The roar of the day was long since over. The rattle of vehicles, the
tinkling of hansom bells, the tooting of horns from motor-cars and
cabs, the ceaseless tramp of footsteps, all had died away. Outside, the
streets were almost deserted. An occasional wayfarer passed along the
flagged pavement with speedy footsteps. Here and there a few lights
glimmered at the windows of some of the larger blocks of offices. The
bustle of the day was finished. There is no place in London so
strangely quiet as the narrow thoroughfares of the city proper when the
hour approaches midnight.
Laverick, who since his partner’s departure had been studying with
infinite care his private ledger, closed it at last with a little snap
and leaned back in his chair. After all, save that he had got rid of
Morrison, it had been a wasted evening. Not even he, whose financial
astuteness no man had ever questioned, could raise from those piles of
figures any other answer save the one inevitable one, the knowledge of
which had been like a black nightmare stalking by his side for the last
thirty-six hours. One by one during the evening his clerks had left
him, and it was a proof not only of his wonderful self-control but also
of the confidence which he invariably inspired, that not a single one
of them had the slightest idea how things were. Not a soul knew that
the firm of Laverick & Morrison was already practically derelict, that
they had on the morrow twenty-five thousand pounds to find, neither
credit nor balance at their bankers, and eight hundred and fifty pounds
in the safe.
Laverick, haggard from his long vigil, locked up his books at last,
turned out the lights, and locking the doors behind him walked into the
silent street. Instinctively he turned his steps westwards. This might
well be the last night on which he would care to show himself in his
accustomed haunts, the last night on which he could mix with his
fellows freely, and without that terrible sense of consciousness which
follows upon disaster. Already there was little enough left of it. It
was too late to change and go to his club. The places of amusement were
already closed. To-morrow night, both club and theatres would lie
outside his world. He walked slowly, yet he had scarcely taken, in
fact, a dozen steps when, with a purely mechanical impulse, he paused
by a stone-flagged entry to light a cigarette. It was a passage, almost
a tunnel for a few yards, leading to an open space, on one side of
which was an old churchyard—strange survival in such a part—and on the
other the offices of several firms of stockbrokers, a Russian banker,
an actuary. It was the barest of impulses which led him to glance up
the entry before he blew out the match. Then he gave a quick start and
became for a moment paralyzed. Within a few feet of him something was
lying on the ground—a dark mass, black and soft—the body of a man,
perhaps. Just above it, a pair of eyes gleamed at him through the
semi-darkness.
Laverick at first had no thought of tragedy. It might be a tramp or a
drunkard, perhaps,—a fight, or a man taken ill. Then something sinister
about the light of those burning eyes set his heart beating faster. He
struck another match with firm fingers, and bent forward. What he saw
upon the ground made him feel a little sick. What he saw racing away
down the passage prompted him to swift pursuit. Down the arched court
into the open space he ran, himself an athlete, but mocked by the
swiftness of the shadowlike form which he pursued. At the end was
another street—empty. He looked up and down, seeking in vain for any
signs of life. There was nothing to tell him which way to turn.
Opposite was a very labyrinth of courts and turnings. There was not
even the sound of a footfall to guide him. Slowly he retraced his
steps, lit another match, and leaned over the prostrate figure. Then he
knew that it was a tragedy indeed upon which he had stumbled.
The man was dead, and he had met with his death by unusual means. These
were the first two things of which Laverick assured himself. Without
any doubt, a savage and a terrible crime had been committed. A
hornhandled knife of unusual length had been driven up to the hilt
through the heart of the murdered man. There had been other blows,
notably about the head. There was not much blood, but the position of
the knife alone told its ugly story. Laverick, though his nerves were
of the strongest, felt his head swim as he looked. He rose to his feet
and walked to the opening of the passage, gasping. The street was no
longer empty.
About thirty yards away, looking westwards, a man was standing in the
middle of the road. The light from the lamp-post escaped his face.
Laverick could only see that he was slim, of medium height, dressed in
dark clothes, with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. To all
appearance, he was watching the entry. Laverick took a step towards
him—the man as deliberately took a step further away. Laverick held up
his hand.
“Hullo!” he called out, and beckoned.
The person addressed took no notice. Laverick advanced another two or
three steps—the man retreated a similar distance. Laverick changed his
tactics and made a sudden spring forward. The man hesitated no
longer—he turned and ran as though for his life. In a few minutes he
was round the corner of the street and out of sight. Laverick returned
slowly to the entry.
A distant clock struck midnight. A couple of clerks came along the
pavement on the other side, their hands and arms full of letters.
Laverick hesitated. He was never afterwards able to account for the
impulse which prevented his calling out to them. Instead he lurked in
the shadows and watched them go by. When he was sure that they had
disappeared, he bent once more over the body of the murdered man.
Already that huddled-up heap was beginning to exercise a nameless and
terrible fascination for him. His first feelings of horror were mingled
now with an insatiable curiosity. What manner of man was he? He was
tall and strongly built; fair—of almost florid complexion. His clothes
were very shabby and apparently ready-made. His moustache was upturned,
and his hair was trimmed closer than is the custom amongst Englishmen.
Laverick stooped lower and lower until he found himself almost on his
knees. There was something projecting from the man’s pocket as though
it had been half snatched out—a large portfolio of brown leather,
almost the size of a satchel. Laverick drew it out, holding it in one
hand whilst with firm fingers he struck another match. Then, for the
first time, a little cry broke from his lips. Both sides of the
pocket-book were filled with bank-notes. As his match flickered out, he
caught a glimpse of the figures in the left-hand corner—500
pounds!—great rolls of them! Laverick rose gasping to his feet. It was
a new Arabian Nights, this!—a dream!—a continuation of the nightmare
which had threatened him all day! Or was it, perhaps, the madness
coming—the madness which he had begun only an hour or so ago to fear!
He walked into the gaslit streets and looked up and down. The
mysterious stranger had vanished. There was not a soul in sight. He
clutched the rough stone wall with his hands, he kicked the pavement
with his heels. There was no doubt about it—everything around him was
real. Most real of all was the fact that within a few feet of him lay a
murdered man, and that in his hands was that brown leather pocket-book
with its miraculous contents. For the last time Laverick retraced his
steps and bent over that huddled-up shape. One by one he went through
the other pockets. There was a packet of Russian cigarettes; an empty
card-case of chased silver, and obviously of foreign workmanship; a
cigarette holder stained with much use, but of the finest amber, with
rich gold mountings. There was nothing else upon the dead man, no means
of identification of any sort. Laverick stood up, giddy, half terrified
with the thoughts that went tearing through his brain. The pocket-book
began to burn his hand; he felt the perspiration breaking out anew upon
his forehead. Yet he never hesitated. He walked like a man in a dream,
but his footsteps were steady and short. Deliberately, and without any
sign of hurry, he made his way towards his offices. If a policeman had
come in sight up or down the street, he had decided to call him and to
acquaint him with what had happened. It was the one chance he held
against himself,—the gambler’s method of decision, perhaps,
unconsciously arrived at. As it turned out, there was still not a soul
in sight. Laverick opened the outer door with his latchkey, let himself
in and closed it. Then he groped his way through the clerk’s office
into his own room, switched on the electric light and once more sat
down before his desk.
He drew his shaded writing lamp towards him and looked around with a
nervousness wholly unfamiliar. Then he opened the pocket-book, drew out
the roll of bank-notes and counted them. It was curious that he felt no
surprise at their value. Bank-notes for five hundred pounds are not
exactly common, and yet he proceeded with his task without the
slightest instinct of surprise. Then he leaned back in his chair.
Twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes! There they lay on the
table before him. A man had died for their sake,—another must go
through all the days with the price of blood upon his head—a murderer—a
haunted creature for the rest of his life. And there on the table were
the spoils. Laverick tried to think the matter out dispassionately. He
was a man of average moral fibre—that is to say, he was honest in his
dealings with other men because his father and his grandfather before
him had been honest, and because the penalty for dishonesty was
shameful. Here, however, he was face to face with an altogether unusual
problem. These notes belonged, without a doubt, to the dead man. Save
for his own interference, they would have been in the hands of his
murderer. The use of them for a few days could do no one any harm. Such
risk as there was he took himself. That it was a risk he knew and fully
realized. Laverick had sat in his place unmoved when his partner had
poured out his wail of fear and misery. Yet of the two men it was
probable that Laverick himself had felt their position the more keenly.
He was a man of some social standing, with a large circle of friends; a
sportsman, and with many interests outside the daily routine of his
city life. To him failure meant more than the loss of money; it would
rob him of everything in life worth having. The days to come had been
emptied of all promise. He had held himself stubbornly because he was a
man, because he had strength enough to refuse to let his mind dwell
upon the indignities and humiliation to come. And here before him was
possible salvation. There was a price to be paid, of course, a risk to
be run in making use even for an hour of this money. Yet from the first
he had known that he meant to do it.
Quite cool now, he opened his private safe, thrust the pocket-book into
one of the drawers, and locked it up. Then he lit a cigarette, finally
shut up the office and walked down the street. As he passed the entry
he turned his head slowly. Apparently no one had been there, nothing
had been disturbed. Straining his eyes through the darkness, he could
even see that dark shape still lying huddled up on the ground. Then he
walked on. He had burned his boats now and was prepared for all
emergencies. At the corner he met a policeman, to whom he wished a
cheery good-night. He told himself that the thing which he had done was
for the best. He owed it to himself. He owed it to those who had
trusted him. After all, it was the chief part of his life—his city
career. It was here that his friends lived. It was here that his
ambitions flourished. Disgrace here was eternal disgrace. His father
and his grandfather before him had been men honored and respected in
this same circle. Disgrace to him, such disgrace as that with which he
had stood face to face a few hours ago, would have been, in a certain
sense, a reflection upon their memories. The names upon the brass
plates to right and to left of him were the names of men he knew, men
with whom he desired to stand well, whose friendship or contempt made
life worth living or the reverse. It was worth a great risk—this effort
of his to keep his place. His one mistake—this association with
Morrison—had been such an unparalleled stroke of bad luck. He was rid
of the fellow now. For the future there should be no more partners. He
had his life to live. It was not reasonable that he should allow
himself to be dragged down into the mire by such a creature. He found
an empty taxicab at the corner of Queen Victoria Street, and hailed it.
“Whitehall Court,” he told the driver.