Читать книгу Private Selby - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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AT 400, Friendly Street, lived Hampson, plasterer. A curious name, yet genuine, if one might believe the painted name over the parlour window.

The bills, too, which he was wont in prosperous times to send out, were headed "Hampson, Plasterer." The words were printed in large type, with a picture of a swallow on the wing (added by the artistic printer) as a subtle suggestion of Mr. Hampson's decorative ability.

The Hampsons were at supper when Dick reached home. They supped in state in the kitchen, Mr. Hampson in his shirt sleeves, Mrs. Hampson in her stockinged feet, for her Saturday night boots were just a little tight, and Miss Hampson in the undiscarded finery that had accompanied her that evening to the theatre.

Dick declined the invitation to the feast. Mounting the stairs to his little bedroom he lit the paraffin lamp, and sat down to unlace his boots. Facing him was a crayon enlargement of Mr. Hampson's father, and over the washstand was a text-card, "Blessed are the pure in heart " (and, in slightly smaller letters, "Printed in Holland "). There was an almanac with a text for every day in the year, and on the mantelshelf, between the two china ornaments, his little stock of books. He regarded them ruefully. Smiles' Self-help: the author's name suggested sardonic merriment at the efforts of the ambitious underling. Gibbon's Decline and Fall: a literary young man had suggested this, but it bored Dick to extinction. How to Become an Author (2s. 6d.): there were excellent notes on the correction of proofs, but, somehow, nobody wanted proofs corrected, so the half-crown had been wasted.

He sat on the edge of the bed thinking. Laddo... Perhaps it wasn't the house, after all—perhaps it was a genuine job, and there was nothing sinister in the suggestion... but Laddo was keen on extracting a promise of secrecy. Old Cull, too. He had given him tips before, and they had "come off": sums varying in size from 3s. to 12s. had come as a result. Suppose "The Snooker" won, and suppose he raked together a couple of pounds, or even three, and it won at twenty to one! You can get to Canada for a few pounds and buy a piece of land for a song; build a hut, perhaps find gold, and make a fortune. Three pounds at twenty to one would produce £60 and your £3 back. Total, £63.

Thus he mused as he slowly prepared for bed.

He might cut himself adrift from the Laddos and the Gills, though he liked Chimmy Gill well enough. He might shake off the oppressive sameness of life, and side-slip violently out of a most appalling groove.

He blew out the light and huddled into bed, the little alarum-clock upon the mantelpiece ticking noisily.

Men have risen from the gutter to the very highest places in the land, but they started fair. They never drifted into the doldrums of respectability. They never pottered their Saturday afternoons away in slug-infested suburban gardens. They did tremendous things, such things as going to New York and landing without a copper... how many years might a man have to work before he acquired a fortune... and would he find the Brown Lady when he came back?... he dozed.

He had been sleeping for an hour when he suddenly awoke.

His room faced the street and he must have heard the pattering of feet and the shrill whistle.

He leapt out of bed and threw open the window as the two policemen came panting up. They caught sight of his face.

"Did you see him?" they gasped.

"Who?"

"A young feller—he couldn't have got away. He's in the street somewhere. How do these houses run? What is at the back?"

Dick thought.

"There's a narrow passage at the back; it leads from the stables at the corner," he reported.

"Get up and show us the way," said one of the policemen brusquely.

Other feet came running along the street, and Dick caught a glimpse of helmets.

He hurried into his clothes, put on a pair of slippers, came down softly, and opened the door. Mr. and Mrs. Hampson slept at the back of the house, and were apparently undisturbed.

As he came into the street he heard the constable reporting to a belated inspector.

"We took all but two, sir. One got clean away and the other we followed here—a bit of a boy, he was. He must have nipped over the stable gate and got round the back of these houses—hallo! here's the man who can tell us."

In a few words Dick described the topography of the place. He found himself doing this regretfully.

His training, his associations, his whole life urged him to a view of the case that favoured the criminal.

It was a "Snide factory" that the police had raided—a big counterfeiting establishment near Church Street, and the haul had been complete, except for the two who had escaped. This much he learnt from the comments of the policemen.

Suddenly...

"See here, my lad," said the inspector briskly, "whilst a couple of my men get over the stable gate, you go quietly through the back-yard and peep into the passage. I suppose there's a door leading into it."

"Yes, sir," said Dick.

"Off you go, then," said the inspector, "he's only a little fellow; he won't eat you, if he's there."

Dick reluctantly obeyed.

Tiptoeing his way, he passed through the tiny kitchen, with the remnants of the night's supper still littering the table, softly unbolted the fowl-yard door and stepped into the darkness of the "garden." He felt his way along by the fowl-house until his fingers touched the rusty bolt of the back gate, and with a heart that beat noisily he slipped it back. Suppose it was Laddo, or any of his "friends"! They were connected with some shady business or other—of that he was sure. He could not give them away.

He stepped cautiously into the inky blackness of the narrow passage-way, and at the end of the block he could hear the policemen noisily scaling the stable gate.

Then he saw something. A crouching form at his very feet; he reached down, and roughly seized it.

"Oh, please, please!" whispered a voice.

"Come in here!"

Dick pulled his captive into the yard, and carefully bolted the gate again.

"You little fool," he muttered, for the boy in his hands was little better than a child, and Dick was bitterly angry at the folly and uselessness, and the waste of it all. He couldn't hand this kid to the police. Had it been Laddo, or one of the "boys," he might have got the better of his distaste for bringing a criminal to justice, but this was a child.

"Step softly," he whispered, as he led the way through the kitchen. "Now go up those stairs, to the front room, and wait till I come."

He joined the waiting policemen at the door.

"Seen anything?" demanded the inspector.

"No," lied Dick promptly, and the officer seemed annoyed.

"Have you got any eyes?" he demanded querulously.

"I used to have," retorted Dick, "but I haven't seen 'em lately."

"You're impertinent, my lad," and just then the men who had scoured the passage returned with news of their failure.

Dick waited until the police had gone, then slowly ascended to his room, pondering on a line of action.

But for the disturbance he would create, a sound thrashing suggested itself for the erring youth above; it might reform him.

Dick opened the door of his room, and closed it behind him.

"Now, young fellow," he whispered fiercely, "what do you mean by getting yourself into this bother?"

Only a stifled sob answered him.

"Oh, it's no good you snivelling," said the irritated Dick, "get out of the way whilst I light the lamp."

"No, no!" implored the boy, in a terrified whisper, "they—they will see outside."

"Don't be silly; the blinds are down," said Dick gruffly.

"Don't light the lamp," whispered the other. "I'm—I'm ashamed of myself, sir—I don't want you to see me."

There was something innately delicate in Dick Selby's composition, and he softened.

"All right," he said, and threw himself on to the bed, dressed as he was." Now, tell me how you got into this business."

"I'm not," whispered the boy eagerly. "I'm not in it; I was there when the police came, and ran away. I went because—because—"

Dick waited.

"Because?" he asked.

"I had to—there was somebody there I wanted to see."

It sounded very lame, and the worldly wise young man on the bed marked down his visitor as an unplausible liar.

"You'd better lie down here for a few hours," he said coldly. "In the morning I'll smuggle you out."

The boy hesitated for a moment.

"You'll find my overcoat behind the door," said Dick shortly. "If you don't care about lying on the bed, you can lie on the floor."

He heard the visitor stretch himself on the rug by the fireplace and shied a pillow in his direction.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said.

He drew the blanket over himself, and dozed off... the dreams that the police whistle had so rudely disturbed came back to him in their serene order... £60 to £3... Canada—a log hut and the... the Brown Lady with the goldy brown hair, and fearless, grey eyes... her sweet mouth.

He sat up suddenly.

"What the devil are you crying about?" he asked savagely.

"It's—it's hard here," said a voice from the floor, with a pitiful catch, "and—and I'm so wretched."

"Well, come up here, you young fool."

"Are you coming?" he asked after a pause.

"No," said the boy.

"Then stay where you are," said the host callously, "and if you make any more row I'll get up and smack your head."

"Brute!" whispered the ungrateful visitor, and Dick grinned in the darkness.

He dozed again, but there came into his dreams a persistent noise like somebody drawing his breath sharply and jerkily.

Dick reached out his hand for the matches, fumbled at them, and dropped them on the floor.

Then impatiently he slipped from the bed and lifted the crying boy up.

There was a curious fragrance hanging about this midnight fugitive—a strange scent of lavender. Dick's hand trembled, and he stooped swiftly and found the matches. He lit one with an unsteady hand. Then he gave a little cry and staggered back, for there stood before him, with tear-stained face and downcast eyes, the Brown Lady of his dreams, her hair falling over the collar of her boy's coat, and her nervous fingers clasping and unclasping in her agitation.

"You—you're very unkind," she said reproachfully, "to strike a light when I asked you not to do it."

"I'm sorry," whispered the youth hoarsely, dropping the match, "I didn't know."

"I should hope you didn't," she said with severity, "or else you would not have been so horridly unfeeling. The floor is very hard. You might have taken the floor yourself and offered me the bed."

He was trying, as they stood in the darkness, to marshal his thoughts; his brain was whirling, whirling, till he felt he must be mad. This was the Brown Lady, he told himself; she lived in a big house in Lewisham; she had a carriage and servants, and was rich. All that part of it was easy enough to remember; it was the other that was so difficult. She was here in a boy's suit—in his room—a fugitive from the police—all this was maddeningly unreal. He was terribly afraid of her, or else why did he tremble so?

"Your name is Selby, isn't it?" she asked, and his heart jumped into his mouth. "I've seen you lots of times, and I asked our gardener to find out your name."

Dick made no reply, and she seemed to expect none; and for the minutes that seemed like the very space of all time there was silence in the room, save for the very aggressive ticking of the little clock.

"I suppose," she went on slowly, "you want to know why—why I am like this?"

"No." He summoned all his courage before he could find his voice, and it sounded oddly like a hoarse squeak.

"Yes, you do," she persisted. "I know you have all kinds of uncharitable thoughts in your mind; you think I'm horrid. But I won't tell you."

"I don't want to know," he managed to say.

There was another long pause; then he grew bolder.

"I'm going to take you home," he said.

"They will see me."

"No, they won't," he said decisively; "I'll take you a long way round—you can wear my overcoat."

"Have you—have you?" she began falteringly.

"Have you got a—a skirt or something I could wear?"

"Skirts," said Dick, with a sudden realization of the humour of the situation, "are not part of my usual equipment. I'm afraid the overcoat is the nearest approach to a lady's costume I can offer you."

He put on his coat, and wrapped a muffler round his throat, then he went to the window and took a swift survey of the street.

"You'll have to take your shoes in your hand," he warned her.

Together they walked gingerly down the creaking stairs, Dick in a fret of fear lest the Hampsons should wake. He closed the door behind them. The street was deserted. Eastward a grey haze of light indicated the coming dawn. He slipped on his shoes, and the girl followed his example; then they stepped briskly towards Brook Lane.

They went by unaccustomed ways: they took the dark little path that runs alongside the Ravensbourne, and that terminates at Lewisham. Dick knew the house. It was a palatial establishment on Black-heath. He showed the way in silence.

"You walk very fast," the girl complained, and he muttered some reply.

"You think badly of me, don't you?" she asked„ as they turned to breast the rise of Blackheath Hill.

"I think " he began, then stopped. He could not tell her what he thought, and so he pressed his lips together more tightly.

They came to the big carriage gate that he knew so well, and they halted.

She put out her hand.

"Good-bye, Mr. Selby," she said softly. "I am very grateful to you—and—and you have been such a gentleman."

He did not speak, only took her little hand in his and held it for a moment.

She turned to go, then paused irresolutely.

"Why aren't you a soldier?!" she demanded suddenly.

"A soldier?" stammered Dick.

In the growing dawn she stood, a quaint figure in her boy's dress. As she nodded, a strand of hair that she had gathered up under her cap fell across her face.

"All men should be soldiers," she went on gravely.

The idea was revolutionary. It took Dick's breath away. It was unthinkable. A soldier? Why, a soldier was a person in a red coat, who got drunk, and about whom music-hall artistes sang comic songs. From which reflection it may be gathered how perilously near to respectability he had reached.

Then an idea struck him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Elise," she answered readily, "but my friends call me—"

She stopped. "Good-bye." She gave him a whimsical little nod and smile and was gone.