The Secret Journey (40 page)

He put an arm through Peter's with an almost brotherly affection and they hurried down the street. Peter might well have been talking to a blind man, for Mr. Corkran, who hardly seemed to open his eyes at all at night-time, could not be expected to do so in the broad light of day. Mr. Daniel's eyes were already inured to but one kind of light, a sort of everlasting twilight that hung like a pall above Banfield House, that filled its rooms and dark corners. They continued their way in silence along the King's Road, until suddenly at the corner of Amos Street, where stood a pork-butcher's shop, Daniel Corkran halted, looked right and left, as though he were a man being watched, and then, gripping Peter's arm, dragged him down Amos Street. They stood outside a small dilapidated shop whose low, dirty windows, except for a single plateful of pigs' feet, were entirely empty, and from whose open door there came the pungent smell of paraffin and stale fat.

‘Here we are,' announced Mr. Corkran. ‘“The Free and Easy Palace.”'

They passed inside. A veritable amazon, a woman about thirty, came to the counter.

‘Afternoon, Dan. Come for your pigs' belly?' She smiled at him. She was slatternly, dirty, sleepy-eyed.

‘That's it. My juicy gobful,' replied Mr. Corkran.

Mr. Corkran had but one way of asking for his delicacy. He asked for his gobful. The woman gave him a large sixpenny dish of bluish-looking tripe. He put down his sixpence.

‘Will you bring up the usual, and one extra to-day?'

Then he pushed Peter through the shop. They disappeared behind a curtain which appeared to have been a canvas boat-cover at one time. From the corner of Amos Street, Daniel Corkran had furtively looked up and looked down. The pork-butcher, a little bald-headed man, saw him but betrayed no curiosity at all. Mr. Corkran's weekly excursions to ‘The Free and Easy' were not new to him. To-day, though Peter Fury was quite unaware of it, was one of the important days in the calendar, the day when, hidden away from the eyes of the world, Mr. Daniel Corkran enjoyed his ‘gobful.' They had arrived upstairs. They were in a small room, three floors up, whose window overlooked the whole of Amos Street. There was a marble-topped table and two chairs. They sat down. Mr. Corkran laid his dish in front of him and said:

‘Now Mr. Fury. Perhaps you can explain the last two visits to Banfield Road?'

Daniel Corkran did not remove his hat. Instead, he allowed it to slip even lower down his forehead as he leaned right across the table and looked not at Peter, but over his head. But this was merely Mr. Corkran's way. Even Anna Ragner was subject to that arrogant, indifferent look. Peter Fury took stock of him. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but Daniel Corkran waved a hand, saying:

‘No! You needn't say anything. I'll explain. Well! D'you remember that night you called with the note from your mother and my employer interviewed you in her room—alone?'—Mr. Corkran laid great emphasis on alone. ‘And when you were going out I said to you, “You'll see me again, because there is only one door by which you can enter.” D'you remember? One door. And I said, “I'll be there!”' Then he thumped the table. ‘D'you remember?'

‘Yes. I remember. But what's all this about?' Peter Fury actually laughed. He could not help it. There was something so comical about Mr. Daniel Corkran when he was in his most serious vein, and here he was too—real flesh and blood—whereas, confronting him at that strange house on the hill he was but a shadow—a fleeting shadow.

‘You stop that,' Mr. Corkran said. ‘You'll laugh at the other side of your Irish face soon. You all will. Well, in case you don't remember, I'll tell you that since that night you've been at Banfield Road twice, and now you've got money in your pocket. You got it from Banfield Road. You see, I know everything, everything.' It was almost a snarl, and Daniel Corkran thumped the table again.

‘What did you get it for? I, Daniel Corkran know that, for—but you listen. I've slaved there for years. More. Understand! And I know her! And I know you! I know your mother. I know everybody,' shouted Mr. Corkran at the top of his voice. ‘Let me tell you something. You can't go on. You can't do it, and hoodwink me. She has no more power now. D'you see, now? I've slaved all these years, and d'you see, I've sucked it out of her. She thinks she's on a good thing. Paying you for what no decent man would give. I know! I know! I have the papers, I have the books, I have the documents. I know where all your family are—what they do—I know where your father is. I know where Price Street is as well as I know where Prees Street is. She lives in Prees Street, doesn't she? He has a nice little office in town. And you've been twice to Banfield Road, and nobody knew but Mrs. Ragner and myself and you. She let you in. I know that, because there are only two keys. Watch out or I'll put every one of you in the gutter. Yes, I, Daniel Corkran, Master of all the ceremonies at Banfield House. And now let me tell you one thing more. In this little matter, d'you see, there are only two people—you and me. Understand. You and me. You can get for the asking what I've slaved years for. But wait, she thinks she can sack me—but she can't. She can't move any more—because I've the brains, I've the blood, I've everything at Banfield Road. I know all she does. You keep away from Banfield Road. D'you understand me? She thinks she spreads her nets well—but it's me who spreads them. She'll break your mother and I'll break you. In our establishment we hate pride. Her money—my brains. She's mad because everybody hates her, loathes her, except me. I love her. But she only laughs. Her fingers were made for grasping, so were mine.'

‘Is that all now?' said Peter Fury, quite coolly, even while Daniel Corkran gripped his wrist like a steel vice. ‘Is that all you have to tell me? That Mrs. Ragner loves me. Don't make me laugh. And if you think I'm afraid of you—you're very much mistaken.' With a quick laugh he freed himself and turned from the table. But Daniel Corkran was quicker. He jumped round, gave a push, and a second later Peter Fury found himself jammed hard against the wooden partition that stood at the top of the stairs.

‘Who are you to laugh at me? Who are you to show airs? Who are you to stand on your dignity? Who hasn't any. Who hasn't even a home. I can break you. I can put you all in the gutter any time. You be reasonable. You stop going to that house. You've nothing—understand, nothing. You have nothing. You're caught—all of you. By Mrs. Ragner? No, by me, by me—Daniel Corkran, secretary to Anna Ragner, handyman, washerwoman—nurse, cook, and messenger. Ah! She couldn't live an hour without me. And d'you know——' Suddenly Daniel Corkran stopped. There were sounds on the stairs, and presently the amazonian lady appeared with a tray bearing two cups of tea and a plate containing two single Wild Woodbine cigarettes.

‘Thank you, Boadicea,' said Mr. Corkran. ‘Crazy,' remarked Mr. Corkran. ‘But most obliging, and all there too.'

He pushed a cup of tea in front of Peter Fury, saying, ‘Here! wet your lips. You have lots to tell me, I know,' and once more he grinned at Peter. ‘I was suspicious of you from the very first. D'you see? Now you be sensible. Keep away from Banfield Road and all will be well between us. Understand? I'll know every move you make, just as I know that you have seen my employer alone on two occasions, and I know that at this moment you have a pound in your pocket. I know what you got it for. By obliging a woman who thinks I'm a fool. But that's just what I'm not. You'd be amazed if you realized all the things I do know. I know why you want the money. Just as I know that you are going off to-night on the same game. The sovereign is out of Mrs. Ragner's japanned box that she keeps on a shelf behind her dressing-table. They're marked. Show me it. You have it in your pocket now. Show it me.'

Peter Fury said nothing. Then he laughed.

‘You're crazy,' he said.

Mr. Daniel Corkran, however, was very serious.

‘Show me what you got for obliging a lady,' and he gripped Peter Fury's wrists. ‘You show it,' he said.

‘Why should I?'

‘Show it, I tell you. You're not playing any game with me,' and as the coin was laid flat upon the table Mr. Corkran exclaimed, ‘There! You wouldn't believe what sharp eyes I've got. It seems that my employer doesn't know me yet, even after ten years of slavery. Now clear out.' Daniel Corkran began eating his tripe. ‘Clear out,' he shouted. ‘Clear out.' He tore a portion from the meat, and put it in his mouth.

Peter Fury had gone—Corkran hadn't heard him go, hadn't even looked up. He was talking to himself as he cut the meat in pieces. ‘Sly! She's got that woman tight and now she's going to let her go. She's made arrangements with that Kilkey woman and told me nothing. Not a word. Me! Corkran.' Then he began eating the tripe. His whole attitude changed at once. He smiled, he tore more tripe. Every now and then he glanced furtively towards the door as though he were afraid of being discovered—of being discovered in this act of chewing frenziedly, secretly, and with a queer savage joy, the large slice of tripe now cut into small pieces and lying under his restless hands. Twice a week, and for a reason which only he, Daniel Corkran, could explain, he hid himself in the top room of ‘The Free and Easy,' and there, entirely alone, indulged in this strange orgy of tripe-eating. To have studied the serious expression upon his face as he satisfied this strange passion for tripe was one thing, to have explained it was quite another. In this one hour he was happy, riotously happy, as though by the very feel and taste and smell, by the very rhythm of his chewing, he was satisfying some peculiar hunger deep down in his soul. And wedded to this was the secrecy, the delicious sense of being hidden away from all eyes—absolutely alone. Daniel Corkran's condition during this ritual was nothing less than ecstatic. He had felt this stuff lying under his hand even as he watched Peter Fury behind the table, and then he had said, ‘Clear off! Clear off!' and had not even seen him go. But what he had seen was that long piece of bluish-looking meat, lying on a plate of gay colours, and with the tearing of it he had opened the gate to this paradisial hour, and lost himself in the ecstasies of chewing, of sucking, of tasting and swallowing this pallid substance. And there he sat, his tea dead cold, the room getting dark, the last shreds of this meal already in his mouth, and in his ears the violent ringing of the doorbell below, the hard metallic voice of Boadicea calling up the stairs that it was now closing time, even whilst he, Mr. Daniel Corkran, bathed in that wave of feeling as he put the final shreds of his gobful upon his tongue. That hour, like all hours, was perishable, and five minutes later than usual he wiped his mouth on a green handkerchief, picked up his cup of cold tea, and made some effort at swallowing it, for this cup of tea was purely a screen behind which he hid himself, and not even the young girl in the shop was aware of Mr. Corkran's glorious hour, nor indeed that the quivering dish she placed in his hand was the key, the magic wand, that changed the whole shape of Amos Street and ‘The Free and Easy,' from half-past five till twenty-five minutes to seven.

‘You haven't drunk all your tea to-day, Mr. Corkran.'

‘Not to-day,' replied Mr. Corkran, and immediately left the shop. He walked straight back to Banfield Road. Anna Ragner would be home at half-past seven. Anna Ragner had to be talked to. Anna Ragner indeed was the most important person in the world. It was nearly ten minutes to the hour when he let himself in with the key. He went straight to his quarters in the kitchen and changed his clothes. He lighted the gas. He put the kettle on. He went into the big dining-room where his employer always dined alone. From there he went into the long waiting-room and drew the black curtains across the window. Then he switched on the light that hung over the table where Mrs. Ragner sat to receive her clients.

‘That's that,' he said. ‘I'll have an hour to talk to her, anyway. She's working behind my back. I no longer count. We shall see.' Then he went back into the kitchen, and sat down. He had only been seated a minute or two when the door-bell rang and he ran to open it.

‘Evening, Corkran,' Mrs. Ragner said.

Mr. Corkran said nothing.

CHAPTER XI

‘Good God!' thought Joseph Kilkey. ‘I can see now that I
was
a fool ever agreeing to anything of the kind. I should never have put my signature to the paper. I should have been as hard as nails. That's what I should have been.' To think that a matter like that, which at the time had seemed nothing more than an impulsive and generous act, to think that that scratch of the pen should have unloosed so many things. ‘There's no doubt about it, they've got her tied hand and foot all right. And that's not all. To think that when I scratched my name on that security note, that I actually gave her her one chance—the chance she's been waiting for for so long. Ah! It's a real swine all right. And everything was going swimmingly—I thought happiness was certain. Poor Dermod! He knows nothing about all this queer mix-up. What a world! Lord! What a world! Hang it, and be damned to it—I didn't know when I was really well off. Why I ever budged from my chair that winter's night—why I ever budged to help
anybody
beats me.' Such were Joseph Kilkey's thoughts as he waited for a tram to take him into the city. Everything seemed to be going round in circles, and the circles kept on spinning. It was as if Anna Ragner, from her stronghold in Banfield Road, was sitting at a switchboard pressing one button and then another. He, Joseph Kilkey, was only one of the marionettes. Then the tram came to a halt, and Mr. Kilkey boarded it. Only by a stroke of very good luck was this possible at all—for to-day he was not working, having been ordered to stand by for nine o'clock that night to dock a grain-ship from Greece. And the more he thought about the strange shapes things were taking, the more he realized that it was time something was done. The mere thinking about it was a most uncomfortable process—having to steel oneself to an effort that demanded not the service of his heart but the service of his head. Briefly—and he felt strange tuggings within him—briefly, he had to be ruthless in order to be able to see things, to see them clearly for what they were, there was no avoiding them. He had to go clean through with the most detestable job he had ever come across in the whole of his life. ‘It can't be helped.' Even now, bound as he was for the top floor of Royalty Buildings, even now he realized what a very strange thing he was doing. He had only seen Desmond Fury twice in his life. This would be the third time, and he hoped the last. ‘There is one man who, for all his daft ideas, has got a bit of common sense, and if only I can get him to see things really clear, then I might rely on his common sense to get me out of this. But will he?' Mr. Kilkey kept repeating. ‘Will he? He can be a most obstinate devil when he likes. Well, I'll put the whole story to him, straight, and he can say yes or no.'