The Man from Montevideo E-Book

T.C. Bridges

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Peter Carr, with his usual skills, scattered flies through blazing puddles. And yet not a single fish moved, nor did the slightest rise reward him for all his efforts. Peter walked many miles that day, and the prospect of a quiet evening over the blazing peat fire was clearly pleasant. But before he walked another quarter of a mile, he was awakened by his pleasant reverie of a piercing call for help.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE ENCOUNTER

II. ONE WEEK'S WORK

III. THE DARKENED FLAT.THE DARKENED FLAT

IV. EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS IN NOTES

V. NO LIGHT ON THE MYSTERY

VI. THE MAN FROM MONTEVIDEO

VII. BEARDING THE LION

VIII. GLASS HOUSES

IX. AT PISTOL POINT

X. DOWN AND OUT

XI. NO LETTER FROM PETER

XII. SHANGHAIED!

XIII. THE SKIPPER OF THE "EAGLE."

XIV. ASKING FOR TROUBLE

XV. A LONE HAND

XVI. LEFT TO SWIM FOR IT

XVII. JASPER ACTS

XVIII. JETSAM

XIX. THE SUNDAY PAPER

XX. THE LAST OF LIMM

XXI. THE BIG FISH

XXII. BASSETT'S BACKER

XXIII. A DAY'S SHOOTING

XXIV. PETER CONFESSES

XXV. THE FAIRY GOD-MOTHER

XXVI. TWO LETTERS

XXVII. THE QUARREL

XXVIII. IN CUSTODY

XXIX. NO NEWS OF JASPER

XXX. THE DAY GOES ILL

XXXI. THE CLOUD LIFTS

I. THE ENCOUNTER

THE water was perfect, the breeze upstream, Peter Carr was putting his flies across the gently-rippling pools with his usual skill. Yet not a fish would move, not the tiniest rise rewarded his best efforts.

He paused at last and glanced upwards scanning the sky, seeking for some solution of the mystery. Sure enough, up over the craggy summit of Omen Beam a fluff of snow-white mist was rolling like a monstrous ball of cotton-wool.

“Fog!” he muttered ruefully. “Hang the luck! That puts the hat on any chance of a basket to-day. I may just as well give up at once and get back home.”

He reeled up, fastened his tail fly into the lowest ring, and turning, tramped off up the steep hillside.

Before he was half-way to the top the edge of the mist cloud enveloped him, cutting off his view of everything beyond a radius of forty or fifty yards.

A stranger to the moor might well have been nervous, but Peter knew his way, and picked his path among the grey boulders and thick gorse and heather with the light step of the trained athlete.

Thicker and thicker the fog rolled down. The billowing waves at times nearly blinded him, then would lift enough to show his surroundings for a matter of a hundred yards or more. Beads of moisture formed on the rough surface of his thick Donegal tweeds, and dripped from the brim of his cap.

A stone wall loomed through the smother. He climbed it, and much to his delight found himself on the main road.

“Good business!” he remarked cheerfully. “I didn’t waste many steps. And now for home and a hot bath, a change, and a real creamy, jammy tea.”

Peter had tramped a good many miles that day, and the prospect of a quiet evening over a glowing peat fire was distinctly pleasing. But before he had gone another quarter of a mile he was roused from his pleasant reverie by a shrill call for help.

He pulled up short.

The voice was a girl’s voice, but where it came from was somewhat doubtful. Fog plays queer tricks with ears as well as eyes.

“Help! Oh!–will no one come?”

“Keep quiet–curse you!” was the low savage reply, and the girl’s voice was shut off as though a hand had clutched her throat.

This time there was no doubt in Peter’s mind about the direction from which the voices came, and he was off down the road at the top of his speed.

He had not far to go. Barely a hundred yards further on he came upon a tableau which might have been lifted straight out of a picture palace.

On the broad strip of sheep-bitten turf, beside the road, a big, brawny-looking man was holding with both hands a girl who, by the look of her, had already put up a pretty good fight.

The man was dressed in that particularly hideous attire which is worn only by inmates of his Majesty’s convict prisons, and which consists of a red-and-blue slop jacket, a Glengarry cap, and breeches and gaiters of a drab hue plentifully besprinkled with broad arrows. His face, heavy-jawed, strong, and vicious, was not improved by a quarter-inch growth of black stubble.

“Quiet–curse you!” Peter heard him growl again. “Give me what you’ve got, and I’ll let you go. If you don’t, I’ll choke the life out of you.”

Peter had won the welter-weight championship of his university in the previous year, and naturally was trained to keep his temper in emergency. But this was a bit too much, even for a boxer’s sang froid. Every drop of blood in his body boiled, and covering the last few yards in three jumps, he hurled himself upon the convict.

Yet quick as he was, the other was almost equally quick. He dropped the girl, who staggered away against the wall, and spinning round, was in time to face Peter’s onslaught.

Peter, confident in his own powers, went right at the fellow. It gave him a nasty jar when he found that the straight left which he had meant for the convict’s jaw, was deftly turned aside, while he himself had to guard a dangerous right swing.

The man knew more than a bit about boxing, and into the bargain was a good three inches taller than Peter and with a proportionately longer reach, Peter realised with great promptitude that this was not going to be any walk-over, and altered his tactics accordingly.

Instinctively he fell into the crouching attitude of the trained fighter.

The convict left him little time to consider. Realising apparently that his antagonist was a boxer, he came in with a rush, trusting, no doubt, to his height and bulk to knock Peter off his feet.

The weight of his charge and the iron hardness of the man’s body warned Peter that he was up against a very stiff proposition. He gave ground, and as ill-luck would have it, caught his left heel on a loose stone and turned his ankle badly. A sharp twinge of pain darted up his leg, he staggered, and the convict, seizing his chance, swung a weighty punch to his body.

Peter as near as possible went down. If he had, he would certainly never have been given a chance to get up again. But somehow he saved himself, and jumped sideways just in time to elude a tremendous upper cut.

The convict overbalanced, and before he could steady himself Peter got his own back in the shape of a punch on the jaw which staggered his big opponent.

It was a blow that would have put a weaker man out, but the big brute merely grunted, gave back a little, then came on again more viciously than ever.

For the moment it was all Peter could do to save himself from the hurricane of blows which the lag rained in. His ankle was hurting abominably, and he realised that the stumble was likely to cost him dear. He was very anxious and uneasy.

The convict, finding that he could not get home, retreated a step or two. He was blowing a little, a fact which gave Peter a gleam of hope. Now was the time for Peter to go in, but he did not trust his ankle, and was forced to wait for the next attack.

It was not long in coming. In rushed the big lag. Not knowing Peter’s reason for standing on the defensive, he evidently fancied that he was funking or over cautious. He slugged for all he was worth. Peter stood his ground and slugged back. He had to take punishment, but he gave it, too. He kept shooting short-arm blows to the body, and some of them–he knew by his opponent’s face–were damaging.

Once more the big lag dropped back, breathing hard. It was only for a moment. Almost instantly he flew in again, this time to be met with a straight left that flattened his nose and staggered him.

Peter resolved to risk it. He followed him up and ripped in blow after blow. But the great convict seemed made of iron. Peter could not knock him out, and now such pangs were shooting up his leg as made him almost sick with agony. To add to his troubles, one eye was closing, and into the other blood was streaming from a cut on his forehead. He was half blind.

He knew he could not last much longer, and made a last bid for victory. Waiting his chance, he measured the distance with his left, then drove his right straight for the point. His fist went home with a thud that jarred every nerve in his own body. The convict’s arms flew up, he swayed to and fro like a tree that is just sawed through, then crashed over on to the grass.

And Peter, in very little better case, was only saved from following him by the girl who, springing forward, caught him in both arms and lowered him gently to the turf.

II. ONE WEEK’S WORK

DURING the next few misty moments Peter was only conscious that the girl was mopping the blood from his face with a totally inadequate handkerchief, and crooning over him as a mother over a hurt child.

Presently he pulled himself together.

“Did the fellow hurt you?” he demanded anxiously.

“No. He was trying to rob me. But you?”

“My ankle. I sprained it at the beginning. That’s the trouble. What are we going to do? That sweep ought to be carted back to prison.”

“Never mind him.” The girl spoke urgently. And Peter, beginning to recover, realised that her voice was perfectly delightful, and was matched only by the charm of her face. Her hair, of that reddish gold which goes with a perfectly clear complexion and deep blue eyes, had come down in the struggle, and hung about her shoulders in a wonderful shining mane.

“Never mind him,” she repeated. “Our house is quite close. If I help you can you get as far?”

“I’ll try, anyhow. It’s not Otter’s Holt, is it, by any chance?”

“Yes, that is where I live.”

“Then you are Miss Lovell.”

“I am Joyce Lovell. But do not stop here, talking. That horrible creature may come to himself, and you can’t fight him again.”

“I’m rather afraid I can’t,” replied Peter ruefully. “It’s about as much as I can do to stand. I say, are you sure you can help me? I’m awfully heavy.”

“I am very strong,” she assured him. “You need not be afraid to lean on me.”

She had not boasted. Slender as she was, Peter found that she was quite equal to the task. And this was lucky, for without her help he could not possibly have gone many steps.

Otter’s Holt lay in a curve of the hill above the Arrow. It was a charming old house, backed by fine timber and with gardens stretching steeply to the water’s edge. But the fog hid its beauties, and in any case Peter was in no condition to appreciate them. The journey, short as it was, took the last ounce out of him, and it was heaven to sink on to a deep-springed sofa and get the injured leg off the ground.

“Father is out,” Joyce told him, as she rang the bell. “But my brother Jasper is at home.”

“Fox,” as an elderly butler came in answer to the bell. “This gentleman is hurt. Fetch some brandy, please, and ask Mr. Jasper to come here.”

“But what about the convict, Miss Lovell?” put in Peter quickly. “He’ll he getting away if some one doesn’t go after him.”

“I will see to that,” Joyce answered. “The gardener and another man shall go. And we will telephone the prison.”

The butler hurried away, and next minute the door opened again to admit a slightly built, keen eyed young man, who limped a little as he walked. He was darker than Joyce, but so like her in features that Peter knew him at once for her brother.

Joyce quickly explained what had happened, and Jasper went off at once to organise the capture of the convict.

Fox came with the brandy. It was fine old Cognac, and the fairly stiff mixture which Joyce administered did Peter a world of good.

“And now for the ankle,” said Joyce, as she stooped to unlace Peter’s boot.

He objected vigorously. “It’s no work for you,” he declared. “Let me do it.”

“Good patients always obey their nurses,” quoth Joyce, paying no other attention to his remonstrances. With the deftest fingers in the world, she removed his muddy boot, and then his stocking.

She shook her head at sight of the ankle. It was badly puffed, and blackening ominously.

“You are not going to put that to the ground for the next fortnight,” she said in her gentle yet decided way.

Peter pulled a long face.

“What a beastly nuisance! I was looking forward to a real good time with the trout.”

“You will have to look forward to a very dull one on this sofa, I am afraid,” replied Joyce.

“B–but I can’t go inflicting myself on you,” stammered Peter in sudden confusion. “Why–why, you don’t even know my name or anything about me.”

“The first deficiency is easily remedied,” said Joyce calmly. “As for your second assertion, it is not quite true. I know”–her voice was suddenly grave–”that you are a brave man and a gentleman.”

Peter flushed hotly.

“My name is Carr–Peter Carr,” he said quickly, to cover his confusion.

Joyce looked up from the ankle which she was now engaged in bandaging.

“Son of Sir Anthony Carr?” she questioned.

“No–he is my uncle. My father and mother died when I was a youngster, and Uncle Anthony took me over.”

Something in Peter’s voice brought a gleam of sympathy into Joyce’s eyes.

“My mother is dead, too,” she said gently. “Is that comfy?” she added, as she put a pin in the bandage.

“Splendid!” declared Peter. He was beginning to think that the spell of enforced idleness might not be so bad, after all.

“Then I think I will ring for tea,” said Joyce. “Father will probably be in by this time.”

Almost as she spoke Mr. Lovell entered the room. He was a small, dry, withered man, but his blue eyes were still almost uncannily bright.

“What’s this I hear, Joyce?” he began. “You have been attacked by a convict? This is what comes of your wandering about the moor by yourself. I have always told you–”

Joyce cut him short.

“This is Mr. Carr, father. He rescued me, and was badly hurt in doing so. He is nephew of Sir Anthony Carr, whom I think you know.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, I know Sir Anthony very well. Visited Carr Holme, too. So you are his nephew. Dear me, what a singular coincidence! I am very glad to welcome you to Otter’s Holt, and I trust you will stay here until you are quite recovered.”

The little man was too effusive to please Peter, and he was glad when tea came in. It was a real country house tea, with hot scones, cress sandwiched, fruit cake, and quantities of cream. Joyce waited on Peter, and Peter did himself well. His fight had not spoilt his appetite.

Tea was nearly over before Jasper Lovell reappeared. He was very much annoyed.

“The fellow has got clean, away,” he announced. “The men tell me that there is not a sign of him.”

“It is simply disgraceful–” began his father angrily, but, as before, Joyce cut in.

“The warders are sure to have him sooner or later,” she declared. “It is years since any convict got clear away from Moorlands.”

Presently the old gentleman departed, and Joyce went off, too, leaving her brother to entertain Peter.

The two got on very well, and Peter took a great liking to the keen, clever youngster, whom a bad accident as a boy had left lame for life. Jasper, on his side, was full of admiration for the lean young athlete, of whose boxing prowess he had heard much, and insisted on learning all the details of the fight. Before he went to bed that night Peter decided that his lines had fallen in pleasant places, and that his period of enforced idleness was going to be quite a cheery one.

It was. Joyce and Jasper looked after him splendidly. One or other was with him almost all day. It was a most peaceful and pleasant existence, tempered only by the fussiness of old Lovell, and by the annoying news that the convict, whose name according to prison records was Jabez Golt, had not been retaken.

By the tenth day of his stay at Otter’s Holt, Peter had made two discoveries. One was that he could hobble about with the aid of two sticks; the other that he was in love with Joyce.

One morning, coming down to breakfast, he found a letter on the breakfast table, addressed to him in the queer, crabbed hand of his uncle.

And this is what he read:

Dear Peter,–I trust that you are now well enough to return to town, for I wish to see you at once. The matter is urgent, and affects you as well as myself. I have told you that my eldest brother,–David Carr, disappeared abroad, many years ago. His death was legally presumed before I inherited. I hear to-day from Calvert and Keene that a man who claims to be David’s son has turned up from the Argentine. They tell me that his proofs are perfect or admirably forged. If the former, I am penniless, and so are you.–Your affectionate uncle, Anthony Carr.

III. THE DARKENED FLAT.THE DARKENED FLAT

PETER read the letter through twice before he got the whole sense of it into his head. Then he sat down rather suddenly, and stared round the room which he still had all to himself.

“Good Lord!” he muttered blankly. Then, after a pause, “Poor old uncle!”

“What is the matter, Peter?”

Peter stared up. He had not even heard Joyce enter the room.

“What is the matter?” she repeated anxiously. “Oh, Peter, you have bad news!”

“None too good, Joyce,” Peter answered, smiling wryly. “But read this, and see what you make of it.”

She took the letter, and he watched the anxious look deepen on her face as she read it.

“Oh, Peter, your poor uncle!” she exclaimed.

“It doesn’t follow that it is true,” said Peter stoutly. “The whole thing may be a plant. I have beard of such things before now.”

“So have I,” Joyce answered quickly.

“Hulloa, you two, what are you conspiring about?”

Both looked up as Jasper limped into the room. “Why aren’t you eating your breakfasts?” he continued chaffingly. “Everything is getting cold.”

“Shall he read it, Peter?” asked Joyce.

“I shall be glad if he will,” replied Peter, and Joyce handed the letter to her brother.

Jasper ran his eye over it. He had the faculty of getting the sense of everything written or printed almost at a glance.

He gave a low whistle.

“Enough to spoil any one’s appetite,” he said. “But look here, Peter, don’t take it too seriously. The whole thing may be a plant.”

“That’s exactly what Peter said,” put in Joyce eagerly. “It would be too dreadful if it were true.”

Jasper looked at Peter.

“Who are those people, Calvert and Keane?” he asked in his quirk way.

“My uncle’s own lawyers,” Peter told him. “A good, sound firm.”

Jasper looked rather grave.

“You think the proofs are good then?” said Peter.

“My dear chap, how can I tell? They say ‘perfect or admirably forged.’ Surely, it’s as likely to be the latter. Is your uncle a rich man?”

“He has about eight thousand a year, I believe, besides the place. You’d never believe it, though, to look at him. He wears any old clothes, and lives in the gloomiest flat in the West End, with no one to look after him but his man, Scrutton. All he cares about are old miniatures and snuff-boxes, and things like that.”

“You are his heir?” inquired Jasper.

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

“He has always led me to suppose I was. You know I manage Carr Holme for him, and he gives me three hundred a year for doing it.”

Jasper nodded.

“Yes. He says this business affects you as well as himself. Well, you will have to go up and see him.”

“Of course I shall. I must be off at once.”

“There’s no great hurry. The train does not leave Cleverton until 12:35, and I will run you down in the car. Eat your breakfast, old chap, and don’t be downhearted.”

“What’s this? What’s this?”

Mr. Lovell had just come in, and overheard the last few words. “Mr. Carr going away? Surely, this is very sudden!”

Peter explained the situation. Old Lovell watched him with beady eyes.

“A claimant!” he said in his jerky way. “A claimant! Dear me, this is very serious. I am very sorry for Sir Anthony and you, too, Carr. It is a dreadful thing to lose all one’s money in a minute, as it were, like this.”

“Don’t be so previous, father,” cut in Jasper a trifle impatiently. “The case has not even been tried yet. These so- called proofs may be nothing but forgeries.”

“Ah, I hope so. I hope so. But I fear it is hardly likely. It is sad, very, sad. Joyce, this toast is like leather, Ring the bell for some fresh.”

“How the mischief did he ever come to be the father of Joyce and Jasper,” was Peter’s unspoken thought, as he went on with his own breakfast.

He did not eat much. His news had quite spoilt his appetite. As soon as he could he got away and went upstairs to pack.

He finished his portmanteau and came down again to fetch his rods from the gun-room. In the hall he met Joyce, who came straight up to him.

“You must not mind father, Peter,” she said earnestly. “It’s just his way.”

His eyes told her what his lips dared not utter. She flushed suddenly and looked down.

“Joyce, I must not,” he said hoarsely. “I may be nothing but a beggar.”

She glanced up again, and smiled adorably.

“Beggars may beg, Peter,” she answered softly.

“Oh, Joyce,” he whispered. Then his arms were round her and his lips met hers.

“Joyce! Joyce!”

At the sound of Mr. Lovell’s voice the two started apart. Watch in hand Joyce’s father came bustling into the hall.

“Oh, here you are, Carr,” he said in his jerky way. “It is past eleven–time for you to start. Jasper is waiting.”

Whether he suspected anything or not, Peter could not tell. At any rate he gave the pair no chance for any further love-making, and five minutes later Peter was in the car and spinning away towards Cleverton.

“You’ll write and tell me what happens?” were Jasper’s last words as the train began to move.

“Of course I will,” Peter answered. “And–and, Jasper, give my love to Joyce.”

Jasper showed no sign of astonishment.

“I will,” he said heartily, and then Peter was whirled away.

The train was late. Peter did not reach London until nearly nine. Taking a taxi he drove straight to his uncle’s flat, which was in one of those high narrow, old houses in King-street.

Peter had his own latch key, so there was no need to ring. To his surprise the flat was in darkness, and the first thing he was conscious of was a heavy, and peculiar odour.

A sudden uneasiness assailed him as he felt hastily for the switch. Light flooded the narrow hall, but there was no sound of movement.

“Scrutton!” he called.

There was no reply.

He went straight into the sitting-room. This, a regular museum of miniatures and similar works of art, was empty. About it, too, hung the same strange sickly smell.

Peter, growing more and more uneasy, hurried to his uncle’s bedroom and knocked at the door.

No reply. He did not wait, but went straight in and turned on the light.

This room, like the drawing-room, was a mass of small pictures and of cabinets full of miniatures. The bed stood against the far wall. The clothes were disarranged as though some one had pulled them off roughly.

And beside the bed lay Sir Anthony, flat on his face on the floor, his arms stretched straight out. His grey hair was dabbed with blood and a pool of blood reddened the carpet.

One glance was sufficient to assure Peter that his uncle was stone dead.