Читать книгу The Man Who Bought London - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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A BEWILDERED man sat in a cell at Vine Street, his aching head between his large, grimy hands. He was trying, in his dull brutish way, to piece together the events of the previous night and of that morning. He remembered that he had met a man on the Thames Embankment. A gentleman who had spoken coldly, whose words had cut like a steel knife, and yet who had all the outward evidence of benevolence. And then that this man had struck him, and there had come another, a smooth-faced, young-looking man, who had taken him to a house and given him a drink.

The stranger had led him to a place, and told him to watch, and they had followed this grey-haired man through streets in a taxi-cab.

Horace Baggin had never ridden in a motor car of any description before, and he remembered this. He remembered all that had happened through a thin alcoholic haze. They had gone to South London and then they had come back, and the man had left him at a tube station with a pistol. Presently the grey-haired man had made his appearance, and Baggin, mad with artificial rage, unthinking, unreasoning, had stepped forward and shot wildly, and then the police had come. That was all.

Suddenly a thought struck him, and he started up with an oath. He was wanted for that other affair in Wiltshire. Would they recognize him? He pressed a little electric bell, which was placed in the wall of the cell, and the turnkey came and surveyed him gravely through the grating.

"What is the charge?" Baggin asked eagerly.

"You know what the charge is," said the other; "it was read over to you in the charge-room."

"But I have forgotten," said the man sullenly. "It won't hurt you to tell me what I am charged with, will it?"

The officer hesitated. Then—

"You are charged with attempted murder and with manslaughter."

"What manslaughter?" asked Baggin quickly.

"Oh, an old affair, you know, Baggin!"

"Baggin!"

So they knew his name.

Well, there was one gleam of hope, one chance for him. This rich stranger who had lured him out to shoot the grey-haired man, he could help. He was a toff, he was; he lived in a grand house.

What was his name?

Baggin paced his cell for some quarter of an hour, racking his aching brain for the name which eluded him. Yes, curiously enough, he had seen the name, though the other might not have suspected the fact. In the hallway of the house to which the stranger took him was a tiny stand with glass and silver things, fragile and dainty, on which, as they had entered, Baggin had seen some letters addressed to the man, and he, naturally curious, and gifted moreover with the ability to read handwriting, had deciphered the name as—as—Zeberlieff!

That was the name, "Zeberlieff," and Park Lane, too—the house was in Park Lane. He remembered it now. He was elated at the result of his thought, a little exhausted too.

He called the gaoler again, and the weary official obeyed, not without resentment.

"What do you want now?" he asked bitterly.

"Can you let me have a sheet of paper, an envelope and a pencil?"

"I can," said the gaoler. "Who do you want to write to—-a lawyer?"

"That's it," said Baggin. "He is my own private lawyer," he said proudly. "A regular 'nut' he is, too; he won't half put it across you people if you don't behave properly."

"Not so much lip!" said the gaoler, and went away, to return in a few moments with the necessary vehicles of communication.

He passed them through the open grating in the door, and Horace sat down to the unaccustomed task of composing a letter, which was not incriminating to his employer, but which conveyed to him a sense of his responsibility, and the danger in which he stood if he did not offer, the succour which was required of him.

"Honoured Sir," the letter ran (it would serve no useful purpose to faithfully expose the liberties he took with the English language), "some time ago I did a job of work for you. I am now in great trouble having shot the gentleman, and I should be very much obliged if you would assist me to the best of your ability."

It was a noteworthy contribution to the literature of artfulness. Horace Baggin had been inspired to remember Zeberlieff as an old employer in the mythical period when Horace Baggin preferred hard work to the illicit calling which had ended so disastrously for him.

"Zeberlieff," said the gaoler as he read the address and scanned the letter; "why, that's an American millionaire, ain't it?"

"That's so," said Horace Baggin complacently; "he's been a good friend of mine. I used to be his "—he hesitated—"his gamekeeper," he said. "He had an estate down our way," he went on grimly. "Very good shot, too."

"I will send it down if you like," said the gaoler; "though he will probably only give you the cold shoulder. You know when a man gets into trouble he can't expect his old master to come prancing round getting him out. Not in these days, anyway."

Nevertheless, he sent it on at Baggin's request.

After that effort of thought and diplomacy Horace Baggin felt at peace with the world. In the afternoon he was called before the magistrate. Formal evidence was taken, and he was remanded for one day and removed back to the cell; that meant another day at the police court.

Well, he was prepared to face it. It was not the first time he had been in trouble, but it was the first time he had been in a position where, in spite of the enormity of the crime, hope had extended so rosy a vista of possibilities. He had received news that his letter had been delivered, and waited hopefully for his partner in crime to make a move. It was fine, he thought, to have such a pal. The prospect of succour had almost entirely eclipsed the seriousness of the charges which the man had to face.

Morning found Baggin more sober and more bitter. So this sweet pal of his had gone back on him, had made no attempt to answer his call of distress, even though the imprisoned man had made it apparent that no immediate danger threatened the confederate. Well, there was another way out of it, another way in which he might excuse his conduct and find himself the centre of a sensational case. He waited till the gaoler passed, and then—

"I want to see the inspector in charge of this case," he said. "I have got a statement to make."

"Right-o!" said the gaoler. "You had better have your breakfast first. You will be one of the first to go into court, you know."

Baggin nodded.

"Coffee and toast have been sent in for you."

"Who by?" asked Baggin, with some show of interest.

"One of your pals," said the gaoler, and vouchsafed no further information.

So Zeberlieff had moved, had he?

Baggin had no pals, save the pal for whom he was waiting, and in whom he had placed his faith. His spirits rose again. He remembered that it would be as well not to be too emphatic. There might come a time when it would be necessary to admit the existence of the other man.

"Here is your breakfast," said a detective, as the door swung open again, and he was accompanied by a warder with a little tray, carrying a steaming jug of coffee and a plate of toast. "Now, just think it out, and let me know how you feel before you go into court. It might make all the difference in the world to you. Why should you stand the racket for another man's crime?" the detective asked.

Baggin was not to be cajoled, but no sooner had the door closed behind the detective than he moved mechanically across to where the writing-pad lay and picked it up. He would give the stranger a chance; in the meantime he was hungry.

He took a draught of the coffee, at the same time wondering how his new-found pal would get him out of the scrape.

Five minutes later a detective and the gaoler strolled down to his cell.

"I will have a talk with him," said the detective, and the gaoler, without troubling to look through the grating, inserted the key and pulled the door open.

The detective uttered an exclamation and sprang into the cell. Baggin lay in a huddled heap amongst a litter of broken china and spilt coffee. The detective lifted him up bodily and turned him over.

"My God!" he said, "he's dead! He has been poisoned! There is the scent of cyanide of potassium in this cell."

"Poisoned?" asked the startled gaoler. "Who did it? How did he get it?"

"It was in the coffee," replied the detective slowly, "and the man that sent it in was the man who employed Baggin to do his dirty work."