“The rest,” Mr. Pegley went on, “the weirdest stuff you ever saw. I remember one item. Three thousand in a dead alive old family business that just about kept itself going but had a valuable freehold that made the capital safe. Well, I drew up a scheme for that man. No. Thanked me, but wouldn’t change a thing. His look-out. I got my fee. Whether he acted on my advice or not was his affair. I met him a few months back. He was getting twelve hundred a year from his consols. His thousand from war loan had been cut to £700. The rest of his capital brought him about £500. His estate in the Cotswolds put him in wrong a tidy sum every year.”
Mr. Moffatt groaned sympathetically. His own land did not “put him in wrong” by any means, but when he looked at his yearly outlay he often believed it did.
“Meant he had under a thou, to keep up his position on couldn’t be done, of course. Well, believe me or not,” said Mr. Pegley, using a favourite expression of his, “that man still had by him the list of suggested investments shown in the scheme I drew up for him. The first item had gone down the drain – total loss. It happens even with a deal you feel sure of, though I had marked it ‘Speculative.’ But the rest showed a return for that year of grace as near £17,000 per annum as makes no difference. I admit that was partly because the other item I had marked ‘Speculative’ had turned up trumps – much better than I expected, though I thought it good. That happens, too. It was bringing in more that year than the whole of the poor devil’s actual income – and then some. Not so bad, eh? I agree it was a gold-mine, and therefore a wasting asset. But, all the same, good for another twenty years in full yield and for another twenty tailing off. Besides the chance of another strike. ‘If I had done as you advised’ he told me, looking a bit thin about the gills; and then the bus he was waiting for because he couldn’t afford a taxi came along, and he jumped on. I felt a bit sorry for him – and sorry there wouldn’t be any Christmas whisky turning up from him either. I own up, I do appreciate it when clients show they haven’t quite forgotten.”
He sighed sentimentally and lapsed into silence. Mr. Moffatt continued to stare solemnly at his glass of port, still forgetting to drink it, still forgetting to pass on the decanter. He was lost in dreams, dreams of golden streams pouring automatically into his banking account, enormous ceaseless quarterly dividends declared by benevolent directors for the benefit of their shareholders. Why not? he thought. Mr. Larson, with the regretful look at the motionless decanter of one who finally abandons hope, took a pencil and card from his pocket and began to write in his small, precise hand. Mr. Pegley watched him sideways, scowling a little. Mr. Moffatt woke suddenly from his abstraction.
“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” he said. “I expect Ena’s got the coffee waiting for us.”
They all three rose, Mr. Moffatt still forgetful of his port he left untouched in its glass on the table – a circumstance that made the pale, thin, softly moving butler, a man named Reeves who had not been long in his present situation, lift his eyebrows in surprise before he drank it off himself, and another to keep it company.
In the drawing-room, Mr. Moffatt’s daughter, Ena, was sitting alone, waiting for them. She was small, slim, with small, attractive, well-shaped features, solemn eyes, about her a general look of health and the outdoors that went oddly enough with her reddened lips of an unnatural crimson, her painted finger-nails, the plucked ugliness of her eyebrows whereby she claimed her right to share in all the bored sophistication of modern youth. She was dividing her attention between her own thoughts, a Persian kitten – named Gwendolene – a cigarette she had allowed to go out because really she hated the things, a new novel, a magazine that told how to knit jumpers of incredible fascination, and a small table on which stood a coffee-pot, a spirit-lamp, a kettle, cups, and so on. In another part of the room stood a bridge-table, with cards and scoring-pads all ready. Mr. Moffatt was, somewhat unexpectedly, a keen and successful bridge-player who had even taken part in tournaments. Remarkable to see how neatly and swiftly those big, rather clumsy-looking hands of his could shuffle and deal the cards.
The coffee was already brewed, and Ena began to pour it out as the three men came in.
“Where’s Noll?” her father said to her.
“Messing about with the snaps he’s been taking,” Ena answered. “Wants to develop some of ’em.”
“Better tell him the coffee’s ready,” suggested Mr. Moffatt.
“He can come for it when he wants to,” replied Ena with sisterly indifference.
Mr. Pegley, sipping his coffee, began to praise it. Ena listened indifferently. She knew she could make coffee as it should be made and so seldom is. Now, if anyone had praised a cocktail of her mixing – but, then, no one ever did, nor even drank it if that extremity could be avoided.
“There’s a legend,” Mr. Pegley was saying, “that you only get good coffee in Turkey, the States, and France. In France it’s half chicory, in Turkey it’s just mud, and in the States it’s all cream. Now this is the real thing.”
Then he began to talk about a coffee-making machine about to be put on the market, for which, he said, he was providing the finance.
“Speculative side-line,” he explained; “not the sort of thing I could recommend to the clients who do me the honour to consult me about their list of investments.”
Apparently with this machine you put the raw beans in at one end, touched a button, and in a minute or two a stream of perfect coffee poured into the waiting cups at the other end.
Ena listened, polite but bored. She hated machines. She felt they had a secret grudge against her. Whenever she went near one, it always refused to work, while her brother, Noll, had only to touch the wretched things and at once they would purr away contentedly. Ena felt it was hardly fair. She said:
“How lovely, Mr. Pegley, but it wouldn’t do for us. We haven’t electricity. Dad says he can’t afford to install it.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” Mr. Pegley agreed. “Unfortunately, there is that.” He paused. “So unnecessary,” he murmured, as if to himself; “so very unnecessary.”
Mr. Larson strolled over, his coffee in his hand, to Mr. Moffatt, and dropped before him the card he had written in the dining-room. It bore the words:
“Share Pusher.”
Mr. Moffatt looked very startled. His eyes and mouth opened to their widest. His face, red with an outdoor life, went redder still. Before he could speak the door opened and there appeared the pale, soft-moving butler, a little more pale, more softly moving even than usual.
“Colonel Warden to see you, sir,” he said. “In the library, sir. On business. I was to say he wouldn’t keep you more than a minute or two.”
“Colonel Warden?” repeated Mr. Moffatt, surprised. “Our chief constable,” he explained to the two men.
“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Ena, turning quite pale. “I do hope Noll hasn’t been speeding again or anything.”
“Warden wouldn’t come himself about that,” her father said. “Is Colonel Warden alone?” he asked the butler.
“No, sir,” Reeves answered, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. “A Scotland Yard man’s with him – a detective-sergeant. Bobby Owen his name is.”
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 1937 E.R. Punshon
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is published by licence, issued under the UK Orphan Works Licensing Scheme.
First published in 1937 by Victor Gollancz
Cover by DSP
ISBN 978 1 910570 38 8
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk
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Mystery of Mr. Jessop Page 31
