Arthur Morrison - British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated)

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I didn’t know you lived here. I am after somebody else just now. Aren’t you well?’

“He looked at me rather doubtfully, and said he was not very well.

“I met him twice or thrice after that, and on each occasion his manner grew more friendly, in a servile, flattering, and mean sort of way—a thing unpleasant enough in anybody, but doubly so in the intercourse of a man with another young enough to be his own son. Still, of course, I treated the man civilly enough. On one occasion he asked me into his rooms to look at a rather fine picture he had lately bought, and observed casually, lifting a large revolver from the mantel-piece:

“‘You see, I am prepared for any unwelcome visitors to my little den! He! He!’ Conceiving him, of course, to refer to burglars, I could not help wondering at the forced and hollow character of his laugh. As we went down the stairs he said: ‘I think we know one another pretty well now, Mr. Mason, eh? And if I could do anything to advance your professional prospects, I should be glad of the chance, of course. I understand the struggles of a young professional man—he! he!’ It was the forced laugh again, and the man spoke nervously. ‘I think,’ he added, ‘that if you will drop in to-morrow evening, perhaps I may have a little proposal to make. Will you?’

“I assented, wondering what this proposal could be. Perhaps this eccentric old gentleman was a good fellow, after all, anxious to do me a good turn, and his awkwardness was nothing but a natural delicacy in breaking the ice. I was not so flush of good friends as to be willing to lose one. He might be desirous of putting business in my way.

“I went, and was received with cordiality that even then seemed a little over-effusive. We sat and talked of one thing and another for a long while, and I began to wonder when Mr. Foggatt was coming to the point that most interested me. Several times he invited me to drink and smoke, but long usage to athletic training has given me a distaste for both practices, and I declined. At last he began to talk about myself. He was afraid that my professional prospects in this country were not great, but he had heard that in some of the colonies—South Africa, for example—young lawyers had brilliant opportunities.

“‘If you’d like to go there,’ he said, ‘I’ve no doubt, with a little capital, a clever man like you could get a grand practice together very soon. Or you might buy a share in some good established practice. I should be glad to let you have £500, or even a little more, if that wouldn’t satisfy you, and—’

“I stood aghast. Why should this man, almost a stranger, offer me £500, or even more, ‘if that wouldn’t satisfy’ me? What claim had I on him? It was very generous of him, of course, but out of the question. I was, at least, a gentleman, and had a gentleman’s self-respect. Meanwhile, he had gone maundering on, in a halting sort of way, and presently let slip a sentence that struck me like a blow between the eyes.

“‘I shouldn’t like you to bear ill-will because of what has happened in the past,’ he said. ‘Your late—your late lamented mother—I’m afraid—she had unworthy suspicions—I’m sure—it was best for all parties—your father always appreciated—’

“I set back my chair and stood erect before him. This groveling wretch, forcing the words through his dry lips, was the thief who had made another of my father and had brought to miserable ends the lives of both my parents! Everything was clear. The creature went in fear of me, never imagining that I did not know him, and sought to buy me off—to buy me from the remembrance of my dead mother’s broken heart for £500—£500 that he had made my father steal for him! I said not a word. But the memory of all my mother’s bitter years, and a savage sense of this crowning insult to myself, took a hold upon me, and I was a tiger. Even then I verily believe that one word of repentance, one tone of honest remorse, would have saved him. But he drooped his eyes, snuffled excuses, and stammered of ‘unworthy suspicions’ and ‘no ill-will.’ I let him stammer. Presently he looked up and saw my face; and fell back in his chair, sick with terror. I snatched the pistol from the mantel-piece, and, thrusting it in his face, shot him where he sat.

“My subsequent coolness and quietness surprise me now. I took my hat and stepped toward the door. But there were voices on the stairs. The door was locked on the inside, and I left it so. I went back and quietly opened a window. Below was a clear drop into darkness, and above was plain wall; but away to one side, where the slope of the gable sprang from the roof, an iron gutter ended, supported by a strong bracket. It was the only way. I got upon the sill and carefully shut the window behind me, for people were already knocking at the lobby door. From the end of the sill, holding on by the reveal of the window with one hand, leaning and stretching my utmost, I caught the gutter, swung myself clear, and scrambled on the roof. I climbed over many roofs before I found, in an adjoining street, a ladder lashed perpendicularly against the front of a house in course of repair. This, to me, was an easy opportunity of descent, notwithstanding the boards fastened over the face of the ladder, and I availed myself of it.

“I have taken some time and trouble in order that you (so far as I am aware the only human being beside myself who knows me to be the author of Foggatt’s death) shall have at least the means of appraising my crime at its just value of culpability. How much you already know of what I have told you I can not guess. I am wrong, hardened, and flagitious, I make no doubt, but I speak of the facts as they are. You see the thing, of course, from your own point of view—I from mine. And I remember my mother!

“Trusting that you will forgive the odd freak of a man—a criminal, let us say—who makes a confidant of the man set to hunt him down, I beg leave to be, sir, your obedient servant,

“Sidney Mason.”

I read the singular document through and handed it back to Hewitt.

“How does it strike you?” Hewitt asked.

“Mason would seem to be a man of very marked character,” I said. “Certainly no fool. And, if his tale is true, Foggatt is no great loss to the world.”

“Just so—if the tale is true. Personally I am disposed to believe it is.”

“Where was the letter posted?”

“It wasn’t posted. It was handed in with the others from the front-door letter-box this morning in an unstamped envelope. He must have dropped it in himself during the night. Paper,” Hewitt proceeded, holding it up to the light, “Turkey mill, ruled foolscap. Envelope, blue, official shape, Pirie’s watermark. Both quite ordinary and no special marks.”

“Where do you suppose he’s gone?”

“Impossible to guess. Some might think he meant suicide by the expression ‘beyond the reach even of your abilities of search,’ but I scarcely think he is the sort of man to do that. No, there is no telling. Something may be got by inquiring at his late address, of course; but, when such a man tells you he doesn’t think you will find him, you may count upon its being a difficult job. His opinion is not to be despised.”