Читать книгу The Saving Clause - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 6

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There is a type of man whom women find "so amusing, you know," and men "quite a decent sort, but. . . ." And the "but" is left, as it were, high and dry. Nothing specific to follow the qualification; nothing that can be put into so many words; but--something. And to this type belonged George Trevor.

Immaculately groomed, sleek of head, good-looking and with charming manners, he was, undoubtedly, an acquisition to any house-party. Moreover, being a very shrewd business man not only had he prospered exceedingly on the Stock Exchange, but in addition he was able to impart valuable private tips to such of his friends as he desired. And the fact that those of his friends whom he desired to benefit were almost invariably pretty women, may possibly help to etch in his character.

He was standing in the hall performing rites with a cocktail shaker as Jim Strickland drove up, and the girl introduced them to one another.

"Mr. Strickland has just motored me down, George," she remarked. "And I won't have a cocktail as we stopped for one at Skindles."

With a little nod she turned and went upstairs, leaving the two men together.

"I presume," said Trevor easily, "that one is not your limit."

"No," said Jim, with a faint smile, "it is not. But it will have to be a quick one. I'm rather late."

To the outsider two very attractive men of totally dissimilar types, casually talking banalities over a drink and a cigarette: to a thought reader two utterly antagonistic personalities who disliked one another at the very first clash, but being men of the world concealed that dislike behind a discussion of Yorkshire's chances for the championship.

To Jim Strickland, accustomed as he was to forming instant judgment on his fellows, Trevor seemed all that he disliked most--a poseur of the worst description. Which, to be just, was not quite fair.

To George Trevor, accustomed also to the quick summing up of character though in a very different school, Strickland appeared conceited and over-bearing. Which most certainly was not quite fair.

And so, when they went up to dress for dinner, they were each in the condition in which, for the benefit of all concerned, it would be better if they did not play bridge at the same table.

"The type of man," murmured Jim to his reflection as he shaved, "who plays little tricks with matches."

And then he broke off and stared thoughtfully out of the window: he was honest with himself always--was Jim Strickland. Was it entirely the clash of two mutually hostile men: or was it very largely the bitter instinctive rivalry of two male animals. Trevor was the man that Billie was thinking of marrying: except for that, would he have felt as he did? And suddenly his hand began to shake a little: he was back at Skindles, and a girl with very blue eyes under a little pull-on hat was fumbling with her hand-bag. A girl whose voice was not quite steady. . . . A girl, who . . .

"Don't be a fool, Jim Strickland," he remarked firmly. "A man of your age doesn't fall in love with a girl whom he has known for an hour."

For a moment his eyes narrowed: wasn't there something moving on the other side of the lawn behind that bush? He leaned out of the window to see better: then he gave a little laugh. Old habits die hard, but this was England, not his usual hunting grounds. England, where people kept gardeners--and a man could sleep with both eyes shut. . . .

The evening passed as such evenings do--bridge, a gramophone for dancing, drinks for the thirsty. And if Jim Strickland and George Trevor successfully avoided one another's society, only one other person was aware of the fact. And that one other person, because she was a hundred per cent. woman, secretly rather enjoyed it.

From the first moment that Billie had sat down to dinner next to Trevor she had sensed the hostility between the two men. Which was quite sufficient for any girl to start playing an age-old if somewhat dangerous game. Just once or twice she remembered the look blazing in Jim Strickland's eyes as they had stood together on the lawn at Skindles, and when she did her heart beat a little quicker, and she stole a glance at him over the table. Had he really meant it--that unmistakable message? Or was it merely the passing feeling of a moment.

Somehow it struck her that Jim Strickland was not that sort. From George Trevor she would have expected it, and as the evening went on, more and more did the absolute contrast between the two men come home to her. And the result was not favourable to the stockbroker.

True he danced more divinely than usual, and that normally went a long way with her. But on this occasion. . . .

"What's the matter with you, Billie?" he whispered half-way through their second. "You're as cold as be damned to-night."

"Am I?" she answered. "You'd better go and dance with someone else."

It was at that moment that she saw Jim Strickland standing in the door of the bridge-room staring at her. She smiled at him, but he turned away a little abruptly--and the smile turned to a frown. When all was said and done he had not the faintest right to criticize her.

"That's better," said Trevor a moment later. "Now you're dancing more like yourself."

He, too, had seen Strickland in the door, and a faint smile flickered round his lips. He'd show the blighter the terms he was on with Billie. And because in modern dancing an exceedingly intimate, but wordless, conversation can be maintained between the dancers, he succeeded in reducing Strickland to a condition of silent fury which boded ill for someone. He also succeeded in working himself into a condition when the answer to his oft-put question to Billie could be waited for no longer.

"Billie darling," he said a little hoarsely, "come outside with me for a bit. Can't you say yes, my dear: I'm simply mad about you."

And so the crux had come: it was now or never. Dimly came the advice of her female relative: dimly came worldly wisdom. Say--yes: say--yes. And then, clear as a trumpet call, came four words--"It's rotten: it's cheap." Came also the vision of a clean-cut, sunburned face; the feel of a strong hand on her shoulder. . . .

"I'm sorry, George," she said steadily, "but I made up my mind definitely to-day. I can't marry you."

"Why not," he demanded thickly. "I believe it's that damned fellow Strickland."

"Don't be offensive," she said coldly. "I met Mr. Strickland for the first time this afternoon. I can't marry you, because I don't love you."

And then George Trevor lost his head. He flung his arms round her, and before she could stop him he was kissing her on the lips, on her bare neck.

"Let me go, you brute," she said, furiously. "Let me go, or I'll hit you."

Sullenly he let her go, staring at her with smouldering eyes.

"I think," she said quietly, "that I hate you."

Without another word she walked back into the house, and up to her room. Her mind was seething: she felt she had to be alone. And after a while she undressed, and, turning out the light, sat down by the open window. She had burned her boats now all right. She had deliberately turned down the most eligible man of her acquaintance. But it wasn't that she was thinking of--it was that remark of his--"I believe it's that damned fellow Strickland."

Was it? Had he hit the nail on the head? And suddenly, with a little rush of colour to her face even in the darkness, she knew that if it had been Jim Strickland who had flung his arms round her and kissed her she would not have told him to let her go.

One by one the lights went out in the house: one by one bedroom doors shut as the house-party came to bed. And still she sat on by the open window. Did things happen like that--suddenly, in an instant? To her of all people--a girl who had asked what love was. Was she in love with this man whom she had only just met? Was he in love with her?

She stirred restlessly in her chair: had she been a fool? Probably she would never see him again after this week-end; he'd be away on one of these strange trips of his. Not the marrying sort, as Tubby had said. And yet in spite of everything she knew that she was glad she had answered George Trevor as she had.

The bells rang out from the silent town across the river. One o'clock.

Two hours had she been sitting there, and a little stiffly she got up, only to shrink back instantly behind the curtain. Two dark shapes were stealing round the edge of the lawn coming towards the house.

Rigidly she watched them--burglars, of course. Saw them make a quick run over a little patch of open ground, and get into the shadow of the house. Peered out cautiously: realized they were just under her window. Heavens! They'd probably come up through her room.

And then, suddenly, one of the dark shapes spoke in a low voice. The night was still, and every word carried clear to the girl's ears.

"The third room from here. I saw him shaving."

The third room! The third room was Jim Strickland's. These men weren't burglars: they were after Jim . . . And now her brain was ice-cold: the need for action was instant and imperative. She opened her door and tiptoed along the passage, to pause for a moment outside Jim's room. No light came through the keyhole: he was evidently in bed. And without further hesitation she went in.

She could see him in the dim light asleep, one arm flung loosely over the bedclothes. And the next instant she was bending over him whispering his name. Then she put her hand on his arm, and had to bite back a scream as she found herself seized in a grip like a steel vice--a grip which relaxed instantly.

"You," he muttered incredulously. "God! girl--what are you doing here?"

"Jim," she whispered urgently, "there are two men in the garden. And they're coming to your room. I heard them talking under my window."

"You topper," he breathed, swinging out of bed. "You absolute topper."

She heard the thrill of excitement in his voice--realized that now she was seeing Jim Strickland in the setting which was peculiarly his own.

"In that corner, Billie," he whispered. "I'm going to catch 'em as they come in."

In his hand was the poker, and she laid her hand on his arm.

"Listen, Jim. I'll get into the bed. Then they'll think you're asleep. You hide by the curtain."

"You darling," he muttered. "You perfectly priceless Kid."

And then, because she couldn't help it, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips.

"Slog the blighters," she whispered.

"Billie," he breathed. . . . "Billie, dear. . . ."

A faint noise outside brought him to his senses, and like a cat he crossed the room towards the window. The Jim Strickland of many a similar position was functioning automatically: but another Jim Strickland felt his senses rioting with the remembrance of warm young arms round his neck, warm young lips on his.

He stole a glance at the bed: she was curled up, apparently asleep. And then he had absolutely to force himself to attend to the business in hand.

Slowly, inch by inch, a head was appearing over the window-sill, but he bided his time. Then the body came, a leg was flung over--and still Jim waited. He wanted both of the men.

Came a sudden, sharp hiss, and with a furious curse Jim lunged and struck. Straight in the face he got him, and the man toppled over backwards without a sound, to crash in the flower-bed below. He had a glimpse of the other, running like a hare across the lawn; then, sick with anxiety, he turned towards the bed. Fool--thrice damned fool that he was, not to have thought of a silent automatic. . . .

"Billie," he cried, and then--"Oh! my God."

On the sheet an ominous red stain was already spreading.

"Jim," she whispered faintly, "my leg feels all funny."

"My darling," he muttered in an agony, "he's plugged you with a revolver."

"Did you get him, Jim?"

Her voice tailed off, she had fainted. And for just one second did Jim Strickland hesitate: some things are a little bit difficult to explain. Then, with a feeling of contempt for his momentary indecision, he got to work. It was a nasty looking wound in the thigh, and the bullet was still inside--but the danger, as he well knew, was that it might prove septic.

"Expanding bullet," he muttered. "Curse the swine."

Into the wound went most of a bottle of iodine, and with a scream of pain the girl came to.

"Steady, darling," said Jim. "It hurts like hell, I know--but it's got to be done. Then we'll have a doctor here in no time and get the bullet out."

He ripped a towel in pieces and bound up the wound, whilst Billie, the bright colour flooding her face and neck, watched him.

"I'm going to tell them exactly what happened, dear," he went on quietly. "And I'm also going to tell them we are engaged. It may make things easier."

Already there were steps in the passage outside, and Lady Arkwright's voice: "Who was that who screamed?"

"There, dear," said Jim, finishing the bandage. "Now leave it all to me."

He went to the door and opened it.

"Lady Arkwright," he called, "will you at once telephone for a doctor? Tell him that there's a case of a bullet wound in the thigh, with the bullet still in. Say that the wound has already been dressed with iodine."

"But what's happened?" cried his hostess.

"Explanations afterwards," said Jim, curtly. "Get the doctor." He saw Monica and Tubby. "Monica--will you remain in my room with Miss Cartwright?"

"And now," he glanced round the row of amazed faces, "since every one in the house seems to be awake, I may as well explain what happened. Shall we go downstairs for a moment? And first of all we may as well see what has become of the gentleman in the flower-bed."

They thronged after him, too bewildered to speak, and pressed through the front door in a bunch. The man was lying where he had fallen, stone dead, his head almost split open; and in his hand he still gripped the revolver.

"So," muttered Jim, half to himself, "it's Strabinoff at last. . . . That man, ladies and gentlemen, has been trying to kill me for four years. But for Miss Cartwright he would have succeeded to-night. However, the point is immaterial; other far more important matters must be explained."

They followed him back into the house, and quite shortly he told them exactly what had happened.

"I may further add," he said when he had finished, "that only to-night Miss Cartwright did me the very great honour of promising to become my wife."

A confused medley of congratulations broke out, interrupted suddenly by the arrival of the doctor.

"Gracious me," he exclaimed, "what's all this?"

"Would you take the doctor up, Lady Arkwright?" said Jim. "Once again, explanations after. By the way, it's an expanding bullet, doctor."

He strode to the telephone and rang up the police; then, coming back, he sat down on the fender. And sitting down, became acutely aware of a man who, in the excitement he had forgotten all about--George Trevor. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, smoking a cigarette, with a cynical smile on his face.

"I congratulate you, Mr. Strickland," he said, with a slight sneer.

"On what?" said Jim, curtly.

"Shall we call it--a ready imagination?"

Jim Strickland rose slowly to his feet, and crossed the hall towards him. The rest of the party had dispersed: the two men were alone.

"You imply," he murmured politely, "that I lied."

"As anyone else would do," returned the other equally politely, "in similar circumstances."

"Will you come into the garden with me, Mr. Trevor?" said Strickland gently. "You see, I'm going to break you up--and this is not my furniture."

And at that, full blast, the hatred of George Trevor blazed out.

"This isn't one of your savage countries," he snarled. "We don't do that sort of thing in England. You can keep your breaking up and your seduction of girls for places where they belong."

"Indeed," murmured Jim, with a faint smile. "You are too kind."

Quite slowly his hands went out and fastened on George Trevor: quite slowly he walked George Trevor through the hall and into the garden: and then quite slowly he waded into George Trevor. He broke George Trevor up methodically and thoroughly till George Trevor could neither speak, nor hear, nor see; and, having done so, he flung him into one of those trees that are known as monkey puzzles. And there he left George Trevor and returned to the house feeling better.

The police had arrived: but for the moment Jim Strickland was not concerned with the police. He was concerned with no one but the doctor, who was just coming downstairs.

"Quite all right," he cried cheerfully, as he saw Strickland. "We've got the bullet out, and she's going on capitally."

"Is she conscious?" said Jim.

"Very much so," said the doctor, with a faint smile. "Would you like to go up and see her?"

"Would I like," remarked Jim, taking the stairs three at a time.

He opened the door of his room, to find his hostess and Monica with Billie.

"Do you mind going?" he said shamelessly.

And they went.

Very blue eyes they were, shining up at him from the pillows, and very dear and frank was the message in them.

"I thought," she said, "that when a man said he was engaged, he usually went through the formality of asking the girl."

And then there comes a slight discrepancy. Jim Strickland swears it was half a minute: the police-sergeant swears it was half an hour. Anyway, it is absurd to haggle over such a trifling difference. The fact remains that at the end of this doubtful interval a patient voice was heard on the other side of the door.

"Look 'ere, sir, there's a dead man in the flower-bed--and a 'orrible sight in the monkey puzzle--and can we get on with it?"

Moreover, that pillar of the Henley constabulary swears that the only answer he got consisted of two words--

"We are."