SO far we have followed Harvey Crook in his quest of the scattered magnums of Tokay and what some one of them might contain beside the wine. We now return to the scatterer of those magnums — Mr. Lyman W. Merrick, of Merricksville, Pennsylvania — and his daughter Daisy.
When he — and his daughter, quite as important as her father in other beside his own fatherly eyes — had bid goodbye to Harvey Crook; when the sale was over, and Mr. Merrick had calculated that his one bottle of Tokay had cost him nine hundred and seventy-five dollars, while he had sold eleven other bottles at two or three dollars apiece; and when he had slept over the adventure, father and daughter spent a day in seeing what could be seen in the time from Southampton — Portsmouth and the Victory in particular. And at the end of that day they dined together in a private room of the hotel which was to cater for their one remaining night in Southampton.
Somehow, it was not an extremely lively dinner. In point of fact both were a little dull. It is possible that Mr. Merrick somewhat regretted the Tokay. He was lavish enough with his money, but he had a considerable dislike to looking foolish, and he had something more than a vague idea that he looked a little foolish over this transaction of the wine — at any rate to himself. He rather wished, now, that he had kept it. There would have been drawbacks, of course. A great case of a dozen magnums of precious wine would have been a sad encumbrance in the pursuit of the express-rate tour which he and Daisy designed for themselves; there would have been constant anxiety as to breakages — and probably there would have been the actual breakages also. Still, he wished he had kept, at any rate, a single magnum for himself, and put some sort of reserve price on the rest.
As for Daisy, she also was a trifle less vivacious than usual. Perhaps when one has been in daily acquaintance with a few pleasant people in the narrow confines of a steamship for best part of a month, it is a little depressing to lose them all suddenly, and find oneself in an hotel where everybody is strange; perhaps one is none the less dull when one of the friends who have gone is a pleasant and entertaining man of thirty-five — Harvey Crook was entertaining and pleasant; also thirty-five. Thirty-five is quite young, nowadays, for a man. Not that that mattered, of course. Why should it?
Mr. Merrick alluded to the subject of his own thoughts; Daisy said nothing about the subject of hers. Coffee was brought, and Mr. Merrick lit a cigar.
“Well, Daisy,” he said, “I guess I shall have to do without a glass of Tokay this time.”
“Are you only just beginning to regret your speculation, father?” asked Daisy. You will observe that, although she was an American young lady, she did not say “popper,” or “pop,” or “paw.” That was because she had a sense of humour, and saw no reason for making both herself and her father ridiculous.
“Well,” that gentleman answered, “I suppose no man would be over and above high-and-mighty satisfied with a speculation that lost him thirty-nine fortieths of his stake, as a speculation. But I was thinking it might ha’ been as well to keep one magnum anyway — just as a curiosity. It mightn’t have been altogether a mistake to ha’ kept the lot. It would ha’ come in pretty handy for presents when we got back — a bottle here and there of such a wine as that would ha’ been thought considerable of, I believe— ‘specially if I let the price leak out sort of accidental. But, anyway, I don’t mind confessing, right here, that I do wish I’d kept one bottle.”
“Well, father,” suggested Daisy with something of a twinkle, “perhaps there wouldn’t be any great difference between dropping thirty-nine fortieths of that thousand dollars and dropping all the forty?”
“No, there wouldn’t. A bottle of wine costs nine hundred and seventy-five dollars or a thousand — no such mighty difference. But why?”
“Because I think it’s pretty likely you can get a bottle back for the other twenty-five dollars. That would bring the price down to five hundred dollars each for the pair, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s nothing the matter with the arithmetic,” her father answered doubtfully, “but the wine’s pretty well out of reach by this time, I guess.”
“But surely you remember who bought the very first magnum put up for sale?”
“Why, yes, of course — the steward of the Rajapur; and pretty much of a startler I got when I heard the price he got it for.”
“Well, father, if you were in the habit of watching people as closely as I do, you’d guess that McNab didn’t buy that wine to drink himself. He speculated; but he’s a pretty hard-headed sort of Scotchman, and he’ll make more of his speculation than you did, father! But you can buy his bottle, I’m sure, if he hasn’t sold it already.”
“Come,” cried her father, “that’s a notion! We’ll send and find him.” And he rang for the waiter.
Duncan McNab, chief steward of the Rajapur, was a methodical man of business, and he was not difficult to find that evening. The Rajapur, because of its accident, was to stay at Southampton for repairs before proceeding to London. Mr. McNab had seen the passengers off, and collected whatever contributions were forthcoming, the day before, and had also found time to come ashore and make his little speculation. He had rather expected to see the Tokay go cheap. All this following day he had not been idle, and he was busy with his accounts when he received Mr. Merrick’s message. He curbed some natural resentment at being disturbed by a person who was no longer a passenger, and consequently no concern of his, by the reflection that possibly Merrick had repented of his disastrous transaction in wine, and now wished to recover at least one of his lost magnums; a perfectly accurate conjecture, as we have seen. For some hours the frugal soul of McNab had been troubled by a fear that perhaps he had foolishly risked his money — the magnum had cost him nine shillings — after all, and that he might wait for long ere he found anybody sufficiently daft to pay him a profit on his purchase. But at the hint of the message he took his hat, tightened his lips, and set his face toward the hotel.
“Ou ay,” quoth the McNab doubtfully, when he had listened to Mr. Merrick’s explanation of his message. The steward spoke with a sourly thoughtful air, as though the suggestion of selling his property struck him as an unwelcome encroachment on his rights. “Ou ay; ha — hum; hum. A’m thinkin’ ye’ll ken that buyin’ an’ sellin’ is aye twa deeferent things.”
“That,” said Mr. Merrick, “is a piece of wisdom which this wine transaction would have taught me already, I guess, if I had never heard of it before.”
“Ou ay. Weel, an’ what might ye be thinkin’ of offering for the bottle of wine? ’Tis a muckle big bottle.”
“The same size as the others, of course. You gave nine shillings for it; I guess it’s your business to say what profit you want on that.”
“Ha, hum. ’Twas circulatit aboard that ye paid twa hoondred poond for the twal’ bottles. Noo, that wad mak’ the bottle ye drinkit come to ower a hoondred an’ ninety-five poond. Weel, noo, I’ll no ask ye as much as that for mine.”
“I’d call that a mighty wise judgment, steward,” replied Mr. Merrick solemnly. “Unless you want to keep it for yourself?”
No; McNab obviously did not want to keep the magnum for himself. But his notion of the price was presently seen to be just the very highest sum that cold be squeezed out of the purchaser, and his opinion of his present customer’s squeezability was a very exalted one, to begin with. But it sank gradually, as it became plain to the steward that the American would stand no more big figures; and, in the end, with much protest, the magnum became Mr. Merrick’s again for five pounds. Whereupon it became plain that the business-like McNab had come prepared to clinch the bargain on the spot, and so give the purchaser no time for repentance, for he fetched the bottle from the hotel office downstairs, where it had been lying during the interview.
So McNab went back to his ship much relieved in mind, while Mr. Merrick carefully packed away the magnum in the middle of a trunk, surrounded by clothes.
From Southampton the Merricks made straight for London by an early train the next morning; and
almost the first place they visited, as soon as they had gained the Langham Hotel and their luncheon, was the Times newspaper office, where Daisy’s father paid for this advertisement:
If Mr. Basil Clifton will communicate his present address to Lyman W. Merrick, Langham Hotel, London, he will give the advertiser the opportunity of renewing an old acquaintance, and of personally expressing his gratitude for a great act of kindness done him twenty-six years ago, in America. Any information of Mr. Clifton’s whereabouts will be gratefully received.
“I’m easier in my mind after that,” Merrick observed to his daughter as their cab drove away from the office. “I’ve tried considerable before, and I think that’s about the only thing left to do. Very likely I shan’t hear, but if I don’t hear to-morrow, every paper in London shall have that advertisement the next day.”
“I think, perhaps,” Daisy suggested, looking sidelong at her father, “Mr. Clifton may not want to see you. You’ve written before.”
“Often; but I owe him all I have, all the same, and I’m missing no chances if I can help it. Perhaps he’s dead, of course — he was as old as I am now twenty-six years ago. But perhaps he isn’t, and perhaps his luck has gone down while mine has gone up. If it has — well I’m here to sort of make things even. It’s all his, I reckon, in a way of speakin’ — all from the beginning. I did nothing but sit and take what came of it.”
“He lent you the money to start, didn’t he, father?”
“He did — and he was a stranger. It was rather an odd trade altogether, and it was a rare piece of gall on my part to put it to him. I never told you, I think, but your poor mother knew it all, and she never let up on urging me to pay back somehow. You see, he was a great collector of all sorts of strange and curious things, and — hey gee! Why, that’s just the thing!”
“What?”
“Why, the Tokay; I was just thinking. If I find him, that bottle of Tokay’s just the sort of little present that ‘ud please him! I ought to ha’ thought o’ that before! What a fool thing it was to sell the others — one magnum’s no sort of a present for such a man, even a magnum of old Tokay!”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate it, whatever it was, father, if he’s the sort of man you say.”
“Oh yes, he would; he was a white man right through and up an’ down an’ all. Well, as I was saying, he was a great collector of all sorts of rarities, and at that time I had a complete Indian’s rig-out of wampum — the real shell stuff — that I had brought from West when I was a boy. Your gran’-father traded an old gun for it. Well, at that time, although it was a sort of curio, there was no particular big money in such a thing — a few dollars, perhaps — and it was about all I had in the world after what clothes I stood up in. But I was a hustling young fellow, and I had my eye — both eyes — hard on some land — the land where Merricksville is now, my dear. The land was cheap enough, but cheapness ain’t much good to a man without a cent, anyway, and I was most powerful set on having that land. You can guess why, now, knowing what you do. They’d been drawing oil in Pennsylvania for some few years then, but there wasn’t a well within sixty miles of this place. I knew oil was there, though, and there I tuck, pretty considerable dancin’ mad to think that here was my fortune being lost for a matter of five hundred dollars or so. You see, it was no good a slouch like me going around to borrow five hundred dollars without security, and if I let on what I was after, well, anyone that believed my judgment would get the land for himself, of course. Well, that was how it was when I ran up against Mr. Basil Clifton.”
“He was just travelling, you see — been round the world, like ourselves now, but doing it a deal slower. He wanted to see some good wampum — wanted to buy it; and somehow somebody remembered me — I was doing odd chores on a farm. He saw the set, and, as I say, he offered to buy it. Well, the only money that was any use to me just then was five hundred dollars, and the few dollars that wampum was worth — then — would ha’ been no use at all. I was pretty desp’rate for that five hundred dollars, knowing what it meant, and I went in baldheaded on this chance, without much hope of getting it. ‘Stranger,’ I said, ‘here’s the stuff, as you see, but it ain’t for sale. Not for sale, you see, but I’ll give it for interest on a loan. I want five hundred dollars for a start in life, and I’ll give this in advance for interest.’”
“He opened his eyes a bit at this, but he was quite English and quiet about it. ‘How long do you want that loan for?’ he asked. ‘Six months,’ I said, ‘though I guess I could pay in three.’ ‘I expect to be in England long before the end of three months,’ he said. ‘Then I should have to mail it on,’ I answered. ‘Any security?’ he asked. ‘No,’ says I. He seemed considerable amused in his quiet sort of way — he was a man twice my age at that time, you see — and he looked from me to the wampum and back again several times. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I’ll speculate on your honour, young man. Come to my hotel and you shall have the money.’ And I had it; and in two months the oil was coming up in millions of gallons, and Merricksville was begun. He’d left his banker’s address, and there the money went, under the three months, with a letter for him. I got an answer on plain notepaper, headed care of the bankers — a very kind answer, full of congratulations — but he wouldn’t take a cent more than his due; the speculation was my own idea, he said, and he’d already got more than the loan was worth. And then — well then I married your mother, and got took up with one thing and another, and it was ten years before I wrote again. And then he’d changed his bankers, and so I lost track of him. But I felt sort o’ guilty about it somehow, not having written for ten years, and having made such a pile on his money, and I tried and tried again but got no nearer. I was over here once, as you know, and I chanced to meet an old friend of his, but he hadn’t seen him for years — ever since he lost his wife and shut himself away in the country, he said. Of course, after all this time, it’s likely he’s dead — he’d be pretty late in the seventies by this time, I guess. But I’d like to see him once again, and that’s a fact!”
Now it was no more than twenty-four hours since Merrick had seen Mr. Basil Clifton, as we have seen, when that collector bought a magnum of the very wine he was selling. But the purchase was for cash and no name was given, neither man was thinking of the other at the moment, and even if this had not been the case the twenty-six years which had elapsed since their one and only meeting had sufficiently disguised both to prevent anything like recognition. It was one of the narrow chances that mock man’s wishes a score of times in a life.
The rest of the day went in the sights of London, and the day after that. There was no answer to the advertisement.
Just before dinner on this second day in London Merrick telephoned to an advertising agency to have the notice repeated in every London paper on the following morning. And if, as Daisy Merrick sat at dinner in the Langham Hotel, she gave a thought to Harvey Crook (which she did) not her wildest dream could have pictured him as and where he was. For this was the evening of his visit to Downs Lodge.
At breakfast in the morning Merrick examined the newspapers with some interest, for he had felt some doubt as to whether his order for the advertisement had not been given too late in the day. He was reassured to perceive that his message duly had its place in each paper, and turned the news pages of the last he had examined. One thing and another he passed casually till he came to a paragraph which set him positively gasping. This was the paragraph:
Ghastly Double Murder at Southampton.
A double murder of an unusually horrible character was committed last night at Downs Lodge, near Southampton, a detached house in the occupation of Mr. Basil Clifton, the victims being Mr. Clifton himself and his housekeeper, Mary Carr. Robbery appears to have been the motive of the crime, as the drawers of a writing-table in Mr. Clifton’s library were found broken, and a small safe had been opened. Mr. Clifton’s body was found in this room, with the throat cut so deeply as almost to sever the head from the body. The housek
eeper’s body was found in the kitchen doorway, the unfortunate woman having evidently been killed by repeated blows on the head from some blunt instrument, probably after the attack on her master. The housemaid, the only other servant, was out for the evening when the crime was committed. A man of gentlemanly appearance, a stranger in the district, giving the name of Harvey Crook, is in custody in connection with the affair.
Here, indeed, was something to make Merrick gasp, and more. His benefactor, his once-seen friend of twenty-six years ago, long sought since, was discovered at last, butchered in his chair — and Harvey Crook was charged with the murder! They had bidden good-bye to Crook four days before, and he had started, ostensibly, for London. But here he was in Southampton again and — !
But if the effect of the news was startling on Mr. Lyman Merrick, on his daughter it was infinitely distressing. She broke into vehement protests that Crook must be innocent, insisted that they must go instantly and support his defence somehow — and then fainted while dressing to go. The end of it was that they missed the 10.15 train and went by the eleven o’clock. A fortunate circumstance after all, for, before the train left, Waterloo station was fluttering with the halfpenny evening papers which come out in the morning; the placards flamed the Southampton murders in the biggest capitals; and in the papers themselves, which Mr. Merrick bought by the handful, it was reported that Harvey crook had been released and that search was being made for somebody else. The effect of this intelligence on Daisy Merrick, albeit tranquillising in the end, was at first such that Lyman W. Merrick began to regard his daughter as a very eccentric young woman.
No young lady could have been more properly self-possessed than Daisy Merrick by the time Southampton was reached, and when her father began to “hustle around” in that town in search of Harvey Crook and whatever information was to be obtained, she hustled with him, every yard. It was not a very difficult thing to find Crook — everybody was full of the tale of the murders, and the police directed the searchers to his hotel at once.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 214