Читать книгу The Man Who Was Nobody - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

Table of Contents

MARJORIE STEDMAN, confidential stenographer to the firm of Vance & Vance, left Park Buildings, happy to find herself again in the cool air of a spring evening. So that was Sir James Tynewood! Hitherto he had been a name written upon one of the black deed boxes in her employer's office. Sir James Tynewood! The bearer of an ancient and honoured name, a name which to her mind recalled the chivalry of ancient days—and he was a drunkard, a sot, a vulgarian who consorted with that kind of company! She shivered at the recollection.

She reached the office in Bloomsbury after all the clerks had left. Mr Vance, grey-haired, was waiting for her in his own office and he looked at her curiously as she entered.

"Well, Miss Stedman, did you deliver my letter?" he asked.

"Yes, Mr Vance," she said.

"To Sir James Tynewood?"

She nodded. The lawyer was eyeing her more keenly.

"What is the matter with you? You look a little pale. Have you had an accident?"

She shook her head. "I had rather an uncomfortable experience," she said, and related what had happened.

The lawyer bit his lip in annoyance. "I am sorry I did not think you would be subjected to that kind of treatment or I would have gone myself," he said. "You quite understand, Miss Stedman, that I could not send one of the clerks."

"I know the message was confidential," she acknowledged. She did not tell him that she had wondered why a clerk had not taken that letter, and as if reading her thoughts the lawyer said:

"One day you will know why I asked you to go to see—Sir James Tynewood," he said. "I am very much obliged to you indeed. I suppose Sir James gave you no answer?"

She hesitated. "He gave me one which I shouldn't care to repeat, for it was somewhat uncomplimentary to you, Mr Vance," she said with a smile.

The lawyer nodded. "It is a bad business," he said after a pause. "You're sure Sir James said nothing else?"

"Not to me," replied the girl. "He said—" she hesitated again. "A lady asked him what the message was about and he replied that the man he hated had come back."

"The man he hated!" repeated the lawyer with a sad little smile. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he rose. "It's a bad business," he repeated as he reached for his coat from the hook on the wall, and then as though changing the subject—"so we're losing you at the end of the week, Miss Stedman?"

"Yes, Mr Vance, I'm sorry to go. I've been very happy here."

"From a selfish point of view I'm sorry too," said the lawyer, struggling into his coat, "but for your sake I am very pleased. Has your uncle found that gold reef he was looking for?"

The girl smiled. "No, but he has made a lot of money in South Africa, and he's been awfully good to mother and myself. You did not know Uncle Solomon, did you?"

"I met him once twenty years ago," said the lawyer. "Your father brought him to the office one day and he struck me as being rather a character."

He walked to the door and stood as though waiting for her to pass out.

"You've no more work to do?" he said in surprise, as she showed no intention of following him.

The girl smiled. "I have the statement of claim for James Vesson to type before I go," she said, and Mr Vance uttered an exclamation of impatience.

"What a fool I am! Why of course," he said. "I ought not to have sent you out. But won't it do in the morning, Miss Stedman?" he asked half-heartedly for he knew that the statement had to be filed early.

She shook her head laughingly. "I really don't mind staying a little late, Mr Vance," she replied. "I have nothing to do tonight, and the statement will only take me two hours, and I would much rather do it tonight than come up early in the morning."

"Very well," said Mr Vance. "Good night, Miss Stedman. I have only just time to catch my train to Brighton. I will ring you up in the morning and you can tell me if there is any news of importance."

Left alone, she passed into the little room leading out of the lawyer's office, and in a few minutes her typewriter was clattering rapidly as she made an attempt to overtake her arrears of work. She had reached the fourth folio of a long, dry and monotonous statement of claim, when she thought she heard a knock at the door of the outer office and paused, listening. The knock was repeated and she rose, wondering what belated client had appeared at this late hour of the evening. She opened the door, expecting to find a telegraph boy but to her surprise the figure of a man confronted her.

He was a tall man, dressed in a shabby grey flannel suit, and she noted in that odd, inconsequential way which people have when taking their first impression of a stranger, that he wore no collar or tie. A soft white shirt, open at the neck, a battered grey Stetson hat on the back of his head, completed the mental picture. His lean, good-looking face was tanned to a dull mahogany and a pair of grey watchful eyes surveyed her.

"Is Mr Vance in?" he asked curtly; though she noticed he took off his hat when he spoke to her.

"No, Mr Vance has been gone ten minutes," said the girl.

The stranger licked his lips. "Do you know where I can find him?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Ordinarily I could tell you," she said with a smile, "though it isn't customary to give Mr Vance's private address to visitors. But tonight he has gone to Brighton to stay with a friend over the weekend, and he did not leave his address." She hesitated. "Perhaps you would like to give me your name?" she asked and he hesitated.

"Are you likely to get into communication with him?"

She nodded. "He will call me on the 'phone tomorrow morning to discover if there is anything which requires his attention," she said. "I could give him your name then."

He still stood in the passage and realizing that this man, in spite of his unprepossessing attire, might be some client of importance, she pulled the door wider open.

"Won't you come and sit down for a moment?" she said. "Perhaps you would like to write a message to Mr Vance?"

He came slowly into the room and stood for a moment looking at the chair she had drawn forward for him.

"No, I won't write anything," he said after a pause. "But when he calls up tomorrow will you tell him that Mr Smith has arrived from Pretoria?"

He spoke deliberately and emphatically "You will remember—Mr Smith from Pretoria. And tell him I want him to get into communication with me at once."

"Mr Smith from Pretoria," she repeated, scribbling down the name on a scrap of paper, and wondering how important this Pretoria Smith might be. She had a vague feeling that, although he was looking at her steadily he was not seeing her. A little frown upon his forehead spoke eloquently of his preoccupation, and she had the sensation of being looked through, rather than being looked at.

He stared down at the desk again.

"I will write a message," he said. "Can you give me pen and paper?"

"There is pen and paper on the table," she laughed in spite of herself, and a dull-red flush came into the tanned face.

"I am very sorry" he stammered apologetically, "but I am not seeing things today"

"I had that impression too," said the girl, and a faint smile showed at the corner of the man's mouth. She went to the farther end of the room for fear he thought she might be overlooking him as he wrote; but he seemed to find some difficulty in framing the words he had to put upon the paper. He sat for fully five minutes, nibbling the end of his pen.

"No, I won't write," he said, and put the pen down as he got up to his feet. "Just tell Mr Vance that Mr Smith of Pretoria called. I think that will be sufficient. He knows where to find me."

There was a footstep in the corridor outside, the handle of the door turned and it opened. The newcomer was evidently in too much hurry to knock.

"Where's Vance?" he asked as he came in. It was Sir James Tynewood, a little dishevelled and red of face..

"Mr Vance has gone," said the girl, but Sir James made no reply He was staring at the shabby man from Pretoria.

"My God!" he said in a quaking voice. "You—Jot!"

They stood looking at each other, the half-drunken young baronet and the man from Pretoria, and the latter's face was fixed in an inscrutable mask. The silence which followed was painful for the girl. She sensed a tragedy here, and her quick intuitions placed her in a moment upon the side of the South African visitor.

"Do you know Sir James Tynewood?" she faltered.

Slowly the head of Pretoria Smith turned towards her, and he showed his white teeth in a mirthless smile.

"I know Sir James Tynewood very well," he said, and then addressing the other, he said sternly: "You will meet me tomorrow evening at the Chase, Sir James Tynewood."

The young man stood shaking in every limb, his face a sickly white, his head bent. "I will see you tomorrow," he mumbled huskily and staggered from the room.