Читать книгу The Green Archer - Edgar Wallace - Страница 19

Table of Contents

GOING down to the village post office, Julius Savini saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk, and groaned inwardly. If there had been a convenient street into which he could have turned, or if he could have pretended that he had not seen the dapper, red-haired young man smoking his morning cigar and surveying the world with a benignant and proprietorial eye, he would most certainly have done so. But Spike beckoned him, and in a sweat the Eurasian crossed the street.

"I am——" he began.

"You're in a hurry. I know that. You don't want the old man to see you talking to me, or you'll lose your job. That's pretty well known too. Say, Julius, I feel we ought to know one another better, so I hope you don't mind my calling you by your given name? It has always been a favourite of mine.... No, I'm not kidding.... I shall name my first child 'Julius.' But listen. I want to ask you something. Do you know a man at Scotland Yard called Featherstone?"

Savini nodded.

"I know him, yes," he said shortly. "He's the man that used to go around with the Howetts. Why don't you go and see Mr. Howett, Spike? He's staying at Lady's Manor, and he'll give you a real story."

"I've seen him," said Spike. "You know Featherstone, eh?"

"I've told you so, haven't I?" said Julius impatiently. "Now I must be getting along, Holland."

"Call me Spike," begged the young man earnestly. "Honestly, I feel we ought to be better acquainted. What's the new butler like?" he asked carelessly.

Julius shrugged his shoulders.

"He's a butler—a capable man. He was sent down from London."

"Just a capable butler, eh? That certainly sounds unromantic," said Spike, eyeing him keenly. "Does he ever come into the village?"

"I suppose so."

"He isn't anybody you know, is he?"

"What is the use of asking me questions about butlers?" pleaded Julius pathetically. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"What's the hurry?" said Spike, catching the Eurasian's arm as he tried to pass on. "Anything fresh? What's that Green Archer doing? Is he still on his vacation?"

"No, he's not," snapped Julius. "He doped the dogs last night. I'm going to the post office to wire for two more. The old man thinks the archer won't be able to handle four as easily as he handled two." And, wrenching himself away, he made off at full speed, anxious to put as great a distance between the inquisitorial Spike and himself as was possible.

Spike had had a letter from his friend in Belgium that morning. John Wood was coming over at the end of the week and he wanted Spike to dine with him. One portion of his letter interested the reporter:

I was very grateful to you for the long account you sent me of Bellamy and the extraordinary happenings at the castle. Since then I have had the "Globe" and read your account, and the story of the Green Archer of Garre is very remarkable. In your covering letter you say that the Green Archer will sooner or later break the nerve of Abel Bellamy. As I told you before, you are wrong. Nothing in the world is going to frighten this evil man. Nor do I agree that it is inevitable that Abe Bellamy will be killed by the hand that struck down Creager. I think it is largely a matter of expediency with the destroyer, and Abe Bellamy's fate depends entirely upon the nature of the discoveries which are made by the man who is "haunting" the castle.

The letter went on to deal in detail with his new scheme and its progress. He had succeeded in interesting a number of wealthy men in America and England, and his plan had progressed beyond his wildest hopes. Spike did not read the latter part of the letter very carefully, because for the moment he was not passionately interested in child welfare. He was, however, immensely interested in Abe Bellamy. He could not help wondering at the extraordinary difference in the character of the two men. This brutal giant, who sat like an ogre of old time in his fastness, emanating uncharity and hate, with the gentle soul whose life's work was devoted to the interests of humanity.

He had a breakfast engagement with Mr. Howett, and he strolled along the pretty lane that skirted the high walls of the castle. Presently the Elizabethan chimneys of the old manor-house came into view.

Spike was something of an antiquarian, and, like most Americans, was better acquainted with the history of the historic buildings of England than the Englishmen who saw them every day. The manor-house had been built in the fifteenth century for a certain Isabel D'Isle, well beloved of a de Curcy. It had been partially destroyed by fire in the days of Elizabeth and immediately rebuilt, a fact which accounted for the Elizabethan character of the architecture.

The morning was bright, and, for the time of year, warm, and he found Valerie Howett in the garden superintending the planting of bulbs.

"It looks as though you've settled down here forever," smiled Spike as he shook hands.

"I am settled here—for a long time," she said quietly. "You will find father in his library. I am afraid you will think the house rather muddled, Mr. Holland, but father's room is the most tidy of all."

Something of the melancholy which seemed to be a settled characteristic of Mr. Howett had disappeared. He was bright, almost cheerful, and Spike, not knowing the cause, thought it was the change of air, until his host revealed his plans, showed him with some pride the papers he had accumulated, and even consulted him about the introductory chapter.

"Have you seen anything of your neighbour, Mr. Howett?"

"Who is that? Bellamy?" Mr. Howett made a wry face. "No, and I don't want to see much of him either. Thank Heaven he's rather an unsociable man and he's not likely to be calling for tea! Holland," he added earnestly, "have you ever got into this tea habit of ours? If you haven't, don't; it's fatal. It is worse than drugs. Once you get the habit, you're a slave forever."

The grounds of Lady's Manor were not very extensive. There were a little less than two acres, and their boundaries were marked by the castle wall. This Spike saw after breakfast, when the girl was showing him round.

"There seems to be a door here, Miss Howett."

"There was," she said ruefully, "but Mr. Bellamy has filled up the doorway on the other side."

"Maybe he's afraid of the Green Archer," said Spike humorously, and quickly added: "I hope that is not an indiscretion, Miss Howett. You're not scared, are you?"

"No, I'm not afraid," she answered.

Spike surveyed the wall with a professional interest.

"It is lower here than anywhere else round the castle," he said, "and you'd have all the opportunity you wanted if you were inclined to make an excursion into Abe's feudal domain."

He went forward and put up his hands and could touch the top of the wall.

"Two light ladders, and there you are. Gee! I'm beginning to envy you, Miss Howett. I'm not going to ask you to let me burgle the castle from your backyard, but if you gave me any encouragement I'd come along one dark night and go look for that archer!"

She laughed softly.

"I shall give you no encouragement, Mr. Holland," she said. And then: "Have you seen Captain Featherstone lately?"

"No, not since Monday last. He told me he was going abroad, though I doubted that. Honestly, Miss Howett, I had an idea that he was the new butler at the castle. I know he's very interested in Bellamy, especially in the gas bill; though why the gas bill, Heaven knows!"

"What is that?" she asked quickly, and Spike retailed the domestic gossip of Garre.

"I told Featherstone that they'd fired the butler, and it occurred to me later that he might have applied for the job. These secret service men make real good butlers; some of them make nothing else. To tell you the truth, I had an idea of sending one of our men there, but by the time our city editor had considered the matter and had taken legal advice and had examined his soul in the silence of the night and prayed for spiritual guidance, the job had been filled. Thinking it over, I decided that the new butler was Featherstone. For one thing, they say he's a good-looker, and for another he never comes into the village to give us a chance of seeing him. But I spoke to Julius this morning, and I guess Julius has a streaky past, and there are few officers of the law he isn't acquainted with. If the butler had been Featherstone he'd have squealed to the old man."

She was thinking.

"Then Captain Featherstone was impressed by the gas bill?"

Spike nodded.

"Maybe he's a family man," he said lightly. "Being a bachelor, the tragedy of the gas bill has never appealed to me."

"Captain Featherstone is not married," she said a little coldly, and went crimson when Spike apologised for his mistake.

"I don't know why you should apologise," she said with some asperity. "I'm just telling you that he isn't married. Do you know Julius Savini?" she said, turning the conversation. "Can you tell me anything about him?"

"Why, no," said Spike in surprise, "except that he's a Eurasian. His father was an Englishman, his mother was an Indian woman, and I should imagine that Julius has the weaknesses of both. He used to run with the Crowley gang, though I have never known whether he was victim or directing genius. The police broke the gang over a year ago, and somehow Julius crept outside of the net, so maybe he was a victim, or," he added, "a stool pigeon. I used to think it strange that he was in Bellamy's employ, until I began to give it thought, and then I realised that Julius was the type that would suit the old man admirably. He was born a toady, he is utterly unscrupulous, and he's frightened for his life of Bellamy. His head's chock-full of stunt schemes for getting rich quick, but he has neither the stamina nor the grit to carry them out. That is Julius. I trust I am not doing him an injustice," he added hopefully.

"I don't think you are," said Valerie.

Spike had taken up his quarters at Garre indefinitely. Twice a day he was in telephonic communication with the office; and although Mr. Syme hinted that the Green Archer, as an excuse for loafing, had almost outlived its usefulness, he would not take the responsibility of bringing his subordinate back to town.

Spike was speaking to the office that afternoon when he saw Valerie drive past in her car, taking the London road. The telephone at the Blue Boar was in the hall—a somewhat embarrassing circumstance for a man who wished to carry on a private conversation, for it was within earshot of the bar.

He walked to the door and looked after her, and then a thought struck him, and he came back to the telephone and called the office again. In a quarter of an hour he was connected, which was fairly rapid for that particular branch.

"Is that you, Mr. Syme? Miss Howett has gone to London. Do any of our boys know her? I think it wouldn't be a bad idea to pick her up. Not for publication, you understand, but to give me a line?"

"Is she a line to the Green Archer?" asked Mr. Syme's voice sarcastically.

"She's not only one line, but the big four," was the reply.