HUSH MONEY!
You would think, judging by the newspapers, that the great balls which
take place periodically in London at the Albert Hall and elsewhere
presented scenes of wild delight approaching revelry. Many, in reality,
are deadly dull affairs, and respectable beyond words, while others
are so crowded that dancing becomes an impossibility. Of course there
are always people who like to be “seen everywhere” in order to give
their friends the impression that they are “in the swim” of London
life, fashionable and otherwise. Such folk you will usually find to be
_poseurs_ of a peculiarly unintelligent type, the sort of men and women
who are never natural, never “themselves” as it is called, and who act
and talk always to impress those who may see or hear them.
Among the three thousand or more men and women who had bought tickets
for the great ball organized and ostensibly to be given by Aloysius
Stapleton and young Archie La Planta, were hundreds of people of that
type, the class of individual who, before the war, loved to squander
money and still more to let folk see how recklessly they squandered it.
Stapleton, who knew his world, had purposely advertised his ball with
a view to what he called “roping in” these people by making a great
to do regarding the many well-known social representatives who would
be present, in addition to theatrical stars and other more or less
Bohemian folk.
What he went nap on, however, were the social representatives. Like
most people who move about he had noticed that since the war the glamor
which in pre-war days enveloped well-advertised stage folk had faded
considerably, and that, owing possibly to the sudden rise to affluence
of profiteers and their wives and other beings of common origin and
snobbishly inclined, men and women of birth and breeding and real
distinction now held the limelight almost entirely.
“I think I can say without conceit that it will be the most talked of
event of its sort, not only of the present season, but of any season
for years past,” he observed complacently to Jessica, some days before
the great night, “and I will admit that for that I am largely indebted
to you, Jessica. By the way, I wish you would tell me what your dress
is to be.”
“Why waste time trying to make me tell you what I have already told you
I am not going to tell you?” Jessica asked, as she lay back in a great
soft fauteuil and blew a cloud of smoke into the middle of the room.
“You will see enough of it on the night, I can assure you. Our supper
party ought to be a great success,” she added, changing the subject.
The telephone on the escritoire rang, and she went over to answer it.
“It is the Metropolitan Secret Agency,” she said a moment later. “They
want to speak to you.”
Stapleton picked up the receiver, and as he did so the door opened and
a middle-aged little man with a semitic cast of countenance was shown
in.
It was the Hebrew, Levi Schomberg, who, Stapleton had told La Planta
some weeks before, “lent money to his friends.” He had told him at the
same time that Schomberg had warned him against “Hartsilver’s widow” on
the ground that she was a designing woman.
Stapleton had difficulty in concealing his annoyance at Levi’s arrival
just as he was on the point of conversing with the house with the
bronze face, and after replying to one or two questions which the
Agency put to him he hung up the receiver and went across to Schomberg,
with whom he shook hands.
“I need an extension to this house badly,” he said pointedly to
Jessica. “You might remind me to-morrow to see about it.”
But Levi did not, or pretended that he did not note the point of that
observation.
“And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Stapleton asked as he
pushed an arm-chair towards Schomberg. “Is it business this time, or
pleasure? And why have you come here instead of to my flat?”
“Some of each, and a little of both,” the little man answered with a
grin. “You guess what I come about, no doubt?”
“Not being mentally incapacitated as yet, I do,” Stapleton answered,
biting his lip. “I think you might have waited until after the ball on
Thursday night,” he added in a tone of annoyance.
“Several thought that when I approached them to-day,” the Jew said
slyly. “But, as I ask them, why after the ball instead of now? What is
the matter with now? Isn’t now good enough?”
“Well, out with it. How much do you want this time?”
“Eight thousand. Only eight thousand--this time.”
Stapleton glared at him, and had anybody caught sight of Jessica at
that moment he would have had difficulty in believing her to be the
same woman, so distorted with fury had her face become.
“Eight thousand!” Stapleton exclaimed. “It’s preposterous--I haven’t
the money.”
Levi Schomberg made a little click with his tongue, which might have
meant anything.
“I am sorry to hear that, Louie,” he said carelessly. “Is it not
strange that though you appear always to have unlimited cash to fling
about, yet whenever I call to see you the cupboard is bare? Still, I
need that sum, and you know that what I need I always end by getting,
even if in order to get it I am forced to tighten the screw. Come now,
when can you hand it to me? Shall we say to-morrow at twelve, at the
same place as before?”
Stapleton had begun to pace the floor. Jessica, her fingers twitching
nervously, watched him with an evil expression. It was easy to see that
for some reason the man and the woman, usually so self-possessed, were
in their visitor’s power.
Thus a minute or two passed. Then, all at once, Stapleton came to a
halt and, turning sharply, faced Levi Schomberg.
“If I give you that sum, say on Friday--to-day is Tuesday--will you
undertake, in writing, to stop this persecution?”
“In writing? Oh, no. Besides, I could not, in any case, promise to
stop what you are pleased to call ‘this persecution,’ for where else
should I go for the money? My demands are not exorbitant, Louie, judged
by the length of your purse. Were you less rich, my requests would be
moderated in proportion to your income. That, as I think you know, is
my invariable rule. I find out exactly what my ‘client’s’ income is
from all sources, and I regulate my tariff accordingly. That is only
fair and just. May I take it then that on--Friday----”
“Get out of my sight!”
“No, don’t say that, don’t employ that tone,” the little Jew went on,
in no way disconcerted. “I have news to give you--good news, Louie,
think of that!”
He crossed his legs, and lay back in his chair. Then, thrusting his
hands deep into his trousers pockets, he said:
“Louie--and Jessica,” glancing at each in turn, “you will be happy
to hear that though secret inquiries are being made about you on all
sides, nothing, as the newspapers say, ‘has as yet transpired.’”
“Who has been making inquiries?” Jessica asked quickly.
“Why, who but the lady to whom you are so devoted--Cora Hartsilver,
also her shadow, Yootha Hagerston, also a Captain Preston, also a young
journalist named Hopford, and lastly a friend of the lot, whose name
is Blenkiron. Those five have set themselves the task of discovering
all about both of you, and about Archie, and I should not be surprised
if presently they hit upon the right trail. If they don’t hit it they
won’t fail for want of trying, and if by some mishap the _douceur_ I
have mentioned should go astray on Friday----”
“Good heavens, Levi, you wouldn’t do that--you couldn’t!”
Jessica had sprung to her feet and, abandoning her habitual calm,
seemed beside herself.
“Naturally I wouldn’t do it, though I disagree with you that I
couldn’t, Jessica,” the little man said in his even tones, partly
closing his eyelids as though to get her profile in better perspective.
Jessica looked relieved.
“Always supposing,” he went on, “you keep your part of the bargain.”
“Bargain!” Stapleton exclaimed. “I never made a bargain. You wanted me
to, but I refused--we both refused. You can’t have forgotten that!”
“I forget everything I don’t wish to remember,” Levi replied, his
eyes now only slits. “Jessica, you look very beautiful to-day--more
beautiful than you have ever looked, or than I have ever seen you look.
I am not surprised that London raves about you.”
He rose before she could reply, and extended his hand, which she took
reluctantly. He held it a moment longer than the occasion seemed to
warrant, then dropped it.
“On Friday, then,” he said, addressing Stapleton. “On Thursday night we
may not meet, you will both be so very busy, or should I say so much in
demand? Unless of course you invite me to join your party. So good-by
for the moment.”
Stapleton did not go down to see him out, nor did he ring for the
servant. Instead, he shut the door directly the little man had left the
room.
The front door slammed, and still the two sat in silence. At last
Jessica said in a metallic voice:
“What are we to do, Aloysius?”
“There is nothing to be done,” he answered. “We must go on paying, and
paying, until----”
“Until what?”
Suddenly his expression changed. Then, after a pause, he said:
“Supposing Levi were to die unexpectedly; how convenient it would be,
Jessica.”
Their eyes met, and he knew that the same thought had just occurred to
Jessica.
“People die suddenly of all sort of common complaints,” he went on.
“Heart failure, apoplexy, stoppage of the heart’s action, natural
causes----Supposing he died of a natural cause,” he added in an
undertone.
“Supposing! Well, it would mean one Hebrew less in the world.”
“And many thousands of pounds left in our pockets which, under
existing conditions, will have to come out of them.”
“It is worth considering.”
“Certainly.”
“As long as he remains alive, remember, we shall be subjected to
repetitions of the sort of visit he has just paid us.”
And, while they talked, Levi Schomberg, threading his way along the
crowded pavement of Oxford Street, had but one thought in his mind.
Jessica.
He had always admired her, but now she had completely bewitched him.
Surely--surely with the woman in his power, and with Stapleton, too,
in his power, anything and everything should be possible? But how set
about it? What would be his best and most direct mode of attack?
Another thought came to him. Where was Mervyn-Robertson? He knew the
fellow was not dead, but what had become of him, and in what corner of
the world was he at that moment? If only he could find out, Robertson
himself might be employed in some capacity to achieve his end. When
he had last heard of Robertson, some years before, the man had been
in dire straits, and when a man of his type and way of living came to
be in dire straits, he reflected, he generally remained in that state
until the end of the chapter.
Then there was Mrs. Hartsilver. Hating Jessica, and striving all she
knew to find out all about her, she might serve sooner or later as a
useful lever. When two women, both beautiful, and both moving in the
same social circle, come to entertain a bitter enmity for each other,
anything may happen, or be made to happen, he reflected. And Jessica
had other enemies as well among “the people who count,” he remembered.
Yes, with the aid of a little tact, a little ingenuity----
People passing glanced at him in astonishment, wondering why he smiled.
He wandered into the Park at Marble Arch, for it was a beautiful
afternoon and the sight of the trees in full foliage always appealed to
his artistic eye. Scores of cars containing people obviously of leisure
kept rolling past, and as he watched them his imagination wove romances
round some of the occupants of the cars. Among the faces many were
familiar to him; he recognized two of his clients.
A self-satisfied smile parted his lips.
“Who would think, to look at them,” he said aloud, “they would not have
a shilling in the world if I chose to foreclose? Yet there are folk who
no doubt envy them, and tradesmen who would not hesitate to give them
credit--big credit--unlimited credit. Fools, oh, what fools there are!
Was it not Thackeray who wrote that ‘long customs, a manly appearance,
faultless boots and clothes and a happy fierceness of manner’ would
often help a man as much as a great balance at his bankers?”
“How true!” he went on murmuring to himself. “Here in London a man or
a woman need only dress in the height of fashion in clothes they never
pay for, and hire a big car and pretend they own it, and be seen in
good society, and the world bows down before them and craves to do them
homage. Look at Stapleton and that young ass Archie La Planta, and a
dozen others--to say nothing of Jessica.”
“Ah, Jessica!”