Читать книгу The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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Arthur Jules barely deserves description because he plays so small a part; but as that small part was big enough to put one man in the shadow of the gallows, he may be catalogued as a plump, sallow-faced young man, who wore a monocle, had perfectly brushed hair, and was invariably dressed as though he were on his way to a wedding reception.

He was a sort of attaché to a South American Legation, and a free-lance of diplomacy generally. In more suspicious countries he would have been handed his passport with extreme politeness, and his departure from Southampton would have been watched by the bored detective whose business it is to superintend the shipment of oddities.

He was always important and profound; never more so than when he sat at the bay window overlooking St. James's Street, stroking his little black moustache thoughtfully and speaking with just the slightest trace of an accent to Jerry Dornford.

Everybody knew and liked Jerry, whose other name was Gerald. He had all the qualities which endear a wastrel to the monied classes. He was, of course, a member of Snell's, as was Jules. He was, indeed, a member of all the important clubs where gentlemen meet. He paid his subscription, never passed a cheque which was dishonoured, had never been warned off or posted as a bankrupt. A tall man, with a slight stoop, brownish hair very thin on the top, deep-set eyes that smiled in a worn, tired face.

Jerry had lived very fast. Few of his creditors could keep up with him. He had been a co-respondent, and again a co-respondent, and was single, and lived in a little flat in Half Moon Street, where he gave small parties; very small. He retained his membership of exclusive racing clubs—bookmakers lived in the hope that he would one day settle with them. He had certain very rich relations who would certainly die, but were not so certain whether they would bequeath their undoubted wealth to this profligate son of Sir George Dornford. On the other hand, why shouldn't they?

He was in desperate need of money now. Jules knew how desperate: they had few secrets from one another. Whenever the little party in Half Moon Street was as many as four, Jules was the third.

"What is this fellow's name?"

"Hervey Lyne."

"Hervey Lyne? Yes, I know him. A very odd man," reminiscently. "When my dear father was Secretary of Legation—that must have been in 'ninety-three—he borrowed money from Lyne. But I thought he had retired from business. He was a moneylender, wasn't he?"

Jerry's lips twisted in an unpleasant smile.

"Financier," he said laconically. "Yes, he has retired. I owed him three thousand for years; it's four now. There was, of course, a chance that the dowager would leave a packet, but the old devil left it away, to the other side of the family."

"And he is pressing you?"

Jerry's jaw set.

"Yes," he said shortly. "To be exact, he is getting a judgment in bankruptcy, and I can't stop him. I have been dodging Carey Street all my life. Things have looked very black at times, but there has always been something that turned up."

There was a long and gloomy silence. Jules—he had another name, but nobody could remember it—stroked his little black moustache more quickly.

"Two thousand—that would stop the action, eh? Well, why not? Take two thousand, et voila! There is nothing to it. I do not ask you, like the fellow in the story-books, to go to the War Office and rob them of their schemes of mobilisation. But I do want something, for a gentleman who has himself been working on the lines of your friend. To me it seems a very large sum to pay for so small a thing.

"Naturally I do not say that to my gentleman. If he desires to be extravagant and my friend would benefit—tiens, why not?"

Jerry Dornford made a wry face at the street below. When he was asked to work for money he never forgot that he was a gentleman—it was rather a disgusting thing he was now asked to do, but he had contemplated things even more distressful. He had, in fact, found every solution to his difficulty except suicide.

"I am not so sure that it can be done, anyway," he said.

Two men came into the smoke-room. He looked up quickly and recognised both, but was interested particularly in one.

"That's Fate," he said.

"Who are they?" asked Jules.

He knew the second of the two, who was a member, but the first man, middle-aged, rather rotund, fair-haired, was a stranger to him.

"That's my bank manager. Incidentally, he is Lyne's banker too, a fellow named Moran—Major Moran, he loves to call himself. A Territorial fellow."

Jules shot a swift glance in the direction of the men who at that moment were seating themselves at the table.

"A great rifle shot. I saw him at Bisley. I was there with one of our generals, watching the shooting."

He turned his black eyes to Jerry.

"Well, my friend?"

Jerry breathed heavily through his nose and shook his head.

"I'll have to think it over," he said. "It's a beastly thing to do."

"More beastly to be a bankrupt, my friend," said Jules in his caressing voice. "Resignation from all clubs.... Poor old Jerry, eh? You are going into the Mike Hennessey class. You don't want to be that."

"Why Mike Hennessey?" asked Jerry quickly, and the other laughed.

"An association of ideas. You go often to the Sheridan, eh? I do not blame you ... a very charming girl."

He made a little grimace as though he were about to whistle.

"Association of ideas, eh? Allenby also likes the young lady. Queer how all things fit in, like the pieces of a puzzle. Think it over, my dear Jerry, and ring me up at the Grosvenor."

He snapped his fingers towards a club waiter, scribbled his initials on a bill and strolled towards the door, Jerry following. They had to pass Moran and his friend; that bluff, jolly-looking man looked up, nodded with careless friendliness and caught Jerry's sleeve as he was passing.

"I'd like to see you one day this week, if you're not busy, Jerry."

Jerry never forgot he was a member of Snell's and a gentleman. He never forgot that Mr. Leo Moran was a sort of glorified bank clerk, who had probably had his education at the State's expense; and, knowing all these things, he resented the "Jerry." It added to his irritation that he knew why Mr. Moran wished to see him. It was outrageous that one couldn't lunch in one's club without being dunned by cads of this description.

He pulled his sleeve away from the detaining finger and thumb.

"All right," he said.

He would have been more offensive if this man had not been a guest at the club, and, more important, if it were not in Moran's power to make things deucedly uncomfortable for Mr. Gerald Dornford.

As he and Jules were passing down the stairs together ...

"The swine! Who brought that kind of bird into the club? Snell's is getting impossible!"

Jules, who had a weakness for the rococo qualities of Italian opera, was humming a favourite aria of Puccini's. He smiled and shook his head.

"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, my friend," he said sententiously.

He flicked a speck from his immaculate coat sleeve, patted Jerry on the arm as though he were a child, and went swinging up St. James's Street towards his mysterious Legation.

Jerry Dornford stood for a moment, hesitant, then walked slowly down towards the palace. He was in a jam, a tight jam, and it wasn't going to be so very easy to get out.

He obeyed an impulse, called a cab and drove to near Queen's Gate, where he alighted, paid his fare, and walked on.

Dick Allenby lived in a big house that had been converted into flats. There was no attendant on duty at the door, and the elevator that took him up to the fourth floor was automatic. He knocked at the door of Dick's studio—for studio it had once been, before Dick Allenby had converted it into a workroom. There was no answer, and he turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty. Evidently there had been visitors, for half a dozen empty beer bottles stood on a bench, though there was only one used tumbler visible. If he had known something of Surefoot Smith he might have reduced the visiting list to one.

"Are you there, Allenby?" he called.

There was no answer. He walked across to the bench where the odd-looking steel box lay, and lifted it. To his relief he found he could carry it without an effort. Putting it down again, he walked to the door. The key was on the inside; he drew it out and examined it carefully. If he had been an expert at the job he would have carried wax and taken an impression. As it was, his early technical training came to his aid—it had once been intended that he should follow the profession of engineer.

He listened; there was no sound of the lift moving. Dick, he knew, had his sleeping room on the upper floor, and was probably there now. Dornford made a rapid sketch on the back of an envelope—rapid but accurate. He judged the width of the key, made a brief note and replaced it as the sound of somebody coming down the stairs reached him.

He was standing examining the empty beer bottles when Dick came in.

"Hullo, Dornford!" There was no great welcome in the tone. "Did you want to see me?"

Jerry smiled.

"I was bored. I thought I'd come up and see what an inventor looked like. By the way, I saw you at the theatre the other night—nice girl that. She was damned rude to me the only time I spoke to her."

Dick faced him squarely.

"And I shall be damned rude to you the next time you speak to her," he said.

Jerry Dornford chuckled.

"Like that, eh? By the way, I'm seeing the old man tonight. Shall I give him your love?"

"He'd prefer that you gave him something more substantial," said Dick coldly.

It was a shot at a venture but it got home. Gerald the imperturbable winced.

It was odd that up to that moment Dick Allenby had never realised how intensely he disliked this man. There was excellent reason why he should hate him, but that was yet to be revealed.

"Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I've no feeling about this girl of yours. She's a jolly little thing; a bad actress, but a good woman. They don't go very far on the London stage——"

"If you're talking about Miss Lane I will bring the conversation to a very abrupt termination," said Dick; and then, bluntly: "Why did you come up here? You are quite right about the antagonism, but it is not very sudden, is it? I don't seem to remember that you and I were ever very great friends."

"We were in the same regiment, old boy—brother officers and all that," said Jerry flippantly. "Good Lord! It doesn't seem like twelve years ago——"

Dick opened the door and stood by it.

"I don't want you here. I don't particularly want to know you. If you see my uncle tonight you'd better tell him that: it will be a point in my favour."

Jerry Dornford smiled. His skin was thick, though he was very sensitive on certain unimportant matters.

"I suppose you knew this fellow Tickler who was killed the other night?" he began.

"I don't want even to discuss murders with you," said Dick.

He went out of the room, pulled open the door of the lift and shot back the folding iron gate. He was angry with himself afterwards that he had lost his temper, but he never knew the time when Jerry Dornford did not arouse a fury in him. He hated Jerry's views of life, his philosophy, the looseness of his code. He remembered Jerry's extraordinary dexterity with cards and a ruined subaltern who went gladly to his death rather than face the consequence of a night's play.

As he heard the elevator stop at the bottom floor he opened the window of the workshop to air it—an extravagant gesture, but one which accurately marked his attitude of mind towards his visitor.