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Page 1
THE GREEN EYES OF B�ST
CHAPTER I
I SEE THE EYES
"Good evening, sir. A bit gusty?"
"Very much so, sergeant," I replied. "I think I will step into your
hut for a moment and light my pipe if I may."
"Certainly, sir. Matches are too scarce nowadays to take risks with
'em. But it looks as if the storm had blown over."
"I'm not sorry," said I, entering the little hut like a sentry-box
which stands at the entrance to this old village high street for
accommodation of the officer on point duty at that spot. "I have a
longish walk before me."
"Yes. Your place is right off the beat, isn't it?" mused my
acquaintance, as sheltered from the keen wind I began to load my
briar. "Very inconvenient I've always thought it for a gentleman who
gets about as much as you do."
"That's why I like it," I explained. "If I lived anywhere accessible I
should never get a moment's peace, you see. At the same time I have to
be within an hour's journey of Fleet Street."
I often stopped for a chat at this point and I was acquainted with
most of the men of P. division on whom the duty devolved from time to
time. It was a lonely 'Spot at night when the residents in the
neighborhood had retired, so that the darkened houses seemed to
withdraw yet farther into the gardens separating them from the
highroad. A relic of the days when trains and motor-buses were not,
dusk restored something of an old-world atmosphere to the village
street, disguising the red brick and stucco which in many cases had
displaced the half-timbered houses of the past. Yet it was possible in
still weather to hear the muted bombilation of the sleepless city and
when the wind was in the north to count the hammer-strokes of the
great bell of St. Paul's.
Standing in the shelter of the little hut, I listened to the rain
dripping from over-reaching branches and to the gurgling of a turgid
little stream which flowed along the gutter near my feet whilst now
and again swift gusts of the expiring tempest would set tossing the
branches of the trees which lined the way.
"It's much cooler to-night," said the sergeant.
I nodded, being in the act of lighting my pipe. The storm had
interrupted a spell of that tropical weather which sometimes in July
and August brings the breath of Africa to London, and this coolness
resulting from the storm was very welcome. Then:
"Well, good night," I said, and was about to pursue my way when the
telephone bell in the police-hut rang sharply.
"Hullo," called the sergeant.
I paused, idly curious concerning the message, and:
"The Red House," continued the sergeant, "in College Road? Yes, I know
it. It's on Bolton's beat, and he is due here now. Very good; I'll
tell him."
He hung up the receiver and, turning to me, smiled and nodded his head
resignedly.
"The police get some funny jobs, sir," he confided. "Only last night a
gentleman rang up the station and asked them to tell me to stop a
short, stout lady with yellow hair and a big blue hat (that was the
only description) as she passed this point and to inform her that her
husband had had to go out but that he had left the door-key just
inside the dog-kennel!"
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