Читать книгу Anybody's Pearls - Footner Hulbert - Страница 6

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Dick and Greatorex lunched at the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet street. Every visitor to London must see that ancient tavern where old Sam Johnson used to rule the roast, Greatorex said. The two were now as thick as—well, thieves, Dick thought with an inward chuckle. It is probable that Greatorex suspected Dick did not believe the romantic yarn he had told him, but he did not greatly care. Greatorex enjoyed romanticising for its own sake, even when no longer necessary.

After they had discussed the beefsteak and kidney pudding, they set about the pleasant business of shopping for Dick’s outfit. Nothing but the best of everything would suite Greatorex; kit-bag; dressing-case; several changes of linen; cravats. Greatorex lent Dick one of his own suits. It would not fit him of course; he was not supposed to put it on; it was packed in the kit-bag merely for the purpose of impressing the servants of the hotel. Meanwhile Greatorex had Dick order a new suit from a fashionable tailor in Conduit street. It was highly agreeable to be dashing hither and thither about London. Shillings and half-crowns flowed like water from Greatorex’s hand into the palms of taxi-drivers.

In only one respect was Greatorex disposed to be niggardly. He kept Dick pretty short of cash. “You won’t need it at the Chester,” he said. “Just sign for anything you want.”

Finally Dick set off in a taxi-cab by himself, with his kit-bag at his feet. He was plagued by a nagging anxiety respecting the clerks at the Chester. Suppose they remembered his asking about Greatorex, and had watched him follow the Englishman? Dick naturally, had not said anything to Greatorex about what he had learned from the clerk. However, as luck would have it, Filbert and the others were in the lounge of the Chester when Dick walked in. They were glad to be friends now; they hailed Dick as one of themselves; and this immediately established him as a rich young American.

Dick was promptly shown to a room. It was on the seventh floor in the back of the house, and shared in that famous view over the Embankment gardens and the misty Thames. It was more inviting than the rooms of American hotels ever are. Dick looked around him with a comfortable feeling of proprietorship, and tipped the apple-cheeked bell-hop a shilling. I’m lodged here sooner than I expected, thought Dick.

Having disposed his things, he set out again to meet Greatorex at the bar of the Strand Palace near-by. Greatorex had now to identify Michael Rulon to him. In the crowded bar Dick found a shabby little customer in the company of his elegant friend, whom Greatorex carelessly introduced as “Hawkins.” “Hawkins has been doing a bit of detective work for me,” he said.

Hawkins was remarkable only for his bad teeth and his cringing manner. In England apparently class distinctions were maintained even in the underworld. It appeared from his talk that this detective work consisted of trailing Rulon. “He’s on the look-out for trouble,” said Hawkins, “and he’s been stickin’ close to his hotel. However, this afternoon he went out to the Tivoli, the big picture palace across the way, yonder, and he’s in there now. The afternoon performance is out at ten minutes to five. If the American gentleman will come with me to a certain little eating house Rulon’s got to pass on his way to his hotel, we’ll get a seat in the window, and I’ll point him out as he goes by.”

“Stow this in your pouch, Kid,” said Greatorex, as they were about to leave him. “The pearls were on an endless string thirty-six inches long; that is to say, two yards of pearls if the string was cut. They’re not the largest, but they’re amongst the finest matched and coloured in Europe. Do you know anything about pearls?”

Dick shook his head.

“Well, even so, you could tell at a glance that these were something exceptional. When we saw them last they were contained in a thin box about four by eight, covered with green leather. It is possible that Rulon may have deposited them in the hotel safe, but I think not. His conscience is bad. He is almost certain to carry them on his person. He may have the box in his pocket; or he may have thrown away the box, and hung the string around his neck.

“I want you if possible to satisfy yourself of the fact that he has the pearls on his person. If he has, chum up with him, you have a winning way with you, and try to get him to accompany you to a little supper club called the Raquets Court in Pentland Mews, number 11. Write that down. If you can get him there, I and my friends will take care of the rest. We will be waiting there any time after eleven to-night and to-morrow night, just on the chance of your fetching him.”

A little shiver chased itself down Dick’s spine, and up again. What is this, murder? he asked himself.

The little lunch-room to which Hawkins took him was German in its character. Apparently London was as cosmopolitan in its eating-houses as New York. There was a big plate glass window looking out on the Strand, and they took seats which commanded a good view through this, but not too close to it. Tall, slender glasses of Pilsner and smoked salmon sandwiches were set before them.

When Hawkins whispered: “There he goes; there! Him with the black hat”; Dick received a queer start. He had expected to see—well, a prosperous, paunchy business man; a trust magnate, say; or a successful operator in oil, returning home with a handsome present for the wife: but this was a figure with a sinister quality that struck a terror to his breast. A tall, well-set-up man, whose chest measurement was noticeable greater than his waist, and who walked on the ball of his feet like a panther or an athlete; handsomely dressed in a quiet style, the whole topped with a modish derby; comely in the face, but with a hard, dry effect; lean, yellow cheeks. It was impossible to say how old he was; under the smart derby he looked thirty-five; but he was certainly older; that icy stare was ageless. He had the look of a gambler; a desperado.

All Dick’s facile theories about this case collapsed. For a moment he wondered wildly if Greatorex’s tale might not after all be true. But he dismissed that possibility; he had received too many intimations to the contrary. What was the truth, then? No answer was forthcoming. The part that he had designed to play, suddenly became meaningless. The idea of “warning” such a man, who, obviously, walked tip-toe in the expectation of danger, was merely silly. Silly, too, the hope of receiving an easy reward from the possessor of that stony face.

But it was too late to turn back. Dick was aware that little Hawkins was watching him keenly. No doubt but what the gang meant to keep him under surveillance henceforward.

“A tough bird, that!” said Dick with a laugh, to disarm Hawkins.

The little man smiled evilly. “Yes,” he said, “they’re all afeared of him.” Evidently he was pleased by the discomfiture of better men than himself.

“Oh, I’ve dealt with his kind before this,” said Dick loftily. “He trades on the hard-boiled effect. That bluff can be called as well as any.”

“Yes,” said Hawkins, smiling still in his spiteful and cringing manner. Dick would have liked to smash him.