Читать книгу The Devil's Advocate - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Once inside the Bungalow, Macrae enjoyed the sensation of turning on the electric lights and surveying his own property quite alone for the first time. He pulled down the blinds, and drew the curtains, after which he lay back on the lounge in one of the latticed windows and sighed with deep satisfaction as he contemplated all the luxury with which he was surrounded. It seemed to him, indeed, that he was a fortunate man to have achieved all this in so short a space of time. It was only yesterday that he had come out of the Army, or so it seemed, only too glad to take the first thing that was offered him. Before the Great War he had written one or two short stories with indifferent success, but these five years had broadened his mind and given him a power of expression which he realised with wonder and delight. Now, nothing came amiss to his pen. He had managed to write a successful book, and those serial stories of his were being eagerly sought after. By comparison, his work on the 'Hitherfield Mercury' was child's play. He had more or less a free hand, because his employer was a man of considerable means, and one who always spoke his mind freely. Therefore, Macrae was encouraged to attack abuses wherever he found them, and that easy sarcasm of his had bitten pretty deeply into the minds of a good many citizens whose actions had not commended them to the public. Especially severe had Macrae been on a local money-lender known as Joseph Baines, a miserly old man who lived all by himself in a cottage at the back of the town, and one whose cold-blooded extortions had become a by-word in Hitherfield. Macrae had enjoyed that immensely, and his series of articles exposing Baines' methods had been vastly appreciated by readers of the 'Hitherfield Mercury.'

All these things were passing in Macrae's mind as he sat there enjoying his new-found prosperity. He remembered the day when he had first seen Philippa, and how, much against his will, Richard Farrell, a rising young solicitor, had introduced him to the girl with the blue eyes and pleasant smile. He had not been ignorant of the fact that Farrell was an admirer of Philippa's himself, but he did not know, because Philippa had never mentioned it, that there had been something like an understanding between those two before Macrae came along. And there was another thing Macrae, in his happy ignorance, did not know. It had seemed to him that Farrell had taken his disappointment philosophically enough, but deep down in his heart was a bitter enmity of the successful journalist, and a determined vow to come between Macrae and his choice by fair means or foul, if the opportunity ever offered itself. Philippa might have suspected something of this, and, indeed, in uneasy moments she did. But she put the thought out of her mind and said nothing. That sort of thing was all very well in books, but not in the least likely to happen in a quiet spot like Hitherfield. Meanwhile Farrell smiled when they met, he shook hands with Macrae, and congratulated him, but he was waiting his chance all the same.

Macrae came out of his reverie presently, and proceeded to gather the necessary material for a simple supper. As he crossed the hall in the direction of the kitchen he saw that the postman had come along during his absence with Philippa, and that there were three letters in the box. One was an invitation to a tennis party, the second a few lines from his literary agent, and the third a business looking envelope with, the name 'Douglas and Co.' on the flap.

"Now, that's rather a coincidence," Macrae muttered to himself. "I wonder what those chaps want. Funny they should write to me today. Getting uneasy about their money, perhaps. Well, a fortnight will see the end of them, thank goodness."

Without any sort of apprehension Macrae tore open the envelope and read the curt communication inside.

"Dear Sir," (it ran)—"Referring to our recent business transaction and the loan to you of £100, repayable on demand, we are instructed by our head office to apply to you for the repayment of the same by 12 o'clock tomorrow. We have to point out that your objection to giving us a bill of sale necessitated us taking a judgment for the amount, which we duly obtained yesterday in the High Court of Justice. We regret that certain serious calls upon our capital compel us to make this demand, which must be settled, as indicated, failing which we shall immediately proceed to levy an execution on your effects at the Bungalow.—Yours faithfully.—Douglas & Co."

At this unexpected blow Macrae reeled. It was only for a moment, because he had not finished the letter. There was worse to come. Across the bottom of the typewritten communication was a scrawl in an unsteady hand as follows:—

"This will teach you to concern yourself with the business of a man who never did you any harm. You know now that Douglas and Co. is only another name for Joseph Baines."

And then Macrae realised. He had walked glibly into a trap that had been laid for him, never guessing for a moment, or forgetting perhaps how frequently these bloodsuckers masquerade under high-sounding names. He had never seen Baines in the office of Douglas and Co., which concern was apparently managed by an alert little Jew, assisted by an office boy of the same nationality. At any rate, here he was caught like a rat in a trap, with no possibility of an escape. He could see plainly enough now that unless the money was paid by 12 o'clock tomorrow he would be practically ruined. Without the slightest doubt, this bitter enemy of his would exercise the powers conferred upon him by the court, and seize all the furniture in the Bungalow. There was no one in Hitherfield from whom he could borrow the money. He might have asked the proprietor of his paper, but that individual was away somewhere on the Continent, and Macrae had no idea of his address. There was no one in Hitherfield to whom he could apply with the slightest prospect of success, and he was much too proud to ask Dr. Goldfinch, even if he possessed the necessary cash, which the distracted young man very much doubted. Given another day or so, he might have gone to town and laid the trouble before his literary agent, who, possibly, would have advanced the money on the strength of the forthcoming serial, or perhaps arranged an immediate sale of the copyright of the novel. But that was out of the question in the face of the letter from Douglas and Co.

It was in vain that Macrae raged up and down the house, cursing the fate that had robbed him of his happiness at that moment, and trying to think out some scheme by which he could get out of the difficulty. But that rascal Baines had laid his plans far too cunningly. He had been nursing his wrath all this time, and had struck unerringly, like the wolf that he was, at the exact moment. A few hours later, and the story would be all over the town. People would turn their backs on him and sneer; but this was not the worst.

What would Philippa say when she knew? What would she think when she heard of this dread disaster? There was only one thing for it, for Macrae to put his pride in his pocket and go and see this merciless creditor of his. It was getting late now, but possibly Baines had not gone to bed, and, accordingly, a few minutes later Macrae closed the front door behind him and went along the common to the far side of the town, where he knew Baines was residing. It was quite a small place, a little remote from a group of cottages, and flanked by a small strip of weedy soil that passed in these parts as a garden. Macrae knocked at the door again and again, but there was no response. He even tried the handle of the door, and threw a handful of gravel against the bedroom window. But after a quarter of an hour of this Macrae gave up the attempt in despair, and retraced his steps homewards.

It was very late now, and there was not a soul to be seen; indeed, Macrae had not encountered a human being from the time he started till he was approaching the back entrance of the Bungalow again. Just as he was entering the little gate he heard a whine in the bushes, and a dog emerged. He came toward Macrae, growling and snarling, with his bristles up, but directly he was called by name Bragger came fawning to Macrae's feet.

By the light of a vesta which he struck Macrae could see that the dog had been mishandled. There was a cut over his right ear and a deep gash in his side, from which the blood was oozing. In addition, one eye was partially closed.

"Well, what are you doing here at this time of night?" Macrae asked. "You've been poaching, you villain. What's more, you've run up against one of the keepers, and he's given you more than you deserve. Better come inside, old chap, and I will see what I can do for you."

Despite his troubles and the anxiety that was gnawing him like a tooth, Macrae was ready to do his best for the injured animal. But, strangely enough, for once Bragger did not respond. He was still restless and uneasy, and not quite sure, after the treatment he had received, whether he could trust this old friend of his. Then with a sudden pricking of his ears and a yelp half of defiance and half of pain, he vanished, and was seen no more.

"Now, that's very odd," Macrae said to himself. "There is something wrong here. I wonder if anybody has got into the house while I was away. If Bragger was hanging about he would be sure to go for him. I'd better make sure."

He closed the front door behind him, and made a thorough search of the bedrooms. Then he went as carefully over the apartments downstairs, including the kitchen, but no sign of any intruder was to be seen. There was only one place to overhaul now, and that was the conservatory at the back. Here were the ferns and palms, just as the late occupant had left them, an artistic jungle of greenery that might possibly conceal an intruder. The door leading to the garden was unlocked, and the key was missing. Macrae switched on the light, and suddenly started back as he saw something lying on the floor. With quickened breath be realised that here was the body of some man, the intruder, perhaps, who, possibly, had been pulled down and left insensible by the dog Bragger. But as Macrae turned the body over and saw the white, mean face, he staggered back, sick and dizzy. Here was tragedy indeed.

"My God!" he cried. "It's Joseph Baines. My one enemy in the world lying dead in my own house. What does it mean? And what on earth am I going to do next?"