Читать книгу The Flying Squad - Edgar Wallace - Страница 7

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LITTLE more than a year later, on the evening of an early spring day..

The far-away drone of an aeroplane engine came to Ann Perryman at last. She closed her book, rose from the running-board of the little saloon car where she had been sitting, and glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was seven forty-five—the pilot was punctual, almost to the second.

Opening the door of the car, she took out a long-barrelled prismatic glass, and, walking clear of the bushes which obscured her view and screened the car from observation, swept the sky. There was the machine, already planing down. The engines were no longer audible.

She went back quickly to the saloon, and, groping in the interior, pulled a handle set in the dashboard. The black roof of the car was formed of lateral strips, and as she manipulated the lever each strip turned on itself like the slats of a Venetian blind. The underside was made of mirrored glass that caught the last rays of the setting sun. Three times she pulled the handle; three times the roof opened and closed. She left it with the mirrors exposed, and ran out again to watch the swiftly moving machine.

The pilot had seen; his signal lamp was blinking hysterically, and he had already banked over towards her. Now his engines were thundering again...

He was scarcely twenty yards above the earth when the package dropped the silken parachute to which the parcel was attached opened instantly, but did no more than break the fall for the wooden box struck the ground heavily. No sooner had she located it than the 'plane was rising steeply.

She did not wait until it was out of sight, but, running to the place where the parcel had fallen, she lifted it, carrying it back to the car, and placed it with the folded parachute in a deep cavity beneath the seat of the saloon. It was not heavy. Mark McGill never allowed her to collect the heavier stuff—he arranged it in some way—and only the lighter parcels which were brought unchecked across the sea frontiers of the kingdom were left to her handling.

It was growing dark, and she sent the car cautiously across the uneven ground of the forest-common. Doubtless there were others—belated picnickers who had spent the afternoon amidst the wild beauties of Ashdown—who had seen the aeroplane dip, but it was very unlikely that any would be close at hand, for she had followed one of the tracks which of itself was but a feeder to a subsidiary road.

The main road she came to after a jolting passage. Turning the bonnet of the machine toward London, she sent the car flying northward. The engines were more powerful than even an expert would suppose from casual observation. Mark, who was an engineer, had taken certain liberties with the design, and this light car of hers could hold the road at seventy.

Speed was a passion with Ann Perryman; to bit at the wheel of a racing machine and watch the indicator needle swing beyond ninety stood for her chiefest satisfaction.

The car came at a steady pace up Kingston Hill. A policeman shouted something, and Ann Perryman switched on the lights, though the dusk had hardly fallen and the man had no right other than his own officious sense of authority to order her lamps to be lit.

A year ago she would have smiled on, ignoring the request, and found a sense of pleasure in flaunting this arbitrary and insignificant man in uniform. But Mark had insisted upon submission to the law and its representatives, in all minor manifestations. She hated policemen. The sight of a white glove upraised at a cross road brought the colour to her cheeks and a hard light to her eyes. Policemen stood in her mind for cruelty and cunning, for treachery unspeakable; for murder, even.

She slowed at his signal, and he gave her a grin as she passed. She would have struck the red, stupid face if she had dared. And yet his appearance brought her a sense of satisfaction and triumph. If he knew! If, gifted by second sight, he had pulled up the car and pried into the contents of the box which was hidden beneath the seat!

She slowed, approaching Hammersmith Broadway, whose blazing lights definitely advertised the close of the day; and here she found the inevitable traffic block. Worming her car between a lorry and a bus, she came to a stop near the kerb. And then she saw the man standing on the edge of the sidewalk, and shrank back. But the lights of a grocer's shop were on her face, and there was no escaping the observation of that keen- eyed gentleman.

His attitude was characteristic: hands thrust deep into trousers pockets, shoulders and head bent forward; and, though the keen brown face was in shadow, it was easy to suppose from his attitude that his mind was miles away from Hammersmith Broadway. At first, he made no sign that he knew her; she thought that she was not recognised, and, turning her head, stared fixedly at the delivery van drawn up on her right. Out of the tail of her eye she saw him move, and now his elbows were resting on the sill of the open window.

"Been taking a joy-ride, Miss Perryman?"

She hated him, she hated his drawling voice, she hated all that he stood for. Mark preached the gospel of expediency, but she owed her acquaintance with this man to her own deliberate act. Deliberately and cold-bloodedly, she had manoeuvred a second and a third and many meetings. She was still bearing the smart of Ronnie's death, but she acted her part well, was volubly penitent for all she had said to him: he could not know the hate that still smouldered in her heart.

"Mr. Bradley! I didn't see you."

"People seldom see me when they're looking the other way," he said pleasantly.

She imagined that his eyes were searching the dark interior of the car.

"All alone? That's fine! Speaking personally, I don't know anybody I'd rather be alone with than myself! I suppose you feel that way, too."

He saw the head of the traffic jam was breaking.

"You're not going anywhere near Marble Arch?—I'm trying to save bus fares; it is believed that I'm Scotch."

She hesitated. If he came into the car and sat by her side, she felt she would scream. But Mark had said...

"Do please come in! I'm passing Marble Arch," she said.

He seemed to open the door and sit by her side in one motion.

"This is where my stock gets a rise," he drawled. "If the Deputy Commissioner or the Chief Constable could only see me riding in such good company, I'd be promoted next week. What snobs we are!"

She loathed him for his calm assurance, for the undernote of superficial cynicism; she hated him worse because she felt he was laughing at her, that he knew just the part she had been playing in the combination, and, knowing, was rather amused than shocked. The insufferable hint of patronage in his tone was hateful.

She set her lips tighter as the car sped quickly through the tangle of lorries and tramcars and up the road towards Shepherd's Bush.

"Mr. McGill well?" he asked politely—almost deferentially.

"I know very little about Mr. McGill," was the prompt retort. "I see him occasionally."

"Naturally," he murmured, "living in the same block of flats you wouldn't see much of him. The Home going strong? There's a man who's doing good work! Give me the philanthropist! If I hadn't been a detective, I should have been a banker and given away money."

She gave him no further encouragement, but Brad did not need provocation.

"Will you be going to the theatre to-night. Miss Perryman?"

"No," she said shortly.

"To supper, perhaps?"

As a matter of fact, Mark had told her that he might need her.

"Were you thinking of asking me out to supper?" she asked, heavily sarcastic.

Bradley coughed. "In a sense, yes."

For the second time she saw him glance over the seat to the back of the car.

"If I hadn't been a detective I should have gone on the stage. Did you ever read what the West London Gazette said about my performance in 'The School for Scandal' which our dramatic society put on?"

"It seems an appropriate play for members of Scotland Yard," she said.

He nodded.

"If I weren't amused, I'd laugh. School for Scandal—Scotland Yard!"

Then he relapsed into silence until the car drew up by the pavement opposite Marble Arch, and he alighted.

"Thank you very much for the ride. Miss Perryman," he said.

He would have lingered by the window of the car to talk, but before he could speak again she had moved on.

Mark employed a chauffeur-mechanic to look after the car—a lame man who lived alone in rooms above the garage; he was waiting for the girl at the end of the mews when she drove up.

"Good evenin', miss—you're a bit late."

She smiled at his anxiety. Mark found his servants in queer places. This man had come to his service by way of the Rest House.

"It is all right, Manford—I had a passenger who might not have liked fast driving."

A taxicab passed at that moment and turned the corner into Cavendish Square. When she herself walked towards the Square, she saw that it had stopped. Its passenger had alighted and was standing by the kerb. She had a glimpse of him as she passed...

Had she seen him before? She had a vague sense of acquaintance... Or had she evolved a mental picture of such a man as this? He stood motionless, silent, a grotesque figure in the formal and decorous setting of Cavendish Square. When, as she walked up the steps of the flat and looked back, he was still standing by the kerb, she imagined that he was watching her.

Mark, she knew, was in. There were two lights showing in the fanlight over the door. Ann used her key and went in, and found him in the sitting-room, reading an evening paper with his back to a small fire.

She had applied to Mark the supreme test of propinquity, and he had not failed her. He was affectionate in a heavy, brotherly way.

"Back—good business! That fellow picked you up? Fine! He ought to—he was once a French Ace."

Ann had taken off her close-fitting hat and was arranging her hair before a mirror.

"I had a travelling companion from Hammersmith to the Marble Arch —I will give you three guesses."

He shook his head, reached to the silver cabinet on the table and found a cigar.

"I am too lazy to guess," he said. "Besides, I am not boy friends with your girl friends."

"Guess."

Mark McGill groaned and settled himself comfortably on the couch.

"Riddles I never attempt to answer. The riddle of a Customs authority which charges exorbitant duties upon saccharine is, I'm sure, the easiest, and I haven't even attempted to solve that. It was somebody interesting, I'm sure."

"It was Central Inspector Bradley." He was startled.

"Bradley? What was the idea? Did he hold you up? Where was the stuff—"

She laughed at this staccato rattle of questions, and the relief which her amusement gave him was visible.

"He begged a ride and I gave it to him. I couldn't very well refuse. He asked after you."

Mark blinked at this.

"A comic fellow!" He smiled uneasily.

She stood before the mirror, pushing her hair into place with a little golden comb. He could see the oval of her face reflected, red lips and big grey eyes under the straight golden fringe.

"Every time I see myself I seem to be growing more and more like a Real Bad Woman, Mark! I think I'll dye my hair black!"

Mark did not answer, and there was a silence of a minute. He was sitting on the sofa-head, frowning down at the carpet, when she spoke again.

"Sometimes my resolution wants a lot of supporting. About Bradley —what do you call him—Brad? I couldn't somehow get the proper feeling about him as I drove him along the Bayswater Road. I ought to have felt sick and yet I didn't—it is a very wearing business, flogging up one's animosities. I kept saying to myself: here is the man who killed dear Ronnie—he did kill him? It may have been one of the other men—Simmonds—that brute?"

"Brad killed him all right." Mark was staring gloomily at the carpet. "And old Li, too, I expect—"

He brooded on this, walking up and down the room, his arms folded tightly, his usually placid face screwed into an expression of distaste.

"I hate to talk of Ronnie, but you've raised the question twice in the past month. What happened nobody knows."

He stopped in his walk at a desk, unlocked a drawer, took out a small envelope and shook the contents on to the blotting-pad. He sorted these out and found a newspaper cutting. He came back towards the fire- place, where the light was better.

"I've never shown you this before—it is an extract from the South-Eastern Herald, and gives a fairly accurate description of what took place." Fixing a pair of pince-nez on his nose, he read:

"In the early hours of last Wednesday, the Flying Squad, under Inspector Bradley, paid a visit to Lady's Stairs, a ramshackle old house, the property of Elijah Yoseph, a Dutch or Russian Jew. It is believed that the activities of the police were connected, with a complaint made by the Customs that certain dutiable articles were being smuggled into the country. When the police arrived at Lady's Stairs they found the house empty, but the room in which Yoseph lived presented a scene of such extraordinary disorder that the police were under the impression that there had been some sort of struggle. On the sash of a window which opened on to the Creek were bloodstains, and on the floor about three feet from the open window. A search was made of the Creek foreshore, and the body of a man, who has since been identified as Ronald Perryman, 904, Brook Street, was discovered. He had been beaten to death by some blunt instrument. Li Yoseph had also disappeared. Scotland Yard has a clue which may lead to an arrest. Garage keepers who had the car of any stranger to the neighbourhood, and which was seen driving from Meadow Lane after the murder, are requested to communicate with Scotland Yard."

"That is their story," said Mark, folding up the paper. "Mine is a little different. Li Yoseph's house was what has been picturesquely called a smuggler's den. We had one or two deals with him, and Ronnie was usually the go-between. Li Yoseph liked him. On that night Ronnie was sent down to fix the passage of a large quantity of tobacco. There is no doubt that whilst he was there the police made their raid."

"What happened to Li Yoseph?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"God knows. He probably cleared out at the first hint of danger. He had arrangements with most of the Dutch and German ships going down the river, and we know that he had a rowing boat to get him to their side. He was an extraordinarily strong old man. The police surprised Ronnie and tried to make him talk; when he wouldn't, they beat him up. Somebody gave him an unlucky blow, and to cover up their story this yarn was invented. Where was the taxi-man who dropped these mysterious strangers? Whoever saw them? They have never been heard of. That part of the tale's a fake."

"Have you tried to find Li Yoseph?" she asked, and only for a second did he hesitate.

"Yes, I sent a man over to Holland and to Lithuania to make inquiries—he's dead. He died at Utrecht. Nobody knows this but you and I."

There was an odd look in her eyes. For one panic moment he thought she disbelieved him, that she had acquired some knowledge of what really happened at Lady's Stairs.

"What did he—look like—will you describe him?" she said.

"Who—Li Yoseph? Don't you remember? He was about sixty —rather tall, with a stoop. A shortish grey beard that ran up to his cheekbones. He always dressed the same, summer and winter—a black coat almost like a kaftan, buttoned up to his neck, and a Russian fur cap of astrakhan—what is the matter?"

She was staring at him with wide-opened eyes. "I saw him—a quarter of an hour ago—standing outside this house," she said, and the face of Mark McGill went grey.