The Meaning of Night

macers on the Highway.^* Mr Pettingale continued to sing out nicely. His colour had returned to its customary pastiness, and perspiration no longer stood out on his forehead. Indeed, he seemed, to my eye, to be warming to his task, and I began to sense that all was not as it once had been between the lawyer and his literary friend.

‘We don’t see each other as much as we did,’ he said at last, looking meditatively into the fire. ‘All very well, you know, when we were younger. Difficult to explain – excites the mind greatly, this sort of work. And brings home the bacon. But it started to go against the grain a bit – some of the chaps we took were quite decent sorts of fellows, wives and families, etcetera, and we left them with nothing. Anyway, I told Daunt we couldn’t go on for ever. Sooner or later we’d slip up. Didn’t fancy following Hensby on the boat^* – or worse. Came to a head when that unutterable blackguard Pluckrose did for his wife. Never understood why Daunt brought him in – and told him so. Capable of anything, Pluckrose. We knew that, of course. Bit of a flare-up, I’m afraid. Words said, and all that. Gulling a flat^† one thing. Topping your wife quite another. Very bad business. Worst of it was that Pluckrose got off by some piece of trickery and some other cove paid his account in full and swung for what he’d done. Clever work, that, never seen better. Sir Ephraim Gadd, briefed by Tredgolds. Anyway, truth is, I thought it was time we threw over Pluckrose once and for all and went steady. Thought Daunt would agree – in the public eye, toast of the literary world, and all that. He said I might do as I pleased, but he had only just got started, and that a new tack he was on would set him up for life.’

‘New tack?’

‘Apropos his uncle, as he called him. Lord Tansor. Powerful gent. Know the name, do you? Lost his own son, I believe, and thought he’d have Daunt instead. Very rum, but there it is. Old boy bit of a tartar, but rich as Croesus, and Daunt was comfortably situated, for he stood in a fair way to step into the old man’s shoes in the course of time. But he couldn’t wait. Thought he’d take a little bit here and there in advance. Ready cash first, slyly done, for he had Uncle Tansor’s trust, you see. Then a little judicious forging of the old boy’s signature – second nature to Daunt. Rather a genius in that way. Amazing to observe. Give him a minute and he’d produce you the signature of the Queen herself, and good enough to fool the Prince-Consort. Old boy as sharp as they come, but Daunt knew how to play him. Reeled him in nice as you like. Didn’t suspect a thing. A dangerous game though – I told him so, but nothing would move him. Old boy’s secretary got on the scent, keen old cove called Carteret. When Mr Secretary became suspicious of him, Daunt started on his new tack. We’d been working a sweet little turn, our first for some months, but Daunt went cold on it. Everything put in jeopardy. More words, I fear. Much said in anger. Not pleasant. He said he had something better.’

‘And what was it?’

‘Only this: the old boy has a very grand house in the country – been there myself. Said house in the country packed to the rafters with portable booty.’

‘Booty?’

‘Prints, porcelain, glassware, books – Daunt knew a bit about books. All cleverly and quietly done, of course, and everything now laid up safely in a repository – in case the old boy didn’t come across, he said, or against some unseen occurrence. Worth a king’s ransom.’

‘And where is this repository?’

‘Ah, if only I could tell you. He cut me out. Dissolved the partnership. Haven’t seen him these twelve months.’

I had him now, had him tight in the palm of my hand! After all these years, I had been given the means to bring him down. His box at the Opera, his house in Mecklenburgh-square, his horses, and his dinners – all paid for by the proceeds of crime! I was almost delirious with joy at the prospect of my triumph. Why, I could now destroy him at a moment’s notice; and, in the ensuing scandal, would Lord Tansor rush to his heir’s defence? I think not.

‘You’d speak out against him, of course,’ I said to Pettingale.

‘Speak out? What do you mean?’

‘Publicly declare what you have just told me.’

‘Now hang on a moment.’ Pettingale made to get up out of his chair, but I pushed him back.

‘Something wrong, Mr Pettingale?’

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I can’t, you know. Implicate myself, and all that. And my life wouldn’t be worth a sniff.’

‘Don’t take on so,’ I said soothingly. ‘I might only need you to testify privately to Lord Tansor. No repercussions. Just a quiet conversation with his Lordship. You could do that all right, couldn’t you?’

He thought for a moment. To aid reflection, I picked up my pistol from the table.

At length, looking whiter and pastier than ever, he said that he supposed he could, if matters were so arranged that his identity was concealed from Lord Tansor.

‘We’ll need some evidence,’ I said. ‘Something unequivocal, in writing. Could you lay your hands on such a thing?’

He nodded, and bowed his head.

‘Bravo, Pettingale,’ I said with a smile, patting him on the shoulders. ‘But remember this: if you tell your former associates of our conversation, or if you subsequently take it into your head to be unco-operative, you may be assured of paying a very high price. I hope we understand each other?’

He did not reply, so I repeated my question. He looked up at me, with such a weary and resigned look.

‘Yes, Mr Grafton,’ he said, closing his eyes and giving a great sigh. ‘I understand you perfectly.’

^*[‘He is known by his companions’. Ed.]

^†[A free-standing, raised fire-basket of wrought iron, usually on ornamental legs and having a decorated back-plate. Ed.]

^*[From Mozart’s Don Giovanni, sung by Don Ottavio, Donna Anna’s fiance. Convinced that Don Giovanni has killed Anna’s father, Don Ottavio swears to avenge her and to return ‘as the messenger of punishment and death’. Ed.]

^*[i.e. Tasmania. Ed.]