Читать книгу The Cat Burglar and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4
ОглавлениеFirst published in John Bull's Summer Annual, 1927
It was the day before Mr. Vernon Strate went back to town, where his multifarious activities demanded attention, that he proposed in his quiet way—so quietly, so unemotionally, that at first Margaret Brand did not realize what he was saying.
"I am, of course, your senior by ten or twelve years, and I realize that in many ways I am not the kind of husband you would have chosen."
She listened, at first dismayed, and then in a state of confusion. She was twenty-four, and the kind of man she would have chosen had not appeared. And the future, to this daughter of an Infantry Colonel who had left her the thousand pounds she so jealously hoarded, was growing a little bleak. She held a position that brought her £200 a year and no prospects.
"I really can't think what to say, Mr. Strate—I hardly know you."
Which was true: they had met in the train to Brightsea—his courtesy and attention had been charming, and she was quite sure that he had exchanged the luxury of the Marine Hotel for the bare comforts of Acacia House in order to be near her.
He had admitted as much. "I am a fairly rich man," he went on, "and I have no ties and no relations..."
He spoke of travel, of Italy and the Riviera and the beauties of his Canadian ranch.
"I am going to town tomorrow. I would like you to give this matter your earnest consideration. On the day we marry, I will settle ten thousand pounds upon you."
He was, despite his denial, an attractive man of forty, tall, and in a way fascinating. His queer trick of dropping his "h's" occasionally used to amuse her at first, but when he told her of his early struggles against poverty, his selfeducation, and his lack of opportunities for acquiring polish, the amusement became sympathy.
Most of the day he spent indoors with his work: his eyes were not strong, and the sun gave him a headache. Sometimes they would stroll together at nights, but that was before he proposed.
In his absence she found herself considering the offer seriously. And yet... it was an ugly thought: Mr. Strate was a "pick-up"—a man who had come into her life without introduction.
Of "pick-ups" Margaret Brand had heard. You found them on the promenade, on the pier, sometimes in trains. They asked you whether you would like the window up or down, would you prefer this shady chair to the one in which you sat; they spoke about the weather or the calmness of the sea, or the oddness of other people. And gradually you came to know them and went char-a-banc rides to ruined castles, or the pictures—soon you found yourself discussing quite intimate things like relations and appendicitis.
Margaret had been two weeks at Brightsea when the real "pick-up" loomed on her horizon. He was not an inmate of Acacia House, that spotlessly clean and economically furnished boarding-house where middle- aged ladies who knitted jumpers in London came to knit jumpers in Brightsea; he did not drop carelessly into a chair by her side on the front, nor stroll past her several times trying to catch her eye.
The meeting was unusual.
She was sitting on one of the hard bench seats, a slim figure in beige, the red of her open sunshade giving a deeper tinge to her tanned and pretty face, when he came swinging along the deserted pier—it was eight o'clock in the morning, and only energetic fishers were up and about.
A rather tall, brown-faced man in flannels and a dark blue blazer, on the breast-pocket of which was a white dove.
He passed her without a glance, and she looked up from her book and watched him idly till he disappeared round the side of the Pavilion at the far end of the pier. She was reading when he came back, so engrossed in the story that she would not have noticed him had he not tripped and fallen, sprawling at her feet.
"Damn!" he said calmly, as he picked himself up. "Shoelace... terrible sorry!"
He put one foot on the bench and jerked savagely at the long lace that had tripped him. She said nothing—turned her eyes to the book again, though she was not reading.
"If I were trying to scrape acquaintance with you I should attempt something less painful." He was dabbing a scratched hand with a handkerchief.
"But I'm not. And I won't tell you that we've met before, because we haven't. It's a glorious morning, isn't it?"
"Is it?" She barely raised her eyes from the printed page.
"You know jolly well it is." Without invitation he sat down. "You're Margaret Brand. My sister went to school with you. My name is Denman —Ian or John, according to taste. She pointed you out yesterday and tried to attract your attention."
In the old days at St. Mary's, when Margaret Brand was senior prefect and Helen Denman was head girl, there arose the legend of The Awful Brother. He was Helen's, and his awfulness lay in his undiscipline, his rowdiness, his propensity for breaking precious vase. and windows, and his disinclination for morning baths.
Finally, in the last year he did something that was so awful that Helen (something of a prig, Margaret remembered) would not even tell her dearest friend. All that she could recall was that it was disgraceful.
The Denmans were rich and County. Pa Denman had acquired a baronetcy: Mrs. Denman was a lady who was very particular about the people she knew. And the awful brother had been guilty of an act of supreme awfulness. Did he marry a barmaid or run away with the wife of a butcher?... Margaret couldn't remember—perhaps she had never been told.
"You're not the—awful brother?" she blurted.
He nodded unsmilingly.
"That's me," he said calmly. "Now will you behave?"
She laughed in spite of her momentary fright.
"Yes, I'm the awful brother—I'm in a devil of a tangle. The poor old governor died last year, and I've been trying to hide up my past... You see, I'm a baronet of the United Kingdom, and that doesn't go with certain things. If the newspapers got hold of the story they'd splash it! I'm turning over a new leaf next week, though... chucking everything. I'd like one last fling, though—gosh! how I'd like one big thundering punch before I cleared out!"
He spoke rapidly, jerkily—to her, incoherently. She hadn't the slightest idea of what he was talking about. As suddenly as he had sat down he rose again. "I'll toddle along," he said; "awfully glad to have met you: don't give me away!"
She saw him again in the afternoon, and he carried her off to tea —insisted upon taking her to the theatre that night, and met her early in the morning to instruct her in the art of sea-fishing.
She thought it expedient at the end of the third day to tell him.
"Engaged?" His rather good-looking face was suddenly blank. "Really... I didn't know."
"Well, not exactly engaged," she explained quickly, and told him as much as she thought necessary, changing the subject as quickly as she could.
"Have you had your big punch?" she asked him; "and what is your big punch?"
He shook his head. "No—I don't suppose I shall. Brightsea isn't the sort of place you'd expect to get it."
This puzzled her. What was the dreadful thing he did when he disgraced his family? Was he a jewel thief or... somehow she knew that the barmaid theory was wrong.
That afternoon Mr. Strate returned from London, and she plucked up courage to make her decision.
"Can you come out—I want to speak to you?"
He hesitated. "The sun is rather strong for my eyes," he began.
"Wear your smoked glasses," she suggested. "You did one day, and you didn't get a headache."
He agreed to this, and ten minutes later they were walking slowly along the pier.
"Let us sit here." She sat down, and he at her side.
"Mr. Strate, I want to tell you something. I don't think I can marry you. I am very appreciative of the honor you do me, but I am not anxious to marry—"
"But, my dear," he began, "I've set my 'eart on this—"
And then there appeared in the distance the lank figure of the awful brother.
He saw them, and waved his hand.
"This is a friend of mine," she said—"Ian Denman. I knew his sister—"
To her amazement, the man by her side leapt to his feet with an oath.
"I don't want to meet anybody!" He almost shouted the words. "Tell him I'm not well." But it was too late. Ian Denman had come up.
"This is Mr. Strate," she said haltingly, "a—a friend about whom I spoke to you."
The awful brother was glaring down at them.
"Good Lord!" he groaned. "Here's my chance and I can't take it —beat it, Smith!"
To her horror and amazement the placid Mr. Strate rose and ran at top speed toward the entrance of the pier, the awful brother running after him.
"You've spoilt it, my dear!" he said, as he fell into the vacant seat. "I wanted to go out of the force in a blaze of glory And now I can't!"
"Who—who are you?" she gasped.
He chuckled.
"Didn't you know I disgraced the family by joining the police. I'm Detective-Sergeant Denman of Bow Street, and I've been looking for Smith —alias Bocosco, alias Strate—for months. He's a professional bigamist, and wanders round looking for lonely young ladies who have a few hundred pounds in their bank.
"Come and have a lemon squash, and I'll tell you where we'll spend our honeymoon."
