CHAPTER XVI
MY PERSUASIVE MANNER
I went at once to the house in Arlington Street The door was Opened by Mr. Morley.
"Have you heard anything of Mr. Philip? Is he at home?"
Mr. Morley had opened the door about six inches, peeping through the crevice as if he expected to see some dreadful object on the doorstep. The sight of me seemed to reassure him. He addressed me in a sepulchral whisper.
"Would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?"
I went into a front room on the ground floor. Mr. Morley came in after me, and, behind him, Mrs. Morley. I was conscious that the room was filled with old oak furniture. It is, perhaps, because I am not a man of taste that I would not have an apartment in which I proposed to live filled with that funereal wood. Old black oak furniture reminds me of an African swamp. It is dark and sombre—heavy, stiff, ungainly.
Without, the shadows had deepened; in the house it was darker still. The room was still unlighted. The figures of the old man and woman, revealed in the half light, harmonised with the ancient blackness of the furniture. As they stood side by side, as close together as they could get, with, on them both, an air of timidity which the darkness could not hide, I felt that there was a blight upon them, and on the room, and on the house; that it was a place of doom.
"I take it that Mr. Philip has not returned."
They looked at one another; as if each was unwilling to incur the responsibility of a reply. At last the husband took it on himself.
"No, sir; he's not returned, but"
"Well, but what?"
For the old gentleman had paused. He spoke to his wife, in a whisper which was perfectly audible—
"Shall I tell him, Emma?"
"It's not for me to speak. That, Joe, is for you to say."
"This is Mr. Ferguson; he's Mr. Philip's friend."
"If he's Mr. Phllip's friend"
"Come," I said, "I see you've heard from him."
"Yes, sir, we've heard from him. That—that's the trouble."
"What is it you've heard?"
Again the reference to his wife.
"Shall I—shall I tell him, Emma?"
"I've already told you, Joe, that that's for you to say. It's not for me to speak."
Plainly Joe hesitated, then arrived at a sudden decision.
"Well, sir, this is what we've heard."
He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he gave to me.
"I can't see what's on this, man, without a light! Mine are not cat's eyes; it's dark as pitch in here."
"Before I light up, sir, I'll lower the blind. There's no need for folks to see what's going on in here."
He not only lowered the blind, he drew the curtains, too, leaving a darkness which might have been felt; then started groping for a match upon the mantelshelf. When he had found one he lit the gas—a single burner. By its radiance I examined the paper he had given me. In shape, size, appearance, it was own brother to the sheet which had come to me. On it was a typewritten letter; which, however, in this case, was not anonymous.
"Dear Morley,
"I'm in a bad scrape. I can't come home. And I've no clothes, and no money. I send you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my cheque-book, and my dressing-case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing away with me except what I stood up in. I don't know when I shall be able to send, but it will be as soon as I possibly can. Have everything ready, for when I do send I shan't want my messenger to be kept waiting. And keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night
The eyes of the two old people did not leave my face while I was reading. So soon as I lowered the paper Mr. Morley faltered out his question.
"Well, sir, what—what do you think of it?"
"That it's a curious epistle. Who brought it?"
"That's more than I can say. There was a knock at the door, and I saw that in the letter-box. I looked out into the street, but there was no one in sight who seemed a likely person to have dropped it in."
"No messenger-boy?"
"No, sir, no one of the kind."
"And the keys came with it?"
"Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel."
"Addressed to you?"
"No, the parcel was addressed to no one. There was nothing on it at all."
"You are sure they are Mr. Philip's keys?"
"Of course they are. Whose should they be? Why—why do you say that?"
"Has Mr. Philip been in the habit of sending you typewritten letters?"
"He has never done such a thing in his life before."
"In this even the signature is typed—as if he had made up his mind that you should not have a scrap of handwriting which you could recognise. I don't see why he need to have had such a letter typed at all. Is he himself a typist?"
"Not that I know of; I never heard him speak of it."
"Then to have had such a letter typed by some one else was to add to his risk. Why couldn't he have trusted you with a letter written by his own hand?"
"I can't say."
"Are you yourself sure that this letter is from Mr. Philip?"
"Not a doubt of it. I wish there were. Because it shows that he's in hiding; and what should he be in hiding for, except one thing? What—what are we to do? If—if he has his brother's blood upon his hands."
"Joe!"
"Well, Emma, if he has, he has! And where'll he find a place big enough, and out-of-the-way enough, for him to hide in? All the world will soon know what he's done, and all the world will be in search of him. He won't dare to come here—he daren't already; soon he won't dare to write to me; the police will be watching me like cats a mouse. He'll be an outcast, shunning the places which he knew and the friends who loved him—and he the most sociable gentleman who ever lived, who never could bear to be alone; with a host of friends, and not a single enemy. And—and what are we to do—the wife and I, here, in his house alone? To whom are we to look for help—for guidance—for orders? We—we're almost afraid to stop in the place as it is; it—it's as if it were haunted. We seem to see him wherever we turn; we hear his footstep on the stairs—his voice—his laughter."
"Joe!"
"Well, Emma, so we do. Our nerves won't stand it We—we're getting all broken up; we're not so young as we were, and used to regular ways, and—and this sort of thing's beyond us. Every knock at the door starts us trembling. Who—who's that?"
As Mr. Morley was speaking, there came an assault on the front-door knocker which seemed to shake the house. I do not think I ever heard quite such a clatter made by a similar instrument before. That the nerves of the old folks were in a curious condition was immediately made plain; the attack might have been made on them, instead of on the knocker. They drew closer together, clinging to each other for support; consternation was written large all over them. Their behaviour was not that of persons on whom I should have cared to lay the burden of a great responsibility; especially one in which coolness and presence of mind were necessary factors.
The visitor was in a hurry. There had hardly been time to reach the front door when the knocking began again—crash, smash, crash, crash, crash, crash! I really thought the door would have been broken down. The faces of the proper guardians of the house grew whiter, their limbs more tremulous.
"Hadn't you better go and see who's there? Or shall I?"
They let me go. On the doorstep I found an individual who had his own notions of propriety. With scant ceremony he endeavoured, without a word of explanation, to force his way into the house. I am not a man with whom every one finds it easy to play that kind of game. When I am pushed, I push. Placing my hand against his chest, he went backwards across the pavement at a run.
"Manners, sir! Manners!" I observed.
He seemed surprised—as a man is apt to do, who, proposing to play the bully, finds himself bullied instead. His hat had fallen off; he himself had almost fallen too.
"Who the devil are you, sir?"
"Saving a reference to any acquaintance of yours, that is the question which I should like to put to you, sir."
Picking up his hat, he came towards me, with a blusterous air.
"I want to see Philip Lawrence—at once."
"Do you indeed! That's unfortunate. You have come to the wrong place for your want to be supplied. Mr. Philip Lawrence doesn't happen to be in."
"Tell that tale to some one else; don't try it on me; I've heard it before. I'll wait till he is in."
"By all means; let me show you the way inside."
Taking him by the collar of his coat, I conducted him through the doorway, across the hall, and into the front room—where Mr. and Mrs. Morley were still clinging to each other, as if under the impression that the end of the world at last had come. The visitor was a big, black-haired man, inclined to puffiness, whose whiskers and moustache seemed to have been blackleaded, they shone with such resplendence. He was clad in gorgeous attire.
"What do you mean by such disgraceful behaviour?" I inquired.
"On my word, that's good!" He was settling in its place the collar of his coat. "Seems to me that the boot's upon the other foot." He turned to Mr. Morley. "Who is this man?"
"This man," I explained, to save Mr. Morley trouble, "is a person who is competent to resent any impertinence which you may offer. So, if you have come to play the bully, you will have every opportunity afforded you to play your very best"
"Don't talk to me like that, sir, you don't know who I am. If I'd liked I might have made Philip Lawrence bankrupt four and twenty hours ago; only I thought I'd give him a chance. But I'm not going to stand that sort of thing from you."
"Pray how could you have made Mr. Philip Lawrence bankrupt?"
"I hold overdue bills of his for £5000. Some men would have made him bankrupt on the nail, and run him up a tidy bill of costs. I'm too soft-hearted; I gave him a chance. But I've had enough bother already; I'm not going to have any more. If a satisfactory arrangement isn't made before I leave this house, there'll be trouble."
"So you are the person who habitually trades in forged acceptances."
"Forged acceptances! What—what the devil do you mean, sir?"
Unless I was mistaken, he increased in puffiness.
"You know. You were aware that they were forged, and by whom. You had a hand in arranging the whole matter; buying them for a song, with the intention of securing as much out of Mr. Philip Lawrence as you possibly could."
The gentleman began to bluster. Plainly he was not happy.
"I—I don't know who you are to talk to me like that, sir. Your behaviour's altogether most extraordinary. I'll let you know that I'm not going to have you speak to me like that: I'm not going to have such language addressed to me. I came into possession of these bills in the ordinary course of business."
"How much did you pay for them?"
"I paid Never mind what I paid for them! What's it got to do with you?" So far he had been wearing his silk hat. Now he took it off to wipe the brim. "As I say, I'm a soft-hearted man, and if it's not convenient to Mr. Lawrence to pay up all at once, why, I'm willing to do my best to meet his conveniences; but I—I'm not going to be talked to like that, certainly not!"
"Hand them over."
"Hand what over?"
"The bills."
"Against money."
"Hand over those bills."
"I haven't got them on me; they're in the safe at my office, under lock and key. Do you think I carry about with me documents of that value? You never know what sort of characters you may encounter."
This with a meaning glance in my direction.
"Hand over those bills."
"Help! Murder! Thieves!"
As he showed a disposition to make a noise, I took him by the throat. Lifting him on the big oak table, and laying him flat upon his back, I kept him quiet while I went through his pockets. As I expected, I found in the inside breast-pocket of his coat a leather case. In this were five promissory notes for £1000 each, purporting to have been drawn by Philip Lawrence, and to have been endorsed by his brother Edwin. I let him get up.
"I hope I have put you to no inconvenience. Since you left the bills in your office safe, under lock and key, no doubt you will find them, still under lock and key, on your return."
"Give me back those bills!"
"They will be quite safe with me."
I put them into my coat pocket. He turned to the Morleys.
"I call you to witness that the man has robbed me, with violence! Mind, with violence!" Then to me: "You give me back those bills, this moment, or it will be a case of penal servitude for you; and I shouldn't be surprised if there were the cat thrown in."
"And what will it be for you? Judges and juries are not apt to look with lenient eyes upon gentlemen who habitually traffic in forged acceptances for the purposes of levying blackmail."
"Don't talk to me like that; I tell you that I won't have it!"
"You won't have it!"
"Upon my word, I don't know who you are, but I believe you're a highwayman. Give me back those bills, or I go to the front door, and I call a constable."
"Call one—do. I will give him the bills, with an explanation of what they are, pointing out to him that you will presently have to stand your trial on a charge of conspiracy; and that, also, you are disagreeably associated with a case of murder."
"The man's stark mad. I never heard any one talk like he does—never!"
"Possibly you are not aware that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night."
"Edwin Lawrence murdered?"
The man turned a greenish hue.
"Beyond doubt his death was the direct result of the crime which you incited him to commit. The whole story's known. I heard myself, this morning, a confession from the lips of the miserable tool who actually concocted the fraudulent documents. You will find him quite willing to turn Queen's Evidence. The bills will be produced in Court, when you will have an opportunity to tell your story."
He put his hand up to his collar, as if it had suddenly become tight.
"It's a lie that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night. It's a lie."
"By the way, sir, what is your name?"
"What's it to do with you?"
"Chancing to notice in your letter-case some visiting-cards, I ventured to abstract one. We will refer to that." I produced it from my waistcoat pocket "From this it appears that you are Mr. Isaac Bernstein, of 288, Great Poland Street. Very good, Mr. Bernstein. Your bills are in safe keeping. You will hear of them again, never fear. Their history will be threshed out to your complete satisfaction—when you will be wanted again. Until then you can go."
"It's a lie that he was murdered—it's a lie."
"On that point you may be able to obtain information from Mr. and Mrs. Morley, or from the first policeman you meet in the street."
"God help us all!" groaned Mr. Morley.
Apparently there was something in the old gentleman's ejaculation which carried sufficient corroboration to Mr. Bernstein's alert intelligence. He quitted the room to presently return.
"Who—who killed him?"
"In due course that will be made plain; also your association with the motive which was in the murderer's mind, causing him to compass the death of the man whom you had incited to the perpetration of a hideous and unnatural crime."
Mr. Bernstein went out of the house without another word. When I heard the door bang, I turned to the old people.
"You see? That is the way in which to treat impertinent persons who presume upon your master's absence to traduce his name and to take liberties with the establishment which he has left in your charge."
The old gentleman shook his head.
"It's easy talking, but we haven't all got your persuasive manner, sir."
It was an absurd thing for him to say, for no one knows better than myself that my manner is rude and awkward, and that I am unskilled in all those arts which go to make the master of persuasion. As I followed Mr. Bernstein out of the house, almost immediately, I had an illustration of how true that is. And again, in a more serious matter, a little later on.