The Just Men of Cordova. Edgar Wallace

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ taken by the beggar.

      The way led him through narrow streets, so narrow that in the walls on either side ran deep recesses to allow the boxes of cartwheels to pass. He overtook the man in the Calle Paraiso, passed him, threading the narrow streets that led to San Fernando. Down this he went, walking very leisurely, then turned to the street of Carrera de Puente, and so came to the shadows of the mosque-cathedral which is dedicated to God and to Allah with delightful impartiality. He stood irresolutely before the gates that opened on to the courtyards, seemed half in doubt, then turned again, going downhill to the Bridge of Calahorra. Straight as a die the bridge runs, with its sixteen arches that the ancient Moors built. The man with the cloak reached the centre of the bridge and leant over, watching with idle interest the swollen yellow waters of the Guadalquivir.

      Out of the corner of his eye he watched the beggar come slowly through the gate and walk in his direction. He had a long time to wait, for the man’s progress was slow. At last he came sidling up to him, hat in hand, palm outstretched. The attitude was that of a beggar, but the voice was that of an educated Englishman.

      “Manfred,” he said earnestly, “you must see this man Essley. I have a special reason for asking.”

      “What is he?”

      The beggar smiled.

      “I am dependent upon memory to a great extent,” he said, “the library at my humble lodgings being somewhat limited, but I have a dim idea that he is a doctor in a suburb of London, rather a clever surgeon.”

      “What is he doing here?”

      The redoubtable Gonsalez smiled again.

      “There is in Cordova a Dr. Cajalos. From the exalted atmosphere of the Paseo de Gran Capitan, wherein I understand you have your luxurious suite, no echo of the underworld of Cordova comes to you. Here”—he pointed to the roofs and the untidy jumble of buildings at the farther end of the bridge—“in the Campo of the Verdad, where men live happily on two pesetas a week, we know Dr. Cajalos. He is a household word—a marvellous man, George, performing miracles undreamt of in your philosophy: making the blind to see, casting spells upon the guilty, and creating infallible love philtres for the innocent! He’ll charm a wart or arrest the ravages of sleeping sickness.”

      Manfred nodded. “Even in the Paseo de la Gran Capitan he is not without honour,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I have seen him and consulted him.”

      The beggar was a little astonished. “You’re a wonderful man,” he said, with admiration in his voice. “When did you do it?”

      Manfred laughed softly.

      “There was a certain night, not many weeks ago, when a beggar stood outside the worthy doctor’s door, patiently waiting till a mysterious visitor, cloaked to his nose, had finished his business.”

      “I remember,” said the other, nodding. “He was a stranger from Ronda, and I was curious—did you see me following him?”

      “I saw you,” said Manfred gravely. “I saw you from the corner of my eye.”

      “It was not you?” asked Gonsalez, astonished.

      “It was I,” said the other. “I went out of Cordova to come into Cordova.”

      Gonsalez was silent for a moment.

      “I accept the humiliation,” he said. “Now, since you know the doctor, can you see any reason for the visit of a commonplace English doctor to Cordova? He has come all the way without a halt from England by the Algeciras Express. He leaves Cordova to-morrow morning at daybreak by the same urgent system, and he comes to consult Dr. Cajalos.”

      “Poiccart is here: he has an interest in this Essley—so great an interest that he comes blandly to our Cordova, Baedeker in hand, seeking information of the itinerant guide and submitting meekly to his inaccuracies.”

      Manfred stroked his little beard, with the same grave thoughtful expression in his wise eyes as when he had watched Gonsalez shuffling from the Café de la Gran Capitan. “Life would be dull without Poiccart,” he said.

      “Dull, indeed—ah, señor, my life shall be your praise, and it shall rise like the smoke of holy incense to the throne of Heaven.”

      He dropped suddenly into his whine, for a policeman of the town guard was approaching, with a suspicious eye for the beggar who stood with expectant hand outstretched.

      Manfred shook his head as the policeman strolled up.

      “Go in peace,” he said.

      “Dog,” said the policeman, his rough hand descending on the beggar’s shoulder, “thief of a thief, begone lest you offend the nostrils of this illustrious.”

      With arms akimbo, he watched the man limp away, then he turned to Manfred.

      “If I had seen this scum before, excellency,” he said fiercely, “I should have relieved your presence of his company.”

      “It is not important,” said Manfred conventionally.

“As for me,” the policeman went on, releasing one hand from his hip to curl an insignificant moustache, “I have hard work in protecting rich and munificent caballeros from these swine. And God knows my pay is poor, and with three hungry mouths to fill, not counting my wife’s mother, who comes regularly on feast days and must be taken to the bull-fight, life is hard. More especially, señor, since she is one of those damned proud Andalusian women who must have a seat in the shade at two pesetas.^[1] For myself, I have not tasted rioja since the feast of Santa Therese—”

      Manfred slipped a peseta into the hand of the uniformed beggar. The man walked by his side to the end of the bridge, retailing his domestic difficulties with the freedom and intimacy which is possible nowhere else in the world. They stood chattering near the principal entrance to the Cathedral.

      “Your excellency is not of Cordova?” asked the officer.

      “I am of Malaga,” said Manfred without hesitation.

      “I had a sister who married a fisherman of Malaga,” confided the policeman. “Her husband was drowned, and she now lives with a señor whose name I forget. She is a pious woman, but very selfish. Has your excellency been to Gibraltar?”

      Manfred nodded. He was interested in a party of tourists which was being shown the glories of the Puerta del Perdon.

      One of the tourists detached himself from his party and came towards them. He was a man of middle height and strongly built. There was a strange reserve in his air and a saturnine imperturbability in his face.

      “Can you direct me to the Passeo de la Gran Capitan?” he asked in bad Spanish.

      “I am going that way,” said Manfred courteously; “if the señor would condescend to accompany me—”

      “I shall be grateful,” said the other.

      They chatted a little on divers subjects—the weather, the delightful character of the mosque-cathedral.

      “You must come along and see Essley,” said the tourist suddenly. He spoke in perfect Spanish.

      “Tell СКАЧАТЬ