Читать книгу The Daughters of the Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

Table of Contents

Mr Stephen Sanderson had had a bulky letter by the American mail and had sat up half the night writing, taking notes and comparing the new data he had received from Frank Cameron’s friend with the voluminous matter he had already classified and tabulated.

It was a long work, but it was a labour of love for Stephen Sanderson. It meant the careful reading of thousands of newspaper extracts dealing with the wave of crime which had swept over England and France that year. It meant the comparison of methods thus recorded, with those which had been supplied him by the report which had come from New York. He had worked until the daylight filtered greyly through the curtained window with a dozen portraits of men and women outspread on the table before him. He was piecing together with amazing patience the pieces of the most fascinating jigsaw puzzle. Only one or two pieces did not fit, and he arose after four hours' sleep, refreshed and thrilled by the thought that even these elusive scraps might yet be fitted into the picture.

Jim, coming to the office at ten o'clock, found his assistant sitting before his desk a little hollow-eyed but more cheerful than he remembered him.

"Good morning, Mr Sanderson."

"Good morning, Mr Bartholomew."

Jim had an inquiry on the tip of his tongue, but checked himself. He looked at his assistant with a new respect.

"Is there anything particularly interesting this morning?" asked Jim as he hung up his hat and slipped off his coat—it had been raining that morning.

"Nothing, sir," said Sanderson. He was punctilious in all outward evidence of respect.

"I have the money ready for Mrs Cameron and for Mrs Markham."

"Oh yes, but she's not drawing out her balance, is she?"

"Yes, sir," said the other. "Her balance isn't a very large one. About 2,000. She is leaving a little in the account because she is returning. I am expecting Mr Winter any moment. Would you like to see him?"

"Who is Winter? Oh, the butler? No, thank you very much," said Jim carelessly. "If he wants to see me he'll find me in the office."

He went into his room, closed the door, and Sanderson went on with his work. There was a knock at the door and the clerk came in.

"Mr Winter, sir," he said.

"Oh, I'll see him in here. Ask him in, will you?"

A stout, genial-looking man with black side whiskers was Mr Winter. He offered his large hand, and sitting down on the seat opposite Sanderson at the managers invitation, he produced a pink slip which Sanderson examined.

"Well, Mr Winter, I suppose your lady is in a state of great excitement about the prospect of going back to America?"

"No, sir," smiled Mr Winter. "There's very little excitement at Tor Towers, sir, believe me. It is just about the dullest situation I was ever in. Mind you, everything is as it should be in the way of food and accommodation, but there's precious little life."

"When are you leaving?"

"Tonight, sir. We are going by car to Bournemouth and on early tomorrow to the ship."

"It is going to be a pleasant trip for you, Mr Winter."

The elder man rubbed the bald patch on the top of his head.

"Well, sir, it may be and it may not," he said cautiously "I have never been out of England and I don't know how I'm going to get on with these Americans. Of course, Mrs M. is a very nice lady and if they are all like her I shall be comfortable. But never having been abroad or been on a ship—why naturally I'm a bit nervous."

"You'll be all right," said Sanderson.

He rang the bell and handed the cheque to the clerk.

"Bring the cash for this, will you," he said

"There is one thing, sir," the butler leant over the table and lowered his voice. "Mrs M. is a little nervous about those jewels you've got and she asked me if I'll have a look at them to see if they are properly packed—in fact, sir, I won't tell a lie, to see if they are still in your possession."

Sanderson indulged in one of his rare smiles.

"I don't think she need worry about that," he said. "I suppose it is the jewel robberies which are worrying her?"

"That's it, sir," nodded Winter emphatically. "My lady says that she was robbed once before when she was in America and it has made her scared."

"I think I can put her mind at rest," said Sanderson, rising, and going to a steel door at the end of his room.

He manipulated two keys and presently the big door swung open, and he disappeared into the vault.

He came back in a moment with a small brown-paper parcel.

"Do you want me to open this?" he said, pointing to the package and the sealed tape which enveloped it.

"No, sir," said Winter. "All she wanted you to do was to tear the paper so that I could see. I understand the jewels are in a glass case."

"Mrs Markham's idea," said Sanderson, "and not a bad one."

He caught a corner of the paper and tore it cautiously revealing an oblong glass box.

"There they are."

Mr Winter leaned forward and looked reverently at a section of a broad diamond collar which sparkled and glittered in the light.

"That's all right, sir," he said, "and here's Mrs Markham's seal."

He handed over a gummed label, across which was written "Stella Markham" and the date.

"What is that for?" asked Sanderson in surprise, and Mr Winter chuckled.

"A wonderful lady is Mrs M. She thinks of everything. 'Winter,' she said, 'after Mr Sanderson has torn the paper you'd better put this label over the tear so that nobody will think the parcel has been interfered with without my knowledge."

He licked the label and with an "excuse me, sir," rubbed it down over the torn paper.

"There's a gentleman Mrs Markham doesn't like," he said, with a jerk of his head to the window which gave out upon the High Street. Following the direction of his eyes Sanderson saw the back of a stocky figure.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"That's Farmer Gold. He's a very objectionable man and turned madame off his property where she was sketching."

"He's usually a very decent fellow," said Sanderson. "I'll put this package back in the vaults and you can reassure Mrs Markham that her jewels are safe."

The clerk came in with the money which was counted, not once, but three times by the careful Mr Winter. He had pocketed the money and was rising when Sanderson detained him.

"There's one thing I want to see you about, Mr Winter," he said, "if you can spare five minutes of your time."

"With all the pleasure in life," said Mr Winter.

"You're going to America, and you will be in a favourable position to collect a little information for me, especially whilst you are on the ship."

"If I'm well enough to get about, sir," interrupted Winter. "I'm not looking forward—"

"Oh, you'll be well enough to get about," said Mr Sanderson, with a little laugh. "Sailing with you will be Mr and Mrs Cameron."

"Cameron?" repeated the other.

"Yes."

"Are they country people? Do I know them?"

"I don't know whether you know them, but they live in this town."

"Oh yes, the American people," nodded Winter. "Yes, sir."

And Sanderson detailed his commission. Not for five minutes, but for twenty did he speak. It was necessary to some extent to take the butler into his confidence, and this he did. Jim heard the murmur of voices in the next room and, looking across the unfrosted top of the door panel, caught a glimpse of Sanderson's earnest face and smiled. He sealed the letter he was writing and passed into the outer office.

"Has Mrs Cameron been?" he asked his clerk.

"No, sir. Mr Winter, Mrs Markham's butler, is here."

"Tell Mr Sanderson I shall be back in ten minutes," said Jim, and went out into the High Street.

He was restless, impatient of things, craving unreasonably for a glimpse of the face which was soon to pass away from him, perhaps for ever. He walked through the town in the direction of the Camerons' house and knew himself for a fool. He was halfway up Moor Hill when he saw the car coming slowly down. It stopped at his signal and Cecile Cameron beckoned him.

"Where are you going so early?" he asked.

The other occupant of the car was Margot, who had no need to make any inquiry and was only interested in what excuse Jim would invent.

"I was coming out to meet you," said Jim, seating himself in one of the bucket seats.

"And Margot?" said Cecile softly.

"And Margot," Jim admitted without blushing. "I know I am a frantic idiot, but I just hate your going."

"I think we all wish we were staying," said Cecile, "even Margot."

"Even Margot," scoffed her sister-in-law.

"Can't you find an excuse to come with us?" said Mrs Cameron.

"I found the excuse quite a long time ago," said Jim.

Margot stared out of the window; interested apparently in anything and everything except the young man in tweeds who sat with his foot against hers.

"Maybe I'll turn up there if you don't come back quickly," Jim went on. "One of these fine days when you're sitting in your palatial apartment on the 29th floor of the Goldrox Hotel you will ring your bell for the waiter and in will come Jim Bartholomew—I had no idea I had walked such a short distance."

The car was pulling up before the bank.

Sanderson was standing at the door talking to his visitor.

"And now to do a little honest banking business?" said Jim. "I—"

He stopped dead at the sight of Mrs Cameron's face. It was as white as death, her lips were bloodless and her face was frozen in an expression of horror.

Jim turned and saw Sanderson at the door. He had just given his final word to Mrs Markham's butler and had not noticed the arrival of the car. He looked back again at Cecile. She was shaking as if from an ague.

"My God!" she gasped. "Oh, my God!"

By this time Sanderson had turned into the bank.

"What is the matter, Cecile dear? For heaven's sake, what has happened?" said Margot, putting her arms about Cecile.

"Nothing, nothing."

Jim was dumb with astonishment.

Sanderson! What was there in the sight of that stony face which would reduce this well-poised woman to such a condition of terror? That it was Sanderson he did not doubt. He jumped out of the car and assisted Mrs Cameron into the bank.

"Oh, it is nothing. I am stupid," she said faintly as he brought her into his office. "Just a little fainting attack, I sometimes have them. You must please forgive me, Mr Bartholomew, for making such a spectacle of myself."

"But what was it, dear?" Margot asked anxiously.

"Nothing, nothing." Mrs Cameron forced a smile. "Really it was nothing, Margot. I just had an attack of the vapours. Will you attend to me, Mr Bartholomew? I—I don't think I want to see your assistant manager."

Jim was only too anxious to deal with the matter himself. He walked into Sanderson's office and that worthy was at the table apparently unconscious of his responsibility for Mrs Cameron's condition.

"I am attending to Mrs Cameron's account myself, Sanderson," said Jim.

"Very good, sir," replied the other, without looking up. "I've just fixed Mrs Markham's account."

In three minutes Jim was back in his office with the notes and by that time Cecile Cameron had recovered something of her calm.

"There's quite a run on the bank today," said Jim. "Mrs Markham's butler has just drawn 2,000 for that lady."

There was a silence as he counted the money then: "Mrs Markham is the lady who is going to America, is she?" said Cecile.

"I believe she is leaving today or tomorrow. I'll find out."

He went into Sanderson's room. He guessed that Cecile's interest in Mrs Markham was an excuse to get him out of the room that she might have a little further time to recover and he delayed his return as long as possible.

He was somewhat surprised to find his assistant in excellent humour and informative.

"Yes," said Jim on his return, "she's sailing tomorrow and her butler has been confiding his terrors of the sea to Sanderson. I gather she is leaving today."

He saw the girls back to their car and bade farewell to them and stood watching the number plate at the back of the car until it had disappeared, then he went slowly back to his office. He pressed the bell which communicated with Sanderson and the assistant manager came in.

"Sanderson," he said, "I owe you an apology."

"Do you, sir?" said Sanderson in surprise.

"Yes," said Jim. "I've been rather a boor about your little hobby and I didn't realise how very important your work in that direction may be."

Mr Sanderson looked at him suspiciously.

"Of course, Mr Bartholomew if you're going to be funny about it-"

"I'm not being funny at all," said Jim. "Sit down. I had a long talk with Mr Cameron yesterday afternoon, and without betraying any of your secrets he told me that you were working systematically with the object of identifying the members of the Big Four who have been victimising the banks."

"Well, sir, that's true," said Sanderson, sitting down, "and I'm happy to say that I'm on the track. And I'm not the only one looking for them either," he said. "I had a letter yesterday from a friend of Mr Cameron's who's a lawyer in America, and he gave me some very interesting information. The biggest enemy to the Big Four is a woman—a woman detective who has been employed by the Department of Justice in America for four years tracking down the principal members. I don't know the name of the lady and this fact was told me in confidence."

"A woman detective sounds thrilling," said Jim. "What do you think are the prospects of their capture?"

Sanderson shook his head.

"That's a difficult question to answer," he said. "As likely as not the lady who is on their track is nearer to detecting them than ever I shall be. She has unlimited resources, she has the Government of America behind her, she can appear in all sorts of guises, and can devote the whole of her time to the work." It seemed at that moment to Jim that he had a deeper grudge against the mysterious woman detective with her unlimited authority than he had against the miscreants whose undoing he sought.

"By the way sir, Mr Winter wanted to see Mrs Markham's jewels before he left," said Sanderson as he was leaving, and gave an account of the interview.

He made no reference, however, to the interview which followed when they sat head to head over the table, he and the butler whom he was training and from whom he anticipated receiving such assistance.

"Blow her jewellery," said Jim. "I wish to heaven she'd leave it in London or somewhere. I'll have to send that necklace to town just as soon as Mrs Markham has gone, Sanderson. You might write to the Head Office and tell them that they can expect it on Tuesday and you can take it. A trip to town will do you no harm, and it will probably help you."

Sanderson nodded gratefully.

"Thank you, sir, I want to go to Scotland Yard to see Inspector McGinty. I have had some correspondence with him. He seems a very intelligent man."

"He probably is," said Jim dryly. "It is curious how often real detectives are that way!"