Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (162 page)

‘I think,’ he could not help observing bitterly, ‘that with all I have to bear, they might have given me decent weather.’

There was no bread in the house, for Miss Hazeltine (like all women left to themselves) had subsisted entirely upon cake. But some of this was found, and (along with what the poets call a glass of fair, cold water) made up a semblance of a morning meal, and then down he sat undauntedly to his delicate task.

Nothing can be more interesting than the study of signatures, written (as they are) before meals and after, during indigestion and intoxication; written when the signer is trembling for the life of his child or has come from winning the Derby, in his lawyer’s office, or under the bright eyes of his sweetheart. To the vulgar, these seem never the same; but to the expert, the bank clerk, or the lithographer, they are constant quantities, and as recognizable as the North Star to the night-watch on deck.

To all this Morris was alive. In the theory of that graceful art in which he was now embarking, our spirited leather-merchant was beyond all reproach. But, happily for the investor, forgery is an affair of practice. And as Morris sat surrounded by examples of his uncle’s signature and of his own incompetence, insidious depression stole upon his spirits. From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his back; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark that he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the mean disorder of a house out of commission — the floor bare, the sofa heaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the pens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these were but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay round him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.

‘It’s one of the strangest things I ever heard of,’ he complained. ‘It almost seems as if it was a talent that I didn’t possess.’ He went once more minutely through his proofs. ‘A clerk would simply gibe at them,’ said he. ‘Well, there’s nothing else but tracing possible.’

He waited till a squall had passed and there came a blink of scowling daylight. Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street traced his uncle’s signature. It was a poor thing at the best. ‘But it must do,’ said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. ‘He’s dead, anyway.’ And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.

There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business, and with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even scrutinized the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared to warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he passed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior, an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.

‘Mr Morris Finsbury, I believe,’ said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris with a pair of double eye-glasses.

‘That is my name,’ said Morris, quavering. ‘Is there anything wrong.

‘Well, the fact is, Mr Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at receiving this,’ said the other, flicking at the cheque. ‘There are no effects.’

‘No effects?’ cried Morris. ‘Why, I know myself there must be eight-and-twenty hundred pounds, if there’s a penny.’

‘Two seven six four, I think,’ replied the gentlemanly man; ‘but it was drawn yesterday.’

‘Drawn!’ cried Morris.

‘By your uncle himself, sir,’ continued the other. ‘Not only that, but we discounted a bill for him for — let me see — how much was it for, Mr Bell?’

‘Eight hundred, Mr Judkin,’ replied the teller.

‘Bent Pitman!’ cried Morris, staggering back.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Judkin.

‘It’s — it’s only an expletive,’ said Morris.

‘I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mr Finsbury,’ said Mr Bell.

‘All I can tell you,’ said Morris, with a harsh laugh,’ is that the whole thing’s impossible. My uncle is at Bournemouth, unable to move.’

‘Really!’ cried Mr Bell, and he recovered the cheque from Mr Judkin. ‘But this cheque is dated in London, and today,’ he observed. ‘How d’ye account for that, sir?’

‘O, that was a mistake,’ said Morris, and a deep tide of colour dyed his face and neck.

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Judkin, but he looked at his customer enquiringly.

‘And — and — ’ resumed Morris, ‘even if there were no effects — this is a very trifling sum to overdraw — our firm — the name of Finsbury, is surely good enough for such a wretched sum as this.’

‘No doubt, Mr Finsbury,’ returned Mr Judkin; ‘and if you insist I will take it into consideration; but I hardly think — in short, Mr Finsbury, if there had been nothing else, the signature seems hardly all that we could wish.’

‘That’s of no consequence,’ replied Morris nervously. ‘I’ll get my uncle to sign another. The fact is,’ he went on, with a bold stroke, ‘my uncle is so far from well at present that he was unable to sign this cheque without assistance, and I fear that my holding the pen for him may have made the difference in the signature.’

Mr Judkin shot a keen glance into Morris’s face; and then turned and looked at Mr Bell.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems as if we had been victimized by a swindler. Pray tell Mr Finsbury we shall put detectives on at once. As for this cheque of yours, I regret that, owing to the way it was signed, the bank can hardly consider it — what shall I say? — businesslike,’ and he returned the cheque across the counter.

Morris took it up mechanically; he was thinking of something very different.

‘In a — case of this kind,’ he began, ‘I believe the loss falls on us; I mean upon my uncle and myself.’

‘It does not, sir,’ replied Mr Bell; ‘the bank is responsible, and the bank will either recover the money or refund it, you may depend on that.’

Morris’s face fell; then it was visited by another gleam of hope.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘you leave this entirely in my hands. I’ll sift the matter. I’ve an idea, at any rate; and detectives,’ he added appealingly, ‘are so expensive.’

‘The bank would not hear of it,’ returned Mr Judkin. ‘The bank stands to lose between three and four thousand pounds; it will spend as much more if necessary. An undiscovered forger is a permanent danger. We shall clear it up to the bottom, Mr Finsbury; set your mind at rest on that.’

‘Then I’ll stand the loss,’ said Morris boldly. ‘I order you to abandon the search.’ He was determined that no enquiry should be made.

‘I beg your pardon,’ returned Mr Judkin, ‘but we have nothing to do with you in this matter, which is one between your uncle and ourselves. If he should take this opinion, and will either come here himself or let me see him in his sick-room — ’

‘Quite impossible,’ cried Morris.

‘Well, then, you see,’ said Mr Judkin, ‘how my hands are tied. The whole affair must go at once into the hands of the police.’

Morris mechanically folded the cheque and restored it to his pocket — book.

‘Good — morning,’ said he, and scrambled somehow out of the bank.

‘I don’t know what they suspect,’ he reflected; ‘I can’t make them out, their whole behaviour is thoroughly unbusinesslike. But it doesn’t matter; all’s up with everything. The money has been paid; the police are on the scent; in two hours that idiot Pitman will be nabbed — and the whole story of the dead body in the evening papers.’

If he could have heard what passed in the bank after his departure he would have been less alarmed, perhaps more mortified.

‘That was a curious affair, Mr Bell,’ said Mr Judkin.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Bell, ‘but I think we have given him a fright.’

‘O, we shall hear no more of Mr Morris Finsbury,’ returned the other; ‘it was a first attempt, and the house have dealt with us so long that I was anxious to deal gently. But I suppose, Mr Bell, there can be no mistake about yesterday? It was old Mr Finsbury himself?’

‘There could be no possible doubt of that,’ said Mr Bell with a chuckle. ‘He explained to me the principles of banking.’

‘Well, well,’ said Mr Judkin. ‘The next time he calls ask him to step into my room. It is only proper he should be warned.’

CHAPTER VII. In Which William Dent Pitman takes Legal Advice

Norfolk Street, King’s Road — jocularly known among Mr Pitman’s lodgers as ‘Norfolk Island’ — is neither a long, a handsome, nor a pleasing thoroughfare. Dirty, undersized maids-of-all-work issue from it in pursuit of beer, or linger on its sidewalk listening to the voice of love. The cat’s-meat man passes twice a day. An occasional organ-grinder wanders in and wanders out again, disgusted. In holiday-time the street is the arena of the young bloods of the neighbourhood, and the householders have an opportunity of studying the manly art of self-defence. And yet Norfolk Street has one claim to be respectable, for it contains not a single shop — unless you count the public-house at the corner, which is really in the King’s Road.

The door of No. 7 bore a brass plate inscribed with the legend ‘W. D. Pitman, Artist’. It was not a particularly clean brass plate, nor was No. 7 itself a particularly inviting place of residence. And yet it had a character of its own, such as may well quicken the pulse of the reader’s curiosity. For here was the home of an artist — and a distinguished artist too, highly distinguished by his ill-success — which had never been made the subject of an article in the illustrated magazines. No wood-engraver had ever reproduced ‘a corner in the back drawing-room’ or ‘the studio mantelpiece’ of No. 7; no young lady author had ever commented on ‘the unaffected simplicity’ with which Mr Pitman received her in the midst of his ‘treasures’. It is an omission I would gladly supply, but our business is only with the backward parts and ‘abject rear’ of this aesthetic dwelling.

Here was a garden, boasting a dwarf fountain (that never played) in the centre, a few grimy-looking flowers in pots, two or three newly planted trees which the spring of Chelsea visited without noticeable consequence, and two or three statues after the antique, representing satyrs and nymphs in the worst possible style of sculptured art. On one side the garden was overshadowed by a pair of crazy studios, usually hired out to the more obscure and youthful practitioners of British art. Opposite these another lofty out-building, somewhat more carefully finished, and boasting of a communication with the house and a private door on the back lane, enshrined the multifarious industry of Mr Pitman. All day, it is true, he was engaged in the work of education at a seminary for young ladies; but the evenings at least were his own, and these he would prolong far into the night, now dashing off ‘A landscape with waterfall’ in oil, now a volunteer bust (‘in marble’, as he would gently but proudly observe) of some public character, now stooping his chisel to a mere ‘nymph’ for a gasbracket on a stair, sir’, or a life-size ‘Infant Samuel’ for a religious nursery. Mr Pitman had studied in Paris, and he had studied in Rome, supplied with funds by a fond parent who went subsequently bankrupt in consequence of a fall in corsets; and though he was never thought to have the smallest modicum of talent, it was at one time supposed that he had learned his business. Eighteen years of what is called ‘tuition’ had relieved him of the dangerous knowledge. His artist lodgers would sometimes reason with him; they would point out to him how impossible it was to paint by gaslight, or to sculpture life-sized nymphs without a model.

‘I know that,’ he would reply. ‘No one in Norfolk Street knows it better; and if I were rich I should certainly employ the best models in London; but, being poor, I have taught myself to do without them. An occasional model would only disturb my ideal conception of the figure, and be a positive impediment in my career. As for painting by an artificial light,’ he would continue, ‘that is simply a knack I have found it necessary to acquire, my days being engrossed in the work of tuition.’

At the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was in his studio alone, by the dying light of the October day. He sat (sure enough with ‘unaffected simplicity’) in a Windsor chair, his low-crowned black felt hat by his side; a dark, weak, harmless, pathetic little man, clad in the hue of mourning, his coat longer than is usual with the laity, his neck enclosed in a collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale in hue and simply tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard, tentatively clerical. There was a thinning on the top of Pitman’s head, there were silver hairs at Pitman’s temple. Poor gentleman, he was no longer young; and years, and poverty, and humble ambition thwarted, make a cheerless lot.

In front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly barrel; and let him turn them where he might, it was always to the barrel that his eyes and his thoughts returned.

‘Should I open it? Should I return it? Should I communicate with Mr Sernitopolis at once?’ he wondered. ‘No,’ he concluded finally, ‘nothing without Mr Finsbury’s advice.’ And he arose and produced a shabby leathern desk. It opened without the formality of unlocking, and displayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on which Mr Pitman was in the habit of communicating with the proprietors of schools and the parents of his pupils. He placed the desk on the table by the window, and taking a saucer of Indian ink from the chimney-piece, laboriously composed the following letter:

‘My dear Mr Finsbury,’ it ran, ‘would it be presuming on your kindness if I asked you to pay me a visit here this evening? It is in no trifling matter that I invoke your valuable assistance, for need I say more than it concerns the welfare of Mr Semitopolis’s statue of Hercules? I write you in great agitation of mind; for I have made all enquiries, and greatly fear that this work of ancient art has been mislaid. I labour besides under another perplexity, not unconnected with the first. Pray excuse the inelegance of this scrawl, and believe me yours in haste, William D. Pitman.’