Читать книгу The Secret of Sheen - John Laurence Pritchard - Страница 4

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Avril Abbleway and her companion found a secluded seat in the old world garden of Rowmands, or rather Avril Abbleway’s companion found the seat and she acquiesced in sitting there that brilliant June evening.

“Nothing you say, Sir Richard,” she remarked decisively, her blue eyes sparkling, “will ever convince me that out of any evil action there can come good.”

“My dear Miss Abbleway,” laughed Sir Richard Lulworth, “you are making a very sweeping statement. War, for example, is an evil thing, yet sometimes it results in great good. The Great War, for example.”

“The Great War was Great Misery, and it has left an immense amount of evil in its train. Look at Europe now. It is merely waiting and preparing for the next war, the war of Revenge.”

“But you are not suggesting that if you are hit upon one cheek you should turn the other to the smiter?” he asked. “Isn’t that rather an old-fashioned doctrine?”

“It is two thousand years old-fashioned,” she flashed back.

“And as many years out of date,” he declared. “Miss Abbleway, what would you do if a man hit your mother? Would you suggest—”

“He wouldn’t be a man,” she interrupted with the perversity of her sex.

Sir Richard Lulworth threw up his hands in mock despair.

“I was foolish to have started the argument,” he said gravely. “But perhaps some day I will resume it and you will have changed your mind.”

“Why do you take such an interest in this man Charity Sheen?” she demanded suddenly. “This is the second time you have defended him, a man who is an admitted thief, a man my father once said he’d give half his next year’s income to arrest.”

“Have I defended him?” he prevaricated. “Naturally, as the daughter of a Commissioner at Scotland Yard, you only look upon him as some debased wretch who probably thinks of nothing but his ill-gotten gains. Yet you must admit his methods are unusual, and the unusual is always interesting.”

“You are unusual yourself, Sir Richard,” said Avril, leaning back. “Yet you don’t rob other people. Indeed, I am always hearing how good you are, though you try to hide it.”

A slight flush tinged the other’s face.

“But you don’t suggest, I notice, that if I am unusual I am interesting.”

“Oh, but you are, one of the most interesting men I have ever met,” she replied naively. “Do you think I should be sitting out here with you if there were any more interesting men in the house?”

Her companion stood up and bowed. There was a grave look in his face as he sat down again.

“Yet I don’t suppose I am half so interesting really as—well, as Charity Sheen, for example,” he said slowly. “A man who has pitted his wits against the police for the last two years, and is still as much a shadow as ever.”

“But he’ll be caught yet,” she cried. “Father says he is bound to make a slip soon and then nothing can save him.”

“Except his own native wit,” he laughed. “No, no. Miss Abbleway, he is not likely to be caught. May I point out to you that many of his crimes would never have been known, because his victims would never have complained of their losses, if he had not written and told the police himself?”

“That is bravado,” she replied. “He is an egoist, and that will get him, father says. You see, father is convinced that Sheen is an educated man, perhaps some man we actually know under another name. Wouldn’t it be fun if I happened to be the first to suspect him?”

“Would it be such great fun after all, if you did, and your father was right and it was someone you knew? Even when buoyed up with the sense of justice, I suppose it is not always pleasant to think that one’s own actions have sent a man to prison.”

The two relapsed into silence for a little while. Sir Richard looked at the flushed, eager face of the girl by his side. It was the most attractive face in the world to him. Those bright blue eyes, those delicately-curved lips, the rose of her cheeks, the dainty little retroussé nose, they held him as their slave, though he had sternly put them from him time and time again. But like a moth to the candle he came to have his heart seared, though he knew he could never marry her, that she would scorn him as she scorned—well, Charity Sheen—if she knew the whole truth about him.

And she?

Avril Abbleway was undecided. She liked the man by her side immensely, but whether she loved him she could not decide. He puzzled her, for at times he appeared to her to be a fierce cynic, at war with the world and everything in it. Yet she knew from various sources that the timely help of Sir Richard had saved more than one man from disaster and put him on his feet again. Of these things, however, she could never get him to speak.

He was a man who seemed to have no definite object in life, a dilettante, a man who had inherited great wealth, but who did not apparently put to any good use the brains which had been given him. It was his cleverness which appealed to her more than anything. He not only seemed to know most people worth knowing, to have been to most places worth going to, but to have the trick of picking out the weaknesses of the people he had met. His deep grey eyes were a little too closely set, his nose a little too large, for him to have been called good-looking, but there was a firmness about his lips which very much belied the dilettante attitude which he adopted, and made her feel that when he chose to exert himself there would be but little he could not do.

No man of her acquaintance, indeed, irritated Avril more, no man interested her more. She could never be indifferent to him, she knew. He seemed interested in her, too, but if his feelings for her were greater than those of mere interest, she had yet to make the discovery.

She had been irritated by the stand he had taken up in defending the mysterious criminal who signed himself “Charity Sheen,” a man for whom Scotland Yard had been searching unsuccessfully for two years, “Another Settlement by Charity Sheen” had been a headline of the newspapers at least once a month for the last two years. The unknown’s methods were certainly, as her companion had said, unusual. Always after every crime he committed he sent an account to the newspapers and to the Chief Commissioner, Sir John Abbleway, at Scotland Yard. Moreover, he stated what he had done with the proceeds.

Take this last affair, for example, the stealing of the Duchess of Westshire’s famous pearl necklace. Three days after the robbery Sir John Abbleway, in common with the chief newspapers, had received a short typewritten message which read as follows:

“The Duchess of Westshire is now bemoaning the loss of her pearl necklace. I estimate that by selling these pearls separately I shall get somewhere in the neighbourhood of £15,000 for them. This sum I shall distribute anonymously in due course to various charities. I have taken this particular necklace because the insurance has just run out and has not yet been renewed, so the loss will fall on the Duke and Duchess themselves; because both have privately declared many times that charity begins at home—the Westshire home; and because both refused to subscribe to the Central Hospital for Children when it made its recent urgent appeal for funds with which to carry on. They both have now the satisfaction of knowing that in due course they will subscribe to many deserving charities.

“Received in settlement, £15,000.

“With thanks,

“CHARITY SHEEN”

Most papers printed the announcement in facsimile, not so much because they wanted to advertise Charity Sheen’s signature, as because it was an excellent item of news and the Westshires were so notoriously closefisted that it was printed as much to draw everyone’s attention to the fact as anything else.

Every one of Charity Sheen’s crimes was based, according to Charity Sheen, on doing good, and it was that rock on which Sir Richard Lulworth and Avril Abbleway had split. Sometimes the mysterious Sheen gave the names of those who were benefited, sometimes not. But he always gave the name of his victim, always held him up to scorn or ridicule. To many, in consequence, his crimes gave a secret and intense pleasure.

It had been two years ago, almost to the day, since Sheen had begun his operations, and after each crime the question, “What are the police doing?” had become more and more insistent. In particular Sir John Abbleway had come in for a great deal of criticism. A new type of criminal had arisen, and he was employing methods which did not leave any clue which could be followed up.

Avril was not among those who secretly sympathised with the unknown Sheen. It could hardly be expected, indeed, that the daughter of a commissioner would sympathise. She knew, as only very few others did, that pressure had been brought to bear on her father from the very highest quarters; that there had even been a talk of superseding him.

“Even if it were a friend of mine,” she said at last, “I think I should be glad that I had been in any way responsible for capturing him. But don’t you think, Sir Richard, we had better find ourselves again? Dinner will be served in half an hour, and we have got to dress.”

Her companion nodded.

“Ah, well, I hope you are never put in the position you contemplate so lightly,” he said as they came in sight of the house. “Why, it might be your old friend Bilsiter,” he added jestingly. “I see he has just crossed the threshold, attracted by the prospects of a meal.”

Avril laughed.

“You are only saying that to try to make me angry,” she said. “You know Mr. Bilsiter is no friend of mine.”

“Though he has proposed to you twice.”

“He wouldn’t be a friend of mine if he had proposed fifty times,” she retorted. “I am not marrying a moneylender who hides his real occupation under the pretence of being a financier.

“I have heard rumours that he has half the peerage under his thumb,” he said with a smile. “See what high society you would move in.”

With a toss of her head Avril turned and ran lightly up the staircase.

“I shall sit next to him at dinner, then,” she called out, with a light-hearted laugh.

To her late companion’s disgust it was exactly where she did sit. Sir Richard found himself beside young Reggie Rowmands and Tommy Abbleway, Avril’s brother. Both had been to Brooklands the previous day, and both had only one topic of conversation—speed. He listened, outwardly polite, inwardly bored. Avril sat nearly opposite to him, and her eyes had a mischievous twinkle in them whenever she looked across at him. She seemed to be paying special attention to the financier, and he was obviously flattered. Leonard Bilsiter was not a very possessing man, with his beady eyes and heavy jowl, and Lulworth wondered why Lord Rowmands had invited him down. He could make a pretty shrewd guess. Either Rowmands wanted money or owed money to Bilsiter. For his own sake Bilsiter would certainly never get invited anywhere.

There came one of those sudden half silences which descend so unexpectedly upon a dining table, when one person speaking seems to be doing so in unnaturally loud tones. The solitary voice was Bilsiter’s. His face was slightly flushed.

“Of course I have been threatened by this man Sheen,” he was saying. “I should have felt out of it if I hadn’t.”

Instantly the silence was complete, and every eye was turned on the financier. Everyone at that table, with perhaps, the exception of Avril, devotedly hoped that whatever the threat the mysterious Sheen had made he would make it good—this time. Bilsiter evidently thoroughly enjoyed the attention which was suddenly focussed on him, and he needed but little prompting from a number of those sitting near to give details.

“My business doesn’t always bring me friends,” he began ponderously. “And I have been threatened by more than one man who has asked for money and has had it refused. If I didn’t refuse sometimes I might as well go out of business,” He laughed heavily and stroked the moustache which ill-concealed his loose mouth. “This man Sheen—well, I mustn’t say too much, but he wants a little paper I have got. He told me——”

“He told you,” interrupted several voices.

“He telephoned me yesterday,” continued Bilsiter. “And said he was going to take the paper unless I posted it to—er—the person whose name is on it by this morning. Well, gentlemen, he has not got it, and I have.”

He tapped the pocket of his dinner jacket significantly.

“I do not let it out of my possession,” he added. “And Mr. Sheen, he will find I am prepared. Leave it to me, my friends,” he finished unctuously. “I am not afraid of Mr. Charity Sheen.”

The buzz of conversation round the table was slowly resumed. The name of Sheen cropped up again and again as one person or another recalled one of his exploits.

“Well, as for me,” said young Rowmands, “I don’t mind admitting I rather envy him. He’s a sport. What do you think?” he added, turning to Sir Richard.

“I am rather inclined to agree with you,” answered the other with a smile. “Though I am afraid most people will not.”

“I think it is a shame that anyone should have any good word for a criminal. It’s a false sentiment.”

Avril’s quick ears had heard the conversation across the table, and her clear, ringing tones made all turn towards her. Her face was flushed and her blue eyes sparkled with the anger she was feeling.

“Sir Richard’s always defending this man,” she continued. “Anyone would think a criminal was a hero.”

“I am sure, Miss Abbleway, I don’t think he is a hero,” replied Lulworth slowly, as all eyes were turned on him. “Far from it. But I suppose even a criminal has a point of view, though it may be a warped one. This man Sheen is not an ordinary criminal. He is a man who appears to desire nothing for himself, who attempts to divert useless possessions into useful channels.”

“Stealing another person’s property for any purpose is wrong,” cried Bilsiter. “Perhaps if this man Sheen robs you, Sir Richard, holds you up to ridicule in the papers, you won’t be so eager to defend him.”

“I hope I shall have enough sense of humour left to retain my point of view, if Sheen does rob me,” said Lulworth with a laugh.

“Well, frankly, I would rather have Sheen’s point of view than some people’s,” interrupted young Rowmands. “There are people who steal and keep inside the law, steal from the helpless, widows and orphans and people with no sense of business, and they’re worse than a man like Sheen who only steals from people who can afford it.”

He looked across at the financier as he spoke, and Bilsiter flushed. There was a feeling of tension round the table.

“Well, if he can steal anything from me he’s welcome,” he said sharply.

Avril opened her mouth to speak again, and caught an amused smile on the face of Sir Richard. She felt, suddenly, that he was inwardly laughing at her. With an effort she turned the conversation into a lighter channel—the prospects of the English competitors at Wimbledon—and slowly the conversation drifted for the rest of the meal to other topics than Charity Sheen.

When the men joined the ladies later in the drawing-room, Bilsiter came straight to Avril and spoke in a low voice.

“May I have a word with you alone, Miss Abbleway?” he asked.

“What is it, Mr. Bilsiter?”

She spoke coldly. It had been in a fit of pique that she had chosen to sit beside the moneylender, and she had no intention of being his companion for the rest of the evening, much as Bilsiter would have liked it.

He shook his head at her question.

“I can’t tell you here,” he replied in a low voice, fixing his beady eyes on her face. “Come into the garden. I shall not detain you for very long. You may—may be sorry——”

She looked at him with startled eyes. There was an underlying threat in his unfinished sentence which puzzled her. For a moment her whole nature rose in revolt. Then curiosity overcame her, and with it an idea that she might have put a wrong construction on his words. She knew of no reason at all, indeed, why the moneylender should threaten her, though he had pestered her with his attentions.

“I’ll give you ten minutes, Mr. Bilsiter,” she cried with forced gaiety in her tone. “After that I really must come in. I have promised to make a four at bridge.”

“Ten minutes will suffice,” he replied politely. “And I hope that what I have to say to you will not upset your play at all.”

Avril shrugged her shoulders. As she passed through the French windows she caught sight of Sir Richard standing on the lawn talking to Lord Rowmands. The former brought his closed fist down on his open palm as he said something emphatically in a low voice, and then turned quickly at the crunch of Bilsiter’s feet on the gravel. With the defiant air of a child caught in some overt act, Avril walked by the peer and his companion, uttering some commonplace, conventional words to the man by her side.

Lulworth laid a hand on the other’s arm as the two passed out of sight.

“Run along and look after your guests,” he said quietly. “And don’t worry about what you have told me. Things are never as bad as they seem. To-morrow morning—well, by to-morrow morning anything might have happened.”

Lord Rowmands opened his mouth to speak. There was a strained, anxious look on his face and his hands were clenched. He shook one fist angrily in the direction taken by Avril and her companion. Sir Richard’s hand tightened on his arm.

“Control yourself,” he said quietly. “Bilsiter will overreach himself yet. I will have a talk with him and see what can be done.” The elder man passed his hand slowly over his forehead.

“You’re right, Richard,” he said slowly. “My duty is with my guests. But to-morrow——”

“Why, to-morrow you will be wondering what you made all the fuss about,” cried Lulworth cheerfully. “Bilsiter will always give in where money is concerned. You can pay me back when things turn. You’re not the only one in the house who is not looking forward to to-morrow as far as Bilsiter is concerned.”

Rowmands half turned back, as though he was going to ask a question, but Lulworth nodded his refusal with a smiling face.

“You think about your own affairs,” he said. “And don’t worry about anyone else’s.”

“Somebody else has confided in you, though,” said the peer.

“I seem a sort of human magnet who attracts all people in trouble,” returned Lulworth with a laugh. “I suppose it’s because I’ve got a reputation for it, somehow.”

“You’re a good man, Richard,” said Rowmands fervently. “And if the day ever comes when I can help you——”

“I may remind you of it,” interrupted Lulworth swiftly.

He looked thoughtfully after the receding form of the peer. Lord Rowmands had a heart bigger than his pocket, he reflected, and he had run up against a man whose pocket was greater than his heart. Yet by no sign, no inflexion of his voice, even, had he betrayed that Leonard Bilsiter was not so welcome a guest at the big house near Beaconsfield as any of his many friends who delighted in accepting the peer’s hospitality.

As he flicked away the ash of his cigar, Sir Richard Lulworth turned again and looked in the direction in which Avril Abbleway and the moneylender had gone. His mind was full of conflicting emotions. It appeared to him that it was a sacrilege that this girl, of such fine clay, should be alone anywhere with Bilsiter. His very presence was poisonous. He wondered why she had deliberately chosen such a companion for her after-dinner stroll, and he drew the wrong conclusion, that she had done it to make him angry, as she had sat beside Bilsiter at dinner.

He smiled grimly to himself. He was good psychologist enough to know that her attitude showed one thing very definitely, that she was not indifferent to him. But with the thought his smile faded. He might be in love with the girl, was in love with her, in fact, but he could never marry her—now. What curse was it that caused that unreasoning desire for adventure, adventure of any kind, to run through his veins? Two years ago—well, two years ago he had not met her. Now it was too late. Even if he turned back now, turned back instantly, he would be bound to tell her of that episode in his past, and her attitude left no doubt in his mind what she would do. She would scorn him, put him on a level with any common criminal.

He couldn’t stop now, but there was one thing he could do. He would keep out of this girl’s way, could avoid being tortured by the dancing light in her blue eyes, by the mockery of her lips, by the alluring perfume of her presence. To-morrow he would go away, would bury himself, he reflected, where their paths were not likely to cross. He had been like some poor dazzled moth attracted to the light, and he knew that he had burnt himself badly.

He threw away his half-finished cigar and walked slowly up the path towards the house. There came the sound of quickly-moving feet behind him, and he turned round to see Avril’s slim figure. Her face was white, her eyes wide open, staring, frightened, and she hurried by without a word.