Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 36

LORD WESTRAY sits alone in his sanctum in Grosvenor Square. There is an anxious expression on his face, for he has been expecting some one who has not turned up. He has already consulted his watch about half-a-dozen times, and he consults it again. Then he gets up and rings the bell.

He can hear it tinkling downstairs from where he sits. “A smart servant,” he thinks to himself, “would have answered it quickly.” Yet he would think this no longer, if he could only hear “his smart servant’s” remark anent that bell.

“James,” calls out that worthy, who is seated in the room on an easy armchair in front of the fire-place, with his feet against the chimney-piece, “what bell’s that?”

“My lord’s, sir,” is the laconic reply from the lackey outside.

“Oh! ah! tha-a-anks. Let him ring again.”

The bell does peal again, this time furiously, and

Stuggins, with a face of disgust, pulls bis feet down from the chimney-piece.

“My word! what a hard time of it we have’s,” he ejaculates to himself, as he rises slowly from his seat to go upstairs.

On reaching Lord Westray’s sanctum, however, his face is composed and affable.

“This is the second time I’ve rung,” exclaims Lord Westray angrily. “Surely, Stuggins, there is some one in the house to answer the bell.”

“I was in my room, my lord, and did not hear it,” responds Stuggins in a conciliatory voice. “Has no one called yet, Stuggins?” “No one, my lord.”

“Well, he’ll be here at any moment now. Mind he is shown up without any delay.” “Certainly, my lord.”

And the sleek, over-fed domestic goes off smiling. Ten minutes later, and there is a ring at the door-bell. Lord Westray starts and listens. “It’s he!” he ejaculates briefly. And in a few minutes the “he” is politely waved in by Stuggins.

“Mr. Trackem, my lord.”

“All right, Stuggins, shut the door. Not at home if any one else calls.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The door is shut, and Lord Westray rises and shakes the new-comer by the hand.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Trackem,” he observes heartily. “Began to fear you were not coming. A little late, eh?”

“A little, my lord, but I was usefully employed.”

“Made out where she is, Mr. Trackem?”

“Yes,” responds this latter solemnly.

Lord Westray rubs his hands delightedly.

“Where?” he asks eagerly.

“Near Windsor, my lord. I found it out by shadowing Mr. D’Estrange.”

“Capital!” exclaims Lord Westray, with a laugh. “And does she still go under the name of Mrs. de Lara?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Now, Mr. Trackem, what are your plans?”

Mr. Trackem puts on a mysterious look, walks quickly to the door of the sanctum, and opens it suddenly. “What do you want?” he inquires sharply of some one without.

“If you please, sir, I was just coming in to see if his lordship had rung,” answers Stuggins stolidly, who had never quitted the outside of the door since we last saw him, and who had been listening intently all the time.

“Lord Westray did not ring,” answers Mr. Trackem, coldly, “and you are not required.”

“Oh! very good, sir,” and Stuggins retires defeated, and much put about.

Mr. Trackem watches the butler’s retreating, form till it is out of sight, then he closes the door softly, and returns to his original place near Lord Westray.

“These are my plans, my lord. I propose to take down two of my men by rail. Two will be ample, as more might attract attention and be in the way. I shall send a brougham and smart pair of trotters the day before. I have ascertained by observation that Mrs. de Lara invariably goes for a walk in the evening by herself, that her servants do not sit up for her, as she writes in her study late at night, and I have further ascertained that she is frequently in the habit of leaving the house before any one is up, and coming up to town. This is a most valuable point, as her absence will attract no attention. But to be safe I have possessed myself of some of her writing paper and a sample of her writing, and a note will be duly left, apprising her maid of her departure, and intention to remain in London for a few days.”

“By Jove, Mr. Trackem, you are a smart one! I don’t see how your plan can fail,” exclaims the wicked earl with a laugh.

“I never fail, my lord, in any of these little businesses,” answers Mr. Trackem, with a suave smile.

“But ain’t you afraid of the police finding you out?” inquires Lord Westray, just a little nervously.

Mr. Trackem laughs outright. “Police!” he ejaculates . contemptuously. “What’s the good of them? Think they know a lot, know nothing. Why, my lord, the police are useless in matters of this sort; and as for detectives, why, it’s easy to green them up the wrong way. I don’t fear them. I’m a match for every noodle detective in and around Scotland Yard, I am,” and Mr. Trackem gives a self-satisfied laugh.

“Well, Mr. Trackem, when is it to be?” inquires the earl anxiously, after a short lull in the conversation.

“It’s to be the day after tomorrow,” answers Mr. Trackem. “To-morrow my men go down. I shall follow, and just give them a squint at the place, and then they’ll be all prepared for the next day. Never fear, my lord; by Wednesday she shall be in your power.”

“In my power!” The words come triumphantly, though mutteringly, through the ground teeth of the man whom Speranza de Lara had called, and justly so, “a fiend in human shape.” Yes, she had spurned him, loathed him, defied him, forbidden him her presence. Through these long years he had striven to regain her in vain, and now—ah, now!—he would be amply and surely revenged.

“Well, I am sure, Mr. Trackem, I cannot thank you sufficiently for the excellent way in which you have laid your plans in order to carry out my commission,” he says warmly. “And now to business. I am to give you £50 down now, and the remaining £150 when the transaction is finally accomplished. Is not that so?”

“It is, my lord,” answers the vile creature blandly.

Lord Westray pulls out a drawer in his writing table, and taking out a cheque book is not long in writing off an order for £50 to the credit of self. This he hands to his visitor, who accepts it deferentially, and commits it to a greasy pocket-book, after which he takes up his hat and stick, preparatory to leaving.

“Won’t you take something?” inquires the earl with his hand on the bell. “A glass of sherry, brandy-and-soda, or what?”

“No thank you, my lord, nothing,” answers Mr. Trackem. “Must keep a clear head in my business. Thanks all the same.”

They shake hands, these two scheming monsters, both intent on a base and ruffianly deed, yet one of them is regarded as a gentleman, is received and welcomed by society, is high in the graces of the Government of the day, and accounted a clever man and useful statesman. Clothed in these mantles of virtue, he is free to do as he pleases. Wickedness will not bar Society’s doors against him, or lose him his high preferments. Is he not a man, one of the dominant and self-styled superior race? Therefore, is he not free to do as he pleases?

The day has come,—a hot July one. Down upon the dusty country roads the sun has burnt fiercely all day long. The cattle and beasts of the field have eagerly sought for shade and refuge from the torturing flies that ever haunt their presence, but evening has fallen at last, and with it relief has come.

It is cool and pleasant along the banks of the old Thames. The silver streak glides sluggishly along, with the moon’s pale light playing softly upon it. The stars twinkle merrily forth to endure their brief sweet reign; Nature looks ghostlike in her mantle of sleep.

A fairy cottage, half hidden in walnut trees and clinging ivy, peeps forth upon that scene. The smooth lawns around it gleam white as the driven snow beneath the moon’s soft gleams. Tall dark trees rise up behind in ebony framework, making an efficient background, while through the still air trembles and quivers the nightingale’s exquisite song.

It would seem, at a first glance, as if all were asleep in that cottage; but no, there is yet a light left in one of the rooms on the ground-floor. Suddenly a pair of window-doors in it are flung open, and a tall, graceful woman steps out through them. Her head is uncovered, the moon gleams down upon the thick masses of pale gold hair that cover it, and shines in her glittering eyes of turquoise-blue. It is Speranza de Lara.

“What a glorious night!” she soliloquises to herself. “I suppose my darling is speaking now. She said it would be about ten o’clock. Oh, Harry I my precious long-lost love, would that you could see our child now!”

She has pressed the ring with its glittering brilliants to her lips,—the only ring she wears. The stones flash and sparkle in the moon’s light like gems of living fire, beautiful, pure, and shining as the love that is next her heart. Much more than a score of years have passed away since Harry Kintore died in her arms, but if she lived through countless scores of years that love would burn just the same. She wanders along the gravel carriage drive, her thoughts busy with the past. Anon they fleet forward to the future, and then a light of triumph dances in her eyes. But it is with the past that she is chiefly occupied this night, for it is the 14th of July, the anniversary of the day on which her darling died.

She has passed along the shady avenue, and entered a tiny straggling path, shut in by tall dark trees. It is a glade upon which the gardener has not been allowed to bestow his fostering care. He has been forbidden this spot by his mistress, who loves to leave it in possession of the primrose and violet, the wild anemone or dark blue hyacinth that Nature has scattered so plentifully around. It is Speranza’s safe retreat, away from the outside world, the spot where she best loves to roam.

All is quiet; not a sound disturbs the tenor of her thoughts as she walks quietly along. Suddenly, how-ever, her eye is arrested by a gleam of light in front of her. The next moment two dark forms spring forward in her path, and she sees that they are men.

Speranza is no coward. We already know that well. Screaming is without her ken, she has no knowledge of it. Of fear, she only knows the name. If it is a thrill that permeates the body from head to foot, and sends the blood rushing through the system with irresistible impetus, then Speranza knows what that strange, mysterious sensation called fear is. But then it only makes her feel defiant. She has no thought of fleeing. Her impulse is to stand and face the danger, whatever it may be.

“Who are you?” she asks in a quiet, measured voice; “and what do you want here?”

“You,” is the laconic answer, as the speaker seizes her by the arm, and deftly getting behind her, endeavours to draw her two elbows together. The pain is excruciating, but Speranza’s blood is up. She is no weakly woman, helpless with life-long inactivity and want of muscle power. She is strong and flexible as wire, and makes her assailant feel this too, as with a wrench she frees herself, and springs backward behind him, facing them both once more. With a foul oath the man who had first attacked her bares a short, ugly-looking knife, and his companion does so as well.

“No use resisting!” exclaims this latter. “If you do you’ll get a taste of these. Better come quietly.”

She does not even answer them. Her lovely head is thrown back, her blue eyes shoot defiance, even while in them trembles the look of despair. Her hands hang clenched by her side, but she never quails for a second.

They rush at her, their knives poised threateningly. She seizes the blades with both her hands, and holds them with the grim clutch of a last great effort. With a brutal laugh they jerk them backwards, and the sharp, keen edges cut clean into her tightly closed palms. Out pours the rich, dark blood from the cruel, gaping wounds, as with a low cry, the first that has escaped her, she lets go her hold. Then, with the ferocity of tigers, they spring upon, and force her to the ground. In another moment the gag is on her mouth, tight straps are round her arms and ankles, and she is a prisoner at their feet.

“Come on quick, now!” exclaims one of the men. “My, Bill! she be a strong, plucky one, and no mistake! If it ‘adn’t been for that there root we shouldn’t have mastered her so easily—no, nor we should.”

The root referred to is the jagged, stumpy end of a fallen tree. Against this Speranza’s head had struck in falling, rendering her senseless. No wonder they tied her so easily.

They lift her between them, and carry her across the copsewood towards a low hedge, outside which lies the road. Over this they hoist her, and then lay her down on the pathway, one of them giving a long, low whistle.

There is an answering whistle down the road, a tumbling and stamping as of carriage wheels and horses’ feet. Two lights gleam through the darkness, like the eyes of some terrible monster, and the next moment a carriage dashes up.

“Got her?” inquires a thin, spare man, jumping out.

“Right as a trivet, sir,” they answer.

“Well, put her in! Look sharp; no time to lose. I thought I heard footsteps as I came along,” and Mr. Trackem, for it is he, holds open the door.

They obey his orders without more ado, and then he jumps in.

“Now then! look alive, men! One on the box, one in with her and me.”

It is done. The men are “sharp uns.” They know their master, and he knows his men. The next moment the carriage is bowling along towards Windsor, en route for London.

Who will track them, who discover them? Not the detectives of Scotland Yard!