Читать книгу The Golden Hades - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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STEPS. Two steps—three steps—four steps —five steps—landing—turn. One step—two steps —three steps—four steps—five steps—six steps —landing—no, this was the end of the stairway.

A key clicked in the lock, and presumably a door opened, because there came a breath of cold and somewhat musty air; Then the journey was resumed.

Frank Alwin came to consciousness, or semi-consciousness, as they were carrying him down the steps. By some peculiar trick of the mind he began to count at "two," without being conscious that the first step had. been descended. His head was aching, his face felt as sticky and uncomfortable as though somebody had spilt spirit gum down it, and his arm ached dreadfully. But the head was the worst. He had never realised how inspired was the coiner of phrases when he had described a splitting headache. It was as though his skull had been rent in two and the broken ends were grating. The agony seemed unendurable; he could have cried out with the pain of it, but subconscious reason bade him be silent. Whoever carried him was handling him with care. He felt himself laid upon a bed.

"Spring bed, damp pillow," registered his mind.

Then alight was turned on, and the sensation, after the darkness, was almost as painful as his throbbing head. He groaned and turned over, and groaned again.

"Phew!" said a voice. "Look at my coat! Blood will never wash off and I'll have to burn it. I think it was a fool's trick, anyway, to bring him here. Why not leave him?"

"Because Rosie is right," said another voice—a deeper tone with a growl in it.

"Rosie!" The first speaker laughed contemptuously.

Who was Rosie? wondered Frank Alwin through his pain. Was there a woman at the back of this extraordinary mischief? What manner of woman was she?

He remembered coming out of the restaurant because—because.... He couldn't remember just why he had gone into the street. He had only the dimmest recollection of what had happened after. Anyway, he was here and he was alive—that was something. But they were talking of Rosie.

"I tell you Rosie was right," said the growling voice. "This fellow Smith is the most dangerous man in New York—for us."

"What about Peter Correlly?" said the first speaker, and there was a silence as though the second man, who spoke with such authority, was considering the matter, as apparently he was.

"Peter Correlly?" he repeated. "Sure, Peter Correlly is dangerous, but Wilbur Smith wouldn't have him on to the same job. Besides, I think its too big a thing for Peter Correlly, anyway."

There was another pause and the sound of somebody washing his hands. That some one was singing in a low voice. What is there about the sound of running water which inspires all men to song?

"But it's all story-book stuff," said the voice of the first man who had spoken, and the note of contempt still held.

"Rosie doesn't think for a minute that Wilbur Smith will chuck up the job because his pal's in danger? Anyway, how does he know that we haven't finished him? Rosie talks about killing two birds with one stone, but we ain't killed any birds yet. This nut hasn't got the money and he's alive!" There was a long pause.

"Yes," said the growling voice, ""that's so. Maybe we've got to alter our programme. You're sure he said he gave the money to Smith? Maybe he didn't know what he was saying."

"He knew what he said all right," said the first speaker. "Smith has the money and that alters things."

Frank was trying desperately hard to catch hold of the past few hours or few minutes. When had he said he had given the money to Wilbur Smith? He had no recollection of the few moments of consciousness which he had enjoyed on the way to this place. Yet somehow he knew that the man was speaking the truth, and he groaned again. One of the men came across and looked down at him.

"Hullo, you!" he said in a growling voice. "Feel better?"

Frank unscrewed his eyes—that exactly describes the sensation —and peered up at his questioner. He might have saved himself the trouble, for the lower part of the man's face was covered by a silk handkerchief, and Frank noticed stupidly that it was a Paisley design.

"You're in luck," said the man. "You ought to be dead by rights. You're in a little place which was built specially for me—a swell apartment. Why, you can have a bath if you want one!"

Frank groaned again, and presently he heard no more.

The man with the handkerchief sat down, pulled the unconscious man to his back and lifted his eyelids.

"I thought he was dead for a minute," he said. "He's a bit soft. You didn't plug him that hard, Sammy?"

The man addressed as Sammy laughed. He was shorter than his companion, quicker of foot, more wiry, and he stepped over to the side of the unconscious Alwin and examined his hurts with deft fingers.

"It's nothing serious," he said; "he's lost a little blood."

He rose and looked round the undressed brick walls of the room.

"A very desirable residence," he said," but I'm glad it's him and not me that's going to live here. Tom, if you and me and Rosie ever have to hide for our lives, this is about the last place in the world we ought to be. Yes, I know it has a bathroom and lots of books and plenty of grub, and it's the sort of place where you could sit quiet for a year if you were clever. I thought it was a grand idea of Rosie's when he first put it up. He planned the whole building, brought the workmen up from Mexico, sent them home again, and no human eye saw it being built—unless you call a Mexican human." He chuckled. "But things have gone big since then, Tom. What looked like a little graft that nobody would take any notice of, is now the biggest thing we've ever struck. And God bless Rosie for it!"

"Rosie! Huh!" growled the other.

"Why, say! You were praising him up just now," sneered the second man. "Which reminds me," he said suddenly in a different tone of voice.

On the other side of the room from where he was sitting were two sea chests, one on top of the other. Their fastening was of a primitive character and he opened one, examining its contents with an approving eye. It was half full of books, papers, scrap-books, wire table baskets, stationery racks and the paraphernalia of an office desk.

"Rosie wants this stuff sorted out," said the man.

"Sorted out," repeated Alwin, coming back to consciousness at these words. "Let him come and sort 'em out," said the other. "What's the hurry, anyway?" He considered a moment and then went on.

"I suppose we ought to do it. Rosie said there was a lot of stuff in these boxes that might be of use and a lot that might be damaging if it ever fell into wise hands. We could take it up to the Temple tomorrow night, then Rosie could persuade the mug to send them to his place."

Alwin heard the snap of a watch-case and the grating of a chair being pushed against the wall. Then one of the men said briskly, "Well, it's time —why doesn't Rosie come!"

There was a sharp tap-tap at that moment which sounded to Frank as though it came from the ceiling. It was like the tap of a walking-stick on a tessellated pavement, and he wondered what was above the vaulted roof.

"Talk of the devil," said the man called Sam. "Come on, Tom. He won't come down here. What about this fellow?"

"Leave him for a moment, and leave the light. Let's see what Rosie has to say."

The door shut softly behind them, and with an effort Frank turned his head. He was in a large cellar. It was evidently the cellar of a house which had been newly built. It was oblong in shape, and the concrete floor was covered with matting. Unlike the cellar of fiction, it was clean and apparently well ventilated. It contained three beds, on one of which he was lying, the others being in the corners on either side of the door. There was a plain, fixed table, two wooden chairs and an armchair, and these, with the two chests, constituted the furniture of what one of the men had called his "apartment".

In the corner farthest from the entrance was a door, which apparently led to the bath of which the man had boasted.

By a powerful effort of will Alwin dragged himself to the edge of the bed and, holding tight to the head-board, stood erect. His head swam, his knees felt as though they would collapse at any minute; he thought he was going to faint. He was sick and trembling, and his head was one wild, frantic ache. His first thought was to find some weapon which his captors might incautiously have left behind in a moment of forgetfulness, but this miracle did not happen. After a few painful moments he crawled back to the bed and lay down. The relief was such that he was satisfied to stay. He had put his hand to his head and discovered that some sort of rough dressing had been applied to the wound to his scalp and there was nothing now to do but to rid himself of this intolerable ache and to recover some of his lost strength.

He must have dozed off, for he was awakened by the door being opened and the two men entering. The man called Tom was grumbling about the boxes. Evidently Rosie had been insistent. Though they spoke of this mysterious personage in tones from which they did not attempt to banish their contempt, he was evidently of some importance.

"What about this guy?" said one of them suddenly, and Frank knew they were speaking of him.

"Give him till tomorrow night," said the growling voice. "Let's see what we can do with Smith."

"Do you think we can do anything with him?"

"Who—Smith? Sure we can. He has the money—Rosie says so and Rosie knows."

"That makes a difference. It complicates things to put this guy out of the reckoning. This is the third blunder Rosie has made in three months."

They lowered their voices here, and Frank could not follow them. He gathered that they were examining the two black boxes which stood against the wall, for he heard them pant as they lifted one down to examine the box underneath. Presently they left, and he heard the thud of the door as they shut it behind them. And then there was silence.