Читать книгу The Gunner - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

Table of Contents

That morning had been one of great mental distress to Margaret Leferre. Three times she had taken up the telephone to call Luke; three times she had put down the instrument. And then Mr Danty Morell had called. Almost she did not receive him.

She was in that state of mind when his appearance gave an ugliness to reality of which she would rather have remained unconscious.

Daybreak came to her after a night of dreams; horrid dreams of the dead Rex, of Luke, of lawyers gabbling through the esoteric terms of a marriage deed. And out of all these disturbing dreams one fact had emerged: she hated Luke—hated him with an intensity that overbalanced all reason. She tried to recall the time when he had meant everything in the world to her, when her pulse quickened at the sound of his voice and the day seemed a little brighter for his presence. Desperately, and for the sake of her own dwindling self-respect, she endeavoured to recapture those hours when he was as a very god to her. She tried to find excuses for him, and in doing so she was unconsciously fanning the flame of her resentment. She had grown to hate herself for the tremendous treachery she contemplated. It made matters no easier that she found herself committed to a conspiracy with a man who a few months before had been a stranger.

In this mood Danton found her. He was soberly attired: even in his black silk hat there was rather a suggestion of memorial service than wedding.

She began without preliminary: she was so far involved that there was no need for pretence.

"I can't go through with this, Danton," she said—she had never taken kindly to 'Danty', and after a few embarrassed attempts to carry off the familiarity she compromised with the more stately Christian name. "I have made up my mind to call up Luke end tell him. It is horrible—I can't do it." He was too clever to attempt a contest. Moreover, he had expected an eleventh hour penitence.

"Exactly what is horrible?" he asked. "There are certain horrible aspects of the affair which have rather depressed me. Naturally I cannot discuss those with you, but...well, it is rather horrible that you hate him and must sacrifice yourself. When Luke told me that the honeymoon was to be spent in Paris...I didn't like it. Though why you should go on a honeymoon at all I don't know. You remember the Fletcher girl who broke her leg as she was stepping into the carriage...naturally one hates suggesting things, but—I know a doctor who would certify a sprained ankle..."

She shook her head, but obviously she was thinking over this suggestion. She must have the climax of the drama at once. Must at the very door of the Registrar's office tell Luke the truth about the marriage—or there must be no marriage. With the ink still fresh on the ante-nuptial contract she must tell him that she had deliberately set herself to ruin him. There must be no lingering—a quick finale whilst the hatred was hot within her, before some sentimental spirit of mercy undid the work and left her tied to a man she secretly loathed.

Danty saw her weakening. There was need to flog her animosities to fullest activity. He had a weapon to his hand: he had most carefully reserved this to the last.

"I suppose you wonder why I am so bitter about Maddison," he said.

There was no reason in the world why he should suppose anything of the sort. He had left her with no doubt in her mind that he hated Luke for more reasons than she could remember. He was too skilful a strategist to have suggested that he regarded Luke Maddison as a rival. That would have removed him from the sphere of disinterested friendship and discounted every move he made, every argument he employed. And yet, with every day that passed, he found it more and more difficult to conceal his growing passion for her. She was so different from the women he had known, so far removed from the Millie Haynes type...a lady...one of the class against which he had warred incessantly. He had to school himself to maintain the role of platonic friend. A single false move would have brought him to disaster.

"I hate him because I loved Rex—and he will never leave Rex alone. The poor boy is not beneath the earth before he makes the most shocking accusation against him—"

"What?" She was on fire again.

"Forgery! You wouldn't believe it possible, but Luke told me confidentially that a few days before Rex's death he had forged a cheque for eighteen thousand. A stupid accusation, as I told him—for I was with Rex when the cheque was given to him by Luke Maddison."

She sat motionless, her chin held up, a new light in her eyes.

"He said that?" She spoke in so low a voice that she was almost inaudible. "That Rex forged...but he couldn't have! How beastly!" He saw her lip quiver and knew that it was his moment. Bending towards her, he began to speak, quickly, eagerly. He spoke of things which in other moments she would have instantly resented, and she listened unmoved: in her cold fury she became elemental...somewhere within her a weak, protesting voice told her that she should not listen, but it grew weaker and subsided into a murmur of unease.

At two o'clock she stepped from her car at the door of the Marylebone Registrar's office, and Luke, waiting in the room of that official, turned to greet the palest bride that had ever entered those commonplace portals.

She spoke not at all, only answered the questions that were put to her. With a shudder she felt the ring slip upon her finger...

It was all over so quickly that she could not believe that the first act of her vengeance was played. Somebody put a pen into her hand, and a squat forefinger showed her the place where she must sign her name. For a long time she held the pen, and when she wrote it wavered in her fingers and the scrawled signature looked like nothing she had ever seen.

Leaving for Paris that night...the Meurice, or was it the Bristol? There was some confusion in her mind about these details...anyway, they did not matter if she kept her courage. The two o'clock wedding had been an inspiration. She went back to her house—Luke was coming to dinner—they left immediately after to catch the night boat from Southampton.

"Wife! It's wonderful—unbelievable!" Luke's voice was tremulous. They were alone in her pretty little drawing-room, and he was sitting by her side, his arm around her. She was very still and unyielding, but he thought that he understood this. Luke was bubbling over with excitement—he was like a boy who had received a new and wonderful present.

"I say, did you see that queer-looking man standing on the pavement as we came out? A fellow named Lewing—a thief of some kind. I wonder if he came to pick pockets? I'll bet he did...touched his hat to me as I came out..." She was not listening, and, after he had gone, could remember nothing that he had said except something about Rex. It was indecent of him to mention the boy.

Danty rang her up, but she would not see or receive him. She must go through now without help. Luke was coming at seven. At six she called him on the telephone, and had one panic moment when she feared he had already left his flat and could not be found. When she heard his voice.

"Darling...isn't it odd? I can't believe it—I still think of myself as a crusty old bachelor—"

"Luke, I want you to do something for me." She found her voice at last. "No—no, don't interrupt...It's a big thing. I don't want to go away tonight...not for a day or two. I want to be alone...not to see you. My nerves are in a terrible state; I think I am on the verge of a breakdown." As she went on, he listened with a growing sense of alarm and dismay. And yet he was not thinking of himself.

"I've been a selfish brute. Of course, darling, I quite understand."

The conversation did not occupy five minutes of time; he could hardly realize what was happening, to what he was agreeing, before he was sitting at his writing table staring blankly at the telegraph forms by which he was to cancel so many pleasant arrangements.

Danty, waiting at Waterloo Station with a full view of the barrier, watched the mail-boat passengers filter through to the platform. He saw the barrier close and the red tail-lights of the train disappear into the darkness, and went home humming a little song, for Mr and Mrs Luke Maddison were not amongst the passengers.