CLOWNS AND CRIMINALS - Complete Series (Thriller Classics). E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
dared not leave it here,” he explained. “It would have been madness. I am perfectly certain that I have been watched during the last few days. I can build another in a week. I have the plans in my pocket for every part.”
The older man wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“You are sure—that you have the plans?” he asked.
The youth struck himself on the chest.
“They are here,” he answered, “every one of them!”
“Perhaps you are right, then,” the other man answered. “It gave me a turn, though. You are sure that you can make it again in the time you say?”
“Of course!” the youth answered, impatiently. “Besides, the thing is so simple. It speaks for itself.”
They climbed into the car, and in a few minutes were rushing away southwards.
“To-morrow night—to-morrow night it all begins!” the youth continued. “I must start with ready-made clothes. I’ll get the best I can, eat the best I can, drink wine, go to the music halls. To-morrow night.”
His speech ended in a wail—a strange, half-stifled cry which rang out with a chill, ghostly sound upon the black silence. His face was covered with a wet towel, a ghastly odor was in his nostrils, his lips refused to utter any further sound. He lay back among the cushions, senseless. The car slowed down.
“Get the papers, quick!” the elder man muttered, opening the youth’s coat. “Here they are! Catch hold, Dick! My God! What’s that?”
He shook from head to foot. The little fair man looked at him with contempt.
“A sheep bell on the moor,” he said. “Are you sure you have everything?”
“Yes!” the other muttered.
They both stood up and raised the prostrate form between them. Below them were the black waters of the lake.
“Over with him!” the younger said. “Quick!”
Once more his companion shrank away.
“Listen!” he muttered, hoarsely.
They both held their breaths. From somewhere along the road behind came a faint sound like the beating of an engine.
“It’s a car!” the elder man exclaimed. “Quick! Over with him!”
They lifted the body of the boy, whose lips were white and speechless now, and threw him into the water. With a great splash he disappeared. They watched for a moment. Only the ripples flowed away from the place where he had sunk. They jumped back to their seats.
“There’s something close behind,” the older man muttered. “Get on! Fast! Fast!”
The younger man hesitated.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “it would be better to wait and see who it is coming up behind. Our young friend there is safe. The current has him, and the tarn is bottomless.”
There was a moment’s indecision—a moment which was to count for much in the lives of three men. Then the elder one’s counsels prevailed. They crept away down the hill, smoothly and noiselessly. Behind them, the faint throbbing grew less and less distinct. Soon they heard it no more. They drove into the dawn and through the long day.
Side by side on one of the big leather couches in the small smoking room of the Milan Hotel, Mr. James P. Rounceby and his friend Mr. Richard Marnstam sat whispering together. It was nearly two o clock, and they were alone in the room. Some of the lights had been turned out. The roar of life in the streets without had ceased. It was an uneasy hour for those whose consciences were not wholly at rest!
The two men were in evening dress—Rounceby in dinner coat and black tie, as befitted his role of travelling American. The glasses in front of them were only half-filled, and had remained so for the last hour. Their conversation had been nervous and spasmodic. It was obvious that they were waiting for some one.
Three o’clock struck by the little timepiece on the mantel shelf. A little exclamation of a profane nature broke from Rounceby’s lips. He leaned toward his companion.
“Say,” he muttered, in a rather thick undertone, “how about this fellow Vincent Cawdor? You haven’t any doubts about him, I suppose? He’s on the square, all right, eh?”
Marnstam wet his lips nervously.
“Cawdor’s all right,” he said. “I had it direct from headquarters at Paris. What are you uneasy about, eh?”
Rounceby pointed towards the clock.
“Do you see the time?” he asked.
“He said he’d be late,” Marnstam answered.
Rounceby put his hand to his forehead and found it moist.
“It’s been a silly game, all along,” he muttered. “We’d better have brought the young ass up here and jostled him!”
“Not so easy,” Marnstam answered. “These young fools have a way of turning obstinate. He’d have chucked us, sure. Anyhow, he’s safer where he is.”
They relapsed once more into silence. A storm of rain beat upon the window. Rounceby glanced up. It was as black out there as were the waters of that silent tarn! The man shivered as the thought struck him. Marnstam, who had no nerves, twirled his moustache and watched his companion with wonder.
“You look as though you saw a ghost,” he remarked.
“Perhaps I do!” Rounceby growled.
“You had better finish your drink, my dear fellow,” Marnstam advised. “Afterwards—”
Suddenly he stiffened into attention. He laid his hand upon his companion’s knee.
“Listen!” he said. “There is some one coming.”
They leaned a little forward. The swing doors were opened. A girl’s musical laugh rang out from the corridor. Tall and elegant, with her black lace skirt trailing upon the floor, her left hand resting upon the shoulder of the man into whose ear she was whispering, and whom she led straight to one of the writing tables, Miss Violet Brown swept into the room. On her right, and nearest to the two men, was Mr. Vincent Cawdor.
“Now you can go and talk to your friends!” she exclaimed, lightly. “I am going to make Victor listen to me.”
Cawdor left his two companions and sank on to the couch by Rounceby’s side. The young man, with his opera hat still on his head, and the light overcoat which he had been carrying on the floor by his side, was seated before the writing table with his back to them. Miss Brown was leaning over him, with her hand upon the back of his chair. They were out of hearing of the other three men.
“Well, Rounceby, my friend,” Mr. Vincent Cawdor remarked, cheerfully, “you’re having a late sitting, eh?”
“We’ve been waiting for you, you fool!” Rounceby answered. “What on earth are you thinking about, bringing a crowd like this about with you, eh?”
Cawdor smiled, reassuringly.
“Don’t you worry,” he said, in a lower tone. “I know my way in and out of the ropes here better than you can teach me. A big hotel like this is the safest and the most dangerous place in the world—just how you choose to make it. You’ve got to bluff ‘em all the time. That’s why I brought the young lady—particular friend of mine—real nice girl, too!”
“And the young man?” Rounceby asked, suspiciously.
Cawdor grew more serious.
“That’s Captain Lowther,” he said softly—“private secretary to Colonel Dean, who’s the chief of the aeronaut department at Aldershot. He has a draft in his pocket for twenty thousand pounds. It is yours if he is satisfied with the plans.”
“Twenty