Читать книгу Flat 2 - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Well pleased, Louba returned to Braymore House.

He had never thought to pay so high a price as marriage for any woman, but Beryl Martin, so different from the foolish women who had at different times been fascinated by his unwholesome attractions, was worth it—even apart from the money she would bring with her.

'I shall not need you any more. Miller,' he said cheerfully, as he came into his flat, and passed on to where a light supper stood in readiness.

He lit a cigar, and stood on the hearth, smoking and contemplating his position with complacency. His finances had received a nasty jog, but he was pulling through.

He sat down at the table and began to eat.

His back was to the windows, and after a while he had a sense of uneasiness. He turned his head once or twice but he was sure the windows must be closed. Miller always shut them before he came in.

With a frown he recalled Beryl's assertion that she had seen a face pressed to the window in Sir Harry Marshley's house.

He heard Miller close his bedroom door; as he pushed the tray away from him and lit a second cigar, Louba became conscious of the silence...and something else. Cursing himself for his fancifulness, he got up impatiently and went to the window behind him, pushing the silken curtain aside to assure himself that the window was closed.

He recoiled with a guttural exclamation, then flung the curtains aside and dragged out the man who was hidden behind them.

'Da Costa!'

'Well?' demanded da Costa, his hand going suggestively to his hip pocket.

The years which had passed since he had pursued his star performer to Malta had set some white amongst his wavy mop of hair, his cheeks hung down beneath the baggy dark eyes, his figure was a little heavier, but otherwise he was as vigorous as ever, and little changed. His mouth pouted red and moist beneath the full, untrained moustache.

'Ver' well, ver' well!' exclaimed Louba, making a motion for him to leave his weapon where it was. 'I will merely ask what you are doing in my house?'

'I was just waiting until you'd gone to bed, Louba.'

'And what then?' queried Louba, with a sharpness that made da Costa laugh.

'Don't be frightened. I wasn't coming in to murder you,' he said.

'I see. Merely to steal?'

'No. Just to unfasten the window and go home. You see, Miller came in and fastened it before I could get out, and then you came in. So, as I am so fond of your society, I was waiting till you had gone to bed.'

'You do your stealing when I am not near? Yes, I can imagine you are not a ver' daring thief.'

Da Costa stepped up to him threateningly.

'You'll do that once too often,' he warned. 'That sneer of yours, Louba, will cost you dear.'

'I shall never have more to pay than I can well afford. When I caught you lurking about outside the window a week ago, you denied that you had any intention of entering...you were merely taking the air, I believe.'

'Neither had I any intention of entering. I always come in when the window is open and you are out,' replied da Costa insolently.

'So you do come in? You pretended to go away, to shut your flat up, after I had spoken to you, simply to put me off my guard?'

Da Costa shrugged his shoulders. 'I have business in your apartments, and you interrupt it when you are sniffing at my doings like a suspicious dog,' he said.

Louba snatched at his arm and swung him round until his face was in the full light.

'You have got what you came for?' he snarled. 'That is why you are so bold, and in such high spirits?'

'If I have, you will never find it,' laughed da Costa.

Louba shook him. 'Tell me what you have taken! Tell me!'

'Let go!'

There was a quick struggle before da Costa stood back, panting, eyes and cheeks blazing.

'Do that again, Louba,' he bit out from between his sharp white teeth, 'and I will settle my account with you at last, and finally.'

'Are you going to give up what you have taken from me?'

'Are you going to give up what you have taken from me at different times these many years past?' demanded da Costa, and suddenly smiled. 'Yes,' he added softly, 'you are!'

Louba eyed him darkly, his eyes narrowed till they were mere slits. 'You will not leave this room until you have given up what you have taken,' he said.

'I will do so if you can find it, my dear Louba,' assented da Costa cheerfully. 'Come: play no tricks and you shall search me.'

Smiling tantalisingly, he lifted his arms, leaving his pockets invitingly uncovered.

Suspiciously, and after a moment's indecision, Louba went through his pockets, da Costa enjoying his discomfiture. He looked down at his feet.

'Oh, certainly,' said da Costa. 'Look in my shoe. It is no inconvenience as they are only slippers. And I might have a nice layer of notes there, mightn't I?' He kicked them off. 'We live in such pleasant proximity that I do not need to overdress before I come to visit you.'

Louba watched him put his slippers on again.

'Well,' he remarked. 'After your little joke, perhaps now you will tell me what is the real meaning of your presence here?'

'No, I don't feel inclined to tell you any more,' rejoined da Costa, stepping to the window where he stooped to remove the screws with an ease that spoke of former acquaintanceship with them.

'Then I will see if you will be more communicative to the police.'

'Bah! Do you think to frighten me with that?' asked da Costa, in disgust, and he pulled open the window.

'You either explain, or I give you in charge,' threatened Louba savagely, making a spring at da Costa who was propelled forward until only the rail of the fire escape outside prevented him from falling head first into the gardens below.

Louba leapt after him, forcing him round until he was leaning backwards over the rail, with Louba's fingers at his throat.

'Now, what have you taken?' muttered Louba. 'Tell me what you have taken or I'll throw you over.' He forced da Costa's head back till the man's thick neck swelled.

'I can't...if you strangle me,' choked da Costa.

'Well, now,' said Louba, relaxing his grip a little.

'I haven't taken anything. You've seen for yourself.'

'What were you doing there, then?'

'I came to look for something.'

'Oh, you did! And what is it you seek?'

Da Costa had improved his position by slow degrees, and now gave Louba a blow which sent him crashing backwards into the room behind him, where he reeled heavily against a writing-table in the centre of the room, and fell to the floor, striking his head against a chair.

'The next time you lay hands on me, Louba,' said da Costa, leaning inside the room, a little breathless, 'will be the last time you'll lay hands on anything. Mark that.'

Louba was struggling to his feet.

'You accursed son of a—'

'And if I haven't got what I came for,' interrupted da Costa, 'I know now where to look for it—and you needn't put any more screws on the window...because I don't need to come in again,' he added.

'I won't—because I'll see that you are in charge of the police by tomorrow morning,' rejoined Louba, reaching for the telephone.

'Oh, send for the police,' mocked da Costa. 'It's your word against mine, that's all. And if I chose to admit I'd been here, chose to admit I'm going to take something from you...I don't think you'd like the police to call upon you to account for your possession of that something, Louba. Think about it. Good-night.' He ran up the iron steps with his slippered feet and disappeared through the window of one of his own rooms.

Louba put back the receiver. There was more than one of his possessions for which he would have been unwilling to account.

His brows met as he looked about him, trying to guess what it was that da Costa coveted.

He picked up one thing after another, weighing it in his hand, turning it over, searching for hidden value.

Going to a recess in a far corner, he came to a carved brass chest which he had not opened for a long time: it was full of curios of relatively little value, of which he had wearied and thrust out of sight.

He began to lift them out of the chest. He noticed they were in great disorder, but he could not be sure whether this was the result of da Costa's search. One small image with a weight disproportionate to its size he carried hopefully to the table, but a very little chipping with a knife scraped the top layer of gold-tinted metal away, and revealed the lead beneath which accounted for its weight.

Baffled, he returned to the chest, but only one or two things remained there. Reaching down to seize something that sparkled, he brought up the beaded casket that had fallen into his hands in a darkened room in Bucarest. Releasing the spring in the false bottom, he gazed at the empty space beneath. A slow smile curved his lips. Was it possible? Did da Costa really think the thing could remain in his hands without discovering the simple secret of it? Did those who knew of the treasure it had apparently once contained still believe it lay hidden there?

He did not know, but he could not miss the chance of a sardonic joke.

He replaced the curios in the chest, and on the top he set the beaded casket. Below the false bottom lay a slip of paper on which he had written a note to da Costa.

'With compliments. If I had only known what it was you desired, I beg you to believe I would have asked your acceptance of so small a token of my regard.'

'He was quite right,' muttered Louba, as he went into his bedroom. '...No need to secure the window if that is all he wants!'