MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
Читать онлайн книгу.
father, ain’t you well?” the girl asked more than once.
And, looking up, he would answer, “Yes, I’m well enough, my girl, but I feels cold. It’s awful cold. I never did feel anything like the cold we’ve got just now.”
At eight the now familiar shouts and cries began again outside.
“The Avenger again!” “Another horrible crime!” “Extra speshul edition!”—such were the shouts, the exultant yells, hurled through the clear, cold air. They fell, like bombs into the quiet room.
Both Bunting and his wife remained silent, but Daisy’s cheeks grew pink with excitement, and her eye sparkled.
“Hark, father! Hark, Ellen! D’you hear that?” she exclaimed childishly, and even clapped her hands. “I do wish Mr. Chandler had been here. He would ‘a been startled!”
“Don’t, Daisy!” and Bunting frowned.
Then, getting up, he stretched himself. “It’s fair getting on my mind,” he said, “these horrible things happening. I’d like to get right away from London, just as far as I could—that I would!”
“Up to John-o’-Groat’s?” said Daisy, laughing. And then, “Why, father, ain’t you going out to get a paper?”
“Yes, I suppose I must.”
Slowly he went out of the room, and, lingering a moment in the hall, he put on his greatcoat and hat. Then he opened the front door, and walked down the flagged path. Opening the iron gate, he stepped out on the pavement, then crossed the road to where the newspaper-boys now stood.
The boy nearest to him only had the Sun—a late edition of the paper he had already read. It annoyed Bunting to give a penny for a ha’penny rag of which he already knew the main contents. But there was nothing else to do.
Standing under a lamp-post, he opened out the newspaper. It was bitingly cold; that, perhaps, was why his hand shook as he looked down at the big headlines. For Bunting had been very unfair to the enterprise of the editor of his favourite evening paper. This special edition was full of new matter—new matter concerning The Avenger.
First, in huge type right across the page, was the brief statement that The Avenger had now committed his ninth crime, and that he had chosen quite a new locality, namely, the lonely stretch of rising ground known to Londoners as Primrose Hill.
“The police,” so Bunting read, “are very reserved as to the circumstances which led to the finding of the body of The Avenger’s latest victim. But we have reason to believe that they possess several really important clues, and that one of them is concerned with the half-worn rubber sole of which we are the first to reproduce an outline today. (See over page.)”
And Bunting, turning the sheet round about, saw the irregular outline he had already seen in the early edition of the Sun, that purporting to be a facsimile of the imprint left by The Avenger’s rubber sole.
He stared down at the rough outline which took up so much of the space which should have been devoted to reading matter with a queer, sinking feeling of terrified alarm. Again and again criminals had been tracked by the marks their boots or shoes had made at or near the scenes of their misdoings.
Practically the only job Bunting did in his own house of a menial kind was the cleaning of the boots and shoes. He had already visualised early this very afternoon the little row with which he dealt each morning—first came his wife’s strong, serviceable boots, then his own two pairs, a good deal patched and mended, and next to his own Mr. Sleuth’s strong, hardly worn, and expensive buttoned boots. Of late a dear little coquettish high-heeled pair of outdoor shoes with thin, paperlike soles, bought by Daisy for her trip to London, had ended the row. The girl had worn these thin shoes persistently, in defiance of Ellen’s reproof and advice, and he, Bunting, had only once had to clean her more sensible country pair, and that only because the others had become wet though the day he and she had accompanied young Chandler to Scotland Yard.
Slowly he returned across the road. Somehow the thought of going in again, of hearing his wife’s sarcastic comments, of parrying Daisy’s eager questions, had become intolerable. So he walked slowly, trying to put off the evil moment when he would have to tell them what was in his paper.
The lamp under which he had stood reading was not exactly opposite the house. It was rather to the right of it. And when, having crossed over the roadway, he walked along the pavement towards his own gate, he heard odd, shuffling sounds coming from the inner side of the low wall which shut off his little courtyard from the pavement.
Now, under ordinary circumstances Bunting would have rushed forward to drive out whoever was there. He and his wife had often had trouble, before the cold weather began, with vagrants seeking shelter there. But to-night he stayed outside, listening intently, sick with suspense and fear.
Was it possible that their place was being watched—already? He thought it only too likely. Bunting, like Mrs. Bunting, credited the police with almost supernatural powers, especially since he had paid that visit to Scotland Yard.
But to Bunting’s amazement, and, yes, relief, it was his lodger who suddenly loomed up in the dim light.
Mr. Sleuth must have been stooping down, for his tall, lank form had been quite concealed till he stepped forward from behind the low wall on to the flagged path leading to the front door.
The lodger was carrying a brown paper parcel, and, as he walked along, the new boots he was wearing creaked, and the tap-tap of hard nail-studded heels rang out on the flat-stones of the narrow path.
Bunting, still standing outside the gate, suddenly knew what it was his lodger had been doing on the other side of the low wall. Mr. Sleuth had evidently been out to buy himself another pair of new boots, and then he had gone inside the gate and had put them on, placing his old footgear in the paper in which the new pair had been wrapped.
The exbutler waited—waited quite a long time, not only until Mr. Sleuth had let himself into the house, but till the lodger had had time to get well away, upstairs.
Then he also walked up the flagged pathway, and put his latchkey in the door. He lingered as long over the job of hanging his hat and coat up in the hall as he dared, in fact till his wife called out to him. Then he went in, and throwing the paper down on the table, he said sullenly: “There it is! You can see it all for yourself— not that there’s very much to see,” and groped his way to the fire.
His wife looked at him in sharp alarm. “Whatever have you done to yourself?” she exclaimed. “You’re ill—that’s what it is, Bunting. You got a chill last night!”
“I told you I’d got a chill,” he muttered. “‘Twasn’t last night, though; ’twas going out this morning, coming back in the bus. Margaret keeps that housekeeper’s room o’ hers like a hothouse— that’s what she does. ’Twas going out from there into the biting wind, that’s what did for me. It must be awful to stand about in such weather; ’tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler, can stand the life—being out in all weathers like he is.”
Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table.
“Those that keep out o’ doors all day never do come to no harm,” said his wife testily. “But if you felt so bad, whatever was you out so long for, Bunting? I thought you’d gone away somewhere! D’you mean you only went to get the paper?”
“I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp,” he muttered apologetically.
“That was a silly thing to do!”
“Perhaps it was,” he admitted meekly.
Daisy had taken up the paper. “Well, they don’t say much,” she said disappointedly. “Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr. Chandler’ll be in soon again. If so, he’ll tell us more about it.”
“A young girl like you oughtn’t to want to know anything about