Array Коллектив авторов - 75 лучших рассказов / 75 Best Short Stories

‘Scratch poor Peter,’ said the bird. ‘Scratch poor old Peter!’

‘Be quiet, you beastly bird!’

‘Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter, do.’

‘I’m more likely to wring your neck if I get hold of you.’ He looked up at the picture rail, and there was the hand holding on to a hook with three fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the fourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to the window, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise the parrot shook its wings preparatory to flight, and as it did so the fingers of the hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream from Peter as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles that ever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The bird dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly ceased as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird’s eyes rolled up to show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But before the fingers had time to lose their hold, Eustace had them in his own.

‘Send Mr. Saunders here at once,’ he said to the maid who came in answer to the bell. ‘Tell him I want him immediately.’

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash across the back where the bird’s beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the wound. He noticed with disgust that the nails had grown long and discolored.

‘I’ll burn the beastly thing,’ he said. But he could not burn it. He tried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if restrained by some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders found him pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in his fingers.

‘I’ve got it at last,’ he said in a tone of triumph.

‘Good; let’s have a look at it.’

‘Not when it’s loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a board of some sort.’

‘Can you hold it all right?’

‘Yes, the thing’s quite limp; tired out with throttling poor old Peter, I should say.’

‘And now,’ said Saunders when he returned with the things, ‘what are we going to do?’

‘Drive a nail through it first, so that it can’t get away; then we can take our time over examining it.’

‘Do it yourself,’ said Saunders. ‘I don’t mind helping you with guinea-pigs occasionally when there’s something to be learned; partly because I don’t fear a guinea-pig’s revenge. This thing’s different.’

‘All right, you miserable skunk. I won’t forget the way you’ve stood by me.’

He took up a nail, and before Saunders had realised what he was doing had driven it through the hand, deep into the board.

‘Oh, my aunt,’ he giggled hysterically, ‘look at it now,’ for the hand was writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon the nail like a worm upon the hook.

‘Well,’ said Saunders, ‘you’ve done it now. I’ll leave you to examine it.’

‘Don’t go, in heaven’s name. Cover it up, man, cover it up! Shove a cloth over it! Here!’ and he pulled off the antimacassar from the back of a chair and wrapped the board in it. ‘Now get the keys from my pocket and open the safe. Chuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it’s getting itself into frightful knots! and open it quick!’ He threw the thing in and banged the door.

‘We’ll keep it there till it dies,’ he said. ‘May I burn in hell if I ever open the door of that safe again.’

* * * * *

Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor certainly was more successful in the management of the servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand no nonsense, and gossip soon withered and died. Eustace Borlsover went back to his old way of life. Old habits crept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, less morose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part in country society.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if he marries one of these days,’ said Saunders. ‘Well, I’m in no hurry for such an event. I know Eustace far too well for the future Mrs. Borlsover to like me it will be the same old story again: a long friendship slowly made – marriage – and a long friendship quickly forgotten.’

But Eustace Borlsover did not follow the advice of his uncle and marry. He was too fond of old slippers and tobacco. The cooking, too, under Mrs. Handyside’s management was excellent, and she seemed, too, to have a heaven-sent faculty in knowing when to stop dusting.

Little by little the old life resumed its old power. Then came the burglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house by way of the conservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, for they only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from the pantry. The safe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but, as Mr. Borlsover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing of value in it during the last six months.

‘Then you’re lucky in getting off so easily, sir,’ the man replied. ‘By the way they have gone about their business, I should say they were experienced cracksmen. They must have caught the alarm when they were just beginning their evening’s work.’

‘Yes,’ said Eustace, ‘I suppose I am lucky.’

‘I’ve no doubt,’ said the inspector, ‘that we shall be able to trace the men. I’ve said that they must have been old hands at the game. The way they got in and opened the safe shows that. But there’s one little thing that puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to wear gloves, and I’m bothered if I know what he was trying to do. I’ve traced his finger-marks on the new varnish on the window sashes in every one of the downstairs rooms. They are very distinct ones too.’

‘Right hand or left, or both?’ asked Eustace.

‘Oh, right every time. That’s the funny thing. He must have been a foolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that.’ He took out a slip of paper from his pocket. ‘That’s what he wrote, sir. “I’ve got out, Eustace Borlsover, but I’ll be back before long.” Some gaol bird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for us to trace him. Do you know the writing, sir?’

‘No,’ said Eustace; ‘it’s not the writing of anyone I know.’

‘I’m not going to stay here any longer,’ said Eustace to Saunders at luncheon. ‘I’ve got on far better during the last six months than ever I expected, but I’m not going to run the risk of seeing that thing again. I shall go up to town this afternoon. Get Morton to put my things together, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day after to-morrow. And bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We’ll run over them together.’

‘How long are you going to be away?’

‘I can’t say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some time. We’ve stuck to work pretty closely through the summer, and I for one need a holiday. I’ll engage the rooms at Brighton. You’ll find it best to break the journey at Hitchin. I’ll wire to you there at the Crown to tell you the Brighton address.’

The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been there before. It was kept by his old college gyp, a man of discreet silence, who was admirably partnered by an excellent cook. The rooms were on the first floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of each other. ‘Saunders can have the smaller one, though it is the only one with a fireplace,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick to the larger of the two, since it’s got a bathroom adjoining. I wonder what time he’ll arrive with the car.’

Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty. ‘We’ll light the fire in the dining-room,’ said Eustace, ‘and get Prince to unpack some of the things while we are at dinner. What were the roads like?’