Читать книгу Biggles Flies West - W E Johns - Страница 11

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In the years that were gone he had known at least a few happy hours, the all-too-brief spells when his sailor father had come home from the deep seas, but now there would be no more. A horror that had haunted him ever since he was old enough to know that ships were sometimes wrecked had come to pass. The Seadream had made her last voyage and his father would come home no more. There would be no more counting the days until his return; no more scanning the shipping columns of the papers he sold for a living, seeking the name of his father’s ship, and its position; no more watching for the Seadream’s blunt, rust-encrusted bows to come ploughing up the river; no more cheering at the wharf; no more long, after-supper talks about strange, foreign parts of the world. No more. Those days had gone, gone for good, and with them had gone the only thing that had made his life worth living—his father.

His mother he had never known. A hard-faced bad-tempered woman had looked after him during his father’s long absences at sea until he was thirteen; then she, too, had died, and thereafter he had fended for himself, maintaining a tiny attic in Wapping, overlooking the river, which his father shared when he was home.

But the struggle for existence had been a hard one, and although his short fair hair was neatly brushed, and his clear blue eyes alert, his cheeks were pale and pinched from under-nourishment. His clothes were, as might be expected, threadbare, and did little either to protect his body, or improve his down-and-out appearance. Dick was, in fact, down—down in the depths of despondency; but he was far from out.

He had first read of the wreck of the Seadream in one of the papers he had been selling, and the memory of that dreadful moment still kept him awake at night. Then, weeks afterwards, had come the joyful news that his father had been one of the two or three survivors and was in hospital at Boston, in America. This had been followed by more weeks of silence and suspense that had only an hour before been ended by the arrival at his dingy room of an unknown sailor who had broken the terrible news that his father, exhausted by privations as a castaway after the wreck, had died. At least, that was the official story, but the sailor, whose name Dick had forgotten to ask, had told a different tale.

That it was true Dick had no reason to doubt, for the sailor had brought him a letter from his father, which now lay on the deal table in front of him. He had—so the sailor had said—handed it to him on his deathbed, charging him to give it to his son when he returned to London. These instructions the sailor had obeyed faithfully, as a service from one sailor to another, and thereafter departed, Dick knew not whither.

The circumstances of his father’s death were as painful as they were mysterious, for he had died, not in hospital as might have been supposed, but in a low dive on the waterfront. The sailor had told him how he also had spent the night in the dive while looking for a ship, but in the early hours of the morning he had been awakened by low moans coming from the next room. Upon investigation he had found a British sailor named Jack Denver, Dick’s father, bleeding to death from a knife thrust in the back; but before he had died he had handed him the letter, asking him as a favour to deliver it into the hands of his son, at Number 1, Bride’s Alley, Wapping, on his return to the Port of London. The sailor, who had left Boston on the next tide, true to his word, had delivered the letter, which still lay unopened on the table.

Why he had not opened it Dick did not know. Possibly it was because he felt that once the letter was opened, it would be the end. While it remained sealed there would still be a final message to look forward to from the only human being he had ever loved. So he had hesitated, trying to prolong the pleasure that was really agony.

For the hundredth time he picked up the envelope, turning it over and over in his hands. It was bulky, and heavy, with the name and address written faintly in lead pencil. He recognized his father’s handwriting, but he knew that he must have been very weak when he had written it, for normally his writing was bold and decisive.

The hoarse hoot of a ship’s siren made him glance through the window again, and he saw the bulk of a deep-sea tramp steamer, huge and distorted in the gloom, creeping out on the tide. The picture would have been a dismal one at any time, but now it was depressing in the extreme. The mist, which was really a fine drizzle, hung low, like dirty yellow smoke, saturating everything with its clammy moisture. The water dripped slowly from the eaves, splashed monotonously from the leaky spouting and ran in tiny rivulets down the window panes. Far away on the other side of the river a line of dim, yellow sparks showed where the street lamps were being lighted.

From the contemplation of this miserable scene Dick was suddenly interrupted by a sound that brought a perplexed frown to his forehead, for it was a noise that he seldom heard. Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs; loud, clumsy footsteps, as if the feet were unaccustomed to thick boots or narrow stairs. That they were coming to his room was certain, for the staircase was a cul-de-sac that ended in the attic. Who could it be? His heart gave a lurch and his hands began to tremble, as the deliberate tread on the bare boards struck a chord in his memory. It reminded him of his father.

Dropping the letter among some unsold papers that lay scattered on the far side of the table, he walked quickly to the door and threw it open just as a stranger arrived at the head of the stairs, and there was something so sinister in his manner and appearance that, prompted by an acute instinct of self-preservation, Dick recoiled backward into the room. The man followed until his bulk filled the narrow doorway, from where he regarded Dick with cold, questioning eyes, that slanted upwards at the ends in a manner that suggested remote oriental ancestry.

In stature he was short, but broad, and obviously of great physical strength, an impression that was emphasized by arms that hung nearly down to his knees, like those of a gorilla. Indeed, he was not unlike a great ape, for the backs of his hands, now slowly opening and closing, were covered with downy red hair. His face, like his body, was short and broad, with a wide, thin-lipped mouth that was not improved by a large, semicircular scar, like a crescent moon, at one corner. His eyebrows, the same colour as the hair on his hands, were straight, shaggy, and hung far over his little restless eyes. A greasy blue jersey covered his powerful torso and suggested that he was a seafaring man.

For a moment or two they regarded each other speculatively, and then the stranger spoke.

‘Wot’s your name, pup?’ he asked slowly, in a low, expressionless voice.

‘Dick—Dick Denver,’ replied Dick a trifle nervously, for although he was no coward there was something in the other’s manner that alarmed him.

‘Jack Denver’s brat, eh?’

‘Jack Denver was my father.’

‘Him as was on the Seadream?’

‘Yes—that’s right.’

‘Joe Dawkin ’as been ’ere to see you, ain’t he?’

Dick shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of Joe Dawkin,’ he answered truthfully.

‘Well, you’ve had a sailor man ’ere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Brought you a letter from your old man?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Where is it?’ The stranger fired out the words like pistol shots.

‘Why, what’s that got to do——’

‘Never mind what that’s got to do with me. Where is it?’ The stranger seemed to force the words through his teeth, slowly, in a manner that was distinctly threatening.

‘What do you want with it?’

‘Give it to me!’

Dick’s eyes flashed suddenly, and he set his teeth. ‘No,’ he said obstinately.

With horrible deliberation the other drew a heavy clasp knife from his pocket. A long, pointed blade jerked open with a click. ‘So you won’t, eh?’ he said in the same monotonous undertone that he had first employed.

The wicked-looking blade seemed to fascinate Dick; he could not tear his eyes away from it. He was still staring at it when the sailor began to edge very slowly into the room, his body bent forward, jaw out-thrust, his thin lips curled back in an animal snarl revealing two rows of broken, discoloured teeth.

For one dreadful moment Dick retreated before him, but when his groping hands touched the wall behind him and he knew he could go no farther he nearly fell into a panic. Picking up the one rickety chair the room possessed, he swung it with all his force against the window, and before the crash of falling glass had died away he had rushed to the spot. ‘Help! Help!’ he screamed.

He heard the sailor coming and leapt aside just in time. A whirling arm missed him by inches. But the sailor’s quick rush had left the doorway open, and before he could prevent it Dick had ducked like lightning under the table and was streaking for the stairs like a rabbit going into its burrow. Nor did he stop when he reached them. Down he went, taking them four and five at a time at imminent risk of breaking his neck. Nor did he stop even when he reached the hall at the bottom. The front door stood wide open. Through it he dashed into the street, and turning sharply to the right, ran down the shining pavement in search of a policeman.

He had not gone a dozen yards, however, when his progress was cut short by a collision that knocked most of the breath out of him. Three figures emerged suddenly from the gloom as they walked briskly along the pavement; he tried to avoid them, but his feet slipped on the greasy stone, and almost before he knew what was happening he found himself being tightly held in a pair of strong arms.

‘Hi, hi! Not so fast, my lad. What’s all the hurry about?’ said a quiet voice reproachfully, yet not without a twinge of humour.

Dick knew by the softly modulated tones that his captor was a gentleman, and he gave a gasp of relief. ‘There’s a man up in my room, sir,’ he gasped desperately.

The other laughed softly. ‘Well, I don’t suppose he’ll eat you,’ he said cheerfully.

‘He tried to kill me, though,’ declared Dick bitterly.

‘Tried to kill you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How?’

‘With a knife.’

‘What made him try to do that?’

‘He came to rob me.’

‘Rob you?’ There was incredulity in the question.

One of the others laughed. ‘Of what?’

‘A letter, sir. A letter I’ve just had from my father. Don’t let him take it, sir,’ pleaded Dick passionately.

‘We’d better look into this, Algy,’ muttered the man who held him, as he relaxed his grip. ‘Where do you live, son?’

‘Up here, sir, on the top floor.’ Dick led the way to the sombre hall.

‘Mind how you go, Biggles. It doesn’t look too healthy in there to me,’ said the youngest of the three strangers, who, Dick now saw, was not much older than himself.

‘Fiddlesticks! We’re in London, not Port Said,’ was the curt reply. ‘Come on.’

Dick followed his helpers to the top of the stairs. The landing was in darkness, but a narrow bar of light below the closed door suggested that someone was inside.

The one whom the others had called Biggles, a slim, clean-shaven man with a keen, thoughtful face, tried the door. It was locked. He struck a match and looked at Dick. ‘Could he get away through a window?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘No, sir. It’s a forty foot drop down to the street.’

‘Good.’ Biggles knocked sharply on a flimsy panel. ‘Open this door,’ he called loudly.

There was no reply.

‘This is your room, you’re sure of that?’ Biggles asked Dick suspiciously.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I mean—you rent it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re telling me the truth?’

‘On my oath, sir.’

‘All right! Stand back.’ There was a splintering crash as Biggles hurled his weight against the door. It flew open and the scene within was revealed.

The stranger was standing by the table, with the letter, which presumably he had just found, in his left hand. The knife lay open on the table, and as his slanting eyes rested malevolently on the new-comers his right hand began to creep towards it.

‘What are you doing in this lad’s room?’ asked Biggles sharply.

‘That’s no business of yourn,’ growled the other, scowling.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but I happen to have made it my business,’ rapped out Biggles coldly. ‘Put that letter down.’

‘I should say so.’

‘There’s no need for you to say so; I’ve already said it.’

‘Are you looking fer trouble, Mr. Nosey Parker?’

‘If any one is doing that, it’s you. Come along, put the letter down and clear out. I don’t want to make this a police court job any more than you do.’

An ugly sneer curled the sailor’s lips. He picked up the knife. ‘So that’s your tune, is it?’ he snarled.

‘It’s the only tune I’ve got for you.’

‘Then let’s see how you like this one,’ grated the other, gripping the knife firmly and taking a pace forward.

Biggles did not move. ‘Ginger, run down and fetch a policeman, will you?’ he said quietly. ‘And now, my man,’ he resumed, as Ginger ran noisily down the wooden stairs, ‘I’m going to give you a last chance. Put that letter on the table and the knife in your pocket, and you are free to go. Refuse, and I’ll see to it that you are clapped somewhere where you won’t be able to make a nuisance of yourself for a long time to come. We don’t stand for robbery with violence in this country, as you’ll soon learn to your cost. Now then, make up your mind. Which is it going to be?’

The sailor hesitated, looking from one to the other of the three figures framed in the doorway. Possibly he realized that even if he succeeded in passing them he might encounter a policeman before he reached the street. A moment later heavy footsteps on the stairs helped him to decide, for with a foul oath he flung the letter on the table and thrust the knife through his belt, under his jacket. ‘I’ll remember you the next time I see you, my cock,’ he gritted vindictively. ‘Maybe you won’t chirp so loud then.’

‘We’ll talk about chirping when that time comes,’ replied Biggles coolly.

‘What’s going on here?’ demanded a fresh voice from the background. A policeman pushed his way to the front.

‘It’s all right, officer; I thought we were going to have a little trouble, but our seafaring friend here has thought better of it,’ said Biggles quietly.

‘Don’t you want to charge him, sir?’ There was genuine regret in the policeman’s tone as he eyed the intruder with disfavour.

‘No, he can go as far as I’m concerned.’

If looks could kill, Biggles would have been struck dead on the spot as the sailor passed between him and the constable and disappeared down the stairs.

Biggles put his hand in his pocket and slipped something into the policeman’s palm. ‘Sorry I had to trouble you,’ he said softly. ‘Much obliged for your assistance, but everything is all right now, I think.’

‘Thank you, sir. Glad I could be of service,’ replied the constable. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll slip along and keep an eye on that customer. I don’t like the look of him,’ he added quickly, as he followed the sailor down the stairs.

Biggles picked up the letter and handed it to Dick. ‘Well, my lad, there’s your letter,’ he said. ‘What was all the trouble about, anyway?’

‘I don’t know, sir, and that’s a fact,’ confessed Dick frankly.

‘But why should a man risk putting his head into a noose in order to get what one can only suppose to be a purely personal message from your father to you?’

‘That’s more than I can say, sir,’ replied Dick. ‘You see, sir, my father is dead. A sailor brought the letter to me to-day; I haven’t read it yet.’

‘I see,’ nodded Biggles. ‘Well, maybe the thing will explain itself when you do read it. But we shall have to be getting along.’ He turned towards the stairs when another thought seemed to strike him. ‘What are you going to do, laddie?’ he asked, looking back at Dick.

‘I dunno, sir. I daren’t stop here in case that sailor comes back and does me in.’

‘Haven’t you any friends or relatives where you can stay?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Any money?’

‘No, sir.’

‘None at all?’

‘Only tuppence.’

‘Humph! That won’t see you very far, I’m afraid,’ murmured Biggles.

‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll doss down on the allotments,’ declared Dick.

‘Where?’

‘In one of the gardening huts on the allotments. I’ll go round until I find one of ’em open. I’ve had to do it many a time before.’

Biggles made a grimace. ‘Bless my heart and soul! I’ve slept rough myself on occasion, but this is no night for picnicking,’ he declared. ‘I tell you what. It must be about tea-time. Let’s find a restaurant where we can talk things over while we have a bite of food. By the way, what’s your name?’

‘Dick, sir. Dick Denver.’

‘Good! That’s easy to remember,’ smiled Biggles. ‘We don’t know our way very well in this part of the world, so perhaps you can guide us to a place where we can tear a plate of crumpets to pieces.’

Dick nodded, grinning broadly. ‘I know ’em all, sir,’ he declared promptly. ‘There’s Old Kate’s at the corner. That’s where I usually go because you can get sausage and mash there for fivepence a go. Bread a ha’penny extra. Or there’s the “Jolly Shipmates” coffee tavern, but they charge a bob there and a penny for bread.’

Biggles smiled faintly. ‘It sounds like the “Jolly Shipmates” to me,’ he decided. ‘I think we shall be able to raise a shilling apiece between us,’ he added seriously. ‘Come on.’