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I went straight to the house on Arlington Street. Mr. Morley opened the door, peeking out like he expected to see a ghost. When he saw it was me, he seemed relieved and whispered, “Would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?”
I stepped into the front room on the ground floor. Mr. Morley followed, with Mrs. Morley right behind him. The room was crammed with old oak furniture, dark and heavy, making it feel more like a gloomy museum than a living space. The dim light outside made the room even darker, and the two of them, standing close together, seemed to blend in with the somber surroundings. The whole place felt cursed, like it was a house of doom.
“I take it Mr. Philip hasn’t returned,” I said.
They exchanged a look, both reluctant to answer. Finally, Mr. Morley spoke up. “No, sir, he’s not returned, but...”
“But what?” I prompted when he hesitated.
He whispered to his wife, “Shall I tell him, Emma?”
“It’s not for me to speak, Joe. That’s for you to say,” she replied.
“This is Mr. Ferguson; he’s Mr. Philip’s friend.”
“If he’s Mr. Philip’s friend...” Mrs. Morley began.
“Come on,” I said, “I see you’ve heard from him.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve heard from him. That—that’s the trouble.”
“What have you heard?” I asked.
Again, Mr. Morley turned to his wife. “Shall I—shall I tell him, Emma?”
“I’ve already told you, Joe, that that’s for you to say. It’s not for me to speak.”
Joe hesitated, then made up his mind.
“Well, sir, this is what we’ve heard.” Mr. Morley pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
“I can’t see a thing without some light! It’s dark as a cave in here.”
“Just a moment, sir. I’ll lower the blinds first. No need for the neighbors to see what’s happening.”
He not only lowered the blinds but drew the curtains, plunging the room into a thick darkness. He fumbled for a match on the mantel and finally lit a single gas burner. By its glow, I examined the paper he’d given me. It looked just like the one I’d received—same type, same style. This one wasn’t anonymous, though.
“To Joseph Morley, Dear Morley, I’m in a bad scrape. I can’t come home. And I’ve no clothes, and no money. I’m sending you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my checkbook, my dressing case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing with me except what I stood up in. I don’t know when I’ll be able to send, but it’ll be as soon as I can. Have everything ready, because when I do send, I won’t want my messenger to be kept waiting. Keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night. Philip Lawrence.
Tell anyone who asks that I’ll be home in about a week and that you have instructions to send all letters on. I don’t want people thinking you’re not in touch with me, or that everything’s not all right. And don’t listen to any tales you might hear; don’t worry, or people will notice. You understand?”
The old couple watched me intently as I read. When I lowered the paper, Mr. Morley asked, his voice shaking, “Well, sir, what—what do you think of it?”
“It’s a curious letter. Who delivered it?”
“That’s more than I can say. There was a knock at the door, and I found it in the letterbox. I looked out into the street, but no one was there.”
“No messenger boy?”
“No, sir, no one like that.”
“And the keys came with it?”
“Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel.”
“Addressed to you?”
“No, the parcel wasn’t addressed to anyone. It had nothing on it at all.”
“Are you sure they’re Mr. Philip’s keys?”
“Of course, they are. Whose else would they be? Why do you ask?”
“Has Mr. Philip ever sent you typewritten letters before?”
“Never in his life.”
“The signature is typed too, like he didn’t want you to have even a scrap of his handwriting to recognize. Why would he need to type this letter at all? Does he even know how to use a typewriter?”
“Not that I know of. I’ve never heard him mention it.”
“Then having someone else type it for him only added to his risk. Why wouldn’t he just write it himself?”
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“I can’t say.”
“Are you absolutely sure this letter is from Mr. Philip?”
“Not a doubt in my mind. I wish there was. It means he’s in hiding. And why would he be hiding, except for one reason? What are we going to do if he—if he killed his brother?”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, if he did, he did! Where could he possibly hide? The world will soon know what he’s done, and everyone will be looking for him. He won’t dare come here. He already doesn’t; soon he won’t even be able to write to us. The police will be watching us like hawks. He’ll be an outcast, avoiding the places and people he knew. And he’s the most sociable guy ever, always surrounded by friends, never a loner. And what about us, Emma and me, here in his house alone? Who do we look to for help, for guidance? We’re scared to stay here as it is; it feels haunted. We think we see him everywhere—hear his footsteps, his voice, his laughter.”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, it’s true. Our nerves can’t take it. We’re not young anymore; we’re used to a routine. This chaos is too much for us. Every knock on the door makes us jump. Who—who’s that?”
As Mr. Morley spoke, a loud banging on the front-door knocker shook the house. It was such a clamor that it rattled their already frayed nerves. The sound made them cling to each other, clearly terrified. Their behavior showed they weren’t up to handling a serious situation, especially one requiring calm and presence of mind.
The visitor was in a hurry. Barely had time to reach the front door before the knocking started again—bang, bang, bang! I really thought the door would be broken down. The faces of Mr. and Mrs. Morley grew whiter, their limbs more tremulous.
“Shouldn’t you see who’s there? Or should I?”
They let me go. On the doorstep, I found a man who had his own ideas of propriety. Without a word, he tried to push his way into the house. I’m not someone who takes that lightly. When I’m pushed, I push back. With a firm hand against his chest, I sent him stumbling backwards across the pavement.
“Manners, sir! Manners!” I said.
He looked surprised, like a man who expects to bully and finds himself bullied instead. His hat fell off, and he nearly did too.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“That’s the question I should be asking you,” I replied.
Picking up his hat, he stormed towards me with a blusterous air.
“I need to see Philip Lawrence—right now.”
“Do you now? That’s unfortunate. You’ve come to the wrong place for that. Mr. Philip Lawrence isn’t here.”
“Tell that to someone else. I’ve heard it before. I’ll wait till he is.”
“By all means, let me show you inside.”
Grabbing him by the collar, I led him through the doorway, across the hall, and into the front room, where Mr. and Mrs. Morley were still clinging to each other as if the world was ending. The visitor was a big, black-haired man, a bit puffy, with whiskers and a mustache that seemed polished, they shone so brightly. He wore flashy clothes.
“What do you mean by such disgraceful behavior?” I asked.
“That’s rich!” He adjusted his collar. “Seems to me the boot’s on the other foot.” He turned to Mr. Morley. “Who is this man?”
“I am,” I interjected, to spare Mr. Morley the trouble, “someone quite capable of dealing with any rudeness you might offer. If you’ve come to play the bully, you’ll have every opportunity to show your best.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. You don’t know who I am. If I’d wanted, I could’ve made Philip Lawrence bankrupt twenty-four hours ago. I gave him a chance. But I’m not taking that kind of talk from you.”
“How exactly could you have made Mr. Philip Lawrence bankrupt?”
“I have overdue bills of his worth £5000. Some would’ve bankrupted him immediately, racking up costs. I’m more lenient, but I’ve had my share of trouble. If we don’t sort this out before I leave, there’ll be issues.”
“So, you’re the one dealing in forged acceptances.”
“Forged? What on earth are you suggesting?” He puffed up, clearly uncomfortable.
“You know. You were aware they were forged and who did it. You bought them cheaply, aiming to squeeze as much from Mr. Philip Lawrence as possible.” He started to bluster. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased.
“I don’t know who you think you are, speaking to me like that. This is highly irregular. I came by these bills through legitimate means.”
“What was the price?”
“That’s none of your business! I’m a reasonable man; I’m willing to be flexible, but I won’t be spoken to in such a manner.”
“Give them to me.”
“Give what?”
“The bills.”
“Not without payment.”
“Hand them over.”
“They’re in my office safe, not on me. I don’t carry such valuable documents around.” He glanced at me meaningfully.
“Hand them over.”
“Help! Thieves!” Seeing he might make a scene, I restrained him. I found in his pocket a leather case containing five promissory notes of £1000 each, allegedly from Philip Lawrence and endorsed by Edwin. I let him go.
“I trust I haven’t inconvenienced you too much. Since the bills are safely locked in your office, they’ll remain there until your return.”
“Give them back!”
“They’re secure with me.” I tucked them into my coat pocket. He turned to the Morleys.
“You’re witnesses—he’s robbed me, with force! Remember, with force!” Then to me:
“Return them now, or you’ll face prison time; and I wouldn’t be surprised if it included lashes.”
“And what about you? Courts don’t take kindly to those dealing in forged documents for blackmail.”
“Stop talking like that; I won’t tolerate it!”
“You won’t, huh?”
“Honestly, I don’t know who you are, but you’re acting like a —— highwayman. Return those bills, or I’ll summon the police.”
“Go ahead—do it. I’ll explain to them what these are, and that you’ll soon stand trial for conspiracy and involvement in murder.”
“You’re insane. I’ve never heard anyone talk like this—never!”
“Maybe you don’t know Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night.”
“Edwin Lawrence murdered?” His face went pale.
“Yes, and your actions led to it. I’ve heard a confession from the person who forged the documents. They’re ready to testify against you. The bills will come up in court, and you’ll have your chance to explain.” He clutched his collar as if it was choking him.
“That’s a lie! Edwin wasn’t murdered last night. It’s all lies.”
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“None of your business!”
“I happened to find a card in your wallet. Let’s see... Mr. Isaac Bernstein, 288 Great Poland Street. Well, Mr. Bernstein, your bills are safe. You’ll hear from them again soon enough. Your role will be thoroughly examined—until then, you’re free to go.”
“He wasn’t murdered—it’s all a lie.”
“You might find more details from Mr. and Mrs. Morley or the first cop you bump into.”
“Oh, God!” Mr. Morley groaned. His groan seemed to resonate with Mr. Bernstein, who hurried out of the room, only to return soon after.
“Who— who killed him?”
“We’ll find out soon enough, along with your involvement in the motive that led to the murder. You were quite involved with the person who ended up dead, weren’t you?” Mr. Bernstein left without another word.
I turned to the Morley's. “See? That’s how you handle nosy folks who try to slander your boss and take advantage of his absence.”
Mr. Morley shook his head. “Easy for you to say, but we’re not all as persuasive as you, sir.” It was a strange thing for him to say, considering I’m anything but persuasive.
Following Mr. Bernstein out, I was reminded of that fact. And later on, in a more serious situation, it became even clearer.