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‘I shall draw you down a cheque on Monday morning,’ Nilssen said at last, as he pe
Shepard’s eyes had narrowed. ‘You said Löwenthal? Ben Löwenthal—the Jew?’
‘Yes,’ Nilssen said, blinking. ‘We can’t advertise without the paper. You could do it by flyer and gazette if you wanted—but everybody reads the Times.’
‘I hope that we are understood that the investment of your commission is strictly a private matter.’
‘We are understood, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘On my oath,’ Nilssen added, and then immediately regretted the phrase.
‘Perhaps we ought to insert a clause into our contract to that tune,’ Shepard said lightly. ‘For peace of mind.’
‘You can trust my discretion,’ Nilssen said, blushing again.
‘I truly hope I can,’ said Shepard. He stood, and extended his hand.
Nilssen rose also, and they shook hands.
‘Mr. Shepard,’ Nilssen said suddenly, as Shepard made to depart. ‘The way you were speaking before—about the savage and the civil, the old world and the new.’
Shepard regarded him impassively. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m curious to hear how that line of thinking applies to all of this—the estate, the ’bounder, the widow Wells.’
Shepard took a long time to answer. ‘A homeward bounder is a chance for total reinvention, Mr. Nilssen,’ he said at last. ‘Find a nugget, and a man can buy his own life. That kind of promise isn’t offered in the civil world.’
Nilssen sat alone in his office for a long time after Shepard left, turning the gaoler’s proposition over and over in his mind. A feeling of doubt was seeding in his breast. He felt that he had missed a co
Suddenly he got up, went to the door, and opened it a fraction. ‘Albert!’ he called, through the chink.
‘Yes, sir,’ Albert called back, from the outer office.
‘Crosbie Wells—the man who died.’
‘Sir.’
‘Who found his body? Remind me.’
‘A company of men, sir,’ Albert replied.
‘You recall the story?’
‘It was in the papers—I can find it for you, if you like.’
‘Just tell me what you remember.’
‘The party stopped in to refresh themselves, and found Mr. Wells fresh dead—that’s my understanding. Sitting at his kitchen table, the papers had it.’
‘Give us the name?’—But he already knew. He rested his head against the doorframe, and felt sick.
‘That fellow in contest for the Westland seat,’ said Albert. ‘The Canterbury man. You met him last week at the Star. Alistair Lauderback’s his name.’
Some ten minutes later Nilssen appeared in the doorway of the outer office, snapping out his top hat with such a tremendous crack that the clerk leaped out of his chair. He was holding his stick in a rather brutish fashion, gripping it halfway down its shaft, as if he meant to wield it as a cudgel. His face was very pale.
‘Shall I direct any callers to the Nonpareil?’ Albert called after him, as the commission merchant made for the door.
‘No—leave me be. Tell them to wait. Tell them to come back Monday,’ Nilssen snapped, without turning. He quitted the gatehouse and strode off down the quay, but when he reached his accustomed pie-house on the corner he did not stop. He drew his coat tighter across his body and turned inland, towards Kaniere, and the goldfields.
MIDNIGHT DAWNS IN SCORPIO
In which the chemist goes in search of opium; we meet A
Joseph Pritchard, upon quitting Nilssen’s offices, had not returned immediately to his laboratory on Collingwood-street. He had made his way instead to the Gridiron, one of the sixty or seventy hotels that lined Revell-street along its most crowded and lively stretch. This establishment (which, with its canary trim and false shutters, showed a gay frontage even in the rain) was the habitual residence of Miss A
Pritchard had not encountered A
It irritated Pritchard that A
The hotel’s proprietor was not present when Pritchard entered the foyer of the Gridiron Hotel, and the space had an empty, rattling feel. Once Pritchard’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw Clinch’s valet, who was leaning against the desk reading an old copy of the Leader, simultaneously mouthing the words and tracing them with his fingertip as he followed each line of print. There was a greasy patch on the countertop where the motion of his finger had polished the wood to a shine. He looked up and gave the chemist a nod as he passed. Pritchard flicked a shilling at him, which the other caught neatly and slapped onto the back of his hand—‘Came up tails,’ the boy called out, as Pritchard began to ascend the stairs, and Pritchard gave a snort of laughter. He could be brutal, when his spirits were aggrieved, and he was feeling brutal now. The hallway was quiet, but he put his ear against A