Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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A WEEK later, as Mr. Clay Shelton was passing through the dingy little town of Chelmsford, he had an inspiration—a sudden unaccountable fear that depressed him so much that for a second he could not breathe naturally. He threw his gear into neutral, pressed his foot slowly on the brake and came to a halt by the side of the road. On his right was a high wall of dingy red, and, standing back from the roadway, a grim, black gate.

Mr. Shelton stroked the white moustache he had so carefully cultivated for the past six months.

Chelmsford Jail. He must have seen the place without realizing that he had seen it, and the depression lay at the end of a chain of subconscious reasoning.

A little wicket door set in the black gate opened and a warder came out, and then four men and another warder. The four men wore ordinary civilian clothing, but they were chained together. Convicts on their way to Dartmoor, Mr. Shelton mused. They would be in London in time to catch the one o'clock train for Plymouth. The wicket gate remained open. The jailer at the door and the warder in charge discussed something. What it was Mr. Shelton guessed when a taxicab came furiously from the town end of the Colchester Road and pulled up at the prison gate. The prisoners were bundled in, one of the warders with them; the other took his seat by the driver's side and the cab went away.

"Humph!" said Shelton thoughtfully, and stroked his moustache again.

Stepping on the starter, he turned his machine and went back to Chelmsford and, stopping his car at the Saracen's Head, got out. There was a booksellers' and stationers' shop which had a notice in its window:

ADVERTISEMENTS RECEIVED HERE

FOR ALL THE LONDON NEWSPAPERS

He went into the shop, asked for a blank, and filled it up. There was some delay here, for the only person in the shop at this early hour was a youthful assistant who had begun his employment that day and was strange to the routine. Eventually the necessary forms were discovered.

"That is to go in the personal column of the Times," he said, and paid the fee.

The youth took the blank and read it carefully, though there was little need for care, for every word was printed. Mr. Shelton went on his way with a lighter heart, and the young man who had accepted the advertisement put it for safety between the pages of a book he had been reading, and which he was still reading, to the neglect of his duties, when his new employer came upon the scene and in a fit of choler discharged him.

When he jerked back to its shelf Mr. Anthony Trollope's fascinating study of clerical life, he filed away unconsciously the advertisement. Mr. Shelton's lightness of heart was, in the circumstances, premature.

Outside of Colchester, Shelton drove his machine into a side lane, took from a locker beneath the seat a compact suitcase in which were the change of clothing, the scissors, cream, and razor that would in the shortest possible time change him into a rather seedy-looking person, and, having examined every article with care, he walked jauntily to the place where the tramcars start, boarded one, and was jerked uncomfortably to the centre of the town—Colchester being notably unhappy in its street transportation.

Ten o'clock was striking as he entered the premises of the Eastern Counties Bank.

He laid down a paper and a book, and the spectacled clerk examined both carefully before he disappeared into the office of his manager. When he came back it was with the respectful and apologetic smile of one who found that his worst fears were without foundation.

"Seven thousand six hundred," he said cheerfully. "How will you have this, Colonel Weatherby?"

"In hundreds," said Mr. Shelton.

Pads of notes came into view, the cashier's finger moved with extraordinary rapidity; he scribbled the numbers in his book.

"Thank you," he said.

Mr. Shelton turned, putting the notes into his breast pocket. There were two men in the room, and one passing through the swing doors. The first of these was a weary-looking gentleman who supported himself at the counter. At him Shelton did not look; but the man with his back to the door, showing his white teeth in a smile. "'Morning, Shelton."

Betcher Long—of all people in the world! Shelton stopped, his face outthrust, at bay.

"Do you want to talk to me? My name is not Shelton."

Arnold Long nodded; he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his black hair.

"Thought I would," he said.

And then Shelton leapt at him.

In a second three men were struggling on the floor. Up to his feet came Shelton; the second policeman fumbled and bungled all the time in Betcher's way. And then the weary man at the counter took a hand, and thrust into the tangle of whirling arms and straining bodies.

"Here, I say! Confound it!"

There was a deafening explosion, the second policeman went down on the tessellated floor, bleeding hideously. "Put that pistol down or I'll shoot!"

Shelton turned his head. The bespectacled clerk covered him with a heavy army revolver, and his hand was wonderfully steady. There had recently been a war, in which bespectacled bank clerks had learnt to kill people with the greatest nonchalance.

Betcher Long snapped cold irons on the wrist of the white-faced man. Two uniformed policemen came into the office whilst the clerk was 'phoning the hospital.

"I want you for forgery," said Arnold; looked down at the limp heap and the widening circle of blood, and then:

"Thought you never carried a gun?"

Shelton said nothing, and the detective turned to the languid stranger who had intervened.

"Thank you, sir. I'm obliged to you." And then, recognizing the helper:

"You're Mr. Crayley, aren't you?"

The face of this man of fashion who had intervened in the fight was the colour of chalk; his yellow moustache drooped pathetically.

"Might have been killed, by gad!" he croaked. "Did my best for you. Let me know if I can do anything more. Is he dead?"

"I guess so." Betcher stared gloomily at the still figure. "Wish you hadn't done that, Shelton. But it will be easier to prove than the other murders. We'll take him to the station house before the crowd get him. Show me the back way out of here."

The manager led the party through his private office to a courtyard at the back of the bank. A small gate led to a narrow street, where a car and two policemen were waiting. Betcher had planned this exit.

He pushed his prisoner into the machine and followed. Where had Shelton seen manacled men thrust into a cab? At Chelmsford—a thousand years ago!