The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
play was high indeed, never spoke of the matter, realizing, doubtlessly, that the world has little sympathy with a fool confessed, so that much of the evidence that an interfering constabulary desired was never forthcoming.
On a night in October the club was enjoying an unusual amount of patronage. Cab after cab set down well-dressed men before the decorous portals in Curefax Street. Men immaculately dressed, men a little over dressed, they came in ones and twos, and parties of three, at short intervals.
Some came out again after a short stay and drove off, but it seemed that the majority stayed. Just be ore midnight a taxicab drove up and discharged three passengers.
By accident or design, there is no outside light to the club, and the nearest electric standard is a few yards along the street, so that a visitor may arrive or depart in semi-darkness, and a watcher would find difficulty in identifying a patron.
In this case the chauffeur was evidently unacquainted with the club premises, and overshot the mark, pulling up within a few yards of the street lamp.
One of the passengers was tall and soldierly in appearance. He had a heavy black moustache, and the breadth of his shoulders suggested great muscular strength. In the light much of his military smartness vanished, for his face was puffed, and there were little bags under his eyes. He was followed by a shorter man who looked much younger than he was, for his hair, eyebrows and a little wisp of moustache were so fair as to be almost white. His nose and chin were of the character which for want of a better description may be called “nut-cracker,” and down his face, from temple to chin, ran a long red scar.
Alphonse Lambaire was the first of these men, a remarkable and a sinister figure. Whether Lambaire was his real name or not I do not profess to know: he was English in all else. You might search in vain the criminal records of Scotland Yard without discovering his name, save in that section devoted to “ suspected persons.” He was a notorious character.
I give you a crude biography of him because he figures largely in this story. He was a handsome man, in a heavy unhealthy way, only the great diamond ring upon his little finger was a departure from the perfect taste of his ensemble.
The second man was “Whitey”: what his real name was nobody ever discovered. “Whitey” he was to all; “Mr. Whitey “ to the club servants, and “ George Whitey “ was the name subscribed to the charge sheet on the one occasion that the police made an unsuccessful attempt to draw him into their net.
The third was a boy of eighteen, fresh coloured, handsome, in a girlish fashion. As he stepped from the cab he staggered slightly and Lambaire caught his arm.
“Steady, old fellow,” he said. Lambaire’s voice was deep and rich, and ended in a little chuckle. “Pay that infernal brute, Whitey — pay the fare on the clock and not a penny more — here, hold up, Sutton my lad.”
The boy made another blunder and laughed foolishly.
“We’ll put him right in a minute, won’t we, major?”
Whitey had a high little voice and spoke rapidly.
“Take his arm, Whitey,” said Lambaire, “a couple of old brandies will make a new man of you…”
They disappeared through the swing doors of the club, and the hum of the departing taxi sounded fainter and fainter.
The street was almost deserted for a few minutes, then round the corner from St. James’s Square came a motorcar. This driver also knew little of the locality, for he slowed down and came crawling along the street, peering at such numbers as were visible. He stopped before No. 46 with a jerk, jumped down from his seat and opened the door.
“This is the place, miss,” he said respectfully, and a girl stepped out. She was very young and very pretty. She had evidently been spending the evening at a theatre, for she was dressed in evening finery, and over her bare shoulders an opera wrap was thrown.
She hesitated a moment, then ascended the two steps that led to the club, and hesitated again. Then she came back to the car.
“Shall I ask, miss?”
“If you please, John.”
She stood on the pavement watching the driver as he knocked on the glass-panelled door. A servant came and held the door open, regarding the chauffeur with an unfriendly eye.
“Mr. Sutton — no, we’ve no such member.”
“Tell him he’s here as a guest,” said the girl, and the waiter, looking over the head of the chauffeur, saw her and frowned.
“He’s not here, madame,” he said.
She came forward.
“He is here — I know he is here.” Her voice was calm, yet she evidently laboured under some excitement. “You must tell him I want him — at once.”
“He is not here, madame,” said the man doggedly.
There was a spectator to the scene. He had strolled leisurely along the street, and had come to a standstill in the shadow of the electric brougham.
“He is here!” She stamped her foot. “In this wretched, wicked club — he is being robbed — it is wicked — wicked!”
The waiter closed the door in her face.
“Pardon me.”
A young man, clean shaven, glass in eye, dressed in the neatest of tweed suits, stood by her, hat in hand. He had the happiest of smiles and a half-smoked cigarette lay on the pavement.
“Can I be of any assistance?”
His manner was perfect, respect, deference, apology, all were suggested by his attitude, and the girl in her distress forgot to be afraid of this providential stranger.
“My brother — he is there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the bland door of the club. “He is in bad hands — I have tried…” Her voice failed her and her eyes were full of tears.
Amber nodded courteously. Without a word he led the way to her car, and she followed without question. She stepped in as he indicated.
“What is your address? — I will bring your brother.”
With a hand that trembled, she opened a little bag of golden tissue that hung at her wrist, opened a tiny case and extracted a card.
He took it, read it, and bowed slightly.
“Home,” he said to the driver, and stood watching the tail lights of the brougham disappear.
He waited, thinking deeply.
This little adventure was after his own heart. He had been the happiest man in London that day, and was on his way back to the modest Bloomsbury bed-sitting-room he had hired, when fortune directed his footsteps in the direction of Curefax Street.
He saw the car vanish from sight round a corner, and went slowly up the steps of the club. He pushed open the door, walked into the little hallway, nodding carelessly to a stout porter who sat in a little box near the foot of the stairs.
The man looked at him doubtingly.
“Member, sir?” he asked, and was rewarded by an indignant stare.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the abashed porter. “We’ve got so many members that it is difficult to remember them.”
“I suppose so,” said Amber coldly. He mounted the stairs with slow steps; halfway up he turned.
“Is Captain Lawn in the club?”
“No, sir,” said the man.
“Or Mr. Augustus Breet?”
“No, sir, neither of those gentlemen are in.”
Amber nodded and continued on his way. That he had never heard of either, but that he knew both were out, is a tribute to his powers of