Читать книгу For Fortune and Glory - Lewis Hough - Страница 11

While the Forsyth family was passing through its time of trial there had been other chops and changes going on in the lives of those with whom their fortunes were more or less connected. Mr. Richard Burke had still further declined in health, and could not be expected to last long; but what was unexpected by those who knew them both was that he outlived his legal adviser, Mr. Burrows, who was attacked with pleurisy, which carried him off soon after he had made Mr. Richard Burke’s last will.

His son came into his place, but he was a mild and not very intelligent young man, not long out of his articles, and very dependent upon Daireh, who knew all the details of his father’s clients’ business, and was so deferential and obsequious, that he made him think very often that he had originated the course of conduct which the wily Egyptian had suggested. As for the other partner, Fagan, he confined himself entirely, as he always had done, to the criminal and political part of the business.

Daireh was a bachelor, living in lodgings, and might have saved money to a reasonable extent in a modest way. But he was anything but modest in his desire for wealth, and the law would have given a very ugly name to some of the transactions by which he sought to acquire it if they had but come to light.

One February afternoon he left the office rather earlier than usual, and after a hurried dinner repaired to his lodgings, where he mixed himself a strong glass of whisky. Then he took a flask of glass and leather with a metal cup fitting to the bottom, and, unlocking a bureau, took out of a drawer a small phial.

He listened; went to the door—opened it, and looked out on the staircase; shut it again, locked it, and returned to the bureau. His hand shook so that he took another pull at his grog, and then uncorking the phial he poured the contents into the flask, filled it up with whisky, screwed the top on, and put it into his pocket.

Then he went out once more, and bent his steps to a railway station, where he took a ticket to a small country place about an hour’s ride from Dublin. It was growing dark when he arrived, but there was a moon, and the sky was fairly clear from clouds.

He walked for a mile along the road, and then turned off by a path which crossed a moor, and pursued this until he came within sight of a small disused quarry, from which all the valuable stone had been long ago carried.

As Daireh approached the place he clapped his hands three times, and a man came out of the shadow into the moonlight.

“Stebbings, is that you?” said Daireh.

“Yes, it is,” replied the other, sulkily. “No thanks to you for having to skulk like a fox. As I told you in my letter, the police are after me, and if I cannot get out of the country I’m done.”

“What made you come to Ireland, then? It would have been just as easy to have shipped abroad.”

“Because I wanted to see you, for I couldn’t trust you to send me a farthing.”

“How was it? You must have managed very badly.”

“The numbers of those bonds were known, though you were so sure they could not be, and they are advertised, and traced to having passed through my hands. That is certain to bring it out that I passed the forged cheque, too. Bad management yourself! However, there’s no good in blaming one another. Have you got the two hundred?”

“It is a large sum; but still, if it will get you out of your scrape, I will make the sacrifice. Only—”

“Get me out of my scrape! If I am taken, my fine fellow, you will be taken too.”

“Why, what good would it do you to pull me in with you?” asked Daireh.

“You know precious well. If all the facts came out I should get about two years, and you fourteen at least. You actually took the bonds; you forged the cheque. I was only your tool, employed to cash the things.”

“And am I to have you sucking me like a leech all my life?” cried Daireh in a shrill voice, stamping his foot.

“That is as it may be; you must take your chance of that. Perhaps you had sooner I gave myself up and told the whole story. I am not sure that it would not be the best thing for me to do.”

“That is nonsense. Here is the money. You know how to get to South America, you said.”

“Ay, I know. If the police have not tracked me here; and I think I have given them the slip,” said Stebbings, counting the notes before putting them away. “Now the sooner you are off the better.”

“It is a chilly night,” said Daireh, producing his flask, “and I am going to have a sup of whisky. Will you have a drop?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied Stebbings.

And the Egyptian filled the metal cup and handed it to him.

“Here’s better luck,” he said, taking a mouthful.

Then suddenly he spat it out again.

“No, hang me, if I will trust you!” he cried. “And there is a queer taste about it, too!”

“What nonsense!” said Daireh, forcing a laugh. “It is good whisky, very good; I had a glass just before I left. Well, good-night, for all your bad suspicions.”

And Daireh walked quickly away in the direction of the road which led to the station. When he was well hidden from the quarry he poured away the rest of what was in the flask.

“If he had but swallowed it,” he muttered fiercely between his teeth, “I should have been two hundred pounds richer, and safe!”

When he went to the office in the morning, one of the under clerks told him that Mr. Burke was dead, and Mr. Burrows was wanted to go over as soon as he could.

“All right,” said Daireh, “I will tell him when he comes. Where are those papers about the Ballyhoonish Estates? In his private room, I think.”

He passed in, and without hesitation took out a pass key which unlocked a drawer where all the keys of the deed boxes were. Selecting that belonging to the Burke box, he opened it; took out the will, put it in his pocket; locked, and replaced the box; put the keys back in the drawer, and locked that, and walked out with the documents he had spoken of under his arm. It had not taken him more than three minutes to do the whole thing.

His plan was this. He had now both wills in his possession. He did not exactly know where Stephen Philipson was to be found, but he was sure to turn up now, and he would make terms with him for destroying the second will and producing the first, which was in his favour. But he would not destroy the second will, but keep it to extort more money out of him with it. Also, if Philipson were to die—and his habits were such that he was not likely to be long lived—he would find out Mary Forsyth or Reginald Kavanagh, the persons interested, and see what they would give for the document, the loss of which had disinherited them.

When Mr. Burrows came in and received the news of Mr. Burke’s death, his first idea was to open the deed box bearing his name, to see if there was a will there. Finding none, he called Daireh, and asked him if he knew of any such document. Yes, Daireh said, he did; he had witnessed one not so many months ago. He fancied Mr. Burke had taken it away with him, but he was not sure. It might be well to look in the deed box. Mr. Burrows had already done that? Ah, then, no doubt Mr. Burke had taken it. Had made another since, very likely; he believed Mr. Burke was constantly altering his mind about the disposal of his property. But no doubt Mr. Burrows would find a will among the papers at the house.

But Mr. Burrows didn’t, and Daireh, as he went home that evening, bought a large piece of oil silk, in which he afterwards wrapped each of the two wills separately. Then he spent a considerable portion of the evening in making two large pockets inside a new waistcoat, one on each side, between the lining and the cloth, and each of these was to contain a will.

Stephen Philipson heard of his step-father’s death, and soon appeared at the office to know if the old man had really been as good, or bad, as his word, and cut him off with a mere allowance. He asked to see Daireh, with whom he had had a good many transactions.

“That was a real will, was it?” he asked.

“Real enough. I witnessed it.”

“But it cannot be found, I hear.”

“Oh, it will turn up at the funeral, never fear.”

“I wish it might not.”

“Why?”

“Because then, by the old will, I should come in for the lot.”

“But if the old will is not forthcoming, or the new one, or any other, the property devolves to the heir-at-law, Ralph Burke, and you will not even get your allowance.”

Philipson, whose nervous system was considerably shattered, was so affected by this consideration, that Daireh thought it better to revive him with a dram of hope.

“If I can see you privately, without fear of interruption, I may be able to give you a useful hint,” he said. “The funeral takes place on Saturday, and if nothing is heard of a will then I will meet you next day. Where are you staying?”

Philipson gave his present address and left, thinking to himself as he walked up the street—

“I wonder what bit of roguery that scoundrel is up to now? If he has got anything good for me I shall have to pay rarely for it. Well, I am in too bad a way to care much for that; but he shall not bring me within the reach of the law. I have no fancy for going to jail, where there’s no liquor to be got—not likely. None of that, Mr. Nigger. If he will take the risk I will pay the piper, and that is a fair enough division, I think. But I wonder what his little game is!”

But Daireh never made that Sunday call on Philipson. For on Saturday evening he heard a cry in the streets—“Important Arrest! Great Bond Robbery! Scandalous Disclosures!”

He invested a penny in the evening paper, and carried it up to his room.

His fears were verified. It was Stebbings who had been arrested. He had thought much about what he would do in such a case, and kept his wits about him. Of course, the “Scandalous Disclosures” heading was premature—inserted, indeed, to give a fillip to the sale of the paper. But the disclosures would certainly come very soon, and there was no time to be lost.

He destroyed a good many letters and papers; stowed all his money, and documents which meant money, about his person; packed a small valise which he could carry in his hand, and started for the station. He crossed the Channel that night, and got to Liverpool early on the following morning. He knew—so carefully had he laid his plans—that there was a trading vessel, with accommodation for two or three passengers, which was advertised to start from the port of Liverpool for Trieste that afternoon, and he would be unusually unlucky if he could not get a passage in her. He found, indeed, no difficulty about that, and might go on board at once if he liked.

Before he did so, however, he had a good meal on shore, and wrote a letter to Mr. Burrows regretting that he was forced to absent himself, without leave, from the office. And then, his imagination warming as he sat pen in hand, he told how his poor father, a stranger, speaking little English, had arrived in London, and been there seized with a serious illness; that he had not received the news till the night before, and had started at once to see that his aged parent received proper attention.

When the letter was finished, he went to the railway station and found a guard, whom he asked whether he was going to London that night. The guard said he was.

“Then I wish you would do me a favour,” said Daireh. “A lady—a friend of mine—wants to send a valentine to a man in Ireland, and is anxious to mystify him. She has got me to direct it, and would like it to have the London post-mark. Will you drop it in for her?”

He tendered the letter and a shilling, which the guard took with a grin and an “All right, sir,” and the foxy Egyptian walked back to the quay, having done his best to put the police on a wrong scent when the revelations of Stebbings should set them trying to track him. At the same time he felt that he was taking needless trouble, making assurance doubly sure; for, once at home in Alexandria, for which place he was bound, he would be safe enough. Or, if there were any fear, he had only to go up the Nile to Berber, where he had relatives, and what detective dare follow him there, or dare touch him even if he did?

A more anxious consideration was—how to make any profit out of the wills which he had stolen. To treat for their restitution, or even for that of the last and true one, would be a very ticklish operation indeed. I think it is really the worst part about rogues that they are so utterly selfish, and regardless of the misery they inflict upon other people, even when they cannot benefit themselves by it. If Daireh had had an ounce of good nature in his composition, he would have torn up the old will and sent back the new one, now there was so poor a chance of his making money out of his scheme.

But that idea never even occurred to him. I am glad to say, however, that he had a bad voyage, and suffered much from sea-sickness.