Читать книгу The Feathered Serpent - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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THERE were unkind people who said that Mr. Leicester Crewe had found his name in a timetable. There were some who had a dim recollection of him in those down-at-heel days when he was one of the dingy crowd of hangers-on to the kerb-market, an object of suspicion in City police circles. In those days he was just plain 'Billy,' rather a flashily dressed man with no considerable capital, but with an uncanny knowledge of mining stocks.

Mr. Crewe was musing on those kerb days, the narrow streets behind buildings, the everlasting drizzle of rain, the yellow nimbus of street lamps showing through the fog, and hurrying bareheaded clerks.

He winced at the thought of it, and gazed gloomily round the handsome library of the house to which fate and circumstances had brought him. How long would he command this state? Was there some deadly significance in this Serpent fooling?

The hour was six o'clock on the evening which had followed Daphne Olroyd's visit to her new employer. As yet Mr. Crewe was unaware of the impending change in his household staff. He had come home earlier by reason of a rather important engagement. His mind was on this when he unlocked the wall safe and took out a dirty sheet of notepaper covered, uncouthly, with ill-spelt words in pencil. He read and folded the letter, putting it into his waistcoat pocket as his footman came in to replenish the fire.

'The man has not come?'

'No, sir.'

Mr. Crewe pursed his lips thoughtfully.

'You will bring him at once to me,' he said. 'I don't want you to let him out of your sight. He is an ex-convict I once knew—um—before he went to the devil.'

'Very good, sir.'

Ten minutes passed; the silvery chimes of the little clock on the mantelpiece struck the half-hour. Mechanically and unnecessarily Mr. Crewe looked at his watch, and as he did so the door opened and Thomas ushered in the visitor, a bald little man, shabbily dressed, his broken boots bravely polished. A round-faced old cherub he might have been but for certain wound marks on his unshaven cheek and a certain inherent suspicion in his pale eyes.

'Hugg, sir—Harry Hugg,' huskily he introduced himself.

Mr. Crewe nodded for the footman to go, and, when the door was closed:

'I had a letter from you two months ago,' he said. 'I did not answer it then, because I could not recall the man. Something has recently happened which—er—has made it necessary to get into touch with you. I now remember Lane—was that his name?'

Again Mr. Hugg nodded. He drooped deferentially in the middle of the room. Mr. Crewe did not ask him to sit down: there was no chair for this bedraggled creature.

'Lane—William Lane. Got seven for passin' slush—'

'"Slush?"'

'Forged notes. They caught him in the 'ouse with the plant. He got seven—his first offence too. Old Battersby always gave seven—he didn't know any sentence lighter.'

Thus he libelled an innocent judge, now gathered to his fathers.

'A very quiet feller—Lane. Him an' me was in the same Hall at Dartmoor. They call 'em "wards"—I don't know why. Funny thing, he was never sick or sorry all the time he was servin'. Me and him went into "stir" on the same day. I got mine for bustin' a house down at Wimbledon. An' we both come out together.'

'Did he mention my name?'

Hugg shook his head.

'No, sir, never mentioned nothin'. We got to London, an' I had some relations at Reading, so I asked him to come down with me—him havin' no home. When we got to Reading I found my friends had moved, so we went on to Newbury—by road. He died at Thatcham—dropped dead on the road.'

He fumbled inside his pocket and produced a strip of paper. Mr. Crewe took it from him gingerly. It was an official document certifying the death of William Lane of no address.

'It's funny—but just before he died, when we was walkin' along the road, he says to me: 'Harry—if anything happens to me, go an' find Leicester Crewe an' tell him not to forget the—what was the expression? Feathered Serpent, that's it!'

Mr. Crewe blinked twice.

'Feathered Serpent?' he breathed. 'You—you are sure?'

Harry Hugg nodded.

'Took me a long time to remember that—me not bein' a scholar.'

'And that was all he said? Nothing about—anybody else?'

'No, sir—"Tell him not to forget the Feathered Serpent."'

The phrase meant nothing to him—it was absolute gibberish. Never before in his life had he heard of serpents, feathered or otherwise. His heart was beating a little more quickly—then there was an association between the dead William Lane and these fantastical warnings...

'When you didn't answer my letter I thought poor old Lane must have been delirious,' Hugg went on, turning his cap in his hands mechanically. 'I was very fond of old Lane—he saved my life in the prison horspital: I'd ha' been dead if it hadn't been for him.'

'And now he's dead.' Mr. Crewe broke his silence jerkily. 'You're sure—you knew him?'

'Knew him!' Scornfully. 'As well as I know my right hand. He was never out of my sight till they buried him.'

'And he's dead—did he leave any relations?'

Hugg shook his head.

'I never heard of 'em. That Feathered Serpent—it's been worryin' me. But he was so serious when he told me—not like a daft man at all.'

Mr. Crewe walked up and down the room, his chin on his breast. These cards with their crude rubber stamp impressions no longer belonged to the category of practical jokes. The attack on Ella had a deep and sinister meaning. Suppose Lane were alive, against whom would he act? Who but Ella and Paula Staines and Joe Farmer—and himself!

He wriggled his shoulders impatiently and turned a look of deepest suspicion on the ex-convict.

'He said nothing else? He didn't stuff you and your gang with a lot of lies about me, eh? Listen, Hugg, I'll pay good money for the truth. Now let's have it. What was the yarn he told you in Dartmoor?'

But Hugg's face was blank as he shook his head.

'Tell us, sir? What could he squeak about a gen'leman like you? Besides, sir, he was an educated man, not like me an' the other old stiffs. He wouldn't talk to the likes of us.'

Crewe had taken his note-case from his pocket and was displaying carelessly the edges of many bank-notes.

'If a hundred is any good to you—'

Mr. Hugg smiled painfully.

'That'd be a life-saver; but I can't make things up—wish I could.'

Leicester skinned two notes and passed them to the man. He felt he was telling the truth—that Lane was dead—but the Feathered Serpents...?

'Here's twenty. You needn't come back for any more, because you won't get it.'

The little man seized the money eagerly.

'I've got your address,' Crewe went on. 'If you change it let me know. I will keep the death certificate. I may run across another Leicester Crewe who will be—interested.'

The little man's eyes shone as he took the notes: evidently here was a result of his visit which he did not anticipate. As Mr. Crewe rang the bell for the footman, he took a step forward.

'This Lane was a good feller.' There was a note which was almost defiant in his voice. 'He saved my life at Dartmoor—'

'Yes, yes,' impatiently as Thomas appeared in the doorway. 'Very interesting—goodbye!'

Harry Hugg shuffled out of the room, saying incoherent and disjointed things.

So that was that. Leicester Crewe straightened himself as though a load had been lifted from his shoulders. For a quarter of an hour he stood looking into the fire, his mind revolving about the dead William Lane, and at the end of that time the one ghost that had haunted the past years was laid for good.

He took up an onyx bell-push attached to a flexible silk cord, gazed at the thing reflectively as it lay in the palm of his big hand, then pressed the ivory button. When Daphne Olroyd came into the beautiful room, with its white wood panelling and concealed lights, she found Mr. Crewe with his back to the stone fire-place, a quill toothpick clenched between his teeth, and a look of gloomy brooding upon his face.

He looked round at her absently as though only dimly aware of her presence. There is a degree of prettiness which merges to sheer beauty; and Leicester, who had adopted the jargon of his day, had once called her 'divine' without eliciting either gratification or enthusiasm from the object of his praise. All the attributes of divinity which a faultless skin, big grave eyes and supple body can give to a woman, she had. Her hair was brown, with a fleet glint of gold in it, and Mr. Crewe might rhapsodise upon her hands if he rhapsodised upon anything. But he was a man without any great power of expression, and his mind was too fully occupied with his project to remark certain signs and symptoms of her disapproval which would have been clear enough to another man.

He lifted his head with a jerk.

'You've thought that matter over, Miss Olroyd? The matter which was detaining me is now satisfactorily—' he paused, groping for a word, and came to the obvious 'settled.'

'I have planned to leave London on the fourteenth of this month. We go to Capri for a few weeks, and then I thought of working down to Constantinople—'

'You will have to get another secretary, Mr. Crewe,' she interrupted quietly.

His lips curled up in a smile, though he was not amused.

'That is ridiculous and old-fashioned—good God, you're living in 1925, Miss Olroyd! Why, there are hundreds of men who take their private secretaries abroad!'

'So I've heard,' she answered, dryly enough. 'But it doesn't appeal to me.'

He made an impatient little clucking noise and blinked down at her. There was something very bird-like about Leicester Crewe, a tough, gaunt bird that was something between eagle and vulture. She always thought of him in this way.

'Stuff and nonsense!' he said loudly. 'Mrs. Paula Staines is coming with us.'

And she smiled before she realised how offensive she was being. 'Even that does not make any difference, Mr. Crewe,' she said. He murmured something about her salary being increased, and named a handsome sum, but she shook her head.

'It isn't the life I want,' she said. 'In fact, I wanted to tell you that I have secured another post.'

Leicester Crewe's nose wrinkled angrily, but he checked whatever unpleasant thing rose to his lips, and it was in the mildest of tones that he answered.

'I'm sorry to hear that—who is the fortunate employer?' When she told him, he was no wiser.

'Thank you, that will do,' and she made a glad escape.

He was pacing up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, when the door opened and a woman came in. She was something over thirty, tall, well made, a little less slim than she had been when he first met her, and carefully beautiful. Whatever art could do for her attractions had been done well. Paris had contributed her plain dress, the pseudo-simplicity of which was its grossest extravagance.

Paula Staines walked to the fire-place and spread out her gloved hands to the blaze.

'I saw your secretary in the hall. She did not appear as delighted with the prospect as I should have expected.'

'She refused to go,' growled Leicester, and Paula Staines laughed softly.

'I never thought she was a fool,' she said. And then, abruptly: 'Why don't you marry her?'

He stared at her.

'Who's being a fool now, eh?' he demanded roughly. 'What's the idea? Do you want to hold that over me...bigamy?'

She laughed again.

'You've got quite law-abiding since you moved to Belgrave Square,' she said. 'I suppose it's the atmosphere. Bigamy! I've known the time when a little thing like that would have made no difference to you, Billy.'

And then her tone changed; she came back to the table where he had seated himself.

'Billy, I'm getting frightened.'

He stared at her in astonishment.

'Frightened? What about?'

She did not answer for a moment, but stood biting her lips, her grave eyes fixed on his.

'Did Ella tell you that the house had been searched before she arrived? Everything in her private safe taken out, examined and put back.'

Mr. Crewe's jaw dropped.

'I don't understand. Why? Wasn't it worth taking?'

She shook her head.

'It wasn't that. Those fake pearls and the emerald bar they took were a blind. They were looking for something else—and they found it!'

He walked to the door, opened it and looked out, then, closing it again, came slowly back to her.

'I don't get this mystery,' he said. 'What was Mr. Feathered Serpent looking for?'

'Ella's signet ring,' was the reply, and the answer sent the blood from his face.

'The...the signet ring?' he stammered. 'They got it? Why didn't Ella tell the police?'

Her faint smile was charged with scorn.

'Could she?' she asked contemptuously. 'No, Ella is a wise girl. Shall I tell you something, Billy? If the pearls and the emeralds had been real, they would have been returned. The man who burgled Ella's flat was William Lane!'

His loud laugh startled her.

'Then he did it from hell,' he said brutally, 'for William Lane died two months ago, and I have his death certificate in my pocket!'

He took out a dirty slip of paper and passed it to the woman. She read it word for word.

'I had this from an old convict who was with him when he died. It's a fake, this Feathered Serpent business,' Leicester Crewe went on, 'and I don't believe the yarn about the signet ring—Ella's a born liar. She'd do anything for a sensation.'

'Why didn't she tell the reporters that?' Paula challenged, and shook her head. 'No, my boy, Ella's scared sick.' She glanced at the paper again, and heaved a long, worried sigh. 'That settles William,' she said grimly.

As she spoke, a telephone buzzer sounded in a corner of the room, and Crewe lifted up the instrument. At first so rapidly did the caller speak that he could make neither head nor tail of his communication or guess his identity.

'Who is it?' he demanded impatiently.

'Joe—Joe Farmer. I want to see you right away. I've found something! Is Paula with you?'

'Yes,' said Crewe. 'What have you found?'

'The Feathered Serpent,' was the surprising reply. 'I've unravelled the mystery, Billy! You trust Joe, eh?...Always got his eyes open.'

'Where are you speaking from?' asked Crewe sharply.

'Tidal Basin...the old spot, eh? I came down here to make a few inquiries. Say, Billy, I've got these reporter guys skinned to death! Just hang on and wait for me: I'll be with you in twenty minutes.'

Crewe heard the click of the receiver as it was hung up, and passed the gist of the conversation to the girl.

'Joe!' scoffed Crewe, but she shook her head.

'Don't despise Joe—you haven't forgotten that in the old days he was the "finder" of our little party?'

Leicester Crewe made no reply to this. She saw he was more troubled than he admitted.

'If I thought—' he began.

'If you thought what? If you thought there was real danger, you'd get out.' A faint smile played on her carmine lips. 'Billy, you haven't changed very much, have you? I'd like to bet you're all ready for a getaway.'

Instinctively his eyes went to the little wall safe, and she laughed aloud.

'Money, passport, everything!' she mocked. 'What a quitter you are!'

'It isn't the Feathered Serpent or any rubbish like that,' he protested gruffly. 'Only I've had a feeling lately, ever since I had the letter from this lag, that there was going to be trouble.'

'Ever since William Lane was due for release,' she interpreted his thoughts only too accurately. 'But I've never worried about William. In the first place, he wasn't likely to discover us, and in the second place, that kind of weakling doesn't kick back. And suppose he knew where we were, what could he do?'

Leicester was not prepared to answer that question, but the match that he held to her cigarette trembled a little.

'You're getting soft, Billy, and you're worrying yourself over nothing. If you cleared out to-night, I should stay on, just to see what happens. I'm a curious woman.'

'You're a fool,' he said irritably, and relapsed into a long silence.

They watched the slow-moving hands of the clock...Paula's cigarette was burnt to an end and replaced by another. A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, half an hour passed, and then they heard in the quiet street the whine of a car and the squeak of its brakes. Leicester drew aside the curtains and peered out into the fog. He saw the dim head-lamps of the car before the door.

'That's Joe,' he said. 'I'd better let him in.'

He walked out into the dark hall and unfastened the front door gently. As he turned the latch, the door was pushed open, as though somebody were leaning and pushing against it. The latch slipped from his hand and the door opened with a crash, as a dark figure fell with a thud upon the carpet.

Looking past him, the startled man saw the car move off and disappear; and then he heard Paula's voice behind him. 'What is it?' she asked. Her voice was thin with fear. 'Switch on the lights,' said Leicester Crewe, and the hall was suddenly illuminated.

Joe Farmer sprawled face down on the floor, his feet extending beyond the doorstep. In his hand he clutched a crumpled card.

Kneeling by his side, Leicester Crewe turned the figure on to its back, and met the wide, staring eyes of a dead man.

Whatever secret Joe Farmer had brought in such haste had passed with him when, from the darkness of the street, an unknown hand had shot him down.