Читать книгу Collected Short Stories, Vol. XX - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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The unsuspecting cause of all this excitement made her way along the exclusive thoroughfare known as Magley road until she came to the intriguing destination.

Magley Hall loomed large at length, with the name in gold letters on the gate, with a tennis lawn beyond and the house covered with creepers. As the eager aspirant approached the door a figure emerged and a soft hat came off with a flourish.

"I declare you quite startled me," the owner of the hat smiled. "I was just going for a stroll in the garden when—but you are Miss Wade, I presume. More than punctual, too. Well, an excellent virtue. Will you please come inside?"

They were seated presently in a large, well-equipped library, upholstered in solid Russia leather, with Turkey carpet, and carved writing tables complete. At a small secretaire in a side window a man sat busily writing.

"My secretary," the man in the velours hat vouchsafed, "but he need not trouble us. Now let us understand each other before we go any further. You are Miss Wade, the young person who came here by appointment to-day in response to my advertisement."

The Young Person smiled as if amused by some thought. Mr. Lean might be a prominent and opulent citizen of Slagburn, but he obviously was not a born gentleman, though the expression on his face was flattering to his visitor. His eyes were weak and sore, with horrible red rims, and pupils reminiscent of a poached egg.

"You did not mind coming here quite alone?" Dreadfuleyes asked. "I have a most important scheme on which takes every moment of my time, so I could not meet you in London, as I should have liked. It is absolutely new in theatrical business, and I should be much annoyed if the secret leaked out. I am taking if for granted that you have respected my request for entirely confidential——"

"Certainly," the Young Person interrupted. "I have not mentioned the matter to a soul. I have not even written to thank my friend who sent me your advertisement from Newcastle."

"That," Dreadfuleyes murmured, "was very discreet of you. A word carelessly dropped does a world of mischief sometimes. Now tell me, please, what stage experience you have had."

"Well, practically none, Mr. Lean. If I try to deceive you I am sure to be found out. A little chorus work and a couple of walking-on parts form my experience. But you told me in your——"

"Quite so, quite so," Dreadfuleyes murmured. "You see, I wanted someone quite fresh and unspoilt by conventional training. The money I expect you to put down if you decide to go on is quite a secondary consideration. Really in the nature of a fine if you break your contract. For £150——"

"I am prepared with that," the Young Person said calmly. "And perhaps a little more it necessary."

"Oh, indeed. Then perhaps you will tell me——"

"One thing at a time, Mr. Lean," the Young Person drawled. "I have had to work hard for my little money. I was driving a motor ambulance in France for two years, and that sort of thing teaches one to look after the personal equation. Before we talk of any further funds I should like a receipt for the original sum agreed upon."

Here, obviously, was a development which Dreadfuleyes had not expected. A keen business mind would have seen at once that he was reconsidering his position. But the Young Person babbled on.

"Savings Bank, you understand. Besides, the money I brought down here. I didn't bring the book, of course—that is in my lodgings. But I don't suppose that this interests you, Mr. Lean."

"One never knows," Dreadfuleyes murmured, as he took up a pen and commenced to scribble an elaborate receipt for £150 on a sheet of notepaper. "There! I have practically embodied our agreement on the face of the receipt. You have only to get that stamped at Somerset House and I am liable. Later on we can have a more formal instrument. Of course, if you haven't the money here——"

"But I have," the Young Person murmured. "Here it is all in Treasury notes, which I have been gradually saving for years."

Dreadfuleyes opened the notes and locked them away in a drawer on his desk. It was not displeasing to know that those notes had not been drawn in bulk, but gathered at odd times, and therefore not humanly possible to trace. And there were more to come. How to get possession of that bank book! How to detain this confiding young thing for eight and forty hours in which to forge a letter to the Young Person's address in London to get away with the rest of the plunder once the bank book was in the right hands.

Threats, perhaps force—certainly force if necessary. He scraped his throat, and immediately the man at the writing table got up and, coming forward, took his seat on a couch close by the other table where Dreadfuleyes and the Young Person were seated.

There was nothing formidable about him. He was small and weedy, with a marked obliquity of vision, but his smile was sinister enough. Then Dreadfuleyes turned a new, and, if possible, more repulsive face to the Young Person. She rose quickly as she saw it.

"I suggest you make arrangements to stay here," he grinned—"I mean remain here for a couple of days. Between the two of us we can make your visit quite pleasant. The fact is my dear young lady, we are most anxious to see that bank book of yours."

"What do you mean?" the Young Person gasped.

She looked wildly about her as if seeking some avenue of escape from the danger, and the men smiled.

"Then you really are beginning to understand," Dreadfuleyes said with a hard laugh. "You didn't learn everything in France. You are perfectly safe here so long as you are sensible. That bank book and a few hours' strict confinement to give us a chance to get clear. Don't be afraid."

"I am not afraid," the Young Person cried, "though I know now who you are. You are the Granmere murderer. Yes, I am safe enough so long as you don't get hold of the bank book."

A swift and horrible change came over the face of the man by the table. As he advanced towards the Young Person something gleamed in his right hand. A demon of rage possessed him, those awful eyes were blood-red and full of murder.

"Here, not again," the man on the couch wailed.

The man with the knife heeded not. He reached forward on his toes for the shrinking figure of the Young Person. And then suddenly the whole tense cinema drama changed as if by magic. A crushing right came from the hand of the Young Person and crashed on Dreadfuleyes' jaw, followed by a left uppercut as he was crumpling, and another twisting right laid him on the carpet in a state of stark insensibility. The man on the sofa clung to a cushion and gibbered with a fright he made no effort to conceal. As if in a sort of nightmare the room was full of blue uniforms.

"There he is," the Young Person cried breathlessly. "And, as I thought even from the first, the Granmere murderer tallies in every particular, and on the table you will find a few lines in his own handwriting. Get busy with the handcuffs and don't overlook the gibbering confederate on the sofa."

"But who the devil are you?" the bewildered constable in charge asked. "I don't——"

"Detective Sergeant Temperley," came the reply in a now familiar voice. "Good old Christmas theatricals! Get on with it."