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

Mr. Bartle,” said Pratt. He was

an essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six every

evening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass of

ale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. “I know that already,

sir.”

 

“Aye, aye, but you’ll know more of it later on,” replied Bartle.

“Well—you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was a

bit—only a bit—of a book-collector; collected books and pamphlets

relating to this district?”

 

“I’ve heard of it,” answered the clerk.

 

“He had that collection in his private room at the mill,” continued the

old bookseller, “and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them to

sell it to me. There wasn’t such a lot—maybe a hundred volumes

altogether—but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no interest

to them, they sold ‘em. That’s some months ago. I put all the books in a

corner—and I never really examined them until this very afternoon.

Then—by this afternoon’s post—I got a letter from a Barford man who’s

now out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nice

copy of Hopkinson’s History of Barford. I knew there was one in that

Mallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it. And in the

pocket inside, in which there’s a map, I found—what d’ye think?”

 

“Couldn’t say,” replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, and

of an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least idea

that old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important.

“Letters? Banknotes? Something of that sort?”

 

The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, until

his queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt’s sharp, youthful

one. Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk’s

arm.

 

“I found John Mallathorpe’s will!” he whispered. “His—will!”

 

Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared in

speechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep into

his trousers’ pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a sudden

exclamation.

 

“No!” he said. “No! John Mallathorpe’s—will? His—will!”

 

“Made the very day on which he died,” answered Bartle, nodding

emphatically.

 

“Queer, wasn’t it? He might have had some—premonition, eh?”

 

Pratt sat down again.

 

“Where is it?” he asked.

 

“Here in my pocket,” replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat.

“Oh, it’s all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, and

witnessed. Everything in order, I know!—because a long, a very long

time ago, I was like you, an attorney’s clerk. I’ve drafted many a will,

and witnessed many a will, in my time. I’ve read this, every word of

it—it’s all right. Nothing can upset it.”

 

“Let’s see it,” said Pratt, eagerly.

 

“Well—I’ve no objection—I know you, of course,” answered Bartle, “but

I’d rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn’t you telephone up to

his house and ask him to run back here?”

 

“Certainly,” replied Pratt. “He mayn’t be there, though. But I can try.

You haven’t shown it to anybody else?”

 

“Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul,” said Bartle.

“I tell you it’s not much more than half an hour since I found it. It’s

not a long document. Do you know how it is that it’s never come out?” he

went on, turning eagerly to Pratt, who had risen again. “It’s easily

explained. The will’s witnessed by those two men who were killed at the

same time as John Mallathorpe! So, of course, there was nobody to say

that it was in evidence. My notion is that he and those two

men—Gaukrodger and Marshall, his manager and cashier—had signed it not

long before the accident, and that Mallathorpe had popped it into the

pocket of that book before going out into the yard. Eh? But see if you

can get Mr. Eldrick down here, and we’ll read it together. And I

say—this office seems uncommonly stuffy—can you open the window a bit

or something?—I feel oppressed, like.”

 

Pratt opened a window which looked out on the street. He glanced at the

old man for a moment and saw that his face, always pallid, was even

paler than usual.

 

“You’ve been talking too much,” he said. “Rest yourself, Mr. Bartle,

while I ring up Mr. Eldrick’s house. If he isn’t there, I’ll try his

club—he often turns in there for an hour before going home.”

 

He went out by a private door to the telephone box, which stood in a

lobby used by various occupants of the building. And when he had rung up

Eldrick’s private house and was waiting for the answer, he asked himself

what this discovery would mean to the present holders of the Mallathorpe

property, and his curiosity—a strongly developed quality in him—became

more and more excited. If Eldrick was not at home, if he could not get

in touch with him, he would persuade old Bartle to let him see his

find—he would cheerfully go late to his dinner if he could only get a

peep at this strangely discovered document. Romance! Why, this indeed

was romance; and it might be—what else? Old Bartle had already chuckled

about topsy-turvydom: did that mean that—

 

The telephone bell rang: Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Pratt

got on to the club: Eldrick had not been there. He rang off, and went

back to the private room.

 

“Can’t get hold of him, Mr. Bartle,” he began, as he closed the door.

“He’s not at home, and he’s not at the club. I say!—you might as well

let me have a look at–-”

 

Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room: the old

man’s wheezy breathing was no longer heard. And the clerk moved forward

quickly and looked round the high back of the easy chair….

 

He knew at once what had happened—knew that old Bartle was dead before

he laid a finger on the wasted hand which had dropped helplessly at his

side. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement—died as

quietly as he would have gone to sleep. Indeed, he looked as if he had

just laid his old head against the padding of the chair and dropped

asleep, and Pratt, who had seen death before, knew that he would never

wake again. He waited a moment, listening in the silence. Once he

touched the old man’s hand; once, he bent nearer, still listening. And

then, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as if

nothing had happened, he unbuttoned Antony Bartle’s coat, and drew a

folded paper from the inner pocket.