A Rogue by Compulsion by Victor Bridges (top 10 most read books in the world txt) 📕

and in answer to his summons the impassive butler person appeared on the threshold.

"Show these gentlemen out, Simpson," he said, "and let me know directly they return." Then, shaking my hand in a friendly fashion, he added with a quizzical smile, "If you should happen to come across any mutual acquaintance of ours, perhaps you will be kind enough to convey my unofficial congratulations. I hope before long to have the privilege of offering them personally."

I promised to deliver his message, and, following our guide downstairs, we passed out into the street.

"I like that chap," said Tommy. "He's got no silly side about him.
Joyce always said he was a good sort."

He stopped on the pavement, and with his usual serene disregard for the respectabilities proceeded to fill and light a huge briar pipe.

"What's the programme now?" he inquired. "I'm just dying for some grub."

"We'll get a taxi and run down to the flat and pick up Joyce," I said. "Then we'll come back to the Café Royal and have the best lunch that's ever been eaten in London."

Tommy indulged in one of his deep chuckles.

"If anyone's expecting me in Downing Street before six o'clock," he observed, "I rather think he's backed a loser."

It was not until we were in a taxi, and speeding rapidly past the
House of Commons, that I broached the painful subject of George.

"I don't know what to do," I said. "If he's at his house, he has been arrested by now, and if he isn't the police will probably find him before I shall. It will break my heart if I don't get hold of him for five minutes."

Tommy grunted sympathetically. "It's just on the cards," he said, "that Joyce might know where he is."

Faint as the chance seemed, it was sufficient to cheer me up a little, and for the rest of the drive we discussed the important question of what we should have for lunch. After a week of sardines and tinned tongue I found it a most inspiring topic.

As we reached the Chelsea Embankment a happy idea presented itself to me. "I tell you what, Tommy," I said. "We won't go and knock at Joyce's flat. Let's slip round at the back, as we did before, and take her by surprise."

"Right you are," he said. "She's probably left the studio door open.
She generally does on a hot afternoon like this."

The taxi drew up at Florence Court, and telling the driver to wait for us, we Walked down the passage and turned into Tommy's flat. There were several letters for him lying on the floor inside, and while he stopped to pick them up, I passed on through the studio and out into the little glass-covered corridor at the back.

It was quite a short way along to Joyce's studio, and from where I was I could see that her door was slightly ajar. I stepped quietly, so as not to make any noise, and I had covered perhaps half the distance, when suddenly I pulled up in my tracks as if I had been turned into stone. For a moment I stood there without moving or even breathing. A couple of yards away on the other side of the door I could hear two people talking. One of them was Joyce; the other—the other—well, if I had been lying half-unconscious on my death-bed I think I should have recognized that voice!

There was a sound behind me, and whipping noiselessly round I was just in time to signal to Tommy that he must keep absolutely quiet. Then with my heart beating like a drum I crept stealthily forward until I was within a few inches of the open door. I was shaking all over with a delight that I could hardly control.

"… you quite understand." (I could hear every word George was saying as plainly as if I were in the room.) "I only have to ring up the police, and in half an hour he'll be back again in prison—back for the rest of his life. He won't escape a second time—you can be sure of that."

"Well?"

The single word came clear and distinct, but it would be difficult to describe the scorn which Joyce managed to pack into it. It had some effect on George.

"You have just got to do what I want—that's all," he exclaimed angrily. "I leave England tonight, and unless you come with me I shall go straight from here and ring up Scotland Yard. You can make your choice now. You either come down to Southampton with me this evening, or Lyndon goes back to Dartmoor tomorrow."

"Then you were lying when you said you were anxious to help him?"

With a mighty effort George apparently regained some control over his tongue.

"No, I wasn't, Joyce," he said. "God knows I'm sorry for the poor devil—I always have been; but there's nothing in the world that matters to me now except you. I—I lost my temper when you said you wouldn't come. You didn't mean it, did you? Lyndon can never be anything to you; he is dead to all of us. At the best he can only be a skulking convict hiding from the police in South America or somewhere. You come with me; you shall never be sorry for it. I've plenty of money, Joyce; and I'll give you the best time a woman ever had."

"And if I refuse?" asked Joyce quietly.

It was evident from the sound that George had taken a step towards her.

"Then Lyndon will go back to Dartmoor and stop there till he rots and dies."

There was a short pause, and then very clearly and deliberately Joyce gave her answer.

"I think you are the foulest man in the world," she said. "It makes me sick to be in the same room with you."

The gasp of fury and astonishment that broke from George's lips fell on my ears like music. He was so choking with rage that for a moment he could hardly speak.

"Damn you!" he stuttered at last. "So that's your real opinion, is it! That's what you've been thinking all along! Trying to use me to help that precious convict lover of yours—eh?"

I heard him come another step nearer.

"I'll make you pay for this, anyhow," he snarled. "Sick at being in the same room with me, are you? Then by God I'll give you some reason—"

With a swift jerk I flung open the door and stepped in over the threshold.

"Not this time, George dear," I said.

If the devil himself had shot up through the floor in a crackle of blue flame, I don't think it could have had a more striking effect on my late partner. With his mouth open and his face the colour of freshly mixed putty, he stood perfectly still in the centre of the room, gazing at me like a man in a trance. For a second—a whole beautiful rich second—he remained in this engaging attitude; then, as if struck by an electric shock, he suddenly spun round with the obvious intention of making a dart for the door.

The idea was distinctly a sound one, but it was too late to be of any practical value. Directly he moved I stepped in, and catching him a smashing box on the ear with my right hand sent him sprawling full length on the carpet. Joyce laughed gaily, while lounging across the room Tommy set his back against the door and beamed cheerfully on the three of us.

"Quite a little family party," he observed.

Joyce was in my arms, and we were kissing each other in the most shameless and unabashed way.

"Oh, my dear," she said, "I hope you haven't hurt your hand."

"It stung a bit," I admitted, "but I've got another one—and two feet." I put her gently aside. "Get up, George," I said.

He lay where he was, pretending to be unconscious.

"If you don't get up at once, George," I said softly, "I shall kick you—hard."

He scrambled to his feet, and then crouched back against the wall eyeing me like a trapped weasel.

I indulged myself in a good heart-filling look at him.

"So you've been sorry for me, George?" I said. "All these three long weary years that I've been rotting in Dartmoor, you've been really and truly sorry for me?"

He licked his lips and nodded.

I laughed. "Well, I'm sorry for you now, George," I said—"damned sorry."

If anything, the putty-like pallor of his face became still more ghastly.

"Don't do anything violent, Neil," he whispered. "You'll only regret it. I swear to you—"

"I shouldn't swear," I said. "You don't want to die with a lie on your lips."

The sweat broke out on his forehead, and he glanced desperately round the room, as though seeking for some possible method of escape. The only comfort he got was a shake of the head from Tommy.

"You—you don't mean to murder me?" he gasped.

I gave a fiendish laugh. "Don't I!" I cried. "What's one murder more or less? I know you've put the police on to me, and I'd sooner be hanged than go back to Dartmoor any day."

Tommy rubbed his hands together ghoulishly. "What are we going to do with him?" he asked. "Cut his throat?"

"No," I said. "It would make a mess, and we don't want to spoil
Joyce's carpet."

"Oh, it doesn't matter about the carpet," said Joyce unselfishly.

"I've got it," said Tommy. "Why not throw him in the river? The tide's up; I noticed it as we came along."

Whether he intended the suggestion seriously or not I don't know, but I rose to it like a trout to a fly. There are seldom more than two feet of water at high tide at that particular part of the Embankment, and the thought of dropping George into its turbid embrace filled me with the utmost enthusiasm.

"By Jove, Tommy!" I exclaimed. "That's a brilliant idea. The Thames water's about the only thing he wouldn't defile."

I stepped forward, and before George knew what was happening I had swung him round and clutched him by the collar and breeches.

"Open the door," I said, "and just see there's no one in the passage."

With a deep chuckle Tommy turned to obey, while Joyce laughed with a viciousness that I should never have given her credit for. As for George—well, I suppose in his blind terror he really thought he was going to be drowned, for he kicked and struggled and raved till it was as much as I could do to hold him.

"All clear!" sang out Tommy from the hall.

"Stand by, then," I said, and taking a deep breath, I ran George through the flat down the passage, and out into the street, in a style that would have done credit to the chucker out at the Empire.

There were not many people about, and those that were there had no time to interfere even if they had wanted to do so. I just got a glimpse of the startled face of our taxi driver as he jumped aside to let us pass, and the next moment we had crossed the road and fetched up with a bang against the low Embankment wall.

I paused for a moment, renewed my grip on George's collar, and took a quick look round. Tommy was beside me, and a few yards away, down at the bottom of some steps, I saw a number of small boys paddling in the water. There was evidently no risk of anybody being drowned.

"I'll take his feet," said Tommy, suiting the action to the word. "You get hold of his arms."

There was a brief struggle, a loud scream for help, and the next moment George was swinging merrily between us.

"One! Two! Three!" I cried.

At the word "three" we let go simultaneously. He flew up into the air like a great wriggling crab, twisted round twice, and then went down into the muddy water with a splash that echoed all over the Embankment.

"Very nice," said Tommy critically. "But we ought to have put a stone round his neck."

One glance over the wall showed me that there was no danger. Dripping, floundering, and gasping for breath, George emerged from the surface like a frock-coated Neptune rising from the waves. He seemed to be trying to speak, but the shrieks of innocent delight with which his reappearance was greeted by the paddling boys unfortunately prevented us from hearing him.

I thrust