Читать книгу The Dark Eyes of London - Edgar Wallace - Страница 12

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FLASH FRED had not left London: he had no intention of leaving London, if the truth be told. He had certain doubts in his mind which he had determined to set at rest, certain obscurities on his horizon which he desired should be dispersed. Flash Fred was a clever man. If he had not been clever, he would not have lived in the excellent style he adopted, nor possessed chambers in Jermyn Street and a motor-brougham to take him to the theatre at night. His working expenses were heavy, but his profits were vast. He had many irons in the fire and burnt himself with none of them—which is the art of success in all walks of life.

On the evening of the day that Larry had made his discovery Flash Fred, in the seclusion and solitude of his ornate sitting-room, had elaborated a theory which had followed very close upon a discovery he had made that morning. Men of his temperament and uncertain prospects suffer from a chronic dissatisfaction. This dissatisfaction is half the cause of their departure from the straight and narrow path, and is wholly responsible for their undoing. A hundred pounds a month, payable yearly, is a handsome income; but the underworld abhor anything that savours of steadiness, regularity and system—three qualities which are so associated with prison life that they carry with them a kind of taint particularly distressing to the lag-who-was.

Twelve hundred pounds a year for five years is six thousand pounds, or twenty-four thousand dollars at the present rate of exchange—a respectable sum; but five years represents a big slice taken out of the hectic life of men like Flash Fred. Twelve hundred pounds at best represents only two coups at trente et quarante, and can be lost in three minutes.

Dr. Judd was a collector. It had been reported to Fred that Dr. Judd’s residence at Chelsea was a veritable treasure-house of paintings and antique jewellery. Fred had read a newspaper paragraph that Dr. Judd was the possessor of historical gems worth fifty thousand pounds. Though Fred had no passion for history, he had an eye to the value of precious stones. And the theory he had evolved was in the main arithmetical. If he could get away with ten thousand pounds’ worth of property in twenty-four hours, he would not only have anticipated his income for eight or nine years, but he would be saved the fag of coming to London every twelve months to collect it. Much might happen in twelve months. It might not always be possible for him to make the journey, since prison authorities are notoriously difficult to persuade. Or he might be dead.

To get that movable property would be difficult, because the doctor was hardly the kind of man to leave his property unguarded. Indeed, the ordinary methods of effecting an entrance were repugnant to Fred’s professional feelings. For he gained his livelihood by the cleverness of his tongue and the lightning adjustment of certain brain cells to meet emergencies, and to him a jemmy was an instrument of terror, since it implied work. But there was another method—and once he had made his get-away, would the doctor dare prosecute?

That afternoon, sauntering aimlessly through Piccadilly Circus at the midday hour, he had come face to face with a tall, stoutish man, who, after one glance at him, had attempted to avoid a meeting; but Fred had caught him by the arm and swung him round.

“Why,” he said, “if it isn’t old No. 278! How are you, Strauss?”

Mr. Strauss’s face twitched nervously.

“I think you’ve made a mistake, sir,” he said.

“Come off it,” demanded Fred vulgarly, and, taking him by the arm, led him down Lower Regent Street.

“Excuse my not recognizing you,” said Mr. Strauss nervously, “but I thought at first you were a bull—split we call them in this country.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Flash Fred. “And how has the old world been treating you, hey? Do you remember G Gallery at Portland, in B Block?”

The face of the stout man twitched again. He did not like being reminded of his prison experience, though in truth he had little against the prisoner who had occupied the adjoining cell.

“How are you getting on?” he asked. And it happened that that morning Flash Fred had gone out without any visible diamonds—he carried them in his hip pocket, for he trusted nobody.

“Bad,” said Fred, which was a lie, but no good crook admits that he is prosperous. Then suddenly: “Why did you think I was a split, Strauss?”

Strauss looked uncomfortable.

“Oh, I just thought so,” he said awkwardly.

“Are you at the old game?”

Fred looked at the other steadily and saw his eyes shift.

“No, I’m going straight now,” he said.

“A liar you are, and a liar you will always be,” said Fred, quoting Larry Holt. “I’ll bet you’re on the way to ‘fence’ something.”

Again the man looked round as though seeking a way of escape; and Fred, who never despised an opportunity, however small, held out a suggestive palm and said laconically, “Drop!”

“Only a few things,” said Mr. Strauss hurriedly. “Thing that were given to me or wouldn’t be missed—just odds and ends like. A couple of salt-spoons ...” He enumerated his loot.

“Drop!” said Fred again. “I’m hard up and want the money. I’ll take a share and you shall have the money back—one of these days.”

Mr. Strauss dropped, with a curse.

“Come and have a drink,” said Fred briskly, when the transaction had been completed to his satisfaction.

“You’ve left me with about three pounds’ worth,” grumbled the man. “Really, Mr. Grogan, I don’t think you’re fair,” and he looked at the other suspiciously. “And you don’t look as if you’re hard up either.”

“Appearances are deceptive,” said the cheerful Fred, and led the way into a private bar. “What are you now—valet or butler?”

“Butler,” replied Strauss, tossing down a dram. “It’s not a bad place, Mr. Grogan.”

“Call me Fred,” begged Flash Fred.

“It seems a liberty,” said Strauss, and meant it. “I’ve got a butler’s job with a very nice gentleman,” he said.

“Rich?”

Mr. Strauss nodded.

“Yards of it,” he said briefly. “But what’s the good? He knows I’m a lag, and he’s very decent to me.”

Fred was eyeing him narrowly.

“You still dope, I see?” he said, and the man flushed.

“Yes,” he said gruffly, “I take a little stimulant now and again.”

“Well,” said Fred, “who is your boss?”

“You wouldn’t know him.” Mr. Strauss shook his head. “He’s a City gentleman, head of an insurance office.”

“Dr.—Judd?” asked Flash Fred quickly.

“Why, yes,” said the other in surprise. “How did you know?”

They parted soon after, and Flash Fred was a thoughtful man for the rest of the day, and his plans began to take shape towards the evening.

He dressed himself with care after dark, and strolled Strandwards, for he numbered amongst his other accomplishments that of an experienced squire of dames. He had a ready smile for the solitary girl hurrying homewards, and though the rebuffs were many, such conquests as he had to his credit added to the pleasures of memory. Between St. Martin’s Church and the corner of the Strand he drew blank, for such girls as he saw were unattractive or were escorted. Opposite Morley’s Hotel he saw a peach.

He caught one glimpse of her under a light-standard and was transfixed by the rare beauty of her face. She was alone, and Fred swung round and in two strides had overtaken her.

“Haven’t we met before?” he asked, raising his hat, but asked no more. Somebody caught him by the collar and jerked him back.

“Fred, I shall really have to be severe with you,” said the hated voice of Larry Holt, and Fred developed an instant grievance.

“Haven’t you got a home to go to?” he wailed, and continued his journey to the Strand in a bitter mood, for the romance had been shaken out of him, and he could still feel the knuckles of the shaker at the back of his neck.

*****

The girl passed on, unconscious of the fact that Larry Holt had been behind her. It was not an unusual experience to be spoken to in the street, and she had grown hardened to that also.

She lived above a tobacconist’s shop in the Charing Cross Road, and Larry saw her open the side door and go into the dark passage; he waited for a few minutes, then continued his walk.

This girl had made an extraordinary impression upon him. He told himself that it was not her delicate beauty, or anything about her that was feminine, but that it was her genius, her extraordinary reasoning faculties which attracted him; and, to do him justice, he believed this. He was not a susceptible man. Beautiful women he had known, on both sides of the border line which separates the good from the bad, the honest from the criminal. He had had minor affairs in his youth, but had come through those fiery dreams unscorched and unmarked by his experiences.

So he told himself. It was extraordinary that it was necessary to tell himself anything; but there was the indisputable fact that he spent a great deal of his spare time in arguing out his attitude of mind toward Diana Ward. And he had known her something over twenty-four hours!

Diana Ward was not thinking of Larry as she went into her flat. Her mind was wholly occupied by the problems which the Stuart case presented. She felt that, if the missing Clarissa were found, they would be on the high road to discovering the cause of Stuart’s death and the reason for this hideous crime.

She slammed the door and went up the dark and narrow stairs slowly. The upper part of the tobacconist’s was let off in three flats, and she occupied the highest and the cheapest. The tenants of the other two were, she knew, spending the week-end in the country. The first floor was occupied by a bachelor Civil Servant, a hearty man whose parties occasionally kept her awake at night; the second floor by a newspaper artist and his wife; and she had no reason to complain of her neighbours.

She had reached the second landing, her foot was on the stairs of the final two flights, when she stopped. She thought she had heard a noise, the faint creak of a sound which she had felt rather than heard. She waited a second, and then smiled at her nervousness. She had heard these creaks and whispers before on the dark stairs, but had overcome her timidity to discover that they were purely imaginary. Nevertheless, she walked up a little more slowly and reached the landing from whence rose a short flight of stairs to her own apartments. The landing was a broad one, and as she turned, with one hand on the banisters, she put out the other in a spirit of bravado as though she groped for some hidden intruder.

And then her blood turned to water, for her hand had touched the coat of a man! She screamed, but instantly a hand, a big unwholesome hand, covered her face, and she was drawn slowly backward. She fought and struggled with all her might, but the man who held her had almost superhuman strength, and the arm about her was like a vice. Then, suddenly, she went limp, and momentarily the arm that held her relaxed.

“Fainted, have ye?” said a harsh voice, and as a hand came feeling down for her face, the other arm relaxed a little more.

With a sudden dart the girl broke free, ran up the remaining stairs and opened and slammed the door. There was a key on the inside and this she turned with a heart full of gratitude that she had never locked her bedroom door from the outside. She flew across the room, stopping only to switch on the lights, pulled out a drawer and took from its depths a small revolver. Diana Ward came from a stock which was not easily scared, and, though her heart was pounding painfully, she ran back at the door and flung it open.

She stood for the space of a few seconds. She heard a stealthy footstep on the stairs and fired. There was a roar of fear and a blunder of feet down the stairs. Only for a moment did she hesitate, and then raced down the stairway in pursuit. She heard the thump of feet on the landing lower down, heard the rattle of the door, and came down the last flight to find it open and nobody in sight.

Concealing the revolver in a fold of her dress, she stepped out into the Charing Cross Road. At this hour there were few pedestrians, and she looked round for some sign of her assailant. A light motor-van was driving away, and the only person she saw near at hand was an old blind man. The iron ferrule of his stick came “tap-tap-tap,” as he stumbled painfully along.

“Pity the blind,” he wailed; “pity the poor blind!”