The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
porter’s suspicions were lulled.
The first floor was taken up with dining and writing rooms. Amber smiled internally.
“This,” he thought, “is where the gulls sign their little cheques — most thoughtful arrangement.”
He mounted another flight of stairs, walked into a smoking-room where a number of flashily-dressed men were sitting, met their inquiring gaze with a nod and a smile directed at an occupied corner of the room, closed the door, and went up yet another and a steeper flight.
Before the polished portals of the room, which he gathered was the front room of the upper floor, a man sat on guard.
He was short and broad, his face was unmistakably that of a prizefighter’s, and he rose and confronted Amber.
“Well, sir?”
The tone was uncompromisingly hostile.
“All right,” said Amber, and made to open the door.
“One moment, sir, you’re not a member.”
Amber stared at the man.
“My fellow,” he said stiffly, “you have a bad memory for faces.”
“I don’t remember yours, anyway.”
The man’s tone was insolent, and Amber saw the end of his enterprise before ever it had begun.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and laughed quietly.
“I am going into that room,” he said.j
“You’re not.”
Amber reached out his hand and grasped the knob of the door, and the man gripped him by the shoulder.
Only for a second, for the intruder whipped round like a flash.
The doorkeeper saw the blow coming and released his hold to throw up a quick and scientific guard — but too late. A hard fist, driven as by an arm of steel, caught him under the point of the jaw and he fell back, missed his balance, and went crashing down the steep stairs — for this was the top flight and conveniently ladder-like.
Amber turned the door-handle and went in.
The players were on their feet with apprehensive eyes fixed on the door; the crash of the janitor’s body as it struck the stairs had brought them up. There had been no time to hide the evidence of play, and cards were scattered about the floor and on the tables, money and counters lay in confusion….
For a moment they looked at one another, the calm man in the doorway and the scowling players at the tables. Then he closed the door softly behind him and came in. He looked round deliberately for a place to hang his hat.
Before they could question him the doorkeeper was back, his coat off, the light of battle in his eye.
“Where is he?” he roared. “I’ll learn him….”
His language was violent, but justified in the circumstances.
“Gentlemen,” said Amber, standing with his back to the wall, “you can have a rough house, and the police in, or you can allow me to stay.”
“Put him out!”
Lambaire was in authority there. His face was puckered and creased with anger, and he pointed to the trespasser.
“Put him out, George—”
Amber’s hands were in his pockets.
“I shall shoot,” he said quietly, and there was a silence and a move backward.
Even the pugilistic janitor hesitated.
“I have come for a quiet evening’s amusement,” Amber went on. “I’m an old member of the club, and I’m treated like a split*; most unfriendly!”
[* Thieves’ argot for “detective.”]
He shook his head reprovingly.
His eyes were wandering from face to face; he knew many who were there, though they might not know him. He saw the boy, white of face, limp, and half asleep, sprawling in a chair at Lambaire’s table.
“Sutton,” he said loudly, “Sutton, my buck, wake up and identify your old friend.”
Gradually the excitement was wearing down. Lambaire jerked his head to the doorkeeper and reluctantly he retired.
“We don’t want any fuss,” said the big man; he scowled at the imperturbable stranger. “We don’t know you; you’ve forced your way in here, and if you’re a gentleman you’ll retire.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” said Amber calmly, “I’m one of yourselves.”
He made his way to where the youth half sat, half lay, and shook him.
“I came to see my friend,” he said, “and a jolly nice mess some of you people have made of him.”
He turned a stern face to the crowd.
“I’m going to take him away,” he said suddenly.
His strength was surprising, for with one arm he lifted the boy to his feet.
“Stop!”
Lambaire was between him and the door.
“You leave that young fellow here — and clear.”
Amber’s answer was characteristic.
With his disengaged hand, he lifted a chair, swung it once in a circle round his head, and sent it smashing through the window.
They heard the faint crackle of it as it struck the street below, the tinkle of falling glass, and then a police whistle.
Lambaire stood back from the door and flung it open.
“You can go,” he said between his teeth. “I shall remember you.”
“If you don’t,” said Amber, with his arm round the boy, “you’ve got a jolly bad memory.”
III. Introduces Peter, the Romancist
Amber had £86 10s. — A respectable sum.
He had an invitation to take tea with Cynthia Sutton at five o’clock in the afternoon. He had thought to hand the money to her on behalf of her brother — on second thoughts he decided to send the young man’s losses to him anonymously. After all he was adjudging those losses by approximation. He had a pleasant room in Bloomsbury, a comfortable armchair, a long, thin, mild cigar and an amusing book, and he was happy. His feet rested on a chair, a clock ticked — not unmusically — it was a situation that makes for reverie, daydreams, and sleep. His condition of mind might be envied by many a more useful member of society, for it was one of complete and absolute complaisance.
There came a knock at the door, and he bade the knocker come in. A neat maid entered with a tray, on which lay a card, and Amber took it up carelessly.
“Mr. George Whitey,” he read. “Show him up.”
Whitey was beautifully dressed. From his glossy silk hat to his shiny patent shoes, he was everything that a gentleman should be in appearance.
He smiled at Amber, placed his top-hat carefully upon the table, and skinned his yellow gloves.
Amber, holding up the card by the corner, regarded him benevolently.
When the door had shut —
“And what can I do for you, my Whitey?” he demanded.
Whitey sat down, carefully loosened the buttons of his frockcoat, and shot his cuffs.
“Name