Читать книгу Owl of Darkness - Max Afford - Страница 9

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Thunder on his brow, three morning papers twisted in his right hand, Chief Inspector William Jamison Read strode the corridors of New Scotland Yard. Manners, his private secretary, heard those heavy footsteps and gave a hopeless little shrug. When the door was flung open, he was typing busily. He looked up and nodded.

"Good morning, sir."

Read nodded curtly. "'Mornin'. Mail in yet?"

"I'm expecting it any moment now, Mr. Read, But I've put all the morning papers on your desk."

The big man's mouth set like a trap. "Don't talk to me about morning papers," he snarled, and waved a tightly rolled baton over his secretary's head. "What d'you think these are—Valentines?" He hunched his shoulders. "I'd like to take every single copy of this morning's press and ram it down the throats of those lily-livered editors till their eyes popped out!"

Manners' fingers reached for a typewritten slip among the papers on his desk. He cleared his throat preparatory to speaking, but Read cut in before him.

"What's that?" he snapped.

The secretary's voice was toneless. "Memorandum from the Assistant Commissioner, sir. He'd like to see you at your earliest convenience."

"You bet he would!" The Chief Inspector started in the direction of his private office. "Got any other good news, eh?"

"Mr. Blackburn is waiting inside, sir."

Read halted. He jerked his head towards his door and his tone was incredulous. "Jeff in there?" And as Manners nodded, "How long's he been waiting?"

"He came here shortly after nine o'clock," the secretary explained.

The big man nodded and strode across the room. He halted with one hand on the door, and his clipped grey moustache lifted in the faintest semblance of a sour smile. "Bring the mail in as soon as it comes, Manners." His tone was curt. "And I'm not to be disturbed—understand? If anyone wants me, I've gone roaming somewhere in Tibet—looking for a Shangri-la!"

He swung the door open and walked inside.

Lounging loosely in his swivel chair, his shoes on the desk, a tall, powerfully built young man lay back with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling through the smoke of a cigarette. A lock of brown hair snaked down across his forehead. The cigarette between his lips quivered as he spoke without moving.

"Ah!" said Mr. Jeffery Blackburn. "Joy cometh with the morning! How are you Chief?"

Read closed the door and stood with his back against it. His tone was savagely genial. "Who—me? Oh, I'm all right. And you're pretty comfortable yourself, I should say. If not, just let me know, and I'll send Manners out for a couple of cushions and a hot-water bottle!"

Jeffery took his feet off the desk, sat up and eyed the older man reproachfully. "Now, Mister Read, is that nice? Is that real old English courtesy? I tear myself away from my charming cottage at Thursby—"

The Chief Inspector crossed to the desk and leant over it, supporting himself on clenched fists. "Now, just a minute, my young cockerel," he said measuredly. "Just because your respected father was my closest friend—just because I took you under my wing when he died—just because I've given you more or less the run of this place, and in return you've given me a hand in solving a few tricky cases, all this doesn't give you permission to blow in here as though you owned the building, sit down in my chair and shove your number nines on my desk!" Read drummed with his fist. "So get out of that chair—tout suite!"

"Dammit," protested Jeffery, rising, "it's the only comfortable seat in the room!" He crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "You know dashed well you use these others to torture confessions out of your suspects."

"Jeff,"—Read folded his arms and fixed the young man with a basilisk eye—"I'm in no mood for your cheerful badinage this morning." He uncoiled one hand and waved a slip of paper in his companion's face. "See that, my boy? It's from the Assistant Commissioner. In half an hour I'm going to get enough hot air to last me for the rest of my life!" The Chief Inspector turned on his heel and dumped himself in his chair with such force that every spring squeaked in violent protest. "Where the devil have you been all this time, anyway? You weren't at your cottage, my boy. Parker told me you'd gone to the Riviera."

"All right, all right!" Ignoring the other's frown, Jeffery pushed a wire basket on one side and sat on the corner of the desk. "I was at Antilus, if you must know. But what's got you so rattled?"

"Seen the paper this morning?"

Jeffery shook his head. "Only the crossword puzzle. I started to do it while I was waiting for you."

"Crossword puzzle, eh!" Read's tone was heavy with contempt. "Well, my young professor, here's another crossword puzzle to occupy your mind—and if you work this one out, I'm the monkey's uncle!" A big paw thumped the half-dozen papers piled neatly on his desk. "You didn't, by any chance, read the editorial in this morning's Clarion?"

Jeffery was watching his friend curiously. Long association had inured him to the Chief Inspector's crusty whims, but this present mood was something deeper. There were lines on Read's bulldog face that told of sleepless nights and gnawing anxieties; the heavy wrinkle between the greying bushy eyebrows was newly formed. The young man stifled the flippant reply that rose to his lips. Instead he said simply: "No, Chief, I didn't."

The Chief Inspector rummaged through the pile of newspapers with ungentle hands, dragged one out and flicked through the pages. Coming upon what he sought, he folded the paper and leaned back in his chair. "Listen to this little journalistic classic," he snarled, clearing his throat.

"For a number of years" [he read], "Scotland Yard has been the Aunt Sally of the popular crime novelist. The great public have accepted this with the same good-natured tolerance with which they accept the mother-in-law gag or jokes about the English weather. But when the laugh is turned upon the public—when a single individual snaps his fingers at the resources of Scotland Yard and spreads terror and violence unhampered—it is quite time we readjusted our ideas concerning the so-called efficiency of an organization which spends thousands of pounds—taxpayers' money—in what is laughingly called 'protection' and law and order..."

The Chief Inspector raised his eyes and glared at his companion. "I don't see you smiling, Mr. Blackburn," he commented.

"I'm saving it till you get to the funny part," Jeffery said quietly.

"That's coming," Read announced, burying his head again. "Listen:

"Over the past two months, an individual cloaking his true identity under the fantastic sobriquet of 'The Owl' has committed no less than four major robberies. We first learnt of this criminal's existence when the strong room of the International and United Bank was blown open and an attempt was made to make off with £10,000 worth of bonds. We were told that the only clue obtained by the police was left by the criminal himself—a small piece of white pasteboard inscribed with three words—'Fly by Night'. We were to become very familiar with that card, for the next appearance was pinned to the unconscious body of a caretaker when Sir Charles Mortlake's famous Cellini Cup was stolen from his private museum..."

Again the Chief Inspector paused. Blackburn, in the act of lighting a cigarette, did not speak, but nodded to him to continue. Read's fingers tightened around the newspaper as he read on:

"The public had scarcely recovered from the shock of this audacious robbery when the newspapers were headlining the theft of the Duchess of Doone's diamond, snatched from her throat as she sat in her darkened box at Covent Garden. And the latest exploit of this daring criminal—the stealing of Lady Evelyn Harnett's valuable necklace—is too fresh in the public mind for detailed description. Meanwhile, however, the public rightfully demand an explanation as to why this reign of terror is allowed to continue unchecked. Is it because incompetent officials, collecting huge salaries, are hiding behind a political smoke-screen of..."

The big man, whose voice had gradually gathered rage, broke off with a snarl like an enraged animal. Jumping to his feet, he hurled the newspaper far across the room.

"Hell blast and blister their ruddy souls!" he roared. Hands thrust in pockets, bull neck forward, he began to pace the floor. "By God, I'd like to get my hands on the scribbling scavenger who wrote that benediction! I'd show him how 'incompetent' I am!" The big man halted opposite his friend, his eyes glittering. "Son, do you realize I haven't had a decent night's sleep since this unbegotten sneak thief jumped into the headlines? Do you know what I've been living on? Black coffee, black looks, and abuse!" He almost spat the words.

"Have a cigarette," suggested Jeffery calmly.

Read swept the proffered case aside with an angry gesture and resumed his pacing. "And you—the one person I can look to for help—where are you? Tanning the body beautiful in some moth-eaten watering place in the South of France!" The fire died out of the Chief Inspector's eyes and his square shoulders slumped. "Son, I'm beginning to think I'm too old for the job. I'm just waiting for the A.C. to suggest that it's time I retired, and so help me bob, I'll grab the chance with both hands!"

Blackburn edged himself off the desk and walked across to where Read stood plucking irritably at his grey clipped moustache.

"So it's as bad as that?" he asked quietly. "Then it's just as well I came at once."

"At once! Goddlemighty, boy, I sprayed telegrams all over the Continent after you!"

"One reached me only yesterday," Jeffery told him. "I chartered a 'plane straight away."

Slightly mollified, the other returned to his desk and sat down. "But didn't you know, Jeff? Every newspaper's been carrying scareheads bigger than a theatrical poster."

"Shunned 'em like a plague," retorted Jeffery cheerfully. "Haven't glanced at a newspaper or listened to a wireless in weeks." He pulled one of the recently maligned chairs up to the desk and sat down. "Anyway, I'm here, and that's all that matters for the moment. How long since our night-flying friend swooped?"

"Five days ago. Paid an early-morning call at Richmond. Got away with a pearl necklace, valued at something like six thousand pounds, the property of some scatterbrained society woman down there." The Chief Inspector pulled open a drawer and took out a small sheaf of papers fastened together with a clip. "You'll find the full report written here." He pushed the file across.

There was a pause as Jeffery flicked through the typewritten sheets. Read opened a box on his desk, took out a cigar and lit it, watching the young man as he did so. Presently the other raised his eyes.

"I notice," he observed, "that our mysterious friend is a stickler for the social niceties—always sends out his card before he calls."

The cigar in Read's mouth stuck out at a truculent angle. "That's his way of thumbin' his nose at us! I tell you, son, he's got the cheek of the devil himself."

Jeffery pushed the report to one side and leaned his elbows on the desk. "You've explored every possible avenue, of course?"

"Been over the scene of every crime with a small-tooth comb," Read assured him. "A dozen of our best men have raked the underworld and we've had salt on the tail of every informer in the square mile. Nothing doin'. Mister Owl flies solo."

"But surely there's some lead somewhere?"

The Chief Inspector shook his head. "Only those visiting-cards he leaves round about. I tell you, boy, it's almost uncanny the way this skunk covers his tracks! He's getting away with it so often it's starting to give Mr. and Mrs. John Public the blue willies!"

The faintest undercurrent of anxiety in the other's contemptuous observation made Blackburn glance at him sharply. "And just what do you mean by that, Chief?" he asked.

"Some damned sensation sheet started it." Read's voice was a disgusted mutter. He avoided the young man's eyes, being very interested in the burning tip of his cigar. "It suggested that this blighter might be superhuman, some arch-criminal who'd learnt the power of levitation—like a ruddy bird flying!" He thrust the cigar into his mouth and bit it savagely. "Lot of damn-fool nonsense, of course, but they say that's why he doesn't leave any tracks. And between you and me and a row of Commissioners, son, it's—well—it's gripping the public mind. Lots of people are afraid to venture out after dark lately—'specially in isolated country areas."

Jeffery made no comment. He gathered his big loose figure together and, rising, strolled across to the window. Outside, the river glittered under the fresh morning sun, dancing with a million spearpoints of light. The Air Force monument towered into a sky flecked with tiny clouds. Abruptly, the young man turned, and his voice was very quiet.

"All right, Chief, I'm ready. To tell the truth, I'm hungry for it! We'll work together again—between us we'll spread the birdlime all over England. And when The Owl settles on our own particular branch,"—he dropped his smoking cigarette to the floor and set his foot on it—"we'll crush him as easily as that!"

The Chief Inspector stood up and grasped his companion's hand. "Son," he said, "that's done me more good than a month at Margate. Old Horseface can chew the paper off the walls for all I care now. I'll just wait until he stops for breath," said Mr. Read, "then I'll stand back, look him squarely between those fishy eyes of his, and I'll say—"

Exactly what the Chief Inspector meant to tell the Assistant Commissioner, Jeffery was fated never to learn, for at that moment a knock sounded at the door. It opened, and Manners insinuated himself cautiously through the aperture, a movement that reminded Blackburn of a keeper entering the den of a fractious lion. The secretary carried a number of letters in his hand. He advanced to the desk, a wary eye on the Inspector.

"Mail, sir," he announced, depositing the letters in a wire basket. "And, Mr. Read..."

"Well?"

"Two people outside to see you—a young man and a girl."

Read, shuffling through the letters, did not even glance up. "Tell 'em I'm busy—tell 'em I'm in quarantine. Tell 'em anything, but don't let 'em in here."

Manners nodded. He was almost to the door when Jeffery spoke. "Who are these people?" he asked.

"The young woman said she was connected with a newspaper—" the secretary began.

A sudden detonation drowned the rest of his remark, for Read had thumped the desk with a force that made the metal inkpot jump from its stand. "God dammitall," he roared, "you let any of those ink-fingered spies into this office and, so help me Moses, I'll get you six months' solitary confinement on bread and water!" The big man glared at his unfortunate subordinate from under drawn brows. "Don't stand there gaping like an imbecile! Get rid of 'em—d'you hear me?"

"Yes, sir." Manners swallowed and reached for the door. "I wouldn't have mentioned it, but they said they had information about The Owl robberies."

"Then tell 'em to write another editorial about it."

The secretary shrugged. "As you like, sir. But this Miss Blaire seemed very anxious—"

Jeffery, watching this duologue with faint amusement, looked up sharply. "What name did you say?"

Manners turned to him. "The young lady gave her name as Miss Blaire—Elizabeth Blaire."

"Betty Blaire!" Jeffery's face lit up and he took a half step in the direction of the door. "Why, Chief, surely you remember Miss Blaire? She was the newspaper woman connected with that murder at the B.B.C.—don't you remember she gave us a most important suggestion regarding the locked studio?" Unconsciously, Jeffery pushed the lock of hair off his forehead. "You must recall the girl? Why, you were the one—"

Read interrupted sourly: "All right—yes—I remember her. But just because she's given us some help in the past doesn't mean we've got to put the welcome mat down whenever she appears."

"But didn't you hear what Manners said?" Jeffery demanded. "She wants to give us some information regarding these Owl robberies."

"So you think. She wants an exclusive interview so that she can spread my bleeding carcase all over the front page of her scandal sheet—"

An urgent young voice spoke from the door. "No, no, Mr. Read! Please believe me—you've got it all wrong!" And as the three men wheeled, Elizabeth Blaire walked into the room. She halted opposite the Chief Inspector, a slim, defiant figure with cheeks pink at her own temerity and brown eyes very bright. A ridiculous hat resembling an inverted bowl of fruit clung perilously to her sleek brown head. Her hands, twined in each other, were pressed nervously against her breast. The Chief Inspector stared blankly at her, and, taking advantage of his silence, the girl spoke again.

"Mr. Read—" her voice trembled slightly. "Give me five minutes—that's all I ask. If only you'll listen to me..." The words trailed off. The Chief Inspector, his face dark, stabbed a finger in the air.

"Young woman," he said measuredly, "there's a notice outside that door. It's a single word—Private! P-R-I-V-A-T-E! And it's not written up there for the fun of the thing. Understand?"

Elizabeth Blaire nodded. "I know I haven't any right to push my way in here, but I'll promise to go in five minutes—"

"In time to catch the first edition with your interview, eh?" Read growled. He gestured to Manners, who was still hovering uncertainly near the door. The girl saw the movement and turned towards Jeffery.

"Mr. Blackburn," she said desperately, "you remember me, I know. Please help me convince the Chief Inspector that I don't want an interview. I'm not even connected with newspapers now. I—I..." The brown eyes dropped for a moment. "I only said that because I—I thought it would get me in here." She moved a step closer so that the bunch of scarlet cherries on her hat was almost level with his chin. "It's about this Owl—this criminal. I know when he's going to strike again. My brother Edward has received the warning cards!"

She paused. Her breast rose and fell with her hurried breathing.

With a gesture of his head, Jeffery sent Manners from the room and pulled up a chair. "Sit down, Miss Blaire," he invited.

The girl turned for Read's approval. That gentleman nodded curtly. "All right," he growled, "but if this is a stunt—"

"Of course it isn't," Jeffery snapped. "Haven't you heard what Miss Blaire said?" He turned to the girl, who had seated herself gingerly on the edge of the chair. "Now, what's all this?" he asked gently.

Elizabeth Blaire glanced towards the door. "I have a friend waiting outside," she told them. "If he could be present..." She ignored the Chief Inspector's frowning figure and addressed the young man. "He's my—my fiancé...Robert Ashton."

Blackburn strode across the room' and flung open the door. As he did so, a stocky, fair-haired young man pacing the floor turned sharply. He had strong, masculine features and a mouth that could be both obstinate and sulky. Jeffery beckoned him inside and Elizabeth performed rather awkward introductions. Then Jeffery pulled up a chair for himself. "Now, Miss Blaire," he said genially, "what's the trouble?"