The Man Who Bought London (16 page)

‘
Voilà
!’ said Micheloff.

He stood in an attitude of complete satisfaction, his arms akimbo, and the bundle of envelopes, tightly bound with string, which lay upon the desk testified mutely to the skill of the man.

There were two red patches on Hermann’s cheeks and his eyes blazed with triumph. ‘At last! You are a wonderful man,’ he said ironically.

Micheloff shrugged his shoulders.

‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘The genius of the idea; the forethought was all yours, oh,
mon générale
! Who but you would have thought of the bills to paste upon the windows? That was a master stroke; the rest was easy.’

‘You had to cut out the lock, I suppose?’ asked Hermann as he untied the strings which bound the letters.

Micheloff shook his great head. ‘It was simple. Here again your perception!’ He extended his arms admiringly.

‘My perception!’ said the other roughly. ‘Did you open the safe with the name I gave?’ The man bowed his head. ‘With “Elsie”?’ Again Micheloff nodded.

The brows of Hermann Zeberlieff were knitted, his under-jaw stuck out pugnaciously, and he was not beautiful to look upon at the moment.

‘Elsie,’ he repeated, ‘damn him! I’ll make him sorry for that.’

He cut the cord impatiently and sorted over the envelopes.

‘You have missed one,’ he said.

‘Impossible,’ replied the calm Micheloff. ‘I examined with great care, and my knowledge of English is almost perfect. Every one is here.’

‘There was one which contained a marriage certificate,’ said Hermann.

‘That is there also,’ said the other. ‘I particularly remember placing it there.’

‘It is not here now.’ He made another search. ‘You fool, you have left behind the most valuable letter of all.’

‘It is a thousand pities,’ said Micheloff a little impatiently. He was tired of criticism, tired of being bullied. He wanted a little praise for the risk he had taken and the work he had done.

‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I think that you have sufficient for your money.’

Hermann thought a moment, and went to a little safe in the wall, opened it, and took out a bundle of notes. He carefully counted ten and handed them to his tool, who counted them again no less carefully. ‘This is exactly half what you promised,’ he said.

‘There is exactly all there that you will get,’ said Hermann. ‘You have failed to secure what I asked for, what I particularly desired you to bring to me.’

‘I require another thousand pounds,’ said Micheloff; his little eyes twinkled coldly. ‘I desire another thousand pounds,
monsieur
, and I do not leave here until I get it.’

‘You will go!’ Hermann took a step towards him and stopped.

Micheloff was taking no chances that night. He had felt the strangling white hands of the other about his throat, and it was an experience which he did not intend should be repeated. Hermann stopped before the black barrel of a Browning pistol.

‘No, no, my ancient!’ said Micheloff. ‘We will have no further exhibition from the pupil of Le Cinq!’

‘Put that revolver down!’ cried Hermann. ‘You fool, put it down!’

He was terribly agitated: in a state of panic almost. He feared firearms to an extraordinary extent, and even Micheloff was astounded at the pallor and the shakiness of the man. Something that was human in the little Russian made him drop his hand.

Hermann wiped his brow and licked his dry lips. ‘Do not ever lift a pistol to me again,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I cannot stand it. It is one of the things I hate worse than anything else in the world.’

He went to the safe again and counted ten more notes with trembling fingers and threw them down on the table.

‘Take them!’ he said.

Micheloff took them, and without stopping to count them made his way to the door.

‘My friend,’ he said elaborately, ‘I salute – and retire!’

And now Hermann Zeberlieff was alone.

Very carefully he examined the contents of the envelopes. One of them containing a bundle of correspondence afforded him some quiet amusement – the letters were in his own writing.

He read them through again and again and carefully burnt them. He had lit a fire in his study with this object. There was one envelope which he did not touch, inscribed with the name of a girl who had loved him and who had learnt his secret with horror, and in all the frenzy of her despair had taken her own life.

He turned the envelope over and over – something prevented him from examining its contents.

His chin upon his palm, he sat thinking, and then the recollection of Micheloff’s words came to him, and he sat bolt upright in his chair.

‘Elsie,’ he repeated, and his lips curled in a sneer. So that was it – this man had fallen in love with a gutter-child he had found
in London. She was enough in his thoughts, sufficient in his life to be entrusted with his secrets. This girl had all that Hermann Zeberlieff desired – once he had had the opportunity of standing next to King Kerry, first in place amongst his friends, trusted, and growing to fortune as the millionaire had grown. He had thrown it away, and this girl had taken all that he had scorned.

A petty thought, perhaps; but a natural thought.

Only one envelope remained to be examined. Upon his judgement as to whether its contents should prove as he had anticipated depended his future.

He had given a brief glance at the inscription on the envelope. So far he was satisfied that he had not been at fault – the envelope bore the words, ‘Relating to my marriage’.

He cleared all the other papers away and locked them in a drawer of his desk and opened the one remaining.

It contained twenty sheets of foolscap, closely written. He read steadily, turning the sheets as he came to them, till he reached the passage he sought. He had expected to find it in another form, and was momentarily dismayed to find that the envelope contained no more than this one statement that he was now reading.

But the paragraph cleared up all doubt in his mind – he read it again and again, slowly absorbing its sense until he could have repeated it by heart.

It ran –

‘My marriage was a disaster. It will be understood why from the foregoing. Henrietta’s mother had died in a lunatic asylum. I did not know this before the marriage. The mother had imparted something of her strong will and her strong character, with an utter irresponsibility peculiar to her wild nature, to her daughter …

‘She was extraordinarily ignorant as to the law of the United States, and this had probably led her to commit the crime which she had committed – for her daughter’s sake. When I discovered Henrietta’s duplicity, when I awoke to a full realization of her terrible and absorbing passion, when I realized how absolutely impossible such a marriage was, I saw in what a terrible position I had placed myself. I did not love Henrietta; I do not think that in any time of my life she had aroused the confidence and the trust which is the basis of love. I had been fascinated by the glamour of a beautiful woman, had been swept off my feet by her exotic beauty – she was little more than a child in those days.

‘I consulted my lawyer. I had made my ante-nuptial arrangements, and had settled upon her, in the terms of my will, ten million dollars upon my death. I now desired earnestly to see how far I was bound by that contract.

‘I had no wish to rob her other inheritance, though a large portion of her mother’s estate would come to her, and she would not have felt the loss had I been able to cancel my marriage contract, but the lawyers informed me that it would be impossible, without a great deal of publicity, which I did not desire, and even then there was some doubt as to whether I should succeed.

‘It is a terrible thought that this woman will so benefit by my death – terrible, because I am confident that Hermann Zeberlieff would not hesitate to destroy me if he knew that Henrietta would benefit.’

Hermann read the sheet through and folded it with a little smile. ‘You are perfectly right, my friend. Henrietta has a very loyal brother.’

He locked up the document in the safe and stood cogitating by the fireplace.

‘I wonder why I hate firearms,’ he said, half to himself, ‘because it seems to me that is the only method which is now available.

‘Out you go!’ he waved his hand to the ceiling. ‘Out you go, my King Kerry, deserter of wives, and maker of wills! I have learnt from your own lips the necessity for your destruction – poor Henrietta.’ He smiled again.

Where was this wife of Kerry’s?

Hermann knew – very well he knew.

But Elsie, who tossed restlessly, sleeplessly, from side to side in her tumbled bed in Chelsea, thought and thought and thought again without coming any nearer to a solution of the business.

The morning sun streamed into her room to find her awake and still thinking.

‘You wanted to see me, Mr Kerry?’

Vera was looking beautiful that morning, Kerry thought. She reminded him somewhat of her sister – her sister as she had been at her best.

Yet there was a quality in her face that Henrietta had never had – a softness, a humanity, a kindness, which was foreign to the older woman’s nature.

‘Yes, I want to speak to you,’ he said. ‘I am going into some of your family history, if you don’t mind.’

‘That’s rather alarming,’ she smiled. ‘Which side of my family, in particular?’

He hesitated.

‘To be exact, the only branch it touches is your father, and even he is only a passive agent.’

‘You are speaking of Hermann’s mother?’ she said quickly. He nodded.

‘Did you ever hear of her?’

The girl shook her head.

‘I have heard rather terrible stories about her,’ she said slowly. ‘She was in a lunatic asylum for a number of years. Poor papa! – it must have been terrible for him.’

‘It was,’ said King Kerry. ‘Even I am not old enough to remember all that happened. She was a remarkable woman,’ he went on, plunging into the business of his visit. ‘She was a Pole, a very beautiful girl. Her father and a large family emigrated from Poland to America in the sixties, and she met him when she was little more than a child. I have reason to believe that the family had come from noble stock, but, if you do not mind my speaking very plainly –’

‘I would prefer it,’ said Vera.

‘They were a pretty decadent lot.’

She nodded her head.

‘I know that,’ she said with a half-smile.

‘Hermann’s mother had many remarkable ideas, even as a child, and perhaps the most remarkable of all was one which led to a great deal of unhappiness.’

He hesitated.

‘Do you know that you have a half-sister?’

The girl’s eyebrows rose.

‘A half-sister?’ she said incredulously. ‘No, I did not – it is news to me.’

‘I married her,’ he said simply.

She looked at him with wondering eyes. For a moment neither of them spoke.

‘I married her,’ he went on. ‘I met her in Denver City. She had gone West on a trip to her relatives and I was pretty young and headstrong in those days. I met her at a ball, and became engaged to her the same night, and was married to her within a week.’

He paced up and down the room with his hands behind him.

‘It is only right to say,’ he said slowly, ‘that that marriage, from the very moment when we left the justice’s parlour where we had been formally united, was a hideous mistake – a mistake which might very well have embittered the whole of my life. The shadow of Henrietta Zeberlieff has hung over me for fifteen years, and there have been times when life had been unendurable.’

She was silent.

It was so startling, so extraordinary, that even now she could not grasp it. This marriage offered an explanation for much. She looked at her brother-in-law enviously. How strange the
relationship seemed! She felt a sudden glow of loving kindness toward one who had suffered at the hands of her own flesh and blood.

‘Is she still alive?’ she asked.

Kerry nodded.

‘She is still alive,’ he said.

‘Hermann knows?’ the girl said quickly.

He nodded his head.

‘And he is concealing her, keeping her in the background. Is she mad, too?’

King Kerry considered a moment. ‘I think she is,’ he said.

‘How terrible.’

The pain on the girl’s face was pitiable to the man. ‘Can’t I go to her? Can’t I see her?’

He shook his head. ‘You could do no good,’ he said. ‘You must wait developments. I meant to have told you more, but somehow – it has stuck in my throat. Last night, as you know, a burglary was committed at my office and the documents relating to my wife were stolen. I have my own idea as to why they were stolen, but I thought it possible that within the next few days you would come to learn what I have told you and perhaps more. It is fairer to you that I should prepare you for the shock.’

He picked up his hat. The girl came towards him, her eyes filled with tears and laid her two hands on his.

‘I thought –’ She looked at him steadily.

‘What do you think, Miss Zeberlieff?’

‘I thought,’ she said, with a little catch in her voice, ‘that Elsie –’

He nodded.

‘I wish to God it were so,’ he said, in a low tone. ‘Money isn’t everything, is it?’ He made a pathetic attempt to smile.

‘It isn’t everything,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I think the only thing worth while in life is love.’

He nodded. ‘Thank God, you have found it,’ he said; and, raising her face to his, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘After all,’ he smiled, ‘you are my sister-in-law. That is a liberty which my remote relationship completely exonerates.’

He went back to his club to lunch, for he was in no mood to meet Elsie. The very sight of her brought a little twinge of pain to his heart. He loved this girl very dearly. She had grown to him as a delicate flower might grow in the shade of a plant of sturdier growth for protection and comfort.

His mind dwelt upon her as he sat at his lunch, and her beautiful eyes, the perfect oval of her face, the little pout of red lips.

He shook his head – there was no way out that he could see.

He finished lunch, and stood for a moment on the steps of the club, then hailed a taxi. Just as he was stepping into the cab a District messenger-boy had entered the club and the chauffeur was driving off when a club servant came flying down the steps with a letter.

‘This has just arrived, sir,’ he said.

King Kerry opened it and read – ‘For the last time, I want you to see me. I am sailing for South America tomorrow to retrieve my fortunes. Come to Park Lane. There is nothing to fear.’

‘“For the last time,”’ repeated King Kerry. He crushed the letter and put it in his pocket, and turning to the club waiter – ‘There is no answer,’ he said. ‘Tell the driver to go to 410, Park Lane.’