Читать книгу Private Selby - Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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DICK SELBY spent his last night of freedom in town. His good landlady paid to the last penny, he had left weeping pitiably; his clothing he had disposed of with no regret. Every debt paid, he found himself with a balance of ten shillings, on the strength of which he engaged a bed for one night at a little temperance hotel in Stamford Street.

He had no fixed plans for the evening, and when, after a modest tea, he began strolling aimlessly along the Strand, amidst the roar of traffic, it was less as the result of definite effort than from a desire to move, move, move in some direction—and think.

There were so many things to think about. The Brown Lady. She had given him the address of an aunt in Plymouth to whom she was going. Her father's conviction was a foregone conclusion; her brother was a fugitive from justice. She was starting afresh as Dick was starting. Ahead was a new and a difficult part, rough-hewn and uneven to their tread, beset by a thousand thorny obstructions—but at the end of the way, though she had not said it in so many words, was a great happiness for them both.

Two infantry men came swinging through the crowd. Dick eyed them curiously and with a new interest. They were very amused about something, and as they passed him he caught a scrap of their talk.

"So Bill sez to the O.C. 'Beg pardon, sir, I'd like a court-martial...'"

A curious thing to be amused about, thought Dick..."O.C." He flushed a little. There would be two "O.C.'s" for him—one of them had glorious, calm eyes that searched his very soul.

He watched the soldiers until they had disappeared into the crowd, noticed their erect carriage, and the swing of their shoulders; noticed, too, their well-fitting uniform, and their extraordinary air of independence.

He pursued his walk westward.

There was another man in that part of the world who had chosen a route almost identical with Dick's—only he had an object and a destination in view, and was slouching towards it, with his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, and his dancing eyes glancing suspiciously from side to side.

Laddo, released on bail, because of his supreme usefulness, was collecting evidence for the police, and came upon Dick at the corner of Northumberland Avenue.

He eyed Dick suspiciously.

"Hullo! What are yer follerin' me about for?" he asked.

Dick smiled. "Don't talk nonsense, Laddo," he said. "How can I be following you?"—he stopped suddenly—" I thought you were in custody."

Laddo grinned.

"They got the wrong feller, Dick," he lied easily. "They found out that they'd made a mistake."

"Did they? Well, good night." Dick turned away with a nod.

"Here, hold hard." Laddo put his hand on his arm. "You ain't in a hurry, are you?"

Dick was not in a hurry, but he had descended from the clouds to the solid earth with the realization that Laddo represented all that was most mundane.

"Come a little way with me, Dicky," urged Laddo, "there's a boozer round the corner. Oh, I forgot, you don't drink, do you? Well, there's a coffee-shop by Charing Cross."

"I'm afraid—" began Dick.

"I want to tell you something." Laddo was very earnest—for Laddo. "Something that'll do you a bit of good."

Very reluctantly Dick Selby turned his feet in the direction of the Strand.

Laddo did not speak until they found themselves in a deserted corner of the smoking-room of an "ABC."

"Look here, Dick," he began, "I'm on to a big thing. You've heard about me turnin' 'split' on Old Fox? Well, I had to—but perhaps you didn't hear?"

Dick had heard, and nodded.

"He's finished "—Laddo swept Mr. Fox out of existence with a wave of his hand—" done for, so there's no good worryin' about him. But there's other things—"

He paused, and for a minute or two ruminated, as though framing the exact words in which his proposition should be put.

"There's certain people," he said slowly, "who want to help him—in a way. Look here!" he burst forth, bringing his white face closer to Dick's. "Never mind about the old man—see! There's certain other people... an' the old man's got friends who'd help them—see? Now, you're a nice, respectable young feller, with a gentlemanly way, so when Oxstead sez to me: 'Can't you set one of your friends to persuade her?' I thought of you."

A light was beginning to dawn on Dick. Out of the disjointed and inconsequent speech of Laddo he constructed the nebulae of a meaning.

"Go on," he said.

"It's the daughter," said Laddo, speaking rapidly, now he had made his opening. "A rare stunnin' girl—pretty!... In a way, but not my ways. I've seen her dozens of times up at the old man's house. She treated me like dirt, she did. A rare high-stepper!"

He shook his head in reluctant admiration.

"Oxstead found her to-night, stayin' in a little West End Hotel, an' booked off to-morrow to the West of England; so Oxstead, who's a reg'lar terror with the girls, said, 'No; she ain't goin' to waste herself down in Devonshire'—see me meanin'?"

Laddo smirked knowingly, and Dick went white to the lips. Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded again.

"A fine gel," Laddo resumed, "but not the sort of gel I should choose; but Oxstead likes 'em that way," he said vaguely, "an' he's arranged to see her to-night, an' persuade her to stop, so I thought—"

"Who is Oxstead?" asked Dick gruffly.

Laddo opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Oxstead! Not know Oxstead?" Then he remembered that Dick was an outsider. "Oh, Oxstead is quite a gentleman; fur-lined coat, big gold chain, di'mond pin, an' half a dozen di'mond rings—Oxstead's a perfect gentleman."

He shot a sidelong glance at Dick.

"Oxstead thinks she might talk; you see, Oxstead used to go to Mr. Fox's, only nobody knows that except me, an'," he shivered a little, "I ain't likely to split."

"But what does he want with—with her?" asked Dick, his voice scarcely raised above a whisper.

"He'll do the right thing," said Laddo righteously. "Oxstead is too much of a gentleman not to do the right thing. He'll marry her."

Laddo's sly smile was very sinister.

"There's an old woman down Lambeth way who'll look after her till Oxstead's ready," he said, with his death's-head grin.

All this time Dick's brain was in a whirl.

"But me," he said, "you spoke of me. What can I do? Where do I come in?"

Laddo looked round to see if there was a chance of their conversation being overheard.

"You're a friend of the old man's—see?" he said, dropping his voice, "an' a friend of Tom's, what has always been warnin' him against his goin's on; you're Honest Mike, an' you persuade her to do the right thing—see?"

"I see," said Dick between his teeth.

Laddo rose with a thoughtful frown.

"Suppose you meet me in an hour's time at the corner of St. James's Square? "he suggested, and Dick nodded.

Outside, Laddo became enthusiastic. "Bein' straight is a great thing, Dicky," he said; "that's why I trust you an' say things to you I wouldn't say to anybody else. Do you think you'll be able to do the trick with her?" he asked with a show of anxiety.

"I think so," said Dick grimly.