The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (best manga ereader .TXT) đ
- Author: Louis Joseph Vance
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of an adventurer, who had manufactured a plausible yarn to gain him access
to her home? Orâharking back to her original theoryâthat he was an
emissary from Scotland Yard? ⊠Probably she distrusted him on the latter
hypothesis. The reflection left him more at ease.
âI am quite as mystified as you, Mrs. Hallam,â he began. âMiss Calendar was
here, at this door, in a four-wheeler, not ten minutes ago, andââ
âThen where is she now?â
âTell me where Calendar is,â he retorted, inspired, âand Iâll try to answer
you!â
But her eyes were blank. âYou meanâ?â
âThat Calendar was in this house when I came; that he left, found his
daughter in the cab, and drove off with her. Itâs clear enough.â
âYou are quite mistaken,â she said thoughtfully. âGeorge Calendar has not
been here this night.â
He wondered that she did not seem to resent his imputation. âI think notââ
âListen!â she cried, raising a warning hand; and relaxing her vigilant
attitude, moved forward once more, to peer down toward the Embankment.
A cab had cut in from that direction and was bearing down upon them with
a brisk rumble of hoofs. As it approached, Kirkwoodâs heart, that
had lightened, was weighed upon again by disappointment. It was no
four-wheeler, but a hansom, and the open wings of the apron, disclosing a
white triangle of linen surmounted by a glowing spot of fire, betrayed the
sex of the fare too plainly to allow of further hope that it might be the
girl returning.
At the door, the cab pulled up sharply and a man tumbled hastily out upon
the sidewalk.
âHere!â he cried throatily, tossing the cabby his fare, and turned toward
the pair upon the doorstep, evidently surmising that something was amiss.
For he was Calendar in proper person, and a sight to upset in a twinkling
Kirkwoodâs ingeniously builded castle of suspicion.
âMrs. Hallam!â he cried, out of breath. ââS my daughter here?â And then,
catching sight of Kirkwoodâs countenance: âWhy, hello, Kirkwood!â he
saluted him with a dubious air.
The woman interrupted hastily. âPlease come in, Mr. Calendar. This
gentleman has been inquiring for you, with an astonishing tale about your
daughter.â
âDorothy!â Calendarâs moon-like visage was momentarily divested of any
trace of color. âWhat of her?â
âYou had better come in,â advised Mrs. Hallam brusquely.
The fat adventurer hopped hurriedly across the threshold, Kirkwood
following. The woman shut the door, and turned with back to it, nodding
significantly at Kirkwood as her eyes met Calendarâs.
âWell, well?â snapped the latter impatiently, turning to the young man.
But Kirkwood was thinking quickly. For the present he contented himself
with a deliberate statement of fact: âMiss Calendar has disappeared.â It
gave him an instantâs time ⊠âThereâs something damned fishy!â he told
himself. âThese two are playing at cross-purposes. Calendarâs no fool; heâs
evidently a crook, to boot. As for the woman, sheâs had her eyes open for
a number of years. The main thingâs Dorothy. She didnât vanish of her own
initiative. And Mrs. Hallam knows, or suspects, more than sheâs going to
tell. I donât think she wants Dorothy found. Calendar does. So do I. Ergo:
Iâm for Calendar.â
âDisappeared?â Calendar was barking at him. âHow? When? Where?â
âWithin ten minutes,â said Kirkwood. âHere, letâs get it straightâŠ. With
her permission I brought her here in a four-wheeler.â He was carefully
suppressing all mention of Frognall Street, and in Calendarâs glance read
approval of the elision. âShe didnât want to get out, unless you were here.
I asked for you. The maid showed me up-stairs. I left your daughter in the
cabâand by the way, I hadnât paid the driver. Thatâs funny, too! Perhaps
six or seven minutes after I came in Mrs. Hallam found out that Miss
Calendar was with me and wanted to ask her in. When we got to the doorâno
cab. There you have it all.â
âThanksâitâs plenty,â said Calendar dryly. He bent his head in thought for
an instant, then looked up and fixed Mrs. Hallam with an unprejudiced
eye, âI say!â he demanded explosively. âThere wasnât any one here that
knewâeh?â
Her fine eyes wavered and fell before his; and Kirkwood remarked that her
under lip was curiously drawn in.
âI heard a man leave as Mrs. Hallam joined me,â he volunteered helpfully,
and with a suspicion of malice. âAnd after thatâI paid no attention at the
timeâit seems to me I did hear a cab in the streetââ
âOw?â interjected Calendar, eying the woman steadfastly and employing an
exclamation of combined illumination and inquiry more typically British
than anything Kirkwood had yet heard from the man.
For her part, the look she gave Kirkwood was sharp with fury. It was more;
it was a mistake, a flaw in her diplomacy; for Calendar intercepted it.
Unceremoniously he grasped her bare arm with his fat hand.
âTell me who it was,â he demanded in an ugly tone.
She freed herself with a twist, and stepped back, a higher color in her
cheeks, a flash of anger in her eyes.
âMr. Mulready,â she retorted defiantly. âWhat of that?â
âI wish I was sure,â declared the fat adventurer, exasperated. âAs it is,
I bet a dollar youâve put your foot in it, my lady. I warned you of that
blackguardâŠ. There! The mischiefâs done; we wonât row over it. One
moment.â He begged it with a wave of his hand; stood pondering briefly,
fumbled for his watch, found and consulted it. âItâs the barest chance,â he
muttered. âPerhaps we can make it.â
âWhat are you going to do?â asked the woman.
âGive Mister Mulready a run for his money. Come along, Kirkwood; we
havenât a minute. Mrs. Hallam, permit usâŠ.â She stepped aside and he
brushed past her to the door. âCome, Kirkwood!â
He seemed to take Kirkwoodâs company for granted; and the young man was not
inclined to argue the point. Meekly enough he fell in with Calendar on the
sidewalk. Mrs. Hallam followed them out. âYou wonât forget?â she called
tentatively.
âIâll âphone you if we find out anything.â Calendar jerked the words
unceremoniously over his shoulder as, linking arms with Kirkwood, he drew
him swiftly along. They heard her shut the door; instantly Calendar
stopped. âLook here, did Dorothy have aâa small parcel with her?â
âShe had a gladstone bag.â
âOh, the devil, the devil!â Calendar started on again, muttering
distractedly. As they reached the corner he disengaged his arm. âWeâve a
minute and a half to reach Charing Cross Pier; and I think itâs the last
boat. You set the pace, will you? But remember Iâm an oldish man andâand
fat.â
They began to run, the one easily, the other lumbering after like an
old-fashioned square-rigged ship paced by a liner.
Beneath the railway bridge, in front of the Underground station, the
cab-rank cried them on with sardonic view-halloos; and a bobby remarked
them with suspicion, turning to watch as they plunged round the corner and
across the wide Embankment.
The Thames appeared before them, a river of ink on whose burnished surface
lights swam in long winding streaks and oily blobs. By the floating pier a
County Council steamboat strained its hawsers, snoring huskily. Bells were
jingling in her engine-room as the two gained the head of the sloping
gangway.
Kirkwood slapped a shilling down on the ticket-window ledge. âWhere to?â he
cried back to Calendar.
âCherry Gardens Pier,â rasped the winded man. He stumbled after Kirkwood,
groaning with exhaustion. Only the tolerance of the pier employees gained
them their end; the steamer was held some seconds for them; as Calendar
staggered to its deck, the gangway was jerked in, the last hawser cast off.
The boat sheered wide out on the river, then shot in, arrow-like, to the
pier beneath Waterloo Bridge.
The deck was crowded and additional passengers embarked at every stop. In
the circumstances conversation, save on the most impersonal topics, was
impossible; and even had it been necessary or advisable to discuss the
affair which occupied their minds, where so many ears could hear, Calendar
had breath enough neither to answer nor to catechize Kirkwood. They found
seats on the forward deck and rested there in grim silence, both fretting
under the enforced restraint, while the boat darted, like some illuminated
and exceptionally active water insect, from pier to pier.
As it snorted beneath London Bridge, Calendarâs impatience drove him from
his seat back to the gangway. âNext stop,â he told Kirkwood curtly; and
rested his heavy bulk against the paddle-box, brooding morosely, until,
after an uninterrupted run of more than a mile, the steamer swept in,
sidewheels backing water furiously against the ebbing tide, to Cherry
Gardens landing.
Sweet name for a locality unsavory beyond credence! ⊠As they emerged on
the street level and turned west on Bermondsey Wall, Kirkwood was fain to
tug his topcoat over his chest and button it tight, to hide his linen. In
a guarded tone he counseled his companion to do likewise; and Calendar,
after a momentâs blank, uncomprehending stare, acknowledged the wisdom of
the advice with a grunt.
The very air they breathed was rank with fetid odors bred of the gaunt dark
warehouses that lined their way; the lights were few; beneath the looming
buildings the shadows were many and dense. Here and there dreary and
cheerless public houses appeared, with lighted windows conspicuous in a
lightless waste. From time to time, as they hurried on, they encountered,
and made wide detours to escape contact with knots of wayfarersâmen
debased and begrimed, with dreary and slatternly women, arm in arm,
zigzaging widely across the sidewalks, chorusing with sodden voices the
burden of some popularized ballad. The cheapened, sentimental refrains
echoed sadly between benighted wallsâŠ.
Kirkwood shuddered, sticking close to Calendarâs side. Lifeâs naked
brutalities had theretofore been largely out of his ken. He had heard of
slums, had even ventured to mouth politely moral platitudes on the subject
of overcrowding in great centers of population, but in the darkest flights
of imagination had never pictured to himself anything so unspeakably
foul and hopeless as thisâŠ. And they were come hither seekingâDorothy
Calendar! He was unable to conceive what manner of villainy could be
directed against her, that she must be looked for in such surroundings.
After some ten minutesâ steady walking, Calendar turned aside with a
muttered word, and dived down a covered, dark and evil-smelling passageway
that seemed to lead toward the river.
Mastering his involuntary qualms, Kirkwood followed.
Some ten or twelve paces from its entrance the passageway swerved at a
right angle, continuing three yards or so to end in a blank wall, wherefrom
a flickering, inadequate gas-lamp jutted. At this point a stone platform,
perhaps four feet square, was discovered, from the edge of which a flight
of worn and slimy stone steps led down to a permanent boat-landing, where
another gas-light flared gustily despite the protection of its frame of
begrimed glass.
âGood Lord!â exclaimed the young man. âWhat, in Heavenâs name, Calendarâ?â
âBermondsey Old Stairs. Come on.â
They descended to the landing-stage. Beneath them the Pool slept, a sheet
of polished ebony, whispering to itself, lapping with small stealthy
gurgles angles of masonry and ancient piles. On the farther bank tall
warehouses reared square old-time heads, their uncompromising, rugged
profile relieved here and there by tapering mastheads. A few, scattering,
feeble lights were visible. Nothing moved save the river and the wind.
The landing itself they found quite deserted; something which the
adventurer comprehended with a nod which,
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