Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 32

Gwendda Guildford had spent a happy and interesting, Joyner a happy if unprofitable, day. The woes of his heroine called aloud for alleviation, and more insistently, the editor whose privilege it was to give to the world this story of "love and sacrifice," was even more articulate. In consequence, long after Gwendda had gone to bed and was asleep, Bill Joyner sat in his shirtsleeves, his pen covering sheet after sheet of paper at an amazing rate. At half-past two in the morning he laid down his pen with a weary sigh and turned to his companion, who for four solid hours had sat, smoking violently, absorbed in his thoughts.

"Thank heaven that's finished!" he said. "We're going to see the Tower to-day."

"Who are 'we'?"

"Don't be a gink," said Bill contemptuously.

"There's only one 'we' in the world, I suppose," said Selby with a sigh, "and that's us. She's a dear girl, the nicest American or any other kind of girl I've ever met."

He looked up at the ceiling as though he would find there some answer to the unspoken question.

"You'll be a rich man one day, I suppose, Bill, with this legal experience of yours?"

"Quit being funny," said Bill. "I don't know whether I shall be rich. I'm not sure that I'm keen on being very wealthy. We want just enough to live on, a nice little house with a ten-acre lot, and a few squabs—and a bee or two."

"Yes, it sounds delightful," said Selby, his eyes still on the ceiling. "And you've got to be rich, you know, Bill, because she will be."

"Who—Gwendda?"

Selby nodded.

"When Oscar Trevors dies, as he will very soon, Gwendda is going to have a whole lot of money. Did that never occur to you?"

Bill shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Of course, there's no talk of ... I mean, we're only friends ... good friends, of course, but only friends. She's a wonderful girl."

Selby smiled faintly.

"She's a wonderful girl," he said. "And, Billy, she's going to take a lot of keeping."

Bill frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"She's going to take a lot of keeping," repeated Selby, and there was something in his voice that made the other look at him more attentively. "The day Trevors dies, there'll be a reason for getting her out of this life and out of reach—where Trevors is now. And suppose she goes, Billy, and her polite little letters come through as Trevors' come through, and her cheques arrive at the bank, what are you going to do—stop payment?"

"Good God! What an awful thought!" Bill wiped his streaming forehead.

"What are you going to do?" asked the other relentlessly. "You've got to pay or take a bigger risk than they dare take with Trevors. You've got to get him before he gets her."

"Get whom—the Terror?"

Selby shook his head.

"Don't worry about the Terror. One day I shall pull a gun quicker than he can throw a chair, and his future will be a matter of abstract theology. No, the man behind—the inspirer of that devil. The car-driver, the planner, the man who sent Juma to kill me, and who caught ... poor Warren; the slayer of Australians. He's the fellow."

Bill was silent, and then:

"What chance is there of catching him?"

"Pretty good, if theories go for anything. Mighty bad if there's no substantial support for all these dreams I've had."

Selby rose and, stretching himself painfully, knocked out the ashes of his pipe. He stopped suddenly and listened. There was a sound of quick footsteps in the street outside. They stopped at the front door, and presently there was a knock. Selby glanced at the clock and went into the passage, switching on the light. He pulled open the door quickly. The man who was standing on the doorstep he could not at first recognize.

"Is that Mr. Lowe? I'm so glad you're not in bed, sir. Can you come to the doctor's?"

"You're the doctor's chauffeur, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What has happened?" asked Selby. "Come in," and led him into the dining-room.

The man was palpably upset, and the hand that held his cap was trembling.

"I tried to telephone you, but the wire is out of order," he said. "The doctor's been attacked by that awful man."

"The Terror?" asked Selby quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"Where did this happen?"

"On his own doorstep; just as he was opening the door to let himself in about half-past one, this fellow came up behind him and nearly killed him. Fortunately, the doctor had his arms free and struck at the fellow with his walking-stick."

"You haven't got your car here?"

"Yes, I have, sir," said the man to his surprise. "I left it standing at the corner of the street. I wasn't sure of your number, and so I walked along till I found the door."

Selby pulled on his coat and took down his hat from the hall-stand.

"Wait up till I return, Billy," he said in a low voice. "There may be something more in this than any other outrage Juma has committed."

In five minutes he was at the doctor's house, and was shown straight into the study. Eversham lay upon a sofa, and two doctors, evidently summoned from close at hand—for one was in his dressing-gown and pyjamas—were dressing his wounds. His face was bruised and blackened, his hands lacerated by the sharp nails of his assailant, but the eyes that showed through the puffed skin gleamed humorously.

"Nearly got me that time, Selby," was his greeting. "I was afraid my leg was broken, but it isn't. Whew!" he winced as one of the surgeons used a needle scientifically.

He had obviously been terribly manhandled. His lips were cut and swollen, his dusty clothes gave evidence of the struggle. When the doctors had finished their work, he told his story.

He had been to the theatre, and afterwards to his club for a drink, and had walked back to Harley Street. Near the door he passed a small, enclosed coupé. He thought it was a Ford car, but of this he wasn't certain. All that he knew was that, as he put the key in the lock of his door, he heard somebody behind and turned, to find himself facing this human tornado.

"How I escaped, heaven knows. Fortunately, my walking-cane is weighted, and I managed to get one or two blows in with that. Before he could recover, I had opened the door and got in, closed and bolted it."

"Did he make any attempt to follow?"

"None, as far as I can remember. I managed to stagger to the study, and then call up my chauffeur, who sleeps in the mews at the back and can be reached by telephone."

There was enough light to survey the scene of the struggle. On one of the railings that followed the rising steps, Selby found a smear of blood. He walked along the street, carefully scrutinizing the rails, first in one direction and then in the other. It was when he had retraced his steps that he found the second smear. It was on the railings outside a house three doors away. Farther along, he came upon a third smear; this time it was noticeable, for it was against the yellow of a lamp-post. Returning to the house, he found the police had arrived, and briefly related to the officer in charge the nature of his discoveries.

"The doctor must have wounded him pretty badly," said the officer. "We ought to be able to pick him up on those clues."

"I suppose so," said Selby.

Deliberately he took off his coat so that he stood in his shirt-sleeves, and deliberately began to wipe the tessellated steps before the front door with the new blue jacket.

"What on earth are you doing that for, Mr. Lowe?" asked the astonished officer.

"Looking for microbes," said Selby.

He examined the result of his cleaning operations, and then shook the jacket vigorously.

"You've ruined that," said the officer, his domestic instincts aroused.

"I've ruined the Terror," said Selby, and went in to take farewell of the doctor.