Edward Oppenheim - Jacob's Ladder

“Jacob,” he confided, “I don’t feel that I could ever be unhappy again. I have what I always dreamed of – Nora and the kids and freedom from anxiety. But you – where will life lead you, I wonder? I have reached the summit of my ambitions. I’m giddy with the pleasure of it. But you – it would be horrible if you, with all your money, were to miss happiness.”

Jacob smiled confidently.

“My dear Dick,” he said, “I am happy – not because I have twelve suits of clothes coming home from Savile Row to-day, not because of this Rolls-Royce car, my little flat at the Milan Court, my cottage at Marlingden, with Harris there for gardener now, and Mrs. Harris with not a worry in the world except how to make me comfortable. I am happy not because of all these things, but because you and I together are going to test life. I have the master key to the locked chambers. I am ready for adventures.”

“I have about as much imagination as an owl,” Dauncey sighed.

Jacob’s eyes were fixed upon the haze which hung over the city.

“When I speak of adventures,” he went on, “I do not mean the adventures of romance. I mean rather the adventures of the pavement. Human beings interest me, Dick. I like to see them come and go, study their purposes, analyse their motives, help them if they deserve help, stand in their way if they seek evil. These are the day-by-day adventures possible to the man who is free from care, and who mixes without hindrance with his fellows.”

“I begin to understand,” Dauncey admitted, “but I still don’t quite see by what means you are sure of coming into touch with interesting people.”

Jacob knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Dick,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “you are a very superficial student of humanity. A story such as mine attracts the imagination of the public. Every greedy adventurer in the world believes that the person who has acquired wealth without individual effort is an easy prey. I expect to derive a certain amount of amusement from those who read of my good fortune and seek to profit by it. That is why I had no objection to telling my story to the reporters, why I let them take my photograph, why I gave them all the information they wanted about the payment of my creditors in full and my sudden wealth. All that we need now is the little West End office which I am going to take within the next few days, and a brass plate upon the door. The fly will then sit still and await the marauding spiders.”

Dauncey smiled with all the enthusiasm of his new-found sense of humour.

“Five hundred a year,” he murmured, “to be henchman to a bluebottle!”

The acquisition of West End premises presented no particular difficulty, and in a few weeks’ time behold a transformed and glorified Jacob Pratt, seated in a cushioned swivel chair before a roll-top desk, in an exceedingly handsomely appointed office overlooking Waterloo Place. The summit of one of his ambitions had been easily gained. The cut of his black morning coat and neat grey trousers, the patent shoes and spats, his irreproachable linen, and the modest but beautiful pearl pin which reposed in his satin tie were indications of thoughtful and well-directed hours spent in the very Mecca of a man’s sartorial ambitions. Standing by his side, with a packet of correspondence in his hand, Dauncey, in his sober, dark serge suit, presented a very adequate representation of the part of confidential assistant and secretary to a financial magnate.

“Nothing but begging letters again this morning,” he announced; “four hospitals; the widow of an officer, still young, who desires a small loan and would prefer a personal interview; and the daughter of a rural dean down in the country, pining for London life, and only wanting a start in any position where good looks, an excellent figure, and a bright and loving disposition would be likely to meet with their due reward.”

“Hm!” Jacob muttered. “Pitch ’em into the waste-paper basket.”

“There are a packet of prospectuses – ”

“Send them along, too.”

“And a proposal from a Mr. Poppleton Watts that you should endow a national theatre, for which he offers himself as actor manager. You provide the cash, and he takes the whole responsibility off your shoulders. The letter is dated from the Corn Exchange, Market Harborough.”

“Scrap him with the rest,” Jacob directed, leaning back in his chair. “Anything more you want for the place, Dick?”

The two men looked around. There were rows of neatly arranged files, all empty; an unused typewriter; a dictaphone and telephone. The outer office, where Dauncey spent much of his time, was furnished with the same quiet elegance as the inner apartment. There seemed to be nothing lacking.

“A larger waste-paper basket is the only thing I can suggest,” Dauncey observed drily.

Then came the sound for which, with different degrees of interest, both men had been waiting since the opening of the offices a fortnight before. There was a tap at the outer door, the sound of a bell and footsteps in the passage. Dauncey hurried out, closing the door of the private office behind him. His chief drew a packet of papers from a receptacle in his desk, forced a frown on to his smooth forehead, and buried himself in purposeless calculations.

Dauncey confronted the visitors. There were two of them – one whose orientalism of speech and features was unsuccessfully camouflaged by the splendour of his city attire, the other a rather burly, middle-aged man, in a worn tweed suit, carrying a bowler hat, with no gloves, and having the general appearance of a builder or tradesman of some sort. His companion took the lead.

“Is Mr. Jacob Pratt in?” he enquired.

“Mr. Pratt is in but very busy,” Dauncey answered doubtfully. “Have you an appointment?”

“We have not, but we are willing to await Mr. Pratt’s convenience,” was the eager reply. “Will you be so good as to take in my card? Mr. Montague, my name is – Mr. Dane Montague.”

Dauncey accepted the mission after a little hesitation, knocked reverently at the door of the inner office, and went in on tiptoe, closing the door behind him. He presented the card to Jacob, who was busily engaged in polishing the tip of one of his patent shoes with a fragment of blotting paper.

“A full-blown adventure,” he announced. “A man who looks like a money-lender, and another who might be his client.”

“Did they state the nature of their business?” Jacob demanded.

“They did not, but it is written in the face of Mr. Dane Montague. He wants as much of your million as he can induce you to part with. What his methods may be, however, I don’t know.”

“Show them in when I ring the bell,” Jacob directed, drawing the packet of papers once more towards him. “Extraordinarily complicated mass of figures here,” he added.

Dauncey withdrew into the outer office, closing the door behind him and still walking on tiptoe.

“Mr. Pratt will see you in a few minutes,” he said, with the air of one who imparts great news. “Please be seated.”

The two men subsided into chairs. Dauncey thrust a sheet of paper into a typewriter and desperately dashed off a few lines to an imaginary correspondent. Then the bell from the inner office rang, and, beckoning the two men to follow him, he opened the door of Jacob’s sanctum and ushered them in. Mr. Dane Montague advanced to the desk with a winning smile.

“My name is Dane Montague,” he announced, ostentatiously drawing off his glove and holding out a white, pudgy hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Pratt. This is my friend, Mr. James Littleham. The name may be known to you in connection with various building contracts.”