Читать книгу The Green Archer - Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace - Страница 11

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He bought the newspaper. The account had evidently been supplied by the same person who had sent the letter to the Globe, the actual news being contained in five lines. Beneath was a long explanatory note, giving the history of Garre Castle, and the record of previous appearances of the Green Archer.

"It is a tradition of the country that the mysterious ghost is dressed in green from head to toe. Not only that, but the tradition is that his bow and his arrows are of the same hue."

"In fact," said Spike as he folded the newspaper, "he's green."

It was a long drive to New Barnet, and Field Road proved literally to be a road through fields. Rose Cottage lay back behind high box hedges, and was a creeper-clad house, with a tiny garden in front and apparently a bigger garden at the rear which led to a small plantation. This Spike saw from the cab. Unlatching the small gate, he walked up the flagged path and knocked. There was no answer, though the door was unlocked and was, in fact, ajar. He knocked again, and again received no reply.

Pushing the door open, he called Creager by name, and when that had failed he walked back to the road to look for somebody. There was a woman in sight; she had apparently come from one of the small houses at the farther end of the road.

"Mr. Creager? Yes, sir, he lives here, and he's usually at home at this time of the day."

"He doesn't seem to be at home now. Is there anybody else in the house?"

"No, sir; he lives alone. My sister comes in in the morning and cleans up the house for him. Why don't you go in and wait, sir?"

It seemed an excellent idea, especially as it had begun to rain, and, pushing open the door, Spike walked boldly down the passage into what was evidently the living-room. It was comfortably furnished, and over the mantelpiece was a portrait, which he recognised instantly as the bearded man. He was in some sort of uniform, which Spike could not recognise.

He sat down, and, taking the newspaper out of his pocket, read over again the story of the Green Archer. It was extraordinary, he thought, that traditions of this kind could live in the twentieth century and that there were still people who believed in manifestations such as were described here.

Putting the paper down, he glanced idly out of the window, which commanded a view of the garden, and instantly sprang up. Protruding from behind a bush on the farther side of the tiny lawn was a foot—and it was very still.

He raced out of the room, crossed the lawn, and ran round to the farther side of the bush, and there stopped, paralysed.

Lying on his back, his eyes half closed, his hands clenched in the agony of death, lay the bearded man; and from his waistcoat, immediately above his hands, protruded the long green shaft of an arrow, tipped with vivid green feathers.

Spike knelt down at the dead man's side and sought for some sign of life, but there was none. And then he began to make a rapid survey of the immediate vicinity. The garden was separated from the fields into which it was thrust by a low wooden hedge, over which any agile man could vault. He guessed that Creager had been killed instantaneously and fallen as he had been struck.

Jumping over the hedge, he began his search. Ten paces from the fence was a big oak tree. It lay exactly in line with the arrow's flight. Round this he went, examining the ground almost inch by inch. There were no footprints, and the tree itself was in full view of the road. He looked up, caught one of the low branches, and swung himself up until he was astride. Edging forward, he came at last to a place which gave him a full view of the body. Instinctively he knew that it was from this branch that the arrow had been fired. The tree was leafy and offered cover, and it was likely, since the dead man must have been facing the way the arrow came, that his slayer was out of sight.

He must have dropped when he loosed his arrow, thought Spike, and came to the ground again. Here he was rewarded, for the murderer, in jumping down, had left two clear footprints. He had left something even more important, but this Spike did not see immediately. He found it after a while by accident. It was an arrow, similar to that in Creager's body. The shaft was polished smooth and covered with green enamel. The feathers were new, green, and well trimmed. It looked too ornamental for use, but the arrow's point was needle-sharp.

Going back to the house, he sent the taxi-driver to bring the police. They came, in the shape of a uniformed constable and sergeant, and were followed in extraordinarily quick time by a man from Scotland Yard, who took immediate charge of the house and arranged the removal of the body.

Long before the police arrived Spike had made a very searching inspection of the house. This examination included the wholly unauthorised inspection of such of Creager's private papers as he could find. He soon discovered the significance of the uniform which the man wore in his photograph. Creager had been a prison guard, or warder as they call them in England, had served twenty-one years, and had received an honourable discharge. A certificate to this effect was one of the first papers he found in the dead man's bureau. What he was anxious to unearth, however, was some paper which would explain Creager's relationship with Abe Bellamy. There was one drawer of the old-fashioned desk which he could not open and did not dare force.

He found the man's bank-book, however, and learnt to his surprise that Creager was comparatively rich. He had a balance of over two thousand pounds to his credit. A rapid inspection of the pages of this book showed that on the first of every month Creager received forty pounds, which, according to the book, was paid in in cash. His pension was easy to trace because it was paid quarterly. This and the mysterious monthly receipts, and such interests on bonds as the man held, were the only entries on the credit side.

He had just finished making extracts from the pass-book when the police arrived, and he went out to meet them. Shortly afterwards the police surgeon arrived and saw the body.

"He's been dead more than an hour," he concluded. "The arrow has passed right through him. It must have been extraordinarily sharp."

To Scotland Yard men Spike produced the second arrow and pointed out the spot where it had been found.

"The man who did this was an expert," said the detective in charge. "He aimed to kill, and he must have been pretty certain that he would kill. This is the first arrow murder I've ever seen. You had better keep in touch with us, Holland. I suppose you want to go to your newspaper and make your big howl. But first you'd better tell me just why you were here at all."

Spike gave a prompt account of what had happened at the Carlton, and added a further piece of information which left the detective open-mouthed.

"Green Archer!" he said incredulously. "You're not suggesting that this job was done by a ghost, are you? If it was, then I can tell you he was a mighty substantial ghost, because it wanted an arm like iron and a bow like steel to send that arrow through Creager from the distance the string was loosed. We'll go along and see Bellamy."

Mr. Abe Bellamy was on the point of departure for Berkshire when the police officers arrived, and he was neither shocked nor perturbed by the news they gave him.

"Yes, it is perfectly true I fired him out. Creager was useful to me many years ago, and I made him a very handsome allowance for the service he rendered me. He saved my life—jumped into the water for me when my boat over-turned on the river."

(That is a lie, thought Spike, watching the old man.)

"What was the quarrel about this morning, Mr. Bellamy?"

"It wasn't exactly a quarrel, but of late he's been urging me to lend him the money to buy a piece of land adjoining that on which his own house is built, and I have refused. Today he got a little fresh, threatened me—well, he didn't exactly threaten," corrected Mr. Bellamy with a harsh laugh, "but . . . anyway, he got mad at me, and I threw him out."

"Where did he save your life, Mr. Bellamy?" asked the detective.

"At Henley, seven years ago last summer," replied Bellamy promptly.

(You've had that date fixed in your mind, and that has always been the explanation you were going to offer for subsidising this man, noted Spike mentally.)

"At that time he would be in the prison service," said the detective.

"I believe he was," replied Bellamy, somewhat impatiently. "But when this occurred he was on his holidays. I guess you'll be able to verify all that information from his record."

Spike was satisfied in his mind that, when the records came to be examined, ample confirmation would be found.

"I guess that's all I can tell you, officer," said Bellamy. "This fellow was shot, you say?"

"He was killed by an arrow," replied the officer, "a green arrow."

Only for a second did Bellamy lose control over his face.

"A green arrow?" he repeated incredulously. "An arrow—a green arrow? What in——" He recovered himself with an effort, and a slow smile dawned on his face and made him a little more unprepossessing than usual. "Victim of your ghost story, Holland," he sneered. "Green arrow and Green Archer, eh? Was it you who put the story in the paper?"

"Reporters seldom put stories in other newspapers than their own," said Spike smoothly. "But you bet, Mr. Bellamy, we're going to have a story tomorrow. And that old Green Archer of yours will have a special column of his own."