“I think,” Laverick suggested, “that you had better be frank with me. Supposing I knew where to catch Morrison before he left the country, I could easily deal with you on his behalf.”
The man looked doubtful.
“You see, sir,” he replied awkwardly, “it’s a matter I wouldn’t like to breathe a word about to any one but Mr. Morrison himself. It’s—it’s a bit serious.”
The man’s face gave weight to his words. Curiously enough, the gleam of terror which Laverick caught in his white face reminded him of a similar look which he had seen in Morrison’s eyes barely an hour ago. To gain time, Laverick moved across the room, took a cigarette from a box and lit it. A conviction was forming itself in his mind. There was something definite behind these hysterical paroxysms of his late partner, something of which this man had an inkling.
“Look here,” he said, throwing himself into an easychair, “I think you had better be frank with me. I must know more than I know at present before I help you to find Morrison, even if he is to be found. We didn’t part very good friends, but I’m his friend enough—for the sake of others,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation, “to do all that I could to help him out of any difficulty he may have stumbled into. So you see that so far as anything you may have to say to him is concerned, I think you might as well say it to me.”
“You couldn’t see your way, then, sir,” the man continued doggedly, “to tell me where I could find Mr. Morrison himself?”
“No, I couldn’t,” Laverick decided. “Even if I knew exactly where he was—and I’m not admitting that—I couldn’t put you in touch with him unless I knew what your business was.”
The man’s eyes gleamed. He was a typical waiter—pasty-faced, unwholesome-looking—but he had small eyes of a greenish cast, and they were expressive.
“I think, sir,” he said, “you’ve some idea yourself, then, that Mr. Morrison has been getting into a bit of trouble.”
“We won’t discuss that,” Laverick answered. “You must either go away—it’s past nine o’clock and I haven’t had my dinner yet—or you must treat me as you would Mr. Morrison.”
The man looked upon the carpet for several moments.
“Very well, sir,” he said, “there’s no great reason why I should put myself out about this at all. The only thing is—”
He hesitated.
“Well, go on,” Laverick said encouragingly.
“I think,” the man continued, “that Mr. Morrison—knowing, as I well do, sir, the sort of gent he is—would be more likely to talk common sense with me about this matter than you, sir.”
“I’ll imagine I’m Morrison, for the moment,” Laverick said smiling, “especially as I’m acting for him.”
The man looked around the room. The door behind had been left ajar. He stepped backward and closed it.
“You’ll pardon the liberty, sir,” he said, “but this is a serious matter I’m going to speak about. I’ll just tell you a little thing and you can form your own conclusions. Last night we was open late at the ‘Black Post.’ We keep open, sir, as you know, when you gentlemen at the Stock Exchange are busy. About nine o’clock there was a strange customer came in. He had two drinks and he sat as though he were waiting. In about ‘arf-an-hour another gent came in, and they went into a corner together and seemed to be doing some sort of business. Anyways, there was papers passed between them. I was fairly busy about then, as there were one or two more customers in the place, but I noticed these two talking together, and I noticed the dark gentleman leave. The others went out a few minutes afterwards, and the gent who had come first was alone in the place. He sat in the corner and he had a pocket-book on the table before him. I had a sort of casual glance at it when I brought him a drink, and it seemed to me that it was full of bank-notes. He sat there just like a man extra deep in thought. Just after eleven, in came Mr. Morrison. I could see he was rare and put out, for he was white, and shaking all over. ‘Give me a drink, Jim,’ he said,—‘a big brandy and soda, big as you make ‘em.”’
The man paused for a moment as though to collect himself. Laverick was suddenly conscious of a strange thrill creeping through his pulses.
“Go on,” he said. “That was after he left me. Go on.”
“He was quite close to the other gent, Mr. Morrison was,” the waiter continued, “but they didn’t say nowt to each other. All of a sudden I see Mr. Morrison set down his glass and stare at the other chap as though he’d seen something that had given him a turn. I leaned over the counter and had a look, too. There he sat—this tall, fair chap who had been in the place so long—with his big pocket-book on the table in front of him, and even from where I was I could see that there was a great pile of bank-notes sticking out from it. All of a sudden he looks up and sees Mr. Morrison a-watching him and me from behind the counter. Back he whisks the pocket-book into his pocket, calls me for my bill, gives me two mouldy pennies for a tip, buttons up his coat and walks out.”
“You know who he was?” Laverick inquired.
Again the waiter paused for a moment before he answered—paused and looked nervously around the room. His voice shook.
“He was the man as was murdered about a hundred yards off the ‘Black Post’ last night, sir,” he said.
“How do you know?” Laverick asked.
“I got an hour off to-day,” the waiter continued, “and went down to the Mortuary. There was no doubt about it. There he was—same chap, same clothes. I could swear to him anywhere, and I reckon I’ll have to at the inquest.”
Laverick’s cigarette burned away between his fingers. It seemed to him that he was no longer in the room. He was listening to Big Ben striking the hour, he was back again in that tiny little bedroom with its spotless sheets and lace curtains. The man on the bed was looking at him. Laverick remembered the look and shivered.
“What has this to do with Morrison?” he demanded.
Once more the waiter looked around in that half mysterious, half terrified way.
“Mr. Morrison, sir,” he said, dropping his voice to a hoarse whisper, “he followed the other chap out within thirty seconds. A sort of queer look he’d got in his face too, and he went out without paying me. I’ve read the papers pretty careful, sir,” the man went on, “but I ain’t seen no word of that pocket-book of bank-notes being found on the man as was murdered.”
Laverick threw the end of his burning cigarette away. He walked to the window, keeping his back deliberately turned on his visitor. His eyes followed the glittering arc of lights which fringed the Thames Embankment, were caught by the flaring sky-sign on the other side of the river. He felt his heart beating with unaccustomed vigor. Was this, then, the secret of Morrison’s terror? He wondered no longer at his collapse. The terror was upon him, too. He felt his forehead, and his hand, when he drew it away, was wet. It was not Morrison alone but he himself who might be implicated in this man’s knowledge. The thoughts flitted through his brain like parts of a nightmare. He saw Morrison arrested, he saw the whole story of the missing pocket-book in the papers, he imagined his bank manager reading it and thinking of that parcel of mysterious bank-notes deposited in his keeping on the morning after the tragedy… Laverick was a strong man, and his moment of weakness, poignant though it had been, passed. This was no new thing with which he was confronted. All the time he had known that the probabilities were in favor of such a discovery. He set his teeth and turned to face his visitor.
“This is a very serious thing which you have told me,” he said. “Have you spoken about it to any one else?”
“Not a soul, sir,” the man answered. “I thought it best to have a word or two first with Mr. Morrison.”
“You were thinking of attending the inquest,” Laverick said thoughtfully. “The police would thank you for your evidence, and there, I suppose, the matter would end.”
“You’ve hit it precisely, sir,” the man admitted. “There the matter would end.”
“On the other hand,” Lave
rick continued, speaking as though he were reasoning this matter out to himself, “supposing you decided not to meddle in an affair which does not concern you, supposing you were not sure as to the identity of your customer last night, and being a little tired you could not rightly remember whether Mr. Morrison called in for a drink or not, and so, to cut the matter short, you dismissed the whole matter from your mind and let the inquest take its own course,—Laverick paused. His visitor scratched the side of his chin and nodded.
“You’ve put this matter plainly, sir,” he said, “in what I call an understandable, straightforward way. I’m a poor man—I’ve been a poor man all my life—and I’ve never seed a chance before of getting away from it. I see one now.”
“You want to do the best you can for yourself?”
“So ‘elp me God, sir, I do!” the man agreed.
Laverick nodded.
“You have done a remarkably wise thing,” he said, “in coming to me and in telling me about this affair. The idea of connecting Mr. Morrison with the murder would, of course, be ridiculous, but, on the other hand, it would be very disagreeable to him to have his name mentioned in connection with it. You have behaved discreetly, and you have done Mr. Morrison a service in trying to find him out. You will do him a further service by adopting the second course I suggested with regard to the inquest. What do you consider that service is worth?”
“It depends, sir,” the man answered quietly, “at what price Mr. Morrison values his life!”
XVII. THE PRICE OF SILENCE
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The man’s manner was expressive. Laverick repeated his phrase, frowning.
“His life!”
“Yes, sir!”
Laverick shrugged his shoulders.
“Come,” he declared, “you must not go too far with this thing. I have admitted, so as to clear the way for anything you have to say, that Mr. Morrison would not care to have his name mentioned in connection with this affair. But because he left your bar a few minutes after the murdered man, it is sheer folly to assume that therefore he is necessarily implicated in his death. I cannot conceive anything more unlikely.”
The man smiled—a slow, uncomfortable smile which suggested mirth less than anything in the world.
“There are a few other things, sir,” he remarked,—“one in especial.”
“Well?” Laverick inquired. “Let’s have it. You had better tell me everything that is in your mind.”
“The man was stabbed with a horn-handled knife.”
“I remember reading that,” Laverick admitted.
“Well?”
“The knife was mine,” his visitor affirmed, dropping his voice once more to a whisper. “It lay on the edge of the counter, close to where Mr. Morrison was leaning, and as soon as he’d gone I missed it.”
Laverick was silent. What was there to be said?
“Horn-handled knives,” he muttered, “are not rare not uncommon things.”
“One don’t possess a knife for a matter of eight or nine years without being able to swear to it,” the other remarked dryly.
“Is there anything more?”
“There don’t need to be,” was the quiet reply. “You know that, sir. So do I. There don’t need to be any more evidence than mine to send Mr. Morrison to the gallows.”
“We will waive that point,” Laverick declared. “The jury sometimes are very hard to convince by circumstantial evidence alone. However, as I have said, let us waive that point. Your position is clear enough. You go to the inquest, you tell all you know, and you get nothing. You are a poor man, you have worked hard all your life. The chance has come in your way to do yourself a little good. Now take my advice. Don’t spoil it all by asking for anything ridiculous. It won’t do for you to come into a fortune a few days after this affair, especially if it ever comes out that the murdered man was in your place. I am here to act for Mr. Morrison. What is it that you want?”
“You are talking like a gent, sir,” the man said,—“like a sensible gent, too. I’d have to keep it quiet, of course, that I’d come into a bit of money,—just at present, at any rate. I could easy find an excuse for changing my job—perhaps get away from London altogether. I’ve got a few pounds saved and I’ve always wanted to open a banking account. A gent like you, perhaps, could put me in the way of doing it.”
“How much do you consider would be a satisfactory balance to commence with?” Laverick asked.
“I was thinking of a thousand pounds, sir.”
Laverick was thoughtful for a few moments.
“By the way, what is your name?” he inquired at last.
“James Shepherd, sir,” the man answered,—“generally called Jim, sir.”
“Well, you see, Shepherd,” Laverick continued, “the difficulty is, in your case, as in all similar ones, that one never knows where the thing will end. A thousand pounds is a considerable sum, but in four amounts, with three months interval between each, it could be arranged. This would be better for you, in any case. Two hundred and fifty pounds is not an unheard-of sum for you to have saved or got together. After that your investments would be my lookout, and they would produce, as I have said, another seven hundred and fifty pounds. But what security have I—has Mr. Morrison, let us say—that you will be content with this sum?”
“He hasn’t any, sir,” the man admitted at once. “He couldn’t have any. I’m a modest-living man, and I’ve no desire to go shouting around that I’m independent all of a sudden. That wouldn’t do nohow. A thousand pounds would bring me in near enough a pound a week if I invested it, or two pounds a week for an annuity, my health being none too good. I’ve no wife or children, sir. I was thinking of an annuity. With two pounds a week I’d have no cause to trouble any one again.”
Laverick considered.
“It shall be done,” he said. “To-morrow I shall buy shares for you to the extent of two hundred and fifty pounds. They will be deposited in a bank. Some day you can look in and see me, and I will take you round there. You are my client who has speculated under my instructions successfully, and you will sign your name and become a customer. After that, you will speculate again. When your thousand pounds has been made, I will show you how to buy an annuity. Keep your mouth shut, and last night will be the luckiest night of your life. Do you drink?”
“A drop or two, sir,” the man admitted. “If I didn’t, I guess I’d go off my chump.”
“Do you talk when you’re drunk?” Laverick asked.
“Never, sir,” the man declared. “I’ve a way of getting a drop too much when I’m by myself. Then I tumbles off to sleep and that’s the end of it. I’ve no fancy for company at such times.”
“It’s a good thing,” Laverick remarked, thrusting his hand into his pocket. “Here’s a five-pound note on account. I daresay you can manage to keep sober to-night, at any rate. That’s all, isn’t it?”
“That’s all, sir,” the man answered, “unless I might make so bold as to ask whether Mr. Morrison has really hooked it?”
“Mr. Morrison had decided to hook it, as you graphically say, before he came in for that drink to your bar, Shepherd,” Laverick affirmed. “Business had been none too good with us, and we had had a disagreement.”
The man nodded.
“I see, sir,” he said, taking up his hat. “Good night, sir!”
“Good night!” Laverick answered. “You can find your way down?”
“Quite well, sir, and thank you,” declared Mr. Shepherd, closing the door softly behind him.
Laverick sat down in his chair. He had forgotten that he was hungry. He was faced now with a new tragedy.
XVIII. THE LONELY CHORUS GIRL
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They stood together upon the platform watching the receding train. The girl’s eyes were filled with tears, but Laverick was conscious of a sense of immense relief. Morrison had been at the station some time before the train was due to leave, and, although a physical wreck, he seemed o
nly too anxious to depart. He had all the appearance of a broken-spirited man. He looked about him on the platform, and even from the carriage, in the furtive way of a criminal expecting apprehension at any moment. The whistle of the train had been a relief as great to him as to Laverick.
“We’ll write you to New York, care of Barclays,” Laverick called out. “Good luck, Morrison! Pull yourself together and make a fresh start.”
Morrison’s only reply was a somewhat feeble nod. Laverick had not attempted to shake hands. He felt himself at the last moment, stirred almost to anger by the perfunctory farewell which was all this man had offered to the girl he had treated so inconsiderately. His thoughts were engrossed upon himself and his own danger. He would not even have kissed her if she had not drawn his face down to hers and whispered a reassuring little message. Laverick turned away. For some reason or other he felt himself shuddering. Conversation during those last few moments had been increasingly difficult. The train was off at last, however, and they were alone.
The girl drew a long breath, which might very well have been one of relief. They turned silently toward the exit.
“Are you going back home?” Laverick asked.
“Yes,” she answered listlessly. “There is nothing else to do.”
“Isn’t it rather sad for you there by yourself?”
She nodded.
“It is the first time,” she said. “Another girl and her mother have lived with me always. They started off last week, touring. They are paying a little toward the house or I should have to go into rooms. As it is, I think that it would be more comfortable.”
Laverick looked at her wonderingly.
“You seem such a child,” he said, “to be left all alone in the world like this.”
“But I am not a child actually, you see,” she answered, with an effort at lightness. “Somehow, though, I do miss Arthur’s going. His father was always very good to me, and made him promise that he would do what he could. I didn’t see much of him, but one felt always that there was somebody. It’s different now. It makes one feel very lonely.”
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