The Twelve African Novels (A Collection). Edgar Wallace

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СКАЧАТЬ do,” said the other. “Last night, coming back to the hotel, I was set upon by Amber and half a dozen roughs — wasn’t I, Whitey?”

      “You was,” said White, who at times rose superior to grammatical conventions.

      “But the police?” protested the young man energetically. “Surely you could lay him by the heels?”

      Lambaire shook his head with a pained smile.

      “The police are no good,” he said, “they’re all in the swim together — my dear boy, you’ve no idea of the corruption of the police force; I could tell you stories that would raise your hair.”

      He discoursed at some length on the iniquities of the constabulary.

      “Now let us get to business,” he said, passing back his plate. “Have you thought over my suggestion?”

      “I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought,” said Sutton. “I suppose there will be a contract and all that sort of thing?”

      “Oh, certainly, — I’m glad you asked. We were talking about that very thing this morning, weren’t we, Whitey?”

      Whitey nodded, and yawned furtively. “I’m afraid your sister is prejudiced against us,” Lambaire went on. “I regret this: it pains me a little. She is under the impression that we want to obtain possession of the plan she has. Nothing of the sort I We do not wish to see the plan. So far as we know, the river lies due north west through the Alebi country. As a matter of fact,” said Lambaire in confidence, “we don’t expect that plan to be of very much use to you, do we, Whitey?”

      “Yes,” said Whitey absently—” no, I mean.”

      “Our scheme is to send you out and give you an opportunity of verifying the route.”

      They spoke in this strain for the greater part of an hour, discussing equipment and costs, and the boy, transported on the breath of fancy to another life and another sphere, talked volubly, being almost incoherent in his delight.

      But still there were the objections of Cynthia Sutton to overcome.

      “A matter of little difficulty,” said the boy airily, and the two men did not urge the point, knowing that, so far from being a pebble on the path, to be lightly brushed aside, this girl, with her clear vision and sane judgment, was a very rock.

      Later in the morning, when they approached the house in Warwick Gardens, they did not share the assurance of the chattering young man who led the way.

      Francis Sutton had pressed the knob of the electric bell, when he turned suddenly to the two men.

      “By the way,” he said, “whose mine was this? — yours or my father’s?”

      The naiveté of the question took Lambaire off his guard.

      “Your father discovered it,” he said, unthinkingly, and as he stopped, Whitey came to his rescue.

      “But we floated it,” he said, in a tone that suggested that on the score of ownership no more need be said.

IX. Amber Sees the Map

       Table of Contents

      Cynthia Sutton was twentythree, and, by all standards, beautiful. Her hair was a rich chestnut, her eyes were big, and of that shade which is either blue or grey, according to the light in which they were seen. Her nose was straight, her upper lip short; her lips full and red, her skin soft and unblemished. “She has the figure of a woman, and the eyes of a child,” said Amber describing her “ and she asked me to come to tea.”

      “And you didn’t go,” said Peter, nodding his head approvingly. “You realized that your presence might compromise this innercent flower. ‘No,’ you sez to yourself, ‘no, I will go away, carrying a fragrant memory, an’—’”

      “To be exact, my Peter,” said Amber, “I forgot all about the appointment in the hurry and bustle of keeping out of Lambaire’s way.”

      They were sitting in the little room under the roof of 19, Redcow Court, and the sweet song of the caged birds filled the apartment with liquid melody.

      “No,” continued Amber thoughtfully, “I must confess to you, my Peter, that I had none of those interestin’ conversations with myself that your romantic soul suggests.”

      He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock in the forenoon, and he stared through the open window, his mind intent upon a problem.

      “I ought to see her,” he said, half to himself; he was groping for excuses. “This business of young Sutton’s… compass and chart… hidden treasures and all that sort of thing, eh, my Peter?”

      Peter’s eyes were gleaming from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, and his hand shook with excitement, as he rose and made his way to the cretonne-curtained shelves.

      “I’ve got a yarn here,” he said, fumbling eagerly amongst his literary treasures, “that will give you some ideas: money and pieces of eight — what is a piece of eight?” He turned abruptly with the question.

      “A sovereign,” said Amber promptly, “eight half-crowns.” He was in the mood when he said just the first thing that came into his head.

      “Um!” Peter resumed his search, and Amber watched him with the gentle amusement that one reserves for the enthusiasm of children at play.

      “Here it is,” said Peter.

      He drew forth from a pile of books one, gaudy of colour and reckless of design. “This is the thing,” — he dusted the paper cover tenderly—” ‘Black Eyed Nick, or the Desperado’s Dream of Ducats’; how’s that?”

      Amber took the book from the old man and inspected it, letting the pages run through his fingers rapidly.

      “Fine,” he said, with conviction. “Put it with my pyjamas, I’ll read myself to sleep with it “ — he spoke a little absently, for his mind was elsewhere.

      It was a relief to him when Peter left him to “shop.” Shopping was the one joy of Peter’s life, and usually entailed a very careful rehearsal.

      “A penn’oth of canary seed, a quarter of tea, two of sugar, four bundles of wood, a pint of paraffin, tell the greengrocer to send me half a hundred of coal, eggs, bit of bacon — you didn’t like the bacon this morning, did you, Amber? — some kippers, a chop — how will a chop suit you? — and a pound of new potatoes; I think that’s all.”

      Leaning out of the window, Amber saw him disappearing up the court, his big rush bag gripped tightly in his hand, his aged top-hat tilted to the back of his head.

      Amber waited until he was out of sight, then made his way to his bedroom and commenced to change his clothes.

      A quarter of an hour later he was on his way to Warwick Gardens.

      The maid who answered his СКАЧАТЬ