“Yes,” said Mr. Toke, “I remember. An old clock, a good deal out of repair. Yes. What about it?”
“Well, you see, Mr. Hobson hadn’t got no right for to sell you that clock. ’Twasn’t his for to sell. That clock belongs to my wife. It was give to her as a wedding present.”
Mr. Toke reflected rapidly. It would be perfectly practicable to restore the clock, since its contents were now securely concealed in an undiscoverable hiding-place. The clock, itself, valuable as it was, had become, by comparisons negligible. Nevertheless, Mr. Toke’s strongly acquisitive temperament made him reluctant to disgorge. Besides, to what purpose should he restore the clock? Its return, empty, would not dispose of the business. It was not the clock but the necklace that this worthy craftsman was seeking. And then there was the practical certainty that his statement was a barefaced untruth. No; there was nothing to be gained by an attempt to compromise.
“This is very unfortunate,” said Mr. Toke; “but I am afraid you will have to settle the matter with Mr. Hobson. He has the money. I have no doubt that, if you put it to him, he will hand it over to you.”
“But my wife don’t want to sell the clock, nor more don’t I.”
“Ha,” said Mr. Toke, “that is a pity; because, you see, the clock has been sold. I bought it in a perfectly regular manner, and I have Mr. Hobson’s receipt for the price of it.”
“But don’t I keep telling yer that old Hobson hadn’t no right for to sell it?”
Mr. Toke admitted that the matter had been mentioned. “But,” he continued, “that is really not my concern. You must settle the affair with your father-in-law.”
“Ho, must I? Fat lot of good it ’ud be talking to him. No, Mister, I’m going to settle with you, I am. You’ve got my clock, and you’re going to hand it over. I’ve got the barrer outside.”
Mr. Toke complimented him on his providence, but declined to consider the demand.
“Look here,” the stranger exclaimed in a threatening tone, “if you don’t want any trouble, you just hand that clock over. I’m going to have it, you know. I’m going to make you hand it over. See? You think I; can’t, but I tell you I can.”
“I am sure you can,” Mr. Toke agreed. “That is just my point. If the clock is yours, you can compel me to return it. All you have to do is to go to your solicitor, give him proof of your title to the property and instruct him to recover it in the ordinary way. He will make no trouble about it.”
“Gawd!” exclaimed the other. “I don’t want all that trouble and fuss. And I don’t want no solicitors. I shall just inform the police.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Toke, “you could do that. If your father-in-law did actually sell a clock that was not his property, he undoubtedly was guilty of a criminal act. You might prosecute him. So might I, for obtaining money from me by false pretences. But you would have to prove that the clock was yours, in any case. It would be less trouble to instruct a solicitor, and you would avoid the scandal.”
Mr. Toke’s calm, detached attitude seemed rather to nonplus his visitor, for the latter stood for some time gazing at him, breathing hard but uttering no word. At length he resumed, in a milder, even pacific tone:
“I don’t want to make no trouble for old Hobson, seeing as he is my wife’s father. And I don’t want no truck with solicitors. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You hand me back that clock, and I’ll give you the two quid what you paid for it. I can’t say no fairer than that.”
But Mr. Toke shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry, Mr.—I didn’t quite catch your name—”
“My name is Dobey, Charles Dobey, if you want to know.”
“Thank you. I was saying that I am extremely sorry that I can’t accept your offer. But, to begin with, the clock is not here; and as I have already spent a substantial sum of money on it, I should not be prepared to sell it at the price that I gave for it.”
“What do you mean about spending money on it?” Mr. Dobey asked with evident uneasiness.
“Well, you see,” said Mr. Toke, “in the first place, I had to send the case to a cabinet-maker’s—”
“What!” gasped Dobey. Then, controlling himself, he demanded, huskily: “What was the cabinet maker going to do to it? There wasn’t nothing the matter with the case.”
“Nothing structural,” Mr. Toke agreed. “But it wanted a clean up. I told him to clean off all the old varnish and put on a slight wax polish. That was all. And I have had the movement put in order. So you see, the clock is now worth a good deal more than I gave for it.”
“And where is it now?” Mr. Dobey asked, gloomily.
“I have sent it to Messrs. Moore and Burgess, the eminent auctioneers, and I understand that it will be put up for sale next Thursday—a week from today.”
Mr. Dobey reflected on this statement with an expression compounded of dejection and bewilderment. And, meanwhile, Mr. Toke looked him over, critically. He was not much to look at. He presented none of those interesting “stigmata” that distinguish the criminal countenance in the plates of Lombroso’s treatises. He was just a common “low-grade” man of the type that may be seen by the dozen, taking the air in the exercise yard of any local prison; with darkish red hair and—not unusually—a nose to match; hands suggestive of deficient washing rather than excessive labour and a noticeably shifty and furtive cast of countenance.
At length be pulled himself together for a final effort.
“This is all very well, you know, Mister, but I can’t allow you to put up my clock to auction just as if it was your own. You’ll have to get it back; and I’ll make you an allowance for what you’ve spent on it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that,” said Mr. Toke. “You seem to be forgetting that, at present, I am the legal owner of that clock. The receipt that I hold establishes my ownership; and if you claim that the clock is yours, it is for you to produce evidence of ownership. You haven’t done that, you know; and, if you haven’t any papers to prove that it was given to your wife, I don’t think you would be able to do it.”
“I could swear a affidavit,” said Mr. Dobey.
“M’yes,” agreed Mr. Toke. “But you have to be a bit careful about affidavits. There is such a thing as perjury, you know. I shouldn’t recommend an affidavit.”
Mr. Dobey received this advice with a bewildered stare. He could make nothing of it. Mr. Toke’s bland, impersonal attitude left him, for the moment, speechless. At length, he asked, lamely:
“Well, what am I to do? I ought to be able to get my own clock back—leastways, my wife’s clock.”
“So you are,” said Mr. Toke. “There’s nothing to prevent you from going to the auction and bidding.”
For some moments Mr. Dobey was too much over come to be capable of any reply. At last, he exclaimed, hoarsely:
“Well, I am blowed, I reely am. You’ve got the blinkin’ sauce to tell me to go to the blinkin’ auction and buy in my own clock. And you to take the money. I never heard the likes of it!”
“I merely threw out the suggestion,” said Mr. Toke. “I thought you were anxious to get the clock. You could always sell it and get your money back, you know.”
Futile as the suggestion seemed, it was craftily conceived; and Mr. Toke, furtively watching his visitor, saw that it had taken effect. The aggressive expression faded out of Mr. Dobey’s countenance and gave place to one indicative of reflection.
“Where do these auction blokes hang out?” he asked after a longish pause.
Mr. Toke took out from his letter case a card on which was inscribed, “MR. DIDBURY TOKE, 151 QUEEN SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY. TUESDAY AND FRIDAY, 11 to 5, OR BY APPOINTMENT.” On the back of this he wrote the address of the auctioneers, and handed it to Mr. Dobey; who, having read what was written, turned the card over and studied the printed inscription.
“I’ll have to think over this,” he remarked gloomily; and then, as if a new idea had struck him, he demanded:
“What is the name of the cabinet-maker what did the cl
ock up?”
“His name,” said Mr. Toke, writing on a slip of paper as he spoke, “is Levy, Maurice Levy, and his place is in Curtain Road.”
“Sounds like a sheeny,” Dobey remarked, disparagingly.
“He is, as you have guessed, of the Jewish faith,” Mr. Toke admitted. “A most excellent workman and a thoroughly honest man.”
“Ho,” said Mr. Dobey, in a tone of obvious scepticism. But he seemed to get some comfort from the description, nevertheless. He gazed reflectively at the slip of paper for a while, and then, slowly and reluctantly, rose.
“Well,” he remarked in an aggrieved tone, “this ain’t what I expected, but I suppose there’s no use staying here chin-waggin’ to no purpose.”
He moved dejectedly towards the door, and Mr. Toke piloted him to the hall and launched him with a suave “Good morning” from the front door, watching him with a faint smile as he slouched down the short drive. He was not dissatisfied with the result of the interview. His subtle hint had evidently taken effect. And, though there would certainly be trouble if Dobey really bought the clock, it would be better so than that some other purchaser should have his house burgled, with the possibility of a capture and awkward explanations.
On the following Wednesday, the day before the sale, Mr. Toke arrived betimes at the rooms of Messrs. Moore and Burgess to watch the company of dealers and connoisseurs who had gathered to view the goods that were to be sold on the following day. There were two large rooms, connected by a wide doorway; and, immediately opposite the doorway, the clock was standing, ticking solemnly in proof of its perfectly restored health. Mr. Toke halted before it and surveyed it with not unpardonable pride. By the joint efforts of Mr. Levy and the Clerkenwell artist, the shabby outcast that had cumbered the floor of Thomas Hobson’s cottage had been restored to its rightful status as an aristocrat among clocks. The fine, dark walnut case with its rich marquetry had emerged from the crust of varnish as a butterfly comes forth from its pupa-shell; the brass dial with its cherub-heads and its silver hour-circle had been cleansed of the paint, and yet not cleansed too much, and the hands once more showed the fine, simple workmanship of their period.
Mr. Toke stood and let his eyes travel over its revived beauties with the genuine pleasure of the connoisseur, congratulating himself on having been the means of rescuing it from its unworthy surroundings and the risk of destruction. But, even as he gloated, he kept a watchful eye on the entrance through which new-corners were constantly pouring in; and it was, perhaps, just as well that he did; for, even as he held the narrow door of the clock open and peered in to see that the partition had not been tampered with, the countenance of Mr. Dobey came into view among the little crowd of new arrivals.
Now there was really no reason why Mr. Toke should have made any secret of his presence in the rooms. As a collector, it was quite natural that he should be there. But recent transactions had engendered in him a new furtiveness and secrecy. He didn’t want Dobey to see him, and he did want to keep an eye on Dobey. Accordingly, having shut the clock-case, he made his way, as well as the crowded state of the rooms would let him, through the doorway into the other room, and looked about for some means of concealment. A large French armoire seemed to offer the best cover, for, from the shadow behind it, he could get a good view of the adjoining room in a large mirror.
Here, then, he established himself, and soon the bereaved artisan came into view. He was quite respectably dressed, and would have been unnoticeable but for the self-consciousness which caused him to move stealthily and suspiciously among the crowd. Very soon he spied the clock and crept up to it with ill-assumed unconcern. Mr. Toke watched him with grim amusement. Evidently, the changed appearance of the clock puzzled him considerably. The distinctive characteristics, now so striking, had been hidden by the varnish, and were unfamiliar to him. He stared at the clock, and then gazed about in search of another. But this was the only clock in the room. Finally, after a furtive glance to right and left, he ventured to open the door of the case and peer in. Then, evidently, some chord of memory was struck. No doubt the four Nettlefold screws were old friends. At any rate, he closed the door with an air of decision, and once more began to look about him furtively and uneasily, while Mr. Toke watched expectantly to see what his next move would be.
For some time Dobey crept to and fro rather aimlessly, gazing at the exhibits, but keeping in the neighbourhood of the clock, and Mr. Toke had the feeling that he was waiting for someone. And so it turned out, presently. The meeting was singularly unostentatious but Mr. Toke, watching narrowly, noted the mutual recognition. The new-corner was a well-dressed man, obviously of a superior class to Mr. Dobey, who walked in confidently, and, having looked round, glanced at the catalogue that he held and then walked straight up to the clock. He stood before it and surveyed it critically, point by point; tried the lock, opened the door of the case, gazed into the interior and reclosed it. And it was at this moment that the meeting took place. There was no sign of recognition; but, as the stranger stood inspecting the clock, Dobey sidled up, and for a moment stood by his side. Nothing appeared to be said, but the stranger made an entry in his catalogue. Then Dobey moved away, and, after a few vague glances at some of the exhibits, faded away towards the entry and vanished into the outer world.
With the disappearance of Mr. Dobey, concealment became no longer necessary. Mr. Toke emerged boldly, and made his way into the other room with the purpose of getting a closer look at Mr. Dobey’s friend. The circumstances were favourable for getting, at least, an unobserved back view; and the observant Mr. Toke, beginning with a minute inspection from the rear, arrived at the decision that the unknown wore a wig. It was an exceedingly good wig; so good and well-fitting as to suggest a bald or shaved head underneath. Having made this interesting observation, Mr. Toke contrived to obtain a view of the stranger’s face. It impressed him as a rather curious face; but he presently realized that the peculiarity of expression was due to the absence of eyebrows. Either they were naturally deficient or they had been shaved off. The presence of the wig suggested the former, but the meeting with Mr. Dobey made the latter possibility quite conceivable. At any rate, the dark-brown wig, with eyes to match, and the curiously blank forehead, rendered the stranger easy to recognize; which was satisfactory, as Mr. Toke intended to keep an eye on him, if, as seemed likely, he should turn up at the sale on the following day.
And turn up he did. Mr. Toke, keeping a bright lookout, saw him come in, catalogue in hand, and select a seat well in view of the auctioneer. Mr. Toke saw him fairly seated and then found a place for himself, where he could command an uninterrupted view of the stranger without making himself conspicuous. As he was not going to bid, he had no need to be in a position to catch the auctioneer’s eye.
His vigil was not unduly prolonged, for the clock came early in the list. As the number approached, he watched the wigged stranger; but his queer blank face showed no sign of uneasiness. He watched the proceedings stolidly, and did not even glance at his catalogue. Evidently, he was not a jumpy man.
At length the fateful number was reached. The auctioneer cleared his throat and announced, not without gusto:
“Long-case clock by Robert Cooke of London, dated 1692, in a case of fine walnut wood, enriched with elaborate marquetry. A most exceptional lot, this, gentlemen. It is really a museum piece. I have never seen a clock of this early period in such perfect condition. It is virtually untouched. With the exception of a modern partition in the bottom of the case, there are no restorations or repairs. It is in the very condition in which the maker turned it out. And I understand that an authentic history accompanies it. The initials on the case are those of Sir John Hawkwood and the Lady Margaret, his wife. Now, gentlemen, what shall we say for this unique clock?”
Almost before he had finished speaking, a voice answered:
“Fifty pounds.”
Mr. Toke grinned. This was, in effect, an ultimatum. The speaker meant to have the clock, and made no
secret of his intention. But he was not the only pebble on the beach, as the vulgar saying has it. His challenge was immediately taken up by another enthusiast.
“Fifty-five.”
“Sixty.”
“Sixty-five.”
The bids followed one another with hardly a moment’s interval, and the price hopped up by fives until it reached a hundred and ninety. Then there was a slight slackening; but still the bidding went on, at at a reduced pace. And all the time the gentleman in the wig sat gazing stolidly before him and uttering not a word. Mr. Toke began to be uneasy. Was he not going to bid, after all? Had he merely come to get the name of the purchaser with a view to a subsequent burglary? That was an unpleasant position. Not that it mattered very much; but, still, Mr. Toke didn’t want a burglary. No one could say what disagreeable results might follow. But at this point his anxieties were dissipated by a sudden activity on the part of the wigged gentleman. The price had reached two hundred and five, and, after the last bid, a somewhat lengthy pause occurred. The auctioneer repeated the bid, solemnly, and his hand stole towards his hammer. But at this moment, the wigged stranger looked at the auctioneer and nodded.
“Two hundred and ten,” the latter chanted, and repeated the refrain three times with increasing emphasis. But now there was no answer. The appearance of a new competitor at the eleventh hour was too much for the others. After a long and anxious pause, the hammer came down with a sharp rap and Mr. Toke drew a deep breath.
The name of the wigged gentleman, it transpired, was Hughes. As soon as he had communicated this fact, he rose and walked over to the clock and stood for a while surveying it with apparent satisfaction. Then he turned the key in the lock, put it in his pocket and sauntered out of the room; and, as the purchase of the clock left Mr. Toke with no further interest in the proceedings, he also presently rose and left the premises. And, as he wended his way to his office, he speculated, not without a shade of anxiety, on the probabilities of the immediate future. Messrs Hughes and Dobey were going to suffer a somewhat severe disappointment. It was not likely that they would suffer in silence. He had a strong presentiment that he had not heard the last of that necklace or of its quondam owners. As to Dobey, he was a negligible ass. But Mr. Hughes was in a rather different class. His conduct at the auction showed considerable judgment and self-restraint. He was clearly a gentleman who knew his own mind; a man of courage and resolution.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 110
