The sensation of the next day’s Stock Exchange was the unsuccessfulness
of the attempts of Simon Lock’s brokers--he employed several different
firms--to buy La Princesse shares. It was not definitely stated who
wanted these shares, but everyone seemed to be aware that Simon Lock was
the man in the hole. The Exchange laughed quietly to itself; it did not
dare to laugh aloud, for Simon Lock was still a person to be feared.
Not a single share was to be obtained at any price; they had all been
withdrawn from the market. In vain Simon Lock tried to discover
the holders. The identity of the holders seemed to be wrapped in
impenetrable mystery. He went to one man, a member of the Westralian
market, who varied the excitements of the Exchange by the excitements
of prodigious play at Monte Carlo, and took him out to lunch. The great
Simon Lock actually took this man, a nonentity in the distinguished
financial circles in which Simon moved, out to lunch at a famous and
expensive restaurant, where those City men who want real turtle soup can
always get it.
‘My people sold you ten thousand Princesse shares the other day,’ said
Simon Lock ingratiatingly to this man.
‘True,’ said the man cautiously, ‘at three.’ ‘Just so,’ said Lock; ‘and
we have to deliver in a week.’
‘In a week,’ repeated the man absently.
‘Well, look here,’ said Simon Lock, making a sudden plunge, ‘we don’t
want to deliver; it doesn’t suit us. See?’
‘You don’t want to deliver? Why not?’ ‘Never mind why. The question is,
what will you take to release us from the contract?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ll release us for nothing?’
‘I mean I can’t release you, Mr. Lock,’ said the man with formal
politeness. ‘My clients have given me positive instructions.’
‘Who are your clients?’
‘That I am not at liberty to say.’
‘Tell me who your clients are,’ said Simon Lock, ‘and I’ll give you five
thousand down.’
The man shook his head sadly. He would have liked that five thousand,
but he dared not accept it.
‘Are you acting for Gaunt and Griffiths?’ asked Simon Lock.
‘No,’ said the man, glad to be able to give a positive answer.
‘Waiter, the bill,’ Simon Lock cried, and then gave a sigh.
The bill came to thirty shillings--thirty shillings wasted! He reflected
that in a few weeks’ time, unless something happened, he might be in
serious need of that thirty shillings. Nevertheless, such is human
nature, the idea of Simon Lock being hard up for thirty shillings was so
amusing to him that he could not dismiss a smile. The other man wondered
what evil that smile portended.
Simon Lock proceeded from the restaurant to the offices of Gaunt and
Griffiths. He demanded to see Mr. Gaunt, the venerable head of the firm,
and Mr. Gaunt kept him, Simon Lock, waiting ten minutes! Simon Lock had
not suffered such an insult for years. At his name the most obdurate
doors were accustomed to open instantly.
‘Well, Mr. Gaunt,’ he said, with an affectation of breezy familiarity,
when at length he was admitted, ‘I’ve just called about the matter of
those Princesse shares. How many can you offer?’
‘We can offer ten thousand, Mr. Lock.’
‘At thirty-five?’
‘At thirty-five.’
‘That means three hundred and fifty thousand pounds for your holding?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t you wish you may get it, Mr. Gaunt? Eh! eh!’
He laughed gaily, but suddenly it occurred to him that his laugh sounded
hollow and foolish, and he stopped.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr. Gaunt gravely.
‘I mean,’ said Simon Lock lamely, ‘that the price is, of course, a fancy
one. You know the market is a bit tight, and you’re playing a game.
You’ll take less than thirty-five if you really want to sell.’
‘Our firm is not in the habit of playing games, Mr. Lock. And, by the
way, your last words bring us to the point. You say “if we really want
to sell.” The fact is, we don’t want to sell. You will remember that it
was you who came first to us to ask if we had any shares to offer. We
made inquiries, and found some. Our clients----’
‘Would you mind telling me,’ Simon Lock interrupted, ‘who your clients
are?’
‘It would be useless for you to approach them personally,’ said Mr.
Gaunt.
‘I don’t want to approach them personally. I shall not dream of such
a breach of etiquette,’ said Simon Lock, with an assumed fervour of
righteousness. ‘I merely wanted to know, out of curiosity.’
‘I regret that I cannot satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Lock.’
‘Then that is your last word, Mr. Gaunt--ten thousand at thirty-five?’
A boy entered with a telegram, which Mr. Gaunt perused slowly through
his gold-rimmed spectacles.
‘No,’ said Mr. Gaunt; ‘I regret to say---at forty. I have just received
further instructions by telegraph.’
He waved the telegram in the air.
Simon Lock’s face grew ugly, and he spoke with ominous coldness.
‘Someone seems disposed to make fun of me, Mr. Gaunt,’ he said. ‘I don’t
know who it is, but I shall find out; and when I do find out, there will
be trouble for that someone. I’ll let this cursed city know that Simon
Lock is not to be trifled with.’
‘Good-day,’ said Mr. Gaunt calmly.
[Illustration: 0232]
Simon Lock went out furious. On the pavement outside he met the
office-boy who had brought in the telegram to Mr. Gaunt.
‘Where are you going to, my boy?’ asked Simon Lock kindly.
‘To the post-office, sir,’ said the boy.
‘So am I. Now would you like to earn a couple of sovereigns easily?’
Simon Lock inquired.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy, and added, ‘if it’s all square. Sovereigns
ain’t flying about, you know.’
‘It’s all square. You won’t do any harm to anyone by earning it. All I
want you to do is to go into the post-office and say that on the last
telegram sent to your firm the name of the office of despatch isn’t
stamped clearly. Ask them to refer and tell you what it is. They know
you, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Well, run along.’
The boy, dazzled by the glitter of sovereigns, went. Simon Lock waited
for him outside the post-office.
‘What’s the answer?’ he asked when the boy came out.
‘They said I ought to have brought the form with me,’ said the boy,
‘but I talked to ’em like a father. I reckon I know how to manage them
girls.’
‘And what’s the name of the place?’
‘Hockliffe.’
‘Here’s your two sovereigns,’ said Simon Lock gladly.
The lad capered down the street in the exuberance of joy.
Simon had learnt something. And yet, when he thought over what he had
learnt, he seemed to think somehow that it was valueless to him. He had
guessed all along who was at the bottom of the La Princesse business.
His guess had been confirmed--that was all. He had threatened that, when
he knew, he would do such and such dreadful things; but what could he,
in fact, do? Should he send for Raphael Craig and threaten him? With
what? It would be absurd to threaten with dismissal from a post worth
at most a thousand a year a man who stood to gain hundreds of thousands
from you. No; that manoeuvre would not serve. At last he decided that
he would pay a surprise visit of inspection to the Kilburn office of the
British and Scottish Bank, and then act as circumstances dictated.
He jumped into a hansom.
‘Kilburn,’ he said shortly.
‘What ho!’ exclaimed the driver, not caring for such a long journey;
‘Kilburn, eh? What’s the matter with the Tuppenny Toob?’
However, Simon Lock insisted on being driven to Kilburn, and was duly
driven thither, though at a pace which suited the horse better than it
suited Simon Lock. The latter revenged himself--but not on the horse--by
paying the precise legal fare.
He walked into the bank. No one knew him. His august presence caused no
flutter of excitement. The cashier inquired briefly what he wanted.
‘The manager,’ said Simon Lock.
‘Mr. Craig?’
‘If you please.’
‘Mr. Craig is taking his annual holiday.’
‘Thanks,’ said Simon Lock, grinding his teeth, and walked out. He had
experienced exactly the same rebuff as Richard Redgrave a few days
previously.
That evening, though he had several engagements, including one to dine
at the house of a Marquis in Park Lane, Simon Lock dined at home in
Manchester Square. The entire household trembled, for the formidable
widower was obviously in a silent and bitter rage. He found the
indefatigable Oakley in the library.
‘Has that ass Custer been here again?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ said Oakley; ‘that ass Sir Arthur Custer has not been here
within my knowledge.’
Many a clerk of Simon Lock’s had suffered sudden dismissal for a far
slighter peccadillo than this sally on the part of Mr. Oakley. The fact
was, Simon Lock was too surprised at the pleasantry, coming as it did
from a man who seldom joked, to take any practical notice of it. The two
men--the clerk and the Napoleon of finance--glanced at each other.
‘You are in a devilish merry humour tonight, Oakley!’ exclaimed Simon
Lock.
‘It is my birthday, sir.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Between thirty and sixty, sir.’
‘Listen,’ said Lock: ‘you shall come and dine with me. I never knew you
in this mood before. I don’t feel like laughing myself, and I may give
you the sack before we get past the fish; but come if you like.’
‘With pleasure, sir.’
So they dined together in the great diningroom of the mansion, with a
footman apiece, and a butler behind the footmen. Mr. Oakley’s mood was
certainly singular to the last degree. Some people might have thought
that his careless hilarity was due to the effects of intoxication, but
this was not the case. And yet surely no one except a drunken man
would have dared to behave to Simon Lock as he behaved. Mr. Oakley made
deliberate fun of his master before the three menials, and the master
never flinched nor jibbed. The fish was safely passed without an
explosion, and the joint, the poultry, the sweets, and the priceless
Cheshire cheese followed without mishap. When the coffee and cigars came
round Simon Lock dismissed his servants.
‘Oakley,’ he said, ‘why are you going to give me notice to leave?’
‘I had no intention of leaving you, sir.’
‘I could swear,’ said Lock, ‘that you had had the offer of a better
place, and were just amusing yourself with me before giving notice.
It would be like you to do that, Oakley. You were always a bit of a
mystery. I suppose you have come to the conclusion that Simon Lock’s
career is over?’
‘Nothing of the kind, sir. I have merely been jolly because it is my
birthday.’
‘Well, Oakley, as it is your birthday, I don’t mind confessing to you
that I am in something of a hole.’
‘Over the La Princesse shares?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Oakley, ‘that we have been unable to lay our hands
on Richard Redgrave.’
‘You think, then, Oakley, that Redgrave, if we could catch him and make
him speak, might be able to throw light on this little affair?’
‘At any rate,’ said Oakley, ‘he might tell you why he so suddenly threw
up his job.’
‘Yes, I would give something to get hold of Redgrave.’
‘I felt that so strongly, sir, that I have myself been down to his place
twice.’
‘And have discovered nothing?’
‘Nothing. But----’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I was just thinking about the death of Featherstone. Featherstone
lived in a couple of rooms in Blenheim Mansions, off the Edgware Road.
Furnished rooms they were, let by a woman who has two flats on the same
floor, and lets them out in small quantities to bachelors.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted a couple of rooms myself.’
‘Have you not sufficient accommodation here?’
‘I wanted, as I was saying, a couple of rooms myself, and I had a fancy
to take the two rooms once occupied by the deceased Featherstone. It was
a morbid fancy, perhaps. The landlady seemed to think so. Anyhow, I took
them. I entered into possession this afternoon, and locked the door.’
‘Did you expect to see his ghost? Featherstone killed himself at the
bank, not in his rooms.’
‘I am aware of it, sir,’ said Oakley. ‘I did not expect to see his
ghost; I merely wanted to look round.’
‘Look round for what?’
‘For anything interesting that I might be able to see.’
‘But surely the police had searched?’
‘Yes, but they had found nothing. And I knew how anxious you were
to find out anything that might be discovered about Feather-stone’s
suicide.’
‘Was that your reason for taking the rooms?’ Simon Lock sneered.
‘Why not?’ said Oakley. ‘Why should it not have been my reason? I have
always been loyal to you, sir.’
‘Well, well, did you find anything interesting, any trace of evidence
that might clear up the mystery?’
‘There was apparently nothing in the rooms except the ordinary furniture
of an ordinary lodging. In the bedroom a bed, a dressing-table, a
washstand, a small table, a small wardrobe, two chairs, a small carpet,
a few framed prints, and some nails behind the door. Nothing that
could be called evidence. In the sitting-room--rather more elaborately
furnished--were a dining-table, six chairs, an easy-chair, a firescreen,
a large carpet, two footstools, a small sideboard, an old “Canterbury,”
a mirror, some oleographs framed in German gold, and a few vases on the
mantelpiece. Here is one of the vases.’
Mr. Oakley jumped from the table and took from Simon Lock’s own
mantelpiece a small vase, whose intruding presence Simon Lock had not
noticed there. Mr. Oakley handed it carefully to Mr. Lock.
‘Do you notice anything peculiar about it?’ he asked.
Simon Lock examined the vase attentively. It was in the shape of a
cylinder, about seven inches high and three inches in diameter,
and evidently a Staffordshire imitation of classic pottery. The
ground-colour of the exterior was a brilliant red, and on this red were
depicted several classic figures in white, with black outlines. Round
the top edge the vase had been gilded. The interior surface of the vase
was highly glazed.
‘No,’ said Simon Lock, ‘I see nothing peculiar about it.’
‘Neither did I at first, sir,’ said Mr. Oakley; ‘but see here.’
He wetted the end of his finger, and drew from the interior of the vase
a roll of stiffish white writing-paper.
‘That roll of paper,’ he said, ‘must have been dropped into the vase,
whereupon it widened out till it filled the vase. The width of the paper
happened to be exactly the height of the vase, and so the paper looked
exactly like the internal surface of the vase. The resemblance would
deceive almost anyone. I thought, as you did, that the vase was
absolutely empty, but it was not.’
‘And the paper?’ asked Simon Lock.
‘The paper,’ said Mr. Oakley, holding the strangely hidden document in
his hand, ‘is double, as you see. On the inside it is filled with small
writing, very small writing, and the signature is that of Featherstone.
I have read it, and I have brought it here as a surprise for you--I hope
a pleasant surprise. Hence what you were pleased to call my devilish
merry humour.’
‘Give it me,’ said Simon Lock briefly.
His voice trembled.
‘Here it is, sir.’
Simon Lock took the paper, and began to read with difficulty.
‘Turn another light on,’ he said, and Mr. Oakley obeyed.