Havoc

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER IX

  ROBBING THE DEAD

  The roar of the day was long since over. The rattle of vehicles,the tinkling of hansom bells, the tooting of horns from motor-carsand cabs, the ceaseless tramp of footsteps, all had died away.Outside, the streets were almost deserted. An occasional wayfarerpassed along the flagged pavement with speedy footsteps. Here andthere a few lights glimmered at the windows of some of the largerblocks of offices. The bustle of the day was finished. There isno place in London so strangely quiet as the narrow thoroughfaresof the city proper when the hour approaches midnight.

  Laverick, who since his partner's departure had been studying withinfinite care his private ledger, closed it at last with a littlesnap and leaned back in his chair. After all, save that he had gotrid of Morrison, it had been a wasted evening. Not even he, whosefinancial astuteness no man had ever questioned, could raise fromthose piles of figures any other answer save the one inevitableone, the knowledge of which had been like a black nightmare stalkingby his side for the last thirty-six hours. One by one during theevening his clerks had left him, and it was a proof not only of hiswonderful self-control but also of the confidence which he invariablyinspired, that not a single one of them had the slightest idea howthings were. Not a soul knew that the firm of Laverick & Morrisonwas already practically derelict, that they had on the morrowtwenty-five thousand pounds to find, neither credit nor balance attheir bankers, and eight hundred and fifty pounds in the safe.

  Laverick, haggard from his long vigil, locked up his books at last,turned out the lights, and locking the doors behind him walked intothe silent street. Instinctively he turned his steps westwards.This might well be the last night on which he would care to showhimself in his accustomed haunts, the last night on which he couldmix with his fellows freely, and without that terrible sense ofconsciousness which follows upon disaster. Already there was littleenough left of it. It was too late to change and go to his club.The places of amusement were already closed. To-morrow night, bothclub and theatres would lie outside his world. He walked slowly,yet he had scarcely taken, in fact, a dozen steps when, with apurely mechanical impulse, he paused by a stone-flagged entry tolight a cigarette. It was a passage, almost a tunnel for a fewyards, leading to an open space, on one side of which was an oldchurchyard--strange survival in such a part--and on the otherthe offices of several firms of stockbrokers, a Russian banker,an actuary. It was the barest of impulses which led him to glanceup the entry before he blew out the match. Then he gave a quickstart and became for a moment paralyzed. Within a few feet of himsomething was lying on the ground--a dark mass, black and soft--thebody of a man, perhaps. Just above it, a pair of eyes gleamedat him through the semi-darkness.

  Laverick at first had no thought of tragedy. It might be a trampor a drunkard, perhaps,--a fight, or a man taken ill. Thensomething sinister about the light of those burning eyes set hisheart beating faster. He struck another match with firm fingers,and bent forward. What he saw upon the ground made him feel alittle sick. What he saw racing away down the passage prompted himto swift pursuit. Down the arched court into the open space he ran,himself an athlete, but mocked by the swiftness of the shadowlikeform which he pursued. At the end was another street--empty. Helooked up and down, seeking in vain for any signs of life. Therewas nothing to tell him which way to turn. Opposite was a verylabyrinth of courts and turnings. There was not even the sound ofa footfall to guide him. Slowly he retraced his steps, lit anothermatch, and leaned over the prostrate figure. Then he knew that itwas a tragedy indeed upon which he had stumbled.

  The man was dead, and he had met with his death by unusual means.These were the first two things of which Laverick assured himself.Without any doubt, a savage and a terrible crime had been committed.A hornhandled knife of unusual length had been driven up to the hiltthrough the heart of the murdered man. There had been other blows,notably about the head. There was not much blood, but the positionof the knife alone told its ugly story. Laverick, though his nerveswere of the strongest, felt his head swim as he looked. He rose tohis feet and walked to the opening of the passage, gasping. Thestreet was no longer empty.

  About thirty yards away, looking westwards, a man was standing inthe middle of the road. The light from the lamp-post escaped hisface. Laverick could only see that he was slim, of medium height,dressed in dark clothes, with his hands in the pockets of hisovercoat. To all appearance, he was watching the entry. Lavericktook a step towards him--the man as deliberately took a step furtheraway. Laverick held up his hand.

  "Hullo!" he called out, and beckoned.

  The person addressed took no notice. Laverick advanced another twoor three steps--the man retreated a similar distance. Laverickchanged his tactics and made a sudden spring forward. The manhesitated no longer--he turned and ran as though for his life. Ina few minutes he was round the corner of the street and out of sight.Laverick returned slowly to the entry.

  A distant clock struck midnight. A couple of clerks came along thepavement on the other side, their hands and arms full of letters.Laverick hesitated. He was never afterwards able to account for theimpulse which prevented his calling out to them. Instead he lurkedin the shadows and watched them go by. When he was sure that theyhad disappeared, he bent once more over the body of the murderedman. Already that huddled-up heap was beginning to exercise anameless and terrible fascination for him. His first feelings ofhorror were mingled now with an insatiable curiosity. What mannerof man was he? He was tall and strongly built; fair--of almostflorid complexion. His clothes were very shabby and apparentlyready-made. His moustache was upturned, and his hair was trimmedcloser than is the custom amongst Englishmen. Laverick stoopedlower and lower until he found himself almost on his knees. Therewas something projecting from the man's pocket as though it had beenhalf snatched out--a large portfolio of brown leather, almost thesize of a satchel. Laverick drew it out, holding it in one handwhilst with firm fingers he struck another match. Then, for thefirst time, a little cry broke from his lips. Both sides of thepocket-book were filled with bank-notes. As his match flickeredout, he caught a glimpse of the figures in the left-hand corner--500pounds!--great rolls of them! Laverick rose gasping to hisfeet. It was a new Arabian Nights, this!--a dream!--a continuationof the nightmare which had threatened him all day! Or was it,perhaps, the madness coming--the madness which he had begun onlyan hour or so ago to fear!

  He walked into the gaslit streets and looked up and down. Themysterious stranger had vanished. There was not a soul in sight.He clutched the rough stone wall with his hands, he kicked thepavement with his heels. There was no doubt about it--everythingaround him was real. Most real of all was the fact that within afew feet of him lay a murdered man, and that in his hands was thatbrown leather pocket-book with its miraculous contents. For thelast time Laverick retraced his steps and bent over that huddled-upshape. One by one he went through the other pockets. There was apacket of Russian cigarettes; an empty card-case of chased silver,and obviously of foreign workmanship; a cigarette holder stainedwith much use, but of the finest amber, with rich gold mountings.There was nothing else upon the dead man, no means of identificationof any sort. Laverick stood up, giddy, half terrified with thethoughts that went tearing through his brain. The pocket-book beganto burn his hand; he felt the perspiration breaking out anew uponhis forehead. Yet he never hesitated. He walked like a man in adream, but his footsteps were steady and short. Deliberately, andwithout any sign of hurry, he made his way towards his offices. Ifa policeman had come in sight up or down the street, he had decidedto call him and to acquaint him with what had happened. It was theone chance he held against himself,--the gambler's method ofdecision, perhaps, unconsciously arrived at. As it turned out, therewas still not a soul in sight. Laverick opened the outer door withhis latchkey, let himself in and closed it. Then he groped his waythrough the clerk's office into his own room, switched on theelectric light and once more sat down
before his desk.

  He drew his shaded writing lamp towards him and looked around witha nervousness wholly unfamiliar. Then he opened the pocket-book,drew out the roll of bank-notes and counted them. It was curiousthat he felt no surprise at their value. Bank-notes for fivehundred pounds are not exactly common, and yet he proceeded withhis task without the slightest instinct of surprise. Then he leanedback in his chair. Twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes!There they lay on the table before him. A man had died for theirsake,--another must go through all the days with the price of bloodupon his head--a murderer--a haunted creature for the rest of hislife. And there on the table were the spoils. Laverick tried tothink the matter out dispassionately. He was a man of average moralfibre--that is to say, he was honest in his dealings with othermen because his father and his grandfather before him had beenhonest, and because the penalty for dishonesty was shameful. Here,however, he was face to face with an altogether unusual problem.These notes belonged, without a doubt, to the dead man. Save forhis own interference, they would have been in the hands of hismurderer. The use of them for a few days could do no one any harm.Such risk as there was he took himself. That it was a risk he knewand fully realized. Laverick had sat in his place unmoved when hispartner had poured out his wail of fear and misery. Yet of the twomen it was probable that Laverick himself had felt their positionthe more keenly. He was a man of some social standing, with alarge circle of friends; a sportsman, and with many interestsoutside the daily routine of his city life. To him failure meantmore than the loss of money; it would rob him of everything in lifeworth having. The days to come had been emptied of all promise.He had held himself stubbornly because he was a man, because he hadstrength enough to refuse to let his mind dwell upon the indignitiesand humiliation to come. And here before him was possible salvation.There was a price to be paid, of course, a risk to be run in makinguse even for an hour of this money. Yet from the first he had knownthat he meant to do it.

  Quite cool now, he opened his private safe, thrust the pocket-bookinto one of the drawers, and locked it up. Then he lit a cigarette,finally shut up the office and walked down the street. As he passedthe entry he turned his head slowly. Apparently no one had beenthere, nothing had been disturbed. Straining his eyes through thedarkness, he could even see that dark shape still lying huddled upon the ground. Then he walked on. He had burned his boats now andwas prepared for all emergencies. At the corner he met a policeman,to whom he wished a cheery good-night. He told himself that thething which he had done was for the best. He owed it to himself.He owed it to those who had trusted him. After all, it was thechief part of his life--his city career. It was here that hisfriends lived. It was here that his ambitions flourished. Disgracehere was eternal disgrace. His father and his grandfather beforehim had been men honored and respected in this same circle. Disgraceto him, such disgrace as that with which he had stood face to face afew hours ago, would have been, in a certain sense, a reflectionupon their memories. The names upon the brass plates to right andto left of him were the names of men he knew, men with whom hedesired to stand well, whose friendship or contempt made life worthliving or the reverse. It was worth a great risk--this effort ofhis to keep his place. His one mistake--this association withMorrison--had been such an unparalleled stroke of bad luck. Hewas rid of the fellow now. For the future there should be no morepartners. He had his life to live. It was not reasonable that heshould allow himself to be dragged down into the mire by such acreature. He found an empty taxicab at the corner of Queen VictoriaStreet, and hailed it.

  "Whitehall Court," he told the driver.