Читать книгу A Debt Discharged - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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THERE was an infinite dreariness about the Crystal Palace Road which its blatant respectability did not redeem. It was, in fact, the dreariness of its very respectability, of houses alike in architecture and in their very furnishing. White half-blinds covered sedate bedroom windows; drawing-rooms had lace curtains elegantly draped, supported by gloomier tapestry; there was just sufficient space left in every window to afford the passers-by a tantalizing glimpse of something with a mirror in it, and even here the view was usually spoilt by a genteel palm potted in a glaze production of Messrs Doulton.

To Verity Maple the Crystal Palace Road represented a sad awakening from a beautiful dream. She had expected she knew not what, and whether her expectations would have been justified had her father lived it is difficult to say. George Maple, a happy-go-lucky tilter with fate had earned twelve hundred a year and for many years had industriously spent fifteen hundred. There had come a moment when his position was so hopeless that he knew not which way to turn; and he was contemplating the alternative of bankruptcy and suicide, when an obliging motor-bus, before which he stepped in a fit of abstraction, settled the problem for him.

The girl had been brought home from the Belgium convent to find her father's home in the possession of his many creditors. They had the grace to obliterate themselves until the funeral ceremonies were complete, then they returned to save what they could from the wreck. George Maple had been insured, though even in this manner he had been slack enough, for his insurance was only worth its surrender value.

It was whilst Verity Maple had been considering the overwhelming problem of her future that Tom Maple appeared upon the scene. She had heard of Uncle Tom, had received letters from him from various parts of the continent. He had a disconcerting habit of changing his name with his residence; she had regarded this as an amiable eccentricity into the causes of which there was no especial need to inquire. And her father had not enlightened her, save to remark vaguely that Tom was a "queer chap."

He was queer, but he was kind, as Verity learnt gratefully.

Together they took the little house in the Crystal Palace Road and furnished it. His weakness she was soon to discover, but with all its pitiable features it lacked offensiveness, and she found herself living much more happily than she could have imagined under the circumstances, and, moreover, possessed of a new sense of protection, comforting enough, though that protector had the drink habit very strongly developed.

Tom Maple was kind, he was generous, he gave her what she had never had before, an ample supply of pocket-money. There was no necessity for her to work; it was independence rather than necessity which urged her to make an effort on her own behalf, a desire to fill her life with other thoughts and interests, to drive away the wistful discontent that the dullness of the Crystal Palace Road aroused in her.

She had soon learnt to take an interest in the work of this eccentric uncle of hers; she would sit for hours watching his sure hands tracing lines of extraordinary delicacy over the steel plates which lay clamped to the kitchen table in front of him. For Tom Maple earned good money from a firm of banknote engravers, who knew him well enough to appreciate his work sufficiently highly to condone the habit of a lifetime.

She sometimes spent an idle half-hour in the little parlour, wondering what life would have been like had it run its normal course, had her father, whose improvidence she was only now beginning to realize and admit even to herself, earmarked some portion of his income for her future. Especially gloomy was the outlook of those wintry days when great billows of fog came rolling up from Peckham Rye, shutting out the sad sameness of the road, lending to the wisps of trees, striplings that grew gauntly in the small patch of ground before the house, a mysticism and a ghostly importance, which no suburban tree ordinarily possesses.

She was sitting in the parlour on the evening following Gold's visit; it had been a bright, sunny day, and the evening brought hues of orange and saffron to beautify the outlook. Sitting with a book on her knees before the open window, she heard her uncle's light step in the passage without. It passed, stopped as if in hesitation, then came back. The handle turned, the door opened and her uncle came in. She looked up at him.

"Do you want me, uncle?"

His face was paler than usual; the dark rim about his eyes, which was habitual, seemed a shade blacker. He looked at her without speaking for a time, then he came farther into the room and closed the door. He sat down in a chair opposite the girl.

"Do you want anything, uncle?" she asked again.

He shook his head

"Verity," he said seriously. "I have been thinking about you, and I have been wondering whether I ought not to tell you something about myself."

She waited. He looked past her into the road and heaved a little sigh. Then he brought his eye back to her face.

"I have had rather a curious life," he said.

There was no trace of the slithering accent which was peculiar to his voice after one of his bouts. His lips trembled a little, and the hand that he raised to his mouth mechanically from time to time shook ever so slightly.

"You don't know anything about me, do you?" and she shook her head smilingly.

"I know you are my uncle," she said, "and the dearest and kindest uncle that any girl ever had."

He dissented vaguely.

"You must not think too well of me," he said. "I am not—perhaps—what you think I am. One never knows," he muttered.

"Never knows what, uncle" asked the girl.

He looked at her a little sadly.

"If anything should happen to me," he said, "there is a man in London I want you to see." He put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a stiff brown notebook, removing the elastic band which bound it together.

"And here is something else," he said. "The other day I asked you for a specimen of your handwriting and got you to sign your name for me. I have opened an account for you in the London and North Western Bank. It isn't huge," he said hastily, as he saw the look of surprise and pleasure on the girl's face, "but it will be enough to carry you on if anything should happen to me."

A hint of alarm was in the girl's eyes as she asked: "You have said that twice, uncle; what can happen to you?"

He shook his shoulders weakly.

"You never know," he said again.

He had taken from his pocket book a smaller one, bound with brown leather and bearing the name of the bank.

"Keep this in a safe place," he said, handing it to her. He withdrew a folded notebook from his pocket and passed it across to her.

Then he rose. "One of these days, I suppose, you'll want to get married?"

She shook her head with a laugh.

"You will," he insisted with a flash of humour; "at some time in her life every girl shakes her head as you did, and they all go the same way."

A little nod, a quick nervous sweep of the hand, and he was leaving the room when she remembered something.

"Uncle," she said, "you have not told me the name of the man whom I must see."

He stopped, hesitating, with the doorknob in his hand.

"It's a man named Comstock Bell," he said; "I will tell you about him later."

The next instant he was gone. She watched him as with quick steps he passed down the road out of sight.

What did he mean by his past life? She was old enough now to know that these changes of name which had once amused her had a serious importance; men are not Schmidt in Berlin one week and Von Grafheim in Prague the next, unless there is something sinister in their profession. She almost wished she had persuaded him to speak out and tell her everything.

She looked at her watch. She had an appointment at six o'clock. She wondered what sort of a man this Mr Cornelius Helder was; it was rather strange that he should have asked her to go to Curzon Street, that he could not find time to interview her at his office. But she was ready to find excuses for any busy man, and the fact did not trouble her greatly.

Helder occupied at floor at 406 Curzon Street. The house was the property of a retired butler who found pleasure and profit in turning the establishment into a high-class boarding-house. Perhaps, "boarding-house" is not the term, since none of the residents had any other meals than breakfast and an occasional supper in their rooms. As it was, even the rent was stiff enough for any man other than one who was in receipt of a very comfortable income, but this Helder was credited with possessing.

Verity Maple was shown straight up to his sitting-room and found him sitting before a large desk smothered with printers' proofs and magazines.

He looked at her keenly as she entered, and rose, offering his hand.

"Take a seat, Miss-er—" His hesitation was artistic; he knew well enough what name she bore.

"I am sorry to bring you down here, Miss Maple," he said when she had told him her name, "but I am such a busy man I had a number of engagements in the city which made it impossible for me to see you."

His tone was brief and business-like, and the unpleasant impression which she had received when she first saw him was to some extent dissipated.

"The work I want you to do," he continued, "is fairly interesting; you speak French, do you not?"

"Yes," she said, and he nodded.

"I am associated with a little journal in which I shall ask you to take an interest," he went on. "It is a journal which is not very well known."

This time his friendly smile was less business-like, and instinctively she resented it. They discussed for a little time the question of salary; he was willing, nay eager, to give her all she asked, another bad sign from her point of view. Just as soon as she could finish the purely business side of the conversation she rose.

"I shall expect you tomorrow," he said.

He held her hand a little longer than was necessary, saw her to the door and into the street. Verity Maple came away from her first interview with her new employer with an undefinable sense of misgiving as to her wisdom in accepting the position.

Any man who knew Helder could have told her things which would perhaps have altered her whole plans entirely, but the only man who knew her well enough to impart that information was Wentworth Gold, who in one swift appraising glance had marked her down as one who was quite capable of taking care of herself. Moreover, he was anxious to learn more of Helder than he already knew, and Verity Maple was the type of girl who could supply that information.

She was halfway down Curzon Street when she heard her name called softly. She turned; Helder was walking behind her, he was out of breath, being one of the men who take little or no exercise. Something of the dismay she felt must have crept into her face, and Helder was annoyed. Like all men of his class and possessed of his idiosyncrasies, he was an immensely vain man; and when he spoke to her now, there was a gruff note in this voice and a hauteur which Verity much preferred to the soft, caressing tone he had used at parting.

"I'm going to Oxford Street," he said brusquely; "are you walking my way?"

She would have liked to have said that she was not, and indeed she would have spoken with truth, but she was anxious to make amends for her unintentional rudeness, and they walked on side by side.

His ruffled feelings were easily smoothed, apparently; he told her he was going to a firm of motor-boat builders, and he spoke in a lordly way of the magnificence of a new craft he was purchasing. It was evidently to be something wonderful in the line of motor-boats, and the cost, which he let fall carelessly, was staggering to a girl who thought in shillings.

He was inclined to talk about money, big money; sums which were almost beyond her comprehension. He outlined schemes in which he was interested, although he gave the vaguest details.

She left him in Oxford Street and breathed a little sigh of relief when she found her somewhat embarrassing employer had accepted his congé with good grace.

Helder was impressed by the girl's beauty; he had never expected anything so rare in colouring, so refined in feature. She would serve two purposes, he thought; that she would serve a purpose which would eventually upset his plans or bring about a drastic change in his life he did not imagine. He made the mistake which many another man has made, of recognizing only the side view of factors.

He watched her until she was lost in the throng which crowded the side streets at that hour in the evening, then he hailed a taxi-cab and drove to his club.

Verity continued her way eastward; she had a little shopping to do which took her longer than she anticipated, for she found on arriving at Victoria that her train had gone. The service was very frequent, however, and she had not long to wait.

She strolled to the bookstall and was idly examining the titles of the new novels, when a man brushed against her. He turned quickly on his heel, and raised his hat with an apology, the stooped to pick up the parcel which in the collision had been knocked out of her hand.

She saw a tall good-looking young man with rather sad eyes; he saw a girl so strikingly beautiful that for a moment he was speechless.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said, as he handed back the parcel with a little smile.

There the matter ended, for raising his hat the young man strode away.

It was Verity Maple's first introduction to Comstock Bell.

She went into the restaurant to get a cup of tea to beguile away the moments of waiting, and to her annoyance found that the second train had gone. She looked at her watch; there was no especial reason why she should go back to Peckham early, and she strolled to Marble Arch and spent a profitable hour in the cinema show.

It was nine o'clock when she got to Peckham; the sky was overcast and it was raining dismally. At the corner of the Crystal Palace Road she noticed a man standing under a lamp on the opposite side of the thoroughfare; she did not see his face—nor for the matter of fact did he see hers — and his back was turned to her.

She reached the house and was inserting the key in the lock when she heard voices. It was not usual for her uncle to have visitors at any hour of the day, and she drew back hesitatingly. The voices were raised; and it seemed that one, peculiarly harsh, was threatening her uncle.

Before the house was a little garden, in which grew three bushy clumps of laurel. As she heard the door click she slipped back out of sight. There was no reason why she should do so, but somehow she felt strangely reluctant to intrude her presence.

The door opened and her uncle came out, bareheaded. With him were two men, one thick-set and sturdy, one tall. The shorter man was smoking a cigar and spoke with an accent which betrayed his American origin.

"You understand," he said menacingly.

Maple replied in a low voice.

"That's all right," said the other with brutal carelessness; "I don't suppose anybody in this street cares two cents what you've done or who you are. We want you to be a good boy," he went on, heavily jocular; "it's up to you to undo any mischief you've already done. He knows"—he jerked his head in the direction of the Rye.

"Why doesn't he come himself?" muttered Maple sullenly.

The other laughed.

"Because he doesn't want to appear in this. Besides, you don't live alone, do you?"

The girl listened wonderingly. Her uncle made no reply to the last remark.

"You'll have something to explain away," said the thickset man, "if you come up against us again."

There was no mistaking the menace in his voice.

"We're out for a big business," he went on, "and not one man or twenty men are going to stand between us and success. Dy'e hear?"

Tom Maple nodded; for a moment there was a pause; then the other man asked suddenly: "Where is he?"

"He is waiting at the end of the block."

For some reason or other his taller companion took no part in the conversation. It struck Verity that he was a foreigner and that he did not very well understand the language, and this, as it turned out, was a shrewd surmise.

"Would you like to walk down and see him?" suggested the short man.

Tom Maple shook his head.

"No," he said. "I know he's there all right," he added, with a note of bitterness in his tone.

With no other word they parted. Tom Maple watched the men go through the gate, then turned and re-entered the house, closing the door behind him.

The girl was worried. What did it mean, what power had these men over her uncle? Who was the mysterious "he" who could not come to the house because she lived there? She hesitated a moment then went swiftly through the gate and followed the two men. They had not gone far and were walking slowly. As they reached the end of the road the man who stood under the lamp crossed to meet them.

They stood talking in low tones. As Verity passed them the third man turned his head slightly, and with a gasp she recognised him.

It was Helder.

She walked on swiftly, hoping that the recognition had not been mutual. She gave a swift glance round as she reached the end of the road and saw they were coming on behind. She quickened her pace, crossed the road, turning up toward Forest Hill. To her relief she saw they made no attempt to follow her, but struck off in the other direction. She waited till they were out of sight, then retraced her steps to the house.

Her uncle was in the kitchen before his table. He greeted her with a nervous little smile when she entered. His lips were trembling slightly, and his hand moved more frequently to his mouth than was usual in his moments of sobriety.

She deemed it advisable to make no reference to the scene she had witnessed, but busied herself with the preparation of supper. He did not move, she noticed; sitting with his hands clasped on the stained deal before him, he stared with unseeing eyes at the wall before him.

When she came in bringing the tray, he looked up quickly.

"Verity," he said. "I'm going to do it, whatever happens."

She waited for him to say something more; she knew he was on the verge of revelation.

"They think they have a lever," he muttered, half to himself; "they think they can push me into doing what they wish, but they have got something to learn—they've got something to learn!"

Throughout the meal she was silent; when at last she rose to leave the little room he looked at her queerly.

"Don't forget that man I told you about," he said, turning with his hand on the door.

"Comstock Bell?" she said.

"Comstock Bell," he repeated.