The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗
- Author: J. S. Fletcher
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believe there’s the slightest risk. I’ve figured everything out. I don’t
believe there’s any danger from Collingwood or from anybody—it’s
impossible! And if we take cash now—we’re selling for a penny what we
ought to get pounds for.”
“The present is much more important than the future, my friend,”
answered Parrawhite. “To me, at any rate. Now, then, this is my
proposal. I’ll be with you when this lady calls at your place tomorrow
evening. We’ll offer her the will, to do what she likes with, for ten
thousand pounds. She can find that—quickly. When she pays—as she
will!—we share, equally, and then—well, you can go to the devil! I
shall go—somewhere else. So that’s settled.”
“No!” said Pratt.
Parrawhite turned sharply, and Pratt saw a sinister gleam in his eyes.
“Did you say no?” he asked.
“I said—no!” replied Pratt. “I’m not going to take five thousand pounds
for a chance that’s worth fifty thousand. Hang you!—if you hadn’t been
a black sneak-thief, as you are, I’d have had the whole thing to myself!
And I don’t know that I will give way to you. If it comes to it, my
word’s as good as yours—and I don’t believe Eldrick would believe you
before me. Pascoe wouldn’t anyway. You’ve got a past!—in quod, I should
think—my past’s all right. I’ve a jolly good mind to let you do your
worst—after all, I’ve got the will. And by george! now I come to think
of it, you can do your worst! Tell what you like tomorrow morning. I
shall tell ‘em what you are—a scoundrel.”
He turned away at that—and as he turned, Parrawhite, with a queer cry
of rage that might have come from some animal which saw its prey
escaping, struck out at him with the heavy stick. The blow missed
Pratt’s head, but it grazed the tip of his ear, and fell slantingly on
his left shoulder. And then the anger that had been boiling in Pratt
ever since the touch on his arm in the dark lane, burst out in activity,
and he turned on his assailant, gripped him by the throat before
Parrawhite could move, and after choking and shaking him until his teeth
rattled and his breath came in jerking sobs, flung him violently against
the masses of stone by which they had been standing.
Pratt was of considerable physical strength. He played cricket and
football; he visited a gymnasium thrice a week. His hands had the grip
of a blacksmith; his muscles were those of a prize-fighter. He had put
more strength than he was aware of into his fierce grip on Parrawhite’s
throat; he had exerted far more force than he knew he was exerting, when
he flung him away. He heard a queer cracking sound as the man struck
something, and for the moment he took no notice of it—the pain of that
glancing blow on his shoulder was growing acute, and he began to rub it
with his free hand and to curse its giver.
“Get up, you fool, and I’ll give you some more!” he growled. “I’ll teach
you to–-”
He suddenly noticed the curiously still fashion in which Parrawhite was
lying where he had flung him—noticed, too, as a cloud passed the moon
and left it unveiled, how strangely white the man’s face was. And just
as suddenly Pratt forgot his own injury, and dropped on his knees beside
his assailant. An instant later, and he knew that he was once more
confronting death. For Parrawhite was as dead as Antony Bartle—violent
contact of his head with a rock had finished what Pratt had nearly
completed with that vicious grip. There was no questioning it, no
denying it—Pratt was there in that lonely place, staring half
consciously, half in terror, at a dead man.
He stood up at last, cursing Parrawhite with the anger of despair. He
had not one scrap of pity for him. All his pity was for himself. That he
should have been brought into this!—that this vile little beast,
perfect scum that he was, should have led him to what might be the utter
ruin of his career!—it was shameful, it was abominable, it was cruel!
He felt as if he could cheerfully tear Parrawhite’s dead body to pieces.
But even as these thoughts came, others of a more important nature
crowded on them. For—there lay a dead man, who was not to be put in
one’s pocket, like a will. It was necessary to hide that thing from the
light—ever that light. Within a few hours, morning would break, and
lonely and deserted as that place was nowadays, some one might pass that
way. Out of sight with him, then!—and quickly.
Pratt was very well acquainted with the spot at which he stood. Those
old quarries had a certain picturesqueness. They had become grass-grown;
ivy, shrubs, trees had clustered about them—the people who lived in the
few houses half a mile away, sometimes walked around them; the children
made a playground of the place: Pratt himself had often gone into some
quiet corner to read and smoke. And now his quick mind immediately
suggested a safe hiding place for this thing that he could not carry
away with him, and dare not leave to the morning sun—close by was a
pit, formerly used for some quarrying purpose, which was filled, always
filled, with water. It was evidently of considerable depth; the water
was black in it; the mouth was partly obscured by a maze of shrub and
bramble. It had been like that ever since Pratt came to lodge in that
part of the district—ten or twelve years before; it would probably
remain like that for many a long year to come. That bit of land was
absolutely useless and therefore neglected, and as long as rain fell and
water drained, that pit would always be filled to its brim.
He remembered something else: also close by where he stood—a heap of
old iron things—broken and disused picks, smashed rails, fragments
thrown aside when the last of the limestone had been torn out of the
quarries. Once more luck was playing into his hands—those odds and ends
might have been put there for the very purpose to which he now meant to
turn them. And being certain that he was alone, and secure, Pratt
proceeded to go about his unpleasant task skilfully and methodically. He
fetched a quantity of the iron, fastened it to the dead man’s clothing,
drew the body, thus weighted, to the edge of the pit, and prepared to
slide it into the black water. But there an idea struck him. While he
made these preparations he had had hosts of ideas as to his operations
next morning—this idea was supplementary to them. Quickly and
methodically he removed the contents of Parrawhite’s pockets to his
own—everything: money, watch and chain, even a ring which the dead man
had been evidently vain of. Then he let Parrawhite glide into the
water—and after him he sent the heavy stick, carefully fastened to a
bar of iron.
Five minutes later, the surface of the water in that pit was as calm and
unruffled as ever—not a ripple showed that it had been disturbed. And
Pratt made his way out of the wilderness, swearing that he would never
enter it again.
THE SUPREME INDUCEMENT
Pratt was in Eldrick & Pascoe’s office soon after half-past eight next
morning, and for nearly forty minutes he had the place entirely to
himself. But it took only a few of those minutes for him to do what he
had carefully planned before he went to bed the previous night. Shutting
himself into Eldrick’s private room, and making sure that he was alone
that time, he immediately opened the drawer in the senior partner’s
desk, wherein Eldrick, culpably enough, as Parrawhite had sneeringly
remarked, was accustomed to put loose money. Eldrick was strangely
careless in that way: he would throw money into that drawer in presence
of his clerks—notes, gold, silver. If it happened to occur to him, he
would take the money out at the end of the afternoon and hand it to
Pratt to lock up in the safe; but as often as not, it did not occur.
Pratt had more than once ventured on a hint which was almost a
remonstrance, and Eldrick had paid no attention to him. He was a
careless, easy-going man in many respects, Eldrick, and liked to do
things in his own way. And after all, as Pratt had decided, when he
found that his hints were not listened to, it was Eldrick’s own affair
if he liked to leave the money lying about.
There was money lying about in that drawer when Pratt drew it open; it
was never locked, day or night, or, if it was, the key was left in it.
As soon as he opened it, he saw gold—two or three sovereigns—and
silver—a little pile of it. And, under a letter weight, four banknotes
of ten pounds each. But this was precisely what Pratt had expected to
see; he himself had handed banknotes, gold, and silver to Eldrick the
previous evening, just after receiving them from a client who had called
to pay his bill. And he had seen Eldrick place them in the drawer, as
usual, and soon afterwards Eldrick had walked out, saying he was going
to the club, and he had never returned.
What Pratt now did was done as the result of careful thought and
deliberation. There was a chequebook lying on top of some papers in the
drawer; he took it up and tore three cheques out of it. Then he picked
up the banknotes, tore them and the abstracted blank cheques into
pieces, and dropped the pieces in the fire recently lighted by the
caretaker. He watched these fragments burn, and then he put the gold and
silver in his hip-pocket, where he already carried a good deal of his
own, and walked out.
Nine o’clock brought the office-boy; a quarter-past nine brought the
clerks; at ten o’clock Eldrick walked in. According to custom, Pratt
went into Eldrick’s room with the letters, and went through them with
him. One of them contained a legal document over which the solicitor
frowned a little.
“Ask Parrawhite’s opinion about that,” he said presently, indicating a
marked paragraph.
“Parrawhite has not come in this morning, sir,” observed Pratt,
gathering up letters and papers. “I’ll draw his attention to it when he
arrives.”
He went into the outer office, only to be summoned back to Eldrick a few
minutes later. The senior partner was standing by his desk, looking a
little concerned, and, thought Pratt, decidedly uncomfortable. He
motioned the clerk to close the door.
“Has Parrawhite come?” he asked.
“No,” replied Pratt, “Not yet, Mr. Eldrick.”
“Is—is he usually late?” inquired Eldrick.
“Usually quite punctual—half-past nine,” said Pratt.
Eldrick glanced at his watch; then at his clerk.
“Didn’t you give me some cash last night?” he asked.
“Forty-three pounds nine,” answered Pratt. “Thompson’s bill of costs—he
paid it yesterday afternoon.”
Eldrick looked more uncomfortable than ever.
“Well—the fact is,” he said, “I—I meant to hand it to you to put in
the safe, Pratt, but I didn’t come back from the club. And—it’s gone!”
Pratt simulated concern—but not astonishment. And Eldrick pulled open
the drawer, and waved a hand over it.
“I put it down there,” he said. “Very careless of me, no doubt—but
nothing of this sort has ever happened before, and—however, there’s the
unpleasant fact, Pratt. The money’s gone!”
Pratt, who had hastily turned over the papers and other contents of the
drawer, shook his head
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