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The Dark Star
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Looking him straight in the eyes she opened both hands; the papers fell at her feet, and with them dropped the two dagger-like steel pins which had held her hat.
“Now, go and put on your shoes,” he said contemptuously, picking up the papers and running over them. When he had counted them, he came back to where she was standing.
“Where are the others?”
“What others?”
“The remainder of the papers! You little devil, they’re wrapped around your body! Go into that pantry! Go quick! Undress and throw out every rag you wear!”
She drew a deep, quivering breath, turned, entered the pantry and closed the door. Presently the door opened a little and her clothing dropped outside in a heap.
There were papers in her stockings, papers stitched to her stays, basted inside her skirts. A roll of drawings traced on linen lay on the floor, still retaining the warmth of her body around which they had been wrapped.
He pulled the faded embroidered cover from the old piano and knocked at the pantry door.
“Put that on,” he said, “and come out.”
She emerged, swathed from ankle to chin, her flushed face shadowed by her fallen mass of dark hair. He turned his flash light on the cupboard, but discovered nothing more. Then he picked up her hat, clothes, and shoes, laid them on the pantry shelf, and curtly bade her go back and dress.
“May I have the lamp and that looking glass?”
“If you like,” he said, preoccupied with the papers.
While she was dressing, he repacked the olive-wood box. She emerged presently, carrying the lamp, and he took it from her hurriedly, not knowing whether she might elect to throw it at his head.
While she was putting on her jacket he stood watching her with perplexed and sombre gaze.
“I think,” he remarked, “that I’ll take you with me and drop you at the Orangeville jail on my way to town. Be kind enough to start toward the door.”
As she evinced no inclination to stir he passed one arm around her and lifted her along a few feet; and she turned on him, struggling, her face convulsed with fury.
“Keep your insolent hands off me,” she said. “Do you hear?”
“Oh, yes, I hear.” He nodded again toward the door. “Come,” he repeated impatiently; “move on!”
She hesitated; he picked up the olive-wood box, extinguished the lamp, opened his flash, and motioned with his head, significantly. She walked ahead of him, face lowered.
Outside he closed and locked the door of the house.
“This way,” he said coldly. “If you refuse, I’ll pick you up and carry you under my arm. I think by this time you realise I can do it, too.”
Halfway across the dark pasture she stopped short in her tracks.
“Have I got to carry you?” he demanded sharply.
“Don’t have me locked up.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not a – a thief.”
“Oh! Excuse me. What are you?”
“You know. Don’t humiliate me.”
“Answer my question! What are you if you’re not a lady crook?”
“I’m employed – as you are! Play the game fairly.” She halted in the dark pasture, but he motioned her to go forward.
“If you don’t keep on walking,” he said, “I’ll pick you up as I would a pet cat and carry you. Now, then, once more, who are you working for? By whom are you employed, if you’re not a plain thief?”
“The – Turkish Embassy.”
“What!”
“You knew it,” she said in a low voice, walking through the darkness beside him.
“What is your name?” he insisted.
“Dumont.”
“What else?”
“Ilse Dumont.”
“That’s French.”
“It’s Alsatian German.”
“All right. Now, why did you break into that house?”
“To take what you took.”
“To steal these papers for the Turkish Embassy?”
“To take them.”
“For the Turkish Ambassador!” he repeated incredulously.
“No; for his military attaché.”
“What are you, a spy?”
“You knew it well enough. You are one, also. But you have treated me as though I were a thief. You’ll be killed for it, I hope.”
“You think I’m a spy?” he asked, astonished.
“What else are you?”
“Now, go and put on your shoes,” he said contemptuously, picking up the papers and running over them. When he had counted them, he came back to where she was standing.
“Where are the others?”
“What others?”
“The remainder of the papers! You little devil, they’re wrapped around your body! Go into that pantry! Go quick! Undress and throw out every rag you wear!”
She drew a deep, quivering breath, turned, entered the pantry and closed the door. Presently the door opened a little and her clothing dropped outside in a heap.
There were papers in her stockings, papers stitched to her stays, basted inside her skirts. A roll of drawings traced on linen lay on the floor, still retaining the warmth of her body around which they had been wrapped.
He pulled the faded embroidered cover from the old piano and knocked at the pantry door.
“Put that on,” he said, “and come out.”
She emerged, swathed from ankle to chin, her flushed face shadowed by her fallen mass of dark hair. He turned his flash light on the cupboard, but discovered nothing more. Then he picked up her hat, clothes, and shoes, laid them on the pantry shelf, and curtly bade her go back and dress.
“May I have the lamp and that looking glass?”
“If you like,” he said, preoccupied with the papers.
While she was dressing, he repacked the olive-wood box. She emerged presently, carrying the lamp, and he took it from her hurriedly, not knowing whether she might elect to throw it at his head.
While she was putting on her jacket he stood watching her with perplexed and sombre gaze.
“I think,” he remarked, “that I’ll take you with me and drop you at the Orangeville jail on my way to town. Be kind enough to start toward the door.”
As she evinced no inclination to stir he passed one arm around her and lifted her along a few feet; and she turned on him, struggling, her face convulsed with fury.
“Keep your insolent hands off me,” she said. “Do you hear?”
“Oh, yes, I hear.” He nodded again toward the door. “Come,” he repeated impatiently; “move on!”
She hesitated; he picked up the olive-wood box, extinguished the lamp, opened his flash, and motioned with his head, significantly. She walked ahead of him, face lowered.
Outside he closed and locked the door of the house.
“This way,” he said coldly. “If you refuse, I’ll pick you up and carry you under my arm. I think by this time you realise I can do it, too.”
Halfway across the dark pasture she stopped short in her tracks.
“Have I got to carry you?” he demanded sharply.
“Don’t have me locked up.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not a – a thief.”
“Oh! Excuse me. What are you?”
“You know. Don’t humiliate me.”
“Answer my question! What are you if you’re not a lady crook?”
“I’m employed – as you are! Play the game fairly.” She halted in the dark pasture, but he motioned her to go forward.
“If you don’t keep on walking,” he said, “I’ll pick you up as I would a pet cat and carry you. Now, then, once more, who are you working for? By whom are you employed, if you’re not a plain thief?”
“The – Turkish Embassy.”
“What!”
“You knew it,” she said in a low voice, walking through the darkness beside him.
“What is your name?” he insisted.
“Dumont.”
“What else?”
“Ilse Dumont.”
“That’s French.”
“It’s Alsatian German.”
“All right. Now, why did you break into that house?”
“To take what you took.”
“To steal these papers for the Turkish Embassy?”
“To take them.”
“For the Turkish Ambassador!” he repeated incredulously.
“No; for his military attaché.”
“What are you, a spy?”
“You knew it well enough. You are one, also. But you have treated me as though I were a thief. You’ll be killed for it, I hope.”
“You think I’m a spy?” he asked, astonished.
“What else are you?”
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Последний отзыв
Книга дельная. Без воды, приводятся реальные кейсы и способы их разрешения. Много практичных полезных советов и методик. Кое-что уже испробовала в дел...
Далее