Читать книгу The Green Bungalow - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Andrew Macglendy had dined comfortably and well in his luxuriously appointed house 201, Brunswick Square, and sat at the dinner table smoking a choice cigar and drinking his coffee. Opposite him was his wife, a handsome woman, though somewhat faded, with grey hair, and a dead white face, and possessing about as much vitality as an automatic figure. There was something almost grotesque in the way she moved, when Macglendy spoke to her, and the look of almost abject horror on her face when he addressed her. For the rest, she was tall and slim, most exquisitely dressed, having the air and manner of one who, at some time or another, has known what it is to move in good society. But all that was warm and human had been ground out of that unfortunate woman years ago by one who, in every sense of the word, was her lord and master. Those who knew declared that Mrs. Macglendy was well-born, and that she was closely connected with more than one aristocratic family. She was supposed to have come to her husband years ago with a comfortable fortune of her own, but that had long been squandered by an extravagant husband, who now, to put it bluntly, more or less lived upon his wits.

Time was, when this woman had been young and full of life, and very much in love with the man considerably below her, and with whom she had run away, to the great scandal of her friends, who, from that moment, refused to recognise her existence. It had been somewhat of a romance in its way, but the romance was long since dead and forgotten, and it is no exaggeration to say that the poor, unhappy creature, went in daily fear of her life. She knew, only too well, through bitter experience, what kind of a life Andrew Macglendy was leading, for, in that brutal, foul-natured way of his, he made no secret of the fact. She had known times when she had gone literally hungry, and times when she was living in a sort of dazzling splendour, as she was just then, at Brunswick Square. This was one of the brighter intervals, but if Mrs. Macglendy had been consulted, she would have preferred those dark weeks of poverty.

Meanwhile, she sat there, beautifully dressed, in that grotesque semblance of a wax doll, with her eyes turned towards her husband, as if to anticipate his slightest wish.

"Well," he said presently. "Well. What do you think of it? Isn't this a pleasant change from the last lodgings we had in Paris? And there you sit, without saying a single word, like a death's head at the feast, when you might be enjoying this spell of good fortune of ours. There, for Heaven's sake, don't start crying."

Macglendy spoke with no trace of a Scottish accent now. He displayed a tendency to clip certain of his words, and appeared to have some slight difficulty with his vowels. As he sat there, with a scowl upon his face and that queer English on his lips, he looked like what he was—a half-bred Russian Jew, who, in the early days, had learnt to speak English in a mean Glasgow-street, where he had been employed as junior assistant to a pawnbroker. But this was only when he was alone with his wife, and felt that he could unbend.

"If you'd been any use to me," he went on, "I should have been a millionaire by this time. Extraordinary thing, I can never kill that infernal honesty of yours. If you had listened to me, and played up to me as you could in the old days, when you were a dashed beautiful woman, then I could have done anything. With that bit of money you brought me, I could have gone to the top of the tree. There was nothing to stop me."

"What is it you want now?" the wife asked timidly.

"Only that you should behave yourself. Now, listen to me. I and Shute have got a dashed big thing on. There's any amount of money in it, and it's as safe as houses. I am not going to tell you what it is, because, if I do, you'll probably make a fool of yourself. We've got this place now, thanks to a bit of luck, and we are safe for the present, at any rate. There's a young friend of mine called Harley, who has just come into a hatful of money. He will probably come here a good deal during the next few days, and I want you to be nice to him. There is nobody who can do that sort of thing better than you if you try."

"I know the name," Mrs. Macglendy said mechanically. "If it is Roy Harley, I used to be a great friend of his mother's. Andrew, you are never going to ask me——"

"Drop it," Macglendy said brutally. "Drop it, I say. You are going to do just as you are told. Not another word, or you'll be sorry for it. Now, off you go, because I can hear Shute at the door. Not very fond of him, are you?"

With that, the unhappy woman discreetly vanished, as Shute came into the dining-room. He carefully closed the door behind him, and helped himself to a drink and a cigar.

"Upon my word, you are deuced comfortable here," he said. "Quite the baronial touch, with these panelled walls and old pictures. Nothing like a good setting when you've got a drama like ours to play. Now, look here, Andrew, I am sleeping in the bungalow to-night, because I shouldn't wonder if a load of that stuff turns up before morning, and, if so, I must be there to receive it."

"Ah, the saccharine," Macglendy laughed. "Quite a big lot this time, isn't it? Lord, what a game it is! Smuggled on to a little yacht and then brought by motor boat to the landing stage under the bungalow. There's no fortune in it, Mark, but it keeps things going whilst we are perfecting our plans for the big operation. And now that we've got Harley into our hands——"

"Um, are you quite sure that we have?" Shute asked. "He is an obstinate devil, and I shouldn't wonder if he decided it the last moment to fight the whole thing out."

"Oh, will he?" Macglendy sneered. "My dear fellow, he hasn't got a leg to stand on. We caught him cheating with his own cards, and the thing was done in the presence of his own particular pal, who lost a good many hundreds, don't forget. Oh no, he can't fight it. Nobody would believe him. He may kick and struggle, but before the month is up, he will bow to the inevitable, and, in the meanwhile, we shall be able to use his yacht whenever we want it. It was a very pretty idea of yours, and one of the best you have ever hit upon. I suppose it's quite original?"

"Well, I don't mind telling you that it isn't," Shute admitted. "I got it out of a book by an American, the name of which I forget for a moment. At any rate, I read it in New York, when I was laid up for a week or two some long time ago, and it struck me that the plot could be made use of in a practical way. These writing fellows often hit upon ingenious criminal schemes, which are useful to men like ourselves, and when chance threw Harley and his yacht in our way, I began to see how I could make use of that little romance I was telling you about. Of course, the saccharine smuggling is merely a blind. If we get caught, we can pretend that we did it more by way of a joke than anything else to settle a wager if you like. We shall probably get fined a couple of thousand pounds, but, so long as we are not found out, we are not only clearing expenses, but making quite a handsome thing out of it. But, as you know, I didn't rent the bungalow with its almost secret landing place merely to do the revenue authorities out of a certain amount of duty. I was waiting for the mug to come along, and when I happened upon Harley and his yacht, I knew that I had found him. You leave Harley alone, let him stew in his own juice for a week or two, and then you'll find he will be ready for anything. I shouldn't wonder if he felt desperate enough to join us. But even if he doesn't, we know exactly what to do. It's all worked out in the novel I told you about. You can have a look at the book, and see for yourself if you like. If all goes well, before long we shall be able to loot every big house within fifty miles of Brighton that happens to be fairly near the coast. I have marked down at least a dozen of these, and, what's more, I've got the plans. You see, most of these people only come down for week ends, for the shooting and that sort of thing, and I have managed to get a lot of information from servants, and people of that sort. I have got a whole lot of schemes worked out, and locked up in the safe in the bungalow, but it's necessary that we should have the run of some decent yacht which belongs to somebody absolutely beyond suspicion. And, so far as the world in general is concerned Harley is the very man for our purpose. We can use him as a sort of blind, and, whilst he doesn't know it, that yacht of his will be playing its part in the great game. My dear chap, it's one of the easiest things that ever happened. I want you to keep an eye upon Harley, and play up to him sympathetically. Tell him to do nothing for the month that Prest gave him, and suggest that there is some infernal mistake here that you might he able to put right. Have him to luncheon and dinner. Get your wife to make a fuss of him, she can play the game splendidly if she only likes. And now I must be off. I have got a taxi outside waiting to take me as far as the bungalow, and there I shall stay till the morning."

With that Shute went his way, full of the great scheme that he was playing, and wrapped in his own thoughts, came presently to Shorehaven, where he dismissed his taxi, and made his way quietly across the shingle in the direction of the bungalow. It was getting late now, and the beach was entirely deserted. Indeed, at that time of the year most of the bungalows were empty, and from only one or two did an odd light or so penetrate.

Very gently, Shute picked his way, until he came to the door of his own little retreat, and opened it with his latch-key. He threw the door of the dining-room back, and gave a gasp of surprise as he saw that the lights had been turned on.

On a big arm-chair near the glowing fireplace was seated a man in evening dress, who appeared to be deep in some yellow-covered volume which he was reading with interest. Then he looked up with a smile on his face at the astounded intruder.

"Good heavens," Shute cried. "It's Hilton Blythe. What in the name of fortune are you doing here? And how——"

"Ah, that's rather a long story," Blythe said, in his sweetest manner. "I got in through a window. I thought you would be back before long, and I waited, because I have a good deal to say to you, and, if you value your future, you will listen."

"What book have you got there?" Shute said suddenly.

"This," Blythe said, "is a detective story, called 'The Lonely House,' by one Preston Chandler. It's a most interesting story, and, as the poet says, thereby hangs a tale. It is so interesting that I propose to bore you with it. Now, sit down, and don't make any fuss. You know me well enough to be sure that I am going to have my own way, and if you wish to defy me—well——"