by W. W. Jacobs
“I shall see my friend again,” said the Jew to himself, as he looked up from the paper. “Let him make an attempt on me and we’ll see.”
He threw the paper down, and, settling back in his chair, fell into a pleasing reverie. He saw his release from sordid toil close at hand. He would travel and enjoy his life. Pity the diamond hadn’t come twenty years before. As for the sailor, well, poor fellow, why didn’t he stay when he was asked?
The cat, still dozing, became aware of a strong, strange odour. In a lazy fashion it opened one eye, and discovered that an old, shrivelled-up little man, with a brown face, was standing by the counter. It watched him lazily, but warily, out of a half-closed eye, and then, finding that he appeared to be quite harmless, closed it again.
The intruder was not an impatient type of customer. He stood for some time gazing round him; then a thought struck him, and he approached the cat and stroked it with a masterly hand. Never, in the course of its life, had the animal met such a born stroker. Every touch was a caress, and a gentle thrum, thrum rose from its interior in response.
Something went wrong with the stroker. He hurt. The cat started up suddenly and jumped behind the counter. The dark gentleman smiled an evil smile, and, after waiting a little longer, tapped on the counter.
The pawnbroker came from the little room beyond, with the newspaper in his hand, and his brow darkened as he saw the customer. He was of a harsh and dominant nature, and he foresaw more distasteful threats.
“Well, what do you want?” he demanded abruptly.
“Morning, sir,” said the brown man in perfect English; “fine day.”
“The day’s well enough,” said the Jew.
“I want a little talk with you,” said the other suavely, “a little, quiet, reasonable talk.”
“You’d better make it short,” said the Jew. “My time is valuable.”
The brown man smiled, and raised his hand with a deprecatory gesture. “Many things are valuable,” said he, “but time is the most valuable of all. And time to us means life.”
The Jew saw the covert threat, and grew more irritable still.
“Get to your business,” he said sharply.
The brown man leant on the counter, and regarded him with a pair of fierce, brown eyes, which age had not dimmed.
“You are a reasonable man,” he said slowly, “a good merchant. I can see it. But sometimes a good merchant makes a bad bargain. In that case what does the good merchant do?”
“Get out of here,” said the Jew angrily.
“He makes the best of it,” continued the other calmly, “and he is a lucky man if he is not too late to repair the mischief. You are not too late”
The Jew laughed boisterously.
“There was a sailor once made a bad bargain,” said the brown man, still in the same even tones, “and he died—of grief.”
He grinned at this pleasantry until his face looked like a cracked mask.
“I read in this paper of a sailor being killed,” said the Jew, holding it up. “Have you ever heard of the police, of prison, and of the hangman?”
“All of them,” said the other softly.
“I might be able to put the hangman on the track of the sailor’s murderer,” continued the Jew grimly.
The brown man smiled and shook his head. “You are too good a merchant,” he said; “besides, it would be very difficult.”
“It would be a pleasure to me,” said the Jew.
“Let us talk business like men, not nonsense like children,” said the brown man suddenly. “You talk of hangmen. I talk of death. Well, listen. Two nights ago you bought a diamond from a sailor for five hundred pounds. Unless you give me that diamond back for the same money I will kill you.”
“What?” snarled the Jew, drawing his gaunt figure to its full height. “You, you miserable mummy?”
“I will kill you,” repeated the brown man calmly. “I will send death to you—death in a horrible shape. I will send a devil, a little artful, teasing devil, to worry you and kill you. In the darkness he will come and spring out on you. You had better give back the diamond, and live. If you give it back I promise you your life.”
He paused, and the Jew noticed that his face had changed, and in place of the sardonic good-humour which had before possessed it, was now distorted by a devilish malice. His eyes gleamed coldly, and he snapped them quickly as he spoke.
“Well, what do you say?” he demanded.
“This,” said the Jew.
He leant over the counter, and, taking the brown man’s skinny throat in his great hand, flung him reeling back to the partition, which shook with his weight. Then he burst into a laugh as the being who had just been threatening him with a terrible and mysterious death changed into a little weak old man, coughing and spitting as he clutched at his throat and fought for breath.
“What about your servant, the devil?” ask the Jew maliciously.
“He serves when I am absent,” said the brown man faintly. “Even now I give you one more chance. I will let you see the young fellow in your shop die first. But no, he has not offended. I will kill—”
He paused, and his eye fell on the cat, which at that moment spang up and took its old place on the counter. “I will kill your cat,” said the brown man. “I will send the devil to worry it. Watch the cat, and as its death is so shall yours be—unless—”
“Unless?” said the Jew, regarding him mockingly.
“Unless to-night before ten o’clock you mark on your door-post two crosses in chalk,” said the other. “Do that and live. Watch your cat.”
He pointed his lean, brown finger at the animal, and, still feeling at his throat, stepped softly to the door and passed out.
With the entrance of other customers, the pawnbroker forgot the annoyance to which he had been subjected, and attended to their wants in a spirit made liberal by the near prospect of fortune. It was certain that the stone must be of great value. With that and the money he had made by his business, he would give up work and settle down to a life of pleasant ease. So liberal was he that an elderly Irishwoman forgot their slight differences in creeds and blessed him fervently with all the saints in the calendar.
His assistant being back in his place in the shop, the pawnbroker returned to the little sitting-room, and once more carefully looked through the account of the sailor’s murder. Then he sat still trying to work out a problem; to hand the murderers over to the police without his connection with the stolen diamond being made public, and, after considerable deliberation, convinced himself that the feat was impossible.
He was interrupted by a slight scuffling noise in the shop, and the cat came bolting into the room, and, after running round the table, went out at the door and fled upstairs. The assistant came into the room.
“What are you worrying the thing for?” demanded his master.
“I’m not worrying it,” said the assistant in an aggrieved voice. “It’s been moving about up and down the shop, and then it suddenly started like that. It’s got a fit, I suppose.”
He went back to the shop, and the Jew sat in his chair half ashamed of his nervous credulity, listening to the animal, which was rushing about in the rooms upstairs.
“Go and see what’s the matter with the thing, Bob,” he cried.
The assistant obeyed, returning hastily in a minute or two, and closing the door behind him.
“Well, what’s the matter?” demanded his master.
“The brute’s gone mad,” said the assistant, whose face was white. “It’s flying about the stairs like a wild thing. Mind it don’t get in, it’s as bad as a mad dog.”
“Oh, rubbish,” said the Jew. “Cats are often like that.”
“Well, I’ve never seen one like it before,” said the other, “and, what’s more, I’m not going to see that again.”
The animal came downstairs, scuffling along the passage, hit the door with its head, and then dashed upstairs again.
“It must have been poisone
d, or else it’s mad,” said the assistant. “What’s it been eating, I wonder?”
The pawnbroker made no reply. The suggestion of poisoning was a welcome one. It was preferable to the sinister hintings of the brown man. But even if it had been poisoned it was a very singular coincidence, unless indeed the Burmese had himself poisoned it. He tried to think whether it could have been possible for his visitor to have administered poison undetected.
“It’s quiet now,” said the assistant, and he opened the door a little way.
“It’s all right,” said the pawnbroker, half ashamed of his fears, “get back to the shop.”
The assistant complied, and the Jew, after sitting down a little while to persuade himself that he really had no particular interest in the matter, rose and went slowly upstairs. The staircase was badly lighted, and half way up he stumbled on something soft. He gave a hasty exclamation and, stooping down, saw that he had trodden on the dead cat.
– IV –
At ten o’clock that night the pawnbroker sat with his friend Levi discussing a bottle of champagne, which the open-eyed assistant had procured from the public-house opposite.
“You’re a lucky man, Hyams,” said his friend, as he raised his glass to his lips “Thirty thousand pounds! It’s a fortune, a small fortune,” he added correctively.
“I shall give this place up,” said the pawnbroker, “and go away for a time. I’m not safe here.”
“Safe?” queried Levi, raising his eyebrows.
The pawnbroker related his adventures with his visitors
“I can’t understand that cat business,” said Levi when he had finished. “It’s quite farcical; he must have poisoned it.”
“He wasn’t near it,” said the pawnbroker, “it was at the other end of the counter.”
“Oh, hang it,” said Levi, the more irritably because he could not think of any solution to the mystery. “You don’t believe in occult powers and all that sort of thing. This is the neighbourhood of the Commercial Road; time, nineteenth century. The thing’s got on your nerves. Keep your eyes open, and stay indoors; they can’t hurt you here. Why not tell the police?”
“I don’t want any questions,” said the pawnbroker.
“I mean, just tell them that one or two suspicious characters have been hanging round lately,” said the other. “If this precious couple see that they are watched they’ll probably bolt. There’s nothing like a uniform to scare that sort.”
“I won’t have anything to do with the police,” said the pawnbroker firmly.
“Well, let Bob sleep on the premises,” suggested his friend.
“I think I will tomorrow,” said the other. “I’ll have a bed fixed up for him.”
“Why not to-night?” asked Levi.
“He’s gone,” said the pawnbroker briefly. “Didn’t you hear him shut up?”
“He was in the shop five minutes ago,” said Levi.
“He left at ten,” said the pawnbroker.
“I’ll swear I heard somebody only a minute or two back,” said Levi, staring.
“Nerves, as you remarked a little while ago,” said his friend, with a grin.
“Well, I thought I heard him,” said Levi. “You might just secure the door, anyway.”
The pawnbroker went to the door and made it fast, giving a careless glance round the dimly-lighted shop as he did so.
“Perhaps you could stay to-night yourself,” he said, as he returned to the sitting-room.
“I can’t possibly, to-night,” said the other. “By the way, you might lend me a pistol of some kind. With all these cutthroats hanging round, visiting you is a somewhat perilous pleasure. They might take it into their heads to kill me to see whether I have got the stone.”
“Take your pick,” said the pawnbroker, going to the shop and returning with two or three secondhand revolvers and some cartridges.
“I never fired one in my life,” said Levi dubiously, “but I believe the chief thing is to make a bang. Which’ll make the loudest?”
On his friend’s recommendation he selected a revolver of the service pattern, and, after one or two suggestions from the pawnbroker, expressed himself as qualified to shoot anything between a chimney-pot and a paving-stone.
“Make your room door fast to-night, and tomorrow let Bob have a bed there,” he said earnestly, as he rose to go. “By the way, why not make those chalk marks on the door just for the night? You can laugh at them tomorrow. Sort of suggestion of the Passover about it, isn’t there?”
“I’m not going to mark my door for all the assassins that ever breathed,” said the Jew fiercely, as he rose to see the other out.
“Well I think you’re safe enough in the house,” said Levi. “Beastly dreary the shop looks. To a man of imagination like myself it’s quite easy to fancy that there is one of your brown friend’s pet devils crouching under the counter ready to spring.”
The pawnbroker grunted and opened the door.
“Poof, fog,” said Levi, as a cloud streamed in. “Bad night for pistol practice. I shan’t be able to hit anything.”
The two men stood in the doorway for a minute, trying to peer through the fog. A heavy, measured tread sounded in the alley; a huge figure loomed up, and, to the relief of Levi, a constable halted before them.
“Thick night, sir,” said he to the pawnbroker.
“Very,” was the reply. “Just keep your eye on my place to-night, constable. There have been one or two suspicious-looking characters hanging about here lately.”
“I will, sir,” said the constable, and moved off in company with Levi.
The pawnbroker closed the door hastily behind them and bolted it securely. His friend’s jest about the devil under the counter occurred to him as he eyed it, and for the first time in his life the lonely silence of the shop became oppressive. He half thought of opening the door again and calling them back, but by this time they were out of earshot, and he had a very strong idea that there might be somebody lurking in the fog outside.
“Bah!” said he aloud, “thirty thousand pounds.”
He turned the gas-jet on full—a man that had just made that sum could afford to burn a little gas—and, first satisfying himself by looking under the counter and round the shop, reentered the sitting-room.
Despite his efforts, he could not get rid of the sense of loneliness and danger which possessed him. The clock had stopped, and the only sound audible was the snapping of the extinguished coals in the grate. He crossed over to the mantelpiece, and, taking out his watch, wound the clock up. Then he heard something else.
With great care he laid the key softly on the mantelpiece and listened intently. The clock was now aggressively audible, so that he opened the case again, and, putting his finger against the pendulum, stopped it. Then he drew his revolver and cocked it, and, with his set face turned towards the door, and his lips parted, waited.
At first—nothing. Then all the noises which a lonely man hears in a house at night. The stairs creaked, something moved in the walls. He crossed noiselessly to the door and opened it. At the head of the staircase he fancied the darkness moved.
“Who’s there?” he cried in a strong voice.
Then he stepped back into the room and lit his lamp. “I’ll get to bed,” he said grimly; “I’ve got the horrors.”
He left the gas burning, and with the lamp in his left hand and the pistol in his right slowly ascended the stairs. The first landing was clear. He opened the doors of each room, and, holding the lamp aloft, peered in. Then he mounted higher, and looked in the rooms, crammed from floor to ceiling with pledges, ticketed and placed on shelves. In one room he thought he saw something crouching in a corner. He entered boldly, and as he passed along one side of a row of shelves could have sworn that he heard a stealthy footfall on the other. He rushed back to the door, and hung listening over the shaky balusters. Nothing stirred, and, satisfied that he must have been mistaken, he gave up the search and went to his bedroom. He set the lamp down on the
drawers, and turned to close the door, when he distinctly heard a noise in the shop below. He snatched up the lamp again and ran hastily downstairs, pausing half-way on the lowest flight as he saw a dark figure spreadeagled against the side door, standing on tiptoe to draw back the bolt.
At the noise of his approach, it turned its head hastily, and revealed the face of the brown man; the bolt shot back, and at the same moment the Jew raised his pistol and fired twice.
From beneath the little cloud of smoke, as it rose, he saw that the door stood open and that the figure had vanished. He ran hastily down to the door, and, with the pistol raised, stood listening, trying to peer through the fog.
An unearthly stillness followed the deafening noise of the shots. The fog poured in at the doorway as he stood there hoping that the noise had reached the ears of some chance passerby. He stood so for a few minutes, and then, closing the door again, resolutely turned back and went upstairs.
His first proceeding upon entering his room was to carefully look beneath and behind the heavy, dusty pieces of furniture, and, satisfied that no foe lurked there, he closed the door and locked it. Then he opened the window gently, and listened. The court below was perfectly still. He closed the window, and, taking off his coat, barricaded the door with all the heaviest furniture in the room. With a feeling of perfect security, he complacently regarded his handiwork, and then, sitting on the edge of the bed, began to undress. He turned the lamp down a little, and reloading the empty chambers of his revolver, placed it by the side of the lamp on the drawers. Then, as he turned back the clothes, he fancied that something moved beneath them. As he paused, it dropped lightly from the other side of the bed to the floor.
At first he sat, with knitted brows, trying to see what it was. He had only had a glimpse of it, but he certainly had an idea that it was alive. A rat perhaps. He got off the bed again with an oath and, taking the lamp in his hand, peered cautiously about the floor. Twice he walked round the room in this fashion. Then he stooped down, and, raising the dirty bed hangings, peered beneath.
