Читать книгу Owl of Darkness - Max Afford - Страница 12

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Jeffery Blackburn depressed the brake pedal of the two-seater and the car came to a halt with a slither of gripping tyres.

"That will be Rookwood Towers," remarked the young man, gesturing with a gloved hand. The Chief Inspector, beside him, leaned forward.

They were descending Pewley Hill into a green and rolling pasture land, bisected with white roads. Under the clean morning sky the countryside lay fair and verdant. The River Wey, curling like a slumbrous serpent, glistened between sloping banks and they caught a glimpse of the Silent Pool, reflecting the glory of the morning and blue as a baby's eyes.

Rookwood Towers nestled under the slope of the hill and from their elevation it gave the impression of cuddling into the green valley below. A number of rambling outbuildings were almost hidden in the dark army of trees that were lined up to the very windows. A winding drive led through stone-pillared gates and more trees stood sentry-like along its white convolutions. The house was built of grey stone and thick columns and massive groinwork conveyed, even at that distance, an impression of age and strength. Adjoining the house at either side and rising above roof level were two octagonal towers, pierced at intervals with tiny windows. Centred between these eminences was a tall cupola rising to a high dome which held the blank face of a clock. This curious mixture of Jacobean, Hanoverian and Edwardian architecture was mercifully cloaked by a wide-spreading growth of ivy and the windows peeped almost coyly from behind this leafy curtain.

"The house that bombs built," remarked Jeffery. He pressed the accelerator and the car moved forward.

"Eh?"

The young man grinned. "Not actually, of course. Rookwood Towers goes back far, far beyond Sir Anthony's title. But bombs supplied the filthy lucre to buy that lovely old place. Did you know Sir Anthony had only been in possession over the last twenty years?"

The Inspector grunted. "I didn't. How did you know?"

"Had dinner with Ken Bretherton last night." Jeffery shaded his eyes with his hand against the glare of the road. "It's the story of the self-made man, Chief. Before the war, the present owner of the Towers was plain Mr. Wayne. A stockbroker with political ambitions. Round about 1906, Wayne married Lucy Atherton, the daughter of old Cornelius Atherton, an American steel magnate. The war broke out and with his wife's money plus his father-in-law's business acumen, our friend branched out into the armament business. A few years later the wife died, but her husband retained her money and her name, plus a hyphen." Jeffery chuckled as he swung the wheel. "After all, Chief, you can't blame him Anthony Atherton-Wayne! Why, it simply rolls off the tongue."

"And the knighthood?"

"Circa nineteen-twenty," retorted Blackburn. "And at that time Sir John Rookwood, whose ancestors had built the Towers back in the Tudor times, died. The war had left the Rookwoods with little but their fine old name, and the death duties were the final crippling blow. Gossip says that Sir Anthony got the Towers for a song." Jeffery settled back in his seat. "So let that be a lesson to you, Chief. Big guns are more than coronets, poison gas than Norman blood."

Read grunted, but made no other comment. Twenty minutes later, Jeffery slid the cream two-seater through the stone gateway of the Towers and guided it round the winding drive. All about them the trees whispered in the morning breeze. In the distance, a dog barked, a lonely hopeless sound. As they approached the house, the trees thinned and they came upon trim lawns, broken by ornamental shrubs and garden beds. Blackburn pulled the car up before a short flight of steps leading to the main doorway.

Elizabeth Blaire was waiting for them, a slim figure in well-cut tweeds. She was hatless, and as she ran down the steps to meet them her hair glinted golden in the sunlight. She greeted both men with a smile, then:

"I'm so glad," she said happily. "You know, after I'd left your office yesterday I was struck with the awful thought you'd only consented to get rid of me..."

"Miss Blaire!" Jeffery's tone was a reproach.

"Oh, I didn't really believe it," the girl assured him. "But Robert kept undermining my faith. As a matter of fact, he laid a wager you wouldn't come."

The Inspector cocked an eyebrow at the girl. "Why should your fiancé think that?" he grunted.

"Oh, Robert gets the weirdest ideas." Her tone dismissed the subject. She turned and shepherded them up the steps. "Leave the car. Adams will put it away and bring your bags inside." They halted before a large iron-studded door. Elizabeth thrust it open and led them into a wide hall. After the brilliant sunshine outside, it seemed unusually gloomy and Jeffery, peering, could make out only the vaguest details. What light the place contained seeped through four windows set high up and, by this meagre illumination, the young man could perceive a wide staircase at the far side, winding upwards. Following its curve, he saw that a railed gallery ran round the entire square of the hall. As his eyes focused, he noticed a surprising number of doors opening off in various directions.

"Wait here," Elizabeth invited. "I'll get Sir Anthony. He's expecting you." She moved away towards one of the doors.

As it closed behind her, Jeffery turned to the Inspector. "Well, Chief, what do you think of it?"

Read smoothed his stubbly moustache. "Like the rear end of an elephant," he commented. "Big, but not impressive."

"For Pete's sake! Doesn't tradition mean anything to you?" Jeffery waved his hand to the four dim-seen walls. "Do you realize that Inigo Jones and Chris Wren probably had a hand in adding to this building. According to legend, the Playdelles built this house around the ruins of an old Abbey, abandoned when the Black Plague swept over England! And we're going to stay down here in this historic spot. Why, Chief, what more could you ask?"

Read's answer was prompt. "Hot and cold water and central heating," he snapped. "I'm an old man that likes my comfort. And what's more, so do you, my boy." The Inspector chuckled deep in his throat. "One night in a draughty bedroom with a stone floor—and you'll exchange all the tradition in the world for a hot-water bottle."

"Double nuts to you!" retorted Jeffery inelegantly. He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled aimlessly. The stone floor threw back faint echoes of his footsteps. In the thick silence, the ghostly repetition annoyed the young man; he paused to light a cigarette. Somewhere in the gloom a door opened, but as he wheeled sharply it clicked shut again. Jeffery glanced at Read. The big man's face was an indeterminate patch of grey among the shadows, but from his set stance the other knew he was frowning and alert.

Jeffery jerked his head in the direction of the interruption. "Somebody curious?" he asked.

"Whole damn' place is curious," the Inspector growled. "Where is everybody? Hanged if I wouldn't like to drop one of Atherton-Wayne's bombs round here—just to wake somebody up." He crossed to where Jeffery stood and glanced at his wrist-watch. In the gloom, the tiny luminous face was a bright oval. "Do you realize, son, it's nearly ten minutes since that girl left this room?"

Jeffery opened his mouth, but the remark died unborn. Another door swung open. He heard a soft well-bred ejaculation, there was a sudden click and the hall flamed in brilliant light. The transition was so unexpected that the slim grey-haired man who accompanied Elizabeth Blaire across the room was standing before Blackburn while that gentleman was still gaping.

The girl said quietly: "Sir Anthony. This is Jeffery Blackburn...and this is Inspector Read, of Scotland Yard."

The three men shook hands.

Jeffery, murmurously polite over greetings, was engaged in rapid mental reorientation. From Ken Bretherton's information, he had built up his own picture of the owner of Rookwood Towers, an image that was heavily built, red-faced and rather careless with aspirates. But the man who stood before him now was as smooth and as polished as one of the shells from his own factory. Under medium height—Sir Anthony had to raise his chin to meet Read's eyes—he had slim hands and delicate, almost feminine features, their paleness accentuated by his closely cut silver grey hair. Lines about his eyes gave his face a tired expression, but the mouth was mobile and a suggestion of gentle mirth about the lips compensated for their thinness.

The baronet was saying: "I must apologize, gentlemen, for keeping you waiting." His voice was modulated, each word, like his personality, was neat and polished. "I was over at young Blaire's cottage. Frankly, I didn't expect you down so soon."

Read nodded. "What's your opinion of these cards the lad's been getting?"

Sir Anthony shrugged slim shoulders. "One can only hope it is the work of a practical joker. If, however, it is this criminal, then the question arises—how did he learn of the existence of the formula?"

"These things get about," the Inspector muttered. "I'd like to have a talk with young Blaire."

Sir Anthony nodded. "As a matter of fact, you've come down at a very opportune moment," he said. "Edward has arranged a demonstration of Formula Number Four in his laboratory this morning. I was discussing the matter with him when you arrived. If you would care to watch...?"

"Delighted," murmured Jeffery, and Read nodded. The baronet turned to Elizabeth, but before he could speak, the girl shook her head.

"I won't come, if you don't mind," she said. "I've seen the stuff working, and Ted hates a crowd in his lab. Besides, I haven't finished the final arrangements for Ted's party yet. And there's not too much time before tomorrow night, not with the hundred and one things to do. So if you'll excuse me..." She flashed a smile at the two guests and moved away. Sir Anthony turned back to his companions.

"This way," he said gently.

He led them across the hall, and ushered them into a passage lit at intervals with tall stained-glass windows which spilt warm colour at their feet as they walked. Various doors opened off, but the three men did not halt until they reached the end of the corridor. It was while Sir Anthony busied himself with the bolt of the iron portal guarding this entrance that Jeffery remarked:

"Mr. Blaire is having a party tomorrow night?"

Their guide swung open the door and gestured them through, "Just an informal little gathering," he returned. "I believe it's Edward's birthday. Some of his school-friends are coming down from London."

They were walking in the open now, clear of the house. Read's heavy footsteps crunched among the gravel. "Isn't tomorrow night the time The Owl's supposed to call?" he asked.

Sir Anthony, leading the way, spoke without turning, but they sensed the smile in his voice. "I'm afraid Edward doesn't mean to let that interfere with his pleasure." His tone sobered. "And, after all, if this criminal does mean business, I think the lad would be much safer in his cottage with a crowd of people than roaming these grounds on his own."

"That," said Jeffery, "depends on the people."

"And the cottage," added Read.

They had come some distance from the house and now walked among that army of dark trees. Dead leaves rustled under their feet and the sky, seen between the tangle of branches, seemed very far away. They seemed to walk beneath a green and tossing sea that whispered and broke and whispered again. The baronet led them right and left, picking his way with cat-like delicacy around mossy trunks. As they emerged once more into bright sunlight, he paused and gestured before him.

"There is the cottage. Judge for yourself."

It had once been a small chapel, but the thick crumbling walls were buttressed and shouldered by modern concrete supports. The narrow pointed windows and arched doorway were the sole remaining traces of the building's theological origin and, as with the main house, the additions and replacements were half-hidden under a luxuriant growth of ivy. A low privet hedge surrounded the cottage. Sir Anthony led the way through a neatly clipped gap, moved to the door and rapped on it.

The sound of voices inside, heard softly through an open window, ceased at that summons. They waited. Read shifted his weight from one leg to another. Jeffery lit a cigarette. There was no sound but the wind rustling in the creeper. A frown of annoyance darkened Atherton-Wayne's aristocratic features; he had already lifted his hand to the door a second time when it opened abruptly. Robert Ashton stood revealed. The secretary blinked at the trio, and his eyes rested on the Inspector.

"So you did come down, after all?" he said.

"Obviously!" Sir Anthony spoke before Read could answer and the baronet's tone was edged with irritation. "I certainly didn't expect to find you here, Ashton. Is Blaire inside?"

The young man nodded. If he resented the snub, he did not betray it. He said quietly: "Yes, Sir Anthony. I've been talking with Edward. You'll find him in the parlour."

The baronet nodded curtly. Jeffery, watching closely, divined that something more important than merely being kept waiting at the door had upset the spruce little man, but he made no comment as Atherton-Wayne gestured him inside. They were moving across a shallow hallway when from the room beyond, a voice cried shrilly.

"Who's there?"

Ashton, following Sir Anthony, said levelly: "It's all right, Edward. You can come out now."

As he spoke, they entered a wide sunny room, lit by four windows. Standing under the nearest of these, one hand clasping a whisky glass, a young man in his middle twenties faced them. The baronet halted inside the room. "Blaire," he said, "I want you to meet these two gentlemen—they are from Scotland Yard."

Edward Blaire set his glass down, took off his thick-lensed spectacles, then replaced them after a quick, nervous wiping. His handshake, as he greeted the newcomers, was limp and unenthusiastic. Ashton was motioning them to seats but Blackburn could scarcely take his eyes off Blaire's face. Above the thick glasses, the brow was high and broad, suggesting an intellect of extraordinary power. Yet this noble forehead accentuated pitifully the tapering face with its weak petulant mouth and sloping chin. It was a face without ballast and Jeffery, his eyes flitting from Blaire's unsteady hands to the almost empty whisky decanter on the sideboard, realized that the moral courage lacking in that face was being augmented in other ways.

They were seated now. An uncomfortable silence had fallen. It was broken by the Chief Inspector, who sat balancing his big figure on the edge of a divan bed.

"Well, son," he began, "from what Sir Anthony tells me, You've got something on your hands about as harmless as a bagful of rattlesnakes—especially now that Mister Owl's put the finger on you."

Blaire shrugged. "Providing such a person exists, Inspector."

"But those warning cards—" began Atherton-Wayne, when Blaire swung round to where Ashton sat watching them.

"Come on, Robert," he said, "now's your chance to own up. You sent me those cards as a joke, didn't you?"

Ashton made a weary gesture. "For the twentieth time—no." A trace of irritation edged his tone. "Even admitting I was stupid enough to do such a thing, I'd hardly go to the trouble of dragging these gentlemen down here on a fool's errand."

The bed creaked as Inspector Read leaned forward. "The Owl exists all right," he said grimly. "And quite apart from our night-flyin' friend, you've got a headache on your hands, son. We're all grown men and none of us believe in fairies. If your formula goes on the market, there's a packet of oil companies who are goin' to be pinched where it hurts most—in the bank account." He wagged a stubby finger at the young man. "Boiled down, son, it means that while there's a lot of people who'd be glad to see your formula on the market, there's also a mighty tough crowd who'd give anything they possess to keep it off."

Blaire had crossed to the sideboard and was pouring himself a drink. He turned, glass in hand. The smile about that small mouth was very close to a sneer.

"Inspector Read, you said a moment ago that we are all grown men and that none of us believe in fairies. Yet you ask me to believe in the existence of a criminal who flies through the air like a bird, who hoots like an owl and possesses a sort of superhuman intelligence." He drained his glass and set it on the sideboard. "I gave up believing in that kind of thing on my tenth birthday."

Read's jaw tightened. "But we're convinced—"

"So much so that you'd bring an army of detectives down here to upset my daily routine and hamper my work. Very well. I can do nothing to stop you doing that. On the other hand, I shall certainly do nothing to help you. The whole thing is a childish waste of time and money."

Atherton-Wayne rose to his feet. "Upon my soul, Blaire," he said stiffly, "you are surely one of the rudest and most obstinate young men I have ever met. Surely you realize—"

"That we're wasting time talking like this," Blaire cut in sharply. His restless hands tightened the tapes of the chemical-stained smock he wore over his suit. "Perhaps these gentlemen from Scotland Yard would like to see the demonstration of the formula?"

The baronet said coldly: "If you have no objection."

"Why should I? The whole world will see it in operation within the next few months." The young man crossed and threw open a door at the far end of the room. "This is the lab," he explained.

The three men rose and followed him, but half-way across the room Ashton paused and glanced at his wrist-watch. "Not much use my coming in," he muttered. "I've seen the stuff working before, so I'll be cutting off..." He nodded to the group and made his way out into the hall. Read and Jeffery—a curiously silent Jeffery—were close behind Atherton-Wayne as Blaire stood back to usher them inside. And as the young chemist closed the door behind them, Jeffery glanced round.

The laboratory was small, but bright and spotlessly clean. One wall was occupied by a large bookcase, packed with volumes that overflowed on to the floor. Under the windows, a bench ran the full length of the room, a bench which supported racks of test tubes, bottles of liquids in varying colours and a large glass retort over an unlit Bunsen burner. Near the centre of the floor, anchored to a concrete base, a stripped petrol engine held Jeffery's attention.

Blaire saw his interest. "My mechanical guinea pig," he explained. "It's an ordinary twelve-cylinder car engine, the exact counterpart of tens of thousands on the road today." Gone was the languid condescension of a few minutes before; there was a tremor of excitement in his voice and the pale cheeks were flushed with triumphant anticipation. He extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket and, selecting one, crossed to a small iron safe half-hidden under the bench. A few seconds later he returned, carrying a wooden box and, sliding back the cover, revealed a stoppered test-tube lying cushioned in cotton wool. The young chemist handed the box to Sir Anthony, and extracting the test-tube almost reverently, held it up to the light.

"Formula Number Four," he announced.

The three men gathered round, staring at the colourless solution that almost filled the tube. Jeffery spoke for the fist time since his introduction. "What exactly is this substance?" he inquired.

Blaire returned the tube to its nest of cotton wool. "Naturally, I haven't time to go into all details." Again that faint note of condescension had crept into his tone. "But briefly, you probably already know that there are factories in Russia and America producing alcohol—the basis of all motor fuel—from waste and other cellulosed materials. But the process of chemical decomposition is far too costly to compete with the present-day price of ordinary petrol. That means every chemist under the sun has been searching feverishly for a micro-organism which can be cultivated and which can carry out this decomposing process quickly and cheaply."

Jeffery nodded.

Behind his thick spectacles, Blaire's dark eyes were alight. "By sheer accident," he said, "I have discovered a perfect substitute for that micro-organism! By chance, I have found the one thing that chemists have been searching for!"

Atherton-Wayne caressed one slim hand in another. "You realize the possibilities, gentlemen? Blaire has discovered a process for obtaining petrol from any starchy or sugary substance. From figs, potatoes, beets, artichokes, maize, prickly pear or even ordinary garden weeds!"

"Great thundering herds!" the Inspector ejaculated. And in the silence that followed, the whisper of the wind in the trees outside seemed to fill the whole room.

"And the secret is mine alone," Blaire said softly. The queer ill-balanced face was alight with some strange inward fire, and he spoke like an oracle pronouncing divination. "Who knows that my name may not rank with Newton and Pasteur and Edison—" He broke off, glanced quickly over his shoulder and his tone climbed shrilly. "Who's there?"

Read was staring at the young man. "What's the matter?" he grunted.

"Thought I heard someone at the door—like a soft knock." They waited, but nothing broke the sibilant silence of the laboratory. Blaire shrugged. "Getting like an old woman," he muttered irritably. "All this damned chatter about ghosts and boogles!" He picked up a teaspoon from the bench, wiped it with cotton wool, then lifted the phial carefully from the box. "Let's get this show over," he said and led them towards the engine.

Blaire uncorked the phial with his teeth and poured a few drops of the formula into the teaspoon. He handed the precious tube to Atherton-Wayne and, bending, fed the liquid delicately into the carburettor. Then, straightening, he pointed to a black button set a few feet away from the engine. "Self-starter," he said tersely, and nodded to Read. "Put your foot on it."

The Inspector did so. There was a dry whirring, a soft splutter from the engine, and a moment later it began to purr. Jeffery could visualize the shining cylinders rising and falling in perfect timing. A tiny wisp of green smoke rose from the working parts and hung lazily on the quiet air. Edward Blaire spread his hands.

"There you are, gentlemen."

Read was peering short-sightedly at the gently pulsing engine. "And just how long do you expect it to work on those few drops?"

The young chemist stroked his chin. "According to my calculations, that amount should drive a fourteen horse-power engine over a distance of twelve to fifteen miles," he replied.

No one questioned the statement. The positive sincerity in the young man's tone stamped the words with the finality of fact. The Inspector nodded and turned away, satisfied. "All right," he said shortly. "We've seen enough." He glanced at Blackburn. "What do you think, son?"

"Wonderful—and dangerous," Jeffery said quietly. He was staring at the purring engine. Blaire had pulled a small pad from his pocket and was making calculations on it with a stylo pen. Atherton-Wayne coughed gently: when they glanced at him, he nodded towards the entrance. The three men moved across the bright room. The baronet swung open the door and turned to speak to Blaire, when the Inspector gave a sudden sharp ejaculation.

"What's that?"

Three heads snapped round. Three pairs of eyes followed his riveted stare. Driven into the centre panel of the door was a short-handled knife and pinned into position by the blade was a piece of paper.

"Holy sinners! Read said softly. Atherton-Wayne's face was grey marble, only his sensitive nostrils quivered as he breathed deeply. Blackburn was first to move; he flicked a handkerchief from his pocket and, stepping forward, wrapped it around the knife-handle and jerked. The blade came out easily. The paper fluttered to the floor. Inspector Read stooped to pick it up, but with a sudden movement like the uncoiling of a spring, Atherton-Wayne was before him. Holding the paper delicately between forefinger and thumb, he read the words scrawled upon it. Read and Blackburn shouldered him on either side, then the Inspector spoke without turning.

"A message for you, Blaire."

The chemist crossed the room, walking lightly, as a cat walks. Behind the thick lenses his eyes were wary. Without a word, he took the proffered paper and peered at it. The words were printed in ink.

"I will call tomorrow night. Listen for the hooting of The Owl."