CHAPTER VTHE POINT OF THE JOKE
Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. He felt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys in the form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces.
Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into his own things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could not get a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to the police. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, taken his watch.
Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking his belongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but for the purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had been stripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit of clothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of his things, he would teach this practical joker how to behave.
To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, he took a walk in the Green Park.
That one word “Tosh!” uttered by the woman, in answer to what he had said, told him more aboutRochester than many statements. This man wanted a cold bath, he wanted to be held under the tap till he cried for mercy.
Walking, now with the stick under his right arm and his left hand in his trousers pocket, he felt something in the pocket. It was a coin. He took it out. It was a penny, undiscovered evidently, and unremoved by the valet.
It was also a reminder of his own poverty stricken condition. His thoughts turned from Rochester and his jokes, to his own immediate and tragic position. The whole thing was his own fault. It was quite easy to say that Rochester had led him along and tempted him; he was a full grown man and should have resisted temptation. He had let strong drink get hold of him; well, he had paid by the loss of his money, to say nothing of the way his self-respect had been bruised by this jester.
Near Buckingham Palace he turned back, walking by the way he had come, and leaving the park at the new gate.
He crossed the plexus of ways where Northumberland Avenue debouches on Trafalgar Square. It was near twelve o’clock, and the first evening papers were out. A hawker with a bundle of papers under his arm and a yellow poster in front of him like an apron, drew his attention; at least the poster did.
“Suicide of an American in London!” were the words on the poster.
Jones, remembering his penny, produced it and bought a paper.
The American’s suicide did not interest him, but he fancied vaguely that something of Rochester’s doings of the night before might have been caught by the Press through the Police news. He thought it highly probable that Rochester, continuing his mad course, had been gaoled.
He was rewarded. Right on the first page he saw his own name. He had never seen it before in print, and the sight and the circumstances made his tongue cluck back, as though checked by a string tied to its root.
This was the paragraph:
“Last night, as the 11.35 Inner Circle train was entering the Temple Station, a man was seen to jump from the platform on to the metals. Before the station officials could interfere to save him, the unfortunate man had thrown himself before the incoming engine. Death was instantaneous.
“From papers in possession of deceased, his identity has been verified as that of Mr. V. A. Jones, an American gentleman of Philadelphia, lately resident at the Savoy Hotel, Strand.”
Jones stood with the paper in his hand, appalled. Rochester had committed suicide!
This was the Jest—the black core of it. All last evening, all through that hilarity he had been plotting this. Plotting it perhaps from the first moment of their meeting. Unable to resist the prompting of the extraordinary likeness, this joker, this waster, done to the world, had left life at the end of a last jamboree,and with a burst of laughter—leaving another man in his clothes, nay, almost one might say in his body.
Jones saw the point of the thing at once.
CHAPTER VITHE NET
He saw something else. He was automatically barred from the Savoy, and barred from the American Consul. And on top of that something else. He had committed a very grave mistake in accepting for a moment his position. He should have spoken at once that morning, spoken to “Mr. Church,” told his tale and made explanations, failing that he should have made explanations before leaving the house. He had left in Rochester’s clothes, he had acted the part of Rochester.
He rolled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the gutter, and entered Charing Cross to continue his soliloquy.
He had eaten Rochester’s food, smoked one of his cigars, accepted his cane and gloves. All that might have been explainable with Rochester’s aid, but Rochester was dead.
No one knew that Rochester was dead. To go back to the Savoy and establish his own identity, he would have to establish the fact of Rochester’s death, tell the story of his own intoxication, and make people believe that he was an innocent victim.
An innocent victim who had gone to another man’s house and palpably masqueraded for some hours asthat other man, walking out of the house in his clothes and carrying his stick, an innocent victim, who owed a bill at the Savoy.
Why, every man, the family included you may be sure, would be finding the innocent victim in Rochester.
What were Jones’ letters doing on Rochester? That was a nice question for a puzzle-headed jury to answer.
By what art did Jones, the needy American Adventurer—that was what they would call him—impose himself upon Rochester, and induce Rochester to order him to be taken to Carlton House Terrace?
Oh, there were a lot more questions to be asked at that phantom court of Justice, where Jones beheld himself in the dock trying to explain the inexplicable.
The likeness would not be any use for white-washing; it would only deepen the mystery, make the affair more extravagant. Besides, the likeness most likely by this time would be pretty well spoiled; by the time of the Assizes it would be only verifiable by photographs.
Sitting on a seat in Charing Cross station, he cogitated thus, chasing the most fantastic ideas, yet gripped all the time by the cold fact.
The fact that the only door in London open to him was the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace.
Unable to return to the Savoy, he possessed nothing in the world but the clothes he stood up in and the walking stick he held in his hand. Dressed like a lord, he was poorer than any tramp, for the simple reason that his extravagantly fine clothes barred himfrom begging and from the menial work that is the only recourse of the suddenly destitute.
Given time, and with his quick business capacity, he might have made a fight to obtain a clerk-ship or some post in a store—but he had no time. It was near the luncheon hour and he was hungry. That fact alone was an indication of how he was placed as regards Time.
He was a logical man. He saw clearly that only two courses lay before him. To go to the Savoy and tell his story and get food and lodging in the Police Station, or to go to 10A, Carlton House Terrace and get food and lodging as Rochester.
Both ideas were hateful, but he reckoned, and with reason, that if he took the first course, arrest and ignominy, and probably imprisonment would be certain, whereas if he took the second he might be able to bluff the thing out till he could devise means of escape from the net that surrounded him.
He determined on the second course. The servants, and even that scarecrow woman in the feather boa had accepted him as good coin; there was no reason why they should not go on accepting him for a while. For the matter of that, there was no reason why they should not go on accepting him forever.
Even in the midst of his disturbance of mind and general tribulation, the humour of the latter idea almost made him smile. The idea of living and dying as Lord Rochester, as a member of the English Aristocracy, always being “My Lorded,” served by flunkeyswith big calves, and inducted every morning into his under pants by that guy in the sleeved jacket!
This preposterous idea, more absurd than any dream, was yet based on a substantive foundation. In fact he had that morning put it in practice, and unless a miracle occurred he would have to continue putting it in practice for some days to come.
However, Jones, fortunately or unfortunately for himself, was a man of action and no dreamer. He dismissed the ideas and came to practical considerations.
If he had to hold on to the position, he would have to make more sure of his ground.
He rose, found his way into Charing Cross Station Hotel, and obtained a copy of “Who’s Who” from the hotel clerk.
He turned the pages till he found the R’s. Here was his man.
Rochester. 21st Earl of (cr. 1431) Arthur Coningsby Delamere. Baron Coningsby of Wilton, ex Lieut. Rifle Brigade, m. Teresa, 2d daughter of Sir Peter Mason Bart. 9 v. Educ. Heidelberg. Owns about 21,000 acres. Address 10A, Carlton House Terrace. Rochester Court, Rochester. The Hatch, Colney, Wilts. Clubs, Senior Conservative, National Sporting, Pelican.
That was only a part of the sayings of “Who’s Who” regarding Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere. The last decadent descendant of a family that had been famous in long past years for its power, prodigality and prolificacy.
If Jones could have climbed up his own family tree he might have found on some distaff branch the reason of his appalling likeness to Rochester, Arthur Coningsby, Delamere, but this was a pure matter of speculation, and it did not enter the mind of Jones.
He closed the book, returned it, and walked out.
Now that his resolve was made, his fighting spirit was roused. In other words he felt the same recklessness that a man feels who is going into battle, the regardlessness of consequence which marks your true explorer. For Stanley on the frontier of Darkest Africa, Scott on the ice rim of the Beardmore Glacier, had before them positions and districts simple in comparison to those that now fronted Jones, who had before him the Western and South Western London Districts, with all they contained in the way of natives in top hats, natives painted and powdered, tribes with tribal laws of which he knew little, tricks of which he knew less, convenances, ju-pu’s and fetishes. And he was entering this dark and intricate and dangerous country, not as an explorer carrying beads and bibles, but disguised as a top man, a chief.
Burton’s position when he journeyed to Mecca disguised as a Mohammedan was easy compared to the position of Jones. Burton knew the ritual. He made one mistake in it it is true, but then he was able to kill the man who saw him make that mistake. Jones could not protect himself in this way, even if the valet in the sleeved jacket were to discover him in a position analogous to Burton’s.
He was not thinking of any of these things at thepresent moment, however; he was thinking of luncheon. If he were condemned to play the part of a Lord for awhile, he was quite determined to take his salary in the way of everything he wanted. Yet it seemed that to obtain anything he wanted in his new and extraordinary position, he would have to take something he did not want. He wanted luncheon but he did not want to go back to Carlton House Terrace, at least not just now. Those flunkeys—the very thought of them gave him indigestion—more than that, he was afraid of them. A fear that was neither physical nor moral, but more in the nature of the fear of women for mice, or the supposed fear of the late Lord Roberts for cats.
The solemn Church, the mercurial valet, the men with calves, belonged to a tribe that maybe had done Jones to death in some past life: either bored him to death or bludgeoned him, it did not matter, the antipathy was there, and it was powerful.
At the corner of Northumberland Avenue an idea came to him. This Rochester belonged to several clubs, why not go and have luncheon at one of them on credit? It would save him for the moment from returning to the door towards which Fate was shepherding him, and he might be able to pick up some extra wrinkles about himself and his position. The idea was indicative of the daring of the man, though there was little enough danger in it. He was sure of passing muster at a club, since he had done so at home. He carried the names of two of Rochester’s clubs in his mind, the Pelican and the Senior Conservative.The latter seemed the more stodgy, the least likely to offer surprises in the way of shoulder clapping, irresponsible parties who might want to enter into general conversation.
He chose it, asked a policeman for directions, and made for Pall Mall.
Here another policeman pointed out to him the building he was in search of.
It stood on the opposite side of the way, a building of grey stone, vast and serious of feature, yet opulent and hinting of the best in all things relative to comfort.
It was historical. Disraeli had come down those steps, and the great Lord Salisbury had gone up them. Men, to enter this place, had to be born, not made, and even these selected ones had to put their names down at birth, if they wished for any chance of lunching there before they lost their teeth and hair.
It took twenty-one years for the elect to reach this place, and on the way they were likely to be slain by black balls.
Victor Jones just crossed the road and went up the steps.
CHAPTER VIILUNCHEON
He had lunched at the Constitutional with a chance acquaintance picked up on his first week in London, so he knew something of the ways of English clubs, yet the vast hall of this place daunted him for a moment.
However, the club servants seeming to know him, and recognising that indecision is the most fatal weakness of man, he crossed the hall, and seeing some gentlemen going up the great staircase he followed to a door in the first landing.
He saw through the glass swing doors that this was the great luncheon room of the club, and having made this discovery he came downstairs again where good fortune, in the form of a bald headed man without hat or stick, coming through a passage way, indicated the cloak room to him.
Here he washed his hands and brushed his hair, and looking at himself in a glass judged his appearance to be conservative and all right. He, a democrat of the Democrats in this hive of Aristocracy and old crusted conservatism, might have felt qualms of political conscience, but for the fact that earthly politics, social theories, and social instincts were less to him now than to an inhabitant of the dark body thattumbles and fumbles around Sirius. Less than the difference between the minnow and the roach to the roach in the landing net.
Leaving the place he almost ran into the arms of a gentleman who was entering, and who gave him a curt “H’do.”
He knew that man. He had seen his newspaper portrait in America as well as England. It was the leader of His Majesty’s Opposition, the Queen bee of this hive where he was about to sit down to lunch. The Queen bee did not seem very friendly, a fact that augured ill for the attitude of the workers and the drones.
Arrived at the glass swing doors before mentioned, he looked in.
The place was crowded.
It looked to him as though for the space of a mile and a half or so, lay tables, tables, tables, all occupied by twos and threes and fours of men. Conservative looking men, and no doubt mostly Lords.
It was too late to withdraw without shattering his own self respect and self confidence. The cold bath was before him, and there was no use putting a toe in.
He opened the door and entered, walking between the tables and looking the luncheon parties in the face.
The man seated has a tremendous advantage over the man standing in this sort of game. One or two of the members met by the newcomer’s glance, bowed in the curious manner of the seated Briton, the eyes of others fell away, others nodded frigidly,it seemed to Jones. Then, like a pilot fish before a shark leading him to his food, a club waiter developed and piloted him to a small unoccupied table, where he took a seat and looked at a menu handed to him by the pilot.
He ordered fillet of sole, roast chicken, salad, and strawberry ice. They were the easiest things to order. He would have ordered roast elephant’s trunk had it been easier and on the menu.
A man after the storming of Hell Gate, or just dismounted after the Charge of the Light Brigade, would have possessed as little instinct for menu hunting as Jones.
He had pierced the ranks of the British Aristocracy; that was nothing—he was seated at their camp fire, sharing their food, and they were all inimical towards him; that was everything.
He felt the draught. He felt that these men had a down on him; felt it by all sorts of senses that seemed newly developed. Not a down on him, Jones, but a down on him, Rochester, Arthur Coningsby Delamere, 21st Earl of.
And the extraordinary thing was that he felt it. What on earth did it matter to him if these men looked coldly upon another man? It did. It mattered quite a lot, more than perhaps it ever mattered to the other man. Is the soul such a shallow and blind thing that it cannot sort the true from the false, the material from the immaterial, cannot see that an insult levelled at a likeness is not an insult levelled atit?
Surely not, and yet the soul of Victor Jones resented the coolness of others towards the supposed body of Rochester, as though it were a personal insult.
It was the first intimation to Jones that when the actor puts on his part he puts on more than a cloak or trunk hose, that the personality he had put on had nerves curiously associated with his own nerves, and that, though he might say to himself a hundred times with respect to the attitudes of other people, “Pah! they don’t mean me,” that formula was no charm against disdain.
The wine butler, a gentleman not unlike Mr. Church, was now at his elbow, and he found himself contemplating the wine card of the Senior Conservative, a serious document, if one may judge by the faces of the men who peruse it.
It is in fact the Almanach de Gotha of wines. The old kings of wine are here, the princess and all the aristocracy. Unlike the Almanach de Gotha, however, the price of each is set down. Unlike the Almanach de Gotha, the names of a few commoners are admitted.
Macon was here, and even Blackways’ Cyder, the favourite tipple of the old Duke of Taunton.
Jones ran his eye over the list without enthusiasm. He had taken a dislike to alcohol even in its mildest guise.
“Er—what minerals have you got?” asked he.
“Minerals!”
The man with the wine card was nonplussed. Jones saw his mistake.
“Soda water,” said he. “Get me some soda water.”
The fillet of sole with sauce Tartare was excellent. Nothing, not even the minerals could dim that fact. As he ate he looked about him, and with all the more ease, because he found now that nobody was looking at him; his self consciousness died down, and he began speculating on the men around, their probable rank, fortune, and intellect. It seemed to Jones that the latter factor was easier of determination than the other two.
What struck him more forcibly was a weird resemblance between them all, a phantom thing, a link undiscoverable yet somehow there. This tribal expression is one of the strangest phenomena eternally comforting and battering our senses.
Just as men grow like their wives, so do they grow like their fellow tradesmen, waiters like waiters, grooms like grooms, lawyers like lawyers, politicians like politicians. More, it has been undeniably proved that landowners grow like landowners, just as shepherds grow like sheep, and aristocrats like aristocrats.
A common idea moulds faces to its shape, and a common want of ideas allows external circumstances to do the moulding.
So, English Conservative Politicians of the higher order, being worked upon by external circumstances of a similar nature, have perhaps a certain similar expression. Radical Politicians on the other hand, shape to a common idea—evil—but still an idea.Jones was not thinking this, he was just recognising that all these men belonged to the same class, and he felt in himself that, not only did he not belong to that class, but that Rochester also, probably, had found himself in the same position.
That might have accounted for the wildness and eccentricity of Rochester, as demonstrated in that mad carouse and hinted at by the woman in the feather boa. The wildness of a monkey condemned to live amongst goats, hanging on to their horns, and clutching at their scuts, and playing all the tricks that contrariness might suggest to a contrary nature.
Something of this sort was passing through Jones’ mind, and as he attacked his strawberry ice, for the first time since reading that momentous piece of news in the evening newspaper his mental powers became focussed on the question that lay at the very heart of all this business. It struck him now so very forcibly that he laid down his spoon and stared before him, forgetful of the place where he was and the people around him.
“Why did that guy commit suicide?”
That was the question.
He could find no answer to it.
A man does not as a rule commit suicide simply because he is eccentric or because he has made a mess of his estates, or because being a practical joker he suddenly finds his twin image to defraud. Rochester had evidently done nothing to bar him from society. Though perhaps coldly received by his club,he was still received by it. Had he done something that society did not know of, something that might suddenly obtrude itself?
Jones was brought back from his reverie with a snap. One of the confounded waiters was making off with his half eaten ice.
“Hi,” cried he. “What you doing? Bring that back.”
His voice rang through the room, people turned to look. He mentally cursed the ice and the creature who had snapped it from him, finished it, devoured a wafer, and then, rising to his feet, left the room. It was easier to leave than to come in, other men were leaving, and in the general break up he felt less observed.
Downstairs he looked through glass doors into a room where men were smoking, correct men in huge arm chairs, men with legs stretched out, men smoking big cigars and talking politics no doubt. He wanted to smoke, but he did not want to smoke in that place.
He went to the cloak room, fetched his hat and cane and gloves and left the club.
Outside in Pall Mall he remembered that he had not told the waiter to credit him with the luncheon, but a trifle like that did not bother him now. They would be sure to put it down.
What did trouble him was the still unanswered question, “Why did that guy commit suicide?”
Suppose Rochester had murdered some man and had committed suicide to escape the consequences?This thought gave him a cold grue such as he had never experienced before. For a moment he saw himself hauled before a British Court of Justice; for a moment, and for the first time in his life, he found himself wondering what a hangman might be like.
But Victor Jones, though a visionary sometimes in business, was at base a business man. More used to his position now, and looking it fairly in the face, he found that he had little to fear even if Rochester had committed a murder. He could, if absolutely driven to it, prove his identity. Driven to it, he could prove his life in Philadelphia, bring witnesses and relate circumstances. His tale would all hang together, simply because it was the truth. This inborn assurance heartened him a lot, and, more cheerful now, he began to recognise more of the truth. His position was very solid. Every one had accepted him. Unless he came an awful bump over some crime committed by the late defunct, he could go on forever as the Earl of Rochester. He did not want to go on forever as the Earl of Rochester; he wanted to get back to the States and just be himself, and he intended so to do having scraped a little money together. But the idea tickled him just as it had done in Charing Cross Station, and it had lost its monstrous appearance and had become humorous, a highly dangerous appearance for a dangerous idea to take.
Jones was a great walker, exercise always cleared his mind and strengthened his judgment. He set off on a long walk now, passing the National Gallery toRegent Circus, then up Regent Street and Oxford Street, and along Oxford Street towards the West. He found himself in High Street Kensington, in Hammersmith, and then in those dismal regions where the country struggles with the town.
Oh, those suburbs of London! Within easy reach of the city! Those battalions of brick houses, bits of corpses, of what once were fields; those villas, laundries——
The contrast between this place and Pall Mall came as a sudden revelation to Jones, the contrast between the power, ease, affluence and splendour of the surroundings of the Earl of Rochester, and the surroundings of the bank clerks and small people who dwelt here.
The view point is everything. From here Carlton House Terrace seemed almost pleasing.
Jones, like a good Democrat, had all his life professed a contempt for rank. Titles had seemed as absurd to him as feathers in a monkey’s cap. It was here in ultra Hammersmith that he began to review this question from a more British standpoint.
Tell it not in Gath, he was beginning to feel the vaguest antipathetic stirring against little houses and ultra people.
He turned and began to retrace his steps. It was seven o’clock when he reached the door of 10A, Carlton House Terrace.
CHAPTER VIIIMR. VOLES
The flunkey who admitted him, having taken his hat, stick and gloves, presented him with a letter that had arrived by the midday post, also with a piece of information.
“Mr. Voles called to see you, my Lord, shortly after twelve. He stated that he had an appointment with you. He is to call again at quarter past seven.”
Jones took the letter and went with it to the room where he had sat that morning. Upon the table lay all the letters that he had not opened that morning. He had forgotten these. Here was a mistake. If he wished to hold to his position for even a few days, it would be necessary to guard against mistakes like this.
He hurriedly opened them, merely glancing at the contents, which for the most part were unintelligible to him.
There was a dinner invitation from Lady Snorries—whoever she might be—and a letter beginning “Dear old Boy” from a female who signed herself “Julie,” an appeal from a begging letter writer, and a letter beginning “Dear Rochester” from a gentleman who signed himself simply “Childersley.”
The last letter he opened was the one he had just received from the servant.
It was written on poor paper, and it ran:
“Stick to it—if you can. You’ll see why I couldn’t. There’s a fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in smoke room.”Rochester.“
“Stick to it—if you can. You’ll see why I couldn’t. There’s a fiver under the papers of the top right hand drawer of bureau in smoke room.
”Rochester.“
Jones knew that this letter, though addressed to the Earl of Rochester, was meant for him, and was written by Rochester, written probably on some bar counter, and posted at the nearest pillar box just before he had committed the act.
He went to the drawer in the bureau indicated, raised the papers in it and found a five pound note.
Having glanced at it he closed the drawer, placed the note in his waistcoat pocket and sat down again at the table.
“Stick to it—if you can.” The words rang in his ears just as though he had heard them spoken.
Those words, backed by the five pound note, wrought a great change in the mind of Jones. He had Rochester’s permission to act as he was acting, and a little money to help him in his actions.
The fact of his penury had been like a wet blanket upon him all day. He felt that power had come to him with permission. He could think clearly now. He rose and paced the floor.
“Stick to it—if you can.”
Why not—why not—why not? He found himselflaughing out loud, a great gush of energy had come to him. Jones was a man of that sort, a new and great idea always came to him on the crest of a wave of energy; the British Government Contract idea had come to him like that, and the wave had carried him to England.
Why not be the Earl of Rochester, make good his position finally, stand on the pinnacle where Fate had placed him, and carry this thing through to its ultimate issue?
It would not be all jam. Rochester must have been very much pressed by circumstances; that did not frighten Jones, to him the game was everything, and the battle.
He would make good where Rochester had failed, meet the difficulties that had destroyed the other, face them, overcome them.
His position was unassailable.
Coming over from New York he had read Nelson’s shilling edition of the Life of Sir Henry Hawkins. He had read with amazement the story of British credulity expressed in the Tichborne Case. How Arthur Orton, a butcher, scarcely able to write, had imposed himself on the Public as Roger Tichborne, a young aristocrat of good education.
He contrasted his own position with Orton’s.
He was absolutely unassailable.
He went to the cigar box, chose a cigar and lit it.
There was the question of hand writing! That suddenly occurred to him, confronting his newlyformed plans. He would have to sign cheques, write letters. A typewriter could settle the latter question, and as for the signature, he possessed a sample of Rochester’s, and would have to imitate it. At the worst he could pretend he had injured his thumb—that excuse would last for some time. “There’s one big thing about the whole business,” said he to himself, “and that is the chap’s eccentricity. Why, if I’m shoved too hard, I can pretend to have lost my memory or my wits—there’s not a blessed card I haven’t either in my hand or up my sleeve, and if worst comes to worst, I can always prove my identity and tell my story.” He was engaged with thoughts like these when the door opened and the servant, bearing a card on a salver, announced that Mr. Voles, the gentleman who had called earlier in the day, had arrived.
“Bring him in,” said Victor. The servant retired and returned immediately ushering in Voles, who entered carrying his hat before him. The stranger was a man of fifty, a tubby man, dressed in a black frock coat, covered, despite the summer weather, by a thin black overcoat with silk facings. His face was evil, thick skinned, yellow, heavy nosed, the hair of the animal was jet black, thin, and presented to the eyes of the gazer a small Disraeli curl upon the forehead of the owner.
The card announced:
Mr. A. S. Voles
12B. Jermyn Street
Voles himself, and unknown to himself, announced a lot of other things.
Victor Jones had a sharp instinct for men, well whetted by experience.
He nodded to the newcomer, curtly, and without rising from his chair; the servant shut the door and the two men were alone.
Just as a dog’s whole nature livens at the smell of a pole cat, so did Jones’ nature at the sight of Voles. He felt this man to be an enemy.
Voles came to the table and placed his hat upon it. Then he turned, went to the door and opened it to see if the servant was listening.
He shut the door.
“Well,” said he, “have you got the money for me?”
Another man in Jones’ position might have asked, and with reason. “What money?”
Jones simply said “No.”
This simple answer had a wonderful effect. Voles, about to take a seat, remained standing, clasping the back of the chair he had chosen. Then he burst out.
“You fooled me yesterday, and gave me an appointment for to-day. I called, you were out.”
“Was I?”
“Were you? You said the money would be here waiting for me—well, here I am now, I’ve got a cab outside ready to take it.”
“And suppose I don’t give it to you?” asked Jones.
“We won’t suppose any nonsense like that!” replied Voles taking his seat, “not so long as there are policemen to be called at a minute’s notice.”
“That’s true,” said the other, “we don’t want the police.”
“You don’t,” replied Voles. He was staring at Jones. The Earl of Rochester’s voice struck him as not quite the same as usual, more spring in it and vitality—altered in fact. But he suspected nothing of the truth. Passed as good coin by Voles, Jones had nothing to fear from any man or woman in London, for the eye of Voles was unerring, the ear of Voles ditto, the mind of Voles balanced like a jeweller’s scales.
“True,” said Jones. “I don’t—well, let’s talk about this money. Couldn’t you take half to-night, and half in a week’s time?”
“Not me,” replied the other. “I must have the two thousand to-night, same as usual.”
Jones had the whole case in his hands now, and he began preparing the toast on which to put this most evident blackmailer when cooked.
His quick mind had settled everything. Here was the first obstacle in his path, it would have to be destroyed, not surmounted. He determined to destroy it. If the worst came to the worst, if whatever crime Rochester had committed were to be pressed home on him by Voles, he would declare everything, prove his identity by sending for witnesses from the States, and show Rochester’s letter. The blackmailing would account for Rochester’s suicide.
But Jones knew blackmailers, and he knew that Voles would never prosecute. Rochester must indeed have been a weak fool not to have grasped this nettleand torn it up by the roots. He forgot that Rochester was probably guilty—that makes all the difference in the world.
“You shall have the money,” said he, “but see here, let’s make an end of this. Now let’s see. How much have you had already?”
“Only eight,” said Voles. “You know that well enough, why ask?”
“Eight thousand,” murmured the other, “you have had eight thousand pounds out of me, and the two to-night will make ten. Seems a good price for a few papers.” He made the shot on spec. It was a bull’s eye.
“Oh, those papers are worth a good deal more than that,” said Voles, “a good deal more than that.”
So it was documents not actions that the blackmailer held in suspense over the head of Rochester. It really did not matter a button to Jones, he stood ready to face murder itself, armed as he was with Rochester’s letter in his pocket, and the surety of being able to identity himself.
“Well,” said he, “let’s finish this business. Have you a cheque book on you?”
“I have a cheque book right enough—what’s your game now?”
“Just an idea of mine before I pay you—bring out your cheque book, you’ll see what I mean in a minute.”
Voles hesitated, then, with a laugh, he took the cheque book from the breast pocket of his overcoat.
“Now tear out a cheque.”
“Tear out a cheque,” cried the other. “What on earth are you getting at—one of my cheques—this is good.”
“Tear out a cheque,” insisted the other, “it will only cost you a penny, and you will see my meaning in a moment.”
The animal, before the insistent direction of the other, hesitated, then with a laugh he tore out a cheque.
“Now place it on the table.”
Voles placed it on the table.
Jones going to the bureau fetched a pen and ink. He pushed a chair to the table, and made the other sit down.
“Now,” said Jones, “write me out a cheque for eight thousand pounds.”
Voles threw the pen down with a laugh—it was his last in that room.
“You won’t?” said Jones.
“Oh, quit this fooling,” replied the other. “I’ve no time for such stuff—what are you doing now?”
“Ringing the bell,” said Jones.
Voles, just about to pick up the cheque, paused. He seemed to find himself at fault for a moment. The jungle beast, that hears the twig crack beneath the foot of the man with the express rifle, pauses like that over his bloody meal on the carcass of the decoy goat.
The door opened and a servant appeared, it was the miracle with calves.
“Send out at once, and bring in an officer—a policeman,” said Jones.
“Yes, my Lord.”
The door shut.
Voles jumped up, and seized his hat. Jones walked to the door and locked it, placing the key in his pocket.
“I’ve got you,” said he, “and I’m going to squeeze you, and I’m going to make you squeal.”
“You’re going to—you’re going to—you’re going to—” said Voles. He was the colour of old ivory.
“I’m going to make you go through this—”
“Here, d—n this nonsense—stop it—you fool, I’ll smash you,” said Voles. “Here, open that door and stop this business.”
“I told you I was going to make you squeal,” said Jones, “but that’s nothing to what’s coming.”
Voles came to the table and put down his hat. Then, facing Jones, he rapped with the knuckles of his right hand on the table.
“You’ve done it now,” said he, “you’ve laid yourself open to a nice charge, false imprisonment, that’s what you’ve done. A nice thing in the papers to-morrow morning, and intimidation on top of that. Over and above those there’s the papers.I’llhave no mercy—those papers go to Lord Plinlimon to-morrow morning, you’ll be in the divorce court this day month, and so will she. Reputation! she won’t have a rag to cover herself with.”
“Oh, won’t she?” said Jones. “This is most interesting.” He felt a great uplift of the heart. Sothis blackmail business had to do with a woman. The idea that Rochester was some horrible form of criminal had weighed upon him. It had seemed to him that no man would pay such a huge sum as eight thousand pounds in the way of blackmail unless his crime were in proportion. Rochester had evidently paid it to shield not only his own name, but the name of a woman.
“Most interesting,” said Voles. “I’m glad you think so—” Then in a burst, “Come, open that door and stop this nonsense—take that key out of your pocket and open the door. You always were a fool, but this is beyond folly—the pair of you are in the hollow of my hand, you know it—I can crush you like that—like that—like that!”
He opened and shut his right hand. A cruel hand it was, hairy as to the back, huge as to the thumb.
Jones looked at him.
“You are wasting a lot of muscular energy,” said he. “My determination is made, and it holds. You are going to prison, Mr. Filthy Beast, Voles. I’m up against you, that’s the plain truth. I’m going to cut you open, and show your inside to the British Public. They’ll be so lost in admiration at the sight, they won’t bother about the woman or me. They’ll call us public benefactors, I reckon. You know men, and you know when a man is determined. Look at me, look at me in the face, you sumph—”
A knock came to the door.
Jones took the key from his pocket and opened the door.
“The constable is here, my Lord,” said the servant.
“Tell him to come in,” said Jones.
Voles had taken up his hat again, and he stood now by the table, hat in hand, looking exactly what he was, a criminal on his defence.
The constable was a fresh-looking and upstanding young man; he had removed his helmet and was carrying it by the chin strap. He had no bludgeon, no revolver, yet he impressed Jones almost as much as he impressed the other.
“Officer,” said Jones. “I have called you in for the purpose of giving this man in charge for attempting—”
“Stop,” cried Voles.
Then something Oriental in his nature took charge of him. He rushed forward with arms out, as though to embrace the policeman.
“It is all a mistake,” cried he, “constable, one moment, go outside one moment, leave me with his lordship. I will explain. There is nothing wrong, it is all a big mistake.”
The constable held him off, glancing for orders at Jones.
Jones felt no vindictiveness towards Voles now; disgust, such as he might have felt towards a vulture or a cormorant, but no vindictiveness.
He wanted that eight thousand pounds.
He had determined to make good in his new position, to fight the world that Rochester had failed to fight, and overcome the difficulties sure to be ahead of him. Voles was the first great difficulty, and lo,it seemed, that he was about not only to destroy it, but turn it to a profit. He did not want the eight thousand for himself, he wanted it for the game; and the fascination of that great game he was only just beginning to understand.
“Go outside, officer,” said he to the constable.
He shut the door. “Sit down and write,” said he. Voles said not a word.
He went to the table, sat down and picked up the pen. The cheque was still lying there. He drew it towards him. Then he flung the pen down. Then he picked it up, but he did not write. He waved it between finger and thumb, as though he were beating time to a miniature orchestra staged on the table before him. Then he began to write.
He was making out a cheque to the Earl of Rochester for the sum of eight thousand pounds, no shillings, no pence.
He signed it A. S. Voles.
He was about to cross it, but Jones stopped him. “Leave it open,” said he, “and now one thing more, I must have those papers to-morrow morning without fail. And to make certain of them you must do this.”
He went to the bureau and took a sheet of note paper, which he laid before the other.
“Write,” said he. “I will dictate. Begin June 2nd.”
Voles put the date.