The Talleyrand Maxim

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  THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM

  BY J. S. FLETCHER

  1920

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I DEATH BRINGS OPPORTUNITY

  II IN TRUST

  III THE SHOP-BOY

  IV THE FORTUNATE POSSESSORS

  V POINT-BLANK

  VI THE UNEXPECTED

  VII THE SUPREME INDUCEMENT

  VIII TERMS

  IX UNTIL NEXT SPRING

  X THE FOOT-BRIDGE

  XI THE PREVALENT ATMOSPHERE

  XII THE POWER OF ATTORNEY

  XIII THE FIRST TRICK

  XIV CARDS ON THE TABLE

  XV PRATT OFFERS A HAND

  XVI A HEADQUARTERS CONFERENCE

  XVII ADVERTISEMENT

  XVIII THE CONFIDING LANDLORD

  XIX THE EYE-WITNESS

  XX THE _Green Man_

  XXI THE DIRECT CHARGE

  XXII THE CAT'SPAW

  XXIII SMOOTH FACE AND ANXIOUS BRAIN

  XXIV THE BETTER HALF

  XXV DRY SHERRY

  XXVI THE TELEPHONE MESSAGE

  XXVII RESTORED TO ENERGY

  XXVIII THE WOMAN IN BLACK

  THE TALLEYRAND MAXIM

  CHAPTER I

  DEATH BRINGS OPPORTUNITY

  Linford Pratt, senior clerk to Eldrick & Pascoe, solicitors, of Barford,a young man who earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or bycrook, with no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could beperformed in safety and secrecy, had once during one of his periodicalvisits to the town Reference Library, lighted on a maxim of that otherunscrupulous person, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly."With time and patience," said Talleyrand, "the mulberry leaf is turnedinto satin." This seemed to Linford Pratt one of the finest and soundestpieces of wisdom which he had ever known put into words.

  A mulberry leaf is a very insignificant thing, but a piece of satin is ahighly marketable commodity, with money in it. Henceforth, he regardedhimself as a mulberry leaf which his own wit and skill must transforminto satin: at the same time he knew that there is another thing, inaddition to time and patience, which is valuable to young men of hispeculiar qualities, a thing also much beloved by Talleyrand--opportunity.He could find the patience, and he had the time--but it would give himgreat happiness if opportunity came along to help in the work. Ineveryday language, Linford Pratt wanted a chance--he waited the arrivalof the tide in his affairs which would lead him on to fortune.

  Leave him alone--he said to himself--to be sure to take it at the flood.If Pratt had only known it, as he stood in the outer office of Eldrick &Pascoe at the end of a certain winter afternoon, opportunity was slowlyclimbing the staircase outside--not only opportunity, but temptation,both assisted by the Devil. They came at the right moment, for Pratt wasalone; the partners had gone: the other clerks had gone: the office-boyhad gone: in another minute Pratt would have gone, too: he was onlylooking round before locking up for the night. Then these thingscame--combined in the person of an old man, Antony Bartle, who openedthe door, pushed in a queer, wrinkled face, and asked in a quaveringvoice if anybody was in.

  "I'm in, Mr. Bartle," answered Pratt, turning up a gas jet which he hadjust lowered. "Come in, sir. What can I do for you?"

  Antony Bartle came in, wheezing and coughing. He was a very, very oldman, feeble and bent, with little that looked alive about him but hislight, alert eyes. Everybody knew him--he was one of the institutions ofBarford--as well known as the Town Hall or the Parish Church. For fiftyyears he had kept a second-hand bookshop in Quagg Alley, the narrowpassage-way which connected Market Street with Beck Street. It was notby any means a common or ordinary second-hand bookshop: its proprietorstyled himself an "antiquarian bookseller"; and he had a reputation intwo Continents, and dealt with millionaire buyers and virtuosos in both.

  Barford people sometimes marvelled at the news that Mr. Antony Bartlehad given two thousand guineas for a Book of Hours, and had sold aMissal for twice that amount to some American collector; and they got ahazy notion that the old man must be well-to-do--despite his snuffinessand shabbiness, and that his queer old shop, in the window of whichthere was rarely anything to be seen but a few ancient tomes, and two orthree rare engravings, contained much that he could turn at an hour'snotice into gold. All that was surmise--but Eldrick & Pascoe--which termincluded Linford Pratt--knew all about Antony Bartle, being hissolicitors: his will was safely deposited in their keeping, and Pratthad been one of the attesting witnesses.

  The old man, having slowly walked into the outer office, leaned againsta table, panting a little. Pratt hastened to open an inner door.

  "Come into Mr. Eldrick's room, Mr. Bartle," he said. "There's a niceeasy chair there--come and sit down in it. Those stairs are a bittrying, aren't they? I often wish we were on the ground floor."

  He lighted the gas in the senior partner's room, and turning back, tookhold of the visitor's arm, and helped him to the easy chair. Then,having closed the doors, he sat down at Eldrick's desk, put his fingerstogether and waited. Pratt knew from experience that old Antony Bartlewould not have come there except on business: he knew also, having beenat Eldrick & Pascoe's for many years, that the old man would confide inhim as readily as in either of his principals.

  "There's a nasty fog coming on outside," said Bartle, after a fit ofcoughing. "It gets on my lungs, and then it makes my heart bad. Mr.Eldrick in?"

  "Gone," replied Pratt. "All gone, Mr. Bartle--only me here."

  "You'll do," answered the old bookseller. "You're as good as they are."He leaned forward from the easy chair, and tapped the clerk's arm with along, claw-like finger. "I say," he continued, with a smile that wassomething between a wink and a leer, and suggestive of a pleasedsatisfaction. "I've had a find!"

  "Oh!" responded Pratt. "One of your rare books, Mr. Bartle? Gotsomething for twopence that you'll sell for ten guineas? You're one ofthe lucky ones, you know, you are!"

  "Nothing of the sort!" chuckled Bartle. "And I had to pay for myknowledge, young man, before I got it--we all have. No--but I've foundsomething: not half an hour ago. Came straight here with it. Matters forlawyers, of course."

  "Yes?" said Pratt inquiringly. "And--what may it be?" He was expectingthe visitor to produce something, but the old man again leaned forward,and dug his finger once more into the clerk's sleeve.

  "I say!" he whispered. "You remember John Mallathorpe and the affairof--how long is it since?"

  "Two years," answered Pratt promptly. "Of course I do. Couldn't verywell forget it, or him."

  He let his mind go back for the moment to an affair which had providedBarford and the neighbourhood with a nine days' sensation. One wintermorning, just two years previously, Mr. John Mallathorpe, one of thebest-known manufacturers and richest men of the town, had been killed bythe falling of his own mill-chimney. The condition of the chimney hadbeen doubtful for some little time; experts had been examining it forseveral days: at the moment of the catastrophe, Mallathorpe himself,some of his principal managers, and a couple of professionalsteeple-jacks, were gathered at its base, consulting on a report. Thegreat hundred-foot structure above them had collapsed without theslightest warning: Mallathorpe, his principal manager, and his cashier,had been killed on the spot: two other bystanders had subsequently diedfrom injuries received. No such accident had occurred in Barford, nor inthe surrounding manufacturing district, for many years, and there hadbeen much interest in it, for according to the expert's conclusions thechimney was in no immediate danger.

  Other mill-owners then began to examine their chimneys, and for manyweeks Barford folk had talked of little else than the danger of livingin the sha
dows of these great masses of masonry.

  But there had soon been something else to talk of. It sprang out of theaccident--and it was of particular interest to persons who, like LinfordPratt, were of the legal profession. John Mallathorpe, so far as anybodyknew or could ascertain, had died intestate. No solicitor in the townhad ever made a will for him. No solicitor elsewhere had ever made awill for him. No one had ever heard that he had made a will for himself.There was no will. Drastic search of his safes, his desks, his drawersrevealed nothing--not even a memorandum. No friend of his had ever heardhim mention a will. He had always been something of a queer man. He wasa confirmed bachelor. The only relation he had in the world was hissister-in-law, the widow of his deceased younger brother, and her twochildren--a son and a daughter. And as soon as he was dead, and it wasplain that he had died intestate, they put in their claim to hisproperty.

  John Mallathorpe had left a handsome property. He had been making moneyall his life. His business was a considerable one--he employed twothousand workpeople. His average annual profit from his mills wasreckoned in thousands--four or five thousands at least. And some yearsbefore his death, he had bought one of the finest estates in theneighbourhood, Normandale Grange, a beautiful old house, set amidstcharming and romantic scenery in a valley, which, though within twelvemiles of Barford, might have been in the heart of the Highlands.Therefore, it was no small thing that Mrs. Richard Mallathorpe and hertwo children laid claim to. Up to the time of John Mallathorpe's death,they had lived in very humble fashion--lived, indeed, on an allowancefrom their well-to-do kinsman--for Richard Mallathorpe had been as muchof a waster as his brother had been of a money-getter. And there was nowithstanding their claim when it was finally decided that JohnMallathorpe had died intestate--no withstanding that, at any rate, ofthe nephew and niece. The nephew had taken all the real estate: he andhis sister had shared the personal property. And for some months theyand their mother had been safely installed at Normandale Grange, and infull possession of the dead man's wealth and business.

  All this flashed through Linford Pratt's mind in a few seconds--he knewall the story: he had often thought of the extraordinary good fortune ofthose young people. To be living on charity one week--and the next to belegal possessors of thousands a year!--oh, if only such luck would comehis way!

  "Of course!" he repeated, looking thoughtfully at the old bookseller."Not the sort of thing one does forget in a hurry, Mr. Bartle. What ofit?"

  Antony Bartle leaned back in his easy chair and chuckled--something,some idea, seemed to be affording him amusement.

  "I'm eighty years old," he remarked. "No, I'm more, to be exact. I shallbe eighty-two come February. When you've lived as long as that, youngMr. Pratt, you'll know that this life is a game of topsy-turvy--to somefolks, at any rate. Just so!"

  "You didn't come here to tell me that, Mr. Bartle," said Pratt. He wasan essentially practical young man who dined at half-past six everyevening, having lunched on no more than bread-and-cheese and a glass ofale, and he also had his evenings well mapped out. "I know that already,sir."

  "Aye, aye, but you'll know more of it later on," replied Bartle."Well--you know, too, no doubt, that the late John Mallathorpe was abit--only a bit--of a book-collector; collected books and pamphletsrelating to this district?"

  "I've heard of it," answered the clerk.

  "He had that collection in his private room at the mill," continued theold bookseller, "and when the new folks took hold, I persuaded them tosell it to me. There wasn't such a lot--maybe a hundred volumesaltogether--but I wanted what there was. And as they were of no interestto them, they sold 'em. That's some months ago. I put all the books in acorner--and I never really examined them until this very afternoon.Then--by this afternoon's post--I got a letter from a Barford man who'snow out in America. He wanted to know if I could supply him with a nicecopy of Hopkinson's _History of Barford_. I knew there was one in thatMallathorpe collection, so I got it out, and examined it. And in thepocket inside, in which there's a map, I found--what d'ye think?"

  "Couldn't say," replied Pratt. He was still thinking of his dinner, andof an important engagement to follow it, and he had not the least ideathat old Antony Bartle was going to tell him anything very important."Letters? Bank-notes? Something of that sort?"

  The old bookseller leaned nearer, across the corner of the desk, untilhis queer, wrinkled face was almost close to Pratt's sharp, youthfulone. Again he lifted the claw-like finger: again he tapped the clerk'sarm.

  "I found John Mallathorpe's will!" he whispered. "His--will!"

  Linford Pratt jumped out of his chair. For a second he stared inspeechless amazement at the old man; then he plunged his hands deep intohis trousers' pockets, opened his mouth, and let out a suddenexclamation.

  "No!" he said. "No! John Mallathorpe's--will? His--will!"

  "Made the very day on which he died," answered Bartle, noddingemphatically.

  "Queer, wasn't it? He might have had some--premonition, eh?"

  Pratt sat down again.

  "Where is it?" he asked.

  "Here in my pocket," replied the old bookseller, tapping his rusty coat."Oh, it's all right, I assure you. All duly made out, signed, andwitnessed. Everything in order, I know!--because a long, a very longtime ago, I was like you, an attorney's clerk. I've drafted many a will,and witnessed many a will, in my time. I've read this, every word ofit--it's all right. Nothing can upset it."

  "Let's see it," said Pratt, eagerly.

  "Well--I've no objection--I know you, of course," answered Bartle, "butI'd rather show it first to Mr. Eldrick. Couldn't you telephone up tohis house and ask him to run back here?"

  "Certainly," replied Pratt. "He mayn't be there, though. But I can try.You haven't shown it to anybody else?"

  "Neither shown it to anybody, nor mentioned it to a soul," said Bartle."I tell you it's not much more than half an hour since I found it. It'snot a long document. Do you know how it is that it's never come out?" hewent on, turning eagerly to Pratt, who had risen again. "It's easilyexplained. The will's witnessed by those two men who were killed at thesame time as John Mallathorpe! So, of course, there was nobody to saythat it was in evidence. My notion is that he and those twomen--Gaukrodger and Marshall, his manager and cashier--had signed it notlong before the accident, and that Mallathorpe had popped it into thepocket of that book before going out into the yard. Eh? But see if youcan get Mr. Eldrick down here, and we'll read it together. And Isay--this office seems uncommonly stuffy--can you open the window a bitor something?--I feel oppressed, like."

  Pratt opened a window which looked out on the street. He glanced at theold man for a moment and saw that his face, always pallid, was evenpaler than usual.

  "You've been talking too much," he said. "Rest yourself, Mr. Bartle,while I ring up Mr. Eldrick's house. If he isn't there, I'll try hisclub--he often turns in there for an hour before going home."

  He went out by a private door to the telephone box, which stood in alobby used by various occupants of the building. And when he had rung upEldrick's private house and was waiting for the answer, he asked himselfwhat this discovery would mean to the present holders of the Mallathorpeproperty, and his curiosity--a strongly developed quality in him--becamemore and more excited. If Eldrick was not at home, if he could not getin touch with him, he would persuade old Bartle to let him see hisfind--he would cheerfully go late to his dinner if he could only get apeep at this strangely discovered document. Romance! Why, this indeedwas romance; and it might be--what else? Old Bartle had already chuckledabout topsy-turvydom: did that mean that--

  The telephone bell rang: Eldrick had not yet reached his house. Prattgot on to the club: Eldrick had not been there. He rang off, and wentback to the private room.

  "Can't get hold of him, Mr. Bartle," he began, as he closed the door."He's not at home, and he's not at the club. I say!--you might as welllet me have a look at----"

  Pratt suddenly stopped. There was a strange silence in the room: the oldman's wh
eezy breathing was no longer heard. And the clerk moved forwardquickly and looked round the high back of the easy chair....

  He knew at once what had happened--knew that old Bartle was dead beforehe laid a finger on the wasted hand which had dropped helplessly at hisside. He had evidently died without a sound or a movement--died asquietly as he would have gone to sleep. Indeed, he looked as if he hadjust laid his old head against the padding of the chair and droppedasleep, and Pratt, who had seen death before, knew that he would neverwake again. He waited a moment, listening in the silence. Once hetouched the old man's hand; once, he bent nearer, still listening. Andthen, without hesitation, and with fingers that remained as steady as ifnothing had happened, he unbuttoned Antony Bartle's coat, and drew afolded paper from the inner pocket.