Crook came, a few minutes late.
“Good evening, sir,” said Symons. “Would you like to step inside? My wife’s out.”
“Ah,” replied Crook, “that sounds ungallant, now. I should have been delighted to make Mrs. Symons’s acquaintance. As it is, perhaps the terrace would be as pleasant a place as anywhere — since we are to talk business.”
For Crook had no desire to take risks, even remote risks, and a listening little maid-of-all-work was as likely a part of Mr. Symons’ household equipment as anything.
“It can’t be called a cold night,” he added.
“Very well,” Symons responded, “I don’t mind. Of course you’ll understand I haven’t told the wife anything about this affair.”
Symons was one of those men who always speak of the wife; it is a particular sort of man, quite easy to recognise after a little experience.
“No?” replied Crook. “Don’t talk to her of business matters, I suppose?”
“Yes — in a general way; but not in detail. She doesn’t want it, you see. She has plenty of detail of her own to look after. I may tell her about this after it’s all over, but not till then.”
“Well, perhaps that will be best. I got your note. Have you had that other collector round at the office yet?”
“Rather!” Mr. Symons chuckled joyously. “Foreigner, I should think, but talks wonderful English. Found him waiting at the door when I got there in the morning. He wanted particulars of the sale of those magnums of Tokay, of course, just as you did. I pulled out the marked catalogue, as in duty bound, and told him what there was in it — which wasn’t much good to him, as you know. And then, as a special favour, I told him that I happened to know, privately, the address of one buyer, and I gave him Mr. Norie’s.”
“Did that satisfy him?”
“Satisfy him? Well, I hardly know; but he rushed out of the office without another word, and when I got to the street door to look after him he was very nearly at the corner — going to Mr. Norie’s!”
“Well, he won’t be very successful there, I expect. But was that all you wanted to tell me? Or have you got some of the magnums for me?”
“No — not quite that. But I’ve found out who has one. It’s old Mr. Clifton.”
“And who is he?”
“Ah — of course you wouldn’t know, not living hereabout. He’s a queer old card — a regular collector and a rare hermit. I’m pretty sure he won’t sell, any more than Mr. Norie would. He buys things often enough — books and pictures, and china and bronzes to any amount, but I never heard of him selling anything yet. He had one bottle — No. 96 star in the catalogue, one of those I put no name to. He usually pays cash.”
“And you remembered the circumstance to-day?”
“Yes, in a sort of way. Thinking it over, I had a kind of recollection that a porter got into trouble with one buyer through trying to be obliging and rolling up his bottle in a curious, dirty old hanging picture he’d bought earlier in the sale — Japanese, I think, or Chinese. A kick — kack — I forget what it is called.”
“Kakemono?”
“Ah, that’s it. A dusty old thing with a tarnished gold brocade border — figure of a god or something, brown with age and smoke. You see the porters are always anxious to see to Mr. Clifton’s lots of him, because he’s always good for a handsome tip for any little service of that sort. But this unlucky chap got a rare rating — though I must say the picture was dirty and ragged enough already, and most people wouldn’t have given two pence for it.”
“That’s quite possible — and yet Mr. Clifton may have got a prize. Rolled up in my bag at this moment there is another old kakemono which you wouldn’t buy for a hundred pounds.”
“Indeed, sir? Well, remembering what I tell you, I turned up the marked catalogue and found that it was Mr. Clifton who had bought the kakemono. It was rather odd I didn’t remember that, because he is often in at the sales. But if you are clerk of the sale you have to keep your wits on your work, and you easily forget little things like that. But the porter remembered at once when I spoke to him.”
“Is Mr. Clifton a very keen buyer of rare wines?”
“Well-no, I haven’t noticed that he is. But books — rare ones — china, bronzes, all things of that sort he is keen on. I have never been in his house — nobody has, scarcely — but they say it’s piled from floor to ceiling, and still he goes on buying. Japanese and Chinese things he’s very great on, they say. We don’t have a great deal of that sort of stuff through our hands, of course, but whenever we catalogue a single piece he’s always down to look at it. Now, as I said, I don’t think he’s at all likely to sell anything he has once bought, but I’ll write and ask him about that magnum of Tokay, if you like.”
“No,” Crook replied very decidedly, “you’d better not do that. That is the very worst way in the world to approach a man of that sort. I think the kakemono I have will be the bet possible introduction to Mr. Clifton. Where does he live?”
“The name of the house is Downs Lodge — if you’ve got a pocket-book or anything, I’ll write the address down for you. That’s the name of the house, but you won’t see it stuck up anywhere. He took down the name as soon as he came to the house, years ago — he’ll go to any lengths for privacy.” Mr. Symons laughed suddenly. “By Jove,” he added, “you’ll see that by the windows — you wouldn’t think the house was inhabited at all!”
“Why?”
“Dirt — dirt half an inch thick. That game began about seven or eight years ago. You see when he took Downs Lodge — bought it, in fact — it stood all alone in the lane. There were fields opposite, fields behind, and fields on each side, and that suited his solitary notions. It isn’t a very big house, but still it is of a pretty decent size, and it’s planted much nearer the roadway than you usually see so large a house, except in the middle of a town. He was quite happy in his solitude, till, as I say, about seven or eight years ago, when somebody bought the field opposite and built a row of villas on it, and then he got very angry. Wanted to buy the villas and pull ‘em down, but the chap wouldn’t sell. So the old gentleman, swearing he wouldn’t be pried on, gave orders that the windows weren’t to be cleaned any more — at any rate outside — and they haven’t been. Take a good look at the windows if you go, just for curiosity. They are a curiosity, I can assure you. You’d never believe such a lot of dirt could gather on a window and stick there, unless it was slapped on with a trowel. It’s a licker where it all came from! It must be pretty dark inside, but nobody can see in, that’s certain enough. And doesn’t it just scandalise the villa residents, too. So mighty genteel! Quite destroys the ‘select’ character of the spot, they say!” And Mr. Symons laughed again.
Crook and the auctioneer’s clerk walked a few yards in silence. “I think I know just the sort of old gentleman Mr. Clifton is,” Crook remarked, at length. “Now I’d wager with all this desire for solitude, and all his other eccentricities, he’s a very pleasant old fellow to speak to?”
“If you did, sir, you’d win. He’s a real old gentleman — when he isn’t put out. Very dignified — very — but treats even the office boy as courteously as you please. Even when he let out at the porter for rolling up the bottle in the picture he didn’t slang him, you know — not a bit; but the poor chap looked as though he’d like to be safely in his grave!”
“Not married, I take it — remembering the dirty windows?”
“Oh no — or, at any rate, got no wife living. No, there’s nobody in the house beside himself but an old cook-housekeeper and one housemaid to help her.”
“Very good — I’ll send him a note to-night, by hand. Mind, if that other collector calls he isn’t to have this address — at any rate, not till I’ve done with it. Good-night!”
“No, sir, of course not. He shall have no more than he’s got already. Good-night!”
This was Harvey Crook’s note to Mr. Clifton, despatched by messenger immediately after his return to the Royal Hotel:
Dear Sir — I am staying for a few days in Southampton, and I have chanced to hear that you are much interested in Oriental art, and a collector of fine specimens. I am only lately from the East, and I happen to have with me now a very fine and rare specimen which I think you would like to see. It is a kakemono, an authentic piece of work of the great Chinese painter of the eleventh century, Muh Ki, usually called by Europeans Mokkei, that being, as you are aware, the Japanese form of the name. I cannot say whether or not any other specimen of Mokkei’s work exists in Europe, but I should think probably not. In any case, if you would care to inspect it I shall be very glad to show it you, and, if you like, bring it to your house for that purpose. I suggest this because I think it probable that you may have copies of Mokkei’s works in your possession — even good copies being greatly prized, as, of course, you know — and may like to compare them. But if you would prefer to come to my hotel I will gladly keep any appointment you may make. I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
Harvey Crook.
It was past nine o’clock when the messenger set out with this letter, but the distance was not great, and he was back in an hour — with an answer:
Dear Sir — I am, indeed, your debtor for so welcome a piece of kindness as that you offer. I have never with my own eyes beheld an original piece of work from the hand of the divine genius Mokkei, though, as you conjecture, I have in my collection several copies of works of his executed by eminent Chinese and Japanese painters of later days, reverent followers of his great traditions; and I have seen photographs. I need scarcely say that I shall hail the opportunity of actually seeing and handling Mokkei’s work with delight and with gratitude to yourself. Is the picture certified in any way?
I trust I am not treading on delicate ground, but if you should at any time think of disposing of the specimen, I should much esteem an opportunity of possessing so great a prize. If I am indiscreet in suggesting this, I trust you will pardon the natural eagerness of an ardent collector.
Your conjecture that there may not be another specimen of Mokkei’s work in Europe is near to being correct, but not quite. There is one picture in a private collection in this country, but I have never had an opportunity of seeing it, though I am told it is very fine.
How long do you stay in Southampton? I am prevented from seeing you early to-morrow, but if you can conveniently call here at half-past six I shall be delighted to welcome you. As you suppose, I should greatly desire to compare the Mokkei with my copies, and this is my excuse for troubling you, instead of waiting on you myself, as I should have been so glad to do. Perhaps you will let me have a note in course of to-morrow, telling me if I may expect you.
Renewing my thanks for your kindness, I am, dear sir, yours very truly,
Basil Clifton.
So much was very satisfactory, and Harvey Crook slept with the consciousness that he had done all that prudence would allow to bring him to the third magnum of Tokay and its possibly priceless contents. The chances, of course, were increasing with each magnum. The eleven to one chance against the Eye of Goona being in the bottle opened on the Rajapur had been decided in favour of the odds, and the one chance in eleven — ten to one against — in the case of Mr. Norie’s magnum had also failed to come off. The chances now, in regard to Mr. Clifton’s magnum, were nine to one against, which was no such desperate chance after all. But the thing would have to be done with a great deal of care. Mr. Clifton would probably be in a far calmer mood than were the two wild young artists, Knowles and Sewell, the night before. More, he would be a punctilious host, which would make a vast difference.
Harvey Crook despatched his note accepting Mr. Clifton’s invitation early the next morning. Mr. Clifton had said nothing about dinner, but doubtless there would be dinner, and for a moment Crook wondered whether or not the old collector would expect him to dress. Perhaps not, since the time fixed was so early; and in any case the matter settled itself, for Crook had brought no dress clothes.
He kept within walls for the best part of the day, since Hahn must be somewhere in the neighbourhood, and he saw no reason for giving that speculator notice that his erstwhile tool was a rival in the hunt. He heard of Hahn, nevertheless, for in the lunch-hour Symons came to the hotel to report that he had called at the office again.
“He looked a bit used up,” Symons observed; “a bit pale and wild, and he seemed to walk stiffly. He wanted to see the marked catalogue again, so I put on the slightly offended. ‘I thought I showed it to you yesterday,’ I said. ‘But you can see it again, of course, if you like. Hadn’t you better take a copy this time?’ He said he would, and he did. Then he began to pester me for addresses again. ‘I told you the only one I knew yesterday,’ I said. ‘That was Mr. Norie’s. Do you want that again?’ But no, he didn’t want that — the mention of it seemed to give him a sort of jump; I don’t know why. So I said, ‘Well, the only other names are Smith, Allen, and Curtice, and I don’t know their addresses. You can find Smiths all over the town if you want ‘em, and there’s an Allen I can give you the address of, though whether it’s the right one or not I can’t say.’ So I gave him the address of the only Allen I know — not the buyer, of course — and he rushed off there. I expect he’ll have a warm reception. Allen’s generally mad drunk, and always thinks a stranger is a bailiff!”
As the time neared for starting, Harvey Crook took from his hit-bag the carefully-tied roll which he had brought from London with him, and spread it out on the table before him. It was an ancient and much-damaged piece of silk, so carefully mended and reinforced between itself and its tough paper backing that it presented a perfect network of innumerable patches when held to the light. The silk was brown with age, but on it, in Chinese ink, appeared a perfectly startling representation of a wild goose, flying, with outstretched neck, over a bed of rushes wherein its mate stood. The whole thing was done in a few bold sweeps of the brush, but, notwithstanding its faded condition and the many mendings of the nine-hundred-year-old silk, the picture gave a most amazing impression of life, vigour, and movement, and affected the mind like some living presence.
Crook dusted it carefully and re-rolled it, folding in its outer turn, where the bordering brocade came, the ancient paper certificate of authenticity. Having done which, he sent for a cab.
The cab took the same way that Crook had taken on his walk to Norie’s studio, two nights before, as far as the fork in the road. There it turned off to the left, and ran some little way among groups of small houses separated by gardens and an occasional field, before it took another turn and pulled up.
Crook stepped out, and found himself before a detached house of moderate size, standing scarcely a dozen yards back from its front railings and the road. Such small part of the garden as was visible seemed to be in very bad order; but what gave the house its distinctive look — and a very desolate look it was — were the windows. Truly Symons had not exaggerated, and it would have been difficult to believe that the house was inhabited were it not that the doorsteps, the door, the knocker, and its other fittings were clean and bright, in almost uncanny contrast to the rest of the house-front — like a smiling eye in a dead face.
Crook paid his fare, pushed through the iron gate, which creaked aloud, mounted the steps, and placed his hand on the bell-pull. He did not ring, for at that moment the door opened.
The contrast of the door with the grimy windows was more than maintained by the hall. It was large, and clean, and cheerful, furnished with old oak, and spread with a Persian rug. On the rug stood a thin, grizzled man of about fifty five, bowing and smiling.
“How do you do, Mr. Crook?” asked the smiling man, extending his hand. “I am Mr. Clifton. I heard your cab, and I came to the door myself. Pray come in. My housekeeper, unfortunately, is just taken rather unwell, and the housemaid, my only other servant, has her evening out. Let me take your hat. The absence of the housemaid, I fear, is wholly due to my own carelessness. I said nothing to my housekeeper about your visit till a
n hour ago, when the housemaid was already gone. But no doubt you will pardon any little inconvenience — you are so very kind to come. And is this the precious parcel?”
It was growing dark outside, and here in the hall a lamp was necessary. It had been already lighted when Crook entered, and now his host took it up and led the way past the staircase end.
“The library is rather in confusion, and I fear the fire is out,” he said. “I think we shall be more comfortable in the dining-room. There is just one step here — be careful.”
Everywhere the house was most handsomely furnished, and the walls were hung close and thick with pictures. The dining-room looked large and sombre in the single light of the lamp, but very speedily candles were lit on the mantelpiece, and in a large chandelier, and a very handsome room was disclosed. A set of early Georgian chairs, with elegantly carved backs, stood about a many-legged dining table of the same period, and elsewhere the room was a medley of books, pictures, and bric-a-brac.
“It’s really almost the only decently-habitable room I have,” said the master of the house, as he set down the lamp at last. “True, there is confusion enough here; but in the other rooms a stranger could not step without causing some terrible damage.”
“I have heard that your collections are very large,” Crook remarked.
“Enormous! Enormous — I mean, of course, for the size of the house. And all in the most admired disorder, I give you my word, Mr. Crook. You may observe that I say ‘admired disorder’ and not ‘admired confusion,’ as the words are so commonly misquoted. I cannot bear to hear a classic misused. But there, that is not our business to-night, after all! I need not say I am all impatience to see the — ah — the specimen!”
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 212