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

old clerk

of his—Parrawhite?”

 

“I told Mr. Eldrick all I know,” muttered Murgatroyd.

 

“Very likely,” replied Prydale, “but there’s a few questions this

gentleman and myself would like to ask. Can we come in?”

 

Murgatroyd fetched his wife to mind the shop, and took the callers into

the parlour which she had unwillingly vacated. He knew Prydale by sight

and reputation; about Byner he wondered. Finally he set him down as a

detective from London—and was all the more afraid of him.

 

“What do you want to know?” he asked, when the three men were alone. “I

don’t think there’s anything that I didn’t tell Mr. Eldrick.”

 

“Oh, there’s a great deal that Mr. Eldrick didn’t ask,” said Prydale.

“Mr. Eldrick sort of just skirted round things, like. We want to know a

bit more. This Parrawhite’s got to be found, d’ye see, Mr. Murgatroyd,

and as you seem to be the last man who had aught to do with him in

Barford, why, naturally, we come to you. Now, to start with, you say he

came to you about getting a passage to America? Just so—now, when would

that be?”

 

“Day before he did get it,” answered Murgatroyd, rapidly thinking over

the memoranda which Pratt had jotted down for his benefit.

 

“That,” said Prydale, “would be on the 23rd?”

 

“Yes,” replied Murgatroyd, “23rd November, of course.”

 

“What time, now, on the 23rd?” asked the detective.

 

“Time?” said Murgatroyd. “Oh—in the evening.”

 

“Bit vague,” remarked Prydale. “What time in the evening?”

 

“As near as I can recollect,” replied Murgatroyd, “it ‘ud be just about

half-past eight. I was thinking of closing.”

 

“Ah!” said Prydale, with a glance at Byner, who had already told him of

Parrawhite’s presence at the Green Man on the other side of the town,

a good two miles away, at the hour which Murgatroyd mentioned. “Ah!—he

was here in your shop at half-past eight on the evening of November 23rd

last? Asking about a ticket to America?”

 

“New York,” muttered Murgatroyd.

 

“And he came next morning and bought one?” asked the detective.

 

“I told Mr. Eldrick that,” said Murgatroyd, a little sullenly.

 

“How much did it cost?” inquired Byner.

 

“Eight pound ten,” replied Murgatroyd. “Usual price.”

 

“What did he pay for it in?” continued Prydale.

 

“He gave me a ten-pound note and I gave him thirty shillings change,”

answered Murgatroyd.

 

“Just so,” assented Prydale. “Now what line might that be by?”

 

Murgatroyd was becoming uneasy under all these questions, and his

uneasiness was deepened by the way in which both his visitors watched

him. He was a man who would have been a bad witness in any

case—nervous, ill at ease, suspicious, inclined to boggle—and in this

instance he was being forced to invent answers.

 

“It was—oh, the Royal Atlantic!” he answered at last. “I’ve an agency

for them.”

 

“So I noticed from the bills and placards in your window,” observed the

detective. “And of course you issue these tickets on their paper—I’ve

seen ‘em before. You fill up particulars on a form and a counterfoil,

don’t you? And you send a copy of those particulars to the Royal

Atlantic offices at Liverpool?”

 

Murgatroyd nodded silently—this was much more than he bargained for,

and he did not know how much further it was going. And Prydale gave him

a sudden searching look.

 

“Can you show us the counterfoil in this instance?” he asked.

 

Murgatroyd flushed. But he managed to get out a fairly quick reply. “No,

I can’t,” he answered, “I sent that book back at the end of the year.”

 

“Oh, well—they’ll have it at Liverpool,” observed Prydale. “We can get

at it there. Of course, they’ll have your record of the entire

transaction. He’d be down on their passenger list—under the name of

Parsons, I think, Mr. Murgatroyd?”

 

“He gave me that name,” said Murgatroyd.

 

Prydale gave Byner a look and both rose.

 

“I think that’s about all,” said the detective. “Of course, our next

inquiry will be at Liverpool–at the Royal Atlantic. Thank you, Mr.

Murgatroyd—much obliged.”

 

Before the watchmaker could collect himself sufficiently to say or ask

more, Prydale and his companion had walked out of the shop and gone

away. And then Murgatroyd realized that he was in for—but he did not

know what he was in for. What he did know was that if Prydale went or

sent over to Liverpool the whole thing would burst like a bubble. For

the Royal Atlantic people would tell the detectives at once that no

passenger named Parsons had sailed under their auspices on November 24th

last, and that he, Murgatroyd, had been telling a pack of lies.

 

Mrs. Murgatroyd, a sharp-featured woman whose wits had been sharpened by

a ten years’ daily acquaintance with poverty, came out of the shop into

the parlour and looked searchingly at her husband.

 

“What did them fellows want?” she demanded. “I knew one of ‘em—Prydale,

the detective. Now what’s up, Reuben? More trouble?”

 

Murgatroyd hesitated a moment. Then he told his wife the whole story

concealing nothing.

 

“If they go to the Royal Atlantic, it’ll all come out,” he groaned. “I

couldn’t make any excuse or explanation—anyhow! What’s to be done?”

 

“You should ha’ had naught to do wi’ that Pratt!” exclaimed Mrs.

Murgatroyd. “A scoundrelly fellow, to come and tempt poor folk to do his

dirty work! Where’s the money?”

 

“Locked up!” answered Murgatroyd. “I haven’t touched a penny of it. I

thought I’d wait a bit and see if aught happened. But he assured me it

was all right, and you know as well as I do that a hundred pound doesn’t

come our way every day. We want money!”

 

“Not at that price!” said his wife. “You can pay too much for money, my

lad! I wish you’d told me what that Pratt was after—he should have

heard a bit o’ my tongue! If I’d only known–-”

 

Just then the shop door opened, and Pratt walked in. He at once saw

Murgatroyd and his wife standing between shop and parlour, and realized

at a glance that his secret in this instance was his no longer.

 

“Well?” he said, walking up to the watchmaker. “You’ve had Prydale

here—and you’d Eldrick this morning. Of course, you knew what to say to

both?”

 

“I wish we’d never had you here last night, young man!” exclaimed Mrs.

Murgatroyd fiercely. “What right have you to come here, making trouble

for folk that’s got plenty already? But at any rate, ours was honest

trouble. Yours is like to land my husband in dishonesty—if it hasn’t

done so already! And if my husband had only spoken to me–-”

 

“Just let your husband speak a bit now,” interrupted Pratt, almost

insolently. “It’s you that’s making all the trouble or noise, anyhow!

There’s naught to fuss about, missis. What’s upset you, Murgatroyd?”

 

“They’re going to the Royal Atlantic people,” muttered the watchmaker.

“Of course, it’ll all come out, then. They know that I never booked any

Parsons—nor anybody else for that matter—last November. You should ha’

thought o’ that!”

 

Pratt realized that the man was right. He had never thought of

that—never anticipated that inquiry would go beyond Murgatroyd. But his

keen wits at once set to work.

 

“What’s the system?” he asked quickly. “Tell me—what’s done when you

book anybody like that? Come on!—explain, quick!”

 

Murgatroyd turned to a drawer and pulled out a book and some papers.

“It’s simple enough,” he said. “I’ve this book of forms, d’ye see? I

fill up this form—sort of ticket or pass for the passenger, and hand it

to him—it’s a receipt as well, to him. Then I enter the same

particulars on that counterfoil. Then I fill up one of these papers,

giving just the same particulars, and post it at once to the Company

with the passage money, less my commission. When one of these books is

finished, I return the counterfoils to Liverpool—they check ‘em.

Prydale’s up to all that. He asked to see the counterfoil in this case.

I had to say I hadn’t got it—I’d sent it to the Company. Of course,

he’ll find out that I didn’t.”

 

“Lies!” said Mrs. Murgatroyd, vindictively. “And they didn’t start wi’

us neither!”

 

“Who was that other man with Prydale?” asked Pratt.

 

“London detective, I should say,” answered the watchmaker. “And judging

by the way he watched me, a sharp ‘un, too!”

 

“What impression did you get—altogether?” demanded Pratt.

 

“Why!—that they’re going to sift this affair—whatever it is—right

down to the bottom!” exclaimed Murgatroyd. “They’re either going to find

Parrawhite or get to know what became of him. That’s my impression. And

what am I going to do, now! This’ll lose me what bit of business I’ve

done with yon shipping firm.”

 

“Nothing of the sort!” answered Pratt scornfully. “Don’t be a fool!

You’re all right. You listen to me. You write—straight off—to the

Royal Atlantic. Tell ‘em you had some inquiry made about a man named

Parsons, who booked a passage with you for New York last November. Say

that on looking up your books you found that you unaccountably forgot to

send them the forms for him and his passage money. Make out a form for

that date, and crumple it up—as if it had been left lying in a drawer.

Enclose the money in it—here, I’ll give you ten pounds to cover it,” he

went on, drawing a banknote from his purse. “Get it off at once—you’ve

time now—plenty—to catch the night-mail at the General. And then, d’ye

see, you’re all right. It’s only a case then—as far as you’re

concerned—of forgetfulness. What’s that?—we all forget something in

business, now and then. They’ll overlook that—when they get the money.”

 

“Aye, but you’re forgetting something now!” remarked Murgatroyd. “You’re

forgetting this—no such passenger ever went! They’ll know that by their

passenger lists.”

 

“What the devil has that to do with it?” snarled Pratt impatiently.

“What the devil do we care whether any such passenger went or not? All

that you’re concerned about is to prove that you issued a ticket to

Parrawhite, under the name of Parsons. What’s it matter to you where

Parrawhite, alias Parsons, went, when he’d once left your shop? You

naturally thought he’d go straight to the Lancashire and Yorkshire

Station, on his way to Liverpool and New York! But, for aught you know,

he may have fallen down a drain pipe in the next street! Don’t you see,

man? There’s nothing, there’s nobody, not all the detectives in London

and Barford, can prove that you didn’t issue a ticket to Parrawhite on

that date? It isn’t up to you to prove that you did!—it’s up to them to

prove that you didn’t! And—they can’t. It’s impossible. You get that

letter off—at once—to Liverpool, with that money inside it, and you’re

as safe as houses—and your hundred pounds as well. Get it done! And if

those chaps come asking any more questions, tell ‘em you’re not going to

answer a single one! Mind you!—do what I tell you, and you’re safe!”

 

With that Pratt walked out of the shop and went off towards the centre

of the town, inwardly raging and disturbed. It was very evident that

these people meant to find Parrawhite, alive or dead; evident, too, that

they had called in the aid of the Barford police. And in spite of all

his assurances to the watchmaker and his suggestion for the next move,

Pratt was far from easy about the whole matter. He would have been

easier if he had known who Prydale’s companion was—probably he was, as

Murgatroyd had suggested, a London detective who