The man who found himself (Smith's Magazine 1920)/Chapter 18

The head of a big office or business house can not move out of his orbit without creating perturbations. Brownlow, the head clerk and second in command of the Pettigrew business, was to learn this fact to his cost.

Brownlow was a man of forty-five whose habits and ideas seemed regulated by clockwork. He lived at Hampstead with his wife and three children and went each day to the office. That was the summary of his life as read by an outsider. Often the bald statement covers everything. It almost did in the case of Brownlow. He had no initiative. He kept things together; he was absolutely perfect in routine; he had a profound knowledge of the law; he was correct, a good husband and a good father; but he had no initiative and, outside of the law, very little knowledge of the world.

Imagine this correct gentleman, then, seated at his desk on the morning of the day after that on which Simon made his poaching arrangements with Horn. He was turning over some papers when Balls, the third in command, came in. Balls was young and wore eyeglasses and had ambitions. He and Brownlow were old friends and when together talked as equals.

“I've had that James man just in to see me,” said Balls. “Same old game—wanted to see Pettigrew. He knows I have the whole thread of the case in my hands, but that's nothing to him. He wants to see Pettigrew.”

“I know,” said Brownlow. “I've had the same bother. They will see the head.”

“When's he back?” asked Balls.

“I don't know,” said Brownlow.

“Where's he gone?”

“I don't know,” said Brownlow. “I only know he's gone, same as this time last year. He was a month away then.”

“Oh, Lord!” said Balls, who had only joined the office nine months before and who knew nothing of last year's escapade. “A month more of this sort of bother—a month!”

“Yes,” said Brownlow. “I had it to do last year, and he left no address, same as now.” Then, after a moment's pause, “I'm worried about him. I can't help it. There was a strange thing happened last year. I've never told it to a soul before. He called me in one day to his room and he showed me a bundle of bank notes. 'See here, Brownlow,' said he, 'did you put these in my safe?' I'd never seen the things before and I have no key to his private safe. I told him I hadn't. He showed me the notes, ten thousand pounds' worth. Ten thousand pounds' worth, he couldn't account for. Asked me if I'd put them in his safe and I said 'no,' as I told you. 'Well, it's very strange,' said he. Then he stood looking at the floor. Then he said all of a sudden: 'It doesn't matter.' Next day he went off on a month's holiday, sending word for me to carry on.”

“Queer,” said Balls.

“More than queer!” replied Brownlow. “I've put it down to mental strain. He's a hard worker.”

“It's not mental strain,” said Balls. “He's alive as you or me and as keen, and he doesn't overwork. It's something else.”

“Well, I wish it would stop,” said Brownlow, “for I'm nearly worried to death with clients writing to see him and trying to invent excuses, and my work is doubled.”

“So's mine,” said Balls. He went out and Brownlow continued his business. He had not been engaged on it for long when Morgan, the office boy, appeared.

“Mr. Tidd, sir, to see Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Show him in,” said Brownlow.

A moment later Mr. Tidd appeared.

Mr. Tidd was a small, slight, old-maidish man. He walked lightly, like a bird, and carried a tall hat with a black band in one hand and a tightly folded umbrella in the other. Incidentally he was one of Pettigrew's best clients.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Tidd. “I've called to see Mr. Pettigrew with regard to those papers.”

“Oh, yes,” said Brownlow. “Sit down, Mr. Tidd. Those papers—Mr. Pettigrew has been considering them.”

“Is not Mr. Pettigrew in?”

“No, Mr. Tidd, he's not in just at present.”

“When is he likely to return?”

“Well, that's doubtful. He has left me in charge.”

The end of Mr. Tidd's nose moved uneasily.

“You are in charge of my case?”

“Yes, of the whole business.”

“I can speak confidentially?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I have decided to stop proceedings—in fact, I am caught in a hole.”

“Oh?

“Yes. Mrs. Renshaw has, in some illicit manner, got a document with my signature attached—a very grave document. This is strictly between ourselves.”

“Strictly.”

“And she threatens to use it against me.”

“Oh!”

“To use it against me, unless I return to her at once the letter of hers which I put in Mr. Pettigrew's keeping.”

“Oh!”

“Yes. She is a violent and very vicious woman. I have not slept all night. I live, as you perhaps know, at Hitchin, and I took the first train I could conveniently catch to town this morning.”

The horrible fact was beginning to dawn on Brownlow that Simon had not brought those papers back to the office. He said nothing; his lips, for a moment, had gone dry.

“How she got hold of that document with my name to it I cannot tell,” said Mr. Tidd, “but she will use it against me most certainly, unless I return that letter.”

“Perhaps,” said Brownlow, recovering himself, “perhaps she is only threatening,—bluffing as they call it.”

“Oh, no, she's not,” said the other. “If you knew her you would not say that—no, indeed, you would not say that. She is the last women to threaten what she will not perform. Till that document is in her hands I will not feel safe.”

“You must be careful,” said Brownlow, fighing [sic] for time. “How would it be if I were to see her?”

“Useless,” said Mr. Tidd.

“May I ask”

“Yes.”

“Is the document to which your name is attached and which is in her possession—is it—er—detrimental—I mean, plainly, is it likely to do you a grave injury?”

“The document,” said Mr. Tidd, “was written by me in a moment of indiscretion to a lady who is not my wife.”

“It is a letter.”

“Yes, it is a letter.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Tidd, your document, the one you are anxious to return in exchange for this document, is in the possession of Mr. Pettigrew. It is quite safe.”

“Doubtless,” said Mr. Tidd, “but I want it in my hands to return it myself to-day.”

“I sent it with the other papers to Mr. Pettigrew's private house,” said Brownlow, “and he has not yet returned it.”

“Oh! but I want it—to-day.”

“It's very unfortunate,” said Brownlow, “but he's away—and I'm afraid he must have taken the papers with him for consideration.”

“Good heavens!” said Tidd. “But if that is so, what am I to do?”

“You can't wait?”

“How can I wait?”

“Dear me, dear me,” said Brownlow, almost driven to distraction, “this is very unfortunate!”

Tidd seemed to concur. His lips had become pale. Then he broke out:

“I placed my vital interests in the hands of Mr. Pettigrew and now, at the critical moment, I find this!” said he. “Away! But you must find him—you must find him and find him at once!”

If he had only known what he would find he might have been less eager, perhaps.

“I'll find him if I can,” said Brownlow. He rang a bell and, when Morgan appeared he sent for Balls.

“Mr. Balls,” said Brownlow with a spasmodic attempt at a wink, “can you not get Mr. Pettigrew's present address?”

Balls understood.

“I'll see,” said he. Out he went, returning in a minute.

“I'm sorry I can't,” said Balls. “Mr. Pettigrew did not leave his address when he went away.”

“Thank you, Mr. Balls,” said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, when they were alone, “This is as hard for me as for you, Mr. Tidd. I can't think what to do.”

“We've got to find him,” said Tidd.

“Certainly.”

“Will he by any chance have left his address at his private house?”

“We can see,” said Brownlow. “He has no telephone, but I'll go myself.”

“I will go with you,” said Tidd. “You understand me, this is a matter of life and death—ruin—my wife—that woman, and the other one.”

“I see, I see, I see,' said Brownlow, taking his hat from its peg on the wall. “Come with me—we will find him if he is to be found.”

He hurried out, followed by the other, and in Fleet Street he managed to get a taxi. They got into it and drove to King Charles Street.

There was a long pause after the knock and then the door opened, disclosing Mrs. Jukes. Brownlow was known to her.

“Mrs. Jukes,” said Brownlow, “can you give me Mr. Pettigrew's present address?”

“No, sit, I can't.”

“He was called away, was he not?”

“I don't think so, sir. He went off on some business or other. Mudd has gone with him.”

“Oh, dear,” said Tidd.

“They stopped at the Charing Cross Hotel,” said Mrs. Jukes, “and then I had a message they were going into the country. It was from Mr. Mudd and he said they might be a month away.”

“A month away,” said Tidd, his voice strangely calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good gracious!” said Brownlow. Then to Tidd, “You see how I am placed.”

“A month away,” said Tidd. He seemed unable to get over that obstacle of thought.

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Jukes.

They got into the taxi and went to the Charing Cross Hotel, where they were informed that Mr. Pettigrew was gone and had left no address.

Then suddenly an idea came to Brownlow—Oppenshaw. The doctor might know. Failing the doctor, they were done.

“Come with me,” said he. “I think I know a person who may have the address.” He got into the taxi again with the other, gave the Harley Street address, and they drove off. The horrible irregularity of the whole of this business was poisoning Brownlow's mind—hunting for the head of a firm who ought to be at his office and who held possession of a client's vitally important document.

He said nothing; neither did Mr. Tidd, who was probably engaged in reviewing the facts of his case and the position his wife would take up when that letter was put into her hands by Mrs. Renshaw.

They stopped at 110A Harley Street.

“Why, it's a doctor's house,” said Tidd.

“Yes,” said Brownlow.

They knocked at the door and were let in. The servant, in the absence of an appointment, said he would see what he could do and showed them into the waiting room.

“Tell Doctor Oppenshaw it is Mr. Brownlow from Mr. Pettigrew's office,' said Brownlow, “on very urgent business.”

They took their seats and while Mr. Tidd tried to read a volume of Punch upside down, Brownlow bit his nails.

In a marvelously short time the servant returned and asked Mr. Brownlow to step in.

Oppenshaw did not beat about the bush. When he heard what Brownlow wanted he said frankly he did not know where Mr. Pettigrew was; and he only knew that he had been staying at the Charing Cross Hotel. Mudd, the man-servant, was with him.

“It's only right that you should know the position,” said Oppenshaw, “since you say you are the chief clerk and all responsibility rests on you in Mr. Pettigrew's absence.” Then he explained.

“But if he's like that, where's the use of finding him?” said the horrified Brownlow. “A man with mind disease!”

“More a malady than a disease,” put in Oppenshaw.

“Yes, but—like that!”

“Of course,” said Oppenshaw, “he may at any moment turn back into himself again, like the finger of a glove turning inside out.”

“Perhaps,” said the other hopelessly, “but till he does turn”

At that moment the sound of a telephone bell came from outside.

“Till he does turn, of course, he's useless for business purposes,” said Oppenshaw. 'He would have no memory, for one thing—at least, no memory of business.”

The servant entered.

“Please, sir, an urgent call for you.”

“One moment,” said Oppenshaw. Out he went.

He was back in less than two minutes.

“I have his address,” said he.

“Thank goodness!” said Brownlow.

“H'm,” said Oppenshaw, “but there's not good news with it. He's staying at the Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill, and he's been getting into trouble of some sort. It was Mudd who phoned and he seemed half off his head. Said he didn't like to go into details over the telephone, but wanted me to come down to arrange matters. I told him it was quite impossible to-day; then he seemed to collapse and cut me off.”

“What am I to do?”

“Well, there's only two things to be done: tell this gentleman that Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected, or take him down there on the chance that this shock may have restored Mr. Pettigrew.”

“I can't tell him Mr. Pettigrew's mind is affected,” said Brownlow. “I'd sooner do anything than that. I'd sooner take him down there on the chance of his being better. Perhaps even if he's not, the sight of me and Mr. Tidd might recall him to himself.”

“Possibly,” said Oppenshaw, who was in a hurry and only too glad of any chance of cutting the business short. “Possibly. Anyhow, there is some use in trying, and tell Mudd it's absolutely useless for me to go. I shall be glad to do anything I can by letter or telephone.”

Brownlow took up his hat, then he recaptured Tidd, and gave him the cheering news that he had Simon's address.

“I'll go with you myself,” said Brownlow. “Of course, the expense will fall on the office. I must send telegrams to the office and my wife to say I won't be back to-night. We can't get to Upton till this evening. We'll have to go as we are, without even waiting to pack a bag.”

“That doesn't matter, that doesn't matter,” said Tidd.

They were in the street now and bundling into the waiting taxi.

“Victoria Station,” said Brownlow to the driver. Then to Tidd, “I can telegraph from the station.”

They drove off.