It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraordinary callers at
his bleak house in Paddington. They came furtively, after dark, and
were careful to note whether or not they were followed. Since few of
these made appointments and were unexpected, it was essential that
the Greek should be indoors up to ten o'clock. Therefore, he failed
in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him away from
business. He was maintained in comfort by Jan Steppe to receive
these shy callers. Mr. Moropulos was not, as might be supposed,
engaged in a career of crime, as we understand crime. The people who
came and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were
respectable persons who followed various occupations in the city and
would have swooned at the thought of stealing a watch or robbing a
safe. But it was known in and about Threadneedle Street, Old Broad
Street and in various quaint alleyways and passages where bareheaded
clerks abound, that information worth money could be sold for money.
A chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a board room,
heard between the opening and closing of a door; a peep at a letter,
any of these scraps of gossip could be turned into solid cash by the
bearded Greek.
It was surprising how quickly his address passed round and even more
surprising how very quickly Moropulos had organized an intelligence
service which was unique as it was pernicious. He paid well, or
rather Steppe paid, and the returns were handsome. A clerk desiring
to participate in a rise of value which he knew was coming, could buy
a hundred shares through Moropulos and that, without the expenditure
of a cent. Moropulos knew the secrets of a hundred offices; there
were few business amalgamations that he did not hear about weeks in
advance. When the Westfontein Gold Mines published a sensational
report concerning their properties, a report which brought their
stock from eight to nothing, few people knew that Moropulos had had
the essential part of the report in his pocket the day after it
arrived in London. It cost Steppe three thousand pounds, but was
worth every penny. The amount of the sum paid was exaggerated, but
it was also spread abroad. And in consequence, Mr. Moropulos was a
very busy man.
He was in his sitting-room on that shivering winter night. A great
fire roared in the chimney, a shaded lamp was so placed, that it fell
upon the book and the occupant of the sofa could read in comfort. On
a small eastern table was a large tumblerful of barley water. From
time to time Mr. Moropulos sipped wryly.
It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself whether he
should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a café where he knew
some friends of his would be, when he heard the street door slam and
looked over his shoulder. It could only be Sault or--
The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the snow from the
sleeve of his coat. It was a handsome coat, deeply collared in
astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as Mr. Moropulos did not fail
to observe.
"Alone, huh?" said Steppe. He glanced at the barley water by the
Greek's side and grinned sardonically. "That's the stuff, not a
headache in a bucketful!"
"Nor a cheerful thought," said Moropulos. "What brings you this way,
Steppe?"
"I want to put some things in the safe."
Sault's invention stood on a wooden frame behind a screen.
"Have to be careful about this word--give me some more light," said
Steppe at the dial.
Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch.
"That's better--huh. Got it!"
The door swung open and, taking a small package from his pocket, the
big man tossed it in.
"Got something here, huh?"
He pulled out an envelope. There was a wax seal on the back.
"'The photograph'?" he read and frowned at the other.
"It is mine," said Moropulos.
"Nothing to do with the business?"
"Nothing."
Steppe threw it back and turned the dial.
"Nothing new, huh?"
He glanced at the barley water again.
"Where's Sault?"
"He goes home early. I don't see him again unless one of your hounds
sends for him."
Steppe's smile was half sneer.
"You don't like Sault--a good fellow, huh?"
Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog. His beard seemed to
stiffen and his eyes blazed.
"Like him--he's not human, that fellow! Nothing moves him, nothing.
I tried to smash him up with a bottle, but he took it away from me as
if I were a child. I hate a man who makes me feel like that--if he
hadn't got my gun away I'd have laid him out. It would be fine to
hurt the devil--and he is a devil, Steppe. Inhuman. Sometimes I
give him a newspaper to read--just for the fun of it. But it never
worries him."
"Don't try. He's a bigger man than you. You want to rouse him, huh?
The day you do, God help you! I don't think you will. That's how I
feel about him. He's cold. Chilly as a Druid's hell. He is
dangerous when he's quiet--and he's always quiet."
"He is no use to me. It is a waste of money keeping him. I'll give
you no more trouble."
Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache bristled
like the end of a brush. It was a grimace indicative of his
skepticism. He had reason.
"Leave it. Sault will not give you any bother. I don't want
strangers here, huh? Cleaners who are spying detectives."
Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out. But he did
not read. His eyes looked beyond the edge of the page, his mind was
busy. Detestation of Ambrose Sault was not assumed, as he had
simulated so many likes and dislikes. Sault's maddening
imperturbability, his immense superiority to the petty annoyances
with which his daily companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek's
vulgarity, these things combined to the fire of the man's hatred.
They were incompatibles--it was impossible to imagine any two men
more unlike.
Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures
fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap
enough though they were. He had collected from the Levant the
pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were
bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So
it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville
into the category of easy women. He had never doubted that she was
bad. There were no other kind of women to Moropulos. Suspecting,
before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified
his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle. He
was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat
that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before,
perhaps the previous night. Beryl was no less in his eyes than she
had been. She was bad. All women were bad, only some were more
particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.
He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning
he brought news.
Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the
house when he arrived.
"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of
interesting information." Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away
broom and spade before he joined the other.
"You know Beryl Merville, don't you? Steppe is marrying her."
He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something
of the sensation which its recital had caused him. But his keen eyes
did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came
to his face. Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask
descended again.
"What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?"