Читать книгу The Flying Squad - Edgar Wallace - Страница 4

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THERE was no telephone at Lady's Stairs. Li Yoseph was a careful man, who never spent money unnecessarily. Long after his visitors had left he sat huddled up in a springless old arm-chair which he had drawn to the big round table. A lamp burnt at his elbow; before him were the five scrawled sheets of an unfinished letter which he had taken from a box beneath his bed.

He rose slowly and went into the tiny room, looked through the long window on to the creek. The green and red lights of a tug making for the lock gates fascinated him, and he watched it until it was out of sight. Then he took up his violin, cuddled it under his chin and drew the bow softly across the strings. For once the sound of his own music disconcerted him; he put down the violin, came back to the table, and after a while took up his pen.

It was not an easy letter to write, but it had to be done. Presently he would put it in an envelope and, stealing out, find old Sedeman, who occupied a frowsy room in the neighbourhood; and Sedeman, for a consideration, would carry the message to Inspector Bradley.

Though his spoken English was bad, he expressed himself well in the written language. He picked up one of the sheets at random.

'McGill knew that Ronnie was in touch with you. Ronnie Perryman was very untrustworthy when he drank. He drank a great deal. He had quarrelled with McGill and talked about getting out. He discussed it with me, and I also said that I wanted to get back to Memel, where my home is and my nephews and nieces live. I think that McGill must have found out, for he came down here on the night in question, having followed Ronnie from London. Ronnie was rather drunk. It was one o'clock in the morning when McGill and Tiser arrived. They quarrelled. Ronnie said he would not have anything to do with murder. He said McGill was responsible for the hold-up at the Northern and Southern Bank, where a watchman was killed. He also boasted that he had only to lift his finger to have us all in jail. If he had not said that I think I should no be alive. It was because he brought me into it that way that McGill did not get suspicious about me. Ronnie was standing by the table with a large glass of port, which I had poured out for him. He was lifting this to his lips when McGill struck him with a life-preserver, and hit him again before he fell. McGill tied a sheet round Ronnie and lowered him through the trap into my boat. I don't know where he and Tiser dropped him into the water, but in half an hour they came back and said that Ronnie had recovered and had gone home. McGill told me he would kill me if I spoke a word. He did not then say I was to tell any story to Ronnie's sister. It was only later, when he sent for her, that he told me...

He put down the sheet. There was very little more to write; he finished his narrative on the next page, blotted the paper, folded it and put the letter into an envelope. And all the time he was doing this he was talking softly in Russian.

"... you see, my little pigeon, I must do this, or they will take old Li and put a rope round his neck, and I shall be with you, my little ghost!"

Sometimes he would turn and stoop to caress one of the strange little shapes that only his crazy eyes could see.

"So, so... this wicked McGill, it is better that he should die, eh? That nice young lady who came here, it would be too bad if she should become his friend—"

He heard the sound of a turning key and looked up, thrusting the letter inside his coat. It was Mark's step; he knew it too well; and Tiser was with him, he noted, before the door opened and they came into the room.

Mark walked straight across to the table. He looked down at the pen and paper.

"You've been writing a letter, eh? Posted it?"

The old man shook his head.

"My dear friend!" Tiser's voice was an agitated squeak. "Perhaps you are wrong, dear comrade. Now, tell Mr. McGill that his suspicions are not well founded. Tell him—"

"You needn't tell him what he's got to say." Mark's tone was deadly calm. "Let's see that letter. You haven't had time to post it—there's still ink on the table."

Mark tore open the envelope, glanced quickly through the contents.

"Going to put up a squeal, were you? That was why Bradley was going to be in his office from ten till two. Well, he'll wait a damned long time for this letter!"

The old Jew did not move; he stood at the edge of the closed trap, his hands lightly clasped before him, looking. All this was inevitable; perhaps the little ghosts that crowded round him were whispering encouragingly, for he smiled again.

"Now, Li," said Mark breathlessly, and Li Yoseph saw death in his eyes.

"Me you cannot kill, my goot Mark," he said. "I may die, yes, but I shall come back. The little spirits—"

Suddenly the old man stooped, flung up the trap, and twisting, dropped to the first rung of the ladder that led to life and safety. Mark whipped a revolver from his pocket; the silencer fixed to the barrel's end caught in the lining of his coat but gave the doomed man no respite. Plop! Plop!

The second "plop" was louder; right between the shoulders the bullets struck. They heard the squelch of the body as it fell in the water below. "Shut the trap!"

Mark's face was white; he spoke with difficulty. Tiser came forward, making strange, whimpering noises, and dropped the trap in its place gently. "Now pull the carpet over it." Mark walked to the window, tugged it open and looked out. It was a very dark night; a drizzle of rain was falling, and the tide was high.

Tiser was leaning on a chair, breathing heavily like a man who had taken enormous exercise. He was incapable of speech, nor did Mark McGill demand his approval. Tiser dared not look up until he heard the window close.

"That's all right. Come on, you... don't forget what you've seen to- night, Tiser."

The man's teeth were chattering as he followed his sombre master to the head of the stairs. They had reached the landing when there came a heavy knock on the door below. Tiser put up his hand to check the scream that rose. Again came the knock.

"Open the door!"

McGill reeled back into the room. In one wall was a small closed shutter, and, extinguishing the light, he opened this and looked out into the street.

Three cars were drawn up by the kerbside—the third arrived as he looked, and before it came to a standstill half a dozen men were jumping to the pavement. Tall, alert men, who moved towards the house quickly.

In the bright light of a head-lamp he saw a well-hated face—only for a second, and then it passed into the darkness.

"Bradley!" he said thickly. "The Flying Squad—the place is surrounded!"