Shattering Glass. John Russell Fearn

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ your bill, Mr. Lonsdale—and say, is there anything wrong?”

      “Only with my head, I think.” With a grin Perry tossed a five-pound note on the counter. “All yours, Bill, and thanks for the feed. See you again some time.”

      “You have a sublime disregard for risks, haven’t you?” she asked after a while, and the look of gratitude was back on her face. “You don’t know a thing about me beyond the fact I’m from Bristol and that my parents are dead, yet you have taken on the job of being my guardian angel. How do you know I’m not a criminal, or somebody who might get you into a heap of trouble before you’re finished?”

      “How do you know I’m not?” he asked dryly. “I might be a kid-glove killer, a lounge-suit blackmailer—or even that man, if man it was, who murdered the girl in Manchester with a bottle top.... Never can tell. Your risk is a s great as mine.”

      “I’ll take it,” she said at length.

      “So will I. That makes us quits.”

      It was 11:45 when they entered the Barryvale. To arrange for a room and see the girl safely to it did not take Perry above five minutes. Outside the door of Room 701 he stood regarding her.

      “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll talk things over?”

      “Tomorrow.” She nodded slowly, even happily. “Shall we say ten o’clock, in the lounge?”

      “That’ll suit me fine. I’ll be waiting.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      SWIFT ACTION

      ONCE within her room Moira Trent locked the door and switched on the light. She glanced at her suitcase, but instead of opening it, began to unbutton her overcoat.

      “Naturally he saw me look at the cafe window,” she said half aloud. “He’s no fool. He knows it was because of that that I decided to leave. I suppose I could have been wrong, but I’m sure it was...Dick.”

      She turned restlessly and, crossing to her suitcase, opened it and pulled out the heavy books. One by one she put them on the small table beside the bed. The titles were varied, but they all covered the same field—the mind. They ranged from a cheap edition called Master Yourself to Enrico Ferri’s Criminal Sociology. Each book was worn and thumbed.

      The girl smiled as she glanced at them. In the space of several years, she had read each one from cover to cover.

      “I know no more now than I did at first,” she mused. “Either I’m completely dense or else there is no real answer—unless it be in the sub­conscious. And to understand that is like trying to pick the lock on the Bank of England.”

      Climbing between the sheets, she lay gazing at the ceiling where the hole in the top of the lampshade traced a bright circle upon it. “The bottle-top murder! The names they think of for sensationalism....”

      * * * * * * *

      When Perry Lonsdale arrived next morning he found a complete change had taken place in the shadowy, indifferently dressed woman he had be­friended the previous night. The air of gloom and mysticism had gone. She was smiling and her red frock enhanced her features and, somehow, put a sparkle in her deep violet eyes.

      “Well, well, and how is the bird of the night this morning?”

      Perry sat down opposite her.

      “I’m feeling very much as though I’m in wonderland, and still wondering how I’m going to repay you.”

      “The first condition is understandable,” he said, “and the second can be forgotten. I have a proposition for you. Not being a good salesman, I think I’d better start with a plush box and let that do the talking for me. That is, if you’ll let it.”

      Perry nodded and took a small case from his pocket. As he snapped it open Moira found herself staring at a massive diamond clawed on to a thin gold band.

      “Why, it’s beautiful! She inspected it closely. “I don’t think I have ever seen one quite so lovely. But,”—her eyes were deeply inquiring—“why have you done this, Perry?”

      “I think we should become engaged,” he said, trying to sound casual. “To which I don’t doubt that you will raise all sorts of objections about us not knowing much of each other. Let me make it clear that on my side that simply doesn’t count. I’m the kind of chap who makes snap decisions. Up to now, all the women I’ve met—barring those in the forces who were usually engaged anyway—have been socialites, as shallow as soap-dishes and by no means as useful. It’s different with you. I’ve thought about you most of the night and this morning I called on the jeweler. Now let’s have your reaction.”

      Moira sighed. “What sort of a fool would I be to turn down a chance like this?” she murmured.

      Perry smiled, took the ring and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand.

      “You’ll never regret this, Moira,” he said. “I used to think that love-at-first-sight was sheer bunk; now I’m a convert. It can happen. In fact, it has. If there is anything I should know about you, I’m just not interested. As for me, my offerings include my money—more or less unlimited; my London flat, and my country home. Most important of all, I’m offering my love.”

      “Country home?” Moira’s unfathomable eyes brightened. “Where? Near here?”

      “You have mentioned,” Perry said mysteriously, “that you like quiet places. My country place, the “Larches,” is quiet, even dull in some respects, but that can be changed with a woman’s touch. It’s in Somerset, on the borders of a little place called Brinhampton, near Taunton. I’d much prefer to live in London, but I expect that you—”

      “I’d much prefer Somerset. I love the country—the peace and the quiet it brings.”

      Perry beamed with joy. “Leave everything to me,” he said. “This is going to be a Lonsdale wedding, with all the pomp and glory that attaches to the name.”

      “Well, I....” Moira hesitated a long moment, then her hand with the gleaming diamond reached across the table. “Of course, Perry. Whatever you say.”

      “Fine!”

      * * * * * * *

      In one of the many offices at Scotland Yard, a conference was in progress.

      “Frankly, sir, I can’t make head or tail of it,” Division Inspector Jones of the Manchester C.I.D. said. “I’ve followed every rule in the book and made every inquiry I can, but there still does not seem to have been any particular reason for the murder of Joyce Kempton. That’s why I had all the information relayed to you. The facts are straight­forward enough. Joyce Kempton roomed on Barbor Street. Quite an ordinary sort of place, same as any bachelor girl might have. She was a sales­girl at the perfume counter of Bagshaw’s Emporium on Portland Street. She had no apparent enemies. She had a boy-friend named Richard Lane, but from what I can make out he kept company with a girl called Sylvia Cotswood as well.”

      “Look here, Jones, I’m not a memory expert,” Chief Inspector Raymond Calthorp interjected. “Stop reeling off all these confounded names, will you? It gets confusing.... Let’s get back to СКАЧАТЬ