Читать книгу The Green Pack - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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During the two years of Louis Creet's progress from the position of her father's wealthiest patient to that of a trusted friend of the family, though she had been almost everywhere with him, from such innocuous amusement as is found at the Zoological Gardens to the somewhat less innocent entertainment provided at Mount Lodge, Jacqueline Thurston had never visited his flat; and now, when Stimson had relieved her of her cloak, she glanced curiously round the room into which Louis led her.

"If you will excuse me, Jacqueline," he said, "I've a phone call to make. Stimson will mix you a drink."

The girl nodded, seated herself in a corner of the big settee by the fire, and, when the manservant had supplied the cocktail, continued her inspection of the room. She had a theory that a room was always a true reflection of the character of its occupant; but it puzzled her to reconcile Louis and this apartment.

It was large and lofty, with windows in two walls; the corners were rounded, and the walls merged into the ceiling in graceful curves. The windows were uncurtained and shuttered; the floor of highly polished parquet was bare of even a rug, and the mahogany furniture, though obviously expensive, was of the plainest design without a trace of ornament. Jacqueline decided that it might well be the room of an austere but wealthy ascetic. She had never thought much about Louis Creet, but that description did not seem to fit him. She could not decide whether she liked the room or hated it.

The few ornaments that were in it—some pieces of choice porcelain and a couple of exquisitely carved ivories—she certainly liked. They struck her as a flat contradiction of her theory of an austere ascetic, as did the low, luxurious couch on which she was sitting, and the alabaster statuette on the mantelpiece.

It was the figure of a dancing girl, undraped, a beautiful example of the sculptor's art. Jacqueline picked it up, gazed at it thoughtfully, and suddenly replaced it. She searched for the right word to describe it and could not find it. But emphatically she did not like it.

Louis came in and paused at the door, gazing at her.

"The riddle is solved," he laughed. "I've always felt, Jacqueline, that this room just fell short of perfection, but I could never decide what it lacked. Now I know. It needed the presence of a beautiful woman."

Jacqueline shook her head.

"What it needs more than anything else," she laughed, "is curtains and a few cushions and a rug or two on the floor. At present it's rather like—well, a hospital ward."

With a smile he crossed the room and seated himself beside her.

"A hospital ward has the advantage of being hygienic, my dear," he said. "Rounded corners and no rugs or curtains are a fad of mine. Corners and rugs and curtains mean dust, and dust means germs. You can't be too careful."

Jacqueline smiled. She remembered now. It was common knowledge that Louis Creet was convinced that space was packed with innumerable millions of deadly bacteria intent on inhabiting his person. There was a drawer in his desk stocked with every conceivable drug calculated to discourage their invasion. She knew that he was constantly swallowing tablets from a small silver box which he carried in his waistcoat pocket, and that regularly once a week he made an appointment with her father to undergo a thorough medical overhaul, and as regularly telephoned to say that he was perfectly well and the examination would be waste of time. "A bit of a hypochondriac" was how she had heard her father describe him; but she had never suspected a room with rounded corners and uncarpeted floor. Now she understood: it was nervousness rather than austere taste that accounted for its bareness, and the figure of the dancing girl might not be so incongruous after all.

"I've just been on the phone to Monty Carr," announced Louis. "I'm afraid it's a case of paying up and looking pleasant. Monty took the bet quite seriously and is expecting your check in the morning. I'm afraid, Jacqueline, that unless you can find some way of settling with him he is quite capable of making himself a nuisance. He'd probably consider himself justified in approaching your father—"

"But, Louis, he mustn't—you mustn't allow him—"

"I can hardly hope to prevent him, my dear. But we will hope it won't come to that. Perhaps if we put our heads together we can find some way to set matters right. I might possibly be of some use myself."

She glanced at him sharply.

"You?"

He smiled.

"I suppose you've heard what they say about me, Jacqueline? I know. They say it's easier to extract a back tooth from a shark's jaw than five pounds from Louis Creet's pocket. But I don't think I've lived up to that reputation as far as you are concerned."

"You haven't," replied the girl promptly. "You've given me a splendid time, Louis, for the last eighteen months—taken me everywhere, bought me goodness knows what, and I'm terribly grateful. But a thousand pounds... frankly, I can't see you parting with a thousand pounds for nothing—"

Suddenly she stopped. She had realized in a flash what sort of return Louis would expect for his thousand pounds, and her heart beat a little faster. As she stared into the fire, avoiding his gaze, the image of the dancing figure on the mantelpiece came before her eyes, and she understood what it was that had always prompted her, when Louis had pressed her to visit his flat, to evade the invitation.

"Don't you realize, Jacqueline," said Louis, his voice low and caressing, "that you're a very beautiful woman?"

She raised her head and looked at him. Until this moment, though she had known him for two years, she had never really looked at Louis Creet. She had a general impression of him as a well-dressed, well-groomed man, who was always an agreeable companion and had an abundance of time and money which he seemed to like to devote to her amusement, but that was all. She had accepted him as a friend of the family, a kind of adopted uncle, and had never troubled to ask herself what he was really like.

Now for the first time she looked at him critically and appraisingly, and discerned a Louis Creet utterly different from her careless conception of him. For the first time she realized, with something of a shock, that he must be nearer fifty than forty, and that his eyes were restless and elusive. She noticed their heavy lids and the pouches beneath them. She saw that his lips were too loose, his hands too plump and white and faultlessly manicured, and his feet absurdly small. She saw now nothing incongruous in the presence of the dancing figure in Louis Creet's room. "Wanton," she realized, was the word which had eluded her.

"Very beautiful," repeated Louis, and caressing fingers touched her bare arm.

She drew back sharply.

"Louis—please! I—I don't understand."

He smiled, and his hand slid round her, drawing her towards him

"Innocent little Jackie!" he murmured. "I tell her she is beautiful—the most beautiful woman in the world—and she pretends not to understand!"

She freed herself and sprang to her feet.

"Louis, why—why are you saying all this to me? Are you mad?"

He rose.

"Why does any man tell any woman she is beautiful? You're old enough and sophisticated enough to know, my dear."

For some moments she stood gazing at him intently, as if trying to confirm the impression of that first concentrated look at him. Then:

"Louis," she said, "do you mean that you love me?"

Creet grew uneasy beneath her steady gaze. He turned and fingered the figure of the dancing girl.

"Would that surprise you?" he laughed. "Perhaps you don't realize how easily any man could fall in love with you. You and I could be very happy together, Jackie."

"You mean that you want me to marry you?"

"Supposing I did mean that, what would you say?"

The girl shook her head.

"Sorry, Louis, but I couldn't."

"Because?"

She shrugged.

"Larry Deans?"

"Perhaps—yes, I suppose Larry has something to do with it."

Her eyes grew suddenly bright, and she stepped eagerly forward and laid a hand on his arm.

"Louis," she said, "tell me—frankly—what you think. Shall we ever hear of Larry again? When did you last have news of him?"

"Rather more than six months ago," he replied.

"And you've heard nothing—from anyone—about him since then?"

"I could hardly hear from anyone but Larry himself, or from Storman and Elliott, who are with him, and I've heard from none of them,"

She nodded.

"You don't believe we shall ever hear of them again, do you?"

"My dear Jacqueline," said Louis, "you must realize that searching for a goldfield in the unexplored regions of Africa is a very risky business. Larry and the others are not the first who have been tempted by the prospect of immense wealth to risk their lives in looking for it. The legend of this particular goldfield is an old one, and the list of men who have set out to find it and have never returned is a long one. I'm afraid we must face the fact that Larry's name has been added to the list."

Jacqueline was silent for some moments.

"I see," she said at length. "Thanks, Louis. I suppose I've known that all the time, really, but I've shirked admitting it."

She stood for a while gazing down into the fire, and then she raised her head again.

"You knew all that when you sent Larry, didn't you," she stated rather than asked.

"'Sent' is hardly the word," said Creet. "You know very well the state Larry was in when he went—up to his ears in debt, bankruptcy proceedings pending, and neither a penny in the world nor the inclination to do an honest day's work—"

He saw the look in her eyes and paused.

"I'm sorry, Jackie," he went on. "I liked Larry. But I couldn't close my eyes to the fact that he was an incurable waster—"

"I won't listen," she interrupted. "I've known Larry ever since I can remember, and he's the finest, cleanest, whitest man—"

Louis cut her short.

"Very well, my dear," he said, smiling indulgently. "But Larry's spotlessness doesn't affect the case. He came to me and told me that he wanted to have a try at finding the goldfield, and as he hadn't a penny in the world he suggested that I should finance the expedition. I liked Larry and was sorry for him, and I was fool enough to put up the money. I have probably lost several thousands over it."

Jacqueline made a gesture of impatience.

"And Larry and Tubby Storman and Mark Elliott have probably lost their lives. Take me home, Louis, will you?"

She turned to go towards the door, but Creet's hand on her arm detained her.

"I asked you a question just now, Jacqueline, and you haven't answered."

The girl faced him.

"You mean—about marrying you?"

He shrugged.

"It was you who mentioned marriage, not I."

He lighted a cigarette with a careless air, but Jacqueline noticed that his hand was shaking.

"Unfortunately," he went on, "I'm not in a position to ask you to marry me. I'm already married."

"Louis!" she gasped. "I had no idea—"

"Few people have," said Creet. "It's not a fact I'm particularly proud of, and I'm trusting you to respect my confidence. I'm only telling you because I want to play the game with you."

"Then—then you're not asking me to marry you?"

Again he shrugged.

"There's such a thing as divorce," he said, "and there'd be no difficulty about that—a little later. But I was under the impression that with you modern young people marriage was too terribly old-fashioned to be considered—one of the things which simply isn't done nowadays."

The girl's hand clenched, but she managed to control herself.

"That was a bad mistake to make, Louis," she said quietly. "Why should you think that—of me?"

"Except that you're more than usually beautiful, Jacqueline, I've no reason to believe you different from other women. Nine out of ten of them nowadays—"

"Louis—you're foul!"

He smiled.

"The outraged-innocence role is played out, my dear," he said. "You don't really think me foul. You wouldn't have thought it foul if Larry had asked you what I'm asking you—"

With a sudden jerk she wrenched her arm free, her hand struck him full on the mouth, and she turned and went quickly towards the door. But Creet was there before her, standing with his back against it, smiling.

"Now that the play-acting is over, Jacqueline, perhaps we can get down to serious business."

"I won't hear another word," she flamed and made a grab at the door handle, but Louis caught her wrist and held it.

"Don't be too hasty, Jacqueline," he said. "After all, you're hardly in a position to ride the high horse, and I'm making you a very generous proposition. A thousand pounds is a lot of money—even for a beautiful woman."

She stared at him with incredulous eyes.

"You mean that—that if—"

"You will hear no more from Monty Carr," said Louis. "I can promise you that. Take my advice, my dear, and don't be too absurdly old-fashioned. I know I'm not a Larry Deans, but Larry is definitely out of the running, and you might find a worse substitute than Louis Creet."

He loosed her wrist and waited, watching her as she stood before him, her arms hanging limply at her sides, her gaze on the carpet.

"You know my answer, don't you?"

"I'm waiting to hear it."

"I've nothing to give you, Louis—even for ten thousand pounds."

His hands gripped her shoulders.

"Nothing to give me, eh? That's like all you modern girls: you'll take, take, take as long as a man will go on paying, and when he asks you for something in return he discovers you're nothing but mean, unsporting little shirkers. You're all the same—cheap little twisters! You play the game as long as you win, and refuse to pay when you lose. But you won't get away with that this time, Jackie—not with me."

She struggled to free herself, but he held her fast and drew her closer.

"If you won't pay, my dear, you've got to be made to pay."

She was helpless in his grasp. His arms slipped round her, crushed her to him, and his lips pressed fiercely against hers, forcing them against her teeth. Suddenly he released her, and stood watching as she sprang towards the door, flung it open and faced him.

"Louis—what a swine you are!" she flamed; and then, with a sigh: "I wish to God Larry were here!"

"He's not—and anyway, what use would Larry be?"

"He'd kill you," she said quietly.

"As it is," sneered the other, "the honour of killing me is reserved for someone else. If I'm such a swine, why don't you take it on yourself, Jackie?"

She glanced up and met his gaze.

"I could, Louis—gladly," she said, with quiet vehemence, and turning abruptly slammed the door behind her.