Edgar Wallace

The Green Archer

Warsaw 2018

Contents

I. THE GOOD STORY

II. THE MAN WITHOUT FEAR

III. JOHN WOOD OF BELGIUM

IV. THE GREEN ARROW

V. ABE BELLAMY AND HIS SECRETARY

VI. DO-NOTHING FEATHERSTONE

VII. A MAN AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS

VIII. THE GREEN ARCHER

IX. VALERIE’S SPRAINED ANKLE

X. THE SLAYER OF CHILDREN

XI. THE DOGS OF GARRE

XII. THE GAS BILL

XIII. THE DOGS HEAR A NOISE

XIV. AT LADY’S MANOR

XV. AT EL MORA’S

XVI. A WARNING

XVII. THE NEW DOGS

XVIII. A NAME IN THE PAPER

XIX. THE GREAT ADVENTURE

XX. “COLDHARBOUR SMITH”

XXI. THE CHASE

XXII. THE LINK

XXIII. THE DUNGEONS

XXIV. THE STORY

XXV. THE NEW BUTLER SHOWS HIS TEETH

XXVI. THE SEARCH

XXVII. JIM EXPLAINS

XXVIII. THE GOLDEN EAST

XXIX. A WARNING TO SMITH

XXX. JOHN WOOD TALKS

XXXI. THE MAN WHO APPEARED

XXXII. THE THERMOMETER

XXXIII. THE GREY LADY

XXXIV. THE ARCHER

XXXV. DOUBT

XXXVI. THE EMPTY DUNGEON

XXXVII. FAY GOES AGAINST HER PRINCIPLES

XXXVIII. THE RAID

XXXIX. FAY HAS A MESSAGE

XL. JULIUS TAKES ACTION

XLI. THE QUESTIONING OF LACY

XLII. THE PASSING OF SAVINI

XLIII. THE GREEN ARROW

XLIV. THE MAN IN THE BOAT

XLV. AN OFFER AND A REJECTION

XLVI. FOUND IN THE BOAT

XLVII. VALERIE TELLS A STORY

XLVIII. THE TAPPING IN THE NIGHT

XLIX. THE TRAP

L. A VISITOR FROM BELGIUM

LI. VALERIE MEETS JOHN WOOD

LII. THE HOLE IN THE WALL

LIII. THE RIFLES

LIV. THE COTTAGE IN THE WOOD

LV. BELLAMY HEARS OF THE GREY LADY

LVI. “MR. BELLAMY IS DEAD”

LVII. TRAPPED

LVIII. THE SIEGE

LVIX. A GREEN ARCHER COMES TO LADY’S MANOR

LX. FAY IN THE DUNGEON

LXI. THE MAN FROM CLOISTER WOOD

LXII. THE FLOOD

LXIII. THE LAST VISIT OF THE GREEN ARCHER

LXIV. WHEN THE WATERS ROSE

LXV. JULIUS ROASTS MONEY

LXVI. THE SECRET OF THE GREEN ARCHER

I. THE GOOD STORY

Spike Holland scrawled the last word on the last sheet of his copy, slashed two horizontal lines to notify all concerned that it was the last page, and threw his pen at the window-frame. The nib struck home, and for a second the discoloured handle quivered.

“No unworthy hand shall inscribe baser literature with the instrument of my fancy,” he said.

The only other reporter in the room looked up.

“What have you been writing up, Spike?”

“Yesterday’s dog show,” said Spike calmly. “I know nothing about dogs, except that one end barks and the other end wags, but Syme put me on to it. Said that a crime reporter ought to get acquainted with bloodhounds. That man is collaterally minded. Nothing ever appears to him as it is; he lives on suggestion. Take him hot news of a bank robbery and he’ll jump at you for a story about what bank presidents eat for lunch.”

He sighed and put his feet on the desk. He was young and freckled and had untidy red hair.

“Dog shows are certainly interesting–” he began, when the door opened violently and a shirt-sleeved man glared ill through spectacles of enormous size.

“Spike…want you. Have you got a job?”

“I’m seeing that man Wood about the children’s home–lunching with him.”

“He can wait.”

He beckoned, and Spike followed him to the tiny room he occupied.

“Do you know Abel Bellamy-a Chicago man…millionaire?”

“Abe? Yeah…Is he dead?” asked Spike hopefully. “That fellow’s only a good story when he is beyond the operation of the law of libel.”

“Do you know him well?” asked the editor.

“I know he’s a Chicago man-made millions in building, and that he’s a roughneck. He’s been living in England eight or nine years, I guess…got a regular castle…and a dumb Chink chauffeur–”

“I know all that ‘Who’s Who’ stuff,” said the editor impatiently. “What I want to know is this: Is he the kind of man who is out for publicity? In other words, is the Green Archer a ghost or a stunt?”

“Ghost!”

Syme reached for a sheet of notepaper and passed it across to the puzzled American. It was a message evidently written by one to whom the rules of English were hidden mysteries: “DEAR SIR, The Green Archer has appeared in Garre Castel. Mr. Wilks the butler saw him. Dear sir, the Green Archer went into Mr. Belamy’s room and left the door open. Also he was seen in the park. All the servants is leaving. Mr. Belamy says he’ll fire anybody who talks about it, but all the servants is leaving.”

“And who in thunder is the Green Archer?” asked Spike wonderingly.

Mr. Syme adjusted his glasses and smiled. Spike was shocked to see him do anything so human.

“The Green Archer of Garre Castle,” he said, “was at one time the most famous ghost in England. Don’t laugh, because this isn’t a funny story. The original archer was hanged by one of the de Curcys, the owners of Garre Castle, in 1487.”

“Gee! Fancy your remembering that!” said the admiring Spike.

“And don’t get comic. He was hanged for stealing deer, and even today you can, I believe, see the oaken beam from which he swung. For hundreds of years he haunted Garre, and as late as 1799 he made an appearance. In Berkshire he is part of the legendary. Now, if you can believe this letter, evidently written by one of the servants who has either been fired or has left voluntarily because she’s scared, our green friend has appeared again.”

Spike frowned and thrust out his under lip. “Any ghost who’d go fooling round Abe Bellamy deserves all that is coming to him,” he said. “I guess he’s half legend and half hysteria. You want me to see Abe?”

“See him and persuade him to let you stay in the castle for a week.”

Spike shook his head emphatically.

“You don’t know him. If I made such a suggestion he’d throw me out. I’ll see his secretary-a fellow named Savini; he’s a Eurasian or something. Maybe he can fix me. The Green Archer doesn’t seem to have done anything more than leave Abe’s door open.”

“Try Bellamy–invent some reason for getting into the castle. By the way, he bought it for one hundred thousand pounds seven or eight years ago. And in the meantime get the story. We haven’t had a good ghost story for years. There’s nothing to stop you lunching with Wood. I want that story too. Where are you lunching?”

“At the Carlton. Wood is only in London for a couple of days. He is going back home to Belgium tonight.”

The editor nodded.

“That makes it easy. Bellamy is staying at the Carlton. You can cover both engagements.”

Spike strolled to the door.

“Ghost stories and children’s institutions!” he said bitterly. “And I’m just aching for a murder with complications. This journal doesn’t want a crime reporter; it’s a writer of fairy tales you need.”

“That’s a fair description of you,” said Syme, addressing himself to his work.

II. THE MAN WITHOUT FEAR

IF the evil deeds of men were, as the ancients believed, written in letters of blood in the place of their perpetration, the name of Abel Bellamy would be splashed red in many places. On a mean farm in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania; in the grey hall of Pentonville Prison-to name but two.

Abe Bellamy never lost sleep at nights thinking of the past. Remorse was foreign to his nature, fear he did not know. He had done evilly and was content. The memory of the horror of lives wantonly broken, of suffering deliberately inflicted, of children delivered to hardship and pain, of a woman hunted to death by a tiger of hate that the Moloch of his self-esteem should be appeased, never caused him a second’s unrest of mind. If he thought of these old matters at all, he thought approvingly.

It seemed right to him that those who opposed him should be hurt. Fortune had favoured him greatly. At twenty he was carrying a hod; at thirty-five he was a dollar millionaire. At fifty-five his million was ten, and he had shaken from his feet the dust of the city that made him and was one of the landed gentry of England, the master of a domain that the flower of English chivalry had won by its swords and built on the sweat and fear of its slaves.

For thirty years he had had the power to hurt. Why should he deny himself? He could regret nothing, being what he was. He stood six feet two in his stockinged feet, and at sixty had the strength of a young ox. But it was not his size that made men and women turn in the street to look after him. His ugliness was fascinating, his immense red face was seamed and lined into a hundred ridges and hollows. His nose was big, squat, bulbous. His mouth broad and thick-lipped; one corner lifted so that he seemed to be sneering all the time.

He was neither proud nor ashamed of his ugliness. He had accepted his appearance as he had accepted his desires, as normal in himself. Such was Abel Bellamy, late of Chicago, now of Garre Castle in Berkshire, a man born without the gift of loving.

The door of the sitting-room opened, and he turned his head. Julius Savini was not unused to being greeted with a scowl, but he sensed something more important than the usual snarl of complaint that was his regular morning portion.

“See here, Savini, I’ve been waiting for you since seven o’clock. If you’re going to stay connected with your job, I want to see you before noon-understand that.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bellamy. I told you last night I should be late. I only got back from the country a few minutes ago.”

Julius Savini’s attitude and voice were almost humble. He had not been Bellamy’s secretary for a year without learning the futility of opposing his employer. “Will you see a man from the Globe, sir?” he asked.

“A newspaper man?” said Abe Bellamy suspiciously. “You know I never see a newspaper man. What does he want? Who is he?”

“He’s Spike Holland, an American,” said Julius almost apologetically.

“That doesn’t make him any more welcome,” snarled the other. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m not going to fall for any of that newspaper stuff. What is it about? You’re supposed to be my secretary, aren’t ye?”

“It is about the Green Archer.” Julius hesitated before he spoke.

Abe Bellamy swung round savagely. “Who has been talking about the Green Archer? You, you rat!”

“I haven’t seen any newspaper men,” said Julius sullenly. “What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him to go to–here, send him up.” If he did not see the reporter, he’d probably invent something, thought the old man. And he was just a little scared of newspapers. It was a newspaper that had made the fuss in Falmouth.

Presently Julius ushered in the visitor. “You needn’t wait,” snapped Bellamy, and when his secretary had gone, he growled: “Have a cigar?”

He flung the box on to the table as a man might throw a bone to a dog.

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