Читать книгу The Grey Woman - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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Musgrave went thoughtfully off down the street in the direction of his own flat. He might have had the whole of London to himself, so silent and deserted it was. Not even a policeman in sight. In his thin evening shoes, he made little or no sound as he strode along the dry pavement until, at length, he came to Abbey-street, which was the next turning but one to the thoroughfare in which his own flat was situated. A quarter of a mile further and he would be at home.

His mind was deeply engrossed in the startling events of the evening, so that, for some time, he did not notice certain sounds that appeared to come from behind him. Then he became conscious that somebody was following him. He looked round sharply, but no one was in sight. Possibly it was only his fancy, or possibly the phantom in the rear was hiding himself in the shadow of a porch, here and there, for it was a wide street of highly desirable houses and one that was almost impeccable in its respectability. Joe had almost put the matter out of his mind when the footsteps came again, this time, more firm and assured. Musgrave carried on for a few yards, then turned abruptly, as if he were about to retrace the ground over which he had come. Not that he was in the least alarmed, because he was a man eminently capable of taking care of himself in any circumstances, to say nothing of his being in a well-lighted street in the West End of London. Possibly some wretched night bird was dogging his footsteps and waiting for a chance to get a few coppers. Still, a sense of being followed was having its effect on Joe's temper, so that he turned in time to see what it was that was behind him. He could hear nothing for the moment. Even the police seemed to have deserted the place.

All at once, he was no longer alone. A tall, wiry figure rose, as if from the pavement and confronted him. Joe could see the upward sweep of an arm and catch the faint glint of light as it flashed upon something that seemed like steel.

Joe stepped back a pace and then lunged forward. He struck out with all the force at his command and caught the dusky figure miraculously on the point of the chin. The knife tinkled on the pavement as the would-be assailant collapsed backwards with a crash that resounded in the silence. The thud of the fellow's head as it struck the pavement seemed to echo like a boom through the silent street.

The man was down and out, there was not the slightest doubt about that. Alarmed at what he had done, Musgrave bent over the stranger and laid a hand over his heart. There was not the slightest response.

"By heaven, I've killed him," Joe told himself. "Fractured his skull. What the deuce am I going to do?"

He stood there just a moment in a haze of doubt, lost to his surroundings and in a sort of dream. Then, out of as nightmare, emerged a voice, the voice of authority.

"Eh, what's all this?" the officer demanded.

Joe had not even heard the man in blue coming. He had forgotten the rubber shoes which the men of the force wear during the night hours. So startled was he that he lost his head entirely for the moment and bolted down the silent street as fast as his legs could carry him. He whirled round the corner into the next street with the policeman a hundred yards behind him. As he sped along, he heard the shrill trill of a police whistle. And then, to his horror the echo of another, some way ahead of him. He was trapped and trapped hopelessly.

Behind him one constable and in front of him another. And not more than a hundred paces between the two. Even in that moment of ridiculous peril, he realised that it would be far wiser to go back and give himself up. But some obstinate vein in his nature, some queer sporting instinct held him back. He darted into the shadow of a porch with the policeman in front not more than 30 yards away and laid his hand on the door-nob. He turned the handle and, to his great surprise and relief, the door behind it opened. He slipped inside, and very quietly, closed the stout oak behind him. Then he turned the key in the door and stood there, gasping for breath.

He was in a kind of outer hall, and facing him was a hanging curtain which was closely drawn. Through the thick folds he could make out a dim light which meant, of course, that somebody on the premises was still up, and that he might have to account for his presence there within a few moments. Meanwhile, he waited until the search outside seemed to have died away, though he could still hear the echo of voices.

He pushed the curtain on one side and stepped into a large, square hall. He could see that it was luxuriously and tastefully furnished in the best Jacobean style, with pictures and trophies on the walls, and on an occasional table was an oil lamp, evidently some relic from a Roman villa, the feeble light from which was just sufficient to show that every object in the hall was thickly encrusted with dust.

The dust seemed to lie everywhere like a curtain, whilst festoons of cobwebs hung from the ceiling. It was like a house of the dead, a house from which everybody had fled ages ago, leaving the place to desolation and decay. At one time there had been frescoes on the lower part of the wall, but these were now damp and mildewed and dropping from the plaster behind. There was a dull echo that seemed to suggest that the house was utterly deserted. A strange abode indeed to find in the centre of Mayfair, and in a street which was the acme of respectability.

Hard pressed as he was, and with his mind engrossed in other things, Musgrave was consumed with an almost overwhelming curiosity. He had forgotten all about the man lying on the pavement and the two policemen who were busy outside searching for a suspected murderer. He stepped lightly over the thick film of dust that lay on the polished oak floor and turned into a room at the back of the hall where another light was burning. This was a larger bronze lamp, depending by an ancient chandelier from the ceiling and carrying three retainers, so that it was possible to make out most of the objects in the vast apartment in which Musgrave found himself.

So far as he could determine, it was a sort of studio. At the far end of it, between two high windows, was a form of altar on which stood a pair of huge silver branch candlesticks bearing gigantic tapers, neither of which was lighted. But the altar cloth was clean and fresh in contrast with the mould and dust and cobwebs which prevailed everywhere else and, on the fair damask, somebody had placed two bowls of flowers.

In the centre of the floor was a picture on an easel. It was a large picture, evidently a portrait and half shielded by a cloth that had been thrown over it. Musgrave stepped up to this and regarded the picture intently. It was a really fine piece of work, comparatively modern in its treatment and colouring and represented a young woman in the garb of a late Victorian. Tight waist, high shouldered dress and a huge picture hat at the typical Gainsborough angle. A beautiful woman, despite what to an ultra modern eye was a fantastic costume, so that Musgrave examined it closely.

And then he had another shock. Making allowance for the difference in periods, here was Pamela over again. Pamela, beyond the shadow of a doubt! He fell back, wondering if he were awake or merely dreaming. For the sense of nightmare was there, as was the sinister atmosphere of dust and dirt and decay, and the silence that was fast getting on Musgrave's nerves. Who were the people who lived here, if anybody lived here at all? And why had the great house, with its wonderful furniture, been so strangely and utterly neglected? And why those lights, when there was no sign of a living being to be seen? Joe seemed to sense that he was alone there and that the house was empty, save for its beautiful surroundings, and with that he would have to be content. He shrank from the idea of searching further and stood there for a long time waiting until it seemed safe for him to make an exit in safety. It was nearly an hour later before he ventured to open the front door cautiously and peep out into the street. So far as he could see, the police had vanished, so that he had the whole place to himself.

Very carefully he crept down the steps. But not until he had managed in the dim light of street lamp to see the figure 17 over the knocker set in tarnished brass: 17 Manton-street. He made a note of it, and then, without further adventure, slid homewards, and, from thence, to bed.

It was very late on the following afternoon before he turned out from between the sheets and sought his bath. Then, after a breakfast of sorts, he bethought himself of the pearls which he had locked up the night before in his safe. He was still pondering over this when Jimmy Primrose arrived.

"I suppose you have come for those stones?" Musgrave asked.

"Guessed it in one," Jimmy said. "Lord, what a night it was! It was nearly 4 o'clock this morning before Pamela telephoned Daphne to tell her that it was all O.K., and that you had the missing property in your possession. But I am hanged if I can make top or tail of the story."

Musgrave went on to describe the events of the previous night, including the strange adventure in the sinister house.

"Well, if that don't beat the band," Jimmy exclaimed. "A sort of Arabian Nights, mixed up with a dash of 'Dante's Inferno,' illustrated by Dore, in twenty parts, price ten guineas. But what about the bloke you biffed, eh?"

"Oh, I don't know," Musgrave said. "I dare say there will be something about it in the evening papers. Nasty business for me, anyway. Now, you just cut along with those pearls and meet me at eight o'clock at The Marathon and we'll talk this business over whilst we are dining. Off you go."

It was about six o'clock when Musgrave sent Verily out for a sheaf of the evening journals. He came back presently and Joe turned eagerly to the damp sheets.

Yes, there it was. Mysterious affair in Manton-street. Man murderously assaulted and left for dead on the pavement. Taken to Charing Cross Hospital, and all the rest of it.

Musgrave breathed a little more freely when he read this, because it was proof positive that the man was not dead. There were other details taking up the remainder part of half a column, but nothing to point to the identity of the injured man. So far as Joe could gather, his assailant of the night before had not been very seriously injured and, doubtless, he would not be too communicative as to his identity and the reason why he happened to be in Manton-street at that hour of the morning.

Then, just as he was about to throw the paper on one side, his eye caught a paragraph in the stop-press edition.

"With regard to the Manton-street outrage early this morning, a strange sequel comes from Charing Cross Hospital. Left to himself for a short time, in the ward where he was lying, it seems that the injured man got up, and dressing himself rapidly, left the hospital without saying a word to a soul, and, up to the time of going to press, nothing has been seen or heard of him since. Not even his identity is known."

Musgrave stared blankly at the paper. Where was this tangle of mystery going to end?