The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗

and used his privilege as an old and confidential

servant. “I’ve always said, sir, that it was a great mistake to leave

loose money lying about,” he remarked mournfully. “If there’d only been

a practice of letting me lock anything of that sort up in the safe every

night—and this chequebook, too, sir—then–-”

 

“I know—I know!” said Eldrick. “Very reprehensible on my part—I’m

afraid I am careless—no doubt of it. But–-”

 

He in his turn was interrupted by Pratt, who was turning over the

chequebook.

 

“Some cheque forms have been taken out of this,” he said. “Three! at the

end. Look there, sir!”

 

Eldrick uttered an exclamation of intense annoyance and disgust. He

looked at the despoiled chequebook, and flung it into the drawer.

 

“Pratt!” he said, turning half appealingly, half confidentially to the

clerk. “Don’t say a word of this—above all, don’t mention it to Mr.

Pascoe. It’s my fault and I must make the forty-three pounds good.

Pratt, I’m afraid this is Parrawhite’s work. I—well, I may as well tell

you—he’d been in trouble before he came here. I gave him another

chance—I’d known him, years ago. I thought he’d go straight. But—I

fear he’s been tempted. He may have seen me leave money about. Was he in

here last night?”

 

Pratt pointed to a document which lay on Eldrick’s desk.

 

“He came in here to leave that for your perusal,” he answered. “He was

in here—alone—a minute or two before he left.”

 

All these lies came readily and naturally—and Eldrick swallowed each.

He shook his head.

 

“My fault—all my fault!” he said. “Look here—keep it quiet. But—do

you know where Parrawhite has lived—lodged?”

 

“No!” replied Pratt. “Some of the others may, though!”

 

“Try to find out—quickly,” continued Eldrick; “Then, make some excuse

to go out—take papers somewhere, or something—and find if he’s left

his lodgings! I—I don’t want to set the police on him. He was a decent

fellow, once. See what you can make out, Pratt. In strict secrecy, you

know–I do not want this to go further.”

 

Pratt could have danced for joy when he presently went out into the

town. There would be no hue-and-cry after Parrawhite—none! Eldrick

would accept the fact that Parrawhite had robbed him and flown—and

Parrawhite would never be heard of—never mentioned again. It was the

height of good luck for him. Already he had got rid of any small scraps

of regret or remorse about the killing of his fellow-clerk. Why should

he be sorry? The scoundrel had tried to murder him, thinking no doubt

that he had the will on him. And he had not meant to kill him—what he

had done, he had done in self-defence. No—everything was working most

admirably—Parrawhite’s previous bad record, Eldrick’s carelessness and

his desire to shut things up: it was all good. From that day forward,

Parrawhite would be as if he had never been. Pratt was not even afraid

of the body being discovered—though he believed that it would remain

where it was for ever—for the probability was that the authorities

would fill up that pit with earth and stones. But if it was brought to

light? Why, the explanation was simple.

 

Parrawhite, having robbed his employer, had been robbed himself,

possibly by men with whom he had been drinking, and had been murdered in

the bargain. No suspicion could attach to him, Pratt—he had nothing to

fear—nothing!

 

For the form of the thing, he called at the place whereat Parrawhite had

lodged—they had seen nothing of him since the previous morning. They

were poor, cheap lodgings in a mean street. The woman of the house said

that Parrawhite had gone out as usual the morning before, and had never

been in again. In order to find out all he could, Pratt asked if he had

left much behind him in the way of belongings, and—just as he had

expected—he learned that Parrawhite’s personal property was remarkably

limited: he possessed only one suit of clothes and not over much

besides, said the landlady.

 

“Is there aught wrong?” she asked, when Pratt had finished his

questions. “Are you from where he worked?”

 

“That’s it,” answered Pratt, “And he hasn’t turned up this morning, and

we think he’s left the town. Owe you anything, missis?”

 

“Nay, nothing much,” she replied. “Ten shillings ‘ud cover it, mister.”

 

Pratt gave her half a sovereign. It was not out of consideration for

her, nor as a concession to Parrawhite’s memory: it was simply to stop

her from coming down to Eldrick & Pascoe’s.

 

“Well, I don’t think you’ll see him again,” he remarked. “And I dare say

you won’t care if you don’t.”

 

He turned away then, but before he had gone far, the woman called him

back.

 

“What am I to do with his bits of things, mister, if he doesn’t come

back?” she asked.

 

“Aught you please,” answered Pratt, indifferently. “Throw ‘em on the

dust-heap.”

 

As he went back to the centre of the town, he occupied himself in

considering his attitude to Mrs. Mallathorpe when she called on him that

evening. In spite of his own previous notion, and of his

carefully-worked-out scheme about the stewardship, he had been impressed

by what Parrawhite has said as to the wisdom of selling the will for

cash. Pratt did not believe that there was anything in the Collingwood

suggestion—no doubt whatever, he had decided, that old Bartle had meant

to tell Mrs. Mallathorpe of his discovery when she called in answer to

his note, but as he had died before she could call, and as he had told

nobody but him, Pratt, what possible danger could there be from

Collingwood? And a stewardship for life appealed to him. He knew, from

observation of the world, what a fine thing it is to have a certainty.

 

Once he became steward and agent of the Normandale Grange estate, he

would stick there, until he had saved a tidy heap of money. Then he

would retire—with a pension and a handsome present—and enjoy himself.

To be provided for, for life!—what more could a wise man want? And

yet—there was something in what that devil Parrawhite had urged.

 

For there was a risk—however small—of discovery, and if discovery were

made, there would be a nice penalty to pay. It might, after all, be

better to sell the will outright—for as much ready money as ever he

could get, and to take his gains far away, and start out on a career

elsewhere. After all, there was much to be said for the old proverb. The

only question was—was the bird in hand worth the two; or the money,

which he believed he would net in the bush?

 

Pratt’s doubts on this point were settled in a curious fashion. He had

reached the centre of the town in his return to Eldrick’s, and there, in

the fashionable shopping street, he ran up against an acquaintance. He

and the acquaintance stopped and chatted—about nothing. And as they

lounged on the curb, a smart victoria drew up close by, and out of it,

alone, stepped a girl who immediately attracted Pratt’s eyes. He watched

her across the pavement; he watched her into the shop. And his companion

laughed.

 

“That’s the sort!” he remarked flippantly. “If you and I had one each,

old man—what?”

 

“Who is she?” demanded Pratt.

 

The acquaintance stared at him in surprise.

 

“What!” he exclaimed. “You don’t know. That’s Miss Mallathorpe.”

 

“I didn’t know,” said Pratt. “Fact!”

 

He waited until Nesta Mallathorpe came out and drove away—so that he

could get another and a closer look at her. And when she was gone, he

went slowly back to the office, his mind made up. Risk or no risk, he

would carry out his original notion. Whatever Mrs. Mallathorpe might

offer, he would stick to his idea of close and intimate connection with

Normandale Grange.