Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

Table of Contents

ONE fine spring morning, Mr. Shelton strolled down Lombard Street, a thoroughfare entirely devoted to banking establishments; and as he walked, gently swinging his tightly rolled umbrella, he allowed his fancy to roam back through the ages, when this little street had been packed tight with the houses of Germanic money-lenders, and the Lombard rooms, or lumber rooms as the word had been corrupted, were crowded with the pledged furniture of their clients.

He paused before a building that was dour and mean-looking in spite of its polished granite face, and stared up, as a tourist might stare, at its monotonous rows of windows.

"What is this place?"

A City policeman stood in the roadway near the edge of the sidewalk, and the City policeman is a guide-book as well as an incomparable director of traffic.

"City & Southern Bank, sir," he said.

"Dear me!" said Mr. Shelton mildly, and gazed at the building with, as it seemed to the policeman, a new respect.

A car drove up; the chauffeur jumped out and opened the door, and there alighted first a very pretty girl, and then an elderly, sallow-faced woman, and lastly a good-looking young man with a black moustache and a monocle, and carrying his glossy silk hat in his hand, for the height of the car roof had made its wearing a precarious business.

They passed into the bank and the policeman strolled up to the chauffeur.

"How long will they be before they come out?" he asked.

"Five minutes," said the chauffeur, stretching himself comfortably.

"If they're any longer, pull out and park." The policeman gave the driver some instructions and strolled back to the sightseer.

"You a stranger to London, sir?" he asked.

Mr. Shelton nodded.

"Yes, I've just come back from South America. I've been there twenty-five years. The Argentine Bank is somewhere along here, isn't it?"

The policeman pointed, but Mr. Shelton made no attempt to continue his walk.

"It is very difficult to believe that in this street are stored millions and millions of gold."

The policeman smiled sardonically.

"I've never seen any of it," he said, "but there's no doubt—"

He stopped and his hand went halfway up to a salute. A taxicab had drawn in behind the car, a young man had jumped out. He flashed a reproachful grin at the policeman, took in Mr. Shelton with one comprehensive glance. and disappeared into the bank.

"Who was that—a police officer?" For Shelton had detected the interrupted salute.

"No, sir, he's a City gentleman I know," replied the officer, and strolled off to give instructions to the taxi-driver.

Betcher Long passed into the bank, was attracted for a second by a pretty face at one of the tellers' desks, and disappeared into the holy of the general manager's office. A stout little man, completely bald, rose and shook hands vigorously.

"I'll only keep you a minute, Long," he said. "I've got a customer to see."

He darted out of the room and was gone a few minutes and returned rubbing his hands, a smile on his rubicund face.

"There's a woman of character," he said, shaking his head ecstatically. "Did you notice her?"

"I thought she was rather pretty," replied Betcher, and Mr. Monkford was good-naturedly impatient.

"That was the secretary. The elderly woman I'm talking about—Miss Revelstoke. She's been one of my customers for nearly thirty years. You ought to meet her; she's a character. The young man with her is her lawyer. He's a bit of a dude, but he's one of the rising men in the law."

There was in the manager's office a foot square of unclouded glass, which commanded a view of the long counter at which the three people were standing. The elderly lady was counting with great deliberation a bundle of notes that had been passed across to her by the teller, and the girl, a little bored, he thought, was gazing up at the beautifully carved ceiling of the bank. It was an unusual face: that was his first impression. Certain types of prettiness are commonplace, but there was a distinction in her face, a vitality that was arresting. He hardly noticed the smiling young man at Miss Revelstoke's elbow. And then, suddenly, her eyes met his, and for a second they looked at each other with an absorbed interest. As quickly, she turned, and he became conscious that the banker was speaking.

"...I don't suppose you'll ever catch him; I don't suppose anybody will catch him. He's like an eel, that fellow! My theory is that he's a member of a very clever gang

"I wish to Heaven he was," smiled Betcher. "You can drop that idea, Mr. Monkford. There is no honour amongst thieves—only amongst good thieves. The man is working single-handed, and that is his biggest asset."

The banker had taken from a drawer of his desk a large portfolio, which he laid on the table.

"Here are all the facts, not only relating to the City & Southern, but to every bank that has been victimized by this man," he said. "All his original signatures are here, but I don't think they will teach you much. The 'm's' are similar—"

"All 'm's' are similar," interrupted Arnold Long. "It is the one letter of the alphabet that has no character."

He spent half an hour examining the dossier and found no profit in his inspection.

"I notice that these documents have been tested for finger prints?"

Mr. Monkford nodded.

"That is one of the features of every forgery. The left hand, which kept the document steady, was invariably gloved."

When Betcher came out of the bank, he looked left and right, undetermined as to which way he should go, and at last decided to go toward Gracechurch Street and make a call at a shipping office in Fenchurch Street. At the corner of Gracechurch and Lombard streets he saw a slim, elderly man standing, apparently absorbed in the streaming traffic. He was looking sideways at the stranger as he passed, and Betcher read the message of that scrutiny. It was only for a fraction of a second, but as plainly as words could speak, those gray, watchful eyes said: "I know you: you are a detective!"

Betcher experienced a little shock, but could neither analyze its genesis nor find a reason. He crossed the road to Fenchurch Street and turned to buy a newspaper. The man was still there, a well-dressed, debonair colonel of infantry he might have been, with his white felt hat and his well-fitting tweed suit. Betcher purposely gave the boy a shilling in order to have an excuse for waiting for the change, and in that time he took stock of the stranger. A City swindler of some kind; one of the little army of men who thrive on questionable enterprises. He had caught in that one glimpse of the man's mind a hint of resentment as well as knowledge. For a second he had a mind to return and find an excuse for speaking to the man. But he was a Scotland Yard man in the City of London. The City has its own detective force and is jealous of encroachment.

As he stood, the figure in gray hailed a passing taxicab, which turned up Lombard Street and disappeared. It was hardly out of sight when, acting on an impulse, Betcher Long called a cab.

"Lombard Street," he said quickly, "and keep well behind the yellow taxi. You'll catch him up in the block before the Mansion House."

Presently the taxi came in sight, and, holding the outspread newspaper which hid his face, he saw his prey look back through the peephole.

That night, when Colonel Macfarlane was leaving his office, a jubilant young man intercepted him.

"Call me lucky!" he chortled. "I've found Clay Shelton."

"You never have!" gasped the Commissioner. "Betcher!" said Mr. Long promptly.