A petty thought, perhaps; but a natural thought.
Only one envelope remained to be examined. Upon his judgement as to whether its contents should prove as he had anticipated depended his future.
He had given a brief glance at the inscription on the envelope. So far he was satisfied that he had not been at fault – the envelope bore the words, ‘Relating to my marriage’.
He cleared all the other papers away and locked them in a drawer of his desk and opened the one remaining.
It contained twenty sheets of foolscap, closely written. He read steadily, turning the sheets as he came to them, till he reached the passage he sought. He had expected to find it in another form, and was momentarily dismayed to find that the envelope contained no more than this one statement that he was now reading.
But the paragraph cleared up all doubt in his mind – he read it again and again, slowly absorbing its sense until he could have repeated it by heart.
It ran –
‘My marriage was a disaster. It will be understood why from the foregoing. Henrietta’s mother had died in a lunatic asylum. I did not know this before the marriage. The mother had imparted something of her strong will and her strong character, with an utter irresponsibility peculiar to her wild nature, to her daughter …
‘She was extraordinarily ignorant as to the law of the United States, and this had probably led her to commit the crime which she had committed – for her daughter’s sake. When I discovered Henrietta’s duplicity, when I awoke to a full realization of her terrible and absorbing passion, when I realized how absolutely impossible such a marriage was, I saw in what a terrible position I had placed myself. I did not love Henrietta; I do not think that in any time of my life she had aroused the confidence and the trust which is the basis of love. I had been fascinated by the glamour of a beautiful woman, had been swept off my feet by her exotic beauty – she was little more than a child in those days.
‘I consulted my lawyer. I had made my ante-nuptial arrangements, and had settled upon her, in the terms of my will, ten million dollars upon my death. I now desired earnestly to see how far I was bound by that contract.
‘I had no wish to rob her other inheritance, though a large portion of her mother’s estate would come to her, and she would not have felt the loss had I been able to cancel my marriage contract, but the lawyers informed me that it would be impossible, without a great deal of publicity, which I did not desire, and even then there was some doubt as to whether I should succeed.
‘It is a terrible thought that this woman will so benefit by my death – terrible, because I am confident that Hermann Zeberlieff would not hesitate to destroy me if he knew that Henrietta would benefit.’
Hermann read the sheet through and folded it with a little smile. ‘You are perfectly right, my friend. Henrietta has a very loyal brother.’
He locked up the document in the safe and stood cogitating by the fireplace.
‘I wonder why I hate firearms,’ he said, half to himself, ‘because it seems to me that is the only method which is now available.
‘Out you go!’ he waved his hand to the ceiling. ‘Out you go, my King Kerry, deserter of wives, and maker of wills! I have learnt from your own lips the necessity for your destruction – poor Henrietta.’ He smiled again.
Where was this wife of Kerry’s?
Hermann knew – very well he knew.
But Elsie, who tossed restlessly, sleeplessly, from side to side in her tumbled bed in Chelsea, thought and thought and thought again without coming any nearer to a solution of the business.
The morning sun streamed into her room to find her awake and still thinking.
CHAPTER XXIX
‘You wanted to see me, Mr Kerry?’
Vera was looking beautiful that morning, Kerry thought. She reminded him somewhat of her sister – her sister as she had been at her best.
Yet there was a quality in her face that Henrietta had never had – a softness, a humanity, a kindness, which was foreign to the older woman’s nature.
‘Yes, I want to speak to you,’ he said. ‘I am going into some of your family history, if you don’t mind.’
‘That’s rather alarming,’ she smiled. ‘Which side of my family, in particular?’
He hesitated.
‘To be exact, the only branch it touches is your father, and even he is only a passive agent.’
‘You are speaking of Hermann’s mother?’ she said quickly. He nodded.
‘Did you ever hear of her?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I have heard rather terrible stories about her,’ she said slowly. ‘She was in a lunatic asylum for a number of years. Poor papa! – it must have been terrible for him.’
‘It was,’ said King Kerry. ‘Even I am not old enough to remember all that happened. She was a remarkable woman,’ he went on, plunging into the business of his visit. ‘She was a Pole, a very beautiful girl. Her father and a large family emigrated from Poland to America in the sixties, and she met him when she was little more than a child. I have reason to believe that the family had come from noble stock, but, if you do not mind my speaking very plainly –’
‘I would prefer it,’ said Vera.
‘They were a pretty decadent lot.’
She nodded her head.
‘I know that,’ she said with a half-smile.
‘Hermann’s mother had many remarkable ideas, even as a child, and perhaps the most remarkable of all was one which led to a great deal of unhappiness.’
He hesitated.
‘Do you know that you have a half-sister?’
The girl’s eyebrows rose.
‘A half-sister?’ she said incredulously. ‘No, I did not – it is news to me.’
‘I married her,’ he said simply.
She looked at him with wondering eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘I married her,’ he went on. ‘I met her in Denver City. She had gone West on a trip to her relatives and I was pretty young and headstrong in those days. I met her at a ball, and became engaged to her the same night, and was married to her within a week.’
He paced up and down the room with his hands behind him.
‘It is only right to say,’ he said slowly, ‘that that marriage, from the very moment when we left the justice’s parlour where we had been formally united, was a hideous mistake – a mistake which might very well have embittered the whole of my life. The shadow of Henrietta Zeberlieff has hung over me for fifteen years, and there have been times when life had been unendurable.’
She was silent.
It was so startling, so extraordinary, that even now she could not grasp it. This marriage offered an explanation for much. She looked at her brother-in-law enviously. How strange the relationship seemed! She felt a sudden glow of loving kindness toward one who had suffered at the hands of her own flesh and blood.
‘Is she still alive?’ she asked.
Kerry nodded.
‘She is still alive,’ he said.
‘Hermann knows?’ the girl said quickly.
He nodded his head.
‘And he is concealing her, keeping her in the background. Is she mad, too?’
King Kerry considered a moment. ‘I think she is,’ he said.
‘How terrible.’
The pain on the girl’s face was pitiable to the man. ‘Can’t I go to her? Can’t I see her?’
He shook his head. ‘You could do no good,’ he said. ‘You must wait developments. I meant to have told you more, but somehow – it has stuck in my throat. Last night, as you know, a burglary was committed at my office and the documents relating to my wife were stolen. I have my own idea as to why they were stolen, but I thought it possible that within the next few days you would come to learn what I have told you and perhaps more. It is fairer to you that I should prepare you for the shock.’
He picked up his hat. The girl came towards him, her eyes filled with tears and laid her two hands on his.
‘What do you think, Miss Zeberlieff?’
‘I thought,’ she said, with a little catch in her voice, ‘that Elsie –’
He nodded.
‘I wish to God it were so,’ he said, in a low tone. ‘Money isn’t everything, is it?’ He made a pathetic attempt to smile.
‘It isn’t everything,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I think the only thing worth while in life is love.’
He nodded. ‘Thank God, you have found it,’ he said; and, raising her face to his, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘After all,’ he smiled, ‘you are my sister-in-law. That is a liberty which my remote relationship completely exonerates.’
He went back to his club to lunch, for he was in no mood to meet Elsie. The very sight of her brought a little twinge of pain to his heart. He loved this girl very dearly. She had grown to him as a delicate flower might grow in the shade of a plant of sturdier growth for protection and comfort.
His mind dwelt upon her as he sat at his lunch, and her beautiful eyes, the perfect oval of her face, the little pout of red lips.
He shook his head – there was no way out that he could see.
He finished lunch, and stood for a moment on the steps of the club, then hailed a taxi. Just as he was stepping into the cab a District messenger-boy had entered the club and the chauffeur was driving off when a club servant came flying down the steps with a letter.
‘This has just arrived, sir,’ he said.
King Kerry opened it and read – ‘For the last time, I want you to see me. I am sailing for South America tomorrow to retrieve my fortunes. Come to Park Lane. There is nothing to fear.’
‘“For the last time,”’ repeated King Kerry. He crushed the letter and put it in his pocket, and turning to the club waiter – ‘There is no answer,’ he said. ‘Tell the driver to go to 410, Park Lane.’
CHAPTER XXX
‘So you’ve come?’ said Hermann.
‘For the last time,’ said the other.
‘Assuredly’ – then – ‘What is that?’ Hermann asked quickly.
King Kerry had laid down upon the table a newspaper he had purchased on his way. He had been suspicious of Hermann’s intentions, and had bought the journal to learn the sailing dates and to discover whether the South American mail sailed the following day.
It happened that, as far as he could gather from a perusal of the shipping-list, Zeberlieff had spoken the truth.
Hermann snatched up the paper, his face was drawn and haggard of a sudden. Over his shoulder the millionaire read in the largest headlines –
SHOOTING AFFRAY IN WHITECHAPEL WELL-KNOWN ANARCHIST ARRESTED ASSAILANT MAKES FULL CONFESSION
Hermann read the lines rapidly. The arrested man was Micheloff – and he would tell – everything. Everything would come out now, the little Russian would not hesitate to implicate anybody and everybody to save his own skin or to bring about a mitigation of his sentence.
So he made a full confession! Of what! The paper only had the brief and most guarded account: ‘The prisoner made a long statement, which was being investigated,’ said the journal, and went on to explain that the police sought the owner of a large sum of money which was found upon the prisoner.
So it was all out. He threw down the paper on the table. The game was up. He was at his last desperate throw, and then ‘Farewell, Hermann Zeberlieff!’
‘That has upset you rather?’ said King Kerry. He had skimmed the account on his way to the house.
‘It doesn’t upset me so very much,’ said the other. ‘It alters my plans a little – it may very easily alter yours. I have very little time.’ He looked at his watch. Kerry saw a packed bag and an overcoat on a chair, and guessed that Zeberlieff was making immediate preparations for departure.
‘But that little time,’ Hermann went on, ‘must be profitably spent. For the last time, King Kerry, will you help me?’
‘With money? No! How often have I helped you, and invariably you have employed the assistance I have given you to combat me?’
‘I want exactly a million,’ said the other. ‘I am going away to South America, where there is ample scope for a gentleman of enterprise.’
‘You will get nothing from me.’
‘Reconsider your decision – now!’
Kerry turned. A revolver covered him.
‘Reconsider it, or you’re a dead man!’ said Zeberlieff, calmly. ‘I tell you I am in desperate straits. I must get out of this country today – unless you stand by me – not only with money, but in every other way –’
There was a loud knock at the door below. Zeberlieff’s haggard face went white, yet he edged to the window and looked out. Three men, unmistakable policemen in plain clothes, were standing about the door.
‘This is the end,’ said Zeberlieff, and fired.
As he did so, King Kerry sprang forward and knocked up his arm. The two closed, the white hands sought for his throat, but Kerry knew the other’s strength – and weakness.
There was a sharp scuffle, but Zeberlieff was powerless in his arms. He swung him round as the door burst open and two men dashed in.
Before they could grasp their prisoner he had stooped to the floor and picked up the revolver that had fallen in the struggle. There was a quick report, and, with that little smile which was particularly Hermann Zeberlieff’s, he collapsed sideways on to the floor.
Kerry went down on his knees by his side and lifted the fallen head.
‘Hullo, Kingy!’ coughed the dying Hermann. ‘This is pretty lucky for you – you and your Elsie!’
A frown gathered over the fast-glazing eyes, and it was with that frown on that handsome face that Hermann Zeberlieff went to the Judge Who knows all things.
One of the policemen leant over him.
‘He’s dead!’ he said as he loosened the shirt about the neck of the silent figure.
He stood up sharply.
‘My God!’ he gasped. ‘It’s a woman!’
King Kerry nodded.
‘My wife,’ he said, and looked down at the dead woman at his feet.
* * * * *
‘I had never suspected it – never.’ Vera’s eyes showed signs of tears. ‘And yet, now I come to think of it, she never allowed me in her room, never allowed a servant to valet her, and there are lots of little things I can remember which might have aroused my suspicion.’
‘It was her mother’s fault,’ said King Kerry. ‘Her mother was ignorant of the laws of the United States, and was under the impression that your father’s estate would go automatically to a son, and that a daughter had no powers of inheritance. She craved for that son, and when Henrietta arrived, the poor soul was distracted. The doctor was bribed to certify the child as a boy, and her aunt and her mother brought her up as a boy. She was assisted in this deception by Henrietta’s character – for Henrietta had a man’s way and a man’s reason. She was a man in this, that she had neither pity nor remorse. She allowed a beautiful girl to fall in love with her without letting her know her secret. When it was discovered the girl committed suicide – you probably know the circumstances.’
‘I know,’ said the faltering Vera. ‘But I thought –’
‘Everybody thought that,’ said Kerry. ‘One other aunt was frightened and had the girl sent to her at Denver – she had a farm there. She allowed her hair to grow and dressed her as a girl – it was there that I met her and married her.
‘But the fascination of the old life – she had got into a speculating set on Wall Street – was too much for her.
‘She wanted to be thought a man, to hear her business abilities and her genius praised – as a man. She made one or two very wise speculations which were her undoing. She left me and went back to Wall Street. I pleaded with her, but there was nothing to be gained by appealing to Henrietta’s better instincts. She laughed. The next day she turned a “corner” against me – she smashed my market – with my money,’ he added grimly. ‘I did
not mind that, one can always get money, but she pursued it. I was a “bear” in corn, pulling the prices down; she and her friends “cornered” the world’s supply, so she thought. I smashed her and gave her a million to start afresh, but she hated me from that moment and pursued me with malignant –’ He stopped. ‘God help her!’ he said sadly. ‘God help all women – good or bad!’
‘Amen,’ said Vera Zeberlieff.
* * * * *
King Kerry came to see Elsie two months later. He arrived unexpectedly at Geneva, where she was holiday-making, and she met him upon Quai des Alpes, and was staggered at the sight of him.
He was young again – the lines were gone from his face – the lines of care and memory – and his eyes were bright with health.
‘I have just come along from Chamonix,’ he said. ‘I have been fixing up a villa.’
‘Are you going to live there?’ she asked in consternation.
He shook his head smilingly.
A carriage drove past, and she had some work to restrain a smile.
‘Who is that?’ he asked.
‘Do you remember Mr Hubbard?’
He nodded. He remembered the ‘Beauty’ very well.
‘He has married the most dreadful woman. And they have come here on their honeymoon,’ she said.
He nodded again.
‘His landlady,’ he said grimly. ‘That’s poetic justice.’
‘But the most poetical of all the pieces of justice,’ she laughed, ‘is that Vera and Mr Bray are staying at the same hotel on their honeymoon.’
‘That is rough luck,’ admitted King Kerry with a smile, ‘and as you say, horribly just.’
‘It is rather terrible, though,’ she said, ‘the number of honeymoon folks who are in Geneva.’
The Man Who Bought London Page 18