Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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The progress of affairs generally was not displeasing to Malcolm Stott. For the time being everything seemed to play into his hands. And now that he had got rid of his friend Martin Blake, and dealt Sir Lancelot a back-handed blow at the same time, he had only to wait, and everything would be his.

But there were drawbacks even here. What most men accomplish by courage Stott brought about by cunning. And his nerve had gone years before. Brandy may be a fine brace and stimulant, but it is certain to fail in the long run. There were times when Stott woke with a start in the night; times when he felt inclined to abandon the whole ingenious scheme and fly. And there were hours when the pain at his fluttering heart stifled him and doubled him up with agony. Later on Stott meant to give it up. But not yet; he could not do without it yet.

And there were other times, too, when the wily brain turned all confused and misty, and the elaborate scheme got tangled up like a child's dream. At those times the inevitable brandy did more harm than good.

Still, everything was going beautifully. Stott chuckled over his cigarette as he saw Lancelot come striding from the stables to the house, carrying a lemon-colored paper under his arm. Stott had no difficulty in recognising the "Mirror." And from the expression of Sir Lancelot's face, Blake had been as good as his word.

"Another trick to me," Stott chuckled. "Really, I am greatly obliged to Blake."

Lance came hurriedly into the morning-room, and Stott crept into the hall, where he could listen. He always listened to conversations; he picked up a bit of useful information that way. Lucy Sinclair looked up from her letter-writing.

"I hope it is nothing very serious," she suggested.

"It ought not to be," Lance said, "but still—Look here, aunt, that fellow Blake has been as good as his word. That fellow I thrashed, you know. Here is the whole story, with a suggestion that I am rather worse than the murderer of poor Sir George. And when I was coming out of Wallace's office just now, I met Lady Masefield and her girls, and they cut me dead."

"Very foolish of them," Mrs. Sinclair said, calmly.

"Of course. Still, that blackmailing 'Mirror' has made a fine case against me. And they have dragged Lyn into it. Otherwise, I shouldn't care so much. I'd give ten years of my life to get to the bottom of this wretched mystery."

"They might have left Lyn alone," said Lucy.

"Trust those blackguards for hitting on the tenderest spot. And the poor child looks worried and white enough already. Where is she?"

Lyn had gone out, Lucy Sinclair explained. She had come down with a dreadful headache, and the elder lady had suggested a stroll. The listener smiled as he heard. Lyn's white face and the dark rings under her eyes had not been lost upon him. There were other secrets in the house which he had to probe to the bottom. And a vague suspicion was growing into a certainty with Stott—if he could only prove it, if he could only make sure of that, the rest would be easy.

He smiled and chuckled, and stopped with a gasp. His lips were drawn back to his teeth with the agony he suffered. There was a blue tinge on his round face. He crawled away to his own rooms, where he helped himself liberally to brandy. He lay for a few minutes after the pain had ceased, trembling in every limb.

When he came down again, luncheon was ready. Lyn was there, pale and nervous, and Lucy Sinclair cool and collected at the foot of the table. As Stott entered, the murmur of conversation suddenly ceased. He smiled benignantly.

"Pray don't mind me," he remarked. "Mrs. Sinclair was saying—"

Mrs. Sinclair glanced at the speaker over her glasses.

"I was saying that I am going to London to-morrow," she responded. "And from thence it is highly probable that I shall have to go to New York—in connection with the publication of my new books of travel, and er—other things."

"I suppose you know New York very well," Stott murmured.

"As well as I know Broadwater. Wherever I go I always make friends with the journalists—even the humblest of them. From the 'World' and the 'Sun' down to the 'Record,' I know them all. Did you ever hear of the 'Record,' for instance?"

A sudden spasm of pain gripped Stott. The blue tinge was on his face, but the wild look in his eyes was not all a look of pain.

"I—I—yes," he stammered. "I used to advertise in the 'Record'—indeed, all the papers. But why should you pick upon that particular production?"

Stott was stammering still, and the glass that he carried to his lips clinked against his teeth. Lucy Sinclair was regarding him much as a naturalist would have regarded something new in the way of an ornithological specimen.

"A little idea that just occurred to me," Mrs. Sinclair said, calmly. "I recollect now that your friend Martin Blake was once sub-editor of the 'Record.'"

"He—he is no friend of mine," Stott stammered.

"Not now, perhaps," Mrs. Sinclair said, in the same analytical voice. "Which fact I gathered when I saw you together on Monday. But he used to be, in the days when you were a popular stage figure in New York. It seems a strange thing to say, but I recollect Martin Blake when he was, to all outward seeming, a gentleman."

"A very strange thing to say," Lance murmured grimly.

"Drink," Stott said, sadly. "The downfall of so many men of genius."

Mrs. Sinclair remarked pointedly that she had not far to look for examples, and Stott smiled. He was terribly afraid of this woman and her questions. And either by accident or design she had touched the mainspring of the whole complicated machinery. A gentle perspiration broke out on Stott as he realised how near she was to the root of things.

But Mrs. Sinclair's glance betrayed nothing. In a grave, pre-occupied way, Lyn was playing with her bread. At the least noise she started; she had the look of a hunted animal in her eyes. Lance addressed her twice before she replied.

Mrs. Sinclair alone seemed to be at her ease. She parried Stott's questions with the greatest dexterity, and utterly declined to say more on the subject of New York journalism. She watched the anxious, uneasy little man opposite her; she noticed his scared eyes. Presently Stott rose, and excused himself on the plea of tobacco.

"How much longer are you going to tolerate him, Lance?" Lyn asked.

Lance shrugged his shoulders. There were many things he did not care to tell Lyn.

"A month," Mrs. Sinclair said, suddenly. "Bear with him, Lyn, treat him as politely as you can. Before a month is past we shall have the pleasure of kicking the odious little wretch out of the house and handing him over to the police. My dears, you never did a better day's work in your life than when you asked me to take up my headquarters at Broadwater. Lucy Sinclair is going to be the fairy godmother. I shall see Stott and Blake in gaol and dance at your wedding yet."

A vivid flush of carmine poured like a wave over Lyn's lovely face, and the tears rose to her eyes. She laughed hysterically, and dashed the tears away.

"I am all right," she said. "Please don't take any notice of me. I fancied that I was born without nerves, and I find that I am mistaken. But whatever I do—please, please try and re-member that I did it for the best."

Lance looked up in astonishment. But the pleading voice had changed to a laugh, and for the rest of the day Lyn was in feverishly high spirits. It was a different Lyn who came down to dinner as Long was lighting the hall lamps.

Long stood gravely aside for his young mistress to pass. Nobody else was down yet; the afternoon's letters lay upon the hall table. Uppermost was a blue envelope with American stamps and postmark, addressed to Sir George Massey. It was the same class of envelope and the same writing as the letter Lyn had suggested that Stott had possessed himself of.

It was slightly gruesome to stand there, holding a missive addressed to a dead man. And yet there was the fascination of a mystery behind it. An irresistible desire to open the envelope came over Lyn. Hot pink fingers crooked under the flap, and the letter was open. Long saw and disapproved, but remained discreetly silent.

The letter was fairly long, but in a bold, flowing hand. As Lyn read on her face turned white, then crimson, and once more deadly white again. She seemed to have gone out of the present into another world altogether. The sound of a footstep on the polished oak floor brought her to herself again. Then she flashed up the stairs like a stream of light, palpitating and trembling with a new hope, and a wild, half-insane determination. When the dinner-gong sounded for the second time she came into the dining-room with eyes so lustrous and shining that Lance bent and kissed her as she passed him.

"My darling," he whispered. "You're yourself again to-night."

"I feel gay," Lyn laughed. "But you must not kiss me when Mr. Stott is about. Perhaps Aunt Lucy has inspired me with hope, perhaps I have made a little discovery of my own. But I am not going to think about that; to-night I am going to be entirely happy."

Lance came down the next morning with no feeling of coming evil upon him. On the contrary, he felt more hopeful and buoyant than he had done for some time. And it is only in books that the psychological forecast works out according to the mood of the character. Mrs. Lucy Sinclair seemed to share Lance's excellent spirits. Stott winked and shivered, and murmured that he had passed a bad night. His eyes were bleared, and there was a faint odor of brandy about him, early as it was.

"I hope nobody was ill in the night," he said. "I heard footsteps pass my door."

Mrs. Sinclair had not heard of any indisposition; she herself had slept soundly, and frankly owned that she wanted her breakfast. And why was Lyn keeping the kidneys waiting? She rang the bell, and instructed Long to ask Miss Lyn's maid if—

The maid came excitedly into the room. Her face was pale and agitated, her eyes were full of tears. For once even Long was startled out of his episcopal gravity.

"Well, what is it?" Mrs. Sinclair asked, sharply.

The maid found her voice at last. The words came tumbling over one another in a torrent.

"I can't find Miss Verity anywhere," she cried. "She—she told me I was not to call her this morning till half-past eight, as she was very tired. I ventured to go in just now, and she was not in her room."

"Gone for an early walk, perhaps," Lance suggested.

"Begging your pardon, Sir Lancelot, but Miss Lyn never slept in her bed at all. And she's taken away her dressing-bag and jewel-case."

It was true enough. Search high and low as they would, no sign of Lyn could be found. She had fled in the night, leaving no clue behind her. And nobody seemed able to throw the slightest light on the mystery. Lance turned in desperation to Long.

"Can you tell me anything about it?" he asked.

Long had an idea, if Sir Lance would pardon his presumption. Perhaps the letter addressed to Sir George had something to do with it. In his own calm, deliberate way Long told the story. Stott stood close by, gazing with bleared eyes, in a face as white as ashes.

"What sort of a letter?" he croaked. "And where from?"

"An American letter, Sir Lancelot," said Long, ignoring Stott altogether. "I'll swear to the stamps and the handwriting. A letter just like it came for Sir George not long ago. And Miss Lyn, she opened it, and she seemed struck all of a heap. But of course at the time I didn't think so much about it."

A peculiar gasping cry came from Stott, but nobody noticed it in the excitement of the moment. He stepped across to the sideboard and literally slopped some brandy into a glass. With both hands he held it to his lips. He glanced furtively round, and breathed the easier when he saw that nobody was heeding him.

"It is certainly strange," said Lance; "but, after all, this letter might not have had anything to do with the matter. If Miss Lyn had any fancy—"

"It's the madness!" said Stott, hoarsely; "the madness in the family."

The shot went home; it left Lance white to the lips. He could have strangled the speaker as he spoke, but that would not have removed the cruelly true suggestion. Why should not the family insanity have suddenly broken out in Lyn? It had done so with the same dire swiftness in the case of her father.

"If this is true," Lance murmured, "If it is true, why—"

He paused as Lyn's maid came into the room with an envelope in her hand.

"For you, madam," she said to Lucy Sinclair. "I found it beside mistress' bed."

Mrs. Sinclair read rapidly, and then dropped the letter carefully into the heart of the fire. There was a queer light in her eyes.

"How blind we have all been!" she cried. "Order a carriage round at once, Lance. No, I am going alone. You are the very last person who is to be allowed to accompany me."