The curve of George’s interest rose acutely. “How are you, Mr. Capper? You remember our last meeting? You’ve got back?”
Capper had got back. Moreover, he was very well and he recalled their meeting with pleasurable memories. He was now ringing up Mr. Surridge on business: to suggest an interview for the discussion of Miss Pentland’s legacy. “Unfortunately I have to be away from the office for a day or two,” he went on. “I have to visit some invalid clients. But I am free at my rooms over the office in the evenings. Would it be convenient to you to drop in there? I realise it’s rather a lot to ask and I should suggest my calling on you, except that all the papers are here.”
George didn’t care if he had to drive a hundred miles instead of forty, provided some more ready money would be the result. Once again he felt he simply could not wait, and he told Capper that that very evening was the only one he could manage for some time to come. Could Capper see him on such short notice?
It appeared that that evening was also the most suitable for Capper. For what he hoped would be the last time, George after dinner hired the N. J. Gnat, and after leaving the city, turned to the right at the Bursham road fork.
It was an unpleasant evening for his expedition. The day had been dark and raw with a gusty wind eddying round the chimneys and the corners of the streets. Now the wind had fallen, but the rain had come down in a deluge. The pavements glistened and reflected the lights of street lamps and approaching cars. Driving was difficult and George was frequently dazzled and had to reduce speed. Altogether instead of completing the journey in a little over the hour, it took him nearer two to reach his destination.
Capper himself opened the door. “I’m sorry to have brought you out on this miserable evening,” he greeted him. “I’m afraid you’ve had an unpleasant drive. You are alone?”
“Yes, I drove myself. It wasn’t too bad except that I couldn’t make the speed I otherwise should.”
“If you’re not in a hurry, I’m not. But I’m sorry they won’t let you park here. Will you put your car round the corner?”
George did so, though he mentally damned the local pundits who prohibited parking late at night in a semi-residential street which carried no through traffic.
Capper was still standing at the door. “Come up to the fire,” he invited. “I’m alone in the house this evening: it’s my housekeeper’s night out.”
He seemed anxious to get George inside and as soon as possible shut the door. He led the way upstairs to a large bare sitting-room on the second floor. It struck George with an air of discomfort. The furniture was old and worn, and the fire was black and gave out but little heat. Capper drew up an arm-chair and took bottles and glasses from a sideboard.
“You’ll want a drink after that drive,” he went on, picking up a decanter. “Say when.”
The whisky warmed George and helped him to play the part he had intended. Capper was obviously a man of very different calibre to Logan. While George felt an instinctive dislike to him, he could not but recognise how wide awake and competent he was. Unless George was extraordinarily careful, this man would read his mind as he would a child’s. Now more than ever must George avoid any appearance of eagerness.
“I had no idea,” he began easily, sipping his whisky, “that we should meet so soon and over business. I didn’t know you acted for my late aunt.”
Capper poured out whisky for himself. He seemed nervous and on edge. He drank off the whisky almost neat and poured out a second helping.
“She used to live near Stamworth,” he answered, “and as you know, Stamworth is not far from here. My father acted for hers, and when both died, the next generation carried on.”
George nodded. “He was a wonderful man, old Pentland, I remember,” and he told one or two reminiscences.
They settled down into a rather forced discussion: on the families which were breaking up, the changes in social life, and Capper’s journey to America. Increasingly George felt that there was something amiss with his host. He kept jerking about, apparently unable to sit still. Some of his remarks were vague and hesitating, some brusque, and all suggestive of a weight on his mind. At last, however, he turned to business.
“I was sorry to be away at the time of Miss Pentland’s death,” he said. “Logan’s a good fellow, but of course he’s young and inexperienced. I hope he carried on satisfactorily?”
“Quite,” said George. “I found him very helpful.”
“It’s good of you to say so. He does his best. I thought, however, we should have a chat over things ourselves. I wanted to tell you one or two things about the legacy.”
Capper rose slowly and stirred the fire into a blaze. Then he straightened up and began to fiddle with the objects on the chimneypiece. He picked up something from behind an ornament. To George’s amazement it was an automatic pistol.
“Ever go in for pistol practice?” he asked, with slightly twitching face, as he turned round and balanced the weapon in his hand. “No? I do. I’m rather a dab at it, though I say it myself.” He replaced the pistol, continuing: “I prefer rifle shooting, but I can’t get a range here. However, that’s not what you want to hear about. It’s your legacy, isn’t it?”
“Well,” said George, rather surprised by the whole incident, but smiling steadily, “it was you who suggested the meeting, you know. Not that I’m not delighted to have it. But I think Logan has told me all I wanted to know. The amount I am likely to get is between eight and nine thousand, and it will probably be paid within three months or less. Is there anything else?”
George noticed that his host grew increasingly abstracted, indeed he seemed deeply moved. For a moment he kept silence, looking strangely at George.
A disconcerting idea suddenly shot into George’s mind. Capper was acting in an extraordinary way. There was his absent manner, his slightly disconnected remarks, his evident apprehension, and the curious episode of the pistol. Had the man gone off his head? They were alone in the house. Had George to deal with an armed madman? Had he, in short, come to one of the major crises of his life?
Once again Capper took up the pistol and began to fiddle with it. He was obviously trying to control deep emotion of some kind. Then suddenly grasping the pistol firmly, he looked George straight in the eyes. In spite of himself, George gripped the arms of the chair.
“I’m afraid there is something more, Surridge,” Capper said, hoarsely. “I have to tell you that—that—there’s no legacy!”
George felt his heart miss a beat. He stared speechless, unable to move.
“It’s gone,” went on Capper, in that strange hoarse voice. “I’ve spent it all!”
Chapter VIII
Venom: Through Temptation
George sat as if turned to stone. The money was gone! His aunt’s money! This money to which he had been looking forward for years, this money which was to get him out of all his troubles, this money which was to buy the cottage for Nancy and give her all those other things she so much wanted: this money—was gone!
Petrified in body, George’s mind continued to grapple with the situation. Why, he was now in debt: in debt and with no prospect of being able to pay. He was ruined!
And Nancy! What would happen to Nancy? She would have to leave Rose Cottage and get a job. She would be heartbroken. And suppose she didn’t find a job immediately? She had spent her savings while waiting for the cottage to be ready. And he, George, couldn’t help her! He couldn’t help himself.
At last he looked at Capper. “Is there none left?” he heard a voice say, a croaking voice that he didn’t recognise.
Capper shook his head. He made an effort to speak, then almost whispered: “Your money—and my own; it’s all gone.”
A whirl of furious hate flared up in George’s mind. This man, this thief! He had stolen his money! He had wiped out his chance of happiness and doomed him to years of misery! And Nan
cy also! George saw red. His hands clutched the air. He wanted to get them round this man’s throat and squeeze and squeeze till the face grew black and the eyes started from their sockets and Capper died! He wanted Capper to die! Now! He would get that much back on him!
Involuntarily he started forward, only to find the pistol pointing straight at his head. “Steady, Surridge,” came Capper’s voice. “You can’t do anything that way. My pistol’s loaded, and if one of us has to die, it won’t be me. When you’ve got over the shock we’ll talk it over!”
“Steady!” roared George, though he sank back into his chair. “Do you know what you’re saying? You thief, do you know that you’ve ruined me? Talk it over!” He thought again of Nancy and words failed him.…
He became conscious presently of a monotonous sound. Capper was speaking. “I know,” he was saying, more earnestly than George had thought possible, “I know that any expression of regret or sorrow would only be adding insult to injury, but I must say it formally just this once. I am more sorry about this than about anything that has ever happened in my life. I loathe myself because of it. I will do anything, anything, to minimise its effect or to help. I do say that most earnestly, Surridge, though of course I don’t expect you to believe me.”
George had sunk into a sort of stupor. What had Capper’s sorrow to do with the thing? He did not reply and Capper went on.
“I wish you’d tell me just how this hits you. It’s not impertinence or idle curiosity. It really is that I want to help. Things may not be as bad as they seem.”
At last George moved. “It hits me, yes,” he said, in a tone of concentrated bitterness, “but nothing to the way it’s going to hit you. I’ll at least have the satisfaction of seeing you in the dock and of thinking of you in your cell in some convict prison.”
Capper nodded as if pleased at this outburst. “I’m glad you said that,” he declared, “because it helps me to talk to you more normally. We must talk this out, you know.” He replaced the pistol on the chimneypiece as if no longer fearful that he might need it, and sank down in the other arm-chair. “You can do what you say,” he went on, “If you wish to. I admit that you have only to tell your solicitor or the police what I have done, and I will get the penal servitude you desire. I could put up no defence. I forged your aunt’s signature.”
“I shall do it,” George returned. “Don’t make any mistake about that.”
“It would certainly,” Capper admitted, “give you a temporary satisfaction. But don’t forget that that would be all. That would be all, Surridge,” he repeated, then added meaningly, “It wouldn’t, for instance, get you back your money.”
George sat up in his chair. “Can that be done?” he asked, his mouth dry.
“It was to discuss the possibility that I asked you here. I could have seen you in the office, but I thought we could talk better in private.”
He was speaking as if he really had some plan. A faint ray of hope flashed into the darkness of George’s mind. “Do you mean the money’s not all lost?” he queried sharply. Then with suppressed fury, “Damn you, can’t you answer a straight question?”
“It’s all lost,” Capper answered slowly, “but”—he paused significantly—“it might be replaced.”
“What do you mean?” George shouted, at the end of his patience. “If you’ve anything to say, for heaven’s sake get on and say it!”
Capper poured more whisky into both glasses. “There’s a way in which you can get back every penny,” he returned gravely, “provided you agree to help me in a certain matter. I’ll tell you everything, but to understand it I must explain just how I’m fixed. Drink up and listen.”
He swallowed another stiff tot himself, then went on. “I’m not trying to excuse myself; I admit I’ve done you a great wrong. You don’t want to hear that, of course, but only my suggestion for righting it. I may just say that my madness was speculation. I wanted to marry, but my business is not large and I wasn’t making enough to ask any woman to share her life with me. I’m not looking for sympathy, Surridge, but if you’ve ever loved, you’ll know how I felt.”
George, who had a weakness for seeing the other fellow’s point of view, felt some of his bitterness evaporating. Suppose this man had wanted to marry Nancy and found he hadn’t enough money? Yes, George could understand what that might mean.
“I looked about for money, unsuccessfully. Then I remembered how often I had been right about the movement of shares: more correct even than my stockbroker. I felt I had a flair for that sort of thing and I tried some operations with my own tiny capital. The frequent international crises helped me: prices rose and fell quickly. I bought and sold and made. But my capital was so small I didn’t make enough to matter. You can understand the temptation which arose. Though I owned but little money, I had control of a good deal. I saw that if I could make the same profit on the money I controlled as I had on my own, I should have enough to marry.
“I won’t weary you with the fight I put up. I knew it wasn’t honest, but I swear before God I had no intention of stealing—only of borrowing. My clients’ capital, I felt, would be safe. I should only buy into stock that I was sure would rise, and if it didn’t do so, I should sell before harm was done.”
In spite of himself a certain sympathy for the man was creeping into George’s mind. The story was uncannily like what might have happened to himself. He wondered whether, had he had access to large sums, he would have acted so much better than had Capper.…
“For a time I did quite well, so I suppose I grew bolder. Then disaster came. One of the innumerable international scares took place and stocks fell everywhere. I found myself several hundreds to the bad. The problem, therefore, arose: to hold on or to sell? If I sold, I should find myself just where I started. If I held on, I might still get my profit.
“You can guess what happened. The stock fell further, and in fear of ruin I sold. I was now nearly a thousand to the bad. I tried to carry on and recoup my loss, but either I had reached the end of my luck or my failure had destroyed my nerve, for from then I began to lose. I became faced with utter ruin. Finally I put all the money I could get together on a single throw: if I lost I could scarcely be worse off, if I won I might get all square. I lost.”
For some moments there was silence while Capper poured out and tossed off another tot. Then George muttered, “Well?”
“There was a little left, of course, from that, but there were other expenses, and now—” Capper again seemed overwhelmed, “now I may say that there’s practically nothing. Your aunt’s money’s gone, on the top of my own.”
George snorted. “Damn your impertinence!” he broke out, savagely. “What do I care about your money? It’s the stealing of mine that matters!”
Capper made a deprecating gesture. “I know. I’ve admitted all that. You don’t see what I’m driving at. What I mean is that in this affair we’re in the same boat.”
“Like hell we are! The burglar and the householder? We’ll see about that.”
“We’re in the same boat,” Capper persisted, “in that we’re both hard up and we both want money. You can do one of two things, Surridge. You can prosecute me and whistle for your money, or you can realise the past is past and join with me in getting it back.”
“You haven’t told me how,” George said, sullenly.
“All in good time. I want you to realise first that our interests are identical.”
George could scarcely contain himself. “For heaven’s sake go on and explain. You said all that before.”
“No,” Capper returned, “we can’t go on till you make up your mind. Are you going to prosecute or are you going to work with me?”
George twisted in his chair. “How the hell can I answer when I don’t know your proposal?” he stormed. “Think I’m a thought reader?”
Capper remained silent for a moment, looking strangely at George.
Then once more he filled up the glasses. “Drink up,” he invited, and as George automatically picked up his glass, he went on in a more confidential tone. “I have twenty-two thousand coming to me,” he almost whispered. “If I could get it now, we should both be happy.”
George stared. “What’s the hitch?” he asked at last.
“The same as yours,” Capper answered. “It’s a legacy; a very old man in poor health, but still hanging on. If you must know, it’s my uncle, Matthew Burnaby.”
“Good heavens! Are you his heir?”
“I’m the only one of the family left. When Joyce was alive she was to get it, but when she was killed he made a new will, leaving everything to me.”
“You made it?”
“No; don’t be a fool. But I’ve seen it. It’s all right. When death duties are paid there’ll be about twenty-two thousand. And when I get it I’ll halve it with you. That’ll be nearly three thousand interest on my loan.”
George turned this over in his mind. “But damn it all, Capper,” he said, “what good will that be to me? Burnaby’s old and frail, but he may live for years yet. I’ll not get it till it’s too late to be any use.”
Capper looked at him more strangely than ever. “He might, of course, live for years,” he said, then paused and added slowly, “but then again, he mightn’t.”
“What do you mean?” George asked sharply.
“He’s very old and very frail,” Capper repeated, in that slow voice. “No one could be surprised if he were to die at any time.”
George sat up. “Good God, man! What are you saying? Do you know what you’re hinting?”
“Only that an accident might happen. Nothing more than that, Surridge.”
“An accident? Come on, Capper; say what you mean. Are you hinting that you want me to be party to a murder?”
Antidote to Venom Page 9
