Collected works of j s f.., p.612
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 612
Mrs. Champernowne was watching him as intently as she was listening.
“But — the other man?” she asked suddenly.
“I tell you I can silence him,” replied Hackdale. “Easily! With money — your money, of course.”
“And — yourself?” she said. “Yourself?” Hackdale drew a long breath, and, folding his arms, looked round the room. When he turned again to his employer, it was with a smile — the smile of a man who finds it vastly agreeable to be in a position to dictate terms.
“Well, Mrs. Champernowne,” he answered. “I’ve been a very good, trustworthy, dependable servant to you — you’ve never once had to find fault with me that I remember. It will be in your interest to give me what I want. And that’s this — your present manager, Mr. Bywater, is out-of-date and useless — he’s worse than useless; he’s a nuisance! Pension him off, at once, and give me the managership. Date my appointment from last January the first, and give me a thousand a year — salary to be further considered at the end of two years. Reasonable, Mrs. Champernowne! — very reasonable.”
Mrs. Champernowne’s cheeks were assuming their usual colour. She remained silent for a moment or two, watching Hackdale, and turning her rings round and round on her plump fingers.
“How much money will satisfy that other man?” she asked abruptly.
“A couple of hundred pounds, put in my hands, and judiciously used,” answered Hackdale, with promptitude. “Ample!”
Mrs. Champernowne rose from her desk, and going over to a small safe in a corner of the room, took from it a bundle of notes and without counting handed them to Hackdale. Then she picked up a handful of papers.
“Come in and see me about the other matter at twelve-thirty,”’ she said. “I must go to the Council meeting.”
Without another word she left the room, and Hackdale, having put the safety pin in one pocket and the notes in another, went back to his duties. But at half-past twelve he was back. Mrs. Champernowne had just come in — and as he closed the door, she turned on him and to their business without waste of words.
“Hackdale! — you’re going to play straight about this?”
“My interest is to do that, Mrs. Champernowne!”
“I know nothing — nothing — as to how or why that man was murdered,” she went on. “Nothing — absolutely nothing! Still, I won’t deny — to you — that I saw him that night. Why — is my business. Still — I don’t want that to get out. You’re sure that it can’t get out through you or that other man?”
“Make yourself easy, Mrs. Champernowne! It’ll not get out from either. Are you certain that nobody at your house knows?”
“Certain of that — yes! He caught me at the entrance gate — I talked with him there — a little. Never mind why. Well, this managership. I can do better than that, Hackdale. Sit down — listen. I’m going to be married — to Sir Reville Childer — stone. You expected it? — very well. This business will be converted into a limited liability concern. I can make you secretary and manager. Now for details...”
Hackdale went away from Champernownes to his dinner feeling as if a couple of inches had been added to his stature. Simmons, awaiting him in their sitting room, was quick to observe his good spirits. He looked his wonder when Hackdale, suddenly rising from the table, went over to a cupboard and produced a bottle of champagne.
“It’s neither my birthday nor yours,” observed Simmons.
“Never mind, my boy!” exclaimed John. “I’ve had a stroke of big luck this morning. Bit of a secret at present, Sim, but you’ll hear all about it before long. Going to be great developments at our place, and I shall be biggest man there, Sim!”
“What’ll it run to — then?” enquired Sim.
Hackdale laughed. The prospect which Mrs. Champernowne had opened out before him was infinitely better than that he had sketched for himself.
“Can’t say as to that yet, my boy!” he answered. “But — big — big, Sim! Didn’t I always tell you I should be top dog at Champernowne’s some day. Nothing like my motto, Sim — always look after your own interest! Self first! — never mind where the other fellow gets to. You don’t look round in running races — at least, if you do, some other chap’ll be past you in a flash. You look after yourself at Shelmore’s as well as I’ve looked after myself at Champernowne’s, and you’ll do. I’ll tell you what, Sim! — now that this is coming off. I’ll pay for your being articled to Shelmore, and then, if you work hard, you’ll be a fully qualified solicitor in a few years. What do you say to that, Sim?”
Sim cocked his ears. His sharp eyes went to the champagne in his brother’s glass. But it was still as untouched as his own; clearly John made this offer in soberness.
“I’ll drink to that, John!” he said, suddenly. “Cost you a bit, you know.”
“Don’t mind that, my boy, as long as you do well, and it pays,” declared Hackdale. “Well, here’s luck to it and the Hackdale motto— ‘Look after Number One!’ Sim, if ever I — start a crest or that sort of thing, I’ll have that underneath! Never mind anybody else — self first, and hang the second fellow.”
“Good!” assented Simmons, and went steadily on with his dinner. “I’ll speak to Shelmore about the articling when I go back. But — I shall try to bargain with him.”
“Bargain? How?” asked Hackdale.
“Try to get something out of him,” answered Simmons, with a crafty look. “Suggest that he should do a bit towards it. I’ve been jolly useful to Shelmore! If I can screw something out of him, why not? Save your pocket.”
Hackdale nodded, sipped his wine, and smiled.
“I don’t think you’ll let the flies settle on you, Sim!” he said, with evident satisfaction. “You know pretty well how to take care of yourself! Bargain all you like with Shelmore. You know your own interests.”
“Trust me!” muttered Simmons. “Been studying ’em long enough!”
He went back to Shelmore’s office at half — past two, intending to broach the subject there and then. But just as he was about to knock at Shelmore’s door, Shelmore’s bell rang, and Simmons responded to find his principal standing near his desk, reading a written document with an air of something very like doubt or disfavour.
“Hackdale,” he said. “Miss Pretty has been here. She’s a very determined young lady, Hackdale! — the sort that insists on having her own way; also, it seems that though she’s not of age, she’s a very large sum of money in her bank which she can spend as she likes; and though she’s been in consultation with Superintendent Mellapont all the morning, and Mellapont has practically proved to her that her guardian was murdered by strangers for the sake of what he’d got on him, she won’t believe it — she’s got it firmly fixed in her head that Deane was followed here and murdered by some enemy. And she insists on offering a reward, and has asked me to get a bill printed and posted for her. I don’t see much good in it — I firmly believe Mellapont to be right. What do you think, Hackdale?”
“What’s the amount?” asked Simmons.
“She fixed it herself!” replied Shelmore. “A thousand pounds! A very wilful young lady! — she declared that if that didn’t bring any result, she’d double it. I suppose we’ll have to get it printed and distributed for her?”
“If she likes to do it, why not?” said Simmons.
“Seems to me waste of time and money,” answered Shelmore. “However — take it over to Pemberton’s, and give them instructions for printing and posting it. Something may come of it — but I’m doubtful. Still — somebody’s guilty, and that somebody’s somewhere.”
He handed over the copy to Simmons, and the clerk, without further comment, turned away. As he went down the stairs to the street, he met an elderly gentleman coming up, and recognising Sir Reville Childerstone, told him that Mr. Shelmore was in his office, and then, for particular reasons of his own, made more haste than ever to discharge his errand.
CHAPTER VII. THE CREVICED WALL
PEMBERTON’S PRINTING OFFICE lay in a narrow alley at the back of the Chancellor Hotel, and when Simmons Hackdale hurried in at its door, Pemberton himself, one of those men who wear a perpetually worried look, stood behind the counter, sorting paper. He listened with something of an aggrieved air while Simmons explained what he wanted, and then shook his head.
“Can’t get it out by tonight, nohow!” he declared. “Don’t care how insistent the young lady is. Get it done and distributed and posted, too, for you by noon tomorrow, Mr. Simmons — that’s the quickest I can do.”
“All right,” said Simmons. “No such hurry as all that, when it comes to it. What about a proof?”
“Look in when you go home this evening,” answered Pemberton. “I’ll have one ready for you.”
Simmons hurried back to Shelmore’s. He had his own reasons for hurrying. He knew that Sir Reville Childerstone was now closeted with Shelmore in his private room, and he wanted to hear what they were talking about. Also he knew how he would easily satisfy that desire. Simmons had a natural propensity for finding out every thing possible about anything or anybody, and he was not beyond eavesdropping or listening at keyholes. But there was no need to listen at the keyhole of Shelmore’s room. Before Simmons had been a week in Shelmore’s employ, he had discovered that the wall which separated the clerk’s room from the private office was by no means sound proof. It had crevices in it — and, being merely a lath-and-plaster erection at best, the crevices in course of time had opened, and were not at all obscured by flimsy wallpaper. Indeed, there was one in particular, through which Simmons had poked his finger, so wide that you could see through it into Shelmore’s room: over that crevice Simmons always kept an old overcoat hanging on his side, while, on Shelmore’s, he had hung a local calendar. And now, going quietly up the stair and entering his own room with the tread of a cat: he went over to this convenient crack, held the overcoat aside, and put his ear to the wall. He had not been listening many minutes when he knew that he was getting first hand confirmation of the truth of a rumour which had been gradually spreading through Southernstowe, for some time — Sir Reville Childerstone was going to marry Mrs. Champernowne. Sir Reville was discussing marriage settlements with Shelmore, who was evidently making elaborate notes of his wishes; Simmons gathered from the conversation that the marriage was to be solemnized before long — probably before Christmas. He learnt that Mrs. Champernowne, on becoming Lady Childerstone, would give up Ashenhurst House and go to Childerstone Park, four miles outside the city. And then came personal details which, for family reasons, interested the listener much more.
“I gather that Mrs. Champernowne won’t take on the mayoralty again?” said Shelmore, after a slight pause in the conversation, during which Simmons had heard the steady scratching of his employer’s pen. “Or will she?”
“She won’t,” replied Sir Reville. “As Lady Childerstone she’ll retire into private life. Done her duty, I think, Shelmore — indefatigable in her discharge of it, what?”
“An admirable mayor!” assented Shelmore. “I question if they’ll find any man in the city who’ll do as well as she’s done. But the business? What’s she going to do about that?”
“She’s just come to a decision — this very morning,” said Sir Reville. “She and I have just been lunching at the Chancellor, and she informed me of her settled intentions. The thing’s private at present, but, of course, I don’t mind telling you, as between solicitor and client, knowing that the news won’t go any further. Champernowne’s, Shelmore, is to be turned into a limited liability company.”
“Ah!” said Shelmore. “Good idea, Sir Reville! Of course, Lady Childerstone will keep a controlling interest in it?”
“To be sure — she’ll hold a majority of the shares, and, for a time at any rate, she’ll act as chairman of the directorate,” assented Sir Reville. “I propose to take up a considerable number of shares myself and to become a director — the business is too valuable a property to neglect, though, of course, after its conversion into a company it won’t need the daily supervision which Mrs. Champernowne now gives it.”
“It’ll need a first rate manager,” remarked Shelmore.
“He’s there to hand!” said Sir Reville, with a satisfied chuckle. “Made and trained and taught all the tricks of the trade by Mrs. Champernowne herself! Young Hackdale! — smart fellow! He’s to act as secretary and manager — Mrs. Champernowne proposes to give him a couple of thousand a year.”
“Well, I daresay he’s worth it in a big business like that,” said Shelmore. “Yes, Hackdale’s all right — clever man, and a pushing, hard working man. I suppose all this is to be carried out shortly?”
“At once,” replied Sir Reville. “Before the marriage. So you can get on with those settlements — always well to be in time, Shelmore. Um! — well, I think that’s all just now, and I’ll be off. By-the-by, heard any more about this murder affair? — any fresh news?”
“Nothing,” answers Shelmore. “The police — such of them as are left in the city, for, as you know, nearly the whole lot are away on this coal strike business — are making enquiries all round, but they’ve not resulted in anything yet. No doubt the man was murdered for what he’d got on him. But there’s a curious thing about that matter which I was going to speak to you about. Sir Reville, next time we met. This man, Deane, had been travelling about in the North of England for three or four weeks before he came down here, and when Mellapont and I examined his belongings at the Chancellor we found a considerable collection of picture postcards of places he’d visited. I was much interested in seeing that one of these places was the old town where that bit of property of yours is, about which we’ve had so much bother — Normansholt.”
“Normansholt, eh?” said Sir Reville. “Oh, been there, had he?”
“Evidently, from the number of pictures he had of it. Fine, picturesque old town,” continued Shelmore. “He’d collected some striking views.”
“Only been to Normansholt once, myself,” remarked Sir Reville. “When I came into that piece of property there, I went down to have a look at it — had a look at the town, too, of course, while I was there. Historic place — old castle, ruined abbeys, ancient buildings — that sort of thing.”
“Just so,” agreed Shelmore. “Well, this man, as I say, had collected a lot, twenty to thirty, of picture postcards of Normansholt. And — this was what I’d wanted to mention to you — on one of them he’d made a conspicuous pencil mark against a certain picturesque old house. Odd — very odd, to my mind.”
“Why, Shelmore?” asked Sir Reville.
“I’ll tell you. There was a big collection of similar cards in his suitcase, there are four hundred in all, that he’d evidently picked up in his travels, and that was the only card that bore any mark. Why did he mark that particular card, and that particular house?” asked Shelmore. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t see anything in that!” replied Sir Reville, with a laugh. “Sort of thing that anybody might do. Probably took a fancy to the house. How do you know what the man was after? Perhaps he went up north with the idea of buying a house? — hang it, I wish he’d bought my property at Normansholt! — it’s nothing but a confounded nuisance as it is — and the tenant’s a confounded nuisance. I’ll tell you what Shelmore, if that affair’s not settled soon, you’ll have to take drastic measures!”
“I’ve given his solicitors a fortnight in which to make an offer for settlement,” answered Shelmore.
“If their client’s still impenitent and defiant at the end of that time, we’ll see about a writ Odd, though, isn’t it, that this murdered man should have been at Normansholt and singled out a house there? — just when the place was in my thoughts.”
But Sir Reville saw nothing in this but very ordinary and commonplace coincidence, and said so. He gave signs of moving, and Simmons slipped away from his crack in the wall, replaced the old overcoat, and made ready to bow the baronet out. When Sir Reville had gone, he memorized the important features of the overheard conversation. One — Mrs. Champernowne was going to marry Sir Reville Childerstone. Two — Champernowne’s was to be converted into a limited liability company, and his brother John was to be secretary and manager at a commencing salary of two thousand pounds a year. Three — the murdered man, Deane, had lately been to Normansholt, in Yorkshire, and for some reason or other had marked a certain house shown in a picture postcard of that place — a circumstance which Shelmore, who was no fool, thought very odd. All right, concluded Simmons, storing these things away in his retentive memory: now he knew more, much more, than he had known at the beginning of the afternoon. And to him a day was lost unless he added to his store of knowledge.
For reasons of his own, not unconnected with the news about Champernowne’s, Simmons said nothing to Shelmore that afternoon in respect of the proposed articling. At a quarter past five he left the office and went round to Pemberton’s. Pemberton at sight of him pushed a damp, freshly — pulled proof across the counter.
“I can do a bit better for you,” he said. “If you pass the proof now, I can print a supply off and get it distributed and posted early in the morning — get it out before breakfast-time if you like.”
“The sooner the better — for the responsible party,” remarked Simmons. He produced a pencil and rapidly ran over the proof. “Quite all right,” he said. “No mistakes there. Then you’ll get it out early — distribution, too?”
“I’ll see to it,” agreed Pemberton. “Shop-windows — public houses — that sort of thing.”
Simmons nodded and turned away; then a thought struck him, and, re-entering the shop, he asked the printer for another copy of the proof. With this in his pocket, he went home to tea.
