Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 16

Reluctantly, Bill Joyner turned into the wide marble vestibule of the building. It was not a day for work. The blue sky, the rustle of the plane trees, the swift cars that flashed westward, carrying elegant men and elegantly attired women Ascotward, called him to the pines and the green hills of Berkshire; and it was with something like a groan that he stepped into the elevator and was carried to the fourth floor, where his modest office was situated.

On the glass panel of his door were inscribed the words: "B. Joyner, Attorney at Law, U.S.A."

Bill Joyner's name was really Bill. He had been christened so by a whimsical parent. He was a fully fledged attorney. He was, moreover, a barrister at the English bar. A third accomplishment, about which his proud relatives knew nothing, was a certain striking success he enjoyed as a writer of love stories.

Bill Joyner was a bad lawyer. By dint of patient and tortuous study he had scraped through his law examinations, but thereafter the law was a dead letter to him. He had shelves filled with imposing text-books. He might, by steady application, have produced an opinion on some abstruse point of law, but it would have been a painful proceeding and possibly inaccurate. Bill hated the law and its practice. The writing of love stories, on the other hand, fascinated him, and when the demand for his work steadily grew, and a steady income was assured, he gave up all attempts to derive a livelihood from the legal profession, and, although it was necessary, for a certain reason, to keep up the pretence of being a lawyer, he regarded any man who sent him a client as his natural enemy.

Only one man in London knew that he was "Priscilla Fairlord," the author of "Hearts Aflame," or that "Mary Janet Colebrooke," whose passionate romance, "Parted at the Altar," was in a fair way to being a best seller, wore trousers and smoked a pipe. But, thanks to this success, he shared a suite in Curzon Street with Selby Lowe; could afford the luxury of a light car, and the not excessive expense of an office.

He opened the door of an outer lobby, whose solitary occupant, a very small boy, concealed a cigarette he was smoking behind him, and announced the arrival of a visitor.

"A lady?" said Bill, aghast. "Who is she?"

"I don't know who she is, sir; but she's an American. I understand American."

Bill did not wait to discuss the linguistic achievements of his "clerk," but burst into the inner office. The girl who was standing by the window turned with a smile, and the sight of her took his breath away. He had never seen anything quite so fragrantly beautiful as Gwendda Guildford.

"You're Mr. Joyner?" she said, and seemed surprised and a little disappointed, and he guessed that she had expected somebody more near her idea of a staid lawyer.

"I'm afraid I am," said Bill ruefully, and she laughed. And then, suddenly: "You're not Miss Gwendda Guildford?" he asked. "My uncle wrote about you."

She nodded.

"Good Lord! Didn't you get my letter? I wrote to the ship."

She shook her head.

"Was it anything important?" she asked a little anxiously.

"I rather guess it was," said Bill grimly. "My uncle told me that you were coming to see me as a lawyer, and I wrote advising you to consult Tremlow. I think I also begged of you not to disclose the base deception to my uncle. The fact is, Miss Guildford, I am the world's worst attorney!"

She laughed again, but he saw the disappointment in her face.

"I might as well tell you the grisly truth," he went on hurriedly. "The fact is, my uncle, who is my only relative, was crazy for me to be a lawyer. He had a dream of my making a great international reputation, and wanted me to read both for the English and the French bars. Well, I switched him off the French bar, anyway! I don't know whether there is such a thing as a good lawyer, but I'm not he! In fact, I've found another profession which I like a whole lot better."

"But Mr. Malling doesn't know that," said the girl, shaking her head reproachfully. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Why should I disappoint the dreams of the aged?" asked Bill, and then, seeing her irresolution, he went on: "My cousin Norma knows—God bless the girl!—and she aids and abets me. But I can put you next to the finest lawyer in town, if it is legal advice you need——"

"I really want human advice rather than legal."

She found it much easier to talk to Bill Joyner than she had to the doctor. The fact that he was a fellow countryman and nearer to her own age made confidence less difficult. Bill listened without interruption while she told of the missing Oscar Trevors, and read the cryptogram letter carefully.

"I can help you better than by shooting you to a man of law," he said. "You must meet Selby Lowe. That reference to Bonginda is certainly strange. You're sure the doctor said Bonginda?"

She nodded.

"I should like to talk with him," said Bill thoughtfully. "He has an office on this floor."

"He told me that much," she said, understanding now why Dr. Eversham was amused at the reference to Bill Joyner's legal pre-eminence. "I think Bonginda is strange, but do you see any other significance in it?" she asked.

"Surely," said Bill. "That is the little piece that the Terror speaks."

He saw her face go pale, and was instantly penitent.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know you'd heard of England's pet bogey," he said.

"The Terror! Then that—that explains—"

Incoherently, haltingly, she told him her experience of the night before; the noises she had heard, the attempt on the part of somebody to enter her room, and the arrival of the providential burglar.

"I'm sure he was a burglar," she said.

"What was he like?" asked Bill curiously, but she shook her head.

"I don't think I can tell you that. It is odd, isn't it, my sharing a secret of that sort? But he was so kind, so considerate and so helpful——" She shuddered at the memory of her terrible experience.

"I think Selby Lowe can help you," said Bill thoughtfully, and then: "How long are you remaining in London?"

"I don't know. A month perhaps, though I intend making a trip to Paris."

"A month, eh?" He scratched his chin, his blue eyes surveying her gravely. "You're not going to stay a month in that hotel, Miss Guildford." A plan occurred to him. "Selby and I have a house in Curzon Street—it is a swell neighbourhood, but the house is kept by an ex-butler, who rents off three floors. The suite above us is vacant. I'm going to get those apartments for you—you need not feel that you're being bohemian, because the third floor is occupied by a church-going lady, and the butler's wife is a model of propriety and respectability."

"But really, Mr. Joyner," she began in protest, but he had pulled the telephone toward him and had given a number before her objections took shape.

"I may not be a good lawyer," he said when he had finished his conversation, "but I'm a good nephew. And Uncle John has told me to take care of you, and I guess you'll want more taking care of than you imagine. London is no worse than any other great city, and in many respects it is much more law-abiding than New York or Chicago. But just now this country is under the tyranny of a ghost man, who seems to have an especial reason for reducing the population. I'm not going to question you about your burglar, and I guess the hotel people would be sore if they knew you could identify him. And I bet you could identify him." He looked at his watch. "If you wait here, I'll step across the hall and talk to Eversham."

Dr. Eversham was in his consulting-room when Bill arrived, and fortunately was disengaged. Joyner knew him by sight, had passed casual greetings with him when they had met in the elevator or in the hall, and there was neither need for introduction nor explanation of the object of the lawyer's visit.

"Good morning, Mr. Joyner. Have you seen your client?" he asked, rising and shaking hands with the visitor.

"I have," said Bill seriously, "and I want to speak to you about her. She has been telling me that she interviewed you last night, particularly about Oscar Trevors and his illusion that he was in line for the kingship of Bonginda. She didn't make a mistake about that?"

The doctor shook his head.

"You're sure it was Bonginda, doctor?"

"Perfectly sure," said Eversham.

"Have you heard of this crazy coon that the English people call the Terror?"

The doctor nodded.

"I was reading about him last night—a very disagreeable person to meet on a dark night, I should imagine. Why? What is the connection with Mr. Trevors?"

"The connection is," said Bill, speaking slowly, "that this Terror man calls himself the King of Bonginda."

The doctor stared at him.

"Is that a fact?" he asked at last. "I've seen nothing about that in the newspapers."

"It hasn't been in the newspapers," said Bill. "I got to know through Selby Lowe, who is the chief of the Foreign Office Intelligence Department or Secret Police—I don't know what they call themselves. They kept that fact out of the newspapers because it afforded a clue that they're trying to work on privately."

Arnold Eversham paced the long consulting-room, his hands in his pockets, his chin on his chest.

"Incredible!" he said, as though speaking to himself. "But it can't possibly be Trevors."

"What sort of a man was Oscar Trevors in appearance?"

Eversham was so immersed in thought that apparently he did not hear the question. Presently, with a start: "Trevors? He was a man slightly below middle height, rather thin and weedy, and choreic."

"Choreic?" said the puzzled Bill.

"It is a medical term meaning a person who is subject to involuntary twitching of face and lips—a sort of incipient St. Vitus's Dance. That was one of the symptoms of his nervous disease, whatever it may have been."

"He had no resemblance whatever to the Terror?" asked Bill.

"None," said the doctor emphatically. "From the descriptions I have read in the newspapers, he is a man of imposing height, great breadth and extraordinary muscularity. Moreover, he is coloured. Mr. Trevors is a very pallid man with lightish blue eyes. I can give you these details because I never forget the appearance of a patient. You are sure that the Terror—I use that somewhat melodramatic term because I know of none better—you're sure he mentioned Bonginda?"

"There's no doubt about that," said Bill, nodding. "He either calls himself the King of Bonginda, or he gives as an excuse for his attacks upon people, that they have been traitors to his mythical state. Moreover, Miss Guildford was visited last night by this gentleman."

The doctor spun round.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

In a few words Bill told of the girl's terrible quarter of an hour, omitting any reference to the burglar.

"I can't believe that it was he," said Dr. Eversham, shaking his head. "Did she see him?"

"She didn't see him, but she is convinced he was the man."

Eversham bit his lip.

"I really can't understand," he said. "Of course, it may have been some drunken person who had mistaken the room. And yet——" He frowned. "I think Miss Guildford had better leave the hotel," he said. "The cause of her distressing time may be simply explained, but I should feel very much happier if she were less exposed to an experience of that sort."

Bill smiled.

"Which is exactly what I told her, doctor," he said. "I've persuaded her to go to Jennings' place in Curzon Street. Jennings has got a high-class boarding-house; I think he knows you, because he's spoken of you once or twice."

The doctor nodded.

"I know Jennings. He was butler to Lady Chonam, and a very respectable person. Yes, I think you're wise," he added. "If I can be of any service to you, will you please let me know? Exactly what service I can be, I can't for the moment see. She told you about the cryptogram letter?"

Bill nodded.

"That is remarkable. I think she ought to see the police, though I can't see what they can do either. They are rather chary of acting on mysterious clues of that description."

Bill went back to the girl and told her of the doctor's endorsement of his plans.

"You'll leave that hotel to-day, my young friend, and you're not going around London without an escort."

In spite of her trouble, Gwendda laughed at his masterful tone.

"I don't know whether I ought to do as you suggest," she said, "and I have a feeling that I am making rather a fuss about nothing. Perhaps Dr. Eversham is right when he says that some drunken man may have mistaken the room. But though I hate being ordered along, I'm going to do as you suggest. I don't think I should like to sleep in that room again," she said with a shiver.

For Bill the day's work was ended. The half-finished story that clamoured for completion awakened no pangs of conscience as he put on his hat and escorted her back to the hotel. He did not ring for the elevator, and they walked up the broad marble stairs together. They had reached the first floor and were turning to the final flight, when the elevator opened and a man stepped out briskly and walked across the hall to a door on which was inscribed: "Marcus Fleet, Financier."

Bill felt his arm suddenly gripped, and, looking round, saw the girl staring at the man as he opened the office door and disappeared.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, a little unsteadily. "Nothing at all. I'm afraid I'm nervous."

She did not tell him that the man she had seen was "Goldy" Locks, hotel burglar and knight-errant.