The End of Jeremiah Sands
_Chapter I_ _The Cunning of Harvey Grimm_
A queer, unexpected streak of sunshine, which by some miracle had found
its way through a pall of clouds and a low-hanging mist, suddenly fell
as though exhausted across the asphalt path of the Embankment Gardens.
A tall, gaunt young man, who had been seated with folded arms in the
corner of one of the seats, stared at it as though bewildered. His
eyes suddenly met those of a young lady in deep black, who was gazing
about her in similar stupefaction. Almost at once, and with perfect
spontaneity, she smiled upon him.
"But it is astonishing, this!" she exclaimed. "Sunshine in London--in
January!"
The young man was a little confused. He was very diffident, and such
lack of conventionality on the part of a perfect stranger surprised him.
"It is unusual," he admitted.
"It is a thing which I have never seen," she went on, dropping voice a
little and glancing towards a bath-chair close at hand, in which an
elderly and very delicate-looking old gentleman was muffled up in furs
and apparently asleep. "It is something, even, for which I had not
dared to hope. We seem so far here from everything that is bright and
beautiful and cheerful."
Aaron Rodd, who was a shy and awkward being, felt unexpectedly at his
ease. He was even anxious for further conversation. He had a rather
long, pale face, with deep-set eyes and rugged features. He was
soberly, even sombrely dressed in dismal black. He had the air of a
recluse. Perhaps that was why the young lady smiled upon him with such
confidence.
"You are not English?" he ventured.
She shook her head.
"What we are now, alas!" she sighed, glancing towards the bath-chair,
"I scarcely know, for we have no country. Like every one else in such
a plight, we come to England."
"It is your father who sleeps there?" he enquired.
"It is my grandfather," she told him. "Together--he and I and my
brother--we have passed through terrible times. He has lost all power
to sleep at night. In the daytime, when it does not rain, he is
wheeled out here, and, if it is only not too cold, then he sleeps as he
does now, and I watch."
"You are very young to have charge of him."
She smiled a little pitifully.
"One grows old so quickly in these terrible days! I am already
twenty-one. But you," she went on--"see how inquisitive I am!--I saw
you yesterday from the distance, seated here. There are nursemaids and
queer fragments of humanity who seem to pass through these gardens and
loiter, and sometimes there are those with affairs who go on their way.
But you--what do you think of as you sit there? You are a writer,
perhaps?"
He laughed a little harshly. His voice was not altogether pleasant.
"I am a lawyer," he declared, "without a practice. Sometimes the
ghosts who call at my empty office stifle me and I come out here to
escape from them."
"A lawyer? An _avocat_?" she repeated softly to herself.
Evidently she found something to interest her in the statement. She
glanced towards the sleeping man. Then she came a little nearer. He
was conscious of a very delightful and altogether un-English perfume,
aware suddenly that her eyes were the colour of violets, framed
underneath with deep but not unbecoming lines, that her mouth was
curved in a fashion strange to him.
"Englishmen, they say, are so much to be trusted," she murmured, "and a
lawyer, too..."
"I am an American by birth," he interposed, "although I have lived over
here nearly all my life."
"It is the same thing. We need advice so badly. Let me ask you one
question. Is it not the first principle of a lawyer to hold sacred
whatever confidence his client may confide in him?"
"Absolutely," he assured her.
"Even if that confidence," she persisted, "should bring the person who
offered it within the hold of the law?"
"A lawyer may refuse a client," he said, "but he may never betray his
confidence."
"Will you tell me your name and address?" she asked eagerly.
"My name is Aaron Rodd," he told her. "My address is number seventeen,
Manchester Street, Adelphi, and my office is on the third floor."
"Mr. Aaron Rodd," she repeated, with a queer little foreign intonation.
"That is a strange name and I shall remember it. When might one visit
you, monsieur? At three o'clock this afternoon?"
"I shall be in all day."
"Then au revoir!" she exclaimed, with an abrupt gesture of farewell.
The old gentleman had opened his eyes and was gazing fretfully about.
She crossed the asphalt walk swiftly towards him. An attendant, who
seemed to have gone to sleep standing on one leg; gripped the handle of
the bath-chair. The girl passed her arm around the old man's shoulders
and whispered something to the attendant. They passed away together.
The little streak of sunshine had gone. Aaron Rodd thrust his ungloved
hands into his coat pockets and made his way in the opposite
direction....
About an hour later, a small, rubicund man, a man whose dark hair was
turning grey, but whose eyes were bright and whose complexion was
remarkably healthy, paused before the door-plate of an office building
in one of the back streets leading from the Adelphi. He was dressed
with extreme neatness, from the tips of his patent boots to his grey
felt hat, and he was obviously of a cheerful disposition. He glanced
down the list of names, twirling his cane in light-hearted fashion and
whistling softly to himself. Suddenly he paused. His cane ceased its
aimless configurations and rested for a moment upon a name about
half-way down the list, the name of Mr. Aaron Rodd, Solicitor and
Commissioner for Oaths. There was also an indication that Mr. Rodd's
offices were to be found upon the third floor. His prospective visitor
glanced around, and, discovering that there was no lift, started out
for the stone stairs. On the first landing he encountered a small boy,
descending with a roll of papers under his arm. Him the new-comer,
whose name was Mr. Harvey Grimm, promptly addressed.
"My young sir," he said pleasantly, "from the red tape around that
bundle of papers which you are carrying, I gather that you have legal
connections. You are probably the confidential clerk of the gentleman
whom I am proposing to visit. Can you tell me, before I attempt
another flight of these very dusty and unsympathetic steps, whether Mr.
Aaron Rodd is within?"
The boy glanced at his questioner suspiciously.
"I am not in Mr. Rodd's office," he replied. "I'm Steel and Agnett,
second floor."
"That," Mr. Harvey Grimm sighed regretfully, "is unfortunate. A very
excellent firm yours, my boy. Do not let me any longer interfere with
your efforts on their behalf."
Aaron Rodd's prospective visitor, with a sigh, recommenced the ascent.
The boy looked after him for a moment dubiously and then disappeared.
Arrived at the third floor, at the extreme end of the corridor the
former discovered a door, on which was painted the name of _Mr. Aaron
Rodd_. He knocked, was bidden to enter, and stepped at once into a
single, bald and unpromising-looking apartment.
"Good morning, Aaron!" he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him
and advancing across the dusty floor.
Aaron Rodd, who had been seated before a desk, apparently immersed in a
legal document, first raised his head and then rose slowly to his feet.
His first look of expectancy, as he had turned towards his visitor,
faded by degrees into a very curious expression, an expression which
seemed made up of a great deal of amazement and a certain amount of
dread. With his left hand he gripped the side of the desk.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "It's Ned----"
His visitor held out his hand.
"No, no, my dear Aaron," he interrupted firmly, "you are deceived by a
slight resemblance. You are thinking, probably, of that poor fellow
Ned Stiles. You will never see Ned again, Aaron."
The intelligence appeared to cause the listener no grief. Neither did
it carry with it any conviction.
"Harvey Grimm is my name," the new-comer went on, "Mr. Harvey Grimm, if
you please, of Chicago. You remember me now, without a doubt?"
He extended his hand confidently. His smile was ingratiating, his air
that of an ingenuous child anxious for a favourable reception. Aaron
Rodd slowly thrust out his ink-stained fingers.
"I remember you all right," he admitted.
The visitor, having established his identity, seemed disposed to
abandon the subject. He glanced around the room, and, discovering a
cane-bottomed chair on which were piled some dust-covered documents, he
calmly swept them away, annexed the chair, which he carefully flicked
around with a silk handkerchief, and brought it to the side of the desk.
"Sit down, my dear fellow, I beg you," he invited, laying his hat on
the floor by his side, hitching up his blue serge trousers and smiling
in momentary satisfaction at his well-polished shoes. "I have
appropriated, I fancy, the client's chair. Am I right, I wonder, in
presuming that there has not been much use for it lately?"
"Perfectly right," was the grim reply.
"Hard times these have been for all of us," Harvey Grimm declared, with
an air of placid satisfaction. "You are not expecting a client this
morning, I presume?"
"Nor a miracle."
"In that case I will smoke," the new-comer continued, producing a
small, gold case, selecting a cigarette and lighting it. "Try one."
Aaron Rodd hesitated and finally accepted the offer. He smoked with
the air of one unused to the indulgence.
"Mr. Harvey Grimm of Chicago," he muttered, studying his visitor's very
immaculate appearance. "Haven't I heard the name somewhere, or seen it
in the papers lately?"
"Possibly," was the suave reply. "My arrival in London has, I think,
created some slight interest. Even your press, I find, is not above
recording the movements of a capitalist."
"A what?"
"A capitalist," Harvey Grimm repeated calmly. "With a name like mine,
and an abode like Chicago, I am amazed that you did not divine it."
"Seven years ago," Aaron Rodd observed, "we divided seventeen pounds,
four shillings and eightpence. It was, I believe, our united capital."
"And to judge by your surroundings," his companion sighed, "I fear, my
friend, that you have been emulating the man who tied up his talent in
a stocking. I, on the other hand----"
"Have changed your name and become a capitalist," Aaron Rodd
interrupted drily.
"Precisely!"
There was a moment's silence. Mr. Harvey Grimm, with the beatific
smile of opulence, was whistling softly to himself. His companion's
thoughts had apparently travelled back into the past.
"Well," the latter said at last, "I will imitate your candour. The
document I was examining with so much interest when you came in, is a
seven-year-old lease, long since cancelled. The few black boxes you
see around the room are, with one exception, bogus. I sit here from
morning till night and nothing happens. I sit here and brood."
"Dear me! Dear me!" his visitor murmured sympathetically.
"By turning my chair around," Aaron Rodd continued, "I can just catch a
glimpse of the river across the Gardens there. I sit and watch, wonder
whether a tug will go past next or a lighter, watch the people in the
gardens, wonder where they are going, why they are loitering, why
hurrying. I speculate about the few passers-by down in the street
there. Sometimes I close my eyes and I fancy myself in Lincoln's Inn,
seated in a padded morocco chair, with a Turkey-carpet on the floor,
and rows of boxes, black tin boxes, with wonderful names inscribed upon
them in white lettering, reaching to the ceiling, and my secretary
poring over my engagement book, wondering when it would be possible for
me to squeeze in half an hour for an important client."
"Too much of the dreamer about you," Harvey Grimm pronounced.
"Perhaps, after all, it is the fault of your work. It's a sedative
profession, you know, Aaron. It wouldn't suit me to have to sit and
wait for clients."
"It's the black bogey of my life," the other assented, with a thin note
of passion in his tone. "If only one could get out and work, even if
one didn't get a penny for it!"
"And financially?" Harvey Grimm enquired, with an apologetic cough.
"On the rocks," was the bitter reply. "You can understand," he went
on, with a heedless sarcasm, "what a wonderful thing it is for me to
welcome a capitalist in my shabby office."
"And an old friend," was the cheerful reminder. "Come, come, Aaron, we
must look into this. I must place some of my affairs in your charge."
Aaron Rodd's lip curled with bitter incredulity.
"Some of your affairs! I had a taste of those in the old days, Ned--I
mean Harvey. You brought me to the brink of Sing-Sing, you drove me
over here to make a fresh start."
Harvey Grimm waved his hand. These reminiscences were indelicate.
"My dear fellow!" he protested. "Now come, answer me a few questions.
Such affairs of business as have fallen to your lot have been conducted
with--er--discretion?"
"If you mean have I preserved my reputation," the lawyer replied
grimly, "I have. I have no temptation to do otherwise."
"That is capital," his friend declared. "That helps us at once. And
now, I think," he went on, glancing at his neat little wristwatch,
"lunch."
Aaron Rodd's first movement was almost eager. He checked himself,
however. Then a glance at his visitor's immaculate toilet and
distinctly opulent appearance reassured him.
"There will be no trouble, I presume," he said a little diffidently,
"as to the settlement of our bill? I warn you before we start that a
shilling and a few coppers----"
Harvey Grimm laid his hand almost affectionately upon the other's
shoulder.
"My dear Aaron," he expostulated, "you are a little confused. You have
not yet taken in the position. A capitalist is, of course, a relative
term. I will not press that point. But let me assure you that I have
a suite of rooms at the Milan, ample credit for any meals I choose to
take there, even money to pay for them, if necessary."
"I am not fit to go to the Milan," Aaron Rodd muttered, brushing
himself vigorously.
"That is entirely your mistake," his friend replied, rising to his feet
and lighting another cigarette. "A judicious shabbiness is to-day an
approved form of eccentricity. With your ascetic face, my dear Aaron,
that little wisp of black tie, your clean but frayed collar, your
sombre, well-worn clothes, you would be mistaken by the casual observer
for either a Chancery lawyer with an indifferent housekeeper, or a
writer of dramatic blank verse, which every one admires but no one
buys. Reassure yourself, Aaron. I predict that as a companion you
will do me every credit."
For the first time a grim, hard smile parted the lips of the man who
was making out with rather weary fingers the accustomed card to affix
to his door.
"The needy adventurer is what I feel like in these days," he observed.
"And why not adventurer?" Harvey Grimm protested, as they descended the
stone steps. "We are all needy, that is to say we all need something
or other, and we all--those of us who understand life, at any
rate--seek adventures. Even with the success I have myself attained--I
will be quite frank with you, my dear Aaron--I am entirely unchanged.
I can assure you that I am not above finding interest and pleasure, as
well as profit, in any adventure which may come to hand."
His companion chuckled drily.
"I can well believe it," he murmured.
They strolled up the street, a somewhat curiously assorted couple. Mr.
Harvey Grimm's grey felt hat, his neat and somewhat jaunty figure,
rather suggested the successful trainer of careful habits, or elderly
jockey enjoying the opulence of middle age. Aaron Rodd, on the other
hand, looked exactly what he was--the lean and hungry professional man
with whom the times have gone ill.
"Queer neighbourhood, this, you've chosen for your office, Aaron," his
friend remarked, pausing as they neared the corner. "What sort of
people come into these parts, anyway?"
"It's just a backwater. There's the broad stream of London flowing on
to success and prosperity a few yards up the hill. If you listen for a
moment you can hear it. These little streets are just parasitical
branches, still alive and still struggling, but fit for nothing but to
be snapped off. All the furtive businesses in the world might be
conducted behind these silent, unwashed windows and blank
doorways--shabby theatrical agencies, doubtful publications, betting
offices of poor reputation. People come here to hide or to escape
notice. There was a murder committed down by the railings at the end
of the street, only a year or so ago."
"Obviously," Harvey Grimm remarked cheerfully, "the region of
melancholia and tragedies. We must see how things go, Aaron. Perhaps,
later on, it would be as well for you to move to a better-known part.
Just at present, however, it is well enough."
The tall young man looked down at his companion half derisively, half
eagerly. He knew him too well to ask many questions, knew him too well
to hope unduly, knew, too, the danger into which this simple luncheon
might lead him. Yet only a few nights ago he had thought of the river!
It was better to take luncheon with Harvey Grimm at the Milan than to
feel the black waters sucking his breath away!
* * * * *
"Feeling better, Aaron?" Harvey Grimm enquired of his friend, about an
hour and a half later.
Aaron Rodd was both feeling and looking better and acknowledged the
fact. His manner towards his host, too, showed signs of a subtle
change. The latter was obviously _persona grata_ in the restaurant.
Their table, although a little retired, was in a coveted corner, and
attentions of every sort had been respectfully offered them.
Nevertheless, his guest felt some sense of relief when he saw the bill
signed with a little flourish and accepted with a low bow by their
waiter. Harvey Grimm leaned back in his chair and removed the cigar
for a moment from his lips.
"You've no faith in me, Aaron," he declared, with an encouraging smile.
"That's what you always lacked, even in the old days--faith. You're
losing touch with the world, you know, cooped up in that musty office
of yours. You don't expect anything to happen to you so long as you
grub away there, do you?"
"Nothing has happened, at any rate," Aaron Rodd admitted.
"I will not say that it is your fault," his companion continued
tolerantly. "You are by nature of a meditative and retiring
temperament. It is a piece of extraordinarily good fortune for you
that I never forget old friends."
"Have you anything to propose to me?" Aaron Rodd asked bluntly.
His host leaned across the table.
"Always so downright, my dear Aaron," he murmured, "so material!
However, you have asked the question and here is my answer. I am
proposing to remain in London for some little time. There are various
schemes which have suggested themselves to me, which might readily lead
to an enlargement of my income. For their prosecution, my dear Aaron,
I need one, only one companion whom I can trust, one man who is out for
the big things. That is why I come to you. I offer you a partnership
in the concern--Harvey Grimm and Rodd, Traffickers in Fate, Dealers in
Adventures. How your hand shakes, man! There, you've dropped the ash
from your cigar!"
Aaron Rodd's thin lips were quivering. His eyes seemed full of
unutterable things.
"I have made such a fight of it," he muttered. "You've got me, though,
Harvey. I've eaten my last crust. I should have had to sell my office
stool for a meal to-morrow."
His friend shook his head genially.
"My dear Aaron," he protested, "such a confession from a man of brains,
when one considers how the world is overrun with fools, is a terrible
one."
"One has a conscience," Rodd sighed, "and a profession like mine
doesn't lend itself to crooked dealing."
Harvey Grimm smiled tolerantly. He had the air of one listening to a
child.
"The wolves of the world," he said, "keep their conscience, and as
regards wrong-doing, it's just success that makes the difference....
My dear fellow!" he broke off, looking up into the face of a man who
had paused at their table and whose hand was now reposing heavily upon
his shoulder. "My dear Brodie, this is most opportune. Let me present
you to my friend, Mr. Aaron Rodd. Aaron, this is Mr. Brodie--in the
language of the cinemas," he added, dropping his voice a little and
leaning forward, "the sleuthhound of Europe, the greatest living
detective."
Aaron Rodd sat for a moment motionless, the cigar slipped from his
fingers on to the plate. All his new hopes seemed crumbling away. His
eyes were fixed upon the hand which gripped his companion's shoulder.
Harvey Grimm began to laugh softly.
"Cheer up, my pessimistic friend!" he exclaimed. "This isn't the grip
of the law which is upon my shoulder. Mr. Brodie and I are friends--I
might even say allies."
Aaron Rodd recovered himself and murmured a few words of mechanical
greeting. The new-comer meanwhile took the chair which the waiter had
offered him. He was a tall, burly man, clean-shaven, with steely grey
eyes, and grey hair brushed back from his forehead. His manner was
consequential, his tone patronising.
"So this is our third hand, eh?"
"Guessed it in one with your usual astuteness," Harvey Grimm
acknowledged cheerfully. "A lawyer of unblemished character, not
momentarily affluent, with the principles of a latitudinarian."
"Has he got the nerve?" Mr. Brodie demanded. "If we are on the right
track, there's no room for weaklings in the job."
"Aaron Rodd's all right," his friend declared confidently. "You leave
that to me. I'll answer for him."
The younger man leaned across the table.
"Do I understand," he enquired, "that our enterprise is on the side of
the law?"
Harvey Grimm smiled.
"The present one, my dear Aaron. I should explain to you, perhaps,
that Mr. Brodie is not officially attached either to Scotland Yard or
to Police Headquarters in New York. He spent some years at Scotland
Yard and, having the good luck to inherit a small fortune, and feeling
himself handicapped by the antiquated methods and jealousies of his
competitors, he decided to strike out for himself as an independent
investigator. Some day he will tell us a few of his adventures."
Mr. Brodie had folded his arms and was looking very imposing.
"I have hunted criminals," he asserted, "in every quarter of the world.
I have methods of my own. I have a genius for making use of people."
"So you see, my dear Aaron," Harvey Grimm pointed out, "at present Mr.
Brodie and I are the greatest of friends. He recognises the fact that
I am what is baldly spoken of as an adventurer, and that the time may
come when we shall find ourselves in opposite camps, but just at
present it is our privilege to be of service to Mr. Brodie."
Then a thing, ordinary enough in its way, happened in a curious manner.
Mr. Brodie was a large man but he seemed suddenly to fade away. There
was his empty chair and a dim vision of a retreating figure behind one
of the central sideboards. Aaron Rodd seemed dimly conscious of a look
of warning flashed between the two men, but nothing equal to the swift
secrecy of Mr. Brodie's movements had ever confused his senses. Harvey
Grimm leaned across the table, holding his liqueur glass in his hand.
"Slick fellow, Brodie," he murmured. "No good his being seen talking
to us when the quarry's about, eh? Nice brandy, this. On the dry
side, perhaps, but with a flavour to it."
Aaron Rodd understood that he was to ask no questions and he discussed
the subject of brandy in a sufficiently ignorant manner. He, too,
however, within the course of the next few seconds, found need for the
exercise of all his powers of self-control. Only a few yards away from
him was a young man in some foreign uniform, with his arm in a sling,
discussing with a _maître d'hôtel_ as to the locality of his table. By
his side was the girl with whom he had talked that morning in the
Embankment Gardens, and behind the two, a somewhat pathetic picture,
was the old man, his face as withered as parchment, his narrow white
beard carefully trimmed, leaning heavily upon a stick. Almost as he
realised their presence they moved on, escorted by the _maître d'hôtel_
to a table in a distant corner. Aaron Rodd drew a long breath as they
disappeared. His companion looked at him curiously.
"Are those the people," the lawyer asked eagerly, "on whose account
Brodie moved away?"
Harvey Grimm watched them settle in their places.
"They are," he admitted. "A pathetic-looking trio! ... And, now, my
dear Aaron," he went on, "we will discuss your little adventure in the
Embankment Gardens this morning. You perceive that the moment is
appropriate."
"My little adventure?" Aaron Rodd repeated blankly. "Why--you mean to
say you were there, then? You saw her speak to me?"
"Certainly! I was seated a little further down, talking with my friend
Mr. Brodie. We had our eyes upon the young lady."
Aaron Rodd felt a sudden disinclination to speak of that little gleam
of sunshine.
"She spoke to me quite casually," he declared. "Afterwards she asked
me my profession. I told her that I was a lawyer. Perhaps she had
already guessed it. I suppose I do rather look the part."
"You do indeed, my friend! And then?"
The younger man hesitated. His partner's benevolent face suddenly
assumed a sterner aspect.
"Aaron," he reminded him, "we are on business. The truth, please--no
reservations."
"She asked me," the other went on, "whether the confidence of a client
is always respected by one in my profession."
"And your reply?"
"I assured her, of course, that under any circumstances it was."
Harvey Grimm leaned back in his chair. He rolled the remaining drop of
brandy around in his glass, his expression was beatific.
"My dear Aaron," he said, "fate smiles upon our new partnership. The
young lady is going to pay you a visit?"
"At three o'clock this afternoon, if she keeps her word."
"Finish your brandy and come with me to my apartment," Harvey Grimm
directed. "We have matters to discuss and arrange before you receive
that visit."
* * * * *
An hour or so later, Aaron Rodd was seated once more before his
dilapidated, ink-stained desk. The gloom of the winter afternoon was
only partly dissipated by the single gas-jet burning above his head.
The same old lease was spread out underneath his hands. In his face,
however, there was a distinct change. The listlessness had gone. He
had the air of one awaiting events. So he had sat for the last
half-hour, with his eyes fixed alternately upon the outside door,
purposely left ajar, and the inner one which led to his humble
bed-sitting-room.
There came at last the sound for which he had been waiting. Up that
last flight of stone stairs he could hear distinctly the slow movement
of weary footsteps, the continual tapping of a stick, the occasional
cough and querulous complaint of a tired old man, and by the side of
those shuffling footsteps, others, marvellously light, the swish of a
silken skirt, the music of a clear, very sweet young voice.
"You see, we are arrived," she was saying. "There is the name upon the
door. You will be able to sit down directly. Courage, dear
grandfather. Remember it is for Leopold's sake."
Then there followed a gentle knock, the somewhat hesitating entrance of
the two, the half-doubtful look of the girl towards the tall, gaunt
young man whose face seemed almost saturnine underneath that unshaded
light. As he moved forward, however, she recognised him, and a smile
of relief parted her lips.
"Ah! it is Mr. Rodd, is it not--the gentleman with whom I spoke in the
Gardens this morning--the lawyer?"
He bowed. Anxiety made his voice sound even harsher. Many things had
happened since the morning.
"You have kept your promise, then," he remarked. "You have come to
consult me. I am at your service. One moment."
He brought two of the chairs which stood stiffly against the wall, and
placed them by the side of his desk. The old man sat down with an air
of relief. The passage up the stairs had apparently exhausted him.
"We are very haphazard clients, I fear, Mr. Rodd," he said wearily.
"This is unfortunately one of my bad days. I must leave my
granddaughter to explain the reason of our visit, and in what manner we
hope to be able to make use of your services."
"If I do so, grandfather," she said, turning a little towards him, "I
am going to tell the whole truth."
"If it must be," he murmured uneasily.
The girl took up at once the burden of explanation.
"My grandfather, my brother and myself," she began, "are staying at the
Milan Hotel. We make use of a name, the name of Brinnen, to which we
have some right, even though it may be a shadowy one. We happen to be
Belgians by birth, a fact which at the present moment makes our
position easier. To be honest with you, however, my brother has just
returned from America. He has been engaged for some time in more
hazardous enterprises, even, than defending his country against the
Germans."
The old man interrupted her impatiently.
"These explanations are waste of time," he insisted. "Tell this
gentleman quickly what we desire of him."
She patted his hand and glanced half apologetically across at Aaron
Rodd. He had resumed his seat before his desk, his face half hidden by
his hand. Listening to the girl's voice, he had become conscious of a
long-forgotten sentiment. Encumbered though she was with a difficult
mission, there was a certain fineness of speech and manner, an appeal
for sympathy in even this last gesture, which he found strangely
disturbing.
"You need explain to me no more than you wish," he told her, a little
stiffly. "I shall be glad to be of any service to you. There is no
need for you to enter into any painful details."
She shrugged her shoulders protestingly.
"You and my grandfather are of one mind," she remarked. "Then I will
make a confession which may sound abrupt but which is nevertheless
true. We three--my brother, my grandfather and myself--are not
entitled to the sympathy we receive. We are, to a certain extent,
impostors. Is your standard of morals a very high one, Mr. Rodd?"
"I--I scarcely really know," he stammered. "As a lawyer I am brought
into contact with all conditions of people. I have before now done my
best for the criminal as I have for the honest man."
"It is reassuring," she admitted. "Behold, then, my full confession.
You have to do now with criminals--or may I say adventurers? We have,
we three, to dispose of secretly a very large amount of precious
stones. I have come to you for advice. The ordinary avenues of sale
are closed to us. How can we get into touch with some one who will buy
them and ask no questions?"
Aaron Rodd was conscious of a little shock. Up to this last moment he
had been doubtful. Notwithstanding the story which had been unfolded
to him by Harvey Grimm, he had clung to his first impressions,
impressions from which he was parting now with dire reluctance.
"It is not an easy matter," he admitted, "but if anyone can help you, I
can."
The girl nodded.
"There must be secrecy," she declared. "You see, my brother is, in a
way, notorious. He has been very daring and very successful. For the
sake of those who buy them, as well as for our own sake, the jewels
must not be recognised afterwards.
"I have a friend who might arrange it," Aaron Rodd announced. "I must
warn you, however, that selling your stones in this way you cannot
possibly receive their full value."
"We do not expect that," the old man mumbled. "What we want, though,
is the money--quickly."
"My friend could doubtless manage that," the lawyer declared.
"When can we see him?" the girl asked eagerly.
"At once," was the prompt reply. "He was with me when you came and I
sent him into my private apartments. If it is your wish, I will fetch
him."
"By all means," the old man insisted eagerly.
"Yes, yes!" the girl echoed.
Aaron Rodd rose to his feet and crossed the room to the door which led
into his private apartment. He opened it and beckoned to its unseen
occupant.
"I have some clients here who would like a word with you, Grimm," he
announced. "There may, perhaps, be some business."
Harvey Grimm made his appearance at once. His air of curiosity, as he
looked into the room, was very well done.
"Business?" he repeated.
"This gentleman and young lady," Aaron Rodd explained, "are clients of
mine. Their names are unnecessary. They have consulted me as to the
disposal of valuable jewels, their claim to which--might be open to
question."
Harvey Grimm threw the cigar which he had been smoking into the
fire-place.
"I see," he murmured. "Better tell me the circumstances."
The girl repeated her story, with a few more details. The old man
listened in a sort of placid stupor. He interrupted only once.
"It is a foolish way, this. There is a man in Amsterdam----"
"You will tell me what you advise, monsieur," the girl begged. "We
must have money, and the jewels must be made unrecognisable."
Harvey Grimm took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and screwed
it together.
"You have probably brought some of the stones with you," he observed
briskly.
The girl hesitated. She turned to her companion as though for
guidance. He was still mumbling to himself, however, something about
Amsterdam.
"It is absolutely essential," Harvey Grimm continued, "that I should
know something definite about the character of the stones you have to
offer--that is if you wish me to deal with them."
There was a brief silence. Then the girl rose to her feet and
deliberately turned away from the three men for several moments. When
she swung around again, she held in her hand a small chamois leather
bag. Very carefully she opened and shook out its contents into the
palm of Harvey Grimm's outstretched hand.
"The large one," she said simply, "belonged to an American millionaire.
My brother says that it is worth twenty thousand pounds. He, too, is a
wonderful judge of precious stones."
The old man seemed to wake up for a moment.
"It is worth," he faltered, "a king's ransom."
They all three bent over the little collection of jewels. Aaron Rodd's
expression was one of simple curiosity. His knowledge of diamonds was
_nil_. His partner's manner, on the other hand, underwent a curious
change. There was a hard glitter in his eyes and unsuspected lines
about his mouth. The atmosphere of the little room had become charged
with new forces. The girl's face was tense with excitement, the old
man seemed suddenly and subtly different.
"Do not waste time," the former begged, a little feverishly. "It is
not safe to bring these jewels into the daylight, even here. If you
will buy, state your price. Give us an idea. We can meet again,
perhaps."
Harvey Grimm turned towards them.
"The small stones are negligible," he pronounced. "The large stone is
worth quite as much as you say. To cut it up, however, and then sell
it in a secret market, is another thing. The most you could hope for
would be five thousand pounds."
The girl's face was a little vague.
"Tell me," she enquired, "in English money how much is that a year?"
"Two hundred and fifty pounds."
"So that if there were ten stones like that," she went on, a little
wistfully, "that would be an income of two thousand, two hundred and
fifty pounds. One could live comfortably on that? One could hide
somewhere in a quiet country place and live like gentlefolk?"
"Certainly," Harvey Grimm assured her.
She turned a little doubtfully towards her companion.
"I am afraid," she sighed, "that grandfather is almost past realising
what money means. In any case, we must consult my brother."
Then there came without warning an interruption which seemed equally
startling to all of them. Without any preliminary summons, the door of
the office was thrown open. The detective, Brodie, followed by a man
in plain clothes out with an unmistakably professional appearance,
entered the room. The latter closed the door behind him. Brodie
approached the little group. The girl's eyes were lit with terror.
Harvey Grimm dropped his handkerchief over the jewels, whilst his
partner stepped forward. Aaron Rodd's tone was harsh with anxiety, his
face seemed more drawn than ever.
"What do you want here?" he demanded.
Mr. Brodie smiled tolerantly. His eyes were fixed upon the table. He
pushed the questioner on one side and lifted the handkerchief which
Harvey Grimm had thrown over the diamonds. Then he turned towards his
companion with a little cry of triumph.
"That," he declared, pointing to the jewel upon the table, "is one of
the Van Hutten diamonds."
"I do not understand," the girl said quietly enough, although she was
shaking from head to foot. "It belongs to us. It is the property
of----"
"Cut it out," Brodie interrupted brusquely. "We'll talk to you, young
lady, at police head-quarters."
The girl turned to Aaron Rodd.
"Who is this man, and what does he want?" she cried. "Is this a trap
into which you have drawn us? Is it a crime, here in England, then, to
offer jewels for sale?"
"We'll talk this all out at the police station," Brodie intervened
curtly. "Inspector?"
The man in plain clothes stepped forward and took command of the
situation.
"My instructions are," he announced politely, "to ask you both to come
with me to the police-station."
The old gentleman simply looked dazed. He rose to his feet obediently
and turned towards the girl. She patted his arm reassuringly, but
there was a look in her face which brought a sob into Aaron Rodd's
throat. He was filled all the time with a silent fury. He cursed the
moment which had taken him into the Embankment Gardens, which had
brought Harvey Grimm once more into his life. The single look which
the girl had flashed upon him was like a dagger in his heart.
Brodie had replaced the diamonds, one by one, in the little bag. He
handed them over to his companion and motioned them all towards the
door. The old gentleman moved wearily along, leaning upon his
granddaughter's arm. Aaron Rodd hurried forward and opened the door.
He tried to say something, but the girl turned from him contemptuously.
He stood on the threshold, listening to their slow footsteps as they
descended into the street. Then he swung back into the room, slammed
the door and sank into the chair in front of his desk. It was as
though he had passed through some terrible nightmare. He sat gazing
out through the shadows. Had it all really happened? Then he caught a
faint, unfamiliar breath of perfume which suddenly set his heart
beating with unaccustomed vigour. A little morsel of white lace lay
underneath the chair upon which she had been seated. He stooped and
picked it up, smoothed it out, and let it slip from his fingers almost
in despair. It was all true, then! She had sat in that chair, had
come to his office, trusting him, had walked into the
Harvey-Grimm-cum-Brodie trap!
* * * * *
It was an hour or more before Harvey Grimm returned. He closed the
door after him and came briskly across the floor.
"Well, young fellow," he exclaimed, "you can't say that I haven't
fished you out of the backwaters."
"I wish to God you'd left me there!" was the bitter reply. "Tell me
what's happened to her?"
"To her?--oh, the young lady!" Harvey Grimm murmured, with an
illuminating smile. "She's all right. She's back at the Milan by this
time."
"They couldn't identify the diamond, then?" Aaron Rodd asked eagerly.
"Not by a long chalk," was the smiling reply. "To tell you the truth,
Brodie's about the sickest man in London just now. The stone he rolled
out in front of the expert they had waiting down at Scotland Yard
was----"
"Was what?"
"A lump of paste," Harvey Grimm declared, lighting a cigarette. "Queer
business, eh?"
"There's no charge against the old gentleman and his granddaughter,
then?" Aaron Rodd demanded breathlessly.
"None whatever. Why not try a cigarette, Aaron? You're all nerves."
The lawyer pushed the box away from him.
"You may think this sort of thing's worth while," he declared gloomily.
"I can't say that I do. There'll be no reward to share, and it seems
to me that we've made an enemy----"
"There's no reward," Harvey Grimm agreed, "but there's this."
He drew his handkerchief from his pocket. A diamond almost as large as
a cobnut rolled over and lay upon the desk. Aaron Rodd stared at it in
amazement.
"What's that?" he demanded.
"One of the Van Hutten diamonds," was the triumphant reply. "Look at
it well. You won't see it again. By this time to-morrow it will have
been cut."
Aaron Rodd was stupefied. He looked from the stone up to his
companion's face. Even his demand for some elucidation was mute.
"I had the duplicate ready," Harvey Grimm explained. "That was my
game. I changed them underneath my handkerchief. It was perfectly
easy. They've got the imitation one at police head-quarters and they
aren't feeling particularly pleased with themselves. That fellow
Brodie is about the bummest detective who ever crossed the Atlantic."
Aaron Rodd was sitting transfixed. His fingers were shaking as they
beat upon the desk.
"My God," he exclaimed as light streamed in upon him, "we're thieves!"
"Don't talk like a fool," the other admonished. "It's a fair enough
game between crooks. We've stolen a stolen jewel, and by doing it
we've saved the girl and her grandfather and her brother, too, from
gaol. That's fair do's, isn't it? When I've finished with that,
there'll be a matter of three or four thousand pounds for us to divide.
What about it, eh?"
He swept the jewel back into his pocket. Aaron Rodd's fingers were
still idly beating upon the desk. The walls of his dusty, bare
apartment had fallen away, the thrall of his sordid poverty lay no
longer like a dead weight upon his spirits. Three or four thousand
pounds to divide!
"What you need," Harvey Grimm declared briskly, handing him his hat,
"is a drink. Come right along."
_Chapter II_ _Poetry by Compulsion_
Mr. Paul Brodie walked, unannounced, into Aaron Rodd's office, a matter
of ten days after the episode of the changed diamond. He had lost a
little of his bombast, and he carried himself with less than his usual
confidence. His eyes, however, had lost none of their old inquisitive
fire. He was perfectly aware, even as he greeted the two men who rose
to welcome him, that Aaron Rodd was wearing a new suit of clothes, that
the office had been spring-cleaned, that the box of cigarettes upon the
desk were of an expensive brand, and that the violets in the buttonhole
of Harvey Grimm's immaculate coat had come from a Bond Street florist.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said airily, subsiding into the chair
which the latter had vacated for him. "Nice little trio of
conspirators we are, eh?"
Harvey Grimm shrugged his shoulders.
"It's rough on you," he admitted--"gives you kind of a twist, of
course, with the police--but I can't see any sense in the thing yet.
They weren't meaning to trade off that bit of paste on a diamond expert
surely!"
The detective scratched his chin.
"That bit of paste," he declared, "was all they had on them, anyway.
Seems as though they hadn't quite sized you up--you and Mr. Rodd
here--and were paying you a test visit. Gee, they're clever!"
"You had them searched, I suppose," the other enquired, "to be sure
they hadn't the real goods with them?"
"You bet!" the detective assented gloomily. "Made it all the worse for
us afterwards. I tell you I daren't show my face at Scotland Yard
these days."
Harvey Grimm nodded sympathetically.
"Still, they must know that these people aren't what they profess to
be," he observed.
"That's all very well," Brodie agreed, "but every one goes about with
kid gloves on in this country. That's why I threw up my job and went
over to the States. Even a criminal, a known criminal, has got to be
treated as though he were a little God Almighty until the charge is
right there and the proof lying handy. I spent last night with
Inspector Ditchwater. He's as sure as I am that the young man is no
other than Jeremiah Sands, but he'd sooner let him slip through his
fingers than take a risk."
"How does it come about, then," Aaron Rodd asked quietly, "that a
famous diamond thief is wearing the uniform of a Belgian officer, that
he is decorated and wounded?"
"Simple as possible," Brodie explained. "We knew perfectly well that
Jeremiah Sands was a Belgian. That little fact had been in every
description of him that's ever been issued. He chucked his little
enterprises in New York, the moment war was declared, and sailed for
Europe, bringing the loot with him. He was as clever as paint, though.
He played the old game of sending a double to Chicago, and he was in
Belgium before we knew the truth. There, from what we gather, he
handed over the stuff to the old man and his sister, and took up his
soldiering job. The worst of it is he's covered up his traces so well
that we haven't a chance unless we can catch him, or one of the three,
with the goods. Meanwhile, there he is, less than a quarter of a mile
away, with half a million of loot under his nose; there's a reward of
twenty-five thousand dollars for his apprehension; and here we three
men sit, needing the money, and pretty well powerless."
"I wouldn't go so far as that," Harvey Grimm said quietly. "I don't
fancy you've come to the end of your tether yet, Brodie."
The detective knocked the ash from his cigar and rose to his feet.
"Well," he admitted, "I ain't giving up, sure. All the same, this
little failure has made things difficult for me. If I put my head in
at head-quarters and whisper 'Jeremiah Sands,' they're down my throat.
I just looked in to see how you boys were," he added. "They'll have
tumbled to you both now, so I'm afraid the game's off so far as you are
concerned. So long! See you round at the Milan about cocktail time,
Harvey, eh?"
Mr. Brodie took his leave, with more expressions of cordiality. Aaron
Rodd closed the door carefully after him and came back into the room.
For several moments neither of the two men spoke. Harvey Grimm
carefully selected a cigarette and lit it. Then he walked to the door,
opened it and peered down the stairs.
"Too damned amiable!" he muttered as he returned to his place. "Did
you see the way he peered around? You have brightened things up a bit,
Aaron."
"I haven't done more than was absolutely necessary," the young lawyer
protested. "The place was simply filthy."
Harvey Grimm suddenly burst into a hearty laugh and slapped his knee.
"That's all right, old fellow," he declared. "It don't matter a snap
of the fingers. That chap Brodie does get me, though. A baby could
see through him. He's got just sense enough to believe that we pinched
the diamond--that's why he's been round here. It just don't matter a
damn, Aaron, what he suspects. That diamond doesn't exist any longer.
Neither our friends whom we--er--relieved of its incriminating
possession, nor Paul Brodie, will ever see that stone again. Let's
lunch."
Aaron Rodd reached for his hat and followed his friend out into the
street. At the end of the little dingy thoroughfare, as they made
their way up towards the Strand, Harvey Grimm paused abruptly in front
of what seemed to be a small book-shop. There were only one or two
volumes in the window, of what seemed to be editions de luxe of some
unknown work. There was a single modern engraving and a water-colour
of Futurist propensities for background. Harvey Grimm eyed these
treasures appreciatively.
"This place pleases me," he announced. "It has an air of its own. We
will spend a few minutes here."
The two men entered and looked about them, a little bewildered by their
surroundings. They seemed to have stepped into a small and feminine
sitting-room, the walls of which were hung with water-colours of
unusual subjects and colouring. There was a little pile of
paper-covered volumes upon the table. A young lady of sombre and
uncertain appearance came forward, and Harvey Grimm promptly removed
his hat.
"We have perhaps made a mistake?" he observed tentatively. "From the
exterior appearance of your establishment, I gathered that we might
possibly be able to procure here something unusual in the way of
literature. In a small way I am a collector of old books."
"We are entirely modern here," the young woman replied. "I can show
you hand-made pottery, or the water-colours of a young Futurist artist,
or I can offer you the poetical works of one or two of our most modern
poets. Second-hand books or _objets d'art_ we do not deal in. We
consider," she concluded, "that modernity, absolute modernity, is the
proper cult."
Harvey Grimm fanned himself for a moment with his hat. His companion
was gazing, with his mouth a little open, at a picture upon the wall
which appeared to him to represent the bursting of a ripe tomato upon a
crazy landscape.
"An impression of war," the young woman remarked, following his gaze.
"A wonderful piece of work by a young Futurist painter."
Harvey Grimm studied it for a moment through his eyeglass, and coughed.
He turned back to the table and picked up a paper-covered volume.
"Poetry," he murmured, "is one of my great solaces."
"Have you met with the work of Stephen Cresswell?" the young woman
enquired, almost solemnly.
Harvey Grimm repeated the name several times.
"For the moment----" he confessed.
"Eightpence," the girl interrupted, depositing one of the paper-covered
volumes in his hand. "Perhaps your friend would like one, too. I can
promise you that when you have read Cresswell's Spring Lyrics, you will
find all Victorian poetry anæmic."
Harvey Grimm handed a copy to his companion, laid down two shillings
and pocketed the eightpence change a little diffidently.
"You would perhaps like to look around," the young lady suggested.
She vanished into an inner room. Almost at that moment the door
leading into the street was violently opened, and a young man of
somewhat surprising appearance abruptly entered. He was over six feet
in height, he wore a flannel shirt and collar much the worse for wear,
a brown tweed coat from which every button was missing, and through an
old pair of patent boots came an unashamed and very evident toe. The
two visitors stared at him in amazement. The young man's eyes, from
the moment of his entrance, were fixed upon the paper volume which
Harvey Grimm was carrying.
"Sir," he enquired, "am I to conclude that you have purchased a
copy--the copy of poems you hold in your hand?"
"I have just done so," Harvey Grimm admitted, "also my friend."
The young man pushed past him towards the inner room.
"Bertha," he exclaimed loudly, "eightpence, please! You have sold two
copies of my poems. The eightpence!"
There was a momentary silence and then the clinking of coins. The
young man reappeared and made for the door with an air of determination
in his face. Harvey Grimm tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sir," he said, "forgive me if I take a liberty, but am I right in
presuming that you are the author of this volume?"
"I am," was the prompt reply, "and I am going to have a drink."
"One moment, if you please," his questioner begged. "This, you must
remember, is an impertinent age. Modernity demands it. Are you not
also hungry?"
"Ravenous," Mr. Stephen Cresswell confessed, "but what can one do with
eightpence?"
"You will join my friend and myself," Harvey Grimm declared firmly.
"We are going to take a chop."
The young man's tongue seemed to wander around the outside of his lips.
"A chop," he repeated absently.
"At a neighbouring grill-room," Harvey Grimm went on. "Come, I have
bought two copies of your poems. I have a claim for your
consideration."
"Do I understand," the young man asked, "that you will pay for the
chop?"
"That will be my privilege," was the prompt assertion.
"You are doubtless mad," the poet observed, "but you are probably
opulent. Let us hurry."
They left the place and crossed the street, the young man in the
middle. Aaron Rodd was speechless. His eyes seemed fascinated by the
deficiencies of their new friend's toilet, a fact of which he himself
seemed sublimely unconscious. Harvey Grimm, however, proceeded to make
a delicate allusion to the matter.
"Some little accident, I gather," he remarked, "has happened--forgive
my noticing it--to your right shoe."
The poet glanced carelessly downwards.
"It occurred this morning," he sighed. "To tell you the truth, I had
scarcely noticed it. There was a green streak in the sunrise. I
hastened----"
Harvey Grimm had paused in front of a boot shop.
"This place," he said firmly, "will do as well as another."
"Why not?" the young man agreed, entering promptly, seating himself
upon the nearest vacant chair and holding out his foot. "Something
light," he begged. "You will observe that my foot is long and narrow."
The shopman withdrew the tattered remnants of shoes and stared in
amazement at his prospective customer's bare feet. The latter held out
his hand for a cigarette and tapped it against the side of Harvey
Grimm's case.
"It appears to me," he continued, gazing at his mud-stained feet, "that
I came out without socks. The sunrise again. However, it is a
deficiency which I perceive that you are in a position to remedy."
He selected without embarrassment a pair of socks and shoes, and was
perfectly willing to don a tie which they purchased from a small
haberdasher's shop at the end of the street. That affair disposed of,
however, he became quite firm.
"The affair of the chop----," he insisted.
"We are there," Harvey Grimm interrupted, leading him to an hotel
grill-room.
The young man paused before the large, open grid and carefully
indicated the chop which he considered suitable for his consumption.
He then seated himself opposite his two friends and expressed himself
in favour of a mixed vermouth.
"A very pleasing encounter, this," he declared, drawing the eightpence
from his pocket and looking at it thoughtfully. "May I ask, sir,
whether you are acquainted with my poems?"
"Not yet," Harvey Grimm confessed.
"Your purchase, then, was accidental?"
"Entirely," his patron explained. "My friend and I are adventurers.
We seek the unusual. The appearance of the shop where we met you
attracted us. The young lady to whom we addressed some enquiries
tendered us a copy of your verses."
The young man sighed.
"It is a scandalous thing," he said, "to be published in paper covers
at eightpence--fourpence to the author. So you are adventurers. You
mean by that thieves?"
"Sir," Aaron Rodd interrupted, "I am a solicitor."
"My ignorance," the young man declared, "is amazing, but that, I
presume, is a legalised form of robbery? I am one of the few persons
in the world who give value for the money I earn. I produce, create.
If only ten thousand people in the city were to pay eightpence for a
copy of my works, I should be affluent, as you two are. I should lunch
here every day and drink Burgundy."
"Then in a very short time," Harvey Grimm reminded him, "you would
cease to write poetry."
His protégé shook his head.
"A well-nurtured body is an incentive to poetic thought," he insisted.
"There is a richness of imagery which comes with after-dinner
composing; a sort of mental starvation, an anæmic scantiness of
similes, which follows the fruit luncheon and cold water of necessity.
Adventurers, gentlemen, are you? That is to say you are people with
wits. Tell me, then--bring me an idea from the practical world--how
shall I make ten thousand people buy a copy of my poems?"
"Come, that's an interesting problem," Harvey Grimm declared. "Of
course, if one were to answer you in a single word, that one would be
advertisement."
"If I could write my name across the heavens, or flash it from a
million lights through the clouds," the young man remarked, "I would do
so, but these things call for either miraculous powers or money. I
have neither."
"Your case," Harvey Grimm promised, "shall have our attention, my
friend's and mine. In the meantime, the moment seems opportune,
pending the arrival of our chops, for a glance at your work. Permit
me."
The poetaster crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, thrust an
eyeglass into his eye, and turned over the pages of the paper volume
which he had been carrying. Aaron Rodd followed his example. The
poet, entirely unembarrassed, eyed hungrily each covered dish which
passed. At the arrival of the meal, Harvey Grimm solemnly pocketed his
book and replaced his eyeglass. Aaron Rodd went on reading for a
moment. Then he glanced surreptitiously at their guest and laid his
volume face downwards upon the table.
"Your poems, I perceive," Harvey Grimm observed, as he helped himself
to a potato, "are not written for the man in the street."
"They are written," the poet declared, falling hungrily upon his chop,
"for any one who will pay eightpence for them."
Conversation faded away. It was not until the service of coffee and
cigars that anything more than disjointed words were spoken. The young
man's face was still colourless but his eyes were less hard. He took
out his pencil and toyed for a moment with the menu.
"Some little trifle," he suggested, "commemorative of the occasion?"
"I would rather," Harvey Grimm confessed, "think out some scheme for
advertising your work. There's a little thing here about a lame
'busman----"
"Any scheme you suggest," the young man assented dreamily. "I frankly
admit that the dispersal of my productions is a matter in which I have
failed. The appreciative few may have purchased but the man of the day
passes on, ignorant of the great need he really has of poetry. Ten
thousand copies of my poems, sold in London, would produce at once a
more gracious spirit. You would observe a difference in the
deportment, the speech, the greater altruism of the multitude. How
shall I force my works into their hands and their eightpences into my
pocket?"
"Fourpence only," Aaron Rodd reminded him. "The publishers get half."
"In the event of a large circulation," the poet pointed out, with a
wave of the hand, "better terms might be arrived at. You, as a legal
man, can appreciate that possibility."
"There is only one idea which occurs to me," Harvey Grimm declared,
after a brief pause. "Come and we will make an experiment."
They marched out into the streets and walked solemnly along towards
Leicester Square. Suddenly Harvey Grimm stopped short and accosted a
small, grey-haired man who was carrying a bag and walking quickly.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the former began.
"What is it?" the little man demanded.
Harvey Grimm took him gently by the lapel of his coat. The little man
seemed too surprised to resist.
"I want the privilege of a few minutes' conversation with you," Harvey
Grimm continued. "You are one of the uneducated ten thousand who, on
behalf of my friend here, Stephen Cresswell, the great poet, I am
anxious to reach. Have you read Cresswell's poems?"
"I am in a hurry," the little man insisted, gazing at his interlocutor
in a bewildered manner, and struggling to escape.
"The whole world is in a hurry," Harvey Grimm observed, drawing the
paper volume from his pocket with the other hand. "This volume of
poems will cost you eightpence. It will bring relief to its
impoverished author, you yourself will become an enlightened----"
"I wish you'd let me go," the little man protested angrily. "I don't
know you, and I don't want to stand about the streets, talking to a
stranger. Let me go or I'll call a policeman."
"A policeman can afford you no assistance," Harvey Grimm assured him.
"I shall remain polite but insistent. You will buy this volume of
poems for eightpence, or----"
"Or what?" his victim demanded.
Harvey Grimm leaned down and whispered in his ear. The little man's
hand shot into his pocket. He produced sixpence and two coppers,
snatched at the book and hurried off. The victor in this little
rencontre turned to his companions with an air of triumph and handed
the eightpence to the poet, who immediately pocketed it.
"The whole problem is solved," he declared.
"You are a great man, sir," the poet exclaimed, grasping him by the
hand, "but what was it you whispered in his ear?"
"I simply told him," Harvey Grimm said blandly, "that I should biff him
one. The cost of a new hat is ten and sixpence; the price of your
poems is eightpence."
"You are a great man, sir," the poet repeated heartily. "Watch the
newspapers."
* * * * *
With a bunch of early violets in his buttonhole, neatly and correctly
dressed from the crown of his hat to his patent boots, Mr. Harvey
Grimm, one morning about a fortnight later, turned down the narrow
street which led to his friend Aaron Rodd's office. He took a few
steps and paused in surprise. A little crowd encumbered the pavement
in front of him. There were at least half a dozen taxicabs waiting by
the side of the pavement. A printer's van was busy unloading. A
constant procession, consisting chiefly of elderly and middle-aged men,
were entering and leaving the little book-shop. Waiting his turn,
Harvey Grimm stepped in. The whole of the central table was taken up
by great piles of a little paper-covered volume, recognisable at once
as the Poetical Works of Stephen Cresswell, and as fast as the flow of
customers could be served, they departed with one or more copies in
their pockets. The young lady whose hair was more untidy than ever,
and who wore a stupefied air, doled them out in doll-like and
mechanical fashion. She had lost her air of superiority. She pointed
no longer to the sketches upon the walls or the pottery beyond. She
behaved like a dazed automaton. Now and then Harvey Grimm could hear
her reply to enquiries.
"There will be a cloth edition of Mr. Cresswell's works out in a few
days," she said. "The printers have promised them by the end of the
week."
In the background were two very obvious newspaper men, waiting so far
unsuccessfully to get in a word with her. Mr. Harvey Grimm elbowed his
way by some means or other into the line, paid his eightpence and
retired into the recesses of the little suite of rooms beyond for a
moment's breathing-space. A rush of at least a dozen old gentlemen had
made exit temporarily impossible. As he stood and watched the scene,
he was conscious of a fashionably dressed young man lounging in an easy
chair a few yards away. The young man suddenly arose.
"My benefactor!" he cried.
Harvey Grimm gripped his copy of poems tightly and held it up.
"Pax!" he exclaimed. "I have one."
The poet smiled wearily. He drew his erstwhile patron a little further
back into the most retired portion of the premises.
"Listen," he said, "this has been the most stupendous, the most
colossal joke of the day. On the first night I sandbagged a wholesale
provision merchant who admitted that he had never read my poems, and he
wrote to _The Times_ the next morning. I made myself objectionable to
seven others the following night. They, too, made various complaints.
After that I retired--their description of my identity was becoming
embarrassing."
Mr. Harvey Grimm was a little puzzled.
"But the thing has been going on right up till last night," he
declared. "The papers for days have been a source of joy to me."
"After the first few nights," the young man explained, "I was compelled
to engage substitutes. I have acquaintances whose life has been
spent--shall we say on the fringe of things? With their aid I made the
acquaintance of various professional gentlemen from the east end, who
for a suitable remuneration took up this business with avidity. They
were of all sizes and they operated in all localities, choosing their
victims, so far as possible, with discretion. There was but one
question--'Have you read the poems of Stephen Cresswell?'--generally a
bewildered negative and then biff! The people began frantically to
enquire who was Stephen Cresswell, where were his poems to be obtained?
People who had the slightest pretensions to literary knowledge were
assailed with questions. _Punch_----"
"I saw _Punch_," Mr. Harvey Grimm interrupted. "Very clever!"
"Then the stream began," the young man continued. "I can assure you
that from the opening time till dark this place is mobbed. You see, on
the third night a confederate was saved from an imaginary assault by
promptly producing a copy of my poems. He wrote to the paper in mock
indignation but describing his escape. Then the rush began. Eleven
thousand copies have been sold, some at a premium. Eleven thousand
fourpences have found their way into my pocket. A morocco-bound and
vellum-covered edition are waiting in the press for one thing."
"And that?"
"The name of my benefactor. I wish to dedicate the third, fourth and
fifth editions of my poems to you," the young man declared
grandiloquently.
Mr. Harvey Grimm pondered.
"It is an immense compliment," he acknowledged. "We will talk of it."
"In the meantime," the poet went on, "listen. The curse of these days
is jealousy and imitation. A young man of worthy upbringing but wholly
ignorant of art, who perpetrated the daubs which you see upon the walls
here, was struck with my success. Only last Thursday an elderly
gentleman, such a one as might have been selected by my own employés,
was stopped in Hampstead and asked whether he had seen the sketches of
Sidney Wentworth, displayed in Manchester Street, Adelphi. The fool
admitted that he had never heard of them and down he went. I ask you,
sir, was there ever a more flagrant case of spoiling a man's market?
From the moment this absurd affair was reported, public feeling has
begun to change. Curiously enough, there has been very small
resentment, even on the part of those who have suffered slight pains in
the cause of art, as to my methods. Now, however, that the idea has
commenced to spread that such means are becoming a regular curriculum
of the advertiser, I have noticed distinct expressions of indignation.
In plain words, I can see the end coming."
"Nothing lasts," Mr. Harvey Grimm pointed out, "and you must admit
you've had a run for your money."
"I've had more than that, sir," the poet admitted. "I am established.
Many of the leading periodicals of the day, including _Titbits_ and the
_London Mail_, have invited me to contribute to their pages. The
Society of Authors has made me a tempting proposition to join their
ranks. You may look upon me, sir, as a man whose future is now
assured."
"I am delighted to hear it," Mr. Harvey Grimm declared heartily. "I
fear I must now be getting on."
The young man took down, his hat, possessed himself of a pair of
expensive doeskin gloves and a silver-topped cane.
"I will let you out by the back way," he suggested. "It is my desire
to accompany you."
"I am going to call upon a friend in the neighbourhood," Harvey Grimm
remarked.
"The friend with whom I met you first?"
"The same."
"I shall accompany you," the young man announced, cautiously opening a
side door and peering up and down a stone-flagged passage. "The way is
clear, sir. Come with me."
They sallied out and found themselves in the street. The young man
gripped the arm of his companion.
"For the moment," he confessed, "I am weary of poetry. I seek life.
You are an adventurer, you have told me. I shall link my fortune with
yours. You have a brain, sir, enterprise, and I should imagine that
you are untrammelled by the modern conscience. I am in the same
position. Poetry is affording me, for some time, at least, the means
of sustenance. Let us go together a little further afield."
The older man looked his companion up and down. He was a strong,
well-built young fellow, and the hollows of his cheeks had already
filled out. Notwithstanding his mannerisms, he was without doubt a
young man of resolution.
"We will see," Harvey Grimm suggested, "what Aaron Rodd has to say
about it."
"I like your friend's name," the young man declared solemnly. "I am
sure that he will accept me as a comrade."
They trod the few remaining yards of pavement, ascended the stone
stairs, and, after a preliminary knock at the door, Harvey Grimm,
exercising the privilege of familiarity, turned the handle and stepped
inside, followed by his companion. For a single moment neither of them
spoke. Harvey Grimm's first conscious action was to close the door
behind him. Then they stood inside the apartment, transfixed. Around
them was a scene of the wildest disorder. The linoleum had been torn
up and thrown into a corner, planks had been torn bodily from the
floor, the cupboards stood open and their contents were thrown right
and left. The little row of tin boxes stood on their sides, and masses
of dusty parchment littered the whole place. Seated in his chair
before the desk was Aaron Rodd, with a gag in his mouth, his arms bound
behind him, his legs tied together. His face was livid, his eyes half
closed. He showed no signs of life at their coming. The poet produced
a knife.
"We must set him free," he said.
His companion, subconsciously amazed at the young man's initiative,
followed him to the desk. Methodically the latter, having removed the
gag from Aaron Rodd's mouth, cut the bonds which held him, one by one.
Harvey Grimm produced a small brandy flask and held it to his lips.
The poet threw open a window and swung the chair round. Aaron Rodd
groaned.
"He is coming to," Cresswell remarked hopefully.
He caught up a sheaf of newspapers and fanned the swooning man
vigorously. Then he suddenly paused. Harvey Grimm followed the
direction of his gaze. A sheet of violet-coloured note-paper was
pinned upon the desk. The poet sniffed.
"What a delicious odour!" he murmured. "And how familiar!"
They both approached a little nearer. The sheet of note-paper,
fluttering a little in the breeze which streamed through the window,
gave out the subtlest and most delicate perfume, a perfume which seemed
like a waft from a field of violets, carried on a west wind. There
were only a few words, written in a delicate feminine handwriting:--
"_Should there not be honour, even amongst thieves?_"
The young man struck a theatrical attitude.
"Fate has sent me to join you," he declared, waving his hand towards
the sheet of violet-coloured paper. "I recognise the handwriting. I
know well the perfume. I can tell you who wrote that note."
_Chapter III_ _An Alliance of Thieves_
Aaron Rodd was walking along the, to him, unfamiliar thoroughfare of
Bond Street when he was suddenly confronted with a vision. A large
limousine motor-car was drawn up just in front of him. An elderly lady
with white hair, leaning upon the arm of a powdered footman, crossed
the pavement, followed by a girl who was smothered in sables, carried a
small dog under her arm, and wore a great bunch of violets partially
concealed by her furs. Aaron Rodd's abrupt pause was not one of
politeness alone. With an eagerness which took no account of manners
or discretion, he gazed at the girl, open-eyed, open-mouthed, blankly,
unashamed. If anything were left to complete his bewilderment, it was
the little smile upon her lips as she met his eyes.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Aaron Rodd!" she murmured, as she passed.
She disappeared through the swing doors of the shop. Aaron stared
after her as though expecting a backward glance, stared at the very
handsome motor-car, at what appeared to be a coronet upon the panel, at
the imperturbable expression of the powdered footman, standing with a
rug over his arm, looking into vacancy. Then he limped on a few feet
and devoted himself to an absorbed contemplation of some Japanese
trifles in a curio shop.
He lost count of time in his firm determination to await her return.
As a matter of fact, it was only a few minutes before he was conscious
of her reappearance. She hesitated for a moment on the threshold of
the shop, shook her head at the footman who was already opening the
door of the car, and approached Aaron Rodd. He turned abruptly from
the window and greeted her with grave politeness. She glanced at his
left arm, still in a sling; at the heavy walking-stick by which he
supported himself.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rodd," she said. "You have met, perhaps, with a
little accident? It is so?"
"Your friends were a little rough," he replied.
"I shall be annoyed with them," she promised. "You received my
message?"
"Certainly," he replied. "On the whole I agree with you."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"And what are you doing in Bond Street?" she asked him.
"I am on my way to meet my friend Harvey Grimm."
She nodded.
"That is your clever confederate, who stole our diamond," she remarked
suavely.
"A very fortunate circumstance for you," he ventured to remind her.
"If that stone--the real one, I mean--had been discovered in your
possession at the police-station, I fancy that your position in this
country would have become a little difficult."
"Oh, la, la!" she laughed. "You should have seen the face of Mr.
Brodie though, when they examined the imitation stone! I do not think
that the English police are pleased with him. They were very kind to
my grandfather and me."
"Nevertheless," he advised, "if I were your brother, I think that I
would keep away from London just now."
"And why?"
Aaron Rodd glanced up and down the pavement to be sure that there were
no listeners.
"That fellow Brodie is not such a fool as he seems," he declared. "He
has made one mistake. I do not think that he is likely to make
another."
She laughed.
"If it is to be a duel of wits," she murmured, "between Leopold and Mr.
Brodie, do you know, I believe that Leopold will win."
"There is such a thing as over-confidence," he reminded her.
"I have so many ways," she told him, with twinkling eyes, "of diverting
these people from the scent. Do you recognise the old lady upon whom I
am in attendance to-day, the old lady who went with me into that shop?"
"I have not that pleasure," he replied grimly. "Is she one of the
gang?"
"She is a royal princess--the Princess Augusta. If you do not believe
me, look in this week's _Tatler_ and you will see her picture--perhaps
mine. You are a very funny man, Mr. Aaron Rodd, and you have treated
us very badly indeed, but I like you--yes, I like you quite well. How
much money did you get for that stone you stole from us?"
The colour mounted mercilessly to his temples. He seemed suddenly
bereft of words.
"Do not be foolish," she continued quickly. "Really, as you know, I am
an adventuress myself, and I rather admire you both. I think that we
ought to make friends. You could be of great service to us. There is
no need for us to quarrel because you have had the best of this first
little exchange. What do you say to that, my friend?"
Aaron Rodd found himself and became once more a man. He looked her
squarely in the eyes.
"I would rather be friends with you," he said, "than any one in the
world."
For a moment the triumph was his. It was she who was almost
embarrassed by his directness. Then intervention came.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "the Princess! Au revoir!"
She stepped lightly away from him, with a little nod of farewell. The
footman stood bare-headed as he opened the door of the car. One of the
principals of the establishment which the grey-haired lady had just
quitted stood bowing upon the pavement. In the face of all this, the
girl turned deliberately around and waved her hand as the car drove
off. Aaron Rodd limped down Bond Street, called for a taxi and drove
to the Milan Court....
His two auditors listened to Aaron Rodd's story with varying
expressions--the poet with pleased and affable sympathy; Harvey Grimm,
on the other hand, with obvious irritation. They were seated in a
corner of the smoke-room and the latter at once despatched a waiter for
a copy of the _Tatler_. When it arrived, they all three pored over one
of the leading illustrations. There was no doubt whatever in the minds
of any of the three men as to the identity of the girl who was depicted
as being amongst the ladies-in-waiting of a royal personage.
"That," the poet declared, "is a young lady whose name is Henriette de
Floge. She has an underhand service at Badminton and she wants to
learn to be a futurist. She attended a class last year, organised by
an artist friend of mine in Chelsea. Ye gods!"
"That, without a single doubt," Aaron Rodd assented, laying his
forefinger upon the illustration, "is the young lady who was in
attendance this afternoon upon the Princess Augusta."
"And it is equally and absolutely and conclusively certain," Harvey
Grimm pronounced, "that she came to Manchester Street, Adelphi, as the
confederate of Jeremiah Sands."
"Who," the poet asked eagerly, "is Jeremiah Sands? I like the name."
"Jeremiah Sands," Harvey Grimm told him, "is the head and brains of the
smallest but most formidable band of criminals who have ever succeeded
in eluding justice for nearly ten years. There is a reward of
twenty-five thousand dollars for his arrest in America, and he is
wanted in most of the capitals of Europe. He has a dozen aliases and a
score of personalities. This much about him is certain. He is either
of Belgian or French birth, he is a young man, and he has spent the
greater part of the last seven years in America. The universal excuse
given by the police of every country for their failure to apprehend
him, is that for at any rate the last five years he has simply
accumulated his booty and has made no effort to dispose of it. As you
know, most of the thieves of the world are traced backwards through the
receiver of stolen goods. His last exploit in New York was the theft
of the Van Hutten jewels. It was, without a doubt, one of those
diamonds which was mislaid in Aaron Rodd's office, and it was one of
Jeremiah Sands' agents who paid our friend here that last domiciliary
visit in search of it."
"What, by the by, became of that diamond?" the poet enquired.
"We are living upon it," Mr. Harvey Grimm confessed.
The poet sighed enviously.
"It is a beautiful existence," he declared. "When are we going to
embark upon another adventure of the sort?"
"The aftermath of the last one is still enveloping us," Mr. Harvey
Grimm reminded him. "There is Scotland Yard, who have seen the
imitation stone and who suspect us of changing it. Then there is Mr.
Jeremiah Sands, who knows that we did, and who is only just beginning
to realise that we have been clever enough to dispose of it. Finally,
there is Mr. Brodie, the amateur detective, who has the same idea and
who is furious with us for letting him down with the authorities.
Between the three, you see, our position is a little difficult.
Personally, I am much interested in our friend Aaron's account of his
conversation with the young lady. Her suggestion of some measure of
alliance appeals to me."
"And me," the poet agreed. "Let us approach them at once. I should
like to come into contact with this Jeremiah Sands."
There was a brief interval whilst a waiter deposited before them a tray
of cocktails, subtly ordered by the poet by means of sundry evolutions
with his forefinger. Afterwards, Mr. Harvey Grimm sat for a few
moments in silence, smoothing out his immaculate doeskin gloves.
"Listen," he said presently, after a cautious glance around the room,
"I will tell you my impressions. Jeremiah Sands has never been caught,
for two reasons--first, because he has stored up all his booty and has
never been in the hands of the receivers; secondly, because he has
hiding-places in every capital of Europe, all of them safer than London
or New York. At the present moment he is like a rabbit which has been
ferreted out of its hole. Europe is suddenly closed to him. He has
been driven to London. He is ill at ease here. He has lost many of
his agents. To maintain his Belgian nationality he has been forced
into the army. The perfect machinery of his wonderful system must be
seriously dislocated. The time, too, has probably arrived when he
finds it necessary to dispose of some of his plunder. Let us offer him
a tentative amity."
Aaron Rodd frowned.
"Do you think that he would trust us after that last little affair? I
don't mind being the thief or the thief-catcher," he added bluntly,
"but I rather hate being the third party."
"The only party we have to consider is ourselves," Harvey Grimm replied
deliberately. "To tell you the truth, I fear that we have lost the
confidence of Paul Brodie. I am not sure whether it would be worth our
while to try and regain it. The sharing of rewards is a poor game. I
would rather hear what Jeremiah Sands has to say."
He took up his pencil and scrawled a few lines across a half sheet of
note-paper. They both looked over his shoulder:--
"_If the young lady with violets would like to resume her
conversation with a certain person in Bond Street this morning,
please reply in Friday's 'Telegraph.'_"
"I propose," Mr. Harvey Grimm explained, "to insert this in to-morrow
morning's _Telegraph_, to send a copy to Mr. Brinnen and await results."
"Brilliant!" the poet exclaimed. "It gives the proper flavour to the
whole thing. But why not write a note and send it up by the waiter?"
Mr. Harvey Grimm smiled.
"My young friend," he said, "you are an adventurer of the bull-dog
type. Let me tell you this. I happen to know it to be a fact. From
the moment when Mr. Paul Brodie communicated his suspicions as to our
friends, to Scotland Yard, their every movement, and without doubt
their correspondence, has been closely watched. I will guarantee to
you that not a letter is delivered to either Captain Leopold Brinnen,
to Mr. Brinnen or to the young lady, which does not run a very
considerable risk of being opened."
The poet listened with a pleased smile.
"I like the flavour of this sort of thing," he acknowledged. "Let us
insert the advertisement, by all means. If the young lady suggests a
meeting, I shall recommend myself as the most suitable person to keep
the appointment."
* * * * *
Soon after midday, two mornings later, Mr. Stephen Cresswell entered
the smoking-room at the Milan. He was carrying a _Daily Telegraph_
under his arm, he wore a bunch of violets in his buttonhole, and he was
dressed with great care. He approached the table where Harvey Grimm
and Aaron Rodd were awaiting him.
"You, too, have seen the answer to our advertisement?" he exclaimed.
"Capital!"
"We were just now discussing it," Harvey Grimm assented.
The poet sat down, made signs to the waiter, hitched up his trousers
and made himself thoroughly comfortable.
"I have decided," he announced, "that I am the proper person to
entertain the young lady."
Harvey Grimm nodded thoughtfully.
"Tell us through what channel of thought, my young friend, you have
arrived at that conclusion?" he begged.
The poet straightened his tie. There was no doubt that he was a
remarkably good-looking young man.
"I am a modest person," he said, "but it is useless to deny that nature
has been kind to me. Then, too, there is a peculiar and romantic
importance attached to the successful poet whose reputation has been
enhanced in so singular a fashion. The young lady will be interested
in me from the start. She will be proud to remember that we are old
acquaintances, and she will treat me with greater confidence than any
ordinary person."
Harvey Grimm lit a cigarette deliberately. Aaron Rodd's heavy eyebrows
seemed to have contracted a little.
"Why are you so sure that it will be the young lady who will keep the
appointment?" the former enquired.
Stephen Cresswell placed his forefinger upon the advertisement in the
paper which he had been carrying:--
_Milan Café, luncheon,_ 1.15 _Wednesday. Will discuss. Bond
Street._
"That tells us nothing," Harvey Grimm pointed out. "So far as the
probabilities are concerned, I should say that it is extremely unlikely
that either the young lady or any of those associated with her will
keep the appointment. Any negotiations we may have will probably be
conducted through a third party."
The poet's face fell. He ordered another cocktail brusquely.
"How shall we know whom to look out for, then?" he demanded.
"The onus of recognition will rest with the others," Harvey Grimm
replied. "I have engaged a table just inside the door. We shall take
our places there before one-fifteen and await the arrival of whoever
may come."
"In case it should be the young lady," the poet persisted, "you would
find that my previous acquaintance with her would be of immense service
to us. She would place confidence in me."
"You shall be of the party," Harvey Grimm promised. "I have ordered
the table for five, so as to be on the safe side. I do not understand
our friends selecting a place for a meeting, but, on the other hand,
there is a flavour of genius in such apparent recklessness. If you are
ready, I think it is time that we made a start."
They strolled down to the café and took their places at a table just
inside the door. At precisely a quarter past one a little tremor of
excitement suddenly unloosed their tongues.
"My God!" Harvey Grimm muttered.
"They must be mad!" Aaron Rodd whispered, in a hoarse undertone.
"It is Henriette de Floge," Stephen Cresswell murmured complacently.
"You will perceive soon the advantage of my presence."
The girl approached their table smilingly. She was followed by the
young officer in Belgian uniform. The three men rose to their feet.
She smiled pleasantly at Aaron Rodd.
"You have not yet met my brother, have you?" she asked. "Let me
present Captain Leopold Brinnen--Mr. Aaron Rodd, Mr. Harvey Grimm,
and----"
She paused, with her eyes fixed questioningly upon the poet. The young
officer had brought his heels together and bowed ceremoniously to the
two men.
"I am not, I hope, forgotten," the poet observed. "My name is Stephen
Cresswell. I have had the pleasure of playing Badminton with you in
Walter Donne's studio."
She looked across at him with slightly upraised eyebrows, the faint
tracings of a somewhat insolent smile at the corners of her lips.
"Badminton? Is that an English game? I perceive that I have a double.
I have not played it."
"You are Mademoiselle de Floge?" the poet persisted.
She shook her head gently.
"On the contrary," she replied, "I am Henriette Brinnen. Leopold, this
is Mr. Stephen Cresswell."
They all took their places, the poet a little heavily. His
stupefaction, even though it proceeded from a different cause, was only
a little less profound than that of the other two. Mr. Harvey Grimm
took up the menu once more and gave a few murmured orders to the
_maître d'hôtel_. Aaron Rodd, who was on her right-hand side, leaned
towards the girl. His face was almost haggard with anxiety.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "but is this wise? Have you counted the
cost of it?"
"I do not understand," she answered, a little vaguely.
"You know that we are all watched," he reminded her. "We thought it
best even not to communicate with you direct."
"You three are such droll men," she laughed. "There is your
nice-looking friend, Mr. Stephen Cresswell, who sits there and will not
take his eyes off me. He does not believe that he has never met me
before. And Mr. Harvey Grimm--well, he does not seem a nervous person,
does he, and just now he is almost pale. And you, too--you speak with
bated breath of risks and being watched. How, then, do you carry
through your great coups, my friend? Have you not learnt the first
axiom of the adventurer--there is nothing which dispels suspicion so
readily as candour?"
Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders and busied himself with the task of
attending to his companion's wants. Conversation around the little
table became platitudinal. The three men, although they behaved in all
respects reasonably, were unable to keep their thoughts and attention
from wandering continually towards their slim, grave-looking young
guest in his somewhat battered uniform, who seemed chiefly engrossed
with his luncheon. It was hard to believe that he sat there in one of
the best-known restaurants in the world, with a great price upon his
head. In some respects he was like his sister, Aaron Rodd decided,
although there was a curious virility of expression which flashed
sometimes into his features, and a more calculating light in his hard,
clear eyes. His mouth was unusually long, straight and thin, his
cheekbones a little high. One could believe that, notwithstanding his
inconsiderable stature, his frame was like steel. He spoke English
very deliberately, with now and then the slightest American accent, but
on the few occasions when he addressed his sister it seemed to be a
relief for him to relapse into French. It was not until the coffee was
served that he leaned a little towards Harvey Grimm and dispelled by a
few words the atmosphere of unreality which had somehow or other
hovered over the little luncheon-party.
"Sir," he proposed, "let us approach the object of this meeting."
"With pleasure," Harvey Grimm assented.
"For some reason or other," the young man continued, "my sister,
although, as we know to our cost, her acquaintance with you so far has
not been altogether profitable, has confidence in you. Let us speak
frankly. You gentlemen, I believe, are what is generally known as
_chevaliers d'Industrie_?"
There was a sudden flush of colour in Aaron Rodd's cheeks. The poet,
who was a little sullen, distinctly scowled. Only Harvey Grimm bowed
placidly, seemingly unconscious of the faint note of contempt in the
other's tone.
"In the ordinary sense of the word, that is true," he admitted.
"Consider, then, our position," the young man continued. "My
grandfather and sister, whom I meet again after an absence of some
years, owing to the haste with which they were compelled to leave
Belgium, are almost penniless. My own--savings consist of perhaps half
a million pounds' worth of diamonds. These jewels," he went on,
knocking the ash from his cigarette, "have all been stolen. They can
only be disposed of in an irregular fashion. That is to say, the
stones must be recut. In normal times, this problem would present no
difficulties to me. To-day, when London is the only capital of Europe
open to us, I must admit that I find myself in a difficult position.
The few artificers in this country are, I understand, well known and
watched. I am bound, therefore, to employ an agent. Under the
peculiar circumstances to which I have alluded, I cannot seek for an
honest man. I am prepared to make it worth the while of men such as
yourselves to deal honestly with me."
"My brother has your English gift of plain speech, you see," the girl
whispered soothingly to Aaron Rodd.
The young officer lit a fresh cigarette and watched the smoke curl
upward for a moment.
"Surely it is best?" he said softly. "These gentlemen are at the
present moment living, and living, no doubt, exceedingly well, upon the
proceeds of one of my diamonds. They should not, therefore, be
sensitive."
"I may be allowed to remind you, sir," Harvey Grimm interrupted, "that,
incidentally, the little artifice by means of which we secured it is
responsible for your unhindered presence here to-day."
"I take that fact into consideration," Leopold Brinnen assented, "in
the toleration with which I view the circumstance. The point is, are
you willing to deal with me?"
"I am perfectly willing to do so, sir," Harvey Grimm replied. "I am
willing, too, and so, I am sure, are my friends, to take a certain
amount of risk. I may add that I am probably the only man in England
who can dispose of your jewels so that they cannot be traced, but
before we proceed further, let me ask you a question. Are you aware,
sir, of your position? There is an amateur detective here from New
York, named Paul Brodie, who has no other object in life than to lay
his hands upon a certain person. Scotland Yard, although just now they
are a little fed up with Mr. Brodie, have very definite intentions with
regard to the same person. You are living here openly. You are even
flaunting your well-known Belgian uniform. There are eyes upon us as
we sit at this table. There are eyes upon you and your sister and your
grandfather, from the moment you rise in the morning till the moment
you retire at night. Your rooms are at all times subject or liable to
be searched. Any place you might visit is liable to be searched. Let
me ask you, then, a plain question. More than any other quality I
admire courage. Don't you think, however, that you are playing a
little too near to the fire?"
The young officer stroked his thin black moustache. He had listened to
Harvey Grimm's words attentively. He even indicated, in the slow
movement of his head, some measure of approbation.
"To all that you have said, Mr. Harvey Grimm, I can make you only one
reply," he said. "Every step which I have taken in life has been
carefully thought out. The present position, although necessity has
here intervened to some extent, has been subject to the same attentive
consideration. I am safer than you think. Let that be enough. That I
have friends is proved by the little visitation which was made upon Mr.
Aaron Rodd the other day. I offer you no apologies, sir," he
continued, bowing across the table. "It was part of the game. When we
thrust the law outside our lives, as you have done and I, then we must
take our knocks philosophically. For the future, however, even though
we play the thieves' game, there is no reason why we should not play it
honestly."
"A very admirable sentiment," the poet murmured.
"To put this matter upon a business basis, Mr. Grimm," Captain Brinnen
continued, "supposing I supply you with a certain quantity of diamonds,
will you guarantee to have them cut as so to render them
unrecognisable, dispose of them, hand me two-thirds of the proceeds and
retain a third yourself?"
"I have worked before upon those terms," Harvey Grimm replied. "I
accept them. There is one little matter, though, to be cleared up."
Captain Brinnen smiled grimly.
"I fancy that I follow you," he observed. "You refer to the mysterious
disappearance of a diamond from your friend's office?"
Harvey Grimm coughed.
"Bearing in mind, as I took the liberty of pointing out a few minutes
ago, that its disappearance saved you from considerable
inconvenience----" he began.
"The affair is finished," Brinnen interrupted. "Carry out faithfully
the other transactions which we may arrange, and we will adopt--shall I
say a resigned attitude?--with regard to that incident. When are you
prepared to deal with the first parcel of stones?"
"At any moment," Harvey Grimm promised. "You will bring them to me?"
The girl, who had been listening eagerly to their conversation, leaned
across the table.
"I think," she said, "that this time you had better come and fetch
them, Mr. Grimm, or, better still--send Mr. Aaron Rodd."
"Or me," the poet suggested.
She shook her head.
"It is to be Mr. Aaron Rodd," she decided. "You will not be afraid?"
she added, turning towards him with a little smile at the corners of
her lips.
"Where am I to come to, and when?" he enquired.
She glanced at her brother, then back again towards her neighbour.
"I shall tell you presently," she whispered.
The little party broke up shortly afterwards. The hall outside, where
they lingered to make their adieux, was unusually crowded. Harvey
Grimm felt a touch upon his elbow.
"A pleasant luncheon, I trust?"
He frowned as he recognised Brodie, who was apparently waiting for a
friend. It was exactly the meeting which he had desired to avoid. He
greeted him, however, with his customary geniality.
"Lunching late, aren't you?" he observed.
Brodie seemed scarcely to hear him. His eyes were fixed upon the young
Belgian, who, with his arm in a sling, was being helped carefully into
his overcoat. Suddenly, however, he stretched out his arm, laid it
upon Harvey Grimm's shoulder and drew him to within whispering distance.
"See here, Harvey," he muttered, "I don't know what game you're
playing, but if any man tries to boost me, he's going to have a rough
journey."
Harvey Grimm was shocked.
"My dear fellow!----" he began.
"Don't waste your breath," the other interrupted, as he turned away.
"Remember I've got my eye on you, as well as our friend there. It may
be a waiting game, but you'll find me there at the finish, sure as my
name's Paul Brodie."
He strode off towards the telephone booth. Harvey Grimm found his hand
gripped by his guest.
"My sister and I thank you for a very excellent luncheon, Mr. Grimm,"
Captain Brinnen said politely. "I trust that you will soon give us an
opportunity of repaying your hospitality."
"You will come to me," the girl whispered in Aaron Rodd's ear, "at
number thirteen, Grosvenor Square, this afternoon at five o'clock...."
The poet was inclined to be peevish as the three men walked down the
Strand.
"In this adventure," he declared, "I do not see where I come in. Aaron
Rodd is to go and fetch the diamonds, and probably have tea with the
beautiful young lady who has changed her name, and you," he went on,
addressing Harvey Grimm, "thereupon vanish with the stones to your
mysterious treasure-house and return with the gold. I am simply not in
it. I might as well not exist."
"It is regrettable but true," Harvey Grimm assented. "Remember,
however, that you are a self-invited new-comer to our little circle. A
place shall be found for you presently. I can promise you that the
cycle of our adventures will not be ended with the realisation of
Jeremiah Sands' diamonds. This affair, unfortunately, presents no
opportunity for your activities. I do not propose, even, to offer you
more than a trifling share in the financial results."
"Financially," the poet announced airily, "I am independent. The taste
for my poetry has spread like a forest fire. There will be a trifle of
mine, by the by, in the _Pall Mall_ to-night. Don't forget to look out
for it."
Harvey Grimm for once was unsympathetic.
"Look here," he said, stopping suddenly, "I wish you'd forget your
poetry for a few minutes. There is just one way you can make yourself
useful. You saw a sleek, podgy, bulky, fat-faced looking man, with
hair brushed back, who spoke to me in the hall at the Milan?"
The poet nodded.
"I remember," he murmured, "wishing that you would allow me to edit
your acquaintances."
"That man," Harvey Grimm continued, "was Paul Brodie, an amateur
detective. He has set himself the task of bringing about the arrest of
Jeremiah Sands. He came to Europe with that idea. It was he who had
the old gentleman and his daughter taken to the police-station from my
rooms. We have been working together, but he's out with us now, and he
blames us for that fiasco. I should like to know why he is still
hanging about the Milan Court."
"I will return there," the poet promised. "I will endeavour to engage
him in conversation."
Harvey Grimm smiled pityingly.
"Oh, my ingenuous youth!" he murmured. "Your ideas of tackling a
detective are bright and engaging, yet, do your best. The very
imbecility of your methods may lead to success. I should very much
like to know where Paul Brodie is proposing to spend this afternoon."
Cresswell nodded in mysterious fashion and left them. Harvey Grimm
passed his arm through his friend's, as they turned into the little
street which led down to Aaron's Rodd's offices.
"Aaron," he said earnestly, "if your little expedition this afternoon
should by any chance involve you in any manner of trouble, remember
that there's one golden motto--silence. You make a cult of it in
private life. If anything should happen to you--don't depart from it."
* * * * *
At precisely the appointed hour, Aaron Rodd was shown by a footman in
deep black livery into a small but charmingly-furnished room in the
largest house which he had ever entered. On his way thither he had
caught the sound of many voices, laughing and talking, the tinkling of
teacups, the scraping of a violin. Evidently some sort of reception
was in progress, for outside a canvas shelter was stretched to the
curbstone, and a long row of automobiles and carriages was in evidence.
It was almost ten minutes before the door was abruptly opened and
Henriette Brinnen appeared. She had changed her clothes since
luncheon, and was wearing a gown of some soft grey material, and a
large hat with black feathers. In her hand she was carrying a small
brown paper package, sealed at both ends. The little smile with which
she welcomed him was bewildering.
"I have kept you waiting," she exclaimed, "and I must send you away
again quickly! Believe me, I am not always so inhospitable. This
afternoon, as it happens, Madame is receiving and I must help her. I
would ask you to come and be presented but it is more important that
you proceed swiftly with your mission."
"Of course," he assented, taking the parcel from her hand.
"Tell me first," she begged, keeping her fingers upon the closed door,
"why were you so sad and silent all luncheon-time?"
He laughed a little hardly, hesitated, and was suddenly frank.
"Because," he told her, "I have not yet got used to my new rôle in
life."
"But it is amusing, surely?"
"Perhaps I am old-fashioned," he sighed. "I rather resent being driven
into the crooked ways."
"You are thinking only of yourself, then?"
"To be perfectly truthful," he assured her, "I was thinking very little
of myself. I am afraid for you."
"But why for me?"
"Because you are reckless," he answered. "Your brother may be the
cleverest adventurer who ever kept the police at arm's length, but
there is always the risk. You cannot go on playing a part for ever.
You may hide at the Milan Court and call yourself what you will, and
the chances are with you, but to borrow some one else's identity, to
advertise yourself as the companion of a reigning princess, to occupy a
position of trust and favour in her household and help to receive her
guests, how long do you think that will go on?"
She laughed at him but her eyes were full of kindness.
"You speak only of my brother's cleverness," she said. "Is that
because I am a woman? Let me assure you, my dear friend, in many ways
I am his equal. Your fears are exaggerated. I am right, am I not,
when I assume that your present position is new to you?"
"It is," Aaron Rodd confessed. "Until these last few weeks--until the
day, in fact, when I first saw you in the Embankment Gardens and Harvey
Grimm sauntered, an hour later, into my office--I have lived miserably,
perhaps, but honestly."
She laughed once more in his face.
"Oh, but you are so foolish!" she murmured. "Believe me, no person is
really honest. We all live upon our neighbours. There is only one
thing in life which is common to all religions--honour. By honour I
mean fidelity to one's friends. Take that into your heart, dear Mr.
Aaron Rodd, and you can hold your head as high as any man's on earth."
He stooped and kissed her fingers as she stood by the open door, an
action, curiously enough, which he had never contemplated in his life
before in connection with any woman, yet which seemed to him at that
moment an entirely natural proceeding.
"That, at least," he promised, "is something which I can hold on to."
He descended the stairs, the clasp of her fingers still tingling on
his, was handed from the grave major-domo, who guarded the hall, to
another servant, and on to the footman, who summoned a taxicab for him.
He gave the address of his office and was driven promptly off. A few
yards from the corner of the Square, however, the taxicab slackened
speed and stopped by the side of the pavement. Almost before he
realised what was happening, the door was opened. An inspector, in
uniform and peaked cap, let down the vacant seat and sat opposite to
him. Mr. Paul Brodie, smoking a large cigar, followed and took the
place by his side. The cab went on. Aaron Rodd remained stonily
silent. The eyes of the two men were fixed upon the brown paper parcel
which he had had no time to conceal.
"Sorry to take you out of your way, Mr. Rodd," Brodie said, with
ponderous sarcasm, "but we just want you to call for a moment at the
Marlborough Street police-station. In the meantime, you wouldn't care
to tell us, I suppose, what you have in that small parcel you are
holding so carefully?"
Aaron Rodd sat perfectly still. A chain of wild ideas flashed through
his brain, only to be instantly dismissed. He thought of throwing the
parcel out of the window, hurling himself upon the two men and making a
fierce struggle for liberty. There was something ignominious in the
facility of his capture, in the completeness of his failure. Yet he
realised perfectly well that escape by any means was hopeless, that
behaviour of any sort incompatible with his supposed position would be
an instant confession of guilt.
"I am engaged on confidential business on behalf of a client," he
announced stiffly, "and I cannot conceive what authority you have to
delay me or to ask me questions."
Mr. Brodie nodded sympathetically.
"That's perfectly correct," he admitted, "perfectly correct."
Not another word was spoken until the cab drew up outside the
police-station. Mr. Brodie paid the taxicab driver, and Aaron Rodd,
with an escort on either side of him, crossed the pavement, passed
through the bare stone hall and into a small waiting-room. A
superintendent, who was writing at a desk, glanced up as they entered.
Mr. Brodie leaned down and said a few words in his ear. The former
nodded and turned to Aaron Rodd.
"Have you any objection," he asked, "to our examining the parcel which
you are carrying?"
"None whatever," Aaron Rodd answered coolly.
Mr. Brodie took it from him and carried it to the desk. The
superintendent broke the seals and withdrew the lid from an oblong
wooden jeweller's box. There was a mass of cotton-wool inside, which
he hastily removed. Then his fingers suddenly stopped. He gazed
downwards and frowned. Mr. Brodie's face was a study. The
imprecations which broke from his lips were transatlantic and
sufficing. Aaron Rodd, emboldened by their consternation, stepped
forward and looked over their shoulders. At the bottom of the box
reposed a small, black opal scarf-pin, the safety-chain of which was
broken. The superintendent rose to his feet, whispered something
sharply to Mr. Brodie, who lapsed into a gloomy silence, and turned to
Aaron Rodd.
"Do you mind telling me where you were taking this box, Mr. Rodd?" he
asked.
"To a jeweller's, to have the pin mended," was the prompt reply.
The superintendent replaced the wadding, thrust the lid back along its
grooves, tied up the box and returned it to its owner.
"We are very sorry to have interfered with your mission," he said, "but
before you leave us I am going to ask you, so that we may be perfectly
satisfied, to allow me to search your person."
Aaron Rodd shrugged his shoulders.
"Pray do as you will," he consented, holding out his arms.
The superintendent went carefully through his pockets, felt his
clothing and returned to his place.
"We are very sorry to have detained you, sir," he said, "the
necessities of the law, you know. Inspector, get Mr. Rodd another
taxi-cab."
"I know something about the law," Aaron Rodd declared, trying hard to
feel that this was not some absurd nightmare, "and I still fail to
realise on what possible authority you can practically arrest a
solicitor leaving the house of an exceedingly distinguished client,
break the seals of a private packet, and dismiss him without a word of
explanation."
The superintendent glanced severely at Mr. Brodie.
"We are unfortunately in the position, Mr. Rodd," he confessed, "of
having been misled by false information. We can do no more nor less
than apologise. Our action, mistaken though it seems to have been, was
undertaken in the interests of the law, with the profession of which
you are connected. I hope, therefore, that you will be tolerant."
Aaron Rodd received his packet, wished the three men a brief "Good
afternoon" and left the police-station. He drove at once to his
office, where he found the poet reclining on three chairs drawn up to
the window, with a block of paper in his hand and a pipe in his mouth.
"Where's Harvey Grimm?" Aaron demanded.
The poet laid down his pencil and waved his hand.
"Gone!"
"Gone? Where?"
"I have no idea," was the bland reply. "I spent an hour or two at the
Milan, conversing with several friends, and incidentally looking out
for Mr. Brodie. Then an idea came to me. I needed space and solitude.
I thought of your empty rooms and I hastened here. If you would like
to listen----"
"Damn your poetry!" Aaron Rodd interrupted. "Tell me what you mean
when you say that Harvey Grimm has gone? He was to have been waiting
here for me."
"As I left the Milan," the poet explained, "I enquired of the
hall-porter if Mr. Harvey Grimm had returned. The man told me that not
only had he returned but that he had left again in a taxicab, a few
minutes afterwards. I understood the fellow to say that he had gone
into the country and would not be back for several days."
Aaron Rodd put his hand to his forehead. Already a dim suspicion of
the truth was finding its way into his brain. Then there was a gentle
tinkle from the bell of his newly installed telephone. He took up the
receiver. The voice which spoke was the voice of Harvey Grimm.
"That you, Aaron?"
"Yes!"
"Anything happened?"
"Yes!"
"It's O.K. You needn't explain. Back in about a week. So long."
Aaron Rodd laid down the receiver. He was still a little bewildered,
oppressed by a certain sense of humiliation. He threw the packet which
he had been carrying so carefully upon his desk and scowled.
"What's upset you?" Cresswell asked amiably.
"Seems to me I'm nothing but a cat's-paw," Aaron Rodd replied gloomily.
"A messenger boy could have done my job."
"Don't worry," the poet advised. "By the by, you don't happen to know
of a rhyme for silken, do you?"
The telephone bell, ringing once more, intervened to save the poet from
the ink-pot which Aaron's fingers were handling longingly.
"What is it?" he demanded, taking up the receiver.
"Just a little message for Mr. Aaron Rodd, please," was the soft reply.
"Please forgive me--it was so necessary. And the pin was for you--a
little peace-offering. Will you please have the chain mended and wear
it?"
That was all. There was no pause for any reply. The connection was
finished. Aaron laid down the receiver, lit a cigarette and almost
swaggered back to his desk.
"Sorry, old fellow," he said genially. "I can't seem to think of one
for the moment. I'll have a try."
_Chapter IV_ _Ulysses of Wapping_
On the following morning, Aaron Rodd, somewhat to his surprise,
received a visit from his only client. Mr. Jacob Potts, who was a
publican and retired pugilist, and whose appearance entirely coincided
with his dual profession, looked around the apartment with a little
sniff.
"Ho!" he exclaimed. "Better times arrived, eh? 'Ad a spring-cleaning,
'aven't you? Telephone, too, and new chairs! Golly! Does it run to
cigars?"
Aaron Rodd shamelessly offered him a box of Harvey Grimm's Cabanas.
His client bit off the end of one with relish and seemed inclined to
swallow it. He eventually spat it out, however, lit the cigar, and,
throwing himself back in a chair, crossed his rather pudgy legs.
"Know anything about maritime law?" he began.
"Not much," Aaron Rodd admitted. "A lawyer very seldom knows anything
outside his little bent," he went on. "We have great rows of books
properly indexed, turn up the point and read the decisions."
"Where are your'n?" Mr. Jacob Potts enquired, looking around the
somewhat bare walls.
"Pawned," Aaron Rodd confessed. "All the same, I can go into the law
library and give you an answer on any point you like to put forward,
within a very few minutes."
Mr. Potts nodded.
"That's why I kind of took a fancy to you years ago, when you was a
nipper," he confessed. "No doubling and twisting about you. Just a
straightforward answer to a straightforward question. 'Do you know
anything about maritime law?' sez I. 'No,' sez you, 'but I can find
out.' And so you can. Now, one of the regular kidney of you fellows'd
have been messing about for half an hour and then have read it all out
of a book. You never tumbled to it yet, guv'nor, did you, what my new
line of business was?"
"Never," Aaron Rodd acknowledged. "From your conversation at various
times I gathered that you saved money in the ring, acquired a
prosperous public-house property, and were in some way or other
responsible for the organisation of labour in your neighbourhood."
Mr. Jacob Potts grinned.
"Let it go at that," he decided. "Well, the point I want to know about
is this. Supposing in the course of business I committed an offence
against the law, you understand, and I legs it for a nootral country,
you see--might be Holland, for instance--can I be 'auled off a Dutch
boat in nootral waters on my way to Holland?"
"It would depend," Aaron Rodd replied, "on the nature of your offence.
I will let you know your exact position, if you like to come in a
little later."
"That goes," Mr. Potts agreed. "I've a call to make at a public-house
in Craven Street. There's a promising lad there I saw with the gloves
on for the first time in 'is life the other night. I thought of making
a match with 'im against Canary Joe. 'Ave you ever seen Canary Joe
box?"
"I have never seen a boxing match in my life," Aaron Rodd replied.
"Lumme!" Mr. Jacob Potts gasped. "Well, I suppose yours ain't a
sporting profession. Mine is--in every sense of the word," he added
with a grin. "What about twelve o'clock, guv'nor? That'll give me
time to get a can of beer and some bread and cheese."
"I shall be quite ready for you at that time," Aaron Rodd promised.
The ex-publican departed, and Aaron Rodd, after giving him time to get
away, followed him out into the street, spent half an hour in the
nearest law library, and returned with a volume under his arm. He
found the poet seated on the top of the stairs outside his rooms.
"My dear fellow," the latter exclaimed peevishly, as he rose to his
feet, "this new habit of yours of locking the door after you is most
inconvenient."
"Why not go to your club and wait?" Aaron Rodd suggested. "It's only a
few yards away."
"Inhospitable," the other sighed, "and I have come to you filled with a
most generous idea. Listen. This may seem a commonplace thing to you
but to me it is an epoch in my career. I have opened a banking
account."
"I noticed that the book-shop was thronged, as usual, as I came by,"
Aaron Rodd remarked.
"This week," the poet declared solemnly, "will practically sever my
connection with the book-shop. My publishers insist upon it that my
work must be distributed in the regular fashion. Henceforth, the poems
of Stephen Cresswell will be on sale at every reputable
bookseller's--at four and sixpence, if you please. I have also an
agent, and, as I before remarked, a banking account. Things have
changed with me, Aaron Rodd. Only yesterday I found myself in need of
a ten-pound note, referred the matter to my publishers and found them
most affable.... How are adventures this morning?"
"Nothing doing," was the prompt reply, "until Harvey Grimm comes back.
My only client has been to ask me a question about maritime law. He is
coming back directly."
The poet ignored the hint.
"My presence here will do you good," he pointed out. "He will perhaps
take me for another client. He is not a man of culture by any chance?"
"He is not," Aaron Rodd admitted tersely; "nor is he one of those who
have been whacked into reading one of your poems."
"He must have read about them, at any rate," Cresswell insisted a
little irritably. "If you introduce me, you had better mention my
identity. Fame so far has left me quite unspoiled. I still feel a
little thrill of pleasure in noticing the effect which the mention of
my name has upon strangers.... Come in," he added pleasantly, in
response to a thunderous knock at the door.
The door opened and Mr. Jacob Potts entered, bringing with him a strong
atmosphere of old ale and bread and cheese. To Aaron Rodd's surprise,
he recognised the poet with a broad grin.
"My Ulysses of Wapping!" the latter exclaimed, holding out his hand.
"What a meeting!"
Mr. Jacob Potts jerked his thumb towards Cresswell as he turned to the
lawyer.
"One of my clients," he remarked.
Aaron Rodd was puzzled. He had once paid a visit to the river-side
public-house over which Jacob Potts presided, and he found it hard to
associate Cresswell in any way with the atmosphere there. Mr. Jacob
Potts had pressed a thick forefinger to his lips.
"Mum's the word, guv'nor," he declared reassuringly. "Don't you worry."
The poet picked up his hat.
"From this gentleman," he asserted grandiloquently, "I have no secrets.
To be frank with you, it was he and another friend who are responsible
for those incidents in my career with which you have been
professionally connected."
Mr. Jacob Potts glanced at him admiringly.
"That's 'ow 'e talks down at Wapping. Ain't it wonderful!" he observed.
Stephen Cresswell edged towards the door.
"When you have finished with our friend here," he said, addressing
Aaron, "come across to the Milan. I have a proposition to make anent
the opening of my banking account. It is connected with food and
drink. Au revoir! Farewell, my river-side Goliath," he added, waving
his hand to Jacob Potts. "Remember, our little bargain still goes."
Mr. Potts' large face was convulsed into humorous wrinkles.
"That's a queer gent.," he declared, as the door closed. "Come to me,
'e did, sometime ago--heard I'd been a bit of a bruiser and asked me to
teach him a knock-out blow, something quick and not dangerous. Lord
love me, I used to let 'im go on, and give 'im 'is fill o' beer, for
the sake of hearing 'im talk! 'Ow I larfed when I tumbled to 'is
game--me and the missis! He'd written some stuff wot no one would
read, and 'is idea was to advertise it. Up you goes to an old gent at
a dark corner. ''Ave you read my book?' he arsks. 'No!' sez the old
gent. 'Cresswell's Poems, eightpence a copy, number thirty-two
Manchester Street,' he sez, and biffs 'im one. Then other nervous old
gents, 'ear about this and buys the poems, give the proper answer when
they're tackled and 'ome they goes to tea. 'Oly Moses, it was a great
scheme, but it was a greater before I'd done with it!"
"Where did you come in?" Aaron Rodd asked curiously.