Collected works of j s f.., p.892
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 892
Garthwaite forgot all about that man as soon as he had turned his back upon him. Also he put Tisdale out of his mind, too. The last time he thought of Tisdale was when he went to the side of the steamer, took the key of Tisdale’s bedroom from his waistcoat pocket, and dropped it into the river. That was as the steamer passed Greenwich. From that time Garthwaite became light-hearted, optimistic and appreciative of the pleasures to be derived from a long day’s sailing over the North Sea.
That steamer was a slow moving affair and noon had passed, and Garthwaite, whose naturally good appetite improved with every mile, had eaten a heavy lunch before she came abreast of Margate. There, for a second, he allowed himself one brief thought of what might be going on at the hotel which he had quitted nine hours before. Of course, by that time they had discovered Tisdale’s dead body. They had no doubt let him sleep on, undisturbed, until noon — there would be nothing odd about that. But about, or soon after noon, they would be suspicious, and the chambermaid would call the manageress, and the manageress would look through the transom above the door, and as Tisdale lay so motionless —
Garthwaite laughed. He pictured the hotel folks and their perplexity; he pictured the doctors who would be called in; he pictured the police —
“Hallo!” exclaimed a man who stood at Garthwaite’s side on deck, staring towards Margate and its stone pier. “What’s up? We’re slowing down and there’s a tug coming out to us!”
Garthwaite began to stare landward in company with everybody else. The steamer was certainly slackening in speed, and there, just as certainly, was a small tug puffing briskly in its direction. It was quite a small tug, but a very fast one, and before long those on board the steamer could see that it carried two or three men who were plainly not members of its small crew. And presently the man who stood at Garthwaite’s side let out another exclamation, mingled with a sly laugh.
“Ha, ha!” he chuckled. “I see what this game is! Those chaps in plain clothes there on the tug are detectives — London men, too, I’ll bet! But who’s the fellow with them?”
Garthwaite, whose sight was not so good as the other man’s, moved further along the deck. Detectives! And stopping the steamer! Could it be possible that —
The next instant Garthwaite knew what this unexpected development sprang from. There, on the deck of the tug, now close to the steamer, standing between two solid-looking men, was the night-bird, who had asked for the chance of earning a few coppers. He was looking up, and as he looked he saw Garthwaite looking down, and he touched one of his companions on the arm and pointed eagerly.
Garthwaite knew what had happened then. Everything had gone wrong. The hotel folk had found Tisdale earlier than he had allowed for. The discovery had got noised abroad. This confounded loafer had heard it, and remembered the man who came out of the hotel and boarded the Rotterdam steamer, and he had hastened to give his news. And the police had hurried down to Margate to intercept the steamer as she passed, and they had brought the man with them to identify him!
He walked quietly away to a corner of the deck and drew out his pocket-book. He had a sure and certain belief that if he once fell into the hands of the law he would never escape those hands, and for such a fate he had no appetite. And so he felt for the second of the terrible capsules. Everything within him was crying out that the game was up. Very well. He would take his own way.
The next instant Garthwaite jumped as if a hand had been laid on him. The capsule was not there! He searched frantically through the pocket-book; he even dropped some papers and notes, and gave no more heed to them than if they had been rubbish. He must have spilled that capsule on the table in his room when he took out the other! And if he had, and if it were found, and if it were analysed — why, then —
He turned suddenly as a commotion arose behind him. The men from the tug had come aboard, and as he twisted round on them and the steamer’s officers the night-bird to whom he had grudged a sixpence raised a dirty finger and pointed at him for the second time.
Garthwaite, oddly enough, remembered that dirty finger and its queer, jerking movement most clearly of all his last memories when, some weeks later, a few men marched him out of a cell one morning, and made short work in hanging him.
The Way to Jericho
CHAPTER I
THE TIDES OF life were at low water mark with Melchior Rosenbaum. As he said to himself, he was up against it. There was no use in going through the farce of feeling in one pocket after another of his one suit of clothes in search of stray sixpences; all his pockets had been empty for three weary — and very hungry days. Nor was there any use in searching the chest of drawers in his bed-sitting room in quest of coppers; sometimes when he had been comparatively flush of money, Melchior, with lordly indifference, had flung pence and halfpence amongst his socks and his collars, but he knew very well that there was not so much as a farthing there now. Yesterday had exhausted that particular mine. He had found twopence inside a folded shirt and had immediately fed his ravenous stomach with a penny roll and a penny glass of milk. Since then he had had nothing save the cup of tea and three slices — fortunately thick ones — of bread and butter which his long-suffering landlady doled out to him every morning. And it was now evening, and Melchior was desperately famished.
Like all sufferers in like case, Melchior thought rapidly over his chances of raising the wind. They were bad — hopelessly bad. Melchior had no settled employment. He was an inventor. He invented mechanical toys and games for children; there were several efforts of genius lying in a more or less unfinished state on his table at the moment. Sometimes he did pretty well — sometimes, as at present, he had awful turns of bad luck. But this was the worst, the very worst, he had ever known. He had been hard up for a month; almost penniless for a fortnight; utterly penniless since yesterday. He had nobody to turn to. It was useless to try to borrow half-a-crown from the landlady; he had not paid back the last shilling he had raised in that way, and he owed her a whole month’s rent. It was useless to try to borrow from his cousin Isidore; he owed Isidore eighteen shillings, which, with interest, meant twenty. He had nothing to pawn — he had already pawned every single pawnable object.
Thinking of his uncle, the pawnbroker, made Melchior think of his real and proper uncle, Mr. Solomon Rosenbaum. It gave him a cold sweat to think of him, for Uncle Solly was a terrible old fellow when asked for money. He had money — lots of money. He was a man of property — house property. He was a bachelor, too. He lived in no style at all; he was housed in a little two-room flat near Gower Street station; his yearly expenses, all added together, could not amount to a hundred pounds a year, said Melchior. And he was taking in hundreds — hundreds! — a year in rents. What did he do with it? Why didn’t he distribute it to his nephews? Miser! — that’s what he was, old Uncle Solly, a miserable, grasping miser! Rolling in good red and yellow gold, the old skinflint, while he, Melchior, of his own flesh and blood, was wanting bread!
Walking about his room, hands thrust in his empty pockets, Melchior’s troubled eyes suddenly encountered a cheap calendar which hung above his fireless grate. September 29! — Quarter Day! The very day on which Uncle Solly collected his rents, always in person. The old man would have heaps of money that night; the very thought of it, gold, silver, cheques, banknotes, made Melchior utter frightful groans. Surely, surely, on a day when he had made so much himself, Uncle Solly would spare a little for one of his own tribe, were it but a few shillings now! But at the mere notion of asking for even a copper, Melchior felt the sweat break out on him again. He remembered how the old man had driven him out on the last occasion on which he had begged for five shillings.
At that moment something happened. Downstairs the landlady was cooking fresh herrings for another lodger’s delectation and regalement; a whiff of them penetrated through the keyhole of Melchior’s door. And, with something like a howl, Melchior snatched up his hat, tore from the room, took the stairs in a succession of bounds and leaps, swept from the house, and vanished in the autumn twilight.
Melchior lodged in a drab and shabby street in the top end of Edgware Road. Being literally penniless when he rushed out of his lodging, there was nothing to do but to foot it to Uncle Solly. But Melchior knew every turn and twist of that part of London, and he made a direct cut across the outer portion of Lisson Grove towards the desired haven, walking at top speed in order to keep up his courage. On the way he frequently passed shops whereat they sold things to eat. He tried to keep his eye off these places, but once, as he drew near the end of his journey, he inadvertently caught sight of a dish of mutton pies at twopence each, and he growled like a famishing cur and sped onward at an accelerated pace. This time he would have money — were it but a shilling — out of Uncle Solly; if need were, he would weep tears of blood to him.
Uncle Solly lived in a shabby tenement house in one of those dismal streets which are attached to the purlieus of Euston. Why a man of such affluence should reside in such a place was a puzzle to Melchior and Isidore, his nephews, who, had they possessed one-fourth of his means, would have tenanted a nice flat in Maida Vale. But there Uncle Solly lived — all alone — and had lived ever so many years; he had lived there before Melchior and Isidore were born. And except when he was rent collecting or pottering about his property, he was always at home.
Before entering the open door of the tenement house, Melchior took a careful look around. There was a light in the window of Uncle Solly’s sitting-room, high up on the top floor. Melchior heaved one desperate sigh, and plunged up the dirty staircase. And from the street door to Uncle Solly’s landing he did not meet, see or hear one single soul.
Before he actually reached it, Melchior saw that the door of Uncle Solly’s sitting-room was slightly open, a good foot-breadth of yellow light shone through the opening. Everything was very quiet. No sound came from the room. And Melchior, whose footwear was necessarily of the thinnest, crept up the last few stairs as silently as a shadow, and with infinite precaution peeped into the parlour.
Empty! Not a soul to be seen. No Uncle Solly — nobody. But on the table, not two yards away from Melchior’s straining eyes, lay — money! Gold, banknotes, cheques, silver, copper! Melchior saw the meaning of the situation at a glance. The old man was reckoning up his quarter-day takings — there was his ledger with a pen lying across it — and he had interrupted his labours to go into his bedroom, but he must be there. How soon would he emerge, how soon?
It was all over in the twinkling of one of Melchior’s bright black eyes. Noiselessly and swiftly he slipped through the door. Just as noiselessly, just as swiftly, one of his thin, long-fingered hands laid hold of a fistful of gold, while the other picked up a couple of coppers. With a similar swiftness he was out of the room again and down the stairs, unseen by mortal eye. And once outside that house he was round one corner, and making for another with the cunning and celerity of a fox. In less than three minutes Melchior had crossed Euston Road, plunged into the underground, and was slapping one of the stolen pennies down in exchange for a third single.
CHAPTER II
MELCHIOR CAME OUT of the underground at Edgware Road Station within ten minutes of his hurried flight from Uncle Solly’s parlour. He had recovered his breath and his equanimity by that time. Already his sharp wits — further sharpened by hunger — assured him that he was safe. No one had seen him enter or leave the house. He was sure that Uncle Solly, who was very deaf, had not heard that cat-like tread in his parlour. And here he was a good mile away, almost at once. Luck! Why, was ever such luck before?
He stood for a moment to finally pull himself together and his eyes, wandering around in the murky streets caught sight of the back windows of Reggiori’s Restaurant. The gleam of those windows made Melchior positively wolfish. He chinked the gold in his pockets. Well, why not, for once? Such places were above him as a rule, but not to-night. He rejoiced in the fact that his clothes and linen were quite good enough to ensure him admittance and attention at any good place of public resort. That was an advantage. Without further delay Melchior crossed the narrow street, slipped into the restaurant, and in another minute was studying the menu which an unsuspicious waiter handed to him with a polite bow.
It was a wonder to Melchior that he did not fall upon the bread basket and the cruet — he felt as if he could have eaten a mustard plaster. But he restrained himself admirably. Soup? Yes, he would have soup — a thick soup — and he would have his favourite dish — boiled chicken, with rice and mushrooms, and he would have a bottle — a bottle of burgundy — the best Beaune. Let the waiter bring that at once. And while the waiter shot off to fetch it Melchior laid hands on a hunk of bread, sprinkled a pinch of salt on a big nob of it, and began, at last, to appease his awful craving.
Melchior was no fool. He ate a goodly lump of bread before he put his lips to the red wine. But when at last he had slowly sipped a glassful he became conscious of new strength, new power, new ideas. Oh, what a stroke of luck — what a blessed, blessed stroke of luck! Could it really be? Was it, after all, a dream? Would he awake and find himself in his fireless room, and —
“S’elp me!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “If it ain’t Melky! Here, what’s the meaning of it?”
Melchior started and looked up from his soup to confront his cousin Isidore, a young gentleman of bold countenance, aggressive manner, and sharp eyes, dressed in something of sporting fashion, and wearing a horseshoe pin of imitation diamonds in his smart four-in-hand cravat. He was bending over the table and scrutinising Melchior as if he were a rare curiosity; from Melchior his eyes turned to the bottle of wine.
“S’elp me!” he exclaimed again. “A bottle!”
Melchior motioned Isidore to come into his corner, and, as a preliminary to pleasant conversation, drew out a sovereign and slipped it along the tablecloth.
“Your quid, Issy,” he murmured. “Here, I’ll stand you a dinner if you like!”
Isidore fingered the sovereign exactly for one-half second before he transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. Then he looked at Melchior with slowly widening eyes.
“May I never!” he exclaimed. “What’s it all about, Melky?”
Melchior lapped up his last drop of soup, and beckoned to the waiter.
“Oh, I just sold one of my inventions,” he answered carelessly. “What you fancy, Issy? Order what you like. And what’ll you drink? Give your order.”
Isidore, who had entered the restaurant intent on an underdone beef steak and a pint of bitter ale, with accompaniments, made a careful inspection of the bill of fare.
“Give me a nice sole — a fat one,” he commanded. “And after that I’ll take jugged hare — mind there’s plenty of thick gravy, and red currant jelly with it. And — what sort of wine’s that, Melky — good?”
“Extra!” affirmed Melchior. “Try a glass.”
The waiter brought a clean glass, and Isidore sampled, smacking his lips.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Bring another bottle.” He rubbed his hands gleefully when the waiter had gone, and putting one of them under the tablecloth, squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Melky, old sport,” he whispered, “How much did it run to?”
But Melchior shook his curly head.
“No,” he said firmly. “ ’Tain’t your business, Issy. You got your eighteen bob, and two bob interest, and you’re going to get your dinner — and a good ‘un, too, with wine. And I’ll stand cigars and liqueurs, too, if you like. But I ain’t going to tell my business to nobody. Nice bit, anyway.”
“What was it?” asked Isidore.
“Model of machine gun — for kids,” replied Melky, quite ready with a lie. “Shoots peas — cute notion!”
“Who’s bought it?” inquired Issy, lifting his glass.
“Mendel,” answered Melky thoughtlessly. “He’ll do well out of it when Christmas comes around.”
“Well, here’s luck,” said Issy, and drank more wine. “And hoping things’ll still further improve, Melky. You always was a genius!”
“How’s things with you?” demanded Melky. “Good?”
“Fair,” replied Issy. “Backed three winners since Monday, and I’m doing a bit in the horse line. Just been up the road now to see a feller what’s got a horse to sell, ‘cause I know another feller as wants one. Cheerio! Melky — we ain’t doing so dusty. But I say — take my tip. Don’t you go a-selling of them inventions of yours right out! What you oughter do is to have so much down, and a royalty on every article sold. See?”
“Think so?” asked Melky. He was so thoroughly fed and warmed and restored by that time that he had forgotten all about Uncle Solly, and was almost convinced that his lies were truths. “Might be a good thing, that, too. I got a splendid invention now — it’s at Fildridge’s. They’re considering of it — might hear about that any time. If they took it up and manufactured it properly, shooks! they’d sell thousands — tens o’ thousands!”
“What ‘ud it sell at?” asked Issy.
“Shilling — popular toy,” answered Melky. “It’s a sure thing — if taken up.”
Issy’s fat sole appeared just then, and for half an hour he and Melky gobbled and drank side by side in full contentment. They consumed much Italian pastry when the solid things were over, and they settled down to coffee and liqueurs and cigars, and to the discussion of money matters, and by the time Melky had paid the bill and presented the waiter with sixpence, they both felt that life should certainly show patches of gold — now and then.
Issy walked home with Melky to his lodgings, talking confidentially. Melky asked him in, and sent him upstairs, while he himself went down to the basement to pay his landlady and borrow an armful of wood wherewith to light his fire. When he joined Issy, Issy held up a letter.
“On your table,” he said. “Melky, old man, it’s from Fildridge’s! There’s their name on the flap.”
That steamer was a slow moving affair and noon had passed, and Garthwaite, whose naturally good appetite improved with every mile, had eaten a heavy lunch before she came abreast of Margate. There, for a second, he allowed himself one brief thought of what might be going on at the hotel which he had quitted nine hours before. Of course, by that time they had discovered Tisdale’s dead body. They had no doubt let him sleep on, undisturbed, until noon — there would be nothing odd about that. But about, or soon after noon, they would be suspicious, and the chambermaid would call the manageress, and the manageress would look through the transom above the door, and as Tisdale lay so motionless —
Garthwaite laughed. He pictured the hotel folks and their perplexity; he pictured the doctors who would be called in; he pictured the police —
“Hallo!” exclaimed a man who stood at Garthwaite’s side on deck, staring towards Margate and its stone pier. “What’s up? We’re slowing down and there’s a tug coming out to us!”
Garthwaite began to stare landward in company with everybody else. The steamer was certainly slackening in speed, and there, just as certainly, was a small tug puffing briskly in its direction. It was quite a small tug, but a very fast one, and before long those on board the steamer could see that it carried two or three men who were plainly not members of its small crew. And presently the man who stood at Garthwaite’s side let out another exclamation, mingled with a sly laugh.
“Ha, ha!” he chuckled. “I see what this game is! Those chaps in plain clothes there on the tug are detectives — London men, too, I’ll bet! But who’s the fellow with them?”
Garthwaite, whose sight was not so good as the other man’s, moved further along the deck. Detectives! And stopping the steamer! Could it be possible that —
The next instant Garthwaite knew what this unexpected development sprang from. There, on the deck of the tug, now close to the steamer, standing between two solid-looking men, was the night-bird, who had asked for the chance of earning a few coppers. He was looking up, and as he looked he saw Garthwaite looking down, and he touched one of his companions on the arm and pointed eagerly.
Garthwaite knew what had happened then. Everything had gone wrong. The hotel folk had found Tisdale earlier than he had allowed for. The discovery had got noised abroad. This confounded loafer had heard it, and remembered the man who came out of the hotel and boarded the Rotterdam steamer, and he had hastened to give his news. And the police had hurried down to Margate to intercept the steamer as she passed, and they had brought the man with them to identify him!
He walked quietly away to a corner of the deck and drew out his pocket-book. He had a sure and certain belief that if he once fell into the hands of the law he would never escape those hands, and for such a fate he had no appetite. And so he felt for the second of the terrible capsules. Everything within him was crying out that the game was up. Very well. He would take his own way.
The next instant Garthwaite jumped as if a hand had been laid on him. The capsule was not there! He searched frantically through the pocket-book; he even dropped some papers and notes, and gave no more heed to them than if they had been rubbish. He must have spilled that capsule on the table in his room when he took out the other! And if he had, and if it were found, and if it were analysed — why, then —
He turned suddenly as a commotion arose behind him. The men from the tug had come aboard, and as he twisted round on them and the steamer’s officers the night-bird to whom he had grudged a sixpence raised a dirty finger and pointed at him for the second time.
Garthwaite, oddly enough, remembered that dirty finger and its queer, jerking movement most clearly of all his last memories when, some weeks later, a few men marched him out of a cell one morning, and made short work in hanging him.
The Way to Jericho
CHAPTER I
THE TIDES OF life were at low water mark with Melchior Rosenbaum. As he said to himself, he was up against it. There was no use in going through the farce of feeling in one pocket after another of his one suit of clothes in search of stray sixpences; all his pockets had been empty for three weary — and very hungry days. Nor was there any use in searching the chest of drawers in his bed-sitting room in quest of coppers; sometimes when he had been comparatively flush of money, Melchior, with lordly indifference, had flung pence and halfpence amongst his socks and his collars, but he knew very well that there was not so much as a farthing there now. Yesterday had exhausted that particular mine. He had found twopence inside a folded shirt and had immediately fed his ravenous stomach with a penny roll and a penny glass of milk. Since then he had had nothing save the cup of tea and three slices — fortunately thick ones — of bread and butter which his long-suffering landlady doled out to him every morning. And it was now evening, and Melchior was desperately famished.
Like all sufferers in like case, Melchior thought rapidly over his chances of raising the wind. They were bad — hopelessly bad. Melchior had no settled employment. He was an inventor. He invented mechanical toys and games for children; there were several efforts of genius lying in a more or less unfinished state on his table at the moment. Sometimes he did pretty well — sometimes, as at present, he had awful turns of bad luck. But this was the worst, the very worst, he had ever known. He had been hard up for a month; almost penniless for a fortnight; utterly penniless since yesterday. He had nobody to turn to. It was useless to try to borrow half-a-crown from the landlady; he had not paid back the last shilling he had raised in that way, and he owed her a whole month’s rent. It was useless to try to borrow from his cousin Isidore; he owed Isidore eighteen shillings, which, with interest, meant twenty. He had nothing to pawn — he had already pawned every single pawnable object.
Thinking of his uncle, the pawnbroker, made Melchior think of his real and proper uncle, Mr. Solomon Rosenbaum. It gave him a cold sweat to think of him, for Uncle Solly was a terrible old fellow when asked for money. He had money — lots of money. He was a man of property — house property. He was a bachelor, too. He lived in no style at all; he was housed in a little two-room flat near Gower Street station; his yearly expenses, all added together, could not amount to a hundred pounds a year, said Melchior. And he was taking in hundreds — hundreds! — a year in rents. What did he do with it? Why didn’t he distribute it to his nephews? Miser! — that’s what he was, old Uncle Solly, a miserable, grasping miser! Rolling in good red and yellow gold, the old skinflint, while he, Melchior, of his own flesh and blood, was wanting bread!
Walking about his room, hands thrust in his empty pockets, Melchior’s troubled eyes suddenly encountered a cheap calendar which hung above his fireless grate. September 29! — Quarter Day! The very day on which Uncle Solly collected his rents, always in person. The old man would have heaps of money that night; the very thought of it, gold, silver, cheques, banknotes, made Melchior utter frightful groans. Surely, surely, on a day when he had made so much himself, Uncle Solly would spare a little for one of his own tribe, were it but a few shillings now! But at the mere notion of asking for even a copper, Melchior felt the sweat break out on him again. He remembered how the old man had driven him out on the last occasion on which he had begged for five shillings.
At that moment something happened. Downstairs the landlady was cooking fresh herrings for another lodger’s delectation and regalement; a whiff of them penetrated through the keyhole of Melchior’s door. And, with something like a howl, Melchior snatched up his hat, tore from the room, took the stairs in a succession of bounds and leaps, swept from the house, and vanished in the autumn twilight.
Melchior lodged in a drab and shabby street in the top end of Edgware Road. Being literally penniless when he rushed out of his lodging, there was nothing to do but to foot it to Uncle Solly. But Melchior knew every turn and twist of that part of London, and he made a direct cut across the outer portion of Lisson Grove towards the desired haven, walking at top speed in order to keep up his courage. On the way he frequently passed shops whereat they sold things to eat. He tried to keep his eye off these places, but once, as he drew near the end of his journey, he inadvertently caught sight of a dish of mutton pies at twopence each, and he growled like a famishing cur and sped onward at an accelerated pace. This time he would have money — were it but a shilling — out of Uncle Solly; if need were, he would weep tears of blood to him.
Uncle Solly lived in a shabby tenement house in one of those dismal streets which are attached to the purlieus of Euston. Why a man of such affluence should reside in such a place was a puzzle to Melchior and Isidore, his nephews, who, had they possessed one-fourth of his means, would have tenanted a nice flat in Maida Vale. But there Uncle Solly lived — all alone — and had lived ever so many years; he had lived there before Melchior and Isidore were born. And except when he was rent collecting or pottering about his property, he was always at home.
Before entering the open door of the tenement house, Melchior took a careful look around. There was a light in the window of Uncle Solly’s sitting-room, high up on the top floor. Melchior heaved one desperate sigh, and plunged up the dirty staircase. And from the street door to Uncle Solly’s landing he did not meet, see or hear one single soul.
Before he actually reached it, Melchior saw that the door of Uncle Solly’s sitting-room was slightly open, a good foot-breadth of yellow light shone through the opening. Everything was very quiet. No sound came from the room. And Melchior, whose footwear was necessarily of the thinnest, crept up the last few stairs as silently as a shadow, and with infinite precaution peeped into the parlour.
Empty! Not a soul to be seen. No Uncle Solly — nobody. But on the table, not two yards away from Melchior’s straining eyes, lay — money! Gold, banknotes, cheques, silver, copper! Melchior saw the meaning of the situation at a glance. The old man was reckoning up his quarter-day takings — there was his ledger with a pen lying across it — and he had interrupted his labours to go into his bedroom, but he must be there. How soon would he emerge, how soon?
It was all over in the twinkling of one of Melchior’s bright black eyes. Noiselessly and swiftly he slipped through the door. Just as noiselessly, just as swiftly, one of his thin, long-fingered hands laid hold of a fistful of gold, while the other picked up a couple of coppers. With a similar swiftness he was out of the room again and down the stairs, unseen by mortal eye. And once outside that house he was round one corner, and making for another with the cunning and celerity of a fox. In less than three minutes Melchior had crossed Euston Road, plunged into the underground, and was slapping one of the stolen pennies down in exchange for a third single.
CHAPTER II
MELCHIOR CAME OUT of the underground at Edgware Road Station within ten minutes of his hurried flight from Uncle Solly’s parlour. He had recovered his breath and his equanimity by that time. Already his sharp wits — further sharpened by hunger — assured him that he was safe. No one had seen him enter or leave the house. He was sure that Uncle Solly, who was very deaf, had not heard that cat-like tread in his parlour. And here he was a good mile away, almost at once. Luck! Why, was ever such luck before?
He stood for a moment to finally pull himself together and his eyes, wandering around in the murky streets caught sight of the back windows of Reggiori’s Restaurant. The gleam of those windows made Melchior positively wolfish. He chinked the gold in his pockets. Well, why not, for once? Such places were above him as a rule, but not to-night. He rejoiced in the fact that his clothes and linen were quite good enough to ensure him admittance and attention at any good place of public resort. That was an advantage. Without further delay Melchior crossed the narrow street, slipped into the restaurant, and in another minute was studying the menu which an unsuspicious waiter handed to him with a polite bow.
It was a wonder to Melchior that he did not fall upon the bread basket and the cruet — he felt as if he could have eaten a mustard plaster. But he restrained himself admirably. Soup? Yes, he would have soup — a thick soup — and he would have his favourite dish — boiled chicken, with rice and mushrooms, and he would have a bottle — a bottle of burgundy — the best Beaune. Let the waiter bring that at once. And while the waiter shot off to fetch it Melchior laid hands on a hunk of bread, sprinkled a pinch of salt on a big nob of it, and began, at last, to appease his awful craving.
Melchior was no fool. He ate a goodly lump of bread before he put his lips to the red wine. But when at last he had slowly sipped a glassful he became conscious of new strength, new power, new ideas. Oh, what a stroke of luck — what a blessed, blessed stroke of luck! Could it really be? Was it, after all, a dream? Would he awake and find himself in his fireless room, and —
“S’elp me!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “If it ain’t Melky! Here, what’s the meaning of it?”
Melchior started and looked up from his soup to confront his cousin Isidore, a young gentleman of bold countenance, aggressive manner, and sharp eyes, dressed in something of sporting fashion, and wearing a horseshoe pin of imitation diamonds in his smart four-in-hand cravat. He was bending over the table and scrutinising Melchior as if he were a rare curiosity; from Melchior his eyes turned to the bottle of wine.
“S’elp me!” he exclaimed again. “A bottle!”
Melchior motioned Isidore to come into his corner, and, as a preliminary to pleasant conversation, drew out a sovereign and slipped it along the tablecloth.
“Your quid, Issy,” he murmured. “Here, I’ll stand you a dinner if you like!”
Isidore fingered the sovereign exactly for one-half second before he transferred it to his waistcoat pocket. Then he looked at Melchior with slowly widening eyes.
“May I never!” he exclaimed. “What’s it all about, Melky?”
Melchior lapped up his last drop of soup, and beckoned to the waiter.
“Oh, I just sold one of my inventions,” he answered carelessly. “What you fancy, Issy? Order what you like. And what’ll you drink? Give your order.”
Isidore, who had entered the restaurant intent on an underdone beef steak and a pint of bitter ale, with accompaniments, made a careful inspection of the bill of fare.
“Give me a nice sole — a fat one,” he commanded. “And after that I’ll take jugged hare — mind there’s plenty of thick gravy, and red currant jelly with it. And — what sort of wine’s that, Melky — good?”
“Extra!” affirmed Melchior. “Try a glass.”
The waiter brought a clean glass, and Isidore sampled, smacking his lips.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Bring another bottle.” He rubbed his hands gleefully when the waiter had gone, and putting one of them under the tablecloth, squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Melky, old sport,” he whispered, “How much did it run to?”
But Melchior shook his curly head.
“No,” he said firmly. “ ’Tain’t your business, Issy. You got your eighteen bob, and two bob interest, and you’re going to get your dinner — and a good ‘un, too, with wine. And I’ll stand cigars and liqueurs, too, if you like. But I ain’t going to tell my business to nobody. Nice bit, anyway.”
“What was it?” asked Isidore.
“Model of machine gun — for kids,” replied Melky, quite ready with a lie. “Shoots peas — cute notion!”
“Who’s bought it?” inquired Issy, lifting his glass.
“Mendel,” answered Melky thoughtlessly. “He’ll do well out of it when Christmas comes around.”
“Well, here’s luck,” said Issy, and drank more wine. “And hoping things’ll still further improve, Melky. You always was a genius!”
“How’s things with you?” demanded Melky. “Good?”
“Fair,” replied Issy. “Backed three winners since Monday, and I’m doing a bit in the horse line. Just been up the road now to see a feller what’s got a horse to sell, ‘cause I know another feller as wants one. Cheerio! Melky — we ain’t doing so dusty. But I say — take my tip. Don’t you go a-selling of them inventions of yours right out! What you oughter do is to have so much down, and a royalty on every article sold. See?”
“Think so?” asked Melky. He was so thoroughly fed and warmed and restored by that time that he had forgotten all about Uncle Solly, and was almost convinced that his lies were truths. “Might be a good thing, that, too. I got a splendid invention now — it’s at Fildridge’s. They’re considering of it — might hear about that any time. If they took it up and manufactured it properly, shooks! they’d sell thousands — tens o’ thousands!”
“What ‘ud it sell at?” asked Issy.
“Shilling — popular toy,” answered Melky. “It’s a sure thing — if taken up.”
Issy’s fat sole appeared just then, and for half an hour he and Melky gobbled and drank side by side in full contentment. They consumed much Italian pastry when the solid things were over, and they settled down to coffee and liqueurs and cigars, and to the discussion of money matters, and by the time Melky had paid the bill and presented the waiter with sixpence, they both felt that life should certainly show patches of gold — now and then.
Issy walked home with Melky to his lodgings, talking confidentially. Melky asked him in, and sent him upstairs, while he himself went down to the basement to pay his landlady and borrow an armful of wood wherewith to light his fire. When he joined Issy, Issy held up a letter.
“On your table,” he said. “Melky, old man, it’s from Fildridge’s! There’s their name on the flap.”
