The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
He felt a brute, but he knew that she must undergo an examination at the hands of men who had less regard for her feelings.
“I do wish you would be frank with me,” he pleaded. “I am sure I could get you out of all your troubles without any difficulty.”
“Mr. Lyne hated me,” she said. “I think I touched him on his tenderest spot — poor man — his vanity. You yourself know how he sent that criminal to my flat in order to create evidence against me.”
He nodded.
“Did you ever meet Stay before?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I think I have heard of him,” she said. “I know that Mr. Lyne was interested in a criminal, and that this criminal worshipped him. Once Mr. Lyne brought him to the Stores and wanted to give him a job but the man would not accept it. Mr. Lyne once told me that Sam Stay would do anything in the world for him.”
“Stay thinks you committed the murder,” said Tarling bluntly. “Lyne has evidently told stories about you and your hatred for him, and I really think that Stay would have been more dangerous to you than the police, only fortunately the little crook has gone off his head.”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“Mad?” she asked. “Poor fellow! Has this awful thing driven him…”
Tarling nodded.
“He was taken to the County Asylum this morning. He had a fit in my office, and when he recovered he seemed to have lost his mind completely. Now, Miss Rider, you’re going to be frank with me, aren’t you?”
She looked at him again and smiled sadly.
“I’m afraid I shan’t be any more frank than I have been, Mr. Tarling,” she said. “If you want me to tell you why I assumed the name of Stevens, or why I ran away from London, I cannot tell you. I had a good reason—” she paused, “and I may yet have a better reason for running away…”
She nearly said “again” but checked the word.
He laid his hand on hers.
“When I told you of this murder,” he said earnestly, “I knew by your surprise and agitation that you were innocent. Later the doctor was able to prove an alibi which cannot be shaken. But, Miss Rider, when I surprised you, you spoke as though you knew who committed the crime. You spoke of a man and it is that man’s name I want.”
She shook her head.
“That I shall never tell you,” she said simply.
“But don’t you realise that you may be charged with being an accessory before or after the act?” he urged. “Don’t you see what it means to you and to your mother?”
Her eyes closed at the mention of her mother’s name, as though to shut out the vision of some unpleasant possibility.
“Don’t talk about it, don’t talk about it!” she murmured, “please, Mr. Tarling! Do as you wish. Let the police arrest me or try me or hang me — but do not ask me to say any more, because I will not, I will not!”
Tarling sank back amongst the cushions, baffled and bewildered, and no more was said.
Whiteside was waiting for the train, and with him were two men who were unmistakably branded “Scotland Yard.” Tarling drew him aside and explained the situation in a few words.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I shall not execute the warrant.”
Whiteside agreed.
“It is quite impossible that she could have committed the murder,” he said. “I suppose the doctor’s evidence is unshakable?”
“Absolutely,” said Tarling, “and it is confirmed by the station master at Ashford, who has the time of the accident logged in his diary, and himself assisted to lift the girl from the train.”
“Why did she call herself Miss Stevens?” asked Whiteside. “And what induced her to leave London so hurriedly?”
Tarling gave a despairing gesture.
“That is one of the things I should like to know,” he said, “and the very matter upon which Miss Rider refuses to enlighten me. I am taking her to an hotel,” he went on. “Tomorrow I will bring her down to the Yard. But I doubt if the Chief can say anything that will induce her to talk.”
“Was she surprised when you told her of the murder? Did she mention anybody’s name?” asked Whiteside.
Tarling hesitated, and then, for one of the few times in his life, he lied.
“No,” he said, “she was just upset… she mentioned nobody.”
He took the girl by taxi to the quiet little hotel he had chosen — a journey not without its thrills, for the fog was now thick — and saw her comfortably fixed.
“I can’t be sufficiently grateful to you, Mr. Tarling, for your kindness,” she said at parting “and if I could make your task any easier… I would.”
He saw a spasm of pain pass across her face.
“I don’t understand it yet; it seems like a bad dream,” she said half to herself. “I don’t want to understand it somehow… I want to forget, I want to forget!”
“What do you want to forget?” asked Tarling.
She shook her head.
“Don’t ask me,” she said. “Please, please, don’t ask me!”
He walked down the big stairway, a greatly worried man. He had left the taxi at the door. To his surprise he found the cab had gone, and turned to the porter.
“What happened to my taxi?” he said. “I didn’t pay him off.”
“Your taxi, sir?” said the head porter. “I didn’t see it go. I’ll ask one of the boys.”
As assistant porter who had been in the street told a surprising tale. A gentleman had come up out of the murk, had paid off the taxi, which had disappeared. The witness to this proceeding had not seen the gentleman’s face. All he knew was that this mysterious benefactor had walked away in an opposite direction to that in which the cab had gone, and had vanished into the night.
Tarling frowned.
“That’s curious,” he said. “Get me another taxi.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find that difficult, sir.” The hotel porter shook his head. “You see how the fog is — we always get them thick about here — it’s rather late in the year for fogs…”
Tarling cut short his lecture on meteorology, buttoned up his coat, and turned out of the hotel in the direction of the nearest underground station.
The hotel to which he had taken the girl was situated in a quiet residential street, and at this hour of the night the street was deserted, and the fog added something to its normal loneliness.
Tarling was not particularly well acquainted with London, but he had a rough idea of direction. The fog was thick, but he could see the blurred nimbus of a street lamp, and was midway between two of these when he heard a soft step behind him.
It was the faintest shuffle of sound, and he turned quickly. Instinctively he threw up his hands and stepped aside.
Something whizzed past his head and struck the pavement with a thud.
“Sandbag,” he noted mentally, and leapt at his assailant.
As quickly his unknown attacker jumped back. There was a deafening report. His feet were scorched with burning cordite, and momentarily he released his grip of his enemy’s throat, which he had seized.
He