Читать книгу The Lion and the Lamb - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 5

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IN due course, there was a ring at the bell, and in response to David's invitation, a middle-aged, very welldressed, portentous-looking gentleman, his right hand outstretched, and carrying a small black bag in his left, entered the room. Behind him, following a little diffidently, and with a despatch box under his arm, was another person of obviously less consequence. His clothes and general appearance bore the unmistakable imprint of the lawyer's clerk.

"My dear Lord Newberry!" the solicitor exclaimed. "I beg your pardon—Mr. David Newberry, since you wish it—let me offer you a hearty welcome back into =? shall we call it civilisation?"

"Very good of you, I'm sure," David murmured, affecting not to notice the outstretched hand.

"I come, hoping sincerely that you are prepared to let bygones be bygones," his visitor continued. "Believe me, there were times when I felt a positive pain in carrying out the instructions we received from your lamented father."

The young man inclined his head.

"Who is this person with you?" he asked.

"I took the liberty of bringing my confidential clerk," Mr. Atkinson explained. "There are so many details connected with the estate which you should know of, things which no one man could carry in his head. We have all the papers here. It may be rather a long affair, but it has to be done."

"It must stand over until another time," David announced. "For this morning, I shall ask you to send away your clerk—what did you say his name was?"

"Mr. Moody. He has been with the firm for a very long time."

"Mr. Moody then," David continued, turning towards him, and for the first time there was a shade of courtesy in his tone and a slight smile upon his lips—"I shall ask you to send him away for the present. Anything that is necessary can be attended to later on. I am sorry, Mr. Moody, you have had the trouble of coming for no purpose."

The elderly man smiled from his place in the background.

"It's been a pleasure to see you again—er—Mr. David Newberry, if only for this moment."

The clerk, in obedience to a gesture from his employer, withdrew, and David motioned the latter to a chair. The lawyer's right hand was still twitching, but David's eyes were still blind.

"I shall open our conversation, my—Mr. Newberry," the man of law began, "by begging you to forget everything there may have been in the past of an unpleasant nature. I can assure you that your misfortune was a bitter grief to the firm, as it naturally was to your father and brothers."

"We can take all that for granted," David interrupted, a little curtly.

"Nevertheless," the other continued, "I must repeat my conviction that if your father, if we had any of us, realised the situation properly, everything would have been different. When you have an hour to spare, I should like to go into the whole series of incidents, one by one."

David smiled bitterly.

"I fear, Mr. Atkinson," he said, "that I shall never have that hour to spare."

"It has always been my conviction," the lawyer persisted, "that your father took an unduly censorious view of your earlier indiscretions."

David shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"A little late for that sort of thing, isn't it?" he remarked. "We will leave the past alone, so far as possible. There are certain things, however, which you must understand. I arrived home from Australia penniless, and as I couldn't see why in God's name my father couldn't do something for me, I wrote and asked him. His reply came through you, and you know what it was."

The lawyer fidgeted in his seat.

"I risked a good deal," he declared earnestly, "in attempting to modify your father's attitude."

"Never mind about that. You had to carry out instructions, of course =? but here comes the point. I was in London, penniless, barely twelve months ago. I hadn't a job. I'd held a commission in the Australian army, which stopped my enlisting here. I thought of the Foreign Legion, but I hadn't the money to get to France. I wasn't eligible for the dole, even if I could have brought myself to touch it. You know what I did. I joined a gang of criminals. The first time I went out with them, they let me down. You also know the sequel to that."

"Is it worth while," Mr. Atkinson pleaded, "dwelling upon these—er—disagreeable incidents—The whole thing is finished and done with, you have come into a fine inheritance, an income of something like thirty thousand a year, and, if you will forgive my saying so, there is nothing left now but to wipe out this last very unpleasant memory, and make a fresh start."

"Eventually, perhaps," David observed. "As I have already warned you, however, I am not quite ready yet to take up my new responsibilities."

Mr. Atkinson was puzzled.

"But, my dear Mr. Newberry," he expostulated, "I don't quite see—I don't quite understand why there should be any delay."

"You wouldn't," was the brief retort, "but there is going to be, all the same."

"Perhaps you will explain."

"I sent for you to do so. I sha'n't use many words about it either. Mr. Atkinson, I am an embittered person."

All the sympathy which the lawyer could summon into his somewhat expressionless face was there, as he looked towards the slim young man with the clean-cut features and the hard grey-blue eyes, lounging in the opposite chair.

"I'm not surprised at that, Mr. Newberry."

"For fifteen years," David went on, "my father, my two brothers, and practically the whole of the family have treated me like an outcast, entirely without reason. My father and brothers are tragically dead, so that's an end of it. I can bear them no grudge, even if I can't altogether forgive."

The lawyer was grave and almost dignified.

"Indeed, Mr. Newberry," he said, "the continuation of any ill feeling on your part would be—if you will forgive my saying so—unbecoming. The whole country was shocked at the terrible accident which cost your two brothers their lives on their way back from Paris. Full details will never be known, as there were no other passengers, and both the pilot and the mechanic were killed, but it was clear that they fell from over two thousand feet on a perfectly still day on to the rocks, with, naturally, the most appalling results. No wonder when the news was broken to your father the shock was too much for him. As you know, he fainted, never regained consciousness, and died without uttering a word. Mr. Newberry, you must forget all the wrongs you suffered from your family. Death, and such death, is atonement enough."

"You are perfectly right, Mr. Atkinson," David admitted. "I can assure you I have not an unkind thought in my mind toward my father or either of my brothers. That may be considered as wiped out. But to go back again to my own precarious existence. After suffering all that I had suffered, just reflect upon what happened to me when I was driven to join this band of criminals. Again I am made the cat's-paw. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Atkinson, that law- breaking as a profession is not in my line. I had decided to quit it before that first j ob. Then see what happened. There were three of us concerned in the affair. It was well enough planned, and there was plenty of time for all of us to have escaped. My two companions, however, got the funk, locked the door on me, got away themselves, and left me to face the music."

"Disgraceful!" the lawyer exclaimed.

"So disgraceful," David agreed, "that before I enter into my inheritance and my new life, I am going to break up that gang, whatever it costs me."

"But my dear—Mr. Newberry," the lawyer protested, "why on earth, in view of your wonderful future, should you run the slightest risk in dealing personally with this band of criminals? I ask you to consider the matter seriously. Is it worth while?"

"It is not only worth while, from my point of view," David confided, "but it has become a necessity."

"I fail to follow you," the lawyer confessed.

"If I don't go for them, they're coming for me. It seems that they don't allow seceders, and they have already ordered me back to my place. As soon as they find out that I am a rich man and am not coming, there will be trouble."

Mr. Atkinson was honestly shocked.

"But, my dear Mr. Newberry," he expostulated, "let me entreat you to accompany me at once to Scotland Yard. Adequate protection shall be afforded to you. To that I pledge my word."

"You think so," David observed, with a faint smile.

"I'm afraid you don't know my friends."

"Why not take Scotland Yard into your confidence concerning them," Mr. Atkinson urged. "I have always understood that the band of criminals with whom you were temporarily associated was one of the most dangerous in London. The police would move for you against them with the utmost pleasure. You ought to be able to give them valuable information and place yourself in safety at the same time."

David shook his head.

"I'm afraid that you are very much a layman in such matters, Mr. Atkinson," he regretted. "There's just one thing the venomous person who was my late Chief is proud of, and that is that no man has ever squealed and lived for twenty-four hours."

"Squealed?" the lawyer murmured questioningly.

"Given the show away — turned king's evidence," David expounded. "I'm not afraid of threats, but I took the oath like the others, and I really don't think that I could bring myself to break it. I swore that, whilst I lived, I would never give away to the police or any one else the various lurking places of the gang, the names of any of them, or the headquarters of their leader. I believe, from what I have been told, that in the last six years seven people have taken the initial step towards breaking their word, and not one of them lived for twenty-four hours."

Mr. Atkinson mopped his forehead. He was genuinely distressed.

"You must forgive me—you must really forgive me, Mr. Newberry," he begged, "if I venture to say that your point of view is outrageous."

"In what way?" David queried.

"How can your word of honour be binding to a band of criminals who, on their part, have already taken advantage of you, and from whom you acknowledge yourself to be still in danger?" the lawyer demanded.

David stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"The treachery to me," he pointed out, "was not on the part of the gang but on the part of two members of it only. Those I am proposing to deal with privately. So far as regards the rest, they have carried out what they imagined to be their part of the bargain. They sent a taxicab to meet me at the prison this morning, with a bottle of whisky to promote good feeling. They had a feast prepared for me, and my share of the result of the burglary has been carefully put on one side and is waiting for me. They've carried the affair through soundly, from their outlook."

Mr. Atkinson was very nearly angry. He spoke with resolution and vigour.

"The sooner you abandon these quixotic ideas the better, Mr. Newberry," he said. "You can't treat thieves like honest men. The Chief Commissioner at Scotland Yard is a friend of mine. I propose that we visit him at once, or, better still, let me ring him up and invite him to lunch."

"Nothing doing," was the terse reply. "You have some vague idea, Mr. Atkinson, of what my life has been, but let me tell you this: I have never lived without adventure, even though it has cost me dear, and I have never broken my word to man, woman, child, or thief, although that has cost me dear sometimes, too. I am taking this little job on outside the police; that is why I wanted to see you at once."

The lawyer was nonplussed. Perhaps he recognised impregnability; at any rate, he acknowledged temporary defeat.

"The time will probably come before long," his distinguished client concluded, "when I may be prepared to assume my title, to occupy my houses, and to visit my estate. Until then, I require you to keep my whereabouts an absolute secret both from my relatives and all enquirers, whoever they may be. I will sign a power of attorney, if necessary, and you will continue to manage my affairs as before."

Mr. Atkinson was touched and eager. The hard, legal tone of some of the letters in which he had conveyed messages from the late Earl of Newberry to his prodigal son had caused him many a groan in the light of subsequent events. He leaned a little forward, moistening his lips and endeavouring to keep his voice steady.

"Do I understand you, my lord—I beg your pardon, Mr. Newberry—correctly?" he asked. "It is your wish that we continue to administer your affairs and act as your agents for the present?"

"That is my wish," David assented. "In the meantime, I am in need of money. There will be no difficulty about that, I suppose?"

"Not the slightest. We are really almost ashamed to disclose the fact that the balances at your various banks amount to nearly a hundred and seventy- five thousand pounds. This, too, after we have invested quite freely of late."

"At which bank have I the largest balance?"

"You have sixty-nine thousand pounds at Barclays'. I have here all the cheque hooks. Barclays' is the top one. It will be necessary—I regret very much to trouble you— but it will be necessary for you to accompany me there to demonstrate your signature."

"I will do that at once," David decided, rising to his feet. "My campaign will probably cost money."

The two men left the room together:? the lawyer with an unexpectedly light heart. His client's mad scheme was depressing, but he had looked for worse things.