The Ringer & Again the Ringer - Complete Series: 18 Thriller Classics in One Volume. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
and was amazed when she nodded.
“I had a typewriter when I was twelve,” she smiled. “Daddy gave it to me to amuse myself with.”
Here was relief from a momentary embarrassment. Maurice had never wished or expected that his offer to employ the girl should be taken seriously — never until he had seen her at Lenley Court and realised that the gawky child he had known had developed so wonderfully.
“I will give you an affidavit to copy,” he said, searching feverishly amongst the papers on his desk. It was a long time before he came upon a document sufficiently innocuous for her to read. For Maurice Meister’s clientele was a peculiar one, and he, who through his life had made it a practice not to let his right hand know what his left hand did, found a difficulty in bringing himself to the task of handing over so much of his dubious correspondence for her inspection. Not until he had read the paper through word by word did he give it to her.
“Well, Mary, what do you think of it all?” he demanded, “and do, please, sit down, my dear!”
“Think of it all? This place?” she asked, and then, “You live in a dreadful neighbourhood, Maurice.”
“I didn’t make the neighbourhood. I found it as it is,” he answered with a laugh. “Are you going to be very happy here, Mary?”
She nodded. “I think so. It is so nice working for somebody one has known for so long — and Johnny will be about. He told me I should see a lot of him.”
Only for a second did the heavy eyelids droop. “Oh,” said Maurice Meister, looking past her. “He said you’d see a lot of him, eh? In business hours, by any chance?”
She did not detect the sarcasm in his tone.
“I don’t know what are your business hours, but it is rather nice, isn’t it, having Johnny?” she asked. “It really doesn’t matter working for you because you’re so kind, and you’ve known me such a long time, but it would be rather horrid if a girl was working for somebody she didn’t know, and had no brother waiting on the doorstep to see her home.”
He had not taken his eyes from her. She was more beautiful even than he had thought. Hers was the type of dainty loveliness which so completely appealed to him. Darker than Gwenda Milton, but finer. There was a soul and a mind behind those eyes others; a latent passion as yet unmoved; a dormant fire yet to be kindled. He felt her grow uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze, and quick to sense this, he was quicker to dispel the mist of suspicion which might soon gather into a cloud.
“I had better show you the house,” he said briskly, and led her through the ancient building.
Before one door on the upper floor he hesitated and finally, with an effort, slipped the key in the lock and threw open the door.
Looking past him, Mary saw a room such as she had not imagined would be found in this rather shabby old house. In spite of the dust which covered everything it was a beautiful apartment, furnished with a luxury that amazed her. It seemed to be a bed and sittingroom, divided by heavy velvet curtains which were now drawn. A thick carpet covered the floor, the few pictures that the room contained had evidently been carefully chosen. Old French furniture, silver light brackets on the walls, every fuse and every fitting spoke of lavish expenditure.
“What a lovely room!” she exclaimed when she had I recovered her breath.
“Yes…lovely.” He stared gloomily into the nest which had once known Gwenda Milton, in the days before tragedy had come to her. “Better than Malpas Mansions, Mary, eh?” The frown had vanished from his face; he was his old smiling self. “A little cleaning, a little dusting, and there is a room for a princess — in fact, my dear, I shall put it entirely at your disposal.”
“My disposal!” she stared at him. “How absurd, Maurice! I am living with Johnny and I couldn’t possibly stay here, ever.”
He shrugged.
“Johnny? Yes. But you may be detained one night — or Johnny may be away. I shouldn’t like to think you were alone in that wretched flat.”
He closed and locked the door and followed her down the stairs.
“However, that is a matter for you entirely,” he said lightly. “There is the room if you ever need it.”
She made no answer to this, for her mind was busy with speculation. The room had been lived in, she was sure of that. A woman had lived there — it was no man’s room. Mary felt a little uneasy. Of Maurice Meister and his private life she knew nothing. She remembered vaguely that Johnny had hinted of some affair that Meister had had, but she was not curious.
Gwenda Milton!
She remembered the name with a start. Gwenda Milton, the sister of a criminal. She shivered as her mind strayed back to that gorgeous little suite, peopled with the ghost of a dead love, and she had the illusion that a white face, tense with agony, was peering at her as she sat at the typewriter. She looked round with a shudder, but the room was empty and from somewhere near at hand she heard the sound of a man humming a popular tune.
Maurice Meister did not believe in ghosts.
Chapter 8
On the afternoon of the day that Mary Lenley went to Meister’s house the Olympic was warped into dock at Southampton. The two Scotland Yard men who had accompanied the ship from Cherbourg, and who had made a very careful scrutiny of the passengers, were the first to land and took up their station at the foot of the gangway. They had a long time to wait whilst the passport examinations were taking place, but soon the passengers began to straggle down to the quay.
Presently one of the detectives saw a face which he had not seen on the ship. A man of middle height, rather slight, with a tiny pointed beard and a black moustache appeared at the ship’s side and came slowly down.
The two detectives exchanged glances and as the passenger reached the quay one of them stepped to his side and said: “Excuse me, sir, I did not see you on the ship.” For a second the bearded man surveyed the other coldly. “Are you making me responsible for your blindness?” he asked.
They were looking for a bank robber who had crossed from New York, and they were taking no chances. “May I see your passport?”
The bearded passenger hesitated, then slipping his hand into his inside pocket pulled out, not a passport but a leather notecase. From this he extracted a card. The detective took it and read: CENTRAL INSPECTOR BLISS. C.I.D. Scotland Yard. Attached Washington Embassy.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
The detective pushed the card back into the other’s hand and his attitude changed.
“I didn’t recognise you, Mr. Bliss. You hadn’t grown a beard when you left the Yard.”
“Who are you looking for?” he asked harshly.
The second detective gave a brief explanation.
“He’s not on the ship, I can tell you that,” said Bliss, and with a nod turned away.
He did not carry his bag into the Customs, but depositing it at his feet, he stood with his back to the wall of the Custom House and watched the passengers disembark. Presently he saw the girl for whom he had been looking.
Slim, svelte, immensely capable, entirely and utterly fearless — this was the first impression Inspector Bliss had received. He never had reason to revise his verdict. Her olive skin was faultless, the dark eyes under delicately pencilled eyebrows were insolent, knowledgeable. Here was a girl not to be tampered with, not to be fooled; an exquisite product of modernity. Expensively and a little overdressed, perhaps. One white hand glittered with diamonds. Two large stones flashed on the lobes of her pink ears. As she brushed past him there came