21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series). E. Phillips Oppenheim
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of altogether deeper dye.
Stephen Laverick was, in his way, something of a philosopher. In the cold daylight, with the sound of the water running into his bath, this deed which he had done seemed to him foolish and reprehensible. Nevertheless, he realized the absolute finality of his action. The thing was done; he must make the best of it. Behaving in every way like a sensible man, he did not send for the newspapers and search hysterically for their account of last night’s tragedy, but took his bath as usual, dressed with more than ordinary care, and sat down to his breakfast before he even unfolded the paper. The item for which he searched occupied by no means so prominent a position as he had expected. It appeared under one of the leading headlines, but it consisted of only a few words. He read them with interest but without emotion. Afterwards he turned to the Stock Exchange quotations and made notes of a few prices in which he was interested.
He completed in leisurely fashion an excellent breakfast and followed his usual custom of walking along the Embankment as far as the Royal Hotel, where he called a taxicab and drove to his offices. A little crowd had gathered around the end of the passage which led from Crooked Friars, and Laverick himself leaned forward and looked curiously at the spot where the body of the murdered man had lain. It seemed hard to him to reconstruct last night’s scene in his mind now that the narrow street was filled with hurrying men and a stream of vehicles blocked every inch of the roadway. In his early morning mood the thing was impossible. In a moment or two he paid his driver and dismissed him.
He fancied that a certain relief was visible among his clerks when he opened the door at precisely his usual time and with a cheerful “Good-morning!” made his way into the private office. He lit his customary cigarette and dealt rapidly with the correspondence which was brought in to him by his head-clerk. Afterwards, as soon as he was alone, he opened the safe, thrust the contents of that inner drawer into his breast-pocket, and took up once more his hat and gloves.
“I am going around to the bank,” he told his clerk as he passed out. “I shall be back in half-an-hour—perhaps less.”
“Very good, sir,” the man answered. “Will Mr. Morrison be here this morning?”
Laverick hesitated.
“No, Mr. Morrison will not be here to-day.”
It was only a few steps to his bankers, and his request for an interview with the manager was immediately granted. The latter received him kindly but with a certain restraint. There are not many secrets in the city, and Morrison’s big plunge on a particular mining share, notwithstanding its steady drop, had been freely commented upon.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Laverick?” the banker asked.
“I am not sure,” answered Laverick. “To tell you the truth, I am in a somewhat singular position.”
The banker nodded. He had not a doubt but that he understood exactly what that position was.
“You have perhaps heard,” Laverick continued slowly, “that my late partner, Mr. Morrison,—”
“Late partner?” the manager interrupted.
Laverick assented.
“We had a few words last night,” he explained “and Mr. Morrison left the office with an understanding between us that he should not return. You will receive a formal intimation of that during the course of the next day or so. We will revert to the matter presently, if you wish. My immediate business with you is to discuss the fact that I have to provide something like twenty thousand pounds to-day if I decide to take up the purchases of stock which Morrison has made.”
“You understand the position, of course, Mr. Laverick, if you fail to do so?” the manager remarked gravely.
“Naturally,” Laverick answered. “I am quite aware of the fact that Morrison acted on behalf of the firm and that I am responsible for his transactions. He has plunged pretty deeply, though, a great deal more deeply than our capital warranted. I may add that I had not the slightest idea as to the extent of his dealings.”
The bank manager adopted a sympathetic but serious attitude.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” he declared, “is a great deal of money, Mr. Laverick.”
“It is a great deal of money,” Laverick admitted. “I am here to ask you to lend it to me.”
The bank manager raised his eyebrows.
“My dear Mr. Laverick!” he exclaimed reproachfully.
“Upon unimpeachable security,” Laverick continued. The bank manager was conscious that he had allowed a little start of surprise to escape him, and bit his lip with annoyance. It was entirely contrary to his tenets to display at any time during office hours any sort of emotion.
“Unimpeachable security,” he repeated. “Of course, if you have that to offer, Mr. Laverick, although the sum is a large one, it is our business to see what we can do for you.”
“My security is of the best,” Laverick declared grimly. “I have bank-notes here, Mr. Fenwick, for twenty thousand pounds.”
The bank manager was again guilty of an unprofessional action. He whistled softly under his breath. A very respectable client he had always considered Mr. Stephen Laverick, but he had certainly never suspected him of being able to produce at a pinch such evidence of means. Laverick smoothed out the notes and laid them upon the table.
“Mr. Fenwick,” he said, “I believe I am right in assuming that when one comes to one’s bankers, one enters, as it were, into a confessional. I feel convinced that nothing which I say to you will be repeated outside this office, or will be allowed to dwell in your own mind except with reference to this particular transaction between you and me. I have the right, have I not, to take that for granted?”
“Most certainly,” the banker agreed.
“From a strictly ethical point of view,” Laverick went on, “this money is not mine. I hold it in trust for its owner, but I hold it without any conditions. I have power to make what use I wish of it, and I choose to-day to use it on my own behalf. Whether I am justified or not is scarcely a matter, I presume, which concerns this excellent banking establishment over which you preside so ably. I do not pay these bank-notes in to my account and ask you to credit me with twenty thousand pounds. I ask you to allow me to deposit them here for seven days as security against an overdraft. You can then advance me enough money to meet my engagements of to-day.”
The banker took up the notes and looked them through, one by one. They were very crisp, very new, and absolutely genuine.
“This is somewhat an extraordinary proceeding, Mr. Laverick,” he said.
“I have no doubt that it must seem so to you,” Laverick admitted. “At the same time, there the money is. You can run no risk. If I am exceeding my moral right in making use of these notes, it is I who will have to pay. Will you do as I ask?”
The banker hesitated. The transaction was somewhat a peculiar one, but on the face of it there could be no possible risk. At the same time, there was something about it which he could not understand.
“Your wish, Mr. Laverick,” he remarked, looking at him thoughtfully, “seems to be to keep these notes out of circulation.”
Laverick returned his gaze without flinching.
“In a sense, that is so,” he assented.
“On the whole,” the banker declared, “I should prefer to credit them to your account in the usual way.”
“I am sorry,” Laverick answered, “but I have a sentimental feeling about it. I prefer to keep the notes intact. If you cannot follow out my suggestion, I must remove my account at once. This isn’t a threat, Mr. Fenwick,—you will understand that, I am sure. It is simply a matter of business, and owing to Morrison’s speculations I have no time for arguments. I am quite satisfied to remain in your hands, but my feeling in the matter is exactly as I have stated, and I cannot change. If you are to retain my account, my engagements