The Long Arm of Mannister/Chapter 8

HE round table at Luigi's was laid for four, but Mannister sat there alone. He studied the menu without interest, and ordered his dinner mechanically. Then he leaned back in his seat, and his eyes for the moment travelled through the opposite walls into a distant corner of the world, and the ghosts leapt up like puppets, to bend over and deride. Mannister was very bored and very weary. As he sat there he realized that he was a man to whom fortune in all material ways had latterly been most kind, but whose life was slipping away in a somewhat dreary procession of empty days and empty weeks. His lips curled a little bitterly as he realized how little indeed he valued the life which flowed in his veins and beat in his pulses. The money in his bank lay idle, the world's many pleasures remained untasted. He lived because he was alive. There was no purpose nor any happiness in the slowly passing days. The task which he had set himself when the iron of suffering had entered his soul and made of his life a wreck, was already almost achieved. He thought of them one by one, these men who had wrought this evil thing against him, and he knew that the misfortunes which had befallen them were just and well deserved. And now even this interest in his life was passing away. Two only were left. Already he was weary to death of the executioner's knife. In all his life there remained no other purpose, he could think of no pleasure which would cause his pulses to thrill, no task which might make his heart beat the lighter.

And he was lonely! Somehow the sight of the empty table at which he sat struck a chill in his heart. It was his own hand which had thrust to their doom these quondam companions of his, and there was not one of them whom for a moment he regretted. And yet he found his solitude distasteful, typical of his life itself. He was impatient with the weakness which made even the faintest sense of loneliness possible. And yet the empty chairs round this table spoke to him of the days when he had been like other men, with the cup of life pressed hard to his lips, and joy in his heart. Had he indeed passed outside all alone? Was his to be for all time a life of lonely days, of weariness, of solitude?

Sophy de la Mere saw him on her way up the room, and stopped and turned back. She pointed to the empty places, and she laughed at him softly, and without fear.

"You remind me," she said, "of a child who has thrown his toys out of the window, and who sits on the nursery floor bewailing his loneliness."

He smiled, and patted the head of her little dog. little dog.

"The toys," he answered, "are not all destroyed."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"You must really tell me," she said, "what it is that you have done to Ernest Jacobs. I am beginning to suspect that you may have a sense of humour. I saw him two nights ago in the pit at the Adelphi Theatre, sitting between a big, dark, Jewish-looking man and a girl, who must have been his daughter—sharp featured, with a terrible fringe. He looked as though he were wearing ready-made clothes and were trying to grow a moustache. If this is your doing it is the justice of Heaven. I never saw any one who looked so miserable and yet so thoroughly in touch with his surroundings."

A rare gleam of humour flashed in Mannister's eyes.

"I am a philanthropist," he declared. "I start out with terribly evil intentions, and in the end I simply induce people to revert to their normal state. Jacobs as a stockbroker and a man about town was a wretched poseur. As a partner in a retail clothing establishment, and husband to Miss Goldberg, he is in the position for which Providence intended him."

"You are not only convincing," she declared, "but reassuring."

"Do me the honour," he said, "to dine with me, and we will pursue the subject."

She smiled, and seated herself at the table. Mannister was scornfully aware that her coming was a pleasure to him. He called a maître d'hôtel and supplemented his order. She drew off her gloves and leaned a little across the table towards him, her chin resting upon her clasped white hands.

"Your latest statement," she remarked, "interests me. Of course you know that there are only Fred Hambledon and myself left. Now if I am going to be dealt with after the manner of Jacobs, that is to say put in my proper place in the world, let me hear your idea as to what that may be."

He smiled.

"Forewarned is forearmed," he said. "Why should I give myself away?"

She pushed up her veil so that her face was exposed.

"Look at me," she said, and he obeyed. "What do you see?" she asked. "Be truthful!"

"I see," he said, "the face of a woman who has known many things and suffered many things, and who is a little tired of them all."

"Look again," she said.

"How much shall I tell you?" he continued. "You have been beautiful, but you remain only charming. There are lines about your eyes and at the corners of your mouth. Life does not mean to you what it meant five or ten or fifteen years ago."

"Life," she said, "will never mean anything to me again. Now you know why I sit here and talk lightly with you. It is not because I am not afraid. Nothing that you can say can wound me, nothing that you can do can harm me. Nothing, that is to say, unless you countermand your invitation to dinner, for I could not possibly afford myself all these good things which you have ordered."

He smiled.

"The dinner," he said, "is a certainly. To tell you the truth I am indebted to you for coming. Have you ever known what it is to be lonely?"

"I have been lonely for so many years," she said, "that I shall never be lonely any more. It is past."

Mannister thought over her words as he sipped his wine.

"You are a young woman still," he said.

"I am forty-two," she answered, "and there is not a person in the world who cares two pins whether I live or die. The woman of forty-two who is loved has life before her, and all the happiness that life can hold. The woman who has reached my age without winning the love of any one, can never win anything. Her life is over."

Mannister sipped his wine thoughtfully.

"I am almost tempted," he said, "to play the part of consoler, to remind you that the spinning of time brings us always back again, some day or other, to those who have cared, but from whom we may have drifted away. New fires may not be lighted, but the old ones may leap again into flame."

She laughed at him softly.

"I don't know which is the more consoling," she said, "your Pommery or your philosophy. Between the two I am certainly getting curious. What terrible scheme have you been hatching in your brain against me?"

"In your case," he answered, "one must reverse the ancient saying—Place aux dames. There still remains our friend Hambledon."

Her lips curled scornfully.

"There is just a question," she said, "whether he does exist. I think that he is very nearly frightened into his grave. They say that he never comes west of St. Paul's, never enters a restaurant, and has eschewed the music halls."

"On my account?" Mannister asked.

"Entirely," she answered. "He goes in terror of his life."

Mannister smiled superciliously.

"He never had the nerves of a rabbit," he said. "I shall be curious to see him. Isn't this? Why, here he is!"

It was not wonderful that Mannister failed to recognize the man who a little timidly had entered the room, and stood hesitating now a few feet away from their table. Hambledon was still in morning dress, and he was certainly in evil condition. He had grown thinner, so that his clothes hung about him loosely. He had ceased to be particular about his linen and the folding of his tie. Behind his gold spectacles his eyes were bloodshot, and he carried with him the faint nauseating odour of the man who is an habitual drinker. Mannister beckoned to him, and he came up to the table at once.

"What the devil have you been doing to yourself?" Mannister demanded.

"I have been ill—upset—a nervous break-down," Hambledon stammered. "I have been—dn it all! you know what it is, Mannister!" he wound up abruptly. "Let me sit down and talk. My knees shake if I stand. Excuse me, Mrs. De la Mere. I did not recognize you at first."

"Sit down," Mannister said shortly. "Will you have some wine?"

Hambledon drank a glass off greedily.

"You know what is the matter with me, Mannister," he said. "Haven't I seen them all go, one by one? There's Traske, somewhere down in Hell. Polsover, a fugitive and ruined. They told me he was back, but it can't be true. Stevens, Colin Stevens, in a hospital with a bandage on his face, and God help him when the time comes for him to take it off! Rundermere, starving in some dirty foreign place. Jacobs, little Ernie, you walked him off from this very spot, and never a soul has seen him since. Dykes, dead and buried with a bullet in his forehead. I have seen them all go, and I am the last. God help me, I am the last!"

"You forget me," Sophy de la Mere said calmly.

"You and I, then," Hambledon said. "There's no one else left. They're all gone. I wish to Heaven I'd lost every farthing I possessed in the world before I'd robbed you, Mannister."

Mannister leaned back in his seat, and surveyed the other man contemptuously.

"It was not the money, Hambledon," he said quietly.

Hambledon clasped his hands and the tears stood in his eyes as he swore—

"It was not I who schemed to get you out of the country. I had nothing to do with Sinclair and that part of it, I swear. It was Stevens who thought that out."

"You were a party to it," Mannister said coldly.

"I did not approve—I did not agree," Hambledon declared. "I swear that I did not. Ask Mrs. De la Mere. There's no one else left to ask."

Mannister shrugged his shoulders.

"Let that go," he said. "Tell me why you have come here to-night like this."

"I had not the heart to change," Hambledon said. "I have lost my pluck. Hang it all," he continued "can't you see that I'm broken? What more do you want of me? You remember the man I was. Look at me now. I am fit for nothing but the scrap-heap. If you have anything planned in your mind against me, Mannister, go on with it, go on with it quickly. You may try your hardest, but I doubt whether you can do me any further evil.

Mannister sipped his wine thoughtfully. His eyes lingered upon the man who sat on the other side of the table; there was no sympathy in his face, only a great contempt.

"Your temperament is too elastic, Hambledon," he said drily. "If the fear of me were removed from you to-night, you would blossom out to-morrow a new man. I am not disposed to let you off so cheaply."

Hambledon rose from his chair a little abruptly.

"Was it to tell me this," he asked, "that you sent for me?"

"Not entirely," Mannister answered. "I was curious to see you. You can go now if you like. You will hear from me again in a day or two."

Hambledon spoke one last word before he turned away.

"So far, Mannister," he said, leaning a little across the table, "the luck has been on your side, but it may change. Remember that it may change at any moment."

He turned and left the restaurant. Mannister looked towards his companion with a smile.

"Do you believe in luck, dear lady?" he asked.

"I do," she answered, "but I believe also in you. I have had a delightful dinner, but I am afraid that I must tear myself away now. I am going round to Peggy Lancaster's to play bridge."

Mannister rose and bowed his adieux.

"I imagine," he said, "that we shall meet again before long."

She smiled at him gaily.

"Whenever you please," she answered. "I at least am not afraid of you, and I have enjoyed my dinner immensely."

Once more Mannister was alone. He ordered a liqueur, and lighting a cigarette, he sat for some time at the table. Then calling a waiter, he paid his bill and left the restaurant. From his pocket-book he took a small piece of paper and handed it up to the driver of his electric brougham.

"Find out where this is," he said, "and drive me there. It is somewhere in Balham."

Balham is a large neighbourhood, and the house which Mannister sought was in a very small street. Nevertheless they found it at last, after stopping several times for inquiries, and the carriage pulled up with a jerk in front of one of a tiny row of poor-looking houses. Mannister descended, and after looking up and down the street, rang the bell of the house opposite to him. There was some delay before it was answered, then the door was cautiously opened by a woman, whose face was invisible in the passage.

"Is Mrs. Hambledon in?" Mannister asked.

"I am Mrs. Hambledon," the woman answered.

"I should be glad," Mannister said, "to have a few minutes' conversation with you."

The woman looked at him in amazement, and then at the carriage which waited outside. Suddenly an idea occurred to her.

"Has anything happened to—to my husband?" she asked.

Mannister shook his head.

"Nothing that I know of," he answered. "I have some business with you, however. Will you allow me to come in and talk to you for a few minutes?"

She led the way into a small, poorly furnished sitting-room, and turned up the light. Mannister for the first time was able to see her distinctly. The unshaded gaslight was no kinder to her than the hand of time had been. She was thin and faded. Her face bore the impress of a constant anxiety. Her eyes were deep-set. Her dress was untidy, her appearance in no way prepossessing. Nevertheless Mannister felt that she was only the wreck of some other woman whose identity might well be lost.

"Mrs. Hambledon," Mannister said, "I have known your husband for a great many years. Lately I have made some inquiries concerning his habits and the manner of his life. It is because I am convinced that he is not behaving fairly to you and to his family that I have determined to intervene. I have some influence over your husband—we will call it influence, at any rate. May I ask if you know what his income is?"

The woman's eyes were big with astonishment. She scarcely understood what all this might mean.

"Between two and three hundred a year, he tells me," she answered. "He allows me three pounds a week to keep house on and look after the children. Sometimes," she added, after a moment's pause, "it is rather hard work."

Mannister nodded.

"He allows you," he repeated, "three pounds a week, and he pays, I imagine, for this house something like twenty-five pounds a year. And for your dress?"

"Sometimes," she said, "he gives me a little extra, but as a rule I have to buy what I want out of the three pounds a week."

"Your husband," Mannister said, "is not treating you well, Mrs. Hambledon. His income is nearer a thousand a year than three hundred pounds a year. I have some time ago been one of his associates, and I know something of the manner of his life, and I repeat that he is not treating you well."

"If," she said, looking at Mannister fixedly, "you know what you are talking about, if there is any truth at all in what you say, then he has treated me like a devil. I was better off by far before I was married. I had a comfortable home then, and no anxieties. Now it is nothing but work and trouble from Monday morning to Saturday night. I would not mind that so much," she continued, "if there was any one to share it with me, but the children are too young to understand, and his business keeps him out always till ten or eleven o'clock, sometimes all night. That is," she added, after a moment's breathless pause, and with a sudden new light in her eyes, "if he tells me the truth!"

Mannister looked at his watch.

"Put on your hat, Mrs. Hambledon," he said, "and come with me."

"Come with you! Where?" she repeated. "What for?"

"I am going," Mannister said, "to make things quite clear to you, and then I am going to show you how to act so that you may have a different husband and a different home."

The woman did not hesitate. She disappeared for a few moments, and returned dressed quietly enough, but with some remnants of gentility, for the street. Mannister placed her in the carriage and sat by her side. They drove almost in silence to a small block of flats near the Museum. Here Mannister assisted her to alight and whispered a question to the janitor, who shook his head.

"We have an appointment for ten o'clock," Mannister said. "Take us up into his rooms and let us wait."

He slipped a half sovereign into the man's hand, who showed them at once into the lift. On the fourth floor he stepped out and opened the door of one of the flats. The man retreated, closing the door after him.

"Why have you brought me here?" Mrs. Hambledon asked, looking around. "I do not understand."

"You will see," Mannister remarked, "that this is a cosy little suite, small but comfortable. There is a bedroom in there, and a bathroom. The sitting-room is not perhaps, elaborate, but still it is well enough for a bachelor. Go into the bedroom for a minute and tell me whether you recognize any of the things you see there."

She disappeared, and came back in a moment with white, scared face.

"There are some of my husband's clothes there, and his shaving things," she said.

Mannister nodded.

"Anything else?" he asked quietly.

The woman covered her face with her handkerchief and sobbed. Mannister laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.

"We are going to have all this changed," he said. "You must not worry. Life is made up of disappointments, you know. I dare say there are many worse in the world than your husband."

She looked up at him again in a moment.

"Tell me," she asked quietly, "what concern all this is of yours?"

Mannister smiled.

"In a few minutes," he said, "your husband will be here, and you may understand a little; you will never understand altogether. It is sufficient if I tell you that I think I can make your husband promise that there shall be no more of this sort of thing," he added, after a moment's pause.

The woman sat down, and with her chin resting upon her hands, looked fixedly into the fireplace.

"We have been married," she said, in dull, even tones, "eleven years. For the first year I was fairly happy, the second year things were a little different, and since then every year they have been worse. God knows what a struggle it has been lately. Fred has been home scarcely at all. We have never been away. I have not seen the inside of a theatre for five years. And all the time, all the time"

She did not finish her sentence. Mannister said nothing. There was nothing which he could say.

"I think," she began again in a moment, "that I would rather not have known. It was bad enough before, but now it is worse. If it were not for the children" she added softly.

Then of a sudden a key turned in the door and Hambledon entered. When he saw who it was that waited for him, he stood stock still, rooted to the ground with surprise. His wife rose slowly to her feet. Somehow or other she was no longer the poor faded creature whom Mannister had found. There was dignity as well as character in her attitude, and the calm level gaze which she turned upon him.

"Shut the door, Hambledon," Mannister ordered.

Hambledon obeyed like a man in a dream.

"Now give me the key," Mannister continued.

Again Hambledon obeyed. All the time he kept glancing furtively towards his wife.

"I do not think," Mannister said quietly, "that this is a situation which calls for many explanations. With a view to adjusting the little difference that remains between us, Hambledon, I made certain inquiries with regard to you and the manner of your life. The result was that I discovered you to be one of those selfish brutes who deceives his wife as to his means, and lives in luxury himself, while he forces his family to subsist on a beggarly pittance. Your wife knows everything, Hambledon. She will forgive you on certain conditions. Three parts of your income is to be spent in maintaining a proper establishment for her and your children. This flat you do not enter again. Your spare time, whatever it is, with reasonable exceptions, is to be given to fulfilling your duties as a husband and a father. Your acceptance of these conditions settles the difference between us. If you refuse them, or your wife refuses to forgive you, that difference must be settled in another way."

The man and the woman stood looking at one another. Dimly she seemed to understand that there was some danger with which her husband was threatened, and that it came from Mannister. She looked at him almost threateningly, and half held out her arms to her husband. Mannister turned away with a faint smile.

"My terms, I see," he began.

"Are accepted!" both the man and the woman declared.

Mannister pointed to the door.

"Let me suggest, then," he said, "that you take your wife round to a restaurant and have some supper. I will see to the shutting up of this place. And, Hambledon, remember I am not to be deceived."

Mr. and Mrs. Hambledon left the place arm in arm. Mannister locked up, and descended a few minutes later with the key in his pocket. On his way back to his rooms, he drew out the list which he still carried, and drew a line through Hambledon's name. Then he looked reflectively at the sheet of paper, now worn with much folding. One by one those straight black lines seemed to tell their own story. Only one name remained, the name of Sophy de la Mere!