The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
advice, and launching him forth again upon the world with ten pounds — a sum just sufficient to buy Sam a new kit of burglar’s tools.
Never before had Sam shown such gratitude; and never before had Thornton Lyne been less disinterested in his attentions. There was a hot bath — which Sam Stay could have dispensed with, but which, out of sheer politeness, he was compelled to accept, a warm and luxurious breakfast; a new suit of clothes, with not two, but four, five-pound notes in the pocket.
After breakfast, Lyne had his talk.
“It’s no good, sir,” said the burglar, shaking his head. “I’ve tried everything to get an honest living, but somehow I can’t get on in the straight life. I drove a taxicab for three months after I came out, till a busyfellow [A] tumbled to me not having a license, and brought me up under the Prevention of Crimes Act. It’s no use my asking you to give me a job in your shop, sir, because I couldn’t stick it, I couldn’t really! I’m used to the open air life; I like being my own master. I’m one of those fellows you’ve read about — the word begins with1.”
“Adventurers?” said Lyne with a little laugh. “Yes, I think you are, Sam, and I’m going to give you an adventure after your own heart.”
And then he began to tell a tale of base ingratitude — of a girl he had helped, had indeed saved from starvation and who had betrayed him at every turn. Thornton Lyne was a poet. He was also a picturesque liar. The lie came as easily as the truth, and easier, since there was a certain crudeness about truth which revolted his artistic soul. And as the tale was unfolded of Odette Rider’s perfidy, Sam’s eyes narrowed. There was nothing too bad for such a creature as this. She was wholly undeserving of sympathy.
Presently Thornton Lyne stopped, his eyes fixed on the other to note the effect.
“Show me,” said Sam, his voice trembling. “Show me a way of getting even with her, sir, and I’ll go through hell to do it!”
“That’s the kind of stuff I like to hear,” said Lyne, and poured out from the long bottle which stood on the coffee-tray a stiff tot of Sam’s favourite brandy. “Now, I’ll give you my idea.”
For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost head to head, plotting woe for the girl, whose chief offence had been against the dignity of Thornton Lyne, and whose virtue had incited the hate of that vicious man.
IV. Murder
Jack Tarling lay stretched upon his hard bed, a long cigarette-holder between his teeth, a book on Chinese metaphysics balanced on his chest, at peace with the world. The hour was eight o’clock, and it was the day that Sam Stay had been released from gaol.
It had been a busy day for Tarling, for he was engaged in a bank fraud case which would have occupied the whole of his time had he not had a little private business to attend to. This private matter was wholly unprofitable, but his curiosity had been piqued.
He lay the book flat on his chest as the soft click of the opening door announced the coming of his retainer. The impassive Ling Chu came noiselessly into the room, carrying a tray, which he placed upon a low table by the side of his master’s bed. The Chinaman wore a blue silk pyjama suit — a fact which Tarling noticed.
“You are not going out tonight then, Ling Chu?”
“No, Lieh Jen,” said the man.
They both spoke in the soft, sibilant patois of Shantung.
“You have been to the Man with the Cunning Face?”
For answer the other took an envelope from an inside pocket and laid it in the other’s hand. Tarling glanced at the address.
“So this is where the young lady lives, eh? Miss Odette Rider, 27, Carrymore Buildings, Edgware Road.”
“It is a clan house, where many people live,” said Ling Chu. “I myself went, in your honourable service, and saw people coming in and going out interminably, and never the same people did I see twice.”
“It is what they call in English a ‘flat building,’ Ling,” said Tarling with a little smile. “What did the Man with the Cunning Face say to my letter?”
“Master, he said nothing. He just read and read, and then he made a face like this.” Ling gave an imitation of Mr. Milburgh’s smile. “And then he wrote as you see.”
Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into vacancy, then he turned on his elbow and lifted the cup of tea which his servant had brought him.
“What of Face-White-and-Weak Man, Ling?” he asked in the vernacular. “You saw him?”
“I saw him, master,” said the Chinaman gravely. “He is a man without a heaven.”
Again Tarling nodded. The Chinese use the word “heaven” instead of “God,” and he felt that Ling had very accurately sized up Mr. Thornton Lyne’s lack of spiritual qualities.
He finished the tea, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Ling,” he said, “this place is very dull and sad. I do not think I shall live here.”
“Will the master go back to Shanghai?” asked the other, without any display of emotion.
“I think so,” nodded Tarling. “At any rate, this place is too dull. Just miserable little taking-money-easily cases, and wife-husband-lover cases and my soul is sick.”
“These are small matters,” said Ling philosophically. “But The Master” — this time he spoke of the great Master, Confucius— “has said that all greatness comes from small things, and perhaps some smallpiece man will cut off the head of some big-piece man, and then they will call you to find the murderer.”
Tarling laughed.
“You’re an optimist, Ling,” he said. “No, I don’t think they’ll call me in for a murder. They don’t call in private detectives in this country.”
Ling shook his head.
“But the master must find murderers, or he will no longer be Lieh Jen, the Hunter of Men.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty soul, Ling,” said Tarling, this time in English, which Ling imperfectly understood, despite the sustained efforts of eminent missionary schools. “Now I’ll go out,” he said with sudden resolution. “I am going to call upon the smallpiece woman whom White-Face desires.”
“May I come with you?” asked Ling.
Tarling hesitated.
“Yes, you may come,” he said, “but you must trail me.”
Carrymore Mansions is a great block of buildings sandwiched between two more aristocratic and more expensive blocks of flats in the Edgware Road. The ground floor is given up to lock-up shops which perhaps cheapened the building, but still it was a sufficiently exclusive habitation for the rents, as Tarling guessed, to be a little too high for a shop assistant, unless she were living with her family. The explanation, as he was to discover, lay in the fact that there were some very undesirable basement flats which were let at a lower rental.
He found himself standing outside the polished mahogany door of one of these, wondering exactly what excuse he was going to give to the girl for making a call so late at night. And that she needed some explanation was clear from the frank suspicion which showed in her face when she opened the door to him.
“Yes, I am Miss Rider,” she said.
“Can I see you for a few moments?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head, “but I am alone in the