Читать книгу The Green Archer - Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace - Страница 8

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Spike looked at his watch. It wanted five minutes to one, but he had hardly seated himself to wait for his host before the remarkable John Wood came quickly through the swing doors. He was a tall man, prematurely grey, with a face of singular beauty. The eyes lived, and the sensitive mouth seemed to speak even when it was in repose.

He gripped the reporter's hand warmly.

"I'm not late?" he asked. "I've been very busy all the morning. I want to catch the half-past two train to the Continent, and that means a rush."

They passed into the big dining-room together, and the head waiter conducted them to a secluded table in a corner. Spike, glancing at the delicate face, could not help making a contrast with the fascinating ugliness of the man he had just left. He was the very antithesis of Abe Bellamy, a gentle soul, whose eyes smiled all the time. His every movement was alert and vital, and the long, white hands seemed never to be still.

"Now, what do you want to know? Perhaps I can tell you everything before the soup comes. I'm an American——"

"That I shouldn't have guessed," said Spike, and John Wood nodded.

"I have lived a very long time in this country," he said. "In fact, I haven't been home for"—he paused—"many years," he added. "I don't want to talk very much about myself, and I'll get over the modest recital of my virtues as quickly as I possibly can. I live in Belgium, at a place called Wenduyne. I have a home there for consumptive children, which, by the way, I am moving to Switzerland this year. I am the inventor of the Wood's system of carburation, I am a bachelor—and I think that is about all."

"It is about the children's institution that I wanted to speak to you," said Spike. "We got a story about it from the Belgian Independent. They said you were raising funds to provide in every country in Europe a mother college. Now, what is a mother college, Mr. Wood?"

The grey man leant back in his chair and thought for some time before he replied.

"In every country in Europe, and particularly in this country, there is the problem of the unwanted child. Perhaps 'unwanted' is not the word. A widow is left penniless with one or two children to support. It is impossible for her to get her living unless the children are taken care of, and that costs money. There are other little children whose coming is dreaded, whose birth is a calamity, and who must be rushed out of sight, probably into some wretched home, the woman of which, for a few dollars a week, undertakes to look after and to bring them up. Not a year passes in some country or other where these baby farmers are not brought to justice, either for neglecting or for destroying these helpless mites."

He then outlined his scheme: the institution of great mother colleges, to which the unwanted child should be taken, where it would be cared for by trained nurses.

"We would take in probationers, who would pay us a fee for their tuition in the art of baby care. I think in course of time we could make these institutions self-supporting, and we should certainly give to the world healthy boys and girls fit to face the stress of life."

Throughout the meal he talked children and nothing but children. Babies were his joy; he rhapsodised about a tiny German orphan that had just come to his Belgian institution, and grew so animated that guests at other tables looked round.

"If you don't mind my saying as much, Mr. Wood, you have a queer hobby."

The other laughed.

"I suppose I have," he said, and then quickly: "Who are those people?"

A little party had come into the dining-room, two men and a girl. The first of the men was tall, thin, and white-haired, and on his face was a look of settled melancholy. His companion was a smartly dressed young man, whose age might have been anything from nineteen to thirty. He looked to be the kind who lived to justify his tailor. From the top of his glossy fair head to the tips of his enamelled shoes he was an advertisement for good valeting. But it was the girl to whom their eyes returned.

"That's the only woman I have ever seen who comes near to a magazine cover," said Spike.

"Who is she?"

"Miss Howett—Miss Valerie Howett. The old man is Walter Howett, an Englishman who lived for many years in the States in a poor way until oil was found on his farm. And the fashion-plate is English—Featherstone. He's a lounge lizard. I've seen him at every night-club in London."

The party took a table near to where they sat, and Wood had an opportunity of a closer inspection of the girl.

"She is very lovely," he said in a lower tone; but Spike had risen from the table and had gone across to shake hands with the elderly American.

He came back after a while.

"Mr. Howett wishes me to go up to his sitting-room after lunch, Mr. Wood," he said. "I wonder if you'll excuse me?"

"Surely," nodded the other.

Twice during the meal the girl's eyes wandered across to where they sat, with a questioning, uncertain glance, as though she had met John Wood before and was wondering in what circumstances.

Spike had turned the conversation from babies to a subject which was at that moment interesting him more keenly.

"Mr. Wood, I suppose in your travels you never met a ghost?"

"No," said the other with a quiet smile, "I don't think I have."

"Do you know Bellamy?" asked Spike.

"Abel Bellamy—yes, I know of him. He is the Chicago man who bought Garre Castle."

Spike nodded.

"And Garre Castle is the home of the Green Archer," said Spike. "Old man Bellamy isn't so proud of his ghost as some people would be, and he has tried to switch me off what looks to be like a pretty good story."

He told all he knew about the Green Archer of Garre, and his companion listened without comment.

"It is queer," he said at last. "I know the legend of Garre Castle, and I have heard of Mr. Bellamy."

"Do you know him well?" asked Spike quickly; but the other shook his head.

Soon after, Mr. Howett's party rose and went out, and, beckoning the waiter, Wood paid his bill and they followed.

"I have to write a letter," said Wood. "Will you be long with Mr. Howett?"

"I'll not be five minutes," said Spike. "I don't know what he wants to see me about, but I guess it won't keep me very long."

The Howetts' sitting-room was on the same floor as Bellamy's, and the old man was waiting for him. Mr. Featherstone apparently had gone, and only the millionaire and his daughter were in the room.

"Come in, Holland," said Howett. He had a sad voice and his manner was gloomy. "Valerie, this is Mr. Holland; Holland is a newspaper man who may be able to help you."

The girl gave him a nod and a half-smile.

"Really it is my daughter who wishes to see you, Holland," said Howett, to Spike's gratification. He looked at the girl dubiously and then at the reporter.

"The truth is, Mr. Holland, I want to trace a lady who lived in London twelve years ago." She hesitated. "A Mrs. Held. She lived in Little Bethel Street, Camden Town. I've already made inquiries in the street. It is a dreadful slum, and there is nobody there who remembers her. I should not know that she was there at all," she went on, "only a letter came into my possession." Again she stopped. "It came to me unknown to the person to whom it was addressed, and who had every reason to keep her whereabouts a secret. A few weeks after it was written she disappeared."

"Have you advertised?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I've done everything that is possible. The police have been helping for years."

Spike shook his head.

"I'm afraid I cannot be of much assistance to you."

"That's what I thought," said Howett. "But my daughter has an idea that newspapers hear a great deal more than the police——"

It was a voice in the corridor outside that interrupted, a loud, strident, harsh voice, raised in anger, and followed by a thud. He looked round, and immediately Spike, who recognised the sound, was in the corridor.

A strange sight met him. The bearded man whom Julius had called Creager was picking himself slowly from the floor, and standing in the doorway of his sitting-room was the huge bulk of Abe Bellamy.

"You'll be sorry for this," quavered Creager.

"Get out and stay out," roared Abe Bellamy. "If ye come here again I'll heave ye through the window."

"I'll make you pay!" The bearded man was almost sobbing in his rage.

"Not in dollars and cents," said the old man grimly. "And listen, Creager! You've got a pension from your Government, haven't you? See that you don't lose it." And with this he turned into the room and slammed the door.

Spike went toward the man as he limped down the corridor.

"What's wrong?"

Creager stopped to brush his knees.

"You'll know all about it," he said, and then: "You're a reporter, aren't you? I've got something for you."

Spike was first and foremost a newspaper man; a story to him was meat and drink, the beginning and end of his day's ambition. He went back to Howett.

"Will you excuse me for a time? I want to see this man."

"Who was it that struck him—Bellamy?"

It was the girl who asked, and there was a certain suppressed vehemence in her tone which made Spike open his eyes.

"Yes, Miss Howett. Do you know him?"

"I've heard of him," she said slowly.

Spike accompanied the aggrieved Creager into the hall. The man was white and trembling, and it was some time before he could recover his voice.

"It is perfectly true what he said. I may lose my pension, but I'm going to risk that. Look here, Mister——"

"Holland's my name," said Spike.

"I can't tell you here, but if you'll come to my house—Rose Cottage, Field Road, New Barnet——"

Spike jotted down the address.

"I'll tell you something that'll make a sensation. Yes, that's what it will make," he said with relish, "a sensation."

"Fine," said Spike. "When can I see you?"

"Come in a couple of hours' time." And with a nod he was gone.

"That man looks shaken," said Wood, an interested spectator.

"Yes, he's had a bad handling—and he has a story that I particularly want to write."

"I heard him say that," said Mr. Wood with a smile. "And now, Holland, I fear I must go. Come over and see me in Belgium." He held out his hand at parting. "Perhaps one day I will give you a story about Abe Bellamy—the biggest story of all. If you wish for further particulars about the colleges, do not hesitate to wire."

Spike returned to the Howetts' sitting-room to discover that Miss Howett had gone to her room with a bad headache, and that the discussion of the help he could give her was indefinitely postponed.