Читать книгу The Road to London - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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MR. LOAMER'S car brought him to Kensington and to one of the broad avenues leading from the High Road. The Rolls stopped before the stone portico of a big corner house, and scarcely had his shining shoes touched the pavement when the door was opened by a footman. The financier strode into the hall, stopped before a mirror to arrange his cravat and smooth back a strand of hair that had come out of place. He brushed his coat, glanced at his hands a little anxiously, and mounted the broad stairway.

The room into which he was ushered was of magnificent proportions; the furniture old and costly. A priceless tapestry half covered one wall, the few pictures that glowed in the light of concealed lamps were veritable masters.

Though the day was warm, a small fire burnt in the big fireplace, before which sat a woman. She turned her head as he came in and her dark eyes surveyed him in an incurious stare. Her hair was a whitish-grey, the face sallow-pale, a pair of thin, bloodless lips and a huge hook nose were the striking features of her pinched face. About her neck were rope upon rope of pearls, a huge diamond sparkled in either ear, and it seemed that wherever jewels could be placed upon her person they had been pinned or hung. She glittered with every movement; her fingers were hardly visible for rings.

Mr. Loamer came nervously towards his mother, raised her hand to his lips and kissed an emerald or two.

"Sit down, George."

Meekly he sat on a low chair before her.

"You have seen the report of the Agar Syndicate?"

He nodded.

"Very unfortunate," mused Mrs. Loamer, "but not irremediable. Without my advice you would of course be ruined. How much have you lost?"

"The greater part of a hundred thousand pounds," said Mr Loamer huskily.

He did not protest that it was her idea to finance the fantastic scheme for mining rubies in a country which had never yet produced a ruby. He might look back across the wreckage of a score of schemes which she had propounded in her dominating way, and the past was littered with the debris of a dozen fortunes broken in the attempt to acquire easy money. The Sunken Treasure Scheme, the Cocos Island Expedition, the Sea Gold Syndicate—he could not think of them without wincing. But he made no comment.

She fingered her pointed chin thoughtfully.

"What exactly is the position, George?" she asked.

Mr. Loamer cleared his throat.

"The Bank have called in the overdraft, and Waltons threaten to sue for their account."

"How much is it?" she asked.

He mentioned a sum which would have staggered most people—Mrs. Loamer's eyes did not so much as blink.

"This wretched girl, October Jones—?" Mr. Loamer licked his lips.

"£143,000 18s 9d," he said exactly, "and it is her birthday next month."

His mother looked up at him.

"Her birthday?"

He nodded.

"Twenty-one. I must give—um—an account of my stewardship."

Her eyes narrowed.

"But I thought you said you hadn't touched that?"

"I can't touch it," he said, a little glumly, "until next month. There's a small sum—twenty thousand or so—involved in the securities which I have lodged against our overdraft, but the remainder is to all intents and purposes in Chancery. I merely administer the income."

Mrs. Loamer turned her gaze to the small fire, staring into its dull depths.

"I suppose the American did not come?" she said. "That was bad management on your part, George."

"He has come," he interrupted her, "and he has brought the money."

She looked round quickly at this.

"All the money—the amount you suggested?"

He nodded.

"He has brought it in cash—dollar bills. I made that clear to him when I was in New York. You cannot operate in rubber without you have fluid capital. The money is deposited in my name at the Birmingham Bank."

Their eyes met.

"I am bringing him to dinner to-morrow night, mother," Mr Loamer went on nervously. "He is a peculiar young man, but I think you will like him."

"Peculiar?" She frowned. Mrs. Loamer was something of the grand lady; she did not like peculiar men, young or old; they jarred with her stateliness.

"Not vulgar, I hope?" she suggested.

"No, no," he hastened to assure her, "certainly not vulgar. He is inclined to make extravagant bets. On the way to the Carlton he offered to bet me a thousand pounds that we should meet a green taxi driven by a man with a red moustache."

"That savours certainly of vulgarity," said Mrs. Loamer icily.

She thought a little while.

"Yes, you may bring him to dinner. We will have the gold service, and I would like Cavalini to sing to us after dinner."

Mr. Loamer wiggled.

"He will charge two hundred, and I'm not certain that we can get him at such short notice," he wailed.

Mrs. Loamer's hand waved majestically.

"Don't be tiresome, George. Arrange this for me. And that new Polish violinist is in London—Bourjerliski. I should like to hear him. Lady Elmer told me that he played at the Duchess of Alton's party the other night, and his terms are quite moderate—a hundred and fifty, and twenty-five for the accompanist. Arrange this also, George."

Mr. Loamer sighed heavily and nodded.

"This October woman—we must do something about her. Is she pretty?"

George Loamer scratched his chin.

"I suppose she is. She's rather a nuisance. I'm sending her away on the Continent for three or four months—things may straighten out by then. Miss Elvington was in to-day."

He said this with some significance; so terrified was he of this eagle-faced woman that he never made any direct revelation of thought, and in all their association had approached delicate matters obliquely.

"Miss Elvington?"

The old woman pursed her thin lips.

"Poor Marcus! I am sorry for him. But it was necessary'. Let that be an example for you, George. I put aside all my own feelings, my own emotions, for the good of the House. It is unfortunate that we should have lost the money in an aeroplane invention introduced by that objectionable young man whose lies I will never forgive."

Again he might have protested that the objectionable young man had not been his friend, but hers.

She sat thinking, her chin on her palm, her eyes closed, and so fearful was he of interrupting her that he scarcely dared breathe. Presently the big eyes opened and transfixed him.

"When you were in America, I asked you to do something for me."

He wriggled uncomfortably in his chair and did not answer.

"I have always been interested," she went on slowly, "in that type of desperado which certain cities of the United States seem to produce so prolifically," She paused.

"I found two men," he answered doggedly. "I told you I found them. A State detective brought me in touch with them. But what use would they be to us? Don't you see, mother, you would be putting our lives in their hands?"

"Do you know their addresses?" she interrupted him.

He nodded mutely.

"Cable them money to come here," she said. "I have no doubt the American police will be glad to see the back of them."

"But what use—?"

"Cable them!" It was an order.

"October." Mrs. Loamer shook her head and frowned. "I think you had better marry her," she said astonishingly, and Mr. Loamer staggered.

"Marry her?" he almost squeaked. "But, my dear mother, she would not think of marrying me." And then, with a sudden burst of almost hysterical fury: "Can't we sell things? Can't you give up this place? It costs a fortune. Cavalini! We might be able to pull things out of the fire. I've got these three houses running and they are ruinous! And the risk... suppose old Elvington's found, or other things come out... ruin—imprisonment perhaps. Mother, I've always done what you wished. Always. You could have saved me a lot of worry. You should have looked after October... she doesn't even know that you exist...."

His voice graded down to a dismal plaint.

Mrs. Loamer silenced him with an upraised hand.

"I see everything," she said simply and majestically. "George, you may go. Bring your friend to-morrow at half-past eight. By the time you have returned I shall have had one of my Inspirations."

It was a crushed and baffled man who crawled back into his car. He sat bunched up in one corner, his chin on his breast, his mind a confusion. This woman who planned so madly would be his ruin, his death. And yet he had lived in bondage to her all his life.

Long after the car had struck the open country road he was trying to collect his wild thoughts into a coherent stream.

The car swept up the broad drive of Market Chase. He saw a slim figure practising putts on the lawn. She turned her head as he descended from the car, and went on with her task. There was neither friendliness nor antagonism in the gaze that met his; rather a painful patience.

"Have you been back long, my dear?"

"An hour," she said laconically, and swung her putter again.

"Milton brought you back all right? I saw you in the office."

The clear, grave eyes met his.

"Milton took me to your office, where I cashed a cheque; he took me to Dover Street; he saw me carefully inside the car and brought me back."

Mr. Loamer forced a laugh.

"My dear, you go on as though he were your keeper," he said. "Why didn't you come and see me? That wasn't friendly, October."

She sighed impatiently and faced him again.

"They told me you were terribly busy. I saw you peeping at me through your little spy-hole, and I felt rather as if I were being exhibited. Who was the other sightseer?"

Mr. Loamer coughed.

"A young American, a fellow named Nigel Black—um—he thought you were pretty."

"Do Americans think such things?" she asked with a half-smile.

There was an awkward pause here. Mr. Loamer, taking the putter from her hand, was examining it curiously, as though he had never seen such an instrument before.

"In a few days, my dear October," he said oracularly, "the world will be opening for you. New sights, new visions, new experiences will come to you. And I am wondering—um—whether you will enjoy your new-found freedom."

"I'm wondering, too," she said, her eyes twinkling.

"It is a grave responsibility for you, and not only for you, but for me. I suppose—um—marriage will come in the ordinary course of events, and I am wondering, October, indeed I am deeply concerned, whether it would not be better if you remained a little longer under my care until your mind matures, as it were. The world is full of fortune-hunting men, and the young girl is wise who chooses as a mate a man, let us say, of riper years and experience."

She was looking at him steadily, but obviously she was thinking of something else. Her mind was miles away.

"Nigel Black," she said. "That name seems almost familiar—he's an American millionaire, isn't he? Is he a friend of yours?"

"A very dear friend," said Mr. Loamer. He was not being untruthful from his point of view, for all friends of his were "very dear friends."

"I remember now," she said presently. "I read a book of his." Mr. Loamer's mouth opened in an O of astonishment. He was totally unaware of his dear friend's literary achievements.

"Wait a moment!" She flew into the house, was gone a minute or two and, coming back to meet him in the hall with a book in her hand: "It is he," she said triumphantly. "Look!"

He took the book from her and turned to the title page. It was called The Hobo Student, and the brief introduction told of a Yale scholar who had spent his vacation amongst the tramps of Western America, "riding the rails and decking the fliers" with the best of the professionals.

"I'd love to meet him, Mr. Loamer."

"Uncle," he murmured, but that invitation had never been accepted.

"Couldn't you bring him here? You've no idea how terribly dull it is at Market Chase. Perhaps," she added wickedly, "that might solve the problem of my marriage."

Mr. Loamer, who was a delicate man, winced at the crudity'.