21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) - E. Phillips Oppenheim

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of the river. He felt his heart beating with unaccustomed vigor. Was this, then, the secret of Morrison’s terror? He wondered no longer at his collapse. The terror was upon him, too. He felt his forehead, and his hand, when he drew it away, was wet. It was not Morrison alone but he himself who might be implicated in this man’s knowledge. The thoughts flitted through his brain like parts of a nightmare. He saw Morrison arrested, he saw the whole story of the missing pocket-book in the papers, he imagined his bank manager reading it and thinking of that parcel of mysterious bank-notes deposited in his keeping on the morning after the tragedy… Laverick was a strong man, and his moment of weakness, poignant though it had been, passed. This was no new thing with which he was confronted. All the time he had known that the probabilities were in favor of such a discovery. He set his teeth and turned to face his visitor.

      “This is a very serious thing which you have told me,” he said. “Have you spoken about it to any one else?”

      “Not a soul, sir,” the man answered. “I thought it best to have a word or two first with Mr. Morrison.”

      “You were thinking of attending the inquest,” Laverick said thoughtfully. “The police would thank you for your evidence, and there, I suppose, the matter would end.”

      “You’ve hit it precisely, sir,” the man admitted. “There the matter would end.”

      “On the other hand,” Laverick continued, speaking as though he were reasoning this matter out to himself, “supposing you decided not to meddle in an affair which does not concern you, supposing you were not sure as to the identity of your customer last night, and being a little tired you could not rightly remember whether Mr. Morrison called in for a drink or not, and so, to cut the matter short, you dismissed the whole matter from your mind and let the inquest take its own course,—Laverick paused. His visitor scratched the side of his chin and nodded.

      “You’ve put this matter plainly, sir,” he said, “in what I call an understandable, straightforward way. I’m a poor man—I’ve been a poor man all my life—and I’ve never seed a chance before of getting away from it. I see one now.”

      “You want to do the best you can for yourself?”

      “So ‘elp me God, sir, I do!” the man agreed.

      Laverick nodded.

      “You have done a remarkably wise thing,” he said, “in coming to me and in telling me about this affair. The idea of connecting Mr. Morrison with the murder would, of course, be ridiculous, but, on the other hand, it would be very disagreeable to him to have his name mentioned in connection with it. You have behaved discreetly, and you have done Mr. Morrison a service in trying to find him out. You will do him a further service by adopting the second course I suggested with regard to the inquest. What do you consider that service is worth?”

      “It depends, sir,” the man answered quietly, “at what price Mr. Morrison values his life!”

      XVII. THE PRICE OF SILENCE

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      The man’s manner was expressive. Laverick repeated his phrase, frowning.

      “His life!”

      “Yes, sir!”

      Laverick shrugged his shoulders.

      “Come,” he declared, “you must not go too far with this thing. I have admitted, so as to clear the way for anything you have to say, that Mr. Morrison would not care to have his name mentioned in connection with this affair. But because he left your bar a few minutes after the murdered man, it is sheer folly to assume that therefore he is necessarily implicated in his death. I cannot conceive anything more unlikely.”

      The man smiled—a slow, uncomfortable smile which suggested mirth less than anything in the world.

      “There are a few other things, sir,” he remarked,—“one in especial.”

      “Well?” Laverick inquired. “Let’s have it. You had better tell me everything that is in your mind.”

      “The man was stabbed with a horn-handled knife.”

      “I remember reading that,” Laverick admitted.

      “Well?”

      “The knife was mine,” his visitor affirmed, dropping his voice once more to a whisper. “It lay on the edge of the counter, close to where Mr. Morrison was leaning, and as soon as he’d gone I missed it.”

      Laverick was silent. What was there to be said?

      “Horn-handled knives,” he muttered, “are not rare not uncommon things.”

      “One don’t possess a knife for a matter of eight or nine years without being able to swear to it,” the other remarked dryly.

      “Is there anything more?”

      “There don’t need to be,” was the quiet reply. “You know that, sir. So do I. There don’t need to be any more evidence than mine to send Mr. Morrison to the gallows.”

      “We will waive that point,” Laverick declared. “The jury sometimes are very hard to convince by circumstantial evidence alone. However, as I have said, let us waive that point. Your position is clear enough. You go to the inquest, you tell all you know, and you get nothing. You are a poor man, you have worked hard all your life. The chance has come in your way to do yourself a little good. Now take my advice. Don’t spoil it all by asking for anything ridiculous. It won’t do for you to come into a fortune a few days after this affair, especially if it ever comes out that the murdered man was in your place. I am here to act for Mr. Morrison. What is it that you want?”

      “You are talking like a gent, sir,” the man said,—“like a sensible gent, too. I’d have to keep it quiet, of course, that I’d come into a bit of money,—just at present, at any rate. I could easy find an excuse for changing my job—perhaps get away from London altogether. I’ve got a few pounds saved and I’ve always wanted to open a banking account. A gent like you, perhaps, could put me in the way of doing it.”

      “How much do you consider would be a satisfactory balance to commence with?” Laverick asked.

      “I was thinking of a thousand pounds, sir.”

      Laverick was thoughtful for a few moments.

      “By the way, what is your name?” he inquired at last.

      “James Shepherd, sir,” the man answered,—“generally called Jim, sir.”

      “Well, you see, Shepherd,” Laverick continued, “the difficulty is, in your case, as in all similar ones, that one never knows where the thing will end. A thousand pounds is a considerable sum, but in four amounts, with three months interval between each, it could be arranged. This would be better for you, in any case. Two hundred and fifty pounds is not an unheard-of sum for you to have saved or got together. After that your investments would be my lookout, and they would produce, as I have said, another seven hundred and fifty pounds. But what security have I—has Mr. Morrison, let us say—that you will be content with this sum?”

      “He hasn’t any, sir,” the man admitted at once. “He couldn’t have any. I’m a modest-living man, and I’ve no desire to go shouting around that I’m independent all of a sudden. That wouldn’t do nohow. A thousand pounds would bring me in near enough a pound a week if I invested it, or two pounds a week for an annuity, my health being none too good. I’ve no wife or children, sir. I was thinking of an annuity. With two pounds a week I’d have no cause to trouble any one again.”

      Laverick considered.

      “It shall be done,” he said. “To-morrow I shall buy shares for you to the extent of two hundred and fifty pounds. They will be deposited in a bank. Some day you can look in and see me, and I will take you round there. You are my client who has

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