The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ You ought to scrape it out once a month or so."

      He seated himself opposite to me and sprawled in the low chair, with his knees higher than his head.

      "Oh, I like a well-caked pipe," I replied. "Nuttier and cooler."

      "Ah, well! So long as you can afford to crack your pipes," he said lazily, and sat silent for a minute or two.

      I was quite under his spell again, and had to keep whipping my feelings up into a state of resentment and disgust to maintain them in the condition that common justice demanded. If he were going to restore the sapphire that evening as he had hinted, why on earth couldn't he have done it just now? For the matter of that, why on earth couldn't he have returned it last night when he went to the drawing-room? Why had he ever denied taking the thing at all?

      "Well, son, what about it?" he said suddenly.

      "Yes, what about it, Beau?" I replied.

      He looked at me quizzically.

      "What's the game, should you think, Johnny?" he asked.

      "That's what I want to know," I answered. "It seems a damned silly one, anyhow."

      "Quite," agreed Michael. "Quite very. Very quite. And a little rough on the girls and our good Augustus."

      "Exactly," said I. "And on Aunt Patricia."

      An uncomfortable silence followed.

      "Well?" said Michael, at length.

      "Oh, put it back, Beau," I implored. "God alone knows what you're playing at! Do you?"

      Michael sat up and stared at me.

      "Oh? You say 'Put it back,' do you, John?" he said slowly and thoughtfully.

      "I do," I replied. "Or look here, Beau. Aunt thinks a lot of you, and devilish little of me. It would be doing her a real kindness not to let her know it was you after all. Give it here, and I'll . . ." I coloured and felt a fool.

      "Eric, or Little by Little. A Story of School Life. . . . The Boy with the Marble Brow," murmured Michael, smiling. But his voice was very kind. . . .

      "This grows interesting, Johnny," he went on. "If I go and fetch the 'Blue Water' now, will you take it to Aunt Patricia and say, 'Alone I did it. I cannot tell a lie. It is a far, far better thing I do . . . ?"

      "Those very words, Beau," I grinned. "On condition you tell me what the game was, and why you did such a damned silly thing."

      Thank God the wretched business was going to end--and yet, and yet . . . I felt quite sure that Michael would not let me take the blame--much as I would have preferred that to the wretched feeling of our Michael being the object of Aunt Patricia's scorn and contempt. The more she liked him and approved him now, the more would she dislike and despise him then. She might forbid him the house.

      Michael rose.

      "You really will?" he asked. "If I go and get it now, you'll take it straight to Aunt Patricia and say you pinched it for a lark?"

      "Only too glad of the chance, Beau," I answered. "To get the beastly business over and done with and forgotten--and the girls and Gussie and Digby out of the silly mess."

      "H'm," said Michael, sitting down. "You would, eh?"

      "And might I ask you a question or two, John?" he went on.

      "What were you doing with your hand on the glass cover when I put my hand on it last night?"

      "Waiting to catch the ass that was returning the 'Blue Water,'" I replied.

      "H'm! Why did you want to catch him?"

      "Because I had twice been accused of the fool trick--just because I was standing close to the table when the light failed."

      "So you were, too. . . . And what were you doing downstairs last night when I found you in the hall?"

      "Looking for the key, Beau, as I told you," I answered.

      "And what did you want the key for?"

      "To see whether the sapphire had been put back--and to get some peace of mind and sleep, if it had."

      "Did you go into the drawing-room?"

      "No," I answered.

      "Why not?"

      "What need? I took it for granted that you had returned it," replied I.

      "H'm!" said Michael. "Suppose a vote were taken among the eight of us, as to who is likeliest to be the thief, who do you suppose would top the poll?"

      "Augustus," I stated promptly.

      "Do you think he is the culprit?" asked my brother.

      "No, I do not," I replied significantly.

      "Nor I," answered the enigmatic Michael. "In fact, I know he's not."

      He sat silent, smoking reflectively for a few minutes.

      "Go through the list," he said suddenly. "Would Aunt pinch her own jewel?"

      "Hardly," said I.

      "Would the Chaplain?"

      "Still less," said I.

      "Would Claudia?" he asked next--almost anxiously, I fancied (absurdly, no doubt).

      "Don't be a fool," I replied.

      "Would Isobel?"

      "Don't be a cad," I said.

      "Would Digby?"

      "Utterly preposterous and absurd," I answered.

      "Would Augustus?"

      "I feel certain that he didn't anyhow," I answered.

      "Would you?"

      "I didn't, as it happens," I assured him.

      "Would I?"

      "I should have thought you almost the last person in the world, Beau," I assured him.

      "Looks as though I did it then, doesn't it?" he asked. "Because if Augustus and Digby and you didn't do it--who the devil did, if I didn't? Yes--it looks as though I am the thief."

      "It does--to me only though. Nobody else knows that I found you downstairs," I said. "Why didn't you put it back then, Beau?" I asked.

      "Wish I had," he said.

      There came a bang at the door.

      "Who's there?" cried Michael.

      "Me," bawled the ungrammatical Digby.

      Michael СКАЧАТЬ