The Long Arm of Mannister/Chapter 7

VEN Luigi paused before their table on his way down the room, and looked from one to the other in some surprise.

"You are not very well this evening, Mr. Hambledon," he said. "I am very sorry. And Mr. Jacobs, too. He is very thin. You must come here to dine more often. It is the grippe, yes! All my customers have the grippe. Soon there will be no one at all who comes to eat."

The maître d'hôtel passed on to greet some newly arriving guests, and Hambledon and Jacobs exchanged quick glances.

"Do I really look bad, Hambledon?" Jacobs asked.

"Rotten!" Hambledon declared. "You look scared to death."

"And I back you've lost a stone the last few months," Jacobs declared, a little viciously. "I never saw a man gone off so."

Hambledon's white fingers trembled a little as he clutched his wine-glass.

"Isn't it enough to shatter a man's nerves?" he asked hoarsely, "this cursed waiting for something, and all the time we don't know what! Here's Sophy coming. Darned if she hasn't got more pluck than any of us!"

Sophy de la Mere swept into the room, followed by a couple of her youthful adorers. She was carrying a tiny little dog, and she was wearing a new and wonderful hat. She stopped to shake hands with the two men, looking from one to the other scornfully.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Nerves gone wrong?"

Hambledon shrugged his shoulders.

"We all haven't your pluck," he confessed. "You've heard about Colin?"

She nodded, and her face for a moment was grave.

"Yes!" she answered. "It's a hideous thing to think of, and I am not going to spoil my dinner by talking about it. I always said that Colin would come to grief with some of these foreign women. He was altogether too fond of intrigue."

The two men exchanged glances. Perhaps she had not heard.

"You know whose hand was at the back of it?" Hambledon whispered. "You know who was this Madame de Modina's companion on the night she did it, who it was who reserved the table next to Stevens', and who took her there?"

Sophy de la Mere shook her head.

"You do not mean?" she gasped, with sudden apprehension.

"It was Mannister," Hambledon declared. "It was he who stood in the background and pulled the strings."

For a moment she was paler. Then she laughed a little unnaturally.

"That leaves only us three, then," she declared. "Upon my word it is getting a little uncanny."

She spoke bravely enough, but even she shivered when Mannister bowed before her.

"Is this a conspiracy of three?" he asked, smiling genially at them. "You seem to be discussing some awful deed."

Hambledon sat down heavily in his seat, and little Jacobs clutched at the tablecloth, but Sophy de la Mere, after her first start, faced him bravely enough.

"I have just been told about poor Colin," she said. "It was rather a shock to me."

Mannister shrugged his shoulders.

"It was a most unfortunate occurrence," he said, "but better men than he have suffered for making love to two women at the same time. One must pay for one's luxuries, you know. Don't you agree with me, Hambledon?"

"One has always to pay, of course," Hambledon muttered, "but it was a great price. They say that he is blind for life, and that he has sworn never to be seen upon the streets."

"The streets will be the purer then," Mannister answered calmly. "I am afraid that I am not a sentimentalist. I have yet to find the man or the woman who knew Colin Stevens and was not the worse for it."

Sophy de la Mere patted her dog's head for a moment, and looked absently up the room to where her two admirers were sitting.

"Justice," she said, "is sometimes cruel, and justice seems to have been rather busy amongst us lately, Mr. Mannister. Let me see. There is Colin Stevens, blind and disfigured for life. Polsover, disgraced and exiled. Traske, robbed of an heiress and a chance of reformation, cleaning boots at a Toronto railway station. Then there is John Dykes, degenerated into a burglar and dead—temporary insanity, the jury said, but it was very nearly felo de se. Sinclair, gone God knows where. Rundermere, starving at a gambling hell in Cairo. Justice indeed seems to have been rather busy amongst our friends just lately—or should you call it retribution!"

Mannister smiled thoughtfully.

"Certainly," he remarked, "we have been unfortunate. Still, you and our friends Hambledon and Jacobs here, remain."

Sophy de la Mere looked him squarely in the face.

"For how long?" she answered. "Whose turn is it next?"

Mannister sighed.

"My difficulties," he murmured, "are enough, without adding to them by putting you on your guard."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well," she said, "I am ready to take my chance. Luck has gone your way so far, but it may change. I am not going to spoil my dinner by wondering what is going to happen to me before to-morrow evening."

She nodded, and swept up the room. Mannister looked after her admiringly.

"A wonderful woman that," he murmured. "By-the-bye, what became of that little affair of hers with some young man?"

"His guardian warned him off," Hambledon answered. "Are you going to dine with us, Mannister? We've only just begun."

"I shall be delighted," Mannister answered. "To tell you the truth, I am glad to have the opportunity of a chat. You see," he added, studying the menu, "the well of my imagination is running dry. As you remarked a short time ago, there are you two left and Sophy. Take your case, Hambledon. Upon my word, I cannot imagine what unexpected avalanche of trouble would crush you most gracefully. Or you, Jacobs," he continued. "You have not much money, no character, and little position. I know of no one of whom you are fond except yourself, and nothing which you care for except the acquisition of money, in which, by-the-bye, you have not been over fortunate. You two present difficulties."

"Then for Heaven's sake let us alone!" Jacobs exclaimed. "You've scared us nearly out of our wits. Be satisfied with that. As for my share of your beastly trust money, I lost it long ago. The whole thing did me no good."

"The money," Mannister declared, having composed the menu to his liking, and scribbling it out with a heavy gold pencil, "is after all of no great account; but there were the other things, you see, my friends, there were the other things to be taken into account. By-the-bye, this is excellent caviare. Did you try it, you fellows?"

"No!" Hambledon answered, gruffly. "We're not taking caviare at five shillings a time, Ernest and I. Things are none too good in the city."

"They will be worse to-morrow," Mannister remarked equably. "There is a great slump on the American Stock Exchange. I met a man outside who had just received a cable."

Jacobs sighed a little wearily.

"Well," he said, "we can't stand many more of them, that's a fact. I heard 'Grand Trunks' were going to fall. We don't touch them on our market, though."

"The Stock Exchange," Mannister remarked, sipping his wine with the air of a satisfied connoisseur, "is an extraordinary institution. You two are always grumbling, yet I understand that both of you make a fair living at it. You, my young friend," he added, turning to Jacobs, "have had, I understand, only four years at it. For such a short time I should say that you had been moderately successful."

"It depends upon what you call success," Jacobs answered. "What satisfies some men would not satisfy me. To get on quickly, one must save money every week, every month."

"Naturally," Mannister assented, "yet think how much better your position is than say a clerk in a warehouse or drapery establishment. They have neither the chance to save money nor to make it. You, on the other hand, have both, and if you chance to lose it, it is other people's money and not your own."

"There is something in that," Jacobs admitted, with a grin, "but you don't get many chances with other people's money. Once bit, twice shy, you know."

Mannister nodded.

"Were you thinking," he asked, as their dinner drew toward a close, "of going anywhere this evening?"

"I am off home," Hambledon answered. "My train leaves in half an hour."

"I thought of turning in at a Music Hall," Jacobs declared, "the only thing to do at this hour of the evening."

"I am glad," Mannister said, "that you have no serious engagements. I should like to take you for a short drive."

Jacobs shrank a little back in his chair, and looked at Mannister in alarm. Somehow or other his words seemed prophetic. Hambledon leaned a little forward.

"My train," he remarked, "goes at nine-forty."

"You will have to leave very soon, then," Mannister remarked, "or you will lose it."

Hambledon drew a little sigh of relief. At any rate this was a respite for him. Then he looked curiously at Jacobs, who seemed somehow to have grown smaller in his chair.

"A drive?" he faltered, "but it is a wet night, quite wet out, I believe."

"My carriage is a closed one," Mannister remarked pleasantly. "If you must go, Hambledon, good night! Don't bother about the bill. It's my turn to-night."

Hambledon, with a moment's regret for the caviare, got up to go. Jacobs watched him with eyes that were full of dumb appeal.

"Stay till the next train, Hambledon," he said. "Let's have another bottle here before we go out."

Mannister shook his head.

"No!" he said. "Hambledon is a family man, and must keep his engagements. You and I will just take a liqueur, Jacobs, and then we will go for our little drive."

Jacobs made an effort to assert himself, but he spoke feebly and without conviction. but he spoke feebly and without conviction.

"I am not your slave, Mr. Mannister," he said. "I do not want to go for a drive. I have an engagement for this evening,"

Mannister, who was sipping his liqueur, ignored his words absolutely. He called for the bill and paid it.

"If you are quite ready," he said to Jacobs politely.

"I am ready to leave," Jacobs answered, rising, "but I am going to the Alhambra. I promised to meet a client of mine in the promenade."

"As you like," Mannister answered carelessly, "but I will drive you there. Won't you light another cigar before we go?"

They made their way outside, and the commissionnaire called up Mannister's electric brougham. Even then Jacobs hesitated upon the pavement. He was more than half inclined to make a bolt for it.

"I think if you don't mind I'll walk," he said. "I have had no exercise to-day and it is a fine evening."

Mannister's hand grew a little heavier upon his shoulder, and Jacobs found himself without alternative save to enter the carriage. Mannister spoke a few words to the driver before entering. The carriage glided off citywards.

"This is not the way to the Alhambra," Jacobs protested.

"It is not," Mannister admitted. "The fact is we are going to pay a little call first."

Jacobs made a sudden spring toward the door, but Mannister was too quick for him.

"Sit still," he commanded, in an altered tone. "If you try to escape it will only be the worse for you."

"I want to know at any rate where we are going," Jacobs protested doggedly.

"You will find out very soon," Mannister answered. "You are going to call upon an old friend. You need not be alarmed. I will undertake that you receive a hearty welcome."

"An old friend?" Jacobs repeated, incredulously.

"Certainly," Mannister answered. "I can assure you that he is looking forward very much to renewing his acquaintance with you."

Jacobs for the time asked no more questions. He looked longingly out of the windows of the carriage, but he made no movement to escape. In his heart he knew very well that it was useless. They passed through the broader thoroughfares of the city, now almost deserted, and continued until they reached the Bethnal Green Road. Suddenly the carriage slowed up and came to a smooth stop. Mannister opened the door, and putting his arm through his companion's, invited him to descend.

"Where on earth are we going to here?" Jacobs asked, as they stepped on to the pavement.

In front of them was a shop with plate glass windows, filled with dummies in boy's clothing, and all the other paraphernalia of a ready-made tailoring establishment. The premises were closed, and shutters had been drawn over the entrance, but Mannister led the way to a side entrance, and knocked softly at the door. Jacobs looked about him in bewilderment. Suddenly his eyes caught the name stretched across the front of the shop in great gilt letters, and his knees seemed to give way beneath him. But for Mannister's arm he would have fallen. in bewilderment. Suddenly his eyes caught the name stretched across the front of the shop in great gilt letters, and his knees seemed to give way beneath him. But for Mannister's arm he would have fallen.

"No!" he cried, trying to draw back, "I will not go in here. Let me alone."

The door was suddenly opened, and before he realized it Jacobs found himself inside, with the door fast closed behind them. They were in almost complete darkness until the man who had admitted them struck a light. His features were indiscernible. They could see only his broad back as he led the way.

"Come into the office," he said, and once more the knees of the young man whom Mannister was half dragging along, seemed to give way beneath him. They passed along a small passage, where the atmosphere was heavy with the odour of piled-up cloth, and into a smaller room, where there was a sudden glare of light. Then the man who had been their guide wheeled round. Jacobs, whom Mannister's arm no longer supported, staggered back against the wall, and stood there with ashen face and distended eyes.

"So it is you!" he began. "You scamp! You—hound!"

No one answered. Mannister, lounging easily against the mahogany counter on one side of the room, glanced from one to the other of the two remaining figures in the little tableau. The man who had admitted them, tall and powerful, with curly black hair and hooked nose, was glaring at Jacobs as though only waiting to recover his breath before he rushed upon him. Jacobs, speechless and terrified, was gazing towards him with fascinated eyes, a hopeless, nerveless being. It was Mannister who spoke first.

"I think, my dear Jacobs," he said, "I mentioned that we were going to call upon an old friend of yours. I can see that you recognize Mr. Goldberg, and I am sure that Mr. Goldberg has not forgotten you. I fear that there are several little matters which should have been adjusted before between you two. Perhaps you may find this opportunity a convenient one for discussing them."

"There is nothing to discuss," Jacobs faltered, with white lips. "I do not know this man. It is a mistake."

Goldberg stepped forward with an oath. Mannister held out his hand.

"Permit me," he said, "to remind our young friend here of the circumstances, which certainly do require a little explanation from him. Nine years ago I think it was that our young friend here entered Mr. Goldberg's employ as errand boy, or in some similar capacity. Our young friend was industrious, and his position improved. Five years ago you were, I believe," he remarked, turning to Jacobs, "appointed cashier of the firm, and also your proposals of marriage to Mr. Goldberg's daughter were accepted. A very excellent position, I am sure. It is a pity that those city friends of yours should have turned your head and made you dissatisfied with such suitable, and I am sure pleasant surroundings."

"We have had enough talking," Goldberg interrupted. "It is my turn, and I have some things to say."

Mannister stretched out his hand.

"The evening is young, my dear Mr. Goldberg," he said, "and our young friend's memory is bad. Let me remind him of the rest. Let me remind him of that morning when he disappeared, taking with him two hundred and eighty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and leaving behind a small but rising ready-made clothing business without a cashier, and, I fear, a very disconsolate young lady. It was an ungallant thing to do, Mr. Jacobs, very ungallant. Did you think that a simple change of name and a clean-shaven face was sufficient to keep this past buried for ever?"

"Oh, but he has been cunning!" Goldberg declared, keeping his black eyes still fixed upon his victim. "He has kept very far away from all the places where he could meet me or any of my friends. Once he was a devout Jew, he went always to Synagogue. When he was engaged to my daughter he was pious all the time. And now he makes moneys at the Stock Exchange, and my daughter is not good enough for him. What about that two hundred and eighty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, eh?"

"You shall have your money," Jacobs said, falteringly. "I meant to pay you back. It was only a loan."

"You meant to pay me back!" Goldberg repeated, with a gleam of his white teeth. "When, I wonder? Not till you were caught! I think that if this gentleman had not come and asked me a few questions about a cashier named Aaron Levinstein, I think that I should never have seen you again, Aaron, you or that money."

Mannister lit another cigarette and took up his hat.

"I think," he said, "that I will leave you two to settle your differences. I have no doubt but that you will be able to arrive at a reasonable solution."

Goldberg, with an ugly smile, stretched out his hand, and took from the mantelpiece by his side a short whip. Jacobs clung to Mannister's arm.

"I will not be left here alone with him," he called out. "He will murder me. Mr. Mannister, do you hear? I will pay him the money, but I will not be left alone with him."

Mannister thrust him back, and paused with his hand upon the door.

"My young friend," he said, "you will pay him the money back, but you will also receive from the hands of Mr. Goldberg the thrashing you deserve, and you will marry his daughter, or else you will go to prison! Good night!"

Mannister closed the door behind him and walked down the passage. As he struck a match to let himself out, he heard a shrill cry of pain from the room which he had left. Outside on the pavement he drew a paper and a pencil from his pocket, and deliberately drew a thick black line through one of the last of the names on the list.