Читать книгу Big Foot - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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SOOPER came softly from the front door and stepped into the garden. The dining-room looked out from the side of the house, and he moved with incredible swiftness towards the bushes. The lawn was empty—there was no sound but the gentle rustle of leaves in the night wind. Keeping close to the cover of the shrubs, he covered the width of the lawn.

Beyond the flower-beds were the sycamores which marked the southern boundary of the property. To the right was a little pine wood, which could be the only avenue of retreat on the part of an intruder.

Sooper went forward from tree to tree. Beneath his feet was a thick covering of pine needles that would have made his movements noiseless in any circumstances. From time to time he stopped and listened, but there was no sound.

He was half-way through the wood when, right ahead of him and not fifty yards away, came the sound of singing....

"The Moorish king rides up and down Through Granada's royal town.. Ay de mi Alhama...!"

For a second, at the sound of the woeful Spanish air, Sooper's spine crept. There was something so plaintive in the music, something so desperately hopeless in the words of the centuries-old lament, that he stood stock still.

"From Eloira's gates to those Of Bivarramble on he goes, Ay de mi Alhama!"

Sooper went forward at a run towards the voice. The wood was dark, and here the trees were set so closely together that it was almost impossible to see more than a few yards ahead.

He came plunging out into the open without having seen a soul.

The wood separated the pleasure grounds of Barley Stack from a little farm. Nothing moved in the meadows, and Sooper turned back. "Come out of that, tramp!" he shouted, but only the echo of his voice came back to him.

Then came the sound of feet rustling through undergrowth, and he guessed it was Jim before he saw the white shirt-front emerge from the dark.

"Who is it?" asked Ferraby.

"Tramp of sorts," said Sooper. "You were nearly as crazy to come out without a shot-gun."

"I saw nobody."

"Nobody to see, I guess," replied Sooper gently. "Let's go back—I ought to have got my machine and patrolled the road."

They penetrated the plantations again, but heard nothing and saw nothing, and returned to the lawn to find the alarmed dinner party assembled.

"Did you see anybody?" asked Mr. Cardew anxiously and somewhat incoherently. "Really, this is the most extraordinary...you've frightened these ladies....I must confess that I didn't see a man of any description."

"Maybe Minter's imagination's working," growled Elson. "You might see a man, but I'll be darned if you could see a gun in this light!"

"Saw it gleam," said Sooper, staring hard at the wood. "Just saw the light on it...must have been a gun. Got a lamp, anybody?"

Mr. Cardew went into the house and returned with an electric lantern.

"Stood here," said Sooper, and flashed the lamp on the grass. "No marks—ground's too hard. Nothing..."

Swiftly he darted downward to the grass and picked up a black oblong something, and, holding it on the palm of his hand, whistled softly.

"What is it?" asked Cardew.

"Magazine of a.42 automatic—chock full of shells," said Sooper. ".42 automatic marked United States Naval Department—dropped out of his gun."

Mr. Cardew's jaw had also dropped: it might have been his imagination, but Jim fancied that the face of the amateur detective had gone a shade paler. Possibly, he thought, this was the first occasion on which Mr. Cardew had been brought face to face with the grim actualities of criminal detection.

"Well, I'll go to...!" Stephen Elson was looking at the magazine open mouthed. "And he was there all the time...with a gun!" He shuddered. "Did you see him, Officer?"

Sooper looked round and dropped his hand on the other's shoulder. "Nothing to worry about," he said kindly, almost brotherly. "No. If I'd seen him I'd have caught him. I'll use your telephone, Mr. Cardew." His host guided him to the study and left him.

"That you, Lattimer? Turn out divisional reserves and detain anybody that can't account for their movements, especially tramps. When you've done that, come up to Barley Stack; bring a gun and two hand lamps."

"What is wrong, Sooper?"

"Lost a collar stud," said Sooper calmly, and hung up.

He looked up into the troubled face of Cardew. And from the lawyer his eyes wandered to the packed bookshelves.

"Must be a lot there that'd help a feller to pull in a crazy tramp," he said. "I got to rely on common coppers and it's even odds they'll never find him."

The old twinkle was in his eyes: Cardew became conscious of the two stains on the shirt-front and the shabby dress-suit slightly redolent of mothball. He recovered his illusion of superiority.

"That is the sort of case where the very physical attributes of the police are so admirable," he said. "After all, there is nothing very subtle about the visitation of an armed tramp!"

"Nothing's subtle that matters," said Sooper, shaking his head sadly. "Not life nor death, nor stomach-ache nor money. Subtle things don't count, not with me, anyway." He surveyed the packed bookshelves again and sighed. "That tramp feller was after Elson," he said, going off at a tangent.

Cardew was startled.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"Elson expected him too," nodded Sooper, with a far-away look in his eyes. "Else why does he carry a gun?"

"Elson carries a gun—a pistol, you mean? How do you know?"

"Felt it in his pants," said Sooper, "when I was bein' affectionate. How was that for subtle? Just clapped him on the shoulder an' felt his pocket with my hip. I've got one of the most sensitive hips in the force. What's that a sign of from the anthrop'logical view?"

But Mr. Cardew was not to be drawn.

"Why did you follow the superintendent, Mr. Ferraby? Wasn't that rather foolhardy?"

Jim and the girl were alone on the lawn. Hannah had disappeared with the American, and though the young man had qualms about remaining outdoors in the growing darkness, his discretion was not proof against the lure of the night and the intimacy which their solitude brought.

"There wasn't any greater risk for me than for Sooper." he said; "besides which, I'll admit that I thought he had been deceived by a shadow—I had forgotten that the old devil has eyes that can see through a wall! Do you like that man Elson?" he blurted.

"Mr. Elson? Why no...whatever made you think I did?"

"Well...he's American, and I suppose It's natural for people of the same country..." he ended lamely enough.

"If I were an English girl and I had met an English tough in New York, should I like him because he was English?" she asked with a smile.

"Tough? I didn't know he was anything unusual," he began, and she laughed softly.

"You don't know how rude you are being," she said. "Yes, Mr. Elson is that: I can't think of a more elegant word than 'tough'; it isn't pretty, is it?"

"I didn't realize that you were American," he said, as they strolled slowly up and down the close-cropped lawn.

"I never dreamt that you realized I was anybody," she said dryly, "except one of the features of King's Bench Walk. You're not trying to flirt with me, are you?"

Jim went red at the amazing directness of the girl. "Good lord, no!" he gasped.

"Then I'll take your arm. I was a little frightened," she confessed; "It was rather creepy—the lights going out and the horrible feeling that we were being watched."

Her arm rested on his. Jim Ferraby self-consciously kept his elbow rigid and she smiled at his propriety. "You can let your arm drop—that's right; I shan't cling. Only I'm human enough to find comfort in a masculine arm—any masculine arm except perhaps Mr. Elson's."

"I quite understand." He was inclined to be icy, but her soft laughter melted him.

"I don't like the country," she said. "Poor daddy loved it: he used to sleep out in the open even in stormy weather."

"Your father died in the war?"

"Yes." Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper. "Yes, he died in the war."

They paced to and fro in silence: the arm in Jim Ferraby's rested with greater confidence; once, by accident, the tips of her fingers brushed the back of his hand.

"How long are you staying here?" he asked.

"Until tomorrow afternoon. I have some indexing to do, and in any circumstances Mr. Cardew would not let me stay after his housekeeper left. She is going away for the weekend."

"What do you think of her?" he asked.

She did not answer at once. "She may be nice when one gets to know her," she said diplomatically, and then Sooper's long figure showed in the open doorway.

"Come in before the spooks get you, Mr. Ferraby. Somethin' unusual has happened—my sergeant was awake. That feller reckons all the time he's not sleeping is time wasted. I think Mr. Cardew was askin' about you, young miss."

Elfa passed into the house and Ferraby was following, but the old man detained him.

"Come for a stroll with me, Mr. Ferraby, an' help me psychologize and anthropologize."

It was noticeable that, except when he was in the amateur scientist's presence, or (as Jim subsequently learnt) discussing such learned subjects with his sergeant, Sooper had no difficulty in pronunciation.

"Elson's got to go home tonight, and I'm deducin' that this miscreant with the gun will try to take a crack at him," he said. "The whole thing's subtle an' mysterious. One American tryin' to shoot another American! Angels have wept for less."

"You think the stranger on the lawn was an American?"

"He had an American gun: therefore he's American. I'm gettin' into this deduction business—it comes natural after a bit. My deduction is that he's a singer."

"What makes you think that?" asked Jim in surprise.

"Because I heard him singin'," said Sooper. "Ever play auction bridge, Mr. Ferraby? If you do I'll give you a tip: a little peek's worth two finesses. Get that into your mind, Deduction's fine but seein' and hearin's better. That's official. Know anything against Elson up in Whitehall?"

"You mean at the Prosecutor's office? No, I don't remember hearing or reading anything, and I've charge of the alien section."

"Never call an American an alien: it makes him wild. Just the same as the English swell red when they get the alien tag in New York Harbour. It's a low word meanin' Peruvian and Slovak and Mongolian Hebrew. I was in Washington during the war, till our headquarters found I was efficient—then they shot me home. They can't stand efficiency."

Jim was considering whether he should, at the risk of displeasing his host, take Sooper into his confidence. He came to a decision. "Sooper, you think that man in the garden was after Elson? You're mistaken."

"That sounds impossible," said Sooper, "but I'm open to conviction." Briefly Ferraby told him of the letter which Gordon Cardew had shown him the day before, and the superintendent listened without interruption. "Big Foot, eh? Sounds like one of those nancy Wild West Injun names. But what's Hannah done? That's pretty big news, Mr. Ferraby, an' slightly alters things."

Cardew's voice called them from the house. "Come along and finish your dinner."

"Wait." Sooper's sinewy hand gripped the young man by the sleeve. "Just wait whilst I get the logic an' psychology of this. She's going away for a week—end, you say...I know the house on Pawsey Beach. Cardew drove me down there once before we took the mat on the question of criminal science. A dog lonely place, miles from everywhere except the sea...big cliff with hundreds of smugglers' caves...house stands on an old post road that runs under a cliff but isn't used much since the new road was made over the cliff top. It's dangerous. Part of the cliff fell down the year I went there an' old Cardew made a fuss with the Pawsey Town Council because they didn't clear up the mess an' open the road. He knows a lot about that side of the law."

"Are you people coming in?" Cardew was walking out towards them, and they turned in the direction of the house.

"Don't hint that you know anything," muttered Jim, and Sooper grunted his reluctant agreement.

Mr. Cardew had quite recovered his poise. He was boisterously cheerful as they resumed their seats at the table, and had a new theory.

"I've been looking up my de Carrilon," he said, "and curiously enough, I came upon an almost parallel case. De Carrilon has a chapter on what he calls 'The Crime of Embuchement'. He says that to a certain type of criminal mind the impulse to shoot from the darkness is irresistible...."

Sooper toyed with a quail on toast, and wondered why this clever lawyer had not associated the murderous visitor with the threatening letter to Hannah Shaw.

It was past one o'clock that night when Jim knocked at the door of Mr. Cardew's study to bid him good night. By the light of a table lamp the lawyer was reading from a large and thick volume.

"Come in, Ferraby. Has the superintendent gone?"

"Just gone, sir."

Cardew closed the book with a sigh. "A very practical man, but I doubt if he takes his work seriously. Police work largely develops into a mechanical routine. They will put guards on the roads and notify the country police, and I suppose arrest a few perfectly innocent citizens. They will do nothing which is worthy of praise and omit no precautions that would deserve censure. They will, in fact, play for safety. It is a very small and unimportant matter, but typical of the system. The more I study our old fashioned methods, the more I regret that fate did not take me into a more exciting path of the law than that which meanders through the Court of Chancery. Well, what do you think of Hannah? Nothing very suspicious about her attitude, eh?"

"She is less distressed than I thought possible," said Jim quietly, and Mr. Cardew's mouth opened in a gasp of consternation.

"Good heavens!...I never thought of connecting the letter with...I must have taken leave of my senses!" He had gone suddenly white.

"I wondered why," said Ferraby.

Sooper had wondered too, and had privately expressed his surprise before leaving. It had required all Jim's powers of persuasion to prevent the old man from interviewing Cardew on the subject. But this Jim Ferraby did not reveal, though he knew that it was inevitable that Sooper would sooner or later discuss the matter with the master of Barley Stack.

"I never dreamt of connecting the man in the garden with Hannah," said the lawyer thoughtfully. "This is truly astounding! I almost wish that I had told Minter."

"Get him on the 'phone and tell him," suggested Jim, anxious to unburden his conscience.

Mr. Cardew hesitated, took up the telephone and put it down again.

"I must sleep on it," he said. "If I tell him now, he'll come back and there will be a fearful scene with Hannah. Frankly, I'm scared of Hannah Shaw...terrified. It is absurd...I despise myself. And I'm a lawyer, supposedly without sentiment. No, leave it until the morning, or later. I'll ask the superintendent to come up to dinner. Hannah will be away."

It occurred to Jim as he was undressing that to leave the matter until Hannah had departed on her mysterious weekend trip had certain advantages. He almost regretted that he was taking an early departure and would not be present at the interview.

He prepared for bed leisurely, and a distant church clock was striking two when he finally put out the light. Whether the excitement of the evening or the ten minutes' nap he had snatched on his way from town was the cause, he could not sleep. He had never felt quite so wakeful in his life. For half an hour he lay, his mind working through the house from Elfa Leigh to Cardew, from Cardew to Hannah, and back again to Elfa. At last, with a sigh, he rose, walked to the little table where he had left his smoking materials and, lighting his pipe, walked to the window.

The moon was in its last phase, a thin rind of white in a clear sky, and its faint and ghostly reflection covered the world with pale radiance. From where he sat on the window seat, he could see one brilliantly lighted window in a wing running at right angles to the outer wall of his own room.

Was it the girl's room, or Cardew's—or Hannah's? Whoever was in the room was busy—he saw an indistinct figure pass and repass the semi-transparent curtains, and presently his eyes accustomed themselves to the light and curtain veil, and he recognized the figure of Hannah. She was fully dressed and was engaged in packing a suit-case that she had placed on the bed. The gentle night breeze blew the curtain aside for a second and he saw into the room. By the side of the bed were two open trunks, and she was clearing out her wardrobe.

Jim Ferraby frowned. A week-end visit? She was packing like one preparing for a long absence. For an hour he watched, and then her light went out. By this time the grey of dawn was in the sky, and as the lamp was extinguished he felt a sudden overwhelming desire for sleep.

He had one knee on the bed when he heard a sound which filled him with wonder and made him doubt the evidence of his senses. It was somebody singing, and the voice carne from the little wood.

"The Moorish king rides up and down... Granada's royal town, Ay de mi Alhama!"

The singer! The man who had been on the lawn! In an instant he struggled into his overcoat and pelted down the dark stairs to the hall. It was some time before he could get the door open, but at last he was in the open. The world smelt sweet and cold, the grass beneath his slippered feet was wet with dew.

He stood motionless, listening, and then he espied a stealthy figure moving in the cover of the wood and darted towards it. As he came nearer, the man heard him and swung round.

"Steady...steady! Don't scare my song-bird," hissed a voice. "I want him for my anthr'p'logical av'ry!"

It was Sooper.