Читать книгу The Table - Edgar Wallace - Страница 3

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THREE times within three minutes Dinkie Lane looked at his watch. The watch was characteristic of Dinkie Lane. It was small, jewelled, fastened to his wrist by a thin gold bracelet, and was just a little too ornate and too delicate not to look out of place on a man's wrist.

In the same way, everything about Dinkie Lane just missed being right. His trousers were a shade too full and too beautifully creased. The shoulders of his coat were a trifle too square, and the waist just a little too emphasised. The diamonds in his gold ring and tie-pin were too large, and the hair in front of his ears was trained to grow just a little too far down his cheekbones. He had small, delicate hands, rather too well manicured, and there was something effeminate about his thin, sallow face beneath his black hair, which was brushed straight back from his forehead and dressed with rather too much brilliantine.

Dinkie might have been taken for anything except the one thing for which he wished to be taken. No one in the lounge of the Grand Hotel, Dinneford, where Dinkie Lane was seated at a table, nervously fingering a glass of whisky and soda, could possibly have mistaken him for a gentleman.

Lorna Sherwood, who lounged in a chair beside him, might also have been taken for almost anything, and in her twenty-four years of life had been a good many things: shop assistant, mannequin, artist's model, dancing partner. At the present moment, as she sat smoking a cigarette and watching Dinkie Lane, with the hint of a smile on her lips, she might have passed equally well as a member of any one of these professions. As in the case of Dinkie, everything about Lorna gave the impression of being just a little overdone. Her hair was too perfectly golden for anyone—at least for any woman—not to suspect peroxide. Her lips had been treated just a shade too lavishly with lipstick that was a little too vivid, and the red varnish on her long, pointed nails was slightly too bright.

None the less, Lorna Sherwood was a beautiful woman, with a face and figure at which most men looked at least twice.

She took her cigarette from between her lips, and her smile, as she gazed at Dinkie Lane, suggested an amused tolerance.

"What's biting you, Dinkie?"

The young man, who had been staring at his glass, glanced up at her and shrugged.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Lorna. Why?"

"You don't seem able to keep your eyes off your watch, that's all. You're getting nervous, Dinkie, that's your trouble. Perhaps it's the district."

Dinkie Lane frowned.

"I don't get you, Lorna. What's the district got to do with it? It's all this hanging about—waiting. Why the devil can't we get a move on?"

Lorna glanced at her watch.

"Twelve o'clock was the time arranged, Dinkie," she said, "and that doesn't mean five minutes to twelve or five minutes past. You can't expect me to alter my programme just because you're getting jumpy. The truth is, my lad, you're not cut out for this game. You're too sensitive and highly strung, and there's no knowing when your nerves may get the better of you. Unreliable, Dinkie, that's what you are. And this part of the country seems to make you ten times worse than you usually are."

Dinkie emptied his glass and set it down on the table.

"You said that before, Lorna, and I don't get you."

"Princetown," smiled Lorna—"Dartmoor. It's only ten miles from here, and I've an idea you don't like getting even as close as this."

Dinkie lighted a cigarette.

"Dartmoor means nothing in my young life," he said.

"No? Well, it may mean a good deal before your life's much older. I wouldn't forget it if I were you. Whenever you think of Dartmoor, just remember Mickey Stone. Remember, he may be in Dartmoor now, but he won't be there always; and when he comes out, I'll be sorry for anyone who's tried to double-cross him."

"Who's tried to double-cross him? Not me!"

"No? Listen, Dinkie; I'm giving you a straight tip. Last night, someone tried the door of my room. If it happens again, Mickey's going to hear of it. Don't get wrong ideas about things, that's all. Mickey's the only man who matters in my young life, and I'm not accepting any substitute. Get that clear."

Dinkie Lane grinned.

"Oh, come off it, Lorna. That sort of talk cuts no ice. When a fellow and a girl run around together the same as we've been running around—"

Lorna suddenly leaned towards him. Her eyes had lost their look of amused tolerance.

"Get things straight, Dinkie, once and for all. I've let you run around with me because it suited me, because I could make use of you, because I had to have a partner of some sort—you can't get far in this racket without a partner. You've done your job and you've been paid for it in hard cash, but if you think there's any more to it than that, the sooner you get rid of the idea the better."

"Oh, all right," said Lane sullenly. "There's no need to work yourself up about it."

He glanced at his watch again. Lorna leaned back in her chair with a smile.

"There's still ten minutes to go, Dinkie, so you'd better use them to get a grip on yourself. I don't want any mistake this time."

"Mistake?"

"I don't want any shooting—see? Shooting isn't safe in this country. That last affair at the filling station might have landed us both in a nasty jam, just because you lost your head and fired. If you'd kept cool and done as I told you we'd have got clean away with no fuss."

Dinkie made no reply. He tipped some whisky into his glass and was just raising it to his lips when Lorna took it from his hand and emptied the contents into her own glass.

"That sort of thing won't help you. You're having no more until the job's finished."

The man flushed angrily and his fist clenched. Then, with a shrug, he lolled back in his chair and lapsed into silence. For five minutes neither spoke. Then suddenly Dinkie sprang to his feet.

"For God's sake, Lorna, let's get the job done!" he exclaimed. "I'm not like you—you've got no nerves—and this waiting gets me down. Let's go and get it finished!"

The girl consulted her watch.

"It's five minutes to twelve," she announced calmly, "so perhaps we'd better be moving."

Outside the door of the Grand Hotel a long, low two-seater coupe stood by the curb. Lorna got into it, seating herself at the wheel. Dinkie Lane got in beside her and a moment later it glided off.

Lorna drove slowly along the High Street. Halfway along it, as they passed a building on the other side of the road, with windows which bore the lettering: "Devon and District Bank," Lorna gave it a prolonged stare.

"It looks dead easy, Dinkie," she said. "There are no cars outside and not much traffic in the street. But remember—no shooting. We've just got to walk in, show a gun, take what we want and walk quietly out, and we'll be well away before anyone gets wind of what's happening."

Lane, sitting with his hands clasped together, staring through the windscreen, nodded.

"All right, Lorna. I understand," he said irritably. "I'm not going to let you down."

"You won't mean to, but I'm not so sure you won't do it," replied the girl. "I fancy we'd be safer if I took away your gun. But I suppose I must risk it. We'll take the next side street and come back into the main road on the same side as the bank."

She swung the car round the corner. A few moments later it reappeared in the High Street, travelling in the opposite direction. Outside the Devon and District Bank it pulled up.

Lorna consulted her watch again.

"It's just on twelve," she said. "But we won't be in a hurry."

"Hang it, Lorna, two or three minutes can't make any difference—"

"Two or three minutes can make all the difference," interrupted Lorna. "This isn't my first job, Dinkie, and I know what I'm doing. The bank messenger goes to lunch at twelve o'clock and I'm waiting until he's out of the way. He's got a desk near the entrance, and I'd rather know that desk's empty. Keep an eye on the door and tell me when he leaves."

For two or three minutes Lane sat, twisted round in his seat, his gaze fixed on the door of the bank. Then, as the door swung open and the messenger came out and went off along the street, he turned to the girl.

"He's gone."

She nodded.

"Then push off and do your job."

Dinkie got out, hesitated a moment, and then turned to put his head through the window of the car.

"Leave the engine running, Lorna."

She smiled.

"You think of everything, don't you, Dinkie? As a matter of fact, I meant to stop the engine and lose the ignition key. Get busy—and if you let off that gun of yours I'll let off mine in your direction." Dinkie turned away, crossed the pavement, and, pushing open the swing door of the bank, went inside. A few moments later Lorna got out of the car, took a swift glance up and down the street, and then, at a leisurely pace, followed him into the bank.

The Dinneford branch of the Devon and District Bank was not a very large one. Its counter accommodated three cashiers behind the brass grille. At the end of the counter, farthest from the door, was a small office partitioned off with frosted glass, which housed the manager. Close to the door was a small, high desk, with a stool behind it, at which the messenger sat.

As Lorna entered she saw that the two cashiers farthest from the door were engaged with customers, and that Dinkie was standing at the counter beside the first cashier, who was absorbed in counting a thick wad of notes.

Moving slowly forward, she paused about three yards from where Dinkie was standing, her back towards the frosted window that faced the street, the door on her left and Lane on her right.

The man glanced round, saw her standing there, slipped his right hand inside his coat and rested his left arm on the counter, so that his back was towards the customers who were farther along it.

"Say, you!"

The cashier looked up with an expression of surprise on his face. Cashiers of the Devon and District Bank were not accustomed to being addressed in that way, and he gave Dinkie a look which clearly conveyed is disapproval.

"I beg your pardon?" he said politely.

"There's no harm in doing that," said Lane quietly. "And now just do as I tell you."

The cashier raised his eyebrows.

"I beg your pardon?" he repeated.

"Take a look at my breast-pocket," said Dinkie, "and then do as I tell you."

The cashier's eyes travelled from Dinkie's face to his breast-pocket. There they paused, opening very wide, while the cashier's hands gripped the edge of the counter and a queer sort of feeling ran down his spine, almost as though someone had poured cold water on it.

Just beside Dinkie's breast-pocket he saw a little slit in the coat, and, thrust through the slit, with no more than half an inch of it showing, was the blue-black muzzle of a revolver.

Now, the cashier knew exactly what he ought to do. He had been fully instructed as to his conduct, if he should ever find himself facing a revolver across the counter of the bank, and he had been perfectly certain that, if ever such a crisis should arise, he would act in strict accordance with his instructions.

Just beneath the counter was a bell-push; he had only to press it and his duty as a loyal and devoted servant of the Devon and District Bank would have been fulfilled.

But he always imagined, too, that if ever the crisis arose he would go far beyond the mere execution of his duty. Not one gunman in a hundred, as he had often explained to his fellow employees, would fire if it came to the point, therefore the right way to deal with such ruffians was to call their bluff, press the alarm button and then leap over the counter to grapple with them.

But somehow, with that half-inch of blue-black barrel pointing at him, leaping the counter and grappling with the ruffian seemed to need far more nerve than he had imagined. Moreover, he had an uncomfortable feeling that if he tried to discharge his duty by pressing the alarm button the thin, sallow-faced youth on the opposite side of the grille might discharge his revolver first.

"Push that money under the grille—quick—and keep your hands on the counter!"

The cashier's hands did not move. He glanced along the counter at the other clerks, who were busily engaged with customers, glanced quickly at the desk where the messenger sat when on duty, and at the glass-partitioned office of the manager. Then he looked back at Dinkie.

"Work fast. Push them under! Do you hear?"

Still the cashier hesitated, staring at Dinkie as though unable to believe that he was actually face to face with a gunman who was calling on him to hand him the contents of his till. But Dinkie was real enough.

"Be quick, or be dead!"

The muzzle of the revolver came out another inch. There was something so menacing in the movement that the cashier forgot completely his duty to the bank and his preconceived notions as to how to deal with a gunman; with his gaze still fixed on Dinkie's threatening eyes, he slowly pushed the pile of notes across the counter and under the grille.

A quick movement of his left hand, and Dinkie had snatched the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. As he did so, the cashier suddenly ducked beneath the counter and the next instant a bell rang noisily.

Dinkie swung round, pulling his revolver from inside his coat. For a few seconds customers, clerks and cashiers gazed at him, motionless. Then one of the customers, a big, burly man who looked like a farmer, moved towards him.

"Stay quiet, you!" came Lorna's voice. "One step more and I'll drop you!"

The big, burly man stood still, and again, just for a few seconds, every figure was motionless, as if the Dinneford branch of the Devon and District Bank were filled with waxworks.

Lorna, revolver in hand, was smiling faintly as she surveyed them.

"Come on, Dinkie. Let's beat it."

Slowly they backed towards the door, their guns still covering the clerks and customers. Then, just as they reached it, the door of the manager's office was flung open, a man stepped quickly out and raised his hand, and there came in rapid succession the crash of two shots.

"Come on, Dinkie—quick!"

Lorna turned, dashed through the swing-door and ran towards the car. Glancing back, she saw her confederate burst through the swing-door of the bank. A moment later came the crack of another shot, a gasp, and, turning her head, she saw Dinkie collapse on the pavement. She paused, and was about to go back to him when she saw him raise himself on an elbow.

"Beat it, kid! Beat it!" he shouted, and fell backwards.

Lorna sprang to the car, wrenched open the door and flung herself into the driving seat. The next moment the car was speeding along the High Street, with gears screaming and smoke pouring from its exhaust.

The manager, flourishing his revolver, ran into the middle of the road and fired a couple of wild shots after the car. Then, as, gathering speed, it disappeared round the bend in the road, he turned and thrust his way through the crowd that had gathered round the entrance to the bank.

Lying on the pavement, bleeding freely from a wound in the neck, lay Dinkie. His eyes were closed, his face curiously twisted. His hand still grasped his revolver. Beside him, gazing at him with a look of utter bewilderment, was a policeman.

"What's all this, sir?" began the constable. "This young man's been shot."

The bank manager, going down on his knees, began to unfasten Dinkie's collar.

"Yes, I shot him, constable," he said. "It's a hold-up. He was getting away with several hundred pounds. You'd better 'phone for the ambulance—use my telephone."

As the policeman went into the bank a large coupe drew up by the curb, and a man got out and thrust his way through the crowd. He was a striking-looking figure, tall, broad-shouldered, erect, with strong, clear-cut features, and just the hint of greyness showing about his temples. His eyes were steel-grey and his lips hard, rather cruel. In his left eye he wore a monocle, which enhanced his air of authority and aloofness. Inside the circle of onlookers he paused, gazing down at Dinkie and the manager kneeling beside him.

"Can I be of any assistance?"

The manager looked up.

"There's been a hold-up," he said agitatedly. "This man got shot. We want a doctor."

"I am a doctor—Dr. Raymond Allerman. You may have heard of me."

The manager nodded.

"Yes, of course. This is a very dreadful business, Dr. Allerman. I shot him—I had to. My duty to the bank—"

"Quite," interrupted Dr. Allerman calmly. "Get him inside and I'll have a look at him."

The manager got to his feet, and, with the help of one of the cashiers, picked up Dinkie, carried him into the bank and laid him on the table in the manager's sanctum.

Allerman followed them in, removed his hat, hung it on the manager's hat-peg and proceeded to the leisurely removal of his gloves. After a careful inspection of his finger-nails he turned his attention to the wounded man.

The examination did not take him very many seconds.

"There's nothing much to be done for him," he said. "He's almost gone."

"For God's sake, doctor," began the manager, "you must do something. I shot him, and I shall never be able to forgive myself—"

Dr. Allerman cut him short with a gesture.

"No matter what I did," he said, "he wouldn't last many minutes. It's better to leave him as he is. So you shot him, did you? Well, there's no need to let that distress you. If you hadn't shot him he would have shot you or someone else." He smiled rather grimly. "And I imagine that a Devon and District Bank manager is a more valuable member of the community than this kind of blackguard. Was he alone?"

"No; there were two of them—this man and a girl. The girl got away."

Dinkie moved and gave a low groan; then his eyelids fluttered and opened and his gaze wandered from the manager to Allerman.

"Say, are you a doctor?"

Allerman nodded.

"How long have I got?"

Not a muscle of Allerman's face moved. He was staring at Dinkie as though he were watching some interesting specimen under the microscope.

Lane tried to struggle to a sitting position but got no further than resting on an elbow.

"Damn you! How long have I got?" he repeated angrily.

A faint smile touched Allerman's lips.

"Five minutes at the most."

The dying man stared at Allerman incredulously.

"Five minutes! For God's sake, doctor, can't you do something? You can't let me lie here and die and not do a damned thing...."

He sank back and lay still for a few moments with his eyes closed. Then he opened them again.

"You didn't get Lorna, did you?"

The doctor shook his head, and a smile of satisfaction spread over Dinkie's face.

"She's a swell kid, Lorna," he said weakly, and suddenly went limp.

Allerman turned away, put on his hat, and, with a cynical smile on his lips, began drawing on his gloves.

"That's one less for the State to keep," he said.