Читать книгу The Corner House - Fred M. White - Страница 10

Bruce walked home slowly and thoughtfully. The sound of a church clock striking the hour of one came vaguely to his ears. As a matter of fact he was more disturbed by Hetty's disclosures than he cared to admit. Hetty was not in the least given to hallucinations, and, after all, there was something mysterious about Countess Lalage. Still, she was so rich, and she was a favoured guest in some of the best houses.

Bruce put his latchkey in the door and let himself in. As he did so a motor came up and pulled to the pavement. The whole concern was a dull black, like silk; it was absolutely the most noiseless machine Gordon Bruce had ever seen. It came like a ghost out of the darkness; like a black phantom it stood to command.

The driver was clad in goggles and leather coat, thereby proclaiming the fact that he was used to a high rate of speed. He placed a note in Bruce's hand; there was an interrogative gleam in his eyes.

"For me?" Bruce asked.

The man merely made a gesture with his hands. Then followed a sign, by which Bruce knew that he was speaking to a dumb man, a startling affliction for a smart chauffeur.

Not that it mattered much, seeing that the letter was addressed to Bruce. The note inside was evidently dashed off in a violent hurry. It was an agitated request to the recipient to come in the motor at once; there was no address, nothing more than this agitated plea. Under the circumstances there was nothing startling in the presence of the automobile.

Bruce started off, only staying long enough to get his professional black bag. He might have satisfied a little of his curiosity on the way, only his companion's affliction prevented that. He was on familiar ground presently as the car flew along smoothly as a boat sails down stream, until at length it pulled up with a jerk at the end of Lytton-Avenue.

The car had stopped just before the corner house!

Evidently it was going to be a night of surprises. If Bruce had any astonishment he concealed it behind his professional manner. For the corner house was dark and deserted no longer. A brilliant light burnt in the hall. The door was opened presently by a woman who had a Spanish mantilla over her head. Her hair was down, and in the gleam of the lamplight Bruce could see that it was wonderfully long and fair and beautiful. Bruce spoke to her, but she only replied in what he deemed to be Spanish.

So far as he could see there were no signs of dust or desolation about the corner house. The hall was clean and bright, there was a thick carpet on the stairs. Every door was shut save one on the first floor, into which the fair beauty with the lovely hair led the way. Four or five gas jets were flaring away with a hissing roar. A draught from somewhere made them flicker restlessly on a large room absolutely devoid of furniture save for an old-fashioned four-post bedstead in the middle. The air was close and stuffy, as if the window had not been opened for months. There were barred shutters before them.

The Spanish beauty said something, and pointed to the bed. A man in a deep sleep lay there--so deep a sleep that at first Bruce took him to be dead. But there was just the slightest flicker of a pulse, a quiver of the eyelids. On a table close by was a glass containing, from the odour of it, laudanum. A half-empty phial of it was clenched in the patient's hand.

A small, twisted man, with a nose all crooked on one side, and fingers covered with huge orange-coloured freckles! Bruce choked down a cry of amazement. It was indeed proving a night of surprises.

Here was the very man whom Hetty had seen at the window of the corner house--the very man whose features, as seen from the morning room, had been reflected in the mirror. It was impossible that there could be any coincidence here. Once seen the man could never be forgotten. It looked as if the new mystery of the corner house was going to be explained.

Just for a moment Bruce almost lost his self-possession. The beauty with the fair hair was regarding him curiously. He felt half annoyed that he had been so near betraying himself. The medical man was uppermost now. Evidently the patient was in a state of almost collapse from alcoholic poisoning. As is usual in such instances, sleep had forsaken the wretched man, and he had had recourse to drugs. He had taken an overdose and medical aid had been summoned just in the nick of time.

The corner house, the mystery--everything was now forgotten. Bruce called for hot water, he made a sign for it, he simulated the mixing of mustard in a pot. Fortunately his companion's native intelligence was equal to the strain. She vanished with a quick nod of her head.

The house was wonderfully quiet; not a sound came from anywhere. The repulsive figure of the man lay there like some new and hideous form of death. Who he was and why he came there Bruce did not dare to think for the present. Perhaps the dark owner of the house had returned; perhaps this was the very man himself. Certainly there was no foul play here, no audacious criminal invasion of the house, seeing that the light in the hall could be seen from the street.

Surely they were a long time getting that hot water. In such a case as this hurry was everything. Bruce crept from the room and looked over the banisters. The whole place was in darkness!

Bruce caught his breath sharply. He had scarcely time to consider what it all meant when the light flared up again, and the fair woman returned with a kettle and basin and a tin of mustard.

The doctor slipped off his dress-coat and turned up his sleeves. In a prim sort of way his fair attendant took the coat away and hung it up carefully in the dim recesses of a big cupboard at the far side of the room. With great care and patience Bruce contrived to coax a quantity of the hideous mixture of mustard and water down the unconscious man's throat.

For the next hour the struggle between life and death was a severe one. Once the strong emetic had done its work something like consciousness returned. The patient staggered backwards and forwards across the room on Bruce's arm until the latter was fagged and weary and the moisture dripped from his forehead. The first faint streaks of dawn were breaking as Bruce donned his coat and deemed it safe to proceed home. He made the woman with the golden hair understand that he would come again.

She shook her head and smiled as she held out three pounds and three shillings.

Evidently this kind of thing had happened before, and this was the fee usually paid. Bruce slipped the money in his pocket, feeling that he had earned it. The guide picked up a Bradshaw from the table and indicated Dover therein. Two strapped portmanteaus were on the floor.

The meaning of this was all plain enough. Bruce had had his fee and was dismissed because these strange people were leaving for the Continent at once, provided the patient was well enough to travel. Suddenly the hall light went out again, and once more the house was in darkness. There was the sound of a heavy footfall outside. Bruce put his back to the wall prepared for eventualities.

A scraping of a match, a flood of light again, a queer half-amused smile on the Spaniard's face, as she noted Bruce's expression. Then the front door was opened, and he was bowed out politely. Before he had time to cross the road the light was out again, and the whole house in darkness.

The cool morning air was grateful after the stuffy atmosphere of the corner house. Here was an adventure to think about and ponder over. Strange coincidence that he of all men should have been called there! It never occurred to Bruce that the thing could be anything but coincidence.

Should he keep the whole matter to himself, he wondered. At any rate he need not tell anybody but Hetty. Perhaps that drunken lunatic was some relation to the master of the corner house; he might have found his way into Lytton Square in a state of semi-insanity by favour of a careless servant. The thing was capable of a very practical solution.