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Roy Glashan's Library
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The Blue Book Magazine, June 1929, with "A Bad Bit of Trouble"
"Easy, Sing," warned Mr. Brass. "Twist the
cords round his hand—that's the style!"
The famous Easy Street Experts take an amiable but com-
petent hand in the game when a friend is held for ransom.
IT was about a week after their return to London from a month's grouse shooting from the bonny butts of Scotland—where they had been honored guests of their old friend Mr. Ebney Rush, the Ferroconcrete Substitute millionaire of New York—that the Honorable John Brass and his partner in polite crime Colonel Clumber received an unexpected telephone- call from Mr. Rush himself.
It was so late at night that both the sharksome old bon viveurs had reached that genial, mellow and lenient-minded stage where all seemed for the best in this heavy-hoofed world, in spite of the fact that the old brandy had waned low in its decanter.
They had not quarreled for over forty minutes, and though Mr. Brass had explained at some length the reasons why his mentality was so superior to that of his partner, the Colonel had not disputed one word of it all. It is true that he had twice almost waked up, but the long and soothing drone of the Honorable John's voice had lulled him off to sleep again before he gathered what his partner was talking about. So, as Mr. Brass droned himself to sleep almost immediately after, all was peace—when the telephone suddenly started into life.
John glared at the instrument, then rose, looked at the decanter, sighed, strolled across the room to another chair near the telephone, made himself perfectly comfortable, lit a cigar and finally unhooked.
The old adventurer's scowl of annoyance faded out as he learned that the caller was Mr. Rush. And by the time he hung up again, his lassitude had left him completely and his hard eyes were as keen and bright as if he had dined lightly off toast and spinach washed down with clear water.
FOR a moment he stood looking down at Colonel Clumber, who,
partially roused by the imperious trill of the telephone, was
slowly winning his way back to consciousness.
"Slow off the mark—he always was. He eats too much; that's the truth of it. He always did. Bad for the brains!" said Mr. Brass, talking aloud to himself, as he stared, not without a kind of indulgent affection, at the man who so long had been his partner.
The observation penetrated the Colonel's sleep-clouded understanding, and he sat up in his chair like a moose in his wallow.
"That's right—that's the style! Choose a time when I'm asleep and defenseless to make insulting remarks about me!" he began furiously, but Mr. Brass stayed him with an urgent hand.
"Later on, Squire, later on for the argument, if argument over a plain straightforward statement there is to be. Though I'll say that I don't see what objection there is in my observing—entirely as a friend—that the way you eat accounts perfectly for the state of your brains. Personally, I wish you wouldn't. It can but do you harm, man."
He beamed on his irritated partner in the friendliest way.
"Nun-no, Squire, I'm not going to quarrel with a man in your condition. We're too old comrades for that. Nor am I going to insult you. I said you are slow off the mark—but we can't all be quick, anyway. I think none the worse of you for that. And if you feel you must solidify yourself every time you face a meal, why, so do, Squire, so do. You've got the food; you can afford to eat till it hurts; you're your own boss—Good Lord, man, I should be ashamed to reproach you, an old friend, merely because what you gain on your bulk you lose on your brains—"
"But I don't, damn it—you're wrong—wrong, you insulting old glutton!" bawled the Colonel.
"Glutton, man—glutton! Me!" The Honorable John's eyebrows went up. "That's a hard word to use to a man who is notoriously one of the greatest epicures—one of the daintiest, most fastidious gourmets in the country! Glutton! Me! Nun-no," denied Mr. Brass warmly. "There may be one of this partnership commits the sin of glutting—gluttoning—every time he gets near the materials, but he's not me, Squire! No, sir, not me!.... However, later will have to do for that," he went on hurriedly, pressing the bell. "Our good friend Rush has just rung up, and he wants us to step round and see him. There's what sounds like rather an ugly bit of trouble taking place round there."
THE Colonel forgot his grievances, for Ebney Rush was a
man both partners admired, liked and respected. Some years
had passed since they first made his acquaintance, and that of
his daughter—then the Princess of Rottenburg, previously
Mrs. Geoffrey Beauray, and now, thanks to the alchemy of love
and the sleights of Mr. Brass, his partner and the divorce
court, Mrs. Geoffrey Beauray again. That is to say, her first
husband was also her third, legally speaking. Prince Rupert
of Rottenburg had been her second until the lovely little
lady realized that to be the wife of a Continental royalty of
Rupert's class was not quite precisely the dream of happiness
she had once imagined it was to prove.
For Rupert, in spite of his title, was a hairy-heeled scoundrel at his very best. At his worst, even strange dogs declined to bite him. In any case it had been a misunderstanding which had separated her from her first husband Geoff Beauray, and she had been as glad to get him back as he had been grateful to come.
It had been some fairly fast work by the Brass partnership which had made their reunion possible. And neither of the young folk, nor Ebney Rush nor his wife, had forgotten it—not even though there were now three delightful little Beaurays running around to distract their attention.
"Yes, a bit of bad trouble," insisted the Honorable John urgently. "And the sooner we get around to Eaton Square, the better. It seems that Geoff Beauray is missing!"
"Geoff missing! That wont do for me," growled the Colonel. "That's a nice boy, that boy Geoff, and if he's missing, then the sooner you get those swelled-up brains working, the better for all concerned!"
But Mr. Brass was already doing that.
SING, the Chinese chattel who had acted with great
enthusiasm for the past ten years as the Honorable John's
private and personal valet, cook, chauffeur, assistant-tough
and all-round general dray-horse, was already bringing in
their fur coats. Five minutes later they were on their way,
having only paused at the sideboard to speed their brains
into top gear with a stimulant so stiff that it would have
blown out rather than have stimulated the brains of men less
accustomed to what they termed "the gifts of Providence to a
world that doesn't deserve 'em."
The house of the Beaurays in aristocratic Eaton Square—a casual little third wedding gift to Clytie Rush from her god-papa Mr. Lehay, the lard czar, who was so dizzily rich that he could have bought Eaton Square if he felt like it—was only a short stroll from the quietly secluded but nevertheless central flat of the grim old adventurers.
CLYTIE BEAURAY, charming as ever, was undisguisedly glad to
see them. Mrs. Rush was genuinely relieved that they had been
available, and Ebney Rush himself insisted on the production
of a bottle of the special wine which past experience bad
taught the Ferroconcrete Substitute magnate was ever effective
in clearing their massive heads.
Nobody knew better than the keen-eyed American that Mr. Brass and the Colonel were a pair of pretty sharp old customers. But they had never sharped him—on the contrary, Fate had decreed that on several occasions they should prove of seriously important and profitable service to him. And so, like a wise man, he took them as he found them. Moreover they amused him, and he admired their gift of getting life's little difficulties straightened out the way they wanted them.
"I see, plain enough," said Mr. Brass, putting down a totally empty wineglass, "I can see you've all been worrying yourselves again. Now, that isn't going to do, for a start. Let's take things easy—that's the word, easy. Geoff's missing. Well, maybe he is. But nobody's going to destroy him for destruction's sake. That would be folly. That would be silly. There are some pretty damned fools in this country, but not many quite so foolish as that. If he's missing, there's a reason. As it's not likely that he's missing by his own wish, it's obviously because somebody else wishes him to be missing—d'ye see that? You want to think these things out the way I do—"
The Colonel intervened.
"If you'd just get yourself under some sort of control and give friend Rush a chance to get a word in edgewise, man, maybe he'd tell us what has happened before you^ tell us why and how it happened," he said flatly.
The Honorable Mr. Brass looked just a shade disconcerted.
"Hey? Huh! Well, maybe you're right. Perhaps it would be as well—in a way." He patted little Mrs. Beauray's arm. "Forgive the old man for hurrying on a little too fast, in his anxiety to help you, my dear," he said apologetically, and then listened intently to Ebney Rush as he made clear the exact situation.
It only took him a few minutes:
"Geoff went to a dinner at his club given the evening before last to some swell empire-builder who is a member of the club and is on leave here. The boy told Clytie he would be home just as soon as he could crawl out without attracting notice, when the political speeches started. He didn't return at all—hasn't been here since. Now, that's not like him, but he's a level-headed lad, Geoff, and none of us were worrying much—though I'll not deny that we weren't any slower getting to the telephone as time went on.
"It was beginning to get just a little on our nerves, maybe, when sure enough, about an hour ago there comes a note—this note. It's from a party that this family figured it had finished with for good—that false-alarm husband that Clytie dropped into the discard some years ago—Prince Rupert of Rottenburg! Here's his note—better read it."
The partners did so.
EVIDENTLY Rupert was keeping his end up tolerably well in
spite of the fact that Germany, not unwisely, had decided to
stagger back to prosperity without the kind assistance and the
ungenial presence of Rupert and his like.
For he wrote—or rather an underling of some sort wrote for him—from the Astoritz Hotel, thus proving that he had, or seemed to have, what the Astoritz invariably required in large quantities from its patrons, money. The letter was curt but condescending.
The secretary or gentleman-in-waiting or whatsoever the party writing styled himself, said that he had been commanded by His Very Serene High-born and Generally Exalted Royal Highness the High Prince Rupert of Rottenburg, to forward to Mr. Ebney Rush, if he deemed fit, the enclosed missive.
Mr. Brass was reading aloud, and here the hard-eyed Mr. Rush intervened.
"Here's the missive," he said. "Better glance at that before you read any more of Rupert's note."
"Better glance at that before you read any more of Rupert's note."
Retaining the Prince's sheet in his left hand, Mr. Brass took in his right the "missive" offered him by Mr. Ebney Rush.
It was candid and flowery, and ran as follows.
To the Prince Rupert of Rottenburg:
The writer is well aware, in spite of the dog you put on, the swank you emit, and the general brazen front you carry round, that if the British Empire were for sale, price 2d, you could not buy as much of it as that bank of Thames mud called the Isle of Dogs. He knows, too, that the reason why you are in England is to try to borrow from your once-upon-a-time father-in-law Mr. Ebney Rush as much as you can persuade him to lend you for old times' sake! He knows that, too, the writer of this. He knows. Very well. You will probably remember Mr. Geoffrey Beauray, who was husband of Miss Clytie Rush before he was rather foolishly discarded by Clytie, who then married you, found you sadly wanting, threw you out on your ear, and wisely remarried Mr. Beauray, whom she now values above rubies. The writer has got said Geoffrey Beauray quietly laid by in cold storage, where he proposes to keep him until his wife or Mr. Ebney Rush, his father-in-law, cares to buy him back. The price is a trifling £5000. For reasons which do not concern either you or Mr. Ebney Rush, the writer desires you, Rupert, to acquaint Rush with the foregoing facts, to ascertain whether Rush is prepared to pay said £5000 for the recovery of Geoffrey—who is in good health but will rapidly sicken—unless prompt attention is given to this—and to telephone North Central 996 (asking for Mr. Phoenix Bait) Mr. Rush's decision as soon as you get it. This telephone is an empty house, but Bait will get your ring all right. If you, Rupert, or Mr. Rush, try to be clever, Geoffrey will be injured somewhat—scalded, maybe—cooked a little—some trifling retaliation of that kind. If you wonder why you are used, keep wondering hard—also Rush; and when you and he call to mind a man whom you have both injured in the past, you will probably guess as to the identity of the merry little kidnapper who signs himself.
Phoenix Bait.
MR. BRASS passed the letter to his partner.
"Humph! Pretty rum customer, this Phoenix Bait," he muttered, and resumed his reading of Prince Rupert's letter.
This was cold and uppish, but in its way candid.
The Prince did not deny that one of his reasons for visiting England was to discuss with Mr. Rush a matter with a financial aspect.
"And that means a bit of royal borrowing if possible," murmured the Honorable John, sotto voce.
The letter went on to state that although Prince Rupert had personally thought a good deal about the matter and moreover had consulted with his secretaries and valet and others likely to know, he had not been able to identify the jaunty Phcenix Bait. He was not aware that he and Mr. Rush had ever jointly inflicted injury on any man, and he volunteered the information that he had not the slightest notion why Mr. Bait should select him, the Prince of Rottenburg, to be the intermediary between him and Mr. Rush.
The letter concluded with a rather unenthusiastic statement to the effect that if Mrs. Beauray or Mr. Rush should feel that the Prince's services were likely to be of any value to them, he, Rupert, would not be indisposed to oblige them, though he trusted that they would find it possible to arrange matters without involving him. He suggested, finally, that the police might profitably be consulted, and finally had the honor to be signed for as Rupert von Rottenburg.
Mr. Brass stared at the letter.
"Well, that was never written in what you might call frenzied anxiety to help," he said, and scowling, passed the letter on to his partner.
"At first glance it looks a worrying bit of work," he said, "but come to think of it, I've got very little doubt that something can be done about it before many hours are past. Have you done anything yet?" he asked Mr. Rush.
Ebney nodded.
"I phoned the Prince at the Astoritz accepting his offer of help, and he behaved pretty well, I thought. He said he would call here at eleven o'clock. He seemed a little more cordial than in his letter. Offered to bring some Scotland Yard men with him if I thought it wise."
"Hah! Did you?" demanded Mr. Brass.
"I did not—at present," said Ebney Rush."I think you were right." John glanced at the clock. "He'll be here in five minutes' time. Now, that's good and businesslike. I shall be very interested to see friend Rupert again, Rush. Shouldn't be surprised, to judge from his letter, to find him improved."
BUT there Mr. Brass was wrong.
The man who, punctual to the least little second, was presently shown in, was only a fine, imposing, almost distinguished-looking figure when glanced at swiftly in deep shadow. In any good light he showed as a tall, broad, fat upstander with a military carriage that was obviously the result of that stern and early training which forms a habit. But the red, square, deep-jowled, thick-lipped face was not so good. Nor were the cold, sunken grayish eyes, very small, closely set and, in spite of the ingrained arrogance of their owner, shifty. Prince Rupert of Rottenburg in the pride of his youth, in a brilliant uniform and at the head of his regiment (if any) of Rottenburg Guards, might have looked like Alexander the Great at a fancy-dress ball. Now he looked rather like a busted hotel-porter who has taken earnestly to drink.
Behind him hovered a curious, undersized party in rather shabby evening dress who looked like a croupier without references in search of a job. This was, claimed Rupert, Baron von Klick, his "gentleman." But he spoke English like an Oxford man gone to the dogs ages ago.
Ebney Rush greeted them civilly, introduced them to the partners—they had met before, but all seemed willing to forget it—and invited them all to sit.
The ladies were no longer present. Mrs. Rush hated Rupert—always had. And Clytie despised him, though she had not always—to her sorrow.
It was at once evident that Rupert was civilly disposed. His opening observations proved that to all but Mr. Brass, who had left the room, more or less unobtrusively, as soon as he had nodded to the Prince. But he returned perhaps ten minutes later, in time to note that everything was going as merrily as a marriage bell—if indeed the knelling of that implement is any indication at all of merriment.
"I've mulled the thing over in my mind, Prince," Ebney Rush was saying as Mr. Brass came in again. "But I can't place that man Bait. There are a few hundred crooks in this world who'd probably claim I've injured them, and maybe there actually are one or two folk that I have hurt inadvertently in my time. But I'm a businessman—not a professional injurer; and in any case I don't recollect ever coupling up with you, Prince, to hurt a man! For all he means to me, Phoenix Bait might as well call himself Bill Smith."
"To me also. I have never heard of the ruffian," said the Prince. "And if it had befallen that his insolent letter had referred to any other man but the present husband of your daughter, I should have ignored it. But there is that between your family, Mr. Rush, and mine, which cannot be washed out, even though it belongs to the past; and for that reason I bestirred myself. Regard my services at your disposal in this serious affair!"
"Thanks," said Rush rather dryly. "Have you any suggestions?"
"I have," replied the Prince, with a sort of dignity. "But I do not propose to advance them except personally and privately to you."
"I see. Well, no doubt that can be managed."
Ebney Rush glanced inquiringly at Mr. Brass, who waved a genial hand at him and the Prince.
"Take him to the library, Rush—or send us there, just as you please," boomed the cheerful old adventurer. "And the sooner you do one or the other, the less time will be lost."
So Mr. Rush, the Prince and his shady-looking "gentleman" disappeared.
Mr. Brass promptly locked the door and reached for the telephone. It was Sing, back at their own flat, whom he called, and he called that yellow speedwell in no uncertain manner. For three minutes he talked, then hung up and turned to Clumber, who was standing by the table, absently toying with the wine—though not too absently.
"My brains are snapping like electricity tonight," said the Honorable John. "Pour me a glass of that wine."
He thought, took a drink, and thought some more.
"Yes, like electricity," he decided. "It was a lucky day for you, Squire, when you decided to come in as partner with me!"
"Oh, was it? Well, prove it," snapped the Colonel, and chuckled. "That's it—prove it!"
"I will so," declared Mr. Brass, his cheerful red face shining with faith, hope and charity. "You heard me start to do it, didn't you?"
THE Colonel shrugged a pair of shoulders as broad as a big
sideboard. "I heard you instruct Sing to bring round here to
the door that old taxicab you bought last year at that motor
sale you looked in at one afternoon when you must have been
owl tight."
"Tight is as tight does," repartee-ed Mr. Brass rather confusedly. "I never made a better bargain in my life. I've proved it before—that time we met the daffodil dame—and I'm going to prove it again..... What d'ye think of Rupert these days?"
"I rank him with the rotters," said Colonel Clumber bluntly. "I always did and I always shall. Still, I don't deny he's showing up very well, all things considered, in this business. That letter from Phcenix Bait was an insulting thing to receive, and I'll say frankly that I don't think any the worse of Rupert for having the decency to show it."
MR. BRASS pondered that for a moment, smiling quietly.
Then he laughed softly, not without a touch of affectionate
indulgence.
"You are a real reliable old blockhead, Squire, and you always run dead true to your natural form, don't you? I like you because I can always depend on you. When I want to find out how any particular thing strikes a man who can't see half an inch in front of his nose, and who thinks as if his head were full of cold ham-fat instead of brains, why, I always turn to y—"
But here, fortunately, Mr. Ebney Rush and the Rottenburgers reentered, all looking quite satisfied.
The millionaire wasted no time.
"Well, my friends, we've gone into the thing very closely. I've got to get back to New York pretty soon,—spent too much time playing about over here as it is,—and I guess it's going to work out cheaper in the long run to pay up and look pleasant. Prince Rupert has been sort of arguing that we ought to have the police in and so forth, but that doesn't appeal to me. It will mean delay, and fuss and red tape, unless I badly miss my guess. And moreover it might be serious for Geoff. For I don't like that letter from Bait. It's ugly even if it is kind of funny—and it wouldn't surprise me if the man who wrote it is a little unbalanced. Now, you can trust a plain crook not to do anything foolish. He'll go for the money every time, every chance. He'll be consistent. But a man who has a grievance that has eaten into his sanity is different. He's likely to do something that we might regret. Is that so?"
The partners agreed that it was very much so.
"Well, I'm willing to pay to avoid that. My little girl adores Geoff, and a few more thousands spent on her happiness aren't of much consequence. She and her matrimonial affairs have cost me something near a million of good United States dollars already, and I consider I'd be weak-kneed to shy at a few more of those same dollars. So I've accepted Prince Rupert's offer to get in touch with this damned scoundrel Bait just as quickly as he can and to make the best terms he can. What d'ye think of it, friends?"
Mr. Brass did not hesitate.
"You're right, of course," he said crisply. "Considering the foully insulting tone of the Bait letter, I think Prince Rupert is doing the truly sporting thing. I congratulate him! I'd like to drink a glass of wine with him."
That ceremony was duly carried out in spite of the fact that the Prince had totally destroyed a quart of that same hefty wine during his conference—out of a silver tankard, a romantic little custom of the huge Prussian.
Mr. Brass accompanied the Prince and Mr. Rush to the front door.
The butler had already called up a taxi—the Prince claiming to have left all his cars on the Continent this trip.
Mr. Brass and Ebney saw them into the cab. It was the Honorable John who cheerily said: "Where to, Prince?"
"The Astoritz Hotel."
"Right!" Mr. Brass turned to the driver, a hard-featured, yellowish-looking person in a peaked hat that hid half his face.
"Astoritz Hotel, my man, and get a move on."
The driver nodded, and the taxi slid away.
EBNEY RUSH and the Honorable John lingered a moment,
looking after it.
"Well, what d'ye think of him these days, Brass?"
Mr. Brass laughed.
"Much as I did in the old days. Hog from his hair to his heels. Not quite so domineering as he used to be, perhaps. How much did you have to lend him to get him interested?"
Ebney Rush shrugged.
"You guessed it, did you? Oh, well, he was grateful—he said—for my promise of a couple of thousand. Continental royalties come cheaper than they used to. I suppose that man has run through a million in his day. Now he's glad to beg the loan of a couple of thousand."
"Prefers it that way—it's good pay for doing next to nothing," observed Mr. Brass dryly. "When d'ye pay out?"
"Just as soon as the Prince can get into touch with this Bait hyena and bring Geoff home. He's going to try right away and telephone me the result."
"Tonight, huh?"
"If possible. It depends on whether Mr. Phoenix Bait is really at the end of his telephone line."
Mr. Brass nodded.
"Well, let's get indoors. No use standing about asking for a chill on the liver. We've only got one liver apiece. You're a quick man, Ebney Rush. Result of having all these big bales of money, I take it. I think my partner and I will wait around for an hour in case the Prince fixes up things for tonight. If he contrives it, I'd like to be one of the party that goes to fetch friend Geoff. But what about the ransom? You don't keep five thousand cash in the house, do you?"
Ebney Rush laughed as he entered the house.
"You've been reading fiction, haven't you? The sort of stuff which tells you that as soon as a man happens to make a pile, he stops carrying around more than two cents! I guess I can manage to chase up five thousand in currency without having to borrow much of it from the butler. Man, don't you know that occasionally in the life of a business man there occur chances of doubling or trebling a large sum —provided he can produce the cash instantly? I've known a man to buy the entire cargo of a big steamer for a fifth of its value simply because he could put that fifth down in cold cash—click—like that!"
"Yes, I knew it," said the Honorable John urbanely. "I just wondered if you knew it. Personally I always keep a large sum handy."
He chuckled. "When I've got one!" he added.
IT was less than a quarter of an hour later, just as Mr.
Brass was explaining to the anxious Clytie that it was hardly
worth her while to go to bed before Geoff, for the reason that
Geoff would so shortly be home, that the telephone call from
Rupert of Rottenburg came through.
Ebney Rush answered it, and it was instantly apparent from Ebney's observations that all had gone well with the royal negotiations.
"What's that? You got Bait on that number? Good—that's good, Prince..... Yes..... Hey?..... Yes, I say. Hard cash? Certainly—if clean new hundred-pound bank-notes are hard enough for him..... Here—now—waiting for you, Prince..... Insolent, was he?.... Well, some fine day maybe well find time to make him pay for that. Meantime, we do the paying..... Yes, I know, I'm grinning and bearing it..... You'll be around at once?.... Good!"
EBNEY RUSH rang off and turned to the company, beaming.
"Rupert's no sloth when he can pay ready money," he ejaculated. "John's right, my dear. Well be having Geoff home before they've time to get a little meal prepared for him—in case he calls for it."
He turned to the Honorable Mr. Brass.
"It seems to be just an ordinary hold-up. Rupert got hold of Bait at once, and Bait said that any time during the night he'd be ready to hand over Geoff with the left hand provided he received the cash in his right at the same moment."
"That's fine—good work and quick," said Mr. Brass.
"It might have been a whole lot worse," admitted the dour Colonel.
Mr. Brass spoke again.
"I'd like it, Rush, if you'll agree that this old he-bear of a partner of mine and I should go with Rupert to fetch Geoff away from the place where Phoenix Bait has had him in storage. I think you'd be wise to agree—for we've only got Rupert's word that Bait will hand over when he's paid. I'll be frank enough to say that, in spite of what he's just done for your family, I shall never get any inferiority complex on account of Rupert of Rottenburg, and if you're going to let him loose with five thousand pounds of good valuable money, then you can do a lot worse than let two old watchdogs go along with him."
"That's true," growled the Colonel.
"I was going to ask you to do just that for us," agreed Ebney Rush. "I'd be glad to have you along."
Mr. Brass stared.
"And I'd be glad to have you not along," he said bluntly. "There's no need for you, with your responsibilities, to run any risks. Is that right, Mrs. Rush? Here we are, going we don't know where, to meet with we don't know what kind of a criminal, or how many. You don't know London as we know it, and you're a rich man. It would suit our friends Bait and Co.—for I don't figure he works alone—to hand over Geoff and keep you. And it's just on the cards that we couldn't stop them. It's not necessary for you to hover round what may be a trap, Rush. Do you think it is, Mrs. Rush?"
"Most certainly not!" said Ebney's wife with an edge to it. "I think you are entirely right, Mr. Brass, and I appreciate enormously the sensible advice you offer. If Ebney goes, I shall go—and that settles it."
"Yes," said Mr. Rush, "it settles it. For I haven't any notion of allowing you to go along, my dear."
"Nor I, you."
"Good. That's settled, then," beamed Mr. Brass. "And now hadn't you better be getting out the money, Rush, for I fancy the Prince will be here in a few seconds; and," he continued, "if I am any judge of a man, he'll be perfectly willing to take one of his tankards of wine to kind of fettle him up before he starts."
The gentle John was entirely right. The Prince (and gentleman) arrived, beaming broadly, before Mr. Brass had finished.
"Except for only the insolence of the low-born Bait, there was no trouble," explained Rupert. "The man is an ordinary brigand who captures and holds to ransom."
Murmuring something about getting his overcoat, and leaving Mr. Rush to explain to Rupert why he needed said coat, Mr. Brass moved out of the room.
BUT he did not immediately get his coat.
He whispered a few words to the butler—who seemed to be waiting for him—and passed out of the house to the taxicab waiting at the door. He gave one glance at the saffron visage under the peaked hat of the driver and sighed with relief. It was Sing.
Master and man whispered swiftly together for a few seconds; then Mr. Brass reached for certain articles which the Chinaman drew from his pocket—two of them—a pair of articles with blued barrels, that looked big enough to blow an elephant into its future state with any one of the half dozen cartridges each contained.
Mr. Brass reached for certain articles that looked big enough
to blow an elephant into its future state with one cartridge.
"That's a good lad, Sing," said Mr. Brass. "Keep on as you're going, and I'll give you a rare good testimonial when you leave me—if ever you do."
He returned to the house, slipped one of the pistols into his partner's overcoat pocket, the other into his own, and then bustled briskly in to join the others.
"Well, come along, come along. Nothing like getting on with it. Got the money, Prince? Good—that's good."
He shepherded them all out to the taxi-cab.
The Prince's "gentleman" instructed the saffron-featured driver to go quickly to Number Ninety Fitzgore Square, and Mr. Brass smiled an extremely contented smile as he listened.
"Not so far to go that we shall be kept out of bed half the night, Prince," he said cheerily, "Phoenix likes to operate from a pretty central position, hey Colonel?"
The Colonel grunted a sort of sour agreement. He was entirely devoid of any idea why his partner should seem so jolly about things in general, though he certainly knew that Mr. Brass had not slipped the big pistol into his overcoat pocket mainly as a sort of practical joke. He was content to sit in a species of sullen and slightly bewildered silence till he was required to arouse himself for action.
Prince Rupert of Rottenburg, on the contrary, was in a comparatively joyous mood—probably inspired by the fact that he had so, easily earned the two thousand pounds loan from Mr. Rush, plus the generous influence of the half-gallon of costly wine which he had untankarded that night.
He grinned at Mr. Brass like a big old bear who has found a few hundredweights of wild honey.
"Ach! I am accustomed to deal with every kind of desperado," he said. "This Bait! Pah! He is nothing! He is only a what-you-call snipe—piker, eh? A pike-snipe—a petty villain—nothing serious. One gives him his trifle of money, and he no longer exists for one—quite like a taxi-driver, hein?"
HE laughed excitedly—and was still doing it, at
intervals, when the taxi turned into dark, unfrequented,
little-known Fitzgore Square—that small oblong of
out-of-date houses, ill-lit, unfashionable, quiet, which only
survives so near the heart of things in London because the
owner cannot get the truly affrighting price he is asking for
it.
The taxi slid round to Number Ninety, which stood in a darkish corner, its front door facing the square. It was favored above the neighboring houses by possessing a side door opening onto a passage or superior alley, forming, for pedestrians only, an extra exit from the square.
Down this alley the Prince led them.
"The man Bait requested that we should take possession of Mr. Beauray at the side door," he explained. "He wished that we should enter without ringing."
The taxicab driver had left his seat, apparently to look at a suspect tire.
"He seems a trusting sort of kidnapper," said Mr. Brass, following Rupert and the "gentleman." Dropping back a few paces, he whispered sharply to the Colonel.
"Hey, there!" said that individual, like one inspired. "Right! I understand!" And he nodded violently.
The side door opened easily under the Prince's hand, and all entered a narrow hall so bare that it was practically unfurnished. There was nobody in the hall, but a door at the far side stood ajar.
The Prince looked surprised.
"The man Bait should be here—" he began, and broke off as the street door opened quietly and closed again behind the taxi-driver, who advanced with the sparse yellow grin that was peculiar to John's Chinese hireling, the inscrutable Sing.
"What is—" began the Prince, and broke off abruptly, as the large and powerful hand of Mr. Brass clamped itself about his throat.
"Not a word, Rupe, or I shall hurt."
"Rupe" lashed out at the Honorable John's legs with his foot and made muffled sounds, but he got no further than that, for Sing, perceiving that the Colonel was dealing with the Baron Klick with complete ease, proceeded to enwrap himself about the Prince like a yellow octopus.
THERE was no use struggling; and in any case, in spite of
his great size and formidable appearance, Rupert of Rottenburg
was not a good struggler. He never had been—all his life
he had employed professional strugglers to do his struggling
for him.
"Easy—easy, Sing," warned Mr. Brass. "No need to strangle the shifty hound. Twist the cords round his hand—that's the style. Better take it quietly, Rupert—quietly, I say, or Sing'll all-but tourniquet your greedy hands off your arms! That's better."
He slipped a deft hand into the Prince's pocket and brought out the bulging wad of banknotes which Ebney Rush had so cheerfully passed over.
"That's better—much better," said Mr. Brass, and put them in a safe place he knew of near his own great chest.
"Secure him. Sing, my son. Then make Baron Klick safe, and cord 'em together so that you can guard them both."
He waited till that was complete, then invited his partner to join him in searching the house.
They had no trouble at all. In an ill-furnished back room with shuttered windows, on the first floor, they found Geoff Beauray, collarless but still in dress clothes, asleep on a cheap iron bedstead.
Quite obvious, on a table beside him, was a hypodermic syringe.
MR. BRASS looked at the Colonel and shrugged his shoulders
as he moved to Beauray.
"He's probably not far from waking, Squire—Rupert will have timed things pretty close, if I'm any judge," he said.
The Colonel scowled.
"I suppose you know what you're talking about—but I don't," he growled. "Where's that hound Bait? That's the man I want to get my hands on."
Mr. Brass laughed.
"Bait?" he said. "There's no such party—unless maybe it's that mute little blackguard downstairs who acts as Rupert's 'gentleman.' Probably that's the answer. Can't you see what's happened? Man, it's staring you in the face! Rupert and his pal got hold of Geoff Beauray as he was leaving that dinner—probably had been watching for a chance for days. This place was all ready. They shot a dose of some drug into him, waited a couple of days, composed that letter addressed to Rupert, and got in touch with Rush. You've seen what happened afterward, haven't you? It was a good scheme—the way that letter insulted Rupert and generally showed him up, the way Rupert advised calling in the police! Who would have guessed that Rupert was the man who wrote it, or, more likely, got that shifty 'gentleman' of his, (an Englishman, I should say, considering the tone of the letter) to write it? Rush believed that there really was a Phoenix Bait—as did you—so did everybody except the old man. Me, in fact—old Signor Wise-ulini! Hey?"
Mr. Brass laughed.
"The letter looked funny to me from the first word," he claimed. "And it was quite easy to see whether I was right or wrong. I telephoned to Sing to bring the old taxi, and squared the butler to make quite sure that the Prince and his pal used that taxi when they went to 'get in touch' with Bait. They never even went near a telephone; they pulled up at a quiet little saloon bar not far from Eaton Square and had a couple of drinks. Sing watched them all the time. Then they came back to Eaton Square. Sing reported to me while Rush and Rupert were fixing up the money end of it, and then—why, then, even you could have seen the idea, Squire. A good idea, for a crook. Good business, it was, because it was so simple. Suppose Ebney Rush hadn't thought of ringing me up? Suppose you had just gone on dozing whilst I sat thinking back at our flat? Rupert would have come here, collected Geoff, and handed him in to the folk at Eaton Square. Probably they'd have given him just a small dose on the way—to last him till next morning, when they would have been well on their way to some hole on the Continent. D'ye see that, Squire?"
HE broke off as Geoff Beauray stirred.
"Hah! There you are! See to him, Squire," said Mr. Brass, hastily. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes."
He hurried downstairs.
Sing had the malefactors safe enough.
"Well, Prince, you've missed your haul by half an inch," said the old strategist genially. "And it will cost you both about ten years apiece—maybe more, if you've injured Geoff Beauray with your drugs."
The Prince went white.
"He is not injured—at any moment he will awaken now. I swear to you—"
But the Honorable John ignored him.
"Have you searched them, Sing?" he asked.
Sing had. Only the Prince had been armed, and Sing now had his battery. "Good!"
Mr. Brass stared thoughtfully at Rupert and his aide.
"Yes, ten years," he said at last, "and a good job, too!"
He examined the cords which linked them to certain of the fixtures in the room. Some he tightened—others he loosened.
"That will hold them till we send the police to collect 'em," he told the smiling Chink. "Now come and help get Mr. Beauray down to the taxi."
Together, he and Sing went upstairs.
At the top of the stairs Mr. Brass paused to listen. His smile broadened as he caught the sound he expected. The Prince and his pal were already struggling with their bonds.
"Well, well, they'll find it easy enough to escape if they put their backs into it." Something snapped.
CHUCKLING happily, the smooth old craftsman moved into the
room where Geoff Beauray was already sitting up, a little
dazed and dull, but obviously not much the worse for his
adventure.
The partners did not hurry him.
"No hurry—no hurry. Take it easy—just nice and easy," advised Mr. Brass.
It was the Colonel and Sing who presently settled Geoff Beauray in the taxi, Mr. Brass lingering for what he called a last look round.
That inspection was brief but quite satisfactory.
The room in which he had left the prisoners was no longer occupied. The Prince and his gentleman had escaped quite according to John's plan—and as that far-sighted old crook had left in the Prince's pocket enough small notes to make fast traveling easy, no doubt they were traveling fast—and far. At any rate they never came back to deny it.....
IT was a great reunion at Eaton Square. Geoff Beauray
was permitted to linger with the men-folk only long enough
to explain that the Prince had caught him just leaving the
Club, and on the plea of having something to tell him "vital
to his and Clytie's happiness,"—something, he had
hinted, to do with the period when Clytie had been Princess
of Rottenburg,—had persuaded Geoff to accompany them to
his sitting-room at the Astoritz. It had been simple enough to
drug the coffee which Geoff had carelessly accepted, and to
get him, already drowsy, into the taxi which put them down at
Fitzgore instead of Eaton Square.
IT was told in a few-score words, after which Mr. Beauray
was affectionately but firmly shooed out of the library
in the care of his lovely little wife and his solicitous
mamma-in-law.
"A good fellow—a sportsman, Geoff is! I always liked that lad—I always shall. You've got a plain Mister son-in-law there, Rush, that's worth fifty gross of royal highnesses of Rupert's altitude," said the Honorable John.
"I know it," agreed Ebney Rush. "Why didn't the Prince come back with you? There is his loan—that two thousand pounds—waiting here for him. Where is he?"
Mr. Brass laughed.
"Where? You can search me for the answer, Rush, but you wont find it. You need a clairvoyant. Rupert and his pal are probably streaking it for safety like greased rabbits. Listen—I'll tell you why. Just pour me a glass of wine and listen to the old man."
HE drank his wine, lit a cigar and dumped on the shining
table before him the big bundle of notes he had taken from
Rupert of Rottenburg.
"Leave 'em lie there for a bit and listen," he said.
Ebney Rush listened to all the details to the very end.
The American's face was hard as Mr. Brass finished.
"I see," he said quietly. "Yes, I see. The man never was anything but a damned scoundrel. I knew it. But he slipped under my guard that time. I admit it. Clytie and her Geoff kind of sap my judgment. She's all the daughter I've got," he added simply.
"Well, old man, he didn't slip under mine, I'll trouble you to note. Here's the money," said the Honorable John.
He slid over the notes. Ebney Rush stared at them—and pushed them back.
"We know each other pretty well, we three folk, huh?" he asked coldly. "I paid those notes out to get Geoff back, didn't I? And I've got him back, huh?"
"It looks like it," agreed Mr. Brass with entire amiability.
"Well, then, what in hell have those notes got to do with me now?" demanded Ebney Rush flatly.
Mr. Brass picked them up in a leisurely sort of way.
"Nothing at all," he said. "I see what you mean exactly and"—he drove them home into the pocket of his dinner jacket like a person driving a sword into its scabbard—"I think you're right, Rush. Thanks for putting me right. Those notes, as you suggest, are a matter between Prince Rupert, friend of Phoenix, my partner and me. Right! I'll settle it with them! Leave it to me. Good health!"
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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