Читать книгу The Last Adventure and Other Stories - Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

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THE PREDELLES were in town. They had come up to their little house in Clarges Street in preparation for the wedding, which was, to quote Mary’s letter, to be a quiet one. Her note showed no sign of her inward perturbation.

Dear Big Little Brother (it ran),

You will come to this interesting ceremony, won’t you? You will, of course, be the cynosure of disapproving eyes, and poor daddy is determined to say no more than “Good morning” and “Good night” to you—as the wedding will be after lunch, you will be spared even this indignity unless he adds “Good afternoon” to his repertoire! I am reconciled to—things. It is so much easier to go along the new road which somebody has obligingly laid for you than to break through the tall hedges and stumble in the ditches that are such obstacles in the path of self-determination—blessed word! I shall need your moral support, big little brother. I have my moments of panic, in common with all young ladies who flutter on the brink of matrimony. Come and see me. Daddy has been elected to a very exclusive club, and is a little dazed by his good fortune. He goes there every day in the hope of finding somebody who will take pity upon and talk to him. Yesterday a man nodded, and daddy came home quite pleased, though I’m sure that the nodder was looking at somebody else.

There was a postscript.

Come at four to tea: I shall be alone.

He was on his way to Clarges Street, walking down Piccadilly, when he met Selwyn, who was in his most genial and expansive mood. Selwyn he could have endured, but Bertie Thrennigen he neither expected nor approved. The change in Bertie’s appearance was little short of wonderful. He was again in his more gorgeous raiment. Evidently Selwyn had been generous—Selwyn, who was generous to nobody. What queer secret did Bertie hold? he wondered.

He would have hurried on, but his brother detained him.

“You’re coming to my bachelor party to-morrow night, old bird?” he said. “I’ll take no denial, in spite of your hideous past.” The jest afforded him such amusement that he literally screamed with laughter, to the amazement of passers-by. “Dinner at Rigiali’s, and on to the Arts Ball. Rigiali’s is practically given over to the revellers, so you’ve got to turn up in fancy dress, old bird.”

John shook his head.

“No, thank you, but I shall be at your wedding.”

Selwyn’s face changed.

“The devil you will! Is the old lady sending you an invitation?”

“I don’t know—but I have promised Miss Predelle that I will be there.”

John would have passed on, but Selwyn put a detaining hand on his sleeve.

“I can’t prevent her asking you, of course,” he said, and there was in his small, beady eyes a glint of suspicious distrust that accentuated the weak viciousness of his features; “but after we’re married ...”

John shook his arm free with unaccustomed roughness; he could not trust himself to reply, and, with a curt nod to the two men, passed on his way.

He had gone only a few strides further when the shrill, cacophonous shriek of powerful brakes applied violently made him instinctively jerk his head towards the roadway. The sight that met his eyes brought him to a standstill. A girl, well dressed, slimly built, had been crossing the road in an obvious hurry, dodging a precarious way through the Piccadilly traffic, dense yet fast-moving. The driver of the big limousine had had to utilize every ounce of braking power his car possessed in order to avoid running her down.

John recognized the girl instantly: it was Alma Keenan, and he was obviously her objective. Ignoring the scathing comments of the chauffeur, she reached the pavement and, making for John, clutched his arm with a feverish grip.

“Mr. Calthorpe,” she gasped, “I want—I want to speak to you!”

He had never seen man or woman so distressed as she. Her teeth were chattering, and the hand that gripped his sleeve trembled so convulsively that his arm shook.

“Why, what on earth—“ he began.

“I want to speak to you—only for a second!”

She half pulled him into the comparative quiet of Berkeley Street.

“Who was that? I saw you just now with a man,” she went on incoherently. “Yes, yes”—with impatience—”I know that you were talking to ... Lord Heverswood, but who was the other man?”

“The other man?” said John in surprise. “Why, that was Bertie Thrennigen, who is a better actor than he is a gentleman, and a worse actor than any other man on the stage.”

“Bertie Thrennigen?” she repeated slowly. “An actor?” And then: “Are you sure? Will you swear that?”

“Why, of course,” said John, trying to soothe her. “With those reservations I am prepared to guarantee that he’s an actor.”

Something made him look round. At the comer of Berkeley Street a little man was standing watching them, and he recognized this flashily attired individual instantly as the man he had seen with Selwyn at Madame Bonnigea’s on the night of the raid.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Never mind about him,” she wailed impatiently. “You’re sure ... about what you said?”

“Now listen, Miss Keenan”—John patted the poor, trembling hand kindly—”you’re in some kind of trouble. Won’t you tell me what it is?”

People were looking at them curiously as they passed; but John had none of the self-consciousness which would have made a man of lesser breeding feel uncomfortable.

“I can’t tell you ... I will come to your house some time. You’re very good....”

Suddenly she squeezed his hand, and before he realized what had happened she was flying back towards Piccadilly. He saw her stop and speak to the little watcher, and together they turned the comer and passed out of sight.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said the perplexed John as he continued his slow way to Clarges Street.