Dark Plots are hatched.
Gorman was one of those peculiar characters who, in personal appearance, are totally devoid of peculiarity. He was a middle-sized, thick-set, commonplace, grave, quiet man; very powerful—but not apparently so; one whom it was impossible to “find out” unless he chose to let himself be found out. Above all, he was a reserved man.
Everybody knew well enough, at least among his intimates, that he was named Gorman; but not one of the number knew what his Christian name was. A few were aware that he signed himself “D. Gorman”; but whether the “D” represented David, dastard, drunkard, or demon, was a matter of pure speculation to all, a few of his female acquaintance excepted (for he had no friends), who asserted roundly that it represented them all, and some were even willing to go the length of saying that it represented more, and stood for dirty, drivelling, desperate, and a few other choice words which it is quite unnecessary to mention. Only a few, and these were among the knowing and peculiarly observant ones of Gorman’s intimates, said that “D” stood for “deep.” But then, many of those who thus pronounced their opinion, were comparatively worthless characters, given to scandal and slander; so the reader must not allow himself to be biassed too much by their report.
Certain it is, however, that when Gorman was asked on one occasion what his Christian name was, he replied that he had no Christian name; because he didn’t believe in Christianity, and that he signed himself “D,” to be distinguished from the other Gormans who might chance to exist in the universe.
People were not at all shocked at his bold statement of unbelief; because, in the circle in which he moved, the same disbelief was pretty general.
Besides many other traits and qualities, definable and indefinable, Gorman had the power of assuming the appearance either of a burglar of the lowest type, or a well-to-do contractor or tradesman. A slight change in dress and manner were sufficient to metamorphose him beyond recognition.
Everybody knew, also, that Gorman was the landlord of a small public-house at the corner of a dirty street, not far from London Bridge; and that he kept a stout, middle-aged man on the premises to do the duty of host, while he himself went about “other business,” which nobody knew of, and which no one could find out, although many had tried to do so with all their might.
Every day in the year, Gorman might have been seen at the “Golden Swan”; but never for longer than a few minutes at a time, when he inspected the books, received the cash drawn the day before; and made an impression on all in the premises, that tended to convince them they were well looked after.
“Humph!” ejaculated Gorman, as he finished counting the dirty coppers and pieces of silver which his agent had delivered to him, and dropped them from his dirty fingers into a dirty leather bag: “Business is dull, I think.”
“It ain’t brisk just now, sir,” replied the deputy-landlord of the “Golden Swan.”
Gorman received this reply with another “Humph,” and then, putting the bag in his coat pocket, prepared to leave.
“No one bin askin’ for me?” inquired Gorman.
“No, sir; no one.”
“I’ll be back to-morrow about this time.”
The deputy knew that this was false, for his employer invariably came at a different hour each day, in order to take “the house” by surprise; but he said, “Very well, sir,” as usual.
“And mind,” continued Gorman, “that you put the lights out. You’re uncommon careful about that, I hope?”
It is worthy of remark, in reference to Gorman’s anxiety about putting out lights, that he had been burned out of several sets of premises in the course of a few years. He was quite a martyr, as it were, to fire. Unaccountably worried, pursued, and damaged by it—no, not damaged, by the way; because Gorman was a prudent man, and always insured to the full amount. His enemies sometimes said above it; but neither they nor we have any means of proving or disproving that.
The deputy protested that he always exercised the utmost precaution in putting everything out every night—from the last beery lingerer, to the gas—and that he felt quite put out himself at being asked the question, as it implied a doubt of his care and attention to business. Hereupon Gorman said “Good-night,” and the deputy returned to the counter, where besotted men and drunken women awaited his attendance.
Three-quarters of an hour sufficed to convey Gorman from the east to the west end of London. Here he sought the well-known precincts of Poorthing Lane, and entered the shop of Mr David Boone.
That worthy received him with a look of glad surprise; but with a feeling of the deepest misery.
“Anyone inside?” asked Gorman.
“No,” said Boone, “’cept the boy. I’ll call him to mind the shop, and then we can be alone.”
As Gorman did not vouchsafe a reply, but walked straight into the little room behind the shop, Boone called the boy, and bade him mind the shop, while he held private consultation with his friend.
The shop-boy enjoyed the name of Robert Roddy. He was a soft-faced, washed-out youth, with a disposition to wink both eyes in a meek manner. Rough-spoken people called him an idiot, but Roddy was not quite such an idiot as they took him for. He obeyed his master’s mandate by sitting down on a tall stool near the window, and occupied himself in attempting to carve a human face on the head of a walking-stick.
“Glad to see you, Mr Gorman,” said Boone, seating his tall body on a low stool at the side of his friend, who, with his hat on, had thrown himself into an armchair, and spread out both legs before the fire. “Very glad to see you, indeed, in my—little sanctum, my withdrawing room, if I may venture to use the name, to which I retire during the intervals of business.”
Boone said this with an air of pleasantry, and smiled, but his visitor did not encourage him.
“Pretty long intervals, I should suppose,” he growled, pulling out his pipe and lighting it.
Boone admitted, with a sigh, that they were, and observed that trade was extremely dull—astonishingly dull.
“Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings’ worth o’ goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although it’s gettin’ well on for Christmas-time? One would a’most fancy the childr’n was about to give up such vanities an’ devote themselves to serious business. It’s a serious business for the like of us, anyhow.”
Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking over it, and made up his mind to do it.
Boone’s face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he had been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind not to do it.
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Gorman in a tone of irony. “Very good; then I’ll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half.”
Boone’s face became still paler.
“You’re a hard landlord,” said he.
“You’re a soft tenant,” retorted Gorman.
“You know what the punishment is by law,” continued Boone.
“Yes—death,” said the other drily; “but you know as well as I do that it’s never carried out nowadays.”
“But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain’t much better.”
“Some men think it’s worse,” replied Gorman, with a savage grin; “but you’ve no need to fear. If you only take the right precautions it’s impossible to find it out, an’ I’ll engage to put ye up to doin’ it in such a way that there won’t be a scrap the size of a sixpence left to convict you. Only put a bold face on it and the thing’s done, and your fortune made as well as mine.”
The man’s voice and manner softened a little as he said this, for he thought he perceived symptoms of wavering in his tenant, who covered his face with his large thin hands and sighed deeply.
“Come, don’t be hard on me,” he said at length; “I really haven’t got courage to go through with this. Only give me a little more time, and I’ll—”
“Very good,” interrupted Gorman, with an oath, as he rose and dashed his pipe into fragments on the hearth; “if you won’t burn yourself out o’ this scrape.”
“Hush! hush, man!” said Boone in a hoarse whisper; “not so loud; my lad will hear you. Come, I’ll think of it.”
“Will you do it?” demanded the other fiercely. “You know the alternative if you don’t?”
“Ruination?”
“Exactly so; and that without delay.”
“Ruination either way,” murmured Boone sadly to himself, as though he were counting the cost.
“Tut, man,” said his landlord, becoming more gentle, “it’s nothing of the sort. If you only take my advice, it’ll be a jolly blaze, which, instead of ending in smoke will end in some thousands of pounds and commencing business again on fresh capital. Come, I’ve not got time to wa............