CHAPTER LII.—HOW IT WAS DONE.
Coutts was for an instant dumb with surprise and chagrin. That smart stroke of business on which he had been priding himself was completely spoiled, and all possibility of ingratiating himself with Mr Shield was at an end.
When the bill was produced by Coutts, Wrentham had become white, and his lips, dry and feverish, closed tightly. When the signatures were calmly acknowledged by Philip and Shield, he gazed at them with a bewildered expression, then grasped the back of a chair and pretended to be looking through the window at something opposite. Sergeant Dier gave a slight jerk of his body as if lifting his heel from the floor. He darted a suspicious glance at his employer and at Wrentham. Then he turned to Tuppit and gazed at him with a bland admiring smile. Shield, Beecham, Philip, and Tuppit were unmoved.
Coutts took the bill from Tuppit, and after deliberate examination replaced it in his pocket-book.
‘I am delighted to find that it is all right, and that it will be duly honoured,’ he said; but cool as he was, the acrimony of his tone contradicted the words. ‘The fact that it is so takes me out of a very awkward corner. I must say, however, Mr Shield, that you would have saved yourself and me a great deal of unnecessary trouble and waste of time if you had told me when I first came that the thing was correct.’
‘Have a lot of things on my mind. Forget sometimes,’ Shield jerked out carelessly.
‘Ah, it’s a misfortune to have a bad memory in business. I trust you will not forget to do justice to the motives which brought me to you.’
‘Oh, I’ll do your motives full justice,’ answered Shield with a grunt which would have developed into a coarse guffaw but for a strong effort of self-restraint.
Coutts felt this indignity, although he did not feel the contemptible position in which he was placed, because he still believed that he had perfectly concealed the ulterior objects he had in bringing the supposed forgery directly under Shield’s notice.
‘That is all I ask, and I may say good-morning. I hope our next meeting will be on more agreeable business.—Good-day, Phil. I thought you had got yourself into a particularly nasty mess, and was doing my best to save you from the consequences.’
‘Thank you,’ said Philip, but there was none of his usual cordiality in voice or look.
‘Well, there has been a mistake—somewhere. I suppose it must be put down to me. However, we can afford to let it drop now.’
‘Best thing you can do,’ growled Shield.
Coutts paid no attention to the remark.
‘You’ll find bad news when you get to your chambers, Phil. There was a bonfire at Ringsford last night, and the guv’nor has got hurt.’
Philip was prevented from questioning him by Mr Shield.
‘A word in your wise ear before you go, Mr Coutts Hadleigh. I promised that your motives in coming to me should have justice done them. They shall. I know what they were. You have been useful to us, and that will be taken into account.’
‘It is a satisfaction to have served you in any way,’ rejoined Coutts, unabashed, although he understood the meaning of that parting address, and knew that somehow he had overreached himself, which was even more disagreeable than being overreached by others.
He left the room with as much composure as if he had satisfactorily completed an ordinary piece of business.
Sergeant Dier gave a cheery ‘Good-day, gentlemen—come along, Mr Tuppit,’ as he went out. Tuppit had continued to edge his way round the table to where Wrentham stood, and slipped a scrap of paper into his hand. He bowed as if taking leave of an audience, and followed the detective.
A hansom was already at the door, and Coutts was about to get into it; before doing so he spoke with injudicious abruptness to his agent.
‘Arrange with your friend about his expenses, and call at the office to-morrow at eleven.’
‘Then I am to consider the job finished?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Glad of it,’ said Dier, smiling to himself as the cab wheeled away. ‘Come along, Bob, there’s something I want you to show me, and we must have a refreshment.’
As they were about to move away, a servant informed Dier that he was wanted by a gentleman inside, and he was taken back to Mr Beecham. From him he received instructions which appeared to give him much satisfaction.
‘Come along, Bob,’ he said on rejoining that personage; ‘I am put on to a decent sort of thing this time. Off with one thing, on with another—that’s the way to do it, my boy.’
He lit a cigar, and linking his arm in that of his companion, he led the way to a small tavern situated in a by-street in convenient proximity to the mews. Although the bar was crowded with coachmen and ostlers, the tap-room was at this time of day little frequented, and at present was unoccupied.
‘Ah, this is cosy,’ said Dier, seating himself with his back to the window. ‘Now we can have a rest and a chat. Won’t you smoke?’
He gave Tuppit a cigar, ordered sherry for himself, and beer ‘in the pewter’ for his companion. The little conjurer drank as if he had been parched with thirst. Then he smoked and presently began to feel comfortable. Dier, meanwhile, entertained him with various amusing professional experiences; ordered more beer, and Bob felt more comfortable. When the sergeant saw him at ease, he approached the subject in which he was interested.
‘I was forgetting that trick I wanted you to explain to me, Tuppit. When I saw it done, it fairly puzzled me, and you know I am up to a few tricks of your trade.’
‘You’d have been a first-rate hand if you had only taken to it. But what was it puzzled you?’
‘Well, the fellow who was doing it was handed a card, as it might be. He looked at it—gave it back to us, and it wasn’t the same.’
‘One of the easiest tricks in the whole art,’ said Bob with professional contempt for the amateur. ‘I thought you would have known how that is done.’
‘Explain, Bob, explain. We haven’t got cards, but here is a bit of note-paper, and we’ll cut it in two, so that the parts will be exactly alike. So. Now this is the one I am to hand to you; this is the one you are to give me back in its place’ (unperceived by Tuppit, Dier deftly pricked the second piece with a pin which he held concealed between his forefinger and thumb). ‘There, go ahead; I’ll shut my eyes until you are ready.’
The conjurer took the marked paper and almost immediately gave the word ‘ready.’ Dier gave him the second paper, and Tuppit, laughing, talked about the absurd simplicity of the trick, his astonishment that his friend should not know it, refused to believe in his ignorance, and gave him back the paper. The detective held it up between him and the light: the pin-pricks were there—the papers had been changed. He whistled softly, smiled, and emitted two clouds of smoke.
‘I believe I understand it now,’ he said, nodding familiarly; ‘that’s how you changed the bills up there.’
Tuppit was silent.
‘Well, I won’t ask any questions,’ the detective went on; ‘it is a family affair and to be settled on the quiet, and if the thing is genuine, it is no business of mine how it comes to be so. But that fellow who sent for me first meant mischief, although he fancied he humbugged me with his gammon about not going the entire length.’
‘He did mean mischief,’ said Tuppit, huskily.
‘He can’t manage it though. Now, what you have got to do is to let Mr Wrentham understand that if he doesn’t make a clean breast of it by to-morrow, I’m down on him, and you won’t have another chance of saving him.’
This information was given with good humour, but Tuppit was aware of the pleasant way Sergeant Dier had of conducting his business, and, having unconsciously betrayed himself, understood that further disguise was useless. So, looking uneasily at his pewter pot, he said:
‘I suppose you mean that if he gives up everything, he won’t be brought to trial.’
‘It is not for me to say that. You have had dealings with the people, and ought to know what they are likely to do. Of course, if there is no charge, there will be no trial.’
There was considerable significance in the smile and nod which accompanied the words, and it was clear to Tuppit that Sergeant Dier was now in the confidence of Mr Shield and Mr Beecham.
‘I have written on a bit of paper that I want him to meet me as soon as he can. He knows the place, and if he refuses to make things square after all the mercy that has been shown him, I will have nothing more to do with him.’
‘That’s right, Bob; and you may give him a hint that if he tries to bolt, or to play any pranks with us, he’ll be in limbo in less than no time, and if I am not mistaken, it will mean fifteen years at least.’
Bob Tuppit hung his head dejectedly, muttering to himself: ‘What will become of the poor kid and the helpless little woman who thinks him such a pink of perfection.’
The detective slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder.
‘Cheer up, Bob; you’re the right sort, and I’ll help you if I can. Off with you to your meeting-place. Wrentham is no fool and will see that the game is up.... But, I say’—detaining him—‘you will tell me some day how you managed to get the right bit of paper?’
‘Yes, yes, some day—when no harm can come of it.’
The anxious and affectionate brother of the swindler got on to the top of an omnibus and smoked moodily, his reflections being to this effect: ‘I suppose it’s in our natures. I took to juggling in an honest way, and he took to juggling the other way. Ah, education was the ruin of him—Dad said it would be as soon as he saw what a beautiful hand Martin wrote. Lucky he’s in his grave; this business would have cut him up awful.’
At Camberwell Green Tuppit left the omnibus and trudged moodily up to the Masons’ Arms, a comfortable-looking old-fashioned inn, which had once been a favourite halting-place of travellers between London and the village of Dulwich, the town of Croydon, and other places in Surrey. It had also been a summer resort of Cockneys in the days when there were meadows and dairy-farms in the neighbourhood of the Green. Although the fields were now covered with houses forming long yellow rows with gaudy gin palaces lifting their heads on the most prominent sites, the Masons’ Arms retained most of its ancient characteristics and the survivors of its ancient customers.
The stout white post with its faded swinging signboard, stood boldly out at the kerb, having at its base a long horse-trough, with a constant supply of water. The lower part of the building was cased in wood which had been painted oak colour and varnished, but the gloss had been long since rubbed off. The lower windows with their small panes of glass stretched from wall to wall, but from top to bottom they measured little more than three feet. Above was a broad balcony set in a rustic framework and railing. A huge earthen flower-pot stood at each end, while tables and benches were conveniently placed round about.
Tuppit did not enter the house; he walked up and down, disconsolately watching every approaching vehicle in expectation of seeing his brother alight from it. He had to wait long; but he was a patient little man, and the business he had in hand was too grave for him to think of quitting his post so long as there was a shred of hope that Wrentham would be wise for once and keep the appointment.
It was somewhat late in the afternoon when he came walking leisurely up from the Green as if he had no reason for haste. Tuppit led the way into the inn, nodded to the burly landlord as he passed the bar, ascended a narrow staircase and entered the room behind the balcony.
Wrentham at first affected an air of indifference, but the affectation was instantly laid aside when his brother sharply repeated the detective’s warning and told him that the forged bill was in the hands of those who would make prompt use of it if he did not repay their generosity by a frank revelation of the schemes by which he had ruined Philip Hadleigh.
They were interrupted by the entrance of a little old man who was mumbling complainingly that he must and would have his beer and his pipe before he went home. This was spoken to a modestly dressed young woman who was gently remonstrating with him. The old man shuffled across the floor to a seat. Tuppit opened the door of the balcony quickly and went out with his brother. In the dusk they could not be observed from the street. Wrentham had not quite closed the door when he followed his brother. There was more hurried conversation and argument on Tuppit’s part.
‘What is it they want me to do?’ asked Wrentham sullenly.
‘This is it,’ answered Tuppit eagerly. ‘The real bill was given to me for your child’s and wife’s sake on the appeal of Mr Philip—Coutts Hadleigh would have sent you to penal servitude. The first thing you have to do is to let Mr Philip know that your insinuations about Miss Heathcote were made for the purpose of distracting his mind from the business, so that you might be free to play your own game.’
‘Well?’
‘The next thing is, that as you have been dealing with firms whose clerks have given you invoices for double the amounts you paid them, you have to refund the money.’
Wrentham with elbows on his knees rested his brow on his hands.
‘I didn’t say anything about Madge Heathcote that wasn’t true.’
‘But you hinted a great deal that wasn’t true, and you must own up to your purpose for doing it, or as I live, I shall bear witness against you myself.’
The young woman and the old man quitted the Masons’ Arms. That same evening Pansy Culver arrived unexpectedly at Willowmere.