The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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lay on her table, she poured out a little of the sherry and smelled and
tasted it. No smell—other than that which ought to be there; no
taste—other than was proper. Pratt would suspect nothing even if he
drunk the whole bottle.
Esther Mawson had anticipated Pratt’s desires in the way of refreshment,
and she now went to a cupboard and took from it a plate of sandwiches,
carefully swathed in a napkin. Carrying these in one hand, and the
bottle of sherry and a glass in the other, she stole quietly back to the
disused part of the house, and set her provender before its expectant
consumer. Pratt poured out a glassful of the sherry, and drank it
eagerly.
“Good stuff that!” he remarked, smacking his lips. “Some of old John
Mallathorpe’s—no doubt.”
“It was here when we came, anyhow,” replied Esther. “Well—I shall have
to go. You’ll be all right until I come back.”
“What time do you think it’ll be?” asked Pratt. “Make it as soon as the
coast’s clear—I want to be off.”
“As soon as ever she’s gone,” agreed Esther. “I heard her order the
carriage for half-past two.”
“And no fear of anybody else being about?” asked Pratt. “That butler
man, for instance? Or servants?”
“I’ll see to it,” replied Esther reassuringly. “I’ll lock this door and
take the key until I come back—make yourself comfortable.”
She locked Pratt in the old room and went off, and the willing prisoner
ate his sandwiches and drank his sherry, and looked out of a mullioned
window on the wide stretches of park and coppice and the breezy
moorlands beyond. He indulged in some reflections—not wholly devoid of
sentiment. He had cherished dreams of becoming the virtual owner of
Normandale. Always confident in his own powers, he had believed that
with time and patience he could have persuaded Nesta Mallathorpe to
marry him—why not? Now—all owing to that cursed and unfortunate
contretemps with Parrawhite, that seemed utterly impossible—all he
could do now was to save himself—and to take as much as he could get.
More than once that morning, as he made his way across country, he had
remembered Parrawhite’s advice to take cash and be done with
it—perhaps, he reflected, it might have been better. Still—when he
presently began his final retreat, he would carry away with him a lot of
the Mallathorpe money.
But before long Pratt indulged in no more reflections—sentiment or
practical. He had eaten all his sandwiches; he had drunk three-quarters
of the bottle of sherry. And suddenly he felt unusually drowsy, and he
laid his head back in his big chair, and fell soundly asleep.
THE TELEPHONE MESSAGE
If Pratt had only known what was going on in the old quarries at
Whitcliffe, about the very time that he was riding slowly out to Barford
on his bicycle, he would not only have accelerated his pace, but would
have taken good care to have chosen another route: he would also have
made haste to exchange bicycle for railway train as quickly as possible,
and to have got himself far away before anybody could begin looking for
him in his usual haunts, or at places wherein there was a possibility of
his being found. But Pratt knew nothing of what Byner had done. He was
conscious of Byner’s visit to the Green Man. He did not know what
Pickard had been told by Bill Thomson. He was unaware of anything which
Pickard had told to Byner. If he had known that Byner, guided by
Pickard, had been to the old quarries, had fixed his inquiring eye on
the shaft which was filled to its brim with water, and had got certain
ideas from the mere sight of it, Pratt would have hastened to put
hundreds of miles between himself and Barford as quickly as possible.
But all that Pratt knew was that there was a possibility of
suspicion—which might materialize eventually, but not immediately.
On the previous evening, Pratt—had he but known it—made a great
mistake. Instead of going into Murgatroyd’s shop after he had watched
Byner and Prydale away from it—he should have followed those two astute
and crafty persons, and have ascertained something of their movements.
Had he done so, he would certainly not have troubled to return to Peel
Row, nor to remain in Barford an hour longer than was absolutely
necessary. For Pratt was sharp-witted enough when it came to a question
of putting one and two together, and if he had tracked Prydale and the
unknown man who was with him to a certain house whereto they repaired as
soon as they quitted Murgatroyd’s shop, he would have drawn an inference
from the mere fact of their visit which would have thrown him into a
cold sweat of fear. But Pratt, after all, was only one man, one brain,
one body, and could not be in two places, nor go in two ways, at the
same time. He took his own way—ignorant of his destruction.
Byner also took a way of his own. As soon as he and Prydale left
Murgatroyd’s shop, they chartered the first cab they met with, and
ordered its driver to go to Whitcliffe Moor.
“It’s the quickest thing to do—if my theory’s correct,” observed Byner,
as they drove along, “Of course, it is all theory—mere theory! But I’ve
grounds for it. The place—the time—mere lonely situation—that scrap
iron lying about, which would be so useful in weighting a dead body!—I
tell you, I shall be surprised if we don’t find Parrawhite at the bottom
of that water!”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Prydale. “One thing’s very certain, as we
shall prove before we’re through with it—Pratt’s put that poor devil
Murgatroyd up to this passage-to-America business. And a bit clumsily,
too—fancy Murgatroyd being no better posted up than to tell me that
Parrawhite called on him at a certain hour that night!”
“But you’ve got to remember that Pratt didn’t know of Parrawhite’s
affairs with Pickard, nor that he was at the Green Man at that hour,”
rejoined Byner. “My belief is that Pratt thinks himself safe—that he
fancies he’s provided for all contingencies. If things turn out as I
think they will, I believe we shall find Pratt calmly seated at his desk
tomorrow morning.”
“Well—if things do turn out as you expect, we’ll lose no time in
seeking him there!” observed Prydale dryly. “We’d better arrange to get
the job done first thing.”
“This Mr. Shepherd’ll make no objection, I suppose?” asked Byner.
“Objection! Lor’ bless you—he’ll love it!” exclaimed Prydale. “It’ll be
a bit of welcome diversion to a man like him that’s naught to do. He’ll
object none, not he!”
Shepherd, a retired quarry-owner, who lived in a picturesque old stone
house in the middle of Whitcliffe Moor, with nothing to occupy his
attention but the growing of roses and vegetables, and an occasional
glance at the local newspapers, listened to Prydale’s request with
gradually rising curiosity. Byner had at once seen that this call was
welcome to this bluff and hearty Yorkshireman, who, without any question
as to their business, had immediately welcomed them to his hearth and
pressed liquor and cigars on them: he sized up Shepherd as a man to whom
any sort of break in the placid course of retired life was a delightful
event.
“A dead man i’ that old shaft i’ one o’ my worked out quarries!” he
exclaimed. “Ye don’t mean to say so! An’ how long d’yer think he might
ha’ been there, now, Prydale?”
“Some months, Mr. Shepherd,” replied the detective.
“Why, then it’s high time he were taken out,” said Shepherd. “When might
you be thinkin’ o’ doin’ t’ job, like?”
“As soon as possible,” said Prydale. “Tomorrow morning, early, if that’s
convenient to you.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” observed the retired quarry-owner. “You
leave t’ job to me. I’ll get two or three men first thing tomorrow
morning, and we’ll do it reight. You be up there by half-past eight
o’clock, and we’ll soon satisfy you as to whether there’s owt i’ t’
shape of a dead man or not i’ t’ pit. You hev’ grounds for believin’ ‘at
theer is–-what?”
“Strong grounds!” replied the detective, “and equally strong ones for
believing the man came there by foul play, too.”
“Say no more!” said Shepherd. “T’ mystery shall be cleared up. Deary me!
An’ to think ‘at I’ve walked past yon theer pit many a dozen times
within this last few o’ months, and nivver dreamed ‘at theer wor owt in
it but watter! Howivver, gentlemen, ye can put yer minds at ease—we’ll
investigate the circumstances, as the sayin’ goes, before noon
tomorrow.”
“One other matter,” remarked Prydale. “We want things kept quiet. We
don’t want all the folk of the neighbourhood round about, you know.”
“Leave it to me,” answered Shepherd. “There’ll be me, and these men, and
yourselves—and a pair of grapplin’ irons. We’ll do it quiet and
comfortable—and we’ll do it reight.”
“Odd character!” remarked Byner, when he and Prydale went away.
“Useful man—for a job of that sort,” said the detective laconically.
“Now then—are we going to let anybody else know what we’re after—Mr.
Eldrick or Mr. Collingwood, for instance? Do you want them, or either of
them, to be present?”
“No!” answered Byner, after a moment’s reflection. “Let us see what
results. We can let them know, soon enough, if we’ve anything to tell.
But—what about Pratt?”
“Keeping an eye on him—you mean?” said Prydale. “You said just now that
in your opinion we should find him at his desk.”
“Just so—but that’s no reason why he shouldn’t be looked after tomorrow
morning,” answered Byner.
“All right—I’ll put a man on to shadow him, from the time he leaves his
lodgings until—until we want him,” said the detective. “That is—if we
do want him.”
“It will be one of the biggest surprises I ever had in my life if we
don’t!” asserted Byner. “I never felt more certain of anything than I do
of finding Parrawhite’s body in that pit!”
It was this certainty which made Byner appear extraordinarily cool and
collected, when next day, about noon, he walked into Eldrick’s private
room, where Collingwood was at that moment asking the solicitor what was
being done. The certainty was now established, and it seemed to Byner
that it would have been a queer thing if he had not always had it. He
closed the door and gave the two men an informing glance.
“Parrawhite’s body has been found,” he said quietly.
Eldrick started in his chair, and Collingwood looked a sharp inquiry.
“Little doubt about his having been murdered, just as I conjectured,”
continued Byner. “And his murderer had pretty cleverly weighted his body
with scrap iron, before dropping it into a pit full of water, where it
might have remained for a long time undiscovered. However—that’s
settled!”
Eldrick got out the first question.
“Pratt?”
“Prydale’s after him,” answered Byner. “I expect we shall hear something
in a few minutes—if he’s in town. But I confess I’m a bit doubtful and
anxious now, on that score. Because, when Prydale and I got down from
Whitcliffe half an hour ago—where the body’s now lying, at the _Green
Man_, awaiting the inquest—we found Murgatroyd hanging about the police
station. He’d come to make a clean breast of it—about Pratt. And it
unfortunately turns out that Pratt saw Prydale and me go to Murgatroyd’s
shop last night, and afterwards went in there himself, and of course
pumped Murgatroyd dry as to why we’d been.”
“Why unfortunately?” asked Collingwood.
“Because that would
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