Читать книгу Captains of Souls - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

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MR. RONALD MORELLE'S flat was on the third floor of a block that faced busy Knightsbridge. His library was a large and airy room at the back and from the open casements commanded an uninterrupted view of the park. It was a pleasant room with its rows of bookshelves and its chintzes. The silver fireplace and the rich Persian rugs which covered the parquet were the only suggestions of luxury. There were one or two pictures which Francois had an order to remove when certain visitors were expected. The rest were decent reproductions with the exception of a large oil-painting above the mantelpiece. It was a St. Anthony and was attributed to Titiano Vecellio. The austere saint loomed darkly from a sombre background and was represented as an effeminate youth. The veining of the neck and shoulders was characteristically Titian, so too was the inclination of a marble column which showed faintly in the picture. Titiano's inability to draw a true vertical line is well known, and upon this column, more than upon other evidence, the experts accepted the picture as an early example of the fortunate painter's work.

Ronnie was indifferent as to the authenticity of the picture. The dawning carnality on Anthony's lean face, the misty shape of the temptress...Titian or his disciple had reduced to visibility the doubt, the gloating and the very thoughts of the saint. A black oak table stood in the centre of the room and a deep Medici writing-chair was placed opposite the black blotting-pad. It pleased Ronnie to imitate those ministers of state who employed this colour to thwart curious-minded servants who, with the aid of a mirror, might discover the gist of outward correspondence. It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie's key in the lock sent his sleepy servant into the lobby. Ronnie stood in the hall tenderly stripping his gloves.

"Has anybody been?"

"No, m'sieur."

"Letters?"

"Only one, m'sieur. An account." He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in. He switched on the light of his desk lamp and sat down. "I have not been out all the evening, Francois."

"No, m'sieur."

"I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, do you understand?"

"Perfectly, m'sieur."

"Have we any iodine...look for it, damn you, don't gape!"

Francois hurried out to inspect the contents of the bathroom locker, where were stored such first-aid remedies as were kept in the flat. Ronnie looked at his hand and pulled back the cuff of his coat; three ugly red scratches ran from the wrist to the base of the middle fingers. His lips pursed angrily. "Little beast," he said. "Well?"

"There is a bottle...would m'sieur like a bandage?"

"It is not necessary...have you a cat in the flat?...no, well, get one tomorrow. You need not keep it permanently. I don't think there will be any trouble. Bring me a hand-mirror from my dressing-table—hurry!"

He lifted the shade from the table lamp and, in the mirror, examined his face carefully. His right cheek was red, he imagined finger-marks, but the fine skin had not been torn. "I have had a quarrel with a lady, Francois. A common girl...I do not think she will make any further trouble, but if she does...she does not know me, anyway." Ronald's love-making had ended unpleasantly, and he had left the dark aisles of the park in a hurry, before the scream of a frightened girl had brought the police to the spot.

"I was expecting m'sieur to telephone me saying that I might go home," said Francois. He lodged in Kensington, and sometimes it was convenient for Ronnie that he should go home early. Two women came in the morning to clean the flat and he usually arrived in time to carry in his master's breakfast from the restaurant attached to the building.

"No, I didn't telephone. Take this glass back and bring me the evening newspapers. That is all. You can clear out."

When the front door closed upon his valet, Ronnie got up and, walking to the window, pulled aside the curtains. The casement was open and he sat down on the padded window-seat, looking out into the darkness. He was not thinking of his night's adventure, being something of a philosopher. The sordidness and the vulgarity of it would not distress him in any circumstances. He was thinking of Beryl and what John Maxton had said. He knew that she liked him, but he had made no special effort to foster her affection or to evolve from their relationship one more intimate. By his code, she was taboo; love-making with Beryl could only lead to marriage, and matrimony was outside of his precarious plans. It pleased him to ponder upon Beryl...perhaps she was in love with him. He had not considered the possibility before. That women only differed by the hats they wore was a working rule of his; but it was strange that the influence he exercised was common to girls so widely separated by birth, education and taste as Beryl was from Evie Colebrook...and others.

Self-disparagement was the last weakness to be expected in Ronald Morelle, and yet it was true to say that he had restricted his hunting for so long to one variety of game, that he doubted his ability to follow another. His father had been an enthusiastic hawker, one of the remaining few who followed the sport of kings, and Ronnie invariably thought of his adventuring in terms of falconry. He was a hawk, enseamed, a hawk that swung on its rigid sails, waiting on until the quarry was sprung...sometimes the quarry was not without talons to rend and tear at the embarrassed falcon...he felt the wounds on his hand gingerly. But a trained hawk respects the domestic fowl, even the folk of the dovecot may coo at peace whilst he waits on in the sky.

Beryl?...She was certainly lovely. Her figure was delectable. And her mouth, red and full...a Rossetti woman should not have such lips. Was it Rossetti who painted those delicately-featured women? He got up and found a big portfolio filled with prints. Yes, it was Rossetti, but Beryl's figure was incomparably more delicious than any woman's that the painter had drawn. He came back to the window, staring out into the night, until, in the grey of dawn; the outlines of trees emerged from the void. Then he went to bed and to sleep.

He did not move for five hours, and then he woke with a horrible sense of desolation. He blinked round the room and at that instant the clock of a church began to strike...the quarters sounded...a pause..."Toll...toll... toll...toll...toll...toll...toll...toll...toll." Nine o'clock! "No... no...Christ...no!"

Francois, an early arrival, heard his voice and rushed in. "M'sieur!" he gasped. Ronald Morelle was sitting on his bed, sobbing into his hands. "A nightmare, Francois...a nightmare...get out, blast you!" But he had had no nightmare, could recall nothing of dreams, though he strove all day, his head throbbing. Only he knew that to hear nine o'clock striking had seemed very dreadful.