THE TRIBULATIONS OF MORRIS: PART THE FIRST
As the hansom span through the streets of London, Morris sought to rally
the forces of his mind. The water-butt with the dead body had
miscarried, and it was essential to recover it. So much was clear; and
if, by some blest good fortune, it was still at the station, all might
be well. If it had been sent out, however, if it were already in the
hands of some wrong person, matters looked more ominous. People who
receive unexplained packages are usually keen to have them open; the
example of Miss Hazeltine (whom he cursed again) was there to remind him
of the circumstance; and if anyone had opened the water-butt--"O Lord!"
cried Morris at the thought, and carried his hand to his damp forehead.
The private conception of any breach of law is apt to be inspiriting,
for the scheme (while yet inchoate) wears dashing and attractive
colours. Not so in the least that part of the criminal's later
reflections which deal with the police. That useful corps (as Morris now
began to think) had scarce been kept sufficiently in view when he
embarked upon his enterprise. "I must play devilish close," he
reflected, and he was aware of an exquisite thrill of fear in the region
of the spine.
"Main line or loop?" inquired the cabman, through the scuttle.
"Main line," replied Morris, and mentally decided that the man should
have his shilling after all. "It would be madness to attract attention,"
thought he. "But what this thing will cost me, first and last, begins
to be a nightmare!"
He passed through the booking-office and wandered disconsolately on the
platform. It was a breathing-space in the day's traffic. There were few
people there, and these for the most part quiescent on the benches.
Morris seemed to attract no remark, which was a good thing; but, on the
other hand, he was making no progress in his quest. Something must be
done, something must be risked. Every passing instant only added to his
dangers. Summoning all his courage, he stopped a porter, and asked him
if he remembered receiving a barrel by the morning train. He was anxious
to get information, for the barrel belonged to a friend. "It is a matter
of some moment," he added, "for it contains specimens."
"I was not here this morning, sir," responded the porter, somewhat
reluctantly, "but I'll ask Bill. Do you recollect, Bill, to have got a
barrel from Bournemouth this morning containing specimens?"
"I don't know about specimens," replied Bill; "but the party as received
the barrel I mean raised a sight of trouble."
"What's that?" cried Morris, in the agitation of the moment pressing a
penny into the man's hand.
"You see, sir, the barrel arrived at one-thirty. No one claimed it till
about three, when a small, sickly-looking gentleman (probably a curate)
came up, and sez he, 'Have you got anything for Pitman?' or 'Will'm Bent
Pitman,' if I recollect right.' 'I don't exactly know,' sez I, 'but I
rather fancy that there barrel bears that name.' The little man went up
to the barrel, and seemed regularly all took aback when he saw the
address, and then he pitched into us for not having brought what he
wanted. 'I don't care a damn what you want,' sez I to him, 'but if you
are Will'm Bent Pitman, there's your barrel.'"
"Well, and did he take it?" cried the breathless Morris.
"Well, sir," returned Bill, "it appears it was a packing-case he was
after. The packing-case came; that's sure enough, because it was about
the biggest packing-case ever I clapped eyes on. And this Pitman he
seemed a good deal cut up, and he had the superintendent out, and they
got hold of the vanman--him as took the packing-case. Well, sir,"
continued Bill, with a smile, "I never see a man in such a state.
Everybody about that van was mortal, bar the horses. Some gen'leman (as
well as I could make out) had given the vanman a sov.; and so that was
where the trouble come in, you see."
"But what did he say?" gasped Morris.
"I don't know as he _said_ much, sir," said Bill. "But he offered to
fight this Pitman for a pot of beer. He had lost his book, too, and the
receipts, and his men were all as mortal as himself. O, they were all
like"--and Bill paused for a simile--"like lords! The superintendent
sacked them on the spot."
"O, come, but that's not so bad," said Morris, with a bursting sigh. "He
couldn't tell where he took the packing-case, then?"
"Not he," said Bill, "nor yet nothink else."
"And what--what did Pitman do?" asked Morris.
"O, he went off with the barrel in a four-wheeler, very trembling like,"
replied Bill. "I don't believe he's a gentleman as has good health."
"Well, so the barrel's gone," said Morris, half to himself.
"You may depend on that, sir," returned the porter. "But you had better
see the superintendent."
"Not in the least; it's of no account," said Morris. "It only contained
specimens." And he walked hastily away.
Ensconced once more in a hansom, he proceeded to reconsider his
position. Suppose (he thought), suppose he should accept defeat and
declare his uncle's death at once? He should lose the tontine, and with
that the last hope of his seven thousand eight hundred pounds. But on
the other hand, since the shilling to the hansom cabman, he had begun to
see that crime was expensive in its course, and, since the loss of the
water-butt, that it was uncertain in its consequences. Quietly at first,
and then with growing heat, he reviewed the advantages of backing out.
It involved a loss; but (come to think of it) no such great loss after
all; only that of the tontine, which had been always a toss-up, which at
bottom he had never really expected. He reminded himself of that
eagerly; he congratulated himself upon his constant moderation. He had
never really expected the tontine; he had never even very definitely
hoped to recover his seven thousand eight hundred pounds; he had been
hurried into the whole thing by Michael's obvious dishonesty. Yes, it
would probably be better to draw back from this high-flying venture,
settle back on the leather business----
"Great God!" cried Morris, bounding in the hansom like a Jack-in-a-box.
"I have not only not gained the tontine--I have lost the leather
business!"
Such was the monstrous fact. He had no power to sign; he could not draw
a cheque for thirty shillings. Until he could produce legal evidence of
his uncle's death, he was a penniless outcast--and as soon as he
produced it he had lost the tontine! There was no hesitation on the part
of Morris; to drop the tontine like a hot chestnut, to concentrate all
his forces on the leather business and the rest of his small but
legitimate inheritance, was the decision of a single instant. And the
next, the full extent of his calamity was suddenly disclosed to him.
Declare his uncle's death? He couldn't! Since the body was lost Joseph
had (in a legal sense) become immortal.
There was no created vehicle big enough to contain Morris and his woes.
He paid the hansom off and walked on he knew not whither.
"I seem to have gone into this business with too much precipitation,"
he reflected, with a deadly sigh. "I fear it seems too ramified for a
person of my powers of mind."
And then a remark of his uncle's flashed into his memory: If you want to
think clearly, put it all down on paper. "Well, the old boy knew a thing
or two," said Morris. "I will try; but I don't believe the paper was
ever made that will clear my mind."
He entered a place of public entertainment, ordered bread and cheese,
and writing materials, and sat down before them heavily. He tried the
pen. It was an excellent pen, but what was he to write? "I have it,"
cried Morris. "Robinson Crusoe and the double columns!" He prepared his
paper after that classic model, and began as follows:--
_Bad._ _Good._
1. I have lost my uncle's body. 1. But then Pitman has found it.
"Stop a bit," said Morris. "I am letting the spirit of antithesis run
away with me. Let's start again."
_Bad._ _Good._
1. I have lost my uncle's body. 1. But then I no longer require
to bury it.
2. I have lost the tontine. 2. But I may still save that if
Pitman disposes of the
body, and if I can find a
physician who will stick at
nothing.
3. I have lost the leather 3. But not if Pitman gives the
business and the rest of body up to the police.
my uncle's succession.
"O, but in that case I go to gaol; I had forgot that," thought Morris.
"Indeed, I don't know that I had better dwell on that hypothesis at all;
it's all very well to talk of facing the worst; but in a case of this
kind a man's first duty is to his own nerve. Is there any answer to No.
3? Is there any possible good side to such a beastly bungle? There must
be, of course, or where would be the use of this double-entry business?
And--by George, I have it!" he exclaimed; "it's exactly the same as the
last!" And he hastily re-wrote the passage:
_Bad._ _Good._
3. I have lost the leather 3. But not if I can find a physician
business and the rest of who will stick at nothing.
my uncle's succession.
"This venal doctor seems quite a desideratum," he reflected. "I want him
first to give me a certificate that my uncle is dead, so that I may get
the leather business; and then that he's alive--but here we are again at
the incompatible interests!" And he returned to his tabulation:
_Bad._ _Good._
4. I have almost no money. 4. But there is plenty in the bank.
5. Yes, but I can't get the 5. But--well, that seems unhappily
money in the bank. to be the case.
6. I have left the bill for 6. But if Pitman is only a dishonest
eighthundred pounds in man, the presence of this bill
Uncle Joseph's pocket. may lead him to keep the whole
thing dark and throw the body
into the New Cut.
7. Yes, but if Pitman is 7. Yes, but if I am right about
dishonest and finds the Uncle Masterman, I can blackmail
bill, he will know who Michael.
Joseph is, and he may
blackmail me.
8. But I can't blackmail Michael 8. Worse luck!
(which is, besides, a very
dangerous thing to do)
until I find out.
9. The leather business will soon 9. But the leather business is a
want money for current sinking ship.
expenses, and I have none
to give.
10. Yes, but it's all the ship I 10. A fact.
have.
11. John will soon want money, 11.
and I have none to give.
12. And the venal doctor will 12.
want money down.
13. And if Pitman is dishonest 13.
and don't send me to gaol,
he will want a fortune.
"O, this seems to be a very one-sided business," exclaimed Morris.
"There's not so much in this method as I was led to think." He crumpled
the paper up and threw it down; and then, the next moment, picked it up
again and ran it over. "It seems it's on the financial point that my
position is weakest," he reflected. "Is there positively no way of
raising the wind? In a vast city like this, and surrounded by all the
resources of civilisation, it seems not to be conceived! Let us have no
more precipitation. Is there nothing I can sell? My collection of
signet----" But at the thought of scattering these loved treasures the
blood leaped into Morris's cheek. "I would rather die!" he exclaimed,
and, cramming his hat upon his head, strode forth into the streets.
"I _must_ raise funds," he thought. "My uncle being dead, the money in
the bank is mine, or would be mine but for the cursed injustice that has
pursued me ever since I was an orphan in a commercial academy. I know
what any other man would do; any other man in Christendom would forge;
although I don't know why I call it forging, either, when Joseph's dead,
and the funds are my own. When I think of that, when I think that my
uncle is really as dead as mutton, and that I can't prove it, my gorge
rises at the injustice of the whole affair. I used to feel bitterly
about that seven thousand eight hundred pounds; it seems a trifle now!
Dear me, why, the day before yesterday I was comparatively happy."
And Morris stood on the sidewalk and heaved another sobbing sigh.
"Then there's another thing," he resumed; "can I? Am I able? Why didn't
I practise different handwritings while I was young? How a fellow
regrets those lost opportunities when he grows up! But there's one
comfort: it's not morally wrong; I can try it on with a clear
conscience, and even if I was found out, I wouldn't greatly
care--morally, I mean. And then, if I succeed, and if Pitman is
staunch--there's nothing to do but find a venal doctor; and that ought
to be simple enough in a place like London. By all accounts the town's
alive with them. It wouldn't do, of course, to advertise for a corrupt
physician; that would be impolitic. No, I suppose a fellow has simply to
spot along the streets for a red lamp and herbs in the window, and then
you go in and--and--and put it to him plainly; though it seems a
delicate step."
He was near home now, after many devious wanderings, and turned up John
Street. As he thrust his latch-key in the lock, another mortifying
reflection struck him to the heart.
"Not even this house is mine till I can prove him dead," he snarled, and
slammed the door behind him so that the windows in the attic rattled.
Night had long fallen; long ago the lamps and the shop-fronts had begun
to glitter down the endless streets; the lobby was pitch-dark; and, as
the devil would have it, Morris barked his shins and sprawled all his
length over the pedestal of Hercules. The pain was sharp; his temper was
already thoroughly undermined; by a last misfortune his hand closed on
the hammer as he fell; and, in a spasm of childish irritation, he turned
and struck at the offending statue. There was a splintering crash.
"O Lord, what have I done next?" wailed Morris; and he groped his way to
find a candle. "Yes," he reflected, as he stood with the light in his
hand and looked upon the mutilated leg, from which about a pound of
muscle was detached. "Yes, I have destroyed a genuine antique; I may be
in for thousands!" And then there sprung up in his bosom a sort of angry
hope. "Let me see," he thought. "Julia's got rid of; there's nothing to
connect me with that beast Forsyth; the men were all drunk, and (what's
better) they've been all discharged. O, come, I think this is another
case of moral courage! I'll deny all knowledge of the thing."
A moment more, and he stood again before the Hercules, his lips sternly
compressed, the coal-axe and the meat-cleaver under his arm. The next,
he had fallen upon the packing-case. This had been already seriously
undermined by the operations of Gideon; a few well-directed blows, and
it already quaked and gaped; yet a few more, and it fell about Morris in
a shower of boards followed by an avalanche of straw.
And now the leather-merchant could behold the nature of his task: and at
the first sight his spirit quailed. It was, indeed, no more ambitious a
task for De Lesseps, with all his men and horses, to attack the hills of
Panama, than for a single, slim young gentleman, with no previous
experience of labour in a quarry, to measure himself against that
bloated monster on his pedestal. And yet the pair were well encountered:
on the one side, bulk--on the other, genuine heroic fire.
"Down you shall come, you great big ugly brute!" cried Morris aloud,
with something of that passion which swept the Parisian mob against the
walls of the Bastille. "Down you shall come, this night. I'll have none
of you in my lobby."
The face, from its indecent expression, had particularly animated the
zeal of our iconoclast; and it was against the face that he began his
operations. The great height of the demigod--for he stood a fathom and
half in his stocking-feet--offered a preliminary obstacle to this
attack. But here, in the first skirmish of the battle, intellect already
began to triumph over matter. By means of a pair of library steps, the
injured householder gained a posture of advantage; and, with great
swipes of the coal-axe, proceeded to decapitate the brute.
Two hours later, what had been the erect image of a gigantic coal-porter
turned miraculously white, was now no more than a medley of disjected
members; the quadragenarian torso prone against the pedestal; the
lascivious countenance leering down the kitchen stair; the legs, the
arms, the hands, and even the fingers, scattered broadcast on the lobby
floor. Half an hour more, and all the debris had been laboriously
carted to the kitchen; and Morris, with a gentle sentiment of triumph,
looked round upon the scene of his achievements. Yes, he could deny all
knowledge of it now: the lobby, beyond the fact that it was partly
ruinous, betrayed no trace of the passage of Hercules. But it was a
weary Morris that crept up to bed; his arms and shoulders ached, the
palms of his hands burned from the rough kisses of the coal-axe, and
there was one smarting finger that stole continually to his mouth. Sleep
long delayed to visit the dilapidated hero, and with the first peep of
day it had again deserted him.
The morning, as though to accord with his disastrous fortunes, dawned
inclemently. An easterly gale was shouting in the streets; flaws of rain
angrily assailed the windows; and as Morris dressed, the draught from
the fireplace vividly played about his legs.
"I think," he could not help observing bitterly, "that with all I have
to bear, they might have given me decent weather."
There was no bread in the house, for Miss Hazeltine (like all women left
to themselves) had subsisted entirely upon cake. But some of this was
found, and (along with what the poets call a glass of fair, cold water)
made up a semblance of a morning meal, and then down he sat undauntedly
to his delicate task.
Nothing can be more interesting than the study of signatures, written
(as they are) before meals and after, during indigestion and
intoxication; written when the signer is trembling for the life of his
child or has come from winning the Derby, in his lawyer's office, or
under the bright eyes of his sweetheart. To the vulgar, these seem never
the same; but to the expert, the bank clerk, or the lithographer, they
are constant quantities, and as recognisable as the North Star to the
night-watch on deck.
To all this Morris was alive. In the theory of that graceful art in
which he was now embarking, our spirited leather-merchant was beyond all
reproach. But, happily for the investor, forgery is an affair of
practice. And as Morris sat surrounded by examples of his uncle's
signature and of his own incompetence, insidious depression stole upon
his spirits. From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his
back; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark
that he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the
mean disorder of a house out of commission--the floor bare, the sofa
heaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the
pens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these
were but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay
round him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.
"It's one of the strangest things I ever heard of," he complained. "It
almost seems as if it was a talent that I didn't possess." He went once
more minutely through his proofs. "A clerk would simply gibe at them,"
said he. "Well, there's nothing else but tracing possible."
He waited till a squall had passed and there came a blink of scowling
daylight. Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street
traced his uncle's signature. It was a poor thing at the best. "But it
must do," said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. "He's
dead, anyway." And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and
sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.
There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business, and
with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the
forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to
view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even
scrutinised the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared
to warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he passed
away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an
appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior,
an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.
"Mr. Morris Finsbury, I believe," said the gentlemanly man, fixing
Morris with a pair of double eye-glasses.
"That is my name," said Morris, quavering. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Well, the fact is, Mr. Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at
receiving this," said the other, flicking at the cheque. "There are no
effects."
"No effects?" cried Morris. "Why, I know myself there must be
eight-and-twenty hundred pounds, if there's a penny."
"Two seven six four, I think," replied the gentlemanly man; "but it was
drawn yesterday."
"Drawn!" cried Morris.
"By your uncle himself, sir," continued the other. "Not only that, but
we discounted a bill for him for--let me see--how much was it for, Mr.
Bell?"
"Eight hundred, Mr. Judkin," replied the teller.
"Dent Pitman!" cried Morris, staggering back.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Judkin.
"It's--it's only an expletive," said Morris.
"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mr. Finsbury," said Mr. Bell.
"All I can tell you," said Morris, with a harsh laugh, "is that the
whole thing's impossible. My uncle is at Bournemouth, unable to move."
"Really!" cried Mr. Bell, and he recovered the cheque from Mr. Judkin.
"But this cheque is dated in London, and to-day," he observed. "How d'ye
account for that, sir?"
"O, that was a mistake," said Morris, and a deep tide of colour dyed his
face and neck.
"No doubt, no doubt," said Mr. Judkin, but he looked at his customer
inquiringly.
"And--and--" resumed Morris, "even if there were no effects--this is a
very trifling sum to overdraw--our firm--the name of Finsbury, is surely
good enough for such a wretched sum as this."
"No doubt, Mr. Finsbury," returned Mr. Judkin; "and if you insist I will
take it into consideration; but I hardly think--in short, Mr. Finsbury,
if there had been nothing else, the signature seems hardly all that we
could wish."
"That's of no consequence," replied Morris nervously. "I'll get my uncle
to sign another. The fact is," he went on, with a bold stroke, "my uncle
is so far from well at present that he was unable to sign this cheque
without assistance, and I fear that my holding the pen for him may have
made the difference in the signature."
Mr. Judkin shot a keen glance into Morris's face; and then turned and
looked at Mr. Bell.
"Well," he said, "it seems as if we had been victimised by a swindler.
Pray tell Mr. Finsbury we shall put detectives on at once. As for this
cheque of yours, I regret that, owing to the way it was signed, the bank
can hardly consider it--what shall I say?--business-like," and he
returned the cheque across the counter.
Morris took it up mechanically; he was thinking of something very
different.
"In a case of this kind," he began, "I believe the loss falls on us; I
mean upon my uncle and myself."
"It does not, sir," replied Mr. Bell; "the bank is responsible, and the
bank will either recover the money or refund it, you may depend on
that."
Morris's face fell; then it was visited by another gleam of hope.
"I'll tell you what," he said, "you leave this entirely in my hands.
I'll sift the matter. I've an idea, at any rate; and detectives," he
added appealingly, "are so expensive."
"The bank would not hear of it," returned Mr. Judkin. "The bank stands
to lose between three and four thousand pounds; it will spend as much
more if necessary. An undiscovered forger is a permanent danger. We
shall clear it up to the bottom, Mr. Finsbury; set your mind at rest on
that."
"Then I'll stand the loss," said Morris boldly. "I order you to abandon
the search." He was determined that no inquiry should be made.
"I beg your pardon," returned Mr. Judkin, "but we have nothing to do
with you in this matter, which is one between your uncle and ourselves.
If he should take this opinion, and will either come here himself or let
me see him in his sick-room----"
"Quite impossible," cried Morris.
"Well, then, you see," said Mr. Judkin, "how my hands are tied. The
whole affair must go at once into the hands of the police."
Morris mechanically folded the cheque and restored it to his
pocket-book.
"Good-morning," said he, and scrambled somehow out of the bank.
"I don't know what they suspect," he reflected; "I can't make them out,
their whole behaviour is thoroughly unbusiness-like. But it doesn't
matter; all's up with everything. The money has been paid; the police
are on the scent; in two hours that idiot Pitman will be nabbed--and the
whole story of the dead body in the evening papers."
If he could have heard what passed in the bank after his departure he
would have been less alarmed, perhaps more mortified.
"That was a curious affair, Mr. Bell," said Mr. Judkin.
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bell, "but I think we have given him a fright."
"O, we shall hear no more of Mr. Morris Finsbury," returned the other;
"it was a first attempt, and the house have dealt with us so long that I
was anxious to deal gently. But I suppose, Mr. Bell, there can be no
mistake about yesterday? It was old Mr. Finsbury himself?"
"There could be no possible doubt of that," said Mr. Bell with a
chuckle. "He explained to me the principles of banking."
"Well, well," said Mr. Judkin. "The next time he calls ask him to step
into my room. It is only proper he should be warned."