Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

Eversham frowned down at the letter, and in the intense silence which followed, the musical tick of the little French clock on the mantelpiece came distinctly to the girl's ears.

"Amazing!" he said at last. "Now what is the meaning of that? Have you seen the police?"

She shook her head.

"I came to you because I thought I would find you at home. Mr. Joyner's office was closed."

"Mr. Joyner?"

"He is an American lawyer with a large practice in London," explained Gwendda, and only for a second did the doctor's lips twitch.

"You don't mean Mr. Joyner of the Trust Buildings?" he asked, and seeing that she did, he went on quickly: "I have an office in the Trust Buildings, on the same floor as Mr. Joyner's; and whilst I can't say that I know him personally, it is a revelation to learn that he is a great American lawyer. Of course, he may be," he added hastily, when he saw the look of concern on her face. "The Trust Buildings are filled with professional men who gain mysterious livelihoods, and Mr. Joyner may be an immensely busy man for all I know." He took up the letter again. "You are showing this to Mr. Joyner, of course? Do you know him?"

She shook her head.

"His uncle is the proprietor of the Herald," she said. "It was he who recommended me to go to Mr. Joyner."

"I hope he will be successful," said the doctor, and there was a note of dryness in his voice which she did not fail to appreciate. "May I take a copy of this?" he asked, and she nodded.

He wrote quickly on a large sheet of blue paper, and when he had finished, blotted the copy and handed the original back to her, he smiled again.

"I am something of a detective myself," he said, "and, perhaps, if the police fail to locate Mr. Trevors, I may be of some assistance to you. It is an amazing suggestion that a man should be locked up somewhere in Europe, presumably in France, for the reference to the Western line seems to indicate that country, and the letter was obviously posted in Paris. It upsets my original theory pretty badly."

He walked with her to the door, and, in spite of her protests, insisted upon escorting her back to her hotel.

Harley Street is a quiet thoroughfare at this time of the night; and with the exception of a few wandering taxis and a car with bright headlamps which stood outside a house three doors from the doctor's, there was nothing in sight when the cab he hailed came up to the sidewalk. No sooner did the cab pull away, however, than the car with the brilliant lights began to move slowly. The lights were now dimmed to the regulation brightness, and though it was obviously a powerful machine, it made no effort to overtake the cab.

Turning into Oxford Street, the doctor looked back through the window, and, observing this unusual proceeding, the girl said quickly:

"Are we being followed?"

"Why do you ask that?" he demanded.

"Because I have had a feeling, since I landed at Southampton, that I have been watched," she said. "It is nerves, probably, and very stupid, but I can't escape that feeling."

Dr. Eversham made no reply. He, too, shared her suspicion; and when the cab was bowling down the Haymarket, the suspicion became a certainty. He looked back again: the car was a dozen yards behind and moving slowly. It was a big American car, with a high radiator, and in the light of a street standard he saw that it was painted green.

The taxi turned and stopped before the entrance to the Chatterton, and the doctor assisted the girl to alight. As he did so, he glanced back. The green car had passed and come to a halt at the corner of Cockspur Street. Its hood was up and curtained, though the night was fine, indeed almost sultry.

Bidding the girl an abrupt good-night, he crossed the road rapidly in the direction of the machine, and, as he did so, the green car shot forward at a rapid rate, and by the time the doctor had come to where it stood, he saw only the red tail-lights disappearing in the direction of the National Gallery.

Turning, he walked thoughtfully up the hill toward Piccadilly Circus, his mind intent upon the interview and its strange sequel. Who could be trailing them? And with what object?

At the end of the Haymarket a few lines on a newspaper bill caught his eye.

"THE TERROR AT LARGE AGAIN."

He bought a paper, and, stepping into the brightly-lit Tube station, he turned the pages and found the story.

"After three months' inactivity, the Terror is at large again. He was seen last night in the neighbourhood of Southampton. The country is terrorized. Mr. Morden, a farmer near Eastleigh, gives the following account of his meeting with this ruthless and indiscriminate murderer.

"'About half-past ten last night,' he said, speaking to a Standard man, 'I heard the dogs barking near the cowshed, and went out with a storm lantern and my gun, thinking that a fox had broken into the poultry yard. Just as I crossed the court, I heard a terrific yelp and ran toward the sound, which came from the kennel where one of my best dogs was chained. I soon discovered the cause. The dog was dead: his skull had been beaten in by a stake. I put up both hammers of the gun, and released the second dog, who immediately darted off toward the pastures, with me at his heels. It was a fairly bright night, and as I crossed the stile, I saw the Terror distinctly. He was a man of about six foot three in height, and, except for a pair of light-coloured trousers, he wore no clothes, being bare from the waist upward. I have never seen a more powerful-looking man in my life; he was a giant compared with me. He struck at the dog and missed him, and old Jack came yelping back to me, and I could see he was scared. I put up my gun and called on the man to surrender. He stood stock-still, and thinking that I had got him, I walked slowly toward him, my gun covering him. Then I saw his face. It was the most horrible-looking face I could imagine: a broad nose like a negro's, a big mouth that seemed to stretch from ear to ear, and practically no forehead. I could hear my men coming after me, and I got closer than I should have done. Suddenly he struck at me with a stick, and the gun flew from my hand, both cartridges exploding as it did so. I thought it was my finish, for I had no other weapon, and as he brought up the big stake in both of his powerful hands, I stood paralysed with fear. Then, for some reason, he changed his mind, and flew, at a speed which is incredible, across the fields toward the Highton Road.'

"It is remarkable," the newspaper went on, "that the police have not succeeded in tracking down this fearful menace to the security of the people. In the past three years six murders have been credited to this unknown savage, who seems to roam at will from one end of the country to the other and defy the efforts of the cleverest police officers to put an end to his activities."

There followed a list of the victims of the Terror.

The doctor folded up the paper and handed it to a grateful newsboy. On the whole, he thought, it was hardly advisable to walk home, as he had intended.

He called a taxi. Half-way home, his mind occupied by the arrival of the American girl and the strangeness of her quest, some instinct of danger roused him to wakefulness. He looked back through the window of the hood. A dozen yards in the rear, the green car was trailing him.