Mr. Lockley

Mr. Lockley was old, tired and insolent, though it wasn’t due to impatience and old age. For as long as I had known him, until his death bed, he had little interest in anything but capital. He hired me many years ago to look over his first book contract, to “make them pay for it.” And while they did pay for it, so did he. Mrs. Lockley filed for divorce when the first cheque came in.

He lived in an isolated estate just outside the city filled with antique furniture, expensive art, and several butlers whose names he didn’t bother to learn but made them up instead. He required a writing desk in every room, and spent his days grumbling from desk to desk, lecturing his staff when his pen went missing. Mr. Lockley had a long, plain-featured face. He wore his deep wrinkles proudly, often muttering how every wrinkle was like a few hundred thousand in his bank account. “Look—a new wrinkle!” he’d profess, as he walked from one writing desk to another, passing a 10-foot floor mirror along the way. “Give me another and I’ll be a billionaire!”, he’d continue, laughing from affluence and two bourbons before 10 A.M.

Over the years, his phone rang less and visitors were sparse. Nurse Jean stopped by weekly to check on his heart after the triple bypass. His family didn’t know where he lived, or if he was still alive, and naturally he preferred it that way.

“I used to get terrible migraines,” he explained once, “terrible. But would you believe that once I left my wife and family they stopped? The migraines disappeared! Hallelujah!”

A month before his passing, Mr. Lockley requested we meet to discuss inheritance. This came as a surprise to me, as we previously prepared to give up all assets to the state, and place all of his savings into stocks. “I want my money to make more money while I’m dead,” was his rationale. I arrived at his estate with a coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. His butler, Anton, answered the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Lockley is waiting for you in the courtyard,” Anton said, with a smile that looked too painful to maintain for more than a few seconds.

I walked through the hallway, passed the dining room and nodded to the chef in the kitchen when I saw Mr. Lockley sitting in his courtyard terrace, drinking an espresso. He seemed giddier than usual, smiling from ear to ear, like a child who was eager to play.

“Johnson! I’m glad you’re here. I need a simple favour from you.”

Before I could sit down, he handed me an envelope and a little black notebook.

“I’ve had somewhat of a change of heart. I’d like someone to have a piece of my fortune when I’m gone. It’s important, wouldn’t you agree?”

Speechless, I nodded yes.

“Now listen, take this little black notebook to the Toronto Public Library on Fort York and Bathurst. Go to the fiction isle, find my name, and place the black book in between two of my own. Your name, phone number and office address are in here. The one who finds this book will bring it back to you. When they do, open this envelope.”

“Ok,” I responded, a little confused. “Is there anything in this envelope that I should be aware of now?”

“Take it easy, Johnson. Just keep it closed until someone brings you the book, ok?”

I immediately left for the library. I was unsure of Mr. Lockley’s intentions, but I agreed to do as he asked. I never questioned him before, and I wouldn’t start now. Plus, Mr. Lockley didn’t understand the word no and never had to. I placed the little black book where he asked, and quietly left the library.

After Mr. Lockley passed, I wondered when—if ever—someone would return the book. I kept the unopened envelope in my office, on the bookshelf in front of my desk. I caught a glimpse of it every now and then while I worked. Anybody else would have opened the envelope but, as a lawyer, I couldn’t break my word with a client, even a dead Mr. Lockley. But, it didn’t stop me from thinking, what if nobody found the book? How long would I have to wait until I could open the envelope? I could open it, take a look, and then reseal it. Nobody would know. After some time, the temptation faded. I eventually forgot about the envelope until several years later, when Peter called.

“Hi, is this Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes,” I responded, “Who’s this?”

“Hi Mr. Johnson. My name is Peter Hayes. I found this little black notebook at the Toronto Public Library, with instructions inside to contact you. It says something about returning the book for a reward?”

I advised Peter to come to my office as soon as possible. After so many years, I couldn’t believe it was time to open the envelope. What would Mr. Lockley leave for a stranger? Or better yet, why would he leave something behind for someone he never knew?

“Mr. Johnson, there’s a Peter Hayes here for you? I don’t see him in your calendar…”

“Let him in, Nancy,” I told my secretory.

“Are you—”

“Yes, yes please, Nancy, let him in.”

I fumbled to quickly clean off my desk. I spotted the envelope on the bookshelf. I jumped off my chair and hurriedly placed it on my desk. Peter walked in. His hair was dishevelled; his beard long and untamed. His clothes were dirty, ragged and smelled strongly of street meat and sewers. He looked homeless.

“Hi Peter, I’m Mr. Johnson. Come on in and take a seat.”

“Thanks,” he said, and placed the notebook on my desk. His hands looked purple.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen this book. How did you come about it?” I asked, as I tried to hide my reaction to the odour.

“When it’s below negative 5, the city lets us sleep in the libraries when the shelters are full. Since I’m there, I read. I used to read Lockley’s books growing up, even though my mom tried to throw them out. She hated Lockley, and still does. Anyway, I found this small black thing there. It reminded me of a notebook I scribbled in when I was young. I asked the librarian if I could make a phone call. What do I get for it?”

His voice had a familiar sound.

“Ah, right. Let’s see. I’m not so sure myself,” I replied.

I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note, and behind it a $20,000 cheque.

Congratulations! Since you are a fan of my work, you won a $20,000 gift certificate to Lockley.com! Spend it wisely.

- Mr. Lockley

I looked closely at the cheque again, and it was true. It wasn’t a real cheque but a gift certificate to Lockley’s online store, ran by his publishers. Mr. Lockley gave $20,000 to someone only to give it back to himself, making money even when he was dead. Peter could see the unease on my face. I regrettably explained his reward and watched his expression change from hopeful to dismal.

“Can you do something about this? You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? I could use this money to get a place to live for me and my mom. We’ve been out of work and this could help us get back on our feet. Please, Mr. Johnson. Can you do something? I don’t need to buy books. We need food.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. This was part of Mr. Lockley’s will. Legally, I can’t do anything for you. I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He took the envelope and left. I sat there in disbelief.

That night, I decided to make a trip to the library. I couldn’t shake the guilt from the incident earlier. I would bring food for Peter and his mom. When I arrived, Peter was helping an elderly woman lay down on the bed he made beside a bookshelf. As I got closer, I saw her—Mrs. Lockley.