Читать книгу The Shadow of the Dead Hand - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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The new-comer seemed to be perfectly at home. There was an idiotic smile on his face, which was round and chubby, and his yellow curly hair gave him the air of an overgrown cherub. There were people who declared that Peter Lantary had been born without brains, and that it was a marvel how he, the son of a poor country gentleman, ever contrived to make a living. And yet he had his chambers in the Albany, and his manservant and his West End tailor, and he owed nobody. Moreover, he was to be seen wherever society gathered together, ruffling it with the best of them. He was popular too, in his way, despite his reputation of silly ass, and was acclaimed rightly as one of the best amateur comedians in the kingdom.

"Now, what on earth are you doing here, Roy?" he asked.

"If it comes to that, what are you doing here?" Kindermere countered. "This is not the sort of house where I should have expected to meet you. Miss Glynn, I hope you won't mind my speaking fairly candidly before my friend, Mr. Lantary. He is an old schoolfellow of mine, and, I think he may be able to help us."

"I am quite sure I can," Lantary drawled coolly. "You may be dashed surprised to hear, my dear young lady, that I have a pretty shrewd idea as to what you are doing here. And I have a more than shrewd idea as to the activities of your remarkable host. But what I want to know, for the moment, is what Roy is doing here. You weren't invited, old bean, were you?"

"Good lord, no," Roy exclaimed.

"Ah, I thought not. I was certain of that when I saw you come into the dance room. You might put me wise, old thing."

Without knowing exactly why, Kindermere proceeded to do so. Lantary was a great ass, of course, but then he had all the pluck and courage of his race, and Roy knew that he could depend upon him when the emergency arose, as it might do at any moment. Without waiting to be asked, Lantary threw himself into a seat and coolly proceeded to light a cigarette.

"Now, look here, children," he said. "This is just where little Peter Pan comes in. I don't want it generally known, and it ain't, but, you see, I have got my living to get, the same as the other poor beggars who went out under the mistaken impression that they were going to make England fit for heroes to live in. And, on the whole, I haven't done too very badly."

"So I have always imagined," Kindermere said drily. "How do you manage on nothing a year, Peter?"

Lantary eyed the speaker solemnly through his monocle.

"I am a private inquiry agent," he said. "Don't laugh. Without vanity, dear things, I am not quite such a fool as I look. And my chubby face and this monocle, that worries the life out of me, make jolly fine assets, don't you know. Why, people look upon me as next door to an idiot, by Jove. It doesn't matter what you say before Peter Lantary. Such a harmless ass! By gad, I am quite a new sort of detective. And who would think it to look at me? But I have done some pretty shrewd things, old bean, and I don't mind telling you that I am here tonight on business. All the criminals of the world don't live down in the East End of London—heaps of them knocking about in Rolls Royce cars, and those are the sort of birds I'm gunning for. That is why I got an invitation here to-night. But I am in no hurry, and when I spotted the fact that you had shoved yourself in this revue, Roy, I looked you up to see what the little game was."

"Well, now you know," Kindermere smiled. "And, since you are acquainted with the new underworld, perhaps you can give me a point or two as to the character of my involuntary host."

"Oh, I could write a whole book about that," Lantary replied. "And perhaps some day I shall. Very hot stuff, is our friend Felix Murdstone. But never mind him for the moment. What are you going to do with regard to Miss Glynn?"

"Well, upon my word. I hardly know," Roy said. "I have told you exactly how she is situated since the death of her father, whom you might have known—"

Lantary winked solemnly at the speaker, and Roy knew that he had no occasion to dilate further on that side of the story.

"Now, what can we do?" Roy went on.

"We can't leave Miss Glynn here. It seems monstrous to think it possible that a girl should be, to all intents and purposes, a prisoner here in the West End. Neither can I believe that her father would have known what was going to happen when he invited her to come here."

"Oh, I am sure he didn't," Alcie said almost tearfully. "I know that my father did not get on with the majority of people, and I suppose that is why so many of his acquaintances avoided him. But he was a real good father to me, and there was nothing he would not have done for my happiness. I came here quite cheerfully and willingly, because my father wished it, and I am certain that there is some reason why I have been so strangely treated—"

"Well, at any rate, you can't stay here any longer," Roy said impatiently. "Your friends and relations—"

"But I don't think I have any," the girl said helplessly. "My father never mentioned them. Whenever I spoke of his people, or my mother's, he always told me that I was not to allude to the subject. There was some quarrel, I think."

Roy listened to all this uneasily. He and Lantary, for the matter of that, knew perfectly well why the late Rupert Glynn never mentioned his relations. They had cast him off long ago. And, as to relatives on her mother's side, conditions had been just as hard and bitter. But to mention such a thing and to disclose a state of affairs of which the girl was absolutely ignorant would have been something like refined cruelty at that moment.

"Well, I suppose we must think out something," Roy said. "But how are you going to manage with regard to your wardrobe? I could smuggle you out of the house easily enough, but you can't walk about London in a blue ball dress and a couple of diamond stars. You see the difficulty? I suppose you have no maid?"

"I never had such a thing in my life," Alcie smiled.

"Then you couldn't go upstairs and pack your boxes and bring them down. But, by the way, where is Mr. Murdstone? And who is hostess on this auspicious occasion?"

"I can answer that," Lantary said. "The hostess, whose daughter was married this morning, is a bit of a mystery, like so many people nowadays. She has a flat in town, and a house down in the country where she entertains all sorts of queer people. I don't mean anarchists and that kind of thing, but the shy, foreign type who are supposed to be European capitalists and high financiers. And, by the way, Murdstone poses as being one of that lot. He is supposed to have made an immense fortune somewhere out in the wild and woolly West in connection with oil, or cattle, or bits of timber."

"Is he in the house?" Roy asked.

"Yes, he is," Lantary explained. "But this sort of thing is rather out of his line, so he contents himself with lending the house for the occasion, and, after showing up for an hour or so, he went into the library, for I was chatting with him just before you came in. I had my own reasons for wanting a little pi-jaw with him, but he wouldn't let me stay long. I could almost hear him saying to himself, 'Why does this putrid little ass with the eyeglass want to worry me like this?' With any luck, later on, he will know. But it's a jolly long row I've got to hoe first. But haven't we got something else to think of?"

"Oh, I haven't forgotten Miss Glynn," Roy said. "I only wanted to know if the coast was fairly clear so far as Murdstone was concerned. If he is well out of the way, it makes things easier."

"Well, I don't think you will be troubled with him, not for the next hour or two, at any rate. By Jove, this is an extraordinary adventure, isn't it? I wouldn't have missed it for worlds. Still, there is a practical side to it—"

"Yes, and we have got to solve it," Roy pointed out. "Get Miss Glynn away safely and put her under the protection of some one who will understand and look after her sympathetically. I suppose it couldn't do to go straight to Murdstone—"

"Wash it out, dear boy, wash it out," Lantary drawled. "You might just as well grab a cobra by the tail as come between Murdstone and his schemes. He's a man hunter, old cockins, I mean a man eater. And that's the only name for him. But I tell you what I can do. I can go and blather to the blighter and keep him talking in the library whilst you make your getaway. You smother Miss Glynn into a cloak and go through that door, where you will find yourself in the garden. Down at the far end is another door leading into the lane behind. At the corner of the street you can pick up a taxi. Oh, I know all about it. I have been studying the geography of this house for over a fortnight. So long."

With that, Lantary lounged out of the conservatory, leaving Roy and Alcie alone to their solitude.

"I think, on the whole, that Lantary's scheme is about the only one that is practical," Roy said. "And I am glad to have him with us. At any rate, he can keep the coast clear. Then I can take you to a flat not very far off, where I have a most kindly disposed but particularly eccentric old aunt, who will simply love to look after you when she has heard your story. As to your general wardrobe, you can send for that afterwards. What do you think?"

It was settled at length, after some natural reluctance on Alcie's part. Then Roy rose to regain his coat and hat. He was hardly back in the little alcove before Lantary crept to the room. There was nothing about him to betray the least perturbation or excitement, save that his hand shook a little.

"Looks to me, dear children," he said, "as if the problem had solved itself. Our friend, the man eater, is dead."

"Dead!" Alcie cried. "Dead?"

"Yes, dead, beyond the shadow of a doubt," Lantary murmured. "He is lying there, in the library, on the flat of his back with his face turned to the ceiling."

"You don't mean to say—" Roy began.

"Yes," Lantary said. "Murdered. No doubt of that."