Читать книгу The Yellow Snake, or The Black Tenth - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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At the end of the drive, drawn up on the verge by the roadside, was Mr Clifford Lynne's car. 'Car' is perhaps a dignified description of a machine that he had purchased a few days previously for £35. He had left the engine running because it was his experience that failure to take this precaution might mean half an hour's work in starting. With a rattle and a clank, a groaning and a squeaking, he brought the machine to the road, drove noisily for a hundred yards, then turned along a wagon track that ran into the pines.

The end of the path brought him to the grey stone Slaters' Cottage. Every window was broken; the pathetic little portico which a pretentious owner of the '60's had added sagged dismally in the centre; a dozen slates were missing from the roof—this one-storied cottage was a picture of desolation and neglect.

A group of three men stood before the door, and his arrival had evidently interrupted a unanimous decision, which the first of the men voiced as Clifford sprang from the quivering machine.

"You'll never be able to do anything with this place, sir," said the man, evidently, from the pocket-rule that protruded from his hip pocket, engaged in the building trade. "The floors are rotten, the house wants a new roof, and you'll need a new water and drainage system."

Without a word Lynne strode past them into the building. It consisted of two rooms, one to the left and one to the right of the passageway he had entered. At the end of the hall was a tiny kitchen with a rusted stove, and from this led a scullery. Looking through the broken windows at the back, he could see a weatherworn shed which in point of repair was the superior of the cottage.

The floorboards creaked and cracked under his weight. In one place they had rotted and a great hole appeared. The ancient paper hung in dismal, colourless shrouds from the walls, and the ceilings were almost indistinguishable under festoons of cobwebs.

He rejoined the group before the door and filled his pipe deliberately from a long canvas sack which he hauled from his pocket.

"Are you a builder or a poet?" he asked the man with the foot-rule.

The builder grinned.

"I'm a pretty good builder," he said, "but I'm not a magician, and to get this house in order in a week you want three Aladdin's lamps."

Clifford put his pipe in his mouth and lit it deliberately.

"Cutting out the possibility of engaging the slave of the lamp, how many men would it require to carry out the repairs?"

"It isn't a question of men, it's a question of money," said the builder. "I could certainly get everything done in a week, but it would cost you the greater part of a thousand pounds, and the cottage isn't worth that."

Clifford sent a cloud of smoke into the air and watched it dissolve.

"Put on a gang of two hundred men," he said; "work them in eight-hour shifts day and night. Have them started this evening tearing up the floors. Get all the trolleys you need, all the material you need, and have it specially delivered. I want oak floors, a bathroom, electric light laid on, a hot-water system, steel shutters to the windows, this wagon-track made into a good road, a swimming-pool behind the house, and that's about all, I think."

"In seven days?" gasped the builder.

"In six preferably," said Lynne. "You can either take it on or I'll find a man who will do it."

"But, Mr Lynne, for the money it will cost you you could get one of the best houses in Sunningdale—"

"This is my ideal home," said Clifford Lynne, "and it's got to be snakeproof!"

He looked round his little estate. The fence that marked the boundaries of the grounds was invisible behind the screen of the trees.

"All these firs had better be cut down," he said. "I want a clear line of fire."

"Line of what?" almost squeaked the builder.

"And the steel shutters must have loopholes—I forgot to tell you that. Give me that book."

He almost snatched the builder's notebook from his hand and began to sketch.

"That shape, and those dimensions," he said, handing the book back. "Are you taking on this job?"

"I'll take it on," said the builder. "I can promise you that the house will be fit for occupation in a week, but it's going to cost you—"

"I know what it will cost me if this house is not ready," interrupted Clifford Lynne.

He put his hand in his pocket, took out a fat notebook and, opening it, extracted ten bills, each for a hundred pounds.

"I'm not asking you for a contract, because I'm a business man." (He was given to that kind of paradox.) "This is Wednesday; the furniture will arrive on Tuesday next. Have fires lit in every room and keep them going. I may or may not see you for a week, but here is my telephone number. By the way, open a trench to the main road. I want a 'phone in here, and the wire must run underground—and deep at that. Snakes dig!"

Without another word he stepped into the car and sent it bumping and swaying along the rough road, and presently was lost to view.

"This is where I start not sleeping," said the builder, and he was very nearly right.

It was raining the next morning, a gentle drizzle that looked like continuing for the whole of the day, according to Mr Narth's chauffeur, who took a melancholy interest in the vagaries of the English climate.

It was Mr Stephen Narth's boast that he never noticed what the weather was like. But there was something in the gloomy skies and dismal landscapes that so accorded with his own mental condition that the weather obtruded itself upon him, and added something to his depression.

And yet, he told himself a dozen times between Sunningdale and his office, there was no reason in the world why he should be depressed. It was true that the apparition that had dawned upon him was hardly conducive to cheer. But he had found a way of fulfilling the conditions of old Bray's will, and Joan's readiness to comply with his wishes was really a matter for congratulation.

Clifford Lynne was an irritation and an eyesore. He was also the fly in the ointment. (The illustrations were Mr Narth's own.) Curiously enough, the advent of the poisonous snake in his drawing-room did not greatly perturb Stephen Narth. It was unusual, a little startling, but since he knew nothing of the deadly nature of yellow heads, and could not see anything particularly significant in the mysterious arrival of the box, he followed his practice of dismissing from his mind the problem he could not elucidate. It was all the easier because it was somebody else's problem.

The incident, so far as he was concerned, had importance only because his drawing-room carpet had to be taken up and sent to the cleaners for repair—there were two neatly punctured holes which had to be filled. Clifford Lynne was theatrical. It was a favourite description of Mr Narth's invariably applied to all phenomena of life that produced an emotional reaction. When all was said and done—and this thought cheered him considerably—Joe Bray's fortune was within his grasp. The clouds that had obscured his horizon the day before were dissipated, and all that was necessary for him to do was to hurry on the wedding and secure the large fortune which was to be his as soon as the conditions were satisfied.

He was almost happy as he went through the private door of his office, and could turn a genial face upon the two men who were awaiting him. Major Spedwell sprawled across one end of the table, a cigar clenched between his teeth, while Mr Leggat was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind him, staring out into the driving rain.

"Hallo, you fellows!" said Narth jovially. "You look as cheerful as mutes at a funeral."

Leggat turned round.

"What are you happy about, anyway?" he asked.

Stephen Narth had not made up his mind whether he should take his colleagues completely into his confidence. With the money that was coming from the Bray estate he could afford to drop his questionable acquaintances, and wipe out, as only money can wipe out, the delinquencies of his past, starting fresh with a clean slate and a fat and comfortable balance at the bank.

"Joe Bray is dead," he blurted, "and he's left me the greater part of his money."

In his exhilaration he was trapped into this incautious declaration, and cursed himself for his stupidity before the words were out of his mouth.

If Stephen had expected the news to create a sensation, he was disappointed.

"Is that so?" said Leggat sarcastically. "And when does the money come into your hands?"

"In a month or two," said the other airily.

"A month or two is a month or two late," said Major Spedwell, his dark face creased in an unpleasant smile. "I've seen the auditors this morning, and it is imperative that the fifty thousand pounds should be found by tomorrow."

"In fact," broke in Leggat, "we're up against it, Narth. We've got to raise that money in the next twenty-four hours. Of course, if there are no 'ifs' and 'buts' about the legacy, you'd be able to borrow the money on the strength of it. Is there a contingency in the will?"

Narth frowned at this; what did the man know? But the other met his eyes unflinchingly.

"There is a contingency," admitted Narth, "but that has practically been overcome."

Leggat shook his head.

"'Practically' doesn't cut any ice," he said. "Is the will such that you could tomorrow borrow fifty thousand pounds upon it?"

"No," said Narth shortly. "In point of fact, I don't know the value of the estate. And there is a contingency—"

"Exactly!" said Spedwell. "That's the position, and it's a pretty bad position! You couldn't raise a fiver on a will with a contingency that had not been satisfied, and on an estate the exact value of which you do not know. I'll bet you haven't even a copy of the will."

Stephen Narth's eyes narrowed.

"You're talking by the book, Major," he said. "Somebody has been telling you a great deal more than I know."

Major Spedwell shifted uncomfortably.

"Somebody's told me nothing," he said loudly. "The only thing that interests Leggat and me is whether you can raise that fifty thousand pounds and, knowing that you can't, we've saved you a whole lot of trouble by asking our friend St Clay to come along and see you."

"Your friend St Clay? The man you mentioned yesterday?"

And then there flashed into the memory of Stephen Narth the recollection of Clifford Lynne's prophecy, "You are seeing him tomorrow."

"Grahame St Clay, eh? Has he got money to burn?" he asked.

Spedwell nodded slowly.

"Yes, he's got money to burn, and he's willing to burn it; and if you take my tip, Narth, you will be the furnace!"

"But I don't know him. Where do I meet him?"

Spedwell walked to the door that led to the general office.

"He's been waiting outside till we had a word with you."

Stephen Narth looked at him in bewilderment. A man with fifty thousand pounds to lend, waiting for the opportunity of making the loan!

"Here?" he said incredulously.

Major Spedwell opened the door.

"Meet Mr Grahame St Clay," he said, and there walked into the office an immaculately dressed gentleman.

Even Narth stared at him open-mouthed, for Grahame St Clay was beyond all question a Chinaman!