Читать книгу The Green Pack - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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The note which Jacqueline received the following day was brief and to the point. It ran thus:

Dear Jacqueline:

"If I do not receive your check during the day I shall consider myself free to take whatever steps I think fit.

Sincerely yours, M.C.

She opened it at breakfast, and, as a consequence, when the meal was over, had to submit to her father's examination, diagnosis, and prescription of a good strong tonic and not less than eight hours' sleep a night.

After breakfast she shut herself in his study and read the note again. But the second reading only strengthened the impression created by the first and made Monty's threat stand out more clearly. Monty meant to have his money, and if she did not pay him there was only one step which he could take with any hope of obtaining it: he would tell her father. That he must never do.

Jacqueline tore the note into tiny fragments, tossed them into the fire, lifted the receiver of the telephone, and asked for Monty's number. Mr. Carr, of course, was out. She had expected that. Monty did not intend to argue about it. Perhaps, if she could manage to raise some part of it...

She went out—without knowing exactly why. She had a vague idea that she might somewhere find someone who could help her. There must be plenty of people in London who could lend her £1,000 and not even miss it. It was hopelessly unfair. She saw cars which had cost more than she needed to get her out of her trouble, and felt that she hated their occupants. If every person she passed in the street would give her a shilling...

She pulled herself up sharply and made an effort to be practical. She knew plenty of people, but there were few among the bright young set whom she knew well enough to ask for £1,000, and she doubted if among those few there was one who had it to lend.

She called on several. "Sorry, Jackie; I'm broke," was the invariable answer. It was humiliating as well as hopeless, and at length she gave it up and called at Mount Lodge with a vague idea of appealing to Monty Carr's chivalry. But Monty, as she had known he would be, was still "not at home" when she gave her name.

After that Jacqueline had no clear recollection of where she went or what she did. She was very near panic. She had a dim impression of interviewing a Mr. Jacobs, who politely asked her impertinent questions from behind a massive mahogany desk, spoke of securities and guarantors and promissory notes, and seemed deeply grieved that she should have so misunderstood his advertisement in the newspaper as to imagine that he was really prepared to lend from £50 to £50,000 on a note of hand alone, without either security or delay or vexatious enquiries. He then proceeded to call her "my dear" and hinted that if she would care to dine with him that evening at a certain quiet little restaurant it might be possible to come to some arrangement. Mr. Jacobs reminded her of Louis. She was glad to get away from him.

After that episode Jacqueline hurried home, pleaded a headache as an excuse, and shut herself in her bedroom until dinner time.

Dr. Thurston was unusually grave during dinner, so absorbed in thought that even when Jacqueline left her soup untasted and did no more than dissect her fish, he made no comment; and her mother was so obviously indulging in tactful cheerfulness that Jacqueline, glancing anxiously from one to the other, wondered. Bid they already know?

When the meal was over Dr. Thurston signed to her to follow him and led the way into his study.

"I want a word with you, Jackie," he said, seated himself in his armchair, and seemed to forget her. Jacqueline, her heart thumping, waited.

"Anything—anything wrong. Father?"

Dr. Thurston roused himself.

"Sit down, Jackie," he said. "I've something to say to you. Not very pleasant, I'm afraid. It's about your mother."

Jacqueline suddenly felt that breathing had become less difficult, but her eyes were anxious as she glanced at her father's grave face.

"Mother?"

Dr. Thurston nodded.

"I've said nothing to you before, Jackie, because—well, there was no need to until I was certain, but now—"

There came a tap on the door, and the maid came in.

"There's a gentleman asking to see you, sir," she announced. "I've shown him into the drawing room. Carr is the name."

Jacqueline could not restrain a start.

"Carr?" repeated Dr. Thurston. "I don't know anyone—"

"It's for me. Father, I expect," said Jacqueline casually. "Monty Carr, probably. I've met him at all sorts of places—with Louis. I'll go and see."

She hurried from the study and went to the drawing room.

Monty, tall, slim, and faultlessly groomed, was standing by the fire, and as she entered he so far lost control of his mask-like face as just perceptibly to raise his eyebrows.

"Good-evening, Jacqueline. I asked to see your father—"

She cut him short.

"I know why you've come," she said. "I half expected you to come—after your letter. But be a sportsman, Monty, won't you?"

"Have you been?"

"Oh, no, I know I haven't," admitted Jacqueline. "It wasn't sporting to make a bet which I knew I couldn't pay, and it wasn't sporting to try to wriggle out of paying by pretending it was a joke. I admit all that, Monty, and I've apologized for it. I can't do any more."

"So I understand," said Monty. "And that, Jacqueline, is precisely why it is essential for your father to do something on your behalf. Since you have incurred a debt which you can't pay, your father would not, I am sure, wish the debt to remain unpaid."

"But, Monty, if you gave me time—I might be able—"

"Time, unfortunately, is an important factor," he interrupted. "I am more than sorry, Jacqueline, if I am importunate, but I have obligations of my own to meet which cannot wait. From what you have said I imagine there isn't the slightest chance of your ever being able to find a sum anywhere approaching a thousand pounds. If you could give me your word that in a week's time, say, you would be in a position to pay me, I might manage to wait till then, but I don't imagine that you can."

She shook her head.

"Then in justice to me you have no right to object to my explaining the position to your father."

"Monty, you can't!" exclaimed Jacqueline. "You don't understand. Father can't possibly pay you a thousand pounds any more than I can. It wouldn't be the least use telling him."

Monty smiled faintly.

"For a gentleman, Jacqueline, there are always means of finding the money to pay a debt of honour."

She shook her head.

"Father couldn't do it," she insisted. "He hasn't got a thousand pounds. Besides, there are other reasons. I daresay they'd strike you as silly, sentimental reasons, but they count a good deal with me. I simply couldn't bear—"

She caught the sound of the study door being opened and paused; then, as she heard her father's footsteps in the hall, she grasped Monty's arm eagerly.

"Monty—please—promise me not to tell him," she begged. "I'll pay you somehow. If you'll just say nothing, and give me a chance—"

Monty was shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, Jacqueline, but I can't afford to make any such promise. Your father must be told."

She dropped her hand and stood for a moment irresolute; then, as her father neared the door, she darted to it and grasped the handle.

"Monty—quick—promise me!" she said. "If you insist that Father must be told—"

"I do."

"Then promise me to say nothing, and I'll tell him myself. I give you my word, Monty; I'll tell him tonight."

Monty eyed her keenly and nodded.

"Very well, Jacqueline," he said. "We'll leave it at that."

With a sigh of relief Jacqueline heard her father pass the door and go upstairs. She went with Monty to the front door, bade him good-bye, and returned to the study. There was no help for it now; she must tell her father. It would be a humiliating confession, but she was becoming accustomed to humiliation. Far harder to tolerate would be the results which she knew must follow. Her father, she knew, would insist that the debt must be paid; it was all he could do even now to keep his head above water, and this extra weight hung around his neck must inevitably drag him under. But since he had to be told, she preferred to tell him herself. It would hurt him less that way than if he learnt of it from Monty Carr or Louis. She would tell him at once—as soon as he came back—and get it over.

But when Dr. Thurston returned she hesitated. It was only a few seconds' hesitation as he crossed to his chair and sat down, but during those few seconds her chance of speaking vanished.

"Got rid of your visitor, Jackie?" said Dr. Thurston. "Good! I was just going to tell you about your mother. I've been anxious about her for some time now, but there was no sense in worrying you before it was necessary. This afternoon I gave her a very thorough overhaul, and I'm afraid there's no doubt about it."

"She's—ill?" asked Jacqueline anxiously.

"Not exactly ill—yet, Jackie," replied her father. "But Stanford has overhauled her, too, and he agrees with me that we must take prompt measures if she's to escape a very serious illness. There's only one way of staving it off—absolute rest and a long sea voyage; and somehow it's got to be managed. That's where you come in, Jackie."

"Anything I can do, Father—"

"I know, my dear," interrupted Dr. Thurston. "I've been counting on you to help make it possible. The fact is, Jackie, things have been pretty difficult since I sold my practice—financially, I mean—and if I hadn't been fortunate enough to have a generous friend or two I should have had to pack up long ago."

"You mean, Father, that you can't afford—"

"It has got to be afforded somehow, Jackie," Dr. Thurston interrupted. "I've had an idea for some time that something like this was almost due, and I've managed to lay aside a couple of hundred pounds. That will just about see the business through, I fancy, if you and I go a bit steady at our end. I'm afraid there'll have to be a few less frocks and hats and things, my dear, until matters right themselves, but I know you won't mind that."

"If only I'd known. Father—"

"I know—you'd have had no frocks or hats at all," laughed Dr. Thurston. "But I'm going to ask you to do your share now, Jackie. It's a bit humiliating at my time of life to have to ask you, but I think—just until better times come along—you ought to find something to do. You could do typing or shorthand or something, couldn't you?"

Jacqueline stooped and touched his forehead with her lips.

"Don't worry, Father," she said tenderly. "I'll do my bit."

Dr. Thurston rose, smiling.

"You've never let me down yet, my dear," he said, patting her shoulder, "and I knew I could count on you. And remember—not a word to your mother. She mustn't be worried, and if she thought we were going short of anything she'd refuse to go. I've told her I've a thousand in the bank and the trip is a flea bite. It's a beautiful lie, Jackie, but we mustn't let her spot it."

Jacqueline did her best to blink away her tears and smiled.

"Trust me. Father," she said. "I'll keep it up. It's such a very beautiful lie."

Upstairs in her bedroom Jacqueline sat for a long time in her chair by the gas fire; and then she rose, went to her writing desk, and wrote a note to Monty. It ran as follows:

"Dear Monty:

"After all, I can't possibly tell Father, but if you will wait just a few days I give you my word that you shall he paid in full. You'll do that, won't you?

And then, with set lips, she wrote another note:

"Dear Louis:

"I accept your offer. When?

"J.T."

She stamped them and went out to the pillar box at the corner. There, just for a moment, she hesitated, and then, with a shrug, she slipped the letters into the box.

All that night she lay awake, telling herself that there was nothing else to be done, and that it didn't matter, anyway. She would never see Larry again, and nothing mattered.

It was almost daylight when at last she fell asleep, and it was not until eleven o'clock, when the maid entered her room, that she woke and sat upright.

"Mr. Creet is on the telephone, Miss Jacqueline," said the maid. "I told him you weren't up yet, so he said would I give you a message."

Jacqueline bit her lip. Last night, after that talk with her father, it had seemed possible—the only possible thing to do; but this morning, with Louis waiting on the telephone...

"Mr. Creet says. Miss Jacqueline, he thanks you for your note and he'd be glad if you'd go and have dinner with him at seven o'clock this evening, and he'd hold the line while I came and asked you."

"Tonight?" There was panic in her voice. "But I can't—tell him I didn't mean—" She paused abruptly and forced herself to smile. "Righto! Tell Mr. Creet I'll be there at seven," she said; and as the maid closed the door she buried her face in the pillow, and her teeth bit hard into her lip.