"The Mountains have a Secret" - читать интересную книгу автора (Upfield Arthur W.)

Chapter Ten

Spanners in Machinery

SUPERMAN had prevailed on Ferris Simpson to open the “cupboard”, and now she was standing within, and the narrow serving ledge had been dropped across the doorway. Her face indicated petulance.

Superman brightened at the arrival of his friends and Bony and invited them to name their drinks. The parson and the pirate called for whisky, Bony and the big man choosing beer, and whilst the drinks were coming up the pirate offered expensive cigarettes. They stood at the cupboard ledge despite the inviting easy-chairs, and for the first half-hour the “shouting” was not consonant with moderation. They talked of the mountains, the hotel, the fishing at Lake George, and Bony began to wonder when the inevitable personal interest would come to the fore. The angling was expert, the acting of both the parson and the pirate superb. Superman only was his natural self. The fish was enjoying the situation, when:

“Can’t get it out of my head that I’ve seen you before,” remarked the pirate. “I’m Matthew Lawrence. What’s your name?”

“Jack Parkes,” replied Bony. “It’s unlikely we’ve met before, because I haven’t been away from home since ’39. Too much to do and too little petrol to do it with.”

“H’m! Strange. Might have been in Sydney some time.”

“Every man falls into one of about ten classes or types,” murmured the parson. “Thus it is that often we think we’ve met someone before. You mentioned, did you not, that you are a pastoralist?”

“That’s so. Wool production is my living.”

“Hell of a good living, too,” said Superman, grinning down at Bony. “Better’nwrestling for a living, anyway. I’m Toby Lucas. Toby to my pals.”

“Ah, the lies men tell!” mocked the parson. He ranged himself closer to Bony. “Look at him. Perfect physical specimen of Man. The idol of the crowd, especially the female portion of it. Receives four hundred pounds every time he steps into the ring. And steps out again at the end of an hour or thereabouts. Do you make four hundred pounds an hour?”

“Not much more than four hundred in a year,” Bony admitted truthfully.

“Neither do I-after having been freed by the Income Tax people. Just imagine four hundred pounds per hour, about sixteen hundred dollars an hour, or, if you’d like to take it in francs, about a hundred and ninety thousand francs per hour, just to step into a ring and bow to the fans, and then put on a dashed good act of rough stuff with plenty of hate with a fellow who is a bosom friend. Look at this Toby Lucas. Take in the expensive suit, the silk shirt, the diamond-studded wrist-watch, the bulging inside coat pocket, where he keeps his gigantic wad.”

“And then look at me, at my shabby clothes, at my flat pockets,” pleaded the pirate.

“And also at me, my dear Jack,” urged the parson. “Regard me, Cyril Loxton, a slave to capitalistic bosses who demand sixty hours a week for a miserable few pounds. You’d never guess how hard I have to work-and at what.”

“You are, I think, connected with a religious organisation,” Bony said, and the others laughed without restraint.

“My dear fellow, you are very wide of the mark,” the parson asserted smilingly, and yet Bony detected the smirk of satisfaction. “I am a debt collector. I collect long outstanding debts owed to other people. I pursue debtors until they pay up, and after they have paid up and thus freed themselves of a load, they dislike me. And whatever guess you made about Matt, here, it also would be wrong.”

Bony asked Ferris to fill the glasses and then stood back to examine the pirate, whilst swaying slightly upon his own feet. In the instant his gaze had been directed to the girl, he had noted that she was troubled rather than annoyed.

“Give me three tries,” he suggested.

“Bet you don’t hit the bull’s-eye,” struck in Superman, and Bony wondered why con men are so unoriginal in their methods. Then he was presented with a variation, for the pirate accepted the challenge on his behalf.

“Bet he does,” said the pirate. “Bet a level pound.”

“Do me,” agreed Superman. “Now then, Jack, old pal, I’m backing you to lose and so gain me a quid.”

Drunken gravity well assumed, Bony stepped by the parson to pay Ferris for the drinks she had set up. Without speaking she took his money. He saw her glancing at the others waiting behind him, passing swiftly over them. Then she was gazing at him as one wishing to impart a warning, but not daring to do so. That was all, and he was puzzled.

Gravely he proffered the filled glasses, took up his own, and proceeded to look over the pirate as a man does a horse.

“You’re in some kind of business,” he said thickly. “Wait. That’s not a guess. First guess is that you’re a restaurant proprietor.”

The pirate shook his head.

“All right! Second guess is that you’re a fruit merchant.”

“Oi!” exclaimed Superman. “Still out. Leaves you one guess to win me that pound.”

“Better have another drink before making the third try,” the parson suggested. “Thank you, Miss Simpson. The same again. This is becoming interesting. I think I’ll chance a little pound on Mr. Parkes. Take it, Toby?”

Superman said he would even as he watched Bony, a broad grin on his great square face and his eyes a trifle hard. Ferris waited for Bony’s glass, and the parson urged him to “drink up”. Bony, however, retained his glass as he swayed and with determined gravity continued to examine the pirate. The room became silent.

“Ready?” he asked. “Here’s my third try. You”-and he smiled foolishly-“you are the proprietor of a gambling den, a real slap-up, posh gambling school in Melbourne. Right?”

The gentleman pirate stroked his moustache with the knuckle of a long forefinger, a speculative gleam in his black eyes. The parson’s fine brows rose to arch over his grey eyes which were no longer mocking. He was about to speak when Superman exploded:

“Well, I’ll be back-slammed!”

“I’m afraid you are quite wrong, Mr. Parkes, and therefore Mr. Lawrence and I have to settle with Toby.” With a quick hand movement he produced a wallet, speaking now more quickly with the evident intention of convincing a semi-drunken man of being in error. “Toby, your pound. As usual you have the luck. Matt-pay up. We must be good losers. I did think Mr. Parkes would bring it off. He came very close to doing so. What a joke though! Matt Lawrence, two-up king and emperor of the baccarat-tables.”

“I don’t find it a joke,” the pirate said frigidly, and Bony supported himself by placing a hand upon the pirate’s arm as he said: “By the way, what do you do? How far out was I?”

“I am, Mr. Parkes, a dress designer.”

Bony chuckled and admitted he would never have guessed that. Superman pressed a full glass into his free hand. For the nth time the parson tossed a humorous remark to Ferris Simpson-and failed to melt the expression of cold watchfulness. Memory of what old Simpson had said stirred within Bony’s quite clear mind. The old man had wanted to know if Ferris knew these men. When she answered the front door neither her demeanour nor her voice betrayed recognition, and yet her attitude towards these new guests since she had been in the “cupboard” was such as to include the probability of a previous knowledge of them and their activities.

The next move came quickly and confirmed Bony’s suspicion that the girl knew these men and suspected their real intention towards him. Had their objective been to relieve him of his money through one of a thousand confidence tricks, the suggestion which was now made would never have been put forward.

“Let’s all go for a walk,” the parson said. “No doubt we could prevail upon Miss Simpson to open the cupboard for a little while before we turn in. Whatd’you say, Mr. Parkes?”

Con men of the parson’s calibre do not take semi-drunks into a dark lane to rob them, and owners of gambling schools of the standard run by the pirate were not satisfied with a few pounds in the wallet of a man who might survive the robbery to identify them. Robbery, therefore, was not their motive. Bony’s interest in them swiftly increased.

“I don’wanna go out for a walk,” he protested. “Been out all the afternoon. Gonna sit down here and watch you fellers get drunk. Make me laugh to seerollin ’aroun ’ a wrestler, a debt-collector, and big-time baccarat shot. Shorry. Mean dress designer.”

Gravely determined, he occupied one of the easy chairs, eased his back, and closed his eyes. The parson said:

“Let him be, gentlemen. I fear our friend is slightly overcome. Again, please, Miss Simpson.”

The girl was not in the “cupboard”. Eyebrows were raised. The pirate leaned elegantly against the wall. The wrestler rubbed the palm of one hand with the enormous thumb of the other, belched, distended his cheeks. The parson sat down.

“At least the cupboard hasn’t been closed on us,” he said, and leaned backwards with his head resting against his clasped hands. “Ah, here is Miss Simpson. We thought you had deserted us, Miss Simpson.”

“I went out for a fresh drying-cloth,” the girl said tartly. “If you don’t want any more drinks, I think I’ll go to bed.”

The wrestler smirked and said that the evening was still an infant. They kept Ferris busy for another twenty minutes, when the big man was showing signs of being drunk. No such signs were evident in his companions. Ferris’s attention was being given to filling the glasses when the watching Bony saw the parson wink at the wrestler, who then looked towards Bony and grinned.

“Friend Jackoughta have a drink. Mustn’t let him sleep all his brains away.”

He came towards the seated Bony, and the other two turned to watch him, their backs pressed hard against the drop counter and thus preventing the girl from looking through into the lounge. He almost staggered in his walk, and when he pushed a hand against Bony’s chest the weight was enough to wake the Sphinx.

“Come on, ole feller. Have another drink with Toby.”

“I’ve had enough,” Bony told him, and then was lifted by one hand to his feet and almost carried by one hand across the lounge to the waiting comrades. A glass of beer was offered to him by the pirate, and the wrestler said something about black men being unable to take it. He was working himself into a rage, Bony strongly suspecting it to be all pretence and wondering what the little scheme was about.

“That’s enough of that talk, Toby,” the parson said sharply.

“I talk as I like to a feller who refuses to drink with me,” bellowed the wrestler, drawing himself up and digging his fists into his hips. “What’s the matter with me that he won’t drink when I ask him?”

“I think you had all better go to bed,” Ferris said, to which the large man asserted he was not going to bed, that he was remaining as long as he liked, and that he wanted another drink.

Ferris Simpson closed the cupboard door on them, and that, it appeared, was the act for which they had engineered.

“Ah!” breathed the wrestler, thrusting his bullet head towards Bony. “Now that the lady has left us, I’m going to give you a lesson in the manly art of wrestling.”

He advanced upon Bony like a railway engine towards a light-blinded jack-rabbit. Bony backed away, coldly sober, tensed, believing that he now understood the reason actuating the coming of these notorious men. He was convinced that none here knew for sure that he was a detective, and therefore he could not declare himself even though he was defenceless, the gun given him by Superintendent Bolt being in his bedroom.

He turned and sprang for the door-to find it closed and blocked by the parson. There was a tiny smile at the corner of the pirate’s mouth and the black eyes gleamed with anticipation. The wrestler ceased to advance, turned aside, and calmly pushed a chair away and the table against the wall. All pretence of being drunk was discarded.

“Well, now, Jack Parkes, since you have asked me to demonstrate on you the Indian death lock-and these gentlemen are witness that you did-I will now oblige you. No doubt you will have to enter a hospital or a nursing home for a little while, due, of course, to my slight inebriation and thus misjudgement, but you did insult me and that will be my excuse. I shall apologise and be very sorry and visit you often, and my publicity man will have a picture taken of me at your bedside. Now come to Daddy.”

With astonishing quickness he was upon Bony, and Bony was equally quick. He attempted quite successfully the French drop kick taught him by an expert. The kick rocked the wrestler, and had it been given by a man of his own weight he would have been dropped cold. He swore viciously, and the parson called:

“Well done! Very well done! Now, Toby, kindly get busy.”

Bony backed, crouched to take the onslaught with an offensive and was savagely pushed from behind by the pirate. The push sent him out of balance into the wrestler’s huge hands, and in an instant he was on his back and his legs were gathered up, twisted into the wrestler’s legs, and the wrestler, grinning down at him, proceeded merely to hold him fast.

“Excellent, Toby,” cried the parson. “Do be careful now. Our friend only requires a slight rest, not a broken back. Honour will then be satisfied.”

Toby’s body began to lift, Bony’s legs locked behind his own. Up and up he went preparatory to flinging himself backwards and thus strain and wrench the ligaments and muscles of a man hopelessly unable to bear it. The other two came closer. They leaned over the prostrate Bony, still smiling gently, but with the joy of sadists flaming in their unwinking eyes. Something which glittered streaked between the face of the wrestler and the two heads, and from the wall came a sharp twanging sound. Three pairs of evil eyes rose from the victim’s face to clash, to waver, to move to the wall in which throbbed the blade of a throwing knife.

“You guys better let up, sort of,” came the soft drawling voice of Glen Shannon. “If you don’t, well, I just can’t miss.”

Like actors on a slow-motion film, the heads of the four men turned from gazing at the quivering knife to see the American yardman standing inside the cupboard, the door of which was wide open. On the serving-shelf were laid symmetrically four throwing knives. Another was lying along the palm of Shannon’s open hand. Shannon said, and menace was like metal in his voice:

“Easy now, wrestler. Untie yourself. Think of a knife buried into your stomach, handle and all. Don’t you other guys so much as blink.”

The wrestler cursed, lifted his upper lip in a wide snarl. Then he went about freeing Bony’s legs and, strangely enough, in this situation, Bony noticed the lacerated place on the great chin made by the toe of his shoe.

He and the wrestler rose to their feet. The others stood up, watchful, silent, poised like snakes ready to strike. This silence was whole, solid, something of weight, broken a moment later by the banging of a distant door. Along the passage came the tread of heavy men. A gruff voice drifted inward from the back of the premises. The knives vanished from the cupboard-door shelf. Shannon drew back, snatched up a drying-cloth. The parson and the wrestler turned slowly to face the door. Bony sighed, and his mouth widened into a narrow red slit. The door opened violently, and two large men entered.

“Licensing Police here,” announced one of them.