“It wasn’t anything to start with, only the use of the yard so a lorry could be run in and be handy when it was wanted.”
“Wanted for what?”
“What had that got to do with me? Then they wanted the hire of my lorry as well, and I said I wasn’t letting it out for any Tom, Dick or Harry to drive. And they said I’d be paid for what it was worth three or four times over.”
Emily Tote said, “Who is they?”
“Sam Black, if you want to know. Well, by that time I was in it enough to get into trouble, but not enough for it to be worth while. I said to Sam, ‘I’m not playing about with this any more. It’s not worth my while.’ And he said, ‘It might be.’ And to cut a long story short, it was.”
“Black market?” said Emily Tote.
He threw himself back in his corner.
“Money going begging-that’s what it was.”
She sat up very straight in the blue flannel dressing-gown which it was no use trying to make her change for a silk one. That was Emily all over. She sat there, and she said as cool as a cucumber.
“Five pounds to a lorry-driver to get out and have a cup of cocoa or a glass of beer, and a dozen barrels of sugar, or it may be butter, gone before he comes back. Was that the game?”
His jaw dropped.
“Why, Mother!”
“Do you think I don’t read the papers? It’s all been there in black and white for anyone to see. And some of the ones they caught got stiff sentences, didn’t they?”
Mr. Tote’s ruddy colour had faded.
“That was in the war,” he said.
“And what you did-wasn’t that in the war?”
“Don’t talk like that! It isn’t going to come out, I tell you. Who’s going to bother about what happened three or four years ago? If I pay up, it will be only because I don’t want any unpleasantness.”
Mrs. Tote was still looking at him.
“You didn’t make all that money out of a few odd barrels.”
He actually laughed.
“Of course I didn’t! That was only the beginning. I got into it in a big way. Why, if I was to tell you some of the hauls we made, you wouldn’t believe me. Organizing ability-that’s what they said I had. One of the planners-that was me. There’s a funny thing about money, you know-once you start making it, it fair runs away with you and makes itself. When we started with that twopenny-halfpenny business in Clapham, I lay you never thought you’d be a rich man’s wife.”
Deep inside herself Emily Tote answered with the words which she would never allow to pass her lips-“I never thought I’d be married to a thief.”
She said aloud, “I wouldn’t say too much about that. You’ve only told me half. What does Mr. Porlock know, and what is he going to do?”
The blood rushed back into his face, swelling the veins, purpling the skin.
“He’s got dates and places, curse him! There was a lot of petrol from an aerodrome-he’s got that. And a biggish haul of butter from the docks. Two or three other big jobs. Says there are witnesses that can swear to me. But I don’t believe him. It’s three years ago-who’s going to take any notice of people swearing to where you were, and to what you said and did as long ago as that? If I pay, it will be because it doesn’t do you any good in business to have things said. And if I pay, I know damn well whose pocket the money’ll go into! Mr. Blackmailer Porlock- that’s who! And when I think about it, I tell you straight it makes me feel I’d rather swing for him!”
He was shouting again. Emily Tote said,
“Don’t talk so foolish, Albert.”
Chapter XIII
Gregory Porlock came into the billiard-room shepherding the Mastermans.
“Well, now, here we are. And I’m going to carry Moira off. Just finished a game? Who won?”
Moira Lane laughed.
“Oh, I’m not in Justin’s class-he’s way up, practically out of sight.”
“Ah, then he can take Masterman on, and Miss Masterman can see fair play. We’ll come back presently.”
He took her off to the study, a comfortable country room with book-lined walls, warmly coloured rugs, and deep brown leather chairs-a room that had been used and lived in. Granted that Gregory Porlock had taken the house furnished, he might be given the credit for his choice. He fitted the room too-fresh healthy skin, clear eyes, good country tweeds which had been worn in country weather. There was a tray of cocktails on the table, and he handed Moira one.
He said, “I’ve brought you here to ask you a question, you know.”
“Have you?” Nothing could have been more friendly than her voice. She sipped from her glass. “Sounds intriguing. What is it?”
He met her laughing eyes and said quite gravely,
“What do you make of me, Moira? What sort of man would you say I was?”
She didn’t look away, but she looked different. The smile was still in her eyes, but there was something else there too-something a little wary, a little on guard. She said in her pretty, light voice,
“A good fellow-a good friend-a charming host. Why?”
He nodded.
“Thank you, my dear. I think you meant that.”
She was sitting on the arm of one of the big chairs, leaning against the back, every line of the long figure graceful and easy. She took another sip from her glass and said,
“Of course I did.”
He went over to the fire and put a log of wood on it. When he turned round he had his charming smile again.
“Well, that being that, I can go on.”
“Go on?”
“Oh, yes-that was just a preliminary. The fact is-let me take your glass-well, the fact is, I’ve got something for you, and I wanted to feel sure of my ground before I gave it to you.”
“Something for me?” She laughed suddenly. “Greg, my sweet, how marvellous! Is it a present? Because I warn you I shall consider I’ve been lured here under false pretences if it isn’t. It will be a sort of breach of promise, because you’ve quite definitely raised my hopes.”
He laughed too.
“Have I? Then I shall have to do something about it. Or perhaps you will. We’ll see. Meanwhile, here it is.”
He took a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper from his pocket, laid it upon her knee, and went back to the hearth again. From a couple of yards away he watched her sit up straight and undo the wrappings. She had a laughing look, but at the first touch of the paper and what it held there was a faint instant check. Her hands stayed just as they were, measuring the weight of the parcel, feeling the shape of it through the thin paper. Something moved under her fingers like the links of a chain, and she knew.
Gregory Porlock saw her colour go, quite suddenly, as the flame goes when you blow a candle out. One moment it was there, bright and vivid. The next it wasn’t there any more. The bright, living thing had gone. Only her eyes stayed on him in a long searching look before she turned them to what the paper held.
She was unwrapping the paper now, letting it drop into the seat of the chair. What emerged was a bracelet-a band about an inch and a half wide, diamond trellis-work between two rows of fine brilliants, and, interrupting the trellis at distances of about three quarters of an inch, light panels of larger stones with a ruby at the centre of each. The rubies were very fine and of the true pigeon’s blood colour. The workmanship was exquisite.
Moira Lane held the bracelet out on the palm of her hand. Her blood might have betrayed her, but her hand was steady.
“What is this?”
Those dancing eyes met hers. He might have been enjoying himself. Perhaps he was.
“Don’t you know?” As there was no answer, he supplied one. “I think you do. But you know, you really ought to have been more careful. Of course there are so many ignorant people that one gets into the habit of expecting everyone to be ignorant. But you can’t really count on it. Anyone in the trade might happen to know something about historic jewels. Even outside the trade there are people like myself to whom the subject is of interest.”