The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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continued: “What about a mild refresher while we discuss our little business? Looks like being a dry job, to judge by your mug.”
Without replying, Pottermack opened a small cupboard, and taking out a decanter, a siphon, and a tumbler, placed them on the table by his guest. It was not difficult to see that the latter had already fortified himself with one or two refreshers, mild or otherwise, but that was not Pottermack’s affair. He was going to keep his own brain clear. The other might do as he pleased.
“Not going to join me, Jeff?” the visitor protested. “Oh, buck up, old chap! It’s no use getting peevish about parting with a few pounds. You won’t miss a little donation to help a pal out of a difficulty.”
As Pottermack made no reply but sat down and gazed stonily before him, the other poured out half a tumblerful of whisky, filled up with soda, and took a substantial gulp. Then he, too, sat silent for a time, gazing out into the darkening garden. And gradually the smile faded from his face, leaving it sullen and a little anxious.
“So you’ve been digging up your lawn,” he remarked presently. What’s the game? Going to set up a flagstaff?”
“No. I am going to have a sun-dial there.”
“A sun-dial, hey? Going to get your time on the cheap? Good. I like sun-dials. Do their job without ticking. Suppose you’ll have a motto on it. Tempus fugit is the usual thing. Always appropriate, but especially so in the case of a man who has ‘done time’ and fugitted. It will help to remind you of olden days, ‘the days that are no more.’” He finished with a mirthless cackle and cast a malignant glance at the silent and wooden-faced Pottermack. There was another interval of strained, uncomfortable silence, during which the visitor took periodic gulps from his tumbler and eyed his companion with sullen perplexity. At length, having finished his liquor, he set down the empty tumbler and turned towards Pottermack. “You got my letter, I suppose, as you left the gate ajar?”
“Yes,” was the laconic reply.
“Been up to town today?”
“No.”
“Well, I suppose you have got the money?”
“No, I have not.”
The big man sat up stiffly and stared at his companion in dismay.
“But, damn it, man!” he exclaimed, “didn’t I tell you it was urgent? I’m in a devil of a fix. I’ve got to pay that hundred tomorrow. Must pay it, you understand. I’m going up to town in the morning to pay. As I hadn’t got the money myself, I’ve had to borrow it from—you know where; and I was looking to you to enable me to put it back at once. I must have that money tomorrow at the latest. You’d better run up to town in the morning and I’ll meet you outside your bank.”
Pottermack shook his head. “It can’t be done, Lewson. You’ll have to make some other arrangements.”
Lewson stared at him in mingled amazement and fury. For a moment he was too astonished for speech. At length he burst out:
“Can’t be done! What the devil do you mean? You’ve got the money in your bank and you are going to hand it over, or I’ll know the reason why. What do you imagine you are going to do?”
“I am going,” said Pottermack, “to hold you to your agreement, or at least to part of it. You demanded a sum of money—a large sum—as the price of your silence. It was to be a single payment, once for all, and I paid it. You promised solemnly to make no further demands; yet, within a couple of months, you did make further demands, and I paid again. Since then you have made demands at intervals, regardless of your solemn undertaking. Now this has got to stop. There must be an end to it, and this has got to be the end.”
As he spoke, quietly but firmly, Lewson gazed at him as if he could not trust the evidence of his senses. This was quite a new Pottermack. At length, suppressing his anger, he replied in a conciliatory tone:
“Very well, Jeff. It shall be the end. Help me out just this time and you shall hear no more from me. I promise you that on my word of honour.”
At this last word Pottermack smiled grimly. But he answered in the same quiet, resolute manner:
“It is no use, Lewson. You said that last time and the time before that, and, in fact, time after time. You have always sworn that each demand should be positively the last. And so you will go on, if I let you, until you have squeezed me dry.”
On this Lewson threw off all disguise. Thrusting out his chin at Pottermack, he exclaimed furiously: “If you let me! And how do you think you are going to prevent me? You are quite right. I’ve got you, and I’m going to squeeze you, so now you know. And look here, young fellow, if that money isn’t handed out to me tomorrow morning, something is going to happen. A very surprised gentleman at Scotland Yard will get a letter informing him that the late Jeffrey Brandon, runaway convict, is not the late J. B. but is alive and kicking, and that his present name and address is Marcus Pottermack, Esquire, of ‘The Chestnuts,’ Borley, Bucks. How will that suit you?”
“It wouldn’t suit me at all,” Mr. Pottermack replied, with unruffled calm; “but before you do it, let me remind you of one or two facts. First, the run-away convict, once your closest friend, was to your knowledge an innocent man—”
“That’s no affair of mine,” Lewson interrupted. “He was a convict, and is one still. Besides, how do I know he was innocent? A jury of his fellow-countrymen found him guilty—”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Lewson,” Pottermack broke in impatiently. “There is no one here but ourselves. We both know that I didn’t do those forgeries and we both know who did.”
Lewson grinned as he reached out for the decanter and poured out another half-tumblerful of whisky. “If you knew who did it,” he chuckled, “you must have been a blooming mug not to say.”
“I didn’t know then,” Pottermack rejoined bitterly. “I thought you were a decent, honest fellow, fool that I was.”
“Yes,” Lewson agreed, with a low, cackling laugh, “you were a blooming mug and that’s a fact. Well, well; we live and learn.”
Still sniggering foolishly, he took a long pull at the tumbler, leering into the flushed, angry face that confronted him across the table. Suddenly Pottermack rose from his chair, and, striding out into the garden, halted some dozen paces away and stood with his back to the summer-house, looking steadily across the lawn. It was now quite dark, though the moon showed dimly from time to time through a thinning of the overcast sky; but still, through the gloom, he could make out faintly the glimmer of lighter-coloured soil where it had been turned up to level the ground for the sun-dial. The well was invisible, but he knew exactly where the black cavity yawned, and his eye, locating the spot, rested on it with gloomy fixity.
His reverie was interrupted by Lewson’s voice, now pitched in a more ingratiating key.
“Well, Jeff; thinking it over? That’s right, old chap. No use getting pippy.”
He paused, and as there was no reply he continued:
“Come now, dear boy, let’s settle the business amicably as old pals should. Pity for you to go back to the jug when there’s no need. You just help me out of this hole, and I will give you my solemn word of honour that it shall be the very last time. Won’t that satisfy you?”
Pottermack turned his head slightly, and speaking over his shoulder, replied; “Your word of honour! The honour of a blackmailer, a thief and a liar. It isn’t exactly what you would call a gilt-edged security.”
“Well,” the other retorted thickly, “gilt-edged or not, you had better take it and shell out. Now, what do you say?”
“I say,” Pottermack replied with quiet decision, “that I am not going to give you another farthing on any condition whatever.”
For several seconds Lewson gazed in silent dismay at the shadowy figure on the lawn. This final, definite refusal was a contingency