “the cashier of the Textile Company was shot down by a motorcyclist who robbed him of about six hundred pounds. Do you remember that?”

Dick nodded.

“I read the case. I’d only just come into the police force.”

“We never caught the man,” said Bourke, looking at him thoughtfully. “The only clue we got was a very distinct thumbprint on the pistol barrel—remember that?”

Dick nodded.

“I remember it very well: I’ve seen the thumbprint a score of times; it was also used as an illustration in the late commissioner’s memoirs.”

“Late commissioners shouldn’t have memoirs!” growled Bourke. “But get that fact into your head, Staines. Ten years ago a man is shot in cold blood, robbed of six hundred pounds, and the murderer gets away without a trace, leaves only an unknown thumbprint on the barrel of the pistol.”

“Yes, I’ve got that in my mind,” said Dick, wondering what was coming next.

Bourke opened a drawer, took out a photograph, and threw it on to the table.

“Take a look at that,” he said; “it’s interesting—it’s the fingerprint of the Slough murderer, and it was found on the beer glass in Derrick’s house to-night!”