Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 26

She flew to the window, but it was closed, shuttered and barred. Even as her trembling fingers sought to unfasten it, she heard a new sound, the sound of a sharp, authoritative voice. It was the voice of Selby Lowe, and it came from the stairs. For the fraction of a second there was silence, then a crash and swift patter of bare feet, and silence again. Then she heard another footstep running in pursuit. A slam of a door that shook the house, and again that deathly stillness. Presently the second pair of feet walked back, and there came a second tap at the door.

"It is Lowe, Miss Guildford," said Selby's voice. "It is gone. You need not be afraid."

It required all her serf-control to pull back the bolts, but presently the door was open.

"Thank God it is you, thank God!" she said, laughing and sobbing.

He put his arm around her shoulder and half carried her to a chair. Even in her distraught state, she saw the short cord that hung from his wrist and the Browning that dangled.

"It is disgraceful of me to let you run this risk," he said.

"When did you come back?" she gasped as she took the glass of water he poured for her.

"I haven't been out," he said shortly. "I knew when the 'phone message came through about diplomatic mail-bags having been lost that it was a fake, and I wanted to see what would happen. I have been upstairs all the time. You see, I know the trains by which every diplomatic mail-bag goes out and in, and I ought to be kicked for risking this. I should have shot him, of course, but when he got down into the corridor he turned out the light and I was hoping that he would pass your door and go out on to the street."

"Who was it?" she asked, her teeth chattering.

"I don't know," he answered carefully. "I know Bill went. I heard them telephone."

"I thought Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were here?" she began, but he shook his head.

"They had theatre tickets sent them by some mysterious philanthropist this afternoon. The letter came by special messenger. I guessed something was wrong when I knew that, and I'd been waiting for that telephone call all evening. Will you ever forgive me?"

She smiled at him, her lips unsteady, her eyes filled with tears.

"Of course I'll forgive you, Mr. Lowe, but when anything like this happens again, will you be kind enough to—to let me into the secret?"

He nodded. She saw how intensely he was affected, and was sorry she had spoken. A minute later, Bill returned in a state of alarm.

"Nobody sent for me," he said. "Some fool's joke, obviously." Then he saw the girl's face. "What has happened?" he asked quickly. "Has—has that thing been here again?"

Selby nodded.

"Yes, he came. And I am a thousand kinds of brute because I knew he was coming. I never dreamt that he'd get as far as Miss Guildford. He came in through a window on the first landing. By the way, he pulled out the bars of that window as easily as I'd pull candy."

"It was—the Terror?"

Selby nodded.

"Undoubtedly," he said, and explained in a few words the part he had played. "The doctor was called away: how did they know he was here?"

"How did they know anything?" said Selby impatiently. "They knew—that is enough."

The ghastly visitant had escaped by way of the kitchen, slamming and bolting the door in the face of his pursuer, and it was not until the Jenningses returned from the theatre that Selby was able to continue his investigations through the scullery, which had been converted into a sort of wine cellar at the back of the house. The scullery door was unfastened, and from the courtyard it was easy to see how simple a matter it was for the man, if man he was, to make his escape.

"Juma," said Selby, interested. "That's the first time we've heard his name. I don't suppose it will help us much, but there is so little we know about him that I'm glad to get even that scrap of information."

Coming down to breakfast the next morning—for the girl had arranged to have her meals with the two young men—she saw the hollow-eyed Selby and accused him.

"You haven't been to bed all night."

"I've been sitting up—studying," he said flippantly. "By the way, I wonder if the doctor's call was a fake, too."

He got on the telephone to Dr. Eversham and learnt, as he had expected, that the summons he had received was from a mythical patient.

"I don't know what the object was," said the doctor's voice, "but I gather from your tone that something happened. Did you have a visitor?"

"We certainly had a visitor," said Selby grimly. "With any kind of luck he would have been a dead visitor. But he took advantage of the darkness and heaved a chair at me, and got away before I could get one good shot."

"May I come round this evening? I should like to hear about this," said the doctor. "I have a theory, which may be too fantastic to consider, but it is a theory."

Throughout that morning, Selby Lowe pursued his inquiries in the neighbourhood. A policeman had seen a small closed car stop at the corner of the street, and a tall man in a long coat alight and walk rapidly along Curzon Street. Presently the car moved on and turned into a mews, a series of garages rented by people in the neighbourhood. The officer's duty took him along in leisurely pursuit, and, glancing down the mews, he thought he saw a man climb over a wall and, springing into the car, drive off. He wasn't sure whether his eyes had played a trick, and he hesitated to give an alarm. Corroboration of this story came from the house next to Selby's. That morning a servant had found a long mackintosh coat in the yard. It was practically new, and bore on the tab the name of a store which supplied such garments by the thousand.

"We can't identify him that way," said Selby, "but there is one thing we know beyond any dispute: there are two people in this—Juma himself, and the man who drives the car."

Inspector Timms, who had come in response to his request, took charge of the coat, though expressing his doubt as to whether it was possible to trail the wearer.

"I'm going into this question without respect for any person," said Selby. "Everybody who was in this house last night has got to explain to me, to my entire satisfaction, just where they were."

"You don't mean me?" said Bill in amazement.

"I mean you, I mean the doctor, I mean Jennings and Mrs. Jennings. We'll go over them one by one. You are clear. And take that look off your face, Bill, because I'm going to invite Timms to treat me and my movements with the utmost suspicion. You I can account for; you were at the Morning Star office and had a quarrel with the night editor."

"How did you know that?" asked Bill.

"I've inquired," said Selby. "My dear old top, don't ask questions; listen to statements! You could have had nothing to do with it."

"I should darned well say——" began the indignant Bill, but the other arrested him with a gesture.

"There is the doctor. He is an eminent medical man, extremely wealthy, the author of a famous medical work, rather indolent, but otherwise with no particular vices."

"We can rule him out," said Bill.

"We'll rule nobody out. He was called to a patient; his car broke down in Victoria Street, and he called up the patient to tell him that he was delayed, only to learn that he had not been summoned. I have substantiated those facts. Jennings, a man of unimpeachable character—his wife was housekeeper to a well-known Society woman—they occupied seats sixteen and seventeen, row G, at the Empire last night, and have been identified by a commissionaire who knows Jennings, and by the programme girl from whom Jennings bought a box of sweets for his wife. Now comes me, and my conduct is open to the gravest question. I was in the house when the Thing was here, and it was a fairly simple matter for me to imitate the howling, horrible noise that the creature was making, and equally possible to fake the fight and the story I told."

"You couldn't have faked the overcoat or the policeman's evidence, Mr. Lowe," said Timms, and Selby nodded.

"I had forgotten the overcoat and the policeman. I think that very nearly exonerates me," he said. "I had also forgotten that the scullery door that leads from the house was bolted on the inside. Now who else? There remains nobody else but the actress who lives on the third floor, and is of a somewhat religious turn of mind, and who undoubtedly spent the night at Bexhill, dining last night with no less a person than the Mayor of Bexhill and his wife, who are friends of their family. Who is left?"

"Nobody except me," said the girl, who was an interested audience.

"Nobody except you," agreed Selby, "and another. If I tell you who that other person was, I shall be making myself look ridiculous."

"Who is it?" asked Bill curiously, but received no satisfaction.

That evening, when the girl came back from a drive in the park, and a visit to the American Consulate, she saw a man lounging against the railings on the opposite side of the street, apparently observing everything save her movements. She drew her companion's attention to it, and Bill Joyner walked across to the man.

"Are you waiting for anybody?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes, sir, I'm waiting for my relief," said the man with a little smile. "You're Mr. Joyner, aren't you? Mr. Selby Lowe will explain why I am here."

Bill Joyner grinned.

"I'm sorry," he said, and offered his apologies to Selby Lowe himself, when that young man came back from his office.

"Yes, I've got a detective at the front and at the back. They are armed, and they will shoot at sight, so it would be advisable for Juma, King of Bonginda, to keep away from the neighbourhood of Curzon Street to-night."

Gwendda's visit to the Consulate had not been entirely without success. She learnt that an officer at the American Embassy had received a letter from her uncle. The letter was written in Florence and dealt with some trivial matter—the renewal of his passport. No address had been given save the word "Florence," and inquiries made in Italy failed to locate this will-o'-the-wisp.

"Written in England and posted in Florence," said Selby shortly when she told him. "Oscar Trevors is much nearer at hand than many people imagine. I am satisfied that these letters are fakes, intended to put us off the scent. Undoubtedly it was Trevors' handwriting—I saw the letter myself a week ago, and I could have saved you the trouble of going to the Consulate if I had known. Why should he write about the renewal of a passport which expired ten years ago? Clearly to emphasize the fact that he is still alive and to keep suspicious people from trailing him. It is because you are suspicious, Miss Guildford, and because, for the first time in three years, a serious attempt is being made to track him down, that you are the object of such unwelcome attentions as you have received since you have been in this country."

"Do you mean that the Terror knows where my uncle is?"

The other nodded.

"Of course. We know that Trevors spoke about Bonginda; we have the undoubted fact that this fearful night-bird calls himself the King of Bonginda—the association is complete. Otherwise, why should you, of all the visitors to this country, be signalled [Transcriber's note: singled?] out for attack? Have you a photograph of your uncle, by the way?"

She had one in her trunk, and went up and fetched it. Selby carried it to the window and looked long and earnestly upon the thin features of the missing man. The face was weak, in spite of the breadth of forehead, the chin small, the mouth indecisive. The portrait showed only the head and the sloping hock-bottle shoulders, but, comparing it with a portrait which was already in his possession, Selby formed a new idea of the man.

"It is not a strong face," he said as he handed the photograph back. "By the way, I should like to keep that, if I may? May I? Thank you."

He put the photograph in his inside pocket.

"The doctor said he suffered from chorea; he is undoubtedly a nervous subject. Did you know that?"

The girl nodded.

"Mother has often told me that Uncle Oscar had a queer trick of shaking his head involuntarily," she said.

"Which means," said Selby, "that, if he were alive, he would be the easiest man in the world to trace. Both these characteristics are known to the people who have been looking for him, and if you imagine that the American Embassy has been satisfied with the appearance every half-year of the receipts for money he has received, you are mistaken. They have been trailing Oscar Trevors for years."

That afternoon, when Bill Joyner was working in his office, Selby came in unannounced, and closed the door behind him.

"I'm doubling the guard on that young lady to-night, Bill," he said, "and you'd better carry a gun in case of accidents, though I don't think you're likely to get a visitor. You understand that on no pretext are you to leave the house. If the Morning Star or the Evening Sun or the Afternoon Comet or even the Midnight Betelgeuse call you up, you're to stick to Gwendda Guildford closer than a brother. I haven't much doubt that that advice is unnecessary," he added drily.

"Won't you be home?" asked Bill.

Selby shook his head.

"No, I shall be genuinely absent to-night. I'm going down to see Judge Warren. I want to know a little more about the bad characters he has met in the past: the real bad men. He had a peculiar position in this country; he was called to the Bar of the Middle Temple, and went to Australia, where he had a big practice. He made money, came home, went into Parliament, and was offered his judgeship as a reward for his political services. He gave me a hint that he'd met almost every bad man that Australia held, and I think that, by the process of elimination, I shall be able to get a line to Juma."

"He's not an Australian."

"He's an African," agreed Selby. "I haven't any doubt about that. I am sending a man to Bonginda to make inquiries, for a yellow native would be sufficient of a freak to be remembered if he came from that particular country."

Business kept Selby engaged until late in the afternoon. Judge Warren had answered his telegram, inviting him to spend the night at Taddington Close, and Selby telegraphed, accepting the offer. At five o'clock that afternoon, just as he was preparing to depart, a wire came to the Foreign Office from the Belgian Minister of Home Affairs. The Belgian Government had a passion for coding messages, however insignificant, and it was nearly seven o'clock before the long message was deciphered. It began conventionally with the despatch number.

"No. 78312. Your 4531V of the 10th transmitted to Governor General of Noma, whose reply begins. Your 33-75 received and transmitted by radio to Governor of this province, who reports as follows: Chief of Bonginda village remembers yellow native named Juma N'kema, who was taken at an early age to America by a Baptist missionary and educated at American mission schools. Last seen in this district fifteen years ago. Described as tall, muscular man of twenty-three, who spoke English fluently and held certificate of American citizenship. He was expelled from country six months later for practising witchcraft and suspicion of being concerned in the murder of a woman of the Bolongo tribe. Described as very cruel, vindictive man, and suspected of poisoning former chief of Bonginda by powdered glass. Man claimed that he was the King of Bonginda country. Message ends."

"Good work," said Selby softly. "Juma N'kema!"

He had despatched his inquiries by telegram that morning. In twelve hours he had received sufficient evidence to enable him to cancel the instructions he had given for sending a man to the Congo River to pursue inquiries on the spot. Juma N'kema was undoubtedly the Terror, but a new Juma N'kema endowed with a cunning and a power that defied the efforts of the cleverest men in the country to bring him to earth. Juma N'kema, who appeared and disappeared at his will; who had a safe hiding-place from whence none saw his coming or his going; who could strike with equal facility in Scotland or in the wilds of Devon or in densely populated, thickly policed London.

Only one person knew of Lowe's destination. Even his assistant at the Foreign Office had no knowledge where he was to spend the night. To make absolutely certain, Selby left the Foreign Office in a closed car, was deposited at a tube station in the North of London, and doubled back, picking up his train at Vauxhall.

It was nearly dark when he arrived at the little wayside station of Taddington Close.

"If you'll wait half an hour, I'll 'phone Richardson to send down a taxicab," said the stationmaster.

"How far away is the Judge's house?" asked Selby.

"About twenty minutes quick walking, an easy journey if you take the side path through the Biddley Wood," replied the official. "I can send a man up with your grip."

"I'll take the short cut, I think," said Selby. "Which is the way?"

The stationmaster directed him: he had to pass two cottages, walk a quarter of an hour along the road, and then turn sharply over a stile, following a footpath which took him through the edge of Biddley Wood. The Judge's house lay at the end of the pathway.

The light was still lingering in the sky when Selby Lowe stepped out briskly for his destination. He reached the second of the cottages and saw a man standing at the gate; of him he confirmed the direction. It was light enough to see the way, and the yellow path was plain, for the moon was up; and though it threw confusing shadows, it was almost impossible to stray from the dull ribbon of earth which led to the blackness of Biddley Wood. From somewhere near at hand came the glorious notes of a nightingale and Selby stopped to listen. As if resenting his audience, the bird ceased his song and Selby went on with a smile. In the wood itself the path was less determinable; but presently his eyes grew accustomed to the deeper gloom and he went ahead unerringly.

What followed came without warning. When he was almost clear of the wood, the yellow light of an uncurtained window came into view; he heard a rustle of sound behind him and half turned. Before he could swing completely round, a huge arm wound itself round his neck, the elbow pressing up his chin, and a great, malodorous hand covered his mouth and nose. He smelt the faint, unmistakable body odour of his assailant, and struggled to escape, but he was as a child in that terrible grip. And then a voice spoke gratingly in his ear:

"You have come well, white man! This night you die!"