Collected works of j s f.., p.895
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 895
“And he allows the real inventor’s wife and daughter a miserable pound a week!” soliloquised Penny. “What a mean scoundrel! But—”
But what was to be done? Penny had seen enough of the dead man’s widow to recognise that she was no more than a plain, womanly, working-class woman, who would certainly not know how to stand up for her just rights, and if she made any claim against Ramsdale, would probably take some trifling amount in satisfaction of it. The daughter, however, was of a superior sort; Penny, in that brief conversation with her, had found out that she was a school teacher and educated and of some ambition. She was a pretty girl, and a nice girl, and Penny had been rather more than a little struck with her. He had chivalric feelings, this little second-hand bookseller, and now he felt like a knight of old, and he smote his table with a big bang and swore that Burland’s daughter should be righted. But — how? Who was he, poor Alfred Penny, to stand up and fight the great Ramsdale?
Imagination usually comes to people who urgently desire it, and it came to Penny. It came in the shape of a name — Mr. Wilmington. Mr. Wilmington was one of Penny’s best customers. He was one of the few merchant princes of Wolborough who thought about things outside money and business. He bought books; he had a good trade in pictures. He was a very rich man, a powerful man, a magistrate, an alderman who had in his time been Mayor of Wolborough — and he was, withal, a very kindly-natured and easily approached man. Certainly Mr. Wilmington was the very man of whom to seek advice. And thereupon Penny cased himself in his overcoat, put the important document in his pocket, turned out his lamp, and set forth to get a tramcar to the residential quarter in which Mr. Wilmington lived.
Mr. Wilmington, a pleasant-faced, elderly gentleman, was alone in his comfortable library when Penny was shown in to him. He smiled at the little bookseller as he motioned him to come to the fire.
“Hello, Penny!” he exclaimed. “What brings you here in such a hurry? Found something rare, eh? What is it — a Caxton?”
Penny sat down, got his breath, and stared fixedly at his host.
“I’ve found something stranger than any Caxton sir,” he answered. “Something that seems — well, terrible to me, Mr. Wilmington. You know — you know Ramsdale’s Multiplex?”
Mr. Wilmington stared. There was no one in that neighbourhood who did not know Ramsdale’s Multiplex. But — what did Penny know?
“Well,” he asked. “What of it?”
Penny bent forward and sank his voice to a whisper.
“He didn’t invent it!” he murmured. “It isn’t his, Mr. Wilmington — there’s wrong being done!”
Mr. Wilmington stared harder than ever at his visitor. And Penny sat and nodded — the nod of complete assurance.
“You’ve got something to tell,” said the elder man at last. “Begin at the beginning, my lad! And — be precise.”
Penny drew a long breath and began his story — from the moment that the dead man’s daughter entered the shop that afternoon. And his hearer heard — and his face grew graver and graver, and was very dark indeed when Penny, to conclude matters, placed the memorandum in his hands.
“Heaven bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “That’s a strange story, Penny! And I’m afraid it’s quite possible that your theory’s a right one.”
“Mr. Wilmington,” said Penny solemnly, “it can’t be anything else, sir. Look at the facts!”
“I’m going to look at several facts, my lad,” said the old gentleman, who was carefully reading and re-reading the memorandum. “And we’ll begin with one very pertinent one,” he continued, as he rose from his chair and went over to a bookcase in which numerous large volumes were set. “It runs in my mind that this poor chap was killed just about the time that he wrote this paper. We’ll turn up the account of that explosion in this file of the Wolborough Observer. Ay,” he said presently, as he turned over the bound volume and put his finger on a certain column, headed by big black capitals, “here we are, that accident in which Burland lost his life was October 7th. The very day after he wrote this memorandum!”
“And the very day after he put his model in Ramsdale’s hands!” muttered Penny.
Mr. Wilmington made no answer to that remark. He restored the newspaper file to its place, went to another part of his bookcase, and returned with a bundle of official-looking journals.
“We’ll soon see when the patent office people advertised this machine,” he said, as he sat down at his desk. “This is their official journal, Penny. You aren’t conversant with the procedure in this sort of thing, eh? I am, having had to do with a good many in my time. What’s done is this. The inventor must first of all file a provisional or a complete specification of his invention at the patent office. The examiner of the patent office then investigates it — to see if specification and drawings properly describe the invention. If he’s satisfied, he advertises the specification in this official journal. Then two months elapse — for anybody interested to have a chance of opposing the grant of a patent. If no opposition comes forward within that two months, then the patent is sealed. Understand? Well, now let’s see when Ramsdale’s Multiplex was advertised — 1901, eh? Here you are — there it is — December, 1901. So the patent would be sealed February this year. Since when, my lad, Ramsdale and the various folks to whom he sold licences and concessions have been turning out that machine as fast as ever they could make it! Penny, if Burland’s memorandum is true, it’s a bad, bad case!”
Alfred Penny sighed deeply. He could find no words — all he could do was to shake his head and reflect on the ease with which defenceless poor people can be robbed.
Mr. Wilmington shook his head, too.
“Ramsdale,” he observed, “is not what I should ever call a scrupulous man. I’ve heard of other tricks that he’s done. Taking unfair advantage of people, and so on. Some people call that sort of thing clever. I call it bad. In this case his procedure seems to have been pretty clear. Burland probably told Ramsdale that not a soul knew of this wonderful machine. When Burland was killed in that explosion, Ramsdale knew that he was in possession — sole possession — of the whole thing. He took immediate steps to patent the machine in his own name. And he satisfies his conscience — such as it is — by giving the widow and daughter a pound a week for life! Bad, Penny; very bad!”
“What’s to be done, sir?” asked Penny.
Mr. Wilmington looked at his watch.
“Half-past eight,” he said meditatively. “Plenty of time to do something to-night. Naught like taking a man unawares in a thing of this sort. But we’ll have a bit more advice. Come on with me — we’ll step around to Mr. Chelwick’s and tell him all about it. He’s a man of more influence than I am, and if he talks straight to Ramsdale, Ramsdale’ll listen. And now’s the time to make Ramsdale listen. Why? Because it’s rumoured that Ramsdale’s put in for a title — knighthood or baronetage, or some handle of that sort — and if this got out, Penny, my lad, good-bye to all his hopes of it!”
CHAPTER III. Strategy
DURING THE NEXT hour, Penny, listening to a conversation carried on with great earnestness between Mr. Wilmington and his neighbour, Mr. Chelwick, at the last-named gentleman’s house, was not quite sure whether books were really as interesting as men. He already knew Mr. Wilmington pretty well; he had long known Mr. Chelwick by reputation as about the smartest lawyer in all Wolborough. And he sat in silent enjoyment as these two laid their heads together before him. For Chelwick, when he had heard everything and had read the memorandum, remarked that Martin Ramsdale was a cute and clever man and had probably evolved some deep means of protecting his own interest in this shabby matter. He might assert, protest, even swear in a Court of Justice that Burland had given him the invention. He might similarly protest that the invention was partly his own.
“The memorandum gives the lie to that,” remarked Wilmington. “Burland distinctly says that he never mentioned it to a soul, not even to Mr. Ramsdale.”
“Good; but Ramsdale may say that it wasn’t perfected and that he himself perfected it,” pointed out the lawyer. “If we only had the original drawings, the specification, the model.”
“Ramsdale could be made to produce all,” said Wilmington.
“Ramsdale is clever and ingenious enough to have had the drawings copied — probably to have copied them himself, being, as he is, a trained mechanical draughtsman,” said Chelwick. “And so for the model, the difficulty would be to prove that it was made by Burland. This paper, undoubtedly in Burland’s handwriting, speaks of a machine called the ‘Multiplex,’ which he says here he delivered a model of to Mr. Ramsdale, together with the drawings. What we have got to prove is that that is the identical machine in every respect which is now known as ‘Ramsdale’s Multiplex.’ Personally, I haven’t the least doubt that it is and that Martin Ramsdale is an unscrupulous thief! But how to prove it?”
Alfred Penny felt his sentimental heart swelling with so much indignation that it was like to burst his bosom. He thought of the defrauded mother and daughter; and, small person as he felt himself to be in the presence of these two great men, he ventured on a remark which sprang from his hatred of wrong and oppression.
“Wouldn’t public opinion be on your side, sir?” he said, glancing at the lawyer. “I should say it would, sir; I should, indeed!”
Chelwick laughed good-humouredly and glanced at Wilmington.
“Ay, Mr. Penny,” he answered. “I dare say it would; in fact, I’ve no doubt about it. But men like Martin Ramsdale don’t care for public opinion — that sort of public opinion, anyhow. No, we’ve got to take a strong and bold line with Ramsdale. Wilmington, there’s only one way. We must bluff him!”
“How, precisely?” asked Wilmington.
“Make him think that we’re in possession of — well, of a much stronger case than we are in possession of,” answered Chelwick. “Now listen. Mr. Penny, write down the address of Mrs. Burland. Thank you. I shall call on her first thing to-morrow morning. Now, I want you to call at my office at three o’clock sharp in the afternoon. Ramsdale will be there, or I’m no prophet. Then you’ll take your cue from me. You’ll neither of you say a word unless I call on you to speak. You’re the two who know — well, more than you’ll ever tell Ramsdale, eh? That’s the only way — bluff — sheer bluff!”
“You think something’ll come of it, sir?” asked Penny a few minutes later, as Chelwick conducted his visitors to the door. “You think these two ladies will benefit?”
Chelwick winked over the little bookseller’s shoulder at Wilmington. Then he clapped Penny on the back.
“You shall have the pleasure of carrying ’em whatever good news there is!” he said.
Then he shut his visitors out and went back to his study, and safely locked up John Burland’s memorandum in a fireproof safe.
CHAPTER IV. The Slip of Paper
RAMSDALE, THE PROPRIETOR of the world-famous engineering and machinery works which bore his name, was feeling more than pleased with himself next morning. The invention to which he had put his name was turning out a literal gold mine. He had been obliged to build new sheds and lay down new plant in order to make the machines; even then his workmen could not turn them out fast enough. He had issued licences and given concessions to other machine-makers in two continents; every machine made by these people brought into Ramsdale’s coffers a handsome royalty. Ramsdale, in fact, was growing rich in such a speedy fashion that he sometimes dreamt that he was swimming in a sea of gold — a sea whose limits were beyond all sight. For the wonderful machine had revolutionised a staple trade, and manufacturers all over the world were clearing out their floor-space to make room for it. And Ramsdale knew that this sort of thing would go on for at least three years. By the end of that time he would be worth — he scarce knew what.
He had no compunction, no qualm of conscience — money, and what money would bring him, was the only god Ramsdale had ever thought it worth while to worship. All this affair was business — sharp business, if you like, but still nothing more, nothing less, than business. If John Burland had lived, Ramsdale would have bought that invention from him. He would have offered him a lump sum and Burland would have been satisfied. But Burland had been — providentially for Ramsdale — removed by that sudden explosion; therefore, Burland could not profit any more by any earthly thing. That was no reason why Ramsdale should not profit. But he was cute and careful in his doings. A few guarded inquiries convinced him that nobody knew anything about Burland’s invention, not even the widow and daughter. Ramsdale was not the man to stick at points of honour; he would have been a fool in his own opinion if he had not taken this chance fortune offered. As for Burland’s folks — why, who and what were they to command riches? A working woman and a girl who taught in a school! They wouldn’t know what to do with money if they had it. A pound a week for life for ’em — ample and handsome. The girl was now twenty — suppose she lived to be seventy, she’d receive £2,600. Handsome, repeated Ramsdale — and quite sufficient.
On the morning after Alfred Penny’s discovery, Ramsdale walked about his works glowing with satisfaction. He had good reason to feel set up. On his desk that morning he had found two letters which particularly pleased him. One was from a world-famous firm of machine-makers, which wrote to say that it wanted to make 10,000 machines, and offered £10 royalty on each machine — cash down on acceptance of the offer.
Ramsdale liked letters of that sort, there was £100,000 for no more trouble than signing a document and enclosing a letter with it. That was bit of good news number one. Number two was a private letter from the local Member of Parliament; it had nothing to do with machines. It was merely to tell Ramsdale privately that his name was safely down for a baronetcy in the forthcoming New Year’s Honour List. Ramsdale scarcely knew which letter pleased him most. But he was not above a little day-dreaming, and he was scrawling Sir Martin Ramsdale, Bart., over and over again on a scrap of paper when one of his clerks entered the private office and handed him a letter.
“From Messrs. Chelwick & Radbourne, sir,” said the clerk. “By hand. No answer, sir.”
Ramsdale put the letter down and did not open it for a moment. He scrawled his name again in the same fashion, and, as an afterthought, added M.P. to it. But, upon reflection, he was not quite sure that he cared about Parliament — at least, about the House of Commons, for any Dick, Tom or Harry could get there nowadays. No, he would have a peerage. So he amused himself by scrawling Baron Ramsdale of Wolborough on the paper — after which, with a sly laugh at his own childishness, he tore it up, and cut the flap of Chelwick & Radbourne’s letter.
Ramsdale rose from his desk a minute later, shaking like a man who has suddenly been smitten by palsy. His invariably cool and keen brain felt as if somebody had dealt it a crushing blow. Just as quickly as he had risen he dropped back into his chair — to stare again and again at the short, sharply-worded letter. And by degrees his brain began to clear and to recover from the mere physical shock. And, being a man who called a spade a spade, and who never lied to himself, whatever he did to other people, Ramsdale faced the truth. He was found out!
He sat there for a long time wondering. Found out! Yes, there was no doubt of it. He knew Chelwick, of Chelwick & Radbourne. Chelwick would never write a letter like that unless he knew. But — how had things been found out? By whom? When? Under what circumstances? So far as his busy mind could think, there was literally no living person who could have betrayed him. But Chelwick’s letter showed that there was no surmise, no conjecture, no hitting out on the chance, in Chelwick’s mind. There it was — Chelwick knew. And Chelwick summoned him — peremptorily — for three o’clock.
It was Ramsdale’s daily custom to lunch at the Wolborough Club, a select institution where, at between one and three o’clock every day, most of the leading men of the town foregathered. Chelwick and Wilmington were there that day as usual, but Ramsdale was not. And the solicitor and ex-Mayor commented on this fact as they left the Club together at twenty minutes to three and walked to Chelwick & Radbourne’s office, to find Penny meekly hanging about in the hall.
Chelwick, Wilmington and Penny sat in silent — and stern — conclave when Ramsdale was shown in just as the clock struck three. Ramsdale looked loweringly at all three. Knowing how things stood, he was prepared for Chelwick’s sharp tone, for Wilmington’s frigid and almost contemptuous nod. But who was the little man who sat in the background, staring at him in that queer fashion which somehow suggested something worse than contempt? He had an idea that he had seen that little man somewhere, some time, in the town, but he could not place him. Was it he who knew, or had discovered, the secret? Anyway, Ramsdale immediately became more afraid of Alfred Penny than of the other two; his very presence, inconspicuous as it was, was alarming. For Ramsdale knew something of unknown forces, and here was one. He did not know what that quiet-looking little chap might know and be able to tell, and so he feared him.
