Читать книгу The Books of Bart - Edgar Wallace - Страница 9

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IN Portugal Street, on the fourth floor of a great block of offices, was situated the firm of Waterson, Gasby & Quale, those important solicitors. They occupied a whole floor of the building, and some six and thirty clerks, of divers ages and in various degrees of shabbiness, laboured incessantly from morning till night, from Monday morning until Friday night and again from Saturday morning until two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, in the seemingly endless task of comparing one set of documents with other sets of documents, with copying some and filing others, with attaching forms and stamps, and with preparing long lists, which showed how the papers had been compared and filed and stamped and attached, and the cost thereof.

In the largest of the private rooms, doubly protected by a commonplace door and one more intimate and baize-covered, Mr. George Waterson lived before a large table, leather-topped and furnished with baskets, into which from time to time he would drop sheets of closely written foolscap. If they were dropped into one basket, they were compared and filed; into another, they were copied and stamped; into yet another, they were added to dossiers which reposed in the japanned tin boxes in the managing clerk’s office. Mr. George Waterson, for the moment, had suspended his dreary occupation and was discussing the weather (in which he took a correct and impartial interest) with a well-built, florid man of military appearance. The visitor was scrupulously dressed, in garments of correct cut and hue, and wore a big yellow flower in the lapel of his well-fitting morning coat. His trousers were of shepherd’s plaid, his spats were snowy white, and he showed just the right amount of shirt in the considered V of his vest opening. On the desk by his side was a silk hat which might have just been placed there by its reverent maker, so wonderfully shiny and unruffled it was.

His troubled face was turned to his solicitor, and George Waterson was returning the gaze with his studied melancholy.

“So you see?” asked Mr. Harold Tirrell.

“I see,” replied George carefully.

“And what do you think?” demanded the other patiently.

“I should take my profits and get out; no man was ever ruined by taking small profits.” Mr. Waterson was sententious because it was his business to be sententious.

“It looks like being a fine summer, and a fine summer means empty theatres; you have made as much profit out of your share of the New Century lease as you are entitled to make. If Gromberg will take over your share you will be relieved from all the responsibility of the new piece—what is it, by the way?”

Mr. Harold Tirrell smiled.

“A new play by the great Bartholomew,” he said, and Mr. Waterson raised his eyebrows.

“Really?” He was incredulous. “After the failure of his—I always forget the titles of his ventures!”

Mr. Tirrell nodded.

“That is what has decided me more than the prospect of a hot summer,” he explained. “Of course, Gromberg is an awfully shrewd fellow, but Bart is as plausible as the devil. He’d talk an impresario into livening up grand opera with kinematograph pictures. Gromberg believes in the play—it is called ‘They,’ and is a sort of patriotic comedy.”

George Waterson’s face twitched nervously—a sign that he laboured under some emotion: on this occasion, of an agreeable kind.

“So long as he doesn’t persuade his ward to put money into it, I am not greatly affected,” he confessed. “I have no interest in his enterprises save an everlastingly opposing interest—you know that, so I am betraying no confidence in referring to my relationship to his schemes. I think in all the circumstances that you will be well advised to clear out. By the way,” he added with that air of indifference which invites the fullest confidence, “Mrs. Tamarand isn’t interested financially in any of Bartholomew Foreman’s sporadic ventures, is she?”

Tirrell blushed.

“I don’t know why you should ask me,” he said with heavy jocularity, “except of course you know she is a friend of mine. No, I think she is outside all these precious projects. Bart knows I—well, I wouldn’t stand any victimizing—that is to say, of course I have no right to speak on her behalf, but——”

Waterson let him flounder a little deeper before he came to his assistance.

“I understand perfectly,” he said, without understanding anything, save that Harold was an ass.

“I’m glad you do,” said the other eagerly. “You see, George—I can speak to you very frankly. I am very fond of Agatha Tamarand—more than fond, in fact—I hope that one of these days I shall ask you to fix things for me—a settlement and all that sort of thing. The fact is—I’ve asked her to marry me.”

He blushed again and was stammering like a schoolboy. All the moustache curling in the world could not hide his awkward joy in the contemplation of a victory.

“And?”

“Well, she’s going to give me an answer soon—in fact she’s as good as told me—only not a soul must know, do you understand?—not a soul. If she finally decides in my favour—we shall just marry and pop off somewhere ... Spain or Italy for a month. Anyway you can jot down a rough draft of the settlement now ... the house in Park Lane and £10,000 in Argentine Tramways—they’re a sure 5 per cent. stock and—perhaps I’d better give you a complete list later.”

George Waterson looked up suddenly.

“A slight change of view,” he said slowly. “Rather unexpected, isn’t it?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I mean—forgive me if I pry into your private affairs—there was a lady upon whom you lavished your young affection. At a distance I grant you, and worshipfully, but still with a certain fire which was impressive.”

Harold caressed his moustache and a little cloud gathered on his face.

“Miss Masefield?” George Waterson nodded. “You know that’s impossible—she’s married and all that. Yes, she’s married,” he repeated with a little sigh, “and I’m very fond of Agatha.’

“How many times has Miss Masefield been married?” asked the other carelessly, and Harold was obviously annoyed.

“Twice,” he said shortly. “You don’t understand, George, so don’t be so beastly sarcastic. An actress is different ... broader and all that sort of thing. By Jove! she is a girl in a thousand; so is Agatha, for the matter of that, only—only she belongs to another thousand!”

He rose hurriedly and picked up his hat.

“Is it too early in the day to wish you joy?” asked George with the ghost of a smile.

The other pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I hope not,” he said. “Anyway,” he paused, “anyway, I’ll write.”

“Blind and stupid bat,” said George Waterson.

He did not say this till Harold Tirrell had left the room, and then, with habitual caution, only to himself.