Arthur Jules barely deserves description because he plays so small a
part; but as that small part was big enough to put one man in the shadow
of the gallows, he may be catalogued as a plump, sallow-faced young man,
who wore a monocle, had perfectly brushed hair, and was invariably
dressed as though he were on his way to a wedding reception.
He was a sort of attaché to a South American Legation, and a free-lance
of diplomacy generally. In more suspicious countries he would have been
handed his passport with extreme politeness, and his departure from
Southampton would have been watched by the bored detective whose
business it is to superintend the shipment of oddities.
He was always important and profound; never more so than when he sat at
the bay window overlooking St. James's Street, stroking his little black
moustache thoughtfully and speaking with just the slightest trace of an
accent to Jerry Dornford.
Everybody knew and liked Jerry, whose other name was Gerald. He had all
the qualities which endear a wastrel to the monied classes. He was, of
course, a member of Snell's, as was Jules. He was, indeed, a member of
all the important clubs where gentlemen meet. He paid his subscription,
never passed a cheque which was dishonoured, had never been warned off
or posted as a bankrupt. A tall man, with a slight stoop, brownish hair
very thin on the top, deep-set eyes that smiled in a worn, tired face.
Jerry had lived very fast. Few of his creditors could keep up with him.
He had been a co-respondent, and again a co-respondent, and was single,
and lived in a little flat in Half Moon Street, where he gave small
parties; very small. He retained his membership of exclusive racing
clubs--bookmakers lived in the hope that he would one day settle with
them. He had certain very rich relations who would certainly die, but
were not so certain whether they would bequeath their undoubted wealth
to this profligate son of Sir George Dornford. On the other hand, why
shouldn't they?
He was in desperate need of money now. Jules knew how desperate: they
had few secrets from one another. Whenever the little party in Half Moon
Street was as many as four, Jules was the third.
"What is this fellow's name?"
"Hervey Lyne."
"Hervey Lyne? Yes, I know him. A very odd man," reminiscently. "When my
dear father was Secretary of Legation--that must have been in
'ninety-three--he borrowed money from Lyne. But I thought he had retired
from business. He was a moneylender, wasn't he?"
Jerry's lips twisted in an unpleasant smile.
"Financier," he said laconically. "Yes, he has retired. I owed him three
thousand for years; it's four now. There was, of course, a chance that
the dowager would leave a packet, but the old devil left it away, to the
other side of the family."
"And he is pressing you?"
Jerry's jaw set.
"Yes," he said shortly. "To be exact, he is getting a judgment in
bankruptcy, and I can't stop him. I have been dodging Carey Street all
my life. Things have looked very black at times, but there has always
been something that turned up."
There was a long and gloomy silence. Jules--he had another name, but
nobody could remember it--stroked his little black moustache more
quickly.
"Two thousand--that would stop the action, eh? Well, why not? Take two
thousand, _et voila_! There is nothing to it. I do not ask you, like the
fellow in the story-books, to go to the War Office and rob them of their
schemes of mobilisation. But I _do_ want something, for a gentleman who
has himself been working on the lines of your friend. To me it seems a
very large sum to pay for so small a thing.
"Naturally I do not say that to my gentleman. If he desires to be
extravagant and my friend would benefit--_tiens_, why not?"
Jerry Dornford made a wry face at the street below. When he was asked to
work for money he never forgot that he was a gentleman--it was rather a
disgusting thing he was now asked to do, but he had contemplated things
even more distressful. He had, in fact, found every solution to his
difficulty except suicide.
"I am not so sure that it can be done, anyway," he said.
Two men came into the smoke-room. He looked up quickly and recognised
both, but was interested particularly in one.
"That's Fate," he said.
"Who are they?" asked Jules.
He knew the second of the two, who was a member, but the first man,
middle-aged, rather rotund, fair-haired, was a stranger to him.
"That's my bank manager. Incidentally, he is Lyne's banker too, a fellow
named Moran--Major Moran, he loves to call himself. A Territorial
fellow."
Jules shot a swift glance in the direction of the men who at that moment
were seating themselves at the table.
"A great rifle shot. I saw him at Bisley. I was there with one of our
generals, watching the shooting."
He turned his black eyes to Jerry.
"Well, my friend?"
Jerry breathed heavily through his nose and shook his head.
"I'll have to think it over," he said. "It's a beastly thing to do."
"More beastly to be a bankrupt, my friend," said Jules in his caressing
voice. "Resignation from all clubs.... Poor old Jerry, eh? You are going
into the Mike Hennessey class. You don't want to be that."
"Why Mike Hennessey?" asked Jerry quickly, and the other laughed.
"An association of ideas. You go often to the Sheridan, eh? I do not
blame you ... a very charming girl."
He made a little grimace as though he were about to whistle.
"Association of ideas, eh? Allenby also likes the young lady. Queer how
all things fit in, like the pieces of a puzzle. Think it over, my dear
Jerry, and ring me up at the Grosvenor."
He snapped his fingers towards a club waiter, scribbled his initials on
a bill and strolled towards the door, Jerry following. They had to pass
Moran and his friend; that bluff, jolly-looking man looked up, nodded
with careless friendliness and caught Jerry's sleeve as he was passing.
"I'd like to see you one day this week, if you're not busy, Jerry."
Jerry never forgot he was a member of Snell's and a gentleman. He never
forgot that Mr. Leo Moran was a sort of glorified bank clerk, who had
probably had his education at the State's expense; and, knowing all
these things, he resented the "Jerry." It added to his irritation that
he knew why Mr. Moran wished to see him. It was outrageous that one
couldn't lunch in one's club without being dunned by cads of this
description.
He pulled his sleeve away from the detaining finger and thumb.
"All right," he said.
He would have been more offensive if this man had not been a guest at
the club, and, more important, if it were not in Moran's power to make
things deucedly uncomfortable for Mr. Gerald Dornford.
As he and Jules were passing down the stairs together ...
"The swine! Who brought that kind of bird into the club? Snell's is
getting impossible!"
Jules, who had a weakness for the rococo qualities of Italian opera, was
humming a favourite aria of Puccini's. He smiled and shook his head.
"It takes all sorts of people to make a world, my friend," he said
sententiously.
He flicked a speck from his immaculate coat sleeve, patted Jerry on the
arm as though he were a child, and went swinging up St. James's Street
towards his mysterious Legation.
Jerry Dornford stood for a moment, hesitant, then walked slowly down
towards the palace. He was in a jam, a tight jam, and it wasn't going to
be so very easy to get out.
He obeyed an impulse, called a cab and drove to near Queen's Gate, where
he alighted, paid his fare, and walked on.
Dick Allenby lived in a big house that had been converted into flats.
There was no attendant on duty at the door, and the elevator that took
him up to the fourth floor was automatic. He knocked at the door of
Dick's studio--for studio it had once been, before Dick Allenby had
converted it into a workroom. There was no answer, and he turned the
handle and walked in. The room was empty. Evidently there had been
visitors, for half a dozen empty beer bottles stood on a bench, though
there was only one used tumbler visible. If he had known something of
Surefoot Smith he might have reduced the visiting list to one.
"Are you there, Allenby?" he called.
There was no answer. He walked across to the bench where the
odd-looking steel box lay, and lifted it. To his relief he found he
could carry it without an effort. Putting it down again, he walked to
the door. The key was on the inside; he drew it out and examined it
carefully. If he had been an expert at the job he would have carried wax
and taken an impression. As it was, his early technical training came to
his aid--it had once been intended that he should follow the profession
of engineer.
He listened; there was no sound of the lift moving. Dick, he knew, had
his sleeping room on the upper floor, and was probably there now.
Dornford made a rapid sketch on the back of an envelope--rapid but
accurate. He judged the width of the key, made a brief note and replaced
it as the sound of somebody coming down the stairs reached him.
He was standing examining the empty beer bottles when Dick came in.
"Hullo, Dornford!" There was no great welcome in the tone. "Did you want
to see me?"
Jerry smiled.
"I was bored. I thought I'd come up and see what an inventor looked
like. By the way, I saw you at the theatre the other night--nice girl
that. She was damned rude to me the only time I spoke to her."
Dick faced him squarely.
"And I shall be damned rude to you the next time you speak to her," he
said.
Jerry Dornford chuckled.
"Like that, eh? By the way, I'm seeing the old man tonight. Shall I give
him your love?"
"He'd prefer that you gave him something more substantial," said Dick
coldly.
It was a shot at a venture but it got home. Gerald the imperturbable
winced.
It was odd that up to that moment Dick Allenby had never realised how
intensely he disliked this man. There was excellent reason why he should
hate him, but that was yet to be revealed.
"Why this sudden antagonism? After all, I've no feeling about this girl
of yours. She's a jolly little thing; a bad actress, but a good woman.
They don't go very far on the London stage----"
"If you're talking about Miss Lane I will bring the conversation to a
very abrupt termination," said Dick; and then, bluntly: "Why did you
come up here? You are quite right about the antagonism, but it is not
very sudden, is it? I don't seem to remember that you and I were ever
very great friends."
"We were in the same regiment, old boy--brother officers and all that,"
said Jerry flippantly. "Good Lord! It doesn't seem like twelve years
ago----"
Dick opened the door and stood by it.
"I don't want you here. I don't particularly want to know you. If you
see my uncle tonight you'd better tell him that: it will be a point in
my favour."
Jerry Dornford smiled. His skin was thick, though he was very sensitive
on certain unimportant matters.
"I suppose you knew this fellow Tickler who was killed the other night?"
he began.
"I don't want even to discuss murders with you," said Dick.
He went out of the room, pulled open the door of the lift and shot back
the folding iron gate. He was angry with himself afterwards that he had
lost his temper, but he never knew the time when Jerry Dornford did not
arouse a fury in him. He hated Jerry's views of life, his philosophy,
the looseness of his code. He remembered Jerry's extraordinary dexterity
with cards and a ruined subaltern who went gladly to his death rather
than face the consequence of a night's play.
As he heard the elevator stop at the bottom floor he opened the window
of the workshop to air it--an extravagant gesture, but one which
accurately marked his attitude of mind towards his visitor.