The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (important of reading books TXT) 📕

name of the devil did it mean? At any rate, he must see to himself. One

thing was certain—no search for Parrawhite must be permitted in

Barford.

That evening, instead of going home to dinner, Pratt remained in town,

and dined at a quiet restaurant. When he dined, he thought, and planned,

and schemed—and after treating himself very well in the matter of food

and drink, he lighted a cigar, returned to his new offices, opened a

safe which he had just set up, and took from a drawer in it a hundred

pounds in banknotes. With these in his pocket-book he went off to a

quiet part of the town—the part in which James Parrawhite had lodged

during his stay in Barford.

Pratt turned into a somewhat mean and shabby street—a street of small,

poor-class shops. He went forward amongst them until he came to one

which, if anything, was meaner and shabbier than the others and bore

over its window the name Reuben Murgatroyd—Watchmaker and Jeweller.

There were few signs of jewellery in Reuben Murgatroyd’s window—some

cheap clocks, some foreign-made watches of the five-shilling and

seven-and-six variety, a selection of flashy rings and chains were

spread on the shelves, equally cheap and flashy bangles, bracelets, and

brooches lay in dust-covered trays on the sloping bench beneath them. At

these things Pratt cast no more than a contemptuous glance. But he

looked with interest at the upper part of the window, in which were

displayed numerous gaily-coloured handbills and small posters relating

to shipping—chiefly in the way of assisted passages to various parts of

the globe. These set out that you could get an assisted passage to

Canada for so much; to Australia for not much more—and if the bills and

posters themselves did not tell you all you wanted to know, certain big

letters at the foot of each invited you to apply for further information

to Mr. R. Murgatroyd, agent, within. And Pratt pushed open the shop-door

and walked inside.

An untidily dressed, careworn, anxious-looking man came forward from a

parlour at the rear of his shop. At sight of Pratt—who in the course of

business had once served him with a writ—his pale face flushed, and

then whitened, and Pratt hastened to assure him of his peaceful errand.

“All right, Mr. Murgatroyd,” he said. “Nothing to be alarmed about—I’m

out of that line, now—no papers of that sort tonight. I’ve a bit of

business I can put in your hands—profitable business. Look here!—have

you got a quarter of an hour to spare?”

Murgatroyd, who looked greatly relieved to find that his visitor had

neither writ nor summons for him, glanced at his parlour door.

“I was just going to put the shutters up, and sit down to a bite of

supper, Mr. Pratt,” he answered. “Will you come in, sir?”

“No—you come out with me,” said Pratt. “Come round to the _Coach and

Horses_, and have a drink and we can talk. You’ll have a better appetite

for your supper when you come back,” he added, with a wink. I’ve a

profitable job for you.”

“Glad to hear it, sir,” replied Murgatroyd. “I can do with aught of that

sort, I assure you!” He went into the parlour, said a word or two to

some person within, and came out again. “Not much business doing at

present, Mr. Pratt,” he said, as he and his visitor turned into the

street. “Gets slacker than ever.”

“Then you’ll do with a slice of good luck,” remarked Pratt. “It just

happens that I can put a bit in your way.”

He led Murgatroyd to the end of the street, where stood a corner tavern,

into a side-door of which Pratt turned as if he were well acquainted

with the geography of the place. Walking down a narrow passage he

conducted his companion into a small parlour, at that moment untenanted,

pointed him to a seat in the corner, and rang the bell. Five minutes

later, having provided Murgatroyd with rum and water and a cigar, he

turned on him with a direct question.

“Look here!” he said in a low voice. “Would a hundred pounds be any use

to you?”

Murgatroyd’s cheeks flushed.

“It ‘ud be a fortune!” he answered with fervour. “A hundred pound! Lor’

bless you, Mr. Pratt, it’s many a year since I saw a hundred pound—of

my own—all in one lump!”

Pratt pulled out his roll of banknotes, fluttered it in his companion’s

face, laid it on the table, and set an ashtray on it.

“There’s a hundred pounds there!” he said, “It’s yours to pick up—if

you’ll do a little job for me. Easy job, too!—you’ll never earn a

hundred pounds so easy in your life!”

Murgatroyd pricked up his ears. According to his ideas, money easily

come by was seldom honestly earned. He stirred uncomfortably in his

seat.

“So long as it’s a straight job,” he muttered. “I don’t want–-”

“Straight enough—as straight as it’s easy,” answered Pratt. “It may

seem a bit mysterious, but there’s reasons for that. I give you my word

it’s all right—all a mere bit of diplomacy—and that nobody’ll ever

know you’re in it—that is, beyond a certain stage—and that there’s no

danger to you.”

“What is it?” asked Murgatroyd, still uneasy and doubtful.

Pratt pulled the evening paper out of his pocket and showed Murgatroyd

the advertisement signed Halstead & Byner.

“You see that?” he said. “Information wanted about Parrawhite. Do you

remember Parrawhite? He once served you with some papers in that affair

in which we were against you.”

“I remember him,” answered Murgatroyd. “I’ve seen him in here now and

again. So he’s wanted, is he? I didn’t know he’d left the town.”

“Left last November,” said Pratt. “And—there are folks—influential

folks, as you can guess, seeing that they can throw a hundred pounds

away!—who don’t want any inquiries made for him in Barford. They don’t

mind—those folks—how many inquiries and searches are made for him

anywhere else, but—not here!”

“Well?” asked Murgatroyd anxiously.

“This is it,” replied Pratt. “You do a bit now and then as agent for

some of these shipping lines. You book passages for emigrants—and for

other people, going to New Zealand or Canada or Timbuctoo—never mind

where. Now then—couldn’t you remember—I’m sure you could—that you

booked a passage for Parrawhite to America last November? Come! It’s an

easy matter to remember is that—for a hundred pounds.”

Murgatroyd’s thin fingers trembled a little as he picked up his glass.

“What do you want me to do—exactly?” he asked.

“This!” said Pratt. “I want you, tomorrow morning, early, to send a

telegram to these people, Halstead & Byner, St. Martin’s Chambers,

London, just saying that James Parrawhite left Barford for America on

November 24th last, and that you can give further information if

necessary.”

“And what if it is necessary?” inquired Murgatroyd.

“Then—in answer to any letter or telegram of inquiry—you’ll just say

that you knew Parrawhite by sight as a clerk at Eldrick & Pascoe’s in

this town, that on November 23rd he told you that he was going to

emigrate to America, that next day you booked him his passage, for which

he paid you whatever it was, and that he thereupon set off for

Liverpool. See?”

“It’s all lies, you know,” muttered Murgatroyd.

“Nobody can find ‘em out, anyway,” replied Pratt. “That’s the one

important thing to consider. You’re safe! And if you’re cursed with a

conscience and it’s tender—well, that’ll make a good plaister for it!”

He pointed to the little wad of banknotes—and the man sitting at his

side followed the pointing finger with hungry eyes. Murgatroyd wanted

money badly. His business, always poor, was becoming worse: his shipping

agency rarely produced any result: his rent was in arrears: he owed

money to his neighbour-tradesmen: he had a wife and young children. To

such a man, a hundred pounds meant relief, comfort, the lifting of

pressure.

“You’re sure there’s naught wrong in it, Mr. Pratt,” he asked abruptly

and assiduously. “It ‘ud be a bad job for my family if anything happened

to me, you know.”

“There’s naught that will happen,” answered Pratt confidently. “Who on

earth can contradict you? Who knows what people you sell passages

to—but yourself?”

“There’s the folks themselves,” replied Murgatroyd. “Suppose Parrawhite

turns up?”

“He won’t!” exclaimed Pratt.

“You know where he is?” suggested Murgatroyd.

“Not exactly,” said Pratt, “But—he’s left this country for

another—further off than America. That’s certain! And—the folks I

referred to don’t want any inquiry about him here.”

“If I am asked questions—later—am I to say he booked in his own name?”

inquired Murgatroyd.

“No—name of Parsons,” responded Pratt. “Here, I’ll write down for you

exactly what I want you to say in the telegram to Halstead & Byner, and

I’ll make a few memoranda for you—to post you up in case they write for

further information.”

“I haven’t said that I’ll do it,” remarked Murgatroyd. “I don’t like the

looks of it. It’s all a pack of lies.”

Pratt paid no heed to this moral reflection. He found some loose paper

in his pocket and scribbled on it for a while. Then, as if accidentally,

he moved the ashtray, and the banknotes beneath it, all new, gave

forth a crisp, rustling sound.

“Here you are!” said Pratt, pushing notes and memoranda towards his

companion. “Take the brass, man!—you don’t get a job like that every

day.”

And Murgatroyd put the money in his pocket, and presently went home,

persuading himself that everything would be all right.