Читать книгу The Gunner - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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The storm that swept down on London found at least two people unprepared. Luke Maddison was cheery. He had been formally forgiven—the marriage was to be quiet, and only a few guests were to be invited. He had only a few minutes before arranged his train reservations—no secretary should perform that sacred duty!

His heart would have sung a gay song even if every thick flake of snow burnt as it touched his face. The flower-girl shifted the strap of her basket from one shoulder to another and gazed with dismay upon the tumbling white fog that descended upon St James's Street, blotting out every landmark. You could not see from one side of the street to the other. Almost instantly the ground was thick where the white flakes lay. But for their asthmatic engines one would not have known that such things as motor buses were passing.

Snow covered the violets in her basket, soaked into the thin shawl about her shoulders, and, even when she sought shelter in the doorway of a bank, followed her in gusty showers.

Two men brushed past her into the bank. She offered a bunch of flowers automatically. The younger of the two did not notice her; the middle-aged man with the trim moustache gave her a quick, appraising glance and stopped.

"Hullo, honey—busy?" She did not reply. He hesitated a moment, and then the door swung open and the impatient voice of the young man called him inside.

At that moment Luke Maddison came striding down the street, swinging a light cane. He wore no overcoat and his shoulders already carried a white blanketing.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl shivering in the doorway, checked his stride and came up to her.

"My dear, you look cold! My heart keeps me terribly warm—and if you think I am making love to you, I'm not! I want a flower, and you shall have a present, and then you and I will drift away and we shall be dead to one another—born and dead in this freezy moment! Buy a wreath!" He took a banknote out of his pocket and dangled it before her eyes laughingly.

And then he had a slight shock.

She was pretty—which flower girls, outside of musical comedy, are not; her figure was frail, her skin flawless. Yet she was poorly dressed; bore in her person all the evidence of penury. "Here's a better one." He put the note in his pocket and produced another, scribbled a line or two on the back of it.

"That's the name and address of my company—if, when you try to change it, the police say that it is stolen, refer them to me." She did not answer, but looked from the note in her cold hands to its giver. It was for a hundred pounds! When she looked up he was gone.

The swing doors of the bank opened again and the two men came out. She crumpled the note in her hand, dismayed, exhilarated, and, in one respect, disappointed. It was then she saw the young man's face. It was deathly pale and he was breathing quickly—this was noticeable, for the weather was cold.

"By God...that was a horrible coincidence, Danty—suppose he'd come in—"

"Shut up, you fool!" The elder of the two shot a glance at the flower girl. She was arranging her violets.

"But if he had...he said he was going out of town before the settlement." He was trembling violently: the flower girl might have seen that if she were observant. Danty's dark eyes roved the street for a taxi; they rested momentarily on the flower girl. She was pretty, but at the moment her face was vacant. More interested in her flowers than in unintelligible scraps of conversation, he supposed.

"Now, see here, Rex—there's nothing to worry about. You could easily explain that Margaret..." His voice sank to an indistinguishable mutter of sound. The girl heard the word "settlement" used several times, and "carryover" and "account". Also "Margaret" was mentioned twice, and "Luke".

"...fix it, don't worry!" Danty patted the other on the back. She decided that she did not like "Danty". "Here's a cab!"

The younger man signalled and sprinted out to the taxi. The other went at a more leisurely pace. He dropped something on to her flowers—a visiting card. "Come along about nine and have a drink," he murmured.

She took the card before his eyes, glanced at the name and deliberately tore it up. He was rather annoyed when he joined his companion.

"Mr Danton Morell, 907 Half Moon Street." she read. It was a name to remember. And then she saw a huge figure loom out of the mist of swirling flakes, and instinctively knew that he was going to speak to her. Why she should think this she did not know—he might very well be going into the bank.

He was big in every way. Until he ranged alongside her, his height did not seem extraordinary. Till his length was gauged, the breadth of his shoulders was not remarkable. He stood six feet four in his stockinged feet. His face was dark and broad and unattractive; he had a short, bull neck and a deep, rich, husky voice.

He walked slowly, almost lethargically, through the snow, his hands behind him, his hard felt hat on the back of his head, the ragged cigar, that was burning unevenly, gripped in his teeth.

The flower girl thought he was going to turn into the bank after all: instead, he stood squarely before her and looked down at her. The expression in those slits of eyes was blank. He might have his attention entirely absorbed by her; he might be trying to remember something.

And then he spoke huskily.

"You're no Child of the Poor!" There was something so friendly, so good-humoured in his voice, that she laughed.

"Nor a wrongdoer, either," she said demurely, and his big face folded into a delighted smile.

"You're nearly the first that ever gave me the right answer," he said. "Now I'll ask you another—where in the City of London is that text carved in stone?"

The flower girl was almost scornful. "Why, over the entrance of the Old Bailey—'Protect the Children of the Poor and Punish the Wrongdoer.'"

He nodded. "You've won a butter-cooler, but you can have your pick of the board. Keepin' to the general knowledge paper, who and what am I? For the correct answer you get a pint of peanuts and free admission to the Zoo."

She looked at him with a certain demure solemnity that delighted him. "You are Detective Inspector Horace Bird—you are called The Sparrow."

He doubled forward and his face went purple with silent laughter. "You're free of the fair! Now let me do a little bit of classy detective work, like the well-known Mr What's-his-name of Baker Street. Your name is Mary Bolford, you're a reporter on the staff of the Daily Post Herald, and you're doing a stunt called 'A day in the life of a flower girl'. Don't deny it! Your editor pointed you out an hour ago an' asked me to keep an eye on you. How's that for deduction? Come and have some tea and I'll tell you the story of my life." He shifted his cigar to the off-side of his face, lifted the strap of the basket from her shoulder, and together they tramped through the slush down St James's Street.

Even in the midst of their own discomforts, pedestrians turned their heads to look back after the enormous man with a basket of violets under his arm.

"I bet you'll suffer for this," he rumbled. "Wet through—no? I hope you are wearing warm undies. Why are undies indelicate and sable coats ladylike? Ask me. It's one of the mysteries. Good afternoon, Tom." He stopped a man who was trying to pass him quickly, his head bent as though to avoid the drift of wind-borne snow.

"Good morning, Mr Bird—cold, isn't it?"

"It's colder waitin' outside the staff entrance of Hoyce & Drake, Tom. Pretty girl, eh, Tom? I'll bet your wife wouldn't think so. Don't do it, Tom, or I'll come along and blind you!—So long!"

"Horrific!" she murmured as the man hurried away.

"I have to be," he said complacently. "It's the only language they understand. What's that word again—horrific? That's a good one. Go straight in, Miss Bolford." They turned into the tea shop and Mary Bolford smelt the warmth and hotcakeness of the place and sighed luxuriously.

"Order anything you like up to fourpence," said The Sparrow. "I've only just had lunch, so you'll excuse me if I stop at the tenth mince pie." He seemed to pay no attention to the rest of the people in the long tea room, and yet—"That feller over there in the corner is Sam Larber, the con. man. Times are bad and suckers are scarce. There ought to be a cold weather fund for confidence men. It takes sunshine to bring out human foolishness. That girl who's with him is Lisa Keane—she's no Sister of Mercy! See that bald young feller who's hidin' behind the newspaper? I got him nine months at the London Sessions for knockin' off motorcars—'knockin' off' means pinchin'—excuse my French."

"What do you think of this?" She unfolded a piece of crinkly paper and spread it on the marble top of the tea table.

"I don't think of hundred pound notes—I dream of 'em," he said, and added, in his inconsequential way: "That's because he's goin' to be married. I saw him holdin' it up before your eyes and thought he was tryin' to create a good impression. I was a bit hurt. Mr Maddison never struck me as bein' a vamp. And then I suddenly knew what it was all about."

She might be a reporter, but she was feminine. "Whom is he marrying?" she asked.

"A lady. That was her brother who was talkin' to another gentleman in the doorway. Danty!—he's no lady! What Rex loses on the swings he borrows from the roundabouts. The bookmakers have an insurance on his life—they hate the idea of anything happenin' to their annuity. And when he goes into the City all the sharks file their teeth. He's easy money—somebody else's money. Is that libel or slander?"

"Both—if I printed it," she smiled.

The waitress came—she drank the hot tea gratefully. Mr Bird sat munching cakes with great earnestness. A big plate of confectionery steadily vanished.

"I'm a big man and have to keep my spirits up," he explained. "Mince pies are a kind of dope to me. After I've had a dozen I get sort of intoxicated and all my troubles disappear. After I've had twenty I go mad and tear up the pavement." Mercifully he stopped at the seventh.

"What am I to do with this hundred pounds?" she asked. "I feel that I have obtained money by false pretences!"

"I saw a couple of good evenin' dresses at Cecilia et Cie's," he said. "It's a Modes et Robes shop in Bond Street—and if you ask me why modes ate robes I'll say 'desist!" There was one dress with spangles on it—wear that an' you'd get a reputation for fastness that'd get you the first prize at Brooklands..."

"Who is Danty?" She was in a new world; had been in it exactly a quarter of an hour. She went on quickly. "I know his name—Danton Morell: he gave me his card."

Mr Bird nodded.

"He would: he's that kind of philanthropist. 'Call round any evenin' when the servants have gone to the pictures.' Danty is clever. I'm one of the few people who know how clever he is. Some day I'll take a stick to him and he'll be in the market for a new head." And then he began to talk about people—the shifting population of the West End. The men and women who came and went; the mild old gentleman who had a suite at the Cercle Hotel all the year round but spent his time travelling to and from New York playing cards with the light-hearted and gullible. Of strange men who did nothing for a living and had no visible means of support, yet stayed at the best hotels. He called them the Once-a-Year Men.

"They go after one coup and that keeps 'em. They're the highest-paid tale-tellers in the world. Kiplin' and what's-his-name Shaw? They never get the price that's paid to these fellers."

"I suppose you are always getting new experiences?" she said.

Mr Bird sighed. "I think I know all that is to be known about the dirty ways of crooks," he said.

But he was wrong.

That night he was called to No. 342 Brook Street. Assisted by the white-faced Mr Danton Morell, he burst open the door of a bedroom, and there he found Rex Leferre, dead by his own hand. He lay on the floor, a revolver by his side: the quickeyed Danty saw the note scribbled in pencil on small sheets of paper torn from a telephone message block, and his hand closed over the paper. An hour later Margaret Leferre, pale and lovely in her silken negligee, read the message the detective had not seen.

"Margaret, darling, I have lost. For months I have been gambling. Today I took a desperate step on the advice of Luke Maddison. He has led me to ruin—money is his god. I beg of you not to trust him. He has led me from cine act of folly to another. God bless you. REX."

She read the pitiful message again and again. Luke Maddison: the man she was to marry in a week!