Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 30

Marcus Fleet's office hours were from ten till four, or his stationery lied. Those who knew his habits best never hesitated to go either before ten or after closing hours. It was exactly a quarter to six when Mr. Locks knocked timidly on the door of the outer office and was sharply bidden to enter. At the sight of him, the face of the woman clerk hardened.

"You can't see Mr. Fleet," she said shrilly. "You've been told not to come again, and Mr. Fleet's gone home."

"Bring him back, angel," pleaded Locks, closing the door. "And smile on poor old Goldy! If you only knew what a smile meant to a sympathetic face, you'd unscrew that face of yours and get a new one. Have you seen yourself lately?" he asked anxiously. "Take a good look: I'll bring you a mirror the next time I come——"

"I don't want any of that fresh talk from you. I've told you before," said the woman, going a dusky red, but her voice was more under control. "I've told you you can't see Mr. Fleet, and you can't. He's given strict orders that if you come in here, you're to be thrown out."

"Produce your thrower out," said Goldy Locks blandly, as he stood with his outstretched hands on the polished counter. "And never forget that I'm fierce when I'm roused. Honey, go and tell Marcus that little Goldy's waiting."

"You come here with your cheap vaudeville gags," said the girl, trembling with passion, "and you expect me to laugh! Get out! If you don't go, I'll ring for the janitor."

"Ring for Marcus," said Goldy. "I've got to see Marcus. Now get that into your beautiful head. There must be room for something besides hair, Mary."

Without a word, she flung open the door and walked in, and he heard her excited voice talking volubly. Presently he heard her say:

"Well, ask him in yourself. I won't speak to the dirty old thief!"

"That's me," said Goldy, lifting the flap with alacrity. "I'm here, Marcus," he announced.

Marcus Fleet lay back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, glowering at his unwelcome client.

"What do you want?" he asked.

With a magnificent gesture, Goldy waved his hand to the girl, who was standing looking from her employer to the intruder.

"Not before the child, Marcus," he said soberly, and she banged the door to with such vehemence that it was amazing that the glass panel withstood the shock.

"Temper in woman is a vice," said the imperturbable Goldy as he seated himself at the opposite side of the desk. "I wouldn't marry that girl for twenty millions."

"Suppose you leave the girl alone?" snarled Marcus, his face red with anger. "Why do you come? I've nothing to give you, I'll buy nothing from you. You're a shopper, a stool pigeon. You led the coppers here the other day, and you thought you'd trapped me, you poor rabbit!"

Goldy did not attempt to check the abuse which flowed so readily from Marcus Fleet's thick lips. He let the man splutter and bluster, and then, from his waistcoat pocket, produced two hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the desk.

"Bum notes," he said laconically.

"What do you mean?" growled Fleet.

"By 'bum notes' I mean phoney notes, or, as we call them in our set, 'slush.' In other words, bad stuff."

He pushed them toward the man, but Marcus took no notice.

"You're not trying to ring that stuff on me, are you?" he asked. "The money I gave you was good, honest-to-God United States currency."

"There are black sheep even in churches," said Goldy gently. "Whether these two fell by the wayside, or whether they went wrong in their youth, or were tempted, I know not, my Marcus. But they're just bad enough for the chair, the trap, the lunette, or whichever is your favourite form of execution. They're so bad that I hate to put them with real money for fear the good stuff gets corrupted. And they were neatly interpolated in fifty one-hundred dollar bills which came from you a few days ago."

"You can go and tell the police that I'm passing phoney bills," sneered Fleet.

"I knew you were a twister," said Goldy, ignoring the suggestion. "Your fame is not local. But you don't twist me, Marcus, because I'm made of material which neither breaks nor bends. And what a pretty cameo ring you're wearing! My, my! how it suits your elegant hand!"

Marcus Fleet jerked his hand away out of sight.

"I used to know a man who wore cameo rings," Locks went on reminiscently. "A regular fellow he was. One of the elite of our profession. A chap named Kinton—I was talking to a busy about him to-day."

"Busy," in the argot of the London underworld, means "detective," and it is an expression which is never used except by thieves to thieves.

The sallow face of the man at the desk went a shade paler, and his lips quivered tremulously for a second. Goldy, from the corner of his eye, saw the big man grip the edge of the desk so tightly that the white of his knuckles showed.

"Now that fellow Kinton was a gentleman," said Locks with relish, "and a gentleman, in the language of Dr. Johnson, is a hook that's never had a conviction. He wouldn't have rung in these phoney bills on me. He'd have just waved his cameo ring and said: 'Goldy, I'm sorry you have been troubled,' to use a telephonic expression. 'Here's your two hundred and another five for all the inconvenience I've put you to.'"

Fleet licked his dry lips.

"If I've made a mistake, I'm willing to acknowledge it," he said.

He went to his safe, pulled a few bills from a bundle, and, without counting them, threw them on the table. Goldy picked them up and counted them carefully.

"Six hundred dollars," he said in awe. "What a present! Kinton couldn't have done any better."

"Cut that Kinton stuff out. I don't want to know any of your friends, and I don't want to be compared with any of them, do you see, Goldy?"

Mr. Fleet was trying hard to be amiable, but it was an effort.

"And when you're talking cameo rings to your busies—well, I don't wear a cameo ring." He displayed his hand, and the ring had vanished. It had gone into the safe when he had taken out his money. "I've got some work to do, and you're stopping me. You needn't come again, Goldy, because the goose only lays about five eggs a year."

"And they're good eggs," murmured Goldy.

He was at the door when Fleet called him back.

"I don't want to quarrel with you. I think that people like ourselves ought to remain friends. I'd like to put something in your way, Goldy."

What that something was, he discussed at great length, whilst his secretary fumed and muttered in the outer office.