Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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"Put that lamp out," he whispered. "Blow the lamp out and pull the blind down, Dorn."

There was a certain quick ring of command in the stranger's voice that caused Dorn mechanically to obey. Not that he was not nervous and uneasy, because he was. Dorn was by no means the sort of man that heroes are made of, and even if he had been so naturally, the life he had been leading of recent years would have taken all the nerve and courage out of him. But the fact that this man knew him was ominous. The way in which he spoke subtly conveyed the impression that one scoundrel was talking to another. With a hand that trembled, Dorn pulled the blind down and lowered the flame of the lamp. He would have put it out altogether but for certain prudent instincts.

"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Never mind that for the moment," the fugitive replied. "Yes, perhaps on the whole you are right. You always were a cunning beggar, Dorn. If you had put the light out suddenly, those devils outside would have spotted at once that something was going on. And I expect your reputation is pretty well known in this neighbourhood."

Dorn listened with a certain rising feeling of irritation. He knew that he was safe now from any violence at the hands of this audacious intruder. This man was in desperate straits, and he was certain not to be rash enough to lay hands on one who was shielding him from authority. And, moreover, though Dorn could make nothing of the blurred outline of the stranger's face, he could see that this man was not in convict garb, and that he had hit upon another adventure altogether. And with it all was the feeling of annoyance that we all experience when we recognise a voice without being in a position to connect it with its owner. And that was what Dorn felt. He was wondering where he had heard that voice before.

"But look here," he began.

"Shut up, you fool," the intruder interrupted. "They have got a pretty good idea where I am. One of those chaps outside must have seen me cross the open, or he wouldn't have fired. It was a bit of infernally bad luck running straight into the arms of those fellows. But then it's been one of my unlucky evenings. Ah, here they come. Push me under that sofa, behind that pile of papers. Ask them to come in. Tell them that you heard the shot fired and that somebody ran by just as you were pulling down the windows preparatory to going to bed. Now, go on; don't keep them waiting."

Dorn pulled himself together. On the whole, this was a congenial job. Here was some scoundrel who knew him, some forgotten accomplice in crime to whom he was doing a good turn, and there might be a corresponding advantage in it somewhere. Therefore Dorn proceeded to open the front door and admit a couple of policemen, together with a man in his shirt sleeves, who might, from his appearance, have been an upper servant.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir," one of the policemen said. "But this is Mr. Gregory Smith's butler. There was an attempt to burgle the house about an hour ago, and the burglar was traced as far as your grounds. By good luck some prison warders were hunting for a convict here, and the fellow ran into them. They very nearly had him, and we think he must have got into your house somehow. One of the windows was open——"

"It was," Dorn said. "I was speaking to the warders some time ago, and I have been sitting in the open window of my library ever since. I had just closed it, and was turning the lamp down with the idea of going to bed, when I heard a couple of shots fired. So, you see, there can be nobody here. We'll go round the house if you like, but I don't think you'll find a single door or window unfastened."

The policeman hesitated for a moment, obviously impressed by evidence as direct as this, before he suggested that it would be just as well to look around, which they did under Dorn's guidance, only to retire a few moments later fully convinced that there was nothing further to be done so far as the inside of the house was concerned. They disappeared presently, with many apologies, leaving Dorn to return eagerly to the library, where he had turned up the lamp.

"Now come on," he said. "Come out and let me have a look at you. You seem to know me well enough, but I prefer not to have all the advantage on one side."

With a laugh the stranger crept out from under the couch and stood there before Dorn, a fine, upright, handsome figure of a man with regular features and a pair of flashing black eyes. He was quite well-dressed, exceedingly neat and natty with his small black moustache and tiny pointed beard, obviously a gentleman to outward appearances, and a man certainly accustomed to move in good circles. His long slim hands were assuredly those of an artist.

"Well, don't you know me?" he asked.

"De Barsac," Dorn cried. "Victor de Barsac, as I am a living sinner. Now, tell me, what is the most famous sculptor in Europe doing here like this? And tell me, why is the spoilt child of princes and the darling of society up to this sort of thing? Oh, come de Barsac!"

"Well, you never know," the other man said, as he dropped into a chair. "I am supposed to be a man in the enjoyment of a princely income, and, to a certain extent, I am. But there never was enough money in the world for me, and there never will be. Light come, light go, you know. I tell you, Dorn, I am fairly up against it. I haven't a score of pounds in the world I can call my own, and moreover, if I can't lay my hand upon a few hundreds within the next few days, then I am as good as a convict. You remember, it was always the same with me. Now, how many years was it since we were in that little business together? It must be quite ten."

"Oh, never mind that," Dorn said impatiently. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, at present I am the guest of that distinguished scientist and eccentric millionaire John Bevill. I suppose you know his name well enough."

Dorn started, but controlled himself quickly. It was no policy of his to tell this old acquaintance in crime what he knew about the wealthy John Bevill.

"Of course I know his name," he said. "But what are you doing in his house?"

"Well it's like this. Bevill has a perfect menagerie at Baron's Court, and when I asked him to let me come down and make a study of some of the animals he was good enough to put Baron's Court at my disposal. He is not there himself. He is hidden away in some secret retreat, where he is finishing a book, and has left me and one or two other friends of his in charge of the house. Here I am, a potential millionaire, living on the fat of the land in a famous mansion and hard up for a five pound note!"

"No treasures there?" Dorn asked cynically. "Nothing you can lay your hands on?"

"Heaps of them, my dear boy, heaps of them," de Barsac smiled. "But that's too dangerous a game. The stakes are too big for that. I daren't touch anything there, and all the more so because Bevill is quite an old man and I know that I am down on his will for a thumping big legacy. And that's why I don't want him to know my desperate position. I had to have money, so I planned a little burglary of my own—by no means the first—on a house in this neighbourhood, and I should have got away with the stuff all right but for a bit of sheer bad luck. I was practically caught by that old butler and made a bolt for it in this direction. Then, when I got in a tight place, I thought about you, and that's just where my luck was out again, for I ran bang into the arms of a lot of warders who are looking for a convict. If I hadn't happened to have seen that window of yours open, I should have been nabbed to a dead certainty with the tools in my pocket. My word, what a sensation that would have been for all my dainty society friends! But I think it's all right now. 'Pon my word, you look pretty snug here, in spite of all I hear from certain shady acquaintances to the contrary. Come, give me a drink and a cigar."

"I am very sorry," Dorn said. "I haven't so much as a glass of beer in the house. And I smoked my last cigar yesterday. There isn't a pipe of tobacco on the premises. You seem to be up against it pretty hard, but at any rate you have got comfortable quarters where you have everything to your hand. I have struck a rotten bad patch. Literally I am down to my last few shillings, and I'm hanged if I know where the next are coming from. Haven't you got a cigarette?"

De Barsac laid a silver cigarette case on the table and Dorn grasped it with avidity. The Spaniard watched him with a cynical smile and a certain narrowing of his eyelids.

"Let's sit down and talk," he said abruptly. "So far as I can gather, we both seem to be in the soup together. You are no fool, Dorn, and there was a time when you didn't want for courage. Now, I must have money, and a lot of it. So far as I can see, so must you."

"I'd sell my soul for it," Dorn said hoarsely.

"Very well. Then you can come in if you like. It ought to be worth anything up to two thousand pounds—perhaps more. I have mortgaged all my commissions, in fact I can't raise an honest penny anywhere. So I must try the other track. Only I must have you with me, where I can show you the ground. Now, suppose you come over to Baron's Court to-morrow and stay the night. I can give you all the de Rothschild's cigars' and vintage champagne you can drink. Oh, dash it, you can bring back a case or two if you please, and as to a few boxes of cigars, well, they're yours for the asking. But mind, you must be careful. There are two other men staying in the house, not our type at all. But one of them is about as cute as they make 'em. Not that they will interfere with us. I am only giving you a word of warning. I can send a car over for you and we can go into our plans carefully. It's dangerous, I don't mind telling you that, but the stakes are immense. Now, in one word, Dorn, are you on?"

Dorn held out a hand silently.