Читать книгу Sanctuary Island - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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RICHARD ANSON, as he sat at his desk in his comfortable study, had the appearance of a man who was perfectly satisfied with the world in general and with himself in particular. He was leaning back in his revolving chair, with the tips of his white, well-manicured fingers pressed together and a smile of approval on his face, as, with his head tilted slightly backwards, he listened attentively to his secretary, who was seated beside the desk, reading from a notebook.

Every now and then, in a pause between sentences, Celia Paterson raised her golden head and her big eyes bestowed on Richard Anson a glance which suggested that she found him every bit as satisfactory as he found himself.

Most women, if they had ignored his steely grey eyes, which were just a little too small and set a little too close together, would have been inclined to agree with him. Anson had always been secretly proud of his figure, and at the age of fifty-two he rarely surveyed himself in the long mirror in his dressing-room without telling himself, quite truthfully, that he would easily pass for ten years younger. His hair had greyed a little at the temples, but his face had few lines in it, and so long as the skin-food which he applied to his face each night continued to do its work he did not worry about a few grey hairs which, he felt, only lent him an added dignity. He was dressed, as always, with impressive neatness, from the soles of his impeccable shoes, which a carping critic might have found a little too small for a man of Anson's height, to the crown of his well-groomed head.

Everything about Richard Anson was impressive: the massive mahogany desk at which he was seated, the thick pile carpet on the floor, the general air of solid prosperity which pervaded the whole house. If you visited Anson, you were impressed first by the aloof dignity of his butler, and then in turn by the distance you had to cover between the door of his study and the desk; by the way in which he rose to welcome you and waved you to a chair; by the oracular manner in which he made the simplest statement; and if Celia Paterson chanced to be in the room, you would probably have found her hardly less impressive. You would have realized at any rate that she was of the type to attract the attention of anyone who tended to be impressionable. Once again a carping critic might have found that her hair was just a little too golden, her eye-lashes a little too black, her lips a little too scarlet and forming a cupid's bow a little too perfect to be natural, but even a carping critic might have been inclined to forget all this if her big blue eyes had given him one of the adoring looks which she was now bestowing, as opportunity offered, on her employer.

"This sainted woman," read Celia, in her soft, slightly husky voice, "whose sacrifice we have gathered together today to commemorate—"

Anson raised a smooth, white hand.

"Just a moment, please, Miss Paterson," he said. "'Martyrdom', I think would be better. Just alter 'sacrifice' to 'martyrdom' and we'll leave the speech as it is. Type it out for me as soon as possible If anything should occur to you which you think might improve it, I shall welcome the suggestion."

Celia rose from her chair, smiling.

"I'm sure I couldn't possibly improve it, Mr. Anson," she said, "I think it's absolutely wonderful. You must feel very proud, Mr. Anson, to think that Anna Rita Rymer was your own sister."

Anson smiled.

"Actually, she was my half-sister, but I am none the less proud of the relationship. She was in many ways a most remarkable woman, and a good woman. No woman who was not could have done what Anna Rita Rymer did."

"And did she really do all the wonderful things you mention in your speech?"

Anson nodded.

"As I say in my speech, Miss Paterson, she was happy to sacrifice everything for the sake of her ideals, to give up all that a young woman naturally holds most dear, to go out to China as a missionary, to undergo hardship and privation, to risk disease and danger, and in the end to suffer a terrible death at the hands of Chinese bandits. I have no hesitation in saying, Miss Paterson," added Anson, in his best oratorical style, "that no woman in this country has been a greater power for good, exercised a greater spiritual influence, or set a greater example of self-sacrifice and devotion to duty than Anna Rita Rymer."

"I think it's wonderful," breathed Celia ecstatically. "I think it would be marvellous—"

The telephone bell rang, and, without waiting to explain what had aroused her sense of the marvellous, Celia picked up the receiver, listened for a moment and turned to Anson.

"It's Mr. Doran—from London."

Anson almost snatched the receiver from her hand and clapped it to his ear, but his voice, when he spoke, had none of its usual brusqueness. Mark Doran was what is commonly known as a power in the world of finance and it behoved even Richard Anson to address him with some show of deference.

"Is that you, Mr. Doran? Anson speaking. Very good of you to ring me."

"Don't mention it, Anson," came Doran's voice.

"You got my letter?"

"I had it this morning. But I rang up about my young nephew. I am obliged to you Anson. He'll enjoy a brief stay in your part of the world before he leaves for China. By the way, if you can persuade him that in going to China as a missionary he's chucking his life away, you'll be doing him a good turn. I told him yesterday that if he's aching to convert the heathen he could find plenty of work in the West End of London. I hope Mrs. Anson isn't too annoyed with me for springing a guest on her like this?"

"Not at all." Anson assured him. "We shall be only too pleased to welcome him. As regards my letter—"

"Ah. yes—your letter. Well, it's a great deal of money, and before I come to any decision you must give me a chance to think it over. It's not the sort of thing to be rushed into. Within the next day of two I may ask you to run up to town and see me."

Anson frowned, but his tone was as deferential as ever. "Certainly. Any date you care to name. As far as I am concerned, the sooner the better; the matter is really very urgent."

"Such matters usually are, Anson. However, I'll think it over and let you know. Good-bye."

Anson replaced the receiver and remained for some moments lost in thought, frowning as he drummed his desk with his fingers. He hoped Doran wasn't going to prove difficult. The money had to be found, and if Doran let him down ... He dismissed the thought. Doran must not let him down.

His thoughts were disturbed by a tap on the door, and a moment later it opened. Mrs. Stellman stepped into the room and paused.

She was a woman of about fifty, and, except that they both had the same dark chestnut hair, it was difficult to imagine her as the mother of Elizabeth. Whereas Elizabeth was rather tall, and slim, and graceful, Mrs. Stellman was inclined to be short, and betrayed a distinct tendency to plumpness.

In front of her, suspended by a ribbon from her neck, was a tray on which was displayed an assortment of paper flags and badges, each of which bore the words: "Anna Rita Rymer Cot". From her wrist dangled one of those sealed tins with a slit in the lid such as are usually supplied by suspicious charity organizers to their collectors. Pinned on her ample bosom was a large rosette with a paper centre on which the same words were printed.

She smiled across at Anson.

"May I come in, Richard? Of course, I expect you're terribly busy, but I am sure you can spare a minute for this." She held up the collecting-box and jangled the coins inside. Crossing to his desk, she held out the box. "It's such a good cause, and I knew you would wish to be among the very first to subscribe. You're not quite the first, because immediately after breakfast I went into the kitchen and sold a flag to each of the servants. Sixpence each they paid. I thought it was very generous when one remembers what very poor wages they earn."

Anson raised his eyebrows.

"I've always been under the impression, Mrs. Stellman, that my servants were extremely well paid."

"Oh, of course, Richard. I'm sure I don't know what they do with all their money," said Mrs. Stellman hastily. "What I meant was—the very poor wages all servants earn in comparison with—er—people who aren't servants."

She took a flag from the tray and pinned it to the lapel of his coat. Anson, taking a half-crown from his pocket dropped it into the tin.

"Thank you, Richard. If everybody subscribes as generously as that, we shall have a record collection. Of course. I'm not supposed to see what anybody puts in the tin, but I always take a peep. You'd be surprised what people give— pennies and halfpennies and even buttons." She turned to Celia. "And what about you, Miss Paterson? I'm sure you're going to buy a flag, aren't you?"

"I should love to, Mrs. Stellman—" began Celia, but before she got further Anson rose from his chair, took another flag from the tray, and slipped a shilling into the collecting-box.

"Miss Paterson will give me the privilege of buying one for her," he said.

"Thank you, Richard," said Mrs. Stellman. "And now everybody in the house has bought one except Elizabeth. Such a pity she's not here. I was looking forward to having her with me when I went out collecting. It's really rather naughty of her not to be here this morning."

Anson frowned.

"Elizabeth has promised to be here in time for lunch," he said, crossing to the door and opening it. "Good-bye, Mrs. Stellman. I hope you have a most successful collection."

Mrs. Stellman beamed at him.

"I'm quite sure we shall, Richard. It's such a good cause, cots; so necessary. As I told the Committee yesterday, it would be very awkward having babies if there weren't any cots to put them in. Don't you agree?"

Anson smiled faintly.

"Fortunately, Mrs. Stellman, that's a situation with which I'm never likely to be confronted."

Mrs. Stellman tapped his arm with her gloved hand.

"You never know, Richard," she smiled, and went bustling from the room.

Anson closed the door behind her.

"Anna Rita Rymer," he smiled, "is not the only martyr in the family. I suppose I shouldn't say that, but I know you understand, Miss Paterson, that I say a good many things to you which I should not say to other people. A man naturally confides in his confidential secretary, and I feel quite sure that anything I say to you will go no further."

"Of course not, Mr. Anson."

He went up to her and pinned the flag in her blouse. As he did so, his hand just touched her neck and she glanced up at him, smiling, with an expectant look in her eyes.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Anson. It's terribly kind of you."

Anson returned to his desk.

"You'll find, Miss Paterson," he said, "that I can be terribly kind to anyone who takes the trouble to study my interests."

"I do my best, Mr. Anson, and I do hope you're satisfied."

He nodded.

"Quite satisfied—so far. You've only been with me a few weeks, but when we know each other better we shall, I feel sure, get on very well together. And then, I suppose, just when I have decided that I've found a young woman who has all the qualities of a perfect secretary, you'll come and tell me that you're going to get married."

"Why ever should you say that, Mr. Anson?"

"It's the usual thing, and you don't expect me to believe that a—er— charming girl like yourself has no attachment? Didn't I see you the other day with a very good-looking young man in Dilchester High Street?" He was toying with his fountain-pen and did not see the quick, anxious look which she gave him.

"I don't think you could possibly have seen me, Mr. Anson."

"A tall, dark man," continued Anson, ignoring her interruption. "You got out of his car outside the Middleton Hotel. It was a blue two-seater—"

"Oh, yes, of course; I remember now. That—that was my brother. He came down for the day to see me—from London."

Anson glanced at her keenly.

"Then there's nobody, Miss Paterson, who is likely to take you away from me as soon as I've become accustomed to you?"

"Nobody at all," she assured him.

"Good," said Anson. "I don't want to seem inquisitive, but before one trusts too much in a confidential secretary one likes to be assured that the relationship is a more or less permanent one. And now let's get to business again. I want you to send a wire for me. It's a most confidential business matter, and for that reason I don't wish the wire sent from Dilchester. I should like you to take it over to Burnford and send it from there."

"Certainly, Mr. Anson."

"Address it to Hamilton, E.T.C. Company, Ltd., Cornhill, London. You might look up the number in the telephone book. Wire as follows:

"It is a matter of great urgency that you should postpone your call until the thirteenth of next month stop We are facing grave difficulties and any demand from you will precipitate crisis stop Wire me your decision immediately. Anson.

"I'd like you to take that at once, Miss Paterson, if you will."

She hesitated, looking at him doubtfully.

"Of course, it's no business of mine, Mr. Anson, but this telegram—I mean, I couldn't help noticing how worried you've looked lately, and I've been terribly anxious in case there's anything wrong."

He glanced up at her as she stood beside him.

"And if I told you that I was terribly anxious and worried and that almost everything was wrong, would that matter very much to you?"

"Why, of course it would, Mr. Anson. I should be terribly upset. You've been so absolutely marvellous to me, and if there's anything I can possibly do— "

He took her hand and smiled up at her.

"That's kind of you, Celia, and if I were to tell you that there is something you could do to help me, would you be willing to do it?"

She gave him one of her adoring glances.

"I'd do anything I possibly could for you, Mr. Anson," she replied, and there was just the slightest little emphasis on the "you".

Anson pressed her hand and released it.

"I shall remember that," he said.