Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 10

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A thin drift of cigarette smoke sifted over the dining-table at Baron's Court, where four men were seated in deep enjoyment of the coffee and liqueurs that followed a perfectly served meal. At the upper end of the table de Barsac, in his capacity as deputy host, lounged back idly in his chair, for he liked to sit there for half an hour or so after the evening meal talking idly on the events of the day. The big room was half in shadow, with a couple of lamps casting pools of light on flowers and ferns and fruit, on the ruby flush of wines in Venetian decanters and glinting on certain matchless old silver and priceless Sevres. Here and there, on the dark walls, a spot of light gleamed upon the electric bulbs that stood like lighted shrines in front of Bevill's famous pictures. It was one harmonious scene of luxury and refinement and wealth, and suggested nothing of the tragedy that was hanging like a black and sinister cloud over that fine old house.

Seated at the head of the table there, de Barsac looked the role he was playing to the life. He gave the impression of power and strength and success in every line of him. His handsome face was lit up with a pleasant smile, though there were people who declared that his eyes were a little too close together and that those strong lips of his were thin and cruel. But then, no great man is without his enemies.

The elderly man seated opposite to him, the man with the youthful face and quick, restless manner, was Sir Watney Gibson, the famous surgeon, and perhaps, in his fierce moments, the most pugnacious man that ever made a reputation in Harley-street. Always ready to fight for his theories, and somewhat intolerant of the opinions of other people, he was yet one of the kindliest of Irishmen and a veritable boy in heart, despite his seventy odd years. But if any criminal ever deluded himself with the idea that this manner covered a native simplicity, then that criminal would have been mistaken. For more than one of them had found his way from the Central Criminal Court to the dock owing to the brilliant and amazing research of Watney Gibson. The young man on his left was his distant relative and assistant, Lionel Markham, a young Oxford man who was just beginning to make a mark for himself.

The figures round the table were completed by the chimpanzee, who lounged there with a cigarette in his mouth and a tiny liqueur glass at his elbow, a quaint imitation of a man of the world in a mood of relaxation. Those queer little eyes of his seemed to be taking in all that was going on around him, and when the others laughed he threw back that wizened head of his and laughed too. He looked quiet and amiable enough now, though he had his moods and his little displays of temper, during which the whole household gave him a wide berth, for he had the strength of a lion and the tenacity of a bulldog. But these intervals were few and far between, and a reproachful glance from his beloved master was usually sufficient to restore the great ape to his normal serenity of mind.

Sir Watney, out of the corner of his eye, was watching Vim with keen interest.

"I tell you you are wrong," the great surgeon broke out into a sudden explosion. "Bless me, de Barsac, do you think I don't know? Why, I am just as well acquainted with the habits of animals as my old friend John Bevill. I tell you yonder creature, to all practical purpose, is a man. Look at him. Do you mean to tell me he doesn't know what I am saying?"

The ape seated there grinned and chattered.

"There, what did I tell you?" Gibson went on. "Ah, my boy, if we could only translate his language, we should know all about the missing link. I don't care a hang what the authorities say, I tell you, to all practical purposes, Vim is a man. Why, he's got the same teeth we have, and the same feet and hands. If you will give me some of your modelling wax, I will take an impression of his fingers and show you what I mean. You call it a paw, I say it's a hand. Look here, de Barsac, I wish you would do me a favour. You're about the only man I know who can do it. I want you to let me have an exact impression of Vim's arm in bronze. You'll know all about it when I go for that ignoramus Watson in next month's 'Scientific Review.' Will you do it for me? Or if you get the wax I'll take the impression now. What do you say?"

"Oh, I'm agreeable," de Barsac smiled. "It's all in my line, of course. I haven't touched anything but animals for years. That's why I am down here. I only wish I could afford to make a change sometimes."

Sir Watney burst into a roar of laughter.

"Oh come, none of your modesty, my boy," he said. "There isn't a man in Europe in your line who's making half so much money as you are. You must be drawing the income of a prince."

De Barsac smiled as he rose and rang the bell.

"Ah, that's all very well," he said. "But if you happen to spend the income of a king at the same time, that doesn't go very far. Yes, I rang, Jackson. Go into the studio and bring me back a large piece of modelling wax."

The well-trained servant returned presently with the wax, and for the next half-hour or so Sir Watney was busy taking the exact impression of Vim's hand and forearm. At first it had not been an easy job, for the great simian showed certain signs of resentment; but presently, as he glanced into the smiling faces around him, he seemed to enter into the spirit of the game, and smiled and chattered, till at length Sir Watney professed himself to be satisfied.

"There, my boy," he said. "I flatter myself that's a good job. If you reproduce that properly as you can, you will have the finest model of muscular strength in a condensed form that exists anywhere. And I believe Vim's proud of it. Look at him, grinning all over his face, like some pretty girl who is listening to a piece of subtle flattery."

The party rose from the table presently and scattered themselves about the house. Sir Watney made his way in the direction of the billiard-room, accompanied by his young relative, who had sat unusually silent throughout the whole of dinner. They played a game of billiards, then sat down in the solitude of the big room to a final cigar.

"What's the matter, my boy?" Sir Watney asked. "You're not usually so quiet."

"Well, sir, I'm a bit puzzled," Markham said. "And perhaps a bit uneasy too. Do you know anything about Major Dorn? Have you met him before?"

"Never saw him in my life," Sir Watney replied. "This is a funny sort of household, Lionel, and you meet some queer people here occasionally. I make a point of asking no questions when I come to Baron's Court. And if you take my advice you'll accept things as you find them. I always do. John Bevill is by way of being a philanthropist, and philanthropy finds itself in strange company."

"Yes, I know that, sir. But between ourselves, when we are alone here, how does the Major strike you?"

"Well, if you put it like that," Sir Watney said, "he doesn't strike me at all pleasantly. I don't like the look of the man. He is a gentleman by birth, of course, I know. Anybody could see that. But he strikes me as being cunning and shifty, and he drinks a great deal too much. He must have had quite a bottle of champagne at dinner, to say nothing of other wines and liqueurs. But if it comes to that, I don't care much for de Barsac either. It may be prejudice on my part, but I don't much fancy a man whose eyes are as close together as his. But why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know," Markham said. "You will remember before I came to you I had a fancy for going into the City. I spent two or three months in the office of a man called Lupas, who described himself as at general broker. As a matter of fact, he was a money-lender of the worst type and mixed up in many shady transactions, though you may be sure I was not allowed to learn much on that side. I left him finally because that sort of work was not in the least congenial, but I do remember seeing some correspondence which was not intended to fall into my hands between Lupas and a certain Major Dorn, who resided somewhere in Devonshire. I don't know for certain, but I should think this Dorn is a bit of a scoundrel. That's why I asked you that question. It's no business of mine, but I'm certain that fellow's here for no good. I wonder——"

Markham broke off and hesitated. He looked just a little confused and there was a dash of colour in his face.

"Go on," Sir Watney said encouragingly.

"Well, it's like this, sir," Markham proceeded. "When I was taking my holiday on the east coast last summer I amused myself for a week or so playing a small part with a travelling company. You know how fond I am of theatricals. And with this company I met a jolly old chap called Maxwell Frick, an elderly comedian of the Mark Tapley type who used to be at Cambridge years ago. And he introduced me to a girl called Dorn—Sylvia Dorn. A beautiful girl, well-bred and refined, and quite out of her class with a company like that. I saw a good deal of her at the time, and she told me that her home was in Devonshire. My dear uncle, she was a remarkably nice girl, and—well, I don't mind telling you I hope to meet her again. She didn't say much, but somehow I was sorry for her, and if this man Dorn is her father I am sorrier for her still."

"Um! quite a romance." Sir Watney yawned as he rose to his feet. "Good-night, my boy; I'm going to bed."

For a long time Markham sat at his open bedroom window looking out thoughtfully over the silent park. He was disturbed and uneasy in his mind and not at all inclined for sleep. Then he heard a door closed softly somewhere, and presently two figures appeared through the darkness—figures that appeared to be making their way cautiously across the park. Markham's eyes were clear and keen, so that he had no great difficulty in making the figures out as those of Dorn and de Barsac.

"Ah, I wonder what those two rascals are after," he murmured to himself. "No good, I'll swear."