One Clear Call E-Book

Ladbroke Black

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This novel is an amazing mixture of adventure, romance and political intrigue. Roosevelt’s most trusted spy must flee for his life by escaping into the European countryside.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER I

“OH, doctor, can I help?”

Dr. Lionel Weedon looked up from his patient and met the gaze of a pair of violet-black eyes.

He was kneeling in the gutter, supporting a tattered remnant of humanity, a wretched old woman who had been caught in the whirl of a passing motor-car in a London street. Chance had taken him that way, and professional instinct brought him at once to the rescue when the bundle of rags staggered back on to the pavement. His thoughts were concentrated on his cursory examination, yet that voice arrested his attention.

“It is very kind of you, but I do not think there is much to be done at the moment,” he replied. By this time the policeman on the nearest beat reached the spot.

The motor-car which had gone by with a rush, had pulled up further down, and was backing slowly. The woman was shaken rather than hurt, and the doctor saw that the only thing to be done was to order her removal to the hospital.

The policeman produced his big notebook, and entered the time, the number of the car, and turning to the doctor, asked for his name.

“Doctor Lionel Weedon, Forty-one, Woodland-street,” he replied mechanically.

His eyes had wandered again to the face of the lady who was standing by.

A crowd began to gather, springing from nowhere, after the manner of a street crowd at any unusual event, and the lady flitted away with a quick, timid movement, as though the presence of so many people had frightened her.

Lionel Weedon turned again to the policeman, and gave him a brief outline of the facts.

The stretcher arrived, the poor derelict, was taken off to the accident ward, and the doctor, having performed this act of charity, wended his way towards the district where he was trying to build up a practice.

The face of the lady haunted him. Something he could not define made him anxious to see it again. There was a lock of sadness over and above the sympathy for the injured woman; soft, appealing timidity in these lovely eyes that had almost impelled him to rush after her and ask if she needed a friend. Away in the Quantocks once, a fawn, entangled in a fence and worried by a stray dog, had looked at him like that when he drove off the mongrel.

Instead of getting back at once to his surgery, he called on his cousin, Stanley Poole, who lived in bachelor quarters which is also used as professional chambers-in Lincoln’s Inn.

“I have seen the most beautiful thing in nature today, Stan,” he said impetuously. Stanley Poole, who had just come across from the Courts, threw his wig on the table.

“Blonde or brunette?” he asked in a dry tone..

“I said the most beautiful thing in nature. I did not confine my observation to human beings.”

“Quite unnecessary, my boy. When a chap of your temperament talks like that he has been caught by a woman. Your turn has come. The fates have overtaken you. You are over the bend of the hill on the downward slope to your doom. Well! may the valley be smiling and happy when you reach it. I say, you had better let me take you out this evening, just to show you what you are giving up. I am going to have a cup of tea; will you have one foretaste of domesticity?”

“No, I won’t.”

“All right. Then you will be back at eight o’clock. Make it nine if it suits you better.”

The sound of Weedon’s footsteps pattering down the stairs was the only reply to this.

The doctor hurried back to the surgery, telling himself all the time that Stanley Poole was an insufferable person without a spark of sense for the artistic. His inward condemnation of his cynicism did not drive the sight of that appealing face out of Weedon’s mind. His practice was in a comparatively poor district. He was a doctor by disposition as well as by profession, and he preferred to work where people only came to him when they were really ill, rather than to make a living by drawing-room pleasantries among folks who suffered from imaginary ailments.

His patients this evening were not numerous. He attended to them in a small surgery shut off from the modest rooms which he inhabited In bachelor freedom. His surgery was really his study, sitting-room, and workshop, and as the shadows of the evening fell he turned with a sigh of anticipation to some microscopic studies which had been interesting him for some time. He was so engrossed in his work that he did not hear a gentle tap on the door which separated the surgery from the small ante-room.

A few moments later a sense of telepathy told him that he was not alone. He turned round quickly. A woman in a shabby cloak was closing the door with the action of one who fears that she is followed. He saw that she wore a heavy veil.

Accustomed to all kinds of nervous eccentricities he rose and pointed to a chair.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said. “I do not think you have been here before. May I ask your name?”

“I hope you will not be annoyed if I do not mention it,” she said. “I believe I can trust you and that is why I am here, but–but–”

She stopped suddenly, evidently suffering under severe agitation, but her excitement was calmness itself compared with Dr. Weedon’s feelings. It was the voice of the lady who had spoken to him in the afternoon. He could not mistake those soft, musical tones. She was in trouble; he knew she was in trouble, and she had come to him.

“You may trust me,” he said vainly endeavouring to be calm, “and although for some reason you do not wish to give me your name, there is no reason for hiding your face. I met you earlier in the day.”

“Then you recognise, me? My–”

“Your disguise is perfect,” he said, endeavouring to reassure her; “but I remember your voice.”

She lifted her veil. The analogy of the terrified fawn was complete. There was the same hunted look now that she turned her beautiful eyes upon him once more.

“I heard you give your address to the constable,” she said. “I knew you had a kind heart by the manner in which you came to the aid of that poor creature on the pavement, and I have come to you because I am certain you are a gentleman.” She stopped suddenly, as though fearing that she was saying too much, and then assumed a gaiety which Dr. Weedon’s professional eye told him was forced. “But, after all,” she said, “why should one make so much mystery about it. I suppose all women are vain more or less, and you will put up with my little whim, if whim you think it, although I do not want anybody to know I have been here, or they may chaff me- and I am terribly susceptible to ridicule.”

He waited for her to proceed, and with some little hesitation she took off the shabby cloak, revealing a perfect figure in an evening gown cut low and exhibiting in all their beauty a pure white, shapely throat and neck with splendid shoulders. To one of her shoulders she pointed, and Doctor Weedon saw there a small mark which might have been called a disfigurement if it had been possible by a mere tattoo to disfigure so perfect a bust.

“It looks very ugly, doesn’t it?” she said with a laugh that had very little real mirth in it, “and, you see, it is such a nuisance. One can’t dress properly for the theatre or for a dance without exposing it to everybody’s curious gaze.”

Dr. Weedon drew his patient nearer the electric light and looked at the mark. It was cleverly done. He examined it under the microscope and saw that it must have been there for many years. It was in the shape of a flower like a forget-me-not.

“How did it come there?” he asked.

“A mere girlish freak to be tattooed like a sailor,” she replied with a laugh, and, then suddenly checking herself, she said: “No, I need not deceive you. I suppose you will have seen that it must have been there from birth. It was a cruel joke of a nurse–no, I do not know that it was a nurse–but it is nothing, after all.” She said this with a vehemence that betrayed her.

“If there is no other reason for having it cut out,” said the doctor, “I may point out to you that a very simple rearrangement of the dress would effectually cover it up. In fact, I notice that if the clothing of this shoulder were exactly the same as that on the other it would not be noticeable.”

“Oh, but I want it taken away!” she replied in a passionate, imploring voice. The hunted look in her eyes had become more pronounced.

She impulsively caught his hand and gazed up at him in a way that made his blood rush through his veins.

“You will do what I ask, won’t you, and you will keep my visit here a secret? You promise me that–oh, promise me, do!”

If she had asked him to imperil his own life he would have yielded willingly. He was thoroughly in her power, although she was too agitated to realise it. He hesitated before replying, but it was only because he wanted to prolong the joy of holding her hand and looking into her eyes.

“I promise you I will keep your secret whatever happens,” he replied.

“And I believe you. I know you will,” she said with a great sob of relief.

“But this operation?” he said, gradually returning to the professional frame of mind. “It may be painful, although I do not say it is dangerous. I would rather not do it quite so hurriedly.”

“Oh, I do not mind the pain! I want it done at once; please don’t waste any time.”

She looked at the telephone and lifted off the receiver.

“Don’t be angry with me,” site said almost like a pleading child, as he made a movement of resentment. “Can anybody come in without your leave? I found the door open myself.”

He walked to the outer door and locked it. He had made up his mind to cut out the mark. He believed it could be done without leaving a scar behind, but he was afraid that in the present state of excitement she might become hysterical if he did not calm her fears.

Skilfully and painlessly, by the aid of anaesthetics, he obliterated the strange device and bound up her shoulder, giving her definite instructions how to treat it so that it might heal without leaving a mark. As he drew the shabby cloak around her he suggested that she had better rest, but although her nerves had been well under control since the moment he began the operation she was now again frightened and timid.

“Let me call a cab?” he said, moving towards the door.

“No, no! I will get one at the corner of the street,” she replied. As he stood at the door she stepped back and he heard the clink of, money. She opened the door herself very cautiously and looked eagerly up and down the street.

“Won’t you leave me your address so that I may call and see how your shoulder is progressing?” he asked almost wistfully.

“No, no! I will come again if it requires further attention,” she said hurriedly, and without another word she was gone.

Lionel Weedon’s first impulse was to follow her. He hesitated however for a-few moments, and then he lost sight of her as she mingled with the people hurrying along in the gloom of the evening. He went back sadly to the surgery. She had left two guineas on the table. He picked up the coins, looked at them tenderly, and instead of dropping them in the box where he threw his casual fees he put them in his waistcoat pocket.

He turned again to his microscopic studies, but he could find no interest in them. Every now and then he discovered himself standing gazing absently into space. He threw down the instrument at last.

“Why did I let her go like that?” he muttered to himself, and, as though in a wild hope he might yet find her, he crushed his hat on his head.

He reached the surgery door, and his finger was on the electric light switch when a voice in the ante-room said:

“Dr. Lionel Weedon, I think.”

Resigning himself to fate, in the supposition that this was a new patient, Weedon came back into the surgery and threw his hat on the table, awaiting the entrance of his new visitor. He was a man of refined appearance, well dressed, and in all outward respects a gentleman.

“You have just come in, I presume?” he said.

Weedon did not reply. He felt that his goings and comings were no affair of this stranger’s. The man repeated the question in a more direct form.

“Were you in your surgery half an hour ago? I see your telephone is not working.”

He pointed to the instrument with the receiver detached as he spoke.

“I think, perhaps, you had better state what it is I can do for you,” said Weedon stiffly.

“If I may say so, you can answer my question,” said the man, this time a little aggressively. Weedon was in no mood to bandy words.

“If you require my professional assistance, sir, I am at your disposal,” he said, “but my time is valuable and I am about to go out.”

“I am willing to pay for your time. I merely want to ask you a few questions about your patients.”

“And I never discuss my patients with other people,” said Weedon, putting on his hat and moving towards the door. The man put out his hand to detain him. In his present frame of mind the action angered the doctor and he promptly knocked the man’s arm down with a quick blow on the muscle. The man’s other hand went swiftly to his pocket, and, as it came out, Weedon saw the glittering barrel of a revolver.

CHAPTER 2

LIONEL WEEDON caught his visitor’s wrist with a quick grip and the revolver fell on the floor. The man merely smiled.

“You must excuse my quick temper,” he said. “You see, I have lived abroad; it is a momentary return to old habits.”

“Habits which we do not tolerate in a peaceable country,” replied Weedon. “It seems to me the atmosphere of a police cell would be the best cure for your complaint.”

He stepped towards the telephone as he spoke, but the man, divining his purpose, darted by him and rushed out into the street without waiting to pick up his revolver.

Weedon replaced the receiver. It was no good running after the man now. He again put on his hat; this time he switched off the electric light. He wandered in the direction of Lincoln’s Inn, and in due course reached the chambers of Mr. Stanley Poole.

The complications of a brief had somewhat subdued Poole’s breezy humour, but after dinner at a restaurant, his irrepressible spirits revived. He commenced to chaff his cousin again, but Lionel, remembering the solemn promise he had made to the lady, contrived to keep the conversation in another groove, lest he might be tempted to drop a hint that he had seen his vision of beauty again. The subject, however, was uppermost in his mind, and he lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“Buck up, old chap! I say, you have got it baldly. That is the extraordinary thing about you quiet fellows. Up to yesterday, I suppose, you had never even chucked a pretty girl under the chin–now you are simply lost to the world,” said Poole, slapping him on the back. “I suppose one will be permitted in due course to look at the angel without the penalty of death. Would it be a desecration of your heart’s idol if you brought her round to my chambers to tea? I can invite Doris and her mother at the same time, so that everything will be quite proper. Do you know, I am wondering what Doris would think if I took on like you. Whether she would be flattered or whether she would laugh at me.”

“Waiter, bill, please,” said Lionel sharply.

His cousin made no further attempt to induce Weedon to confide in him. They dropped in to hear a star turn at a music hall and then strolled towards Lincoln’s Inn.

“You are coming in for five minutes, aren’t you?” said Poole in a surprised tone, as Lionel halted. This was the invariable programme when the two young men spent an evening together. Weedon always dropped into Poole’s chambers before getting back to his own place. Tonight, however, he insisted on going straight hone.

Lionel hailed a passing taxi-cab which in a few minutes took him round to the surgery.

“Has anybody called?” he asked the housekeeper and general servant who listened to the telephone and answered callers.

“Yes, sir, I was going to tell you. A lady, and she appeared very disappointed at not seeing you, that–”

“What did she want?”

“She said she must see you to-night; it was an urgent case, and I told her that I don’t know if I did right-I thought you had gone to Mr. Stanley Poole’s.”

While the housekeeper was speaking, the telephone bell rang, and Weedon heard an agitated voice at the other end.

“I suppose Dr. Weedon has not yet returned?”

“Yes, this is Dr. Weedon.”

“Is that you, Lionel?”

“Yes, I came along in a taxi.”

“Good. Come round at once. Can’t explain over the ‘phone, but I want you. For God’s sake, hurry up old I chap. Don’t waste a moment!”

Weedon rushed to the door and hurried out of the street without another word. There was a tone of horror in his cousin’s voice which filled him with grim forebodings. Within a very few minutes of the telephone call he was racing up the steps of the block of chambers in the silent court.

The pallor of Poole’s face under the electric light was in striking contrast to his usual merry smile. Weedon’s eyes wandered by intuition from his cousin to the body lying on the floor. An old cloak–a cloak he had seen before that very evening–attracted his attention. With frenzied haste he pulled the veil from a white face rigid in death. He lifted the body in his arms and the shabby cloak fell back, exposing the neck and shoulders.

“Light, light, Stan!” he cried, trembling with excitement. “Hold it this way. Look at that shoulder; the right one, tell me what you see there.”

“A particularly skilful piece of tattooing in Indian ink–a little blue flower,” replied Poole.

“How strange it looks, too, on that lily-white flesh.”

“There is something uncanny about this, Stan,” said Weedon in a horrified voice. “I cut that very mark out of that very arm only a few hours ago.”

“You must be dreaming; it is there beyond a doubt now. Just keep quiet and pull yourself together. I must send for the police. It will be time enough to speak when you are called upon.”

To speak! And he had promised not to speak. As Lionel thought of this he asked himself hurriedly whether that promise was not sacred in death as well as in life. In Iris present frame of mind he believed it was. It seemed like a sacrilege to betray the sweet creature who lay there incapable of speaking for herself.

“Stan,” he said, jumping up and taking his cousin by the arm as Poole was lifting the telephone to ring up the nearest police station. “I ought not to have said anything about that operation. I promised faithfully; I gave my word as a gentleman that I would not. You must say nothing about it. You must forget that I mentioned it. You will, won’t you?”

Poole looked at the frantic man keenly. They had been boys together, playing, fighting, and making pals of each other; they were more than cousins, more than brothers. They were of different temperament and therefore all the closer allied.

The light-headed Stanley Poole knew Lionel Weedon for a deep- thinking student, but experience of the world told him that such men are sometimes easier led than others when their sentiments or passions are touched. He knew now there was some mystery attached to the woman who lay dead on the floor of his chambers. How far was Lionel involved? He wanted to ask him, but yet he dare not. A suspicion of what was passing in Poole’s mind occurred to Lionel.

“I give you my word, Stan,” he said slowly, “that I know of no reason why I should not have given that promise as an honourable man. Will you accept that from me without any further question?”

“Certainly, I will,” said Pole decisively. “I will say nothing about what you have told me until you give me permission. The best thing you can do at the moment, I think, is to get out of this. You are too much distressed to be of any service, and you don’t want to answer questions. Get away home, old chap, and I will let you know about developments.”

Without another look at the dread sight on the floor, Lionel Weedon staggered out of the room.

Stanley Poole summoned the police. He told them that when he came back to his chambers after leaving his cousin at the corner he stumbled over the body outside his door. No trace of anything that would give a clue as to the name, the address, or the identity of the lady could be found. The body was removed to the mortuary. Nothing more could be done that night. The following day Poole went down to the mortuary and came back with an anxious look upon his face.

“Li,” he said, “I am afraid there is something more terrible even than we thought about this case. You know there were no marks of violence on the poor creature; I thought myself, as a layman, it might be heart failure, but the police surgeon, it so happens, is a retired army doctor with a long experience in India. He has discovered evidence of a deadly poison known to certain Indian tribes and to Anglo-Indians who have studied native medicines. He says it can be easily communicated–the slightest scratch, would be sufficient. It is either a case of suicide or murder. Under these circumstances we shall have to consider what is our duty if we are to assist justice. The inquest, you know, must be held, and–well you see, it will be awkward.”

The telephone bell rang before Lionel could reply. He picked up the receiver, intending to lengthen out the conversation if possible. He wanted to put off his answer to his cousin. A look of astonishment spread over his face. He listened with intense interest.

“Wait, wait, one moment!” he shouted, in a voice of urgent appeal.

Obviously there was no reply to this. He threw down the receiver.

“Stan,” he said, “whistle up a taxi. Don’t ask question now but get the taxi and come with me.’”

CHAPTER 3

AT the police mortuary Weedon and Poole were permitted to see the body of the unknown woman.

When the police surgeon, who accompanied them, drew back the sheet that covered the face, Lionel stepped forward eagerly and gazed at the marble-like features. The bright sun forced its way into the gruesome chamber and a strong light was thrown on the upturned features of the dead woman.

“Well, sir?” said the inspector, in a voice of interrogation.

“The woman is a perfect stranger to me,” replied Weedon quietly. “I know nothing about her.”

With a look of disappointment the inspector turned and led the way out.

“Be careful, Li,” whispered Poole as he and Lionel followed behind the police surgeon. “Further questions are sure to be asked; don’t try to conceal anything.”

Lionel made no reply. When they got back to the police office the inspector again spoke.

“So you cannot help to identify the body?” he remarked. “You never saw the woman alive?”

“Never,” replied Dr. Weedon emphatically. Stanley Poole asked Lionel to come to his chambers. He closed the door carefully and stood before the companion of his boyhood.

“I must talk to you quite straight, old chap. You won’t mind it, will you, because it has got to be done?” he said.

“Not a bit. Talk away by all means.”

“Well, then, you are a quixotic ass, or an accessory in crime. Now, which is it? Let’s know the worst, and something may be done. I knew very well yesterday that there was some mysterious bond between you and this lady. By your present attitude you are putting yourself in a deucedly awkward position, and you are dragging me into it as well. I shall have to give evidence at the inquest. What am I to say?”

“Tell the truth exactly as you know it.”

“And if I am asked whether I have any idea at all as to the identity of the woman; whether I know anything of her or of any person who knows something of her, what am I to say?”

“You are to say ‘No.’”

“And commit perjury. A good beginning for a man whose goal is the Bench.”

“You will not commit perjury. What I told the police inspector was the truth. The woman is a stranger to me. I never saw her alive.”

“But, good heavens! last night here you knelt by her side and almost wept with grief. Just try to remember what you did and what you said.”

“I remember it all, but I was mistaken. It is a strange likeness, a marvellous likeness. Little wonder I was deceived last night–but it is not the same. There is a difference–a slight difference, perhaps unnoticeable to the casual observer, but it is not the same person, and I have other reasons for thinking so. In fact, I am certain, Stanley, I was deceived last night.”

“But what brought the woman here?”

“She came to look for me.”

“And yet you have never seen her? Oh! this is getting too ridiculous.”

Lionel now remembered that in the excitement over night he had forgotten to tell Poole about the woman who called at the surgery whom his housekeeper had test on to the chambers.

“Then the dead woman was masquerading as the living one,” remarked Stanley, when Weedon repeated the housekeeper’s message. “But why–and what is the explanation of it?”

“There is no explanation that I know of,” replied Weedon. “I have now told you everything.”

“But who had an interest in killing this unhappy creature?” asked Stanley, half to himself, pacing the room impatiently.

“I cannot imagine, except–” He stopped suddenly and looked searchingly at his cousin.

“Lionel,” he said, slowly and seriously, “why are you under an obligation not to mention that your patient yesterday evening came to your surgery to get that mark cut out of her arm?”

“Simply because I promised. That and nothing more. But what are you driving at? Heavens, man! what do you suggest?”

“This is not a time for suggestions. I am anxious for facts. You see, this tragedy has taken place practically in my rooms. There is a moral obligation on me to clear it up.”

“Well, I can help you no further than to tell you all I know about the woman–which is nothing.”

“Yes; but the other one. Don’t you see there must be some connection between the two visits.”

“Not necessarily.”

“No, but-look here, Lionel. I am putting this to you as between man and man. There is some other reason why you are shielding the other woman.”

“Shielding? I don’t know what you mean. The lady has come into my life and probably gone out of it again like a flash of a flitting sunbeam.”

“And you love her! Oh, yes, Lionel, you may try to deceive yourself if you like, but you are not deceiving me. Whatever be the nature of your acquaintance with this lady, whether you have only seen her twice, as you say, or whether you have seen her a hundred times, you are in love with her. She is all the world to you. You are hers, body and soul. That is how a man like you loves.”

A hasty denial was on Lionel’s lips, but he did not speak it. His face went pale and he staggered beneath his cousin’s penetrating gaze.

“Good God! Stanley, you are right,” he gasped. Then he suddenly assumed the aggressive. “And why not?” he asked. “Why not, though I may never see her again?”

“Oh, yes, you will see her again! You will scour the earth, the heavens, and, if necessary, the other place as well till you find her.”

“But why do you talk like this.. I tell you, I know, I am certain, she is the purest, as she is the most beautiful woman on earth.”

“Of course she is. But if she were not, and if an angel from heaven stood here and told you so it would not matter. I know your loyal nature.”

Lionel went back to his surgery with the inspiration which comes to one who has found a new interest in life. Until his cousin had forced the truth upon him he had not confessed to himself that he was irrevocably in love with the woman whom he had only seen twice in his life. As Poole had shrewdly predicted his one dominant ambition now was to meet her again, to find her out, to ask her to confide in him. That she was in trouble, possibly in danger, he knew. It was her voice that spoke to him on the telephone that morning. It was her message that sent him to the police mortuary to assure himself that she was not the dead woman. The words he heard conveyed no information. She did not even announce her name or give him any direct indication that it was she who spoke. The message simply was: “Remember your promise, and don’t be misled by anything, however strange, that may happen.”

Then the voice had suddenly ceased, and it sounded as though the receiver had been very hurriedly hung up. What had he to go upon? As yet, absolutely nothing. Where she came from, or whither she went, he could not say. Had the danger yet overtaken her? Perhaps at this very moment she needed his help and he was not there to save her.

These maddening thoughts crushed upon him whenever he paused from his duties. He found relief only when he wrestled with death at the bedside of a patient who was seriously ill. In the evening he again turned for refuge to Stanley Poole. He, at all events, understood him. They could talk together, and Stanley would not feel bored by him.

When he arrived at the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, however, he met his cousin coming down the stairs, dressed in evening clothes. Stanley Poole’s alert eye saw his look of disappointment.

“I say,” he said, pulling on his watch, “suppose you come with me? I am going to the theatre with Doris and her mother. You have just time to dress if you jump a bit. Being a privileged person, I can take the liberty of adding a member to the party.”

“Oh, no, certainly not. I can’t possibly interfere with your arrangements,”’ replied Lionel.

“Rats! You are not going to stop at home moping all night. We’ll just scoot round to your place, and I’ll wait there till you dress.”