Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 12

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NOTHING ever excited Miss Revelstoke. She had that imperturbable type of mind which would accept an earthquake as an interesting phenomenon of nature, and it was told of her that, in one of the worst air raids that London experienced, she had not so much as put down the fine sewing she was engaged in when the warning came.

She listened now with a certain detached interest to the girl's story.

"Highly dramatic," she said drily. "Really, Nora, you are in danger of becoming notorious! What was the name of this peculiar detective?" And when Nora told her, she nodded. "I remember; he was engaged in the Shelton case."

Until then the girl had not told her of her other queer experience, but now she narrated almost all that had happened that afternoon.

"I hope your spine crept when you went into that dreadful boat," said Miss Revelstoke grimly. "It must have been delightfully thrilling. Mr. Long rather interests me; we must have him up to dinner one night, but, in the meantime, my own dinner is waiting, and poor Mr. Henry is beside himself with impatience."

Frederick Henry, man of law and a dabbler in letters, was one of those negative quantities which had neither attracted nor repelled Nora. He was a nice-spoken young man, rather good-looking, and reputedly clever in his profession; and the legend that his frequent visits to Colville Gardens had their cause in his admiration for Nora Sanders was not even irritating to the girl. She liked Mr. Henry, because he was not the sort of man that one could dislike. He was too inactive, much too negative, to arouse any very strong feeling.

A quarter of an hour later she followed Miss Revelstoke into the dining room. Henry was standing with his back to the empty fire grate, his hands behind him, his brown eyes surveying the carpet, and he seemed to the girl to be revolving some abstruse problem of law.

And that apparently was the fact, for he started as Miss Revelstoke came in, and apologized.

"I've had rather a puzzling case sent to me," he said, as he pulled out a chair for his hostess, "and a gruesome case at that! You've heard of Wallis?"

"I haven't had that pleasure," said Miss Revelstoke. "But I may suppose that he is a famous character, because only such are called and recognized by their surnames."

"Notorious' is the better word," said Mr. Henry, a little grimly, as he sat down and opened his serviette. "He was, in fact, the public hangman."

Miss Revelstoke turned her imperturbable gaze upon him.

"Wallis lived at Oldham, and we happen to be agents for his solicitors," Henry went on, and then, quickly: "If you object to this unpleasant subject, I will talk about butterflies."

He addressed the girl rather than Miss Revelstoke, and smilingly she shook her head.

"It appears that, although he was rather a dissolute person, he was to some extent thrifty. He had some house property in London—three little cottages in Bermondsey, and until his death nobody knew he was married; at least, nobody knew that he had married twice without going through the formality of obtaining a divorce from his first wife. He left no will, and it looks as if there will be a lawsuit."

Interest in the late Mr. Wallis passed soon after, and the talk drifted to Marlow.

"There you have made an impression, my dear," said Miss Revelstoke. "I had Monkford on the 'phone to me, and he was almost ecstatic about your charm and colouring and general excellence."

"About me?" asked Nora, in surprise. "Why, he hardly looked at me! You probably misunderstood him, Miss Revelstoke. He must have been talking about the Black Fate."

"Hullo! What is the Black Fate?" asked Henry, looking up from his plate.

Miss Revelstoke described in a few pungent and sardonic words the statuette which she had sent her banker.

"So you met Jackson Crayley, did you?" asked Miss Revelstoke. "What did you think of him?"

Nora hesitated.

"Well, he was not very impressive," she compromised.

"I should say he was not!" said Henry indignantly. "In fact, I know of nobody less imposing than Jackson."

"He lives an entirely selfish life," said Miss Revelstoke. "Oh, yes, I know him very well indeed."

Evidently Mr. Crayley was not very popular, either with her employer or the lawyer. And then, as conversation flagged, Nora Sanders did something which she regretted. She spoke of the Terrible People. There was no reason why she should not, but she had a conviction in her mind that the story Arnold Long had told her was, so to speak, for private circulation only, and she could not escape the uncomfortable feeling that she had betrayed a confidence. So strong was this sense that she made, as she thought, a blundering effort to turn the talk back to Mr. Monkford. The dark eyes of Miss Revelstoke surveyed her keenly.

"I'm afraid your policeman has made rather an impression on you, Nora," she said good-humouredly. "You have an idea that you should not have told us about the Terrible People?"

This strange woman had the extraordinary gift of reading thought, a gift which had often embarrassed the girl, and she flushed red as she realized how surely Anna Revelstoke had probed her mind. Henry was laughing softly, and she wondered why, till he spoke.

"You needn't be worried about telling us these awful secrets," he said. "I've already heard a whisper. But the whole thing is too absurd for words. Shelton, on whose life I'm more or less an authority—I've probably the largest collection of data outside Scotland Yard—was essentially a soloist. He had no friends, no relations, and no intimate associates. That is why he was able to keep the police at bay for so many years."

He addressed the two women generally.

"Organized revenge is unknown in this country," he went on. "After all, why should anybody wish to come back on the judge, the prosecuting counsel, and the hangman who were instrumental in sending Shelton to his doom? The only people who would bear them animosity are those who bore toward him some strong personal affection—some relation, and we know that he had no relation in the world."

"For which he ought to have been grateful," said Miss Revelstoke with a sigh.

"Vendetta is unknown in this country," Henry went on, "and certainly vendetta carried on by men who risk their lives for the sake of avenging a man who cannot possibly reward them, not even with his gratitude, is unthinkable."

"Did your Mr. Long tell you of anything that had happened—any particular deeds that the Terrible People had committed?" asked Miss Revelstoke.

"No," said Nora; "only he feared—"

Again she was saying too much. But happily Henry came to her rescue.

"Feared for Monkford. That is an open secret, too," he said, with a smile. "I don't suppose he fears for himself, because he's not that kind of man, so far as I know him."

"Monkford only did his duty—what nonsense to think he is threatened!" said Miss Revelstoke impatiently. "Really, Nora, I must meet your detective—he is of a type which has been extinct since the excellent novels of Gaboriau went out of fashion!"

"He's really very nice." The girl was spurred to his defence. "And not a bit melodramatic."

Henry was looking at her thoughtfully, fingering his little black moustache.

"I can endorse that," he said. "Betcher is eccentric and has methods which are wholly at variance with the usual systems of detection, but he is not at all a sensationalist."

"Who is he?" asked Miss Revelstoke, and then Nora learnt for the first time of Arnold Long's wealthy associations.

"One of these days he'll be a baronet and have the best part of two million pounds," said Henry, "which accounts for a lot of his unpopularity at Scotland Yard. They are scared of a charge of favouritism."

Nora Sanders was looking forward to the remainder of the evening with no great eagerness. Her employer was an enthusiastic player of picquet, and Nora was usually her opponent. But to-night the yellow-faced lady could dispense with her. She had a considerable amount of house property in London, and after dinner marched Henry off to the little study behind the drawing room, and the lawyer went meekly, carrying a large dispatch case crammed with papers.

"I'm going to have a very pleasant evening," he said soto voce as he passed her, and she could smile sympathetically, for she knew Miss Revelstoke as a keen business woman with an uncanny instinct for figures.

They were still busy at eleven o'clock when she knocked on the door to bid her employer good-night. She heard Miss Revelstoke's high-pitched voice declaiming bitterly about the improvidence of her tenants, and guessed that Henry's worst anticipations had been realized.

There was much to occupy her thoughts: her strange experience had made this day stand out above all others, and her mind continuously roved between speculations on Arnold Long and the mysterious confederation whom he had described as the Terrible People. She heard a taxi draw up before the door, and Henry's voice came to her through the open window as he bade his hostess goodnight. Half an hour passed, and she was as wide awake as ever. The church clock was striking one as she fell into a troubled sleep, from which she was awakened by a gentle tap on the door.

"Are you asleep?"

It was Miss Revelstoke, and, rising and slipping on a dressing gown, the girl went to the door and opened it.

"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you. Can I come in?"

Nora switched on the light and Miss Revelstoke entered. She was still wearing the black silk, which was the invariable material of her evening dress.

"Henry asked me if he might pay his addresses to you," she said, so calmly that the girl was staggered. "His addresses—you mean—"

"He wants to marry you," said Miss Revelstoke; "and, of course, I told him it was nothing whatever to do with me, and that I should not influence you one way or the other. He is a rising man in his profession, rather well off, I believe, more than a bore, I'm certain, but he might make a fairly good husband. Good-night."

She went out and closed the door behind her, leaving the girl puzzled and a little distressed; for this was an unforeseen complication, and its novelty was somewhat overbalanced by the uncomfortable knowledge that Mr. Frederick Henry was the last man in the world she wished to marry.

When she eventually fell asleep, it was to dream of the olive-skinned Mr. Henry in rivalry with Betcher Long—a condition which she did not dare to suppose in her waking moments. Then she dreamt that she had fallen into the power of four terrifying men; terrifying because they were faceless and had neither shape nor substance. She lay bound, helpless before them, and she knew that they were the Terrible People, and sought vainly to pierce the veil that hid their identity.

And somewhere in the background hovered three shapes even less tangible. A judge, a lawyer, and a thin-faced executioner, who had been sacrificed to the manes of Clay Shelton.