The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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      “There’s lots of jobs a chap like you could take up,” he said, almost resentfully,” if you only applied your ability in the right direction—”

      75 raised his hand in dignified protest.

      “My warder,” he said gravely, “you are quotin’ the Sunday papers, and that I will not tolerate, even from you.”

      Later, in the Warders’ Mess, Mr. Scrutton said that as far as he was concerned he gave 75 up as a bad job.”

      “As nice a fellow as you could wish to meet,” he confessed.

      “How did he come down?” asked an assistant warder.

      “He was a curate in the West End of London, got into debt and pawned the church plate — he told me so himself!”

      There were several officers in the messroom. One of these, an elderly man, removed his pipe before he spoke.

      “I saw him in Lewes two years ago; as far as my recollection serves me, he was thrown out of the Navy for running a destroyer ashore.”

      Amber was the subject of discussion in the little diningroom of the Governor’s quarters, where Major Bliss dined with the deputy governor.

      “Try as I can,” said the Governor in perplexity, I cannot remember that man Amber at Sandhurst — he says he remembers me, but I really cannot place him….”

      Unconscious of the interest he was exciting, Amber slumbered peacefully on his thin mattress, smiling in his sleep.

      *

      Outside the prison gates on the following morning was a small knot of people, mainly composed of shabbily dressed men and women, waiting for the discharge of their relatives.

      One by one they came through the little wicket-gate, grinning sheepishly at their friends, submitting with some evidence of discomfort to the embraces of tearful women, receiving with greater aplomb the rude jests of their male admirers.

      Amber came forth briskly. With his neat tweed suit, his soft Homburg hat and his eyeglass, those who waited mistook him for an officer of the prison and drew aside respectfully. Even the released prisoners, such as were there, did not recognize him, for he was cleanshaven and spruce; but a black-coated young man, pale and very earnest, had been watching for him, and stepped forward with outstretched hand.

      “Amber?” he asked hesitatingly.

      “Mr. Amber, “corrected the other, his head perked on one side like a curious hen.

      “Mr. Amber.” The missioner accepted the correction gravely. “My name is Dowles. I am a helper of the Prisoners’ Regeneration League.”

      “Very interestin’ — very interestin’ indeed,” murmured Amber, and shook the young man’s hand vigorously. “Good work, and all that sort of thing, but uphill work, sir, uphill work.”

      He shook his head despairingly, and with a nod made as if to go.

      “One moment, Mr. Amber.” The young man’s hand was on his arm. “I know about you and your misfortune — won’t you let us help you?”

      Amber looked down at him kindly, his hand rested on the other’s shoulder.

      “My chap,” he said gently, “I’m the wrong kind of man: can’t put me choppin’ wood for a living, or find me a position of trust at 18s. a week. Honest toil has only the same attraction for me as the earth has for the moon; I circle round it once in twentyfour hours without getting any nearer to it — here!”

      He dived his hand into his trousers pocket and brought out some money. There were a few sovereigns — these had been in his possession when he was arrested — and some loose silver. He selected half a crown.

      “For the good cause,” he said magnificently, and slipping the coin into the missioner’s hand, he strode off.

II. At the Whistlers

       Table of Contents

      No. 46, Curefax Street, West Central, is an establishment which is known to a select few as “The Whistlers.” Its official title is Pinnock’s Club. It was founded in the early days of the nineteenth century by one Charles Pinnock, and in its day was a famous rendezvous.

      That it should suffer the vicissitudes peculiar to institutions of the kind was inevitable, and its reputation rose and fell with the changing times. In 1889,1901, and again in 1903, it fell under suspicion, for in these years the club was raided by the police; though without any result satisfactory to the raiders.

      It is indisputable that the habitués of the Whistlers were a curious collection of people, that it had few, if any, names upon the list of members of any standing in the social world; yet the club was popular in a shamefaced way. The golden youth of London delighted to boast, behind cautious hands, that they had had a night at the Whistlers; some of them hinted at high play; but the young gentlemen of fortune who had best reason for knowing the play was high indeed, never spoke of the matter, realizing, doubtlessly, that the world has little sympathy with a fool confessed, so that much of the evidence that an interfering constabulary desired was never forthcoming.

      On a night in October the club was enjoying an unusual amount of patronage. Cab after cab set down well-dressed men before the decorous portals in Curefax Street. Men immaculately dressed, men a little over dressed, they came in ones and twos, and parties of three, at short intervals.

      Some came out again after a short stay and drove off, but it seemed that the majority stayed. Just be ore midnight a taxicab drove up and discharged three passengers.

      By accident or design, there is no outside light to the club, and the nearest electric standard is a few yards along the street, so that a visitor may arrive or depart in semi-darkness, and a watcher would find difficulty in identifying a patron.

      In this case the chauffeur was evidently unacquainted with the club premises, and overshot the mark, pulling up within a few yards of the street lamp.

      One of the passengers was tall and soldierly in appearance. He had a heavy black moustache, and the breadth of his shoulders suggested great muscular strength. In the light much of his military smartness vanished, for his face was puffed, and there were little bags under his eyes. He was followed by a shorter man who looked much younger than he was, for his hair, eyebrows and a little wisp of moustache were so fair as to be almost white. His nose and chin were of the character which for want of a better description may be called “nut-cracker,” and down his face, from temple to chin, ran a long red scar.

      Alphonse Lambaire was the first of these men, a remarkable and a sinister figure. Whether Lambaire was his real name or not I do not profess to know: he was English in all else. You might search in vain the criminal records of Scotland Yard without discovering his name, save in that section devoted to “ suspected persons.” He was a notorious character.

      I give you a crude biography of him because he figures largely in this story. He was a handsome man, in a heavy unhealthy way, only the great diamond ring upon his little finger was a departure from the perfect СКАЧАТЬ