Читать книгу The Price a Woman Pays - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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IT was related of Buck Trencher that independence had ever been his undoing. Vascour, that suave, quiet man, in the days previous to his own prosperity, had found uses for Buck Trencher, and he deemed it convenient still to continue the acquaintance.

That is why Buck Trencher went to Fallingham on a memorable Wednesday. His patron, Vascour, was to be there, and an interview might result in another job and more money. So, having stolen into the rectory garden and hidden under the grateful shade of a currant bush, he had unintentionally played eavesdropper in the angry scenes that culminated in Frank Bennett leaving in a white heat of rage.

While he still stood peering at the house through the gaps of the bushes, he heard the blast of a motor-horn and the whirr of wheels, a startled yell, and the squeak of brakes. Then a pandemonium of noises, above which a woman's voice rose, piercingly. With all a Cockney's love of excitement, Buck rose, darted like a hare across the rector's kitchen garden, and leaping a low hedge, came upon the scene of the accident.

A motor car indeed it was, overturned, with oil and pungent-smelling liquids escaping messily. The two occupants of the car—a man and a woman—albeit dusty and awry, were unhurt, and Providence thrust Buck Trencher forward to their aid. Buck, who saw hard work in the job, was a little diffident, and would have withdrawn quietly, but the young man had caught sight of him.

'Here, you,' he said. Buck obeyed, meekly. 'Just help me to get my car in here.'

Buck, perspiring freely, helped to set the the car on its wheels, and the lady, making a hurried toilet, continued to speak her mind, which she had been doing when Buck came up. He caught scraps of her lament.

'Just when I wanted to look nice, too! For weeks we've been trying to get a chance of seeing him, and now we've got the invitation, it's all upset by that—'

'Steady!' grunted her lord.

'Now what are you going to do?' she demanded, when the car had been righted.

'My girl,' said the man, recklessly, 'I've had enough of you for one day. Just go away to some quiet spot and lose yourself for an hour.'

'James Perritt!' she exclaimed, in horror, but he was under the car. 'James Perritt!' she repeated magnificently, 'it's your wife you're speaking to.' Then, 'Jim, Jim!' she called eagerly, 'Quick, come here!'

He crawled out, a grimy figure, They had wheeled the car into a private road that led to the Rectory meadows, and Jim stood in the dusty roadway, watching the approaching figure of the Rector, who, attracted by the noise of the accident, had come to learn the cause.

'This must be Doctor Beechington,' whispered Jim's wife, and Jim stared, for he was unprepared for this kind of 'doctor.'

'A parson!' he muttered. 'I suppose it is Dr. Beechington.' Then aloud, and in his best style, 'I'm afraid were trespassing. My motor has broken down, and as we're on our way to visit Mr. Morretti I thought you might be a neighbour who wouldn't object—'

The Doctor's look of inquiry changed into a smile of welcome. 'My dear sir,' he said, heartily, 'a friend of Mr. Morretti's may count himself a friend of mine.'

Jim looked a little uncomfortable. 'Not exactly a friend,' he explained, hastily, 'although he has been a good friend to me, Perhaps patron's a better word. Polly—Polly—my dear—my wife.'

The doctor swept off his felt hat with old world politeness.

'I'm charmed to meet you, Mrs.—er—'

'Perritt,' said Jim.

'Mrs. Perritt—I've often heard Mr. Morretti speak of your husband.'

'Have you now?' said the delighted Polly; 'well that's very nice of him, I'm sure, I'm simply dying to see him.'

The doctor smiled. 'Your life may yet be saved,' he said with mock earnestness.

He pointed up the road where two figures were walking towards them. The one was tall and broad. Even at that distance there was strength and distinction in the carriage of his shoulders. The other looked mean and small beside him.

'There is Mr. Morretti,' he said, and those who heard him did not need to be told which of the two he indicated.

Buck saw them, but his eyes were for the smaller man, and he slunk back to the cover of the hushes.

The two men came nearer, the tall man talking, using his hands in unceasing gesticulation. At that time Carlos Morretti was a man of forty-seven. He looked sixty. He I had a trick of walking, with his hands clasped behind him and with his head sunk forward on his chest, that did not tend to take from his years. His face was big and broad and massive, and as all men have a suggestion of some animal in their face, his reminded one of a bull dog. It was furrowed with deep lines; the jowl was heavy and almost repulsive. His eyes were cold and at first sight unsympathetic, and he seldom smiled. His hair was snow-white, and covered his head untidily, and he had a deep, gruff voice and an abrupt diction which was disconcerting to those who know him least.

Yet for all the ruggedness of his outward show, the man had the heart of a woman in its tenderness. He showed it in his eyes as he jerked forward his hand to the doctor.

'I'm glad to see my old friend once again' he said gruffly. Then he turned to the new-comers with an inquiring look.

Jim came forward. 'You remember me, Perritt?' he said.

Morretti tossed up his head, a trick of his when something pleased him. 'Why, of course,' he said, 'Jim Perritt, host of good fellows, as brave as a lion—as simple as—'

'As simple as himself. He's very simple, Mr. Morretti,' finished Polly.

'My wife, sir,' Jim said solemnly.

As she chatted to the millionaire, her husband had time to take stock of the great man's companion.

Ramon Vascour was very neat and very smooth. His face was pale and he wore a carefully-trimmed moustache that came to little points. He had beautifully white hands with well-manicured nails, and from the shoes on his feet to the hat on his head, he was all that was correct and regular. Instinctively Jim disliked the man.

The millionaire was speaking. 'Yes, yes, Mr. Vascour has just returned from the Continent, whither he has been on business of mine, and it is such a beautiful afternoon that I could not resist the temptation of walking to the station to meet him. I love to walk these English lanes.'

Jim turned slowly towards his companion. 'You have just come from the Continent, I hear, Mr. Vascour.'

'I crossed to-day,' answered the other quietly.

'Ah,' said Jim. 'Were you, in Germany?'

'I was in Berlin for a short time.'

'I see. Didn't take the opportunity to visit your old home, I suppose?'

'I beg your pardon,' said Vascour a little hurriedly, trying to meet with unconcern Jim's direct gaze.

'I am wondering,' Jim went on. 'I am wondering what. Mr. Morretti would have to say if he knew you as well as I know you, Michael Steinberg.'

'For Heaven's sake!' whispered the other in and agony of apprehension.

'Don't worry,' said Jim coolly. 'When a man tries to turn over a new leaf—it isn't me that'd queer his pitch.'