Читать книгу Down Under Donovan - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

Table of Contents

"I WAS afraid, young lady, your quest was going to be a fairly hopeless one."

The speaker was a tall delicate-looking man who walked up and down the deserted platform of the Marseilles station, and he addressed his remarks to the girl at his side.

She smiled patiently.

"I always know that these trips are likely to be without result, Lord Chanderson," she said quietly; "at the same time there is always the chance that I might find the man my grandfather seeks, and I feel that whilst I am young and have health I can assist him. Although he is so strong I do not think he is fitted for a life of travel. He so easily becomes worried when he has to deal with people who do not speak his own language. But it is selfish of me to have kept you up till this hour."

He shook his head laughingly.

"Pray, do not apologise, Miss President," he said, "you know I am afflicted with insomnia, and I very seldom go to bed before four. I count myself fortunate that I was in Marseilles and had the opportunity of serving you—such little service as I was able to render."

"You were very good," she said, looking at him gratefully, "after all, it is not a very pleasant task for a girl to make the rounds of the various stations of a French town seeking to identify a man without being able to satisfy the police authorities that he is a criminal within the meaning of the word. I think it would have been difficult to have made these inquiries in Marseilles, but for your kindness—and certainly my trip to Monte Carlo would have been impossible."

"I am always glad to help your grandfather," Lord Chanderson replied, "he is a most remarkable man, few people whom I have met in my life are so impressive as he."

"Grandfather thinks a lot of you," she said quietly, "and you really have been most kind. We did not expect a steward of the Jockey Club to interest himself in our humble fortunes."

Lord Chanderson laughed a little. He was a greyhaired man who must have been singularly handsome in his youth. He still retained the perfect profile and that aesthetic cast of countenance which the newspapers had made so familiar to their readers.

"Your grandfather is one of those small owners who are an acquisition to the Turf," he said courteously, "you know we in England look rather askance at the newcomer on the Turf; and particularly, for some reason or other which I have never been able to fathom, do we suspect the Australian racing man of a shrewdness and of a type of shrewdness which perhaps he does not possess."

"You mean he is wilfully dishonest," said the girl quietly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I would hardly go so far as saying that, only there is a certain slimness (is that the word they use at the Cape?) about some of the newcomers which is hardly desirable from our point of view. It is really wonderful that your grandfather with only one horse—"

"With two," she corrected quietly.

"Two," he said in surprise, "I thought he only had one."

"You forget our great Derby horse," she said with a gravity which he thought at first was assumed?

"'Down under Donovan.'—"

"I have never heard of 'Down under Donovan,'—" he laughed, "which shows you that even a steward of the Jockey Club may learn something at three o'clock in the morning on the platform of a Marseilles railway station." He looked up at the train. "You will be going in five minutes," he said.

The long line of sleepers stood by the platform silent and quiet. Most of the occupants were in the midst of their slumbers, and probably found the hour's halt at the great southern port an hour of unshaken repose which added considerably to their comfort.

"You have got your ticket and your seat?"

"I have a sleeper," she said, and indicated the car. "Whilst you were so kindly seeing to my baggage I was inspecting my little bedroom."

A railway official came muttering along the platform.

"En voiture s'il vous plaît," he droned musically.

The girl, with a hurried handshake, climbed up the three steps into the sleeping wagon. She stood by the glass door for a moment waving a farewell to the bareheaded man on the platform.

He was the kind of English sportsman she adored, and it could not be said that every Briton she had met, both in the pleasant little Twickenham home that her grandfather had founded and on the race-course where she spent many of her days, excited anything like the warmth of admiration in her bosom. But Chanderson was of the old order, an aristocrat to his finger tips, a man of brilliant, scholarly attainments, and possessed, moreover, of that fine sense of delicacy which is instinctively communicated to a woman, and the existence of which she is the first to recognise. It had been fortunate indeed that he was at Marseilles, for a rumour had reached her grandfather that the man he sought was in the south of France, and had been seen by one who knew him in the neighbourhood of the town. Doubtless, the information was accurate, but the search for a man with no other help than a twenty-year-old photograph was equivalent to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. The girl's visit had been unsuccessful, but she left Marseilles with a pleasant memory for which Lord Chanderson's kindness and courtesy was mainly responsible. It was only by accident that old John President had learned that Lord Chanderson was staying at Marseilles, and it was with no very hopeful feeling that he had given his grand-daughter a letter of introduction to a man who had always shown him evidences of friendship and goodwill since his arrival in England. She made her way to the narrow cell-like apartment where her bed was laid, and made her preparations for the night.

She had not gone far in those preparations before she realised that the night was not to be without annoyance, for the occupant of the next compartment was obviously in an advanced stage of intoxication. Now and again he would sing loudly and boisterously, then his voice would sink to a mumble of indistinguishable sounds only to rise again almost to a shout. He was singing in a language she could not understand, and that he was perfectly happy she gathered from the fact that from time to time there came a gust of loud laughter, as though he were communing with himself over some delectable joke and could not resist the emotions which that jest aroused. She hoped that when the train increased its speed the noise would be sufficient to drown all sound from this inconsiderate vocalist. But his voice had a very piercing quality, and she had not lain down long before it was borne in upon her that unless she could force herself to ignore the annoyance she was to have a sleepless night. Once she heard somebody pass down the corridor and tap at the door of the next compartment, and a drawling voice demand that the singer should smother himself.

She heard the laughing reply, and wondered who it was who had had the temerity to admonish the turbulent traveller. She concentrated her mind upon the object of her journey, hoping in that way to find sleep. It was not an excellent preparation, for her mission had been one which was calculated to rouse serious thought, and serious thought is not the best sedative. She had sought John Pentridge in Marseilles as her grandfather had sought him up and down Europe during these last five years, as he had sought him throughout the whole length and breadth of Australia. The news of his presence in this part of the world, conveyed by one who thought he had seen him in the streets of Marseilles, had brought her hot foot to the south of France, as beforetimes it had taken her to almost every capital of Europe. She shared her grandfather's confidence that somewhere in the world was a man who held in his possession the fortune he had stolen from his sometime friend. In some dark place this man skulked with his stolen treasure, hugging to his breast the millions which he could not use himself, and which in his avarice he refused to hand over to their lawful owner. She dozed into a fitful sleep and awoke suddenly. Somebody was trying the handle of her door, and the conductor's key had been inserted in the little slot. It could not be the Customs, because there were no frontiers to pass—so her brain told her. She touched the spring of the little repeater watch which was still upon her wrist; it chimed four; she could not have been asleep for a quarter of an hour. Slowly the door opened. The interior of the cabin was in darkness, and looking up she caught sight of the thick-set figure of a man.

"Who is there?" she asked quickly, and reached out her hand for the light. Before she could touch the switch the man sprang back and the door closed with a sharp thud. She got up and pushed a little electric button which communicated with the conductor's quarters, and he came along, sleepy-eyed and resentful.

No, he said, he had not been in the corridor, and no one else but himself could have had the master key which opened the door of the sleeping compartment even though the inmate had securely pushed down the catch. "Mademoiselle must have been dreaming," he smiled as politely as he could, for even the urbane conductor resents being called from the slumber which he steals in the course of his duty.

"I was not dreaming," she said severely, but did not attempt to continue the argument.

There was a merciful silence in the next compartment; at least that was something to be thankful for, and she lay down again, but not to sleep. She switched out her light to help her to the land of dreams, but sleep defied her. The train was running smoothly through the valley of the Rhone as she judged. In an hour and a half it would be daylight, and she would feel more secure. She was not unused to such common mistakes as are daily made under the circumstances, but she had a feeling that this was no mistake. The person who had opened the door had done so with felonious intent. There had been a number of robberies upon that line, and for this reason, if for no other, she felt justified in her perturbation. She had had a bad scare, and she was worried beyond all reason, so she told herself, but the fact that she had been wakened suddenly in the middle of the night seemed to her to be sufficient excuse. She was not destined to be disturbed again by this inquisitive stranger, and the next shock she was to experience came from a much more serious cause than the entry, either intentional or accidental, of an intruder. There was suddenly a wild staccato rattle of whistles from the engine, and the quick grind of brakes, which told the use of the emergency apparatus. The train slowed jarringly and then suddenly there was a crash, and the girl was half thrown from her bed to the floor of the carriage. Fortunately the electric light was not put out of gear. Her shaking hand sought the switch for the second time that night and the compartment was illuminated. She heard a quick rattling of doors as the alarmed sleepers sought to make their escape, and there was a heavy thud in the next compartment, almost simultaneous with the shock, which suggested that the occupant had been less fortunate than she, and had found the floor. Outside there was a babel of tongues talking in half a dozen languages, and she rose hurriedly, and drew tighter the dressing gown in which she was robed, and opened the door.

The carriage, had not left the metals, whatever was the cause of the accident. As she stepped into the corridor the door of the next compartment opened, and a stout man, half dressed, dashed out, his wild, bloodshot eyes staring, under his arm a big, fat portfolio hugged close to his side. In frenzied tones he asked her something in a language which she could not understand, but which she recognised as Russian. She could only shake her head, for even had she been able to speak the language she could have given him no more information than he could give her. He dashed wildly to the end of the corridor on to the platform, and ran as wildly back. As he did so he slipped and half fell, dropping his portfolio. Even in her own agitation she was amused at his antics and stooped to pick it up. As she did so a letter fell out. He took the portfolio from her hand with a bewildered look. He had not seen the letter fall, but she had, and she stooped again, feeling strangely motherly to this terrified little man with his bright bald head and his great bushy beard. Her eyes fell carelessly upon the superscription and she gasped. She read the words in faded writing which she instantly recognised as that of her grandfather.

"The Malleable Glass Process. The Property of George."

Yes, here it was in her very hand, the one great desire of her life, the object for which the old man, her grandfather, had made thirty years of tireless search. Before she could realise the immensity of her discovery, the little man snatched it from her with a rapid flow of words which were doubtlessly meant to convey his thanks and his own embarrassment. Instantly he had dived back into his berth. Men were hurrying along the corridor; some half dressed, some in their pyjamas, they were undoubtedly British; she saw a tall man, with a half smile in his eye, coming leisurely along the car towards her.

"Can I be of any assistance?" he called to her across the intervening space between himself and her compartment. Could anybody be of any assistance? Could she by any means convey to him the vital necessity for recovering this envelope, the property of a perfect stranger? It was an absurd thought, and she realised how absurd it was as it flashed through her mind. She must find another way. She shook her head, being too full of her discovery to speak.

"I should like—" began the man.

He had got so far when there came a second crash, more terrifying than any, and the lights went out. The second portion of the Riviera express had run into the stationary train and in an instant everything was confusion. The girl groped blindly along the corridor. There were shouts and screams from the women passengers in the next coach, she heard a volley of imprecations in Russian from her next-door neighbour, she saw the quick flash of a pocket electric lamp and heard a wail as if somebody was in agony. Then a man rushed hastily past her. Something told her—she felt rather than saw—that this hurrying stranger was the man who had attempted to enter her compartment. Three minutes later, trembling in every limb, she had climbed down on to the metals, and stood surveying the wreckage. The express had, in the first instance, dashed into a level crossing gate which had been left open, and carried the heavy steel bar some distance along the metals, finally derailing itself in an attempt to crush this impertinent obstructor out of existence. The wreckage at the rear of the train was most serious. Two carriages had been telescoped and a passenger had been killed. Amidst the confusion she waited until she realised that there was no danger from either fire or from further collision. Fortunately her coach had been situated in the middle of the train and had not left the metals, even after the impact of the second collision. She climbed back again into the sleeping wagon and made her way to her own berth. The lights sprang up suddenly, for the conductor had discovered the breakage and had made a temporary repair. He came along, a big, comfortable man, assuring his nervous charges that there was no danger, and that they might dress in comfort.

Mary President had not waited for this assurance, and was half dressed before he tapped at her door. In five minutes she was out again upon the line, amidst a group of her fellow passengers. One man, however, was missing. The stout little man with the bald head was not of the party. They were not to be deprived of his society for long, for presently he came from the far end of the train, bawling at the top of his voice, and his angry gesticulations were visible in the light from the car windows.

"I have been robbed, robbed," he wailed in French. "I have been robbed, I tell you!"

"Calm yourself, M'sieur," soothed the official to whom he spoke. "You will find everything as you have left it."

"I have looked, I have searched everywhere," raved Monsieur Soltykoff, "everywhere, I tell you—my portfolio has been stolen, it has gone! It is priceless; it is worth three million francs."

The girl gasped. She had thought of seizing the moment to search the man's cabin for that letter. Had she found it she would have taken it. In intention she was a thief, and now she was glad that her timidity had prevented her yielding to the temptation.

She saw a dark figure coming along the uneven surface of the permanent way to meet him.

"Lost!" she heard the new comer saying in a cultivated English voice. "You don't mean that, Soltykoff?"

"Lost, lost," wailed the man, "I tell you it has gone. I left it in my cabin, and now it has departed."

She saw the little man, accompanied by the conductor, go back into the car. Through the window she could witness something of the search that was made; then two men behind her spoke, and she was grateful when she heard them that she had two Englishmen near her to whom she could appeal in case of need. It was very comforting, that sound of a homely English tongue, and it brought a little feeling of exhilaration to the girl and something of relief from the tension to which she had been subjected.

"That is my old friend Soltykoff, unless I am mistaken," said the first, dryly.

"That is the Soltykoff," agreed the second man. "He is the gentleman who kept us awake last night. I am almost inclined to say that it serves the beggar right."

She recognised, in the voice of the second man, he of the smiling eyes who had spoken to her at the moment of the second collision.

"I would not say that," drawled Milton Sands. "One never knows what provocation a man has who gets too much to drink, but judging from the fact that he had apparently a very large sum of money in his possession, the provocation in this case seems to be missing."

The little man was back again; from the vantage-ground of the car platform he addressed the world in elegant, if excited, French.

"My friends," he said, "I have been robbed! I do not know who has robbed me, but this I will tell you. For the money I have lost I do not care, but there was a dossier which is to me very important. I will reward whosoever returns that to me handsomely."

But his appeal was received in silence. If the thief were present and he heard, he was unmoved by the offer of reward.

The formula was gone, and was not to see the light of day again until much had happened to change the lives of at least six of his hearers.