Читать книгу The Ends Of Justice - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Cathcart nodded mechanically. By this time he was beyond emotion of all kind. Nothing would have surprised him. The man with the tarry films on his nails bent over Bath with a suggestion of annoyance. From a little way off the tense silence was broken by the gentle tones of the piano. A clear voice was trying a love-song in liquid Italian.

"That was an unfortunate blow," the newcomer said.

"I prefer the misfortune to be on the other man's side," George said grimly. "It was a case of he or I. But he is not dead."

Sir Cyril moved uneasily. Cathcart propped him up in a chair. His face was deadly white, but the chest was moving regularly.

"He'll do presently," the stranger whispered. "It's very unfortunate, but I wanted to have a few words with you before you saw his lordship. If I had not been detained—But there is no time to discuss that. He's—"

The speaker paused. There was a sound of a light footstep in the corridor, the swish of silken drapery.

"Cover him," the stranger said hoarsely. "She must not see what's going on. Stand there, there, with your back to the door. Good!"

A girl came in, a pretty, fragile girl, with a white face. With a swift, furtive glance, Cathcart noted the features in a mirror over the fireplace. He crushed down the cry that rose to his lips.

"Go away, Grace," the man with the tarry thumbs said lightly. "We have a little business to settle together. I'll join you in the music-room presently."

The girl passed on, the fragment of a song still on her lips. Comedy and tragedy were very near together at that moment.

"Miss Grace Ives," Cathcart muttered. "The young lady who came out with the Lone Star to Colombo. I taught her to read the Morse alphabet and—"

"By Jove, so you did! Splendid! I'd quite forgotten that you learnt telegraphy when you were engaged in the Venezuela gun-running business. You mayn't know it, but it was I who picked you out for that job. He's coming to."

"But you're not going," George protested.

"Indeed I am. If Bath spotted me when he opened his eyes, my little scheme goes by the board. Stay where you are. You'll hear my typewriter presently. And mind you listen to it."

The speaker slipped noiselessly from the room. Sir Cyril stirred uneasily. George Cathcart looked about him in a dazed kind of way. It seemed almost impossible to believe that all this art and wealth and splendor should be the setting of a vulgar and sensational tragedy. A bunch of violets on the table made an oasis of perfume. Placed there, no doubt, by the pretty girl with the white face. Violets and murder! Oh! the thing was absolutely impossible, a figment of imagination, a dream.

But there was no dream about the wild restlessness of Bath's dark eyes; there was nothing chimerical in the clicking, clacking, of a typewriter not far off. Bath made a feeble motion in the direction of the door. George closed and locked it. He was going to play a part, but what part yet he hadn't the smallest idea.

"You nearly finished me," Bath gasped hoarsely.

"My good luck is seldom quite complete," Cathcart replied.

"You've got a bitter tongue. Come, what do you want me to do?"

Cathcart hesitated. He was waiting for inspiration. Why had the stranger gone off so suddenly? and why was he plying his typewriter in the prosaic way. The tic-tacs of the keys seemed to be playing a tune on George's brain.

Then in a flash he grasped it. The ruse was a splendid one. Any expert telegraphist can follow a message delivered by the Morse system from the sound of the transmitter alone. George was fairly expert. Gun-running required many accomplishments, and the art of tapping telegraph wires was one of them. The stranger had remembered that. He was not using the machine for writing at all. Those tic-tacs, those trills and runs of the hammers, were letters forming words. The tune on George's brain resolved itself into a quite familiar air.

"Has he come to? If so, clear your throat. Good! Keep the whip hand. Tell him he is not to show his face at Lewton to-morrow."

The message, rapped off with lightning speed, was perfectly familiar to the listener. In fact, he was listening a little too eagerly.

"You need not be alarmed," Bath said. "That is merely my friend, Douglas Renton, who, as a briefless barrister, affects literature."

"I am not in the least alarmed," Cathcart said. "What I want is this—you are to stay at home to-morrow. You have injured yourself by a bad accident. It does not require a doctor's eyes to see that you are really ill."

"And if I decline your very modest request?"

"Then I will denounce you from the dock; I swear I will. I'll tell the people there the story of James Stevens, the history of your long vacation trip, and the way I was drugged by him on two notable occasions, and the way in which I lost my ship. You would have kept out of the way yourself at Colombo if the authorities had not arrested your pair of rascally associates for another purpose, but as time was short you were forced to show your hand. Oh. I can prove all this in time."

Sir Cyril Bath drew a long breath.

"Very well," he said, "do so. You will be laughed at, your story flouted. Who ever heard of a member of a judicial bench—"

"Who is but a man, after all. You might have deemed Cardinal Wolsey above suspicion, but he wasn't. And disgrace lay before you. You speculated and gambled; you came into Lockwood Mostyn's way. So one thing led to another. But I am merely beating the air. You are not going to Lewton to-morrow."

There was another long pause, broken only by the click of the typewriter. There was another message on the way from the machine to the ears of the listener.

"Probably find obdurate. If so, ask him whether he has called at 74 Bardell-street, Pimlico, lately. Put this in a cunning way."

George cleared his throat again.

"It is useless to fight against the inevitable," he said. "I have many and powerful friends, and I am well posted. If the worst comes to the worst, I can send a message to my friends to pay a surprise visit to 74 Bardell-street, Pimlico."

A sudden cry of pain came from Sir Cyril's lips, a cry so low that the woodpecker notes of the typewriter changed to a quick staccato.

"Eh! eh! you've touched him there!" the message ran.

"I fear you are suffering," Cathcart said politely.

"Suffering! If you only knew! For the present I am crushed, beaten to my knees. It shall be as you wish, though what you gain—"

"Gain! Don't I get rid of you? Don't I ensure myself being tried by a Judge who is not interested in getting me the longest possible term of imprisonment? And afterwards—well, you will see."

Bath said nothing. There was a queer gleam in his eyes that Cathcart did not fail to note. The man was not done with yet. Once more the typewriter was busy clicking out a message.

"Your last suggestion was excellent. Don't argue any further. He will try to get you and those who helped you into trouble. Didn't I hear you lock the door a little time ago. If so, open it and leave the rest to me. Tomorrow you must be represented by a barrister. A friend of mine will call and receive instructions. He is my lawyer. They will have to telegraph for another judge, so that the proceedings will be delayed, probably taken over again entirely. Now go. And make your way back to Lewton as fast as your legs will carry you."

For the first time the typewriter ceased altogether. With a firm step Cathcart crossed to the door and opened it.

"I have no more to say," he remarked. "I shall go by the way I came. And to-morrow I shall meet your successor fearlessly. Good-night."

He vanished into the gloom of the conservatory. Bath jumped to his feet and made for the doorway. He ran almost into the arms of Douglas Renton, who came along sedately with a pile of manuscripts under his arm. Bath would have passed him, but the other detained him.

"My dear Cyril, what is the matter?" he cried in a shocked voice. "A face like ashes, and blood on your coat. A doctor, at once a doctor. Sit down."

He tugged furiously at the bell and forced Bath into a seat. With a bitter sigh of defeat Sir Cyril lay back in his chair.