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

believe there’s the slightest risk. I’ve figured everything out. I don’t

believe there’s any danger from Collingwood or from anybody—it’s

impossible! And if we take cash now—we’re selling for a penny what we

ought to get pounds for.”

“The present is much more important than the future, my friend,”

answered Parrawhite. “To me, at any rate. Now, then, this is my

proposal. I’ll be with you when this lady calls at your place tomorrow

evening. We’ll offer her the will, to do what she likes with, for ten

thousand pounds. She can find that—quickly. When she pays—as she

will!—we share, equally, and then—well, you can go to the devil! I

shall go—somewhere else. So that’s settled.”

“No!” said Pratt.

Parrawhite turned sharply, and Pratt saw a sinister gleam in his eyes.

“Did you say no?” he asked.

“I said—no!” replied Pratt. “I’m not going to take five thousand pounds

for a chance that’s worth fifty thousand. Hang you!—if you hadn’t been

a black sneak-thief, as you are, I’d have had the whole thing to myself!

And I don’t know that I will give way to you. If it comes to it, my

word’s as good as yours—and I don’t believe Eldrick would believe you

before me. Pascoe wouldn’t anyway. You’ve got a past!—in quod, I should

think—my past’s all right. I’ve a jolly good mind to let you do your

worst—after all, I’ve got the will. And by george! now I come to think

of it, you can do your worst! Tell what you like tomorrow morning. I

shall tell ‘em what you are—a scoundrel.”

He turned away at that—and as he turned, Parrawhite, with a queer cry

of rage that might have come from some animal which saw its prey

escaping, struck out at him with the heavy stick. The blow missed

Pratt’s head, but it grazed the tip of his ear, and fell slantingly on

his left shoulder. And then the anger that had been boiling in Pratt

ever since the touch on his arm in the dark lane, burst out in activity,

and he turned on his assailant, gripped him by the throat before

Parrawhite could move, and after choking and shaking him until his teeth

rattled and his breath came in jerking sobs, flung him violently against

the masses of stone by which they had been standing.

Pratt was of considerable physical strength. He played cricket and

football; he visited a gymnasium thrice a week. His hands had the grip

of a blacksmith; his muscles were those of a prize-fighter. He had put

more strength than he was aware of into his fierce grip on Parrawhite’s

throat; he had exerted far more force than he knew he was exerting, when

he flung him away. He heard a queer cracking sound as the man struck

something, and for the moment he took no notice of it—the pain of that

glancing blow on his shoulder was growing acute, and he began to rub it

with his free hand and to curse its giver.

“Get up, you fool, and I’ll give you some more!” he growled. “I’ll teach

you to–-”

He suddenly noticed the curiously still fashion in which Parrawhite was

lying where he had flung him—noticed, too, as a cloud passed the moon

and left it unveiled, how strangely white the man’s face was. And just

as suddenly Pratt forgot his own injury, and dropped on his knees beside

his assailant. An instant later, and he knew that he was once more

confronting death. For Parrawhite was as dead as Antony Bartle—violent

contact of his head with a rock had finished what Pratt had nearly

completed with that vicious grip. There was no questioning it, no

denying it—Pratt was there in that lonely place, staring half

consciously, half in terror, at a dead man.

He stood up at last, cursing Parrawhite with the anger of despair. He

had not one scrap of pity for him. All his pity was for himself. That he

should have been brought into this!—that this vile little beast,

perfect scum that he was, should have led him to what might be the utter

ruin of his career!—it was shameful, it was abominable, it was cruel!

He felt as if he could cheerfully tear Parrawhite’s dead body to pieces.

But even as these thoughts came, others of a more important nature

crowded on them. For—there lay a dead man, who was not to be put in

one’s pocket, like a will. It was necessary to hide that thing from the

light—ever that light. Within a few hours, morning would break, and

lonely and deserted as that place was nowadays, some one might pass that

way. Out of sight with him, then!—and quickly.

Pratt was very well acquainted with the spot at which he stood. Those

old quarries had a certain picturesqueness. They had become grass-grown;

ivy, shrubs, trees had clustered about them—the people who lived in the

few houses half a mile away, sometimes walked around them; the children

made a playground of the place: Pratt himself had often gone into some

quiet corner to read and smoke. And now his quick mind immediately

suggested a safe hiding place for this thing that he could not carry

away with him, and dare not leave to the morning sun—close by was a

pit, formerly used for some quarrying purpose, which was filled, always

filled, with water. It was evidently of considerable depth; the water

was black in it; the mouth was partly obscured by a maze of shrub and

bramble. It had been like that ever since Pratt came to lodge in that

part of the district—ten or twelve years before; it would probably

remain like that for many a long year to come. That bit of land was

absolutely useless and therefore neglected, and as long as rain fell and

water drained, that pit would always be filled to its brim.

He remembered something else: also close by where he stood—a heap of

old iron things—broken and disused picks, smashed rails, fragments

thrown aside when the last of the limestone had been torn out of the

quarries. Once more luck was playing into his hands—those odds and ends

might have been put there for the very purpose to which he now meant to

turn them. And being certain that he was alone, and secure, Pratt

proceeded to go about his unpleasant task skilfully and methodically. He

fetched a quantity of the iron, fastened it to the dead man’s clothing,

drew the body, thus weighted, to the edge of the pit, and prepared to

slide it into the black water. But there an idea struck him. While he

made these preparations he had had hosts of ideas as to his operations

next morning—this idea was supplementary to them. Quickly and

methodically he removed the contents of Parrawhite’s pockets to his

own—everything: money, watch and chain, even a ring which the dead man

had been evidently vain of. Then he let Parrawhite glide into the

water—and after him he sent the heavy stick, carefully fastened to a

bar of iron.

Five minutes later, the surface of the water in that pit was as calm and

unruffled as ever—not a ripple showed that it had been disturbed. And

Pratt made his way out of the wilderness, swearing that he would never

enter it again.