Читать книгу The Terrible People - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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ON THE 14th of June, Inspector Arnold Long left London at five o'clock on a perfect morning, when the sun was shining and every cottager's garden he passed was ablaze with blue and gold. The roads were empty save for the farmers' lorries, and he came into Chelmsford before a shop was open, and only the labourers on their way to the fields to speculate upon his haste.

He had passed through a little village and was speeding down a straight road that ran between green fields when he passed a man sitting on the top of a field gate. In that instant he recognized the idler, and, jamming on his brakes, went at reverse and ran back to where he had seen the man. He was still sitting on the top rail, a cigarette drooping limply from his lips, and met the astonished gaze of the detective without embarrassment.

"Good-morning, Lancer. Have you taken to the agricultural life?"

The Lancer took out his cigarette, looked at it thoughtfully, and threw it away.

"Doin' any harm to anybody?" he demanded truculently.

"Are you on the road?" Betcher asked politely, using the term which most euphemistically described a tramp.

"I've got a job, if you want to know—a good job!" There was a queer expression on the Lancer's face. "Where you off to—blood'ound?"

Arnold Long smiled—he hadn't dreamt that he would smile that morning.

"Thief-catching, Lancer." He looked round the deserted fields. The only building in sight was a big black barn. "You haven't slept out, I'll swear! And you haven't walked far—there is no dust on your boots. Lancer, what is the game?"

But the Lancer did not reply. With a gesture he waved his hand toward distant Chelmsford, and, chuckling to himself, Arnold Long went on his way.

His car drew up before the black dates of Chelmsford Jail as the clock was striking seven. He rang the bell and was admitted to a little lobby, whence he was conducted by a warder along a narrow passage out of which opened a door.

The Governor was in his tiny office, alone, for neither the under-Sheriff nor the other officials peculiar to such an occasion had arrived.

"The chaplain is with him now. I hope it isn't going to be very painful for you—I hate these affairs!" Arnold nodded.

"I've been praying all the way down from London that he'd change his mind and wouldn't see me."

The Governor shook his head.

"I don't think that's likely," he said. "The last question he put to me last night was whether you were coming. I told him I'd sent the request to the Home Office, and that I'd had a telegram to say that you would be here this morning."

He rose from his chair, and the detective followed him along the corridor, down two steps, the end of which was barred by a heavy steel door. This the Governor opened, and they were in a large hall, lined on both sides with three tiers of doors. Outside the cell nearest them when they had entered a warder was on duty. The cell door itself was ajar, and a gleam of light showed from the interior.

"Wait," said the Governor, and went into the cell.

Presently he came out and beckoned Long, and, with a heart that beat a little faster, Arnold went into the chamber of death.

Shelton sat on his bed, his hands in his pockets. He was in his shirt-sleeves and colourless. His face was covered with a gray beard, and the detective would not have recognized him.

"Sit down, Long. Give him a chair, will you?"

But Inspector Long stood, waiting—for what?

"I thought I'd see you before I went off."

He took out the cigarette he was smoking and puffed a ring, watching it till it struck the stone roof and was dissipated.

"I've killed four men in my time and never regretted it," he said meditatively. "There was a bank detective in Cape Town, and a bank manager in Bombay. I didn't intend killing this fellow, but the dope I gave him put him out. Then, of course, there was the case in Selby. He trailed me to my houseboat—it was rather a nasty business; you'll find him buried near the two big poplars at Wenham Abbey."

Arnold waited.

"The fourth..." Again Shelton puffed a ring to the ceiling and watched it. "The fourth I will not trouble you about, because it was a singularly unpleasant affair... and rather messy!"

He smiled up at the stern-faced man before him.

"And now I'm going to pay, you think—you're wrong! They will drop me and they will bury me, but I will live! And I will get you, Mr. Betcher Long! I will get every man who brought me to my death!"

Then, seeing the look in the detective's face, he laughed softly.

"You think I'm crazy with the heat! There are things in this world undreamed of in your philosophy, my friend, and the Gallows Hand is one of them!"

His eyes sank to the paved floor and he frowned for a second, then laughed again.

"That is all," he said curtly. "You'll remember that, Mr. Long—the Gallows Hand that will come up from the grave and grip you by the throat sooner or later!"

Long made no reply, and followed the Governor into the big hall.

"What do you make of that?" asked the Deputy, wiping his forehead. He was rather white and shaken. "The Gallows Hand... my God!"

"It won't get me," said Arnold Long, nodding slowly. "And what's more, I'll betcher!"

He did not wait for the end. Just outside Chelmsford is a tiny village with a very old church. He saw the hands approaching the hour, stopped his car, and removed his hat. Suddenly the hour boomed forth, one—two—three—four—five— six—seven—eight.

"God rest the poor gink!" said Betcher Long, for he knew that at that second the soul of Clay Shelton had passed to eternity.

"Gallows Hand!" he mused, and smiled, and at that moment something struck the wind-screen and scattered into fragments.

He jerked the car to a standstill.

Ping!

The second bullet carried away his hat; he felt the wind of the third pass his lips.

In a second he was out of the car, gazing round the placid, smiling countryside. There was nobody in sight, no hedges that could hide an assassin, except-He saw a little hedgerow, above which was a pale vapour of smoke. He sprinted across the meadow which separated him, and as he ran he heard a fourth shot and dropped flat on the ground. No sound of the bullet came to him, and, rising, he continued to run, zigzagging left and right.

Then he saw something that brought his heart to his mouth. Rising above the grasses near the hedgerow was a great white hand, its stiff fingers convulsively clutching at nothingness.

In a second he had reached the spot. A man lay on his back, his hand thrown up to the smiling sky. By his side was a service rifle which the other hand clutched in the grip of death.

And then Arnold saw the face.

It was Harry the Lancer, and he was dead!