The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
miles from the village was a hut. The elephant grass grew so high about it that it was scarcely visible. Its roof was rotten and sagging, the interior was vile…
Sanders found a man lying on the floor, chained by the leg to a heavy log; a man who laughed softly to himself, and spoke like a gentleman. The soldiers carried him into the open, and laid him carefully on the ground. His clothes were in tatters, his hair and his beard were long, there were many little scars on either forearm where the witchdoctor’s knife had drawn blood.
“M — m,” said Sanders, and shook his head.
“…The River of Stars,” said the wreck, with a chuckle, “pretty name — what? Kimberley? Why, Kimberley is nothing compared to it… I did not believe it until I saw it with my eyes… the bed of the river is packed with diamonds, and you’d never find it, Lambaire, even with the chart, and your infernal compass… I’ve left a cache of tools, and food for a couple of years….”
He thrust his hand into his rag of a shirt and brought out a scrap of paper. Sanders bent down to take it, but the man pushed him back with his thin hand.
“No, no, no,” he breathed. “You take the blood, that’s your job — I’m strong enough to stand it — one day I’ll get away…”
Ten minutes later he fell into a sound sleep. Sanders found the soiled paper, and put it into his uniform pocket.
He sent back to the boat and his men brought two tents which were pitched in a clearing near the hut. The man was in such a deplorable condition that Sanders dared not take the risk of moving him. That night, when the camp lay wrapped in sleep and the two native women whom the Commissioner had commanded to watch the sick man were snoring by their charge, the wreck woke. Stealthily he rose from bed and crept out into the starry night.
Sanders woke to find an empty hut and a handful of rags that had once been a white man’s coat on the banks of the tiny forest stream, a hundred yards from the camp.
*
The witch doctor of M’Saga, summoned to an early morning palaver, came in irons and was in no doubt as to the punishment which awaited him, for nearby in the forest the houssas had dug up much evidence of sacrifice.
“Master,” said the man, facing the stare of grey eyes, “I see death in your face.”
“That is God’s truth,” said Sanders, and hanged him then and there.
I. Amber
Amber sat in his cell at Wellboro’ gaol, softly whistling a little tune and beating time on the floor with his stockinged feet. He had pushed his stool near to the corrugated wall, and tilted it back so that he was poised on two of its three legs.
His eyes wandered round the little room critically.
Spoon and basin on the shelf; prison regulations varnished a dull yellow, above these; bed neatly folded… he nodded slowly, still whistling.
Above the bed and a little to the left was a small window of toughened glass, admitting daylight but affording, by reason of its irregular texture, no view of the world without. On a shelf over the bed was a Bible, a Prayer Book, and a dingy library book.
He made a grimace at the book; it was a singularly dull account of a singularly dull lady missionary who had spent twenty years in North Borneo without absorbing more of the atmosphere of that place than that it “was very hot” and further that native servants could be on occasion “very trying.”
Amber was never fortunate with his library books. Five years ago, when he had first seen the interior of one of His Majesty’s gaols, he had planned a course of study embracing Political Economy and the Hellenic Drama, and had applied for the necessary literature for the prosecution of his studies. He had been “ served out” with an elementary Greek grammar and Swiss Family Robinson, neither of which was noticeably helpful. Fortunately the term of imprisonment ended before he expected; but he had amused himself by translating the adventures of the virtuous Swiss into Latin verse, though he found little profit in the task, and abandoned it.
During his fourth period of incarceration he made chemistry his long suit; but here again fortune deserted him, and no nearer could he get to his reading of the science than to secure the loan of a Squire and a Materia Medica.
Amber, at the time I describe, was between twenty-eight and thirty years of age, a little above medium height, well built, though he gave you the impression of slightness. His hair was a reddish yellow, his eyes grey, his nose straight, his mouth and chin were firm, and he was ready to show two rows of white teeth in a smile, for he was easily amused. The lower part of his face was now unshaven, which detracted from his appearance, but none the less he was, even in the ugly garb of his bondage, a singularly goodlooking young man.
There was the sound of a key at the door, and he rose as the lock snapped twice and the door swung outward.
“75,” said an authoritative voice, and he stepped out of the cell into the long corridor, standing to attention.
The warder, swinging his keys at the end of a bright chain, pointed to the prisoner’s shoes neatly arranged by the cell door.
“Put ’em on.”
Amber obeyed, the warder watching him.
“Why this intrusion upon privacy, my Augustus?” asked the kneeling Amber.
The warder, whose name was not Augustus, made no reply. In earlier times he would have “ marked “ Amber for insolence, but the eccentricities of this exemplary prisoner were now well-known, besides which he had some claim to consideration, for he it was who rescued Assistant Warder Beit from the fury of the London Gang. This had happened at Devizes County Gaol in 1906, but the prison world is a small one, and the fame of Amber ran from Exeter to Chelmsford, from Lewes to Strangeways.
He marched with his custodian through the corridor, down a polished steel stairway to the floor of the great hall, along a narrow stone passage to the Governor’s office. Here he waited for a few minutes, and was then taken to the Governor’s sanctum.
Major Bliss was sitting at his desk, a burnt little man with a small black moustache and hair that had gone grey at the temples.
With a nod he dismissed the warder.
“75,” he said briefly, “you are going out tomorrow, on a Home Office order.”
“Yes, sir,” said Amber.
The Governor was thoughtfully silent for a moment, drumming his fingers noiselessly on his blottingpad.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded suddenly.
Amber smiled.
“I shall pursue my career of crime,” he said cheerfully, and the Governor frowned and shook his head.
“I can’t understand you — haven’t you any friends?”
Again the amused smile.
“No, sir,” Amber was even more cheerful than before. “I have nobody to blame for my detection but myself.”
The Major turned over some sheets of paper that lay before him, read them, and frowned again.
“Ten convictions!” he said. “A man of your capacity — why, with your ability you might have been—”
“Oh no, I mightn’t,” interrupted the convict, “that’s the gag that judges work, but it’s not true. It doesn’t follow because a man makes an ingenious criminal that he would be a howling success as an architect, or because he can forge a cheque that he would have made a fortune by company promotion. An ordinary intelligent man can always shine in crime because he is in competition with very dull-witted and ignorant fellow craftsmen.”