Читать книгу A Front of Brass - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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The stranger appeared to be fully cognisant of the fact that he was master of the situation. To further emphasize the fact he laid a small ivory handled revolver on the table before him. There was a coolness about the whole proceeding that deprived Grant of the power of speech for a moment. He saw a little fat man with a tiny waxed moustache, a glass in his right eye, and a general suggestion of the middle aged dandy with him. There are scores of such men to be seen everyday in the service clubs in St. James's-street, but in this case there was an air of grimness and determination which there was no mistaking. The voice of the stranger was mincing and affected, but behind the falsetto an uneasiness that had almost a menace in it.

"Am I to understand that I am practically a prisoner?" Grant asked.

The little man screwed his glass still more firmly in his right eye. His hand fell on the butt of the revolver with a suggestion of familiarity with weapons.

"That is an exceedingly luminous idea of yours," he said. "For the time being you are a prisoner. And in your own house too. But, believe me, I have no idea of violence—that is if you are reasonable. The less resentment you show, the quicker I shall be finished. I have come to give you some exceedingly valuable advice."

"You might have come in a more conventional form," Hubert retorted.

"I might, yes," Mr. Smith said thoughtfully. "But there are strong reasons why I should not do any thing of the kind. Mr. Spencer is your partner, I understand?"

"That is common knowledge, sir. Will you please go on?"

"I pray you not to be impatient. Now, has it ever occurred to you that Mr. Spencer is not exactly what he appears to be? His name stands high in the city—he is supposed to be a very rich man. I use the word 'supposed' advisedly. I have the best of reasons for believing that Mr. Paul Spencer is not a rich man at all. In fact he is a defaulter. The firm of Spencer, Grant, and Scarsdale is hopelessly insolvent. In a few days this will be common property. It is exceedingly hard on Mr. Philip Scarsdale, who is only a sleeping partner, but he is not quite blameless. He ought to have insisted upon seeing that the money was correct. So should you for that matter."

"Mr. Spencer has always looked after the financial side of the business," Grant said.

"Oh, I know that. He has showed you forged balance-sheets and forged bank books. He has been doing that sort of juggling for years. The time comes when that kind of thing has to stop, and the time has come now. The money you paid for this house goes with the rest. You were a great fool not to have a proper conveyance of the property. Not that it would have mattered much, as your creditors will take everything."

Grant stood there listening in a kind of dull amazement. Who was this man who spoke in such confident terms of his private affairs?

"I have only your word for all this," he said. "Precisely. I expected you to say that. It is only natural that I should be expected to prove my bona-fides. All the same you will pardon me if I prefer to remain more or less anonymous. I am going to speak now of one or two transactions that will open your eyes."

The speaker proceeded to tick off certain items on his fingers. He mentioned the names of clients, he spoke freely of their business, he seemed to have all the figures at the end of his tongue. In the light of these revelations certain vague suspicions of Grant's became damning facts. He began to understand presently how desperate the position was.

"Have I said enough?" the stranger said curtly. "If you are not satisfied, I will go on. There is no transaction of your firm which is concealed from me."

"The whole thing is amazing," Hubert cried. "My partner—"

"Your partner is a scoundrel. In a day or two everybody will know him for a rascal of the worst possible type. I am sorry for you, and I am sorry for Philip Scarsdale. But you are by no means blameless in the matter. You have allowed this to go on for all these years without asking questions. After the figures are investigated you will all stand in the dock together. People will say hard things about you."

"They will," Grant agreed moodily. "If I could confront you with Paul Spencer—"

"That you will never do. Paul Spencer does not set foot in this house again. Within a very short time he will be on his way abroad. He has a trouble of his own, and by this time the police are after him. Is the name of Robert Morton familiar to you?"

"As an acquaintance," Grant said. "A man more or less of a failure in business, who has lately taken up politics. A poor conceited creature!"

"You are absolutely wrong, Mr. Grant. That silly manner of Morton's is assumed to hide the man's wonderful cunning and cleverness. He is one of the most dangerous and unscrupulous men that I ever met. He is mainly responsible for Spencer's downfall. I believe that once he was out of the way Spencer could have saved the situation. And this great enemy of his will be yours also. Still, I can help you here. You will get some letters and papers through the post, and I hope you will study them carefully."

"I suppose I ought to thank you?" Grant asked.

"My dear sir, if you knew every thing, you would thank me on your knees. And if you wish to see your late partner again you must go as far as the summer house on the cliff. I fancy you were asked to go there to-night at half-past 10 if he did not come back. You may take my word for it that he will not come back."

Hubert glanced mechanically at the clock. It was a few minutes past the hour of ten. There was yet time to hear more of the mysterious business.

"I am much obliged to you for the hint," he said. "If you have nothing further to say to me, I will go now, I have much to discuss with Mr. Spencer."

The stranger clicked the lock of his revolver significantly.

"I am not here entirely for your benefit," he said drily. "It must be plain to your intelligence that I am taking risks in coming here at all. At half-past ten precisely I shall permit myself the pleasure of taking off the embargo that keeps you here. In ten minutes from now I shall relieve you of my presence. In all probability we shall never meet again. You are annoyed and angry with me now, but the time will come when you will bless the day that introduced you to the man who calls himself Mr. Smith, of London. Did I say Mr. John Smith?"

Grant nodded sullenly. He was in no mood to be grateful. There was something in the man's manner that he resented. And all the while May was waiting for him in the garden. She was not likely to turn her face in the direction of Grant Lea so long as matters remained in the present state of uncertainty. And with it all was the danger that her absence from home might be discovered. Any silly little accident might bring this about.

"You are causing me great inconvenience," Grant said. "If I could go at once—"

"You can't go at once. You must give me your word to remain here till the clock strikes the half hour. If you break it, you must take the consequences. If you move a yard from the house till the proper moment you will pay for your broken promise with your life."

As the last word was uttered the electric lights went out suddenly leaving the room plunged into black darkness.

As Grant's dazzled eyes, assisted by the moon outside, began to discern the familiar surroundings he became aware of the fact that he was alone.

The mysterious Mr. Smith had vanished as strangely as he had come. The leaden monster crept on till the half hour struck with a noise and unexpectedness that set all Grant's nerves throbbing. He made a dash for the door for the garden beyond. It lay still and peaceful in the moonlight, there was no sign of May anywhere. She was no longer standing in the place where Grant had left her. Possibly she had got tired of waiting, and gone home, perhaps she was hiding somewhere close by. Grant called her softly by name, but no reply came. And there was no time to lose.

He made his way through the garden and up the slope leading to the summer house. The clear moonlight shone across the wide expanse of sea, a figure standing on the edge of the cliff loomed out clear like a cameo. It needed no second glance to tell Grant that the solitary figure was that of Paul Spencer. It was very strange that a man presumably a fugitive from justice should expose himself in that bold, careless way.

"Better get into the summer house," Grant called out. "I'm coming up."

"I'm waiting for you," Spencer replied. "I dare say you think—"

The sentence was never finished. With the words on his lips Spencer staggered back with his hand to his side as a revolver shot rang out. A stifled groan escaped him; he lurched forward, then backwards and disappeared headlong over the steep cliff into the sea two hundred feet below.

With a feeling of horror and sickness upon him Grant looked down to the silent flood lapping peacefully on the granite rocks. He called and called again, but nothing came but the hoarse echo of his own frightened voice.