Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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Dorn sat in the luxurious library at Baron's Court facing de Barsac, who lounged in a big chair opposite him and discoursed more or less casually on the scheme that he had laid out. It was yet fairly early in the afternoon, and Dorn had arrived in the car which had been sent for him directly after lunch. He had come prepared to enjoy himself and hoping to do a fine stroke of business at the same time. He sat there with a choice cigar between his lips, well content with his surroundings and determined to take the gift that the gods had provided, and enjoy them as long as he possibly could. So with the prospect of comfortable quarters before him, and the anticipation of a dinner the like of which he had not enjoyed for a long time, he was quite prepared to wait upon events.

He had come over there with that complete wardrobe of his much as if he had been an honoured guest who had been invited indefinitely, and, indeed, so far as he was concerned, he proposed to make it as indefinite as possible.

"Upon my word," he said, "you seem to have fallen upon your feet here, de Barsac. You are, to all practical purposes, the master of a fine house without any of its responsibilities. But how long is it going to last?"

"I haven't the remotest idea," de Barsac said coolly. "As long as I can make it, you can depend upon that. You see, this is my position. I have mortgaged my commissions for about a year ahead by drawing money on account, so that I can't put my hand upon a shilling. I told you last night that I wanted some money desperately, so desperately, indeed, that I had to run a big risk, as you know."

Dorn flicked the end off his cigar. He had his own schemes to think of, and the question he proceeded to put carelessly enough to de Barsac meant a good deal to him.

"Um—yes, I understand," he said thoughtfully. "It is always my position. And I suppose the amiable old man wouldn't be disposed to help you?"

"Well, he might. He is very eccentric, but hot-headed and generous where he takes, but, at the same time, he doesn't entirely lack worldly shrewdness. Now, he regards me as a successful man, which, indeed, I am, and a great sculptor, which, without egotism, I am also. But if he knew the truth, he might possibly prefer my room to my company, and then I should be finished."

"But you say he is generous?"

"Oh, amazingly so. Never listens to a story of distress without putting his hand in his pocket."

Dorn smiled to himself. All this sounded very promising for his own little scheme.

"Well, I suppose we shall have to make the best of it," he said. "Now, we are quite alone here, where nobody can hear. Tell me what you have got in the back of your mind."

De Barsac hesitated. Evidently he did not care to utter his thoughts aloud, and, indeed, the scheme that he had in the back of his mind was so black a one that he hardly liked to mention it to a confederate even as unscrupulous as Dorn.

"Not yet," he murmured. "I haven't thought it out quite. It's very dangerous, so dangerous indeed that if anything came to light we should both have a strong chance of finding ourselves—well, don't ask me to be more definite."

"In goal, do you mean?" Dorn whispered.

"Yes, in gaol, and perhaps worse than that. You know what I mean."

Dorn wriggled about uncomfortably. Just for a moment his heart seemed to stand still. For there was no mistaking the dread significance of de Barsac's words. And, unscrupulous as he was, Dorn shrank back from the idea of taking life, for that was unquestionably what de Barsac meant. There was every evidence of it in the droop of his voice, in the averted glance of those sinister eyes of his and that compression of his lips.

"But we need not go into that yet," he said. "All I want to know is whether you are with me or not."

Dorn bent eagerly forward.

"I don't like it," he whispered. "I don't like it in the least. But there's one thing I like less, and that is the miserable poverty-stricken life that I have been leading for the last year or two. I never know from day to day how am going to live to-morrow."

"Well, don't talk about your scruples," de Barsac said.

"Scruples. Bless the man, I haven't one. 'Pon my word, I believe I was born without any. But this is a serious thing. I don't mind crime, I don't mind running the risk of imprisonment if there is a sporting chance on my side. But when it comes to taking life——"

"Who said anything about the taking of life?"

"Oh, nobody. Not in as many words. But you and I are here alone together and we understand one another, and that's what you meant."

"Well, suppose I did. What then?"

"Well, then, we shall have to discuss it some time or another. How much do you expect, I mean how much do you expect this eccentric old gentleman to leave you?"

"Anything between forty and fifty thousand pounds—perhaps more. And I want it now, Dorn."

"And you don't mind how you get it?"

De Barsac nodded gloomily.

"That's about what it comes to," he said. "I must have the money, and if you can help me, why I don't mind giving you a quarter of it. So now you understand. Only it will have to be very carefully thought out."

Dorn helped himself to a fresh cigar.

"I see that," he said thoughtfully. "Now if you and I were alone together here with the old gentleman it might not be so very difficult. But what about the other people in the house? Who are they, and how long are they likely to stay?"

"Ah, that I can't tell you," de Barsac exclaimed. "As a matter of fact, there are two of them, and I believe they both intend to remain here till Bevill returns. One of them is Sir Watney Gibson."

"Indeed!" Dorn said with some show of interest. "I suppose you mean the famous surgeon? The rather hot-headed Irishman who is always indulging in controversies with his confreres in the scientific papers."

"Yes, that's the man," de Barsac said. "He is hot-headed and impetuous, I know; but, at the same time, he is a long way from being a child in worldly matters. He gives you the impression of simplicity, but I should be very sorry to make an enemy of him, and the man who tried to deceive him would assuredly get the worst of it. His companion is a certain Lionel Markham, a young Oxford man who acts as his secretary. I believe they are down here on some scientific errand. They don't trouble about me, and I don't trouble about them. I have got a big barn out here in the grounds fitted up as a studio, and there I spend most of my time. It's a funny sort of household on the whole. Of course, I know it is magnificently furnished and everything here is of the very best. A man like you, who appreciates a good dinner and a bottle of the right sort of wine, will understand that presently. But Bevill thinks more of his animals than all the rest of the world put together. With the possible exception of Tring Park. Baron's Court boasts the finest private menagerie in the kingdom. And that's why I am down here. I never touch anything, but animals, as you know, and I am making a particular study just now of some remarkably fine tigers. You see, I understand them. I have been studying all sorts of animals. With the exception of one particular vicious brute, there isn't a cage here that I haven't entered. And that is where my opportunity might come in."

Dorn's eyes gleamed.

"I think I understand," he said. "You mean some sort of accident? An accident that might happen to anybody who chanced to be with you some day——"

Dorn's voice trailed off as he spoke, and he saw that de Barsac avoided his glance.

"Well, something like that," the latter muttered. "It's all infernally difficult and whichever way I look I can see danger staring me in the face. That's why you may be able to help me. You were always a very cunning chap, Dorn. Think it over. There's time at least for you to do that."

Dorn sat there drawing nervously at his cigar and glancing round the luxurious room as if in search of inspiration, when the door of the room opened and a strange object came in. At the first glance it seemed to Dorn that he was looking at a man, and then, in the light of what he had just learnt, he saw that it was an ape, or rather a chimpanzee, a queer, wizened, misshapen creature in evening dress, a caricature of a man with long hairy arms and a preternaturally solemn face. It was so strange and unexpected that Dorn fairly started.

"What the deuce have you got here?" he stammered.

De Barsac smiled as he saw the startled expression on the face of his companion.

"Perhaps I had better make the introduction with due formality," he said gravely. "Let me introduce you to Vim, the most remarkable simian in the world. To all practical purposes Vim is a man; he can do everything but talk, and, indeed, Bevill swears that he has a language all right if anybody could only understand him. Apart from that, he lives just the same sort of life as you and I. He dresses for dinner, and comes down to meals with us, where he eats and drinks discriminately and takes a cigar afterwards. He has the bad taste to rather dislike me in the house. Here, Vim, come and shake hands with this gentleman."

The chimpanzee crossed the room and placed his hairy paw in Dorn's reluctant fingers.

"Heavens, what a household!" the latter murmured.