MR. SCOBBS OF RED HORSE VALLEY
Mr. White, managing director of Punsonby's Store, was a man of simple
tastes. He had a horror of extravagance and it was his boast that he had
never ridden in a taxi-cab save as the guest of some other person who
paid. He travelled by tube or omnibus from the Bayswater Road, where he
lived what he described as his private life. He lunched in the staff
dining-room, punctiliously paying his bill; he dined at home in solitary
state, for he had neither chick nor child, heir or wife. Once an elder
sister had lived with him and had died (according to the popularly
accepted idea) of slow starvation, for he was a frugal man.
It seems the fate of apparently rich and frugal men that they either die
and leave their hoardings to the State or else they disappear, leaving
behind them monumental debts. The latter have apparently no vices; even
the harassed accountant who disentangles their estates cannot discover
the channel through which their hundreds of thousands have poured. The
money has gone and, if astute detectives bring back the defaulter from
the pleasant life which the Southern American cities offer to rich
idlers, he is hopelessly vague as to the method by which it went.
Mr. Lassimus White was the managing director and general manager of
Punsonby's. He held, or was supposed to hold, a third of the shares in
that concern, shares which he had inherited from John Punsonby, his
uncle, and the founder of the firm. He drew a princely salary and a
substantial dividend, he was listed as a debenture holder and was
accounted a rich man.
But Mr. White was not rich. His salary and his dividends were absorbed
by a mysterious agency which called itself the Union Jack Investment and
Mortgage Corporation, which paid premiums on Mr. White's heavy life
insurance and collected the whole or nearly the whole of his income. His
secret, well guarded as it was, need be no secret to the reader. Mr.
White, who had never touched a playing-card in his life and who grew
apoplectic at the sin and shame of playing the races, was an inveterate
gambler. His passion was for Sunken Treasure Syndicates, formed to
recover golden ingots from ships of the Spanish Armada; for companies
that set forth to harness the horse-power of the sea to the services of
commerce; for optimistic companies that discovered radium mines in the
Ural Mountains--anything which promised a steady three hundred per cent.
per annum on an initial investment had an irresistible attraction for
Mr. White, who argued that some day something would really fulfil
expectations and his losses would be recovered.
In the meantime he was in the hands of Moss Ibramovitch, trading as the
Union Jack Investment and Mortgage Corporation, licensed and registered
as a moneylender according to law. And being in the hands of this
gentleman, was much less satisfactory and infinitely more expensive than
being in the hands of the bankruptcy officials.
In the evening of the day Oliva Cresswell had started working for her
new employer, Mr. White stalked forth from his gloomy house and his
departure was watched by the two tough females who kept house for him,
with every pleasure. He strutted eastward swinging his umbrella, his
head well back, his eyes half-closed, his massive waistcoat curving
regally. His silk hat was pushed back from his forehead and the
pince-nez he carried, but so seldom wore, swung from the cord he held
before him in that dead-mouse manner which important men affect.
He had often been mistaken for a Fellow of the Royal Society, so learned
and detached was his bearing. Yet no speculation upon the origin of
species or the function of the nebulae filled his mind.
At a moment of great stress and distraction, Dr. van Heerden had arisen
above his horizon, and there was something in Dr. van Heerden's manner
which inspired confidence and respect. They had met by accident at a
meeting held to liquidate the Shining Strand Alluvial Gold Mining
Company--a concern which had started forth in the happiest circumstances
to extract the fabulous riches which had been discovered by an American
philanthropist (he is now selling Real Estate by correspondence) on a
Southern Pacific island.
Van Heerden was not a shareholder, but he was intensely interested in
the kind of people who subscribe for shares in Dreamland Gold mines. Mr.
White had attended incognito--his shares were held in the name of his
lawyer, who was thinking seriously of building an annex to hold the
unprofitable scrip.
Mr. White was gratified to discover a kindred soul who believed in this
kind of speculation.
It was to the doctor's apartment that he was now walking. That gentleman
met him in the entrance and accompanied him to his room. There was a
light in the fanlight of Oliva's flat, for she had brought some of her
work home to finish, but Mr. Beale's flat was dark.
This the doctor noted before he closed his own door, and switched on the
light.
"Well, White, have you made up your mind?" he demanded without
preliminary.
"I--ah--have and I--ah--have not," said the cautious adventurer. "Forty
thousand is a lot of money--a fortune, one might say--yes, a fortune."
"Have you raised it?"
Mr. White sniffed his objection to this direct examination.
"My broker has very kindly realized the debentures--I am--ah--somewhat
indebted to him, and it was necessary to secure his permission and--yes,
I have the money at my bank."
He gazed benignly at the other, as one who conferred a favour by the
mere bestowal of his confidences.
"First, doctor--forgive me if I am a little cautious; first I say, it is
necessary that I should know a little more about your remarkable scheme,
for remarkable I am sure it is."
The doctor poured out a whisky and soda and passed the glass to his
visitor, who smilingly waved it aside.
"Wine is a mocker," he said, "nothing stronger than cider has ever
passed my lips--pray do not be offended."
"And yet I seem to remember that you held shares in the Northern Saloon
Trust," said the doctor, with a little curl of his bearded lips.
"That," said Mr. White hastily, "was a purely commercial--ah--affair. In
business one must exploit even the--ah--sins and weaknesses of our
fellows."
"As to my scheme," said the doctor, changing the subject, "I'm afraid I
must ask you to invest in the dark. I can promise you that you will get
your capital back a hundred times over. I realize that you have heard
that sort of thing before, and that my suggestion has all the appearance
of a confidence trick, except that I do not offer you even the
substantial security of a gold brick. I may not use your money--I
believe that I shall not. On the other hand, I may. If it is to be of
any use to me it must be in my hands very soon--to-morrow."
He wandered restlessly about the room as he spoke, and jerked his
sentences out now to Mr. White's face, now over his shoulder.
"I will tell you this," he went on, "my scheme within the narrow
interpretation of the law is illegal--don't mistake me, there is no
danger to those who invest in ignorance. I will bear the full burden of
responsibility. You can come in or you can stay out, but if you come in
I shall ask you never to mention the name of the enterprise to a living
soul."
"The Green Rust Syndicate?" whispered Mr. White fearfully. "What--ah--is
Green Rust?"
"I have offered the scheme to my--to a Government. But they are scared
of touching it. Scared, by Jove!" He threw up his arms to the ceiling
and his voice trembled with passion. "Germany scared! And there was a
time when Europe cringed at the clank of the Prussian sword! When the
lightest word of Potsdam set ministries trembling in Petrograd and
London. You told me the other day you were a pacifist during the war and
that you sympathized with Prussia in her humiliation. I am a Prussian,
why should I deny it? I glory in the religion of might--I believe it
were better that the old civilization were stamped into the mud of
oblivion than that Prussian Kultur should be swept away by the
licentious French, the mercenary English----"
"British," murmured Mr. White.
"And the dollar-hunting Yankees--but I'm making a fool of myself."
With an effort he regained his calm.
"The war's over and done with. As I say, I offered my Government my
secret. They thought it good but could not help me. They were afraid
that the League would come to learn they were supporting it. They'll
help me in other ways--innocent ways. If this scheme goes through they
will put the full resources of the State at my disposal."
Mr. White rose, groped for his hat and cleared his throat.
"Dr.--ah--van Heerden, you may be sure that I shall--ah--respect your
confidence. With your very natural indignation I am in complete
sympathy.
"But let us forget, ah--that you have spoken at all about the scheme in
any detail--especially in so far as to its legality or otherwise. Let us
forget, sir "--Mr. White thrust his hand into the bosom of his coat, an
attitude he associated with the subtle rhetoric of statesmanship. "Let
us forget all, save this, that you invite me to subscribe L40,000 to a
syndicate for--ah--let us say model dwellings for the working classes,
and that I am willing to subscribe, and in proof of my willingness will
send you by the night's post a cheque for that amount. Good night,
doctor."
He shook hands, pulled his hat down upon his head, opened the door and
ran into the arms of a man whose hand was at that moment raised to press
the electric bell-push by the side of the door.
Both started back.
"Excuse me," mumbled Mr. White, and hurried down the stairs.
Dr. van Heerden glared at the visitor, white with rage.
"Come in, you fool!" he hissed, and half-dragged the man into his room,
"what made you leave Scotland?"
"Scotland I hate!" said the visitor huskily. "Sticking a fellow away in
the wilds of the beastly mountains, eh? That's not playing the game, my
cheery sportsman."
"When did you arrive?" asked van Heerden quickly.
"Seven p.m. Travelled third class! Me! Is it not the most absurd
position for a man of my parts--third class, with foul and common
people--I'd like to rip them all up--I would, by heavens!"
The doctor surveyed the coarse, drink-bloated face, the loose, weak
mouth, half-smiled at the vanity of the dangling monocle and pointed to
the decanter.
"You did wrong to come," he said, "I have arranged your passage to
Canada next week."
"I'll not go!" said the man, tossing down a drink and wiping his lips
with a not over-clean handkerchief. "Curse me, van Heerden, why should I
hide and fly like a--a----"
"Like a man who escaped from Cayenne," suggested the doctor, "or like a
man who is wanted by the police of three countries for crimes ranging
from arson to wilful murder."
The man shuddered.
"All fair fights, my dear fellow," he said more mildly, "if I hadn't
been a boastful, drunken sot, you wouldn't have heard of 'em--you
wouldn't, curse you. I was mad! I had you in my hand like that!" He
closed a not over-clean fist under van Heerden's nose. "I saw it all,
all, I saw you bullying the poor devil, shaking some secret out of him,
I saw you knife him----"
"Hush!" hissed van Heerden. "You fool--people can hear through these
walls."
"But there are no windows to see through," leered the man, "and I _saw_!
He came out of his death-trance to denounce you, by Jove! I heard him
shout and I saw you run in and lay him down--lay him down! Lay him out
is better! You killed him to shut his mouth, my bonnie doctor!"
Van Heerden's face was as white as a sheet, but the hand he raised to
his lips was without a tremor.
"You were lucky to find me that night, dear lad," the man went on. "I
was in a mind to split on you."
"You have no cause to regret my finding you, Jackson," said the doctor.
"I suppose you still call yourself by that name?"
"Yes, Jackson," said the other promptly. "Jack--son, son of Jack. Fine
name, eh--good enough for me and good enough for anybody else. Yes, you
found me and done me well. I wish you hadn't. How I wish you hadn't."
"Ungrateful fool!" said van Heerden. "I probably saved your life--hid
you in Eastbourne, took you to London, whilst the police were searching
for you."
"For me!" snarled the other. "A low trick, by the Everlasting
Virtues----!"
"Don't be an idiot--whose word would they have taken, yours or mine? Now
let's talk--on Thursday next you sail for Quebec...."
He detailed his instructions at length and the man called Jackson,
mellowed by repeated visits to the decanter, listened and even approved.
On the other side of the hallway, behind the closed door, Oliva
Cresswell, her dining-table covered with papers and books, was working
hard.
She was particularly anxious to show Mr. Beale a sample of her work in
the morning and was making a fair copy of what she had described to him
that afternoon as her "hotel list."
"They are such queer names," she said; "there is one called Scobbs of
Red Horse Valley--Scobbs!"
He had laughed.
"Strangely enough, I know Mr. Scobbs, who is quite a personage in that
part of the world. He owns a chain of hotels in Western Canada. You
mustn't leave him out."
Even had she wished to, or even had the name been overlooked once, she
could not have escaped it. For Jonas Scobbs was the proprietor of
Scobbs' Hotel in Falling Star City; of the Bellevue in Snakefence, of
the Palace Hotel in Portage.
After awhile it began to lose its novelty and she accepted the discovery
of unsuspected properties of Mr. Scobbs as inevitable.
She filled in the last ruled sheet and blotted it, gathered the sheets
together and fastened them with a clip.
She yawned as she rose and realized that her previous night's sleep had
been fitful.
She wondered as she began to undress if she would dream of Scobbs
or--no, she didn't want to dream of big-headed men with white faces, and
the thought awoke a doubt in her mind. Had she bolted the door of the
flat? She went along the passage in her stockinged feet, shot the bolts
smoothly and was aware of voices outside. They came to her clearly
through the ventilator above the fanlight.
She heard the doctor say something and then a voice which she had not
heard before.
"Don't worry--I've a wonderful memory, by Jove!..."
The murmur of the doctor did not reach her, but----
"Yes, yes ... Scobbs' Hotel, Red Horse Valley ... know the place well
... good night, dear old thing...."
A door banged, an uncertain footstep died away in the well of the stairs
below, and she was left to recover from her amazement.