"£19,000"
"£19,000"
By BURFORD DELANNOY
Author of "The Garden Court Murder"
"The Missing Cyclist" Etc. Etc.
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
9 and 11 East Sixteenth Street, New York
WARD LOCK & COMPANY, LONDON
Copyright, 1900, by
R. F. Fenno & Company
Contents
CHAPTER I
THE DENTIST'S IN FINSBURY SQUARE
The gong fixed in the door frame sounded.
A man entered as Sawyer hurriedly ceased a perusal of the pages of the Boys of the World, and stuffed that sample of the literature of young England up his page's jacket.
"Is the boss in?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want a tooth out."
"Yes, sir. Will you take a seat a moment?"
The boy handed the visitor a newspaper as he spoke, and then entered the inner room. To his employer he said:
"Gent wants a tooth extracted, sir."
He had attained the word "extracted" by diligent practice. It had been hard work, but he got home with it at last.
There was a hope prevailing in the dentist's breast that in time the boy would be able to say "gentleman"; at present there were no indications of the realization of that hope beyond the word's first syllable.
The dentist was wearily glancing out of the window. He looked very down in the mouth.
That is said of him metaphorically, as, actually, it is part of the business of a dentist to do that sort of thing. That is patent.
He had little to do but admire the scenery of Finsbury Circus. It is not an inspiring landscape—weariness naturally follows its frequent observation.
His brother had rooms a few doors away, and was the proprietor of a brass plate which bore four letters after his name—Arthur Lennox, M.R.C.S.
Sawyer was a divided possession. However impossible it may seem for a man to serve two masters, the boy did—it came cheaper that way.
The surgeon and dentist were not having good times.
Patience is necessary in waiting for patients, and the stock of it they had laid in when they started in their respective practices was nearly exhausted.
Overdue rent and unpaid bills stared them in the face. In addition to their kinship they were brothers in misfortune.
It was such a rare thing for a patient to call that, when the page announced one, the dentist quite started. Immediately he said:
The boy did so, and retired. To his visitor, the dentist said:
"Good-morning."
"Good-morning. You are Mr. Charles Lennox?"
There was just that twang about the speaker's voice which some persons find so "charming"—and others tip their noses at—American.
"That is my name."
"I saw it up on the wire blind with the word 'dentist' after it."
"You need dental attention?"
"I need a tooth out."
"Will you sit down here?"
"Say! Hold on a minute. There's another combination on your blind. 'Painless Dentistry.'"
"Yes."
"I want to sample that kind."
"You mean—gas?"
"I mean the kind where you yank the tooth out without the owner knowing it. I've heard that it's done that way."
"Oh, yes, very frequently."
"Then fire away, boss."
"I shall have to ask you to wait a minute or two."
"I must send for a medical man to administer the gas."
"Can't do it yourself?"
"No, it is not usual."
"Will it be long?"
"No, my anæsthetist is but a few doors away."
"All right, then."
"It is proper that I should mention that for the administration of gas an extra fee is charged."
"How do you mean?"
"The charge is half a guinea extra."
"Fifteen and six in all?"
"Yes."
"That's all right. If it really comes out without my knowing it, I shan't ask for my change out of a sovereign. Money's no object with me just now."
The dentist looked his opinion of the speaker, and, opening the communication doors, called the boy.
"Run in to Mr. Arthur, and ask him if he will come in—gas patient waiting."
The boy ran in—and remained in Mr. Arthur Lennox' rooms, minding them while the surgeon went to help his brother.
As he entered the dentist's sanctum, the man who had been sent for said:
"Good-morning; are you the pain killer?"
"That is my present mission," replied the surgeon, with a smile, as he drew out the rubber gas bag, and prepared the apparatus.
"What happens after I'm loaded? Sort of balloon business, this. How long do I stay gassed up?"
"But a minute, and during that minute the tooth is extracted."
"Sure it don't hurt?"
"Not at all—take my word for it. You are conscious, perhaps, of what is being done, but you will experience no pain."
"All right, then. It's warm in here; do you mind me taking off my coat, mister?"
"Not at all."
"I've been walking around pretty much all to-day winding things up."
"Ah!"
Politeness induced the surgeon to utter that exclamation; he was wholly uninterested. He wondered why patients should be so communicative.
"Yes; I'm off back to the States to-morrow. I have been round to Eldon Street about my passage, and as I walked into Finsbury Circus, blest if this tooth didn't come on aching a treat. I didn't reckon on any dentist being aboard the boat, so, when I saw your sign, I popped right in."
"And now, if you will sit here.... So. That's it."
"Hullo! what's that?"
"Don't be nervous—just the gas. Imagine you are going to sleep. That is it.... There you are; Charley, he's gone under."
The surgeon walked aside, the dentist took his place, and, instrument in hand, quickly operated.
As he put the forceps down, and picked up a glass of water, he suddenly cried:
"Arthur! what's wrong? Arthur, quick!"
The surgeon was at the window, drumming with his finger-tips on the panes. He turned round hurriedly when he was addressed and inquired:
"What's the matter?"
But he needed no verbal answer. A look at the patient's face told him much.
He clawed up a towel, and putting it beneath the chin, snatched the glass of water the dentist was holding, and dashed it on the livid, colorless face.... It had no effect.
He threw the glass and towel down, and felt the pulse, tore open the man's vest, and applied his stethoscope; seized the body, laid it on the floor, and on his knees was astride it.
"Brandy," he said, as he started in his muscular endeavor to restore animation.
His brother brought brandy, and poured some between the unconscious man's lips.
"My case is in the bag, Charley," said the surgeon, as he continued his efforts to pump air into the man's lungs. "Fill the hypo-syringe with brandy."
The dentist did so, and handed it to his brother.
The injection had no effect. Once more the manual exercise was tried—tried for nearly half an hour.
The dentist wore a very white face as he watched what was being done—the exercise kept the color in the surgeon's.
But when presently the latter rose to his feet and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, the hue of his face was in close competition with his brother's.
"Lock the outer door, Charley," he said, hoarsely.
The dentist did so without a word, but with a shaking hand. When he returned, the surgeon was drinking neat brandy.
And when he had finished drinking, he poured out more, and handed the glass to his brother.
The dentist looked his inquiry. The surgeon answered it:
"Yes. Dead. This happens about once in five thousand cases. Our luck, I suppose, our luck still helping us."
He said this very bitterly, as they stood looking down at the body.
Presently the dentist inquired:
"What is to be done?"
The other shook his head by way of reply.
Again the dentist broke the silence.
"Shall we send for the police?"
"What good will that do?"
"It is the usual thing, is it——"
"Usual! The whole thing is unusual. The police spells for us ruin. A thing of this sort gets into the papers, and we might as well put up the shutters at once."
"Can we avoid——?"
"We must. Let me think—yes."
"You have thought of something?"
"Plain and ordinary enough. It did not want much thinking about."
"What is it?"
"Finsbury Circus is deserted at night?"
"Yes."
"Wait till then. Then throw the body over the rails into the Circus garden. Let the police find it there."
"Horrible!"
"Why? The man's dead. The police have to find the body. What can it matter whether it is found in these rooms or the open air? It can't hurt the dead man to be found there. It will certainly hurt us if he is found here."
"That's so."
There was no help for it. Their exchequer was low enough down as it was—they must prevent the happening of anything which would reduce it still lower.
They had no belief in the proverb that when things were at their worst they would mend—because their condition was as bad as it very well could be, and there was an utter absence of any sign of a mend about it.
CHAPTER II
WHAT WAS FOUND ON THE BODY
"Couldn't we put the body in a cab and send it home?"
"Could—but it would probably mean putting ourselves in the bankruptcy, if not the police court. The thing would be traced home to us. True, the bankruptcy would come only a little before the appointed time, just hasten things along, as it were."
"Could not we put——?"
"Let's put the body in this cupboard. That's the wisest thing to do for the present.... That's it. Turn the key. Now I'll get round to my rooms and send Sawyer back. That little imp must have no inkling of what has happened."
"He leaves at five o'clock."
"And it is close on that hour. Let him come in, and suppose the place empty. Let him leave at the usual time, in the usual way, and then I will come back."
Things happened that way, and soon after Sawyer had left for the day, the surgeon closed his offices and went into the dentist's.
He locked the outer door, and walking into the inner chamber, said:
"Charley, I have been thinking it over, and it does seem an awful thing to do that over the railings business. Mind you, I still believe it all sentiment, but, if possible, we will find out where the man lived, and devise a means of driving him home."
"Won't it be dangerous?"
"Yes. Still we will risk it. It seems a brutal thing to do as I suggested. We will put him on his own doorstep late to-night."
"You think we can manage it without——"
"Great point is, where he lived. If in a quiet suburb we can manage it all right. Get a cab here at my door, send the cabby round the corner for some cigars, we mind the horse, and, while he is away, slip the body in. When he comes back he will notice nothing in the darkness."
"But the man said he was going to America to-morrow!"
"Great Scott! So he did. I had forgotten that. Anyway, let us see if he has any address, pocketbook, letters—or anything on him to show where he would have slept if living to-night."
The key was turned in the lock of the cupboard, the body brought out and searched.
In the pockets were a passage ticket for America, letters addressed to "Mr. George Depew (of New York), Armfield's Hotel, Finsbury."
It was evident from the wording of the letters, which the brothers read, that Mr. Depew had stayed at Armfield's since his arrival from America.
The letters were from a city solicitor named Loide—Richard Loide, of Liverpool Street.
A perusal of those letters showed the whole reason of Mr. Depew's being that side of the Atlantic.
Loide had acted for Depew's aunt in the collection of the rents of certain properties. That aunt died, and Depew was sole legatee.
When the lawyer's letter reached him to that effect, Depew cabled Loide to sell all the property immediately. Another cable, a few hours later, announced that Depew was aboard a liner, and on his way to England. He was coming to look after his own.
The last letter from the solicitor was dated only one day before, and appointed two o'clock that very day—the day of the death—for Depew to attend at the lawyer's office, and receive nineteen thousand pounds, the amount the deceased woman's estate had realized.
The brothers were silent for a few moments after the perusal of that last letter. The consideration of a sum like nineteen thousand pounds, by two poor men, needs a few moments' silence.
Then they turned over again the contents of the dead man's pockets. The purse contained a few sovereigns and dollars, the steamer passage ticket, two Broad Street station cloak room tickets, and nothing more.
"Nineteen thousand pounds!"
It was the surgeon speaking. He looked at his brother; his brother looked at him. Each look was full of eloquence.
Then they picked up the dead man's coat, felt every inch of the lining thereof, thinking to find a secret pocket, or notes sewn in it. Nothing.
The two cloak room tickets for portmanteaus inspired the dentist to remark:
"Must be in one of the portmanteaus."
The surgeon shook his head.
"No man," he said, "would be fool enough to intrust such a sum to a cloak room's tender mercies."
"Then at the hotel?"
The surgeon did not think so—said as much as he bent over the body and unbuttoned the waistcoat, to make a closer search.
He felt something hard round the waist, investigated further, unbuckled what he found, and brought a money belt to the table and loosed the catch.
Notes! He pulled them out, and, as he fingered them, the rustle was as sweet music.
There were nineteen of them! Each for a thousand pounds.
They might have dreamed of such things, but they had never expected to actually handle such a sum.
For some while silence reigned. In incidents of this kind silence plays a big part.
There was no need of conversation—the brothers seemed to read each other's thoughts.
"It is a small fortune," presently whispered the dentist.
"And must be ours."
"Will the notes be traced?"
"We must guard against that."
"How?"
"I have been thinking——"
"Well?"
"This ticket—passage—has been booked in London; he will not be known on the ship."
"No."
"He intended going from Broad Street to Euston, thence to Liverpool, in time for the boat to-morrow."
"Well?"
"He will have to go."
"What, in heaven's name, do you mean?"
"Heaven," said the surgeon grimly, "I am afraid, has little to do with this job. But, see here, Charley, there's time yet. We can be poor and honest, and give up this fortune, or a few hours' nasty work, and wealth—nineteen thousand pounds."
He picked up the notes again, and the rustle made both men's eyes sparkle.
A piano organ in the distance was jigging out a "Belle of New York" tune, but no sound of it was heard by the brothers. Their ears were full of that crisp, crackling sound.
"But how do you mean that he will have to go?"
"One of us in his name, to America."
"Surely there is no need for that."
"Every need."
"Why?"
"For two reasons. He—this—has to be disposed of."
He indicated the corpse at their feet, and went on:
"Then, again, some one in his name must land in America, and disappear there, so that, when ultimately a hue and cry is raised, no suspicion may arise this side of the water."
"I see."
"While one of us is on the way to America, the other must gradually cash these notes at home. The numbers cannot be stopped for a week or two."
"Yes. But—but the body?"
"Must be taken aboard the boat."
"Good God!"
"No help for it, Charley. I had better be the passenger; you look after the money. I have more nerve for the work. I shall take the body in two portmanteaus, and manage to drop them overboard en route."
"In two portmanteaus?"
"Yes. My old days at the hospital operating table will come back to me. Yes. Don't look so scared; there's no help for it—just lock the door after me while I go in for my case of instruments."
The dentist did so, and stood there waiting his brother's return. Waited with bulging eyes and open mouth.
His training had not been that of the hospital. He had not the coolness in handling the limbs of his fellow-men which practice had given the surgeon.
The piano organ had struck into a religious tune now, and was discharging "Abide With Me." The dentist heard that. Heard it and shivered. The eventide was falling fast.
CHAPTER III
ON BOARD THE AMERICAN LINER
Arthur returned with his case of knives. He saw his brother would be worse than useless about him in the task he had in hand.
Personally, he had no more compunction about dismembering his fellow-men than a butcher had in disjointing a calf—it was his business.
"Drink this, Charley"—he had poured out some brandy and handed it to his brother. "And now put on your hat and go out; take a cab down to Goffs. Buy two large portmanteaus—second hand—not less than a yard long. Put them on a cab, and come back here with them. Rap three times on the door—don't forget, three times—then I shall know it is you. While you are away I will do what is necessary."
He did. Before his brother returned, there were five small parcels and one larger one—the contents may be guessed—done up in newspaper.
Not a trace of blood or otherwise of his handiwork was visible. He had been an attentive student, and profited by it now. In class he had been marked "clean."
Three raps at the door. He opened it, and the dentist entered with the portmanteaus.
"Put them down, laddie, and while I pack, you clear out. See here, those bags in the cloak room at the station had better be fetched away; there is no knowing what is in them. If they are not large, get a porter to bring them by hand; if too big, put them on a cab and bring them that way. Here are the cloak room tickets."
And while his brother was away he packed the two portmanteaus with the American, and carefully locked and strapped them.
The keys he tied together with a piece of twine, and put into his pocket. Not that they were of use—the locks were never to be turned again.
He helped his brother in with the two bags from the cloak room. They carefully went through the contents, opening the locks with the keys they had found in the dead man's trousers pocket.
The bags were full of clothing, hosiery, and general wearing apparel; not a scrap of paper or article of any other kind.
"Charley," said the surgeon, "chirp up, old man. There is nothing to fear. Before I am far away on the trip to America you may be sure that every trace of a clue to the contents of those portmanteaus will be lying at the bottom of the sea. A dark night, an open port, and there will be an end of the matter. This passage ticket is, I see, for a two berthed cabin—that makes it easier."
"I fear——"
"I know you do, old man—early and provident fear is the mother of safety. But there is nothing to fear. Murder will out, that we see day by day. But it is not as if we had murdered the man. We have not that crime on our consciences. Keep cool, and all will be well.
"I shall—must—land in America. I shall clear from the boat, one of the first. There I shall get another outfit, and come back in the next boat in another name. I shall go out, of course, as George Depew."
"I cannot get rid of the fear——"
"No, Charley, I know you cannot. But there is nothing to fear. Think what the money means to you, to us both. To you more than to me. You have a wife and little Edith to think of. Think what the money means, the happiness it will bring to mother and child—to them both."
"I know—I know."
"After all, I am doing whatever is being done, Charley. You conscientious old beggar you, just wipe the thing out of your mind. Let it be a leaf in the book of the past. Paste it down. Don't look at it, don't think of it. Only think of the future—the brightness of a future from which the clouds have rolled away, and which a few hours ago did not seem to have a piece of blue sky in it."
"Yes—yes."
"The boat starts from Liverpool, calls only at Queenstown, and then steams away across to the States. Why, given ordinary traveling—I shall not be away more than a fortnight, Charley, and when I come back I shall expect you to have cashed all those notes—and turned them into something less traceable."
"How had I better do that? Go to the bank?"
"M'no. I don't think I can trust you to do that, Charley. You would present those notes with such a white face and trembling hand that the most unsophisticated bank clerk breathing would think there was something fishy."
"What shall I do, then?"
"M'well.... I have it! There are two rooms empty above these?"
"Yes."
"Take them to-morrow. Take them in the name of Jones, Brown, Robinson—any name. Get a list of the brokers on the stock exchange, and buy from separate men nine hundred pounds' worth of stock. Good stock—no risk. Railway shares and that sort of thing. Pay each of the brokers with a thousand pound note; you will want the change out of it for working with. Worse come to the worst, if the shares have to be sold, there will only be the loss of a few pounds."
"I will do that."
"And now get along home, Charley, or you will have your little woman worrying about you. Don't, for heaven's sake, breathe a solitary syllable which will give the faintest clue to what has happened. Your wife is a smart little woman—don't give her too much money at first. Just a pound or two more for housekeeping expenses. Let her think your practice is gradually getting better day by day. And now shake hands. Good-bye."
"But you——"
"Oh! I stop here to-night."
"With those——"
"Yes. I don't let them leave my possession till I drop the contents in the sea. I take no unnecessary risks."
"But—you—can—sleep——"
"Certainly! soundly. Why not? There might be some reason to fear a live man, but a dead one—bah!"
"I will come up early, and see you off."
"You will do nothing of the sort. Don't do anything a wee bit out of the ordinary course of things. I shall go out for half an hour presently, taking the key of the door with me, get something to eat, buy some collars, shirts, and a few necessary things for the journey, and then sleep in your operating chair."
"The chair he died in!"
"Dear boy, what of that? There, get along. Good-bye."
He literally pushed his brother from the rooms, and closed the door. Afterwards he did as he had said he would do.
In early morning a cab took the four portmanteaus to Euston Station, and he caught the train for Liverpool.
There he had two of the portmanteaus labeled "For Cabin Use!" the others, bags of clothing, were shot into the hold.
He found that the occupant of the other berth, his cabin companion for the voyage, had already turned in—presumably to get as much sleep as possible before the voyage began—and was breathing heavily, the breath of sleep.
A short time after he had got on board the vessel started. He determined not to leave the cabin, or sight of his portmanteaus, till he had thrown them or their contents into the deep waters.
That he would do when they were fairly out to sea. Then he would pick safer—quite safe.
The vessel steamed on for her one and only stopping—Queenstown, to pick up the mails.
CHAPTER IV
THE CITY LAWYER AND THE CLIENT FROM THE WILD AND WOOLLY WEST
Aunt Depew had lived on the rentals of the property she had left to her nephew. Loide had been her solicitor for nearly twenty years.
She had a blind confidence in him—that way fraud lies. Absolute trust in a man oft tempts him to break it.
Regularly every quarter he had paid over to her the rentals of the properties; that was all she had cared for. She had never troubled about, or even visited, the places in which the buildings were situated.
She had no idea that by reason of the building of a railway station, and other developing influences, the revenue of her property had gone up by leaps and bounds, and that ultimately, while she was receiving two hundred and fifty pounds a year from property which she thought worth about five thousand pounds, the lawyer was receiving four times that sum, and the real value was about twenty thousand pounds.
Could any more sad blow have been aimed at the lawyer than the black edged intimation which reached him one morning—tidings of the death of his best client?
The dead woman had had a companion living with her, and this companion had witnessed the will, and herself after the funeral handed it to Loide.
Otherwise there is a question when the tidings would have reached the legatee in America—if they ever got so far.
Yet that eternal hope we hear of in the human breast, sprang up in the lawyer's, when he reflected that America was a long way off, that he, Loide, was the executor, and would have the proving of the will.
What would be easier than to show the legatee the income his aunt had been deriving, and effect a bogus sale of a part of the property for about five thousand pounds? That he could transmit to America, and end the matter.
He wrote Depew, and when the cablegram came in reply, instructing him to sell the property at once, Loide rubbed his hands together and chuckled with glee. It was just what he had wanted.
But the glee was short lived. Another cablegram came, saying that Depew was on his way to England, and would be there in a few days.
Then all hope left Loide's heart. Black ruin stared him in the face.
He had been drawing nearly a thousand pounds a year from the property which was to be at once sold. Few city lawyers could view the sudden cutting off of twenty pounds a week of their income with equanimity.
Loide viewed it with clenched hands, curses on his lips, and fear in his heart.
Then the fear gave place to another feeling—hatred. Hatred of this man who was crossing the water to rob him of what he had come to look on as his own.
This cursed American would come over and sell, and disappear with the proceeds.
But would he? Should he—Loide—allow him to do so?
The lawyer sat and thought. Then he determined to wait till Depew came and see what he could make out of him, see what manner of man he was.
It might be possible to handle him—profitably. The lawyer rarely handled mankind otherwise.
But when the American came, the thermometer of the lawyer's hopes dropped down to zero again.
Depew was a powerful, wiry, keen, shrewd, intelligent man of business. He picked the lawyer to pieces in five minutes, and so took greater precaution in seeing that he was fairly dealt with.
The lawyer had quite an unpleasant time.
"Say, lawyer, things appear to have been handled by my aunt with a light hand. Understand that I am driving now, will you, and the coach won't rock, perhaps."
"How dare——"
"Don't bluster, old son. I come from a land where we make holes in blusterers—round holes, with bullets at the bottom of 'em."
"Do you dare threaten me?"
"What, with a shooting iron? Nary a threat. Ain't even brought one along with me. Away back in the woods where I live I wouldn't open the door without one in reach of my hand. I was warned not to carry arms in this country—that the British didn't take kindly to 'em."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you? What are you looking so skeered about, then? What's your face gone all the color of paste for?"
"Let me tell you——"
"No, don't, old son—you let me tell you. We'll get there all the quicker. I don't say you have robbed my aunt——"
"That's the creckt word. I don't say you robbed my aunt, but I'll take tarnation good care that you don't rob me. See? Now you just set about winding up this here estate quick as greased lightning, and mind that it realizes the best price. See?"