Читать книгу The Mystery Of Crocksands - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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Christopher Wrath led the way across the hall of his flat into the inviting dining-room beyond. It was a little chill and dull after a warm day, and the log fire in the grate was welcome. So too, were the glasses and spirit decanter on the table, and the syphon by the side of a big silver box of cigarettes. Clapstone dropped into an armchair and warmed his thin hands at the grateful blaze.

"My God, how good it is after the last year or so to get back to this!" he muttered, with a comprehensive wave of his hand. "If you want to appreciate it, then go through what I have lately."

Wrath studied his companion under his brows. Evidently fortune had not dealt kindly with the once prosperous lawyer, for his air was one of profound dejection, and the wolfish gleam in his dark, moody eyes bespoke of a body suffering from sheer lack of nourishment. Evidently Clapstone had lived and fed and slept in the garments he was wearing for months. In all Wrath's experience—and it was not a small one—he had never seen a man nearer the extremity of all things.

"Help yourself to a drink," he suggested.

"Not yet," Clapstone muttered. "It is not a nice thing to have to say, but I haven't tasted food for two days. My God! I have had a time. Give me something to eat; anything will do. I will drink with you afterwards; but if I took anything now it would go straight to my head and you would have me on your hands all night, and you wouldn't like that."

It was not a pleasing prospect, so Wrath bustled about in the domestic part of the house, and reappeared presently with part of a cold chicken and some cheese and butter. He sat in his chair looking at the wreck of his former friend, whilst the latter ate wolfishly until his appetite was satisfied. Then a little colour crept into his thin cheeks, and those semitransparent hands of his ceased to tremble. He rose presently.

"I am feeling another man now," he said, as he poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda and took a cigarette.

"And now we can talk. Tell me what has happened in the last 18 months."

"Do you mean to say you don't know?" Wrath asked.

"Not a thing," Clapstone replied. "You see, soon after that old chap down at Crocksands died, and Gordon Bland thoughtfully put himself out of the way, I had a bit of a shock. You know what a lot of money I found for those schemes of yours all the time my late partner was laid up, and how badly we fared in connection with those various stunts. And I think you can guess where I got the money from."

"It was no business of mine," Wrath said, brutally.

"Oh, wasn't it?" Clapstone cried, with a sudden spurt of anger. "At any rate, you would have been in a pretty tight place if I hadn't found the cash. It was clients' money, and you knew it as well as I did. Over a hundred thousand pounds altogether, and don't you forget it. Oh, I know we did well at times, but, on the whole, we lost heavily. I had great hopes over that Monte Carlo scheme of yours, and I should have joined you there if Melrose hadn't come back to the office unexpectedly. That old fool Peter Gabb fetched him. He literally took me by the throat and threw me out into the street—I mean Melrose did. He told me that if I tried to take out my solicitor's certificate in future he would lay the whole thing before the Incorporated Law Society, and have me struck off the rolls. He offered to pay me two pounds a week provided I gave him my promise not to come within fifty miles of London. So I went off to Manchester, working that business you know of, because I hadn't the ready cash to follow you to Monte Carlo. And there I went a bit too far. Somebody gave me away, and under the assumed name I was using, I got two years at Chester Assizes. And there is the story in a nutshell. I can't get any more money from Melrose for the next three months at least, so I have to fall back upon you."

"How did you get here?" Wrath asked.

"Walked," Clapstone said, curtly. "Tramped it from Strangeways Gaol after seeing your name in the paper. I have starved, I have slept under hedges, I have spent several nights in a workhouse. At the present moment I haven't the necessary copper to pay for my bed at a Rowton House. If I hadn't been lucky enough to have found you this evening I should have slept on the Embankment."

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" Wrath asked.

"It isn't a question of expecting," Clapstone laughed, unpleasantly. "I am not going to want a meal or a decent suit of clothes so long as Sir Christopher Wrath of Crocksands Abbey is alive."

There was an underlying threat in this, and Wrath did not fail to notice it. But he had not the slightest feeling of compassion for this fellow-rascal of his, and he would have ordered him out of the flat without a single pang of regret in ordinary circumstances. But then, Clapstone knew a great deal, and it was just possible that he could give Wrath certain priceless information if he were properly treated. Therefore, the more prosperous scoundrel of the two affected a friendship he was far from feeling.

"No occasion to put it in that way, my boy," he said. "I am sorry that things have turned out like this, and if there is anything I can do you can count on me. But if you think I am rolling in money you are devilish well mistaken. I may be the great swell you say I am, but I am up against it nearly as badly as you are. At the present moment, I would give my soul for twenty thousand pounds. If I can't find it before long, then I shall be in serious trouble. I have spent every penny of my income for the next six months, and the bank won't let me overdraw another cent. I tell you, it is a desperate business. I was an infernal fool not to leave it alone; but I never could resist a good thing if the profits were big enough."

"Yes, I think I understand," Clapstone sneered. "But why don't you mortgage the family property?"

"Ah, that is a question you may be able to answer for me," Wrath said. "I saw Melrose this morning with the very idea of doing that same thing. He told me with every sign of satisfaction, that I couldn't do it. He said I was only tenant for life, and that I couldn't touch the property in any way without the next heir agreeing to it. Now, there is no next heir, because I am not married. As I told you before, I am the very last of my family, just the same as Gordon Bland was the last of his, with the exception of his daughter."

"His daughter?" Clapstone exclaimed. "In that case——"

The speaker stopped suddenly, as if he were conscious of the fact that he was saying too much, and Wrath did not fail to notice it. He had never trusted a man in his life, nor was he going to begin with this dubious acquaintance of his.

"Well, go on," he said. "What are you going to say?"

"Oh, never mind that for a moment, I suppose you know that if anything happened to you Ellen Bland would come into the estate?"

"Of course I know that," Wrath said, impatiently. "But show me some way out of the difficulty. Now, look here, quite candidly, was that deed barring the entail between the old baronet and Gordon Bland signed by both parties? Oh, you need not hesitate. I know that such a deed was drawn up, and, what is more, you were responsible. It was during the time that Melrose was in hospital in consequence of that motor accident of his. The old man signed it; then what happened afterwards?"

Again the derelict in the armchair hesitated. He was wondering how much Wrath really knew, and how far he could be deceived, because somewhere here was a thing that Clapstone hoped to turn to his own pecuniary advantage. He knew just how far he could trust his companion in crime; he knew that Wrath would let him die like a dog in a ditch if it suited his purpose. Therefore, it behoved him to walk carefully and keep a close guard on himself.

"I can't tell you," he added. "I know the old baronet signed the deed, because he came to town for the purpose, and I witnessed his signature myself. And I know that the document was posted to Gordon Bland, Poste Restante, Monte Carlo. But whether he got it or not, I can't say. Three day's later he was a dead man. He certainly didn't send the deed back to me, though he might have signed it and left it with some friend in Monte Carlo, or perhaps deposited it in the safe of an hotel there. If you ask me, I should make a guess that he did sign it, if only for the sake of his daughter. And if that is so, my friend, then you have no more claim to Crocksands Abbey than I have."

Wrath frowned ominously. All this he already knew, and he only made the inquiry by way of testing the accuracy of the disturbing information given him by James Melrose.

"Then you think the document still exists?" he asked.

"I couldn't say so," Clapstone replied, cautiously. "But it is just possible. On the other hand, it may have been destroyed, in which case you are all right. But why not look up Miss Bland and see if you can't come to some sort of arrangement with her? She is of age, and as heiress to the property therefore in a position to execute a deed barring the entail."

"Now, that is not a bad idea," Wrath said. "Do you know her? Have you any idea where she is to be found? According to Melrose she has disappeared entirely. Perhaps she felt her father's disgrace, perhaps she had some romantic idea of getting her own living; anyway, nobody knows where she is, and it is more than likely she has gone abroad under an assumed name. But still, if you have any information——"

"Not I," Clapstone said. "I have never seen the girl, and I have never been down to Crocksands Abbey. You will have to give up the idea up, anyway. And now, what are you going to do about me?"

"Well, I suppose I must help you," Wrath said, grudgingly. "Have you got anything in the back of your mind? Any real good scheme whereby we can make a bit?"

"Well, that is all a question of ready cash," Clapstone said. "If you could find a few hundreds we could go on with those bogus racing lotteries that we dropped just before you came into the title. We could work them from an office in Manchester easily enough. I can get an accommodation address there where no questions will be asked, and we could have all our correspondence sent to us by train. My word, you could do the whole thing from Crocksands. The ideal place. Nobody down there would ever suspect that the bogus company in Manchester is being run by Sir Christopher Wrath. Look here, I will do all the work, and take all the risk, so long as I share in the profits. But I don't want my handwriting to be recognised, in case some bygone victim identifies it. You provide me with an office down at Crocksands and a typist, and I will do the rest. Why, it's as safe as houses."

Wrath smiled evilly behind his cigarette.

"The very thing," he said. "I think I can find the typist you want. She'd come fast enough if I gave her money enough. I will put an advertisement in the London papers to-morrow and see that one of them reaches her. Then we will go down to Crocksands next week. But what about your wardrobe?"

"Oh, that's all right," Clapstone said. "I have got a stack of pawn tickets in my pocket. You can give me ten pounds now, and I will come back here in a couple of days, when you will hardly recognise me. Let's have the cash."

Wrath handed over the notes and a few moments later he was gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"It is a risky game," he muttered. "But there's money in it, and perhaps something a little more romantic. If I can induce that girl to accept my offer, why, then——"