The last page of the letter which Mr. Eric Kingfether had begun with
such ease in the early part of the morning was extremely difficult to
compose. It had become necessary to say certain things; it was vital
that he should not put his communication into writing.
In desperation he decided to make a break with practice. He would go
to town. It was impossible to leave before the bank closed, but he
could go immediately afterwards, though there was urgent work which
should have kept him on the bank premises until six, and some private
work of serious importance that should have occupied him until
midnight. When the bank closed he handed over the key of the safe to
Kenneth.
“I’ve been called to town. Balance up the books and put them in the
safe. I’ll be back by six; I’d like you to wait for me.”
Kenneth McKay did not receive the suggestion favourably. He also
wished to get away.
“Well, you can’t!” said the other sharply. “The bank inspector will be
in to-morrow to check the Wentford account. It will probably be
required as evidence.”
Mr. Kingfether got out his little car and drove to London. He parked
his machine in a Bloomsbury square and made his way on foot to a big
mansion block behind Gower Street. The elevator man who took him up
grinned a welcome.
“The young lady’s in, sir,” he said.
The “young lady” herself opened the door to his ring.
“Look who’s here!” she said in surprise, and stood aside to let him
in.
She was dressed in an old kimono and did not look as attractive as
usual.
“In another half-hour I’d have been out,” she said. “I didn’t get up
till after lunch. These late nights are surely hell!”
She led the way to a sitting-room that was hazy with cigarette smoke.
It was a large room, its floor covered with a soft carpet that had
once cost a lot of money but was now mottled with stains. Before the
fire was a big divan, and on this she had been reclining. The
furnishing and appointments of the room were of that style which is
believed to be oriental by quite a large number of people. The whole
room was half way to blowsiness. It had a stale, sweet scent. Before
the fire, in a shallow basket lined with red silk, a Pekingese dog
opened his weary eyes to survey the newcomer, and instantly closed
them again.
“Well, my dear, what brings you up to town? I told you to snatch a few
hours sleep--round about one you looked like a boiled owl, and that’s
not the state to be in when you’re chasing money.”
She was dark and good-looking by certain standards. Her figure was
robust, and nature had given generously to the amplification of her
visible charms. The red of her full lips was a natural red; the clear
skin was of fine texture; her face was scarcely powdered.
For a very long time they talked, head to head. She was an excellent
listener; her sympathy had a sincere note. At half-past five:
“Now off you pop and don’t worry. The governor will be seeing you
to-night--talk it over with him. I think you’d better, in case
anything turns up… you know what I mean.”
He took a letter out of his pocket and gave it to her with an air of
embarrassment.
“I wrote it, or rather started it, this morning… I couldn’t finish it.
I mean every word I say.”
She kissed him loudly.
“You’re a darling!” she said.
Mr. Kingfether came back to his office to find only a junior in
charge. McKay, despite instructions to the contrary, had gone, and the
sub-manager sat down to a rough examination of important books in no
condition to do justice to his task. He possessed one of those
slow-starting tempers that gathers momentum from its own weight. A
little grievance and a long brooding brought him to a condition of
senseless and unrestrainable fury.
He was in this state when Kenneth McKay returned.
“I asked you to stay in, didn’t I?” He glowered at his subordinate.
“Did you? Well, I stayed in until I finished my work. Then the bank
inspector came.”
Mr. Kingfether’s face went white.
“What did he want? Redman didn’t tell me he called.”
“Well, he did.” Kenneth passed into the outer office.
Kingfether sat scribbling oddly on his blotting-pad for a moment, and
then for the first time saw the letter that had been placed on the
mantelpiece. It was marked “Urgent. Confidential. Deliver by hand,”
and was from head office.
He took it up with a shaking hand, and, after a long hesitation, tore
the seal. There was a little mirror on the wall above the fireplace,
and he caught sight of his face and could hardly believe that that
ghost of a man was himself.
There was no need to read the letter twice through. Already he knew
every word, every comma. He stood blinking at his reflection, and then
went into the outer office. He found Kenneth collecting some personal
belongings from his desk.
“I suppose the inspector came about the Wentford cheque?” he said.
The young man looked round at him.
“Wentford cheque? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t
mean the cheque I cashed for the woman?”
It required an effort on the manager’s part to affirm this.
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was forged, that is all.”
“Forged?” Kenneth frowned at him.
“Yes… didn’t the inspector say anything? He left a letter for me,
didn’t he?”
Kenneth shook his head.
“No. He was surprised to find that you weren’t here. I told him you
had gone up to the head office. I’m getting a bit sick of lying about
you. What is the yarn about this cheque?”
Again it required a painful effort on the manager’s part to speak.
“It was forged. You’ve to report to head office to-morrow morning…
some of the banknotes have been traced to you… the cheque was out of
your office book.”
It was out, yet he felt no relief.
McKay was looking at him open-mouthed.
“You mean the cheque that was changed by that woman?”
The word “woman” irritated Mr. Kingfether.
“A lady was supposed to have called, a veiled lady----”
“What do you mean by ‘supposed’?” demanded Kenneth. “You say that the
notes were traced to me--I issued them: is that what you mean?”
“You have them--some of them--in your private possession; that’s all.”
Incredulity showed in Kenneth’s face.
“_I?_ You mean that I stole them?”
Kingfether had reached the limit of endurance.
“How the hell do I know what you did?” he almost shouted. “Head office
have written to say that some of the notes you paid over the counter
have been traced through a moneylender named Stuart to you.”
The young man’s face changed suddenly.
“Stuart… oh!” was all that he said. A moment later he went blundering
out of the side door, leaving Mr. Kingfether to continue his aimless
scribblings on his blotting-pad.
Kenneth reached Marlow just before the dinner hour, and he came into
the study where old George McKay was usually to be found, working out
his eternal combinations. To Kenneth’s amazement, his father greeted
him with a smile. Instead of the cards, his table was covered with
packages of documents and the paraphernalia of correspondence.
“Hullo, son--we’ve had a stroke of luck. The arbitrators have decided
in my favour. I knew jolly well I hadn’t parted with my rights in the
dyeing process when I sold out, and the company has to pay close on a
hundred thousand back royalties.”
Kenneth knew of this wrangle between his father and his late company
that had gone on through the years, but he had never paid very much
attention to it.
“That means a steady income for years, and this time I’m going to look
after things--here!”
He pointed to the grate. The fireplace was filled with half-burnt
playing cards.
“They’ve asked me to rejoin the board as chairman. What is the matter,
Kenny?”
Kenneth was sitting on the opposite side of the table, and his father
had seen his face.
Briefly he told his story, and George McKay listened without comment
until he had finished.
“Wentford, eh? He is going to be a curse to me to the end of my days.”
Kenneth gasped his amazement.
“Did you know him?”
Old George nodded.
“I knew him all right!” he said grimly. “Reeder was here this
morning----”
“About me?” asked the other quickly.
“About me,” said his father. “I rather gathered that he suspected me
of the murder.”
Kenneth came to his feet, horrified.
“You? But he’s mad! Why should you----”
Mr. McKay smiled dourly.
“There was quite a good reason why I should murder him,” he said
calmly; “such a good reason that I have been expecting the police all
the afternoon.”
Then abruptly he changed the subject.
“Tell me about these banknotes. Of course I knew that you had borrowed
the money from Stuart, my boy. I was a selfish old fellow to let you
do it--how did the money come to you?”
Kenneth’s story was a surprising one.
“I had it a couple of days ago,” he said. “I came down to breakfast
and found a letter. It was not registered and the address was
hand-printed. I opened it, never dreaming what it contained. Just then
I was terribly rattled over Stuart--I thought head office might get to
know about my borrowing money. And when I found inside the letter
twenty ten-pound notes you could have knocked me out.”
“Was there any letter?”
“None. Not even ‘from a friend.’”
“Who knew about your being in debt?”
One name came instantly to Kenneth’s mind.
“You told your Margot, did you… Wentford’s niece? His real name was
Lynn, by the way. Could she have sent it?”
“It was not she who drew the money, I’ll swear! I should have known
her. And though she was veiled, I could recognize her again if I met
her. Kingfether’s line is that no woman came; he is suggesting that
the cheque was cashed by me. He even says that the cheque was out of a
book which I keep in my drawer for the use of customers who come to
the bank without their cheque books.”
George McKay fingered his chin, his keen eyes on his son.
“If you were in any kind of trouble you’d tell me the truth, my boy,
wouldn’t you? All this worry has come through me. You’re telling me
the truth now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, father.”
The older man smiled.
“Fathers have the privilege of asking ‘Are you a thief?’ without
having their heads punched! And most young people do stupid
things--and most old people too! Lordy! I once carried a quarter of a
million bank at baccarat! Nobody would believe that, but it’s true.
Come and eat, then go along and see your Margot.”
“Father, who killed that man Wentford?”
There was a twinkle in McKay’s eyes when he answered:
“J.G. Reeder, I should think. He knows more about it than any honest
man should know!”