The Blotting Book (11 page)

"From my notes I understand that Mr. Morris Assheton ascertained that
the missing individual had left his flat in London on Thursday
afternoon," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Assheton is a client of ours, and he wished to see my partner
on a business matter. In fact, when Mr. Mills was found not to have
returned on Thursday evening, he went up to London next day to see him,
since we both supposed he had been detained there."

Mr. Figgis looked once more mournfully at his notes, altered a palpably
mistaken "Wednesday" into Thursday, and got up.

"The matter shall be gone into," he said.

Mr. Taynton went straight from here to his office, and for a couple of
hours devoted himself to the business of his firm, giving it his whole
attention and working perhaps with more speed than it was usually his to
command. Saturday of course was a half-holiday, and it was naturally his
desire to get cleared off everything that would otherwise interrupt the
well-earned repose and security from business affairs which was to him
the proper atmosphere of the seventh, or as he called it, the first day.
This interview with the accredited representative of the law also had
removed a certain weight from his mind. He had placed the matter of his
partner's disappearance in official hands, he had done all he could do to
clear up his absence, and, in case—but here he pulled himself up; it was
at present most premature even to look at the possibility of crime having
been committed.

Mr. Taynton was in no way a vain man, nor was it his habit ever to review
his own conduct, with the object of contrasting it favourably with what
others might have done under the circumstances. Yet he could not help
being aware that others less kindly than he would have shrugged sarcastic
shoulders and said, "probably another blackmailing errand has detained
him." For, indeed, Mills had painted himself in very ugly colours in his
last interview with him; that horrid hint of blackmail, which still, so
to speak, held good, had cast a new light on him. But now Taynton was
conscious of no grudge against him; he did not say, "he can look after
himself." He was anxious about his continued absence, and had taken the
extreme step of calling in the aid of the police, the national guardian
of personal safety.

He got away from his office about half-past twelve and in preparation for
the little dinner festival of this evening, for Miss Templeton had sent
her joyful telegraphic acceptance, went to several shops to order some
few little delicacies to grace his plain bachelor table. An ice-pudding,
for instance, was outside the orbit, so he feared of his plain though
excellent cook, and two little dishes of chocolates and sweets, since he
was at the confectioner's, would be appropriate to the taste of his lady
guests. Again a floral decoration of the table was indicated, and since
the storm of Thursday, there was nothing in his garden worthy of the
occasion; thus a visit to the florist's resulted in an order for smilax
and roses.

He got home, however, at his usual luncheon hour to find a telegram
waiting for him on the Heppelwhite table in the hall. There had been a
continued buying of copper shares, and the feature was a sensational rise
in Bostons, which during the morning had gone up a clear point.

Mr. Taynton had no need to make calculations; he knew, as a man knows the
multiplication table of two, what every fraction of a rise in Bostons
meant to him, and this, provided only he had time to sell at once, meant
the complete recovery of the losses he had suffered. With those active
markets it was still easily possible though it was Saturday, to effect
his sale, since there was sure to be long continued business in the
Street and he had but to be able to exercise his option at that price, to
be quit of that dreadful incubus of anxiety which for the last two years
had been a millstone round his neck that had grown mushroom like. The
telephone to town, of course, was far the quickest mode of communication,
and having given his order he waited ten minutes till the tube babbled
and croaked to him again.

There is a saying that things are "too good to be true," but when Mr.
Taynton sat down to his lunch that day, he felt that the converse of the
proverb was the correcter epigram. Things could be so good that they
must be true, and here, still ringing in his ears was one of
them—Morris—it was thus he phrased it to himself—was "paid off," or,
in more business-like language, the fortune of which Mr. Taynton was
trustee was intact again, and, like a tit-bit for a good child, there was
an additional five or six hundred pounds for him who had managed the
trust so well. Mr. Taynton could not help feeling somehow that he
deserved it; he had increased Morris's fortune since he had charge of it
by £10,000. And what a lesson, too, he had had, so gently and painlessly
taught him! No one knew better than he how grievously wrong he had got,
in gambling with trust money. Yet now it had come right: he had repaired
the original wrong; on Monday he would reinvest this capital in those
holdings which he had sold, and Morris's £40,000 (so largely the result
of careful and judicious investment) would certainly stand the scrutiny
of any who could possibly have any cause to examine his ledgers. Indeed
there would be nothing to see. Two years ago Mr. Morris Assheton's
fortune was invested in certain railway debentures and Government stock.
It would in a few days' time be invested there again, precisely as it had
been. Mr. Taynton had not been dealing in gilt-edged securities lately,
and could not absolutely trust his memory, but he rather thought that the
repurchase could be made at a somewhat smaller sum than had been realised
by their various sales dating from two years ago. In that case there was
a little more
sub rosa
reward for this well-inspired justice, weighed
but featherwise against the overwhelming relief of the knowledge he could
make wrong things right again, repair his, yes, his scoundrelism.

How futile, too, now, was Mills's threatened blackmail! Mills might, if
he chose, proclaim on any convenient housetop, that his partner had
gambled with Morris's £40,000 that according to the ledgers was invested
in certain railway debentures and other gilt-edged securities. In a few
days, any scrutiny might be made of the securities lodged at the County
Bank, and assuredly among them would be found those debentures, those
gilt-edged securities exactly as they appeared in the ledgers. Yet Mr.
Taynton, so kindly is the nature of happiness, contemplated no revengeful
step on his partner; he searched his heart and found that no trace of
rancour against poor Mills was hoarded there.

Whether happiness makes us good, is a question not yet decided, but it is
quite certain that happiness makes us forget that we have been bad, and
it seemed to Mr. Taynton, as he sat in his cool dining-room, and ate his
lunch with a more vivid appetite than had been his for many months, it
seemed that the man who had gambled with his client's money was no longer
himself; it was a perfectly different person who had done that. It was a
different man, too, who, so few days ago had connived at and applauded
the sorry trick which Mills had tried to play on Morris, when (so
futilely, it is true) he had slandered him to Sir Richard. Now he felt
that he—this man that to-day sat here—was incapable of such meannesses.
And, thank God, it was never too late; from to-day he would lead the
honourable, upright existence which the world (apart from his partner)
had always credited him with leading.

He basked in the full sunshine of these happy and comfortable thoughts,
and even as the sun of midsummer lingered long on the sea and hills, so
for hours this inward sunshine warmed and cheered him. Nor was it till
he saw by his watch that he must return from the long pleasant ramble on
which he had started as soon as lunch was over, that a cloud filmy and
thin at first began to come across the face of the sun. Once and again
those genial beams dispersed it, but soon it seemed as if the vapours
were getting the upper hand. A thought, in fact, had crossed Mr.
Taynton's mind that quite distinctly dimmed his happiness. But a little
reflection told him that a very simple step on his part would put that
right again, and he walked home rather more quickly than he had set out,
since he had this little bit of business to do before dinner.

He went—this was only natural—to the house where Mr. Mills's flat was
situated, and inquired of the porter whether his partner had yet
returned. But the same answer as before was given him, and saying that
he had need of a document that Mills had taken home with him three days
before he went up in the lift, and rang the bell of the flat. But it was
not his servant who opened it, but sad Superintendent Figgis.

For some reason this was rather a shock to Mr. Taynton; to expect one
face and see another is always (though ever so slightly) upsetting, but
he instantly recovered himself and explained his errand.

"My partner took home with him on Tuesday a paper, which is concerned
with my business," he said. "Would you kindly let me look round
for it?"

Mr. Figgis weighed this request.

"Nothing must be removed from the rooms," he said, "till we have finished
our search."

"Search for what?" asked Mr. Taynton.

"Any possible clue as to the reason of Mr. Mills's disappearance. But in
ten minutes we shall have done, if you care to wait."

"I don't want to remove anything." said the lawyer. "I merely want to
consult—"

At the moment another man in plain clothes came out of the sitting-room.
He carried in his hand two or three letters, and a few scraps of crumpled
paper. There was an envelope or two among them.

"We have finished, sir," he said to the Superintendent.

Mr. Figgis turned to the lawyer, who was looking rather fixedly at what
the other man had in his hand.

"My document may be among those," he said.

Mr. Figgis handed them to him. There were two envelopes, both addressed
to the missing man, one bearing his name only, some small torn-up scrap
of paper, and three or four private letters.

"Is it among these?" he asked.

Mr. Taynton turned them over.

"No," he said, "it was—it was a large, yes, a large blue paper,
official looking."

"No such thing in the flat, sir," said the second man.

"Very annoying," said the lawyer.

An idea seemed slowly to strike Mr. Figgis.

"He may have taken it to London with him," he said. "But will you not
look round?"

Mr. Taynton did so. He also looked in the waste-paper basket, but it
was empty.

So he went back to make ready to receive his guests, for the little
party. But it had got dark; this "document" whatever it was, appeared to
trouble him. The simple step he had contemplated had not led him in quite
the right direction.

The Superintendent with his colleague went back into the sitting-room
on the lawyer's departure, and Mr. Figgis took from his pocket most of
his notes.

"I went to the station, Wilkinson," he said, "and in the lost luggage
office I found Mr. Mills's bag. It had arrived on Thursday evening. But
it seems pretty certain that its owner did not arrive with it."

"Looks as if he did get out at Falmer," said Wilkinson.

Figgis took a long time to consider this.

"It is possible," he said. "It is also possible that he put his luggage
into the train in London, and subsequently missed the train himself."

Then together they went through the papers that might conceivably help
them. There was a torn-up letter found in his bedroom fireplace, and the
crumpled up envelope that belonged to it. They patiently pieced this
together, but found nothing of value. The other letters referred only to
his engagements in London, none of which were later than Thursday
morning. There remained one crumpled up envelope (also from the
paperbasket) but no letter that in any way corresponded with it. It was
addressed in a rather sprawling, eager, boyish hand.

"No letter of any sort to correspond?" asked Figgis for the second time.

"No."

"I think for the present we will keep it," said he.

The little party at Mr. Taynton's was gay to the point of foolishness,
and of them all none was more light-hearted than the host. Morris had
asked him in an undertone, on arrival, whether any more had been heard,
and learning there was still no news, had dismissed the subject
altogether. The sunshine of the day, too, had come back to the lawyer;
his usual cheerful serenity was touched with a sort of sympathetic
boisterousness, at the huge spirits of the young couple and it was to be
recorded that after dinner they played musical chairs and blind-man's
buff, with infinite laughter. Never was an elderly solicitor so
spontaneously gay; indeed before long it was he who reinfected the others
with merriment. But as always, after abandonment to laughter a little
reaction followed, and when they went upstairs from his sitting-room
where they had been so uproarious, so that it might be made tidy again
before Sunday, and sat in the drawing-room overlooking the street, there
did come this little reaction. But it was already eleven, and soon Mrs.
Assheton rose to go.

The night was hot, and Morris was sitting to cool himself by the open
window, leaning his head out to catch the breeze. The street was very
empty and quiet, and his motor, in which as a great concession, his
mother had consented to be carried, on the promise of his going slow,
had already come for them. Then down at the seaward end of the street
he heard street-cries, as if some sudden news had come in that sent
the vendors of the evening papers out to reap a second harvest that
night. He could not, however, catch what it was, and they all went
downstairs together.

Madge was going home with them, for she was stopping over the Sunday with
Mrs. Assheton, and the two ladies had already got into the car, while
Morris was still standing on the pavement with his host.