Читать книгу The Terror - Edgar Wallace, Martin Edwards - Страница 19

NIGHT came—the dreary night with its black mysteries and its suggestive horrors.

The telephone in the deserted lounge rang shrilly. Cotton came from some mysterious recess in a hurry to answer it. He heard Hallick’s voice and winced painfully. He did not like Hallick, and wondered how soon this officer of Scotland Yard, with the resources at his disposal, would discover his own unsavoury antecedents.

‘I want to speak to Dobie,’ said Hallick’s voice.

‘Yes, sir; I’ll call him.’

There was no need to call Sergeant Dobie; he was at Cotton’s elbow.

‘Is that for me?’

Cotton passed him across the instrument.

‘Yes, sir?…’ He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw the interested Cotton. ‘Hop it,’ he said under his breath, and Cotton withdrew reluctantly.

‘Have you found anything further?’ asked Hallick.

‘Nothing, sir. Another spent cartridge—you saw one of them before you left.’

There was a long pause at the other end of the wire, and then Hallick spoke again.

‘I’ve got an idea something may happen tonight. You have my private telephone number?…Good! Call me if anything happens that has an unusual appearance. Don’t be afraid of bringing me down on a fool’s errand. I shall have a car waiting, and I can be with you in an hour.’

Dobie hung up the receiver as Mr Goodman came ambling into the lounge. He wore his black velvet smoking jacket; his old pipe was gripped between his teeth. Dobie was on his way to the door when the tea merchant called him back.

‘You’re staying with us tonight, aren’t you, Mr Dobie?…Thank goodness for that!’

‘You’re nervous, are you, sir?’ smiled Dobie, and Goodman’s good-natured face reflected the smile.

‘Why, yes, I am a little—raw. If anybody had told me I should get jumpy I should have laughed.’

He took out his cigar case and offered it to the detective, who chose one with considerable care.

‘There’s no new clue, I suppose?’ said Goodman, making himself comfortable at the end of the settee.

‘No, sir,’ said Dobie.

Goodman chuckled.

‘If you had any you wouldn’t tell me, eh? That isn’t one of the peculiar weaknesses of Scotland Yard officers, that they wear their—I won’t say hearts, but their brains, upon their sleeves. You didn’t find the gentleman who did the shooting yesterday? I ask you because I have been in town all day, and was a little disappointed when I came back to find that apparently nothing had happened.’

‘No, we haven’t found the shooter,’ said Dobie.

Neither of them saw the door open, nor the pale face of Mr Partridge peeping through.

‘I was at Scotland Yard today,’ said Goodman; ‘and I had a chat with Mr Hallick. A nice man.’

‘Very,’ agreed Dobie heartily.