Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

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HE MUSED on this, arriving the boat against the stream with long, powerful strokes. They passed the lawn of Benham Abbey, and then he guided the boat to the shade of trees that overhung the water and, gripping a branch, held the dinghy steady. And as usual, when he spoke, he went off at a tangent.

"It takes a clever man to live a double life. Shelton lived six that I knew. There used to be a fellow who wrote stories for the Child's Magazine, all about the little dogs that find their master lying in the snow. A fellow named Grinstead Jackson. His other name was Shelton. And another man who wrote a book about the mind—that was Shelton. Down at Lambeth there was a small printer's business run by a man named Simon Cole. Mr. Cole and Mr. Shelton went about under the same hat. In Oxfordshire a poultry farmer used to advertise eggs and birds for the table. He did a good business and had two dozen people working for him. And more hens. H. P. Pearce was his name in the telephone book. At Scotland Yard, we called him Shelton. Up by Temple Lock an elderly gentleman had a bungalow and a power boat. He used to fish a lot—one of the best barbel fishers on the river. Walter James Evanleigh was the name on his letters—most of the recording angels opened the page under Shelton. That's what I know about him. What I don't know would fill a big shelf in Mr. Monkford's library."

"Was he married?" she asked, fascinated.

"Never appeared to be," said Betcher. He fixed her for a second with a glance that seemed to go searching behind her eyes.

"Of course, he couldn't have prophesied his own death—Oh!"

She suddenly remembered the last date, August 1st—and it was now July 23d! "What is happening on August the first?" she asked.

"Ah!" said her companion, and then, before she could press her question, he went on again:

"Nobody really knows about the Terrible People—except me, and I know next to nothing. You smell 'em now and again—get a sort of glimpse of 'em. Old Shelton made a million out of the banks, but the high cost of living six lives ate it up. Maybe he played the races. Most crooks are mad in one direction or another. He paid high for his messengers. It was costly to send people to America to cash letters of credit—why, once he ran a man from New York to Sacramento by special train, just stopping off at the big places to collect, an' going on to the next. The agent was back in London before the first squeal came. Clever— but it cost money. Still—a million's a lot. Behind him all the time were the Terrible People. Mr. Monkford had a brother who went to Ilfracombe for a holiday; that was the week after I caught Shelton. This brother was drowned. They found him in his bathing suit on the beach early one morning. Mr. Monkford thinks it was an accident. It was. They got the wrong Monkford!"

She looked at him open-mouthed.

"Murdered?" she said hollowly.

Betcher nodded.

"Got the wrong Monkford," he said, and for a second the skin about his eyes wrinkled. Something had amused him.

"Going up to town by the six-fifteen? I'll be going, too. I travel third class. I'm democratic—"

She saw him stiffen and his head thrust forward toward the wilderness of bushes that fringed the bank. One hand dropped to his pocket. The other held rigidly to the branch of the tree. Again her heart raced; again her skin crept. He was staring wide-eyed at the bushes—she thought she heard a strange and stealthy rustle of sound.

The dinghy was slowly turning, and she discovered why, for the wrist of the hand that held the branch was also turning. Presently the motion stopped and he rose, so light on his feet that the little boat scarcely rocked. As he stood now he was immediately between her and the place where she had located the sound.

His head drooped, he was listening; then, as unexpectedly as he rose, he sat down again, put out the oars and drew the dinghy to midstream.

"Terrible people!" He was speaking to himself.

"Terrible people—there's something doing and I don't know what it is."

He said no more of them, offered nothing in the way of explanation, and rowed out toward the opposite bank, as she thought.

"Seen our neighbour?" he asked, in his abrupt way.

"Ought to see him—he's one of the sights of Marlow. I call him Hercules. Folks round here got another name for him. He was in the bank the day we caught Shelton, and considering he's naturally languid, he certainly mixed it! These languid birds sometimes fight well. When I was at Cambridge—" He stopped here for no apparent reason.

Presently the untidy fringe of bushes came to an abrupt end and she sat open-mouthed at the loveliness which flashed into view. The house behind the inevitable lawn was smaller than Benham Abbey, and the lawn itself the merest parallelogram of vivid green that served as a frame for the most beautiful garden she had ever seen. Crimson and gold and cobalt blue, deep purples and dusty reds flamed in harmonious confusion. The house was half hidden under crimson rambler and wisteria. Two long stone-pillared pergolas ran from the river to the house, flanking the lawn, their beams hidden under climbing roses. Near to the edge of the water was a red-and-white striped umbrella tent, and this protected a man who was stretched in a deep cane chair. He rose wearily as the dinghy came inshore, a thin man with a long, weak face, who screwed a monocle into his eye and surveyed the approaching visitors, his face a picture of vacuity.

"Hullo, Long," he drawled, as they stepped ashore.

He offered a limp hand to Mr. Long, but his pale eyes were all for the girl.

"I'd like you to meet Miss Sanders—this is Mr. Crayley."

"Jackson Crayley," murmured the lean man. "How do—sit down, won't you?"

His hand was so inanimate that Mary would have found his empty glove more human.

"I thought Miss Sanders would like to see your garden."

"It is wonderful," said the girl enthusiastically.

"Ya-as! not bad." The owner seemed reluctant to admit the beauty of his pleasant lands. "Got a good head gardener. Show the young lady round—pick anything you like, Miss—er—"

Almost before they had moved away, he had sunk down in his chair and was immersed again in his newspaper.

"What do you think of him?"

Nora hesitated.

"He seems rather—tired," she said, and Betcher chuckled.

"Born that way. He's nothing much. Only—well, curious thing was that he was in the bank when we pinched Shelton, an' helped arrest him—as much as he could help anybody. Sort of dived at him when he broke loose from me. Of course, Shelton pushed him over—that kind of man is made to be pushed over. Mr. Monkford likes him. He's a fashion lizard and only here in the season. Just come back from Deauville—or maybe just off to Aix. You going to Heartsease for the golf week?"

"Why, yes," she said, in surprise, "but I didn't know that that was a very fashionable gathering."

He said something half aloud which she did not catch. She gathered from his tone that it was disparaging to the game of golf.

When they returned to their host they found him parleying with a lady who, from the depths of a luxurious punt, was apparently fixing an appointment. Nora had one glimpse of her as she paddled away. A rather plain girl, beautifully dressed.

"Deuced awkward, people asking me if they can see my garden," grumbled Mr. Crayley, and then, conscious of his lack of grace, he added, hastily for him: "I mean—asking if she can come on Thursday and bring some friends—sort of hotel idea—public gardens and all that sort of thing. Going, Miss—er ?"

"Thank you for letting me see your lovely flowers." She shook the lifeless hand and went down into the dinghy.

"Come some other day," called Mr. Jackson Crayley, already in his chair. He did not disguise, either in his voice or attitude, his great relief at their departure.

Betcher's face was set in a smile that was almost satanic as he rowed her back to the abbey.

"What amuses you?" she asked, smiling.

"Fashion lizard—did you see his yellow spats? Men have been smothered for less!"

Evidently Monkford had changed his mind about resting. He was pacing up and down the bank when they came back to the abbey.

The fishermen still sat at each end of the lawn, their attention concentrated upon their floats, and Mary wondered if they ever caught anything and why they chose this clear and shallow water for their sport.

"I'll be seeing Miss Revelstoke at Little Heartsease next week," said Monkford, as they walked to the house. "Tell her she must take up golf—never too late, never too late!"

She went to the station by car. Betcher kept her waiting a little while before he came out with his friend. The grounds at the back of the house were narrow. Three times the width of the carriage drive separated the manor from the red wall that hid the road. Waiting in the machine for the big man's reappearance, she had time to observe this wall. It had not long been built; was unusually high, and along its parapet stretched a triple row of revolving spikes. By the big green gates—also new—stood a sturdily built man. He was smoking a short briar pipe and was seemingly as unoccupied as the fishermen. Nora looked from him to the wall and wondered.

On the way to the station, Betcher was in his most inquisitive mood. How long had she been working? What did she do? She had a somewhat humiliating record of posts held and lost. Her typing was indifferent—her shorthand negligible. She spoke three languages well—

"Danish?"

He stopped dead in the centre of the booking hall to ask the question.

"No—why Danish? German, French, Italian, and a little Spanish."

In spite of his boasted spirit of democracy, he ushered her into a first- class carriage.

As the train moved out of the station toward Bourne End, he asked her if she kept secrets.

"Most people think they can, but most people are born reporters, an' a reporter just lives to tell somebody else."

He opened the carriage window and looked out—repeated the process at the opposite window, and then sat down facing her. His blue eyes were laughing.

"I've got a joke on a fellow," he explained. "There's a man from the Yard watching me—just friendly. He's travellin' in the guard's van; there's a little projecting window so you can see up and down the train. Ever read philosophy, Miss Sanders?"

She nodded.

"A little; I can also keep a secret," she added invitingly.

"Ever read Leibniz on Causation? No, I thought not. Why is this train going? Because up in Derbyshire a man went down a mine and dug out a heap of coal. Why did he go down the mine? Because he has a wife to keep. Therefore, his wife is pullin' this train—got that?"

There was a flaw in the logic, but she did not interrupt. Moreover, he was well aware of the irregularity.

"First causes—go back to 'em. You can't get Shelton's because you don't know what his trouble was. But when they dropped him through the trap, a new series of First Causes got down to their job. I'm telling you this because I'm fond of you. Not in love with you—don't get ideas, Nora. Just fond of you!"

She listened, too dumbfounded to speak. He went on:

"Up at the Yard they laugh about me and my Terrible People, but where is the judge who sentenced him? Dead! Where is the prosecuting lawyer? Dead! Where is the hangman? Dead! I'm alive an' Monkford is alive—"

Crash!

The glass of the window splintered into fragments; something whizzed past with the drone of an angry bee; the roof of the carriage dropped a shower of splinters.

Betcher's grin was fiercely joyous.

"The man that fired that rifle is dead—I'll betcher!" The train stopped at Bourne End, and Betcher took a characteristic farewell.

"Just going back to identify the body," he said cheerfully, and then, with a glance at the girl's white face, he went on quickly: "A little joke! There's a rifle range about a mile away, and I'm betting I shall find a left-handed recruit doing a little anti-aircraft practice."

She was not deceived; nevertheless, she forced a smile, and was still smiling mechanically as the train drew out.

"Theatrical fool!" said Betcher cold-bloodedly, as he saw the end carriage go out of sight round a bend. "Sensation maker and girl scarer!"

He was addressing himself in this strain as the station taxi carried him back to the place from which the shot had been fired. It took very little finding. The train was passing a railside but used as a store by the platelayers when the bullet struck. There was no house in sight—running parallel with the line was a field of oats that went back to the road along which his taxi had driven, with the sergeant of police he had commandeered at Bourne End.

He expected to find his man near to the rail, and here he was wrong. There was a pond in the field surrounded by a low mound which barely rose to the height of the growing crops. Here, amidst a riot of flowering weeds, he saw the still figure of a man. He was poorly dressed, a tramp of some kind, and an ex-army man, for there were three soiled medal ribbons on his tattered waistcoat.

"Shot from behind," said Betcher, after a brief examination. "Poor devil! What is that book, Sergeant?"

The officer passed the shabby memorandum book he had picked up, and Betcher Long turned the greasy pages. It was the pencilled entry at the end which interested him.

Third coch from engin. Secon winder Dont shoot if girl at winder.

Long examined the remaining pages. He found a name.

"Joe Hanford," and two addresses, one in Sussex, the other in a London street.

"He was methodical, this fellow," said Betcher thoughtfully, "and being methodical, he entered his instructions. Now, how the devil did the information get here?" He looked round, and, as he did so, a splash of light appeared on the shoulder of a hill three miles away. Six times it quivered.

"B-C-N-F-L-D," spelt Betcher. "Beaconsfield!"

The unknown signaller was sending a mirror message to somebody. It might be a detachment of Territorials engaged in harmless military practice. Presently the light flickered again.

"L-N-G S-R-C-H-G F-L-D."

"Long searching field!" Betcher would have given a lot for a pair of field glasses as powerful as those which the mysterious watcher was using.

That was the last signal he saw. Evidently the young man watcher had seen Betcher's face turn toward the hill and had realized his message was being read.

The detective made a rough calculation. The range of heliograph was very wide, and the murderer might be well clear of Marlow Town and yet be able to read the warning. There was probably no telephone nearer than Bourne End. He must take his chance. But he could not afford to neglect even the vaguest possibility, and, leaving the sergeant with the body, he hurried back to the road, and the taxi flew on its return journey.

There was a long delay before he could get in touch with the Beaconsfield police, and then he heard what he had expected.

"Cars are passing through here at the rate of ten a minute," said the officer in charge. "Can you give me any idea of what it looks like?"

"Get a man to take every number that goes through in the next quarter of an hour," said Betcher.

There was very faint hope that this record would lead to any discovery. In all probability, the machine had already passed through Beaconsfield before he had put the police on their guard.

It was after dark when he left Bourne End, and near to midnight when every newspaper in London received a paragraph with an urgent request that it might be inserted in the news columns:

Warning to Ex-Soldiers

There is in this country an organization which offers a large reward to unemployed ex-soldiers, particularly men who are marksmen, the services required being of an illegal and felonious character. Ex-soldiers are warned that it is fatal for them to accept any such commission, apart from the inevitable consequences of their act if they are detected by the police. Ex-soldiers receiving any such offer should immediately communicate with Inspector Long, Room 709, New Scotland Yard. The sum of £500 will be paid for any information which will lead to the arrest and conviction of the said employers.

Mr. Jackson Crayley, at breakfast the following morning, opened his newspaper, fixed his monocle, and read the paragraph. And as he read, he stroked his long yellow moustache thoughtfully. He rose and, leaving his breakfast untasted, strolled into his handsome library that overlooked the garden which had been the delight of Nora Sanders's eyes. Taking up the telephone, he gave a number, and presently a voice answered him.

"Have you seen the newspapers?" he asked, and, when the reply came:

"We shall have to cut off the military gentlemen," he drawled. "Betcher is going to be very difficult."

He listened whilst the person at the other end replied, and then:

"Yes, I quite agree—next week, I think. We shall probably be able to get them both together."

And he went back to his breakfast with a feeling of comfort; for the voice that had spoken to him had pronounced the doom of Betcher Long.

Down at the Telephone Exchange, a Scotland Yard man had cut in and listened to every word. But he was no wiser at the end of it, for the conversation had been carried on in the Danish language.