Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 13

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Montague Stagg beamed almost benignly into the troubled, sensitive face of the stranger on the other side of the table. For here was an adventure after the heart of Stagg, and one, moreover, that, properly handled, pointed to considerable pecuniary emolument. To do Stagg justice, however, it was not the unearned increment he was thinking so much about then as the safety of this new protege of his. For Stagg was above all things kind-hearted and generous, and even in the moment of the actual financial strain he would never have dreamt of taking a farthing from anyone in distress. That was not the sort of scoundrel he was. So he bent forward with a pleasing smile on his face and the full intention of helping the young man whatever happened. Then he glanced very cautiously round the restaurant, with a keen eye for anyone who might be watching them. He remembered that advertisement in the agony column of 'The Times,' and it seemed to him that the sooner he and the young man on the other side of the table were beyond the range of inquisitive eyes the better.

But, so far as Stagg could see, no one appeared to be watching them, and, indeed, most of the diners had disappeared by this time. Stagg bent forward and laid his hand impressively on the stranger's arm.

"My young friend," he said, "need I repeat that you are in considerable danger? I suppose your mind is capable of taking that much in."

The good-looking youth smiled sadly.

"My mind is as clear as yours," he said. "Save that everything is a blank as regards my past, there is nothing whatever the matter with my memory. Of course I am uneasy and a bit frightened, because, after all, I might be a criminal."

"Oh, well, not a deliberate one, I am sure," Stagg said reassuringly.

"You really believe that?" the young man asked.

"I do. I flatter myself that I am a man of the world, and I beg to assure you that I am not easily taken in. I know what young men are, mainly, perhaps, because I have been one myself. And I know that many people do foolish things on the spur of the moment. Now, you might have done a foolish thing. You might have been reckless, or extremely hard up, and, on the other hand, you might have done something from entirely chivalrous motives. Possibly there is a lady in the case, and if that is so then there is no limit to human folly. But that you are merely a plausible, well-educated criminal I decline to believe. I want you to regard me as your friend. Will you put yourself entirely in my hands?"

The young man smiled gratefully.

"There is nothing I should like better," he said. "I am as helpless as a child that is lost in a crowd. Oh, I was beginning to feel as if I should go mad when I met you. Oh, yes, I am entirely in your hands."

"In that case we had better be moving along," Stagg said cheerfully. "Now, listen to me, Mr.—Mr.—I don't know what to call you. Let us say 'Nemo.' I am a man of some means, whose spare time is given over to what I might call philosophic wanderings. I am a great admirer of the late Charles Dickens. I suppose you know who I mean?"

"Perfectly well," the young man smiled. "My memory is all right, except as regards myself; but pardon me if I fail to see the connection."

"Well, Dickens used to wander about London, studying human nature and looking for adventures, and there you have the only analogy between us. But you can quite see how this little experience has fascinated me. Here is a young man dining at an expensive restaurant with his pockets obviously full of stolen property. He tells me a story that most people would scoff at, but one which I am perfectly prepared to believe. My dear sir, I am convinced that you are the victim of some extraordinary conspiracy. Because I believe that, I am going to help you. Sooner or later we shall get to the truth, but meanwhile there is no reason why you should spend a good many days in prison. And, therefore, I am going to be an accessory after the fact, so to speak. Now, I have a small suite of rooms in a house in Caithness-road, which is not very far from here. It is a kind of superstar lodging-house, kept by a man who, as a boy, worked on my father's estate. His name is Josh, and for many years he was one of Pinkerton's detectives. I mean the famous band of American private detectives which it is just possible you may have heard of."

"That strikes a familiar chord," the young man said. "What I know about America and Pinkerton's is a mystery, but I do seem to have heard of them."

"Well, it doesn't matter," Stagg went on, "Josh is a capital chap, and entirely devoted to my interests. He will put you up for a few days till I can make other arrangements, and he will see to it that nobody but himself and his wife know of your presence in the house. And as to payment, well, I don't think I'll trouble about that for the moment."

"You forget," the stranger said, "that I am not short of money. How I got it I cannot say, but the fact remains that it is in my pocket."

"True," Stagg said thoughtfully. "True. Now, come along. We had better walk, and it would be just as well if we covered our tracks a bit."

"But why?" the stranger asked.

"You never can tell. You may be watched at the present moment. You can be certain that somebody has a keen interest in the stones you have just shown me. So, therefore, like Agag, we will tread delicately."

They made their way presently along Piccadilly, then suddenly turned back and retraced their steps until Stagg was satisfied, after which they made their way to Caithness Road. Here Stagg paused, and satisfying himself that there was no one in sight, opened the door of one of the neat little houses there with his latchkey and led the way into a quite luxuriously-furnished sitting-room on the ground floor. In response to the bell there entered a short, powerful-looking man with a high bald forehead, and a big black moustache, who limped rather painfully into the room and stood there as if waiting for orders.

"Sit down, Josh," Stagg said genially. "Unless I am very much mistaken, I have got a job for you after your own heart. Now, take a cigarette from my case, and listen."

The little man with the twisted leg sat himself upright on a straight-backed chair and turned a respectful ear to what Stagg had to say. Whereupon that philanthropist gave the attendant Josh an outline of what had happened, suppressing certain details which he deemed prudent to keep to himself.

"So there's the story, Josh," he said "What do you make of it?"

"Well, sir," Josh replied, "I should say that this gentleman here was sanbagged by some crook or another, and that they shoved the jewels into his pocket, hoping to get them back before long."

"Now, that's very shrewd of you," Stagg said. "I shouldn't be surprised to find that you are right. You wouldn't say that Mr. Nemo was a criminal, would you?"

Josh smiled under his black moustache.

"Lord, no, sir," he said. "He's a gentleman if ever I saw one. But he do look tired."

The stranger passed his hand across his forehead.

"I am utterly worn out," he said wearily.