Читать книгу The Last Adventure and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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JOHN CALTHORPE had often wondered who was the rat-faced man he had seen with his brother on the night of the raid. He had time for thought, for with the clearing of the Pealego there was a lull in his business, and since the demand was so heavy, and the supply of wood determined by the period of its seasoning, there was no immediate necessity for finding new markets.

He thought about the girl, but not too often. That was one of the painful subjects of meditation that had to be dismissed almost before it was raised. But the rat-faced man was really worth thinking about. He saw him once by accident crossing Trafalgar Square. Johnny was in his car, otherwise he would certainly have stopped him and claimed acquaintance, if only to discover what association his brother had with so unprepossessing an individual.

Selwyn had apparently recovered. John saw him one day, coming out of a famous furnisher’s, in company with Mr. Predelle, and he smiled grimly. The castle could stand a lot of refurnishing, he thought.

One of the lesser embarrassments of life for John Calthorpe was the attachment of the Indian, Quio. Having demonstrated his ability and willingness, he seemed to have taken it for granted that any question of his employment had been definitely settled. That he was a “tracker” John discovered when he learned that Quio had never really lost sight of him from the moment he left the ship, except for the period he was at Heverswood, and then, with that uncanny instinct, and without speaking a word of the English language, he had found his way to Fitzroy Square.

Calthorpe suspected, not without reason, that the Indian, who spoke fluent Spanish, had gravitated to Soho, and had there discovered, through one of the many who spoke the language, his address. That he knew his name was at first a puzzle to John, until he remembered the years he had spent in Paraguay, where he had been as well known as the native chiefs.

The policeman-caretaker was reluctant to share a house with so wild a savage, but as his wife had gone away into the country the objection was not insuperable, and Quio was installed in a garret room at the very top of the building.

He was so useful a man with the “long brush”, so docile and humble a creature, that Sergeant Lane became reconciled to his presence, and even supplied him with cast-off articles of clothing; but it was John who insisted upon the hair-cut, which was performed by the sergeant himself, not without trepidation.

On one other point John Calthorpe was implacable. He had discovered that the Indian carried a knife; he saw the shape of it as he bent down to take off his master’s boots one night.

“In this land, Quio, no man carries the espada, big or little.”

With some reluctance the Indian took it from his body-belt; a long, slender poignard, with a curiously thin handle covered with thin scales of gold. John took the knife and examined it curiously. Its two edges were razor-keen, its point like a needle.

“Master, I keep this for your enemies,” pleaded the brown man.

John smiled.

“We must try something less drastic, Quio,” he said in English, and the man looked puzzled.

When he had gone, John put the knife away in one of the drawers of his open desk. He was a little worried about Quio; but he was uneasy about so many things that Quio deserved, and received, no more than a few seconds’ thought.

He had received a polite intimation from the secretary of his club calling upon him to resign as a result of the police-court exposure. That he expected. What he did not anticipate was a call from Alma Keenan. If he had enumerated all the people in the world most likely to visit him, he would have placed Alma a long way last. Lane, who acted as a sort of keeper of the sacred door when John was in residence during the daytime, brought the card, and, reading it, John gasped.

“Miss Keenan?” he said.

“Yes, sir; a very pretty young lady.”

“I know she’s pretty all right,” said John dryly. “Are you sure she wants to see me?”

Yet whom else could she want to see? he thought. The end of the month had come and gone. He knew the girl had left the employ of Lady Heverswood, and in many ways was glad for her sake. He had been willing to find a job for her, and thought perhaps she might have repented of her haughty rejection of his offer.

“Show her in, sergeant,” he said.

The girl who came through the door was obviously no suppliant for a humble post in his office. It was Alma, but a transfigured Alma; Alma severely but beautifully dressed in an embroidered costume that must have cost three months’ salary. Her hat was a Paris mode; about her neck was a long string of pearls, which might have been artificial but which looked remarkably real. She had two sparkling rings upon the finger of the hand that was bare, and in her ears were diamonds of the first water.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Keenan,” he said, as he pushed forward a chair for her.

“Is it?” she said languidly, as she sat down bolt upright on the edge.

He was secretly amused, knowing little of the exigencies and requirements of modern fashions; all that occurred to him was that she had copied exactly the peculiar attitude which Lady Heverswood adopted in his presence.

“I have left Heverswood, you know?” she said.

He nodded. Then he asked good-humouredly:

“Have you found a suitable job?” And she raised her eyes in languid surprise.

“A job, Mr. Calthorpe? Great heavens, no! I am not taking any more jobs. The truth is”—she played with the silver handle of her squat umbrella—”I have had a legacy left me. That is why I gave up my position with Lady Heverswood.”

All the time he was cudgelling his brains to find an excuse for her visit. The girl did not like him. It would be more true to say that the measure of her dislike was only exceeded by the attitude of mind which his stepmother displayed on all possible occasions. Why had she come? Was it to flaunt her new prosperity? The natural desire of the under-dog to advertise her independence?

“I congratulate you,” he said politely, and waited.

Evidently she found it difficult to begin.

“Mr. Calthorpe, you know Mary Predelle, don’t you?”

“I know Miss Predelle—yes,” he said.

“She’s an awfully nice girl,” drawled Alma; “one of the sweetest I know. You’re rather fond of her, aren’t you?”

The question took his breath away, and then, with a little smile:

“I’m sure you haven’t come here out of curiosity to pry into the melancholy secrets of my young heart, Miss Keenan,” he said. “I like Miss Predelle, but I don’t think we need discuss her, need we?”

“Yes,” was the astonishing reply. “You see”— she did not raise her eyes to his, was watching the ferrule of her umbrella as she traced patterns on the carpet “—you see, Mr. Calthorpe, I am in rather a dilemma. I have been very well brought up, although I occupied a menial position in Lady Heverswood’s house. My father was a gentleman....”

She proceeded at length to detail her ancestry, and John listened with patience and not a little astonishment. Of her origin he knew nothing. She had appeared in the Heverswood household during his absence in South America. Beyond the fact that for some reason her face had appeared in a dim way rather familiar to him, he had never had the opportunity of getting interested in her.

“All this is very interesting, Miss Keenan,” he interrupted her gently, “but I don’t see exactly what it has to do with me.”

Only for a second did the old resentment show in the flash of her eyes, but she curbed whatever dislike she felt and gave him the sweetest of smiles.

“I only wanted to tell you that I’m not the kind of girl who would play a low-down trick upon another woman,” she said. “Of course, if you’re very fond of her, it makes a lot of difference, if you’d ...” She hesitated. “Well, if you wouldn’t look down upon her, and you’d do the honourable thing.”

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at. Will you speak a little more plainly?”

But evidently, so far from speaking plainly, she did not intend to speak any more, for she rose and offered her charmingly gloved hand.

“Good-bye, Mr. Calthorpe. It’s been such a pleasure to have this little talk,” she said.

He did not take the hand, but, walking to the door, stood squarely between her and the exit.

“Before you go, Miss Keenan,” he said quietly, “I want to know exactly what you’re trying to tell me.” Again the languid eyebrows rose.

“Really, Mr. Calthorpe, I have nothing more to say,” she said; and when he did not move a tinge of red came to her pale face.

“I want to know what you mean by ’doing the honourable thing’,” said John, without moving. “And what do you mean by ‘you’re too much of a lady to play a trick upon Miss Predelle’? What trick is intended?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I merely wanted to make sure—”

“Wanted to salve your conscience in advance, eh?” And the shrewd shot hit home.

“What do you mean?” All the languor was out of her voice; she was something approaching her precious model. “How dare you talk to me like that? Let me pass, please.”

Her gesture was regal. John, in any other circumstances, could have laughed. He did, however, realize how unprofitable any further questioning would be, opened the door for her without a word, and watched her over the balustrade until the nodding paradise of her hat had disappeared from view. Then he went back to his room and thought.