Читать книгу The Green Pack - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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The portable gramophone, balanced precariously on a pile of worn field baggage in the middle of the tent, struggled gallantly on. It was a dilapidated instrument. Eighteen months of African swamp and forest had left their marks on it no less than on the three men who shared the tent with it. Its covering was scarred and torn at the corners; its tarnished arm was clumsily mended with a piece of wire; its winding handle was broken, and only by the use of the pair of pliers which lay beside it could it be screwed up to concert pitch.

The record on the swaying turntable—sole survivor of the original two dozen purchased eighteen months ago in Cape Town—had not come through unscathed; but, despite its deep scratches and the two cracks which ran from centre to circumference, the song was still recognizable:

"How can I (click) live without (click) you? How (click) can I (click) let you (click) let you (click)—let you (click)—let you (click)—"

The rusty needle gave a jerk, skidded, rasping, across the pitted surface of the record, and began scraping at the centre; but none of the three men in the tent took any notice.

In the case of Tubby Storman this was an unprecedented display of indifference. Tubby was inclined to sentimentality as well as to plumpness, and this one surviving record, wrapped in the remnants of a khaki shirt, had travelled with him for the best part of eighteen months through Portuguese West Africa, his most treasured possession—with the exception of the photograph in the shabby leather wallet which he always carried in the pocket of his shirt, approximately over his heart.

Every night for eighteen months Tubby, stretched on a camp bed in some God-forsaken spot where their camp was pitched, would set his gramophone playing this particular record, and lie, gazing sadly at the instrument, his face a picture of beautiful melancholy, until the song was finished, when he would sigh, stop the machine, close his eyes, and with a seraphic smile on his chubby face proceed to snore.

On this occasion, however, he did not appear to be listening. With hands thrust deep into the pockets of what had originally been a pair of riding breeches, he was staring down with wide-open eyes at a box which stood on the ground at his feet. The box was lid-less, and in it was a shovelful of loose soil; but it seemed to fascinate Tubby, and the scraping of his last remaining gramophone needle failed to attract his attention.

Larry Deans, seated on a box by the tent opening, intent on cleaning a rifle, turned his head and glanced from Tubby to the gramophone with a glint of amusement in his blue-grey eyes.

"Tell me again you love me, Tubby," he said. "Kiss me on lips and brow. Beautiful, isn't it? But you might stop the damned thing scratching itself."

Tubby, apparently, had not heard, but remained staring at the box, with the same rapt expression on his face. The lines round Larry's mouth formed themselves into a smile, and he rose, crossed to the gramophone, stopped it, and picked up the record. As he did so, there came another click, and the disk was divided into two.

Larry turned to Tubby with a grin and displayed the pieces.

"Parted—for good, Tubby," he laughed.

"Thank heaven for that!" The voice came from Mark Elliott, sprawling, half asleep, on a mattress. "But break the news to him gently, Larry, and if he needs a handkerchief he can use my shirt. Portuguese West Africa is now almost a beautiful place. He's got no more records, has he?"

Larry dug an elbow into Tubby's ribs.

"Any more records, fat boy?"

Just for a second Tubby turned his head and glanced at the broken record; and then his gaze returned to the box at his feet.

"Good Lord, Larry!" he exclaimed in an awed voice. "It doesn't seem possible, does it?"

Larry tossed the broken record away and returned to his box.

"Take a good deep breath, old boy," he advised, "and tell yourself it's true."

Tubby shook his head.

"I don't know how it strikes you fellows," he said, "but it seems to me—well, sort of absurd. What I mean is, here's a box of dirt, the sort of thing you'd use for growing mustard and cress or tulips—"

"0r forget-me-nots," suggested Mark.

Tubby withered him with a look.

"There are better uses," laughed Larry, "for the soil of an alluvial goldfield than growing mustard and cress. Keep on staring at it, Tubby, and telling yourself that you're a rich man."

Tubby nodded.

"I'm doing it," he said, "but it doesn't seem to percolate. Seriously, Larry, what do you reckon, roughly, our goldfield's worth?"

"For the fiftieth time in the last two hours, Tubby, I haven't a notion. Millions, probably. Maybe hundreds of millions."

Tubby considered this for a moment, then his face lighted up.

"I tell you what it is, you fellows," he said, with the air of one who has made a great discovery: "If what Larry says is true, it's—it's romantic, that's what it is."

"Oh, Lord!" sighed Mark.

"It's a bit frightening if you ask me," said Larry. "And there are no ifs or buts about it, Tubby. Within two or three months you'll need a special staff of secretaries to deal with begging letters."

Tubby smiled.

"I wonder what Bunty will say—and the kids." he mused.

"'Daddy's a millionaire, darling—isn't he clever?'" laughed Larry. "What will you do with your money, Tubby?"

"If he says he'll buy a new gramophone, Larry, shoot him now," urged Mark.

"I'm going to buy a place in the country—a big place," announced Tubby. "I might have a pied-à-terre in town as well—"

"A what?"

"A flat in London is what he means, Mark," explained Larry. "What's the programme for the country, Tubby—growing bigger and better chickens?"

"Oh, a few hunters and a couple of cars and a dog or two, and that sort of thing. Try to remember, you fellows, if you chance to meet me, that it's usual to touch your hat to the squire. 'Morning, Squire!' 'Good-morning, farmer. How are the pigs?' 'Why, Squire, them sure do be foine, and all they sows got litters.'"

Mark groaned.

"The horrible thing is," he said, with a sad shake of the head, "that that's exactly what is going to happen. I'm going to race—have about a dozen horses in training and buy a house at Newmarket."

"That's sheer waste of money, old boy," reproved Tubby.

Mark shrugged.

"There'll be plenty to play about with—eh, Larry?"

"Enough for Tubby to play the squire with distinction," laughed Larry. "Can't you see him going round the village at Christmas time, distributing blankets to poor old women when they'd much rather have a bottle of gin?"

"Oh, well, a quarter share in the goldfield is worth a tidy lot of money, anyway," said Tubby contentedly, "and I daresay I'll throw in a bottle of gin as well. If you ask me, the luckiest man in this outfit is Louis Creet. We've had to work for our quarter share—eighteen months of swamp and forest and beastly mosquitoes and tsetse fly, and—"

"Fleas," said Larry; "natives of Africa. Don't forget them, Tubby."

"Not to mention 'Parted,'" sighed Mark.

"And all old Louis has had to do for his quarter share," continued Tubby, "is to stay at home and swallow pastilles and generally take care of his precious health."

"A quarter share each was the arrangement, Tubby," said Larry. "What are you grousing about?"

"I'm not. All I'm saying is that Louis should be feeling pretty average grateful to us."

"He should go down on his knees," said Mark, "and lick our boots in gratitude. But before he did that he'd want the boot polish analyzed, to be sure it wouldn't upset his delicate stomach. I never knew a bloke so windy about his health. What's wrong with him, Larry?"

Larry frowned.

"Physically?" He gave a shrug. "But I can't see Louis on his knees in gratitude to any of us over this business. He'll probably think we should go on our knees to him for financing the expedition. It's rough on you, Tubby: your boots deserve a lick from Louis, anyway. Do you realize, Mark, that we might have gone back with failure written in large letters across our pants if Tubby hadn't had the intelligence to fall into that swamp?"

"'Fall in' isn't quite correct, old boy," said Tubby. "I was simply looking for a solid foothold for my fourteen stone—"

"If Tubby hadn't fallen in," continued Larry, "we shouldn't have had to fish him out; and it was through fishing him out that we found the only causeway that could get us to Chumbaziri. Mark and I are grateful to you, anyway, Tubby."

"Oh, well, I'm glad I have my uses," sighed Tubby. "What's the next move, Larry?"

"To get out of this bug-ridden spot and secure our concession for the goldfield as quickly as we can. God knows how long it will take us. The next thing will be to communicate with Louis, because without him we can't get a move on. I've sent a boy off today to the coast with a cable to Louis, telling him we've located the mine and asking him to come out as soon as possible. If the boy gets through all right he should reach the court in about six weeks, and if Louis starts at once he should reach Lobito Bay almost as soon as we do. By the way, there's only one bathroom in the Da Silva Hotel, Tubby, and it's already booked in my name for the first two hours after we arrive there."

"Soap—and hot water!" sighed Mark. "I'm next after Larry in the bathroom, Tubby."

Tubby smiled.

"You fellows are forgetting the most important thing," he said. "Mind you, I'm all for cleanliness and washing behind your ears and that sort of thing, but in my case the soap and water will have to wait. There'll be letters—from England."

Larry rose, laid aside his rifle, and stood gazing out through the opening of the tent.

"You'd forgotten the letters, eh, Larry?"

"No, I hadn't," said the other quietly.

"Do you realize, Larry, that it's months since any of us had a single blessed line from home?"

Larry did not answer.

"For nearly six months I've heard nothing from Bunty and the kids, and you've heard nothing from Jacqueline—"

Larry turned abruptly and flung himself on his mattress.

"Oh, shut up, Tubby!" he exclaimed irritably. "Go to bed."

Tubby glanced at the gramophone, sighed, and stretched himself on his battered camp bed.

"Good-night, my brother millionaires," he said and closed his eyes.

A few moments later the stillness of the African night was broken by the sound of a man's voice singing:

"How can I live without you?

How can I let you go?

I that you loved so well, dear..."

The "dear" was sustained for several bars, a long, unsteady, rapidly failing note, and, as it finally expired:

"Larry!" came Mark's voice.

"Hullo!"

"What did you do with that record?"

"It's broken. I slung it away."

Mark uttered a groan.

"For God's sake, Larry, see if you can find it and stick it together again."