Читать книгу The Lady of Little Hell and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 3

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A DOZEN boisterous voices greeted the young soldier who stood smiling in the big vestibule of Lord Mortimer's house in Grosvenor Square.

He had come through the swing doors unannounced, a fine stalwart figure of youth in the uniform of the Flying Corps, and was handing his British warm to a servant when his aunt hailed him from the head of the majestic stairway.

Lady Mortimer came fluttering down the stairs to greet him, and there was no mistaking the welcome in her face.

"My dear boy, I am so glad you could come. When we heard of the tremendous work the Flying Corps was doing we despaired of seeing you."

"I told the skipper it was your birthday party, auntie, and he gave me leave," laughed Tom Broadwood as he kissed her.

They clustered round him, a noisy, laughing, admiring throng of boys and girls he had known from their pinafore days. Eager young faces lifted to his, a dozen dance-cards were thrust at him, with base and reckless invitation to scratch out any initials he wished and substitute his own. He waved them off in mock terror and taking his aunt's arm mounted to the big ball-room.

Tom Broadwood was a child of fortune, unspoilt. An orphan and the heir of Morgan Broadwood's millions, he had left Oxford and joined up at the first hint of war. He had served as a private at the defence of Ypres, and later had his commission, first as an officer in a Lancashire regiment and later in the Corps of corps.

"I wanted to talk with you, Aunt Selina," he said, when at last he had piloted her to the deserted library.

"You have made me very unpopular with quite a number of people who want to meet you," she chided him.

Lady Mortimer was a woman of forty-five, who retained much of the beauty which Sargent had rendered imperishable in his Academy picture of 1901. She looked down at Tom as he sank into a deep chair and handed him a silver cigarette box.

"Selina," he said—he never called her "aunt" when they were alone—"I wanted to tell you that I have fixed up things with my solicitors, so that if anything happens to me in France my money and property go to your two boys; the work I am doing now is particularly dangerous."

"More than usual?" she asked anxiously.

He nodded.

"The fact is I have been in the Special Intelligence Department for months. I have been in Germany three times lately."

She gasped.

"Tom!"

"Usually I am dropped from an aeroplane; sometimes I take my own machine, but that is for short work. Next week I am going over on rather a hazardous mission. That was one of the reasons I came home to see you. I want to put my estate in trim for your boys."

She nodded gravely.

"Please God they will never inherit the money," she said quietly. "I look forward to the day when you will have a son of your own."

"That sounds queer to me," he laughed. "I've never met the girl, and anyway I have to tell you this: I have asked Gretton—he's my solicitor—to come along and see you when I've gone and give you a full account of my interests. You are the only relative I have in the world."

She shook her head.

"I'm not," she smiled mischievously; "that's the fun of it—and that is why I wanted to parade you around. You have an unique opportunity of meeting a second cousin."

"A second cousin! I didn't know... what is its name?"

"Dawn Marsh."

He pulled a little face.

"Is it masculine or feminine?"

"Very much feminine! She's unique—a product of the century."

"O lor'!!" exclaimed Tom dismally; "that means she's neurotic or drinks cocktails and admires Morris dances, and has red hair and a soul!"

His aunt smiled mysteriously.

"You shall see. She's the daughter of a cousin—Tom Marsh was in the Consular service and poor—lost all his money in South African Mines and developed a taste for art. The girl was educated in Paris, Munich, and some other weird place, and I'm sure would be the most intelligent being in the world if—"

"If?"

"Well, you shall judge. I confess I don't like sporty girls or doggy girls or Amazon girls, and I do like them to be feminine—but the droopy, snoopy girl who must wear a dressing robe that harmonises with the bath mat—"

"Oh, she's that kind, is she? Where did she spring from?" asked Tom. "I don't seem to have heard of her before."

"America. She's Californian by preferences though British by birth."

Tom rose.

"You pique my curiosity. How does she live if she's so poor?"

Lady Mortimer shook her head.

"Heaven knows—that is a mystery. She has a suite at the Ritz-Carlton, she travels in style, dresses like a queen—and Tom Marsh left exactly three hundred pounds to meet ten thousand pounds worth of liabilities."

Tom laughed aloud.

"Lead me to this financial genius," he said.

So Tom Broadwood came to the presence of Dawn Marsh in a spirit of amused interest. He saw her and his amusement died—but his interest multiplied at an amazing rate.

She sat on a large crimson settee in one of the alcoves of the ball- room annexe. A young man, faultlessly attired, sat by her side, but Tom had no eyes but for the girl. She was, he judged, above medium height. What she wore he could never describe. It was a delicate material of creamy white, and there were touches of black and gold on the dress and a bandeau of black and gold in her hair. He classified her peculiar beauty by his elastic and limited standard as something between a Gibson and a Kirchner girl. The face was healthily and delicately pale, the eyes big and set wide apart, the lips full and crimson, the nose and chin well moulded.

She looked up at him steadfastly and with a certain interest which was childlike in its unfeigned curiosity.

"This is your second cousin, Dawn—Torn Broadwood," said Lady Mortimer, and she raised her coal-black eyebrows with a little smile of pleasure.

"I have heard of you—the slayer of Flying Men," she said. Her voice was a soft contralto, distinct despite its drawl. "Sit down, Aunt Selina."

"I must go—I have been neglecting everybody shamefully. I will see you, Tom, before you leave."

He nodded.

The apparition of this girl had momentarily silenced him. He thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

"Sit down, won't you, Tom," she invited; "you know Count Stopl—don't fight, please; the count is Swedish and we aren't at war with Sweden," she laughed.

The man, who had risen, smiled politely, but it struck Tom that he was not pleased. He was young and decidedly good-looking, though the trim moustache was set over a square jaw and hid lips which, were they exposed might have detracted something from his pleasing appearance.

"Miss Marsh is joking, always joking—but always charming," he said, with a click of heels; "for myself I never can fathom the gracious Miss Marsh, though often I have had the surpassing honour of meeting her."

"The count is terribly curious," she said, with a sidelong smile at her companion, "and yet is so polite. Confess, count, you have been questioning and cross-questioning me for two dances."

"My dear lady!" said the shocked nobleman; "never! I would die before such a rudeness! Is it wonderful, Mr. Broadwood, that all mademoiselle's interests are of first importance to her friends?"—he shrugged his shoulders despairingly—"I but ask you if you ride, if you walk, if you play golf or tennis?"

"I am so sorry, count," she interrupted; "you take me so seriously, and really I am not a very serious person."

She turned to Tom.

"The count was so good to me on the voyage. I am sure if we had met a U-boat he would have vouched for my respectability."

The count smiled and bowed.

"If I have your permission I will take my leave," he said; "I have arranged to meet a compatriot. Does mademoiselle leave for New York soon?"

"To-morrow," said the girl, "and if you ever come to California won't you come and see me?"

"I will give myself that pleasure and happiness."

She watched him as he retired and there was neither regret nor relief in that steady gaze.

"Now, cousin," she said, turning suddenly to the young man, "promise me you won't ask me if I ride or walk or box."

"I can promise you that," said Tom.

"And confess that you have never heard of me before to-night," she challenged.

"It is unpardonable of me," said Tom, "but I never have."

She looked at him from under her lowered lashes and laughed softly.

"You are not staying long in London?" he said.

"Neither are you, they tell me," she replied. "I shall be glad to go out of it. The life here is too strenuous. I was intended for Arcadian surroundings, mossy banks, shady bowers and fluting shepherds."

"With two French maids and a manicurist," he added, and she laughed.

"Some day I will build a house where you press buttons and electricity does the rest. Don't you hate work and hustle, Cousin Tom?"

"I can't say that I do," said Tom, "but I have not had much experience."

"And now you are going to war, which is the hardest work of all "—she shivered; "it's all very horrible and unpleasant and crude and elemental," she said.

Tom had recovered from the awe which she had inspired in him, but he still retained that curiously irritating feeling that he was in the presence of a superior force, mental and, strangely enough, physical.

"I was awfully surprised to hear you don't ride," he said.

"I don't ride from choice," she agreed, "and it's perfectly true that golf doesn't interest me. The fact is," she laughed, "I am constitutionally lazy. I need my French maids and my manicurist and my chauffeur and secretary. They are the necessities of life just as a cup of tea is to the girl in the government office. You are disappointed, aren't you?" she said suddenly.

"Why, no," replied Tom; "only my theory is that everybody should work."

"I will buy a laundry to-morrow," she said, "and you shall come and see me every Saturday and collect your shirts."

"You are laughing at me, and I am afraid I am impertinent," said Tom.

"I don't exactly know what work a girl can do except keep house," she suggested; "a woman s place you know, is the home."

"Some women's places" he said boldly, "are those rosy bowers and mossy banks of yours, and they would look oddly foreign in any other environment."

"If that is intended for a compliment I thank you," she said gravely. "Would you pick up my dance programme? It is lying within three inches of my hand and I haven't been able to summon sufficient energy—thank you. It has been worrying me for the last half-hour, and I dare not tell the count lest be grovelled on the floor and picked it up between his teeth."

They both laughed together.

"Now you are dying to go away," she said, "but I won't let you till someone comes. I know you are only making a flying visit to Town, but I am intensely selfish. I know hundreds of people want to see you, but they must be patient till I have finished with you. Will you please call that waiter—I want an ice—and could you reach over and pick up my shawl? You see I like being waited upon."

Tom was amused. This was a new type to him and not unpleasant. He supposed that in course of time the novelty would pall, and the naked selfishness and helplessness of the girl would irritate him, but for the time being it was all very charming, and when at last her partner came to claim her he took farewell with regret.

"Please write to me from France," she said; "You know my place at Mollinos."

He thought of the late Tom Marsh and his three hundred pounds' estate and wondered.

She laid her cool palm in his and for a second or so her splendid eyes held him. They seemed to search his mind, his very soul. Then:

"Good-bye, Cousin Tom. Remember to write. Don't tell me horrible things—how many Germans you have killed; and please, please don't tell me of your sufferings or your privations because I am awfully sensitive!"

He found himself that night standing outside Lord Mortimer's house, looking up at the lighted windows of the upper floors, speculating upon which of those rosy curtains shut out the world from this dainty and fragrant lady.

It was half-past twelve, and he had arranged to spend the night in the flat of an old Oxford friend, now a silver badge man working for the Red Cross.

London has a charm of its own and, declining the use of Lady Mortimer's car, he strolled aimlessly in the direction of his lodging. He called in at his club and wrote a few letters, met a man of his squadron on leave, who delayed him at a street corner whilst Tom retailed the latest news from the Front, and it was nearly two o'clock when he set forth in earnest to discover his friend's flat.

Like every Londoner, he did not know his London very well, though the West End is very difficult to lose yourself in. Nevertheless he found himself in a poor quarter of the town, without any idea as to where he was wandering or in which way he could reach Portland Place.

He was in a street of mean tenements when his adventure occurred. The door of one of the houses opened and a woman walked down the steps, crossed the road diagonally and in a direction which eventually brought her to the same sidewalk and ahead of Tom.

She might be unaware of his presence in the street, for he wore rubber protectors on his field boots, and certainly she gave no indication that she knew she was being followed.

At the corner of one of the cross streets she stopped suddenly, and Tom crossed the roadway so that he need not pass her. He thought possibly she had seen him and stopped to speak to him, and he had no particular desire for conversation.

He was half-way across to the opposite side walk when he saw he was mistaken. A man was approaching her furtively, and presently she spoke to him. Tom saw the newcomer take something from his pocket, a package of some kind, and hand it to the girl—and at that moment came a diversion.

From the shadows sprang another man, and Tom saw that it was a policeman. Where be came from, what secret hiding-place, the young soldier could only guess.

Without a word the policeman sprang upon the man, and Tom saw his truncheon rise and fall, and his victim collapse with an ominous limpness. Tom stood watching, a frown of indecision on his face. He knew that the blow which felled this wretched wanderer of the night was struck with no ordinary club. He knew, too, that English policemen do not ordinarily use their truncheons except in moments of peril.

Instinctively he realised that the man on the ground was dead. The policeman seized the girl by the arm and then, for the first time, he spoke.

"Your coup did not develop as you hoped," he said.

She answered him in a low tone.

"And nobody suspected it," he sneered. "I alone dared doubt you—all your plans, all your—"

What followed passed so swiftly that Tom had not taken half a dozen swift strides toward them when the thing was done.

He saw the policeman seize the woman, caught the flash of steel, and saw her wrench herself free. The man stooped to spring, and at that moment a quivering thread of flame leapt from the woman's band, the crash of a report woke the echoes of the silent streets, and the policeman staggered, swayed, and fell.

At that moment Tom reached them.

"What have you done?" he demanded.

He could not see the face, hidden behind a thick veil, but he saw in the light of a street standard that she was dressed in black from head to foot, and the figure was that of a girl.

The hand that held the pistol was bare and the space between thumb and forefinger was black with the back-fire of the automatic.

This he saw; then:

"Stand back!" She waved him off with the weapon, then turning, she flew swiftly.

He started in pursuit, but remembered the fallen policeman and turned back. Other feet were running and she would probably meet the constable on the next block. He had nearly reached the fallen policeman when he saw something lying on the ground and stooped to pick it up. It was a thin, flat piece of white ivory the size of a five-shilling piece, and it bore a rough resemblance to an eagle with outstretched wings. On its surface and burnt into the ivory were the ciphers "395" and the letters "K.I."

He slipped the "bone" into his pocket and was stooping over the dead officer when two other policemen arrived.

"What's this?" said one.

"I am afraid one of your men has been shot."

"One of our men?" said the policeman who wore the chevrons of a sergeant; "what is one of our men doing here? He's dead enough," he said, after a cursory examination. "Do you know this man, Constable Smith?"

"No, sir," said the other.

Torn looked over their heads as they unbuttoned the man's coat.

"Why," exclaimed one of the policemen in surprise, "he's in evening dress!"

He had flung back the uniform overcoat and disclosed the glazed shirt- front and the white waistcoat. Over the heart was a little red patch where the bullet had struck.

Tom leant down closer and received his second shock.

"Why—why—" he said.

"Do you know him?" asked the policeman.

"Yes, I know him," said Tom quietly; "his name is Count Stopl, and he is a friend of Lord Mortimer's."

A quarter of an hour later he was ringing the bell of the darkened house be had left before midnight. His aunt came down in her wrap. Briefly Tom narrated the events of the past crowded hour, and Lady Mortimer shook her head pityingly.

"The poor boy! I must go up and tell Dawn."

She left the room and was gone ten minutes. When she returned she was accompanied by the girl, who looked radiantly lovely in a flowered silk dressing-gown. She had, apparently, been roused from her slumbers, for her hair had been hastily stuffed under a boudoir cap.

She listened in silence whilst Tom told the story.

"It is all very dreadful," she said; "and now for the second time, Cousin Tom, good-night."

He took her hand in his and held it, looking down till she snatched it back from him.

"Good-night," he said, and went back to the police station to spend the time when he should have been sleeping making a signed statement of the crime he had witnessed, all the time conscious of the knowledge that between the thumb and the finger of Dawn's right hand was that little black splash of powder which an automatic pistol makes when it throws back.