The man’s manner was expressive. Laverick repeated his phrase,
frowning.
“His life!”
“Yes, sir!”
Laverick shrugged his shoulders.
“Come,” he declared, “you must not go too far with this thing. I have
admitted, so as to clear the way for anything you have to say, that Mr.
Morrison would not care to have his name mentioned in connection with
this affair. But because he left your bar a few minutes after the
murdered man, it is sheer folly to assume that therefore he is
necessarily implicated in his death. I cannot conceive anything more
unlikely.”
The man smiled—a slow, uncomfortable smile which suggested mirth less
than anything in the world.
“There are a few other things, sir,” he remarked,—“one in especial.”
“Well?” Laverick inquired. “Let’s have it. You had better tell me
everything that is in your mind.”
“The man was stabbed with a horn-handled knife.”
“I remember reading that,” Laverick admitted.
“Well?”
“The knife was mine,” his visitor affirmed, dropping his voice once
more to a whisper. “It lay on the edge of the counter, close to where
Mr. Morrison was leaning, and as soon as he’d gone I missed it.”
Laverick was silent. What was there to be said?
“Horn-handled knives,” he muttered, “are not rare not uncommon things.”
“One don’t possess a knife for a matter of eight or nine years without
being able to swear to it,” the other remarked dryly.
“Is there anything more?”
“There don’t need to be,” was the quiet reply. “You know that, sir. So
do I. There don’t need to be any more evidence than mine to send Mr.
Morrison to the gallows.”
“We will waive that point,” Laverick declared. “The jury sometimes are
very hard to convince by circumstantial evidence alone. However, as I
have said, let us waive that point. Your position is clear enough. You
go to the inquest, you tell all you know, and you get nothing. You are
a poor man, you have worked hard all your life. The chance has come in
your way to do yourself a little good. Now take my advice. Don’t spoil
it all by asking for anything ridiculous. It won’t do for you to come
into a fortune a few days after this affair, especially if it ever
comes out that the murdered man was in your place. I am here to act for
Mr. Morrison. What is it that you want?”
“You are talking like a gent, sir,” the man said,—“like a sensible
gent, too. I’d have to keep it quiet, of course, that I’d come into a
bit of money,—just at present, at any rate. I could easy find an excuse
for changing my job—perhaps get away from London altogether. I’ve got a
few pounds saved and I’ve always wanted to open a banking account. A
gent like you, perhaps, could put me in the way of doing it.”
“How much do you consider would be a satisfactory balance to commence
with?” Laverick asked.
“I was thinking of a thousand pounds, sir.”
Laverick was thoughtful for a few moments.
“By the way, what is your name?” he inquired at last.
“James Shepherd, sir,” the man answered,—“generally called Jim, sir.”
“Well, you see, Shepherd,” Laverick continued, “the difficulty is, in
your case, as in all similar ones, that one never knows where the thing
will end. A thousand pounds is a considerable sum, but in four amounts,
with three months interval between each, it could be arranged. This
would be better for you, in any case. Two hundred and fifty pounds is
not an unheard-of sum for you to have saved or got together. After that
your investments would be my lookout, and they would produce, as I have
said, another seven hundred and fifty pounds. But what security have
I—has Mr. Morrison, let us say—that you will be content with this sum?”
“He hasn’t any, sir,” the man admitted at once. “He couldn’t have any.
I’m a modest-living man, and I’ve no desire to go shouting around that
I’m independent all of a sudden. That wouldn’t do nohow. A thousand
pounds would bring me in near enough a pound a week if I invested it,
or two pounds a week for an annuity, my health being none too good.
I’ve no wife or children, sir. I was thinking of an annuity. With two
pounds a week I’d have no cause to trouble any one again.”
Laverick considered.
“It shall be done,” he said. “To-morrow I shall buy shares for you to
the extent of two hundred and fifty pounds. They will be deposited in a
bank. Some day you can look in and see me, and I will take you round
there. You are my client who has speculated under my instructions
successfully, and you will sign your name and become a customer. After
that, you will speculate again. When your thousand pounds has been
made, I will show you how to buy an annuity. Keep your mouth shut, and
last night will be the luckiest night of your life. Do you drink?”
“A drop or two, sir,” the man admitted. “If I didn’t, I guess I’d go
off my chump.”
“Do you talk when you’re drunk?” Laverick asked.
“Never, sir,” the man declared. “I’ve a way of getting a drop too much
when I’m by myself. Then I tumbles off to sleep and that’s the end of
it. I’ve no fancy for company at such times.”
“It’s a good thing,” Laverick remarked, thrusting his hand into his
pocket. “Here’s a five-pound note on account. I daresay you can manage
to keep sober to-night, at any rate. That’s all, isn’t it?”
“That’s all, sir,” the man answered, “unless I might make so bold as to
ask whether Mr. Morrison has really hooked it?”
“Mr. Morrison had decided to hook it, as you graphically say, before he
came in for that drink to your bar, Shepherd,” Laverick affirmed.
“Business had been none too good with us, and we had had a
disagreement.”
The man nodded.
“I see, sir,” he said, taking up his hat. “Good night, sir!”
“Good night!” Laverick answered. “You can find your way down?”
“Quite well, sir, and thank you,” declared Mr. Shepherd, closing the
door softly behind him.
Laverick sat down in his chair. He had forgotten that he was hungry. He
was faced now with a new tragedy.