The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
without any of Nero’s amiable weaknesses. He was obsessed with the idea that he himself was in danger of assassination, and saw an enemy even in his trusty servant. Undoubtedly the chauffeur Poropulos was in touch with several Continental government circles. You understand,” said the Minister in conclusion, “that I am telling you this, not with the idea of expecting you, to relax your efforts to find the murderer and clear up the mystery, but in order that you may know something of the possible motive for this man’s murder.”
T.X. spent an hour going over the decoded diary and documents and left the Home Office a little shakily. It was inconceivable, incredible. Kara was a lunatic, but the directing genius was a devil.
T.X. had a flat in Whitehall Gardens and thither he repaired to change for dinner. He was half dressed when the evening paper arrived and he glanced as was his wont first at the news’ page and then at the advertisement column. He looked down the column marked “Personal” without expecting to find anything of particular interest to himself, but saw that which made him drop the paper and fly round the room in a frenzy to complete his toilet.
“Tommy X.,” ran the brief announcement, “most urgent, Marble Arch 8.”
He had five minutes to get there but it seemed like five hours. He was held up at almost every crossing and though he might have used his authority to obtain right of way, it was a step which his curious sense of honesty prevented him taking. He leapt out of the cab before it stopped, thrust the fare into the driver’s hands and looked round for the girl. He saw her at last and walked quickly towards her. As he approached her, she turned about and with an almost imperceptible beckoning gesture walked away. He followed her along the Bayswater Road and gradually drew level.
“I am afraid I have been watched,” she said in a low voice. “Will you call a cab?”
He hailed a passing taxi, helped her in and gave at random the first place that suggested itself to him, which was Finsbury Park.
“I am very worried,” she said, “and I don’t know anybody who can help me except you.”
“Is it money?” he asked.
“Money,” she said scornfully, “of course it isn’t money. I want to show you a letter,” she said after a while.
She took it from her bag and gave it to him and he struck a match and read it with difficulty.
It was written in a studiously uneducated hand.
“Dear Miss,
“I know who you are. You are wanted by the police but I will not give you away. Dear Miss. I am very hard up and 20 pounds will be very useful to me and I shall not trouble you again. Dear Miss. Put the money on the window sill of your room. I know you sleep on the ground floor and I will come in and take it. And if not — well, I don’t want to make any trouble.
“Yours truly, “A FRIEND.”
“When did you get this?” he asked.
“This morning,” she replied. “I sent the Agony to the paper by telegram, I knew you would come.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” he said.
Her assurance was very pleasing to him. The faith that her words implied gave him an odd little feeling of comfort and happiness.
“I can easily get you out of this,” he added; “give me your address and when the gentleman comes—”
“That is impossible,” she replied hurriedly. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, and don’t think I’m being silly — you do think I’m being silly, don’t you!”
“I have never harboured such an unworthy thought,” he said virtuously.
“Yes, you have,” she persisted, “but really I can’t tell you where I am living. I have a very special reason for not doing so. It’s not myself that I’m thinking about, but there’s a life involved.”
This was a somewhat dramatic statement to make and she felt she had gone too far.
“Perhaps I don’t mean that,” she said, “but there is some one I care for—” she dropped her voice.
“Oh,” said T.X. blankly.
He came down from his rosy heights into the shadow and darkness of a sunless valley.
“Some one you care for,” he repeated after a while.
“Yes.”
There was another long silence, then,
“Oh, indeed,” said T.X.
Again the unbroken interval of quiet and after a while she said in a low voice, “Not that way.”
“Not what way!” asked T.X. huskily, his spirits doing a little mountaineering.
“The way you mean,” she said.
“Oh,” said T.X.
He was back again amidst the rosy snows of dawn, was in fact climbing a dizzy escalier on the topmost height of hope’s Mont Blanc when she pulled the ladder from under him.
“I shall, of course, never marry,” she said with a certain prim decision.
T.X. fell with a dull sickening thud, discovering that his rosy snows were not unlike cold, hard ice in their lack of resilience.
“Who said you would?” he asked somewhat feebly, but in self defence.
“You did,” she said, and her audacity took his breath away.
“Well, how am I to help you!” he asked after a while.
“By giving me some advice,” she said; “do you think I ought to put the money there!”
“Indeed I do not,” said T.X., recovering some of his natural dominance; “apart from the fact that you would be compounding a felony, you would merely be laying out trouble for yourself in the future. If he can get 20 pounds so easily, he will come for 40 pounds. But why do you stay away, why don’t you return home? There’s no charge and no breath of suspicion against you.”
“Because I have something to do which I have set my mind to,” she said, with determination in her tones.
“Surely you can trust me with your address,” he urged her, “after all that has passed between us, Belinda Mary — after all the years we have known one another.”
“I shall get out and leave you,” she said steadily.
“But how the dickens am I going to help you?” he protested.
“Don’t swear,” she could be very severe indeed; “the only way you can help me is by being kind and sympathetic.”
“Would you like me to burst into tears?” he asked sarcastically.
“I ask you to do nothing more painful or repugnant to your natural feelings than to be a gentleman,” she said.
“Thank you very kindly,” said T.X., and leant back in the cab with an air of supreme resignation.
“I believe you’re making faces in the dark,” she accused him.
“God forbid that I should do anything so low,” said he hastily; “what made you think that?”
“Because I was putting my tongue out at you,” she admitted, and the taxi driver heard the shrieks of laughter in the cab behind him above the wheezing of his asthmatic engine.
At twelve that night in a certain suburb of London an overcoated man moved stealthily through a garden. He felt his way carefully along the wall of the house and groped with hope, but with no great certainty, along the window sill. He found an envelope which his fingers, somewhat sensitive from long employment in nefarious uses, told him contained nothing more substantial than a letter.
He