Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 20

Mr. Selby Lowe returned from Ascot as cool and as tidy as when he had departed. He hung up his silk hat in the hall, turned into the big sitting-room that he and Bill shared.

"The Jam has been playing the races and lost two hundred pounds," he announced as he took off his tight-fitting morning coat and struggled into a rusty velvet jacket that hung on a peg behind the door. "I guess he'll go home and order somebody to be executed."

"We've got a new lodger," said Bill.

"This is sensational news. You should have prepared me for it."

Selby was filling a pipe from the big tobacco jar on the mantel-piece.

"Jennings has been threatening to let that second floor of his. Anybody interesting?"

"The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, and one of the bravest," said Bill enthusiastically. "Sel, she's wonderful! I never realized what the words 'American beauty' meant—to apply them to roses is a sacrilege."

Sel held up his hand and wearily closed his eyes.

"Are you practising a new serial story on me, because if you are, don't," he said. "I have seen three horses in which I have been financially interested, beaten by three noses, and all that is romantic in my system has gone west. Is it a lady?"

"It is a lady," said Bill. "I tell you, she's the most extraordinarily——"

"Let us have the lady without superlatives," said Selby, sinking into an old armchair and pressing the bell-push. "Also some tea. You have never acquired the tea habit? It is a thousand pities; you've missed something. Tea, to a high-class detective such as I am, is an inspiration. All the best detectives in fiction chew cocaine or violins or something. I prefer tea."

"She is Oscar Trevors' niece."

Selby Lowe sat erect.

"Oscar Trevors' niece?" he repeated. "Good God!"

Bill looked at him in amazement.

"Do you know of Oscar Trevors?"

"Yes, I know of Oscar Trevors," said Selby quietly. "Now why is she here?"

"She has come to look for him. Miss Guildford is on the staff of a newspaper in Sacramento, and she's had a pretty exciting time, though she's not been in London more than twenty-four hours."

"The Terror, of course?" said Selby surprisingly, and Bill looked at him.

"Yes, somebody tried to get into her room last night. But how do you know——"

Selby Lowe interrupted him with a note of impatience.

"You brought her here? Good; I thought she was still at the hotel. Oh, yes, I knew she was in London. Bringing her to this house is the first intelligent thing you've done in years. She's on the second floor, you say?" Selby was speaking to himself. "Two windows at the back, three in the front; one stairway, and that passes our room; no trap-door from the roof, and the window on the landing is barred. That's good. No, I don't think you could have chosen a better place, Bill." Then, before Bill could give expression to his emotion, he went on: "I saw Judge Warren at Ascot. As I expected, he is an Australian by birth. Has it occurred to you that the majority of people who have been attacked by the Terror were Australians? Parker, who was strangled in the streets of London, was an Australian lawyer. Wenton, whose mutilated body was found at the bottom of Beachy Head cliff, was also from Australia—a retired squatter, living at Eastbourne. He went out one night and never came back."

"Stalman wasn't an Australian," said Bill, his interest momentarily switched from the girl.

"No, he wasn't an Australian," said Selby slowly. "He was an old and respected publisher, who had been in the south of France for sixteen years for reasons of health. He was killed the day he returned to England. But, if you go into the cases, you will find that the majority were Australians, and men of some standing. Two of them were justices of the peace; one was a racehorse owner."

"Did Warren give any explanation?"

Selby shook his head.

"No, I didn't expect he would. He is a very nice man, who has earned a local reputation by his humanity, and I don't think he has an enemy in the world."

For ten minutes no sound broke the quiet of the room. Selby was puffing thoughtfully at his big pipe, his eyes fixed abstractedly on the carpet, his lean brown hands clasped. Suddenly he said briskly:

"Bring down your beautiful lady. I'm dying for tea." He rang the bell again. "Mrs. Jennings has grotesque views on art, but she is a good housewife."

Ten minutes later, when the tea-table was set, and Selby, who had returned to his morning coat, was standing with his back to the fireplace, gazing moodily at the big Doré picture which filled one wall and which he had never had the moral courage to remove, the door opened and the girl entered.

From the moment their eyes met, the girl liked him. In spite of his dandified appearance, the seeming insolence of his expression, the almost perfunctory character of his handshake. He was the Englishman she had read about, the typical eyeglass dude that appeared in every stage play where an Englishman was represented.

"I'm glad to know you, Miss Guildford," he said. "I hope you're staying some time?"

"I leave for Paris to-morrow."

"I don't think that would be advisable."

He said it so naturally that for a moment she did not realize the impertinence of his remark. By the time she did, he was chatting pleasantly on Ascot and the racing. He knew everybody in society; he was one of those men who could reveal all they knew without offence or weariness. And then, gradually and delicately, he brought the conversation to her uncle, and by easy stages to her own predicament.

"I am sure the doctor was wrong when he said it was a drunken man," she said, and he did not disagree with her. "It was the strangest, eeriest experience," she said. "Even now I can't believe that it was not a nightmare."

"And the man who came in through the window, who was he?" he asked carelessly.

"I don't know. I think he was a thief—in fact, I know he was," she said frankly. "But he was a dear thief, Mr. Lowe, and if you are going to ask me to give his description, I shall certainly refuse."

He smiled faintly.

"There are very few thieves who are wholly darlings," he said.

It was the portly Mrs. Jennings who interrupted him.

"I told Mr. Timms that you were busy, but he said he wants to see you particularly."

"Tell him to come in. Do you mind?" he asked quickly. "Timms is a detective officer. You haven't reported this matter to the police?"

She shook her head.

"Take my advice—don't. I'll accept responsibility if there is any trouble."

He rose to meet the police inspector, who stood, hesitating, at the door.

"Didn't know you had a party, Mr. Lowe."

"Come right in and be one of us," said Lowe, pulling up a chair. "This is Mr. Timms, of the C.I.D., which doesn't mean 'copper in disguise,' but Criminal Investigation Department. Well, did you get your man?"

"I did not," said the other ruefully. "I thought I had him. We trailed him to the Trust Buildings, got him into Fleet's room and sprang a little raid on them. I'm as sure as that you're sitting here, that Goldy had the goods when he left the house."

Lowe saw the girl's start and suppressed an inclination to laugh. So it was Goldy Locks, was it? He turned to the girl.

"Goldy Locks is one of our cleverest hotel thieves," he said, watching her closely. "He is called Goldy Locks partly because his name is Locks, and partly because he is bald. That is the kind of English humour which takes a great deal of understanding, but I've no doubt that, if you live in this country for a few more years, Miss Guildford, you will be able to detect an English joke almost at first glance," he added solemnly. "Of course, Goldy Locks will not interest you," he said, his eyes never leaving her face. "He is the sort of man who creeps into bedrooms at night, lifts—or, to use criminal terminology, 'knocks off'—any loose jewellery that happens to be lying around. A very nice man is Goldy. Apart from his unfortunate weakness, he is gallantry personified."

And then, learning all he wanted to know from Gwendda's stolid glance, he said:

"You may not know Miss Guildford, but you probably know of her uncle, Oscar Trevors?"

"The American who disappeared some years ago?" said Timms in surprise. "Yes, I knew of him. I never met him. What happened in that case, Mr. Lowe? It was transferred to your department."

This was the first news that Bill Joyner had that Selby had other than an outside interest in the Trevors case.

"I believe it was," said Selby, as though the fact had only just occurred to him. "Yes, I'm pretty sure it was. I don't know what became of Mr. Trevors. He was a great traveller, was he not, Miss Guildford?"

She knew he was playing, and that his object was to hide from the policeman any extraordinary interest he might have in Oscar Trevors' fate, and she wondered why. It was Timms who led the talk in a new direction.

"Fleet had them on him, of course. That fellow is mustard. You wouldn't think a man with his money would take the risk of 'fencing' stolen property, but, as I have figured it out, he's the kind of fellow who hates to see a nickel get past."

"Is he rich?" asked Selby.

The detective raised his eyebrows.

"Rich? He practically owns all the stock in the Trust Buildings. In fact, he is the Trust. Rich, but mean. You remember the fuss there was made when he brought over Italian workmen to put up the building? There were about three strikes before the building was finished. He got the workmen cheap—used to lodge and feed them on the ground. There was trouble about it."

"I remember," said Selby Lowe. "By the way, when was that building erected?" he asked suddenly.

"1911."

Selby nodded.

"The year after Trevors disappeared," he said. "And if I were a betting man, which I no longer am, after the tragic fiascos this afternoon, I would bet my bank balance that the foundation of the Trust Buildings was Oscar Trevors' money!"