Kitabı oku: «Tinman», sayfa 14

CHAPTER VIII
I Assist the Enemy

As I came to the door of that shabby room in which I knew the man Dawkins was, a great trembling fell upon me, so that I hesitated, and was afraid to go in. It was not fear for myself: I think at that time I had no fear of anything; it was only that I knew that I should not be able to control myself, if I stood face to face with this creature who had assisted Murray Olivant to secure the girl, and now held her to be sold for a price. I stopped outside the door, with my hands clenched, and with my heart beating wildly.

The tumult of passion in me was stilled by the girl, who had run hard after me up the stairs. I felt her coarsened grubby little hand gripping mine; slowly she drew me back away from the door.

"'Ere – pull yerself togevver," she whispered. "Wot's wrong wiv yer?"

"If I go into that room I am afraid of what I may do," I said, clutching at the girl, and staring at the closed door. "I'm afraid of myself."

"Wot's 'e done?" she whispered excitedly.

"Nothing you'd understand," I said. "But oh, Moggs – have you ever read or heard anywhere any fairy tale, concerning some wonderful princess, shut away in prison and left to pine, while her lover waited in vain for her. Have you, Moggs?"

She nodded quickly, and her face expanded into a grin. "Yus – I did once," she whispered. "It came 'ere with summink wrapped in it – bit of a Christmas story, it was."

"There's a wonderful princess held prisoner by that man," I whispered eagerly. "And he'll smile – and smile – and I am powerless to do anything to help. You wise little person – tell me what to do?"

She plunged her grubby hands into her hair, and wrinkled up her face in thought; then she caught at my hand again, and whispered a startling suggestion. "Go in an' talk to 'im," she said, "an' keep yer dander down. W'en 'e goes out presently, I'll foller 'im – an' if I don't come back knowin' w'ere she is, my name ain't Moggs. Is she a real tiptopper?"

"Beautiful, and gentle, and good," I assured her, as she listened unctuously.

"An' 'im wot's sweet on 'er – is 'e all right?"

"The best fellow in the world," I replied.

"Then this is just w'ere I come in!" exclaimed the strange little creature. "I was born for this 'ere!"

I shook hands with her solemnly on the dark and grimy staircase; and I blessed and thanked her. Then I opened the door, and went into the room, praying hard for strength to control myself. Dawkins was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging one leg, and smoking a cigar; he did not trouble to look round as I entered, probably from the fact that he felt that only one person could come into that room with any assurance.

"Well, Fanshawe, it's taken you long enough to get to London," he said, flicking the ash from his cigar.

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but it's not Mr. Fanshawe."

He jumped off the table, and leant against it, staring at me; I think it was the first time I had seen his face without a smile upon it. "By George!" he exclaimed, in a low voice – "I thought I'd tied you up better than that!"

"I was so fortunate as to get away," I replied. "I have seen my – my master, Mr. Olivant; he knows all about my escape. I have just left him."

"Then perhaps you've brought something for me from him?" he exclaimed eagerly, with his habitual smile breaking over his face.

I shook my head. "Nothing," I said. "I did not expect even to find you here."

"True; I'd forgotten that," he said, in a tone of disappointment. "I suppose you came looking for Fanshawe – eh? As a matter of fact, I want to see Fanshawe myself."

I suddenly made up my mind that I would make the attempt on my own part to find out something about the girl; I might even be able to persuade this man that he would get nothing from Murray Olivant, and so induce him, out of revenge, to let me know where Barbara was. After a moment's hesitation I plunged into the business.

"When you left me tied up and gagged at the house at Hammerstone Market," I began, "you took away with you a young lady – Miss Barbara Savell."

"And a deuced nice girl, too," exclaimed the man, nodding his head and smiling. "You were nicely diddled over that business, Tinman; and in turn I diddled our friend Olivant. It's a pity that so charming a young lady should be played catch-ball with in this fashion; but that's her fault, because she is so charming. Now, I suppose you've really been sent by Olivant to spy out the land – eh? You may as well let me know the truth, because I shall discover it in any case. I'm much too wily for you people."

"I tell you again that I did not imagine for a moment you would be here," I reminded him. "Mr. Olivant knows nothing of your whereabouts; he has simply had your letter, giving an address to which letters may be sent. But I assure you that you will get nothing out of him."

"Oh, so you know that, do you?" he said with a sneer. "Very well, I can afford to wait. The young lady, though inclined to be troublesome and fretful, is really very charming company."

"I want to believe, sir, that you're a gentleman," I went on again patiently.

"Thank you," he responded, smiling.

"And I want to appeal to your better nature. This girl is friendless in the world, save for me and for the boy who loves her; you have been fortunate enough and wise enough to get her out of the hands of Murray Olivant; give her into mine, and let me send her back to her lover – or to her father."

Even as I made the appeal I realized the futility of it. But I saw here that violence would not do, and that he would scoff at any threatening; I had felt at first, when I began to speak, that there was a faint chance that I might move the man. As he laughed and shook his head, I saw that I must, after all, trust to that frail support – Moggs.

"My good man, it is quite refreshing to hear any one talk as you do," he said. "You really appear to be in earnest, and under other circumstances I might almost be prepared to listen to you. But the prize is too good to be lost, whether I get the money or stick to the lady. Personally, I believe that Olivant may be squeezed, and may decide that it is best for him to pay; but in any case I score. No, friend Tinman, this is not a game with which you are concerned. Mind your own business, and leave these things to your betters. And as it seems that Fanshawe is not coming, I think I'll return to the lady."

"And if I follow you?" I exclaimed, maddened at the thought that he set me aside so lightly. "What then?"

He struck a match, and relit his cigar; looking at me over the smoke of it, he laughed, and shook his head. "You're really very simple, Tinman," he said. "I don't believe for a moment that you really take so deep an interest in the lady and her lover; I am inclined to believe that you are a spy from the camp of Mr. Murray Olivant. If you have the audacity to follow me, I shall do one of two things: I shall either go in a wrong direction, at some inconvenience to myself; or I shall call the attention of the first constable I meet to you, and inform him that you have been begging from me, and threatening me. You look shabby, Tinman, and you have a bad record behind you, I understand. For your own sake you'd better stay here."

At that time I had no very great faith in the powers of Moggs; however eager she might be to throw herself into the business, I felt that in all probability this astute man of the world would prove more than a match for her. It was with something very like despair in my heart that I saw him saunter out of the room. I ventured to the door the moment after he had left the room, and opened it cautiously; he was going down the stairs, and he stopped for a moment to look back at me.

"You can tell Fanshawe that it doesn't matter, after all; I'm not particularly anxious to see him. And if you want the lady, Tinman – well – your master Murray Olivant knows how to get her. Good-night to you!"

I saw nothing of Moggs; I went back into the room, and shut the door. It seemed at that time as though all I had striven to do and all I had hoped for had been brought to naught; I stood helpless in this poor shabby room, staring about me, and wondering what I should do. What power did I possess – poor broken outcast, without even a name, and assisted only by a little drab of the streets; what could we do against such men as Olivant? I recognized, now that it was too late, that I ought to have played a different game; that I should have matched cunning with cunning, and devilry with devilry; I had been too blunt and outspoken. And then my thoughts flew back to the boy, waiting doggedly outside the rooms of the man who had set out to ruin him and the girl he loved; and I saw the Fate that had dogged and destroyed me marching grimly on over me, and striking down young Arnold Millard. I had no power to stay his hand; nor was there any power behind such threats as I might use to Olivant and the others.

I was like a man who stands in the dark, with three or four roads stretching out from the point at which he is, and uncertain in his own mind which to take. I had thoughts of going to my Barbara, and making her understand more completely even than she understood yet the peril in which her child stood; but, on the other hand, I knew that to do that would be useless while the girl was still lost to us. Then I thought of sending to Lucas Savell; but remembered what manner of man he was, and how utterly useless he would be in a crisis. It seemed monstrous that I should stand here, helpless, in the midst of a great city – unable to do anything; but I had to remember, bitterly enough, that I was a man with the brand of Cain upon me, and a long prison record behind me; more than that, I was known in London and elsewhere as living under another name. It was all a horrible tangle, from which it seemed impossible that we should ever escape.

I heard a step upon the stairs – too heavy to be that of Moggs; it was a jaded weary step, and it stopped outside the door. I went to the door, and opened it; outside a man stood, and as he thrust me aside and came in I saw that it was Jervis Fanshawe. He threw down a small untidy bundle on to the bed, and tossed his hat after it, and sank into a chair.

"Give me something to drink," he said hoarsely.

I found something, and gave it to him; he drank it greedily, looking at me as he did so with a curious expression in his eyes. Once he made up his mind to speak; but he stopped, even as he opened his lips, and half rose in his chair, staring hard at the door. He did not look at me; his voice was a mere shaking whisper.

"There's some one on the stairs!" Then, as I moved quickly to the door, he sprang up and confronted me, and pressed me back; and his face was like death itself. "No – no – don't open the door. I know what it is, and I couldn't bear to see it again."

"Why, what do you mean?" I faltered, "what have you seen; what's happened to you?"

He did not reply; with a trembling hand he poured out some more of the liquor, and drank it; and even then, as he did so, he paused to listen again with that curious intentness. Finally he got over to the further end of the room, and then pointed to the door, and whispered —

"Open it now, Charlie – quick!"

I confess I was as much shaken as he seemed to be; I pulled open the door, however, and looked out. There was no one there, and I told him so as I closed it again.

"Last night in the garden – while you ran and called to something or some one – I saw her," he said in a whisper. "I told you then it was the dead come alive; I tell you so again now, Charlie. To-night in London, as I tramped through the streets (and I swear I was not thinking of her in any way), I saw her face pass me again – it was as though there was some strange light upon it, that never was on this earth. Before God, Charlie, she's come back; as I live, she means to haunt me and to follow me!"

I saw in a moment what had happened. The face of that elder Barbara, as he had seen it for a moment, had been to him the face of the woman he believed to be dead; his further meeting her in London had been a mere accident. I hesitated to tell him the truth: that this woman was alive. I did not know how much further I might be complicating matters, or what greater difficulties I might be creating. For the present, at least, I determined to hold my tongue, and to let him think what he would. He went on with his rambling talk.

"I've heard of men being driven mad like that," he said; "I've heard that some one, deeply wronged, may come back from the grave, to work a more bitter vengeance than they could have done in life. Is there any truth in that, Charlie?"

I began to see that this better mood might be useful; that this implacable creature, who had pursued his vengeance so relentlessly and so long, might perhaps be turned a little from his purpose if he supposed that the spirit of the dead woman was following him, to take account of what he was doing. His next words confirmed that impression in my mind.

"I helped Olivant and Dawkins last night and yesterday over that matter of the girl; spied out the land for them, and told them where you were, and what you were doing. I meant all along to drag the girl down, as I meant years ago to drag down the mother: she had her mother's look, and her mother's voice, and I hated her for them. But I'm afraid, Charlie; I find myself starting at shadows. You saw her last night in the garden; I heard you call to her."

"Yes, I saw her," I replied steadily.

He drew a long breath, and looked again at the door with that hunted look his face had worn before. "I knew it; that proves it," he said. "I'm getting an old man, Charlie, and still my vengeance has brought me nothing but this: that I sit in this place, with no soul on God's earth to speak a good word for me, and with the knowledge that I may have wrecked the lives of two women. There's hell for me, Charlie, and that dead woman will fling me down to it!"

It was in my mind then, in sheer pity for the hunted wretch, to tell him the truth. But I saw in a moment that if I did that he would understand that he had been robbed of his vengeance from the very start, and had brought himself to his present pass for nothing; for the woman he had pursued was living still. I understood that in that case I should make him a more bitter enemy to the mother and the girl than ever, out of sheer rage at having been duped so long. And in any case I had seen enough of him to know that I could not trust him. And out of his fright some good might come.

That fright was indeed so great that when, a moment later, a hand was laid upon the door, and it opened cautiously, the man started up, with something very like a shriek. But it was nothing more than Moggs, untidy and slipshod as ever; she gave me a quick glance as she came in, and my heart gave a leap, for I seemed to read in it that she had succeeded. However, she merely muttered something about the fire, and went across the room to attend to it. Kneeling there, she began to croon to herself that strange weird song that had no tune nor time to it, and which I had heard her sing before.

I was casting about in my mind for some means of speaking to her alone, without arousing Fanshawe's suspicions, or at least of getting rid of Fanshawe for a few moments, when the girl solved the difficulty for herself, and that too in the quaintest fashion. She suddenly looked up at me, with a queer smile on her face, and spoke.

"You know about that there princess you was talkin' of, guv'nor, don't yer?" she asked; then, without waiting for a reply, went on demurely enough: "I dunno' but wot I 'aven't worked out that story in me own way, after all."

"How's that, Moggs?"

"Can't that girl cease her chatter, and go?" demanded Fanshawe angrily, as he cast himself down on his bed, and lay there with his hands clasped under his head.

"'Alf a tick, guv'nor, 'alf a tick," remonstrated Moggs, turning to him; then she looked back at me. "Wot if you was to 'ear that the princess was fetched away by a ugly sort o' fairy – smuggled out, in a manner o' speakin' – an' brought to that ugly fairy's place," the thin cracked voice was growing excited – "an' 'id away by 'er – eh? Wot then? Serpose the princess crep' up the stairs without nobody seein' 'er – "

In my excitement I forgot everything; I suddenly seized the girl by the shoulder, and shook her, and cried out in my great relief: "Here, Moggs? – here in this house? How did you manage it? Where is she?"

Too late I saw that Fanshawe had raised himself on one elbow on the bed, and was staring at me and at the girl. I checked myself at once, and began haltingly to change the talk, so that it might seem I was speaking of something with which he was not concerned; but he brushed such pretence aside impatiently, and demanded to know what was happening.

"You've heard something – discovered something?" he said suddenly, sitting upright, and turning his haggard face towards me. "Oh! – don't shrink away; from to-night I tell you I am your friend, hand and glove with you in this business. I tell you I'm afraid; I dare not go on. Give me a chance," he pleaded, "and I'll undo all that I have done. You can't stand alone in this, Charlie; give me the chance to help you."

"You can't; you are ranged on the other side," I said sternly.

"I am not – I am not!" he exclaimed. "Don't I tell you that I'm afraid – that I dare not go on any further? Moggs" – he turned quickly to the girl, and spoke appealingly – "tell me where she is; you may trust me."

"I ain't so sure abaht that," said Moggs, looking from him to me, and back again. "More'n that," she added with cunning, "I ain't quite sure that I know what you're talkin' about." She walked to the door, giving me a sharp glance as she went, as though to bespeak my attention. With what carelessness I could muster I went after her; as I glanced back into the room I saw that Fanshawe, still raised on his elbow, was looking after me hungrily.

Outside on the dark landing it was a mere matter of excited whispers. "You've got her here – safe?" I asked.

"Safe as twenty 'ouses!" she replied. "I waited abaht in the street until I sees me gentleman come out; arter that I never lost sight of 'im. The place wasn't so far from 'ere, arter all, an' it wasn't likely 'e was goin' to take no notice of anybody like me. I watched him go in, I seed 'im come out again. A minute later I was ringin' the bell, as innercent as yer please; an' there was a young person employed same as me in the 'ouse; I could talk to 'er in wot you might call me own language – found she was actually at the same Board School as wot I was. In less'n a minute we was talkin' friendly; five minutes arterwards I was upstairs, wiv the key turned in the lock, an' the young lady listenin' to wot I'd got to say."

"Dear, sweet Moggs!" I exclaimed in a whisper. "And she came with you at once?"

"That instant minute," said Moggs. "I mentioned who you was, an' that you was waitin' for 'er; it seemed that she'd on'y bin persuaded to stop there, believin' that the young gent was comin' any minute. Now she's in my room – right at the top, under the tiles – as safe as safe. Oh, I tell yer, it wants a woman for this work!"

I shook the diminutive creature's hand; I was just about to break out into some further expressions of gratitude, when her eyes warned me that we had a listener. I turned swiftly, in time to see a line of light down the edge of the door of the room – a line that was gradually narrowing, until it disappeared altogether as the door was closed. I understood at once that Jervis Fanshawe had been listening to all that had been said.

"It's all right," I assured her quickly. "I think he's our friend; in any case I can keep him silent. Go up and see Miss Savell; tell her that I'm near at hand, and that I will come up to her the moment I can slip away."

Moggs disappeared instantly, and I opened the door and went into the room. Fanshawe was seated on the side of the bed, with his hands pressed together between his knees, rocking himself slowly backwards and forwards. He seemed strangely excited, but I hardly noticed that at the time, in my indignation that he should have played the spy upon me.

"Why did you listen?" I asked.

"Why won't you trust me, Charlie?" He looked up at me, and there was again in his eyes that fear I had seen before. "I know that all I have done gives the lie to what I want to do; but I am sincere now, because I'm afraid. Won't you trust me?"

"There is no necessity for me to trust any one," I replied. "I don't know how much you know, or how much you don't; but I want to tell you this: it'll go hard with any one who tries again to defeat what I am trying to do. I've got my chance now to upset all the plans that you and those connected with you have made; for your own sake you'd better keep out of it."

"What are you going to do with her? What do you think you can do – you who are poor and weak and alone; what hope have you of fighting against richer men? I tell you you'll come to grief, and I shall walk for ever with the shadow of the dead Barbara by my side. I know it – I know it!"

"I tell you it is a matter that does not concern you," I said again. "Why should you expect me to trust to you – you whose long life has been a lie from beginning to end? Keep out of it, I tell you; it will go hard with you if you play me any tricks again."

I left him sitting in that dejected attitude; I heard him muttering again and again that I did not and I would not understand! I opened the door, and went out on to the staircase, meaning to see the girl Barbara, and to reassure her as to her safety. But while I stood there for a moment I heard voices down below, voices that I knew.

"I tell you you can't deceive me – an' you won't deceive me." It was the voice of Murray Olivant, loud and aggressive. And the voice of Dawkins replied to him.

"I tell you the girl has been spirited away. I've come here now in the hope of hearing something about her; perhaps that rascally servant of yours knows something – the fellow Tinman. On my solemn word, Olivant – "

"Oh, be quiet!"

I slipped back into the room to wait for them. Murray Olivant strode in first, and looked at me with a scowl; looked past me at Jervis Fanshawe, who had risen from the bed. "Well – plotters and schemers – what's the move now?" he demanded. "Is there any one here at all I can believe or trust?" He looked round on the three of us fiercely enough. "Dawkins here has her, and then he has not; you, Fanshawe, can do great things, but you don't do them; Tinman threatens and boasts, and does nothing. I suppose you think you can play with me just as you please, eh? Will no one speak?"

"I tell you again, Olivant, that I have not got the girl," said Dawkins. "I only came here in the hope to find her; I've been tricked, just as I tried to trick you. If I knew where she was, shouldn't I try to bluff the thing a bit, and get some money out of you?"

"I believe you would," retorted Olivant slowly. Then he swung round to me. "Well, Tinman, and what do you know?"

"Nothing," I replied. "I have not seen the lady at all."

"Why should she come here?" asked Fanshawe, in a quiet voice. I confess I had been expecting a totally different answer from him, and I began to wonder if, after all, I had misjudged the man. His face was a mask, behind which even the deadly fear that he had shown was hidden.

"Well, I trust you, at any rate, Fanshawe," said Olivant, "because I believe you know who's your friend, and who's likely to help you most in this world. This seems to rest with you, Dawkins," he went on, turning to his friend, "and I shan't forget to pay you for it, though not quite in the coin you expected. I'm going home; God help any one of you that plots against me again. You, Tinman, can walk with me; I believe you have some fears as to my safety," he added, with a grin.

The man Dawkins came down the stairs and into the street with us, still protesting his innocence in the matter; Murray Olivant waved him aside impatiently enough, and set off in the direction of his lodging. I think he had meant to take me with him; but within a hundred yards of the house he hailed a passing cab, and turned to dismiss me.

"You can go back," he said. "I shan't want you. You needn't be afraid; I shall go in the back way." He climbed into the cab, and was rapidly driven away.

I walked slowly back to the house, and rang the bell again. After I had climbed the stairs to Fanshawe's room I suddenly made up my mind that I would go on further, and see Barbara; altered my mind again, and determined to see Fanshawe, and at least to thank him for the attitude he had adopted to Murray Olivant. I opened the door and went in, but the man was not there.

Inwardly perturbed, I came out on to the landing again, and began slowly to climb the stairs; I did not like this sudden absence of Fanshawe in the least. On the landing above I came face to face with Moggs, standing outside a door, and looking at me with a scared white face.

"She's gorn!" she whispered.

"You must be mistaken," I exclaimed roughly, with all my old suspicions sweeping in upon me like a flood. "Where can she have gone to?"

"I dunno," whimpered the girl. "But I tell you she's gorn."

I ran out of the house, scarcely knowing what I meant to do. My thoughts turned naturally to the man who had made up his mind to get hold of Barbara; I determined to go to Murray Olivant at once. With difficulty, for it was now very late, I got to the place; and even then hesitated whether to go in or not. For in the first place, if I came face to face with him I must confess that I had lied, and that the girl had been in that other house even while he visited it.

The matter was determined for me, after all. I had got outside the rooms, and was standing there, hesitating what to do, when a man stopped before me, and spoke my name in a surprised voice. It was young Arnold Millard.

"Tinman!" Then suddenly and eagerly – "Where's your master?"

"Not there, sir," I replied quickly. "I – I don't know where he is."

We were standing on the opposite side of the street; he suddenly grasped my arm, and pointed. A window had been opened up above, and leaning out from a lighted room I saw for a moment the head and shoulders of Murray Olivant. The head was withdrawn in a moment, and the window closed and darkened, but we had both seen it distinctly.

"Not there?" exclaimed the boy derisively. "So they've told me every time I've inquired. Hiding from me, is he?"

He ran across the street, and I ran after him, calling to him to stop. We both reached the stairs together, and together rushed up them; and by that time I had him by the arms, and was clinging to him, imploring him to calm himself. The noise we made when we got to the door of the flat alarmed that respectable manservant inside; he opened the door a little way, and we stumbled in together, brushed him aside, and rushed pell-mell into the room where Murray Olivant stood. And there was not only Olivant there, but the man Dawkins and Jervis Fanshawe.

"I've found you at last," cried the boy excitedly. "I want to know where Miss Barbara Savell is?"

Murray Olivant looked quickly round from one to the other of us; saw me clinging to the boy, and whispering to him – saw Dawkins and Fanshawe and the manservant. Perhaps he felt that there was safety in numbers; at all events, he retreated to the door of an inner room, and spread his arms across it, as though to guard it.

"You fool!" he cried roughly – "she's here!"