Читать книгу The Face in the Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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Audrey spent a quarter of an hour waiting on Victoria station, alternately making short excursions in search of Dora and studying the new bills, which were given up to the Robbery of the Queen of Finland and the new clues that had accumulated during the day. Twenty minutes passed, and Dora had not appeared. Mrs. Graffitt had an exasperating habit of forgetting to post letters, and she remembered she had entrusted the announcement of her plans to the old woman.

Her stock of spare cash was too small to rise to a taxi, and she sought information from a policeman whose knowledge of bus routes was evidently encyclopaedic. After waiting for some minutes in the drizzle she found one that was bound for Park Lane, from which thoroughfare Curzon Street runs. London was a place of mystery to her; but by diligent searching she at last found the little house and rang the visitors' bell. A short delay, and the door was opened by a smart maidservant, who looked askance at the shabby visitor.

"Mrs. Martin Elton is engaged. Have you come from Seville's?"

"No, I've come from Sussex," said the girl with a faint smile. "Will you tell Mrs. Elton that it is her sister?"

The maid looked a little dubious, but ushered her into a small, chilly sitting-room and went out, closing the door. Evidently she was not expected, thought Audrey, and the uneasiness with which she had approached the visit was intensified. Their correspondence had been negligible. Dora was never greatly interested either in her mother or what she magniloquently described to her friends as "the farm"; and when the younger girl had in her desperation written for assistance, there had come, after a long interval, a five-pound note and a plain intimation that Mrs. Martin Elton had neither the means nor the inclination for philanthropy.

Dora had gone on to the stage at an early age, and had made, a few weeks before her mother's death, what had all the appearance of a good marriage. In the eyes of that hard, unbending woman, Dora could do no wrong, and even her systematic neglect never altered the older woman's affection, but seemed rather to increase its volume. Day and night, year in and year out, Dora had been the model held before her sister. Dora was successful; that, in Mrs. Bedford's eyes, excused all shortcomings. She had been successful even as an actress; her name had appeared large on the bills of touring companies; her photograph had appeared even in the London papers. By what means she had secured her fame and founded her independence, Mrs. Bedford did not know and cared less.

The door opened suddenly and a girl came in. She was taller and fairer than her sister, and in some ways as beautiful, though her mouth was straighter and the eyes lacked Audrey's ready humour.

"My dear girl, where on earth have you come from?" she asked in consternation.

She offered a limp, jewelled hand, and, stooping, pecked the girl's cold cheek.

"Didn't you get my letter, Dora?"

Dora Elton shook her head. "No, I had no letter. You've grown, child. You were a gawky kid when I saw you last."

"One does grow," admitted Audrey gravely. "I've sold the cottage."

The elder girl's eyes opened: "But why on earth have you done that?"

"It sold itself," said Audrey. "In other words, I pawned it bit by bit until there was nothing of it left; so I disposed of the chickens —probably the only eggless chickens in the country, and worth a whole lot of money as biological curiosities."

"And you've come here?" There was no mistaking the unwelcome in Dora's tone. "That is very awkward! I can't possibly put you up here, and I don't think it was particularly kind of you, Audrey, to sell the farm. Dear mother died there, and that in itself should have made the place sacred to you."

"All things associated with mother are sacred to me," said Audrey quietly, "but I hardly think it is necessary to starve myself to death to prove my love for mother. I don't want very much from you, Dora—just a place to sleep for a week, until I ran find something to do."

Dora was pacing the little room, her hands behind her, her brows knit in a frown. She wore an afternoon frock, the value of which would have kept Audrey in comfort for a month; her diamond ear-rings, the double rope of pearls about her neck, were worth a small fortune.

"I've some people here to tea," she said, "and I'm having a dinner- party tonight. I don't know what on earth to do with you, Audrey. You can't come to dinner in that kit."

She looked contemptuously at the girl's uncomely wardrobe.

"You had better go to an hotel. There are plenty of cheap places in Bloomsbury. Then make yourself smart and come and see me on Monday."

"It will cost money to make me smart on Monday or Tuesday or any other day in the week," said Audrey calmly, "and two nights at a third- rate hotel will exhaust my supplies."

Dora clicked her lips.

"It's really too bad of you, dropping down from the clouds like this," she said irritably. "I haven't the slightest idea what I can do. Just wait—I'll see Martin."

She flung out of the room, leaving behind her a faint I fragrance of quelques fleurs, and Audrey Bedford's lips curled into a faint smile. She was not sorry for herself. Dora had behaved as she had expected her to behave. She waited for a long time; it was nearly half an hour before the door-handle turned again and her sister came in. Some magical transformation had occurred, for Dora was almost genial, though her good- humour sounded a little unreal.

"Martin says you must stay," she said. "Come up with me."

She led the way up the narrow stairs, past an entry behind which there was the sound of laughter and talk, and on the second floor stopped and opened a door, switching on the light. Audrey guessed that it was the second-best bedroom in the house, and reserved for the principal partakers of the Elton hospitality.

"You have no friends in London, have you, old girl?" asked Dora carelessly.

She stood watching in the doorway while the girl put down her bag.

"None," said Audrey. "This is a pretty bedroom, Dora."

"Yes, isn't it? Anybody know you've come up?"

"Mrs. Graffitt knows I've come to town, but she doesn't know where."

She had expected her sister to leave her as soon as she had been shown into the room, but Dora lingered in the doorway, having apparently something to say.

"I'm afraid I've been rather a brute to you, Audrey," she said, laying her hand on the girl's arm. "But you're going to lie a good, sweet angel and forgive me, aren't you? I know you will, because you promised mother you would do anything for me, darling, didn't you?"

For a second Audrey was touched.

"You know that I would," she said.

"Some day I'll tell you all my secrets," Dora went on. "I ran tell you because you're the one person in the world I can trust. Mother used to say that you were so obstinate that the devil couldn't get you to speak if you didn't want to."

Audrey's eyes twinkled in the ghost of a smile.

"Dear mother was never flattering," she said dryly.

She had loved her mother, but had lived too near to her petty tyrannies and her gross favouritism for love to wear the beautifying veil of tenderness. Dora patted her arm and rose briskly.

"The people are going now. I want you to come down and meet Mr. Stanford and Martin. You've never seen Martin?"

"I've seen his photograph," said Audrey.

"He's a good-looker," said Dora carelessly. "You'll probably fall in love with him—'Bunny' will certainly fall in love with you. He has a weakness for new faces." She turned at the door. "I'm going to trust you, Audrey," she said, and there was an undercurrent of menace in her voice. "Curzon Street has its little skeletons as well as the farm."

"You may say what you like about the farm," said Audrey, her lips twitching, "but the word 'skeleton' can never be applied to those chickens! They ate me to ruin!"

Dora came back to the drawing-room, and the two occupants searched her face.

"Where is she?" asked the taller of the men.

"I've put her in the spare bedroom," said Dora.

Mr. Elton stroked his smooth, black moustache.

"I'm not sure in my mind whether she ought to be here just now. Give her the money and send her to an hotel."

Dora laughed.

"You've been arguing all afternoon as to how we shall get the stuff to Pierre. Neither of you men want to take the risk of being found with the Queen of Finland's necklace—?"

"Not so loud, you fool!" said Martin Elton between his teeth. "Open the window and advertise it, will you?"

"Listen!" commanded Big Bill Stanford. "Go on, Dora. I guess what you say is right enough. It may be a lifer to the man caught with that stuff—but Pierre has got to have it tonight. Who'll take the necklace?"

"Who? Why, my dear little sister!" said Dora coolly. "That girl was born to be useful!"