The Death Whistle

— I —

— I —APPOINTING AN HEIR

“If you like, you’ll be able to live upon the interest – many a man who is thought well off lives on less. Or, if you prefer to aim at the big things – and you’re that kind of man – you’ll have enough capital in hand to enable you to bring off successfully some of those greater villainies which make men millionaires.”

The listener laughed; the situation appealed to his peculiar sense of humour. The man in the bed looked at him.

“I like to hear you laugh, lying here. If I were out of this, and we were alone together, and had had a little difference of opinion, I shouldn’t like it quite so much. The devil’s strongest in you when you laugh.”

“You’re so funny.”

“I am. I’ve been a funny man my whole life long; an unconscious humorist. The mischief is, I’ve found it out too late. If I’d suspected the truth a dozen years ago I shouldn’t be dying in jail.”

“It’s not a pretty place to die in. And yet – I don’t know; it’s as good as any other.”

“You didn’t think so once.”

“Once! – Once I thought jam the concentrated essence of happiness.”

“So did I. I thought it so strongly that I held it worth while to swallow a few hitters to get it. That’s where it is, and why I’m here, Bruce.” The other nodded. “I’ve a feeling you don’t believe half that I’ve been telling you; that you regard my story about the fortune which is lying ready for your hand as a convict’s fairy tale.”

“My dear chap, I always believe everything I’m told. I’ve been the confidant of a large number of voracious histories since I’ve been inside this place. The silent system is not so rigidly enforced as to prevent one’s being that. My powers of credulity are boundless.”

“Yes, I know. If I thought you were setting down among the rest of the prison lies what I’ve told you, I should lie in my grave and scorch.”

“Don’t do that. And don’t talk about it either. It presents unpleasant vistas to the imagination.”

“Perhaps if I were to tell you my history you might bring yourself to believe that I am leaving you a fortune. I grant that under the circumstances the notion does want swallowing.”

“My dear Edney, I give my confidence to no one.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“But if you choose to give me yours, I am entirely at your service. I agree with you that when a man who has been sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude observes that he proposes to make you his heir, you are inclined to ask yourself what to. It is easy enough to bequeath any number of castles in Spain, to anyone; but one hardly expects to have to pay legacy duty on bequests of the kind.”

“You won’t pay legacy duty on what I’m leaving you.”

The man in the bed grinned. He lay back on his pillow and coughed. Coughed badly and long. So long that one wondered if he would stop before he was broken to pieces. Blood issued from his mouth. He was not a pleasant spectacle. His companion rendered him such assistance as he could, showing gentleness and patience which contrasted oddly with his stalwart form. After the paroxysms were over, the man in the bed lay motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe. Words came thinly from his lips.

“I’ll go off in one of those bouts, please God.”

“You mustn’t talk.”

“But I must talk. That’s just what I must do. Perkins won’t be back yet. I ought to be able to tell you all that’s needful before he comes. I mayn’t have another chance.”

Perkins was dispenser and warder combined. Canterstone was but a small jail. There were seldom many prisoners in the infirmary. At present there were but three: George Edney, dying; Sam Swire, a ‘traveller,’ ‘doing a drag,’ the victim of too much drink and too little food; and Andrew Bruce, recovering from a sprain, a good-conduct man, whose term of two years’ hard labour was nearly at an end, and who was quite capable of looking after the two sick men who were in bed. Therefore, since the prison was not over-staffed, when Perkins went to dinner he simply locked the outer door of the infirmary and left Andrew Bruce in charge. Which explains how it was that George Edney and he were able to discuss their private affairs so freely; even proposing to enter into more delicate matters still. In Edney’s opinion there was only one drawback.

“Go and see what that brute in the next room is doing.”

Bruce did as he was told; passing for the purpose into the adjacent apartment, which was merely divided from its neighbour by a brief partition wall. Presently he returned.

“Swire’s asleep; fast as a top.”

“Good thing too; not that I can talk loud enough to give him much chance of overhearing.”

“I tell you again that you oughtn’t to talk at all.”

“Chuck all that! Sit as close as you can, so as to spare my breath.”

Bruce drew a chair as close to the bedside as possible, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, so that his head was within a few inches of the other’s face. He kept his eyes fixed upon the narrator’s countenance, not only as if desirous of reading what was transpiring in his brain and behind his actual words, but also as if struck – and amused – by the singularity of his appearance. Normally small, weak-legged, loose-limbed, blear-eyed, he now seemed nothing but skin and bone. His lips were bloodless; patches of sandy stubble concealed his cheeks and chin; every now and then he gave a gasp, recalling the sounds made by a ‘roaring’ horse. As he proceeded, Bruce realised more and more clearly how entirely he looked the part of chief actor in such a tale as that which he was telling.

“I’m a solicitor by profession. Never on my own account; – hadn’t the money to start with. I was managing clerk to a man who had. His name was Glasspoole – Frederick Glasspoole, of Birchester. Connect anything with the name?”

“With the name of Frederick Glasspoole? – Nothing, at present.”

“I thought you might have heard something of the story – read about it in the newspapers, perhaps – and so have saved me trouble.”

“I’m willing to save you all trouble.”

“I don’t want to be saved that way. – He was a good fellow – young, and a fool. His father had left him a fine practice. Not only did he act for most of the townsfolk, but he was agent for some of the chief estates in the neighbourhood. But he had two faults – he wasn’t fond of work, and he trusted me. The latter in particular was a grave mistake.”

The grin which accompanied the words seemed to lend to the speaker’s corpse-like features something of the grotesque horror which we associate with a gargoyle.

“I was not an immoral character – not, that is, in any unusual degree. But I am, and always was, non-moral. Morality, that is, didn’t enter into my scheme of creation at all. I hated work; though no one could work harder than I could when I chose, and had an end in view; and I liked a good time – my notion of a good time. I realised, quite early in life, that my good time meant money. Not in small sums. I didn’t want to do the prodigal for, say, six months, and then have to live on husks for an indefinite period. That wasn’t my idea; not a little bit. What I wanted was fifty or sixty thousand pounds. Then I would invest it in something gilt-edged, live on the interest, and get every farthing’s worth of fun out of it that could be got.

“The point was how to procure the fifty or sixty thousand pounds. It wasn’t likely to be obtained out of the savings of a managing clerk. Glasspoole himself hadn’t anything like that amount of ready money. His father’s estate was sworn at something over ten thousand pounds. I happened to know that each year’s income was spent during the same twelve-month. So it seemed that even if, by some process of hanky-panky, I diddled him out of his business – which I perhaps mightn’t have found an impossible feat – I should still have had to work for the rest of my life. Which was exactly what I didn’t want to do. I tried betting – on horses and on the Stock Exchange. But that didn’t make me appreciably richer. I dabbled in one or two other directions. Still the money wouldn’t come. So, at last, I made up my mind what I would do.

“Instead of a profit, my little ventures had resulted in a pecuniary loss – which was what I hadn’t intended. To meet it, I had had to make free with other people’s property. Not to a large amount. Still it was more than I was ever likely to be able to replace. Worrying about it put me on the track of my great idea.

“In Glasspoole’s charge there were all sorts of securities – bonds, shares, insurance policies, mortgage and title deeds; all sorts of things. Large sums of money – or money’s worth – passed through his hands on behalf of his clients. And his hands meant mine. There was one estate in particular – the Dene Park estate, belonging to the Foster family – the fee-simple of which was practically inside the walls of Glasspoole’s office. Nothing would be easier than to obtain the money I wanted – by turning thief.

“Why shouldn’t I? I did my best to sum up the pros and cons, and give a judicial decision as to which side had the best of it. I argued in this way.

“On the one hand, I should be found out. I never deceived myself as to there being any room for doubt upon that point. On the other, I should have the money. I did not propose to spend it. My idea was to put it away in a safe place, where I alone should know of its existence, and to which I only should have access. I should be sentenced, probably, to between five and ten years’ penal servitude. I doubted if I should object to prison much more than I did to Glasspoole’s office. When I had served my term I should be a man of means. In other words, by doing – at the outside – ten years’ imprisonment I should have earned a fortune; which I certainly never should be able to do by any other means whatever. You catch the notion?”

“I perceive that you’re a pretty sort of a scoundrel.”

“I’m one sort, you’re another. I understand that you’re here for something very much like murder.”

Bruce laughed. Stretching out his hands he placed the other in a more comfortable position on his pillow. The sick man gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

“Your touch is as soft as a woman’s, when you like. – Well, my scheme went on rollers up to a certain point. I stripped the office bare, laying hands on everything within reach; turning things into cash as I went on – often, I am sorry to say, at a shocking loss. It’s astonishing how certain kinds of property depreciate when you’re in a hurry to realise. I put the money away as fast as I got it. By the time the crash came I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was comfortably off. They arrested Glasspoole and me on the same day.”

“Glasspoole? – Was he your accomplice?”

“Neglect, my dear sir, neglect. I should never have been able to collar everything in the way I did do if his neglect of his clients’ interests had not been really culpable. However, they were able to prove nothing against him actually criminal; and he was acquitted – a ruined man. I got ten years; which was three more than I expected, because I had hoped to get off with seven. But the judge happened to be Quince, who has a special prejudice against solicitors who misappropriate.”

“You deserved the ten years; every day of it.”

“I fancy that most of us in this establishment do deserve all we’ve got – you as well as the rest.”

“I’m not denying it.”

“That’s just as well. – The mischief is that I didn’t get on in prison so well as I desired. Somehow it didn’t agree with me at all. I haven’t done six years, yet in about six hours I’ll be dead.”

Bruce, noticing the difficulty he had in speaking, in breathing, in living, thought it probable that he was right.

“I always understood that before a man got to your condition they gave him his discharge.”

“So they do. They told me, a month ago, that I was a dead man. And they offered to let me out.”

“Offered? – what do you mean?”

“They don’t turn a man out to die in the streets, or even in a workhouse. They ask him if he has anywhere to go to; if he has any friends.”

“And haven’t you any;?”

“After what I’ve been telling you, do I strike you as being the kind of man who is likely to have friends? Like you, I’ve none.”

“How do you know I’ve none? You know nothing about me.”

“I’ll stake my fortune that there’s not one creature living who’d stretch out a hand to save you from hell-fire. That’s one reason why I’m making you my heir.”

“One reason – what’s another?”

“Just now you called me a pretty sort of a scoundrel. I attempted no contradiction. But, as a scoundrel, compared to you I’m a pygmy. In you there’s the making of a criminal Colossus. You’ve no principles; no scruples; no attachments; nothing to cause you to stay your hand. You’re handsome – you look like a Greek god; but I don’t know if you’re aware that those blue eyes of yours are of the shade and kind which are found in the heads of many gentlemen who finish at the end of a rope. You’ve nerve; courage enough for anything; for assurance, a countenance of triple brass. You’re a giant in stature; you’ve the strength of a Hercules; and the sort of constitution which has never known what it is to be ill. You know the world; and, I fancy, you’ve seen – and done – a few things in it. You’re a man of education; possibly a scholar; certainly a public school and university man. Given the chance, you should go far. And I’m going to give you the chance. Put these things together and you’ve another reason why I’m making you my heir.”

“You flatter me; ascribing to me qualities which I was not aware that I possessed.”

“I think that’s possible. But you’ll discover their existence as occasion arises for you to use them. I imagine that the fact that you’ve had the temper of a fiend is responsible for your being here.”

“Well, there may be something in that.”

“You must get that under, or it’ll land you again. A man of your type, who, when he’s raging hot inside, can seem as cold as ice, is the most dangerous creature on God’s earth.-Go out in about a fortnight, don’t you?”

“To be exact, in ten days.”

“I’ll be underground before then. Seems odd that I should have done it all to make you rich.”

“It does – extremely, If this money exists, as you assert, why didn’t you avail yourself of the discharge which was offered you, and make use of it yourself?”

“What use could I have made of it had I got it? I’m doomed to die; I may as well die here as anywhere. I’ve got beyond the stage when money could buy me anything which I could enjoy. Also – a big ‘also’ – the key to it all happens to be in a place where, in my then condition, I couldn’t have got at it. I’d have had to take a partner, who’d have robbed me. It’ll give me more satisfaction to know that it’s being used by a man like you.”

“Do you seriously suggest that, masquerading as George Edney, I should lay claim to moneys which are deposited somewhere in your name? Not only would the counterfeit be detected in an instant, but, I take it, there are associations which I should find it difficult to explain away.”

“I’m suggesting nothing so foolish. The money is not in any way connected with my name, or with me. It’s deposited in the name of Smithers – Francis Smithers. And he is nothing but a name – and a signature. You’ll have to get the signature right; but I credit you with the capacity for doing that. Unto this hour, no one has ever seen him in the flesh. When you come on the scene it will be his first appearance on any stage.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought it would be better that no one with a memory for faces should be able to associate George Edney with Francis Smithers, so I took care that none of the depositing should be done by me in person.”

“Then how am I to get at it?”

“You know Richmond Park, near London?”

“Very well.”

“I was born at Richmond. I know every inch of it. When, down at Birchester, I was casting about for a hiding-place which no one could suspect, the Park struck me as being just the thing. Entering from the Richmond Gate, do you know what they used to call the drive towards the White House?”

“I do.”

“Going towards the House, when you have passed the plantations, the ground dips – with the Penn Ponds on your right.”

Bruce nodded.

“A dozen yards due west of the north-western corner of the smaller pond – which is the one you first approach – among uneven ground, three feet deep, there is a tin box, which contains everything necessary to place you in immediate possession of the fortune of which I am now appointing you the heir. You will have no difficulty in finding it; but to further mark the spot, I broke a piece of bamboo off the cane which I was carrying and stuck it into the turf. So few people penetrate into that part of the Park – partly because it is out of the way, and partly because the unevenness of the ground makes walking unpleasant – that, unless the deer have trampled it under foot, I shouldn’t be surprised to find that piece of bamboo still thrusting up its nose amidst the tussocky grass.”