Читать книгу The Leopard's Spots - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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Stagg hesitated just for a moment. He was at grips with the situation now, and began to see what was required of him. He wanted that money very badly indeed, but even a thousand pounds can be purchased at too high a price. And if it came to becoming an accessory after the fact in a case of stark and unvarnished murder, then Montagu Stagg was not going on. Cheerful and humorous rascal, as he was, he had his own code of morality, and here he drew the line.

He ought to have turned his back upon the whole thing, he ought to have made an excuse for getting out of the house as soon as possible, but that overpowering curiosity of his, that insatiable thirst for romance, held him back. And besides, there was just a chance even now, of obtaining that rich reward without endangering his own safety.

Despite the luxury and affluence of his surroundings, despite the calm regal beauty of this woman and the richness of her dress, Stagg was not blind to the fact that he had blundered by accident into a nest of crime of the most violent kind, and that it behoved him to be careful. Moreover, he had not very much time. Before long the real Dr. Gilbert would turn up, and if he happened along now, then there might be another crime in which Stagg potentially figured as what the police courts call the body. Still, the woman had told him on the doorstep that she had not expected the man in question before midnight, and it still wanted half an hour to that.

"I quite understand. And now, don't you think that I had better see the—the—"

"Patient," the woman said. "You will find him exceedingly ill, Dr. Gilbert—in fact, I am astonished that he is still alive. It's a miracle."

"Well, pneumonia takes strange phases," Stagg said. "I am calling it pneumonia for the sake of argument. But tell me, where is the wound?"

"Just over the heart. A stab with an Italian dagger. It all took place as quickly as a dream. We were sitting here together just as the dinner things had been cleared away when those men rushed in and it was all over in a moment. You see, it would be different if we had our regular staff. But we only got in here this afternoon, and dinner was sent in already cooked from a neighbouring hotel. We have only one servant in the house, so far, and that is my husband's own man, who is a South American. To-morrow we are expecting all the servants. You quite understand Dr. Gilbert, that this is not our own house; we have merely taken it furnished for two or three months."

Stagg nodded gravely enough, for the situation was deepening. He was beginning to understand. These people were adventurers, not necessarily poor ones, but adventurers all the same, and it was quite clear that there was another set of undesirable characters somewhere in the neighbourhood who were at daggers drawn with the occupants of the house. Members of the same gang, perhaps, an opposing faction that had probably quarrelled over the division of the spoil. And in settling that little matter some unlucky individual had received a knife thrust which apparently was likely to be attended with fatal results. And, for some powerful reason or another, the whole thing was to be kept quiet. A complacent doctor, probably some extravagant black sheep of the profession, had been called in to give a false certificate, so that in the case of death the unfortunate man upstairs would be buried without the authorities being any the wiser. And here, therefore, Stagg was up against the great adventure of his life.

Even now he hesitated to turn his back upon it, though common sense told him that the sooner he got out of the house the better.

"I had better see the patient," he said.

"Certainly," the woman said. "Wait here for a moment, and I will go and see if everything is ready for you."

She swept out of the room, leaving Stagg rather pleased to have the opportunity of being alone for a moment or two. He wanted to collect his scattered thoughts and scheme a way out of the difficulty. As he sat there looking about him a manservant entered the room. He was a small, slight individual, a half-caste probably; his face was dark and swarthy and his hair long; moreover, he wore rings in his ears. He was dressed in a sort of half-evening attire, and in his hand he bore a decanter of port and a glass on a salver.

He placed the decanter on the table and signified to Stagg to help himself. Stagg would have asked a question or two, but from certain signs made by the foreigner he judged that the latter was both deaf and dumb. Evidently a convenient type of servant, but one of a sinister type that only added to the mystery that surrounded the house.

Stagg reached out a hand and filled himself a glass of wine. He tossed it off quickly, for he needed it, but after the first taste of the port he slowed down, and the next glass he drank slowly and delicately like the connoisseur that he was. He did not need anyone to tell him that he was drinking '63 port, and that it had matured to the hour.

"That's a drop of uncommonly good stuff," he told himself. "Now, what sort of a house have I struck? I seem to have got out of London altogether. Daggers and vendettas and a body in so refined a locality as Porchester-place! And the finest wine I think I ever tasted. I'll carry on for another quarter of an hour. There may be something in it yet."

He lay back in his chair gazing eagerly round him, and then presently a number of cases strewn about the dining table caught his eye. They were jewel cases beyond the shadow of a doubt, but all of them empty, as Stagg discovered for himself. On a little side table was a heap of twisted broken metal, beyond all question the settings from which a number of stones had recently been torn. Under the table, evidently thrown there in the struggle, or overlooked, was a five pointed diamond star of exquisite workmanship and great value, which Stagg slipped into his pocket. It might, or might not, be missed; but, in any case, it occurred to Stagg that he probably had as much right to it as anybody in the house, and here, at the very least, was something that represented the money that he so sorely needed. He had not been wasting his time.

He had hardly concealed the gem before the woman returned with the information that the patient was ready for the doctor.

"He is extremely bad," she said. "Little as I know of such matters, I am afraid he cannot last till the morning."

"You are speaking of your husband?" Stagg asked.

"Yes," the woman said coolly enough. "But perhaps you may think I am unduly alarmed. I see the man has been looking after you."

"Very well indeed," Stagg said. "That's the nicest glass of port I think I have ever tasted. By the way, madam, what is your servant's affliction?"

"He is deaf and dumb," the woman said. "But none the less valuable as a servant for that. Rather the contrary, because he cannot gossip. But please come this way."

Stagg followed her up the wide marble staircase into a spacious bedroom, where presently he made out a figure lying on the bed. The man lay there perfectly still. He was covered to the throat with a big eiderdown, his eyes were closed, and he seemed as if he were in a deep sleep.

"There's your patient," the woman whispered. "Perhaps you had better not see too much. The wound is just under the heart, a deep stab that bled profusely. He never spoke again after he was struck. But you can imagine the trouble that we had to get him up here."

With a curious feeling of unreality Stagg bent over the bed. He had seen men in extremis before, and the deadly pallor and the grim white lips were not lost upon him.

"I am too late," he said. "The man is dead."