Читать книгу The Lady of Ascot - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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SOMETIMES there drifted into the offices of Morlay Brothers suspicious people—and their suspicions were probably well grounded—who desired that other people, less suspicious but more sinful, should be kept under observation, their comings and goings reported, and their lives and doings so faithfully recorded that on a certain day a judge and a jury should be presented with vital facts which would confuse the watched and vindicate the watcher. Sometimes these visitors got as far as John Morlay himself, and that good-looking young man would listen solemnly to the preliminaries, and then, when the narrative had reached its most delicate and intimate stage, would interrupt regretfully.

For Morlay Brothers, though they might undoubtedly and truthfully be described as private detectives, dealt only with the commercial credit of people, and were mainly interested in their operations between ten o'clock in the morning and six o'clock in the evening. Which are the least culpable hours of the day. They dealt with the "long firms", which are the bane of the manufacturer's existence; with swindling traders and suchlike unromantic wrongdoers; and for fifty years Morlay Brothers (the original fraternity long dead, and the grandson of one reigning in their place) had confined themselves to this lucrative and usually colourless branch of criminal detection.

John Morlay was sitting in his office overlooking Hanover Square, forgetting that there was such an obese village as Ascot, and with the mysterious lady of Little Lodge completely escaped from his mind, when Selford, the ancient guardian of his privacy, came sidling into the room.

"Want to see that Mr. Lester?" he asked.

John Morlay could truthfully have said, "No". Instead, he made a little grimace.

"Shoot him in," he said.

One's first impulse when Julian Lester was announced was to invent a lie; then his inevitability became so poignantly apparent that the first inclination went by the board.

Not that John disliked him. Julian could be amusing and provocative. At the same time, there were many other visitors he would have preferred. Julian was a little too tailor-made, his manners a trifle too precious. It was a wholly inexcusable prejudice, but John Morlay hated his jewelled sleeve-links and his pearl tiepin and his habit of laying his glossy hat upon the table as though it were some rare piece of bric-à-brac. He glanced first at the clock and then at his engagement tablet, and saw with satisfaction that in a quarter of an hour he would have an excuse for saying, "Outside, Eliza!" which was his vulgar way of dismissing friends and semi-friends.

Julian came in, looking as though he had stepped out of the proverbial bandbox. He put his silk hat in exactly the spot John Morlay expected, and skinned his gloves slowly. The two men presented a contrast in good looks. John Morlay, lean-faced, brown-skinned, and blue-eyed; Julian, a normal development from the pretty-boy stage, his olive face smooth, a shiny little black moustache neatly balanced on a lip that pouted a little.

"Sit down," said John. "You're looking happy—whom have you swindled?"

Julian pulled up the knees of his trousers and sat down, and then, seeing the smile on the other's face:

"You can snigger—you're a rich man, John, and I'm a poor devil with a tailor to pay."

John Morlay pulled a drawer of his desk, took out a box, and snicked open the silver lid.

"Thank you, no. I never smoke cigars. May I have one of my own cigarettes? Thank you."

Every movement of the man was deliberate. John watched him, half irritated, half smiling, as he took out a silver cylinder from his pocket and produced a black amber holder and fitted his cigarette with loving care.

"And what brings you to this part of London? There's a horse show in full swing, Ascot at hand, and a dozen social engagements claiming you," he said.

"Sarcasm is wasted on me, my dear fellow." Julian flicked a speck of tobacco ash from his knee, "I have come to see you on business."

"The devil you have!" said John, his eyebrows going up in astonishment.

Julian nodded soberly.

"Of course it's quite confidential, and all that sort of thing, John, and I realize that I shall have to pay. I don't know what your charges are—"

"Don't bother about the charges, but I warn you I am not in the divorce business, nor in the counterespionage business."

Julian drew a long breath, sent one ring of smoke after another upward, and watched them break against the white ceiling.

"I am a bachelor," he said. "And, what is more, I am a very careful bachelor. I find life sufficiently complicated without that—um—er—those—er—interludes."

He pulled steadily at his cigarette, his eye upon the Adams cornice above John Morlay's head.

"Do you know the Countess Marie Fioli?" he asked unexpectedly.

John gaped at him.

"I know of her, yes—in fact I was talking about her a couple of days ago; but I've never met her." The other man smiled.

"Really, my dear fellow, you must have a heart of ice. When I took the trouble to catch your eye at Rumpelmeyer's just before Christmas, and even introduced you—"

John Morlay's eyebrows rose.

"That child? Good lord! Why, she is a babe."

"Eighteen," said Julian patiently, "and leaving school this week—in the middle of term. Irregular, but in many ways desirable."

He drew delicately at his cigarette.

"My sainted mother was married at seventeen; my lamented father was eighteen when he married. Youthful marriages are not phenomenal in our family."

John sneered.

"Your lamented father was lamentably rash!" he said. "You are a living proof of that! And do you intend that Marie Fioli shall marry at eighteen?"

Julian waved his cigarette airily.

"I have not definitely decided," he said. "There are a few mysteries to be cleared up. She is charming."

"I remember her," said John thoughtfully. "She was amazingly pretty." And then, as an idea occurred to him: "You haven't come to see me about her?"

Julian nodded.

"I'm a poor man, John, as I think I've already told you. My income is exactly three hundred pounds a year, and I earn a little more by scribbling for the better-class reviews. I have no parents to engage themselves on my behalf in finding a wife, and, what is more important, pursuing the delicate inquiries which are part of a parent's duty."

John leaned back in his chair and laughed offensively.

"I am getting a glimmering of what is known as your mind," he said. "You wish me to stand in loco parentis and discover whether the lady's fortune is sufficiently substantial to make her worth your while?"

To his surprise the young man shook his head.

"The extent of her fortune doesn't matter," he said. "It is pretty sure to be a considerable one. In fact, I have every reason to believe that, even with the milking that it's had, there remains enough to keep my young lady in comfort."

"And my young lady's young man," said John sardonically. "Tell me what you mean by 'milking'. Has somebody been robbing her?"

Julian rose, walked to the window, and looked gloomily down into Hanover Square, his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know—it is all very odd. The old woman has bought her a place at Ascot—cost about five thousand. Naturally, I haven't seen the deeds, so I don't know whether it is bought on Marie's account or the old lady's."

"Which old lady?"

Julian returned to his place by the desk, carefully extinguished his cigarette and replaced the holder before he went further.

"You probably have never heard about Mrs. Carawood?" And, as John shook his head: "You wouldn't. She keeps a ladies' mantle establishment—in fact, she keeps a dozen, in various parts of London. Carawood's Ladies' Second-hand Mantle Stores."

John nodded; he had seen the name.

"Nineteen years ago Mrs. Carawood was a nursemaid in the employ of the Countess Fioli, a widow who had a house at Bournemouth, and who was, I know, a member of a very noble family. The Countess Fioli died. I have been unable to trace any will whatever. The only thing that we are certain about—I have pursued a few inquiries already"—he said this a little apologetically—"is that soon after the child was left in her care Mrs. Carawood became a wealthy woman. Four years later she opened her first store, and thereafter added one to the other, until she now has a chain of shops throughout London, all of which bring in, I should imagine, a considerable sum of money."

"Deplorable. And the child?"

"I must admit," said the other reluctantly, "that she has looked after Marie very well. She sent her to a good preparatory school, and afterwards to the best collegiate school in England. In fact, she is devoted to Marie, or seems to be—and, by Jove! she ought to be devoted! She was obviously using the money left to this poor little girl of mine—"

"Why obviously?" interrupted John. "Quite a number of people with little capital have floated shops and created successful businesses. And let us get this right: is she engaged to you? I refer to the young lady about whom you are speaking so possessively."

Julian hesitated.

"No, not exactly."

"Why shouldn't Mrs. Carawood have made money honestly? Lots of people do."

"Not this kind of woman." Here Julian was definite. "She is almost illiterate; can just read and write, and you will understand her mentality better when I tell you that her favourite forms of literature are those twopenny novels which are issued weekly for the delectation of servant girls."

There was an awkward pause here.

"What do you want me to do?" asked John at last. Julian was a little uncomfortable.

"I don't quite know," he confessed. "I want exact data, more exact than I have been able to get, as to the money—how it is invested—"

"In the business apparently," said the other dryly.

"I want to be sure of that. Obviously, my dear fellow, I cannot afford to marry until I am sure that—"

"That she has enough to keep you." John Morlay was brutal; he was also a little irritable. "I'm afraid your commission is out of my line."

Julian shrugged his shoulders, rose, and took up his hat and gloves.

"I feared that might be the case," he said. "But please do not misunderstand me. Marie is a lovely girl, and even if she were as poor as—as—well, as I am—it would make no difference to my affection. Only, it would be unfair to marry her unless I could keep her in the style and—you know what I mean."

"Pure altruism—I know."

John saw him out and was amused.

When he was alone he found it difficult to concentrate his mind upon the three bills of lading which had been occupying his attention that morning. An owner of a second-hand wardrobe store who bought beautiful little houses at Ascot excited the interest and suspicion of his commercial mind. Taking the telephone directory, he found Mrs. Carawood's name against one—shop 47 Penton Street, Pimlico. Evidently this was her headquarters, for none other of the stores seemed to be connected. He had no engagements that night, and had arranged to go to Marlow on the morrow. But he had not the slightest intention of visiting Penton Street as he walked across Hanover Square towards St. George's Church. For the life of him he could never account for the impulse which made him hail a taxicab and direct the driver to that quiet street in Pimlico where Mrs. Carawood had her head office.

It was a smaller shop than he had expected. The window, tastefully draped, held no more than three dresses to tempt the passer-by. A shopgirl in neat black received him, and told him Mrs. Carawood was not at home.

"If your business is private," she said, "I had better call, Herman."

Before he could stop her she had passed round a wooden screen at the back of the shop, from which there presently emerged a tall, lank youth wearing a green-baize apron. His red hair was long and untidy, and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles gave him an appearance of comic ferocity.

"Mrs. Carawood, sir? No, sir, she is not in. She's gone down to Cheltenham to see m'lady."

He said this with a certain pride and relish, lingering over the title as though he were loth to remove himself from the reflected glory of it.

John Morlay's eyes had taken in the store. He now saw that it was impressively fitted. The walls were panelled with oak, it boasted a parquet floor, and most of the models hung in cases behind plate-glass. At one end of the store was a carved wooden partition, and towards this Herman was glancing from time to time, and at first John Morlay thought that the story of Mrs. Carawood's absence from Town was a conventional fiction.

"Perhaps you'd like to come into the office, sir?" said the youth. He looked again towards the screen, and John realized that the boy had only been making up his mind to take this momentous step.

The "office" was a space behind the partition, and consisted of a desk, before which was a chair, and bookshelves. The lower of these contained what were evidently Mrs. Carawood's account books, while on the upper were crowded hundreds of paper-covered volumes, which he realized at a glance were that peculiar brand of fiction which the owner favoured.

Herman found a second chair and invited the visitor to sit.

"Mrs. Carawood always goes down to Cheltenham just now—before term ends. She has to make arrangements about m'lady coming home."

John smiled.

"By 'my lady' you mean the Countess Fioli?" he said.

Herman nodded vigorously.

"You're a friend of hers, sir?"

"Well..." Jack hesitated; "I wouldn't call myself that. I know the young lady slightly."

Herman beamed.

"It's the likes of that young lady," he said, "who shows that old Fenner is wrong."

"Who is Fenner?"

Jack was surprised at the cordiality of his reception, and only learned later that to Mrs. Carawood's factotum a friend of "my lady's" was something almost godlike.

"Fenner? Why, he's a socialist." Herman's lip curled. "He's a talker, and educated, and all that sort of thing."

"Does he speak badly of my lady?" asked Morlay, secretly amused.

Herman shook his head.

"Not him! That's the only good thing about Mr. Fenner, he runs down kings and lords, but he never says anything wrong of my lady."

The unknown Fenner had his points, then.

The visitor turned the conversation towards Mrs. Carawood and her shops. She had, he learned, some five or six, and they were "doing well". Also he discovered that she had left for Cheltenham that afternoon—Herman gave the exact hour of the train.

"Mrs. Carawood is a great reader?" asked John, his eyes on the shelf.

Herman smiled seraphically.

"Every one of them she's read," he said, and touched the tattered covers with a tender hand. "And every one I've heard!"

"You mean you've read?"

Herman shook his head.

"No, sir, I don't read or write," he said simply. "But after closing-hours Mrs. Carawood reads to me."

"Does Mr. Fenner approve of that?" smiled John Morlay.

"It don't matter whether he do or whether he don't," said Herman. "He says it puts ideas in me head, but that's all right—what's wrong with ideas?"

John Morlay walked slowly back towards Victoria, puzzled. And then he did a thing which was more inexplicable to himself: he called a taxi, drove to his flat, and, packing a suitcase, made his way to Paddington and caught the dinner train to Cheltenham. He had conceived a sudden desire to see Mrs. Carawood—or was it "my lady"?