The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
in London, one of which under ordinary circumstances would have filled him with joy: He had seen T.X. and “T.X,” was T.X. Meredith, who would one day be Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department and was now an Assistant Commissioner of Police, engaged in the more delicate work of that department.
In his erratic, tempestuous way, T.X. had suggested the greatest idea for a plot that any author could desire. But it was not of T.X. that John Lexman thought as he breasted the hill, on the slope of which was the tiny habitation known by the somewhat magnificent title of Beston Priory.
It was the interview he had had with the Greek on the previous day which filled his mind, and he frowned as he recalled it. He opened the little wicket gate and went through the plantation to the house, doing his best to shake off the recollection of the remarkable and unedifying discussion he had had with the moneylender.
Beston Priory was little more than a cottage, though one of its walls was an indubitable relic of that establishment which a pious Howard had erected in the thirteenth century. A small and unpretentious building, built in the Elizabethan style with quaint gables and high chimneys, its latticed windows and sunken gardens, its rosary and its tiny meadow, gave it a certain manorial completeness which was a source of great pride to its owner.
He passed under the thatched porch, and stood for a moment in the broad hallway as he stripped his drenching mackintosh.
The hall was in darkness. Grace would probably be changing for dinner, and he decided that in his present mood he would not disturb her. He passed through the long passage which led to the big study at the back of the house. A fire burnt redly in the old-fashioned grate and the snug comfort of the room brought a sense of ease and relief. He changed his shoes, and lit the table lamp.
The room was obviously a man’s den. The leather-covered chairs, the big and well-filled bookcase which covered one wall of the room, the huge, solid-oak writing-desk, covered with books and half-finished manuscripts, spoke unmistakably of its owner’s occupation.
After he had changed his shoes, he refilled his pipe, walked over to the fire, and stood looking down into its glowing heart.
He was a man a little above medium height, slimly built, with a breadth of shoulder which was suggestive of the athlete. He had indeed rowed 4 in his boat, and had fought his way into the semi-finals of the amateur boxing championship of England. His face was strong, lean, yet well-moulded. His eyes were grey and deep, his eyebrows straight and a little forbidding. The cleanshaven mouth was big and generous, and the healthy tan of his cheek told of a life lived in the open air.
There was nothing of the recluse or the student in his appearance. He was in fact a typical, healthy-looking Britisher, very much like any other man of his class whom one would meet in the messroom of the British army, in the wardrooms of the fleet, or in the far-off posts of the Empire, where the administrative cogs of the great machine are to be seen at work.
There was a little tap at the door, and before he could say “Come in” it was pushed open and Grace Lexman entered.
If you described her as brave and sweet you might secure from that brief description both her manner and her charm. He half crossed the room to meet her, and kissed her tenderly.
“I didn’t know you were back until—” she said; linking her arm in his.
“Until you saw the horrible mess my mackintosh has made,” he smiled. “I know your methods, Watson!”
She laughed, but became serious again.
“I am very glad you’ve come back. We have a visitor,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“A visitor? Whoever came down on a day like this?”
She looked at him a little strangely.
“Mr. Kara,” she said.
“Kara? How long has he been here?”
“He came at four.”
There was nothing enthusiastic in her tone.
“I can’t understand why you don’t like old Kara,” rallied her husband.
“There are very many reasons,” she replied, a little curtly for her.
“Anyway,” said John Lexman, after a moment’s thought, “his arrival is rather opportune. Where is he?”
“He is in the drawingroom.”
The Priory drawingroom was a low-ceilinged, rambling apartment, “all old print and chrysanthemums,” to use Lexman’s description. Cosy armchairs, a grand piano, an almost medieval open grate, faced with dull-green tiles, a well-worn but cheerful carpet and two big silver candelabras were the principal features which attracted the newcomer.
There was in this room a harmony, a quiet order and a soothing quality which made it a haven of rest to a literary man with jagged nerves. Two big bronze bowls were filled with early violets, another blazed like a pale sun with primroses, and the early woodland flowers filled the room with a faint fragrance.
A man rose to his feet, as John Lexman entered and crossed the room with an easy carriage. He was a man possessed of singular beauty of face and of figure. Half a head taller than the author, he carried himself with such a grace as to conceal his height.
“I missed you in town,” he said, “so I thought I’d run down on the off chance of seeing you.”
He spoke in the well-modulated tone of one who had had a long acquaintance with the public schools and universities of England. There was no trace of any foreign accent, yet Remington Kara was a Greek and had been born and partly educated in the more turbulent area of Albania.
The two men shook hands warmly.
“You’ll stay to dinner?”
Kara glanced round with a smile at Grace Lexman. She sat uncomfortably upright, her hands loosely folded on her lap, her face devoid of encouragement.
“If Mrs. Lexman doesn’t object,” said the Greek.
“I should be pleased, if you would,” she said, almost mechanically; “it is a horrid night and you won’t get anything worth eating this side of London and I doubt very much,” she smiled a little, “if the meal I can give you will be worthy of that description.”
“What you can give me will be more than sufficient,” he said, with a little bow, and turned to her husband.
In a few minutes they were deep in a discussion of books and places, and Grace seized the opportunity to make her escape. From books in general to Lexman’s books in particular the conversation flowed.
“I’ve read every one of them, you know,” said Kara.
John made a little face. “Poor devil,” he said sardonically.
“On the contrary,” said Kara, “I am not to be pitied. There is a great criminal lost in you, Lexman.”
“Thank you,” said John.
“I am not being uncomplimentary, am I?” smiled the Greek. “I am merely referring to the ingenuity of your plots. Sometimes your books baffle and annoy me. If I cannot see the solution of your mysteries before the book is half through, it angers me a little. Of course in the majority of cases I know the solution before I have reached the fifth chapter.”
John looked at him in surprise and was somewhat piqued.
“I flatter myself it is impossible to tell how my stories will end until the last chapter,” he said.
Kara nodded.
“That would be so in the case of the average reader, but you forget that I am a student. I follow every little thread of the clue which you leave exposed.”
“You should meet T.X.,” said John, with a laugh, as he rose from his chair to poke the fire.
“T.X.?”