Читать книгу The Green Archer - Edgar Wallace - Страница 14
ОглавлениеValerie's Sprained Ankle
"Father," said Valerie Howett that morning at breakfast, "I want a country-house."
Mr. Howett looked up.
"What's that?" he asked, startled.
"I want a country-house," said Valerie.
He thought she looked tired and pale. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and a certain listlessness of manner which caused him some concern.
"I've seen a wonderful old place. It isn't far from London, and it has the disadvantage of adjoining Abel Bellamy's estate."
"But, my dear," said the troubled man, "I have certain duties to perform in America, and I can't stay on here through the winter. Though it could be fixed, I suppose," he added. "Where is this place?"
"At Garre—it is called Lady's Manor, and is an old dower-house that at one time belonged to the castle. It would want a whole lot of renovating." She looked down at her plate and went on tactfully: "I thought it was just the place for you, daddy, if you are ever going to write your book."
Mr. Howett dreamed a dream of writing a political history of England. It was a project he had had in mind for twenty years and for which he had accumulated an immense amount of data. The fact that perfectly good political histories of England existed was less a deterrent than a spur to emulation, and Mr. Howett scratched his cheek thoughtfully.
"It is so very quiet and peaceful. I'm sure, daddy, you'll never be able to write your book when you get to America with all your business distractions and your engagements. And of course you couldn't write in a noisy town like London, which is almost as bad as New York."
"Quiet, is it?" said Mr. Howett feebly.
"You could hear an infinitive split," she said flippantly with a touch of her old buoyant spirit.
"I don't know that that's a bad idea, Val," said her father, leaning back and contemplating the ceiling. "And the rest would be good for you. It isn't a bad idea. I'll cable New York and see if it can be arranged. You're not afraid of ghosts?" he asked dryly, and she smiled.
"No, I'm not afraid of ghosts," was the quiet reply, "if by ghosts you mean the Green Archer."
"That is certainly a queer business." Mr. Howett shook his head. "I don't know Bellamy, but from what I've heard of him I should imagine that he's the last man in the world to be scared by anything except an income-tax official."
"You've never met him?"
Her father shook his head.
"No, I've never met him. I've seen him often enough—he's been here in the hotel. I don't like him, and I'm not greatly impressed by that yellow-faced secretary of his."
She rose, and he hastened to her side to help her from the room.
"Valerie, you must see the doctor or an osteopath about that ankle of yours."
"It will be quite well today," she said. "I'm going to lie down, do nothing, and see nobody."
She waved his assistance aside with a laugh and walked to her room unaided, if a little shakily. Later in the morning came a visitor who would not be denied. Mr. Howett knocked on the door of his daughter's bedroom.
"Here's Captain Featherstone. He says he wants to see you. Can he come in?"
"If he promises not to bully me," came the reply. "I'm not in the mood to be lectured."
"Why on earth should he lecture you?" asked her astonished father.
"Tell him to come in."
Jim Featherstone came into the bedroom on tiptoe, with such an exaggerated air of concern that the girl could have shaken him.
"It is very sad to see you stretched so low," he said; "and please don't scowl, Miss Howett. I have come here oozing sympathy."
Mr. Howett went back to his sitting-room to write out a cablegram. And then:
"Where were you last night, young lady?"
"In bed," she replied promptly.
"And the night before?"
"Also in bed."
"Will you think I am indelicate," he demanded, "if I ask you whether in your dreams you paid a visit to the salubrious neighbourhood of Limehouse, looking for a man who is known as Coldharbour Smith?"
She uttered an exclamation of impatience.
"Wait!" He lifted a solemn hand warningly. "In searching for Mr. Coldharbour Smith, did you tumble into a free-for-all fight in a restaurant mainly frequented by Chinks and negroes?"
She shuddered at the remembrance.
"From which you were rescued by an honest but homely sailor—not, however, before you were badly kicked by one of the brutes."
"You weren't the honest but homely sailor?" she said, aghast.
He shook his head.
"No; he was one of my men—Sergeant Higgins. A very good fellow, though there is nothing of the male vamp about him. Why do you do these things?"
"Because I must," she answered doggedly. "I ought to have seen Creager before this terrible thing happened. I knew of him, knew that he was on Bellamy's pay-roll for some horrible thing he had done in the past. And this other man." She shivered again. "It was terrible."
"Coldharbour is not nice," agreed Captain Featherstone. "People who run the kind of establishments that he runs are not as a rule—pleasant. So Coldharbour is also on the pay-roll, is he?" he mused. "I didn't know that. Where do you get all your information?"
"I have paid for it," she said, declining a direct answer, "and I think it is fairly reliable."
He considered for a few moments, studying the carpet attentively.
"My own impression is that you're defeating yourself," he said. "Fortunately, Coldharbour was not on view the other night. If he had been, Bellamy would have known within twenty-four hours."
He saw the tears come to her eyes, and the unexpectedness of the sight took his breath away.
"I've tried everything," she said, "everything. I suppose I've been wilful and foolish and vain enough to believe that I was cleverer than all the police in the world, but I'm beginning to think I'm not."
His eyes met hers.
"Are you chasing a shadow, Miss Howett?" he asked gravely.
"No, no, no," she cried with vehemence. "I'm sure of it. Something here tells me that I am right."
"Will you answer me this question?" said Featherstone, lowering his voice. "Who is the woman you are seeking?"
He saw her lips close tightly.
"I cannot tell you that," she said. "It is not my secret alone."
