A Rogue by Compulsion by Victor Bridges (top fiction books of all time TXT) 📖

passage till I came to his flat, and lifting the knocker gave a couple of sharp raps. There was a short pause; then I heard the sound of footsteps, and a moment later Tommy himself opened the door.

He was wearing the same dressing-gown that I remembered three years ago, and at the sight of his untidy hair and his dear old badly-shaved face I as nearly as possible gave the show away. Pulling myself together with an effort, however, I made him a polite bow.

"Mr. Morrison?" I inquired in my best assumed voice.

"That's me all right," said Tommy.

"My name's Nicholson," I said. "I am an artist. I was asked to look you up by a friend of yours—Delacour of Paris."

I had mentioned a man for whose work I knew Tommy entertained a profound respect.

"Oh, come in," he cried, swinging open the door and gripping my hand; "come in, old chap. Delighted to see you. The place is in a hell of a mess, but you won't mind that. I've only just got back from sailing."

He dragged me into the studio, which was in the same state of picturesque confusion as when I had last seen it, and pulling up a large easy-chair thrust me down into its capacious depths.

"I'm awfully glad I was in," he went on. "I wouldn't have missed you for the world. How's old Delacour? I haven't seen him for ages. I never get over to Paris these days."

"Delacour's all right," I answered—"at least, as far as I know."

Tommy walked across the room to a corner cupboard. "You'll have a drink, won't you?" he asked; "there's whisky and brandy, and Grand Marnier, and I've got a bottle of port somewhere if you'd care for a glass."

There was a short pause. Then in my natural voice I remarked quietly and distinctly: "You were always a drunken old blackguard, Tommy."

The effect was immense. For a moment Tommy remained perfectly still, his mouth open, his eyes almost starting out of his head. Then quite suddenly he sat down heavily on the couch, clutching a bottle of whisky in one hand and a tumbler in the other.

"Well, I'm damned!" he whispered.

"Never mind, Tommy," I said cheerfully; "you'll be in the very best society."

CHAPTER XIII REGARDING MR. BRUCE LATIMER

For perhaps a second Tommy remained motionless; then sitting up he removed the cork, and poured himself out about a quarter of a tumbler of neat spirit. He drained this off at a gulp, and put down both the glass and the bottle.

"God deliver us!" he observed; "is it really you?"

I nodded. "What's left of me, Tommy."

He jumped to his feet, and the next moment he was crushing my hands with a grip that would have broken some people's fingers. "You old ruffian!" he muttered; "I always said you'd do something like this. Lord alive, it's good to see you, though!" Then, pulling me up out of the chair, he caught me by the shoulders and stared incredulously into my face. "But what the devil's happened? What have you done to yourself?"

"I know what I'm going to do to myself," I replied. "I am going to get outside some of that drink you were talking about—if there's any left."

With something between a laugh and a choke he let me go, and crossing to the couch picked up the whisky and splashed out a generous tot into the glass.

"Here you are—and I'm hanged if I don't have another one myself. I believe I could drink the whole bottle without turning a hair."

"I'm quite sure you could, Tommy," I said, "unless you've deteriorated."

We raised our tumblers and clinked them together with a force that cracked mine from the rim to the bottom. I drained off the contents, however, before they could escape, and flung the broken glass into the fireplace.

"It would have been blasphemous to drink out of it again in any case,"
I said.

With a big, happy laugh Tommy followed my example. Then he came up again and caught me by the arm, as though to make sure that I was still there.

"Neil, old son," he said, "I'm so glad to see you that I shall start wrecking the blessed studio in a minute. For God's sake tell me what it all means."

"Sit down, then," I said; "sit down and give me a chance. It's—it's a hell of a yarn, Tommy."

He laughed again, and letting go my arm threw himself back into the easy-chair.

"It would be," he said.

I always have a feeling that I can talk better when I am on my feet, and so, while Tommy sat there puffing out great clouds of smoke from a huge cherry-wood pipe, I paced slowly up and down the room giving him my story. Like Joyce, he listened to me without saying a word or interrupting me in any way. I told him everything that had happened from the moment when I had escaped from prison to the time when I had given my promise that I would come and look him up.

"I couldn't help it, Tommy," I finished. "I didn't want to drag you in, but you know what Joyce is when she has once made up her mind about anything. I thought the only way was to come and see you. Between us—"

I got no further, for with a sudden exclamation—it sounded more like a growl than anything else—Tommy had risen from his chair.

"And do you mean to tell me that, if it hadn't been for Joyce, you wouldn't have come! By Gad, Neil, if I wasn't so glad to see you I'd—I'd—" Words failed him, and gripping hold of my hands again he wrung them with a force that made me wince.

Then, suddenly dropping them, he started to stride about the room.
"Lord, what a yarn!" he exclaimed. "What a hell of a yarn!"

"Well, I told you it was," I said, nursing my crushed fingers.

"I knew something had happened. I knew at least that you weren't going to be taken alive; but this—" He stopped short in front of me and once more gazed incredulously into my face. "I wouldn't know you from the Angel Gabriel!" he added.

"Except that he's clean shaven," I said. Then I paused. "Look here, Tommy," I went on seriously, "what are we going to do about Joyce? I'm all right, you see. There's nothing to prevent me clearing out of the country directly I've finished with McMurtrie. If I choose to go and break George's neck, that's my own business. I am not going to have you and Joyce mixed up in the affair."

Tommy sat down on the edge of the table. "My dear chap," he said slowly, "do you understand anything about Joyce at all? Do you realize that ever since the trial she has had only one idea in her mind—to get you out of prison? She has lived for nothing else the last three years. All this palmistry business was entirely on your account. She wanted to make money and get to know people who could help her, and she's done it—done it in the most astounding way. When she found it was too soon for your sentence to be altered she even made up some mad plan of taking a cottage near the prison and bribing one of the warders with that eight hundred pounds you left her. It was all I could do to put her off by telling her that you would probably be shot trying to get away. Is it likely she'll chuck the whole thing up now, just when there's really a chance of helping you?"

"But there isn't a chance," I objected. "If we couldn't find out the truth at the trial it's not likely we shall now—unless I choke it out of George. Besides, it's quite possible that even he doesn't know who really killed Marks. He may only have lied about me for some reason of his own."

Tommy nodded impatiently. "That's likely enough, but it's all my eye to say we can't help you. There are a hundred ways in which you'll want friends. To start with, all this business of McMurtrie's, or whatever his name is, sounds devilish queer to me. I don't believe his yarn any more than you do. There's something shady about it, you can be certain. When are you supposed to start work?"

I looked at the clock. "I shall know in about an hour," I said. "I forgot to tell you that when I came back from Joyce's yesterday I found a note—I suppose from them—saying that I should have a message or a visitor at five o'clock today, and would I be good enough to be home at that time. At least it wasn't put quite so politely." Then I paused. "Good Lord!" I exclaimed, "that reminds me. I haven't told you the most amazing part of the whole yarn." I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the card which had been sent me in the restaurant. "Have you ever heard of a man called Bruce Latimer?" I asked.

To my amazement Tommy nodded his head. "Bruce Latimer," he repeated. "Yes, I know a Bruce Latimer?—lives in Jermyn Street. What's he got to do with it?"

"You know him!" I almost shouted.

"Yes, slightly. He belongs to the Athenians. He used to do a lot of sailing at one time, but I haven't seen him down there this year."

"Who is he? What is he?" I demanded eagerly.

"Well, I don't know exactly. He's in some Government office, I believe, but he's not the sort of chap who ever talks about his own affairs. Where on earth did you come across him?"

As quickly as possible I told Tommy the story of my visit to Parelli's, and showed him the card which Latimer had sent me by the waiter. He took it out of my hand, looking at me with a sort of half-sceptical amazement.

"You're not joking?" he said. "This is Gospel truth you're telling me?"

I nodded. "Humour's a bit out of my line nowadays, Tommy," I answered.
"The Dartmoor climate doesn't seem to suit it."

"But—but—" he stared for a moment at the card without speaking.
"Well, this beats everything," he exclaimed. "What in God's name can
Bruce Latimer have to do with your crowd?"

"That," I remarked, "is exactly what I want to find out."

"Find out!" repeated Tommy. "We'll find out right enough. Do you think he guessed who it was that sent the note?"

"Most likely he did," I said. "I was the nearest person, but in any case he only saw my back. You can't recognize a man from his back."

Tommy took two or three steps up and down the studio. "You mustn't go and see him," he said at last—"that's quite certain. You can't afford to mix yourself up in a business of this sort."

"No," I said reluctantly, "but all the same I should very much like to know what's at the bottom of it."

"Suppose I take it on, then?" suggested Tommy.

"What could you say?" I asked.

"I should tell him that it was a friend of mine—an artist who was going abroad the next day—who had seen it happen, and that he'd given me the card and asked me to explain. It's just possible Latimer would take me into his confidence. He would either have to do that or else pretend that the whole thing was a joke."

"I'm quite sure there was no joke about it," I said. "Whether the chap with the scar belongs to McMurtrie's crowd or not, I'm as certain as I am that I'm standing here that he drugged that wine. He may not have meant to murder Latimer, but it looks uncommon fishy."

"It looks even fishier than you think," answered Tommy. "I'd forgotten for the moment, when you asked about him, but I remember now that some fellow at the Athenians once told me that Latimer was supposed to be a secret-service man of some kind."

"A secret-service man!" I repeated incredulously. "I didn't know we went in for such luxuries in this country except in novels. Do you believe it?"

"I didn't pay much attention at the time—I thought it was probably all rot—but this business—" He stopped, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, again paced slowly up and down the room.

I gave a thoughtful whistle. "By Jove, Tommy!" I said; "if that's a fact and the gentleman with the scar