Chapter XXIX The Doctor Visits Mount Street
When Koko left No. 9, after seeing Jim put to bed, he went straight to Taplow’s surgery, and was lucky enough to find that the bearded man was still there.
“Doctor, I want you to spend the night with Mortimer,” said Koko.
“Impossible,” said the bearded man. “I have an urgent case which will keep me up till four.”
“What’s to be done, then?”
“Get a trained nurse—I’ll give you the address of a place in the West End where about two hundred of them live when they have no case on. Telephone the manageress, and say you want a nurse sent to No. 9 Derby Crescent to-night. I’ll look in at breakfast-time.”
He gave Koko the address of the nurses’ home.
“Right!” said Koko. “Now, doctor, tell me candidly—has Mortimer got a chance?”
“Not a ghost of one,” said the bearded man; “even if he pulled through he would be paralysed for the rest of his life, but he won’t pull through. The mischief is in the spine—where he was kicked.”
“I shot the fellow,” said Koko, between his teeth.
“Did you? Well, I don’t suppose he will be much loss. If the police were allowed to carry revolvers we shouldn’t hear much more of this Hooliganism.”
Koko paced restlessly up and down the surgery, and then turned abruptly to the bearded man.
“Look here, doctor,” he exclaimed, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but is it possible that you’re mistaken about my friend Mortimer?”
“Time will show,” said the bearded man, coldly. “I give him twenty-four hours. Now, if you’re ready, I’ll turn the gas out. I must be off.”
With a sorrowful heart Koko hailed a cab and drove to the nurses’ home. He had experienced too many of the telephone’s delays. At the home he promptly engaged a nurse, waited while she packed her box, and then conveyed her to No. 9, where he confided her to the care of Mrs Maybury.
After this Koko made his way to a telegraph office in the Strand, and inquired whether he could wire to Threeways. He was told that he was too late. He therefore wrote out a telegram, briefly informing old Dr Mortimer of what had happened, and left it with the clerk at the counter to be dispatched directly the office opened on the following morning.
Then Koko, worn out, sought his bed. At ten the next morning he had to appear at the Blackfriars police court to answer the charge of “causing the death” of the bandaged Hooligan, and also to give evidence against the six roughs in custody.
About eleven the next morning Dr Mortimer arrived at No. 9, and was ushered up to Jim’s bedroom. A brief examination told him that his grandson was very far gone indeed, and so without delay he drove to Harley Street and alighted at the door of Trefusis, the first authority on spine trouble. Dr Trefusis promised to proceed to Derby Crescent immediately. A few doors lower down lived Sir Savile Smart. Dr Mortimer was so fortunate as to find him in.
“Smart, I want you to come and look at my boy.”
“Jim! What’s wrong?”
“The Hooligans have been at him. I want you to meet Trefusis and give an opinion. Brain and spine injuries. You’ll come?”
“My shoulder hurts; but I’ll come with pleasure.”
By one o’clock Jim had been examined by the two great surgeons. During the process they both looked grave, but at the end of it Sir Savile drew a deep breath of relief.
“He’s a tough young dog. We shall pull him through, Trefusis?”
The spine man looked doubtful
“We may. He’ll be unconscious for a week. When he comes round we shall be able to tell better.”
Then the specialist turned to Dr Mortimer.
“I will do my best for your boy, sir. He may live. I cannot say with certainty. A great deal depends on the nursing. I’ll come to-morrow. Good-day.
Soon after the two surgeons had driven off, Koko arrived at No. 9. He had satisfied the magistrate that he had shot the Hooligan because his own life was threatened, and had subsequently given some solid evidence against the six prisoners, all of whom were committed for trial. Koko, however, had still to attend the inquest on the dead Hooligan, to be held two days later, and exonerate himself from all blame.
Mr Maybury introduced Koko to Dr Mortimer.
“This is your grandson’s great friend—Mr Somers.”
They shook hands.
“I thought your name was Coke,” said the old Doctor.
“Jim calls me Koko because I am rather bald,” explained Somers, meekly.
“And you saved Jim’s life last night?”
“I shot——”
“Yes, I read about that in the paper. Will you shake hands with me again?... and now please take me round to my boy’s surgery. I’ve only seen a photograph of it up to the present.”
Side by side the wealthy Eastfolk doctor and the little sporting reporter walked out of Derby Crescent into the bustling Blackfriars Road, and presently wheeled out of that thoroughfare into Mount Street.
“What a detestable district!” exclaimed Dr Mortimer as they were passing the Nathans’ fried fish shop, from which proceeded a by no means delectable odour of hissing horse fat.
“It’s Jim’s country,” said Koko.
“Is he popular round here?”
“They love him,” said Koko.
The old Doctor’s face just then was a study. He may have been thinking of Threeways, where he had resided for so many years without endearing himself to a single soul.
“What sort of a living has my grandson made here?” he asked presently.
“Oh, he has scraped along.”
Dr Mortimer cleared his throat.
“When he was at Matthew’s he used to run up very extravagant tailors’ bills—indeed, he ran up extravagant bills of all kinds.”
“I know he did,” said Koko.
“I expect,” continued Dr Mortimer, “he has rather missed that sort of thing over here.”
“He hasn’t had any new things since he’s been here,” said Koko.
The Doctor cleared his throat again. “I presume—er—I presume he had sufficient clothes?”
“Oh yes—but last winter’s things had to do, you know.”
The Doctor was silent for some moments. The Jim who could make old things do was not the Jim he had known. Jim, up to last September, had always been fastidious about the cut of his coats, and most partial to fancy waistcoats. Not that the Doctor had really minded paying for them—in fact, he had liked to see Jim well-turned-out. What he had objected to was Jim’s utter disregard of even moderation in expenditure. And to think that this same Jim had been making last winter’s things “do”!
The Doctor reflected a good deal on Koko’s replies. It occurred to him that if he had tried to understand Jim better in the past, this split would never have occurred. He had thundered rebukes at Jim much as an army sergeant would upbraid a refractory private, and Jim, in return, had simply been cheeky. Now, supposing he had reasoned with the lad in a kindly, gentle manner, would that not have proved more effectual than inditing fierce epistles to his grandson, when the latter was in town, or shouting a lecture to him across the telephone, as on that September morning of vivid remembrance?
Jim had never known a mother’s care. He had been brought up by his grandfather, who had taken a pride in him such as a man takes in a handsome horse or dog. And so Jim ran wild, and, in the end, was expelled from Threeways.
Such were the thoughts that coursed through the old Doctor’s mind as he paced down Mount Street by the side of George Somers.
“Here we are,” said Koko at length.
So this was Jim’s surgery! The old Doctor halted and stared at the shabby-looking corner building. This was where Jim had been getting his living since he had been barred from the old roof-tree in Eastfolk!
“Did he rent the entire building?” inquired Dr Mortimer.
“Yes. It was a pawnbroker’s place before Jim took it.”
“Great heavens! And why did he allow these abominable placards to be pasted on his walls?”
“The old chap who let him the place wanted some money, so Jim made him a present of the outside of the house for advertising purposes,” explained Koko.
The Doctor looked amazed.
“Dear! dear! What a quixotic notion!”
“Jim was always like that,” said Koko.
The old Doctor bit his lip and again frowned upon the posters. Filling the bill this week at the local theatre was a play in which a steam-roller was the principal attraction. A poster, cunningly attached to Jim’s wall, just where his red lamp would shine upon it after dusk, depicted the steam-roller descending a narrow hill at top speed, while directly in its track lay a young woman in evening dress, and apparently unconscious. The poster had attracted half the adult population of Mount Street to the theatre.
“Now I come to think of it,” said the Doctor, “I remember something of this kind was visible in the photograph of the place which James sent me at Christmas. It represented a man throwing another man—or a woman, possibly a woman—out of a balloon. I suppose these dreadful pictures are changed every week?”
“Yes, something fresh every Monday,” said Koko.
“Dear, dear me! To think of it!”
“It didn’t matter to Jim,” put in Koko; “he was rather amused by the posters.”
“And who was the man who prevailed upon James to part with his walls in this philanthropic manner?” inquired the Doctor.
“A provision dealer called Harris.”
At that moment Koko felt a touch on his arm, and wheeled round to find old Harris himself at his elbow.
“Mr Somers, sir, seeing you standin’ ’ere, I’ve come to ask after the doctor. All Mount Street wants to know ’ow ’e is. Is he like to die?”
“There is hope, but not much. You know yourself how badly he was knocked about.”
“Yes, I know that. Yes, and I pretty near screwed that ’unchback’s ’ead orf, so ’elp me!” returned the provision dealer, with a savage chuckle.
“Are you the man mentioned in the newspapers as having fetched the police?” Dr Mortimer demanded of Mr Harris.
“Yes, I’m the man,” was the answer—“I fetched ’em. You see, last night I goes into Dr Mortimer’s surgery and svallows vot I took for prussic acid. Yes, ’arf a pint. And vile I vos vaitin’ for the end, I fell asleep, and ven I vakes the doctor vos standin’ by me. Vell, ’e tells me it vosn’t p’ison, and then ‘e goes orf to Pine Court. Vell, just after, in comes Mr Somers, and says ‘e: ‘Vare is the doctor?’ an’ I says: ‘’E’s gone to vare it mentions in that bit of paper.’ ‘Pine Court,’ says Mr Somers. ‘Mrs Murphy’s.’ ‘Mrs Murphy don’t live in Pine Court,’ says I. ‘I knows all the people in these courts.’ Mr Somers ‘e looks startled, and reads the note again. ‘This looks fishy, ‘Arris,’ he says; ’this writin’s in a disguised ’and.’ I gets up and looks at the note, and I sees at once it vos my son Isaac’s ’andwritin’——”
“Your son’s!” exclaimed Dr Mortimer. “Do the police know that?”
“They don’t,” replied Mr Harris; “and for vy? Vy, for becos I says to Mr Somers: ‘This is a trap,’ I says, ‘and ve’ll be after the doctor and save ’im. But I’ll ‘elp you on one condition only.’ ‘Vot’s that?’ says Mr Somers, sharp like. ‘That you don’t split on Isaac! You agree to that, an’ I’ll lend you this revolver!’ I vos goin’ to shoot myself at first, you see, sir, an’ then I thought p’ison vould be cleaner. ‘Agreed,’ says Mr Somers, and off ve goes, I to fetch the police and Mr Somers straight for Pine Court, vith the loaded revolver in ’is pocket.”
“And this scoundrel of a son of yours—where is he?” demanded the Doctor.
The old man laughed softly to himself.
“My son Isaac? ‘E’s bolted! ’E vent at once—vithout a vord. I says: ‘Isaac,’ I says, ’you wrote that note. You’re in my power. You’ll ’ang if I put up my little finger!’ And Isaac, ’e just vent right out of the door vithout even puttin’ on ’is ’at! ’E von’t trouble me no more, but ’e’ll always get a livin’. ’E’s clever as paint, is Isaac! Yes, ’e vent out like that—never saw a man go out of a ’ouse so quick in my life. So I’ve altered the name over my shop back to ‘Arris & Son—there’s the painter just finishin’—and now I’m my own master agen.”
And the old dealer snapped his lean fingers for sheer joy.
“Why ‘Harris & Son,’ if your son has run away for good?” asked Dr Mortimer.
“Becos ‘Arris by itself vould cause remark. If anyone says: ‘Vare’s your son, Mr ‘Arris?’ I shall say, ‘E’s gone avay for ’is ’ealth,’ and that’ll ’ave to satisfy ’em.”
And with a leer of the utmost self-complacency Mr Harris saluted his two listeners, and went back to watch the painter conclude the alteration in the title over the provision shop.
Mrs Brown, Jim’s caretaker, was in, and admitted Koko and his companion. The old doctor gazed silently round the surgery. There was Jim’s working coat, there was his pipe-rack, there was the quaint Chinaman whose sudden fall forwards—ingeniously contrived by the Long ’Un—used to announce the opening of the street door.
“I should never have thought,” murmured the Doctor, “that Jim would have settled down in a place like this.”
“He did settle down, though,” said Koko, “and he was working it up into a good thing when this horrible plot was laid for him.”
“We must keep it going, then,” said the Doctor. “Do you suppose any of his friends at the hospital would be willing to act in his place?”
“Sure of it,” said Koko. “I think you had better ask Evans—a red-headed man—and Deadwood. They are both friends of Jim’s.”
“I’ll go and see them at once,” said the Doctor, “and then I must get back to Threeways. I have some patients I cannot leave for long.”
“What about the hoarding?” asked Koko.
“Well,” said the Doctor, “considering the service Mr Harris rendered last night, I think we ought to let him continue to make money out of Jim’s walls.”
And so, thereafter, each Monday saw a fresh pictorial embellishment of the surgery’s exterior; every Monday the youth of Mount Street was thrilled to the marrow by new scenes of derringdo of lovely ladies in peril and gallant gentlemen dashing to their assistance, and of virtue triumphing over vice, as always virtue will do so long as there remain in the world good women and honourable men.
And the transpontine drama reaped many sixpences thereby.