Читать книгу Owl of Darkness - Max Afford - Страница 7

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The young man sat up in bed. A breeze from the open window chilled his bare chest where his buttonless pyjamas hung open. He pulled the garment about his broad shoulders and reached for the wristwatch lying on a small table near by. The luminous hands pointed to 3.30.

What had awakened him?

Certainly not discomfort. The bed was soft and warm under his body. Snuggling into the feather pillows, he had fallen asleep almost instantly, to dream of wide paddocks and fire-scorched tree-trunks. And now, even as he sat staring into the darkness, scattered fragments of that vision returned. He had been bird-nesting in that blackened forest, and had spied a magpie's nest tilting on a charred bough. A lone bird guarded it, and as he climbed, it was not a magpie that waited there, but a huge owl. It had screeched and swooped down on him beating wings...

An owl!

He found himself listening for that screech again. And his mind flew back to that incident in the drawing-room before supper. The dance music had faded and, as the partners stood waiting, a voice had apologized for the interruption and announced a police message. The concentrated sharpness that new impressions always make had etched phrases of that message on Andy Maxton's brain.

"One hundred pounds reward will be paid for information regarding the criminal known as 'The Owl'...he operates alone...takes his name from his habit of moving out after nightfall and giving a curious cry like the screech of an owl...lock your doors...The Owl flies by night..."

And as those last ominous words had faded and the music had swelled again, Lady Evelyn Harnett had uttered a bitten-off scream. When they turned, she had fainted to the floor. Servants hurried with restoratives. A few minutes later she had recovered and permitted herself to be led, leaning heavily and with her face pale and twitching, to the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later she was once more among armoured in that cold self-control, murmuring apologetically of a faulty heart. Nothing particularly sinister, perhaps, in the memory of a swooning woman, yet, linked with her strange detached manner of the afternoon, the incident returned to the young man's mind, touched with dark significance.

Then he heard the footsteps.

Gentle, light, and somehow rustling, they were moving down the passage outside his room. Maxton swept back the bedclothes and thrust out one leg, to pause in an agony of indecision. All the Colonial's horror of a breach of convention was on him, and his position as guest in this house made the situation even more uncertain. What would happen if he challenged this nocturnal prowler to discover some member of the household bent on legitimate business?

He pulled the bedclothes about him and waited.

The footsteps had passed now, swallowed in the ceaseless mutter of the river. The room was darker. Through the window he caught a glimpse of a sickle moon tangled in the trees. The luminous face of his watch glowed coldly. Somewhere in the room a beam cracked, and every nerve in Maxton's body leapt and throbbed and tingled. He found himself listening again, ears strained until the drumming of his blood merged with the river's whisper. Sweat had sprung out on his body; he felt it oozing down his bare chest, but he made no move to wipe it away. The unbroken undercurrent of sound in the room was almost hypnotic.

That is why he did not move until the voice screamed a second time.

The screams followed each other so closely that only a sharp, indrawn breath of terror separated them. They tore at the drumming silence with the incisive shrillness of ripping silk. And almost immediately the house responded. The place became alive with scuttering febrile movement. Voices were raised. Doors slammed. Lights flashed on. Footsteps, the heavy blundering footsteps of honest panic, ran and halted and ran again. Someone was hammering at a door.

Andy Maxton leapt from the bed, fought his way into his dressing-gown, and without waiting to switch on lights tore open the door of his room and raced out into the corridor. The brightly lit, carpeted length was unfamiliar to him. He stood for a moment, trying to focus that rising tide of perturbation. At one end of the passage a long window looked out on the dark garden. Then the front of the house lay behind him. He was about to turn when his attention was attracted by the sudden appearance of a figure at the far end, near the window. In the same moment the newcomer saw him, stiffened and paused, motionless.

Andy stared. "Good God!" he whispered.

The creature at the far end of the passage was swathed from head to foot in a long black robe that swept the floor. But the face above it was the face of a bird of prey! Two pale, lidless eyes blazed above the cruel hooked beak of a nose. Maxton felt the hair on his neck prickle, and he was conscious of a great wave of nausea that engulfed him. Fear was blotted out in the primitive urge to rend and destroy this inhuman thing. With a bellow of rage, the young man charged down the passage.

What followed was more horrible still.

The creature in black raised its arms, sweeping the robe into two billowing, wing-like drapes. Maxton had a brief, nightmarish glimpse of fingers crooked like claws, then with a harsh scream the figure sprang for the window. So powerful was the movement that Maxton had the impression of a great bird gliding through the air; there was a sudden splintering of glass and it was gone. Then he was aware that the passage was filled with faces. He wheeled and licked his dry lips. Menzies, the chauffeur, was approaching, a heavy iron wrench in his hand. Insmith followed a pace behind, leaner than ever in a hastily tied dressing-gown. The two Canadian girls clung to each other, eyes wide in shiny faces. A small knot of frightened domestics brought up the rear. It was the New Zealander who spoke first, pushing his way forward.

"Maxton, are you all right?"

Andy nodded, gesturing towards the window. "Went that way—out into the garden..." He moistened his lips again and his deep tone trembled. "My God, Insmith, what was it?"

The New Zealander's thin face was dark. "You saw it?"

"My oath! I made a dive at it—and it flew through that window! Flew—like a bird!"

Menzies gave a dry chuckle. "Pretty downy bird, then. 'Cause he's jus' got away with one o' the finest necklaces in England! Lifted 'em right under her ladyship's nose, calm as custard!" As he spoke, the chauffeur stared at that splintered hole in the window as though mesmerized.

Maxton looked at Insmith. "What's this?" he snapped.

The other nodded. "The pearls were in the safe in Lady Evelyn's bedroom," he said quietly. "She woke up and caught him in the act. She screamed twice before he sprang on her."

"Was she harmed?"

Insmith shook his head. "No. She fainted. The alarm was raised at once, thank God. That manservant..."—he wheeled on Menzies—"what's his name...?"

"Keaton."

"Yes. He's getting the police on the 'phone now. But the safe was open and the necklace had disappeared."

One of the doors farther down the passage opened and Keaton stepped out. His smooth face was waxen pale and wiped clean of all expression. But as he came closer Maxton noticed that the dark eyes were very bright and he could not quite control his mouth. Keaton's first words were addressed to the staff rather than the guests.

"There must be no panic. No panic at all. The police will be here in a few minutes." His voice was soft, modulated, kept that way by the same iron control that ruled his face. He turned to Menzies. "Take Ada and Jenny back to their rooms and wait there for me. I shall call you when the police arrive."

The chauffeur nodded and, shepherding the servants before him, set out for the rear of the house. Keaton turned to Insmith. "Might I suggest, sir, that you take the two young ladies into the drawing-room? I have poked up the fire;" and, like Menzies, the New Zealander and his shivering companions moved off without a word.

Keaton watched them go. Standing there, Maxton felt a genuine admiration for this man's icy repose. To break the awkward silence that had fallen he asked lamely:

"You got on to the police all right?"

Keaton turned slowly. "Yes, sir." His eyes flickered in the direction of the shattered window. "If Lady Evelyn had taken my advice," he added, "they would have been in this house all day."

"What do you mean?"

A movement, too indeterminate to be called a shrug, settled lightly on the other's shoulders. "There is a reward of one hundred pounds for the capture of The Owl," he said calmly.

Andy stared. "That's it—an owl!"

Keaton said quietly: "Her ladyship knew he was coming. She had been warned. Three times in the past week those cards came." He was speaking more naturally now, as though it was almost a relief to talk. "I begged her to go to the police, but she feared the publicity. Instead, she preferred to fill her house with guests." The pause was subtly barbed.

But Andy Maxton's mind was on other things. "You were first into Lady Evelyn's room after that scream?" And as Keaton nodded: "What did you see?"

"The small bowl lamp beside the bed was alight. Lady Evelyn was lying in the centre of the floor, between the bed and the wall safe." The servant closed his eyes as if picturing the scene in his mind. "I noticed that the door of the safe was hanging open. I noticed two other things, also."

"What?"

"One was the empty case of the necklace, tossed down on the floor. The other..." Keaton stopped and gave a quick glance over his shoulder. "The other was this..." He reached in the pocket of his dressing-gown and produced a small square of white pasteboard. Maxton took the proffered card and turned it over. One side was blank. On the reverse, three words were printed in ink.

"Fly by Night."

Andy looked up. "Where did you find this?" he asked.

"It was lying a few inches away from Lady Evelyn's body," Keaton replied.

A loud knocking sounded through the house. The servant started like a man springing to attention. With that summons, all the old subservience returned, and Keaton inclined his head. "Excuse me, sir," he murmured. "This, I think, will be the police."

But Andy Maxton did not move. He was still staring at the card in his hand when Keaton opened the door to the officers of the law.