Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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SHE gazed at him, horror and incredulity in every line of her face.

"You don't really mean that?"

He nodded.

"I'm telling you this because I know you and because you know me. Understanding at first sight is more common than love at first sight. I knew you the day I saw you in the Southern Bank. You're an affinity. I hate the word, because it has had its bloom worn off in the divorce courts. Come for a row and forget all about Mr. Monkford. He's still alive."

She got into the dinghy without a word, secretly pleased to be with him. She could not grasp the full significance of his calm survey of Monkford's fate. And yet she knew that he was not the type of man who would exaggerate for the sake of making a sensation. Her mental attitude toward this stranger amazed her. In the shadow of his influence she felt she could relax, put down all the guards and screens that women erect to keep the world at bay. She had never been susceptible to strong prejudices; her nature was cautious; experience had made her a little suspicious of men and women alike. She could hardly believe that it was possible in her to conceive so sudden an interest in a man of whose existence she had been ignorant an hour before.

"How old are you?"

He was pulling to midstream when he fired the question at her head.

"Nearly twenty-three—I am very old," she said, and despised herself for casting so clumsy a bait.

"You don't look old. I thought you were about twenty when I saw you." He looked over her shoulder as he spoke, watching the house recede. "That's the queer thing about beauty—it destroys age. A beautiful woman is any age you want her to be; not that I've wanted—much."

She sat up, her eyes kindling with laughter.

"Are you in the habit of—of being so frank with all the women you know?" she asked. Modesty demanded that she should add: "All people are—well—nice-looking who have a healthy skin."

"I knew a woman in town who had a peach skin. She was cross-eyed and had a nose like an elephant," he said. "No, I don't have a great deal to do with women. I knew Kate Lacrosse—she was pretty. Golden hair and wonderful features. Last time I saw her she was painting angels down in Aylesbury."

"Painting... Where is Aylesbury?" she demanded, puzzled.

"Convict prison for women. I got her twenty years," said the rower, with melancholy satisfaction. "Her line was blackmail."

She was shocked at this, but he went on to make a startling statement.

"I know everything—except about women. They get me guessing. When I was a boy I read the encyclopaedia through twice. I know everything. It has been useful as a policeman. Do you mind my saying that you're beautiful?"

She laughed.

"I rather like it," she confessed.

The boat was headed downstream now. She had no thought for anything but this strange personality.

"You've got the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen in a woman," he said after a pause.

She raised a warning finger.

"Mr. Long, I believe you are trying to flirt with me," she said solemnly.

"No, I'm not." He was telling the truth, as she knew. "I'm just remarking. You're engaged?"

She shook her head.

"No. I am unique. I have never been engaged." He drew a long breath.

"That's certainly unique," he said, and, shipping his sculls, reached out and caught hold of something. Looking round, she saw to her surprise that it was the murderer's boat.

"I'll show you something," he said, and jumped on board, stooping to grip her hand in his.

The air of neglect was more striking nearer at hand. The planking of the whale-deck was rotting; the well was inches deep in water that rolled and gurgled with every motion of the boat as they moved.

"He had his press in here." Betcher pulled back the sliding door of the poop cabin. "Ran it off batteries—the batteries are still there. Come inside."

She followed him, stooping, into the darkness of the cabin and he lit a match.

"How's that for high-class prophecy?" he asked.

On the woodwork of the cabin walls a string of dates had been carved. There were nine in all.

 June 1, 1854. J. X. T. L.

 Sept. 6, 1862.

 Feb. 9, 1886.

 March 11, 1892.

 Sept. 4, 1896.

 Sept. 12, 1898.

 Aug. 30, 1901.

 July 18, 1923.

 Aug. 1, 1924.

Against the date July 18, 1923, a small, plain cross had been carved.

"High-class prophecy; he's got Ezekiel beaten," murmured Betcher Long, and shook his head in admiration.

The girl was perplexed.

"But did he carve those dates?" she asked. "What do they mean?"

"Give a lot to know—for sure," he added cautiously. "July 18, 1923—that's easy. He was hanged that day!"

She drew a sudden breath and shrank back. The light of the long wax match went out; for a second they were in the darkness, and then, with a wild and uncontrollable sense of fear, she pushed past him through the door into the sunlight. Presently he followed and pulled the door tight. She gathered from his attitude that he was the present proprietor of the Northward, and this proved to be the case, though none of the locals knew.

"The carving was only discovered last year when I bought the boat and started to strip the panels—you saw where they came off? The panel over that interestin' memento wasn't screwed to the wall. It was just hinged. When I started in to investigate I found the list."

"But he couldn't have anticipated the date of his death?" she urged.

He shook his head.

"No. The Terrible People did that."

Nora looked at him straightly. Was he jesting? More than a little she suspected laughter behind the most portentous of his words.

"I have never heard of those," she said at last.

"Heard of witch-doctors and voodoo men? Listen, young lady. Step down into the boat—we're too close to shore here."

He was not joking. His eyes were searching the tangled lawn before the empty house. He stood squarely in the centre of the dinghy, both hands resting on his hips, but even when he extended one of these toward her, he did not look in her direction—his attention was for the house and the drawn blinds and the little shrubbery near the tradesman's path.

For a second her flesh crept. She had a terrifying sense of danger; she felt the presence of an unseen watcher, the menace of hateful eyes.

"Imagination—there's nothing there."

He was speaking as though he read her thoughts. "Somebody was there last night. I had cotton across the doorway, and it was broken to-day!"