Читать книгу Blue Hand - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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“I’M sick to death of hearing your views on the subject, mother,” said Mr. Digby Groat, as he helped himself to a glass of port. “It is sufficient for you that I want the girl to act as your secretary. Whether you give her any work to do or not is a matter of indifference to me. Whatever you do, you must not leave her with the impression that she is brought here for any other purpose than to write your letters and deal with your correspondence.”

The woman who sat at the other side of the table looked older than she was. Jane Groat was over sixty, but there were people who thought she was twenty years more than that. Her yellow face was puckered and lined, her blue-veined hands, folded now on her lap, were gnarled and ugly. Only the dark brown eyes held their brightness undimmed. Her figure was bent and there was about her a curious, cringing, frightened look which was almost pitiable. She did not look at her son—she seldom looked at anybody.

“She’ll spy, she’ll pry,” she moaned.

“Shut up about the girl!” he snarled, “and now we’ve got a minute to ourselves, I’d like to tell you something, mother.”

Her uneasy eyes went left and right, but avoided him. There was a menace in his tone with which she was all too familiar.

“Look at this.”

He had taken from his pocket something that sparkled and glittered in the light of the table lamp.

“What is it?” she whined without looking.

“It is a diamond bracelet,” he said sternly. “And it is the property of Lady Waltham. We were staying with the Walthams for the week-end. Look at it!”

His voice was harsh and grating, and dropping her head she began to weep painfully.

“I found that in your room,” he said, and his suave manner was gone. “You old thief!” he hissed across the table, “can’t you break yourself of that habit?”

“It looked so pretty,” she gulped, her tears trickling down her withered face. “I can’t resist the temptation when I see pretty things.”

“I suppose you know that Lady Waltham’s maid has been arrested for stealing this, and will probably go to prison for six months?”

“I couldn’t resist the temptation,” she snivelled, and he threw the bracelet on the table with a growl.

“I’m going to send it back to the woman and tell them it must have been packed away by mistake in your bag. I’m not doing it to get this girl out of trouble, but to save myself from a lot of unpleasantness.”

“I know why you’re bringing this girl into the house,” she sobbed; “it is to spy on me.”

His lips curled in a sneer.

“To spy on you!” he said contemptuously, and laughed as he rose. “Now understand,” his voice was harsh again, “you’ve got to break yourself of this habit of picking up things that you like. I’m expecting to go into Parliament at the next election, and I’m not going to have my position jeopardized by an old fool of a kleptomaniac. If there’s something wrong with your brain,” he added significantly, “I’ve a neat little laboratory at the back of this house where that might be attended to.”

She shrank back in terror, her face grey.

“You—you wouldn’t do it—my own son!” she stammered. “I’m all right, Digby; it’s only——”

He smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile to see.

“Probably there is a little compression,” he said evenly, “some tiny malgrowth of bone that is pressing on a particular cell. We could put that right for you, mother——”

But she had thrown her chair aside and fled from the room before he had finished. He picked up the jewel, looked at it contemptuously and thrust it into his pocket. Her curious thieving propensities he had known for a very long time and had fought to check them, and as he thought, successfully.

He went to his library, a beautiful apartment, with its silver grate, its costly rosewood bookshelves and its rare furnishings, and wrote a letter to Lady Waltham. He wrapped this about the bracelet, and having packed letter and jewel carefully in a small box, rang the bell. A middle-aged man with a dark forbidding face answered the summons.

“Deliver this to Lady Waltham at once, Jackson,” said Digby. “The old woman is going out to a concert to-night, by the way, and when she’s out I want you to make a very thorough search of her room.”

The man shook his head.

“I’ve already looked carefully, Mr. Groat,” he said, “and I’ve found nothing.”

He was on the point of going when Digby called him back.

“You’ve told the housekeeper to see to Miss Weldon’s room?”

“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “She wanted to put her on the top floor amongst the servants, but I stopped her.”

“She must have the best room in the house,” said Groat. “See that there are plenty of flowers in the room and put in the bookcase and the Chinese table that are in my room.”

The man nodded.

“What about the key, sir?” he asked after some hesitation.

“The key?” Digby looked up. “The key of her room?”

The man nodded.

“Do you want the door to lock?” he asked significantly.

Mr. Groat’s lips curled in a sneer.

“You’re a fool,” he said. “Of course, I want the door to lock. Put bolts on if necessary.”

The man looked his surprise. There was evidently between these two something more than the ordinary relationship which existed between employer and servant.

“Have you ever run across a man named Steele?” asked Digby, changing the subject.

Jackson shook his head.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“He is a lawyer’s clerk. Give him a look up when you’ve got some time to spare. No, you’d better not go—ask—ask Bronson. He lives at Featherdale Mansions.”

The man nodded, and Digby went down the steps to the waiting electric brougham.

Eunice Weldon had packed her small wardrobe and the cab was waiting at the door. She had no regrets at leaving the stuffy untidy lodging which had been her home for two years, and her farewell to her dishevelled landlady, who seemed always to have dressed in a violent hurry, was soon over. She could not share Jim Steele’s dislike of her new employers. She was too young to regard a new job as anything but the beginning of an adventure which held all sorts of fascinating possibilities. She sighed as she realized that the little tea-table talks which had been so pleasant a feature of her life were now to come to an end, and yet—surely he would make some effort to see her again?

She would have hours—perhaps half-days to herself, and then she remembered with dismay that she did not know his address! But he would know hers. That thought comforted her, for she wanted to see him again. She wanted to see him more than she had ever dreamt she would. She could close her eyes, and his handsome face, those true smiling eyes of his, would look into hers. The swing of his shoulders as he walked, the sound of his voice as he spoke—every characteristic of his was present in her mind.

And the thought that she might not see him again——

“I will see him—I will!” she murmured, as the cab stopped before the imposing portals of No. 409, Grosvenor Square.

She was a little bewildered by the army of servants who came to her help, and just a little pleased by the deference they showed to her.

“Mrs. Groat will receive you, miss,” said a swarthy-looking man, whose name she afterwards learnt was Jackson.

She was ushered into a small back drawing-room which seemed poorly furnished to the girl’s eye, but to Mrs. Groat was luxury.

The old woman resented the payment of a penny that was spent on decoration and furniture, and only the fear of her son prevented her from disputing every account which was put before her for settlement. The meeting was a disappointment to Eunice. She had not seen Mrs. Groat except in the studio, where she was beautifully dressed. She saw now a yellow-faced old woman, shabbily attired, who looked at her with dark disapproving eyes.

“Oh, so you’re the young woman who is going to be my secretary, are you?” she quavered dismally. “Have they shown you your room?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Groat,” said the girl.

“I hope you will be comfortable,” said Mrs. Groat in a voice that suggested that she had no very great hopes for anything of the sort.

“When do I begin my duties?” asked Eunice, conscious of a chill.

“Oh, any time,” said the old woman off-handedly.

She peered up at the girl.

“You’re pretty,” she said grudgingly, and Eunice flushed. Somehow that compliment sounded like an insult. “I suppose that’s why,” said Mrs. Groat absently.

“Why what?” asked the girl gently.

She thought the woman was weak of intellect and had already lost whatever enthusiasm she had for her new position.

“Nothing,” said the old woman, and with a nod dismissed her.

The room into which Eunice was shown left her speechless for a while.

“Are you sure this is mine?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, miss,” said the housekeeper with a sidelong glance at the girl.

“But this is beautiful!” said Eunice.

The room would have been remarkable if it had been in a palace. The walls were panelled in brocade silk and the furniture was of the most beautiful quality. A small French bed, carved and gilded elaborately, invited repose. Silk hangings hung at either side of the head, and through the French windows she saw a balcony gay with laden flower-boxes. Under her feet was a carpet of blue velvet pile that covered the whole of the room. She looked round open-mouthed at the magnificence of her new home. The dressing-table was an old French model in the Louis Quinze style, inlaid with gold, and the matching wardrobe must have been worth a fortune. Near one window was a lovely writing-table, and a well-filled bookcase would almost be within reach of her hand when she lay in bed.

“Are you sure this is my room?” she asked again.

“Yes, miss,” said the housekeeper, “and this,” she opened a door, “is your bathroom. There is a bath to every room. Mr. Groat had the house reconstructed when he came into it.”

The girl opened one of the French windows and stepped on to the balcony which ran along to a square and larger balcony built above the porch of the house. This, she discovered, opened from a landing above the stairs.

She did not see Mrs. Groat again that afternoon, and when she inquired she discovered that the old lady was lying down with a bad headache. Nor was she to meet Digby Groat. Her first meal was eaten in solitude.

“Mr. Groat has not come back from the country,” explained Jackson, who waited on her. “Are you comfortable, miss?”

“Quite, thank you,” she said.

There was an air about this man which she did not like. It was not that he failed in respect, or that he was in any way familiar, but there was something proprietorial in his attitude. It almost seemed as though he had a financial interest in the place, and she was glad when her meal was finished. She went straight up to her room a little dissatisfied that she had not met her employer. There were many things which she wanted to ask Mrs. Groat; and particularly did she wish to know what days she would be free.

Presently she switched out the light, and opening the French windows, stepped out into the cool, fragrant night. The after-glow of the sun still lingered in the sky. The square was studded with lights; an almost incessant stream of motor-car traffic passed under her window, for Grosvenor Square is the short cut between Oxford Street and Piccadilly.

The stars spangled the clear sky with a million specks of quivering light. Against the jewelled robe of the northern heavens, the roofs and steeples and stacks of London had a mystery and wonder which only the light of day could dispel. And in the majestic solitude of the night, Eunice’s heart seemed to swell until she could scarcely breathe. It was not the magic of stars that brought the blood flaming to her face; nor the music of the trees. It was the flash of understanding that one-half of her, one splendid fragment of the pattern on which her life was cut, was somewhere there in the darkness asleep perhaps—thinking of her, she prayed. She saw his face with startling distinctness, saw the tender kindness of his eyes, felt on her moist palm the pressure of those strong brown fingers....

With a sigh which was half a sob, she closed the window and drew the silken curtains, shutting out the immortal splendours of nature from her view.

Five minutes later she was asleep.

How long she slept she did not know. It must have been hours she thought. The stream of traffic had ceased and there was no sound from outside, save the distant hoot of a motor-horn. The room was in darkness, and yet she was conscious that somebody was there!

She sat up in bed and a cold shiver ran down her spine. Somebody was in the room! She reached out to turn on the light and could have shrieked, for she touched a hand, a cold, small hand that was resting on the bedside table. For a second she was paralysed and then the hand was suddenly withdrawn. There was a rustle of curtain rings and the momentary glimpse of a figure against the lesser gloom of the night, and, shaking in every limb, she leapt from the bed and switched on the light. The room was empty, but the French window was ajar.

And then she saw on the table by her side, a grey card. Picking it up with shaking hands she read:

“One who loves you, begs you for your life and honour’s sake to leave this house.”

It bore no other signature than a small blue hand.

She dropped the card on the bed and stood staring at it for a while, and then, slipping into her dressing-gown, she unlocked the door of her room and went out into the passage. A dim light was burning at the head of the stairs. She was terror-stricken, hardly knew what she was doing, and she seemed to fly down the stairs.

She must find somebody, some living human creature, some reality to which she could take hold. But the house was silent. The hall lamp was burning, and by its light she saw the old clock and was dimly conscious that she could hear its solemn ticking. It was three o’clock. There must be somebody awake in the house. The servants might still be up, she thought wildly, and ran down a passage to what she thought was the entrance to the servants’ hall. She opened a door and found herself in another passage illuminated by one light at the farther end, where further progress was arrested by a white door. She raced along until she came to the door and tried to open it. There was no handle and it was a queer door. It was not made of wood, but of padded canvas.

And then as she stood bewildered, there came from behind the padded door a squeal of agony, so shrill, so full of pain, that her blood seemed to turn to ice.

Again it shrieked, and turning she fled back the way she had come, through the hall to the front door. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the key and presently the lock snapped and the door flew open. She staggered out on to the broad steps of the house and stopped, for a man was sitting on the head of those steps.

He turned his face as the door opened, and in the light from the hall he was revealed. It was Jim Steele!