Читать книгу Blackmail! - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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The blinds were again up at Broadwater, but there were shadows everywhere. An uneasy sense of impending calamity hung over everyone, a feeling that something was going to happen. Yet Sir George was buried in the family vault now, and Burlinson made no sign. If he had anything startling to disclose at the forthcoming inquest, he kept the facts strictly to himself. But Lancelot was not thinking of that. He was amazed and stunned by the disclosures made by Malcolm Stott.

If that little mild-eyed scoundrel made the discovery public it would bear hard on Lance. And Stott was in a position to prove everything he said. More than one copy of the old disused play was still extant, and in each the letter of the suicide was identical with the letter left by Sir George. What infernal roguery was at the bottom of the whole business? And how had the thing been managed? Lance thought it all over till his brain fairly reeled. And the more he thought of it the worse it looked for him.

Sir George had not committed suicide—or so Burlinson said. Somebody had murdered him, after first ingeniously arranging matters to look like suicide. But who would believe this? Men don't write letters saying they have taken their own lives at the instigation of other people. But Burlinson insisted that here was an exception.

And whose interest was more particularly served by Sir George's death? Lance's, of course. It could easily be proved that he knew nothing of the peculiar nature of his uncle's will. It could be proved that Sir George warned him of the consequences to himself if he persisted in marrying Lyn Verity. With Sir George no more, Lance had the ground clear before him. And now to a great extent he was in Stott's power.

He ought to have kicked the little blackguard out of the house, but—he didn't. He would wait for a little time; perhaps some clue would present itself. And Stott smiled, and was so painfully polite to everybody that Lance was hard put to it to keep his hands off the man who was practically master of Broadwater.

The broadest hints were lost upon Stott. He held the situation, and he knew it. Lance appealed to his pride. The little man sat in the library puffing away at his eternal cigarettes and sipping brandy and water—strictly as a medicine, of course. Lyn heard part of the conversation as she stood in the hall arranging the flowers.

"Why kick?" Stott asked sweetly. "Why let your angry passions rise? As that French Johnny so aptly says, 'Je suis, Je reste?'"

"Not for an indefinite period, I hope," Lance suggested. "Don't you push me too far."

Stott's tremulous lips parted in something like a snarl, it was only for a moment, and the smile was on his round, soddened, baby face again.

"And don't you shove up against me," he said. "I've got all the cards in my hand, remember. Still, kick if you like. Marry Miss Verity, if you haven't done so already—"

He paused as Lance made a step towards him. He wriggled low down in his chair, and his blue watery eyes were pitiful. And yet there was a suggestion of venom about him.

"Now don't," he said. "I hate violence. It's so vulgar. Suppose you married Miss Verity, I could kick you out of the house the same day. And what would become of Broadwater and the money then? Why, it would revert to me—to me, mind you—to do as I pleased with till your eldest son became of age, subject to a small sum for maintenance. Ask Wallace and Wallace. And you can't upset the will, with its swell London doctors for witnesses."

"Did you suggest that?" Lance asked.

Stott flicked the ash off his cigarette in the coolest fashion.

"'Alone I did it,'" he quoted. "'A poor thing, but mine own.' The jest of the circumstance, the sport of fate, must look to himself. The fine flame of geniality in this breast has been turned to gall. For once in my life I thought of myself. And the worm turns. Not that the worm wants much—a little kindness and sympathy, and a little brandy. Strictly as a medicine, of course. I have no wish to be vindictive, but honor, my dear sir, honor compels me to respect the wishes of my late esteemed patron. It would cut me to the heart, but if you defy me—why, the noble order of the sack must be yours. If—"

Lance turned on his heel and walked away, ashamed and uneasy in his mind. How much did that little mild-eyed man know? And had he actually guessed a secret that Lance deemed to be strictly between Lyn and himself? And Lyn had passed into the morning-room, where she stood with a ghastly white face, and the flowers in her hand shaking like blossoms bent to the March gale. She heard Lance's step go by—she would fain have spoken to him and learnt the worst, but still she stood there with a growing terror in her eyes and a feeling of sickening horror at her heart.

Stott lay back in his chair with the air of a man who is well pleased. The cards were falling exactly as he intended; up to now every trick had been his. He looked across the park with a genial air of possession. He approved of the deer standing knee-deep in the bracken. "A little patience and cunning, and all this is mine," he murmured. "But these little scenes affect my heart, horribly. I'll go and walk over the demesne—stroll in my park. It is too fine a day to be in the house."

He passed through the open window down the drive, on the best of terms with himself. Away down the dim avenue a man was swaggering along—a seedy, man in a shiny frock coat and a raffish white hat set at a knowing angle. At the sight of Stott he feigned to be overcome with emotion. His great, coarse, red face exuded an oily mixture.

"And what the d—do you want, Martin Blake?" Stott asked with forcible feebleness.

Still, the fresh cigarette and unlighted match in his hand shook horribly. The red-faced man coolly appropriated the cigarette and match, and lighted the tobacco calmly. He blew a long, thin cloud from his lungs with a sigh of deep content.

"I've come down here," Blake said, with his head thrown back, "to share the plunder. You're a dirty little blackguard, Stott; and I've done some dirty tricks for you at about 13 for a shilling, and now I'm going to get a bit of my own back. Fleet-street, sir, is not what it was. Our Journal, 'The Mirror,' is no longer a terror to the evil-doer."

"In other words, the penny blackmailing financial weekly has had its day," Stott sneered.

"Put it as you please," Blake said calmly. "I have been cruelly disappointed. There was a man in the city whose nefarious career I proposed to shield from the garish light of day for a paltry hundred pounds. The miscreant kicked me downstairs and broke my collarbone. I sued the murderous ruffian for damages. A suborned jury and a prejudiced judge refused my plea and trampled on my wounded feelings. Then the proprietor of 'The Mirror' suggested a holiday. I collected £20 of outstanding advertisement money, and here I am, broke in the world—I, a journalist with a reputation in two hemispheres."

"Yes," said Stott, uneasily. "Here you are, certainly. What next?"

"Don't you be an ass," Blake said, cheerfully. "I've found all about your little game here; I know how it has been worked. There's money in this Broadwater tragedy—a dozen London papers will pay handsomely for light on the suicide's letter. I guessed you were in it from the first; indeed, I came here yesterday cocksure of finding you. And I've been asking questions—never was there such a beggar for asking questions as I am. It's a pretty scheme, Stott, but you're not going to have it all to yourself."

"I think so," Stott suggested mildly. "Oh, I think so."

The veins on the forehead of the big man thickened. Just for a moment there was something in the glint of Stott's eyes that suggested the futility of bullying.

"You're a nice sort of pal," Blake growled.

"I'm not a pal at all," Stott said in the same tone, "you may go to the devil in your own way for all I care. But you're not going to get a brass farthing out of me, and don't you forget it. You seem to know something about the tragedy and my young friend, Sir Lancelot Massey. Try him. Perhaps he may be disposed to come down handsomely to keep his name out of that immaculate 'Mirror' of yours."

Stott spoke quietly, but there was just the suspicion of a tremor in his voice. He shot a swift glance at Blake from under his brows. Blake had the air of one who has been painfully disappointed in a friend. He shook his head mournfully.

"You always were a hard little devil," he said, "despite that baby face of yours. But touching the baronet. Mild, quiet, sensitive, literary chap, isn't he?"

Stott nodded. He could read the other's mind like an open book. He could detect the timidity of the coward behind the manner of the bully.

"That's the man," he said. "If you know your business, he ought to be good for a hundred at least."

Blake tapped his breast pocket significantly. There he had two interviews with Lance already written—one on the side of the angels, the other of quite a different hue. If he still cherished any bitterness against Stott, he failed to show it on his face.

"I'll go and see him now," he said. "If you're about presently, I'll let you know the result. It takes a man with an American training to do a real live interview."

"I shall wait for the result with the greatest interest," Stott said drily.

He watched Blake swaggering away with a queer malignant gleam in his eye. He would have given a great deal to have known how much Blake really was aware of. These two had been in more than one shady transaction together; indeed, Blake was capable of anything for a few pounds. And Stott had never taken the fellow into his confidence. Still—

But he could not have known anything really damaging, or he would not have taken his rebuff so calmly. With a reassured grin, Stott watched him pass beyond the portico, and then for the next half-hour lay on his back tranquilly smoking cigarettes.

Long sniffed suspiciously at Blake, but asked him into the library. As Lancelot rose from the table, where he was writing letters, the heart of the intruder failed him. No quiet, sensitive, literary chap had any right to a keen eye and a square face like that.

"Your business, sir?" Lance asked curtly.

Blake plunged into it at once, fearful that delay might sap his oozing courage. The sound of his own rich oily voice restored his self-possession. He asked a host of questions which he proceeded to answer himself; he read the favorable interview unctuously.

"No harm in our publishing that?" he suggested.

"None at all," Lance said, politely.

"Quite so, Sir Lancelot. But there is another section of the public that—um—er—Permit me to read you the other side of the question."

He read rapidly. Lance listened quietly, with his head bent forward.

He might have been following an oration in Greek for all the emotion he displayed.

"And there I have finished," Blake said with a flourish. "As a statement of the case for the—er—prosecution, you must admit that there is a deal in my arguments. Frankly speaking, it does not matter a row of pins to us which article we publish. But I may venture to say that it may make a considerable difference to you, Sir Lancelot. A hundred pounds—"

Blake paused significantly. Lance looked up for the first time.

"I am to pay £100 to have the white story published," he said. "If not, you will publish the black one. That is what it comes to?"

"A luminous-minded man is a pleasure to meet," Blake said with enthusiasm.

"I appreciate the compliment," Lance said quietly. "Will you come outside with me?"

Blake had no objection whatever; he had no suspicions when Lance carelessly took a thin ash plant from the vestibule, and he chatted on till the drive was reached. Then Blake looked up and stepped back hurriedly.

"There is your reply," Lance said hoarsely. "And if I ever catch you here again—"

Blake stumbled headlong down the drive, writhing with the pain of half a score of blows about his shoulders. So maddened was he with the pain and fright that it was some little time before he became conscious of the fact that he was alone. Wide lines seemed to be burning across his back and shoulders. And then out of the mist of blackness and blind terror the quivering features of Stott gradually shaped themselves.

"You dirty little scoundrel," Blake screamed. "You miserable blackmailing rat. So you thought it would be a good joke to send me to see your baronet. I've got a score of scars across my back, and you shall pay for every one of them. Oh, I'll tear the bottom out of your snug little nest for you. I'll—I'll—"

"You can't do anything," Stott said mildly.

"Can't I? Because I didn't pretend to know. I'm not quite such a fool as I look. And I'll pull the skin off your baronet's back in the next issue of the 'Mirror.' And I'll ruin you, too. Let me once get to New York, and you're done for."

The queer smile died from Stott's face as Blake turned on his heel and shuffled into the road. He pressed his hand to his heart, as if to stifle the pain there. He called out to Blake, but his shaking blue lips made no sound. As he turned he saw the quiet tranquil eyes of Mrs. Lucy Sinclair regarding him.

"Our friend yonder seemed to be rather annoyed," she said.

"Our friend!" Stott stammered. "An acquaintance of mine, madam. But I don't suppose that you have ever seen Martin Blake."

"You are quite wrong," Mrs. Sinclair said, calmly. "I knew him quite well—in America."