XIV
It happened sometimes that Mr. Moropulos had extraordinary callers at his bleak house in Paddington. They came furtively, after dark, and were careful to note whether or not they were followed. Since few of these made appointments and were unexpected, it was essential that the Greek should be indoors up to ten o'clock. Therefore, he failed in his trust when his unquenchable thirst drew him away from business. He was maintained in comfort by Jan Steppe to receive these shy callers. Mr. Moropulos was not, as might be supposed, engaged in a career of crime, as we understand crime. The people who came and whom he interviewed briefly in his sitting-room, were respectable persons who followed various occupations in the city and would have swooned at the thought of stealing a watch or robbing a safe. But it was known in and about Threadneedle Street, Old Broad Street and in various quaint alleyways and passages where bareheaded clerks abound, that information worth money could be sold for money. A chance-heard remark, the fag-end of a conversation in a board room, heard between the opening and closing of a door; a peep at a letter, any of these scraps of gossip could be turned into solid cash by the bearded Greek.
It was surprising how quickly his address passed round and even more surprising how very quickly Moropulos had organized an intelligence service which was unique as it was pernicious. He paid well, or rather Steppe paid, and the returns were handsome. A clerk desiring to participate in a rise of value which he knew was coming, could buy a hundred shares through Moropulos and that, without the expenditure of a cent. Moropulos knew the secrets of a hundred offices; there were few business amalgamations that he did not hear about weeks in advance. When the Westfontein Gold Mines published a sensational report concerning their properties, a report which brought their stock from eight to nothing, few people knew that Moropulos had had the essential part of the report in his pocket the day after it arrived in London. It cost Steppe three thousand pounds, but was worth every penny. The amount of the sum paid was exaggerated, but it was also spread abroad. And in consequence, Mr. Moropulos was a very busy man.
He was in his sitting-room on that shivering winter night. A great fire roared in the chimney, a shaded lamp was so placed, that it fell upon the book and the occupant of the sofa could read in comfort. On a small eastern table was a large tumblerful of barley water. From time to time Mr. Moropulos sipped wryly.
It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself whether he should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a café where he knew some friends of his would be, when he heard the street door slam and looked over his shoulder. It could only be Sault or—
The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the snow from the sleeve of his coat. It was a handsome coat, deeply collared in astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as Mr. Moropulos did not fail to observe.
"Alone, huh?" said Steppe. He glanced at the barley water by the Greek's side and grinned sardonically. "That's the stuff, not a headache in a bucketful!"
"Nor a cheerful thought," said Moropulos. "What brings you this way, Steppe?"
"I want to put some things in the safe."
Sault's invention stood on a wooden frame behind a screen.
"Have to be careful about this word—give me some more light," said Steppe at the dial.
Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch.
"That's better—huh. Got it!"
The door swung open and, taking a small package from his pocket, the big man tossed it in.
"Got something here, huh?"
He pulled out an envelope. There was a wax seal on the back.
"'The photograph'?" he read and frowned at the other.
"It is mine," said Moropulos.
"Nothing to do with the business?"
"Nothing."
Steppe threw it back and turned the dial.
"Nothing new, huh?"
He glanced at the barley water again.
"Where's Sault?"
"He goes home early. I don't see him again unless one of your hounds sends for him."
Steppe's smile was half sneer.
"You don't like Sault—a good fellow, huh?"
Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog. His beard seemed to stiffen and his eyes blazed.
"Like him—he's not human, that fellow! Nothing moves him, nothing. I tried to smash him up with a bottle, but he took it away from me as if I were a child. I hate a man who makes me feel like that—if he hadn't got my gun away I'd have laid him out. It would be fine to hurt the devil—and he is a devil, Steppe. Inhuman. Sometimes I give him a newspaper to read—just for the fun of it. But it never worries him."
"Don't try. He's a bigger man than you. You want to rouse him, huh? The day you do, God help you! I don't think you will. That's how I feel about him. He's cold. Chilly as a Druid's hell. He is dangerous when he's quiet—and he's always quiet."
"He is no use to me. It is a waste of money keeping him. I'll give you no more trouble."
Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache bristled like the end of a brush. It was a grimace indicative of his skepticism. He had reason.
"Leave it. Sault will not give you any bother. I don't want strangers here, huh? Cleaners who are spying detectives."
Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out. But he did not read. His eyes looked beyond the edge of the page, his mind was busy. Detestation of Ambrose Sault was not assumed, as he had simulated so many likes and dislikes. Sault's maddening imperturbability, his immense superiority to the petty annoyances with which his daily companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek's vulgarity, these things combined to the fire of the man's hatred. They were incompatibles—it was impossible to imagine any two men more unlike.
Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap enough though they were. He had collected from the Levant the pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville into the category of easy women. He had never doubted that she was bad. There were no other kind of women to Moropulos. Suspecting, before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle. He was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before, perhaps the previous night. Beryl was no less in his eyes than she had been. She was bad. All women were bad, only some were more particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.
He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning he brought news.
Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the house when he arrived.
"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of interesting information." Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away broom and spade before he joined the other.
"You know Beryl Merville, don't you? Steppe is marrying her."
He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something of the sensation which its recital had caused him. But his keen eyes did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came to his face. Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask descended again.
"What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?"
He added one of his own peculiar comments. "Who told you?"
"Ronald Morelle. I don't suppose he minds—now. Lucky devil, Steppe. God! If I had his money!"
Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found the chink in his armor. He was certain of it. It was incredible that a man like Ambrose Sault would feel that way, but he would swear that Ambrose was hurt. Here he was wrong. Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he was not hurt.
That day Moropulos said little. It was on the second and third days that he went to work with an ingenuity that was devilish to break farther into the crevice he had found.
Ambrose made little or no response. The slyest, most outrageous innuendo, he passed as though it had not been spoken. Moropulos was piqued and angry. He dare not go farther for fear Sault complain to Steppe. That alone held him within bounds. But the man was suffering. Instinctively he knew that. Suffering in a dumb, hopeless way that found no expression.
On the Friday night Ambrose returned to his lodging looking very tired. Christina was shocked at his appearance. "Ambrose—what is the matter?"
"I don't know, Christina—yes, I know. Moropulos has been trying, very trying. I find it so much more difficult to hold myself in. I suppose I'm getting old and my will power is weakening."
She stroked the hand that lay on the arm of the chair (for she was sitting up) and looked at him gravely.
"Ambrose, I feel that you have given me some of your strength. Do you remember how you gave it to mother?"
He shook his head. "No, not you—I purposely didn't. I've a loving heart for you, Christina. I shall carry you with me beyond life."
"Why do you say that tonight?" she asked with an odd little pain at her heart.
"I don't know. Steppe wants me to go down with Moropulos to his place in the country. Moropulos has asked me before, but this time Steppe asked me. I don't know—"
He shook his head wearily. She had never seen him so depressed. It was as if the spirit of life had suddenly burned out.
"I hope it will be as you say, Ambrose, but, my dear, you are overtired; we oughtn't to discuss souls and eternities and stuff like that. It is sleep you want, Ambrose."
"I'm not sleepy."
He bent over her, his big hand on her head. "I am glad you are well," he said.
She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, late as it was. A few minutes afterwards Evie came in.
"Where is Sault going?" she asked. "I saw him stalking up the street as though it belonged to him. And oh, Chris, what do you think Ronnie says! Mr. Steppe is marrying that girl who came here—Beryl Merville!"
"Fine," said Christina absently.
She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow for the man who had gone out into the night.