“That is Mr. Weech,” said Gillum, “the Inn porter; a queer old bird, quite a character in his way and a complete Victorian survival. I’ll introduce you as you like antiques.”
As we approached, Mr. Weech opened the wicket for us and gave my companion “good evening.”
“Good evening, Mr. Weech,” said Gillum. Taking a last look round to see that we are all safe before you turn in?”
“That is so,” replied Mr. Weech. “It is my custom to conclude the day’s duty with a perambulation of the precincts to see that everything is in order.”
“A very wise precaution,” said Gillum. “It’s of no use to have a locked gate if the doubtful characters are lurking inside. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Mortimer, who has been spending the evening with me, so that you may know him in future as an accredited visitor. This is Mr. Weech, the custodian of the Inn and the faithful guardian of our security. As you see, he carries an umbrella as a symbol of his protective functions. Isn’t that so, Mr. Weech? I notice that you are never without it.”
Mr. Weech chuckled and glanced fondly at the symbol.
“I suppose I am not,” he admitted. “When I put on my hat I take up the umbrella automatically. It has become a habit and I do it without thinking. Consuetudo alterus naturum, as the saying is.”
“Well,” said I, as I stepped through the wicket, “it is a wise habit in a fickle climate like ours. Good-night, Mr. Weech.”
He raised his hat with an old-fashioned flourish as he returned my valediction, and Gillum and I walked slowly down the passage to Fleet Street.
“An odd fish is Mr. Weech,” Gillum remarked. Quite a good sort but odd. I believe he takes that umbrella to bed with him. And he’s a devil for Latin. I suspect he keeps a book of quotations and primes himself with them for conversation. Well, good night, Mortimer. Take care of yourself and come again soon.”
As I made my way homewards to my lodgings I turned over the events of the evening. It had been a pleasant experience and Gillum had been a most agreeable companion. Indeed, I had been rather surprised at the way in which he had improved on better acquaintance and I was still puzzled by the contrast between his obvious intelligence and culture and the idiotic manner in which he was wasting his life and his substance. But as I recalled our conversation there was one item that jarred on me badly. Gillum’s defence of suicide may have been partly playful. Evidently, he rather inclined to the role of the Devil’s Advocate and took a perverse pleasure in arguing and defending a paradox. But still, I had an unpleasant feeling that the views that he had expressed really represented his convictions. And what made the recollection of his argument especially disturbing to me was the fact that one of the cases that he had cited in illustration was alarmingly like what his own case might be. At present, it is true, his wild expenditure was balanced by his very ample income. He never overdrew; and as long as his income continued at its present rate, he would remain solvent and merely waste his possessions.
But suppose some day, his source of income should dry up. Then he would soon be penniless and would quite possibly fall into debt. And if he did, the very conditions that he had postulated as justifying suicide would be brought into being. It was a profoundly disturbing thought; and though I tried to put it away, it recurred again and again, not only during my journey home, but at intervals in the days that followed.
CHAPTER VI
The Passing of John Gillum
Hitherto I have followed in rather close detail the circumstances of my association with John Gillum. This I have done advisedly; since the purpose of this narrative is to present as clear a picture as I am able of his personality and manner of life. But, having done this, I shall now pass more lightly over the events that occurred during the remainder of our association. That association, which extended over a period of about ten months, was fairly intimate and tended to become more so as the time ran on. Gillum was an entirely acceptable companion; cheerful, lively, humorous, and extremely well-informed. And, apparently, he liked my society, for he took every opportunity of cultivating it. The result was that we met as frequently as could be expected in the case of two rather self-contained men, each of whom had his own particular interests and occupations.
Sometimes he would call for me at the bank, but more commonly our rendezvous was Clifford’s Inn, where we would take tea and then sally forth to spend the evening at a concert or a play or in a voyage of discovery into the lesser-known parts of the London in which we were both so much interested. Once, on an off day, I accompanied him to a race meeting, where he narrowly missed winning a considerable sum but actually—as I learned later—dropped about a hundred pounds. But this was the only occasion on which I came into contact with his gambling activities. He had, in his tactful, accommodating way, accepted the fact that betting and games of chance were outside the sphere of my interests and such evidence as came to me of his exploits at the tables or on the turf was in the nature of hearsay. But the books of the bank furnished direct evidence that, whatever those exploits may have been, the net result was displayed on the debit side of his account.
As the period of our friendship lengthened I began to be aware of a rather curious fact; which was that, intimate as we seemed to be, I really knew nothing about him. It was rather remarkable. In respect of his present mode of life and his daily doings he was—or, at least, appeared to be—open even to expansiveness. But of his past life or his antecedents, not a word was ever dropped. Gradually I came to realise that, under this appearance of free and frank confidence, lay a profound secretiveness. It was not a pleasing trait; and it occasioned a certain amount of reflection on my part. And when I came to consider it, I began to perceive that the secretiveness was not limited to the past; for, with all his expansiveness, he never made the slightest references to those periodical drafts on which I had looked—and still looked—with so much suspicion. In short, it began gradually to dawn on me that the confidences that he made with so much apparent openness were in fact limited to what I, in my capacity as his banker, already knew.
Of course, I asked no questions. But, naturally, as I reflected on this secretive habit, amounting virtually to concealment, it aroused some curiosity. I am not in general an inquisitive person. But when I came to consider that this man, with whom I was on terms of daily intimacy, was an absolute stranger to me; that I knew nothing whatever of his past, of his relations, of the places where he had lived, of his profession or calling, if he had any, or of how he passed his time or whether he had any occupation other than gambling; it could not but appear very remarkable. And these reflections inevitably led to others. If his past life was never referred to, could there be any reason for this reticence? Was there anything in his past that made concealment necessary?
The question was not entirely without relevance. The periodical drafts, which had always seemed to me to suggest periodical payments, had raised a suspicion that he was being blackmail and as time went on, this suspicion tended to grow. But how should he come to be blackmailed? There is no smoke without fire. It is usually impossible to blackmail a man unless there is something in his life that he is unwilling to disclose. Could it be that his past was in some respects unpresentable? Or could it be that, even now, he was engaged in some activities that would not bear the light of day?
These questions presented themselves unsought and unwelcomed. For I liked the man and was unwilling to think ill of him or to harbour suspicions concerning him. Still, there were the facts, and I had to recognise them though the process of recognition cost me some mental discomfort. But presently I began to have anxieties of a different kind. I had always assumed that Gillum’s income was derived from a permanent source. The large sums that he had paid in at approximately regular intervals had appeared to represent something in the nature of dividends or an annuity. But in the last month of my acquaintance with him this regularity had become suddenly disturbed. One or two large cheques—unusually large ones—had been paid in, but the balance created b
y them had begun immediately to melt away. I waited in expectation of the usual credit payment. But the time when it should have become due passed and no such payment was made; and Gillum’s account began to show an uncomfortably small balance. It looked rather alarmingly like a failure of the source of supply.
Now, so long as his income was regular, his ridiculous expenditure merely kept him poor when he should have been rich. But with the failure of the supply and the continuance of the expenditure, a very different situation was created. As I scanned his account in our books and noted the growing tendency for the debit to overgrow the credit, I felt that—unless there were some change in the conditions—sooner or later, and probably sooner rather than later, some sort of crash was to be looked for; and, knowing what his ideas were as to the way to meet a crash, I had already dimly envisaged the kind of disaster which actually occurred, and of which I shall now proceed to relate the circumstances.
It was in the early afternoon of a rather sultry day in July that a tall, sunburnt, athletic-looking man came to the bank and asked to see the manager, explaining that he had been sent by Mr. Penfield and that his business was connected with the affairs of our customer, Mr. John Gillum. On this I pricked up my ears, and when he had been ushered into the manager’s room, I waited expectantly for the summons which seemed almost inevitable, having regard to my known intimacy with Gillum; and sure enough, in a few minutes, the bell rang and the clerk who went in to answer it returned to inform me that the manager wished to speak to me. Accordingly I went in and found the manager and the visitor seated on opposite sides of a small table.
“This,” said the former, introducing me, “is Mr. Arthur Benson, a cousin of Mr. Gillum’s, who has called to make some enquiries; and as you know Mr. Gillum personally as well as officially, you will probably be able to give him more information than I can. Mr. Mortimer is, I think I may say, a fairly intimate friend of your cousin’s, Mr. Benson, and may be able to tell you what you want to know.”
Mr. Benson shook hands heartily and proceeded at once with his enquiries.
“I am in rather a difficulty, Mr. Mortimer,” said he, “and I may add, a little puzzled and worried by the way in which my cousin is behaving. But I had better begin by explaining the circumstances. I have just come from Australia, where I run a sheep farm in which my cousin, Gillum, is to some extent interested. I have been in regular correspondence with him about our affairs and have sent him cheques from time to time, which have been duly acknowledged. Now, as the business which has brought me to England arose quite unexpectedly, I wrote to him from Sydney telling him that I should be coming on by the next boat and asking him either to meet me at Tilbury or to send a letter to the ship there telling me where and when I should find him. Well, he didn’t meet me at Tilbury, but he sent a letter which was handed to me as soon as the ship brought up in the river. In this he asked me to come straight on to his chambers in Clifford’s Inn.
“Accordingly, I did so; but when I called at his chambers, I could not get any answer to my knock. The place was all shut up, and though I hammered at the iron-bound door with my stick for some time, nothing happened. It was evident that he was not at home.
“This seemed a bit queer and not at all what I should have expected of him. However, I went off and got fixed up at an hotel, and then I came back to the Inn and made another attack on the door. But still there was no sign of life; so I gave it up for the time and went back to my hotel and spent the night there. Next day, I went to the Inn again and had another try. But still there was no result. The place was as still as the grave.
“It was really very extraordinary and I began to wonder whether there could be anything amiss. So I went on to Mr. Penfield, who acted for us in our business transactions, and asked him if he knew anything about Gillum’s movements. But he knew nothing at all, not having seen my cousin for some months, but he recommended me to come along here and see whether you knew anything about him or could give me any advice. So here I am; and the question is, can you give me any sort of help or tell me where I may be likely to find him?”
The manager looked at me. “What do you say, Mortimer? You know Mr. Gillum’s haunts pretty well, I think. Have you any idea where he is likely to be found?”
“Not the least,” I replied. “I should have expected him to be at his chambers, especially as he had made an appointment with Mr. Benson. That is where he lives, and I had always supposed that he, at least, spent the night there.”
“When did you see him last?” the manager asked.
“I haven’t seen him for nearly a fortnight,” I replied. “The last time that I saw him was when he came to the bank last Friday week to cash a cheque. I had a few words with him then but he did not say anything about his intended movements; and, in fact, he could not have had any intention of going away as he had made this appointment with Mr. Benson.”
The manager looked thoughtful and rather puzzled. “It really does seem a little queer,” said he, “and I think we ought to try to help Mr. Benson as he is a stranger in London. What do you suggest, Mortimer?”
“I hardly know what what to suggest,” I replied. “It is certainly an odd affair. Perhaps it might be worth while for me to run round with Mr. Benson to Clifford’s Inn and try the door again and if we still can’t get any answer we might drop in at the lodge and see if we can get any information from Mr. Weech, the porter of the Inn. He might be able to tell us something.”
“Yes,” said the manager, “that seems about the best thing to do. At any rate, it is worth trying. So perhaps you will kindly take Mr. Benson in tow and see what you can do for him.”
With this he stood up and shook hands with Benson, and the latter then accompanied me into the outer office, and when I had got my hat and stick we sallied forth together.
It is no great distance from Gracechurch Street to Clifford’s Inn and we agreed to walk; Benson for the advantage of seeing the town and I for the opportunity to think things over and possibly get a little additional information. For, as I have hinted, I was more disturbed by the strange state of affairs than I had admitted either to the manager or to our visitor. I had not mentioned to them the amount of the cheque which had been cashed less than a fortnight ago, but it came to my mind now with a slightly ominous suggestiveness. The amount had been two hundred pounds, which I had paid in one-pound notes; and that payment had not only cleared out the balance but had left the account a few pounds overrdrawn.
Reflecting on this, I ventured to make one or two discreet enquiries though avoiding direct questions.
“Your name is fairly familiar to me,” I began as a cautious lead off.
“I suppose it is,” he replied. “You must have had a good many of my cheques through your hands.”
“Yes,” said I. “They have come in at pretty regular intervals until just lately. But I don’t think I have seen one for over three months. However, the last one was quite a big cheque, if I remember rightly.”
“It was,” said he; “eleven hundred pounds. That was the final payment.”
“Indeed!” said I, rather startled. “Then it was not a continuing transaction?”
“No,” he replied. “The payments were instalments of purchase money. The sheep farm that I run originally belonged to Gillum. But he had a fancy to come to England and I was connected with a meat-exporting establishment; so he proposed that I should take over the farm and pay for it by instalments out of income while he should buy with the proceeds, or part of them, a partnership in a firm of meat importers in London. He thought that we could work things to our mutual advantage, and so did I. So I fixed up the deal with him and he came to England and arranged the partnership; and I paid off my debt as well as I could out of income. But after nearly two years I thought that it had gone on for long enough, so I raised a loan and paid off the final instalment in one sum.”
“By the way,” said I, “did it not occur to you to go round to his firm and ask if he had been there?”
“It did,” he replied. “I went there before I went to Mr. Penfield. And then I got another surprise. It seemed that he didn’t take to the meat-importing trade and about six months ago he sold his interest in the concern to the other partner and they have not seen anything of him since. It is curious that he should not have said anything about it to me in his letters.”
“Very curious,” I agreed. And it certainly was very remarkable. But it was not the oddity of his behaviour that principally impressed me. What instantly struck me with devastating force was the appalling fact that, at this moment, John Gillum must be absolutely penniless. Those big cheques had been paid in to my knowledge and had produced a most impressive balance; but that balance had been dribbling away ever faster and faster as the “self” cheques were turned into cash to provide the means for his insane expenditure. And now, as I have said, he had not only drawn out the last penny of his balance but was actually in debt to the bank.
It was a terrible position; and when I reflected on it by the light of his expressed views on the appropriate way to meet a financial crash, the behaviour disclosed by Benson’s experiences assumed an undeniably sinister aspect. I said nothing to my companion as to what was in my mind, but, as we approached the neighbourhood of Clifford’s Inn, my forebodings became so profound as to engender a very definite distaste for the errand on which I was bent.
We entered the Inn by the postern gate in Fetter Lane, and, crossing the little quadrangle which I knew so well, made our way straight to the rather forbidding entry. As we plunged into the shadow which enclosed the staircase, I could hear the typewriters in the ground-floor office ticking away, conveying a sense of human life and activity which seemed to contrast almost uncannily with the silence and aloofness of the—presumably—empty room upstairs.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 195
