Grey Timothy/Chapter 19

Lord Pinlow wanted three days to complete his plans. He had certain resources which in a last emergency he could tap. That moment of emergency had now arrived.

It was not the first desperate crisis of his life. He had had others, though none of such immediate seriousness as this.

Pinlow was a man without scruple or remorse. The path of his life had led along the edge of a precipice, not once, but many times, only delicate walking and the exercise of the greatest finesse had succeeded in keeping him his foothold.

Now the path was narrowing, and to make matters worse, Brian stood directly in opposition to him. Lord Pinlow turned the matter over in his mind, as you might consider the abstract problem of planting out geraniums, and he decided that the world was too small a place for Brian Pallard and himself.

Only those who knew the man could appreciate such cold-blooded reasoning; but that was his way. Brian, with a stroke of his pen, could ruin him; robbing him of all the things that were precious to him; taking away from him, not only the mode of life he desired, but every chance of re-entry into that life.

Lord Pinlow was an adventurer. His title was one of those grotesque jokes that life plays upon its victims. It had descended to him from a dissolute father and from a mother who had, at one time, been a chorus-girl in a not very first-class touring company. It was his only heritage, and, to do him justice, he had employed his one asset to the best advantage. It carried him a little way upon the high road of competitive existence, but he asked it to pull too heavy a load, and there had been times when even the barony of Pinlow, in the county of Winwick, helped him very little. This was such a time. He had reached the end of his tether. Twice he had been on the very verge of fortune, twice had Brian Pallard pulled him back, at the very moment when his hand had been touching treasure. And now there was no way to follow an action which would place him beyond the pale.

He winced a little at the thought.

This cursed jockey Club, with its autocratic privileges, could outlaw him more effectively than a judge of the High Court could. A word, a written paragraph, modestly lurking at the bottom of a column in the Racing Calendar, and he was a pariah.

""

He winced again.

Assuredly this would be bad. It meant the vanishing of his one asset.

Pinlow walked to the window and stood, his hands in his trousers pockets, looking out into Pall Mall. Desperate diseases, he told himself sententiously, called for desperate remedies.

He sat down at his desk and, selecting a plain sheet of paper, began writing rapidly.

He covered the sheet with his sprawling handwriting, then blotted the note, folded it and placed it in an envelope. Then he rang the bell.

His man appeared in the doorway.

“Take this letter to the landlord of the ‘Bull and Stick’ in Camden Town; do you know it?”

“No, m’lord.”

“You’ll have no difficulty in finding it,” said Pinlow; “it is in the High Street. Go to the private bar and ask for Smith—Tinker Smith—and give him that note.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the man.

“Wait a moment,” said Pinlow, as the servant turned to go; “there is one little thing I wanted to say to you—you haven’t drawn any wages lately, have you?”

“No, m’lord,” said the servant truthfully.

Pinlow took out his pocket-book and extracted two five-pound notes.

‘There is something on account,” he said.

“I’m very grateful to your lordship”

But his lordship stopped his thanks with an impatient wave of his hand.

“You shall have more in a week’s time, but I am relying on you absolutely, Parker, to keep your tongue from wagging.”

“You can depend on me, m’lord,” said the other earnestly.

Pinlow dismissed him with the instruction that he need not return until the morning. With the servant out of the house, he went to his bedroom and changed into another suit. With a pair of scissors he clipped off his moustache. A touch of lather and the skilful application of a razor, and he was clean-shaven. The suit he had chosen was a fairly old one. He took some care with his toilet. From the fact that he did not hesitate in his make-up, there was some support for the theory that this was not the first time he had disguised himself.

A big pair of gold-mounted spectacles, taken from a case in one of the drawers, entirely changed his appearance. He looked like anybody but Lord Pinlow. When he had completed his preparations he unlocked a safe that stood near the head of his bed, and removed a bundle of notes. These he thrust into his inside pocket. From a recess in the safe he took a little package wrapped in red chamois leather. He unwrapped it to reveal a handy little Colt’s automatic pistol. This he examined carefully, snapping open the breach and squinting down the well-oiled barrel.

He found two blank magazines. One he dropped into his pocket, the other he pushed up the hollow butt of the revolver. It fastened with a click. He pulled back the cover of the pistol and loaded it. Then, with some care, he pushed up the safety catch of the pistol and put it into his pocket. If the worst came to the worst, he could rely upon the Browning—he could not say as much for the revolver.

By the time he had completed his preparations it was nearly dark. South of London heavy clouds were banking up, and above the hum of London’s traffic rose the dull rumbling echoes of thunder.

With a dark rain-coat on his arm, Pinlow closed the door of the flat and stepped out into Pall Mall. He had no fixed and definite plan, but he made his way to Knightsbridge, and entered the park just as the first heavy splatter of rain sent the promenaders to shelter.

He had marked down Brian’s house; from information received he knew which was the living-room. There was no light in this. As soon as he had made this discovery he left the park.

He came to the front of the house, as a jagged streak of lightning tore the heavens in twain, and a deafening crash of thunder shook the very foundations of the buildings.

His ring was instantly answered.

“Is Mr Pallard in?” he asked authoritatively.

“No, sir. Will you come in?” The invitation was made out of sheer humanity, for now the rain was descending in sheets.

“Mr Pallard will not be in until ten o’clock,” said the servant.

“H’m!” said Pinlow, with well simulated annoyance. “I am a friend of his uncle’s, could I write him a note?”

“Certainly, sir; come this way.”

He led the visitor to the room overlooking the park. There was a writing-table, which had been used recently, for two or three loose sheets of paper carelessly pulled from the stationery rack were lying on the blotting-pad.

“Thank you,” said Pinlow, as he seated himself, “could you oblige me by getting the Pandora Club on the telephone, and asking whether Mr Pallard has called for me?”

“Certainly, sir; what name shall I give?”

“Mr Williams,” said Pinlow, taking the first name that came into his head. As the door closed behind the man, Pinlow slipped the top sheet of blotting paper from the pad and held it up to the light. It was a new sheet and had been used to blot something quite recently.

He had no difficulty in deciphering what that something had been. He read:

‘Steward … ckey Club, B … thington Stre …’

He turned the paper a little askew and saw:

‘… charge … rd Pinlow … conspiracy … vent my hors … Grey … mothy win … Stewar … Cup … tsetse …’

He replaced the paper and looked round. On the mantelshelf were three or four letters, placed there ready for posting. He rose and examined them rapidly. The second was the letter he sought. He slipped it into his pocket. Swiftly he folded a blank sheet of paper and inserted it into an envelope. This he addressed to the Stewards of the Jockey Club, imitating to the best of his ability the neat writing of his unwitting host.

He was justifying his presence by scribbling a note to Brian when the servant returned.

“I am sorry I have been so long, sir,” said the man; “but the storm has disorganized the telephone service and I was unable to get the Pandora Club.”

“It does not matter,” responded Lord Pinlow, rising; “it has occurred to me that I shall find him at the Ritz Hotel”

“If you would like to wait?” suggested the man.

“No, I think not,” said Pinlow. The storm was now at its height, but he preferred to risk the storm rather than to take his chance of Brian’s return. In the hall, the man assisted him into his raincoat.

“You will tell Mr Pallard,” began Pinlow, when a bell rang sharply.

“That may be Mr Pallard,” said the man. Pinlow had to decide whether the encounter should take place in the well-lit hall or in Brian’s room. He decided upon the latter. As the man opened the door, he strolled carelessly back to the room he had quitted.

He heard voices in the hall and then the servant came in.

“It’s another gentleman to see Mr Pallard,” he said. Pinlow heaved a big sigh of relief.

“I’ll not wait,” he said. In the hall he came face to face with the other visitor, who was discarding his soddened overcoat as Pinlow came in.

They looked at one another for a little while. “A broadsman named Caggley,” said a voice in Pinlow’s brain, and then in a flash he knew that the man had recognized him. Caggley gave no sign, save the momentary gleam of recognition which the other had detected.

“Hullo, Caggley,” said Pinlow, “put that coat of yours on; I want you for a few minutes.”

The card-sharper hesitated.

“You’ll do as I tell you—quick,” said Pinlow, dropping his voice.

Caggley, with some reluctance, climbed into his drenched garment. Before he knew what had happened Pinlow had hustled him into the steaming night.

They found a providential taxi.

“What’s the game, m’lord?” asked Caggley as the car drove off.

“Too big a game for a dirty little thief like you to give away,” said Pinlow; “so you’re the split, are you?”

“If,” said Mr Caggley unctuously, “if the lightnin’ at this moment was to strike me”

“It will probably strike me too,” said Pinlow curtly, but not without humour. “I know that you are lying, therefore why should I trouble to listen to you.”

They drove for a few minutes, neither man speaking. Then:

“See here, Caggley,” said Pinlow. “I give you two alternatives.”

“Two?” asked his puzzled companion.

“Chances,” explained Pinlow. “You can take one or the other. I’ll let Tinker Smith know that you’ve been spying on him.”

“For the Lord’s sake!” gasped Caggley, agitated beyond discretion, “anything but that, m’lord. I’ve done no spyin’, only a little business between gentleman an’ gentleman; a word here an’ a word there, so to speak.”

“The other opportunity,” continued Pinlow, “is to throw your friend Pallard over, and do a little work for me.”

“If there’s anything I can do for your lordship,” protested Caggley solemnly, “if it’s yielding me last drop of blood”

“There will be no necessity for that,” said Pinlow with a grim smile.

Driving through the quiet square between Oxford Street and Piccadilly he outlined his plan.

“I want you to go straight back to Pallard’s, see him on any excuse—he has some horses running at Manchester; you must warn him that they are not to run.”

“Certainly, m’lord,” said the other feebly.

Pinlow put his head out of the taxi window and gave some directions to the driver.

“I’m going back to my flat; I want you to wait in the car for me.”

They drove the rest of the journey in silence. The car pulled up, according to instructions, a little distance from Lord Pinlow’s residence. He got out, closing the door behind him, and admitted himself to the flat.

The storm had circled round London. The lightning was vivid and incessant, and overhead the thunder crashed and cracked. He went to his room, opened the gun-case, and took a second pistol from its case. He loaded it with the same care as he had devoted to the first weapon, then stood waiting, the Colt in his hand, his finger on the trigger. With one hand he unfastened the catch of the window and raised it. His bedroom overlooked a jumble of courtyards. Immediately facing him was the big blank wall of a club. He had not long to wait. Suddenly the darkness was illuminated by three vivid flashes of lightning, following so closely in succession that they appeared to be one. A second of silence, then there was a horrible crash of thunder that made the house tremble.

As it broke, Pinlow fired and the noise of the explosion was drowned in the overwhelming artilleries of the heavens. He drew down the window and slipped the pistol into his pocket, and made his way back to the waiting taxi.

He found Caggley in a state bordering upon panic.

“Let’s get out of this, for God’s sake,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve never been out in such a storm.”

Pinlow gave some fresh directions to the driver and the cab moved on.

“It is nothing,” he said, and truly the storm was in harmony with the storm which raged in his own heart.

He utilized the time by giving instructions to his tool.

“But I don’t understand what it’s all about, my lord,” said the man helplessly. “I don’t mind telling him not to run horses at Manchester, but why should I stand by the window—an’ suppose it’s not open?”

“You must find some excuse for opening it,” said Pinlow; “there’s nothing to worry about and there’s a hundred pounds for you if you do as I tell you.”

He dismissed the cabman near Hyde Park Corner, and the pair walked into the park in the pouring rain. Just as they came opposite the punter’s house a light leapt to light in the sitting-room.

“He’s back,” said Pinlow, and noted with satisfaction that the window was open. “Now get to the door as quickly as you can and rejoin me here—stop!”

Caggley turned.

“Put this in your overcoat pocket,” said Pinlow. Something heavy and small dropped into the capacious overcoat pocket of the sharper.

“What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Never mind—keep it there; it may be useful.”

“Why, it’s a revolver,” said the other in dismay; “here, I’m not going to use that.”

“You won’t need to use it,” said the other calmly; “keep it there: I’m giving it to you to show I bear no malice. You’ll want it if you meet Tinker Smith.”

The man hesitated.

“I’m hanged if I understand it,” he said, and walked slowly away.

Pinlow waited till he was out of sight, then nimbly, for a man of his build, he climbed the railings which separated the tiny gardens from the road. Reconnoitring the house, he had seen a way by which he could reach the window. The three houses, of which Brian’s was the centre, had a tiny balcony. That which stood to the left was reached by a flight of iron stairs. It was easy to get to that, and as easy to step from one balcony to the other.

Brian had come home at ten o’clock that night.

“Has anybody called?” he asked.

“Two gentlemen, one of them Mr Caggley—they went away together.”

Brian nodded carelessly.

“Did you post those letters?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

He had remembered them a quarter of an hour before his master had come in, and had snatched them up hastily from the mantelshelf and hurried them to the post.

“I forgot to tell you that there was one of them which was rather important.”

Brian took up the evening paper which lay on the table and was opening it when the man, who had disappeared with his wet goloshes, returned.

“Mr Caggley has come, sir,” he said. “Will you see him?”

“Show him in.”

Mr Caggley came, less like his possessed self than usual. In truth he was considerably embarrassed, and took longer to get to the object of his visit than was ordinarily the case.

“Well, Caggley, what is your news?”

Brian looked up over his paper.

“Captain,” said Caggley, with a desperate effort to appear at ease, “I understand that you’re running some horses at Manchester.”

“I have entered a horse or two,” corrected Brian.

“Well, don’t run ’em,” said Caggley with unnecessary emphasis; “never mind what anybody says, don’t run ’em.”

“Why?”

Mr Caggley floundered a little, hummed and ha’d, made incoherent sounds of expostulation, all of which were meant to be impressive. They did, indeed, impress Brian, but not in the way Caggley had intended.

“Now what the devil are you making those funny faces about?” demanded the irritated young man. “If you know anything, out with it.”

“I can’t tell you anything, sir,” said Caggley, and this time his earnestness was unmistakable. “It’s as much as my life’s worth.”

Brian bent his brows in thought. He had a couple of horses entered at Manchester. He had not intended running them, but there was no reason why he should not.

Then he noticed that the man was wandering about the room in an aimless way, and that he still had his overcoat on.

Brian got up from his chair as Caggley reached the open window.

“What is the game?” he asked sternly.

He stood by the table under the shaded light, an excellent mark.

“There’s something wrong here, Caggley,” he said. Then suddenly he felt a cold shiver run down his spine—that warning which Nature gives to all animals, human or otherwise, at approaching danger.

He knew not why, but instinct was unreasoning, and his hand flew to his hip pocket.

His fingers had gripped the butt of a hidden revolver when from the open window leapt a pencil of flame.

‘Crack!’

He felt the wind of the nickel bullet fan his hair as it passed, and fired twice at the open window. As he did Caggley, open-mouthed and livid, turned.

“Great Scot, governor!” he whined, “what are you?”

He never spoke again.

A second time the invisible marksman fired, and, shot through the forehead, the sharper fell an inert heap on the ground.