Читать книгу Harvey Garrard's Crime - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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Afterwards it always seemed to Harvey that his first action should have been to summon a doctor. As a matter of fact the idea never occurred to him. His immediate impulse was to discover the identity of the dead man. He felt in his breast coat pocket and drew out a letter case. It was singularly empty except for a book of stamps, a page torn out from an A.B.C. time-table, giving the trains between Paris and London, and a couple of business cards. He stood under the light and studied these latter anxiously:

"MR. EBENEZER B. SWAYLE,

The Tannery House,

John's River,

Connecticut"

and in the left-hand corner simply the word "Hides." He turned them over and over carefully. There was no indication whatever as to the man's London address. He turned to the dispatch box and, noticing for the first time that there was a small key in the lock, he opened it and drew out handful after handful of parchment documents neatly secured together with elastic bands. Save for these and a few samples of leather the box was empty. There was nowhere any indication as to the man's abode in London, or the whereabouts of his friends. . . . Harvey had entered the room in a numbed state, a condition of mind which had largely discounted the shock of his discovery. With every moment, however, his brain grew clearer and he began to realise more fully the exigencies as well as the horror of the situation. He moved towards the telephone intending to ring up the police. On his way he glanced, carelessly enough at first, at the neatly-arranged sheaves of parchment which he had taken from the dispatch box. The sight of some figures in the corner of the topmost one attracted his attention. He paused and, examining it more closely, gave a little start of surprise. It was a United States Treasury Bond of the value of five thousand dollars. He went through the sheaf rapidly. Each one appeared to be of the same denomination. The packet slipped from his fingers. He turned and looked almost guiltily at the figure in the chair. The eyes were still hideously open but they were already glazed, set in the unseeing stare of death. He found himself trembling from head to foot. For the first time in his life he realised what fear was—nervous, irrational fear. He was shaken by a mingled spasm of mental and physical terror. The fingers which had turned over the bonds were shaking.

"My God!" he muttered to himself.

The sound of his own voice seemed to miraculously reassure him. With almost incredible suddenness a complete change took place in his mental and physical condition. He felt himself perfectly cool and alert, prepared for some form of action, the nature of which had not at that moment occurred to him. He stepped first out into the warehouse and listened. There was not a sound to be heard. Then he glanced at his watch. It was five-and-twenty past ten, and the watchman, he remembered, would not be on duty before midnight. He returned to the waiting-room, closed the door behind him, and with his back to the horrible figure on the chair he counted the bonds with methodical care, packet after packet. They were all of the value of five thousand dollars, twenty in each sheaf, and ten sheaves in all. He laid them down upon the table and forced himself to look at the dead man. He appeared to be anything from seventy to seventy-five years of age, and his clothes alone would have identified him as an American. Once more Harvey searched his pockets and the pocket-book without discovering anything which could convey the slightest intimation as to why this unfortunate person should have visited the firm of Garrard & Garrard at such an hour, have remained in the waiting-room unannounced, and, more extraordinary still, have been carrying about with him securities to such a large amount. He abandoned speculation as being for the moment profitless, replaced the samples of leather in the dispatch box, locked it and left the key upon the table, extinguished the light and, with the packets of Treasury Bonds in his hands, crossed the floor and entered his own office. . . .

With the bonds laid out in front of him, Harvey sat in his high-backed chair, his mind concerned in a vague sort of way with the moralities of the situation. Like many another man, he had always remained scrupulously honest because the temptation to dishonesty had never assailed him. If he had seen a man drop a hundred pound note, he would have returned it without hesitation. If an acquaintance had invited him to participate in a swindle certain to yield a large profit, he would have refused with scorn. Here, however, he seemed faced with considerations which confused him. To-morrow, without some sort of miraculous aid such as seemed in those few bewildering moments to have presented itself, he was not only forced to endure a great shame himself but to bring dishonour upon the memory of those old men whose stern faces looked down at him now through the gloom, and whom he could imagine turning in their graves at the bare thought of the present crisis. Ignorant though he was of the practical side of such matters, he realised even then that to use the bonds in any way, even as security, was to run a desperate risk. Nevertheless, he knew from the first that he was about to attempt it. If he had failed in his trust towards those who had built up the fortune which he had allowed to slip through his fingers, here, at any rate, should be his attempt at atonement. The purpose, dimly formed at first in his mind, became more and more definite as the silent moments of his vigil passed. Finally he locked up the bonds in his drawer, took down his hat from a peg, walked across the empty warehouse without a glance towards the tragically silent waiting-room, descended the stairs and let himself out into the street. He made his way towards London Bridge, meeting scarcely a soul. In the station he entered the refreshment room and drank a whisky and soda. A few minutes later he retraced his steps into the station yard, called a taxicab and was driven home.

There was a small wood fire burning in his study grate, his favourite evening newspapers laid out upon the table, whisky and soda upon the sideboard. The room itself was an epitome of the small luxuries of life. The engravings which hung upon the wall, though few in number, formed part of a rare and valuable collection. The specimens of jade statuary—Harvey had been a collector for a time—were unique. There was a model of Rodin, an anonymous bronze Venus, concerning which a famous critic had written half a column of praise in the Times. The Persian rug which stretched across the floor had been bought at Christie's after the severest competition. There were two Greuzes hanging one on each side of an electric lamp in a dimly lit recess of the room, and one old master, a reputed Andrea del Sarto, also in the shadows. Harvey helped himself to another whisky and soda and threw himself into his chair. His thoughts travelled fearsomely backwards. With a little shiver he reflected that he had crossed the Rubicon. By this time it was possible that the watchman had completed his tour of the warehouses and made his gruesome discovery. To all intents and purposes the die was cast. The bonds were locked up in his desk. He had become a thief. He closed his eyes and leaned back, exhausted. When he opened them again it was to the sound of his wife's voice. . . .

She was standing a few yards away, looking at him—a very brilliant vision in her white satin evening gown, a marvellous cloak open at the neck, a necklace and coronet of diamonds. She was regarding with distaste his morning clothes and crumpled linen.

"Well," she asked anxiously, "is there any news?"

"There is no news," he answered. "The worst has not come yet, if that is what you mean."

She moved to the sideboard and helped herself to some soda-water. He would have anticipated her wants but she waved him away.

"You dined out?" he enquired.

"No, I dined here alone," she answered with asperity. "You may remember that we were dining with the Hertfordshires, but I had to cancel that when I received your telephone message. I have been to the Duchess of Leicester's musical party."

"Amusing?"

"Scarcely that. The violinist was wonderful."

"Won't you have a chair?" he invited, offering his own.

She shook her head.

"I am not stopping. I only came to see if you had anything to tell me."

"Nothing at present."

"You're not persisting in the absurd demand you made last night?"

"I have made other arrangements," he told her.

She toyed for a moment with her bracelet.

"If the business," she said, "is really in such a bad way, who is there who could possibly pull it round now that Mr. Armitage is dead?"

"Myself," he answered. "There is no one else."

"The affair is hopeless, then?"

"Well, I would not quite say that. I have spent a great many hours thinking over the conditions. I know too little even now to announce a definite opinion, but I shall not accept the worst without a great effort."

The curve of her lips was almost scornful.

"You don't really fancy, Harvey, that you could succeed as a man of affairs?" she asked.

"A man never knows what he can do until he tries," he answered, didactically.

"I hope, at any rate, that you will give me a few days' warning before any crisis occurs," she said. "I have made up my mind that in that case I shall live abroad. It would be beggary, of course, but even beggary in the South of France is better than beggary here."

"You will always be free to choose."

"You understand clearly, Harvey," she continued, "that if this happens I shall leave you."

He looked at her curiously. All his married life he had known her to be a selfish woman, but he was interested now in pushing his conclusions concerning her to the furthest limit.

"I understand that," he assented. "You will have, let me see, two thousand a year from your settlement, say a thousand a year from the sum which you obtain from the house, and if you sell some of your jewels, say another thousand a year. That will not be positive beggary."

"It is at least next door to it," she replied contemptuously.

"My own position," he reflected, "appears to be less assured. I have, unfortunately, no settlement, no house, no jewellery, and the small income I derive under my mother's will will be claimed by the creditors. There are a few polo ponies, but the estate, I presume, will also claim those. I am very much afraid that my own income will be—exactly what I can earn."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You are very much to blame," she said, "for not having looked into your affairs before."

"Very much," he agreed.

"For both our sakes," she added emphatically.

"I shall not find it easy," he continued, "to earn money."

"There are always posts going around for men with a turn for athletics," she remarked, "polo or golf secretaryships, or something of that sort."

"Three hundred a year and a free lunch," he murmured.

"In any case," she said firmly, "let there be no misunderstanding about this, Harvey: if the business is wound up we separate. The pittance I have will barely support me."

The smile which came to his lips, the little laugh which followed, were the greatest relief he had experienced during the last few hours. She looked at him, leaning back in his chair, with the lines of mirth deepening about his eyes, in cold surprise.

"Your sense of humour seems to me slightly distorted," she observed. "At any rate, now that we clearly understand one another, I am going to bed."

She picked up a fan of wonderful ostrich feathers. He sprang to his feet and opened the door for her.

"I do not know, Mildred," he said, "that there is one of your very admirable qualities which appeals to me more than your frankness. Let me set your mind at ease. Your possessions are entirely your own. I shall never beg a bed under your roof nor a crust from your kitchen."

"Don't be melodramatic," she enjoined shortly. "Sarcasm suits your style better. Good-night!"