Читать книгу Diana of Kara-Kara - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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Sometimes, mostly all the time, Gordon forgot that before the name of Heloise van Oynne was that magical prefix “Mrs.” Too nice-minded to discover, even by an indirect method, the extent of her indiscretion, Gordon had conceived in his mind a marriage between two persons diametrically unsuited one to the other. He fashioned Mr. van Oynne in the image of a gross, unimaginative business man, without soul, and saw dimly a struggle between opposing ideals; sullen fury or blank indifference on the man’s part, and, in the case of Heloise, a refined suffering and an infinite restlessness in her, until there came into her life the other half of her intellectual being. Which was Gordon.

He looked out of the window again.

Mr. Julius Superbus was deliberately charging a black pipe from a sealskin tobacco pouch. He seemed the kind of man who would stoop to the meanest methods to gain his ends. And a prurient brute who would think nothing of writing reports highly disparaging to a slim, aesthetic girl. A detective! In desperation he turned to Diana.

“Diana, do you mind if I have The Study for a little while? I want to see a man.”

She waved a cheery farewell as she disappeared through the door at the far end of the room.

“Bring him in.”

“Bring him in, sir?” Trenter was intrigued.

Gordon repeated the order.

“He’s not a gentleman, sir,” warned Trenter, desiring exculpation in advance.

This was in case Mr. Superbus was even less of a gentleman than he thought him to be. Gordon has never any illusions on the subject. He said as much tersely, and Trenter went forth in a spirit of joyful anticipation, knowing that the nature of this interview would be repeated to him when next he met his friend.

A wait, and then:

“Mr. Superbus, sir,” said Trenter correctly. He bowed the visitor into the study, and withdrew.

There was nothing in the appearance of Mr. Superbus that was suggestive of Roman culture at its zenith. He was very short, and waddled rather than walked. He was fat so that, if he were standing on two square feet of his own property, his waistcoat might have been arrested for trespass on neighbouring land. His face was very red and broad; he had a stubbly black moustache, which was obviously dyed; on his otherwise bald head, twenty-seven hairs were parted, thirteen on one side and fourteen on the other. He had often counted them.

He stood, breathing audibly and twisting his hat in his blue hands.

“Sit down, Mr. Superbus,” said Gordon awkwardly. “Trenter was telling me that you are—in fact, you have the distinction of being a Roman?”

Mr. Superbus bent forward before he sat, as though to assure himself that his feet were all present and correct.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in a rich, deep voice. “I believe I am. Us Superbusses”—he gave the word a pronunciation which suggested that he had been named after a public vehicle of unusual size—“have come down for generations. There’s only four of us now—there’s me, my brother Augustus, who’s married to a young woman in Coventry; there’s Agrippa, who’s doing very well with her third husband—this one doesn’t drink, I’m happy to say—and there’s Scipius: he’s on the stage.”

“Really!” said Gordon, dazzled for the moment.

“Yes, he’s on the stage,” said Mr. Superbus with great satisfaction, “and doing very well. They say he’s the best carpenter they’ve ever had at the Gaiety. Yes, we’re an ancient family. I’ve never got the rights of it, but an old gentleman who lives at Cambridge told me that, if everybody had his due, I ought to be a member of the Roman Royal Family, being the eldest.”

Near Cæsar Magnus is the University of Cambridge, and there have been soured antiquarians who have suggested that the illustrious family of Superbus owed its origin to the freakish whim of certain freshmen whose gowns rustled in Petty Cury a hundred years ago. That these same students, in their humour, had adopted the family of an indigent carter, one Sooper, and had christened the family afresh. Mr. Superbus had heard these rumours and had treated them with contempt.

“How we came to start I don’t know,” he said, on his favourite topic; “but you know what women are when Romans are about!”

Gordon did not even trouble to guess.

“Now, Mr. Superbus, you have—er—a very important position. You’re a detective, I understand?”

Mr. Superbus nodded soberly.

“It must be an interesting life, watching people,” he suggested, “going into court and li—testifying to their various misdoings?”

“I never go into court,” said Mr. Superbus. And here, apparently, he had a grievance. “My work, so to speak, is commercial. Not that I shan’t go into court if a certain coop comes off.”

“Coop?” Gordon was puzzled.

“Coop,” repeated Mr. Superbus emphatically.

“What do you mean—coop? Are you looking for people who steal chickens?” asked Gordon, at sea.

“By ‘coop’ I mean—well, you know what I mean, sir. Suppose I bring off a big bit of business—”

“Oh, coup!” said Gordon, enlightened. “I see. You have a coup?”

“I always called it coop myself,” said Mr. Superbus graciously, and leaving Gordon with the impression that he was being humoured. “Yes, I’ve got a coop up my sleeve.” He lowered his voice and stretched himself to as near Gordon as his body could reach. “I’m after Double Dan,” he whispered hoarsely.

A heavy burden rolled from Gordon’s heart. So the “Mrs.” had nothing to do with the matter at all! Nor the gross husband, who thought more of his dogs and his horses than of the flaming intellect of his beautiful wife. (Gordon was thorough: the gross husband must have his pets.)

“I seem to remember the name,” he said slowly. “Double Dan? Isn’t that the man who impersonates people?”

“You’ve got it, sir,” said Mr. Superbus. “He don’t impersonate them, he is them! Take Mr. Mendlesohn——”

Now Gordon remembered.

“You’d never think anybody could impersonate him, though, with his white whiskers and him not being married, it wasn’t so hard. He got away with eight thousand pounds, did Dan. Got Mr. Mendlesohn out of the way, walked into his private office and sent a new clerk out with a cheque. That’s why Mr. Mendlesohn’s gone into the country. He daren’t hold up his head.”

“Oh, I see,” said Gordon slowly. “You’re acting on behalf of——?”

“The Brokers’ Association—he goes after brokers.”

Gordon seldom laughed, but he was laughing softly now.

“And you have been following me round to protect me, eh?”

“Not exactly that, sir,” said Mr. Superbus with professional reserve. “What I was trying to do was to get to know you, so that I’d make no mistake if Dan tried to ‘double’ you.”

“Have a cigar?” said Gordon.

Mr. Superbus said he didn’t mind if he did; that he would take it home, and smoke it in the seclusion of his own house.

“My good lady likes the smell of a cigar,” he said. “It keeps away the moths. I’ve been married now for three and twenty years, and there isn’t a better woman on the face of the earth than my good lady.”

“A Roman?” asked Gordon.

“No, sir,” replied Mr. Superbus gravely. “Devonshire.”

Diana, coming into the room half an hour later, saw Gordon standing with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him, his head slightly bent, a picture of practical thought.

“Who was that funny little man I saw go out of the house?” she asked.

“He is a man named Superbus,” said Gordon, roused from his reverie with a start, “who has been making certain enquiries. He’s been trying to trace somebody who has robbed a man of eight thousand pounds.”

“Oh!” said Diana, and sat down quickly. The ghost of the late Mr. Dempsi was very active at that moment.