Читать книгу The Green Archer - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

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THE mind of Valerie Howett was in a turmoil. Sheer blank despair, resentment, and a sense of foolishness, were her predominant emotions.

"My dear," said her father, when she told him. "I just had to do it. You are more to me than anything in this whole wide world, and I couldn't afford to take a risk."

"But why didn't you tell me he was a detective?"

For once the saturnine face of Walter Howett creased in a wintry smile.

"But, daddy, he's been watching me all the time and following me around, when I thought I was alone, and I was sure he was just one of those poor useless boys one meets everywhere."

"He's a boy of thirty," said Howett, "and a real good boy, Valerie. I knew his father; he was an attaché at our Embassy in Washington. And you shouldn't feel sore at him, Val, because he has given up a two months' holiday to help me. I thought you'd be tired of your search at the end of that time," he said ruefully, "and would be glad to go back home."

She made no reply to this, though he waited.

"How did you come to find out?" he asked. "I mean, that he belonged to police headquarters?"

"He told me," she said shortly, and he did not pursue his inquiries.

"I hope it doesn't mean he's given up calling," he said. "It makes me more comfortable when he's around."

"He said he was coming to dinner tomorrow night," she said grimly. "Daddy, it's awful to feel that you're under police observation!"

This sense of surveillance, however, did not prevent her from holding Jim Featherstone to his promise. On the day her father left for Scotland he called for her, and was in her company for exactly five minutes. At the Marble Arch end of Hyde Park she stopped the car and opened the door suggestively.

"This is where I go, is it?" smiled Jim.

He was no longer the beautifully valeted young man. His clothes were more human and in a sense suited him better. She thought he was extraordinarily good looking, and found it difficult to believe that he had reached the thirties.

"I won't ask you where you are going, or on what wild adventure," he said as he stood by the side of the car, his hands resting on the window-slot.

Valerie smiled.

"Is it necessary to ask, when in all probability you have two police motor-cyclists following me?"

"No," he shook his head, "on my honour. I'm trusting you today to do nothing that will embarrass me. As your official guardian angel I very naturally take an interest in your fate. I shall call at the Carlton at eight o'clock, and if you haven't returned I'll send a hurry call to every station in England."

She looked back as the car sped away, and saw him standing gazing after her. He was very good looking, and it was ridiculous to believe that he was thirty.

He waited until the car was out of sight, then he turned and strolled back through the park. Late in the year as it was, the day was warm, and the broad paths held a fair sprinkling of people. He walked on, his mind more occupied with the problem of Valerie Howett than that offered by the murder, which was the principal topic of conversation in London that day. Despite the assurance of his deductions, the presence of Valerie in Creager's plantation was a source of uneasiness.

The truth was that he had not seen her in the plantation at all; he had merely seen her when she went in. He had seen her again when she came out. All that she did between the hours of three o'clock in the afternoon and eight o'clock, when she emerged from her hiding-place, had been hidden from him. He hoped, by surprising her, first with the intelligence that he had watched her and secondly with the disclosure of his identity, that she would tell him why she had followed Creager. Instead of which she had shut up tighter than an oyster.

That she was seeking somebody, he knew; Howett had told him. Who that somebody was, under what circumstances they had disappeared, he was as much in the dark as ever. He had spent a hectic and weary two months shadowing this beautiful girl, whose restless quest had led her by many perilous paths, if she had but known. Who was Mrs. Held? What object had the girl in seeking her?

Mr. Howett he knew and had met on both sides of the Atlantic. He was a widower, and there was only one child of the marriage. Had there been a sister, the hunt was self-explanatory. Who could be so precious to Valerie Howett that she should spend money like water and take risks that even he shuddered to think of in order to find her? It could not be for an ordinary friend. It would have been more understandable had the object of the search been a man.

He revolved the problem round and round in his mind, an endless circle of speculation and wonder. Then, unexpectedly, he saw an old friend, and instantly all thoughts of Valerie vanished from his mind. He crossed a grass plot, quickening his pace, and came up by the side of the elegant lady who was walking slowly, holding a small dog on a lead. She had the appearance of somebody from one of the residences of the fashionable quarter which runs parallel with the park.

"I thought I wasn't mistaken," said Jim genially. "How are you, Fay?"

The lady looked at him blankly, raising her delicately penciled eyebrows.

"I'm afraid I haven't the advantage of your acquaintance," she said coldly, and looked round as if for a policeman, which amused Jim Featherstone to such an extent that for a second he was helpless with internal laughter.

"Fay, Fay!" he said reprovingly. "Come down from your pedestal and be mortal. How are all the good souls of your exclusive set? Jerry is in prison still, I understand, and the rest of the crowd are still hiding in Paris."

The lady shook her head impatiently.

"My God, Featherstone! It's pretty tough that a woman can't take her chow for an airing without being pestered by a super-cop."

"It's pretty tough that a woman can't take her chow

for an airing without being pestered by a super-cop."

"Your profanity and your slang are deplorable," said Featherstone good-naturedly. "I heard some news about you the other day which rather surprised me."

She looked at him, suspicion and dislike in her eyes.

"What was that?" she asked.

"They told me you were married, both ecclesiastically and civilly. Who is the happy man?"

"You're dreaming," she said contemptuously. "You people at the Yard are too ready to believe ill of anyone. No, I'm not married, Featherstone, though I don't know what would happen if you pressed me very hard. I've always had a weakness for the pretty boy type. I like 'em that way; they're not so clever as the ugly ones."

She looked round at him under her drooping lids.

"What do you say, Featherstone?" she asked with mock earnestness.

"I hate to disappoint you, Fay," he replied, "but I have my family to consider. But seriously, who is the happy man?"

"There isn't any," said Fay. "There isn't a man in the world who's good enough for me. I came to that conclusion long ago."

He had fallen in at her side, and they were walking slowly together, to all appearance a well-bred man and woman, very good to look upon, engaged in a friendly conversation.

"How is that half-breed secretary of old Bellamy's?" he asked carelessly, and she flushed red.

"Where did you get that 'half-breed'?" she asked, her voice sharp and aggressive. "If you mean Mr. Savini, who happens to be a friend of mine, let me tell you that he comes from a very good old Portuguese family, and don't you forget it, Featherstone! And why I should allow myself to be seen speaking to an ivory-headed policeman, I don't know."

"Sorry," murmured Featherstone. "Of course, I ought to have remembered that you never call a Eurasian a half-breed. By the way, he is gone honest, they tell me?"

The exasperated girl swung round on him, and there was a hard glitter in her eye.

"Mr. Featherstone," she said hotly, "I'm not going to hear you talk about my—my friend, and I'll thank you to walk another way."

Jim Featherstone was gazing at her pensively.

"One would almost think that you were married, and to your little Julius. If that is so, Fay, accept my heartiest congratulations."

But she had turned before he could finish his sentence and was walking furiously away, tugging a reluctant chow behind her.

For the second time in ten minutes Jim Featherstone turned to look thoughtfully after a woman.

Later he strolled into the Carlton to renew acquaintance with the friend of Fay Clayton, but Julius had already left with his employer for Garre Castle.