Читать книгу The Secret of the Sands - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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For a moment Ronald Bastable was disposed to regard the whole thing as a delusion. The events of the evening had got upon his nerves, and the rest was a mere matter of imagination. But why should he be a prey to panic? He was young, clean-living, and clean-minded, and, moreover, in excellent training. The hand, too, had been so real; he had noticed the clear pinkness of the nails; he could recognise the marquise ring again anywhere.

A cautious search of the house disclosed nothing in the way of a clue. There was no sign that anybody else had been there. The shabby old furniture and fusty carpets showed no trace of disturbance. The back door was fastened, and the rusty key was in the lock. As to the front door, Bastable had taken the precaution of securing it when he entered. It was still fast.

"Oh, you imagined it all," Dick Amory said, irritably. "Don't keep harping upon that. I've got to remain alone in this dismal hole all night, and I don't want my mind filled with horrors. Now, what's to be done?"

Apparently very little could be done as far as Bastable could see. A scheme was maturing in his mind, but the time was not ripe yet. He went off presently towards Shoremouth. He promised to look up Amory again in the morning. Just now he felt in the mood for company. It was not too late to turn into the club for an hour.

The club of Shoremouth was somewhat of a new institution. There were a great many residents with plenty of time on their hands, retired soldiers and sailors and the like, who had come to the place on account of its bracing air, and there was also a fair sprinkling of visitors most of the year round. In the season the club was crowded with temporary members affiliated to various London institutions of a similar kind. The club was always open to visitors of undoubted social position.

The smoking room was comparatively empty as Ronald entered. It would be a good idea to look at the London evening papers. He might glean some information as to what was happening as to the affair of Dick Amory and his quondam friend Bowen, the solicitor. Probably a warrant had been issued for the apprehension of both. If so, it would be well to know how the land lay. Perhaps, up to the present, no ugly suspicions had been aroused. Still, he must make sure.

Ronald turned over an evening paper carefully. Here was something at length that promised to be of interest. It related to a missing solicitor:—

"STRANGE AFFAIR IN IVY COURT." "The police authorities are investigating a remarkable affair in connection with the disappearance of a well-known city solicitor, Mr. Arthur Bowen by name. For some years past Mr. Bowen has tenanted offices situated in Ivy Court, Fenchurch-street, a blind thoroughfare occupied for the most part by warehouses. At the end of the court, facing the street, is a small house of two rooms, rented by Mr. Bowen, who retains the upstairs room for his own office, whilst the two clerks work downstairs. At certain times of the day the court is comparatively deserted, since the warehouses can be entered by side doors, and in any case are mostly used for the purposes of import and export only. Thus the majority of the people passing along the court are clients and solicitors, who come to call on Mr. Bowen. "Yesterday morning, Mr. Bowen came to business as usual. He greeted his two clerks in his usual cheery manner, and then proceeded to his own room to transact the business of the day. About 12 o'clock a telegram arrived from a client in the country who needed some papers urgently, and one of the clerks was despatched with them by train a few minutes after the receipt of the wire. At half-past 12 the other clerk went off to his lunch. On his return an hour later he found nobody in the office, for apparently Mr. Bowen had been called out on business. "As the cash-box was open and several important papers lay about, the clerk went to Mr. Bowen's room to see if anything was wrong. The room was empty, papers and documents were scattered about in disorder, and the large safe in the corner had vanished. The safe, weighing upwards of a ton, had been wrenched from the walls and carried away bodily. All the private books and ledgers had gone also, and no trace of Mr. Bowen could be seen. On the office table were several spots of blood and a soaked handkerchief with the unfortunate solicitor's monogram upon it. "We understand that, up to the time of going to press, the police have been unable to throw much, if any, light on the mystery. Nothing more has been seen of Mr. Bowen, and the authorities are compelled to believe that he has been the victim of foul play. If so, it passes comprehension how a brutal crime could have been accomplished in broad daylight within a few yards of a busy thoroughfare like Fenchurch-street."

Ronald Bastable read the paragraph again. It certainly was a most remarkable chain of events. Bowen appeared to be a man who possessed powerful enemies. At any rate, this would mean a respite for Dick Amory. It would give him time to turn round and find the money he had embezzled along with Bowen. Ronald was about to throw the paper aside when something in the "stop press" edition attracted his attention:—

"A CLUE TO THE IVY COURT MYSTERY." "Late this afternoon the police were called up on the telephone by a firm of carriers and furniture dealers carrying on business in College Place. The firm appear to have had an express letter from Mr. Brown asking that a van should be sent round to Ivy Court at one o'clock precisely to remove some furniture and a safe to premises in Orchard Lane. The van was despatched at the precise time mentioned in the letter, and the carter in charge was met at the entrance to the court by a gentleman, who informed him that the goods were not ready yet, but that they would be packed with as little delay as possible. The van was backed into the court, and the gentleman gave the driver, and vanman half-a-crown, at the same time telling them to get some refreshment, as their services would not be required or half an hour at least. "On the men returning at the expiration of the time, they found that the offices were empty and the van had been removed. The rooms were in a state of disorder, the safe had been cut from the wall, and no sign of it was to be seen. In the course of the afternoon the van was discovered near St. Paul's Churchyard, empty and apparently derelict. The police are now making a diligent search for a thin man of middle age with a dark moustache, speaking with a slight foreign accent, this being the description of the stranger who handed the half-crown to the vanman and his colleague. The police have satisfied themselves that the letter ordering the van and purporting to be in Mr. Bowen's handwriting is a forgery."

Here was a fascinating mystery in itself, quite apart from any connection it might have with the fortunes of Dick Amory. It was a daring and original scheme, and had succeeded by reason of its simple audacity. Probably the telegram which had drawn one clerk out of the way was a blind. Beyond all question these scoundrels knew every detail of the daily routine in Bowen's office. They were aware that the lawyer was in the habit of being alone in his office for an hour in the middle of the day. It was the hour, too, when the business of the city was generally at a standstill; and if anybody did come along, a confederate could easily put him off with an excuse. A blow on the head would keep Bowen quiet whilst the thieves were removing the safe. The way in which they had obtained the van was ingenious. Here was a crime that London would already be discussing.

One or two other people had lounged into the smoking-room. These persons were unknown to Ronald, and he put them down as visitors. Two men came in presently and sat down immediately opposite to him. They were evidently strangers, from the way in which they glanced about them. The elder of the two was tall and somewhat striking-looking; he had a fierce military moustache obviously dyed some purple hue and waxed in spikes that turned upwards. He wore a glass in his right eye, and he spoke to the waiter with a foreign accent. The other man appeared to be timid and retiring and glanced nervously about him as if afraid of something. His face was half-hidden behind a bushy beard and whiskers of iron grey; his eyes were shielded by blue glasses. Evidently the man suffered from some nervous trouble; plenty of such came to Shoremouth for the air at all times of the year. With a ready ease and politeness, the foreigner dropped into conversation with Ronald.

"Very pleasant quarters you have here, sir," he said. "It's a change after the bustle and glitter of a London club. My friend, Sir George Lumley, recommended me to come here and bring my relative, Mr. Sexton. He's been working too hard, with the inevitable result. But they tell me there is no air like Shoremouth for nerves."

"Many doctors recommend it," Ronald said.

"Ah! They are right sir," the man with the purple moustache replied. "I feel the better for the change myself. I've had experience of climates all over the world, and I find none to beat England. I speak as a man of science."

"You are thinking of settling here?" Ronald asked, casually.

"Now, how did you guess that, sir?" the stranger asked, smilingly. His keen eyes played over Bastable like a searchlight. "You are a thought-reader. I have taken a hand in most matters connected with practical science, but my latest hobby is the flying machine. Without boasting, I can promise the world something new in that way before long. The difficulty is to find a quiet place for one's experiments. I believe that I have solved the problem here in Shoremouth. I'm talking of a place called the Red House. The place has a bad reputation, and most people give it a wide berth. Those lonely sands are an ideal place for aeroplane trials. Who owns the place?"

"It is the property of Sir Horace Amory," Bastable explained.

A queer smile played like summer lightning over the face of the stranger. His moustache seemed to disappear into his lip in a way that struck Ronald as sinister. The nervous little man seemed to be interested now.

"I've heard the name before," the stranger said, drily. "I daresay Sir Horace will only be too glad to let the place, especially if I am prepared to take it as it stands. Sexton, I'll trouble you for the loan of a pencil. I'll take Sir Horace's address."

The little man fished a pencil from his pocket, and the moustachioed stranger proceeded to remove one of his grey suede gloves. As he shot his hand free of his cuff, Ronald started. For a moment his glance was fixed on the hand of the newcomer.

On his third finger he wore a ring. In ordinary circumstances there was nothing remarkable in that. But it happened to be the very marquise ring that Ronald had seen on the hand of the door jamb at the Red House! He looked again to see if he were mistaken. But it was no mistake, he could have sworn to that ring anywhere.