RGL e-Book Cover©
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
"Making Crime Pay," Faber & Faber, London, 1944
The print edition of this book contains an introduction by the British newspaper editor Charles Eade (1903-1964) and an article on Cheyney's radio plays by the actor-producer Val Gielgud (1900-1981). These are not in the public domain and have been omitted from this RGL digital edition.
I AM grateful to Messrs Faber & Faber for having asked for this book and to Messrs. Wm. Collins Sons & Company—to whom I am under contract—for permission to do it. It has given me a great deal of pleasure to put together the book, because in dealing with the copy, which has been written over a considerable period, I have remembered some of the adventures and atmospherics encountered in the writing of it.
The process of selection of copy has not been easy. First of all I have been bemused by the amount of material available and, secondly, because I have had to keep a firm hand on myself in order to keep out bits and pieces of which I am too fond, and which my good friends the public, who have always been kind tome in the (to me) important business of buying my work, might not like as much as I do! Most authors are inclined to wax sentimental about some old story, the perusal of which brings back sweet, youthful, and sometimes—I am glad to say—dangerous memories.
I have selected the 'Underworld of Mayfair' series, which was originally published by the Sunday Dispatch in 1937, in its entirety because this series must now possess some of the attributes of an historic document! 'Historic' because I wonder if this type of series, popular with Sunday newspaper readers before the war, will ever come into its own again?
In any event Mayfair, as it existed those few short years ago, is no more. Where romantic mansions stood, ambulance and fire stations add the touch of modern war. In those streets once trod merely by exquisitely-shod females, whose beauty at dusk was apt to produce in susceptible and temperamental gentlemen a crick in the neck through peering over their shoulders, we find those rubble-cleared spaces which proclaim that even Mayfair—the heart of London—has not been sacrosanct from the rough attentions of an enemy, quite unrefined, who has disdained to spare that glamorous square mile enchanted by my good friend Michael Arlen; and whose attack on the esprit of our aristocratic suburb has, at any rate for the moment, uprooted the fascinating Green Hat in favour of the steel helmet. I have always been interested in Mayfair. As a small boy I wandered through its quiet, old-fashioned and aristocratic alleyways, wondering about the denizens of this fashionable neighbourhood, imagining a hundred and one situations in which, of course, the most lovely ladies were involved, and in which I (naturally) was the hero. Little did I realize that not so long afterwards, and with a greater knowledge of Mayfair than I had ever thought possible, I should once again be covering the same ground, but this time as an investigator who had realized that under the crust of this aristocratic village there existed much that was of interest to the writer.
And I say to-day that in that Mayfair we knew and which has disappeared, there often existed stark and sinister drama, tinged now and again with a touch of comedy. There existed happenings, adventures, plots, schemes, the machinations of crooks and criminals, in a degree undreamed of by prosaic Londoners.
Remember that in those days I was not an 'imaginative' novelist but a newspaper man writing about crime; a Fleet Street specialist often employed by editors as an Investigator. And in that capacity I have learned enough about London to say, without any fear of contradiction, that no story of the most dramatic or thrilling nature ever written by a novelist could embody half the drama that was to be found under London's upper crust.
In these days, when some critics of books dealing with crime, detection and mystery, are inclined to adopt a rather patronizing air when dealing with subjects which they consider to be far-fetched, it is amusing to be able to state that I personally have encountered stranger things in my career as a journalist than I have ever read or written during the last six years in which I have written novels, and I believe that 'The Underworld of Mayfair,' which will be new to many readers of this book, will present them with a glimpse of something which may give them to think seriously about what goes on in any great city in the normal times of peace.
In this series I dealt with such subjects as the drug traffic, the white slave traffic and the dozen peculiar ways in which a certain type of young man who 'operated' in Mayfair made his living.
One or two people who read these articles when they originally appeared, suggested that possibly I had allowed my 'imagination' to play a part in their construction. This was not so and within a very short time of the appearance of the series I was to be justified by the publication in the press of three or four sensational Mayfair 'dramas', which proved that I had merely anticipated events.
The arm of coincidence is as long as ever. I am dictating these words on Sunday, the 10th of January 1943, and I have in my hand a copy of to-day's Sunday Dispatch. I think it intriguing that the very newspaper for which I investigated Mayfair and the London 'gangs' should be concerned, at this time, with one of the 'boys' whose happy hunting ground was in the Mayfair mile. This nasty piece of work, finding that women are not so liable to fall for his line in wartime, has now apparently gone over to the enemy—which is, of course, just what one would expect.
The Sunday Dispatch says:
'Included in the announcements on the German official radio the other afternoon was an intriguing item of "news" from Paris.
'Count Mauduit, a former collaborator of General de Gaulle,' said the announcer, 'reveals in the Press this morning that Churchill and de Gaulle have signed a secret agreement according to which de Gaulle has transferred all French colonies to the British Empire; moreover, that de Gaulle has also agreed to a ninety-nine years' lease of the French Channel coast to Great Britain.
'There is nothing intriguing in this fairy-tale "revelation" itself, of course. What is of real interest is the identity of the "titled" Frenchman whose pen wrote it.
'He is Georges de Mauduit, a shady adventurer with a London career extending over some years.
'De Mauduit flaunts the bogus title of "vicomte" as a means of trapping the unwary. He has already seen the inside of an English gaol for uttering pro-Axis sentiments.
'Despite this unsavoury record, he was permitted to leave Britain as recently as fifteen months ago—to become a French "Haw-Haw."
'Thus the question: "Who let this man go?" It is a question that must be answered.
'From Zeesen, about the middle of last month, this bogus vicomte gave a talk in English to North America. It was called—"de Gaulle the Man".
'There was an introduction to this talk, in which it was stated that de Mauduit was a Frenchman who had recently arrived from England after living there for twenty years.
'He was presented as quite a figure; in fact, a man well known in Society, and as a journalist. Moreover, it was stated, he had spent three months at the London, headquarters of General de Gaulle.
'Then de Mauduit proceeded to give a review of the activities of the leader of the Fighting French. It was a hotch-potch of disparagement.
'One thing in it was right. De Mauduit had certainly been to the Fighting French headquarters in London. But it was just a visit—to try to get a job. His shady past was known, however, and the de Gaullists declined to have anything to do with him.
'Thereafter he began to traduce General de Gaulle. He also attacked the British Government. And for good measure he referred to Mr. Churchill as a "gangster."
'In a number of places and to a number of people he made statements which finally brought him into conflict with the law. At Westminster Police Court on June 5, 1941, he was sentenced to two months' imprisonment for making statements likely to cause alarm and despondency. Women in particular had been perturbed by his stories of impending disaster.
'Women have always listened to the poisonous tongue of de Mauduit and regretted it.
'He used it—and his sham title—to impose on wealthy women of May-fair. It helped him live on credit—big credit at certain West End hotels.'
The last time I spoke to de Mauduit was some months before the War. I was on a motor tour in Devonshire and walked into a Hotel Lounge in one of the beauty spots in that county. De Mauduit was sitting in an armchair doing his stuff good and plenty on the local inhabitants, who had fallen for his line.
He was being whimsical and attractive; kissing women's hands all over the place, and generally working his passage for all he was worth. He had developed a slight limp (I think he thought that this would go well with the girls) and walked with the aid of a stick.
He entreated me to be more careful in the pronunciation of his name. Taking me aside he informed me that the slightest mispronunciation of the word Mauduit turned his name into a very rude expression not usually used in polite society. I suggested that it might be a good thing to change a name which lent itself so easily to coarseness in the hands of cynical people like myself. He was shocked. His sensitive soul was hurt.
But he 'took' the hotel for their bill just the same!
And if, by some chance, he should ever read this book I should like him to know that I'm still mispronouncing his name and that I think it suits him!
I AM not suggesting that Mayfair qua Mayfair was any worse—or any better for that matter—than any other place in London, but it was supposed to be exclusive. It was supposed to be aristocratic, and in any event it was a meeting ground for people who had money, jewels and reputations: and every crime reporter on Fleet Street will support me when I say that where there are money, jewels and reputations, there you will find crooks to prey on them.
Amongst the aristocracy of any city mingles the aristocracy of the Underworld, and my friend Louie—that superbly dressed, charmingly mannered 'Confidence' man whom I met in Mayfair, whose well-cut twenty guinea suits, carefully-selected, quiet, Spitalfield ties, silk shirts, debonair and suave manner, concealed the brain which had made him second to none in his own peculiar profession—could tell you stories which would make anything that I have to say pale into the utmost insignificance.
I do not know where Louie is to-day, but he will probably read this book and smile as he turns the page, realizing, with a sigh, that 'things' are not quite like they were, and that the activities which I am sure he has found 'plenty' lucrative in the past, are now cut short so drastically by a war which is even greater than that which was waged between the police and detective forces of this country and that Underworld which, uprooted by the necessities of War, returns with the coming of peace to its quiet and unlawful activities.
What is 'The Underworld'? It is not a place which may be reached through the agency of 'bus or tube. It is an ever changing locale brought into being by the peregrinations of its inhabitants.
How does one reach it? Quite easily. Go—in normal times—to a spieler (a place where gaming is run for profit) in Manchester or Glasgow or anywhere else, play for a few evenings, lose, or win, a little (or a lot) of money, and then tell the proprietor that you are going to London for six months and would like to know where you can play in that city. If he thinks you are 'all right' he will tell you where to go. When you get there you will be on the threshold of the London Underworld, because my own experience has shown me that the 'small game' is popular with a certain type of crook. If you are clever and a little daring, you may find out all sorts of interesting things. But do not be too clever or too daring or the interest 'angle' may be a little too much for you.
IN the introduction which Charles Eade has written to this book, he says that in 1926-27 I began to cash in on my expensively acquired knowledge of the night haunts of London. This is true, inasmuch as it was in 1927 that I seriously began to consider how I could best make use of the knowledge that I had acquired.
I have always been fascinated by the night clubs, and by the words 'night club' I do not always mean that ornate expensive night restaurant and place of amusement frequented by the best people. For me there were other much more interesting places and at one time I belonged to no fewer than ninety-seven so-called night clubs.
I was interested in these places because I realized very quickly that here one was very close to crime. I should like it to be definitely known that most of the night clubs to which I refer were not those very respectable places which exist or existed in pre-war London and to which one could take one's mother or one's sister, eat a good meal and see an amusing cabaret show. I am referring to the basement and third and fourth floor 'dives'—the small rooms or pair of rooms, armed with a bar—where all sorts of strange people congregated. Sometimes these places were poor and shoddy—sometimes ornate.
In 1926 I began to take an inordinate interest in these spots. First of all it seemed to me improbable that people who had normal legitimate work to do in the day should concern themselves with drinking and talking in stuffy atmospheres until the small hours of the morning unless there was something behind the obvious facade. Soon I learned that in many cases the so-called night club was merely an ante-room to something else; that connected with it there might be some sort of gambling salon or something not even so nice. I also realized that lots of strange birds used these places as meeting places and very often I have wondered what formed the basis of the low-voiced discussions that took place between the habitues of these bottes.
After a while lots of these people began to get used to me. The word went round that I was a writer seeking material; also (I sedulously fostered this idea) that I was a bit of a mug who did not mind losing a few pounds providing he got what he thought was copy!
I think it was in 1929 that Jack Clark, the Managing Editor of the National Press Agency, asked me to do a series of articles for syndication on gambling night life in London. I said I would do these under an assumed name, and that I would try to keep strictly to the truth in my copy. These articles were published and syndicated by the National Press Agency under the title 'The Indiscretions of Pierre Soucheaux'. I wish that I had press cuttings of these articles. If I had I should have put them in this book, because they were amusing and interesting if not exciting; but my own copies were destroyed when my Fleet Street Office—which was also the home of 'Cheyney Investigations'—was bombed out of existence on May 10th, 1941, and my crime records and library, the results of twelve years' work and collection, were wiped out; and all the National Press Agency files were destroyed in their own fire somewhere about that date.
I approached the writing of this series in the manner which I thought was best suited to it. I made up my mind that I would get into gambling circles in London in very much the same way as our imaginary friend Soucheaux might use. So I cultivated the habit of dropping into quiet bars in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly Circus, having a drink or two, and then, leaning confidentially over the bar-counter, I would ask the bar-tender if he knew where I could 'get a game'. By this method, which I have mentioned in the 'Underworld of Mayfair' series, I got all the information and contacts I wanted in order to write 'The Indiscretions of Pierre Soucheaux', and I need hardly add that I met some very odd personalities, many of whom were able at different times to give me information on all sorts of interesting subjects.
MANY of the smaller gambling games in London, of which a certain percentage are definitely crooked, or exist for some ulterior motive, are only 'got at' through the medium of the low type night club. This means in effect that people who frequent certain night clubs may if they want to—and sometimes if they don't!—be taken along to games which are run in conjunction with a club. Sometimes attractive women touts are used for the purpose of pulling in the 'suckers', and some of these ladies have interesting stories to tell.
One of the things which has surprised me more than anything else in connection with the night haunts of London is that I have never yet encountered any crime authors in my travels. Many a time and oft have I run into Fleet Street men whom I know—crime reporters and suchlike on the prowl—but the very people whom one would expect to meet in places where there was definite 'atmosphere' to be encountered—that is people who wrote novels about crime and detection—were conspicuous by their absence.
And I often wonder whether it is due to the lack of reality about certain types of 'detective fiction' that some types of crime novel of the 'who-done-it' type tend to become less and less popular. It seems to me that in novels of this type the author becomes so concentrated on the process of burying his solution under a mass of red herrings that such matters as 'characterization' and 'atmospherics' tend to escape his attention.
I was convinced as far back as in 1935, when there was a spate of realistically produced gangster films in this country, that the crime or detective novel of the future would become more and more realistic. It was about that year that I read a book called A Fast One (by an author called James Cain). This was an American book of the realistic type. It interested me very much and, when I began to write crime novels, I experimented with 'realism' in an endeavour to find the medium of construction that I wanted. I am still looking for it, but the fact that my books about Lemmy Caution, Slim Callaghan, Nick Bellamy—each of which is constructed from a different angle of characterization—have attained, I am proud to say, a popularity with the reading public, seems to indicate that the realistic method has nothing to learn from the intellectual type of detective story.
As a further experiment Dark Duet, and The Stars Are Dark, both constructed on an entirely different principle, were also, I am glad to say, a success.
A lady, who is good enough to read all my books, wrote me a letter complaining bitterly that although she was a fan and bought everything I wrote, the women in my books were not good women. This intrigued me. I wrote to her and asked her what a good woman was, which seemed to stump her, but the correspondence was interesting, inasmuch as it showed me that her main interest in my books was in the feminine characters.
Candidly, I am sick of extremely moral detectives of the stuffed-shirt type, whose mentalities approach nothing experienced in real life, who have medical jurisprudence and forensic medicine at their fingertips, and who are never subjected to the ordinary temptations which beset the most virtuous of males. I think this was possibly the reason why Lemmy Caution always seems to be falling for some particularly wicked lady.
In what are called 'straight' detective stories—that is stories which are based on an imaginary situation created by the author, and which are not realistic but depend for their success on intriguing or 'catching out' the reader—the female characters are usually divisible into two types—the very good (almost too good) girls, amongst whom, of course, we shall find the heroine—and one or more very naughty ladies usually professing to be not so naughty, but who never, by any chance, talk or behave as if they knew the first thing about being bad!
For myself, I have always believed that most criminals commit crime because of some woman or other. Always in the background, no matter how remote that background may be, lurks the lady for whom the job is done. That, I believe, is the 'real life story', and in nine cases out of ten this lady is not at all ugly. She is usually very good-looking. She is usually quite charming and, in these days, when crooks are more inclined to culture than they were, she is very often quite well-educated. She does not advertise the fact that she is not a good woman.
This is the type of woman that one actually meets lurking about on the hair-line that exists between the Underworld and what used to be called the Smart Set. Strangely enough, there are quite a number of women who are good and virtuous and delightful who like sordid night clubs. Don't ask me why, because I don't know.
Some of these women are merely interested in what goes on in these places. Others, who possess more money than brains, get some sort of a kick out of the proximity of people who might normally be described as odd; whilst a few of them are women who are of a 'semi-neurotic' type and give themselves a marvellous time by acting themselves into situations which do not exist.
One night, in an underground dive not a hundred miles from Piccadilly Circus, I saw, sitting in the corner of the room, drinking a brandy and soda she had managed to make last for quite an hour, a lady who was definitely not of the type that belonged to that place. She was very well and quietly dressed in a simple but chic dinner frock. Her shoes and stockings were good. Her fur coat left nothing to be desired. I asked the proprietor about her. He didn't know very much. He told me she had been brought to the 'club' originally by a friend of his; that she often came in and had a drink; that she sometimes spoke to people and that she was generally rather mysterious. He said if I was interested he would introduce me to her.
I told him I was interested and he presented me to the lady. We had a long conversation and not more than two brandies and sodas, and after a little I found that she was quite prepared to confide in me. She told me that she liked coming to this place because the people were human, and when I asked her what she meant by that, she said that the first half of her life had been spent in a family that was aristocratic and straight-laced; that everything bad that had happened to her had been the result of their outlook; that circumstances had forced her away from them and that she was very glad. It appeared that she had been seduced by her father's chauffeur—a very fine looking young Norwegian. As a result of this all sorts of unpleasant things had happened, and eventually, her father having discovered what had been going on, she was forced to leave home.
This story, of course, sounded like the usual opening gambit from the lady one meets in a night club, but I believed her because, first of all, she did not belong to the usual type, and, secondly, it was quite obvious to me that she didn't care whether I believed it or not.
I met her on several occasions after this; found her charming and amusing. One night, in another club in the West End, she came over to me and told me that she had taken a lover who was a crook. She asked me what I thought about it. I said I thought it was a remarkably stupid thing to do; that it was a certainty that within a year or two at the most she would find herself separated, from her income, her jewellery, and anything else she had; that I thought she was going to make a lot of trouble for herself. I advised her to duck whilst the going was good. But she wouldn't have this. She said no, she knew what she was doing; that she was madly in love with this man; that anyhow it would be a slice of life, and that if you wanted experience you must pay for it.
About six months later I saw this lady, looking very delightful and well-dressed, and wearing some very good jewels, with a rather fat, bald-headed gentleman, in the dining-room of an hotel near Dover. I soon discovered that the fat gentleman was her husband and that she was an extremely moral wife and mother!
When I returned to town I completed my discreet enquiries about her and found that from start to finish I had been taken for a complete 'ride' by her. In other words she was enjoying and living in the situations which existed only in her own mind, and apparently the process of sitting around in a lesser type night club in London assisted her dramatic abilities!
She might have been an accidental type, but as I have said I believe there are a lot of quite 'nice' women who get rather a kick out of going out to night clubs and pretending just for an hour or so that they are not.
IN this book are three 'special' articles which I wrote for the Sunday Dispatch and the Daily Mail a year or so before the war. At the time they were 'topical', but I hope they will still be interesting to readers as examples of the crime specialist's newspaper work in ordinary times.
Sometimes people have asked me why papers don't employ their own crime reporters to cover these subjects. The reason is that the crime reporter on a newspaper is a very hard-working individual who, in normal times, is kept very busy and seldom has time to deal with any angle of a hot story except the 'news' angle. Psychological angles are usually left to the outside specialist who, if he is keen on his job, makes a point of keeping in continuous touch with those 'contacts' who can give him information when he wants it.
The whole value of any specialized writer lies in the number and importance of these contacts, and if he is a wise man he will be prepared to spend considerable sums of money in keeping in touch with all sorts and conditions of people.
Before the war I made a point of reading every Sunday newspaper that was published, from which all features and news relating to crime were clipped, filed and indexed. Any 'personalities' connected with recent crime stories were interviewed if possible; their names and addresses were card-indexed. More often than not information for future copy could be secured from them. Quite a few of these persons were themselves what might be described as 'border line' people (by which I mean if they didn't do 'jobs' themselves they knew the people who did), and I have secured some weird introductions to the most odd personalities.
I was heartbroken when all my indexes and files were destroyed when my office was blitzed in 1941, and it is going to take years of work to replace these sources of information even if I am ever able to do it again.
The crime reporter on a newspaper might be compared to the reconnaissance patrol, and the outside specialist writer to the intelligence officer. Their work is really complementary, and I would like here and now to pay tribute to my crime reporting friends of Fleet Street, many of whom are, at this time, in the Services, who have given me many invaluable tips which have enabled me to go on with the investigation of some crime story when they were through with it, usually because the subject was no longer topical. For the life of any news story is very short and once the staff reporter is through with it his interest wanes because other news stories are cropping up which demand his attention. The specialist writer has lots of time to carry on with his investigations knowing that he has a large market in the newspapers, magazines and periodicals, to deal with the psychological aspects of crime at any time.
Crime has always been a very well-paying subject from the point of view of the journalist. In the days of peace it is probably the most popular subject with the public. If you want proof of this look through the files of any newspaper during the five or six years before this war.
I wonder that more crime reporters don't write books, because every one of these men knows quite a lot about London. The really interesting parts of his 'stories' are very often cut. Many a story put in by an enterprising crime reporter, goes on the spike because it is considered dangerous, and these are the very stories which might easily form the basis of crime novels.
Many people who knew my work as a journalist have written to me and asked me why I suddenly turned myself into a novelist. The transition was not as quick as people believe. I realized that the public were very keen on reading about crime from either a factual or fictional point of view, and if crime was 'best paid' from a journalistic point of view, it seemed to me that it would be even 'better paid' from a fictional point of view. I also believed that men who really knew something about crime in the city could write novels of a realistic type which would appeal to the public. I think I was right about this, but, however hard I may have to work as an author, I shall always keep a very close contact with whatever underworlds may come into being in the future, and I hope I shall write about them for the public press.
It is going to be very interesting to see what happens in the crime world after the war, and whether there will be a renaissance of skulduggery as there was after the last one.
IT will be noticed that in the short stories in this book I am still writing about crime, which I think makes the best basis for the popular short story. There are so many grades and classes of crooks that any story can be adapted for reading by any particular class of the public and in any type of magazine. There is always more punch in crime and very often one is able to obtain a factual base for a story.
One of the most amazing and what might be described as 'impossible' stories that has ever come my way formed the basis of a long short story I wrote called 'The King of Tarragona'. Everyone who has read this story considers it to be a highly imaginative work. In point of fact the story is practically true and was told to me in a saloon bar by a chemist who knew the hero intimately.
Fictional writers who hold that whilst truth may be stranger than fiction you cannot use it in writing fiction, are usually ladies and gentlemen who are either too lazy or too successful to leave their comfortable studies and get out into the big city in search of real copy. I believe myself that if an author who knows his London wants a plot, he can go out and get it within two hours in any one of a dozen places if he knows enough about the game to be able to talk to the right people.
Crooks are very vain, and whilst they are disinclined to talk about unsuccessful jobs, it is very easy to get them to talk about something which they think was really clever. They are in fact a very talkative class of people even if they have an odd habit of altering times and dates and places—a process which after all doesn't matter to an author in search of copy.
THERE are four radio plays in this book—one of my longer type of wireless play called Your Deal, Madame, and three of the shorter type. The heroes of the three short plays are all people about whom I have written in newspapers and magazines or in novels. I often wonder why it is that more English short story writers do not try the radio as a medium for their work, and take the trouble to learn the technique of the radio play. They would find it interesting and profitable.
I know I am right in saying that there is always a scarcity of good short radio plays (by good radio plays I mean 'popular' ones). It is not difficult, providing one is prepared to listen to the radio and to concentrate on it, to write a radio play. Many people write to me in the course of the year asking what they should do and how they should set about it, and whilst I answer these letters when I can, very often I am too busy to do it. In any event, if these ladies and gentlemen would listen to the plays that are done on the wireless I am certain, if they have any ability at all, they would soon get the knack.
The trouble with most amateurs who want to write is that they are not sufficiently curious about life and people to wander about the city and find out things for themselves. This is where the trained newspaperman scores. He knows about the city. He knows how it works and he knows how to get information on any given subject which—if you will think it out—is half the business of being a writer.
There are advertisements that tell you that if you can write a good letter you can write an article or a story or a book. This is, of course, sheer hooey. I know lots of very nice people who write the most amazingly well-written and chatty letters who, if you asked them to find Hyde Park, would have to ask a policeman. Besides an ability to write, a journalist or author must be possessed of an insensate curiosity—a curiosity that is never satisfied and that is nagging for information all the time.
Not long ago I received a letter from a young author asking me if I had any system of finding plots. He asked me if I could give him a tip. I told him this: Look for incongruities. If one of your women friends changes her style of hairdressing—find out why! Whenever you come across something that you don't understand—find out all about it. In the process of satisfying curiosity a thousand and one plots are positively thrown at one. This method is unique except that a certain amount of tact should accompany its use! The lady may have changed her hair parting because she was getting a little thin on one side, but in any event this information will lead you to wonder why women lose their hair, and the answer ought to supply you with plots for a year!
The investigation of any unknown quantity may be interesting; but the odd things—usually nothing to do with the main subject—that appear in the course of any investigations are the things that matter.
The articles and stories and plays in this book are the result of my wanting to find out something or other. Sometimes I found something quite different from what I was looking for—life is like that!
I have liked the business of collecting the bits and pieces for this book because each article or story has brought back vividly some personality, or place, or incident.
Well... so long... I'll be back!
WHAT is an Underworld? Many people, familiarized by the use of the word in crime fiction, imagine it as a place to which one might go in a cab; but in fact it is an ever-shifting nucleus of people moving hither and thither over an area best suited to their operations.
The Underworld of Mayfair exists because people want it to exist; because it is a result of the never ceasing desire on the part of certain discontented individuals to contact definitely with that good-time that is just around the corner; and if, in the process, somebody gets hurt—well that is just too bad.
I believe that the existence of the underworld in the West End of London is due, in the main, to the endeavours of people intelligent enough to be dangerous; educated enough to apply their talents to sinister purposes, and occasionally desperate enough to take big chances.
A large percentage of activities on the part of Mayfair's underworld is a result of the desire on the part of some men and women to live and live well—without working. They are prepared to go to all sorts of trouble; to evolve the best—or the worst—of schemes provided they escape the stigma that attaches to doing a job.
One of the easiest methods of achieving this object is to be 'amusing'; in other words to create situations in which other people, who have money, may also have what is known as a good time, becoming parted from some of that money in the process.
Dope is a nasty word, but there are degrees of dope. The drug-addict is not always ill-kempt, penniless, destitute. Often she is a charming young woman who can get some for you.
Blackmail is another nasty word, but the blackmailer is, as often as not, a wolf who wears easily the well-cut clothes of a young man about town; who sometimes sports a tie that might give Professor Hilton even another angle on public schools.
'Long firm' tactics are not confined to the area of the City of London, but may be adequately performed on amorous old ladies with money by means of the 'shares as a security' touch to which we shall come later in this series.
The fact that the underworld with which we are dealing consists of a small minority of people living in a part of London usually associated with intensive respectability and even aristocracy is merely a proof that it is better to function where the money is.
The majority of people living in Mayfair are excellent and worthy citizens. With the self-contained and tolerant attitude of their kind they are not inclined even to wonder about the things which occasionally happen in their vicinity—even if they did get to hear about them!
The activities of the denizens of our underworld are often amusing. Sometimes so amusing that one is disinclined to look too closely under the crust for the more serious angles.
A young and bored gentleman at a discussion on the possibility of conscription coming to this country, which took place at a Mayfair 'party', held at an hour when fatigue necessitated caffeine and quinine cocktails (this was before the days of the modern 'benzedrine and dash') comforted the 'males' present with the remark: 'Well, really, why bother? There isn't one of us here who could pass an army doctor even if we wanted to; so what have we to worry about?'
He was indicative of that amusing class.
And the bored young woman with the trembling fingers who, a little later, produced the gem: 'Ruined! Ridiculous! Who ruined who and how can a girl get ruined these days? It's not possible!'—was another.
Have you ever—returning from a late party or a theatre—walking through the Mayfair area met a charming and well-dressed woman who, very diffidently and with much hesitation, offers to sell you a box of matches?
If you have, you will remember the marvellous hard-luck story she told you—a story thought out in every detail so that the toughest mentality is inclined to swallow it—which invariably separates the bearer from a ten shilling or a pound note.
At any rate, she is of the harmless upper crust, and her considerable earnings call for, at least, histrionic talent.
A variation of the same talent explains the disappearance of more than one pearl necklace from feminine bedrooms. Disappearances which are not reported to the police or the Insurance Companies, because Romeo (with a 'reputation') says: 'You gave it to me.'
Replacement by a good imitation seems the best way out of a tough situation—and the husband never knows.
Chicago may have originated the 'rackets', but the gentleman who works the necklace act has nothing to learn from the gangster technique, except, perhaps, that it is much better played with kid gloves instead of a gun.
Too many of the vicious under-currents of the Mayfair Underworld find their beginnings in drugs, and the reactions of people to drugs are not to be foreseen.
In some cases mental instability and ill-health are the results of too frequent attendances at those parties where doped cocktails—or dope neat—precedes the showing of those 'amusing' cinematograph films which are now so fashionable in some quarters.
Even a recent 'little bit of trouble' which occurred when the wrong film was sent for development to a very respectable firm of photographers has necessitated only a little more care in despatching. But in other cases the effects of drugs are as dramatic as they are unforeseen.
Instability of mind often leads to a belief that the victim is possessed of powers unknown to ordinary mortals—powers which he (or she) is keen to try out with amazing results.
In this connection I cannot do better than quote the words of no less a person than Sir Bruce Bruce-Porter, K.B.E., C.M.G., M.D., who for over thirty years practised medicine in the West End.
His social work has brought him into contact with every class and condition of person, and he has had ample opportunities of studying, at first hand, the condition and viewpoint of those types which—though only in a minority—can create a sinister focus for all sorts of mischief.
'There is no doubt in my mind,' he says, 'that there exists to-day in the West End of London a group of people, usually young, but certainly old enough to know better, that spends its days and nights in search of so-called amusement and excitement; which manages, somehow, to avoid doing any work.
'Driven by boredom to more and more excesses it becomes a nuisance, if not a menace, to itself and everyone associated with it.
'The real trouble with these people lies in the fact that they draw towards them, in the course of their peculiar activities, even more sinister and decadent groups who are prepared to batten on the weaknesses and follies of others for financial gain. And, in my opinion, this concentration of undesirables constitutes a definite menace to all those people who are foolish or unfortunate enough to find themselves attracted or enmeshed in this nucleus.'
Recently, Sir Bruce told me of one of his own experiences of the technique employed by those people who have their own reasons for supplying drugs to others—reasons which are not always financial.
'A young woman was brought to me by an old friend,' he said, 'a clergyman now dead. She was of good birth and education, and was a confirmed morphia addict. She agreed to do her best to take a proper cure, and eventually disclosed a great deal about her life.
'I was very keen on discovering from what sources she had obtained supplies of the drug, and was all the more interested because, apparently, she had been paying nothing for her supplies.
'Eventually, after I had given her my word that I would not disclose the information to the authorities, she told me that she had been introduced to the drug in the first place by some people she had met casually at a party in the West End.
'They had introduced her to some other people from whom she obtained further supplies at a house not two miles from my own consulting room. Drug parties and all sorts of allied mischief took place regularly at this house.
'After a time her supplies were stopped. She offered to pay for the drug, but her offer was refused, and she was informed quite definitely that she could have as much morphia as she liked provided she could secure the attendance, at these parties, of six individuals whose names were given to her.
'It was quite obvious to her that the blackmailing of such of these people as she could induce to attend at the parties was the eventual end desired, and it was only when she found herself in this dilemma that she sought the help of the clergyman.
'At the time I thought that possibly she had exaggerated the case as it is no unusual thing for addicts to imagine themselves as the centre of a dramatic situation, but I pursued my own enquiries in the matter, and was able to establish that the girl was telling the truth.
'My verification of her story placed me in a quandary. I had given my word not to inform the authorities, and it seemed to me that the next best thing I could do would be to get in touch with the owner of the house and inform him as to what was taking place on his premises.
'I went and saw him and laid the whole of the facts before him. He promised to investigate the matter and to communicate the result of these investigations.
'A few days afterwards I received a letter from this individual informing me that the statements I had made to him were entirely unwarranted and without any foundation at all.
'But an hour before I received this letter the girl in the case had telephoned me from the country, where she was staying at the house of some friends, to inform me that the drug party centre had been "closed down" on the day of my visit to the owner, and that the habitues had all been supplied with door keys to another house not half a mile away belonging to the same man.
'My experience in Mayfair prompts me to say that I believe that anyone with sufficient money can obtain all the drugs they want without very much trouble.'
It is with a certain amount of pleasure that one can leave this story and turn to the less sordid tale of the young gentleman who 'sold backgrounds' quite successfully, until he received a polite hint that his absence from this country would be appreciated by one or two people who were in a position to make things hot for him.
This young man, possessing most of those things which go to make up the outward appearance of a gentleman, and lacking only in worldly wealth, decided that he could make ends meet by selling information about things and people to those who wanted to crash some of the not-too-closcly barred portals of Mayfair for reasons best known to themselves.
It was under his able tuition that a young Frenchman, originally employed by a firm of butchers in Paris, was able to make an imposing entrance into 'smart set' society as a wealthy young man from the Argentine.
Under the tuition of the 'seller of backgrounds' he had learned the right things to say and do. He wore the right clothes and memorised the names of the people he was supposed to have met at the right places, and who, in any event, would probably not have remembered whether they had met him or not.
In short, he was able to create the situation which he desired and within six months had been able by his intelligent tuition and a certain sex-appeal to inveigle over to Paris, and marry, the daughter of a rich American from the middle west who, visiting this country, had been flattered by the attentions of the 'rich young man'.
The sum paid to the ex-butcher by the sadder, but infinitely wiser, father in order that he should agree to an immediate divorce, when the truth was disclosed, was sufficient to purchase an excellent hotel abroad.
At this hotel the 'seller of backgrounds' is, I believe, a welcome and honoured guest in these days. He never pays his bill and occasionally, during the more tolerant moods of the proprietor, cashes cheques which have always come back—and which, I am sure, always will!
Before touching on some of the more serious aspects of 'Confidence Rackets' which are fashionable in these days, it may be enlightening to consider the experience of the lady who did not believe in 'gate crashers'.
She was in the habit of giving large parties and of knowing a very small percentage of the guests who came to them, believing that if people liked to bring their friends, their friends were certain to be all right.
I had advised her that one of these fine days she would discover that the unknown guest is also an unknown quantity. And at the last party which she gave before shaking the dust of Mayfair from her feet she learned her lesson.
'The party was very large and very late,' she told me next day. 'There were masses of people I didn't know, but everyone seemed very happy.
'About one o'clock in the morning a servant came to me and said that he thought he ought to call my attention to what was going on in the Mews at the side of my house.
I went round and investigated. Four young men in very good evening clothes who had been at my party had been passing bottles of champagne clown the stairs and loading them on a dilapidated two-seater car which they had brought with them and parked in the mews.
'Altogether they had collected, when I discovered them, about four dozen bottles but, as one of them told me with a wave of the hand as they drove off, perched precariously on top of their booty, it was their third trip, and they'd done much better on the two previous ones!'
Not a very exciting case of theft, maybe, but surely indicative of the mentalities with which we are dealing.
THROUGH the romantic episodes which garnish the romances of Mayfair that Mr. Michael Arlen has given to a grateful public stalks the somewhat sinister figure known as 'The Cavalier of the Streets.'
It is almost as if the author who first discovered those charming people of Mayfair desired us to know that every silver lining has the cloud and that fiction is often not half so strange as the truth.
But, unlike Mr. Arlen's, my own brand of 'Cavaliers' do not wear an old suit with the trousers maintained by a belt. Invariably their clothes come from one of those tailors whose names are historic, and their ties cost fifteen and six or a guinea, the figure and the payment of the eventual bill often depending on whether the 'old girl' is in a good temper or not! They toil not, but they certainly can spin something, even if it is the wrong sort of yarn. As financiers they are experts at 'the touch'.
It was one of those who, disinclined to spoil his delicately poised mentality on such mundane considerations as working for a living, discovered a method which, I believe, he has 'worked' in most countries where there are amorous old ladies to be found.
He was of the type of young man who is very popular with ladies who are about fifteen to twenty years older than he is; ladies who are always inclined to give him a hand over the rough spots of finance.
But he would never borrow money from a woman without security; at least that is what he said, and he proceeded to work an idea which served his purpose excellently.
He had a small knowledge of stock exchange transactions, and occasionally got a good tip, so he laid out his capital in the purchase of some four or five different types of highly speculative shares.
He handed the share certificates over against a cash loan for slightly more than their value, a loan which the lady—who, of course, did not know that there were other ladies in the case—was only too glad to make.
The rest of the story is delightfully simple. If the shares went up, our hero sold out, paid his loan off and took the profit. If they went down, the lady was left with them, and, after all, she could not expect him to make good the difference, because 'he only borrowed the money in the first place because he was dead broke'.
It was a method of playing the market, without any possibility of loss.
There are two historic instances of 'rackets' which are, to my mind, indicative of the financial mentalities of Mayfair.
One of them, told me with an air of regret by a gentleman who organized 'night entertainments', would seem to prove that even the cleverest operators can sometimes 'throw a double six'.
'I don't often get taken in,' he told me, 'but I certainly ran into it that time.
'I'd known the man for years. He'd had a lot of money—running into tens of thousands—and had got through the lot.
'When he went broke I was sorry for him, and when he came to me and told me that he'd got a lot of odd bits of jewellery to dispose of; that he thought it better to get rid of them before the Official Receiver got his hooks on them, I said I would do my best to help him out.
'To cut a long story short, I bought a lot of odd stuff off him, including one rather nice diamond, ruby and platinum pendant brooch. I didn't give him very much for it, and I reckoned that I had done myself a good turn because there was an old girl, who used to get around the night clubs, trying to be wicked if she got a chance, who I knew would buy it.
'Next night she came into the place I was running then, and I asked her to come into the office. I told her I'd got a very nice little bargain for her. But, instead of being pleased when I handed her the brooch, she let go a howl that could have been heard down at the Marble Arch.
'She said the pendant was hers; that it had been stolen from her bedroom, and that she was going to cause plenty of trouble for one and all if I did not work it back on the spot.
'So I told her that I would deposit the brooch with my solicitor and that if she could prove that it was her property I would have it given back to her.
'She said she would call round at my solicitor's office next afternoon, and that if she didn't get the brooch she would start something, after which she drank half a bottle of brandy and left without paying for it.
'Next morning I got busy. I went hopping round with a friend of mine to the little flat in Mayfair of the nice simple guy who had sold me the brooch, and found him wrapped in thought and a bath gown taking aspirin and quinine to straighten things out from the night before.
'He was very reluctant to talk, but after my friend had fetched him a tuppenny one with a half full bottle of burgundy and promised more like it to follow, he decided to inform us that he had got the brooch from a young woman friend of his who might have picked it up by mistake from the old lady's bedroom dressing-table. He also informed us that some wicked person had been feeding this young woman with dope, and that when she was like that she would often pick things up in error so to speak.
'It was two o'clock when we managed to find the young woman in the case, and I must say she had everything. She did not look at all like a person who would have anything to do with cocaine or morphia or anything like that—but you never know, do you?
'Anyhow, she made no bones about it. She said it was just possible that in a moment of mental aberration she had swiped the brooch off old Madame de Pompadour's dressing-table, and that it was a good job too, and that if the old girl was going to get tough about things, maybe she'd like the world to know where the 'picker-up' had got the dope from in the first place!
'I thought that things were getting a little bit involved, and that this was one of the cases where I would cut my loss and say as little as possible. So at three o'clock I went round to my solicitor and told him to hand over the pendant brooch to the old battleaxe when she appeared and say nothing.
'Five minutes afterwards, the old girl, looking like Boadicea going into action against the Romans, swept in with a police sergeant behind her just to keep the party clean, and she was handed the brooch, and signed a receipt for it, and that was that.
'Well, I thought I had acted the part of a perfect little gentleman, and that all concerned ought to be grateful to me. But will you believe it when I tell you that about four months later somebody drops a brick about the old dame, and she gets pulled in for being in possession of drugs.
'The first question the police ask her is where she got the drugs from and what do you think she says? She turns round and says she got 'em from me!
'There's gratitude for you!'
At any rate this story would seem to indicate that life can sometimes be a little difficult even if the difficulty is on a slightly different plane from that of the young gentleman whose main trouble in life was that he couldn't get the exactly right shade of lipstick.
That, believe it or not, is a matter which bothers more young men in the Mayfair area than ordinary honest-to-goodness English men and women would care to believe.
My second instance of the working of a certain type of Mayfair mentality concerns a young Egyptian who sojourned in this country for the purpose of having his education finished.
This young man was rich, good-looking and possessed of one of those quite charming natures which ensures complete popularity for its owner. But after a while the bloom faded from his countenance and he began to wear that jaded look which is common to those people who have something on their mind.
His personal tutor—also an Egyptian—who was experienced in the ways of the world—wasted no time in asking questions.
Without one hour's hesitation he obtained the name of a trustworthy and intelligent 'private investigator', and instructed him to get busy, expense being of no account so long as a properly authenticated explanation for the gloom on the face of the young man was promptly forthcoming.
An investigation of the young man's 'returned after payment' cheques, one night while he was sleeping the sleep of the unaware, showed a long procession of cheques for large amounts drawn to 'Cash' or 'Self or Bearer'.
The investigator, armed with the proper authority, then paid a visit to the bank and sought co-operation.
Three days afterwards, a messenger arrived at the Bank bearing a large cheque signed by the young Egyptian, and made payable to bearer, and, according to the arrangement made with the Bank, some delay was made in paying the cheque.
During the delay the investigator's office was telephoned, and that worthy, wearing the uniform of a footman, arrived promptly, sitting beside the chauffeur of a smart car, which followed the messenger, who had now drawn the money, to an address not a mile from Berkeley Square.
Here, in a smart flat, the young Egyptian was found in a state of collapse.
In the flat was a charming young woman in tears, and an 'irate husband' who had 'just discovered' that the young man had 'wooed' his wife, and, in spite of the large payments which had been made to the lady by the young man to 'stop her maid from talking', was suggesting that an even larger sum might be forthcoming, otherwise legal proceedings would be started.
The investigator then took a hand in the game and told the couple they could start any proceedings they liked right away, and that the process would not get them anywhere except into prison on obvious blackmail and conspiracy charges.
But the pair were not so easily frightened. They pointed out that, as they were aware of the status of the young Egyptian in his own country, and that any scandal would hurt him and his family more than them, they were quite prepared to let matters stand where they were, and that they would keep what they got out of it and call quits.
There the matter ended, except that the lady, who was not particularly pleased at having her new income stopped, threw a hand-mirror at the investigator with such precision that his nose has never been the same from that day.
The young Egyptian was returned home, his tutor evidently believing that the terrors of the desert were, in some respects, less to be feared than the purlieus of the West End.
The lady, charming, well poised and exquisitely dressed, is still to be seen in the right places seeking 'whom she may devour', and specializing in these days in young American 'suckers' who are, I am told, gluttons for punishment.
So it will be seen that there is still some scope for the abilities of those soft-spoken, often cultured, and invariably charming women who 'know their stuff'.
This fact was differently evidenced to me less than four days ago, when I was grieved to see a young lady, who was disgruntled about something, knock out two excellent front teeth from the mouth of a trumpet player at one of the breakfast-time haunts.
'What are they coming to?' he asked me, more in sorrow than in anger. 'I've had dames take a sock at me before, but this is the foist time that one of 'em's done it with my own piston. Me—I'm gonna ask for a raise!'
FROM time to time public attention is concentrated on the drug business in London.
Some case breaks into the headlines, and promptly all sorts of statistics and calculations of the amount of drugs illicitly imported and sold in this country occupy the attention of newspaper readers.
There have been many explanations of why so many people are inclined, in these days, toward some form of doping.
One of them—and one which I have heard most often quoted—is that the stress and strain of modern life is so great that many people, especially those of 'nervous' temperament, fly to the use of drugs as a means of relief from mental strain.
This idea seems as sensible to me as the suggestion that a sick man should throw himself under the wheels of a passing train as a cure for his ailment.
I believe that most of the people addicted to drugs are those people who have not enough to occupy their minds and hands, and who are continually seeking new sensations as a relief for the unutterable boredom of their existence.
Some people are started on dope by those ladies who are in the business for money, or else have some definite reason for obtaining a hold over the unfortunate who is weak enough to get started on a road which can be rough.
The hold obtainable over a person whose system has become accustomed to dope, and whose supplies are suddenly cut off, is considerable, for the true addict will do anything in order to get drugs.
But the majority of addicts have gone through gradual stages of doping. Sometimes the first injection, dose or sniff is taken 'for fun'. Then the habit is acquired in the same way as a certain type of man flies to a whisky and soda if he is not feeling up to the mark.
Usually it progresses beyond that stage because it has become necessary to obtain relief from the after-effects of the drug itself, and because it is only through additional doses that the addict can even approach 'normality'. So it will be seen that it is the easiest thing in the world to create a vicious circle from which there is no escape.
But strange as it may seem, there are even humorous aspects to the drug business. I remember meeting an individual—quite a personage in his own part of the country—who, having made quite a success of life, intended to spend the latter part of his middle-age in really 'seeing life'.
For this purpose he armed himself with a large wad of notes and came up to London looking for trouble. His boast was that he would 'try anything once'.
He tried most things once, and eventually, deciding to be really wicked, approached one of his new friends and demanded that he should be introduced into a circle of 'dope fiends'.
The friend—a gentleman who spent most of his time in the West End night haunts—was not au fait with the best 'dope circles', but was loth to admit it, so he telephoned through to a lady friend, who arranged to organize a little 'set-up' for the gentleman from the Midlands.
He was taken round to a flat in the Jermyn Street district and with much mystery and double knocks on closed doors, was eventually admitted to the holy of holies.
In a room where the lights were discreetly shaded, and where 'Madame' in a grey crepe-de-chine kimono, ministered to the wants of her guests, he was initiated into the thrill of a 'stab of poppy'. In one corner of the room, lying over a chair, was the drooping figure of a red-faced individual who was deep in the throes of what appeared to be a drugged sleep. In fact, this gentleman, who had backed a succession of losers that afternoon, had merely been looking on the wine when it was very very red.
On the other side of the room was a lady, not entirely unknown in the Jermyn Street area, who, apparently, was also in a drugged sleep.
But the fact that these two were merely victims of nothing worse than an excess of alcohol was entirely lost upon our provincial friend who, being presented with a little glass of liquid—as a prelude to the drug-taking—promptly swallowed it.
After which, with much ceremony, the lady in the kimono produced a syringe and gave him a perfectly good injection into the arm of warm water with a touch of salt.
The little glass of liquid which he had been given as a prelude to the injection consisted of a treacly Eastern liquor known as 'Syrup of Eve'.
This stuff (which is of the arrack type) does not act immediately, but on the drinker taking the next drink—no matter what it may be—produces an intense intoxication..
Our friend was now informed that the morphia would take a little time to work and that it always produced an intense thirst, for which water should be taken. As by this time the 'Syrup of Eve' had begun to work, he took a long drink of cold water, after which he found himself in the throes of a superb exaltation, a process which he put down to the effects of the 'morphia'.
A very sad story, having regard to the fact that he had paid no less than fifty pounds to the admitted to the 'dope circle', and he could have achieved the same effect on a twelve shilling bottle of 'Syrup of Eve' in the sanctity of his own room. Yet he had, at least, the satisfaction of feeling that he had experienced even another phase of 'life'.
It is a pity that all the dope stories are not so light-hearted as this one.
Espionage—that wonderful word—has always been associated with dope by thriller writers, and it is refreshing therefore to find a funny 'true to life' story in which the two really went together.
In my notes there is a statement by a private detective who specializes in international work.
'Espionage has been talked about to a great extent lately,' he says, 'and a case that came my way recently would seem to indicate that spies do not always gather their information by hanging about clocks and buying "important secrets" from dockyard workers and naval ratings.
'The experience of a young Attaché to a Legation which shall be nameless is interesting if only as a proof that there are some young women who have still got enough sense of the theatre to give 'knock-out drops' to a hefty young man at seven o'clock in the evening and trust to luck to get away with it.
'The young man was one of the junior representatives of a mid-European country which has the most cordial relations with our own, and he was foolish enough to carry about with him a notebook containing the names and addresses of a number of domestic servants of both sexes and all ages—natives of a country other than his own—who, he had discovered, were all members of certain clubs to which they reported with unfailing regularity.
'The young man, who believed that he had discovered a spy system in this country working against his own, was foolish enough to mention the matter at a party to which he had been invited.
'A few days afterwards he discovered that he had lost his precious notebook. He was disinclined to report the matter officially to his superiors and came to see me in a great state of distress, evidently believing that the least that would happen as a result of the loss would be a new war!
'After soothing him down I elicited the fact that he had no recollection of having been hustled or "buzzed" in a crowd, and that his only companion had been a young woman who had volunteered to take him to Wimbledon for tennis and who had afterwards invited him to her flat for a cocktail.
'He remembered feeling sleepy and thinking that the cocktail was rather strong, and that his hostess had bathed his head with water after he had come out of what she described as a faint.
'He had not noticed the disappearance of the notebook until the next morning.
'We recovered the notebook without a great deal of difficulty on payment of the sum of Ł5 to the young woman, who had removed it from his pocket after he had drunk the "cocktail" and sunk into the arms of Morpheus on her sofa.
'When I met her a few weeks after the successful conclusion of this "case" I asked her what she thought she was going to do with the notebook anyhow.
'She told me that the information had been passed on to her that the notebook contained the most priceless information, for which about half a dozen different Embassies would pay big money, and while we had been looking for her she had endeavoured to sell it—and failed dismally. There were no offers.
'And I was much too kind-hearted to tell my client that she had even offered the book for sale to one of his own chiefs, who had politely but firmly informed her that she could keep it as he considered it quite useless!'
A case of another big spy story going wrong. Unfortunately all the stories are not so amusing. One lady who arrived in this country from France, where she had been staying, and who was recovering from an illness, had cause to send for the doctor attached to an hotel in the West End, who, apparently as a matter of course and to her intense surprise, gave her an injection of a drug, which apparently he considered to be the most desired treatment.
There are quite a few hotels, and private hotels, in the West End area, where, if a customer is not feeling so well, a discreet enquiry from the hall or night porter will secure the services of the 'doctor' who will invariably come to the conclusion that some sort of 'sedative' treatment is necessary.
During the last few weeks I have been able to take a look at some interesting chemist's prescription records and I have been struck with the prevalence of prescriptions containing sedative drugs in certain areas of London.
From a relatively mild forty per cent of prescriptions containing drugs dispensed by a chemist in an outlying suburb the percentage goes higher and higher until in one area it touches nearly sixty-five per cent of the gross prescriptions for the month.
In my opinion the majority of people addicted to drugs in the West End of London were started off by 'experimenting' either at one of the 'parties' where dope is obtainable or because they have been marked down by vendors as people liable to take to drugs, and who, for some reason best known to the vendors, are desirable clients.
A consideration of the following facts is indicated when endeavouring to form an opinion on the 'national' or 'international' aspects of drug trafficking, the greatest part of which, as regards this country, takes place within a well-defined area, taking in the Mayfair district.
About seventy per cent of the drugs manufactured and prepared for use in European countries are exported from Switzerland.
It will be obvious that the only legitimate destination of those supplied is to proper distributors for hospital, surgical and medical purposes, and to certain other specified and legitimate destinations.
Yet of this seventy per cent gross only some forty per cent actually finds its way to the proper destinations, and the balance, by some mysterious methods, comes into the possession of those people responsible for its illegitimate possession and sale.
It has been said that drugs coming into London for sinister uses come either by the River Thames or are brought down by car from desolate places on the Scottish coast, where gross supplies are landed.
In my own opinion, the Port of London Authority is much too clever and much too well organized for any appreciable amount of drugs to come via the Thames.
I am not able to talk with any degree of certainty of the second method suggested, but, to say the least of it, it seems open to question.
There is an appreciable amount of drug distribution in this country, and when the method of delivering it and supplying it to the individual vendors is known, half the battle waged by the authorities against this vicious trade will be over.
But does anyone know?
THERE are one or two spots in the open country, reached easily from and only through Mayfair, where a person who is keen to gamble on cards can still have a run for his money, even if the run is not always in the sense desired. A few months ago news broke of a large, luxurious and excellently run Casino just outside a provincial city, where the play was big, the game straight, and where huge sums of money changed hands each night.
The majority of the public who read the story looked at each other with that doubt which often gleams in the eyes of John Citizen when he reads something that sounds 'un-English'. The fact remains that the story was true in every detail.
Many people will say that the remedy is for properly run Casinos to be legalized, so that the punter who wants a gamble can have one, and that the process would be good for the State, which would tax the play. It is not my business to moralize, but I would say that I consider the idea seems better to me than the alternative, which is the existence of certain places which are run because they make money for their proprietors.
At these places all sorts of things happen which could not happen in any place run under supervision.
It is almost impossible for the police to get information enabling them to close down 'joints' if the people running them are sufficiently 'wide' and, believe it or not, some of these ladies and gentlemen know their business very well.
In spite of the fact that the squad of police officers looking after this business in the West End are specially selected as being 'unknown' to the habitues of the different dens which abound, it is not easy to obtain information about 'games', which never take place in the same spot twice, and which leap from house to flat over the Mayfair and West End areas like so many cats on hot bricks.
The police are well aware of the fact that there are, in the West End, over a hundred and twenty 'unregistered clubs' and 'unregistered bottle parties', and my experience tells me that where there is an unregistered bottle party there is also a 'game' to be got somewhere in the vicinity.
The stories are sometimes funny. One morning, about 3 a.m., I found a Canadian gentleman in a dinner jacket leaning up against a wall in an alley not half a mile from Sackville Street, with a faraway look in his eyes, a strong odour of alcohol, and an empty pocket-book.
He was delighted that he still possessed two platinum filled teeth which, as he pointed out to me as we drank coffee in a restaurant in Piccadilly, was probably due to the fact that he'd kept his mouth shut while they were giving him the last frisk. He had met a young gentleman at a club, who had taken him along to a game—quite a nice game—where he had won thirteen pounds.
This was very pleasant. So was the very charming lady in the tight black evening frock who had taken him along to another, not so pleasant, game, where he lost everything except two pounds, which they got off him after he had drunk a parting cup consisting of whisky and soda laced with "knock-out" drops.
The next thing he knew was to find himself propped in the alleyway, a sadder and wiser man, who, as he put it, had lost thirty pounds and got nothing for it except a bad taste in the mouth.
Sometimes the racketeers fly higher than Canadians. Once upon a time a young foreign gentleman of high rank was staying at an hotel near Piccadilly. He was 'looked after' by a member of the Special Branch who had been detailed for that purpose.
One evening the Special Branch man, very well-dressed in evening 'tails', was lounging in the hotel vestibule, when he was approached by a suave and exquisitely turned out young man who, obviously mistaking the detective officer for a member of the potentate's staff, suggested, most charmingly, that he had heard that Prince was fond of a game of cards; that he and his friends were holding a little card party that evening and that the Prince might like to come.
The heart of the Special Branch man sang with joy as he saw visions of a really big 'pinch', so in equally honeyed accents he replied that he would go upstairs and see if the Prince would like a game.
He returned plus his hat and overcoat a few minutes later, and taking the young man affectionately by the arm, said that the Prince would be delighted to come along later and that in the meantime he would like to go along and inspect the flat and company. If satisfied, he would telephone through to his master, who would then join him.
The little plot worked, and the two of them entered the car belonging to the young gentleman, which was waiting outside; drove to a block of flats near Hyde Park. Here the car was dismissed. They went up in the lift and the Special Branch man, tingling with joy, entered, on the heels of his companion, a luxuriously appointed flat. A half dozen well-turned out men and women were already there drinking cocktails, and the Special Branch man was greeted by the 'host' and asked whether he would join them, after which he rang a bell for more drinks.
A few seconds afterwards a suave and very correct butler entered with a tray of cocktails, and the heart of the Special Branch man dropped into his boots, for he recognized the 'butler' as an Australian 'con' man who had a record as long as your arm and who knew the police officer well.
He thought quickly, but not so quickly as the 'butler' who, with two strides, reached his side, tilted the drinks off and fetched the Special Branch man a 'tuppenny one' across the head with the heavy tray, thereby making any further quick thought an impossibility.
It was a sad police officer who came to in the taxicab that was taking him back to the hotel with a large bump on the top of his head and an evening shirt smelling strongly of whisky which his recent 'friends' had poured over it to substantiate their story to the cab driver that he was 'tight and ought to be taken home'.
It is relatively simple for anyone who wants to 'get a game' in the West End of London to do so, but my advice is not to try. At the best the process is boring and anything can, and does, happen.
One night, with ten pounds in my pocket, I went out to try to 'get a game' casually and without making any arrangements beforehand.
I started off by going into a hostelry in the Mayfair district, and inviting the bar-tender to have a drink with me. After a few minutes' conversation I told him that I was up from Birmingham for a few days and would very much like a game of cards before I went back. Could he put me on to one? He could. He signalled a young man sitting in the corner of the bar, drinking pink gin, who promptly came over and joined us.
We introduced ourselves to each other (we both gave 'dud' names), had another drink, and I was then taken off by my new friend to a bar in the Jermyn Street area, where we met seven other people, all friends of my newly made acquaintance, who hailed me as a friend, and one of whom bought a bottle of champagne.
Half an hour later we went to a flat near Garrick Street, where we played chemie. I took half the bank with a charming lady who called me 'darling' after five minutes' acquaintance. After an hour's play we closed the bank, and I was winning sixteen pounds.
A spot of bother then occurred between my fair co-banker and a young man present, because she objected to his 'punting' against her bank with her money.
After a few words, in which everybody present joined, and during which the relationship between the lady and the young man was discussed with a charming lack of delicacy, the party broke up, with the exception of the four of us.
We four went on to another flat in the Charing Cross Road owned by the lady in the case, where we found six people playing stud poker. Another game—chemie—was started, a croupier taking a cagnotte of ten per cent 'for the house'. I lost everything except four pounds, and joined in the poker game, where I was charged ten shillings 'to come in' for the house.
I lasted for half an hour in this game, when I found I had lost my capital and previous winnings.
Before I went the croupier had a few words with the young man who had originally introduced me to the party, after which he informed me that if I would leave a telephone number I could be rung every morning at ten-thirty and told where play would be that night.
I left an 'accommodation' telephone number with him and each morning was telephoned, and on coming to the telephone personally was given the address.
I played for five nights. In a flat in the Victoria district, two flats in the Clarges Street-Berkeley Square area, a house in Park Lane (where obviously three rooms had been rented) and eventually at a house in Knightsbridge, where there was a little trouble.
I came to the following conclusions about the games. They were, more or less, straight.
I say more or less, because at one of them—the only one at which I won anything worth considering—a large percentage of my winnings actually disappeared from under my arm.
I objected, and there was a post mortem, after which everyone agreed that I must have been mistaken in the amount I had won. Most of the people playing had very little money, perhaps an average of ten or twelve pounds, and were obviously playing to try to make some.
Tempers got very frayed in the early hours, and women who lost their capital at the game often accepted stakes or loans from men players.
When the game was over they usually went off with them, the idea being that the gentleman would 'drop' the lady at her flat.
From conversations I had with the 'butlers' (who looked like strong arm men) at two of these places, it appeared that there were dozens of games going on each night.
One of these butlers warned me specifically against games run by a certain individual who specialized in 'mugs' from the country, who were taken along by ladies they met at night clubs and who 'were lucky if they got out with their boots on'.
This organization always preferred the introduction of married men to the games, as these 'never made any fuss because of their wives hearing about it'.
My last night's play was, as I have said, at a house in Knightsbridge. There was a great deal of 'atmosphere' at this game, because it became quite obvious to everyone after a bit that every person playing had only a small capital to punt with.
As the 'house' was taking the usual ten per cent every time the bank passed, it became quite plain that in an hour or two the house would have all available stakes, and no one, unless he won quickly, would win anything at all.
At this juncture the proceedings were enlivened by the arrival of a well-dressed and apparently charming woman, who brought with her a young officer and an American.
The young officer seemed to have about twenty-five pounds to lose, and the American played from a fat wallet which he laid on the table by his arm.
I had withdrawn from the game and was standing watching. After a while the American took the bank and opened it with twenty pounds. Immediately, the young man who had, some days before, introduced me into these games, called 'banco.'
There was a dramatic silence, because everyone at the table knew that he was broke.
Neither the American nor the house croupier asked him to cover the bank with his money, and the American proceeded with the game, turned up a 'natural' for the bank, and the young man, with a sickly smile, then pointed out that he was fearfully sorry but that he had no money!
The citizen of the United States considered this for about two seconds, after which he got up and sent a short-arm jab to the face of the non-player that put him right out, and in about two minutes pandemonium was raging.
The 'butler', with great presence of mind turned out the lights and switched on a gramophone—this, I imagine, being for the benefit of neighbours who might have wondered.
I took this opportunity of getting out.
On my way downstairs I encountered the young officer who, with a smile, said that he too thought it time to be going.
In retrospect, a very boring business, but indicative of what is going on, and probably always will go on, every night in the Underworld of Mayfair.
A GREAT deal has been said and written of the existence or non-existence of White Slavery in the West End of London.
It seems to me that there are very few people who, having studied the question, are able to agree on the proportions of the 'trade' in this country, or the processes of the operators.
However, the majority of readers will remember the Max Cassel ('Red Max') murder which occurred in the West End in 1936.
I mention this case only to bring the following facts to bear on the subject of White Slavery.
First of all, when Cassel's body was discovered under a hedgerow in the country, the police were unable to identify the man.
Identification was eventually established through the French police who had a dossier on Cassel, showing him to have been convicted on White Slavery charges in two European countries.
It is now established that Cassel visited this country in his capacity as a White Slaver, and I suggest that if he could do this—over a period of ten years—and get away with it until he met a vicious death at the hands of an acquaintance, then we still have something to learn of the methods and organization of those people who deal in human beings.
Whenever the question of White Slavery arises in the Press, someone or other connected with one of the Societies existing for the purpose of looking after girls and women invariably states that 'there isn't any such thing'.
I took this matter up with the Secretary of one important Society which does splendid work in looking after women and girls, and he informed me that he was quite certain that there were few, if any, cases occurring in which girls had been forcibly abducted and carried off.
All the same, I should like to put on record the fact that, recently, in the Press, an ex-M.P. quoted the case of a well-born young woman who was actually doped in a night club in London, carried off, and later rescued from a house of ill-fame in Liverpool.
I also knew of an impertinent attempt made to abduct a young woman in King William Street, in the City of London (of all places!) at its most crowded hour—six o'clock in the evening, an attempt winch was foiled by the speed with which the young woman ran.
But in spite of these 'sporadic' cases, I am inclined to agree that there is little, if any, 'forcible abduction' in London.
If by White Slavery we mean the reduction of young women and girls to what is usually called 'a life of shame'—by any means available—including those which seek to establish 'willingness' on the part of the girl, then it is my considered opinion that there are still many white slavers working in the West End of London, and that business can be good sometimes.
I have been asked on many occasions how it is possible for any man to induce a well-brought-up young woman to do something which is entirely foreign to her character, up-bringing and morality.
My reply is that I do not know, because I am not a young woman; but I do know that there is a certain type of man usually used to 'contact' women and girls in the first place, who possesses something very definitely hypnotic in his make-up, something that seems to have a weird and uncanny effect on certain types of femininity.
No-one is quite certain as to what this weird attraction is, but it certainly exists, and in support of this theory I am going to quote B. L. Reitman, whose years of experience in the Cook County and Chicago jails, as medical expert—dealing with more cases of White Slavery in a month than this country experiences in a decade—certainly entitle him to talk.
He is endeavouring to describe this vaguely hypnotic influence—an influence that has for some time interested sexologists and psycho-pathologists.
He says: 'They (the White Slavers) have dark eyes. To say dark does not describe them. They have eyes that emanate something. When this type of man looks at a woman he does something to her. Call it hypnosis if you will. It may be black magic; it may be the power of the devil, but it is something that women sense or fear and cannot get away from.'
Not very long ago a private detective was able to bring back from a French seaport a girl who had disappeared from a provincial city in England.
She had disappeared while on her way to a concert. She was well educated, well-poised, and an extremely moral young woman.
And she was parted with the greatest difficulty from the white slaver who had picked her up in the street, taken her to France on the mere promise of marriage, and got her into such a state of mind that she refused to believe any evidence against him until his dossier was actually produced for her inspection.
This man had never attempted to give her even an alcoholic drink. He had used no drugs, no force, nothing except his own weird personality.
Months afterwards, safely at home, the girl was still unable to analyse or describe the effect or power that he had had over her.
But this was the 'professional' white slaver at work.
The 'semi-professional' who operates in the Mayfair West End district, relies on more ingenuous methods, as did the gentleman who in his own part of the country was a 'miniature squire', and who was always ready to contribute generously to Boy Scout and allied movements.
This individual ran an office not a mile from Dover Street, where young women were paid Ł5 a week while learning to be typists.
The girls, who were introduced to their new 'profession' after a carefully thought-out course of mental education adapted to the individual case, seldom bothered to write home with details of the 'new jobs' they had got through the Agency.
They preferred eventually to be 'missing'.
Every amateur psychologist knows that whereas a young woman will usually squeal very loudly and often if attacked by a white slaver or anyone else, she will very often maintain a dignified silence when she has been carefully pushed into circumstances which appear to be the result of her own imprudence.
In these go ahead days, when some young women go on to three and four cocktail parties in the course of an evening, it is, surely, not illogical to suggest that after the fourth party the young woman is likely to be of a much more trusting disposition, more likely to listen to the fairy story of the dark and handsome young man than she was before the first cocktail party.
There is another angle on 'professional white-slavery'. Most newspapers in this country have, at some time or another, printed something about the 'marriage racket'.
This process consists in financing and getting a woman of foreign birth and immoral character into this country, pre-arranging that she marries a down-and-out Englishman who will do anything to earn a ten-pound note, and who leaves her immediately after the register-office marriage, enabling her to carry on with her business—that of the oldest profession in the world—in London.
She is protected from deportation by the fact that she is now, by marriage, an Englishwoman.
The process can be very easily reversed.
It would be interesting to know just how many young women, worn out and dispirited by lack of success in London, go out of the country in order to marry some foreigner whom they have never seen.
Returning to the 'semi-pro' white slaver who works the West End and who probably would be fearfully offended if you called him (or her) one, there is an interesting racket which is still worked on young women who are good-looking and attractive enough to merit attention.
There was a kind young man, who used to get around the smart set cocktail parties, who could always tell a pretty girl where she could get really nice clothes for nothing.
He would point out that his friend, the proprietress of a dress shop, would be more than willing to supply them so that the girl could wear them as an advertisement for her frocks.
Needless to say the girl would, in most cases, fall for this line. She would be taken along and supplied with expensive gowns and lingerie, and encouraged by her new plumage would 'get around' more than ever, living in an entirely false atmosphere created by the admiration she evoked.
In due course the screw would be put on. She would be informed that she owed Ł400 for clothes and asked what she was going to do about it. She would be laughed at when she said that she understood that she was getting the clothes for nothing.
Just when the situation appeared to be quite hopeless and threats of writs were forthcoming, the woman in the dress place would tell her that there might be a way out.
'Mr. So-and-So, elderly, but kind, would probably lend her the money if he were asked.' Mr. So-and-So would be produced and would eventually lend the money, and he always took care that he got value for it too.
If, in the process, the moral plumage of the young woman became rather bedraggled, well, life is like that, isn't it?
It is possible that as a result of this and other similar processes, very cultured and charming Mrs. X was able to throw some very cheery cocktail parties in the West End.
Lots of young men, and old ones too, used to drop in, and there were always a number of attractive girls there.
Sometimes a man would admire a girl from a distance. If he did there was usually a woman or man friend of the hostess in his vicinity who would suggest that if a twenty-pound note were dropped to Mrs. X, it was certain that she would 'talk' the young woman into arranging a nice little tęte-ŕ-tęte at Mrs. X's cottage one evening!
One night Harold Brust and I went to a very cheerful little café on the outskirts of Boulogne. I was surprised to see a number of well-dressed and quietly behaved English girls who were there.
Later, through the offices of a good friend, we were able at the Brasserie Liégeoise—an excellent café run on the strictest lines and above all reproach—to drink coffee with one of these young women and to talk to her about herself and her friends.
We heard about ten different stories of the suave and excellently planned methods used to get these girls over to different parts of the Continent.
Not any of them seemed desirous of returning home, even if they had parents and homes to return to.
I suppose they would be called 'willing cases', but I do not think that any of them had any idea what they were letting themselves in for when they left the hospitable shores of England.
The 'stewardess' racket had accounted for two or three of them.
They had answered advertisements for 'stewardesses' and the job had seemed attractive and well paid. Also it promised adventure and relief from the boring jobs they had in London.
They were surprised when next day a 'senior purser' had actually called at their houses or apartments to see them.
After an interview which seemed eminently satisfactory to all parties, they were told that they were to 'join their ship at Marseilles'. They met the 'purser' and went over with him.
The rest of the story is simple. There just was no ship!
And on discovering this salient fact they should have made an outcry, or gone to the police, or done something. Of course they should. But they just did not. After the 'process' they experienced with the purser and his friends, the desire to return home was somehow gone.
There is, of course, a moral. It is that even if the days of doping young women or carrying them off by force to a life of white slavery are over, there are still 'more ways than one of killing a cat'.
The dealers in womankind can be psychologists too!
It has been said that in these days the career (or otherwise) of a woman is as much in her own hands as is that of a man.
But many a young woman has found that her career started at a cocktail party in Mayfair, and, remembering, she somehow wishes that she had not gone.
Life might have been different.
ANY medical man will tell you that the effects of drugs are many and varied.
But in practically every case of drug-taking the addict eventually develops what may be called (to use the mildest simile) a 'temper,' accompanied, quite often, with a fixed idea about some person or persons.
In some cases this temper grows into a hatred which must be satisfied, and which, very often, sticks at nothing to get even.
Possibly the physical evils of drug-taking are not as great as those which follow the habit produced by the loss of mental balance.
Mr. Justice Salter, passing sentence in a dope case, said: 'There is evidence in this case that following the practice of this habit are disease, depravity, crime, insanity, despair and death.'
The most tolerant of us will agree that this is a pretty strong list from which to select; yet there are people who will chance all these things in order to obtain, first of all, that extra 'kick' out of life, and secondly, the relief necessary from the drug 'hangover' and the escape from the second and sinister 'self' which the habit has created.
I do not think that it would be putting the case too strongly to say that every drug addict is an excellent example of the 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde' complex.
It is for this reason that people who dope are enabled to present two very different 'personalities'—the first when they have acquired, what is to them, 'normality' through taking a well-graded shot of their own particular dope; and the second when they are in the 'in-between' stages—a time when some addicts can be viciously dangerous.
This theory is adequately supported by the fact that a superficial investigation of a number of killings in Chicago during a peak year in 'bump-offs' confirmed the fact that a very large percentage of the 'tough guys' who did the jobs were normally merely weak-kneed and semi-vicious figures only enabled to become 'killers' when they were 'hopped-up'.
Most gang chiefs traded on this fact and always carried a few 'dopes' on their pay roll—individuals who could be relied on to get into a state of mind in which they could do anything.
Unfortunately even this 'virtue' has its defect, as the criminal who drugs talks more easily than anyone else—once his supplies are stopped.
It is obviously reasonable to believe that the most intimate friends of a dope-addict will be other dope-addicts.
As the circles of votaries of opium, heroin, morphia, veronal, trional, codeine, and what-will-you, are usually small, secret, and almost 'self-contained', and as drug-addiction is usually a harbinger of other vices, it does not require much imagination to visualize some very pretty little situations which arise from time to time.
There have been occasions in the West End when drugs were more than easy to obtain—especially round about the year 1919, when there were some first class vendettas raging around the purlieus of Piccadilly, some of which were satisfactorily evened-up by the old-fashioned method of jabbing a broken bottle into the face of the unpopular lady or gentleman, and others by more subtle and, perhaps, oriental methods.
Two cases which occurred during and soon after this period will be remembered.
First, Billie Carleton, a young and beautiful actress, who was found dead in bed the morning after the Victory Ball in 1919, and whose death was due to an overdose of cocaine; and, second, the Freda Kempton case, which occurred later.
Both these cases served to prove that the atmospherics of the crime novel can be shown to be merely mild compared with what really does happen in London.
They also showed that the 'mysterious Chinaman' so beloved of the thriller writer, can and does exist—at least he did in both of those cases!
These front-page stories were the last two really big dope stories to break in the Press in the last two decades. Whether this fact may be taken to prove that the watchfulness of the police authorities has caused a decrease in the drug habit or—as I am personally inclined to believe—drug vendors of the West End have learned to take more care while going about their business and not allow extreme types to have enough of the stuff to kill themselves, is a question that has yet to be solved.
One of the associates of the unfortunate Billie Carleton—a foreigner who was deported some months after her death—from whom she obtained the drugs on occasion, was lucky enough to contact one evening with a 'mug' potman in a public house not far from Charing Cross Road.
This potman was able to obtain supplies of cocaine from a chemist's assistant who used to charge the magnificent sum of 2s. 6d. for a face-powder box filled with undiluted cocaine. The potman was quite unaware of the relative value of the drug to the people to whom he was supplying it, and his indignation, when he brought up the matter in the course of a recent conversation, is still strong after nearly twenty years.
'Just think of it,' he said. 'Half a crown for a box of cocaine as big as your hand. After a bit they used to give me ten or fifteen bob for it, but I was always the mug.
'I tell you those people wasn't even honest! They used to break the stuff down by mixing it with a good 30 per cent of boracic powder and sell a pill-box filled with the stuff for six or seven pounds a time—and there's people say that there's honour among thieves!'
During the last two or three years the Mayfair Underworld has experimented with one or two drugs which have been easy to secure and which are not quite so tough in effect as the 'heavier' type to which the addict progresses in due course.
A year ago marihuana (or Mexican hay) was the fashionable dope. In appearance the drug is not unlike finely ground pieces of straw, and this enabled it to be made up easily into cigarettes.
Most of the so called 'elite' used to carry half a dozen of these, and their effect on the smokers was interesting.
A peculiar feeling of excitement, sometimes verging on hysteria, was experienced, with marked 'loss of control', which made them a most useful adjunct to those individuals who regard all women as 'fair prey'.
The cigarettes could be bought for as little as half a crown each, and one 'house' in the West End used to charge a shilling for half a cigarette.
There was a very select and hard-to-get-at 'private bar' not a hundred miles from Piccadilly, where 'soft drinks' and Mexican cigarettes were on sale. These two commodities and a room upstairs used for dancing to the strains of an expensive gramophone made quite a little money for the 'gentleman of colour' and his white lady partner before they found it convenient to pack up and seek pastures new on the other side of the Channel.
The police got one of the street sellers of these cigarettes not so long ago, and in the evidence given by a detective it transpired that the majority of the 'customers' were girls of eighteen or nineteen years of age.
As an example of the lengths to which some of the 'private circles' in the drug world will go, the following story will take some beating.
The case was handled in the first place by the late ex-Detective Inspector Fitch, who, after retiring from the Yard, started his own investigations agency.
Fitch was probably one of the cleverest detectives of his time, and it is interesting to recall that he was the first public schoolboy to join the Metropolitan Police as a ranker, and certainly the only police officer to speak fifteen languages.
Owing to ill-health Fitch handed the case over to a friend of mine, and I will give his story verbatim.
'About two years ago,' he told me, 'I was working in collaboration with Fitch and he asked me to take over a case which the Secretary of a Foreign Legation wanted him to handle.
'I went along to an hotel in the West End and found, in a suite overlooking the Park, an agitated millionaire and his wife who were almost demented over the disappearance of their twenty-years-old daughter.
'The girl was an attractive young woman who had been in England for a year on vacation after finishing a course at Leipzig, and her parents had come over to take her home.
'The father was the owner of extensive cattle ranches in a South American Republic and he informed me that expense meant nothing, but that the girl must be quickly found at any cost.
'My first question was whether the regular police authorities had been informed of the girl's disappearance, and if not, why not?
'After a little hesitation, he informed me that the girl had a rather peculiar hobby for a young woman of her type and education.
'She was a keen amateur detective and had, on one or two previous occasions, succeeded in getting herself in tight corners in the pursuit of her favourite hobby, and as the family had looked rather foolish when the true facts had come to light, they were keen on finding the girl without any possibility of publicity.
'An examination of the girl's apartment showed me that the father had not exaggerated.
'Books by half a dozen police chiefs, treatises on crime, drugs, white slavery, and every conceivable angle of police work, analytical charts showing physical and mental reactions to hashish, veronal and every other sort of drug, told me that the young woman certainly took her hobby seriously and I began to wonder whether she had not been a little too curious.
'The circumstances of the case were as follows. Three days previously she had left the hotel in company with a well-dressed young man who had called for her. She had not returned.
'One of the employees in the hotel was able to tell me that he had often seen this young man about hotels in the West End and gave me a rough description.
'Eventually a cloakroom attendant in another hotel was able to tell me the name of the tailor's tab on the coat which the young man used to leave with him when visiting the hotel.
'We checked up with the tailor, but he was unable to give us any information from the vague description we had, so we proceeded to check through every customer on his books.
'Eventually we discovered that our man lived alone in a block of flats in the West End, and that he had left for the country leaving no address.
'Just when it seemed that we had reached a deadlock, one of my men contacted with a taxi-driver on the rank outside the girl's hotel.
'This man remembered picking up the man and the girl and driving them out along the Portsmouth Road to a spot about thirty miles outside London.
'Here the couple got out and the man informed the taxi-driver that he had no money, but that if he would wait a car would come along and pay him. The taximan objected to this and, eventually, the man left with him a platinum ring which he was to hand back when paid.
'The couple then went off and some ten minutes later a large car driven by a chauffeur arrived, paid off the taxi and reclaimed the ring.
'It seemed obvious to me that the taxi had been stopped some distance from a house, the situation of which was to remain a secret, so without delay we began checking up on every house in the vicinity of the spot indicated by the cabdriver.
'There followed a dreary round of enquiries. There was no house in the district the owners of which were not well-known and thoroughly responsible people, but two days afterwards, just as I was giving up hope of finding anything at all, I had one of those streaks of luck which come to a detective once in a lifetime!
'I had been walking round a village making door-to-door enquiries, with no results whatever, and decided to return to the car.
'As I reached the outskirts of the village I saw, stumbling along a bridle-path across a field, the figure of a young woman.
'I jumped out of the car and ran after her. When she saw me she began to run. As I overtook her I called out the name of the girl we were looking for, and, as I did this, she threw up her arms and fell down in a dead faint.
'It was the girl all right! We took her back to her parents, and next day I went round to hear what I expected to be a sensational story. I was disappointed.
'The girl absolutely refused to say what had happened to her, and except that it was quite obvious that she had been beaten with a strap or a whip of some sort and had been given a "drink" which had sent her to sleep for some hours, and an injection in the arm, she seemed fairly well but very scared.
'Her father informed me in due course that his daughter had received a stiff lesson for sticking her nose into other people's business which she would never forget, and that she had decided to give up all ideas about being an amateur detective.
'The man never returned to the flat. He left six suits of clothes and some quite valuable effects there, but these were never claimed. Fitch had his own ideas about what had happened, and so had I.
'We both believed that the girl had stumbled on one of those little "circles" who saw in her, firstly, a possible recruit, and afterwards, a menace to their safety.
'Foolishly, she had pretended to play along, and when her new-found friends had got her, on some pretext or other, down to the place in the country they had proceeded to give her a lesson to teach her to keep her mouth shut about what she had discovered.
'And personally, I think she was lucky to get off as lightly as she did.
The incident serves to show that the charming people whose sensitive nerves sometimes require the sedative of the poppy can also, on occasion, be very tough—a fact which, I believe, is still known to unfortunate addicts in the West End, who have to pay dearly for their dope in one way or another.
Most of them could tell similar tough stories—the type of story that too seldom finds its way into the police records.
WHAT is the truth about the English 'gangs'? Does a definite organization exist in and about London, an organization comparable with the original small-time American gangs? Or do our English gangs consist—as many people prefer to think— of handfuls of foolish young men who hang about street corners and occasionally, after a drink or two, summon up sufficient courage to intimidate some small shopkeeper or café proprietor into handing over a few packets of cigarettes?
Let us examine some facts of the last few months:
I have talked with a near relative of one of the girls mentioned in the last example, who refused to give evidence unless protected. I think that these young women were justified in their attitude.
Investigation into the activities of the London gangs shows that they are not merely composed of young toughs. The members are well dressed with the conventionally 'smart' American padded shoulders and slim waists.
Their favourite weapon is the old-time steel razor or a safety razor blade tied into a cleft stick.
Today there are over one hundred members of London gangs walking about the Metropolis with razor-slashed faces as the result of gang battles.
The most important 'gang' districts in London to-day are as follows:
Up to 1927 the Hackney gang was supreme in the West End. That year was a peak year for them, but they suffered a setback in the famous battle of Ham Yard.
In this gang fight the amount of blood shed on the stairs of a club in the neighbourhood necessitated the use of buckets of sawdust.
More recently a member of one of the smaller south-east district gangs told of a stab wound in the thigh won from three members of a rival organization who waited for him and 'paid' him merely for 'being saucy'.
To-day the West End of London is 'looked after' in the main by the West End Boys. This gang is working both blackmail and protection rackets.
The question of whether these people mean business or are merely 'high-spirited tough lads' is best answered by a quick look at the leader of the biggest S.E. district mob.
One of his first achievements after receiving a sentence was to knock out a six-foot warder. He was given 'the cat' and laughed while the punishment was being administered. He never pays for anything he 'buys' in his own district and uses the smaller night clubs and bottle parties of the West End free. Nobody would think of asking him to pay.
This man does not use a razor. He has invented a unique weapon of his own which he carries slung under his left arm—a piece of heavy rubber tubing coiled round with wire.
Here is a favourite 'play' of the boys working the West End.
Employment is secured for one of the gang members as a doorman at one of the cheaper night clubs or dives. This individual, on a selected night, lets in half a dozen of the boys. They smash up the place, threaten the proprietor, insult the women.
The proprietor—who often has good reason for not going to the police—eventually consents to pay for 'protection'.
There are, in the London district, quite a number of shops and cafés which are either actually owned or controlled by gangs. The merchandise, provisions, cigarettes, hosiery, or fancy goods, sold at these places are invariably stolen property, the result of burglaries effected by crooks who work in close co-operation with, or under definite orders from, gangs.
The gangs 'fix' the crooks, warehouse thieves, and petty burglars who steal the goods, control the prices at which the stuff is sold to and by shopkeepers who will sell it.
If any of these people 'get funny' they-can always (a) be blackmailed, (b) be 'paid' or 'done' with a razor, (c) have their shop smashed up.
The increasing burglaries in which such goods as hosiery, shirts, cigarettes, fancy goods are stolen are interesting inasmuch as old-time thieves did not steal bulky goods of this nature. They were, obviously, difficult to dispose of.
To-day their disposal is arranged before the burglary is effected. The gang organizes the sale of the goods to the public through one or more of the controlled shops and pays off the burglars. The gang never take part in a burglary themselves.
Legitimate citizens living in gang areas are not very keen on giving evidence against the boys should the police desire to bring charges.
One of the boys told me:
'Only a mug gives evidence. If you're known and working around the neighbourhood you might get 'done'. Maybe this week or maybe next month.
'Some time ago a woman gave evidence and the squeak has gone around that she's going to be "paid" for it soon. We don't like people who talk to coppers.'
Retaliation on rival gangs and unpopular individuals has reached such a stage of organization that one gang has employed two or three ex 'all-in' wrestlers to carry out punishment when required.
I would briefly summarize the activities of London gangs—excluding racecourse and greyhound track operations—as follows:
'Working on' smaller and more subversive night clubs and bottle parties; blackmailing; arranging for the pockets of 'good-time Charlies' to be picked; 'organization' and 'protection' of street women in the gang district; securing 'selling organization' through 'controlled' shops or alternatively 'pushing' cheap lines on legitimate traders; protecting and controlling the activities of hitherto unimportant bodies of sneak-thieves, pickpockets, etc. whose work is now 'cased' and 'laid-out' for them—often under threat; 'paying' or 'doing' (beating up) individuals who have annoyed members or friends or for financial consideration from someone who wants an enemy 'paid'.
It will be realized that the gangs cover-up very well. And it will be seen from the above facts that arrest of gang members is unlikely—unless the police happen to be on the spot at any given moment, or unless there is an arranged 'battle' which has come to the ears of the 'blue-inks'.
Occasionally somebody 'breaks-out' and gets himself arrested. Then a relative invariably turns up and tells the world what a good boy he is to his mother!
GENERALLY speaking there are two sorts of murder—premeditated and unpremeditated; so there are roughly two types of murderer; first, the man who thinks the whole thing out carefully and does it; and second, the one who just does it and thinks afterwards.
The murder committed, both find themselves confronted with the same difficulty—the disposal of the body.
And it sometimes happens that the second type of murderer, his brain clarified by the realization of his fearful deed and his own danger, produces, with the sudden brilliancy of panic, the better scheme for getting rid of the body of his victim.
This type luckily is rare, and is usually confined to murderers of 'artistic' nature on whose highly strung nerves fear has a 'tonic' effect.
The most cunning kind of criminal is the one who, having worked out his murder, decides on one of two post-murder courses of action.
He decides that he will either 'discover' the murder himself and trust to the excellence of his own method to allay suspicion, or to throw it on someone else; or else he plans the complete destruction of the victim's body, knowing that the police must have a body before they can bring a charge.
The most striking case of the first type that I can discover is that of the murder of a woman which took place in an American town early last year.
The woman was presumed to have been killed by the accidental explosion of a shot-gun, supposed to have been unloaded, which had been handed to her 'to see how she liked it' by the man who, immediately afterwards, reported her death from the explosion that ensued.
A detective reasoned that if the woman had been handed a gun loaded with a dynamite charge, the murderer would have used one of the shot cartridges which fitted the gun, extracted the pellets and powder, and inserted the dynamite charge in their place. He would then throw the extracted powder and pellets away.
The detective found the pellets, as he had anticipated, caught in the joint of a drain pipe.
The suspected man, confronted with the evidence and a police photograph of the murdered woman, broke down and confessed.
But for his carelessness in disposing of the pellets he would have escaped.
An outstanding example of the second type of murderer (the wise one) who plans complete destruction of the body, thereby obviating any possibility of identifying the victim, is, in my opinion, Alfred Rouse.
Rouse—who was a logical and clear-thinking murderer of the Landru (the French 'Bluebeard') type—decided that the best means of disposal of his victim was by burning the body in his own car.
He knew that, providing the body was destroyed sufficiently to prevent adequate identification, no suspicion would attach to himself, as he had no previous connection with the victim.
Unfortunately for him, his concentration on the completion of his crime or the state of his nerves was such that he omitted to hear the footsteps of some young men who were approaching.
He stepped out of the shadow of a hedgerow, and they saw and questioned him about the burning car. This incident—unforeseen as usual—led Rouse to the gallows.
If we seek a case where the murderer used diabolical cunning in the preparation of his plot only to nullify all his thought by two fatuous mistakes, we need not look further than that of Doctor Buck Ruxton, of Lancaster.
Ruxton planned the cold-blooded murder of his wife. He killed her, dismembered the body surgically, and disposed of the remains over an area a hundred miles distant from his home.
Yet all his detailed forethought was not sufficient to prevent this extraordinary murderer from wrapping part of his dead wife's torso in a blouse which belonged to his own servant-maid, a process which definitely brought the crime back to his own house.
Not content with this, he actually presented his suit, which still bore blood-stains, to the charwoman who came to the house to clean.
How to dispose of the body? That is the question. It is one which interests many innocent people who, reading of a murder case, discuss—as the most peaceably minded of us do—'what they would do'.
That is the question which every murderer must ask himself when he stands face to face with the mute and accusing body of his victim.
What will the police do? Where will they look? Shall he bury it as deeply as possible as Wiedmann buried a victim? Shall he take lonely cottages and cut up, distribute, bury, and burn as Landru did?
Shall he use the technique of the surgeon; study books of anatomy so that his knife may dissect into small pieces a body that may be hidden here and there?
But there is always the head. What shall he do with the head?
Shall he use an acid and a bath? But the acid must be obtained, and chemists ask questions and sometimes remember faces.
Always the unforeseen is there. Some lovers walking in the moonlight see and remember a strange sight; a child playing in the sunlight finds a human hand.
The brain of a murderer may be clever and cool, but it cannot see into the future; it cannot obviate that one mistake—or if there is no mistake—that 'unforeseen happening' that sets the best plan wrong.
But murderers are egotists. If they were not they might think it easier, more hopeful, to turn the knife against themselves.
THE discovery in the Forest of Fontainebleau on Tuesday of the body of another victim of Eugen Weidmann has brought the total of the now notorious Weidmann slayings to six. France is not entirely unfamiliar with the 'multiple' and often 'sadistic' killer, but those experts who are trying to trace similarity with the 'Bluebeard' Landru murders are likely to find themselves disappointed, inasmuch as the Landru killings were characteristic of a definite type.
Those of Weidmann seem extraordinarily incomprehensible, for they are not adequately explained even by the murderer, whose stated reasons that he killed for money will not bear searching examination.
Landru, fifty-years-old family man and father of three children, who murdered ten women and one youth (and who probably also killed two other women in addition) typified the complete 'sex-money' murderer.
He was attractive to women and made use of a peculiar natural power of semi-hypnotism to create the circumstances and place his victims in the required setting for his crimes.
Landru was cold, logical, and clever. He selected his victims with the utmost care. The apparently innocent explanation for their disappearance was always so nearly obvious that they were seldom missed for some time.
Compared with the Landru killings those of Weidmann are inexplicable.
Weidmann in his actions before, and statements after, arrest, presents what seems to constitute some definitely chaotic characteristics.
Each crime in the Landru set-up was a logical result of the previous one, a progression from one to another, born of experience and success.
In the case of Weidmann, however, there is no obviously apparent link. It seems that each crime was an illogical progression from the previous one.
By considering the Landru and Weidmann types it is possible to come to certain psychological conclusions about 'mass-killers'.
In the Landru case the whole character of the killer shows coolness, a certain courage, a definite and sane logic, and—conversely—an overwhelming egoism amounting almost to mania. This egoism remained with Landru to the last. He was defiant until he died.
As Weidmann proceeded from one murder to another his desire to escape seems to have become weaker, and probably he developed that peculiar egomania which, after a killing or two, tells the killer than he, being too brilliant for the police, can get away with anything.
This theory is borne out by the last murder, that of the nurse Keller. It is doubtful if robbery was the motive here, because the murderer took only the equivalent of a pound from the victim's handbag.
He had removed her shoes—a habit of certain 'sex-criminals'—who use this method of preventing a woman's escape.
The fact that she was shot does not necessarily show that her killing was premeditated. Readers who have seen the play and film Night Must Fall will remember that Dan, that ebullient and charming Irishman, murders two women and proposes to murder a third.
He kills the first time from a sex motive, the second time for money and as a means of escape, and the third time to prevent discovery.
He is an egomaniac, and as an excuse for his crimes says: 'I think of a thing and then I do it'.
Psychologically there is a similarity between his view-point and that of Weidmann, who probably made his first killing on impulse.
We are, in this country, luckily free from the mass murderer. There are probably two reasons for this. First, that the 'English' type of murderer is logical and his motives well-defined, and sex-angles (if they exist) are often merely secondary, except in sporadic and usually 'mental' cases.
But in France, and in the United States, there are always a certain number of murders each year which seem to have no reason except a sadistic one, and it is interesting to note that in a number of these cases also the shoes of female victims had been removed previous to the crime.
There is another angle which may, or may not, have some bearing on the Weidmann case. The criminal in France who commits robbery with violence knows that Devil's Island awaits him if he is caught.
Knowing this he is prepared to kill his victim outright—although he did not originally intend to do so—inasmuch as he prefers to take his chance of the guillotine rather than a serve a fearful sentence on the island.
A distinguished French police officer once admitted to me that he considered many a criminal who had accidentally injured his victim in the process of robbery proceeded to 'finish him off', knowing that robbery with violence would send him to the penal settlement.
It may be that a confession from Weidmann may elucidate a series of crimes which are interesting from the psychological angle. There are some people of ordinarily 'quiet' mentality who, having 'tasted blood', are driven to continue doing so.
Weidmann may belong to this type.
I SUPPOSE I can only blame myself. I suppose I've asked for it really and I shall have to take what's coming to me like a gentleman. But it's damned hard, that's what it is... and all because one relied on one's friends—people one thought one could trust. Of course, I should have looked after myself from the start.
I never thought that Hubert would be so unutterably lousy, or that Paula could sink to the appalling depths of letting me down like this... and I was almost in love with her at one time, too. That makes it rather harder.
My solicitor says that there's a fearfully good chance of my going to prison, that I was really lucky to get bail. Well... if I go to prison, I shall just be another 'Mayfair man'... another sentimental sort of idiot who has been let down by his best friend and agirl that he thought the world of.
I can remember every incident in the whole thing from the start. It was on a Thursday night and Hubert and I were sitting in the back bar at The White Owl Club. It was round about supper time and we weren't feeling awfully good, because Rickaldi—who runs the place—was being a bit snorty about six dozen of champagne that Hubert and I had got from him some two months before. Rickaldi had discovered—I suppose he'd been snooping about the place in the rather underhand way these fellows have—that we'd sold the whole lot at half price to Lozzi, who runs the Padrones Club. Neither of us could see what justifiable grouse Rickaldi had, because we should have paid him some time anyway, and Hubert and I have taken good lot of people to The White Owl—people who'd spent good money there.
Hubert said that things were pretty awful. A lot of tradesmen and people were getting after him, and he was having some trouble about a cheque he'd cashed at some place that had been returned. It's extraordinary the fuss some people kick up just because you give them a cheque that bounces back. I mean to say, it's a thing that could happen to anyone, isn't it?
I was rather in the dumps too, because things weren't good with me either. I'd had a job—of sorts—selling cars on commission for a firm. Two days before they'd written me a stinking letter saying I was to finish, merely because I had sold a car for them to a fellow I knew and taken the commission in advance, after which he'd refused to take the car. They said that it was a put up job between him and me, that he'd never intended to buy the car and that I'd arranged a fake sale, so that he and I could split the commission. I suppose they thought I ought to work for nothing! Anyhow, they were the fools for paying the commission before they'd got paid for the car.
Hubert and I agreed that there was absolutely nothing at all doing in the way of business. The American crowd that one used to be able to take about and make a little money out of seemed to have disappeared entirely, and the agency place that used to pay Hubert and me three or four guineas to go to parties—thrown by people who wanted a few good-looking men who were really gentlemen about the place—had struck us off the list, just because somebody had stolen a woman's brooch at the last party we were at.
I was furious about this. It was a damned libellous thing to say. Neither Hubert or I knew anything about it, although Hubert said that he thought Mervyn Hall-Pelisse—whom we'd taken along with us—had seen the brooch lying about the place and pocketed it. Well, why the deuce don't these people lock their jewellery up! They deserve to lose it, and, anyway, Mervyn threw a hell of a party the next night—a fearfully amusing party
Just as Hubert and I were agreeing that something really must be done, Paula came in.
I'd always thought that there was something rather fine about Paula—yes, that's the word—fine. She's a fearfully good-looking girl and knows how to wear clothes. She has the sort of figure—the style—that would make an old sack look like something by Schiaparelli. She and I had known each other for quite a while, and we'd always got on together.
She came over to our table and sat down. She agreed with Hubert and I that things were absolutely lousy, and that there wasn't anything doing at all. She said that the war was frightening all the money out of the West End.
Hubert said that, anyway, it was always the wrong people who had the money. Nouveaux riches and profiteers and people of no particular culture or breeding were the only people who had money to-day. People like Wilks Greening, the fellow who had been winning big money at all the Mayfair gambling parties, who never seemed able to lose.
Paula agreed. She said that Greening was a perfect example. Just because he was rolling in money he invariably won when he gambled. Whatever he did turned into cash. She described Greening as the perfect specimen of rich bounder that one met about the place these days. Then she told us how, one night, at a gambling party at Ferdinand Tolletly's place, Greening had won fifteen hundred pounds and then refused to give her a fifty pound note afterwards, although she was the person who'd taken him along to Ferdinand's place after having met him for the first time that evening.
'The fellow is quite fearful,' Hubert said. 'He's the sort of man who ought to be taught a lesson. It would do him a lot of good if someone took some of his money off him!'
'He is rather awful,' said Paula. 'Tell us, Hubert... if you had the opportunity how would you teach him a lesson? I'm sure he deserves it.'
Hubert laughed. Then after a bit he said that he'd invented a little gadget that one could wear inside one's coat sleeve—a gadget for holding playing cards. He said he used to use it for sleight-of-hand tricks. This gadget shot a card—one you wanted—into your hand at any moment without any of the other players seeing.
'I'd like to play cards with Greening and use that gadget,' said Hubert. 'I think it would be marvellous to watch his face while he lost all the time.'
Paula said: 'Why don't we do it? It would be great fun.' Hubert looked at me.
'Look here, Wilfred,' he said, 'why don't we teach this fellow a lesson? It would be a fearful scream if we played poker with him and won a lot of money. It would just serve him right!'
I said I thought so, too. I said that it wouldn't really be dishonest because he was such a bounder, but that I didn't see how it could be arranged.
Paula said that she could fix it. She said that if she asked Greening to dine with her one evening she would bring him back to her flat for a drink, and that we could drop in and suggest a game. Greening was mad keen on gambling. He'd fall for it at once.
'That's all very well,' said Hubert, 'but the thing would be to let him win a little money first. You've got to let a man like Greening win a bit and then he'd want to double the stakes. When the stakes are doubled I'd begin to use my gadget and give myself the most wonderful hands.'
He asked me if I'd got some money to put up, so that we could let Greening win a bit first. I said I hadn't—that I was absolutely broke—which was true.
Hubert looked a little annoyed.
'Well, surely you've got a cheque book,' he said.
I said that I had a cheque book, but no banking account. I'd had a little trouble with the bank a fortnight before and they'd closed my account. Hubert thought for a bit; then he said:
'Well that doesn't matter. Look here, Wilfred. As Paula's supplying the flat, and I'm putting up my gadget to win the money with, I think you ought to put up the capital.'
I told Hubert not to be a silly ass. How could I put up money when I hadn't got any?
He said: 'That's easy. Let's suppose that Paula can get Greening for to-morrow night. Well, you write a cheque out for two hundred pounds. I'll get it cashed to-morrow evening after the banks are closed. I know a man who'd cash it if I guaranteed it. Well... we shall win the money to-morrow night and you'll be able to pay the two hundred pounds into your bank to meet the cheque before it comes in for payment.'
I thought that over and it sounded all right. After all, it was going to take two days for the cheque to go through, and I could get the money round to the bank the morning after the next. So I said I was game to do that.
We all laughed like the devil. After all, it would be too fearfully amusing to teach Greening a lesson. It would do him an awful lot of good.
Hubert was fearfully thrilled. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and while they were bringing it Paula went off and telephoned Greening. When she came back she said we were in luck—that Greening had asked her to dinner next night and had agreed to go along to her place afterwards for a friendly game of poker.
We finished the bottle and ordered another. We'd all bucked up immensely. It's funny how the idea of teaching a first-class bounder a lesson can cheer one up. Paula said that it would be fearfully good for him: that he was mean and that one of the worst vices was meanness.
Hubert said he thought so too. Then he said it was quite on the cards that—with a bit of luck—we should get a couple of thousand or so out of Greening next night, but that having won so much around Mayfair he couldn't squeal, anyway. He said that whatever we won we'd split fairly between the three of us after I'd been given back the two hundred pounds capital that I was putting up.
We got a final bottle off Rickaldi and went along to my place, and I wrote out the cheque and gave it to Hubert. He said he knew some old fellow—a distant relative—who was an awfully trusting old bird—who'd cash it, after which we went round to Hubert's place and he showed us how the gadget worked. It was a fearfully clever bit of work. It was a sort of wire contraption that fitted inside one's shirt cuff and held two dozen cards. Hubert dealt himself a couple of poker hands and showed us how he could practically make up any hand he wanted using the reserve cards and getting rid of the discards in the same way.
We were all terribly happy and laughed a great deal and drank White Ladies and toasted Greening. When the drinks were all gone we agreed to meet at Paula's place at eleven o'clock next night and Paula and I went off our separate ways.
WE met next night as arranged. Paula and Greening were there
when we arrived. They'd had an awfully amusing dinner and seemed
very happy. Greening was doing his best to be inoffensive,
although it was terribly easy to see that the man wasn't a
gentleman. He was really quite funny at times. He said
"serviette" for napkin and "commence" instead of begin, and all
those sort of cad things. He and Paula had brought back half a
dozen bottles of champagne with them and we laughed and talked a
great deal.
We started to play poker at twelve o'clock. Whenever Hubert was dealer he gave Greening good hands and the rest of us only poor ones. Hubert had sent round sixty-five pounds each earlier in the evening to Paula and me, retaining the balance for himself. So he'd apparently cashed my cheque all right.
By one o'clock Greening had won practically all our money. Hubert said we were all having most wonderful luck and Greening said jocularly why not raise the stakes?
We all agreed and Greening put the cash in his pocket and suggested that we played with counters which Paula provided. We began to play five pound "rises", and I must say the way Hubert worked that gadget of his was too terribly clever. I've never seen such beautiful handwork.
Well, to cut a long story short, we played on until four o'clock. Greening was losing heavily, and after a final round of jackpots we agreed to stop. We added up winnings and losings and it seemed that Greening owed us three just over three thousand pounds.'
He was pretty philosophic about it too. He said that he'd been having a run of luck lately, and knew that it couldn't go on. Then he produced a cheque book and wrote out a cheque to Hubert for the three thousand two hundred and twenty, Hubert having said that he would cash it next day and pay Paula and me off.
When we were going, Greening looked a bit sheepish and put his hand in his pocket and brought out a little case and handed it to Paula. She opened it and there was a rather nice little diamond brooch inside. Greening said he hoped she would accept it and thanked her for a marvellous evening. I suppose he thought he stood a chance with Paula.
Then we three men went off. Outside Greening said that we must give him his revenge one night, and we said we would. After he'd got into his cab and gone, Hubert and I stood there laughing like fools. It was really the funniest thing.
I walked with Hubert round to his place and left him on the doorstep. He said that he'd cash the cheque and meet Paula and me at The White Owl for dinner at nine o'clock next night. Hubert said that it was a damn good evening's work and that we'd have over a thousand each after I'd got my original two hundred back. He said that, anyway, it would teach Greening a damned good lesson, and when I asked him how it could do that because Greening would never suspect that the game had been rigged, he said 'Quite', and we both stood there roaring with laughter like a pair of idiots. We just went on laughing and laughing, because, say what you like, it was really a quite divine sort of joke.
It was five o'clock next afternoon when I woke. I'd a bit of a head and I lay in bed for some time thinking about things. Suddenly I remembered the fact that I was worth over a thousand and began to plan what I'd do with it. I thought it might be fun to fly over to Paris for a week or so and see how things were over there.
I got up eventually and, after a bath and a double Martini made with Scotch, I felt like a king. I telephoned through to Paula and told her that the arrangement was that she and Hubert and I were all to meet at The White Owl for dinner, and that Hubert would have our money for us.
When I'd finished saying my piece, Paula said in an odd sort of voice: 'I wouldn't be so certain about getting our money, Wilfred. I think Hubert's gone.'
'What d'you mean, Paula?' I said. 'Gone... gone where?'
'Well,' she said, 'I telephoned his flat at four-thirty this afternoon, and the porter said that he'd gone. He said that Hubert had gone off about four o'clock and taken his bags with him. The porter said he thought he'd gone north for a few days.'
'My God!' I said. 'The fearful outsider! He's gone and taken our money with him. What a terrible thing to do.'
'Pretty lousy,' said Paula. 'But then I was never quite certain about Hubert. After all, that gadget thing was a bit hot, you know. It occurred to me last night when we were playing that he'd probably used it on us at different times.'
'I suppose he's cashed Greening's cheque,' I said.
'No,' said Paula, 'he hasn't done that. He didn't wake up until three-thirty, the porter says. He's left a packet to go round to his bank first thing in the morning, and my guess is that the cheque's in it. Hubert's going to clear it in the ordinary way and draw against it wherever he is.'
'What a fearful rotter,' I said. 'To do a thing like that to his friends. This is too awful. And what am I going to do about that two hundred pounds that I've got to get into my bank first thing tomorrow morning?'
She said, rather coldly I thought; 'I don't know what you're going to do, Wilfred, but I know what I've done. I'm a girl, more or less on my own, and I've got to look after myself. Hubert has behaved like a fearful crook, and so when I'd made up my mind that he'd gone off and didn't intend to pay us I did the obvious thing.'
'The obvious thing, Paula,' I echoed. 'And what was that?'
I went straight round and saw Greening,' she said primly. 'And I told him the whole story. I said that Hubert was playing a crooked game last night, but that I didn't like to say anything then for fear of creating a scene. I advised Greening to stop payment of the cheque and he's done so.'
'That's very nice for Greening,' I said. 'So he's going to save his three thousand odd and still stick to my two hundred that he won in cash before we began to play with counters. I think I'll go round and see Mr. Greening and ask for it back!'
!I don't think I'd do that, Wilfred dear, if I were you,' said Paula. 'Because I don't think you'll get it. Greening was rather grateful to me for going round and telling him about it, and he gave me five hundred for myself. I don't think he'll be too keen on paying out any more!'
I was so astounded that I could hardly speak. After all to be let down in the first place by Hubert was pretty grim, but to hear Paula talking like that was a bit too much.
'Look here, Paula,' I said. 'You know damned well that I've got to have that two hundred at least. Hubert has let us both down, but you've got to play the game. You must. Damn it, you are a gentlewoman, Paula. You've got to let me have three hundred of that five hundred that Greening's given you. You must!'
'Well, I don't see it, Wilfred,' she said sort of definitely. 'Hubert and you and I were in this thing as partners. Well, he's walked out on us and I've made the best of a bad job, and looked after myself. After all it was I who found out that Hubert had flown, while you were still asleep, and it was I who went round and warned Greening. I'm entitled to the money he's given me but I don't see how, from any conceivable angle, you can expect me go give you any of it, and to put it quite bluntly, Wilfred dear, I'm not going to.'
I was quite speechless.
'I'm fearfully sorry of course,' she said. 'But I've got to go now. I shall be at The White Owl at nine for dinner tonight. Come along afterwards, Wilfred, and have a drink.'
She hung up.
I stood there almost gasping. After all, these people were my friends. I was almost heartbroken. Here was Hubert behaving like a first-class crook going off with Paula's and my money like a criminal—that was bad enough, and now, Paula had taken the meanest advantage of me and, by rushing round to Greening, had got herself five hundred pounds, and refused to give me a penny. When, as I told you before, I realised that at one time I had almost loved that girl, I could have shrieked. The whole thing was too shattering.
And I had put up the original capital for the whole thing. Without my two hundred pounds nothing could have been done. And on my capital Hubert had gone off with a three-thousand-pound-odd cheque, and Paula had got herself five hundred.
I stood there by the telephone and I was very near to tears. I realized that it would be impossible for me to do such a thing to people who were my friends; that I would rather have died than done anything like that either to Hubert or to Paula. I felt quite awful. Absolutely slain with sorrow and anger.
At seven o'clock I had an idea. I dressed rather carefully and strolled along to the Silver Bar. I bought a cocktail and began to pass the time of day with Harold the barman. After a bit I said:
'Tell me, Harold... you remember saying something a week or so ago about the detective who was making-enquiries about gaming parties in Mayfair. Do you know who he is?'
Harold looked round rather secretively; then he said:
'Yes, I do, sir. He's Detective-Sergeant Martin, and he's sitting over there in the corner, reading the newspaper.'
That was a bit of luck. I finished my drink and strolled over to the corner table. The detective bird looked up at me and I said:
'Look here... here's rather a funny situation. My name's Wilfred Fettingwell and last night I was at a little gambling party, and I saw a fellow win a whole lot of money by cheating. He had a gadget up his sleeve and dealt himself cards from it when he wanted to. What ought I to do?'
I sat down and signalled for drinks.
The detective asked me if I knew the man's name and I told him I did. I told him the man was Hubert Tolquhart. He made a note of it. Then he asked me if there had been anyone else at the party whom I regarded as being suspicious.
I said well... possibly. I told him how much Greening had lost, and I said that there had also been a woman there who might have been an accomplice of Tolquhart's. I said that I didn't know her name and that I hadn't seen her about Mayfair very much.
The detective fellow was awfully nice. He said that he was obliged for the information about Tolquhart and that if I could find out the name of the woman he'd be glad to have it. He said that there were all sorts of complaints going about regarding crooked gambling in the neighbourhood.
I said I'd do my best to find out for him and, if I was successful, I would telephone him at Vine Street which was, apparently, his headquarters. He gave me a card and the telephone number and I went off.
By this time I was feeling a bit better. I was getting over my shocking disappointment about Hubert and Paula. I went back to the flat and had a drink and at nine o'clock I telephoned Paula at The White Owl.
'Look here, Paula,' I said. 'I've been thinking about things and I've come to the conclusion that Hubert's an absolute crook. I had a bit of a struggle with myself, but I've done what I consider to be my duty. I've been to the police.'
'Oh, have you?' she said. 'And what did you tell them, Wilfred?'
'Well...' I answered. 'I've told them about the party and about Greening losing all that money and how Hubert cheated with that gadget of his. They asked me who else was there and I said that there was a woman there who, I thought, was a friend of Hubert's.'
Paula said, in a rather strained voice: 'You didn't mention my name, Wilfred, did you?'
'No,' I said. 'I haven't done that... not yet. I've been talking about our telephone conversation of this afternoon, Paula, and I knew that you couldn't be serious about not letting me have that three hundred. So I thought I'd telephone you once more before speaking to the detective officer. I shall probably be ringing him to-night.'
'I see,' she said. There was a little pause, and then she went on: 'You know, Wilfred, I've been thinking things over since I spoke to you earlier to-day and I came to the conclusion that I ought to let you have some of the money that Greening gave me. It would be the fair thing to do. So if you like to come round here I'll give it to you.'
I said: 'Well, Paula, I'm fearfully glad you've come to that conclusion because I think you're only doing what's really morally right. I'll come along and collect it.'
I got into a cab and dashed round to The White Owl and saw Paula. She gave me the money in an envelope. I told her that, of course, under no circumstances would I mention her name to the police now that she had done the right thing by me.
We drank a couple of Martinis and then I went off. I felt that I wanted to be alone, that things had been a bit too much for me during the last twenty-four hours. I wanted to forget about Hubert and what a complete and utter outsider he'd been.
I went back to my flat to see if there was any post. Two letters were waiting for me. One was a bill and the other was from the bank. The letter from the bank said that a cheque drawn by me on my account which had been closed, as I knew, a fortnight before, had been presented for payment, that the cheque was for two hundred pounds and that although the handwriting was rather similar to mine the signature was incorrect, the cheque having been signed 'W. G. Fettingwell' instead of with my usual signature 'Wilfred G. Fettingwell'.
I must say I grinned to myself. I felt rather pleased—having regard to Hubert's conduct—that I'd signed the cheque in that odd way. I felt glad that I'd protected myself.
I wrote a note to the bank and said that I knew nothing about the cheque. That I was not the sort of person who would write out a cheque on an account that was closed, and that the fact was proved by the incorrect signature. I said that I had missed my old cheque book a few days before and hadn't worried about the fact because I knew the account was closed, but that now I had reason to believe that the cheque had been stolen by one, Hubert Tolquhart, who, I thought, was wanted by the police.
I sealed down the envelope, stamped the letter, had another Martini and went out. I was feeling better. After all, one must be of good cheer, one must be gay, even in the face of adversity and even if one's friends do let one down.
I posted the letter at a pillar box and strolled along to Gustavo's to dine. I made a good dinner and drank a bottle of excellent champagne. I felt rather bucked when I paid my bill with one of Paula's new five-pound notes.
I remember reading somewhere or other—in the days when I used to read—that one must be greater than circumstances. I had a definite feeling that I had been greater than circumstances.
I had just lit a cigarette and was wandering out of Gustavo's when someone spoke to me. It was the police fellow—Detective-Sergeant Martin.
'Excuse me, sir,' he said, quite affably.' But I'd be very glad if you'd come along to Vine Street. The D.D.I, would like to ask you a few questions!'
I asked why. I asked why the deuce the D.D.I.—whatever that might mean—should want to question me.
He explained that D.D.I, meant Divisional Detective-Inspector. Then he produced some quite shattering news.
He said that Greening was a crook, that he had been 'working' Mayfair very successfully for the last three weeks, that the police had been after him for some time.
He also explained that he had been very interested in my conversation of earlier in the evening because Hubert had apparently tried to change the cheque that Greening had given him for his losses early that evening, that the cheque, the signature and the whole box of tricks was absolutely phoney. They'd arrested Hubert at six o'clock on two other charges.
I said I was very pleased to hear it, but what had it to do with me. I was a little bit upstage with this policeman fellow. He was beginning to bore me.
He said that the note I had just given in payment of my bill was counterfeit.
I was absolutely staggered. Then I recovered myself. I told him the truth. I asked him how was I to know that. That the note had been given to me in payment of a debt by a woman friend, and that I was not to know that it was counterfeit.
He said that he was quite prepared to believe that, but that they had picked up the lady in question at The White Owl, three-quarters of an hour ago, and she had stated that the notes had been given to her by Greening, and that she had handed some of them to me.
I said that was quite in order, but I still failed to see what I had done. Of course I was prepared to make good the bad note I had given Gustavo's, and that I thought his attitude in asking me to go to Vine Street was definitely rude and that I objected to it.
He said he was sorry about that, but that the D.D.I. wished to talk to me about another little matter. That there was in fact a definite charge to be made against me.
I told him I thought he was being rather amusing and that I would very much like to know what the charge was.
Then he said that he was charging me with uttering a cheque signed in a false signature on an account which I knew to be closed, and being accessory to Hubert in cashing it.
I said, rubbish... utter rubbish...! That I had earlier received a letter from the bank about the cheque; that I had written and told them that I knew nothing about it; that whoever had written it had not even used my correct signature and that I was certain that Hubert Tolquhart had done it.
He said quite pleasantly: 'I'm afraid you'll have to explain that to the D.D.I., sir. You see, your friend, Miss Paula Meraulton, has definitely stated that she saw you write out the cheque, and is prepared to swear to that fact. Would you like to take a cab, sir, or will you walk?'
D'YOU wonder that I feel bitter? My solicitor says that he
thinks I'll be rather lucky—all things considered. That I
shall probably get off with six months in the second division. Of
course the police have trumped up some other rubbishy charges
against me.
I suppose I've only myself to blame. I trusted Paula and I trusted Hubert. I thought they were my friends and I thought they were loyal and decent. Well, they've let me down.
I suppose the Press will call me another 'Mayfair man'. Whereas in fact, as you will plainly understand, I am just a rather sentimental sort of ass who's been badly let down by his best friend and a girl he thought the world of.
I WAS leaving the office when the telephone rang. Lefty took off the receiver. After a minute he put his hand over the transmitter and turned to me. 'It's a woman,' he said, 'with a pretty voice. She wants to see you. Says it's urgent. She's introduced by Van Dine.'
I don't usually see clients at nine-thirty at night, but Van Dine was a good friend of mine and if he'd sent this woman I thought I'd better see her. I nodded to Lefty. 'Tell her to come round,' I said. Lefty spoke to her, then he hung up.
'She says she'll be round in ten minutes, chief,' he said with a grin. 'Gee, has that dame got a swell voice! Do I stay?'
'You stay,' I said. 'You go in the other office and turn on the dictaphone so that we have a record of what she says.'
I had been running an investigation office in the Rue Clery, Paris, since I left the U.S. Infantry at the end of the war. Paris is an amusing place, and the investigation business was a profitable one. Lots of Americans get into trouble in Paris, and they like someone to get them out.
At the moment I was wondering about this woman who'd telephoned. It had to be pretty urgent for her to ring up the office at nine-thirty. In a few minutes the outer office door bell rang and Lefty let her in.
She was a picture! She was of good height, with a superb figure. She had a complexion like cream, and turquoise eyes that might have melted the heart of a stone image. She was superbly dressed too, and as she came into my office she brought with her a very attractive and faint perfume. I have got a memory for scent. I solved one of my most important cases with my nose, but I certainly could not place this rare and exotic perfume which emanated from my visitor.
Lefty gave her a chair and went into his own room. After a second I heard the faint click which denoted that he had switched on the wall dictaphone. She came straight to the point. Her voice matched the rest of her. It was low, charming and had an indescribable quality,
'I must apologize for coming so late, Mr. Valentine, but there was no time to be lost. Mr. Van Dine told me that I would be perfectly safe in dealing with you.'
She smiled and I understood the fable of Helen of Troy launching a thousand ships. I gave her a cigarette. 'Do you know Mr. Van Dine well?' I asked. She nodded.
'My name is Mrs. Cynthis Severn,' she said. 'I am an Englishwoman. I have known Mr. Van Dine for a long time.' I nodded.
'I wonder, did you know his great friend Duborg, another client of mine?' I asked. She smiled agreement.
'I knew him too,' she said. 'I have known both of them for some years.'
I sat down in my chair again.
'Now for the story,' I said. 'Having satisfied ourselves about each other, we might as well get on.'
'I am afraid you will laugh at me, Mr. Valentine,' she said, 'but I've come to see you about something which will probably seem very silly to you. Frankly, the situation is this:
'Up to a year ago, I was living in a flat just off the Faubourg St. Antoine. I was very fond of the flat, but always there seemed to me something mysterious about it, something which unsettled me in a vague way.
'Eventually, the night before I left, I saw a ghost, or at least I thought I saw a ghost. It was the figure of a most charming man, dressed in modern clothes and looking very distressed.
'I was going to leave the flat in any event, but this thing decided me. I left next day, and since then I've done nothing but worry.'
'About what?' I queried.
She laughed quietly.
'About whether I really saw the ghost or not. Can you understand that?'
'Oh, yes,' I said, 'I understand perfectly. Ever since you have wondered whether you saw the ghost or whether your eyes played you false. You are not certain.'
'Quite,' she said. 'I am not certain, and I want to be certain. That's why I have come to you.'
I smiled.
'This sounds as if it's going to be an interesting case, Mrs. Severn,' I said,' and a rather nicer one than those which usually come my way.'
'I am glad to hear that,' she said. 'What I want you to do is this. After I left the flat I made enquiries and I found that there were rumours about the place being haunted. It is said that this ghost appears once a year, and the anniversary on which it is due is to-morrow night. The day after I am leaving Paris and returning to England, but before I go I must know about this ghost.'
'And so...?' I queried.
'Well,' she said, 'to-morrow I want you to come with me to the flat, which is now unoccupied, and then we can see whether there is a ghost or whether I was suffering from nerves or imagination. What will your fee be, Mr. Valentine?'
I laughed.
'I don't know,' I said. 'It's difficult to assess the value of my services as a layer of ghosts.'
She opened her handbag and placed an envelope on the corner of my desk.
'There are two thousand francs in that envelope,' she said, smiling. 'Will that be enough?' I grinned.
'More than enough,' I said. 'That's a very nice fee for such a short job of work.' She smiled and held out her hand.
'Excellent,' she said. 'Then it's all settled. Will you come for me tomorrow night at my hotel, the Splendide, at eleven o'clock? Then we might have some coffee and go round to the flat some time about the witching hour of midnight.'
I got up and showed her to the door. As I helped her with the expensive fur which had slipped from her shoulders another whiff of that superb perfume came to my nostrils.
'I shall be there, Mrs. Severn,' I said.
I watched her as she walked towards the lift. Then I went back to the office.
Lefty was waiting for me.
'Well, what do you know about that, chief?' he said. 'So you're going to be a ghost layer. What a swell job! Two thousand francs for that!' I sat down in my chair and looked at him.
'You never learn anything, do you, Lefty?' I said. 'Don't you realize there's something very funny about this business?'
'Funny?' he queried. 'How?'
'Work it out for yourself,' I said. 'Here is a woman, a very charming and beautiful woman, who has been worried for over a year as to whether she's seen a ghost or not, so she has to wait till half-past nine to-night to phone this office about it. That's point No. 1.
'Point No 2 is that she's introduced by Van Dine. You heard that I was careful to ask her whether she knew his great friend Duborg, another client of mine. She said she did. Very well then, why didn't she get Duborg to introduce her to us? He is in Paris, whereas Van Dine, whose name was mentioned in the first place, is in Italy, and we couldn't check up if we wanted to.
'In any event, and this is point No. 3, to prevent us checking up she pays a large fee of two thousand francs in advance. Well?'
Lefty scratched his head.
'You always see something that I don't,' he said. 'Well, chief, where do we go from here?'
This is an interesting business, Lefty,' I said, 'but I think there's something behind it. Go out right away. Walk round to this flat, this haunted flat, she talks about, and have a look round and see if there's a way we can get in without disturbing the neighbourhood or the police. I'd like to take a look at that flat, and I'd like to do it to-night.'
It was eleven o'clock when Lefty and I, having secured admittance to the flat through a back window, which abutted on a garage, examined the place. It was large, empty and desolate. All the rooms, of which there were many, led off the main corridor, and we went through them one by one. We found nothing.
Eventually, we came to the last room—the bathroom. It had one of those large marble baths sunk flush with the floor, and as I stood on the edge something vague stirred within my mind. At last I got it.
'Well, Lefty,' I said, 'what do you know about this?'
He looked at me vacantly.
I don't know anything, chief,' he said. 'All I can see is a bath.' I smiled.
'Well, get down on your knees and smell it,' I said. 'Then tell me what you think.'
He did so and looked up at me from the floor with amazement written all over his face.
'Well, what do you know about that, chief,' he said. 'This bath smells of the same perfume as she did.'
'Right first time, Lefty,' I said. 'And what does that tell you? Bath salts don't hang about a bathroom for a year, you know. It means that woman was using that bath up to the last two or three days. The odour of the bath salts has not had time to evaporate. Now we'll go home.'
We made our exit by the same means as we had entered. Outside I sent Lefty off. For myself I lit a cigarette and walked slowly back to my flat on the Boulevard Montmartre.
I was very interested in Mrs. Cynthis Severn.
NEXT morning I sent Lefty out to make some enquiries about the
haunted flat. He came through to the office at noon, and had some
interesting information to give me.
The flat had been occupied up to a few days before by a Russian woman, a blonde named Madame Alexia Starinoff. A fortnight, before, this lady reported that a valuable diamond had been stolen from the flat and brought a claim against the Lyons-Marseilles Insurance with whom the gem was insured. She then left the flat because, apparently, she was afraid of further burglaries, as she was the owner of other valuable jewellery.
I did a little quiet thinking and went round and saw the insurance people. They were not particularly satisfied with the case, but had decided that they would have to pay as the lady was pressing them.
I managed to get an exact description of the stolen diamond from them, and, at my request, they also procured a photograph of the jewel. Armed with this, and Madame Alexia Starinoff's address, I dropped in at the Cafe de la Paix, drank two grenadines, and made up my mind. I took a cab and went over to Papa Dubinet—Dubinet was the best 'fence' and general jewel crook in Paris—and got him to work.
Then I had lunch and proceeded to instruct Lefty.
THAT night I picked up Cynthis Severn at the Splendide. She
looked ravishing in an evening gown that must have cost a small
fortune. I drank some coffee with her, and we took a taxi round
to the haunted flat in the Faubourg. She had secured the keys and
permission to inspect the place from the agents.
When we arrived the flat looked very much the same as on the night before. Moonlight flooded through the windows, making grotesque shadows on the bare floors, and as we walked along the corridor I felt my companion give a little shudder.
Eventually we stood in a corner of what had been the drawing-room, and I lit myself a cigarette after she had refused one.
'I'm much too excited and frightened to smoke,' she said. 'What do you think about it all, Mr. Valentine?'
I grinned.
'I'm thinking that it's the easiest two thousand francs I've ever earned,' I said.
The words were hardly out of my mouth before she gripped my arm. She was standing on my left and she pinched hard in her excitement.
'Look,' she whispered excitedly. 'Look—the ghost!'
I looked towards the door, but saw nothing at all. I had a .32 Colt automatic in a shoulder holster under my left arm and I drew the gun and went out into the corridor with Cynthis Severn at my heels. I walked through the flat but there wasn't a sign of any ghost. I told her so.
'I don't care,' she whispered. 'I saw it, and now my mind is at rest.'
I laughed.
'So now you can go back to England,' I said, 'two thousand francs the poorer, but with a mind at peace. Let's go.'
I slipped the automatic back into its holster, and we made our way towards the flat entrance. Outside she took my arm with a charming little gesture of friendliness.
'Come back to the hotel and have just one little drink,' she said, 'in honour of the ghost!'
We drove back and I drank a whisky and soda with her in the lounge at the Splendide. After a minute or two I asked to be excused and went into a telephone box and phoned Lefty who was waiting at the office.
'Put a phone call through to here in three minutes' time,' I instructed him, 'and ask for Mrs. Severn. When she gets into this booth pretend there's some mistake. Keep her here for just a moment.
'After that get round here and wait for me on the door. Just follow me and don't interfere. Do just what I told you to do.'
I went back and finished my drink.
Two and a half minutes afterwards I made some complimentary remarks about my companion's evening bag. It was a pretty trifle in white and black silk, with a big jade clasp and her initials in ivory. I asked to look at it and she handed it to me. As she did so a bell-boy told her she was wanted on the telephone and she asked to be excused, leaving the bag in my hands.
Whilst she was away listening to Lefty apologizing for getting the wrong Mrs. Severn, I opened the bag and did what I wanted. I had just replaced it on the table and lit a cigarette when she returned.
We talked for a little while and then she thanked me prettily for my services and we shook hands. She told me to go and see her if ever I was over in England. Then I said good night.
I walked out of the Splendide and went in the direction of the Boulevard Montmartre. I walked up to the Rue Clichy and turned down one of the dark side streets. I had got about ten yards down the street when somebody who had come up behind me sandbagged me and I went out on the pavement, my last thought being that I wasn't particularly surprised.
I came to about five minutes later to find a very concerned Lefty, doing a first-aid act with a wet handkerchief. I had a big bump on my head like a duck's egg, but beyond the headache I was fairly happy. Lefty got us a taxi and took me home. I went to bed with a cold compress on my head and slept like a top.
NEXT morning I got up early and went round to Madame
Starinoff's address in the Rue Bercere. The flat was situated in
a handsome block on the first floor. I rang the door bell and the
door was opened by a Russian girl—obviously a maid. I told
her I wanted to see Madame Starinoff.
'Pardon, m'sieu,' she said. 'But it is impossible. Madame can see no-one.'
I laughed, pushed her into the flat, followed her in and shut the door behind me. I walked straight across the hall to a room next to a bathroom in which I could hear the water splashing. I tapped at the door and looked in.
Cynthis Severn, looking perfectly sweet in an ivory negligée, was taking her breakfast in bed. Her pretty mouth opened in surprise.
'Good morning, Madame Alexia Starinoff,' I said. 'How are you this morning, and aren't you surprised to see the big bad wolf breaking in on you like this? Now be a good girl and order another cup for some coffee for me. I'm going to talk turkey to you, as we say in the United States.'
She took it very well. She made a little moue and then she rang for the maid and ordered another cup.
'Well, where do we go from here?' she said as she poured out my coffee. 'I had an idea that you were a little more clever than you look.'
'That's my failing,' I said. 'You see I was on to your game when I went to that haunted flat the same night that you came to see me, and smelt your bath salts in the bath. That perfume you use is very distinctive, you know. Next morning we checked up on Madame Starinoff's jewel robbery.
'I got the idea at once. You had been living in the flat as Madame Starinoff, wearing a blonde wig and talking Russian like a near-Cossack. Then you stage a fake robbery and claim from the Lyons-Marseilles people. But you know that they are a little bit suspicious and likely to make some very close enquiries and possibly do a little detective work on their own.
'Of course the diamond was never really stolen. You just left it in the flat stuck under a ledge in a piece of putty.
'Two days ago the Company said that they would pay, and your next job is to regain possession of the diamond.
'In order to do this you've got to get into the flat, and naturally you want to go back there as Mrs. Severn not Madame Starinoff. So you come round to my office and you tell me that fairy story about the ghost and you pay me my fee in advance. You've got to have me for two reasons. One is that you're going to pick up the diamond when we visit the flat, but you think that there is just a chance that someone might recognize you when we come out as the recent tenant—Madame Alexia Starinoff—the woman whose diamond has been lost.
'The only person likely to do this would be an investigator on the Insurance Company staff, in which case you would have indignantly denied that you were Madame Starinoff, produced your passport to prove that you were Mrs. Cynthis Severn, and if he had continued to be suspicious you would have insisted on being searched. I should have supported your story that you were Mrs. Cynthis Severn, have explained our reasons for returning to the flat, and, of course, no-one would have thought for a moment that the diamond was attached to the inside of my left-hand coat sleeve where you stuck it when you grabbed my arm at the time you pretended to be excited about seeing the ghost.
'We then go back to your hotel, and when I leave some hired thug of yours sandbags me near the Place Pigalle, removes the diamond and returns it safely to you.
'To-day the insurance people would have paid up and you would have had both the money and the diamond. Then off you go to England, leaving me with a bump on the head and two thousand francs.'
She laughed.
'You're pretty good I must say,' she said. 'Well—what are we going to do about it?'
'I don't think we'll do anything much,' I said. 'You see, I've seen the insurance people this morning, and stopped them from paying. I told them that you'd sent me round to tell them that you'd found the diamond, so that's all right.'
'You've got a nerve, I must say,' said Cynthis severely. 'And I needed that money too. You know I can't sell the diamond very easily at the moment and I do need money badly, and I've never done anything crooked before, I promise you.'
'Let this be a lesson,' I said. 'You see, now you haven't got either the diamond or the money!'
'What do you mean?' she said, 'I have got the diamond. It's in the drawer over there.'
'No, it's not,' I said. 'What you have got in the drawer over there is a very good paste imitation Papa Dubinet made for me and which I substituted for the real one whilst we were driving back to your hotel after our visit to the flat!'
'Well, I am surprised,' she said, 'and I thought you were such a nice honest man. And so you've stolen my diamond, have you? Will you tell me why I shouldn't telephone for the police at once?'
I laughed.
'The joke is, Cynthis,' I said, 'you can't even do that. You see, I haven't got the diamond. You have; but unless you're a good girl I won't tell you where it is!'
'And what do I have to do to be a good girl?' she asked demurely.
I smiled. 'You pay me another two thousand francs and I tell you where it is,' I said.
'Oh dear,' she said. 'I am in trouble, aren't I? Just hand me my bag from that dressing-table, will you, Mr. Al Capone?'
I handed her the bag. She opened it and peeled off two one-thousand-franc notes from a roll.
'There you are,' she said. 'Now where's my diamond?'
'I stuck it under the clasp of your evening handbag,' I replied, 'whilst you were having that phoney telephone call with my assistant. You remember I admired your bag and you left it with me whilst you went to the telephone?'
'Dear me,' she said. 'The man is clever, isn't he? Marietta!' she called to the maid. 'Bring me my black and white evening bag.'
Marietta brought it and we found the real stone just where I had stuck it, right under the clasp.
'Let this be a lesson to you, Cynthis,' I said. 'Don't try to pull any more phoney business with Insurance Companies.'
She smiled. She was really adorably pretty.
'I won't, sir,' she said. 'And now would you please get out of my bedroom so that I can dress? I've got to go to England.'
I got up.
'I wouldn't if I were you,' I said. 'There's a very nice race meeting at Auteuil to-day. I think that you should lunch with me and we might possibly find a winner.'
'What's the good?' she pouted. 'I've got no money to back a horse with—even if I wanted to.'
I grinned.
'Here's your four thousand francs,' I said, handing her the money. 'I've worked for you for nothing. Let's see if you can find a winner to put that on!'
'I can't take that,' she said. 'After all, two thousand of it was your fee, and you blackmailed me for the other two thousand—it's all legally yours. Besides, I don't see why I should make money out of you. I don't know that I like you!'
'Have no scruples, Cynthis,' I said, 'because the Insurance Company paid me ten thousand francs this morning for my services over this little matter.'
She raised her eyebrows.
'What a man!' she said. 'Well—go away and I'll think it over. I might come racing with you.'
I SHOULD know better. Mind you, it isn't much comfort to say that to myself now. But there's no doubt about it. This time the drinks are on me.
My lawyer says with luck I'll get away with about four years. He calls that luck!
Mind you, there's a funny side to this story. I suppose I can say with a proper amount of pride that I was considered the best confidence man in the Western Hemisphere; but when I told you that the drinks were on me I meant what I said, because the funny part of this thing is that I've never been picked up for doing a job in my life, and now they have got me for something I didn't do. Put yourself in my place and try to laugh that one off.
It was a lovely June afternoon. The car was singing along the road, with the engine making that purring note that delights the heart of a keen motorist, and I'm a keen motorist. It was a new car which I had just run in. I'd got my luggage back in the boot. I had two hundred and fifty pounds in my pocket and I had thirty-six thousand pounds in the Bank. Tell me what more a man could want. But, of course, I wasn't satisfied. I had to look for a little trouble.
I can remember whistling to myself when I drove down the road past the Eastbourne Golf Club. I thought I'd stay at Eastbourne just for two or three days. I'm rather fond of Eastbourne. When I got into the town I was thirsty and I needed petrol. So I pulled up at a hotel garage. While they were filling the tank I walked round the corner into the cocktail bar where I ordered a whisky and soda. I was drinking it when somebody touched me on the arm. I looked round. It was Gringall.
Gringall, I should tell you, is a detective-inspector at Scotland Yard. He's always been rather disappointed about me.
He said: 'Hullo, Steve, How's it going?'
I said: 'It's going very nicely, Gringall. Have a drink?'
He looked at me for a moment; then he said:
'All right. I will.'
I ordered him a double whisky and soda. Then he said:
'You know, Steve, you ought to retire.'
I smiled at him. I asked: 'Really! You tell me why.'
He lit a cigarette and looked at the glowing tip of it before he answered. Then he said:
'You're slipping, Steve. You're losing your technique.'
I looked horrified.
'No?' I said. 'Not really! Tell me how and when and why.'
He finished his whisky, and put the glass down.
'I'll tell you,' he said with a grin. 'Two weeks ago you "took" an American millionaire named Marvin for thirty-six thousand pounds. He was staying at the Savoy Hotel. You used one of the oldest plays in the world to separate that mug from his money. Your technique was so old-fashioned that it almost creaked.'
I raised my eyebrows.
'You don't say, Gringall?' I said, but I wasn't feeling quite so good.
'You don't have to worry, Steve,' he went on. 'I'm going to admit that I was very disappointed about that Marvin. We'd got the whole case in the bag. I was looking forward to coming round to see you, to tap you on the shoulder and take you inside. And then at the last moment he walked out on us. He wouldn't prosecute.'
My heart had been thumping considerably. Now it began to slow down a bit.
Gringall said: 'You're a lucky cuss, Steve, aren't you? It seems that Marvin had just got engaged to a very nice American girl about half his own age. He thought that if he prosecuted you, when she read the story in the papers she'd laugh her head off at his being taken for a sucker with that old trick you pulled on him, so he decided he'd rather lose the thirty-six thousand pounds and let you get away with it. You are a lucky fellow, aren't you, Steve?'
I didn't say anything. Then I asked him if he'd have another whisky and soda. He said no. I ordered one for myself. I felt I needed it. Was that a close shave or was it! I can remember picking the glass up off the bar and looking through the amber-coloured liquid inside it, and saying to myself: 'Steven, my lad, this is where you do retire.'
I said to Gringall: 'Well, life's a funny thing. Anyway, nothing matters, Gringall, because I definitely am retiring.'
He grinned at me. He's got an insolent sort of grin.
He said: 'Oh, yes! What are you going to do?'
'I'll tell you,' I said. 'I'm going to stay here in Eastbourne for a few days. Then I'm going to look round for a nice little cottage somewhere. I'll take it, live there and play golf for six months, decide exactly what business I'm going into. I rather think I'll go into the car business. I like motor-cars.'
He said: 'No, you won't, Steve. You're a confidence man. You've been a "con" man for fifteen years, and you've got away with it. It's the salt of life to you, that game. You could no more give it up than I could give up being a "blue-ink". You'll go on being a "con" man and you'll slip up, and the next time you slip, as sure as God made little green apples, I'm going to have you.'
I finished my drink and said: 'No, you won't, Gringall. I told you I was retiring. In a year's time I'll probably be lord of the manor some place, and you'll touch your hat when you see me and curtsy.'
He put on his hat. As he turned away, he said:
'Like hell I will! I'll have you inside, Steve, before I'm through with you.'
I'D been at the Hotel Splendide for three days. I'd played
golf and driven the car round and enjoyed life generally.
It was on the Thursday, when I was having lunch, that she came into the dining-room. She was the sort of woman who made you catch your breath. I'll try to give you an entirely inadequate description of her.
She was tall—but not too tall—and willowy, and she moved with an amazing grace that is quite indescribable. She had ash-blonde hair, violet eyes—big violet eyes with long lashes—and a rather serious and remote air that was quite alluring in these days of too obvious 'oomph'.
I'd seen her arrive just before lunch, and I suppose it was my professional curiosity that made me interested in her. That she was well blessed with this world's goods was obvious. She arrived in a 1939 Rolls sports car and her luggage was right off the top shelf.
I was standing in the hotel foyer when she came in. She went to the desk to register and, as she took the pen in her hand, she saw me. She looked at me for what seemed a very long time. Then she put the pen down and turned and looked through the doorway out towards the sea. Then she picked up the pen and registered. She was smiling—a lovely remote sort of smile. Then she went over to the lift.
When she'd gone I walked over and looked at the register. I saw that she was Miss Paula Galloway and that she lived at Haddenham. Then I went in to lunch.
The dining-room at the Splendide is a big room. There were quite a few people in it, and they were all so busy looking at her when she came in that I thought I might as well look too. She was one of those women that you couldn't help looking at, even if it is rude to stare.
The head-waiter showed her to a table in the corner. When she sat down she looked round the room and she saw me. She looked straight at me, and then, without any hesitation, she came straight across to my table and sat down in a vacant chair.
She said: 'Godfrey—my dear—after all these years!'
I ask you! So I was Godfrey. I was her dear, and after all these years!
I summoned up my most attractive smile, my most charming voice. I used all the technique that I usually bestow on the less cultured American gents that I used to separate so successfully from their bankrolls.
I said: 'I'm terribly sorry to tell you that you're making a mistake. My name isn't Godfrey, and it's just part of my appalling luck that I'm not your—'
She interrupted me. She put out her hand—the ring on the engagement finger was worth about a thousand pounds—and said softly:
'My dear, you are Godfrey. The tragedy is that you don't remember. I couldn't be mistaken about you; it's impossible. I've known all these five weary years that I'd find you. I came over from Haddenham just to be here for a few days and think about you, and because we'd been so happy here.'
Well—I stalled. How could I help it? As a 'con' man of ten years' standing, I had to. This might be the best bit of business I'd ever done.
'Tell me something,' I said to her. 'Why are you so certain that I'm Godfrey? And why wouldn't I know that I was Godfrey? Why do I think I'm someone else, Miss Galloway?'
She turned the full blast of those two lovely eyes on me and smiled. I felt my toes beginning to curl up. She said very softly:
'How do you know I'm Miss Galloway—Godfrey?'
I looked at the hotel register,' I said brightly.
'Exactly,' she said. 'And you did that because you were interested in me. D'you know why you are interested, darling?'
I didn't say anything. She held out the finger with the engagement ring on it, and she said:
'You were interested because your brain was trying to remember. It was trying so hard to remember that you are the man who put that ring on my finger, the man whom I was about to marry. The man whom I'm going to marry. And how do you like that, sweet?'
I said: 'I like it a lot, but I still don't understand. And I still don't believe I'm Godfrey.'
She smiled again. Then she murmured:
'Of course you don't. Please listen carefully to what I have to say.' I listened.
'Five years ago', she began, 'you and I were engaged to be married. I think we were the two happiest people in the world. Your name was and is Captain Godfrey Ferring. You had fought with the Australians in the first part of the Great War and afterwards with the Royal Flying Corps. You were dead keen on flying.
'When I met you, you were very broke and terribly attractive—as you still are. You spent your last money on my engagement ring.' She flashed a quick smile at me. 'But you had a first-class carburettor which you had invented, and when I showed it to Daddy, he said at once that it was a winner, and that he'd use it on the new racing-car the factory was building then. Of course you don't remember that Daddy agreed to pay you twenty thousand pounds for the patent rights in the carburettor, and you don't remember—my poor darling—that you haven't received a penny of the money, and that it's still waiting for you.'
I pinched myself under the table. This was good!
She looked away towards the window. I could see the tears in her lovely eyes.
'It was on a Sunday,' she went on. 'You'd come down to the Hall at Haddenham for the week-end. You came on the Friday. We were to be married on the following Thursday. We were both walking on air. Our whole future was assured. Daddy had arranged for you to go into the factory and work on the car-designing side. We had a credit with the firm of twenty thousand pounds for your invention. Daddy thought you were a first-class person, and I adored you.'
I nodded. I was beyond words.
'On the Monday afternoon you left the Hall at Haddenham and went over to the car works at Fairley. The test car had been finished—the one fitted with your carburettor. In spite of the fact that Williams told you that the car wasn't right for the road, you insisted on taking it out. Williams says that you drove the car round the test ground at about forty and then swung out on to the main London road. He says that you accelerated hard, and that you must have been touching ninety miles an hour, when—when you skidded and went into the hedge.'
She hesitated a moment and looked down at the table. I saw a tear fall on the cloth.
'The car was smashed out of recognition,' she went on after a moment, 'but you disappeared. No-one had heard or seen anything of you until to-day.'
I got it. I said, looking a little vague: 'I suppose I'd lost my memory?'
'Exactly,' she said. 'It was quite obvious that you were not physically hurt. You couldn't have been, because obviously you'd got out of the wreckage and walked away. You weren't anywhere near when Williams got there with the ambulance.'
She paused, and I did some of the fastest thinking I've ever done in my life. I thought that it would put the seal on a career not entirely unsuccessful if I could get away with this. I wondered if I could.
She continued: 'We did everything 'to find you. Daddy was distraught. I'—she shrugged her shoulders a little pathetically—'went into a nursing home for four months. I was nearly mad with grief. We advertised; we employed detectives; we did everything.'
She smiled. That smile illuminated her face. Her eyes shone.
'And now I've found you,' she said. 'And I'm never going to let you go—never.'
I thought I'd do a little investigating. I said:
'But supposing all this was possible. Surely I'd have contacted someone who knew me. Friends or relations—'
'You had no relations, Godfrey dear,' she said. 'Both your father and mother died when you were very young. I can remember you telling us that practically every man you'd known in the old days was either killed in the Great War or had died since. You had no-one except us. There was nobody to recognize you. And Heaven only knows where you got to.'
I made up my mind. I was going to chance this. This was going to be my supreme effort. I thought back. Four and a half years ago I'd gone to India. I'd been there two years before I'd come back to England.
According to her this Godfrey Ferring had no relatives, no friends. If it was good enough for her to think I was Godfrey, it was good enough for me to be Godfrey. All I had to do was to forget everything that had ever happened to me before I went to India—a process that would suit me admirably—and there was a first-class job in her father's car business waiting for me, with a big cash balance in hand.
And she loved me. I ask you—what a set up!
I waited for a minute or two. I tried to look like a man who is struggling to remember. Then I said:
'You know it is a bit odd. Of course I'm not agreeing that I am Godfrey Ferring, but it's an awfully strange coincidence that I can't for the life of me remember what happened to me before I went to India four years ago. Whenever I try to think my mind shies away from the subject. The other odd thing is that directly I saw you I had the idea that I knew you, that I knew you awfully well.'
She turned the full power of those marvellous violet eyes on me. They were very soft and dimmed with unshed tears. She put her hand over mine. She said:
'Don't worry, darling. Everything's going to be all right for us. I'm here for three days, and then I'm going to stay with the Harneys at Clist Place—a few miles from here. But I shall cut short my visit. I'm going to telephone Daddy after lunch and tell him that I've found you. He'll be overjoyed, and then you and I are going to talk. We're going to have two marvellous days together, after which I'll go to the Harneys' for two or three days, come back here for you, and take you back to Haddenham. D'you see, sweet?'
I said I saw. After all, what could I lose!
THOSE two days before she went to her friends were marvellous.
I shall always remember them. We bathed, played golf, and walked.
She wouldn't let me drive the car. She said she was going to stop
me driving altogether; that she'd nearly lost me through a car,
and she wasn't going to chance it happening again.
I tell you it was wonderful.
She'd been in touch with her father, and the old boy had sent me a wire that must have cost him about four pounds telling me that he and his wife were overjoyed that their little girl had found me and was going to be happy again.
Between you and me and the gate-post, after two days, even I had almost begun to believe that I was Godfrey Ferring. In point of fact, I was busily engaged in trying to forget that I'd ever been anyone else.
Paula was an amazing girl. She was quite marvellous. She had everything. Kissing that woman was like going straight to Heaven..
On the morning of the third day, I put her and her luggage in the Rolls. She slipped in behind the steering wheel and put her hand in mine as I stood by the side of the car.
She said: 'I'll be back for you in three days. Have your things packed. I'm going to take you home, darling. While I'm away you're not to drive the car. Remember, you promised. Neither of us is going to drive cars after we get home. I'm afraid of them now. I shall leave the Rolls at the Harneys' and you can garage your car here. We'll go back home by train. Is that a bet?'
I said it was a bet. She put her face up to be kissed.
'Au revoir, darling,' she said. She let in the clutch. Then: 'Sweet, do something for me.'
I said I'd do anything for her.
'The last time I saw you,' she said, 'before the smash I mean, you were wearing rather well-cut grey flannel trousers, a cream silk shirt with a soft collar, a dark brown crepe de Chine tie, a brown Harris sports jacket, and brown suede shoes. I always adored you in that kit. While I'm away, do get some things like that, and wear them when I take you home. It will be just like old times.'
I said that would be easy. I said I'd jump off the end of the pier with weights tied round my neck for her. I would have, too!
Then she went off.
I gave myself a double whisky and soda and drank a toast to Captain Godfrey Ferring, after which I went into the town, found the best tailor, and ordered the kit she'd asked me to get.
THREE days afterwards she came back. We lunched together and
arranged to catch the three-thirty for Haddenham.
By this time I had definitely got myself into the Captain Godfrey Ferring idea. I had made up my mind that I was going right through with this thing, that I was going to marry Paula, that I was going to work like the deuce in her old man's racing-car business, and generally be a first-class fellow. Every time I looked at her I found myself regretting that I'd spent so many years of my life working the old 'con' act'.
We arrived at the station at three-fifteen. The train, it seems, was going to be late, but we didn't mind. We waited on the station surrounded by miles of luggage, enjoying every second of each other's company.
Suddenly she said: 'Oh, good heavens, I am a fool!'
I asked why. She said:
'Would you believe it? I've left my dressing-case—a new crocodile one—at the Harneys'. Daddy gave it to me just before I came down. I hate being without it. What a fool I am. I shall have to ask them to send it on—unless—'
'Unless what?' I asked.
'Unless you'll be a positive angel and take one of the hired cars that waits outside this station and go and get it for me. Clist Place is only three miles from Eastbourne. I'll wait here for you, and we can catch the four-fifteen. What do you say, darling?'
I said: 'Of course, I'll go right away.'
She said: 'The driver is sure to know the Harneys' place. When you get there just tell the butler or someone that you're Captain Ferring and that I've sent you back for my crocodile dressing-case. And don't dawdle, dear, because we must catch the four-fifteen.'
I said I wouldn't dawdle.
I went outside the station, found a car and went off. It didn't take long to get to Clist Place, which, by the way, was a big country house of the old style. I rang the bell, and when the white-haired butler opened the door, I said my piece.
He asked me to come into the hall and wait. He went off and reappeared five minutes later with the dressing-case. He apologized for the fact that everyone was out.
I felt glad that they were. I wanted to get back to Paula.
I went back, handed over the case, was thanked prettily, and we caught the four-fifteen. We got a carriage to ourselves and behaved like a couple of kids, laughing and talking and making fatuous jokes. We were amazingly happy.
We had to change trains at Ashford. Paula, carrying her crocodile dressing-case, went off to try and get a carriage in the new train, while I superintended the transfer of our luggage.
It took a few minutes to find a porter and get the luggage moved, and then I walked down the platform looking for her.
I couldn't find her. She had disappeared into thin air!
I was fearfully upset. Five minutes afterwards the train went off, and I stood there on the platform, more distraught than I'd ever been in my life. She wasn't on the train, and she wasn't on the platform. Where was she?
Eventually I made up my mind to go on to Haddenham, introduce myself to her people, and explain what had happened. I felt that she must turn up, that it was impossible that anything could have happened to her. After all, young women don't disappear into thin air on Ashford Railway Station.
I had a word with the station-master, who informed me that there was no through train to Haddenham, and that the only thing I could do would be to take the slow train to London and catch a later direct train to Haddenham from there.
I took it. I think it was the most sorrowful train journey I've ever had. No Paula, no luggage, nothing. And I was worried sick about her.
The journey seemed interminable. It was seven o'clock before we pulled in at Charing Cross. Somehow, for some unknown reason, I had an idea that Paula might be waiting for me at the barrier.
She wasn't. I gave up my ticket and was walking across the station when someone put a hand on my arm. I turned and saw Gringall. He was grinning.
He said: 'Well, Steve—I said I'd get you, and I've got you. I told you you were slipping.'
I said: 'What do you mean, Gringall? I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Oh, no?' said Gringall cynically.
He handed me a copy of the Evening News. I looked at it and saw:
IMPUDENT JEWEL ROBBERY
'An amazing jewel robbery took place this afternoon at Clist Place, near Eastbourne.
'Soon after Miss Paula Galloway and her fiancé—who had called for her earlier in the afternoon—had left Clist Place by car, an individual who bore the most amazing resemblance to Captain Ferring arrived at the house and said that he had come back for Miss Galloway's dressing-case, which she had left behind and which she required.
'The rest of the family were out, and the butler went to Miss Galloway's room, found the case and handed it over. It contained over twenty thousand pounds' worth of jewellery belonging to Miss Galloway.
'The bogus Captain Ferring then left in a hired car.
'Earlier in the day a woman, described as being "very beautiful", had spoken to one of the gardeners working in the grounds and elicited the fact that Miss Galloway and Captain Ferring would be leaving that afternoon.
'There is no doubt that this woman was working in conjunction with a housemaid in Clist Place, who left suddenly that morning and who was able to inform the thieves that the real Miss Galloway had arranged to send for her dressing-case containing the jewels the next day.
'That the ruse was carefully planned was indicated by the fact that the bogus Captain was wearing clothes identical with those worn by the real Captain Ferring.
'An early arrest is expected.'
Gringall said: 'Come on, Steve. It's a pity I met you when you arrived at Eastbourne. Directly the local police telephoned the Yard this afternoon, I knew it must be you who had pulled the job.'
I sighed.
'Gringall,' I said, 'can we have one drink before we go?'
He said certainly we could. We went into the buffet. When we'd got our whiskies and sodas I said:
'I don't expect you to believe what I say, and I know I haven't got a dog's chance of getting out of this; but I'm going to tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
'Some woman has taken me for a ride. And what a woman! I can't even dislike her for it. She must have noticed me at the Splendide at Eastbourne and seen that I was Ferring's double. She pulled the fastest act on me that's ever been pulled. She kidded me into getting the same clothes as those that Ferring usually wears. She kidded me into going to Clist Place and asking for that dressing-case. And then, when she'd got it, she walked out on me. Believe it or not, that's the truth.'
Gringall grinned.
He said: 'You tell that to the horse marines, Steve. And if I were you I wouldn't use that story as a defence. It'll get you an extra year. If I were you I'd just plead guilty and do your time like a gentleman.'
I didn't say anything. What was there to say? But whoever she was, that girl had something. She had brains, nerve and looks. She had all the things I thought I had.
When I come out, I hope I'll meet her again. I won't even be annoyed with her.
To do a thing like that to me—of all people! I should know better!
WHEN Flagg crossed the room to say good-night, Leonore looked at him quicky. She thought he was rather attractive in an undefinable way.
He said: 'Thank you very much for a good party, Mrs. Adams. I've enjoyed myself.' She laughed softly.
'I wonder if that's really true,' she said. 'Most of the time you seemed to be standing in the corner watching people.'
Flagg said: 'I like watching people; but I've talked quite a lot, too. I spent quite seven minutes talking to the delightful Mrs. Soames.'
'I bet I know what you were talking about,' said Leonore. She picked up a silver cigarette box, handed it to him. The gesture indicated subtly that she did not want him to go. 'I expect you were talking about Adela, weren't you?' she went on.
'You're quite right,' he said. 'We were talking about Adela. Tell me, Mrs. Adams, is she really as stupid as they say?'
'She's much worse than that,' she said. 'Adela just can't stop talking. We call her "The Unconscious Fifth Columnist".'
'Why?' asked Flagg.
'Well, she just has to ask questions,' said Leonore Adams. 'If Adela sees a man in uniform she immediately subjects him to the most vivid cross-examination. And she's so beautiful that the poor dears invariably tell her what she wants to know. Then she goes around town telling all her friends.'
Flagg said: 'That is rather stupid, isn't it? I wonder why she does it? You'd think she could find something else to talk about besides the war.'
Leonore nodded.
'Tell me—why are you so interested in her?' she asked.
'It's an odd reason,' said Flagg, 'but Mrs. Soames was telling me that Adela Vallance was a great friend of Jimmie Daynor. I know Jimmie very well—a most serious person. I should have thought that his influence might have done something to stop Adela talking so much.'
Leonore said: 'Well, heaven knows he's tried. He's lectured her about it till we thought their friendship would be definitely broken off.'
'I can imagine Jimmie doing that,' said Flagg. 'I should think a woman who talked would be like a red rag to a bull to him. But I should like to meet her.'
Leonore said: 'Well, you always can.' She looked at her watch. 'It's a quarter to eight now. I bet you any money you like', she went on, 'you'll find Adela at this moment in the cocktail bar at the Hotel Le Due. She's usually there at this time.'
Flagg said: 'I shall be passing the Le Due. I'll look in and take a peek at Adela.'
'Do,' said Leonore. 'Introduce yourself. She's very beautiful. She's worth taking a peek at.'
Flagg said: 'I like looking at beautiful women. That's why I've enjoyed talking to you. Good night! And thanks once again for the party.'
He smiled at her and went away. She stood, for a moment, looking after him, thinking that he was a little odd—but rather nicely odd.
Flagg stood looking through the glass doors of the lounge at the Hotel Le Due into the cocktail bar.
So that was Adela. He began to grin a little. She was beautiful enough, he thought. Beautiful and slim and well turned out and fatuous. Every gesture she made, every expression proclaimed a silly self-satisfaction as egoistic as it was unintentional.
She was talking to three young men, one in khaki—a subaltern—and two junior naval officers. They were all smiling gallantly and, apparently, hanging on her every word.
Flagg wandered into the small bar. He walked casually up to the counter and ordered an old-fashioned. He drank it slowly and listened to Adela's well enunciated and nicely clipped words.
'He said it was too marvellous,' she said. 'Too breath-taking for words. He said it had got every aeroplane gun beaten to a frazzle, that it worked on an entirely new principle—something to do with a gas condenser or something—I'm sure you know what I mean. Then he told me about another wonderful thing. He told me that...'
Flagg walked out of the bar, through the lounge and into the telephone box at the end of the fawn carpeted passage. He dialled a Riverside number. After a moment he said:
'Is that you, Dizzy? Look, I'm at the Le Due. Yes—she's in the cocktail bar.... In about half an hour. Yes... I think we might chance it. I'll open the ball for you if I get the chance. All right.'
He hung up. He walked back into the deserted lounge and sat down in a position from which he could watch the glass doors of the cocktail bar.
Five minutes passed. Flagg could see the two naval officers making their adieux. They passed through the lounge and disappeared.
Flagg got up, walked through the glass doors into the bar. He walked slowly towards Adela. The subaltern looked at him casually. Flagg thought possibly the young man was relieved at the interruption in the conversation.
He said: 'I'm sorry to interrupt, but surely you're Mrs. Vallance?'
Adela smiled brightly.
'Oh yes,' she said.
'I'm Hubert Flagg,' he continued. 'Leonore Adams said that if ever I saw you here I was to introduce myself.'
She said: 'And how did you know it was me?'
'Leonore said that you were very beautiful,' said Flagg seriously. 'When I saw you I knew that you must be the Mrs. Vallance.'
'I see,' she said. 'I think that's a very gallant speech. Won't you sit down?'
The subaltern looked at his wrist-watch. He said:
'By jove, I must be going. I'm on duty to-night, and it's past eight now.' He got up. 'Good-bye, Adela,' he said. 'See you again soon. I've loved talking to you.'
'So have I,' said Adela. 'I mean to say, it's been marvellous, hasn't it, talking about all those things—so interesting...'
The subaltern nodded to Flagg and went away. Flagg sat down in an armchair opposite Adela. He said:
'Leonore Adams said you were beautiful, but I didn't expect that you were going to look as wonderful as you do.'
Adela bridled. It was obvious that she liked flattery. Flagg thought she was not going to be too difficult.
She murmured archly: 'I can see Leonore has been talking about me. What else did she say? And could I have a gin and Italian, please?'
'Of course.' Flagg beckoned to the sleepy waiter and gave the order.
'It was because of what Leonore said that I wanted to talk to you,'
Flagg went on. 'She said you were an awfully interesting person as well as being a very beautiful one. She said you can talk intelligently about the war. I think the war is an absorbing topic'
'It's the topic,' said Adela. 'You know, I think it's awfully silly all this Government business about "Careless Talk Costs Lives". Just as if the repetition of anything one heard could possibly hurt anybody.
'Another thing, my opinion is that if everybody was to talk about all the wonderful inventions—just as much as they could—you'd have such a wave of super-optimism sweeping over everybody that the Fuehrer would probably throw his hand in.'
'I think you're right,' said Flagg seriously. 'I think it's quite stupid—this campaign of keeping quiet—trying to turn us all into a nation of dismal jimmies who simply keep quiet.'
He turned his wrist over casually so that he could see the time. He said:
'There are so few people who are interested in the things that matter. It's a pleasure to meet someone who is intelligent. The man I'm waiting for, for instance—he'd enthral you, Mrs. Vallance. He's travelled, cultured, good-looking, supremely intelligent. He's a Cuban.'
Adela said: 'What a wonderful person! I'd love to meet him. I think all South American men are so vital. Most of the men one meets to-day are so ordinary, aren't they?'
'Look,' said Flagg, 'Santos D'Ianazzi is coming through the lounge now.'
She looked. Flagg noted with approval that she caught her breath.
D'Ianazzi came through the glass doors into the bar towards them. His shoulders were broad and his body tapered down to a thin waist and lean hips. His hair was black and waved beautifully. His face, tanned to a superb olive, was long and his chin was pointed with a dimple in the middle. His eyes were brown. He had thick black lashes. His forehead was broad and intelligent. He gave an impression of controlled strength, of agility both mental and physical. His clothes were perfect.
Flagg said: 'Santos, this is Mrs. Vallance—Mrs. Adela Vallance. She's a very intelligent person as well as being a very beautiful one. You two people ought to take to each other.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'I would like not'ing better than to talk for a long time to Mrs. Vallance. How unfortunate I came here to ta-alk beezness weeth you.'
Flagg said: 'You don't have to talk business with me. I've settled the business about that cigar shipment. I'll probably see you to-morrow. Can I drop you anywhere, Mrs. Vallance, or would you rather talk to Santos?'
D'Ianazzi said: 'If you take the so beautiful Mrs. Vallance away from me I promise you I will keel you at the first opportunity. I theenk she is the mos' wonderful thing I have ever seen in my life.'
Adela said: 'Mr. D'Ianazzi, you are as big a flatterer as Mr. Flagg. I mean to say I expect you say that to every woman you meet.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'I do not meet many women, seńora.'
Flagg said: 'Well, I must go. Forgive me for running away, Mrs. Vallance. I'm looking forward to seeing you again.'
Adela said good-bye vaguely. Flagg could see that all her interest was for D'Ianazzi. He nodded to the Cuban, walked out of the bar, through the lounge, out into the street. He was smiling, showing his white teeth.
It was nine o'clock, Adela Vallance and Santos D'Ianazzi were
sitting on the settee in the small bar at the Le Due. D'Ianazzi
said softly:
'So really, Adela, you do-on't like theese war. You ha-ate it. Tha-at's why you ta-alk about it.' He smiled sympathetically. I know,' he said. 'It ees a sort of escape. You ha-ate it all so-o much, it frightens you so-o much, that the only thing you can do is to ta-alk about it all the time. Tha-at way you theenk you can do away weeth some of the fear.'
She said: I think you're right. All my friends think I am just sort of scatter-brained. Do you know,' she went on, fixing him with her blue eyes, 'do you know that they actually had me up at Scotland Yard and gave me a warning. They said I had been discussing one of the best kept secrets around every cocktail party in the West End. Well, I'm not that sort of person at all. You've guessed that?'
D'Ianazzi nodded.
'Of course, of course!' he said. 'The trouble weeth you is you are much too sensitive a person to be in theese atmosphere of the war the whole time. How I wish it were possible for you to get away from it.'
'I'd love to get away from it,' said Adela. Her voice changed. D'Ianazzi thought that for once she was actually speaking the truth. She went on: I don't think anybody's ever understood me before. Directly I met you I knew that you'd that thing that most South Americans have—an understanding of women.'
D'Ianazzi's face was very sympathetic. He said:
'I kno-ow. You are too sensitive for thees—too sweet. It ees a sha-ame that you should be here.'
'Well,' said Adela. 'What can I do? Where do I go? How does anyone escape?' She leaned forward, put her white slim hand on D'Ianazzi's knee. 'Where does one escape to?' she said.
D'Ianazzi said: 'You should live in Cuba. Cuba is sooch a beautiful country. There ees marvellous scenery, lovely theatres, beautiful flowers. The sunsets are so gorgeous they would ma-ake your heart ache. The sea ees always blue. No-obody ees ever bad-tempered.' He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. 'I'm homesick myself,' he said.
Adela sighed.
She said: I think I'd give two fingers off my right hand if I could go to Cuba.'
D'Ianazzi smiled at her. He looked straight into her eyes.
'You could go-o to Cuba if you wa-anted to. But first I theenk you ought to ha-ave a leetle drink. What you wa-ant is a champagne cocktail—a large one. Forgive me for a moment.'
He went to the bar. Adela could hear his soft voice with its delightful accent giving precise instructions to the bartender.
When he returned the waiter was just behind him with the tray. D'Ianazzi handed her a glass.
'Drink tha-at,' he said. 'You will feel so-o much better.'
Adela sipped the champagne cocktail. She said:
I think you're awfully funny. I mean to say, you say the strangest things, don't you? You said I could go to Cuba. Tell me how I can go to Cuba.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'It ees quite simple. I will tell you now.'
He began to talk to her. His voice was very low, very soft. Adela was feeling pleasantly odd. She thought, possibly it was the effect of the champagne—plus Santos. She listened attentively. A strange feeling of well-being permeated her mind. The war which she feared was beginning to recede into the background.
He said: 'You mus' understand tha-at in Cuba there ees a great friend of mine. Well, a couple of years ago he had a leetle trouble with his wife and she went awa-ay. She went to Paris. My friend wanted to get a divorce but he could not because he did not know anything about her—where she was or wha-at she was doing. It ha-as always been an understood thing between heem and me that if ever I should co-ome across her I would let heem know.
'Well, I have co-ome across her. I've found out all about her. I've got all the evidence tha-at my friend wa-ants. Now the theeng ees to get it to heem. You see, I'm not going ba-ack to Cuba for another six mont's. That's a lo-ong time to waste.' He smiled. 'Especially when one wa-ants to marry somebody else as my friend does.'
'I see,' said Adela. 'You want somebody to take the evidence back by hand?'
D'Ianazzi nodded.
'Well, it's a delightful idea,' said Adela. 'I'd love to do it. But you're not seriously suggesting, Santos, that I go to Cuba merely to carry a letter containing legal evidence to your friend? What should I live on while I was in Cuba?'
D'Ianazzi nodded.
'Tha-at would be all right,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, my friend would have a first-class job for you in Cuba. He ees a man of importance. He would look after you.'
He looked at her quizzically.
'Do you mean to tell me', he said, 'that eef it wa-as arranged that there would be a nice position for you in Cuba and you ha-ad not to worry about money—do you mean to say tha-at you would go?'
Adela swallowed hard. Then she said with a little gulp: 'Yes, I would!'
'All right,' he said. 'Then it ees settled, Adela. Leesten! First of all about the money thing...'
He put his hand into his outside jacket pocket and produced a leather case. He opened it. Adela saw in the case, nestling against a white velvet background, one of the most superb diamond bracelets she had ever seen in her life.
D'Ianazzi said: 'You can ta-ake that bracelet with you. You ca-an wear it. When you get to Cuba anybody will give you the equivalent of about seven t'ousand pounds for it. After you ha-ave seen my friend and given heem the letter which I shall give you, he will arrange a ver' nice job for you—something not deeficult—something that ees well paid.'
Adela nodded. She felt almost hypnotized. 'I see,' she said. 'And when do I go?'
'The day after to-morrow,' said D'Ianazzi, still smiling. 'There ees a bo-oat leaves tha-at day. I ha-ave friends here and I ca-an let you ha-ave a passport. So-o all you ha-ave to do is to be ready to leave the day after to-morrow. Can you do tha-at?'
'Yes,' said Adela triumphantly, 'I can.'
'Well, tha-at ees all settled,' he said. He produced a notebook. 'Will you write down your address?'
Adela took the pencil, wrote down her name and address. She handed the book back to D'Ianazzi. He said:
'I'm going to give you the letter and the bracelet now. I am doing that because I shall not be seeing you again. Some time to-morrow evening I shall send you round your passport and your steamship ticket and a letter of introduction to my friend.' He showed his white teeth in a smile. 'Isn't it marvellous to be going to Cuba?'
'Wonderful,' sighed Adela.
D'Ianazzi put his hand in the left side pocket of his jacket. He produced a thick heavily-sealed manilla envelope. It was addressed to Seńor Enrico Faragos at an address in Havana. He handed it to Adela.
'Now there ees the letter with the evidence in it for my friend. I'm going to ask you to be ver' careful and not lose it.'
'You needn't worry,' said Adela. 'I shan't lose it.'
'There ees only one other thing,' said D'Ianazzi. I don' theenk it would be a good theeng if you were to tell your friends that you were going off suddenly to Cuba. I would ha-ate anything to turn up to stop you going.'
'You needn't worry about that,' said Adela. 'I'll be as silent as the grave.'
D'Ianazzi got up. He said:
'Thees has been wonderful. One of those sudden, unexpected and quite delightful meetings that end in a marvellous adventure. When I come ba-ack to Cuba in six mont's' time, I shall find you settled there and 'appy and comfortable. And then you and I mus' dine together and ta-alk about a-all the theengs we have not had time to ta-alk about now.'
'Yes,' said Adela. 'That will be wonderful, won't it?'
D'Ianazzi held out his hand. When Adela put hers into it he carried her fingers gracefully to his lips.
He said: 'Adiós, seńora.' He went away.
She watched him walk across the lounge and disappear. Her heart was pounding violently. She was almost gasping with excitement. After a few minutes she got up. She walked quickly out of the bar, along the passage and into the telephone booth. She dialled a Park number, gave a little gasp of relief when Jimmie Daynor's voice said: 'Hallo!'
Adela said breathlessly: 'This is Adela. Listen, Jimmie, you've often told me I was a fool. Everybody's told me that I talk too much, that I can't keep quiet—that I'm a menace. All right. Well, I've done something that all you clever people couldn't do.'
Daynor said casually: 'Well, you seem fearfully excited about it, Adela. What have you done now?'
'This evening', said Adela, 'I met a Cuban. His name's Santos D'Ianazzi. He was introduced to me by a man called Flagg, who seems to know Leonore Adams.'
'Go on, Adela. I'm all ears,' said Daynor.
'Well,' said Adela with a gulp, 'the Cuban was most interesting. I told him I was fed up and bored with everything, and he said I ought to go to Cuba. He said I could go to Cuba. When I asked him how, he told me that if I took an envelope he's given to me with some papers inside it to a friend of his in Cuba, he'd arrange my passage; arrange, for me to have a job there. He's even given me a most wonderful diamond bracelet so that I should have money when I got there. I ask you!'
Daynor whistled softly.
'It certainly sounds odd,' he said. 'You think he's a spy or something, do you?'
'I'm certain of it,' said Adela. 'I sensed it immediately. You can take it from me that there are plans or something in this envelope. He knows jolly well it's got to be delivered by hand, and he thinks I'm fool enough to do it. What ought I to do, Jimmie?'
Daynor said: 'Just get into a taxi-cab and come over here. Bring the envelope with you.'
'All right,' said Adela. I'll do that. I'll come at once. Isn't it exciting?.' I mean to say it's too exciting, isn't it?'
It was half-past ten when Adela arrived at Daynor's apartment. Her fingers, tightly clasping D'Ianazzi's thick envelope, were trembling.
Daynor opened the door. The sight of his broad honest smiling face comforted Adela.
He said: 'So you've arrived, carrying the secret plans with you! Come in, my dear.'
He stood aside while Adela walked across the cool hallway into the sitting-room beyond.
She said: 'Well, you can laugh at me if you like, Jimmie, but there is something very odd about this business.'
'Maybe,' said Daynor. 'Help yourself to a cigarette, Adela, and let me look at this mysterious envelope.'
She gave him the envelope. He slit one end of it, pulled out the packet of papers.
After a minute he said: 'My god!'
Adela, in the action of lighting a cigarette, looked up.
'Well, what is it, Jimmie?' she asked.
'This beats everything,' said Daynor. 'You were dead right. This is one half of a set of plans of a new Bofors gun they are making here. By jove, Adela, you really have pulled one this time. You'll probably get an O.B.E. for this.'
Adela said: 'Well, there you are. So I'm not such a fool after all, am I, Jimmie?'
'On this occasion you certainly are not,' he said.
He stood, the papers in his hands, looking out of the window, thinking.
'What ought I to do, Jimmie?' said Adela.
'Don't worry,' he replied. 'Leave those papers with me. I'll look after this business from now on, Adela. Now tell me exactly what happened to-night.'
She told him. He listened attentively. Eventually, when she had finished, he said:
'Well, all you have to do is to go quietly home and wait the arrival of your passport and the rest of the stuff. Whoever brings these things round to your place will be working with D'Ianazzi. The police will have that gentleman taken care of and I expect he'll tell the whole truth to save his skin.'
Adela said: I suppose you'll see the police at once about this, Jimmie?'
Daynor said: 'Don't worry, my dear. I'll see that Mr. Santos D'Ianazzi is taken care of.'
Adela sighed.
'It's been a marvellous adventure,' she said. I shall have something to talk about for the rest of my life.'
The doorbell rang. Daynor went into the hallway and opened the door. After a few seconds, Adela, her eyes wide, saw him as he backed into the sitting-room with both hands held above his head. Over his shoulder she could see the smiling face of Santos D'Ianazzi and, behind, the saturnine Flagg.
D'Ianazzi said: 'I'm so-o sorry to be such a nuisance, Adela. But you see we are not such fools as you theenk. We knew Mr. Daynor was a friend of yours and we knew that eef you ca-ame here to heem immediately after I had left you, you were not going to play square with us. We thought tha-at you might like to ta-alk too much to Mr. Daynor.' He looked at the table on which the opened envelope and the papers lay. 'We were right,' he said.
Flagg shut the door. Daynor, his hands still in the air, was standing in front of the fireplace. D'Ianazzi, smiling, stood in the centre of the room, an automatic pistol levelled at Daynor.
Adela sat where she was and gasped.
Daynor said: 'You can't get away with this sort of business in this country, D'Ianazzi.' The Cuban grinned.
'Mr. Daynor,' he said, 'you'd be surprised. Shall I tell you wha-at we are going to do?'
'I'd like to hear,' said Daynor evenly. D'Ianazzi shrugged his shoulders.
'It ees mos' unfortunate for you and the beautiful Adela,' he said pleasantly. 'You see, we ha-ave to get tho-ose papers out of the country quickly, which ees not so-o easy. These Engleesh are not such fools as people theenk. Well, Adela looked like a good chance, but I wa-as not quite certain, so-o we waited to see wha-at she would do. It ees mos' unfortunate for you.'
Daynor asked why. D'Ianazzi said:
'We ha-ave got to keel you—bo-oth of you.' He turned to Flagg: 'Hubert, ta-ake Adela away. Ta-ake her into the next room or somewhere while I fineesh our friend here.' He was smiling. Adela opened her mouth to shriek, but before the sound came Flagg hit her across the mouth. He led her out of the room. Adela went quietly.
D'Ianazzi looked at Daynor. Daynor began to speak, the words tumbling out of his mouth. He said:
'You can't get away with this. They'll get you in no time. You must be mad.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'On the co-ontrary I am ver' sane. They'll certainly get us eef we don't deal with you and the beautiful Adela. So-o we are going to do it.'
Daynor gulped. He said:
'You'd better listen for a minute. You're working for U.A.I., aren't you? If you were after the plans of that Bofors gun I'll bet any money you like that Schnimnel is your boss.'
D'Ianazzi whistled softly through his teeth. He dropped the barrel of the gun. He said:
'Theese ees mos' interesting. Go on.'
Daynor relaxed. He said:
'Well, what's the odds? I've been working for Schnimnel for three years. I know how badly they want those plans. The joke is I've got the first half of 'em. I thought they might be able to reconstruct the second half with what I've got. I was getting out with it to-morrow. My passage to Portugal is arranged.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'Theese ees what you call a scream! Theese ees the thing that happens once in a million years. All right! I'm going to believe you eef you can prove it.'
Daynor went to the writing desk by the window and brought out a packet of papers. They were the first half of the plans. Underneath them was a code book. He handed them both to D'Ianazzi.
D'Ianazzi said: 'That ees good enough. So-o you're the man that Schnimnel used to call Johnnie?'
Daynor said: 'That's right.'
D'Ianazzi went on: 'Theese ees lucky. You can go to Portugal and you can ta-ake all the papers with you.'
'All right,' said Daynor. 'But what about Adela?'
D'Ianazzi said: 'Adela has go-ot to die. She knows too much. We'll tell her tha-at the whole thing was a jo-oke to try and stop her ta-alking. We'll let her go now but we'll keel her later to-night. I theenk you have been ver' clever being such a good friend of Adela.'
Daynor said: 'You bet I have. The information I have got from that woman is nobody's business.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'All right!' He called out: 'Hubert, bring Adela in.' Flagg came in. He was still holding Adela.
D'Ianazzi said: 'It ees a sha-ame that we ha-ave frightened our poor Adela so much. Let her go, Hubert, the jo-oke's over.' Flagg got it. He grinned happily.
Daynor said: 'Sorry about this, Adela. This is all my fault. I thought it was time that someone taught you a lesson. I'm sorry if we've frightened you. Maybe you'll remember this.'
Adela said: 'You beast, Jimmie. Oh, you beast! I'll never forgive you for this. You gave me a terrible shock. You've made a fool of me.' She looked at D'Ianazzi. She said: 'And I hate you!'
D'Ianazzi said: 'Not really—just for the moment. Pliz to give me ba-ack the bracelet I ga-ave you, eef you don't mind.'
Adela fumbled in her handbag. She found the bracelet, handed it to D'Ianazzi. Then she walked out of the flat. The hall door slammed behind her.
Flagg said: 'What's the idea?'
D'Ianazzi grinned.
'Would you believe it?' he said. 'Hubert, theese ees Johnnie. Schnimnel thought a lo-ot of Johnnie. The other jo-oke ees he's got the first half of the Bofors plans. He ees taking the lot to Portugal to-morrow. Johnnie's no fool.'
Flagg said: 'Well, I'll be damned. What a break!'
D'Ianazzi lit a cigarette. He inhaled the tobacco smoke slowly. He said:
'You've got to ta-ake care of that woman Adela, Hubert. You'll have to feex her some time to-night. She ees dangerous—she ta-alks too much.'
Flagg said: 'I'll fix her.'
D'Ianazzi said: 'So long as you let me know to-morrow that Adela's been ta-aken care of. That ees all I wa-ant to know. Well, good night, Johnnie. Nice journey to you.'
He went out of the flat, Flagg at his heels. When the front door closed quietly behind them Daynor fit a cigarette, stood in front of the fireplace smiling.
Across the road was a telephone box. D'Ianazzi went inside. He dialled a Whitehall number. After a moment he spoke. Strangely enough he spoke perfect English. There was no trace of a Cuban accent. He said:
'Good evening, sir. This is Dizzy speaking. It came off. We got at Daynor through Adela Vallance. We pulled that stunt on him that we arranged. He talked. He's got the complete set of Bofors plans and he thinks he's going to Portugal to-morrow to deliver them...'
He listened while the voice at the other end spoke, then he hung up. He came out of the telephone box into the cool night air. He said:
'Well, Hubert, it came off, didn't it?'
Flagg said: 'Daynor must be chortling. I suppose they'll shoot him within the next fortnight.'
'Probably sooner than that,' said D'Ianazzi, whose name was Jones. 'It's a lovely night, isn't it, Hubert?'.
They began to walk towards Knightsbridge.
Adela Vallance swallowed two aspirin tablets, drank a little water. She leaned out of bed, picked up the telephone from the bedside table. She rang a number. She said:
'Is that you, Leonore? Well, I've got something absolutely amazing to tell you. I'd never believe that a man could be so unkind; I have had the most fearful joke played on me and by the last person in the world—Jimmie Daynor. You'll never believe it when I tell you. I mean to say—listen to this....'
Opening Music
Fade out into
(Switch in sound of distant music, noise of
swing doors opening,
sound of footsteps as Hilary Pyke crosses the Club vestibule.)
CHARLES. Good evening, M'sieu.... I am so glad to see you.... Every day I ask when you are coming back to thees country....
HILARY PYKE. I am glad to be back, Charles.... I hope you've got some food for me to eat....
CHARLES. In spite of the fact that the food situation is not so good we can still give you a good dinner.... And how is South Africa?
HILARY. Not too bad A most uneventful voyage back... not even a torpedo.... Perfectly uneventful... except for one thing....
CHARLES. Except for one thing...! I expect that one thing was a beeg gamble, hey, M'sieu? You still play the cards...?
HILARY. When I get a chance... nobody's got any money these days....
CHARLES. Look at Sally in the cloakroom.... See the smile on her face as she recognizes you, M'sieu.... She always tell me that it give her great pleasure to hang up your hat.... She thinks you are ver' handsome....
HILARY. Really.... Well, you can hang it up now, Sally.... Tell me, which is it... my—good looks or the ten shillings tip I usually give you... that makes you happy to hang my hat up...?
SALLY. Oh, it's you, of course, sir....
HILARY. Of course.... Well, here's your ten shillings, Sally....
SALLY. Thank you, sir....
CHARLES. Your usual table in the corner is vacant, M'sieu.... Come this way....
(Switch in louder music as they approach Hilary's table.)
Voila, M'sieu.... And will you leave your dinner to me.... I will do my best....
HILARY. I know you will, Charles... I leave it to you....
(Slight pause as Charles turns away from table.) (Calls.)
Oh, Charles....
CHARLES. Yes, M'sieu...?
HILARY. Who is that woman in black with the party at the table over there...? I don't think I've ever seen her here before.... She's marvellous, isn't she?
CHARLES. She is ver' beautiful, M'sieu... wonderful... such lovely violet eyes and that golden hair....
HILARY. I know.... I can see all that for myself.... But who is she, Charles?
CHARLES. That, M'sieu... ees Mrs. Southwick.... She comes here a great deal... although jus' lately we have not had the pleasure of a viseet from her.... But, M'sieu... are you sure you don' know her? See... she ees looking at you... she ees coming thees way....
HILARY. Perhaps she thinks she knows me, Charles.... Anyway, I think you'd better make yourself scarce....
CHARLES. Very well, M'sieu... I will order your dinner....
HILARY. Please do.... And, Charles, send me a Benedictine, will you...? Wait a minute... send two Benedictines.
GERALDA SOUTHWICK. Good evening, Mr. Courvoisier....
HILARY. Good evening.... I'd be delighted if you'd sit down....
GERALDA. Thanks, I will.... Mr. Courvoisier, I expect you're thinking this is all very mysterious... but I won't keep you in doubt for long.... I'll introduce myself.... I'm Mrs. Geralda Southwick.... How do you do, Mr. Courvoisier?
HILARY. How do you do, Mrs. Southwick...? Before I ask you how you know I'm Courvoisier, may I tell you something...?
GERALDA. You may tell me anything you like... providing it is something that a nice woman ought to hear....
HILARY. It is.... It is something that the nicest woman is going to hear.... When I came into this place to-night and saw you sitting over there I thought you were the most charming, delightful, beautiful... the most superb woman I'd ever seen in my life.... And how do you like that...?
GERALDA. I like it very much.... I like to hear that sort of thing.... Incidentally, I am very glad to hear it from you....
HILARY. You are...? Tell me why....
GERALDA. Because it's going to make my job a little easier, I think.... You see, I want to talk business with you.... I've told my friends at my table that you're an old acquaintance that I haven't seen for years.... They'll be quite prepared for me to spend a little time here.... Is it in order for me to talk business...?
HILARY. Perfectly.... But first of all I should like to know how you knew that I was Sam Courvoisier...?
GERALDA. I came back from Cape Town on the Harlech Castle three weeks ago.... You were on that boat too, weren't you?
HILARY. Yes... that's right....
GERALDA. One day I was standing on deck talking to the first officer.... Just at that moment two men... taking their constitutional... came up on the boat deck.... One of them was tall, slim, good-looking and distinguished... the other rather short and unhappy-looking.... The first officer saw me looking at them and he said... 'You may well be interested in that pair, Mrs. Southwick....'
HILARY. Did he tell you why...?
GERALDA. Yes... he told me they were Sam Courvoisier and Hilary Pyke... he said Courvoisier was the finest card-sharper that the world has ever seen... that he is a wonder and that they have been trying to catch him at it for years, but have never succeeded....
HILARY. What else did he tell you, Mrs. Southwick?
GERALDA. He told me that Courvoisier... your good self... has been working one of the boats on that Line just once a year for years... that he picks his man and makes a lolling....
HILARY. Ah.... Very interesting.... And who was the man you saw with Courvoisier...?
GERALDA. The first officer told me the other man was Hilary Pyke, who is a fool with too much money and a fondness for gambling.... When Pyke got on the Harlech Castle he had twenty thousand pounds... but by that time he had only five thousand.... Courvoisier had taken him for the other fifteen thousand in the smoke room the night before over a game of poker with no less than five people watching them.... The first officer said Courvoisier is just too amazing with cards... nobody knows how he does it....
HILARY. Oh dear... life is very hard... isn't it...?
GERALDA. Is it, Mr. Courvoisier...? It seems to me that you find life very easy....
HILARY. That's as may be... but you didn't come over here to tell me just that... did you?
GERALDA. No.... I told you that I came over here to talk business... big business....
(Switch in clink of glasses, etc., as waiter puts drinks down on the table.)
WAITER. Your Benedictines, M'sieu....
GERALDA. Do you always drink two Benedictines at once...?
HILARY. No... one was for you....
GERALDA. So you ordered it as you saw me coming to your table...? Hilary. Yes, why not...? If you hadn't stayed I could always have drunk it....
GERALDA. You've got a good nerve, haven't you, Mr. Courvoisier...?
HILARY. Haven't you?
GERALDA. Yes.... Let's drink to our respective nerve, shall we...?
(Pause.)
HILARY. Now for the business....
GERALDA. Yes, Mr. Courvoisier... let you and me get down to brass tacks.... I'm going to say to you what I have to say without any frills at all....
HILARY. I feel this is going to be very interesting....
GERALDA. It is.... Now listen... you are a card-sharper... aren't you, Mr. Courvoisier? A card-sharper who I understand is absolutely supreme in his class.... Well, I need your services... I'm prepared to pay for them, and... (she laughs)... I must admit that I'm getting a definite kick out of this adventure into crookery.
HILARY. So it seems.... Please go on....
GERALDA. It's all very simple... The position is just this.... Six months ago I brought an action against my husband... a divorce action....
HILARY. Did you get your divorce, Mrs. Southwick?
GERALDA. Yes... the decree will be made absolute in about five months' time...
HILARY. What a fool your husband must be to lose a woman like you....
GERALDA. Thank you, sir.... He's rather a peculiar man... he's a gambler... he drinks too much and is generally very stupid.... Also at the moment he decides not to like me very much.... I suppose that's natural....
HILARY. I think it most unnatural....
GERALDA. Thank you again.... Now the point is that he has quite a lot of my money at the moment... somewhere about twenty-three thousand pounds... and he has an idea that he's going to be revenged on me for divorcing him by getting rid of most of it.... He knows perfectly well that when the decree is made absolute the Court will make an order for payment of alimony to me....he has made up his mind that when that decree is made absolute he's going to be quite broke so that there'll be nothing for me... he's getting rid of every penny he can....
HILARY. Nasty fellow....
(He sighs.)
GERALDA. I don't believe you're listening to me.... What are you thinking about, Mr. Courvoisier?
HILARY. I was thinking that you have a delightful mouth.... I was also thinking that I want to call you Geralda.... I think Geralda's a marvellous name.... It trips off the tongue.... May I call you Geralda?
GERALDA. Please do.... I should like you to.... And I'll call you Sam.... Let's be friends, Sam....
HILARY. All right... So we're friends and I suppose that the next thing you're going to tell me is that I've got to get your husband into a card game and see that he loses plenty...?
GERALDA. That's very nearly right, Sam... but not quite.... You won't have to worry about getting Arthur into a game as you call it... because I can arrange all that myself.... And I don't want all the winnings either.... I only want half.... After all the labourer...
HILARY. ...is worthy of his hire....
(A pause.)
All right.... I'm game.... But I think it only fair to tell you that I shall check up on you.... I shall assure myself that you are Mrs. Geralda Southwick and that the other trimmings are also correct....
GERALDA. But of course.... I expected you'd do that... that's only business, isn't it? One must be businesslike about a thing like this, mustn't one, Sam?
HILARY. Of course, my dear.... But don't you think we ought to discuss details.... This sort of business needs careful planning, you know....
GERALDA. I know....
HILARY. There's a definite technique in the profession of card-sharping.... It's all very well to rig a pack of cards and do a little clever dealing, and perhaps a spot of sleight-of-hand, aboard ship.... It's another matter when you're playing with wise guys who are used to gambling for big money and have their wits about them....
GERALDA. I know.... I've thought about that too.... We'll talk about that now.... I've got a scheme all prepared....
HILARY. The devil you have I think you're a pretty cool customer, Geralda.... For a nice woman you seem to be a complete little twister....
GERALDA. Why not? It's my money, isn't it? And who are you to talk about twisting, Sam? Think of the dozens of people you've done down over the card table in your lifetime.... I'm surprised and ashamed at you... you nasty crook.... Really I am...!
HILARY. Like hell you are... You're taking a twist yourself this time.... However, we'll let that go.... Shall we dance...?
GERALDA. All right.... I believe you want to squeeze me, Sam.... I bet you're a first-class dancer and that you know just how to hold a woman and just the right sort of sweet nothings to whisper into her ear while you're dancing.... Don't you, Sam?
(The tempo of the music becomes a little marked. They begin to dance.)
GERALDA. You're a marvellous dancer, aren't you. Sam? And I was right... you do know just how to hold a woman.... You're rather attractive, aren't you, Sam...?
HILARY. You flatter me.... And even if all those things were true they wouldn't get me any place with you.... Well... not really... I'm just a poor card-sharper that you've picked up and are employing to do a job of work you want done.... When I've done it you'll throw me aside like a broken reed....
GERALDA. Hush.... You mustn't talk to me like that... and you're not to make love to me, Sam.... You know a girl has to be so careful when she goes out with strange men... hasn't she?
HILARY. You've got your nerve talking to me about a girl having to be careful when she goes out with strange men.... What about me? Just remember, if you please, that it was you who approached me in this matter.... I'm the person who ought to be careful....
GERALDA. Oh... do you really think so, Sam...?
HILARY. Geralda, you dance divinely.... I haven't enjoyed dancing so much for years... but I think we ought to stop.... Let's go back to our table and you can tell me about this scheme of yours....
GERALDA. All right....
(They walk back to their table.)
HILARY. (Calls.) Waiter.... Bring some coffee and some Benedictine.... And I don't want my dinner....
GERALDA. Oh, my poor Sam... you haven't had your dinner.... You must have it.... I'll watch you eat.....
HILARY. No, Geralda.... I'm much too excited to eat.... Besides, I should be looking at you the whole time... not even realizing what I was doing.... I'll do without dinner....
GERALDA. Listen, Sam... I told you that I'd arranged everything in my mind.... Well, that's quite true.... Everything is in our favour....
HILARY. Go on, my dear....
GERALDA. First of all that man you did down on the boat coming over.... Hilary Pyke... is a friend of a friend of my father's.... We've never met him, but I believe he had a letter of introduction to my papa and he was coming down to spend a week-end with us.... Papa got a letter from him yesterday, from Southampton, saying that he couldn't manage it.... Papa was disappointed because, as you know, Pyke has a reputation for being a big gambler....
HILARY. Is your father a gambler too...?
GERALDA. Oh... Papa likes a game of poker... and Arthur, my husband, will do anything to gamble for big money... more especially now that he's playing with my money....
HILARY. What is it you want me to do...?
GERALDA. All you have to do is to telephone to Mayfield... it's in Kent... to-morrow... and say that you are Hilary Pyke and that you've altered your plans and that you'll be able to go down after all
HILARY. I see.... Go on, Geralda....
GERALDA. Well... next day... Friday... you pack your bag for a long week-end and go down.... Arthur—my husband—is going to be there to have one of his periodical rows with Papa who, of course, is fed up with the divorce, and when you arrive there will be the makings of a first-class poker school.... You understand, Sam dear...?
HILARY. I understand perfectly, Geralda....
GERALDA. Now you were talking about technique.... Well, that's going to be fearfully easy.... I'm going down to Mayfield to-morrow to get some clothes because I'm staying with friends in Devonshire over the week-end so as not to meet Arthur.... When I get down to Mayfield I'm going to prepare the ground for you....
HILARY. And how do you propose to do that...?
GERALDA. All the playing cards in the house are kept in Papa's drawer in the library.... I'm going to unseal all the packages very carefully and mark all the cards for you.... You'll have to tell me just how you want that done.... Then I'll re-seal all the packages and when you sit down to play it will be rather like shelling peas, won't it, Sam?
HILARY. What a woman...! You're the answer to the card-sharper's prayer.... If anything... it ought to be easier than shelling peas....
GERALDA. There's just one thing.... If you can manage it, don't win too much from Papa or any stranger who may be playing.... Arthur is your prey... take him for everything you can....
HILARY. Don't worry.... I'll leave him with his shoelaces and he'll be lucky if he has those...
GERALDA. You are a dear, Sam.... You really are rather thrilling. '... Now... I ought to go.... I've so much to do and so have you....
HILARY. Such as....
GERALDA. You've got to make all those enquiries about me.... So I'd better give you some details about myself.... You, on your part, will please give me the address of your apartment in town and your telephone number so that when I come back from Devonshire on Monday I can meet you and collect my half of the swag.... Don't you think...'.
HILARY. All right... here's a card.... And I'll send round first thing in the morning exact particulars of how I want the cards marked.... Where are you staying, Geralda...?
GERALDA. At the Savoy.... Would you like to drop me?
HILARY. Would I? Of course I would.... (Calls.) Waiter... charge my bill.... Come along, Geralda....
(Fade out music and switch in entrance hall and traffic noises.)
Here's our cab.... In you get.... (To cab-driver.) Savoy Hotel, driver, please....
(Switch in noise of cab door shutting and cab driving off.)
GERALDA. You know, Sam.... I rather like you.... I think you're sweet.... I think that if I was somebody else I might be rather keen on you.... I think you've got a very good line and I like the way you talk.... I think you're really rather nice, Samuel... even if you are a card-sharper....
HILARY. Do you really think so, Geralda...?
GERALDA. Yes, I do, Sam....
HILARY. Well... there's only one thing to be done....
(He kisses her.)
GERALDA. Sam... you've kissed me...!
HILARY. Well...?
GERALDA. That's what comes of trying to do business with crooks.... The first time I looked at you I knew that I shouldn't be safe with you.... But I still think you're sweet and I do like being partners with you....
HILARY. I'm glad you're glad. Personally I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not a bit mad to come into this thing with you.... Still my best friends have told me I'm rather a half-wit where women are concerned....
GERALDA. Never mind, dear... so long as the other half of your wits work you ought to be fairly safe....
HILARY. Thanks, Geralda.... Well, here we are....
(Switch in noise of cab stopping)
GERALDA. Now you understand what you're to do... telephone through to Papa at Mayfield to-morrow saying that you are Hilary Pyke...that you will be able to come down for the week-end Go there on Friday... the cards will all be ready for you if you let me know how you want them marked.... And I wish you the best of luck....
HILARY. Thank you, Geralda.... Now supposing our scheme comes off.... and I don't see why it shouldn't... I'll get in touch with you.... I'll telephone you....
GERALDA. Don't you worry about that, Sam.... You ought to be back in town on Monday midday.... I'll ring you up at two o'clock exactly.... I shall want to know what has happened....
HILARY. All right.... I'll expect you to telephone me at my rooms on Monday at two o'clock.... Oh, by the way... there's something I think you ought to know....
GERALDA. What's that...?
HILARY. I think you're marvellous.... Good night....
(Switch in noise of cab driving off.)
(Slight musical interlude to denote passage of time.)
Fade into
STACEY VANDELYN. I say... this is terrible... isn't it? Jevons... you'd better bring some more whisky.... Jevons. Yes, sir....
MERVYN SOMERS. Well, Stacey... this card room has seen some money change hands, but I doubt if it's ever seen a run of luck like Pyke's....
WALTER RENNY. Absolutely astounding.... You must have won something like twenty thousand pounds, Pyke... haven't you?
HILARY. About twenty-one thousand I think.... I must say my luck's been amazing....
ARTHUR SOUTHWICK. Amazing...! Damned amazing I call it.... Well, Stacey, this isn't so good... is it? Fancy having to fork out twenty-one thousand at a time like this.... Phew...!
VANDELYN. Well, Arthur, it looks like the hand of fate.... If Pyke hadn't won it you'd get rid of it somehow else.... You know you've been spending money like dirt....
SOUTHWICK (trying to control his temper). And exactly what do you mean by that...? I think sometimes you take advantage, Stacey....
VANDELYN (coolly). Really, Arthur...? And what do I take advantage of...?
SOUTHWICK. The fact that you're my father-in-law.... What I mean to say is...
VANDELYN. What you mean to say is, my dear boy, that what I have just said is entirely correct... and you know it.... We all know you've been throwing money away like dirt.... Why trouble to deny it...?
SOUTHWICK (angrily). Why should I throw money away like dirt... and in these days...?
VANDELYN. Because you don't want Geralda to have it.... It's no secret, my dear fellow... We all know that when Geralda's divorce is made absolute the Court would normally order that most of the money you have should go to her.... Everyone knows that you were heavily in her debt.... Well, you're getting a little cheap revenge, aren't you? You're getting rid of it so that you can't pay it over.... (To Pyke.) Now you understand, Pyke, why I'm not so perturbed because a guest in my house has won so much money from my son-in-law....
MERVYN SOMERS. It's awfully funny.... I haven't lost much... neither has Renny here... you've been the victim, Southwick....
SOUTHWICK. You're telling me...! What exactly do I owe you, Pyke?
HILARY. Twenty thousand seven hundred pounds....
VANDELYN. Don't you think it's time we stopped this game... it's nearly three o'clock....
SOUTHWICK. I'll tell you what I'll do, Pyke.... I'll play you one hand blind... five cards each and neither of us will draw to them... we'll bet on our cards
HILARY (casually.) That's perfectly all right with me....
VANDELYN. Well... so long as it's the last hand....
HILARY. Are we going to have a limit on the betting, Southwick...?
SOUTHWICK. No.... I've lost so much a little more can't matter very much....
HILARY. All right.... I'll shuffle and we'll cut for deal....
(A slight pause while he shuffles the cards.)
Cut, Southwick....
SOUTHWICK. Damn it... a two... I couldn't get a lower card, could I?
HILARY. Mine's a King... it's my deal.... (He deals the cards.) It's you to bet, Southwick....
SOUTHWICK. Do you mind if I bet a thousand...?
HILARY. I don't mind what you bet.... If that's your bet I'll raise it to two thousand....
SOUTHWICK (morosely). So it costs me three thousand pounds to see you.... Well, we've drawn no cards.... I believe you're bluffing, Pyke.... I'll make it five thousand....
HILARY (cheerfully). I don't want you to lose too much, Southwick, so I won't raise you..... I'll see your cards for five thousand....
SOUTHWICK. There you are... three Queens... I think I've won this time....
HILARY. Sorry.... I've got three Kings.... That's twenty-five thousand seven hundred, Southwick....
SOUTHWICK. So it seems.... Jevons, give me a whisky and soda.... I'll give you a cheque, Pyke....
HILARY (easily). I don't want to be difficult... but I'd be awfully glad if you could make it cash, Southwick.... You see, I'm going off in a few days... and it takes a week to clear a cheque.... Do you think you can do it...?
SOUTHWICK. What's the difference.... I'll get the bank to cash a cheque in the morning.... I'll give you the money before lunch.... Will that do?
HILARY. That would be marvellous.... Thank you, Southwick....
VANDELYN. Well, that's that.... I think we'll go to bed now.... One of the most exciting games I've ever had... we must have been playing for nine hours.... I congratulate you on your win, Pyke.... Is it the biggest one you've ever had...?
HILARY. Oh no.... I once won thirty-five thousand and on several occasions I've lost more than that.... It's just a matter of luck.... But I must say, sir, I shall always remember my week-end at Mayfield.
(Fade out voices.)
(Slight musical interlude to denote passage of time.)
(Switch in telephone bell.)
HILARY. Hello.... Is that you, Geralda? Yes, this is Sam.... Geralda, you look marvellous....
(Geralda's voice is heard coming through the telephone.)
GERALDA. Don't be ridiculous, Sam... how do you know how I look...?
HILARY. I can sense it.... I can almost smell your perfume.... Tell me... what frock are you wearing?
GERALDA. Oh... just a little black thing.... But don't talk about clothes... I want to know what's happened.... Is everything all right?
HILARY. By the sound of your voice one would imagine that you knew everything is all right....
GERALDA. Well, I do know... I've just telephoned through to Mayfield.... Papa's been telling me how you cleaned Arthur out for thousands. Papa says Arthur is tearing his hair and swearing that he'll never even look at another playing card.... Isn't it marvellous?
HILARY. Yes, it worked wonderfully... the way you marked those cards was a treat, Geralda.... I won twenty-five thousand seven hundred... and how do you like that...?
GERALDA (gurgling with delight). I like it immensely, Sam.... I think you're wonderful....
HILARY. Geralda.... I think you're marvellous....
GERALDA. Isn't it unique... we both think the other one is quite swell....
HILARY. Will you dine with me to-night, Geralda...?
GERALDA. I'd love to, Sam... I really would....
HILARY. I've a little surprise for you....
GERALDA. I've got a little surprise for you too....
HILARY. The Silver Perroquet at nine-thirty.... Is that all right...?
GERALDA. Yes... all right... (Pause)... And perhaps when we've settled our business deal I'll let you kiss me in the cab again.... Would you like that, Sam dear...? And I'll wear a new wonderful frock I've bought in anticipation of the share-out.... It's taken my last coupons.... It's a marvellous frock, Sam.... I bought it especially for you.... Au revoir, Sam dear....
HILARY. So long, Geralda, darling....
(He hangs up)
(Slight musical interlude to denote passage of time)
Fade out into
HILARY. Hello, Geralda....
GERALDA. Hello, Sam dear... you see, I'm not even late... I was here first waiting for you... aren't I a dear little Geralda...?
HILARY. Of course you are... it's quite wonderful, isn't it...?
GERALDA. It's divine.... I'm so happy.... Aren't you happy, Sam...?
HILARY. Well, my dear... I'm happy if you are... and anyway you look marvellous in that frock....
GERALDA. I'm so glad you like it.... Now tell me all about it.... How did you get on...?
HILARY. It was easy, Geralda... really it was rather like stealing a sleeping child's rattle.... I hadn't been at Mayfield for half an hour before I realized that all those men were just itching to get their fingers' on a pack of cards....
GERALDA. And Arthur...?
HILARY. Your husband, my dear, began to talk in terms of poker at dinner on Friday night, and your father was just as bad.... As for the other two fellows staying in the house they were obviously both blessed with this world's goods and itching to get a little more of them....
GERALDA. When did you commence playing...?
HILARY. On Friday night... after dinner... and we played again Saturday and Sunday night.... Geralda, you marked those cards perfectly.... I've never seen such a swell job.... I managed to get away with it without taking too much from your father and the other two.... I won three hundred and fifty from the three of them more or less on absolutely honest poker....
GERALDA. And how much did you take Arthur for...?
HILARY. Twenty-five thousand seven hundred pounds altogether... he just didn't know when to stop.... Twelve thousand of it was won at cut-throat between the two of us after the others had thrown their hands in... he hadn't got a chance....
GERALDA. So it seems....
HILARY. I came back to town this morning feeling fearfully bucked.... I was delighted to think I had saved so much of your money for you.... (A pause.)... Why, what's the matter, Geralda...? Is anything wrong...? I particularly hope there isn't.... I have a strong reason for hoping that...
GERALDA (coolly). What's your reason...?
HILARY. I had a strange idea.... I got it this morning.... I had an idea that when your divorce is made absolute I'd like to ask you to marry me....
(She laughs—a brittle hard
laugh—when she speaks her voice is
hard and cynical—now we're seeing the real Geralda
Southwick.)
GERALDA. Was that the surprise you had in store for me? If so, it's not so much a surprise as a shock....
HILARY (amazed). Why... what's the matter...? You seem altogether different....
GERALDA. What a damn fool you must be if you expect that I'd even listen to a proposal of marriage from you.... Haven't you realized that you are a crook... a card-sharper...? A man who is pointed out as being a rather smart swindler who's been clever... or lucky enough... not to have been caught out...?
HILARY. Oh yes... Geralda.... But I gathered that even you—Mrs. Geralda Southwick—were quite prepared to make use of the services of a card-sharper when you needed them....
GERALDA. Quite... which brings me to the little surprise I have for you....
HILARY. Do tell me.... I'm consumed with curiosity....
GERALDA. You've got an idea in your head that you are going to retain half the money you won from Arthur.... Well, you're not.... you're going to hand all of it over to me....
HILARY. You don't say...? I'm very interested... Tell me why....
GERALDA. I've caught you out.... This is a case of the biter bit.... For a long time you've been going about the world swindling people and making money by playing crooked cards.... Well... for once in your life someone has been clever enough to catch you . You're going to hand over all the money to me....
HILARY. Am I really...? Go on, Geralda....
GERALDA. If you don't.... To-morrow I'm going home to Mayfield.... When I get there Papa will tell me all about the game.... I shall get him to give me a description of you.... Then I shall put on an act and tell him that you were only pretending to be Hilary Pyke... that you were pointed out to me on the Harlech Castle... that you are really Sam Courvoisier... the card-sharp....
HILARY. And how will you explain my visit to Mayfield?
GERALDA. I shall suggest that you probably learned from Hilary Pyke that he had an invitation to go there... that he couldn't go... and that you went along and swindled them just as you swindled him on the boat....
HILARY. I see... What do you think will happen then?
GERALDA. I should think it would take Arthur exactly two minutes to get on to Scotland Yard after he hears that.... And if you know anything about the Yard you'll know they're really very efficient... that they'll have you within a month....
HILARY. So that's what's going to happen if I don't hand over to you all the money...? (Sighing.) What a beastly little crook you are, Geralda. But supposing when the Yard do catch up with me I tell them the whole story.... Supposing I tell them you were the instigator of the plot.... What then?
GERALDA. Do you think they'll believe you...? Of course they won't.... Your story will sound so absolutely fatuous that it wouldn't even be considered for a moment... and you know it.
HILARY. Yes... ordinarily you might be right.... But, Geralda... you made one fearful mistake to-night.... If you'd only listened to my surprise before telling me yours.... If you'd only listened to what I had to say... you could have got away with it easily....
GERALDA. I shall get away with it.... Still, I'm curious about your surprise.... Why ought I to have waited...?
HILARY. I was thinking about you this morning... and I came to the conclusion that you were rather marvellous.... I wanted to make you very happy.... I thought of a rather nice little plan....
GERALDA. And what was your nice little plan...?
HILARY. The other day... before I went to Mayfield... when I was making enquiries and checking up on you generally to make certain that you were Mrs. Geralda Southwick... I learned where your bank was.... I thought it would be rather a gesture to give you all the money I won from Arthur.... I thought it might boost me in your estimation....
GERALDA. I see... so what did you do...?
HILARY. This afternoon I walked round to your bank and I paid in all the money I won from Arthur... twenty-five thousand seven hundred pounds were paid into your account this afternoon, Geralda
GERALDA (sarcastically). Well... that makes it very simple, Mr. Cardsharper.... I've got all the money and that's that... That's what I wanted....
HILARY. Not at all, Geralda dear.... On the contrary, you are not going to have any of the money. You're going to get it from the bank and give it all back to me....
GERALDA. Oh, am I...? Why...?
HILARY. The reason is fearfully simple.... When Arthur paid up this morning... he did so after arranging to get the money from the Mayfield Bank.... You see I wouldn't take a cheque... I insisted on having notes.... They gave it to him in hundred-pound notes.... He handed them over to me just before I came up to town....
GERALDA. Well...?
HILARY. Well, my dear.... The Mayfield Bank will have the numbers of those notes... naturally....
GERALDA. Well...?
HILARY. Well, Geralda.... I paid the same notes into your bank... and your bank will have a note of the numbers too.... See...?
GERALDA (half-frightened). What do you mean...? I still don't understand....
HILARY. You can understand this... You're going round to your bank first thing in the morning... and you're going to draw out that twenty-five thousand seven hundred pounds and you're going to hand it to me....
GERALDA. Absurd... what nonsense I absolutely refuse....
HILARY (amiably). If you don't... my dear Geralda... I'm going down to Mayfield and I'm going to tell Arthur the whole story.... I'm going to prove it's true by showing him that the identical notes drawn by him from the Mayfield Bank were paid into your account here in London... and how do you like that...?
(Note.) Geralda's voice changes for the next
speech. She becomes
the sweet woman which she was in the first part of the play.
GERALDA (pleadingly). Oh, Sam dear... I have made a fool of myself, haven't I...? You've absolutely got me on toast, haven't you.... Can't we be friends... Sam dear....
HILARY. No, thank you, Geralda.... I'm cured of you.... Thank you very much for showing me the real you....
GERALDA (angrily). What an idiot I've been.... If I'd only let you talk first....
HILARY. Quite.... If you'd only listened to my surprise before you opened your blackmailing campaign....
(Geralda gets a sudden idea. She tries her last card.)
GERALDA. I still don't know that you're going to pull this off.... Supposing you do go down to Mayfield.... Supposing you do tell Arthur the whole story.... Well, he may be very angry with me... but you'd be in a funny position.... If you went down there you'd have to admit that you were Sam Courvoisier the card-sharper.... I don't know that you could carry out your threat.... Scotland Yard might still want you for something....
HILARY. You're, wrong again, Geralda.... You see, right from the beginning you made a bad mistake.... I'm not Sam Courvoisier the card-sharper....
GERALDA (aghast). What...? What do you mean...?
HILARY. My dear Geralda, you told me that when you were on the Harlech Castle the first officer pointed out to you the two men walking round the deck together.... One was Sam Courvoisier the card-sharper... the other was his victim Hilary Pyke.... For some reason best known to yourself you thought that the better-looking of the pair must be Sam Courvoisier the card-sharper... a natural thought, I suppose.... But you got the wrong man I'm not Sam Courvoisier... I'm the other man.... I'm Hilary Pyke....
Fade into closing music.
WHETHER you like to call it 'sex-appeal,' 'biological urge,' or merely 'a way with women,' is your own affair. Whatever it is, Mr. Alonzo MacTavish had it.
Perhaps it was the whimsical smile that played about his finely carved mouth. Possibly it was the suavity indicated by his green eyes-glass. Probably it was the sinister huskiness of his quiet voice. I don't know and I really don't care. I merely wish to indicate that he had this quality, plus, and knew how to use said quality. Also, he had a sweet nerve.
Having established that, let us now proceed to business. At four-thirty on a nice spring afternoon, Mr. Alonzo MacTavish, looking like all the flowers in May, in a well-cut suit of very small grey-brown check, a brown homburg hat, and yellow gloves, wandered into a famous teashop in St James's Street, and, having secured a quiet table in the little recess by the window, proceeded to order tea and to ruminate.
The rumination—which concerned a little matter of burglary that he was contemplating for the near future—was suddenly interrupted by a feminine but nevertheless incisively spoken sentence which emanated from the opposite side of the room. The sentence being. 'We girls must hang together!'
Alonzo looked up and saw, with amazement and surprise, a very handsome trio of ladies drinking tea at a table on the other side of the café and conversing in the most serious manner, on a topic which had brought their superbly coiffured heads very close together.
Permit me to introduce these ladies. They were:—Mrs. Enrico d'Aldardo, a chic and slim woman of amazing beauty. Mrs. d'Aldardo—whose name was Dolores—wore a perpetual smile and a flock of excellent diamond bracelets. Her husband was, I regret to say, serving a sentence of 15 years in Alcatraz after a one-sided argument with some G-men.
The second lady was Mrs. Looley Ferbes, a well-rounded blonde with taking ways. Mrs. Ferbes's husband was engaged just then in doing a five-year stretch in Maidstone over a matter of Ł5,000 worth of jewellery, which Scotland Yard suggested had been removed by him from its rightful owner.
Lastly, but not leastly, the third lady was none other than Mrs. Vic Felpins, whose husband—one of the most successful confidence men in Europe—had, I am sorry to say, suffered from a lapse of over-confidence and got himself knocked off by some rough French policeman, after having separated a hard-headed American business man from everything, except his sock suspenders.
Here, then, were three grass widows on whom no grass had ever grown.
Sipping his tea and thanking his stars that he was adequately concealed in the recess. Alonzo permitted himself to wonder what the conference was about. He also wondered, with a whimsical grin, what the three ladies would have said if they had known that he was watching them. For let us admit it, Mr. MacTavish had not been at all popular with any of the ladies' husbands when they had been in circulation. All three gentlemen had agreed to dislike Mr. MacTavish, owing to a little matter of a Ł10,000 haul which he had got away with and they hadn't.
But if the sight of the beauteous trio had surprised Alonzo, a still greater surprise was in store, for as he looked at them they were joined by a fourth lady who, he noted with a lifted eyebrow, was none other than the good-looking young woman who worked on the telephone switchboard at his Jermyn Street apartment.
Here was a plot afoot, and MacTavish thought with a smile, that he was prepared to bet all the tea in China to a bad egg, that he was the subject of it. He waited patiently until they had gone, then adjusting his eyeglass carefully he wandered back to Jermyn Street.
At 7.30 Alonzo, having got himself into a dinner suit, telephoned downstairs for two double Martinis and also requested the young lady on the switchboard to step up to his apartment on a matter of importance.
When she arrived he presented her with a Martini and a sweet smile, locked the door, and ordered her to sit down. 'All is discovered, my child,' he said. 'It was too bad that this afternoon I should be in that tea place just at the wrong time. I saw you come in and join the trio of youth and beauty.
'I am also prepared to lay a slight shade of odds that those three good-looking honey-pots have been paying you plenty to keep an eye on me, listen to my telephone conversations, report as to my arrangements for going away next Thursday, etcetera, etcetera. Am I right?'
She grinned. 'Dead right,' she said. 'They got me the job here for the express purpose and paid me Ł50 to do it.'
'Spoken like a true soldier,' said Alonzo with a smile. 'Do you think you'd like to confide in me?'
He walked over to a desk in the corner of the room, unlocked a drawer, and took out some banknotes. 'Here's one hundred pounds for you if you talk.'
She smiled mischievously. 'I've had their fifty,' she said. 'So I'll take your Ł100, talk, and get out while the going's good. I wouldn't like to be round when d'Aldardo finds out that I've been doing a squealing act.'
'Nice, sensible girl,' murmured Alonzo. He handed over the notes.
'Talk please,' he commanded.
'Those three have got it in for you,' she said. 'At least that's what they tell each other.' She smiled. 'They all seem to hate you so much generally that I shouldn't be surprised if they weren't a bit stuck on you individually. Well... they know what you're at. They know you're after that Rembrandt picture at the Hall at Mallows.
'I've told them that you're going from here on Thursday night, that you'd taken a room at the inn at Southing—near Mallows. They know you'll do the job that night because they know the family go away from Mallows Hall in the evening and that, except for the deaf caretaker, there'll be no one there. They know you're going down in your car, because I've told 'em you've got the garage checking it for return here that day.
'They know that you'll do the job about one o'clock in the morning, leave your car at the back of the spinney, drive back to Southing, pick up your bag, and come back here, that you'll park the Rembrandt in a safe place and get it over to France when the excitement's all over. They know all that.'
'Knowledgeable women,' murmured Alonzo. 'And what are they planning to do with me?'
She smiled at him wickedly. 'They're going to hijack you,' she said. 'They think you'll arrive at Mallows Hall for the job at 12.30. You've got to leave your car off the main road and the obvious place is the spinney. They're going to park their own car across the exit from the spinney, and when you try to drive out they're going to stick you up with a gun and grab the picture.
'And they tell me that Looley Ferbes is very good with a .38 automatic!'
'Thank you, sweetheart,' said Alonzo with a grin. 'Now, if I were you I'd pack my little bag and get out before Looley Ferbes gets at you. She might feel like doing a little target practice.
'Another thing,' he continued. 'I think you're rather nice. You never sounded to me like a telephone girl, and I think you should know that if you were the sort of girl who went about the place being kissed promiscuously. I'd kiss you promiscuously.'
'Thank you, sir,' she said. 'Well I am that sort of girl.'
'Excellent.' said Alonzo. 'That being so I shall kiss you promiscuously.' Which he did.
AT 9.30, Mr. MacTavish, who had got all the ladies'
telephone numbers from his informant, telephoned through to Mrs.
Looley Ferbes. 'Looley, darling,' he said, when she came on the
line. 'This is Alonzo MacTavish speaking. Listen to me, honey.
That girl you put in here lost her head and blew the works.
She's told me the whole story about your little plan to hijack
that Rembrandt.
'Well, Looley, in spite of the fact that your husband doesn't like me, I've always been crazy about you. You know that, don't you, Looley? There's something about you, sweet, that hits me for six. I'm absolutely insane every time I think of you.
'Now, then, honey, I want to prove to you that I'm for you. I want you to come in on this job and ditch the other two girls, see? I'm going to change my plans. Instead of going after that Rembrandt at midnight on Thursday, I'm going to do the job at 11 o'clock. You wait for me at Southing Station and I'll pick you up on my way back at 11.30. I'll split 50-50 with you. Will you, Looley...dear Looley?'
He said a lot of other things, too! After a bit, Looley said she would. Mr. MacTavish then got his breath and proceeded to telephone first to Dolores d'Aldardo and afterwards to Viola Felpins. He told them both the same story, although he varied the terms of endearment. He called Dolores a 'sweet little snowball' and he told Viola in his most winning way that she was 'a cherub from the skies, with everything it takes.'
Dolores took three minutes to think about it before she said she would. Viola didn't think at all. She just said, 'Oke,' and blew kisses through the telephone.
Alonzo hung up and got himself a whisky and soda. He thought it was just too cute the way these girls hung together!
After which he did some more telephoning. He rang through to an old friend of his who was in the antique picture business, and they had a long talk together. Then Alonzo heaved a great sigh and went to bed.
ON Thursday night at eleven o'clock, Mr. MacTavish, who
had carefully parked his car behind a five-barred gate on the
east side of Mallows Hall, made a well-chosen entrance through
the half-window in the butler's pantry, went up the main
staircase, picked the lock on the library door, removed the
Rembrandt—a not too large picture—from the wall,
carefully wrapped it—frame and all—in an oiled silk
cover, and then departed the way he had come. He reached his
car, put the picture in the luggage boot, and drove straight
back to London via Linley, carefully avoiding Southing Station.
He drove fast and was back in Jermyn Street at 12.15.
At 12.30 there was a knock on the outer door of his apartment. He went through the hall and opened the door. Outside, a nasty-looking automatic in her hand, stood Looley; behind her were Dolores and Viola. They looked very angry.
'We didn't think we'd worry the night porter,' said Looley. 'We just came straight up the stairs. Just back in quietly, will you?'
'Certainly, Looley,' said Alonzo. 'I'm sorry you're taking it this way. I'm sure I can explain.'
A gasp of amazement, mingled with rage and feminine spleen, issued from three charming mouths. 'You can explain, can you?' hissed Looley. 'You can explain! My God! Have you got your nerve! First of all you get that double-crossing little cat we put in here to blow the works on our scheme.
'Then you telephone each one of us and pull a big Clark Gable on us so that we don't know which way we're pointing, and can only say 'yes' like a lot of hypnotised high school kids, after which you proceed to ditch the lot of us, do the job, get back here, and then you have the nerve to say that "you can explain."'
She sank into a chair still holding the gun pointing ominously at Alonzo's stomach. 'I've a damn good mind to shoot you now,' she said. 'Just to see you wriggle.'
'Me too!' hissed Viola, who looked radiant in a striking evening frock under a Persian lamb coat. 'Here I am all dressed up to kill, sticking round Southing Station when these two girls arrive suddenly, one at each end of the platform, and I suddenly get it that you've pulled the same tale on the whole three of us. I could have torn you apart.'
'What's the use?' said Dolores, in her husky voice. 'I can't even get annoyed with him. But I could murder him with a knife and like it.'
'Pipe down, Dolores,' said Looley. She got up. 'Now, listen, Alonzo,' she said. 'We've all had enough of you. But we've made up our minds about one thing. We're going to have that Rembrandt. I've got the car outside and we're taking it away with us right now.
'Either you hand over that picture or I'm going to put a bullet into you where it'll keep you quiet for three or four weeks, and we'll take it. Well—what about it?' Alonzo shrugged his shoulders.
'Look, girls,' he said. 'Did you ever hear the story of the fellow who thought he was awfully clever, and he was such a mug that he even double-crossed himself? Well, you're looking at him. I'm him.'
He flopped into a chair. 'If you want revenge on me,' he said, 'you just listen to this one. I got my original information about this Rembrandt from Duboray in Paris. I paid him Ł100 to check on all details so that I was absolutely certain that this was the small Rembrandt—the one he painted four years before he died. Then I came ever here. I paid Jimmy Detingle Ł75 to go down to Mallows and case the job, to inspect the way in, photograph the windows, plan the exact location of the picture, and all the rest of it. Then I paid that girl you put in here as telephone girl Ł100 to tell me what you were at. That's Ł275, isn't it?' He looked at them. His face was a picture of abject misery.
'Listen. Dolores,' he continued. 'You know something about pictures. Well, take a look at that Rembrandt!'
Dolores went over and tore the covering from the picture. She held it up underneath the electric lamp.
'It's a fake,' she said. 'A damn good fake, that's all!'
She put the picture down and looked at Alonzo. They all looked at him. Then they began to laugh. They laughed and laughed. Looley put the automatic back into her handbag.
'Good-night, sweetheart,' she said. 'So the laugh was on you this time. And it cost you Ł275 for a fake. Hear me laugh!'
'Me, too!' said Viola.
'And me,' said Dolores.
They walked out of the flat—still laughing. Five minutes later the telephone rang.
'Hello,' said a feminine voice. 'Is that Alonzo?'
'Correct,' said MacTavish. 'This is he. Who are you?'
'I'm the girl who was the telephone operator,' said the voice. 'I've been standing in the doorway on the other side of the street watching your flat. I thought it might be interesting tonight. It has been. I saw the girls arrive looking very angry and I've just watched them leave. They were laughing themselves sick. I feel they've pulled a fast one on you. Are you still in one piece?'
'Luckily, yes!' said Alonzo. 'You see, they came up here with a gun, to get the picture. But Dolores has just discovered it's a fake.'
'Too bad,' said the girl. 'I fell for you. Do you think you could do with a little walk and some sympathy?'
'Could I?' replied Alonzo in his most sinister voice. 'I'll be down in five minutes—or perhaps you'd like to come up and help?'
'Doing what, sir?' she asked.
'Well,' said Alonzo, 'you see this Rembrandt ain't a fake after all. I got a friend of mine to get me a copy of the picture, and when I arrived back here tonight I took the picture out of the frame and stuck the copy over it and put the frame back again.
'You see, I felt when the girls met each other on Southing Station they'd feel annoyed and might come along here, so I had a little set ready for them.'
'Well—good-night,' said the girl.
'Oh, I say.' said Alonzo. 'You can't go out of my life like this.'
She laughed. 'I'll come to lunch tomorrow,' she said. 'But before I go I ought to tell you that I feel rather proud of being the only woman in the quartet who actually made Ł100 out of Mr. MacTavish.'
'Well,' he said. 'Talking about that, please don't try to spend any of it, will you? You see, those banknotes aren't very good. A friend of mine made them specially for me. Good-night, sweet!'
THERE are few men who are not affected by feminine beauty, and Mr. Alonzo MacTavish was not one of these few. No matter how hard-hearted a man may be, no matter how tough his constitution, it will be admitted, I'm sure, that he is something less than a man if he can stand by and see an extremely beautiful woman continue to lose her money at a roulette table without feeling a pang of something or other.
Also, when with each play and its accompanying loss, the face of the beautiful loser becomes more white, more drawn, her hands tremble more obviously, and the light of despair shines more strongly in her eyes, then it would be a poor fish of a man who would not feel it incumbent upon himself to do something about it—more especially when the lady is obviously alone. So it was with Alonzo.
MR. ALONZO MACTAVISH found the air of Monte Carlo most
agreeable, and his contentment was, no doubt, due to the fact
that for three days he had been winning steadily. His original
capital of 25,000 francs—the result of the sale of some
less important plans which he had skilfully extracted from the
portfolio of a member of the Andarian Embassy during a railway
journey—had now increased to somewhere in the region of
200,000 francs and, as he would himself have said, it is a poor
heart that never rejoices. One thing had marred his pleasure on
this particular night, and that was the appalling luck of the
charming girl who was playing on the other side of the table.
She was sufficiently striking to merit description. She was
tall, supple, and willowy. Her hair, of an exquisite Titian red,
lent additional whiteness to her superb skin, and—previous
to her bad luck—there had shone in her turquoise eyes a
light of contentment and happiness. But the happy light had
disappeared. Alonzo, doing a quick mental calculation, had come
to the conclusion that she must have dropped, during the
evening, somewhere in the region of 20,000 francs. It was also
quite obvious to him that she could not afford to lose the
money. Each time she played and lost, her despair became more
obvious. 'Faîtes vos jeux, mesdames, messieurs,' intoned
the croupier, and Alonzo backed rouge, manque, and
impair. He was interested to note that the lady staked
her remaining plaques on noire and impair. The
wheel spun, a number came up, and Alonzo saw that he had won and
that she had lost once again.
She gave a little despairing shrug and turned from the table. As she moved, it seemed to MacTavish that her eyes rested on his for a moment: that there was in them a pathetic appeal. As she moved away from the table, he swept his winnings into his pocket and went after her. She walked slowly from the room. Walking disinterestedly and discreetly a few yards behind her, Alonzo had ample opportunity of studying a walk which could only be described as patrician. There was a story here, he thought, and one which might even interest him.
By now she had reached the steps and walked slowly down to the casino gardens. Alonzo, standing on the top step, lighting a cigarette, suddenly saw the svelte figure crumple and fall by the side of a clump of rhododendrons. He threw away his cigarette, descended the steps in three jumps, and in a moment was beside her. A few yards away was a pergola and, inside, a garden seat. He stooped over the recumbent figure of the girl, picked her up and, carrying her into the pergola, placed her gently on the seat.
After which he proceeded to do those things which are supposed to revive fainting womanhood. He pinched her nostrils gently, fanned her vigorously with his handkerchief and, in a minute, was rewarded by the fluttering of an eyelid and a little gasp which betokened a return to this life. He dashed off and returned with a brandy and soda. She was still there, looking listlessly before her.
'I suggest a spot of this won't hurt,' he said, holding it out. 'Try it.'
She drank a little of the brandy.
'I'm fearfully sorry.' she murmured. 'It was awfully silly of me, but suddenly I felt so ill—life seemed so awful.'
Alonzo smiled in the half darkness.
'It can get that way,' he said, 'especially when one is losing a great deal more money than one can afford. I've been watching you. Supposing you tell me about it.'
She looked at him. Then she smiled an unhappy little smile.
'I suppose these gardens have heard the tale so often,' she said. 'But in my case, there isn't even an excuse. I'm afraid that I'm just a dyed-in-the-wool gambler, that I'm too fond of the tables, and that I've never had to think sufficiently about money to care. Well—I'm afraid I've learned my lesson this time.'
He nodded sympathetically. 'Perhaps I can help,' he said. 'Really, I'm rather a nice type of man—especially on occasions such as this. My name's MacTavish—Alonzo MacTavish.'
'I think you're very sweet, Mr. MacTavish,' she said. 'But I'm afraid that nobody can help me. I've been a fool. And more than that I'm rather inclined to think that I've been a criminal fool.'
'That,' said Alonzo, 'sounds very interesting. Tell me some more.'
She shrugged her shoulders. 'My name is Carnaway—Helen T. Carnaway, and my father is Cyrus Carnaway, who owns Consolidated Steel Manufactures in Pittsburgh—you may have heard of him?' Alonzo nodded. He had. Carnaway was a millionaire. 'I came over here in order not to marry a man I disliked,' she went on. 'I felt rather desperate, spent a great deal of money, and gambled heavily. Two or three days ago I wired my father for some more money.
'I imagined it would come like it always has in the past and, in the meantime, I needed some money to play at the tables.
'Well, I did a very silly thing. I have excellent credit here in Monte Carlo and I went along to Raymondes the jewellers, and selected half a dozen diamond bracelets. I had them sent to my hotel on approval. They were to be returned tomorrow morning.
'I was so certain that my father would wire the money that I did a stupid thing. I felt sure that if I could play tonight I would win back all my losses. I took the diamond bracelets from Raymondes and pawned them. I felt certain that I should be able to redeem them tomorrow morning and all would be well.
'Instead of which—' she shrugged her shoulders, 'you saw what happened,' she said miserably. 'And tonight I received a cable from home saying that my father was away and that the money could not be despatched to me until next week.'
Alonzo nodded. He gave her a cigarette and lit one for himself. As he lit her cigarette he could see her lips trembling.
'Well, why worry?' he said. 'Explain to the jewellers that you wish to keep the bracelets for a few days longer and wait until your father's draft comes; redeem them, and return them to Raymondes.'
'I wish it was as easy as that,' she murmured. 'Earlier this evening, when I saw that luck was against me, I telephoned the man with whom I pawned the bracelets. His name is Sidonay. He is not a nice man. He told me that he had discovered where the bracelets had come from, that they had been lent to me on approval, and that I had committed a criminal act in pawning them. He said that tomorrow he was going to the police—unless—unless—'
'Quite,' murmured Alonzo. 'I quite understand. He's legally right, too! Some of these pawnbrokers can be very annoying, can't they?'
He blew a smoke ring across the pergola. 'Tell me, little Helen,' he said softly. 'How much did Sidonay advance you on the bracelets?'
'Twenty thousand francs,' she replied. 'All six of them were worth about 120,000 francs.'
He nodded.
'All right, my dear,' he said. 'Well, I'm going to be Father Christmas. I'm going round to see your friend Mr. Sidonay, pay him his 20,000 francs, get back those bracelets, and then meet you at your hotel for a late night cocktail.'
She caught her breath. 'I can't believe it,' she said. 'It's too generous of you. I don't know how I can ever thank you.'
'Now where can I find Sidonay?' asked Alonzo. 'And where do I find you?'
'His house is on the rue Vergalles,' she said. 'And I am staying at Les Palmiers. I don't know what to say to you. I think you are wonderful.'
'Say no more.' said Alonzo. 'Just return to Les Palmiers and wait until you hear from me. All will be well!'
MONSIEUR SIDONAY, who was, Alonzo thought, a remarkably
unpleasant-looking gentleman, regarded his caller with an ironic
smile.
'Monsieur MacTavish.' he said. 'I have no doubt that you consider this business of being a knight errant to ladies in distress will eventually show you a profit—more especially when the lady happens to be the daughter of an American steel king. But I have other plans!'
Alonzo flipped the ash off his cigarette. 'I take it then that you refuse to allow me to redeem the bracelets?' he demanded.
Sidonay nodded vigorously.
'Exactly,' he said. 'These bracelets were obtained on approval from Raymondes. They are returnable tomorrow morning. If Mademoiselle Carnaway likes to visit me tonight and discuss the matter I might consent to let her have the bracelets back in return for the amount I advanced. Otherwise. I shall esteem it my business to go to the police.'
MacTavish got up. He learned across the table and placed his hand flat against the face of Monsieur Sidonay. Then he pushed very hard. Sidonay did a perfect back-fall over the back of his chair and landed in the fireplace. Alonzo followed him there, picked him up with one hand, and threw him on to a settee.
'I shall come and see you tomorrow morning at ten o'clock,' he said. 'I shall have your 20,000 francs and you will hand those bracelets over to me. Otherwise—'
He put on his hat and made a graceful exit.
A PERFECT moon shone on the terrace at Les Palmiers Hotel,
creating an effective halo about the head of charming Miss
Carnaway as she walked with MacTavish.
'But, Alonzo,' she said, 'there is nothing you can do now. If Sidonay refuses to allow you to redeem the bracelets and goes to the police tomorrow, they will arrest me. They must arrest me. Heaven only knows what my father will say and do when he hears about this. And whatever are you smiling at?'
'Listen, Helen.' said MacTavish. 'All is not yet lost. Here is my new plan. Tomorrow at nine o'clock—immediately they open, I am going round to Raymondes. I am going to buy all those bracelets. You see, I've been pretty lucky during the last few days and it's a labour of love, anyway!' He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. 'Then,' he continued, 'I'm going round to see Sidonay again. I'm going to ask him to allow me to redeem those bracelets. If he refuses, I'm going to send for the police. Now don't argue. You can easily repay me when your draft arrives, and I'd go out of my way to score off that Sidonay bird. So that's settled.'
She gave a sigh of relief. 'You're rather wonderful—Alonzo,' she said. And if that moment her lips were rather close to his and he took advantage of the fact, well—what would you have done?
AT ten o'clock on the following morning Mr. MacTavish,
immaculately garbed, presented himself at the residence of Mr.
Sidonay. He informed the maid that he desired to see the
moneylender immediately, and that if Sidonay attempted any
delay, he, MacTavish, would enter and take him along to the
police station by the nose! Within two minutes he was standing
in the study regarding the pawnbroker with an expression of
extreme contempt.
"Sidonay," he said, "you remind me of a noxious odour and I shall be glad to get away from you. Here is your 20,000 francs. Now hand over those bracelets and give me a receipt for the money or I'll take you along to the police station!"
Sidonay sneered. "Very clever," he muttered. "Very clever and heroic. Well—I've been through to Raymondes on the telephone and they tell me that you have bought the six bracelets on behalf of Miss Carnaway." He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose you're entitled to feel pleased with yourself," he concluded. He unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out the bracelets.
MR. MACTAVISH, walking on air, made his way towards Les
Palmiers Hotel. He felt very pleased with himself. Fortune was
being more than kind. He had rescued a very attractive young
woman who also happened to be the daughter of a millionaire, and
whom it seemed, did not find his company undesirable. Within a
few days the money that he had expended would be repaid. He had
also had the pleasure of pulling Sidonay's nose.
Helen was waiting for him in the lounge at the hotel. He dropped the bracelets into her lap.
"And that's that," he said. She gave him a charming smile.
"I do think you're marvellous," she said. "And I've got some good news, too. Father's been through on the telephone from Pittsburgh and my draft will be here tomorrow. Then I can repay all that money you've spent for me, although I shall always owe you a great deal for saving me from that horrible Sidonay."
"Think nothing of it," murmured Alonzo.
"Please wait here for a moment," she said. "I want to put these bracelets in the hotel safe."
He waited. After 10 minutes he wandered out on to the balcony. Women always did take a long time to powder their noses, he ruminated. And then he saw something—something that made him grin very ruefully.
Driving down the promenade in a large touring car with a boot full of luggage, were two people. One was Mr. Sidonay and the other was Miss Helen Carnaway. And with them went Alonzo's 20,000 francs and six diamond bracelets.
All of which goes to show that no matter now clever a man may be, there will always be somebody who is just a little bit more clever. Standing there, Alonzo almost found it in his heart to admire the clever scheme for which he had fallen so heavily. He turned back into the hotel.
"There's one born every minute," murmured MacTavish.
SUCH people as are aware of the rather peculiar mentality of Mr. Alonzo MacTavish would know—without any further information from me—that he believed that the time, the place, the opportunity, and the woman, seldom occurred simultaneously. They would also know that however many times Mr. MacTavish had, during his brilliant and illegal career, come up against Dr. Theodor Klaat, it was always the latter who got the headache. The moral attached to this story is that it doesn't matter how well you know women—and believe me, Mr. MacTavish knew women—there is always the chance that one day you'll be wrong....
ALONZO, dressed in a very nice dinner jacket, a
carnation, and a charming smile, with hope in his heart and
exactly 32 francs and a 10 centime piece in his pocket, sat
smoking an expensive cigarette in the lounge of the Hotel
Imperial at Nice, wondering if fortune would consent to smile.
Fifteen minutes before, he had witnessed the somewhat grandiose
arrival of Dr. Theodor Klaat and, for once, the sight of his
old-time enemy brought a certain satisfaction to the heart of
Alonzo.
Klaat was a jewel thief—a remover of expensive baubles—second only to Alonzo himself. His technique was nearly as successful. Blowing a smoke ring and watching it sail across the lounge, Alonzo asked himself whether the arrival of Klaat did not prophesy a little activity with a financial ending. That Klaat had arrived in Nice for his health was not possible. It was a certainty that he had a scheme.
MacTavish considered that if he could muscle in on that scheme—as he had done on sundry previous occasions—his cash balance might be multiplied—a process most necessary at the moment—and Klaat once again confounded.
The page boy, tipped with a 20 franc note a quarter of an hour ago to report on the room number, baggage, and general atmospherics of Dr. Klaat, approached Alonzo. He informed him that the doctor had checked into suite 42b on the second floor, that he was accompanied by a secretary, and that a young lady who had been anxiously awaiting his arrival was now in close conference with him.
The boy went off giving place to another page boy who handed MacTavish a sealed envelope.
Alonzo opened it and grinned. It was from Klaat.
Dear MacTavish, (said the note)
I saw you when I arrived. I'm not here on business. I'm taking a rest after a heavy season in Buda. A proposition has just been put up to me that looks good and of which you, with your amazing dexterity for sticking your nose into other people's business, might take full advantage. It's not the sort of thing I care to handle, but it's in your line all right.
You will agree that I am, at least temporarily, burying the hatchet.
Yours,
Theodor Klaat.
P.S.—The lady is in sitting room 31 on the first floor. Drop in and get acquainted with her and the business.—T.K.
Alonzo smiled. This opening gambit had all the clumsy earmarks of the Klaat technique. MacTavish had not the slightest doubt that some sharp scheme was afoot, something in which he was to be the unconscious assistant who was left holding the bag while Klaat got away with the shekels. He got up, lit another cigarette, and strolled over to the lift. Arrived on the first floor, he wandered down the corridor until he found No. 31. He knocked, listened for the reply, and went in.
She was sitting in an armchair in front of the window, looking out over the bay, and holding a slender cocktail glass in one hand. She was of middle height, with a charmingly rounded figure, big blue eyes, and amazingly blonde hair. Very attractive in a quiet sort of way, he thought. Nice and quiet and undistinguished—just the sort of girl that Klaat would use as a 'come-on.' He gave her one of his most radiant smiles. She smiled back a little wearily.
'Mr. MacTavish,' she began with a touch of American accent, 'I expect that you are rather surprised at hearing from Dr. Klaat that I wanted to see you. I can only hope that you are not going to be at all shocked at my request!'
Alonzo allowed his smile to become whimsical.
'Nothing you could do would shock me, madame,' he said. 'On the contrary. Now shall we talk over this little business?'
'Please sit down and help yourself to a cocktail,' she said. 'I won't waste much of your time. I will tell you my story, and then you can say just whether you are prepared to collect the $5,000 that I have in my handbag waiting to be earned.'
Alonzo, a cocktail in one hand, the whimsical smile on his face, waited. Everything about this job had the hallmarks of the double-cross. The arrival of Klaat, the note, the lady, the businesslike air, and the five thousand dollars waiting to be earned.
'I would like to collect five thousand dollars,' he murmured.
'Very well,' she said. 'Then I must tell you that I am desperate. I am Princess Cheruinoff—I was Maple C. Hardaway of the Oklahoma Hardaways until I married that punk Cheruinoff last year, and I'm going to be Maple C. Hardaway in six months from now, after I've divorced that lousy Russian false-alarm that somebody persuaded me to marry. You got that?'
'Princess,' said Alonzo, 'I have got it.'
'O.K.' she continued, helping herself to another cocktail. 'Well, if you'll take a look out of the window across the bay, you'll see my yacht. I said my yacht, although the way I've been treated aboard that lugger is just nobody's business. Cheruinoff has been on a jag for the last six weeks. The only time he was sober he was so surprised he fell overboard. I wish they had sharks in these waters,' she concluded wistfully. She took a large gulp of cocktail.
'All yesterday that Barbary ape was chasing me round the boat with a .38 automatic,' she went on. 'He was so cock-eyed that he didn't even know I was me. He doesn't really mean anything, he just gets that way, but I'm getting rather tired of it.'
Alonzo nodded sympathetically.
'It must be an exhausting process,' he said.
'You're telling me!' said the princess. 'Well, the trouble is that he knows I've been planning to get away from him, and tonight I managed to do it. Some fisherman was passing under the stern in a rowboat and I shinned down the stern cable and got a free ride to shore. Then I went to see the chief of police here.'
Alonzo pricked up his ears. This was good. This was very good!
'You wanted protection?' he queried.
'Protection nothing!' said the princess with a smile. 'Now I'm ashore, I don't give two hoots for Serge Cheruinoff or any other alcoholic Cossack. But I want my diamond necklace.'
Alonzo drew on his cigarette. Now she was coming to it!
'My diamond necklace must be got off that boat,' said the princess with spirit. 'When Serge finds I'm gone—which will probably be tomorrow morning—he'll feel as pleased as a cat with two tails. He got a nice settlement from my pa when we were married and he'll pull up the anchor and make a quick getaway once he finds that necklace is still in the ship's safe.
'He could get enough money on that to keep him in vodka for four generations, and he's wise enough to know that I don't like publicity and wouldn't be able to do anything about it.' She took a bite at the cocktail cherry. 'You've got to get aboard that boat tonight and grab that necklace,' she said. 'And that little job is going to win you five thousand dollars.'
'Did the chief of police here advise that, too?' queried Alonzo smilingly.
'He surely did!' she said. 'I told him the story—you see I know him well, and he said that he couldn't do anything officially. He said the thing to do was to get somebody to get aboard the boat while Serge is still having this jag, grab the necklace, and bring it back to me.
'And he told me the man who would do it. He put me on to a Dr. Theodor Klaat—a jewel crook who pulled in here this afternoon. He said if Klaat would do the job it would be all right with him and that I could rely on him to see that Klaat didn't make any funny business about it.'
'And Klaat didn't like it?' said Alonzo.
'He didn't like any part of it,' she replied. 'Anyway, he's the wrong type to go crawling up stern cables at midnight. But I saw him, and he said right away that he'd spotted you in the lounge and that you were a pushover for the job. He said you loved jobs like that.'
She smiled at Alonzo and brought him another cocktail. He smiled back at her. He watched her as she went back to her chair. Then he lit a cigarette. But behind the flame of his lighter his eyes were carefully looking her over. Her cream serge suit was immaculate, her little hat, gloves and bag were absolutely right. Her stockings were sheer, but he was certain that she was not Maple C. Hardaway, the Princess Cheruinoff.
Well, who was she? Who would Klaat use for an obvious plant like this?
He got it. She was the princess's maid! He grinned to himself.
So Klaat was at his old games. It was his invariable process to work with lady's maids—or even to 'put one in' when necessary. They supplied him with the information, the layout of the job, and the value of the jewels, and he carried on from there. But this was a bit too risky for Klaat. He wasn't going to chance being caught on that yacht, so he'd thought up the little fairy story as a result of seeing Alonzo in the lounge. If MacTavish succeeded in getting the diamond necklace off the yacht it would be worth Klaat's while to pay him five thousand dollars. If he got caught on the job, well, that would be just too bad!
'What do I do with the necklace when I've got it?' he asked. 'That is, supposing I do get it, that everything goes well? Do I bring it back to you here?'
'No,' she said. 'I'm leaving in a quarter of an hour. I'm going over to Monaco to stay with some friends. But I'll tell you what you can do. When you've got the necklace, bring it back and deposit it with the hotel people here. Ask them to put it in the safe. I'll arrange for the bankers to send you round four thousand dollars tomorrow morning. I'll give you a thousand on account now. I'll pick up the necklace later.'
Alonzo nodded. 'Princess,' he said, 'do you think five thousand dollars is enough? Supposing Serge caught me on the boat and took a pot-shot at me with that hand gun of his. I think you ought to pay a bit more, don't you?'
'All right,' she said. 'I suppose I've got to pay you what you want. I'll give you a thousand now and send round another six thousand dollars tomorrow morning—that's seven in all. But no funny business, Mr. MacTavish. Remember the chief of police here is a friend of mine!'
Alonzo looked hurt. 'Princess,' he said, 'How could you suspect me?' He lit another cigarette.
'When do you suggest I do this big burglary act on your behalf?' he asked the girl.
'As soon as you like,' she said. 'Serge is practically a total loss at the moment, and in an hour's time he'll be so cockeyed that he won't know if it's Thursday or raining. Three-quarters of the crew are ashore, and if you're quiet and do what I say, you'll have no trouble at all.'
Alonzo grinned. 'Princess,' he said, 'I'm your man. I'd do anything for you. Now, a little information about the situation of the safe and one or two other things, and then I'll go to work.'
Fifteen minutes and four cocktails later they shook hands. It seemed to Alonzo that there was a little gleam of admiration in her eyes.
'You've got your nerve all right,' she said. 'I'm glad I ran into you. You're a nice change after Serge, even if you don't always keep to the straight and narrow.
'Maybe,' she continued demurely, 'maybe, when I get back here in three or four days' time we'll be able to see a little of each other. Well, so long—here's the thousand.' Alonzo took the ten hundred-dollar notes.
'It's a pleasure to work for you, princess,' he said.
AT ten o'clock that night Alonzo, dark overcoat over his
dinner clothes, wandered along the beach until he found a dinghy
pulled up on the shingle. He pushed it down into the sea,
getting his feet wet in the process, got into it and pulled out
towards the Cheruinoff yacht. He had dismissed the idea of hiring
a boatman as suggested by the princess. He was taking no
chances.
TWENTY minutes later, having approached the yacht by a
circuitous route, he pulled in under the stern and sat, oars
out, listening. There was no sound to be heard. He made the boat
fast to the stern buoy cable and then proceeded to shin up the
cable. Three minutes later he was on the deck. Keeping in the
shadow of the deck house, he reached the forward companion-way
and descended. One of the deck hands, oblivious to everything
but the beauty of the night, was singing a love song in the
bows. In five minutes Alonzo had found the Cheruinoff cabin. He
tried the door carefully, found it open, and went in. The
electric light was on, and on the ornate bed of the other side
of the cabin Prince Serge Cheruinoff slept the sleep of the very
drunk with an accompaniment of the best Cossack snores.
Let into the cabin wall on his right, behind the picture, Alonzo found the safe. He took the slip of paper with the combination written on it, supplied by Klaat's lady friend, and opened the safe. On the top shelf Alonzo saw the dark blue leather case, picked up with gloved hands and opened it. Inside, flashing with a half-million dollar radiance, was the Cheruinoff diamond necklace.
He dropped the necklace into one pocket, the leather case into another, and quietly made for the deck.
AT eleven o'clock Alonzo walked into the Hotel Imperial.
Arrived on the main floor, he looked into the restaurant. The
cabaret was about to begin, and Alonzo could see, sitting on the
other side of the dance floor, at a table against the wall, Dr.
Theodor Klaat.
He smiled to himself. He waited until the main turn in the cabaret had begun, and when the restaurant lights were turned down and only a spotlight on the chief performer remained, he worked his way round the room until he was near Klaat's table. He signaled a nearby waiter.
'I'm having a little joke,' he said. 'I want you to take this case over to Dr. Klaat and ask him if it belongs to him. Don't touch it with your fingers. Put it on your tray. There's twenty francs for you.'
He handed the necklace case, with his gloved hand, to the waiter, who with a grin took it, went over to Klaat and whispered in his ear. Klaat examined the case, shook his head and handed it back to the waiter, who brought it back to Alonzo on the tray.
Alonzo went straight up to his room, took the leather necklace case from his pocket with his gloved hand and placed the diamond necklace inside it. He placed the case in a neat cardboard box, put it into a stout envelope, and addressed the envelope in hand-printed letters to 'The Princess Serge Cheruinoff. Hotel Imperial. To be called for.'
Then he put on his hat and went out.
He took a cab to the rue la Pérouse, and dismissing it, walked to the Caf´é Velouté. He ordered a bottle of wine and asked for a page boy. When the boy arrived Alonzo handed him the package.
'Take this round to the Hotel Imperial,' he ordered. 'Hand it in at the reception desk and ask for it to be placed in the hotel safe until Princess Serge Cheruinoff calls for it. Inform them that it is from Dr. Theodor Klaat.'
Immediately the boy had gone, Alonzo paid his bill with one of his new dollar notes and returned to the Imperial. He waited in the lounge until he saw the boy deliver the package at the reception desk. Then, with a sigh, he drank another whisky and soda and went to bed. He had fixed Klaat all right.
AT twelve o'clock next morning Monsieur Edouard Birache,
Commissar of Police for Nice, called at the Hotel Imperial and
asked to see Mr. Alonzo MacTavish. Mr. MacTavish was at
home.
'Monsieur MacTavish,' said Birache, 'you are, of course, well known to us, because it is our business to know who is staying in Nice, and in your case your reputation is, shall we say, international.' He smiled sweetly. 'This morning,' he continued, 'there is a complaint that a very valuable diamond necklace has been stolen from Prince Cheruinoff's yacht Cigale. I have already interviewed Dr. Klaat, who we knew arrived yesterday, and he has suggested that you might like to make some sort of statement to us.'
Alonzo smiled.
'Monsieur Birache,' he said. 'I think I can help you. Last night, somewhere about ten o'clock, I observed Dr. Klaat pulling out to a yacht in a row-boat. I was very interested. As you know, he and I are not very good friends.
'He returned to the hotel,' continued Alonzo, 'and a few minutes afterwards a package was delivered and placed in the hotel safe. I imagine that it will be addressed to Princess Serge Cheruinoff. I imagine also that if you examine the case you will be able to ascertain who handled it.'
Birache nodded. 'I see,' he said. 'And you definitely inform me, monsieur, that you know nothing at all about this necklace, that you have had nothing to do with its removal?'
Alonzo smiled. 'Not a thing,' he said firmly.
Birache picked up his hat.
'Poor old Klaat,' murmured Alonzo, 'I suppose this means about ten years for him?'
The police officer smiled. 'Not at all, monsieur,' he said. 'It means $6,000 for him. In removing the necklace from the yacht last night, he was merely carrying out my own idea, the idea I suggested to the princess when she came to see me yesterday. I promised her I would keep my eye on the job.
'This morning, the hotel people informed me that a package had been delivered for her. I have opened it and it is the necklace all right. I telephoned through to Dr. Klaat and he informed me that I was to see you about it.
'But, as you so definitely inform me that he was responsible for saving the princess's necklace, then, of course, I must see that the money is paid to him. Good morning, monsieur.'
Opening Music (Bars from 'Policeman's Holiday')
ALONZO MACTAVISH. Hello... This is Alonzo MacTavish, commonly known as The Kid Glove Crook, Europe's premier remover of unconsidered trifles, calling the British Expeditionary Force.... Excuse me for a moment, you fellows, while I fix my eyeglass... will you? That's better. I'm going to tell you about one of the most successful jobs I ever did—the theft of the Burmese Idol, once the property of a very county lady named Mrs. Fellinton. (A charming woman really, with so much dough that she just had to be fearfully well-bred)... She was descended from William the Conqueror and for all I know she's still descending... dear Mrs. Fellinton...
Well... one night the ether was positively shattered by an epoch-making announcement from the B.B.C. News Room... The announcer said...
(Fade into Announcer.)
B.B.C. ANNOUNCER. This special news bulletin is sent out at the request of Scotland Yard. Alonzo MacTavish, the mysterious, unidentified and brilliant criminal who is wanted by the police in five countries has—the authorities are informed by the French police—landed in England, possibly by parachute.
He is accompanied by his accomplice, Jimmy Wakers, who usually poses as his servant.
MacTavish steals only from people who—as he says 'are able to afford it'. With the proceeds of the burglaries he buys, through unknown agents, valuable postage stamps, and is supposed to have one of the finest collections in the world. From time to time he sends rare stamps, worth thousands of pounds, to different charities. If you see or hear anything of this elusive and charming crook tele-phone immediately to Detective-Inspector Gringall at Scotland Yard, Whitehall 1212
(Telephone bell.)
SERGEANT ASHE. Hello... yes, this is Detective Inspector Gringall's room.... Who? The Honourable Mrs. Fellinton..... Hold the line please....Will you see the Honourable Mrs. Fellinton, sir?
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GRINGALL. I suppose so.... I wonder what she wants? You'd better go and fetch her... Ashe....
ASHE. Right, Mr. Gringall...
(Switch in door shutting.)
(Gringall whistles 'Policeman's Holiday' bars quietly to himself.)
(Switch in door opening and shutting.)
ASHE. The Hon Mrs. Fellinton to see you, sir....
GRINGALL. Good morning, madam, and what can I do for you?
MRS. FELLINTON (controlling herself with difficulty). What can you do for me! I wonder you dare look me in the face.... And you call yourselves policemen.... Did you hear the broadcast just now... answer me... did you? Twenty thousand francs reward for this criminal Alonzo MacTavish indeed.... Ridiculous! (The whole country positively thick with policemen and you can't catch this insolent fellow....)
GRINGALL. But, madam....
MRS. FELLINTON. Don't interrupt! Detectives indeed! Why, you couldn't find Hyde Park without asking for help... Pah!
GRINGALL. Really, madam! Will you take a chair? (soothingly). Now, what's the trouble, Mrs. Fellinton?
MRS. FELLINTON. You ask me what's the trouble! I suppose you have never heard of me? Of course not.... Well, I'm the Honourable Mrs. Fellinton, and I have the finest collection of antique jewels in England. This morning I receive this letter.... And who do you think it's from, Mr. Detective Inspector...? It's from no less a person than Alonzo MacTavish, who had the effrontery, the barefaced effrontery... (she chokes with anger)... Here, read it for yourself....
GRINGALL (reading):
'Dear Madam,
'I have long admired the best piece in your collection of antique jewellery—the Burmese Ruby Idol.... If you care to send five thousand pounds addressed to me at poste restante, Charing Cross, immediately, you will save me the trouble of relieving you of the Idol.... If yo: decide not to send the money I shall remove it within the next two days.
'Ever thine, dear lady,
'Alonzo MacTavish....'
(continuing). Hum... I see....
MRS. FELLINTON. Well... what are you going to do about it?
GRINGALL. Is this Burmese Ruby Idol at your house, Mrs. Fellinton?
MRS. FELLINTON. Yes... in the safe. It was fetched from the bank yesterday for a private exhibition that I propose to give on the day after to-morrow. I suppose I shall have to cancel it.
GRINGALL. Not at all, Mrs. Fellinton.... We'll take good care that Mr. Alonzo MacTavish doesn't get away with this....
MRS. FELLINTON (grimly). Well, I hope you do....
GRINGALL. With your permission I shall call this afternoon and tell you what has been arranged. Will three o'clock suit you?
MRS. FELLINTON. Very well.... But if anything happens to my Idol...
GRINGALL. Don't worry, ma'am... we'll look after it! Good morning, Mrs. Fellinton....
MRS. FELLINTON. Good morning... three o'clock sharp if you please... and don't forget....
(Switch in noise of door banging loudly.)
ASHE. Phew.... was she bad-tempered! By jove, sir, it looks as if we stand a chance of getting MacTavish this time....
(Switch in telephone bell.)
Hello... hello... Yes... what... WHAT! Strike a light...! Yes ... send him right up. Phew....
GRINGALL. Well, what is it...?
ASHE (excitedly). Wakers is on his way up... the Jimmy Wakers... MacTavish's assistant.... He says he's going to blow the works on his boss.... What a bit of luck, sir....
GRINGALL. Jiminy! What a break...
(Switch in door opening and shutting.)
WAKERS. Mr. Gringall.... Good mornin'....
GRINGALL. So you're Wakers! Just take a seat, will you? Now I understand you've some information about MacTavish and I want to tell you....
WAKERS. Turn it off... turn it orf... don't start givin' me that stuff.... You listen to me, an' when you talk to me make it polite... flat-foot!
GRINGALL (placatingly). Sorry, Mr. Wakers....
WAKERS. That's better.... Now look.... I ain't gotta' lotta time to waste.... You know 'oo I am.... I'm Wakers, MacTavish's right 'and man ... an' I'm fed up with 'im, see... an' if I get treated proper 'ere...
GRINGALL. You're going to give him away ... eh? All right, Mr. Wakers.... Now....
WAKERS. 'Old 'ard... 'old 'ard.... I'm doin' the talkin'.... Now listen, guv'nor There's only one blinkin' man in the 'ole bloomin' world can put you on to MacTavish an' you're talkin' to 'im now.... O.K. Well... if I blow the works 'ow do I break? I ain't goin' to risk bein' pinched... an' what about the reward...?
GRINGALL. Listen, Wakers.... If you put us on to him no proceedings will be taken against you and I'll make it my business to see that you get that twenty thousand francs reward. Is that good enough?
WAKERS. Right.... Now listen to this: MacTavish is over 'ere after Mrs. Fellinton's Burmese Ruby Idol. 'E's made up 'is mind to 'ave it.... 'E's got a flat a few 'undred yards from 'ere in Victoria Street... we went there last night... and I posted a letter to 'er... a letter 'e typed 'isself....
GRINGALL. Is this an inside job?
WAKERS. You bet your life.... 'E's got an 'ousemaid in Mrs. Fellinton's place 'elpin' 'im Well, 'ere's what you do. You come along this afternoon at two-thirty sharp to the Belgrave Apartments in Victoria Street—No. 67.... Leave your car rahnd the corner and come up nice an' quiet... there'd better be two of you.... I'll let you in.... I'm supposed to be 'is butler... see?
GRINGALL. This sounds all right, but we must have some evidence that....
WAKERS. Will you shut up an' let me talk....
GRINGALL. Sorry....
WAKERS. I'll be waitin' for you at the door.... MacTavish 'as fixed for the Fellinton 'ousemaid to come round at a quarter past an' 'e's goin' to arrange with 'er just 'ow the Fellinton job's to be done....
GRINGALL. Marvellous....
WAKERS. It's blinkin' marvellous.... When you arrive at the flat two of you come in. I'll 'ave the flat door open... see? O.K. You creep in an' I put you in the room next to where MacTavish an' the 'ousemaid are talkin'....
GRINGALL. Can we hear in there...?
WAKERS. Every blinkin' word There's a ventilator in the wall you can look through too. Ashe. By jove, we've got him this time, sir....
GRINGALL. It looks like it....
WAKERS. Nah... when do I touch for this twenty thousand francs?
GRINGALL. Directly we've got MacTavish, I'll see you get a square deal....
WAKERS. O.K. Well... that's that Now don't forget. 'Arf past two. Leave the car rahnd the corner an' two of you come up quietly.... An' for the love of Mike don't make a noise, otherwise you'll spoil everything....
GRINGALL. Leave everything to us.... Well... till two-thirty....
WAKERS. O.K., old cock, an' don't forget the twenty thousand francs. I can do with it... an' for 'eaven's sake lock 'im up when you've got 'im an' don't let 'im get at me.... Well, so long, Inspector....
(Switch in sound of door shutting.)
GRINGALL. Well, Mr. MacTavish, it looks as if we've got you at last. Ashe....
ASHE. Yes, sir....
GRINGALL. Order a flying squad car for two-fifteen p.m....
(Musical interlude to denote passing of time.)
(Switch in noise of traffic, motor horns, etc)
POLICE CONSTABLE PELHAM. Here we are, sir....
(Switch in noise of car stopping.)
GRINGALL. Come on, Ashe, and for Heaven's sake, keep quiet.... It's just two-thirty....
(Pause.)
(Switch in click of door opening.)
WAKERS (in a whisper). 'Ush... keep quiet... everything's O.K. MacTavish an' the girl are in the sittin' room now. 'E's tellin' 'er about this Fellinton job.... Come on... this way... I'm goin' to put you in the next room....
GRINGALL (whispering). You're sure we can hear?
WAKERS. Quite! 'Ere you are... it's a bit dark becos there's no winder.... In you go an' you too, Mr. Ashe... (his voice changes). Got you!
ALONZO. Switch the light on, Jimmy...
(Click of switch).
...Kindly put your hands up, gentlemen, otherwise this pistol might go off... and I should hate to have an accident! Excuse me while I get out of this wardrobe.... It rather cramps my style!
GRINGALL. My heavens... a stick up! Take that mask off your face, MacTavish.... You can't get away with this!
ALONZO. Why not, my dear Inspector.... Why not? Jimmy, I think you'll find that the Inspector has a pair of handcuffs on him. Just find them, will you?
GRINGALL. You'll pay for this, Wakers.... This means about ten years for you....
WAKERS. Take it easy, Gringy dear.... You walked into it, didn't you? You really an' truly thought you wos goin' to pinch the one an' only Alonzo MacTavish an' we 'ad it all ready-eyed for you.... 'Ere's the 'and-cuffs, guv'nor.
ALONZO. Right, Jimmy, now handcuff Mr. Gringall to Mr. Ashe... that's the idea....
GRINGALL. Wakers, you damn double-crossing crook ... I'll get you for this if I spend my life on the job!
ALONZO. Mr. Gringall... please... I beg of you! I always thought that policemen kept cool under all circumstances.... And I'm sorry I can't oblige you by taking off this mask, Inspector.... I should hate you to remember my face.... I might want to meet you again some time and I don't want us to be old acquaintances....
GRINGALL. Why don't you get some sense, MacTavish.... I've a squad car outside.... If I'm not back there in a few minutes the driver will become suspicious....
ALONZO. Precisely, my dear Gringall.... He'll become suspicious... and he'll come up to investigate and Jimmy and I will be waiting for him when he comes through the front door, which we have carefully open for him Jimmy, just get the length of rope and tie Mr. Gringall and Mr. Ashe to the chairs you prepared for them.... You'd better stuff their handkerchiefs in their mouths too....
WAKERS. Come on, boys! 'Ere's a nice clean 'ankerchief for you, Mr. Gringall... and one for Mr. Ashe....
(Sounds of Gringall and Ashe being gagged.)
ALONZO. Now listen, Inspector.... Possibly during the next few moments you may hear a little scuffling outside.... That will merely mean that we are dealing with your driver.... Just relax quietly, and take no notice.... And by the way you might like to know that this revolver isn't loaded. I hate loaded pistols... they go off by accident sometimes. Come on, Jimmy....
WAKERS. Step on it, guv'nor I think I can 'ear 'im on the stairs....
ALONZO. Au revoir, Gringall.... I'll telephone through to the hall porter downstairs in about ten minutes and he will probably come up and release you....
(Switch in noise of door closing.)
WAKERS. 'E's comin', guv'nor....
ALONZO. Right! Get behind the door!
(Switch in sound of footsteps.)
Just put your hands up, driver, will you? That's right... Now if you do just as you're told we shan't have to trouble you a great deal.... Just close the door, Jimmy....
(Door closing)
...Now, start getting out of your uniform and be quick!
PELHAM. You can't do this to me.... I...
ALONZO. Get a move on... or this gun might go off....
PELHAM. Blimey... here's a go!
WAKERS. Come on nah... that's it.... 'Ere's 'is coat guv'nor.... Come on nah... off with them trousers....
PELHAM. You can't leave me without my trousers.
WAKERS. Oh, can't we? You think yourself lucky we ain't 'avin' your shirt too....
ALONZO. Hand them over, Jimmy.... Now tie him up and put him in with Gringall and Ashe.... Get a move on.... We haven't too much time!
(Switch in sound of door opening.)
ALONZO. Ail revoir, my dear policemen.... I shan't keep you there one moment longer than is necessary Wakers will telephone through to the hall porter in about five minutes' time.... I do wish you could see me in uniform!
WAKERS. There you are, me bucko.... In you go!
ALONZO. So long, Jimmy.... Meet me to-night as arranged.
WAKERS. O.K., guv'nor.... I'll give you time to get away an' then I'll be after you....
(Switch in noise of door closing.
(Musical interlude to denote passing of time).
(Switch in telephone ringing.)
(Pause.)
(Switch in noise of door opening.)
HALL PORTER. What's going on here? Somebody phoned through that.... Blimey! Here, what's all this about?
(He removes gags.)
GRINGALL. I'm a police officer.... We came here to get Alonzo MacTavish and he got us. Feel in my waistcoat pocket for the handcuff key.... That's it.... Now take these damned things off.
ASHE. By jove, sir.... We'll be for it....
GRINGALL. Shut up and let's get out of here.... Get a move on.... Maybe we can still get this MacTavish!
ASHE. O.K., sir....
(Switch in traffic noises, motor horns, etc.)
GRINGALL. Hey, taxi... drive to Scotland Yard and go as if the devil was after you.... We're police officers....
(Switch in noise of taxi door, etc.)
ASHE. What are you going to do, sir? We'll never hear the end of this...
GRINGALL. I want to get a wireless out.... We've got to pick up that police car.... If the newspapers get this story we'll look the world's biggest mugs.... Damn Alonzo MacTavish.... (Fade out noise of taxi, traffic, etc.)
(Fade in radio message.)
SCOTLAND YARD OFFICER. Calling all cars... calling all cars.... Look out for police car XCT 7654 last seen in Victoria Street.... The car is being driven by Alonzo MacTavish who is wearing a police driver's uniform.... Car on the Victoria Street patrol to go to Belgrave Mansions and bring in Police Officer Pelham.... Take some clothes for this officer to wear... his own have been removed.... Calling all cars.... Look out for Alonzo MacTavish....
GRINGALL. Phew... what a day!
ASHE. What's the Assistant Commissioner going to say...? (Switch in telephone ringing, receiver being lifted.) Hello... hello... yes, this is Mr. Gringall's room.... What's that... the car found abandoned, O.K.... Thank you.... They've found the car, sir.... Pelham's Warrant card was left on the driver's seat with a card. On the card was written 'With the compliments and thanks of Alonzo MacTavish....
GRINGALL. Oh, hell... he's got away again!
(Switch in telephone bell.)
ASHE. Hello... hello... yes... yes.... All right, I'll tell him.... I can't make this out, sir.... Downstairs have just called through to say that the Hon. Mrs. Fellinton is on her way up to thank you....
(Switch in door opening.)
GRINGALL. Mrs. Fellinton.... What...?
MRS. FELLINTON. My dear Inspector... I was passing by and thought I must come in to thank you for all your trouble about my Burmese Idol.... It was so nice of you to send that charming young policeman round in a Flying Squad car....
GRINGALL (feebly). A Flying Squad car...!
MRS. FELLINTON. Such a delightful young man. He spoke awfully well of you.... He said you were just too sweet to him and that you were pulling strings to get him promoted.... He said that you were awfully fond of pulling strings for him!
ASHE. Pulling strings for him...! Blazes!
MRS. FELLINTON. Thank you again, Inspector... I think the idea of sending him round to collect my Burmese Idol and to keep it here at the Yard so that it would be safe was just too clever for words Good-day, Inspector.... Thank you once again!
GRINGALL. Oh, my stars!
(Closing Music.)
THE guy in the dirty grey fedora looked like he might have come out of the Bellevue Morgue—off a slab. He was big and his jaw jutted over the edge of his upturned coat collar. His eyes shifted all over as if he was waiting for somebody to pick up any time. His shoes were broken and the upper of one had gone rotten with wet. Each time he took a step it squelched.
He had four days' growth of hair on his face and he kept in the shadow of the wall. His fingers inside his coat pocket, were clasped round the butt of a .38 police Positive that had once been issued to a copper who got himself cited for bravery in the line of duty the day after they buried him.
The guy hadn't got a collar or a shirt. Under the overcoat was a cotton undervest. The pant-legs showing under the overcoat were too short and the cuffs at the bottom were grimed with mud that never came from New York.
Every time he passed a store or somewhere where it was light he stuck his head down into his coat collar. Once he saw a kid carrying some bread, and he licked his lips like a hungry dog. His nose was bothering him. He hadn't a handkerchief and it was sore. If you've ever tried blowing your nose on newspaper you'll know what I mean.
He turned off Bowery at Kenmare. He was limping. He had a blister on his right foot where the shoe was broken. He hastened his steps with an effort. On Mott he saw the newsboy.
The boy was standing on the edge of the sidewalk looking around. When he saw the guy in the dirty grey fedora he crossed the street and stood in the shadow. Further down the limping guy crossed and slowed up. Then he looked around, too, and worked up slowly towards the boy.
The boy made a play of selling him a news-sheet. The limping guy took it. On the front page he could see his own picture, and across the top of the sheet was a banner caption—'Fremer Breaks Jail—Kills Two Guards'.
That was him.
He spoke to the boy through the side of his mouth. He licked his lips before he spoke.
'Talk quick,' he said. 'Where's that blonde of Franchini's?'
The boy grinned at him. 'You're in luck, mug,' he said. 'She's in Moksie's dive. She's hangin' around there plenty. An' is she drinkin' or is she? She's the rye queen an' toppin' off with rum. Does she get high!'
The limping guy swore quietly.
'Where's she gettin' the dough, kid?' he asked.
The newsboy spat graphically.
'She ain't,' he said. 'Moksie's puttin' it on the cuff.' He dropped his voice. 'Seen that in the sheet about you?' he muttered. 'They're offerin' five grand for you, dead or alive. How'd you like that, Pal?'
But the man was gone. The newsboy looked after him as he disappeared into the shadows and spat once more.
THE guy limped toward the waterfront. He stood up under a
light in an alley and read the paper. What the kid had said was
true. They were offering five grand for him dead or alive. He
licked his lips and grinned—like a wolf. Then he began to
walk.
It was midnight when he dragged himself down the stairs at Moksie's speak on waterfront. The place was near empty. Moksie was leaning over the bar reading a news-sheet. The limping guy walked over slowly and looked at Moksie.
'Keep your trap shut, and like it, sucker,' he said. 'I've gotta gun in my pocket that's liable to go shootin' itself off supposin' somebody starts to do anything that even looks screwy. Where's Franchini's girl?'
Moksie nodded his head towards the far corner. The guy looked over and saw her. There was a measure of rye at Moksie's elbow. He picked it up and drained it. Then he limped over to the woman.
She was twenty-eight and still pretty. She was pretty high, and a half-bottle of rotgut with a fake bacardi label stood in front of her. Her eyes were heavy and her last perm had gone haywire on her. Her skin was good and her hands were trembling. She kept tapping on the floor with a four-inch heel.
The guy slumped into a chair opposite her. She looked at it and then him.
'So what?' she said. She grinned cynically. 'You ain't the only guy worth five grand,' she said. 'Feelin' good, I suppose, because you broke out. Well... maybe they'll get you, sucker. They do get 'em, you know. An' what do you want anyhow?'
He leaned towards her.
'Listen, kid,' he said. I gotta talk fast an' you gotta listen. I been on my feet for forty-eight hours, an' unless I get under cover they'll pick me up and fry me. I'm nearly through. I'm soaked an' hungry, an' I could use liquor'—she pushed the bacardi towards him and he took a swig from the bottle—'but I gotta contact Franchini. I tell ya I gotta. Now, don't give me that stuff about not knowin' where he is. I know all about it. They're offering five grand for him, too, ain't they? An' you're his girl, ain't you? Well... so you gotta know.'
She jerked up her head and looked at him. A gleam of faint interest showed in her eyes.
'I contacted Marelli to-night,' he went on. 'He says that he can get Franchini an' me away if I can lay under cover for two days. Well, where's Franchini hidin'? Join me up with him. Another two hours an' they'll have me. Marelli will get us outa this burg in two days, an' I can fix to get him paid an' he knows it. Well... I'll do a trade.
'Get me along to his hide-out. I got no dough—nothin' except an empty gun an' a cough. Fix me some eats an' contact Marelli. He'll get us out of here on Thursday. I'm tradin' my lay-up with Franchini for the getaway for him. Well... do we deal?'
She smiled. Her teeth were white and even.
'What a fine pair of killers youse two are,' she said. 'Takin' it on the lam both of you an' both scared stiff.' She looked at the paper. 'So you bust out up the river,' she said. 'How'dya get down here? Hi-jacked a car?'
He nodded. 'I bumped a guy in a Ford,' he said. 'I think I done him too. He took two slugs. They got plenty on me now....'
She took another drink and passed the bottle back to him.
'D'ya meet a guy called Lloyd Schrim in the big house?' she said. 'A young kid—about twenty-three. He got life for a killin'.'
He nodded. I know,' he said. 'He got it for rubbin' out Gerlin' at the Polecat Road-house. He told me he never done it. He said he took the rap for some other guy. He's not a bad kid. He's ill. He's got no dough, so they got him workin' in the jute mill. He's got I.B.—they get that way in the mill. I reckon he was played for a sucker by the guy who did the job, but he wouldn't talk. That's why they're ridin' him an' makin' it tough. I don't reckon he'll last much longer.' She looked at him.
'Why don't he try a break?' she asked. 'You done it. Why can't he?'
He grinned. 'I got friends outside,' he said, 'friends with dough. You can make a break, but it costs dough. It cost some pals of mine seven grand to get me out.'
She grinned.
'Ain't you the expensive baby?' she said. 'Seven grand to get you out and the cops offerin' five for you. You oughta feel swell.'
He coughed. Underneath the table she heard his shoe squelch.
'Listen, kid,' she said, 'I'll fix it. I'll trade puttin' you up with Franchini until Marelli can get you both away. Franchini ain't got no pals like you with dough and contacts, an' he can't put his nose outside the dump. They're offering five grand for him, too.
'Now, listen. I'm going outside to grab a cab. Pull your hat down an' get in so the driver don't see you. Get him to drop you on Tide Alley at Parata Wharf. Down the bottom is a bust-in warehouse. Franchini's on the top floor, but be careful. He's liable to shoot anybody he don't know.
'I'll be along in half an hour. When I come you tell me where I contact Marelli, an' we'll fix the job. So long—killer!'
FRANCHINI opened the door and looked at the limping guy.
Franchini was tall and thin and dirty. He hadn't shaved for a
week, and his mouth was still twitching from cocaine.
He grinned. 'Come in,' he said. 'You're Fremer. The dame 'phoned me. I reckon the idea of gettin' out of this hell-broth looks good to me. I'm for Canada.'
The other grinned. 'Me too,' he said.
He closed and bolted the door behind him, and took a swig at the bottle on the table. Beside it was an automatic. There was another in Franchini's hand.
Franchini put the second gun down beside the first and sat at the table with the two guns in front of his hands, which lay on the table behind them.
'You gotta gun?' he asked.
Fremer pulled the police pistol out of his pocket and threw it on the table.
'No shells,' he said laconically. 'There was only two in it, an' I used 'em on the guy in the Ford I came down in.' Franchini nodded.
'O.K.,' he said. 'We'll wait for the dame.'
They sat there waiting, taking swigs from the bottle on the table.
It was quiet. Franchini was just taking a wallop at the bottle when they heard a car grind round the corner outside. Fremer, who had his fingers under the table ledge, suddenly uptilted the table. Franchini's guns crashed to the floor. Simultaneously Fremer went across the table top at Franchini.
The door smashed open. Half a dozen cops under a police lieutenant burst in with their guns showing.
'Stick 'em up, boys,' said the lieutenant. 'We got a date for you two with the hot seat. Take it easy now.' He snapped the steel cuffs on Franchini and turned towards Fremer with another pair.
Fremer kept his hands up.
'O.K., lieutenant,' he said. 'Just feel in the lining of my coat and you'll find my badge. I'm Lemmy Caution, New York "G" Division. We played it this way to get Franchini. I guessed the dame would come and spill the works to you.'
The lieutenant found the badge. Caution dropped his hands. Franchini began to be sick in the corner.
'You're a mug, Franchini,' said the 'G' man. 'You oughta know that dame of yours was always stuck on Lloyd Schrim. We reckoned that if we planted a fake story about some guy called Fremer bustin' out of the big house an' taking it on the lam to New York, and splashed his picture on the front page, she would fall for the set-up.
'How the hell do you expect a woman to be in love with a guy and have two killers bottled up in a room and not squeal when she's just been told that her boy friend was dyin' of T.B. through workin' in the jute-mill; that they was ridin' him for not talkin' over a job that she knew durn well that he never pulled?
'She reckoned that the ten grand she'd get for turnin' us in would fix an escape for him. I thought she would, an' took a chance on it, Take him away, boys.'
THE 'G' man limped down the steps at Moksie's. He walked over
to the bar and ordered rye. Moksie pushed the bottle over the
bar.
The 'G' man picked it up and walked over to the corner table where the woman was slumped. Her head was between her arms. She was crying.
He sat down opposite her and put the bottle on the table. He put his hand under her chin and pushed her head up. She fell back in the chair.
'Cut it out, sister,' he said. 'It can be tough. I sup'pose they told you that there wasn't goin' to be no reward, huh? That it was a frame up? Well, that's the way it goes. Have a drink an' stop the waterworks. It annoys the customers.'
She took a drink from the bottle.
'You're funny, ain't you, copper?' she said. 'It's a big laugh, ain't it? You pull a fast one on me, an' I shoot my mouth an' wise you up to where Franchini is hidin' out, an' you get him fried and I'm left on the heap.'
The 'G' man grinned.
'Listen, sweetheart,' he said. 'This act wasn't so easy to put on. I ain't had any food for two days an' I walked on this broken shoe so as to give myself an honest to goodness blister.
'Another thing, it ain't so bad as it looks. You see, I handled that Polecat Inn shootin' a long time ago. I never believed that your boy friend pulled it. As a matter of fact, Franchini did it, an' Lloyd took the rap for him an' wouldn't talk. When Franchini bumped that last mug an' scrammed, an' we couldn't find where he was, I thought this little act up an' it worked.
'Have another drink an' then let's go and eat. There's a guy waitin' for you down at Centre Street by the name of Lloyd Schrim. I had him sprung this mornin'. He reckons he wants to marry you or something like that.
'An' there ain't no need to ask a lotta questions. He never worked in no jute-mill an' he ain't got T.B. Say, do you know what's good for a blister?'
MR. Eustace St. John Maninway stood in front of the mirror and regarded the reflection of his clean-cut and aristocratic profile with eyes that were definitely scared. Eustace realized that he was in a very tight corner.
He walked over to the sideboard and helped himself to a good measure of neat whisky. He felt a little better, a trifle braver.
Then he sat down and read Marella Gallery's letter once more. Eustace, it said:
Eustace, it said:
I've found you out. I realize now that I am just another middle-aged woman with money who's been taken in by a rather clever young man.
You will remember you sent me three novels to read two weeks ago. Caught between the pages of one of those books was a piece of very slim platinum pendant chain. I recognized it at once. It was the chain of Veronica's diamond pendant that disappeared so mysteriously at that party she gave three months ago.
When I saw that little piece of metal, it was rather as if I was looking at my own death warrant. I knew that you had stolen Veronica's pendant. That's why I came down here.
When I arrived I got in touch with a firm of private detectives in London. I asked them to find out all about you. They have. It's a pretty sordid story, isn't it, William Stubbings, alias Eustace St. John Maninway?
I am returning to town to-morrow. I shall arrive about five o'clock. I'm going straight to the house, after which I am going round to see Veronica. I shall insist that she prosecutes. I am quite appalled when I think what a fool I've been about you, when I think that only a month ago I altered my will and left you enough to bring you Ł2,000 a year. This is another thing I shall deal with on my return.
Marella Gallery.
Eustace drank a little more whisky. How the devil was he to have known that when he'd pulled the diamonds off that pendant, a little bit of the chain had fallen between the pages of that book?
After a while he walked to the bureau in the corner and took out a packet—letters he'd received from Marella during the last six months. He began to read through them, his brain vaguely trying to find something that would help.
He found it. It was a letter written by Marella some six months before. She'd been in the country on a round of visits and she'd left him her car to use while she was away. The last paragraph of the letter read:
So you must come down. Do try to be here by lunch, Eustace, because I must have the car. The nearest railway station is seven miles away, and the family car is out of order. So whatever you're doing put it off and come to my rescue, because I can't go on without you.
Love, Marella.
Eustace saw that Marella's letter was written on two pages. The second page contained only the words:
I can't go on without you,
Love, Marella.
Some devil in his brain began quietly to tell Eustace of a way out of this tight corner. Marella said she was returning to town to-morrow. There were no servants at the St. John's Wood house. They'd been sent off before Marella went away.
He went and stood by the window and read the note again. 'I can't go on without you, Love, Marella.' Well, Scotland Yard would know that note had been written months before. But if somebody else saw the note before he destroyed it—Veronica, for instance—they would know it existed. They would know that Marella intended to commit suicide.
Eustace grinned evilly. He'd made his mind up. Here was the way out.
THE next afternoon he went round to see Veronica. His
expression—Eustace was a very good actor—denoted
intense sadness.
'What's the matter, Eustace?' Veronica asked. 'You're looking glum. You ought to be happy. You'll be a bridegroom next month.'
'That's what I've come to see you about, Veronica,' he said. I'm in the devil of a jam about Marella. During the last three or four weeks I've been thinking about this marriage. I knew it wasn't right. I knew that Marella attracted me a great deal but that I didn't truly love her.
'I wouldn't have minded people saying that I'd married her for her money—that wouldn't have mattered to me if I felt that I'd honestly and sincerely loved her.
'Well, three days ago I came to a conclusion. I rang her up and told her that I couldn't go through with it'.
Veronica was silent for a minute. Then: 'Eustace,' she said. I think you've done the right thing. Of course Marella is upset, that's natural, but she'll get over it.'
'I'm afraid it's not as easy as that, Veronica,' he said. 'Yesterday Marella telephoned me. She sounded half mad. She said she didn't care whether I loved her or not, that we'd just got to get married. She said if I didn't go through with it she'd kill herself.
'This morning I got this.'
He handed the single sheet of notepaper to Veronica. She read it, handed it back to him. He crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the fire.
'When is she coming back?' asked Veronica.
'This afternoon,' said Eustace. 'She said she'd be back by four o'clock. I wonder if I ought to go round and see her?' He got up—stood for a moment as if undecided. 'I think I'll walk round there, Veronica,' he said, 'and wait for her.' Eustace took his hat and went.
IT was ten past five when Veronica's telephone jangled. It was
Eustace. His voice was quivering. 'Veronica,' he said, 'she's
done it!'
'Done what,' asked Veronica, her spine stiffening.
'She killed herself,' said Eustace.
EUSTACE was having tea with Veronica when the
Detective-Inspector arrived.
'I just want to know that I've got this quite right, sir,' said the police officer when Eustace finished telling how he had discovered the tragedy.
'You were about a hundred yards from the house when you saw Mrs. Gallery paying off the cab. Then she went up the steps and opened the door. You're certain about that point, aren't you, sir?'
'Quite certain,' said Eustace.
'I'm stressing the point, sir,' the inspector went on, 'because it seems that some six or seven months ago Mrs. Gallery had an extra key cut for the front door. I believe it was sent to you?'
'That's quite correct,' said Maninway glibly. 'Mrs. Gallery did give me a key. I lost it about two months ago.'
The police officer nodded.
'You were about eighty yards from the house when you saw Mrs. Gallery open the door and go in, and the door was open when you arrived?'
'That's right,' said Eustace. 'That's exactly what happened.'
The inspector looked more gloomy than ever.
'I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to come along with me, sir,' he said. 'I've a Squad car outside.
'You see, Mrs. Gallery saw the stationmaster at Waterloo and borrowed her cab fare home from him. She told him she was going to get into the house by the pantry window at the back. She'd left her handbag with her money and keys in it in Hampshire.'
MAYBE some of youse guys think you are smart. Maybe so, but where is it goin' to get youse guys. It's not goin' to get youse guys no place at all. No, sir!
An' the reason is simple, like fallin' off some logs; the reason is that because of the crooks an' moiderers an' smart alecs like Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan an' other big bums that are stickin' around waitin' to spring like a lotta man-eatin' reptiles on any guy with big brains an' sex-appeal like I have got without any warnin' whatsoever at any time.
One night I am tellin' my goil Lilly Scapalensi about my brains an' sex appeal, an' she says, Abie, you should be a detective. With the brains you got, there is practically no criminals around here who will not reckon that they are a total loss when Abie is on their tracks.
Abie, if you are a private detective, there should be some very nice pickin's, an' I have seen in a book how you can be a private detective for four dollars in a plain wrapper by correspondence.
I think this over an' I reckon that this bein' a detective is goin' to be a cinch with me, because I got very superior brains, as youse guys know, an' also becos I am so good at disguising myself that there are times when I do not even know who I am.
Pretty soon I see that I cannot get this four dollars locally, becos old man Scapalensi has locked up the cash register, but I obtain same by returnin' some guy's pocketbook which he has lost.
This guy wishes to give me two dollars reward, but has to owe this dough to me becos I have took out the twenty dollars that was inside the pocket-book before handin' him same.
I then write in to the school for detectives, an' they write me a lotta instructions about finger-prints an' clues an' thoid degrees.
After another week is gone by they send me a certificate saying that I am a private detective with honourable mention first-class, so far as they are concerned.
I then borrow five dollars off from Rachel Moshinsky while I am holdin' her handbag for her, an' put in an advertisement in the personal column of the evenin' paper which says like this:
Are you in some troubles? If you want any divorces, blackmails or other crimes taken care of come around and see Abie Hymie Finkelstein over Scraut's Delicatessen on Myrtle at 43rd. Sex-appeal and secrecy a speciality. Quality, civility and no waiting. Do not wait until the gangsters get you. Give Finkelstein a chance first.
I then get my room all fixed up like a detective's office,
with a magnifyin' glass an' false whiskers, an' after I been
sittin' around puttin' fingerprint powder on everything there is
a knock on the door, an' some honey-goil comes in.
This dame is an eyeful. She has gotta shape like Mae West with some plus features, an' she has also got blue eyes like saucers an' is a knockout blonde.
I can see that this dame is in some very big jam, an' that it looks like I have got a very big case about to bust wide open around here.
She bursts out cryin' and says: 'Mr. Finkelstein,' she says, 'take a look at me an' then tell me at whom do you think you are lookin' at?'
I do not think I will do myself any good by tellin' her some lies just yet, so I look at her through the magnifyin' glass an' I say I do not know who.
'O.K.,' she says. 'Then I wish to tell you that my identification must be kept very secret, becos I am nobody else but Miss Belle Van Buron Van Otterduck, of the Maryland Van Buron Van Otterducks.
'I have just been taken for a big ride by some big four-flusher called Rudolph Hornblower, who has got my beautiful pearl necklace off me by threats of exposure.
'This low-lifer is threatenin' to show up my old father, Colonel Van Buron Van Otterduck, who has got one foot in the graveyard.
'This Hornblower has got the low-down on my pa about a phoney game, that of snide-poker with marked cards that the Colonel usta run before he inherited his dough through winnin' a lottery.
'I cannot return to my colonial mansion in Maryland without the necklace, which is practically an heirloom, although usually worn around the neck.
'If I do I shall lose caste an' probably win a smack on the beezer from my infuriated parent, because without the necklace the family honour is practically all washed up. What should I do?'
I say she should not worry, that I will get around an' see this Rudolph Hornblower, an' that if she will leave her address with me I will return the necklace so quick to her that she will think she has not even lost same.
She then ankles off an' I get around to the place where she tells me this Hornblower is.
I go inta the apartment an' I tell him that I am Finkelstein the big detective, an' does he think he is goin' to get away with blackmailin' my client Belle Van Buron Van Otterduck like this.
He then gives me the big ha-ha an' says that this dame is no Van Buron Van Otterduck at all, an' that her one idea is to get dough out of one an' all.
He says that she has got him to insure this pearl necklace which he has give her for plenty dough so that some gangster friend of hers can pinch it an' she can collect the insurance on same.
I then see that my client is one hundred per cent no good to me.
I get a very big idea an' tell him if he will go out from the room for a coupla minutes an' leave the safe door open I will take the necklace an' he can then give information to the Insurance Company that it has been pinched by some unknown guy, after which the Company will cash in for same.
This guy says this is O.K. by him.
I then grab off the necklace, after which I get through to the Van Buron Van Otterduck baby an' I tell her that if she will send my fee around to my office, namely two hundred an' fifty bucks, I will hand over the poils to her practically at once which is a thing that I have no intentions of doin' at all.
She then says that she is very sorry but that she is very short of dough right now, but that if I will hand over the poils to her she will be like a sister to me only better.
I then go around to my office an' on the way around I buy a paper an' find that this guy Hornblower has given notice to the cops that his poils have been stolen outa his safe by a bearded gangster an' that the cops are expectin' to make some very hot arrests.
I also read that the Insurance Company is offerin' a reward of one thousand bucks for some information about this business.
I now feel that here is a big chance to make some capital so I pack up the poil necklace in a box an' I register same to the Insurance Company.
I ask if they will kindly send me the thousand bucks reward by return of post very quickly as I can do with same.
I have just done this when in springs Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan with this dame Miss Belle Van Buron Van Otterduck behind him.
He proceeds to inform me that he has been complained to about me by this big Maryland aristocrat lady. If I do not hand over these poils to her right away he will give me such a bust that it will be better for me to commit suicide before he can get at me.
I then tell him that does he know he is talkin' to Abie Hymie Finkelstein the big sleuth ace detective an' that I am not handin' over no poils to anybody until I have got some expenses.
I also tell him that this guy Hornblower has wised me up to the fact that this Miss Belle Van Buron Van Otterduck is not so hot an' that the only time she went to Maryland was in a police wagon with handcuffs on..
I tell him how I have sent these poils back to the Insurance Company an' asked them to send me the thousand bucks an' how does he like that?
He says that to have this thousand bucks will not be so good for me all at once, an' that I should split the reward with him.
He will then give me a cheque for five hundred bucks an' that I should write to the Insurance Company an' say that it was him that found the poils.
I then think that five hundred bucks in the hand is better than one thousand in the post office box, so I sit down an' write this letter.
He writes me out a cheque for five hundred bucks an' takes the letter off to post same.
I am now feelin' very pleased with everythin' becos even Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan is beginnin' to get wise to the fact that as a detective I am just what the doctor ordered.
I now think that I will get around and give Lilly Scapalensi the big ha-ha, so's she can see I am on the big money, an' when I get out I hear the news guys shoutin' an' I buy myself a paper.
This paper says that Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan, ace investigator on the 13th Precinct, has recovered the stolen poils which are now with the Insurance Company, so I reckon that he has sent the letter I wrote around to these guys by hand.
But when I go inta the bank to cash Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan's cheque they don't make me laugh becos he has called through to them an' told these guys that if I should show around there they are to throw me out on my ear, and he has also stopped payment on this cheque as well.
I am now very depressed, so I rush around to the 13th Precinct an' tell him that he cannot do this to me.
He says, Oh, can't he, an' that he has done it, an' he then calls some guy to throw me out on the sidewalk which this guy says he will do with a lotta pleasure. He then does same.
I now feel that there is some more plots goin' on against me all the time an' I get around to Lilly Scapalensi becos I think that maybe I can work some sex-appeal stuff on her an' collect a little jack from her.
But when I get around there she tells me that I had better get inta hidin' some place with false whiskers becos Police Captain Dooley O'Hagan has been around there lookin' for me with a police club and handcuffs.
The Insurance Company have now discovered that the poils is nothin' but false imitations an' that this Rudolph Hornblower an' the dame Belle Van Otterduck are nothin' but a pair of smart alec con guys who have been plottin' to take me for a ride.
So I have now gotta scram outa here very quick.
If it was not for the fact that old man Scapalensi is kind to me by goin' out an' leavin' the gas meter so I could empty it I would not even have car-fare to get some place where a high-class detective can get some honest dough.
SNEVELSKY, Third Assistant in the District Attorney's office, who trebled his official salary by 'fixing' for Parelli, the local big shot, walked out of the elevator and along the passage. He had his coat collar turned up but he couldn't disguise his bow legs, his thin shoulders, his peculiar walk.
Lounging outside Parelli's main door, Scanci and Fannigan, the mobster's two gorillas, quickly recognized him. Scanci grinned.
'Hey-hey, lookit,' he mouthed. 'Here comes the law. Howya, Snev? Haveya come for a cut or are you pinchin' somebody to-day?'
Fannigan raspberried. Both gorillas laughed.
The Third Assistant D.A. shot them a venomous look, pushed past, went through the first door along the passage, through the second into Moxy Parelli's room.
Parelli pushed the girl he was kissing back into her chair. He straightened. His wide mouth eased into a grin when he saw Snevelsky.
'Hey, where's the fire?' he said cheerfully. 'What's eatin' you, Snev? Have they got wise to you around at the D.A.'s office an' handed you a kick in the pants or have you come around here to say that you're thinkin' of raisin' the ante. If so, come again. There's nothing doin'. Not a thing.'
Snevelsky turned down his coat collar. There were beads of sweat across his forehead.
'Send that moll outa here,' he said. 'This is business.'
Parelli nodded at the girl. She got up and went out. She pulled a face at Snevelsky as she went. She was twenty-three, plump in the right places, with good legs and an impudent expression.
She was expensively and somewhat flashily dressed with a skirt that was too tight round the hips. Snevelsky found himself thinking that he liked molls in tight skirts.
'So what?' said Parelli. He did not offer a drink. He did not like the Third Assistant. He despised him.
'It's bad, Moxy,' said Snevelsky. 'Here's the set-up. We can't cover up any longer for you on that down-town warehouse shootin'. The Feds, are on the job. They got some tie-up that the shootin' was connected with a Treasury bond grab. They're makin' it a Federal job, see? O.K. The D.A. had me in to-day an' gave me a nasty one off the ice.
'He says we gotta pull somebody in for that killin'. He don't care who, but it's gotta be somebody an' it's gotta be quick. If we don't that lousy "G" crowd will be around here puttin' the heat on the town generally an' we'll all be sugared. Got that?'
Parelli sat down. He ran a finger between a fat neck and a silk collar. He thought.
I got it,' he said at last.
He began to grin. He leaned forward as far as his gross stomach would let him. Then:
'Get this, Snevelsky,' he said, 'an' get it right. I'm goin' to throw a party to-morrow out at the Grapevine Inn. O.K. The place will be full up an' they'll all be my boys, see? There won't be strangers around.
'Right. At eleven forty-five you concentrate a police cruiser out there. They can hide in among the trees on the other side of the highway. O.K. They just stick around, see? They wait there.
'At ten minutes to twelve I'm goin' to send a certain guy out of the inn by the front doorway. This guy will have an orange in his hand—you got that? That's good enough for you. Directly the cruiser squad see this guy come out with the orange in his hand they let him have it plenty. They don't arrest him. They just let him have it good in the guts an' they're goin' to be justified, see? The reason they shoot right away like that is becos he's got an orange in his hand, see?'
Snevelsky looked across at Parelli with wide eyes.
'You mean...'he said. 'You mean?'
I mean the guy with the orange will be The Orange Kid,' said the mobster. 'Ain't that good enough?' He grinned. 'Everybody knows that when that bozo chucks a bomb its always inside an orange skin. So all the cops have gotta say is that he was just about to chuck one of his usual egg-bombs inside the usual orange skin an' they hadta shoot first.'
'I got it,' says Snevelsky. 'But why the Kid? Why?'
'Don't get curious,' said Parelli. 'You keep your nose clean an' shut your trap. I got reasons.' He grinned. 'That was the Orange Kid's doll in here just now,' he went on. 'See?'
I see,' said Snevelsky. 'O.K. I got it. We give it to The Kid for resistin' arrest an' attemptin' to throw a bomb, an' we discover afterwards that he was the guy who pulled the warehouse killin'.'
'Correct,' said Parelli. 'Now scram becos you make me feel sick in the stomach.'
IT was eleven-thirty. The party at the Grapevine was tops.
Everybody who was anybody was there. Most of them very high. When
Parelli threw a party he threw one.
Irma, who was dancing with the Kid downstairs, stopped when she saw Scanci giving her the eye-sign. She told the Kid she had broken a suspender, that she'd be back in a minute.
Upstairs in the bedroom corridor Parelli was waiting for her. He gave her a big hug.
'Now, listen, kiddo,' he said. 'Here it is. In five minutes I'm goin' to send for the Kid. I'm goin' to send him out to pick up a guy on the other side of the highway.
'Just as he's goin' outa my bedroom here you come along the passage an' ask him to bring you back an orange with him.
'I've fixed that the only place where there's an orange is on the stand just inside the front entrance, an' there'll only be one orange there, see?
'So the Kid will grab it off the fruit girl pronto becos it's the only one an' he'll take it out of the front entrance with him so's nobody else gets it, becos he loves you so much.'
He grinned. 'After which we'll buy him a nice wreath of roses with "He was our dear pal" in silver wordin' on it, an' you can move over to me. Got that?'.
'I got it,' she said. She put up her lips. 'Gee, have you got brains, Moxy!' she gurgled.
FANNIGAN found the Orange Kid in the bar. 'Hey, Kid,' he said,
'the Big Boy wants you—he's up in his room. It's
business.'
The Kid nodded. Finished his rye. Turned round and made for the stairs. He was five feet ten, slim, an elegant dresser. He'd got style. He moved like a professional dancer and he could twist a four-inch nail between his fingers. He had big blue eyes and an innocent expression. Women went for him.
The Kid had played along with Parelli for five years. He knew where he was with Parelli. To him the mobster was the Big Boy—the real thing. To an East-Side wop kid, brought up to pinchin' off barrows from the age of four, snatching bags in the street, and acting as look-out for 'the Boys' from the age of ten, and every sort of mayhem from the age of fifteen, Parelli looked like the real business.
Parelli had made him what he was. And he was the finest shop-front blaster in the business. From the time the bombs were made down in McGarrow's warehouse basement to the time when the Kid threw them concealed in the usual orange skin with unerring aim into the shops, offices, even bathrooms of such folks as were foolish enough not to consent to pay for 'protection'.
The Orange Kid saw the business through coolly and smilingly. And even if the blasting business was not so profitable since repeal, he was also a very good and useful guy with a gun.
Life was O.K. The Orange Kid thought he was big-time in the mob, thought that Irma was the cutest doll ever. Everything was okey doke. So what the hell!
He pushed open the door of the bedroom and sauntered in. Parelli was sitting at a desk in the corner. Scanci grinned at the Kid and handed him a highball.
'Sit down, Kid,' said Parelli. 'Here's the way it is. Windy Pereira is coming down to-night from Wisconsin. He's due to show up here right now. O.K. Well, I don't want him to come in here.
'I just come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be so good. There's too many wise guys around here to-night who might put the wrong sorta construction on me havin' a meetin' with Pereira, see?
'Scram downstairs, Kid, an' go over the other side of the highway. Flag Pereira when you see that fight blue sedan of his an' tell him to lay off comin' in here. Tell him to ease right along to the Honeysuckle Inn an' that I'll come along there an' talk business to him at twelve o'clock. You got that?'
'O.K.,' said the Kid.
He swallowed the drink and went out of the room whistling. Outside, down the passage, he met Irma coming out of a bedroom.
'You wanna dance, Kid?' she said.
He smiled at her. 'Nope, I'm doin' a little job. I'll be seein' you.'
'I'm staying right up here till you come back, Kid,' she said. 'I don't want them monkeys downstairs man-handlin' me on the dance floor. I'll wait.'
He lit a cigarette.
'Sweet baby,' he said. He gave her a hug.
'An' bring me back an orange, Kid, when you come,' she said. 'There's some at the entrance. You better grab one as you go out becos they all got dry mouths downstairs an' they'll be fightin' for 'em later on.'
'O.K., honey,' said the Kid.
He walked towards the stairs.
THE orange basket in the front hall was empty.
'I'm sorry,' said the fruit girl. 'Some drunk grabbed the last one before I could stop him. I told the sap that Mr. Parelli said it wasn't to be touched, but he wouldn't listen.'
'Where'd he go?' asked the Kid.
'He went outa the side entrance,' said the girl. 'He was high all right!'
The Kid walked back along the passage and out by the side entrance. Away across the lawn, leading to the side road, he could see the drunk lurching along precariously. The Kid went after him.
Out on the side road he stopped with a grin. The drunk had evidently dropped the orange. It was lying in the gutter. The Kid picked it up and polished it with his handkerchief.
As he stood in the shadow of the hedgerow that surrounded the Grapevine he stiffened suddenly. Two cars slid along the side road, pulled up across on the waste ground in the shadow of the trees.
The Kid watched them. Saw four men get out of each. Two with Tommy-guns, two with sawn-off shot-guns. Moonlight flashed on a Sam Browne belt buckle. The law!
The Kid stood there thinking. There flashed back into his mind the remark of the fruit girl—I told the sap that Mr. Parelli said it wasn't to be touched....'
Why should Parelli want that orange left there, and why did Irma suddenly want an orange? And why was he sent out to meet Windy Pereira and his exit timed with the arrival of a couple of police gun-squads?
The Kid got it. So he was to be the sucker!
He walked quickly back across the lawn, around to the back of the Grapevine, into the garage. He found his roadster, started it up, backed it out on the gravel path at the back of the inn rear wall. He got out and left the engine running.
He opened the tool box in the rear carrier and took out what he wanted. He put it inside the breast of his jacket. Then he eased quietly around to the side entrance, went in and up the stairs.
Irma was waiting in the corridor. She looked a trifle surprised when he appeared.
'Hello, Kid,' he said. 'Come along here. I got something funny to tell you.'
They walked along to Parelli's room. The Kid kicked the door open, pushed the girl in and stepped in after her. He had a flat, snub-nosed automatic in his left hand.
Inside, Parelli, Scanci and Fannigan looked at him. Nobody said anything.
'O.K.,' said the Orange Kid. 'Here we go!'
He put his right hand inside his coat, brought it out with something that looked like an orange in it. He threw it into the room, stepped back, shut the door. As he ran for the stairway the bomb detonated. The roar shook the inn. Downstairs a woman shrieked.
THE Orange Kid put his foot down on the accelerator and headed
for the State line. He didn't expect to get far, but it was worth
trying.
He was doing seventy. He took his right hand off the wheel and felt about on the floor. After a second he found the orange he was feeling for.
He changed it over to the left hand and drove with his right. He bit through the orange skin and appreciated the tang of the juice. Somewhere behind him a police siren shrieked.
Opening Music
Fade out into
(Switch in Police Syren.)
Fade into
LEMMY CAUTION. Hey, soldiers! This is Lemmy Caution callin' The British Expeditionary Force.... Howya fellas!
Say... you guys... I've just had a big drink with myself an' all because some guy got sent to the electric chair this mornin'.... Yeah... the old hot squat.... I sent him there.
Maybe you heard of that mug.... Salki The Dude they called him. The cheapest sonofabitch killer that ever killed a guy.
It was Salki who pulled the bank stick-up at Little Rock—just outside Chicago. He did the job with his girl Jenny The Red an' his side-kicker Jake. They pulled it at night an' they shot an' killed two bank watchmen... an' they shot 'em in the back... the lousy heels. An' they thought they'd got away with it. There wasn't any evidence against 'em.... See...? Well, I got 'em, an' here's the way I did it. One night... five days after the job was pulled, Salki an' Jenny an' Jake was sittin' around in Salki's hide-out apartment on East Side Chicago....
(Fade in gramophone.)
SALKI. Hey... Jenny.... Turn that goddam thing off.... I wanna hear the police broadcast....
JENNY (sarcastically). Gettin' scared, big boy...?
JAKE. Scared nothin', sister.... Salki's just curious.... Me too.... An' I like to hear them coppers beefin'....
JENNY. O.K.... O.K....
(Switch out gramophone.)
Here it comes, so take the wool outa your ears....
(Switch in Police Radio)
POLICE RADIO OFFICER. This is Police Headquarters. All law officers and citizens are requested to look out for a red roadster with the number N.Y. 7653.24.... A red roadster number N.Y. 7653.24. This is the murder car used by the gang that shot and killed two bank watchmen five days ago at Little Rock and got away with fifty thousand dollars in bills.... Federal Officers are assisting in the search for this gang.... If you see the car telephone Federal Bureau of Investigation Headquarters or police headquarters.... That is all That is all....
JENNY. The big mugs... they ain't gonna see the car....
SALKI. You're tellin' me.... It's painted black now an' it's got a new set of plates... a nice job....
(Switch in telephone.)
Lay off... I'll answer that.... Yeah... yeah... hello, Ritzi.... Well, what's the trouble... yeah... you don't say.... What's his name?... Pete.... O.K.... Look... we're comin' right over....
JAKE. Say, is anything wrong, boss...?
SALKI. Plenty.... Listen, you two.... That was Ritzi 'phonin' from the Club.... He's got a new bar-tender in there. Some guy down from Cleveland... he got in bad with the cops there an'...
JENNY. So what...! I don't wanna hear his history....
SALKI. Shut up, willya.... O.K. Well, this guy has just told Ritzi that this evenin' some goddam 'G' man was there askin' this Pete about us... askin' whether we been in there an' where we kept our car....
JAKE. Jeez... that don't sound so good to me....
SALKI. Aw shut your trap an' keep it shut. Look... they can't hang a thing on to us. They got no evidence.... The only two guys who coulda said it was us are dead, see... an' dead guys can't talk. Come on you mugs. Let's get over to Ritzi's an' get the low-down from this bar-tender guy....
Fade into
(Band playing hot music... usual night club noises.)
RITZI. Ah, my fren' Salki. I am mos'a pleeze to see you. Theesa way, Salki... theesa way.... 'Ere's my bes' table....
SALKI. O.K. Ritzi... send some more Scotch... an' send that barman over... the guy who talked to that goddam 'G' man.... Say, is this guy a right guy...?
RITZI. Pete... 'Ees alia right.... You don' like da cops.... I don' lika da cops an' disa Pete, 'e 'ates da goddam cops.... I go fetch 'eem....
JENNY. Listen, Salki... what about blowin' outa this burg. Me I ain't scared... but....
SALKI. Aw... can it, kid... you're losin' your nerve. Everything's O.K. Pipe down now, here's this bar-tender guy....
PETE. Here's the scotch, Mister Salki.... Ritzi said you wanna talk to me....
SALKI. Sure.... Listen, pal.... Ritzi says you're a right guy. Give me the low-down on this 'G' man who was around here....
PETE. Sure... listen, I know that guy, see...? I know him from Cleveland. But he don't know me. I hate his lousy guts. He pulled a fast one on my sister, the sonofabitch....
JENNY (rudely). Yeah... well, we ain't interested in your sister....
PETE. O.K.... Well, this evenin' he comes in here. He says he's a travellin' salesman.... Like hell he is... he's Lemmy Caution.... He starts askin' about you, Mister Salki, an' whether you got a car an' where you garage it. He asked if there was a dame hangin' around called Jenny... an' a guy Jake....
JAKE. He's sorta curious... ain't he... the bastard....
SALKI. Shut up, Jake.... What didya tell this heel... Pete...?
PETE (viciously). I said I ain't ever seenya. I said I didn't know a thing. Gee, I'd like to bump that dirty gumshoein' dick myself....
SALKI (he is curious). Yeah... why?
PETE. Listen, Mister Salki.... When I was workin' in Cleveland with some mob, my sister Lillah is stuck on one of the boys... see? Well, this goddam 'G' man Caution comes along an' makes a big play for her.... He knocks her for a row of pins, an' the screwy dame tells him where the mob is... everything about 'em.... She is so nutty about this Caution she dunno what she's doin'.... Well, the dirty so-an'-so pinches the lot of 'em.... I was the only one who got out of it.... So then what does he do? Then he gives my sister the air... the dirty lug....
SALKI. I bet you don't like him, Pete.... Listen, I got an idea... you sound a right guy to me, Pete.... Where's your sister now?
PETE. She's right here in Chicago....
SALKI (pleasantly). Yeah... sit down, pal... an' have a drink....
PETE. Thanks, Mister Salki.
SALKI. Listen, kid... how'd you like to make yourself five thousand dollars an' start in workin' for me...?
PETE. Boy... oh boy...! Would I like to get my hooks on five grand... an' be workin' in with a real mob again. I ain't no bar-tender.... I'm sick of this goddam job.... Say... what do I haveta do?
SALKI. It's easy.... Listen, you mugs, I reckon with this guy here workin' in with us we can fix this goddam Caution once an' for all....
JENNY. You said somethin'... If we don't fix him he's gonna fix us....
SALKI. Look, Pete.... Here's the set up.... You scram outa here right away.... I'll make it right with Ritzi.... You get around to your sister. You get her to call through to this Lemmy Caution at Police Headquarters an' tell him she wantsta see him urgent.... Tell her to make out she's still sorta stuck on him... see? The mug'll fall for that... O.K. Then she tells him she's got some important information for him... that she's seen the car he's lookin' for in that Little Rock killin'...
PETE. O.K. That's easy....
SALKI. Wait a minute.... He'll fall for that O.K.... Then she' gotta tell him that she's gotta see him to-night because she's leavin town to-morrow mornin'.... She tells him he's gotta meet her down at Willie Mack's bar, in the back office, in an hour's time... that's at eleven o'clock.... see? You got that, Pete?
PETE. I got it.... What then?
SALKI. That's all she's gotta do.... But she don't go there, see? But Caution does.... He goes down there an' I'll have it all fixed. There's a service hatch in the wall of that office leadin' through to the store room....
PETE. Yeah....
SALKI. An' Jake here is gonna be waitin' in the store room with a gun with a silencer on it.... When that goddam Caution shows up Jake here gives it to him through the hatch. He fills that goddam gumshoe full of lead. Then he scrams... an' you come up to my apartment to-night an' collect five thousand bucks.... An' how do ya like that, kid...?
PETE. Do I like it! It's swell.... Why, I'd have done it for nothin'....
SALKI. O.K. You scram outa here, Pete.... Get around to your sister... stick with her while she makes that call. Then go down an' stand on the corner opposite Willie Mack's Bar on Barrel Street... wait there till you see Caution go in... then come up to my apartment... here's the address....
PETE. O.K., boss.... It's as good as done....
SALKI. When you come up to my place I'm gonna give you five thousand bucks.... I'm gonna give you a car an' send you off to join up with some pals of mine in Grand Rapids.... An' how do ya like that...?
PETE. Gee... that's swell! Thanks, boss....
SALKI. O.K. Get goin'....
PETE. I'll be seein' you....
(Pete goes.)
JAKE (surprised). Hey... this ain't so good.... I haveta bump this goddam 'G' man... an' this guy Pete gets five grand.... What the...
SALKI. Shut up an' listen.... D'you think I'm gonna give that bum five grand...?
JENNY. I thought there was a catch in it....
SALKI. Listen, Jake.... Here's what you gotta do.... You get a gun an' get down to the store at the back of Willie Mack's office. When Caution shows up there, you let him have it... give him six in the guts... make a certainty of that lousy guy....
JAKE. An' I'll love doin' it....
SALKI. All right.... Now listen.... Directly you done that, grab a cab, get back to my garage an' stick the gun you shot Caution with under the back seat of the car.... Don't come near my apartment. When you've planted the gun scram straight down to the depot an' take the night train for Toledo.... Jenny an' I'll join you there in a day or so....
JAKE. O.K., boss.... I get it... but...
SALKI (interrupts). Shut up, mug.... I ain't done yet.... Listen you two... is this brains or is it...? When this Pete—this bar-tender guy—comes up to my apartment, Caution'll be dead... so I'll give Pete five thousand bucks.... I'll give him five thousand of the bills we pinched from the Little Rock Bank ... every copper in the country knows the numbers of them bills.... Then I tell him to take the car outa the garage an' drive up to Grand Rapids like I told him... see? So the mug goes.... He's got a car an' five grand....
Jenny. Have you got brains, Salki...?
SALKI. You bet.... Five minutes after he's gone I'm gonna telephone police headquarters. I'm not gonna say who I am.... I'm gonna tell 'em that the guy they want... the guy who did the Little Rock job... is on his way to Grand Rapids.... I'm gonna give 'em the number of the car....
JAKE. Oh, boy... an' they pick him up.... They find the bills on him that came outa that bank, and...
JENNY. Under the back seat they find the gun that killed Caution....
SALKI. Right... so he gets the hot squat an' we're in the clear....
JENNY. I'll say you gotta brain....
JAKE. An' how.... You oughta be President....
SALKI. Scram, Jake.... Get down to Mack's place an' get set.... No slip-ups.... When that Caution guy gets along let him have it... an' then get along to the garage... stick the gun under the rear seat an' get out for Toledo....
JAKE. I'm on my way.... I'll be seein' ya....
SALKI. Come on, Jenny.... Let's get back to the apartment.... This is gonna be good....
JENNY. Sure.... I'm enjoyin' myself... to-night.
Musical Interlude to denote passage of time
Fade out into
(The gramophone is playing a hot number.)
JENNY. Say, that's a nice number....
(Switch in apartment door bell ringing.)
SALKI. Turn off that music box... here's that mug, Pete. Go let him in, Jenny....
(Switch in sound of door opening and Pete's voice as he enters)
JENNY. Here he is, as welcome as the flowers in May.... Come on in, big boy....
SALKI. Hello, Pete... come right in.
PETE (excitedly). Say... it worked, boss.... Caution went down there.... I was on the other side of the road. I saw the big lug go in....
SALKI (with satisfaction). An' Jake was waitin' for him with a belly-gun... that guy's dead meat by now.
PETE. To hell with him, the lousy lug....
SALKI. Listen, Pete... you done a good job.... An' here's the five thousand....
PETE (delighted). Say, is this swell...? Thanks, boss.
SALKI. I'm a generous guy.... Now look, Pete. Here's the garage key... it's just around the back. Open up the garage, get aboard my car... it's a grand heap.... I just bought it. Drive up to Grand Rapids.... You gotta get there quick... see? When you get there go stay at the Gettler Hotel an' wait for me to 'phone you....
PETE. O.K., boss. Say, you've been swell.... So long, boss.... So long, lady....
JENNY. So long, Pete.... We'll be seein' you...
(Switch in noise of apartment door closing.)
... maybe...! Well, he's on his way, the mug....
SALKI. Stick your head outa the window an' watch when he takes the car out.... Let's have a little music.
(Switch in gramophone.)
JENNY (at window). O.K.... there he goes, the big sap. Are you the brain guy or are you, Salki? You're a marvel....
SALKI. I'm pretty good.... Now we'll fix that bum....
(Switch in telephone dialling.)
Hey... is that police headquarters...? Well, never mind who I am.... I got some information.... The guy you want for the bank killin' at Little Rock last week is drivin' up now to Grand Rapids.... He's in a black roadster with Chicago plates on it... 3345.62... 3345.62... Chicago plates. If you put a car on the Grand Rapids road you'll get him.... He's a guy named Pete... says he's a bar-tender... used to be a mobster in Cleveland... that's all....
(He hangs up.)
(Switch in apartment door bell ringing.)
JENNY. Say, what the hell's that...?
SALKI. Well, go an' see.... What're you so scared about? (Switch in loud banging on the apartment door.)
POLICE LIEUTENANT (outside calls). Open up there, Salki.... This is the law.... Open this door or we'll bust it in....
SALKI. O.K... I'm comin'....
(Switch in noise of door opening.)
Say, what the hell is this? My God...! What're you doin' here, Pete?
POLICE LIEUTENANT. You made a little mistake, Salki.... This ain't Pete the barman....
PETE (LEMMY CAUTION). No, Pal... my name's Caution—Lemmy Caution.... An' howdya like that, mug...?
JENNY. My God...! A frame-up....
CAUTION. Sure, it was a frame-up.... Come on you two.... An' Salki, thank you for the five thousand... the numbers on those bills are gonna send you to the electric chair....
Closing music
CALLAGHAN woke up and stretched. He wondered why a railway carriage was conducive to sleep; concluded that it must be the monotony of the telegraph poles speeding past the window. He looked out. The countryside was grey, flat and uninteresting.
He lit a cigarette, took a letter out of the breast pocket of his overcoat, read it:
The Manor House,
Waylands,
Hampshire.
TO MESSRS. CALLAGHAN INVESTIGATIONS.
DEAR MR. CALLAGHAN,
I shall be grateful if you will undertake an investigation for me. Your name has been suggested to me by my private secretary, Miss MacArthur, in whose opinion I have the greatest confidence.
I am trustee for my nephew's—Captain C.H.T. Lanning—estate—a considerable one. Three months ago he was reported missing in Libya.
Recently I have had a communication from an individual in London by the name of Schribner who informs me that he lent my nephew large sums of money and holds I.O.U.s payable by the Estate. He wants the money.
As I cannot contact my nephew I am in a difficult situation. I should tell you that my nephew is—or was—an irresponsible and weak young man whose friends were often very odd people. It occurs to me that some of his more undesirable acquaintances may have concocted this story in order to get money, knowing that he is missing and their claims cannot be verified. Colour is lent to this idea by the fact that before he left for active service I refused my consent to his marriage to some young woman on the grounds that I am entitled under the Trust Deed to refuse such consent and any advance of money until he is twenty-five years of age—that is in three years' time—when the property and money held under the Trust pass into his possession. It occurred to me that this young woman may be behind the scheme, which is intended to force me to repay I.O.U.s which may or may not have been given by my nephew.
I shall be glad if you will come and see me here, as soon as possible. Expense is no object. If you play golf there is an excellent course here at Waylands, and the local hotel will look after you better than I can.
Yours truly,
ARTHUR LANNING.
THE train began to slow down. Callaghan put the letter back in
his pocket. Possibly, he thought, the old boy was right. It would
be an easy and plausible scheme for the young woman who hadn't
got married, to get a friend to try and cash in on her missing
boy friend's I.O.U.s. And there wasn't a lot of risk. Even if the
Captain turned up in due course he would hardly be likely to make
trouble.
The train stopped. Callaghan picked up his suitcase and golf clubs, got out and looked round the small station. Only a few other people alighted.
Callaghan dropped his suitcase and clubs against a pile of luggage on the platform. He lit a fresh cigarette and went in search of a porter.
WHEN Callaghan arrived at the Waylands Hotel he walked
straight across the lounge to the reception desk. Somewhere a
telephone rang. The diminutive page-boy who was carrying
Callaghan's luggage disappeared to answer it.
Callaghan was writing his name in the hotel register when the boy returned.
'A call for you, sir,' said the page. 'A lady. She wouldn't give her name. The telephone box is just down the passage.'
Callaghan went into the telephone box. He said: 'Hello!' and waited. A feminine voice, low and peculiarly thick-sounding, came on the line.
'Listen, Jimmy,' said the voice, 'I'm telephoning as arranged. And see there aren't any mistakes. You've got the I.O.U.s and a note with your instructions? Well... read them carefully. And don't stand any nonsense from old Lanning. He's got to pay. If there isn't the sum available—and there probably won't be—he can give you National Defence Certificates for the amount. They're as good as cash. You understand?'
Callaghan thought quickly. He was grinning a little.
He said: 'Yes.... I've got it. But where exactly are my instructions? I've forgotten....'
'Don't be an idiot,' said the voice. 'Everything—the I.O.U.s and the note of your instructions—are in the bag—the golf-bag—in the ball pocket. And don't forget the business has got to be settled to-night. Lanny has got to settle up to-night—or else....'
'O.K.,' said Callaghan. I understand.'
'All right,' said the voice. 'Well... so long... and good luck....' Callaghan heard the click as the receiver was hung up. He went back into the lounge. 'How did you know that call was for me?' he asked the page. The boy pointed to Callaghan's luggage.
'The lady said I'd know you by the golf-bag,' he said. 'She said it had the initials J.S. on it. She said I was just to tell you there was a call for you.'
Callaghan grinned. Somehow the porter at Waylands Station had picked up the wrong golf-bag. And not only the wrong one but the one belonging to the gentleman who was trying to cash in on the Lanning I.O.U.s. Callaghan thought the case was beginning to look interesting.
He gave the page a half-crown, went to his room, opened the ball pocket in the golf-bag, examined the I.O.U.s and the carefully typed instructions intended for 'Mr. Jimmy Schribner'.
CALLAGHAN, seated in the luxuriously furnished dining-room at
the Manor House, smiled across the table at his host.
'This is one of those extraordinary cases, Mr. Lanning,' he said. 'It's a case in which a million to one chance has come off. When I tell you what that chance is, you'll be amused. This afternoon, when I got to Waylands Station I left my suitcase and golf-bag against a pile of luggage while I went to find a porter. I found the porter and he got me a hired car. He put my luggage in it. But a most extraordinary thing had happened. On the same train was Jimmie Schribner—the man who is going to try to cash your nephew's I.O.U.s. Schribner had a golf-bag, and by a stroke of luck the porter, picking up my luggage from the pile, picked up the wrong golf-bag and put it in my car. I didn't notice it until I got to the hotel, when it was pointed out to me by a page-boy—but only after I had taken a call intended for Mr. Schribner—from a lady.'
Lanning's benevolent face showed his complete amazement.
'How extraordinary,' he said. 'How absolutely amazing!'
'I'm going to tell you how extraordinary,' said Callaghan. 'Needless to say when I was talking on the telephone I didn't let on that I wasn't Schribner. I was informed that the I.O.U.s were in the ball pocket in the golf-bag, together with a note of my instructions, so it looks as if you were right, Mr. Lanning.'
Lanning nodded.
'The woman in the case,' he said. 'The woman whom my nephew didn't marry.'
'Exactly,' said Callaghan. 'She's trying to pull a fast one. She couldn't marry your nephew. She knows he's missing and apparently she's put a friend of hers—this Jimmy Schribner—on to try and get the money. And she's not taking much of a chance either. Even if your nephew turns up he probably wouldn't feel he wanted to do anything about it.'
Lanning said: 'I'm awfully glad I sent for you, Mr. Callaghan. And you can take it from me that your fee in this matter will be generous.' He pushed the cigarette box towards Callaghan. 'Now, what do you advise me to do?' he asked.
Callaghan said: 'I think it's simple. It's a certainty that as Schribner's luggage was taken out at Waylands Station, he intended to stay the night here. Well, there's only one hotel—the Waylands Hotel. He'll go there. He must go there because he's got to try and get his own golf-bag back. He's discovered by this time that I arrived there with his golf-bag—the page-boy will have told him that.'
Lanning nodded.
'Now,' said Callaghan, 'the thing is this: This mysterious lady who spoke to me on the telephone said that the deal was to be closed to-night. They're in a hurry for that money, and my note of instructions informed me that even if you hadn't got the cash available, you had got National Defence Certificates and they were just as good as cash. The amount involved is twenty-five thousand pounds.
Lanning raised his eyebrows.
'Twenty-five thousand,' he said. 'Phew! They're greedy, aren't they?'
'All right,' said Callaghan. 'This is what I want you to do. You give me twenty-five thousand pounds worth of National Defence Certificates. I'll go back to the Waylands Hotel. Directly I get there I'll get in touch with the police. Then I'll show myself in the lounge. Pretty soon Mr. Schribner will be wanting his golf-bag. I'll give it to him. He won't think I've looked in the ball pocket because there is no reason why I should have done so.
'The next thing that will happen is that he'll telephone you, tell you that he's at the Waylands Hotel, tell you what he wants and ask to see you. He'll tell you he's got the I.O.U.s. Treat the matter as normal. Say that it's inconvenient for you to see him here; that you'll go down to the hotel. When you get there I'll meet you. Introduce me to Schribner as your representative. Then when he hands over the I.O.U.s, we'll give him the Certificates. I'll bet you any money you like that those I.O.U.s are forgeries. Incidentally, you might look at one....'
Callaghan produced the I.O.U. from his breast pocket and handed it across the table.
'Is that your nephew's handwriting?' he asked.
Lanning looked at the I.O.U. Then he shook his head.
'It is not,' he said definitely. 'It's a palpable forgery.'
Callaghan nodded.
'All right,' he said. 'The deal having been completed, if I know anything about Mr. Schribner, he'll leave the hotel immediately with his twenty-five thousand pounds' worth of Certificates. He'll go back to the station to catch the night train to London. He will be arrested on the platform. And that's that! We've got to play it that way. We've got to complete the deal in order to have a water-tight case.'
Lanning got up.
'Excellent,' he said. 'I'll get the Certificates now. Help yourself to another cigarette, Mr. Callaghan, and have some more port.'
IT was nine o'clock when Callaghan arrived back at the
Waylands Hotel. Under his arm was an envelope containing the
Certificates and in his pocket a cheque for two hundred and fifty
guineas 'for services rendered'. Callaghan was pleased with
life.
He went up to his room, lit a cigarette, opened the envelope, checked carefully through the Certificates. Then he walked up and down his room, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, deep in thought. At twenty minutes past nine he went down to the lounge, along the passageway into the telephone box. He rang the Manor House. While he was waiting he stretched his handkerchief across the mouthpiece of the transmitter. When the butler answered he asked to be put through to Mr. Lanning. A minute later Lanning came on the line.
'My name's Schribner,' Callaghan said in a gruff voice. I come down here to see you about those I.O.U.s. I got twenty-five thousand pounds worth of your nephew's I.O.U.s and I want the money. Otherwise I'm going to make a stink, see? Another thing, Mr. Lanning, I want that dough to-night. I lent your nephew the money and I'm going to have it back. If you haven't got dough, I'll take stock certificates or scrip or anything I can cash in on right away. Well?'
'All right, Mr. Schribner,' said Lanning. 'I thought I should be hearing from you. I got your letter some days ago, and I know my nephew was inclined to borrow money. I'll come down and meet you at the hotel. I'll be with you in a quarter of an hour's time.'
'That's all right by me,' said Callaghan. 'But don't keep me waitin'.'
He hung up the receiver. He was grinning more beatifically than ever. He waited a few minutes; then he rang the Manor House again. When the butler answered, Callaghan said:
'Is Miss MacArthur—Mr. Lanning's secretary—in? If she is I want to speak to her. Tell her it's an old friend.'
He waited. A few minutes afterwards a feminine voice spoke. Callaghan said:
'Miss MacArthur, my name's Callaghan. You remember you recommended my firm to Mr. Lanning? Mr. Lanning is coming down here to the hotel immediately to meet a Mr. Schribner. I want you to come down here too. But don't come with him. Be here in about twenty minutes' time. You understand?'
She said: 'Yes, I understand, Mr. Callaghan, but...'
'There are no "buts",' said Callaghan firmly. 'You be here.'
ARTHUR LANNING looked more benevolent than ever when, at a
quarter to ten, he entered Callaghan's sitting-room at the hotel.
He said:
'Congratulations, Mr. Callaghan. It worked out just as you said. Schribner rang me up. He's waiting to see me.' Callaghan nodded.
'I expect he's in the smoking-room,' he said. 'I'll go and get him. I'll be back in a minute.'
He went down the stairs into the lounge. He waited. Three or four minutes afterwards a girl came in. Callaghan looked at her appraisingly. He said:
'Are you Miss MacArthur?'
She nodded.
'Yes, Mr. Callaghan, I...'
'Explanations aren't necessary,' said Callaghan. 'Just come upstairs with me, will you?'
He led the way to his sitting-room. He was grinning when he went in. Lanning looked up in surprise.
'Sit down, Miss MacArthur,' said Callaghan. He turned to Lanning. 'Mr. Lanning,' he said, 'when will it be convenient for you to have an investigation into the affairs of the Estate which you hold in trust for your missing nephew?'
Lanning got up.
'What the devil is this?' he said.
'You know what it is,' said Callaghan. 'Those certificates were forgeries. I imagine you've been playing ducks and drakes with the Estate, and it might interest you to know that there wasn't any Mr. Schribner. The person who rang you through at the Manor House was me.'
Lanning sank back in his chair.
'I don't get this,' he said.
Callaghan interrupted.
'Neither did I at first. I've got it now. It's quite obvious that somebody knew that you'd been playing games with the Lanning Estate. Someone guessed that, but they couldn't do anything about it. They had to think up a scheme by which they could prove it. So they invented some I.O.U.s which your missing nephew had given to a mythical Mr. Schribner, and wrote you a letter. Then when you asked me to come down here they carefully arranged that the golf-bags were switched at the station; that I got one with some initials on it, the fake I.O.U.s and some instructions inside.
'The next move in the game was to telephone me at the hotel so as to make me look in the golf-bag and find the I.O.U.s. By this time I was wise to it. I realized that somebody wanted to make you produce those certificates because somebody guessed they were forgeries.
'Well, Mr. Lanning, it seems to me that you'd better consent to a private investigation or else this is going to be an affair for the police.'
Lanning's shoulders drooped.
'Well,' he said, 'it had to come out sooner or later. I haven't had much money. There's still a lot left.'
'That's excellent,' said Callaghan.
Lanning stuck his head up.
'But, wait a minute,' he said. 'If my nephew is missing and if it turns out that he's dead, that Estate comes back to me. Well, what about that?'
He looked triumphantly at Callaghan.
'Unless your nephew had a wife,' said Callaghan. 'Isn't that what the Trust Deed said? And whilst it laid down that you approve any marriage he might make, you couldn't stop such a marriage unless you had good reason.'
'That's as may be,' said Lanning, harshly. 'But he didn't get married.'
'You're quite wrong,' said Callaghan. He indicated Miss MacArthur. 'May I present your nephew's wife?' he said. He began to grin again. 'Wasn't it she who recommended you to send for me? And didn't you say in your letter that you have the greatest confidence in her opinion? Well, if you think as much of her as that you'd also think she was good enough to marry your nephew.
'It was Miss MacArthur who switched the golf-bags. Miss MacArthur who rang me up at the hotel. Isn't that right, Miss MacArthur?'
The girl nodded.
'I had to do something,' she said.
Callaghan said: 'I told you this case was one in a thousand, Mr. Lanning. Well, it is. You'd better hand that Estate over to Mrs. Lanning, subject to an investigation, and make the best of a bad job. Otherwise you'll probably find that I shall be working for her.'
CALLAGHAN stood on the railway station. An east wind was
blowing. Away in the distance the lights of the London train
appeared.
She said: 'I think you were terribly clever to piece all that together, Mr. Callaghan. When I recommended Arthur Lanning to write to you, I didn't know what a good detective you were.'
Callaghan smiled at her.
'I'm not as good as you think,' he said. 'Directly I got Lanning's letter I did the obvious thing. I had a search made at the London Register Offices. I found that young Lanning married you three days before he left for the East. The rest was easy.'
CALLAGHAN parked the Jaguar in the shadows on a grass verge off the main road. He got out, looked about him. The moonlight was so bright that he could see the countryside clearly. He lit a cigarette, walked slowly along the grass border of the winding road. Fifty yards brought him to the curving side road, bordered by high hedges, that ran over the hill. Away on the right he could see the old stone bridge.
He drew the tobacco smoke down into his lungs. Twenty yards away was the almost rustic bridge over the narrow river. Somewhere in the distance a church clock struck twelve.
Callaghan grinned. The hour was mysterious, the place romantic. He wondered what the woman would be like!
He crossed the bridge, and the dirt road, made for the clump of three oak trees. He was almost there, when she came out of the shadows.
She was of middle height and moved gracefully. Her fur coat was drawn close about her. As she stepped out of the shadows, the moonlight fell on her face and hair.
A hell of a woman, thought Callaghan. He wondered if the story would be as attractive.
He said: 'Good evening... Miss Varne? I hope I haven't kept you waiting.'
Her voice was soft and attractive. Callaghan thought it matched the rest of her.
I expect you were surprised to get my letter and to be asked to keep such a mysterious and secret appointment, Mr. Callaghan?' she said. He grinned.
'Nothing surprises a private detective. And I imagined you had a good reason for keeping this meeting secret.'
She nodded. She moved towards the road. They began to walk slowly towards the hill.
'I'll be as explicit as possible,' she said. 'When I tell you the story you'll understand why I was so worried, why I felt I had to get someone to help me. And I daren't telephone from The Manor, or ask you to keep an appointment there. It would only have made things worse,'
Callaghan threw his cigarette stub away.
'Supposing you begin at the beginning,' he said.
He looked at her sideways as he lit a fresh cigarette. Whatever it was, it was man trouble, he thought. She was beautiful, and beautiful women always have trouble—with men.
'I live at The Manor with my guardian,' she said. 'He's sixty, and ailing. He has been very good to me, and I'm very fond of him. That's why I've been so fearfully anxious about him lately—because I know he's been worried.'
Callaghan asked: 'Do you know what's worrying him?'
'I can make a good guess,' she said. 'Would you give me a cigarette, Mr. Callaghan?'
He gave her a cigarette, lit it. They continued strolling along the road. In the distance, almost on the brow of the hill, Callaghan could see the Manor House.
'My guardian was a great gambler,' she said. 'He was always in difficulties about money for that reason. He had a large income, but most of it—and eventually most of the capital—went on the gaming tables. About two years ago I persuaded him to give it up, and at that time I learned from him that he still owed a man named Gillimont forty thousand pounds. He was very worried. It was a debt of honour. It had to be paid—yet he couldn't pay it.
'I told him that the best thing to do would be to see this man Gillimont and explain the situation. After all, Gillimont had won a lot of money from my guardian on previous occasions. He promised to do this.'
'And did he?' asked Callaghan. She shrugged her shoulders.
'I believe he saw Gillimont,' she said. 'But what happened I don't know. I've never been able to find out. But immediately afterwards my guardian insured his life for forty thousand pounds. Then, about a year ago, Gillimont began 'phoning the Manor House. I knew it was he because once or twice by accident I heard snatches of the conversation on the extension line.
'Then he began to write letters, and although I never saw them—for my guardian never discussed them with me—I believe they were threatening letters.' Callaghan nodded..
'I see,' he said. 'And what do you think is going to happen now?'
'I don't know,' she said miserably. 'But I do know my guardian's terribly afraid, and I've heard odd reports about this man Gillimont. I believe he's threatening to kill my guardian unless he pays.'
Callaghan drew on his cigarette.
'It's all very interesting, Miss Varne,' he said. 'And exactly what do you want me to do about it?'
'Isn't there anything you can do, Mr. Callaghan?' she said. I feel that something terrible is hanging over the Manor House. I feel that this man Gilhmont will actually carry out his threat. I believe he'll kill my guardian. Isn't it worth while trying to find some way of stopping that?'
'What way?' asked Callaghan. 'If you think somebody is going to kill your guardian, it seems to me that this is a matter for the police.'
'I daren't go to the police,' she said. 'My guardian would never forgive me. There is only one thing....'
'What's that?' asked Callaghan.
She said: 'I wonder if you saw him and talked to him.... I wonder if he'd tell you all about it. He might. If he did it would make things so much easier. Perhaps you could deal with this Gillimont person.' She smiled suddenly. 'You have a reputation for being very tough, Mr. Callaghan,' she said.
He grinned.
'It's an idea,' he said. 'If you'd like me to do that, I'm game to try it; if you think I can do any good by seeing your guardian.'
She said: 'One never knows. He might want to talk to you. He's so frightened.'
By now they had reached the side gate in the wall of the Manor House. She stopped and faced Callaghan.
'To-morrow,' she said, 'I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'd like him to see you. Then I'll telephone you, ask you to come down.'
She stopped as the sound of hurried footsteps came from the other side of the wall. Then the iron gate was flung open. A grey-haired butler, his face drawn and white, appeared.
'Miss Varne,' he said, 'something terrible has happened... the master's dead. I found him just now in the coppice. He's been shot.'
Callaghan threw his cigarette stub away.
'It looks as if your guess was right, Miss Varne,' he said.
But she had gone. Callaghan saw her running swiftly up the wide path that led to the Manor House.
He lit a fresh cigarette; walked slowly after her.
CALLAGHAN lolled back in his chair. His feet were on the desk
and a cigarette hung perilously from the corner of his mouth. He
was thinking about Angela Varne.
He thought about her for quite a while; then he pressed the bell push on his desk with his foot. Effie Thompson came in—her notebook ready.
Callaghan said: 'Effie, is that fat, good-for-nothing Canadian assistant of mine in yet... or was he cockeyed again last night?'
'Mr. Nikolls is in,' said Effie. 'He's not very good-tempered, and he's drunk five cups of tea this morning, so you can draw your own conclusions.'
Callaghan grinned.
'Send him in,' he said.
Nikolls came in. He said:
'Good-morning, Slim. How's things cookin' around here? I feel awful.'
Callaghan said: 'You look awful. Just park yourself in that chair and listen.... Did you read the papers this morning—the Chervely murder?'
'Yeah,' said Nikolls, I read somethin' about it. Some old guy called Fane, at some Manor House. Are we interested?' Callaghan nodded.
'The dead man—Fane—had a ward, Angela Varne. She's our client. I was out there at The Manor, talking to her when they found the old boy's body.'
'Yeah?' said Nikolls. 'So what?' He sighed. 'It looks like I got to start workin' again. Ain't life terrible?'
Callaghan said: 'There's a fellow called Gillimont. This Gillimont won a lot of money from Fane—about forty thousand pounds—some years ago. Miss Varne got to hear about it and was worried. She knew Fane couldn't pay up. He'd gambled most of his money away. She persuaded Fane to have a talk with Gillimont, and apparently Gillimont agreed to wait for his money. Immediately afterwards Fane took out an insurance policy on his life for forty thousand. The idea probably was that if Fane had time to pay he would pay, and if he died Gillimont would get his money out of the insurance. Understand?'
'Sure,' said Nikolls. 'That sounds all right to me.'
'Miss Varne got the idea in her head that Gillimont had been threatening Fane. That he wanted his money now, that he'd threatened to kill Fane if he didn't get it. That's why she asked me to go down there.'
Nikolls said: 'That's all right, but where do I come in on this set-up?'
'You don't come in, you go out,' said Callaghan with a grin. 'You go out and you do some footwork. You find out who Gillimont is, what he does for a living and anything else that's going. And you find out everything you can about Fane. You'll probably get a line on the two of them from the boys who are still running card games in the West End. And you might also find out if Miss Varne has ever been engaged to, or friendly with, any man in particular. You got that?'
'I got it,' said Nikolls. He got up. 'I'll be seein' you....'
He sighed heavily and went out.
Callaghan lit a fresh cigarette. He blew smoke rings and watched them sail across the office. Then the telephone buzzer on his desk sounded. Effie Thompson's voice said:
'Detective-Inspector Gringall is on the line. Will you speak to him?'
'Put him through,' said Callaghan. He was smiling amiably. 'Hello, Gringall,' he said. 'It's nice to hear your voice again.'
Gringall said: 'Is it? I'm glad you like it. Listen, Slim.... The Sussex police have called the Yard in over this Chervely murder. I'm handling the case. I understand that you were down there at the Manor House with Miss Varne, when they found the body.'
'Correct,' said Callaghan. 'By the way, when was he killed?'
'As near as damn it half an hour before the butler found him,' said Gringall. 'Well... the thing is I'd like to talk to you. Miss Varne says she called you in because she was scared; that somebody was threatening Fane.'
'That's right,' said Callaghan. He threw his cigarette stub into the fireplace. 'Are you going down there?' he asked.
'This afternoon,' said Gringall. 'I expect to be there for a day or wo.'
'All right,' said Callaghan. 'I'll drive down to-morrow... in the afternoon... and talk to you. Will that do?'
'That'll be fine,' said Gringall. 'I'll see you then.'
Callaghan hung up. He got up, lit a fresh cigarette, took his hat from the rack, and went out. In the outer office he said to Effie Thompson:
'Effie, about two years ago Colonel Eustace Lancelot Fane took out an insurance policy for about forty thousand pounds on his own life. Get on to Critchley and tell him to find out which Company issued the policy, and in whose favour it was. Tell him to get a ripple on. When he comes through and tells you, get through to me immediately.'
'Very well,' said Effie. 'And where will you be?'
'In bed,' said Callaghan, 'and probably asleep. So you'd better keep on ringing.'
GRINGALL was finishing his lunch in the dining-room at the
Chervely Arms when Callaghan came in. He said:
'Hello, Slim.... It's nice to see you. Have a drink?'
Callaghan said: 'I'll have a large whisky and soda.'
Gringall ordered the drink. When it was brought he said:
'I had a talk this morning with Miss Varne—the dead man's ward. She told me she got in touch with you—unfortunately rather too late—because she was scared. She was afraid that someone was going to kill her guardian.'
'That's right,' said Callaghan. 'She suspected a man called Gillimont, to whom Fane owed a lot of money. It seems that Gillimont had been calling through to the Manor House and threatening Fane for some time.' Callaghan took out his cigarette case, lit a cigarette. 'The idea being,' he said, 'that Gillimont killed Fane....'
'No,' said Gringall. 'That's the snag... Gillimont didn't kill Fane. Gillimont's been in Newcastle for the last week and never left the place.'
Callaghan raised one eyebrow.
'It looks to me,' said Gringall, 'as if Miss Varne was mistaken about Gillimont calling through on the telephone and threatening the old boy. She's not certain it was Gillimont. She only thinks it was. Probably it was somebody else.'
Callaghan nodded.
'Is there any evidence?' he asked.
'You know as much as I do,' said Gringall. 'You saw the body. Unfortunately by the time the local police arrived it had rained like the devil. Any clue that there might have been was well washed away. All we know is that Fane was shot at close range with a .38 calibre bullet.' Gringall began to fill his pipe. 'I had hoped you might have some ideas,' he said. 'That you might have noticed something...?'
Callaghan said: I haven't any ideas, but I might have one or two later on.'
Gringall looked at him wryly.
'Have you got something up your sleeve?' he asked.
Callaghan grinned.
'Only my arm,' he said. 'I suggest you take a rest here this afternoon. You never know... if you stay here long enough you might hear something. So long, Gringall.'
He went out.
When Callaghan entered the library at the Manor House, Angela Varne was seated at the oak writing desk. She looked tired. Callaghan thought that black suited her. When the butler had gone, she said:
'Good afternoon, Mr. Callaghan. I'm glad to see you. It's all very terrible, isn't it? I can hardly realize it's happened.'
Callaghan said: 'That's too bad! You didn't know it was going to happen, did you, Miss Varne?'
She looked at him in surprise.
'I don't understand,' she said. 'What do you mean, Mr. Callaghan?'
Callaghan sat down. He took out his cigarette case, selected and lit a cigarette. He watched her through the flame of his lighter.
'Yesterday,' he said, 'Detective-Inspector Gringall, an old friend of mine, who is in charge of this case, rang me up and asked me to see him. He wanted to confirm my conversation with you, and he also wanted to know if I had any ideas on the subject. I've got a whole lot of ideas, but as you're our client, and as Callaghan Investigations always likes to do things properly, I think maybe that you'd prefer to be the person to tell him the ideas.'
She said: 'Mr. Callaghan, I don't like your tone, and I don't understand you.'
Callaghan grinned.
'Oh yes, you do,' he said. 'When I went back to town after seeing you, I did a little quiet thinking. You remember you told me that Gillimont had been through on the telephone; that you'd heard him threatening Fane. That was all right. If you overheard a conversation on an extension line, even if no names were mentioned, you might have surmised it was Gillimont. But you also said something else, Miss Varne. You said that Gillimont had been writing threatening letters to your guardian, and then you disclosed the fact that your guardian had said nothing to you about them. If you knew nothing about the letters, then how did you know they came from Gillimont? There would be only one way in which you could know. You recognized the handwriting on the envelope.'
Callaghan inhaled. He blew the cigarette smoke out slowly through pursed lips.
'I thought that was a bit odd,' he went on. 'I had a few enquiries made. It seems that you used to do a little gambling too, Miss Varne. It also seems that some time ago you were rather friendly with Gillimont. In other words, it rather looks as if this business of the Insurance Policy between Gillimont and your guardian was a put-up job.'
She said: 'Mr. Callaghan, I still don't understand you. But you sound very offensive.'
'That's too bad,' said Callaghan. 'But I think you ought to know, Miss Varne, that I've got a theory that fits this case. Maybe you'll prefer to tell it to Mr. Gringall yourself. If you don't, I shall.'
She sat back in her chair. She looked at Callaghan. She was very cool, very self-possessed. She said, with a small smile:
'In any event it would be interesting to hear your theory.'
Callaghan said: 'I imagine in the first place that the game between your guardian and Gillimont was crooked. Gillimont cheated the old boy out of that forty thousand pounds. Possibly you helped in the process. You knew perfectly well that he hadn't got the money to pay, but at your instigation he went and talked the whole thing over with Gillimont. Gillimont suggested that he took out an Insurance Policy on his life for the amount, so that if he died before he was able to pay, you, as the beneficiary under the policy, could settle the debt. In point of fact you both thought that Fane might live for another six or seven years, but not very much longer, and in any event you'd get the money sometime.
'Then something happened. Gillimont wanted that money. He began to press Fane, who told him he couldn't pay. I expect that following this conversation your guardian became suspicious. Possibly he made some enquiries. He discovered that the whole thing was a set-up between you and Gillimont.' She was still smiling.
'Very interesting, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'I hope you can prove this wonderful theory of yours. But go on... you interest me.' Callaghan grinned at her.
'I'll interest you before I've finished,' he said. 'Well, the old man suspected and confirmed his suspicions. He didn't like it at all. He hated you both. During the last year he'd become ill. Life didn't mean anything very much to him, and there was one way in which he could thwart both you and Gillimont. He told you what he intended to do.'
'Really,' said Angela. 'And what did he intend to do, Mr. Callaghan?'
'He told you he would commit suicide,' said Callaghan. 'Because the Insurance Policy was of the normal type, it contained a usual suicide clause that the money due under the policy would not be paid if the insured committed suicide within two years from the date of the policy.' Callaghan knocked the ash from his cigarette. 'You knew, that if Fane was going to carry out his threat he had to do it during the last two or three days, because the day after to-morrow that two years is up. It was practically a certainty that if he was going to carry out his threat, he was going to do it two days ago. So, cleverly, you got in touch with me. You got me to come down here. You told me this story about somebody threatening your guardian. It was clever of you to suggest that you were suspicious of Gillimont. You knew he had a perfect alibi, and no-one would suspect that you were working hand-in-glove with a man that you were practically accusing of murder. It's not a bad theory, is it, Miss Varne?'
She said softly: 'It sounds quite a possible theory. The thing is you can't prove it, Mr. Callaghan.'
Callaghan smiled.
I can,' he said. 'When I was talking to you the night I came down here, and the butler appeared with the bad news, I wondered why you ran so very quickly to look at your guardian's body. Most women would have waited a minute or two to get over the shock. But after I had seen the body and taken you back to the Manor House, I went back and had another look. I found something that was very interesting.'
She said: 'And what did you find, Mr. Callaghan?'
Callaghan said: 'It had begun to rain when we went to look at the body. When I went back and examined the ground in the vicinity, I found the impressions of your high-heeled shoes leading from the body to the ornamental lake. I wondered why, when you were in such a hurry to get to your guardian's body, you had walked from it to the lake. The answer was obvious. You had to get rid of the pistol with which he shot himself in order to make it appear that it was murder. If it was murder the Insurance Company would pay.'
Callaghan got up.
'It will be very easy to prove my theory, Miss Varne. I think Detective-Inspector Gringall will drag that lake to-morrow. If he finds the gun there my theory's proved.'
She looked at the desk before her. Her face was very white. She said:
'Perhaps it would be a good thing to take your advice, Mr. Callaghan.' She looked up at him and smiled. It was a wicked smile. 'Perhaps I'd better go and talk to Mr. Gringall.'
Callaghan said: 'I'm glad you look at it from that point of view. It's too bad it didn't come off.'
She got up. She said, with a twisted smile:
'The only satisfaction I have, Mr. Callaghan, is the knowledge that Messrs. Callaghan Investigations will not be paid for their services.'
'Oh yes, they will,' said Callaghan. 'You see, Miss Varne, at the present moment the police believe your guardian was murdered. That being so the Insurance Company would have paid. But now the Insurance Company won't pay. They'll be very pleased with me,' said Callaghan. 'I should think they'd be glad to pay my fee.'
EFFIE THOMPSON came into the office. She closed the door quietly behind her, stood with her back to it. She said:
'There's a lady outside, Mr. Callaghan. She wants to see you. She says her business is urgent. She won't say what her name is.'
'What does she look like?' asked Callaghan.
'I should say she's your type,' said Effie. Her tone was slightly acid. Callaghan grinned.
'And what's that?' he asked. He lit a cigarette. 'She's very well-dressed, very beautiful. She looks interesting.'
'You don't say?' said Callaghan. I can hardly wait. Show her in, Effie.'
Callaghan got up as the woman came into the room. He thought that Effie Thompson had not over-estimated her possibilities. She was more than beautiful.
Callaghan said: 'May I know your name, please? We're rather keen on knowing who the people are that we do business with.' He moved a chair forward.
She threw back her furs and sat down. Callaghan stood in front of the fireplace looking at her. She said: 'My name is Mrs. Gervase. Possibly you remember it?' Callaghan nodded.
'I remember,' he said. 'A month or so ago, a Mr. Gervase came here and asked us to keep an eye on his wife and a young gentleman in whom he thought she was too interested. We told him we didn't do work of that sort,' said Callaghan, 'so he went away. Is there some connection?'
She nodded.
'That was my husband,' she said. 'Mr. Callaghan, you might as well know that he was justified in his suspicions at the time. I thought I was very much in love with that young man.'
'I see,' said Callaghan. 'I think, if I remember rightly, his name was Strange—Eustace Strange?'
'That's right, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'That's the name. You have a good memory, haven't you?'
'An excellent one,' said Callaghan. 'Well, Mrs. Gervase, having established those facts, what can I do for you?'
She said: 'I'm afraid I'm going to ask you to do something that may seem rather extraordinary, Mr. Callaghan. Let me be quite frank with you. Eustace Strange has been in my husband's employ for some time. He's an extremely attractive young man. My husband was always preoccupied with his business and hadn't a lot of time to spend with me.' She shrugged her shoulders diffidently. 'I'm afraid I indulged in a little self-pity and saw myself as the neglected wife,' she went on. 'And the next thing was that I thought I was in love with Mr. Strange.'
Callaghan said: 'What did Strange think about that?'
She smiled.
I think he liked the idea, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'At least he did everything to encourage it. Up to the point when he suggested that we should run away together.'
I see,' said Callaghan. 'And I suppose this would be about the time when your husband came to see me? He suspected that all this business was going on between you two?'
She nodded.
'He was suspicious and came to you, and you refused to have anything to do with it. I would like you to know,' she continued, 'that nothing actually wrong occurred between Mr. Strange and myself.'
Callaghan said: 'Quite... And you suddenly decided that you weren't in love with Mr. Strange?'
'Yes,' she said, 'I suddenly decided that. I suddenly decided that I'd been a fool. I realized that when one has been married to a man for seven years one is inclined to become a little tired of him—unjustifiably. I saw that because my husband had been working hard at his business and not giving much of his time to me, there was no reason why I should make a fool of myself.' She smiled suddenly at Callaghan—a delightful smile. 'Women get flashes of logic sometimes, Mr. Callaghan.'
Callaghan said: 'So it seems. I congratulate you, Mrs. Gervase.'
She went on: 'I went to him and told him the whole story, and he was as nice about it as he is about everything. It seemed to both of us that the Strange incident was closed.'
Callaghan threw his cigarette stub into the fireplace. He walked to the desk, picked up the cigarette box, offered her one, and when she refused it, took one for himself. He went back to the fireplace.
'And now, Mrs. Gervase, it seems that the Strange incident isn't closed? Is that right?'
'Not quite,' she said. 'That part of it is definitely closed, but I'm afraid it's broken out in rather an unexpected way.'
'That should be interesting,' said Callaghan. 'Tell me...'
She said: 'About a year ago my husband gave me a valuable diamond bracelet. I kept it in the house, though I didn't often wear it. When, during the Strange episode, Eustace suggested to me that we should run off together and I asked him what we were going to do for money, he said the sale of the bracelet would finance us. He said he was perfectly certain that he could sell it for six or seven thousand pounds.'
Callaghan nodded. He said nothing.
I haven't worn the bracelet for some time,' said Mrs. Gervase. 'But two days ago I had an idea I'd like to look at it. I opened my jewel case. It was gone.'
'And you think...?' queried Callaghan.
'I don't think—I know,' she said. 'Eustace has stolen that bracelet.' Her voice was bitter.
Callaghan said: 'If he has, he'd be on a pretty good wicket, wouldn't he? I suppose he's counting on the fact that even if your husband discovered that he had stolen the bracelet, he wouldn't do anything about it. He wouldn't want any scandal.'
'Exactly, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'It seems Eustace is much more clever than I thought he was. He knows perfectly well that if my husband accuses him of the theft and tries to prosecute him, the whole thing will come out. He knows that my husband won't think a scandal worth while.'
Callaghan inhaled tobacco smoke; exhaled artistically through one nostril. He said:
'What am I supposed to do about this, Mrs. Gervase?'
'I have an idea, Mr. Callaghan,' she said. 'A pretty desperate one, but I think there's an excellent chance of it coming off. I'm certain that Eustace has that bracelet. Two weeks ago he resigned from my husband's business. I've heard he's going abroad. I'm certain he's going to give himself a fresh start on the proceeds of the sale of that bracelet, and I'm certain I know where the bracelet is.'
'Where is it?' asked Callaghan.
'There's a small wall safe behind a landscape picture in Eustace's sitting-room at the Glendale Apartments in South Kensington,' said Mrs. Gervase. 'I'm absolutely certain that that bracelet is there.'
'And supposing it is?' asked Callaghan.
She smiled. He thought she had a very beautiful mouth, lovely teeth. She said:
'I want you to get that bracelet for me, Mr. Callaghan. I want you to steal it back for me. Then it'll be a case of "the biter bit". And I think I can tell you exactly how you can do it.'
Callaghan grinned.
'Retribution in the shape of Callaghan Investigations,' he said. 'Still it would be rather amusing if that bracelet were in the wall safe in his sitting-room, and we could get it. He wouldn't have a leg to stand on. The very fact that he admitted it was in his possession would constitute a self-accusation.'
She said: 'Mr. Callaghan, if you do this for me, if you'll get that bracelet, I'll give you a cheque for two hundred and fifty guineas, and I'll be very very grateful to you. To-night is the ideal time. I understand that Eustace is leaving London to-morrow. I know he has an appointment at eleven o'clock to-night, that his flat will be empty. If you went there about eleven to-night, if you could get into the flat and get that wall safe open, I'm certain you'd get the bracelet. Will you do it?'
Callaghan said: 'I ought not to, but you're very beautiful, Mrs. Gervase, and I'm a great admirer of beauty. Also the idea of two hundred and fifty guineas appeals to me. We'll see what we can do. I don't suppose getting into the flat will be very difficult, and I hope I can get that wall safe open. Anyhow, I'll take the chance.'
She said: 'I'm certain you'll be successful, Mr. Callaghan. I've heard that you usually are. Thank you very much....'
CALLAGHAN stood for a moment outside the entrance door of the
Strange flat; then he tried two or three keys, opened the door,
went inside. He closed the door gently; stood in the dark hall
listening.
The place was quiet. After a minute he produced a pocket torch, found the electric switch, turned it on.
He went into the sitting-room, switched on the light, looked about him. On the opposite wall hung a single picture—a landscape. He crossed the room, stood looking at the picture for a moment; then, with his gloved hands, he moved it to one side. Behind, let into the wall, was a small safe.
Callaghan examined the combination carefully, wondered just how difficult the safe was going to be. He need not have worried. When he took hold of the combination knob the door of the safe opened. It was unlocked.
He looked inside. The safe was empty except for a dark blue velvet case that lay casually in one corner. Callaghan took it out, opened it. He stood, watching the reflection of the electric light flash on to the diamond bracelet in the case.
He took out the bracelet, examined it. A nice piece of work, he thought, easily worth ten thousand. He put it back into its case, slipped the case into his overcoat pocket, closed the safe, replaced the picture.
He looked at his wrist-watch. It was seven minutes past eleven. He stood for a moment in the centre of the room, thinking. Then he took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette, lit it, moved across the room towards the hallway. He was almost at the door when he heard the sound of a key in the front door.
Callaghan moved quickly. He took off his overcoat and hat, flung them across a chair, sat down in an armchair and relaxed.
A young man came into the room. He saw Callaghan; stood with his mouth open.
'And who the devil are you, may I ask?' he said.
Callaghan got up.
'Sorry about my unconventional entrance,' he said. 'But I came here to see you and found the front door off the latch. So I came in and waited. My name's Callaghan. I'm a private detective. You're Strange, aren't you?'
'That's right,' said the young man. 'And what is all this about?'
'Candidly, I came along to give you a little advice,' said Callaghan. 'Some weeks ago, your employer, Gervase, came to see me. He wanted me to keep you, and his wife, under observation. I turned the job down because my organization doesn't do that sort of work. But I thought it might be a good idea if I gave you the tip that he's very suspicious. He's after your blood, so you'd better look out.' Strange shrugged his shoulders.
'It's very nice of you, I'm sure,' he said. 'But you could have saved yourself the trouble. I don't care what Gervase thinks. In any event, I've chucked up my job with him and I'm going abroad. As for his wife, well...' He shrugged his shoulders again.... 'I don't care about her either.'
Callaghan grinned.
'I see,' he said. 'So it's like that. It looks to me as if you haven't given the lady a very straight deal.'
'No?' said Strange. 'Well, candidly, your opinion doesn't interest me. Incidentally, if you see the lady in question, you might tell her that I'm leaving England, so she can save herself the trouble of coming up here and creating hell...'
'Really...' said Callaghan amiably. 'She wouldn't do a thing like that now, would she?'
'Oh no!' said Strange cynically. 'She came here two days ago and created a scene. She can indulge in hysterics on the slightest provocation, and if that doesn't work, she goes in for fainting fits. I'm fed up with the whole damned business.'
Callaghan picked up his hat.
'Well, I thought I'd let you know,' he said. 'Perhaps it's a good thing you're leaving. Good night.'
'Good night, and thank you for nothing,' said Strange. He stood on one side to allow Callaghan to pass.
Callaghan got out of the lift on the ground floor and began to walk towards the entrance doors. He stopped when Mrs. Gervase came through them and hurried towards him.
She said: 'Mr. Callaghan... something terrible has happened. This evening my husband wanted me to wear the bracelet. When I couldn't produce it, he forced the whole story out of me. I told him about you, and what I'd done to try and get the bracelet back. He's outside in the car. He says he's going to call in the police....'
Callaghan smiled.
'Take it easy, Mrs. Gervase,' he said. 'It's no good worrying about the bracelet. It wasn't there anyhow. I searched the whole place...'
Her eyes were wide. 'Not there!' she said. 'But I can't understand. I...'
Callaghan said: 'Strange isn't here either. He's gone abroad. He left this evening.' He drew on his cigarette.
'You'd better go and calm down that husband of yours,' he said. 'Tell him it's no good crying over spilt milk and that you might have mislaid the bracelet.'
She said: 'He'll never believe me. He knows that Strange has it. He'll never rest until Strange is in prison.'
'He'll have to catch him first,' said Callaghan. 'Anyhow, there it is. Still... there is something I'd like to talk to you about, Mrs. Gervase. Drop in at my office to-morrow morning. I might have some news for you. I'm trying to find out just where our friend Strange has gone.'
CALLAGHAN sat back in his office chair smoking a cigarette.
Nikolls sat in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace,
his hands folded across his plump stomach.
He said: 'Why do I have to be present at this interview?'
'You don't have to be,' said Callaghan. 'But I thought it might be a good thing to have a witness present.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'Mrs. Gervase will be here in a minute.'
He went on smoking. After a few minutes, Effie Thompson came in.
'The lady is here,' she said, 'the one who came yesterday.
Callaghan said: 'Show her in.'
Mrs. Gervase came into the office. Nikolls gave her a chair. She sat down.
Callaghan said: 'Would you like a cigarette, Mrs. Gervase?'
She said: 'No, thank you. I only smoke when I'm nervous.'
'Then you'd better have a cigarette, because I think your nerves are going to get a little shock in a minute.' She raised her eyebrows.
'Really, Mr. Callaghan?' she asked. 'And may I ask why?'
'You may,' said Callaghan. 'By the way, I suppose you've brought my cheque with you, Mrs. Gervase?'
She shook her head.
'I haven't,' she said. 'Of course, I suppose I shall have to pay you some sort of fee, but not two hundred and fifty guineas. I was prepared to pay that to get the bracelet back.'
Callaghan said: 'You'll pay it anyway.'
She smiled at him. He thought she had a good nerve.
She said: 'Shall I really? Perhaps you'll tell me why. I don't like your tone.'
'I'm sorry about that,' said Callaghan. 'But you'll pay the two hundred and fifty guineas... and like it.'
'She said: I don't understand....'
Callaghan said: 'Mrs. Gervase, I'm going to tell you a little story. Eustace Strange was never in love with you. But you were in love with him. You set your cap at him, and you probably made his f´life a misery. Your husband became suspicious just about the time that Strange told you he was fed up with the whole business, and was going to resign his job and go abroad so as to get away from you.'
Callaghan drew on his cigarette.
'Your husband's suspicions ceased when he realized that Strange was going,' he said. 'But you weren't satisfied with the situation. You had suggested to Strange that you two went off together and he refused. Maybe,' said Callaghan, 'you've heard of a proverb: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." You wanted revenge on Strange at any cost for slighting you. A couple of days ago you went round to his flat at the Glendale Apartments, created a scene. You pretended to faint. Whilst he was out of the room to get water or brandy or something, you threw your bracelet in its case into the wall safe behind the picture. You knew Strange would never guess it was there, because you knew he never used that safe.'
Callaghan grinned.
'That's why it was open when I got there,' he said. 'Then you came to me with that cock and bull story about getting the bracelet back again. You knew that Strange wouldn't be at the flat at eleven o'clock, but he'd be there soon afterwards. So in the evening you told your husband this fairy story about Strange having the bracelet, knowing that he'd go straight round to the Glendale Apartments with you, expecting to meet me coming out with the bracelet—conclusive evidence that Strange had stolen it.'
Callaghan took another cigarette. He lit it slowly.
'Quite a clever little plot, Mrs. Gervase. But it didn't come off. I have your bracelet here in my desk drawer. Now you'd better write out that cheque for two hundred and fifty guineas, take the bracelet and think up another little story for your husband. You'd better tell him that you'd mislaid it. He'll probably believe it.' He grinned again. 'He seems to believe most things you say.'
She got up. She looked at him through half closed eyes. Then she opened her handbag; took out a cheque book.
Callaghan handed her his fountain pen.
(Theme Music.)
ANNOUNCER. Slim Callaghan, Private Detective, aided by his Canadian assistant, Windemere Nikolls (known as Windy), and Effie Thompson, his Secretary, solves another problem which he refers to as... 'One for the Duchess'.
(Opening Music.)
(Fade into the noise of Effie Thompson's type-
writer in Callaghan's Office in Berkeley Square)
(Switch in two rings on telephone bell.)
EFFIE. Hello... Yes... This is Mr. Callaghan's office... Oh, is that you, Windy? No... But he'll be back any minute now... All right... good-bye.
(Noise of hanging up receiver. Typewriter starts and pre-
sently footsteps running up outside stairs. Door opens)
CALLAGHAN. Has Nikolls been through, Effie?
(Typewriter stops)
EFFIE. He was just on the line, Mr. Callaghan. He's back from Dorset and on his way here now....
CALLAGHAN. Any news?
EFFIE. The two o'clock editions have got the story of the robbery, Mr. Callaghan....
(Crackle of newspaper)
CALLAGHAN. Quick work.... What do they say?
EFFIE (reading). The Evening News says: 'A sensational blackout burglary took place last night at Treloar Castle, the residence of Lord Treloar in Dorset. The Treloar Necklace, one of the most valuable diamond necklaces in the world, was stolen. Inspector Dernan of the C.I.D. has left London to take charge of the investigation....
(Sound of running footsteps outside office)
Here's Mr. Nikolls I expect....
(Door opens)
CALLAGHAN. Hello, Windy.... Well... what do you know about it?
NIKOLLS. Me... I don't know a thing (door shuts)... Slim... this case stinks....
CALLAGHAN. Why?
NIKOLLS. Well... it's this way... Treloar Castle has got every durned burglar-proof appliance that was ever invented. The necklace was in a special safe sunk in a concrete wall. Whoever opened the safe knew the combination.... No window or door or anything else was bust open... an' there wasn't a goddam fingerprint anywhere... I'm tellin' you it just hadta be an inside job.
CALLAGHAN. Who was in the Castle last night? What about the staff?
NIKOLLS. There's only four people there. Lord Treloar is away—somewhere in Wales...They can't get hold of him because they don't know where he is... O.K. There's an old butler who's been with the family for twenty years, a cook, a housemaid an' a gardener. But I don't reckon they know a thing about it....
CALLAGHAN. Why not?
NIKOLLS. They ain't that sort of guy... They're all old servants an' not one of 'em has got enough brains to open that safe without knowin' the combination.
CALLAGHAN. Couldn't one of them have found out what the combination was?
NIKOLLS. Not a chance... The only guy who knows the combination is Lord Treloar... so there you are. I give up....
(Switch in telephone bell.)
CALLAGHAN. Answer it, Effie....
EFFIE (in background). Hello... Yes... Mr. Callaghan's office.... Oh yes, sir... please hold the line.
CALLAGHAN. What is it, Effie?
EFFIE (speaking quietly). It's Lord Treloar on the line.... He's just arrived in town. He's heard about the robbery. He's at his house in Mount Street.... He wants to know if you'll go and see him there at four o'clock.
CALLAGHAN. We can just do it.... Tell him I'll come round immediately.... Effie. Very good, Mr. Callaghan....
(During the next speech Effie is heard in back-
ground confirming the appointment on the telephone.)
EFFIE. Hello... Will you tell his Lordship Mr. Callaghan will be with him at four o'clock. Thank you....
(Hangs up receiver.)
NIKOLLS. I bet the old boy ain't so glad to hear that somebody's pinched his necklace....
CALLAGHAN. Well, let's go.... Incidentally... I wonder how he did hear.... Come on, Windy.
(Door shuts.)
(Fade in gradually traffic noises, motor horns, etc.)
(Car arrives and stops.)
NIKOLLS. Well... here we are.... Some house too... Me, I wish I could live in a dump like that....
CALLAGHAN. You'd be like a fish out of water, Windy.... Besides it wouldn't suit your accent....
(Noise of cab door shutting)
Wait for me, driver....
(Sound of footsteps.)
NIKOLLS (as they walk to door). Say, what the hell's the matter with my accent?
CALLAGHAN. You wouldn't know....
(Knock on front door)
NIKOLLS. My accent goes with the dames all right. Why, I met one in Oshkosh.... Callaghan. Easy, Windy....
(Switch in noise of front door opening)
JENNINGS. Mr. Callaghan?
CALLAGHAN. Yes....
JENNINGS. His Lordship is expecting you....
CALLAGHAN. Good....
(Switch in noise of door closing)
JENNINGS. This way, sir....
CALLAGHAN. By the way, how did Lord Treloar hear about the burglary?
JENNINGS. Well, I suppose he saw it in the newspapers, sir... he telephoned to me at the Castle and instructed me to come up to town to meet him.
(Switch in footsteps)
NIKOLLS (whispering). How the hell could he...?
CALLAGHAN (whispering). Shut up, Windy... I'll do the talking.
(Switch in sound of door opening.)
JENNINGS (announcing). Mr. Callaghan....
LORD TRELOAR. How do you do, Mr. Callaghan....
(Door shuts.)...
Please sit down....
CALLAGHAN. This is Windemere Nikolls, my assistant, Lord Treloar....
LORD TRELOAR. How do you do, Mr. Nikolls... Well, Mr. Callaghan..this is a bad business. I understand that you are investigator for the Sphere International Insurance Company who insured the necklace....
CALLAGHAN. That is so.... Nikolls here has already been down to Treloar Castle and made a preliminary investigation. It seems that the police are rather at a loss....
LORD TRELOAR. So I gather....
CALLAGHAN. Quite obviously the burglary was an inside job.... Nobody appears to have forced an entrance, the safe was opened in the normal way and whoever opened it not only knew the combination but was careful to leave no fingerprints.
LORD TRELOAR. I see.... Have you any ideas at all, Mr. Callaghan?
CALLAGHAN. Frankly, I haven't.... I'm sorry for you, Lord Treloar, because, as you know, the necklace is insured for only fifteen thousand pounds. It's probably worth double that to-day....
LORD TRELOAR. Exactly Mr. Callaghan, I've asked you to come here because I want to talk to you quite frankly about this robbery. I take it that anything that is said in this room between us three people is quite confidential...?
CALLAGHAN. Absolutely....
LORD TRELOAR. Mr. Callaghan... I know who stole the Treloar necklace.
NIKOLLS. Gee whiz.... What d'ya know about that...!
CALLAGHAN (quick on cue). I see.... Someone who had access to the Castle and who knew the safe combination?
LORD TRELOAR. Exactly... my wife....
NIKOLLS. Phew...! Boy, oh boy.... What a story!
CALLAGHAN. Your wife...?
LORD TRELOAR. I'm afraid so, Mr. Callaghan.... I think it would be better if I explained the circumstances. Then possibly we may find a solution for this difficult problem....
CALLAGHAN. It might help....
LORD TRELOAR. As you probably know I was married just over a year ago.... I thought I was marrying an American heiress who would appreciate the Treloar title and whose wealth would help keep the estate in the hands of the family....
CALLAGHAN. I remember reading about it in the newspapers....
LORD TRELOAR. Imagine my dismay when I discovered—just over a month ago—that my wife—instead of being an American lady of good family—was none other than an international confidence trickster, commonly known as 'The Duchess'... a woman who had come under the notice of practically every European police force, but had managed by sheer cleverness to keep out of the hands of the law.
NIKOLLS. Gosh... what a set-up.... Peer marries con girl... can you beat it!
CALLAGHAN. Not a very good situation.... What did you do about it?
LORD TRELOAR. I had a straight talk with my wife.... I told her that an immediate divorce must be arranged; that the situation was impossible....
CALLAGHAN. And what did she say?
LORD TRELOAR. She just laughed. Mark you, she's a very charming and clever person, but very difficult to deal with.... Well... to cut a long story short, she said that she would agree to the divorce providing I handed over to her the Treloar necklace or alternatively ten thousand pounds....
NIKOLLS. Has that baby got a nerve or has she?
CALLAGHAN. And, of course... you refused?
LORD TRELOAR. Of course.... She laughed and said that somehow by hook or by crook she would have that necklace....
NIKOLLS. An' she got it by crook... what a dame...! Gee, I like the sound of this baby....
CALLAGHAN. And you believe that she stole the necklace?
LORD TRELOAR. I know she stole it.... She told me so...!
NIKOLLS. Ain't she the honest little cutie... She just grabs off the necklace an' then owns up. Me... I like her....
CALLAGHAN. She told you some time to-day...?
LORD TRELOAR. She telephoned me just before I called through to your office.... She said that she had the necklace and that she was prepared to return it to me on payment of ten thousand pounds...
CALLAGHAN. She certainly has a nerve.... It looks as if you're in a rather difficult position, Lord Treloar....
LORD TRELOAR. It does. But with your help I think we may find a way out....
CALLAGHAN. I'm glad to hear it By the way, I wonder if you could give me a cigarette. My case is empty....
LORD TRELOAR. Certainly.... (going to desk)... There ought to be a box somewhere....
(Noise of desk drawers opening and shutting and rustling papers.)
Let me see now.... Ah... here they are....
CALLAGHAN. Thanks.... And now for your idea....
LORD TRELOAR. This afternoon... immediately after I had telephoned you... I went to my bank and got five thousand pounds. It's practically all the money I have available. I have it here. Fifty brand-new hundred-pound notes fresh from the bank with the wrappers still on the packages. I don't think my wife will be able to resist it....
CALLAGHAN. But she wanted ten thousand....
LORD TRELOAR. I know.... But I think she might take five thousand from you, Mr. Callaghan....
CALLAGHAN. I see.... You think that when she realizes that I am aware of the facts of the case she may care to accept the five thousand...?
LORD TRELOAR. I do.... She knows that I couldn't put the police on to her.... I couldn't stand the publicity.... But when she realizes that you, representing the Insurance Company who insured the necklace, know the facts, I rather fancy she'll change her mind.
CALLAGHAN (grimly). I think perhaps she will....
NIKOLLS. Anyway, she's still doin' good business... at five thousand....
LORD TRELOAR. Then I take it you will go and see her as soon as possible. She is staying at the Hotel Miramar. She rang me up from there. But remember, Mr. Callaghan, she's very sharp and very clever.... By the way, have you ever seen the Treloar necklace? Callaghan. No... not even a photograph.
LORD TRELOAR. Then I suggest that before you see her you drop in at the Antique Jewellery Exhibition at Mardles in Bond Street.... They have a very good paste replica there....
CALLAGHAN. I'll go and inspect it... on my way to the Miramar....
LORD TRELOAR. Do, and when she gives you the necklace make certain that none of the stones is missing.
CALLAGHAN. Don't worry, Lord Treloar.... I think we'll get the necklace back all right.... I'll go to Mardles now and inspect the replica and then go on to the Miramar. Windy... you go back to the office and hang around until you hear from me....
LORD TRELOAR. I ought to tell you... my wife is staying at the Miramar under the name of Mrs. Castleton.... Incidentally, I'm rather glad of the fact....
CALLAGHAN. I'll remember that.... Well... I'll be on my way.... It's five o'clock now. I hope to see Lady Treloar alias Mrs. Castleton alias The Duchess some time before six o'clock....
LORD TRELOAR. I shall be very interested to hear what happens. I will wait here for you....
CALLAGHAN. I should be back here, with the necklace, by seven o'clock....
LORD TRELOAR. Excellent...
(Sound of bell ringing in distance.)
... Well, till then... au revoir... and good luck....
(Door opens.)
Jennings, show Mr. Callaghan and Mr. Nikolls out, please....
JENNINGS. Yes, my Lord... this way, gentlemen....
(Door closes.)
(Sound of footsteps.)
Excuse me, sir, but I do hope you succeed in getting the necklace back.... We're all very worried about it....
CALLAGHAN. Don't worry, Jennings... we'll get it all right....
JENNINGS. I hope so, sir...
(Hall door opens, traffic noises, etc., in background.)
Good-day, sir...
CALLAGHAN. Good-day....
(Door closes...footsteps)
Give me a light, Windy....
NIKOLLS. O.K., Slim.... Well... for cryin' out loud. You asked the old boy for a cigarette an' you got a case full....
CALLAGHAN. Sure.... Where are your brains, Windy.... You're the worst detective I ever met.... (Calls.) Taxi!...
NIKOLLS. Listen... I don't get this....
CALLAGHAN. Of course you don't, Windy... you're dumb....
NIKOLLS. Say, what is all this....?
(Sound of taxi drawing up and stopping)
CALLAGHAN. Save your curiosity, Windy... and in the meantime get back to the office....
(Sound of cab door opening)
NIKOLLS. O.K., Slim... I'll be seein' you....
CALLAGHAN. Drive to Mardles, the Jewellers, in Bond Street and then afterwards to the Hotel Miramar....
DRIVER. Very good, sir....
(Cab door closes. Taxi drives off. Gradually fade out)
(Fade in Hotel clock striking six—sound of Miramar Hotel Band
playing. Keep going in background throughout this scene)
RECEPTION CLERK. Good evening, sir....
CALLAGHAN. My name's Callaghan.... I want to see Mrs. Castleton please....
RECEPTION CLERK. Mrs. Castleton, sir.... Let me see... yes, she's over there... sitting in the small alcove on the other side of the Palm Court... the lady drinking a cocktail....
CALLAGHAN. Oh, thanks... I'll go over....
(Switch in sound of footsteps.)
Good evening, Mrs. Castleton—Duchess—I beg your pardon, or is it Lady Treloar? Duchess—excuse me, or would your prefer to be called the Duchess...?
DUCHESS. Say... do I know you or do I...?
CALLAGHAN. My name's Callaghan.... I'm investigator for the Sphere & International Insurance Company, the company who insured the Treloar necklace... which, by the way, is what I've come to see you about....
(Fade out dance band.)
DUCHESS. You don't say... this is interesting... sit down.... Well, Mister Callaghan, an' who was it sent you to see me...?
CALLAGHAN. I know the whole story, Duchess.... Apparently Lord Treloar heard of the theft of the necklace and came back to London immediately.... I've just left him.... This afternoon you telephoned him and offered to sell him back the Treloar necklace for ten thousand pounds. I suppose you were counting on the fact that he couldn't very well afford to have a public scandal....
DUCHESS. Well... maybe you've got something there.... What else did the old boy tell you...?
CALLAGHAN. Quite a lot.... He told me how you four-flushed him into marrying you and how you refused to agree to a divorce until he had either given you the necklace or ten thousand pounds....
DUCHESS. He's been sorta lettin' you into the family history, hey, Mr. Callaghan? Well... tell me somethin'... is the old boy gonna do a deal or is he?
CALLAGHAN. The question is, Duchess, whether you are going to do a deal on our terms. You see, your own situation isn't too happy.
DUCHESS. No...? Well, what's the matter with it? I got the Treloar necklace....
CALLAGHAN. Precisely... and what good is it to you? Every jeweller, every pawnshop in the country, will have a description of that necklace.... It's one thing having the necklace and another thing trying to get rid of it....
DUCHESS. Maybe you got something there....
CALLAGHAN. You bet I have.... And there's another little point.... Even if Lord Treloar isn't proposing to take action against you for stealing the necklace, the police will if you try to dispose of it.
DUCHESS. O.K. So what...?
CALLAGHAN. Lord Treloar is prepared to make you a fair offer.... If you will hand the necklace back to me and agree to a divorce I am prepared to hand you five thousand pounds.... I have the money with me... here it is... fifty one-hundred-pound notes....
DUCHESS. It looks swell too.... My!... I always like the look of brand-new banknotes fresh from the bank.
CALLAGHAN. Well... what are you going to do?
DUCHESS. Say, what do you think I'm going to do? This is easy money. Big Boy, I'm gonna accept... an' we're gonna have a drink on it... (calls to passing waiter)... Here, waiter... bring a couple of dry Martinis an' hurry....
WAITER. Certainly, madam....
CALLAGHAN. I'm glad you're being sensible, Duchess.... Now.... where's the necklace?
DUCHESS. Where do you think Big Boy? Right here in my handbag... (noise of necklace being taken from bag). Say, is it swell or is it...?
CALLAGHAN. It's certainly some necklace.... Well, Duchess, here are your fifty one-hundred-pound notes. Count them if you want to.... There are five packets of ten....
DUCHESS. That's O.K., Mr. Callaghan I'd trust you any old day! And there's the necklace with my compliments....
CALLAGHAN. And I'll have the case, too, if you don't mind.... Thank you....
DUCHESS. But tell me, Mr. Callaghan, who is paying you for your work?
CALLAGHAN. I hadn't thought about that....
WAITER. Dry Martinis, madam....
DUCHESS. Thanks... charge them to me....
WAITER. Very good, madam....
DUCHESS. Well... here's to crime....!
CALLAGHAN (laughing). Here's cheers....
DUCHESS. I'm feeling sorta generous to-night, Mr. Callaghan.... and I know the old boy is a meanie... so I reckon I'm gonna pay you myself... after all, even detectives have to live....
CALLAGHAN. You've said it Well, shall we say a hundred pounds?
DUCHESS. Fine... help yourself....
CALLAGHAN. That's very charming of you, Duchess.... May I help myself to the top hundred pound note?
DUCHESS. Glad for you to have it... and believe me I'm gonna have a very nice time with the other forty-nine.
CALLAGHAN. I'm sure you will, Duchess.... Well, I think I'll be getting along....
DUCHESS. O.K. But there's just one little thing. Do you like funny stories, Mr. Callaghan?
CALLAGHAN. Yes... if they're really funny
DUCHESS. O.K.... Well, I'm leavin' London for Edinburgh on the nine-five train to-night.... If you like to be down there at Euston railroad depot just five minutes before the train starts I'll tell you a story that'll make you die... a real howl... you oughta be there....
CALLAGHAN. All right, Duchess... I will be there... at nine sharp....
(Fade in band striking up dance tune.)
DUCHESS. O.K. An' now you run along an' give that necklace back to old boy Treloar an' give him my love an' tell him I'm glad he's got the family jewels back.... I'd rather have the dough.... Well, so long, Mr. Callaghan.
CALLAGHAN. So long, Duchess... until nine o'clock at Euston.... (Fade out gradually hotel band music.)
(Station clock strikes nine. Fade in station noises, porters, etc.
and keep going faintly in background throughout this scene.)
DUCHESS. Hello, Mr. Callaghan... so there you are... I been hangin' out of this carriage window wonderin' whether you'd turn up....
CALLAGHAN. Well, Duchess.... Here I am.... It's just nine o'clock and your train goes in five minutes.
DUCHESS. Yeah.... To-morrow I'll be in Edinburgh thinkin' out just how I'm gonna spend that forty-nine hundred pounds you handed over to me....
CALLAGHAN. What about that funny story, Duchess?
DUCHESS. Yeah.... it's a scream... you're gonna die with laughin'....
CALLAGHAN. All right... go ahead....
DUCHESS. Look... Big Boy... you've been taken for a ride... somebody's made a mug outa you... an' what your insurance company is gonna say when they find out is nobody's business....
CALLAGHAN. So it's like that, is it...?
DUCHESS. Just like that Listen.... you thought that guy you saw this afternoon was Lord Treloar... didn't you? Well... d'ya know who that guy really was? It was Willie the Ritz, the guy who was working with me to snatch the Treloar necklace....
CALLAGHAN. You don't say...?
DUCHESS. I do say.... Willie an' I aimed to pinch the necklace.... We had the old family butler in with us.... He got the keys of the back door inta Treloar Castle and the safe combination for us... an' then I pulled a fast one on the pair of 'em.... I got into the Castle last night... three nights before we'd arranged to do the steal... an' pinched the necklace. I knew that Willie had a market to sell it already set an' that he'd be glad to get it off me an' pay more than my cut... see?
CALLAGHAN. I see, Duchess....
DUCHESS. So I got on to Willie an' I told him I'd sell it to him for ten thousand.... Then he got a brainwave. He knew the real Lord Treloar was kickin' around somewhere in Wales, an' didn't know anything about the robbery, because they didn't know where he was, so what does that smart guy do...? He gets the butler, who has got the keys of the Mount Street place, to open it up....
CALLAGHAN. And he rings me up and tells me that he is Lord Treloar. He knows that if I see you you'll have to sell the necklace for less than the ten thousand because you'll be scared....
DUCHESS. Right... an' he's prepared to pay five thousand, which is a bit more than my original cut, to get it....
CALLAGHAN. And I was the mug.... I came round to you, handed you the five thousand and took the Treloar necklace back to him.... Willie the Ritz... a crook...!
DUCHESS. Right... is that a scream or is it...?
CALLAGHAN. It's a helluva joke... but not quite in the way you think, Duchess I've got a story and I think it's funnier than yours
DUCHESS. Yeah...? You don't say...!
CALLAGHAN. Listen, Duchess... When I went round to see the supposed Lord Treloar at his house in Mount Street, I was suspicious before I even went in.... I smelt a rat.... When the butler opened the door I asked him how Lord Treloar had heard about the burglary....
DUCHESS (very interested). Yeah!
CALLAGHAN. And he said he supposed he'd seen it in the newspapers.... Well, there was no report in the London newspapers until the two o'clock edition... and so somehow Lord Treloar—up in Wales—had seen a London newspaper and managed to get from Wales to Mount Street in an hour.... I smelt a rat... and the rat looked like the butler to me....
DUCHESS. Say... you're a smart guy....
CALLAGHAN. I began to suspect the supposed Lord Treloar, so I asked him for a cigarette... he had to fumble in every drawer in his desk... he didn't even know where they were kept.... Then I got it....
DUCHESS. Say! So you guessed that Willie was a crook...!
CALLAGHAN. I did....
DUCHESS. Say, am I dreamin'? D'you mean to tell me that you brought that five thousand pounds round to me an' took that necklace back an' gave it to Willie knowin' he was a crook....
CALLAGHAN. Not exactly, Duchess You see, he'd advised me to go to Mardles in Bond Street and examine the paste replica they had there, so that you shouldn't pull a fast one on me I did more than that.... I bought the replica from them... put it in the proper leather case and handed it back to him. He was in such a hurry to get rid of me and get away he only examined it casually.... Is that a good story or is it...?
DUCHESS. It's a scream... oh boy.... Am I dyin' with mirth... an' listen... Willie the Ritz... the smartest crook in Europe... has paid me five thousand pounds an' got a phoney necklace for it... hear me laugh....!
CALLAGHAN. I think it's a yell, Duchess....
DUCHESS (overjoyed with mirth). Is that good or is it...? You've got the real necklace... Willie has got a paste imitation... an' I've got five thousand pounds....
CALLAGHAN. Not quite, Duchess....
(A porter calls three times in background: 'All aboard for Edinburgh.' Noise of train about to start, farewells, etc.)
DUCHESS. What d'you mean... not quite...?
CALLAGHAN. The notes that Willie the Ritz gave me to give to you were counterfeit.... Only the top one...the one I took for my fee... was a good one... the forty-nine hundred-pound notes you've got are phoney... and I wouldn't try to spend them if I were you....
(The train whistles and begins to steam out.)
DUCHESS. Say... what the hell...?
CALLAGHAN. So long, Duchess... and thanks for the hundred pounds.... Duchess (as train draws out). Why, you...
(Train gets up speed)
CALLAGHAN (laughs).
(Sound of train at full speed—fade out into closing music)
Lo-Chung's mountain fortress near the Great Wall in the Province of Shan-Si, Northern China.
The early part of the Seventeenth Century.
The Narrator, who introduces the characters and explains the scenes and the run of this play, is intended to provide a mild comedy element.
He is supposed to be a Chinaman who speaks in a high-pitched sibilant voice invariably maintaining a level monotone in order to contrast adequately with the voices of the other characters.
The play opens with the sound of Chinese music played on reed pipes and accompanied by Chinese glass bells being heard softly in the distance.
The music becomes louder as if it were approaching the microphone. At the end of the musical phrase a brass cymbal is struck loudly. Immediately the Narrator speaks.
NARRATOR. Honourabel listeners, latees and gentlemans, velly small boys and girls and all other important peoples please to listen to me, Chao Kwing Chul Tang, specially employed by honourabel B.B.C. at much money to be Narrator for you in this unworthy Chinese play.
(Sound gong.)
Have no wish to stress importance of unworthy Narrator so please to take same for granted. Thank you honourabel people.
(Sound gong)
Honourabel latees and gentlemans maybe you think you are at home listening to the radio. You are not. Oh no! You are in the velly mos' beautiful rose garden of that great, velly great, velly fat, velly ferocious, velly cruel and mos' important Chinese bandit chief of the seventeenth century, Lo-Chung. Velly loud gong please for Lo-Chung because he velly fat.
(Loud gong)
Latees and gentlernans, Lo-Chung sits beneath a canopy of purple silk, he listens to the sound of the tree bells in the breeze; he has indigestion velly bad. Lo-Chung is thinking of plans for revenge upon Li-Tok, another velly bad, velly ferocious bandit who lives on hill upon the other side of the Valley of Flowers.
Jus' one moment latees and gentlemans I hear someting. Yes, I hear the sound of galloping hooves.
(Fade in approaching horse's hooves)
Now I see that the rider of the horse is none other than Wong, one of Lo-Chung's men. This Wong he not velly pleased. He not velly pleased because there is a big arrow sticking out from his chest. He velly sick. He sways in his saddle.
(Sound of horse's hooves stops. Sound of dismounting.)
LO-CHUNG (in a deep and sonorous voice). What ails you, Wong? Is the news you bring me as deep as the arrow which sticks in you? Speak, dog.
WONG (He is severely wounded. He speaks with difficulty). Oh, Father of the Moon, great Lo-Chung, hear me ere I die. May yellow dogs defile the graves of my ancestors but I must tell you that this morning, the dew being still on the grass, your accursed enemy Li-Tok, desiring revenge upon you, hath ridden across the Valley of the Flowers with a thousand spearmen. He hath burned to the ground the Gold Pavilion which you built last year.
LO-CHUNG (furiously). Ho Wong. Let this thing trouble you less than the arrow which sticks in thy middle. Go, die in peace. Walk softly towards the tombs of thy fathers.
(There is a gasp and the sound of Wong falling to the ground)
Take him away.
(More furiously)
May the sacred vaults of my ancestors be used as a receptacle for bad fruit, if I am not revenged upon the accursed Li-Tok for this last insult. My Gold Pavilion burned... pah!
(He strikes a bell at his side)
Go, dogs, bring Sang, my lieutenant. I would talk with him.
SANG (quickly, fearing the anger of Lo-Chung). Lord, I am here. Oh Master of the Earth and the Seas, vent not your anger upon me. I live only that I may one day strike a blow at the accursed Li-Tok who hath once more angered you. But, Celestial One, I come to leaven this evil news. Look, oh Lo-Chung, see you that old man standing at the end of this rose garden?
This man, Great Master, is the most famed physician in all China. The great Ho-Tong himself cut out his tongue, so that he should never speak of his own wondrous cures. This physician, oh my Lord, was travelling towards the house of your enemy Li-Tok with six slaves and many boxes of physic when we captured him.
LO-CHUNG. Ha, what may this mean? Hath Li-Tok then the need of a physician?
SANG. Star of the Heavens, Li-Tok is grievously afraid. The plague is rife in the lower valley, and the plague is the only thing that Li-Tok fears (suavely), save of course yourself, beloved master. So fearing the plague he hath sent for this great physician to be with him—to protect him. What shall we do with the physician, Lord of the Stars?
LO-CHUNG. Let him approach a little nearer.
(Then suddenly.)
No further! Let him stand there. I would look at this great physician.
(Lo-Chung suddenly begins to laugh. His laughter
is at first mild then swells to a rollicking crescendo.)
Come close to me, Sang. There is something I would whisper in your ear, something that none but you must hear.
(Fade in the sound of muttered whispers.
Then Sang begins to laugh. They roar with laughter.)
LO-CHUNG. Sang, let two slaves take this great physician away. Put him in a bamboo cage. Put him at the end of my lily garden and let no man approach him, save only the two slaves, who shall bring him good food and fine raiment. For I say that this physician is too great to be defiled by the touch of lesser men.
(Gong.)
(Fade in soft Chinese music.)
NARRATOR (speaking through music). Honourabel latees and gentlemans, please not to go away. Maybe this play not so velly bad after all. Latees and gentlernans you have heard how great Lo-Chung has captured famous physician and put him by himself in cage. Velly good.
Now it is evening. Lo-Chung sits again beneath his purple canopy. He is smiling although honourabel indigestion is still not so good.
(Fade out music.)
(Gong.)
LO-CHUNG. Ho slave—summon my daughter the beauteous Rosy Pearl who is as dew upon the morning rose.
NARRATOR. Latees and gentlemans, while slave is fetching young lady I tell you very confidentially that this Rosy Pearl, daughter of Lo-Chung, is mos' lovely, mos' beautiful girl. Her eyes are like stars, her teeth all like lovely seed pearls. Her figure like the graceful fawn. Me, I tell you peoples if I was not important narrator at big money I would do someting about this Rosy Pearl myself.
Hush, Rosy Pearl approaches. She walks up the rose garden path. She stands before Lo-Chung. She bows to him.
ROSY PEARL. Supreme parent, Lord of this unworthy daughter's life, you sent for me?
LO-CHUNG. My daughter, the obedience of the child is as the lily which pushes itself through the still surface of the quiet pond. Listen then, my daughter, to your father.
This morning the accursed Li-Tok—may he be bitten often by yellow dogs—hath burned my Gold Pavilion in the Valley of Flowers. Later Sang, my lieutenant, captured a famous physician, who is dumb; and who was on his way to the yamen of Li-Tok because Li-Tok is afraid of the plague and thinks he will be safe if the physician is with him.
'Tis well. To-morrow morning, Rosy Pearl, being the obedient daughter of your father, you will walk far across the Valley of Flowers. Upon the other side of the Valley lurk the spies of Li-Tok.
They will see you; they will see that you are alone. They will seize you and carry you off to the fortress of Li-Tok. Dost thou hear, my daughter?
ROSY PEARL. My father's lightest word falls upon my ears as a command from the gods.
LO-CHUNG. 'Tis well, child. So... when you are seized by Li-Tok's men you will go quietly with them, trusting always to the wisdom of thy father. Li-Tok will rejoice, for he will plan to hold you until I pay a ransom greater than ever known in China.
Now listen, Rosy Pearl. When you have been but one day in the yamen of Li-Tok you shall whisper to his wife that a malady has come upon you. Do you hear and understand?
ROSY PEARL. I am my father's daughter. To hear is to obey. Tomorrow I will walk far in the Valley of Flowers. I shall be seized by the spearmen of Li-Tok. They will take me to him and he will put me in his yamen to demand a ransom for me from you. After but one day I shall tell the wife of Li-Tok that I am ill; that a malady has come upon me. All this I will do because my father is as the Sun and the Stars to me. Celestial parent, farewell.
LO-CHUNG. Go in peace my daughter.
(Gong.)
NARRATOR. Latees and gentlernans unworthy narrator here again to tell you that it is the next morning. Honourabel bandit Lo-Chung is sitting under canopy. His indigestion still velly bad.
Latees and gentlemans what do I see? I see across the Valley there rides a horseman towards us. Yes... it is a horseman from Li-Tok. I see the red and yellow badge of Li-Tok upon his breast.
(Fade in horse's hooves.)
He approaches. He is here. He speaks to Lo-Chung.
(Sounds of horseman dismounting.)
LING. Ho, Lo-Chung, I am Ling. I bring you news from my master Li-Tok the Greatest, the most ferocious bandit in all China. I bring you a message from the supreme Li-Tok whose heart bleeds for the not-so-important bandit chief Lo-Chung.
LO-CHUNG. Read your message, dog, and quickly. Before I forget that you are a messenger and entitled to the courtesy of that office.
LING (unfolding the scroll). I will read the message:
To Lo-Chung, Lord of the Heavens, Supreme and Beloved of the Gods.
I, the unworthy Li-Tok, who am not fit to kiss the soles of your feet even though they be muddy, send greetings and news:
Yesterday, spearmen of mine found in the Valley of Flowers a lady so beautiful that they became almost blinded. They brought her to me and, shading my unworthy eyes, I saw it was thy daughter, the exquisite Rosy Pearl.
O Lo-Chung, hear me: To keep the white ox secure the yoke must be strong. To preserve the chain of diamonds the lock must be fast. Why does the great, the wary and clever Lo-Chung allow his precious daughter to wander alone in the Valley of Flowers? Is it that the great Lo-Chung is becoming old and his brain withering as the moss eaten by the pariah dog?
O great Fool Lo-Chung, O preposterous ass. I have thy daughter prisoner.
But I will return her to thee upon certain terms. These are the terms.
With all ceremony you shall return to me the three bales of beaten gold which thy accursed slaves stole from my caravan but last month and in addition you shall send me four great boxes filled with jewels and gold and silver tokens.
For three days will I await the coming of this ransom and if O Fool, after that time, the ransom carriers are not here then I shall know that thy beautiful daughter Rosy Pearl hath found disfavour in your eyes and I shall have her boiled in oil.
For three days she shall live with my wife and daughters in my yamen but if the treasure cometh not she shall die.
Greetings, Lo-Chung. May the wisdom of serpents come to you.
LING. Thus saith my Master the Great Li-Tok. Well, Lo-Chung—the fool who alloweth his daughter to walk without an escort of spearmen. What do you say?
LO-CHUNG. Oh Ling, my heart is filled with sorrow. Not for myself but for your master Li-Tok. Go quickly back to him. Bear greeting from the unworthy and despicable Lo-Chung who is less than the mud adhering to the wheels of his ancestral coffin cart.
And tell Li-Tok this: Tell him that I sent my daughter Rosy Pearl into the Valley of Flowers alone, because, may the Great Confucius succour her, SHE HATH THE PLAGUE.
Ask the great Li-Tok what miserable fate is this which ordained that whilst his men were busy in the morning yesterday in the destruction of my Gold Pavilion my spearmen captured afterwards the one physician in all China who can cure this foul malady.
Tell the Celestial Li-Tok that I will make this bargain with him. This evening he shall let my daughter return across the Valley of Flowers. Let two slaves accompany her bearing helmets filled with rubies and pearls and golden taels. And in exchange, at the other end of the Valley I will send over to Li-Tok the great physician, for it will be obvious to all men that my daughter having been in the yamen of Li-Tok, with his wife and daughters, they will have great need of this physician's services—for they too will by now have caught the plague.
Dost thou hear dog?
LING (in a frightened voice). I hear O Lo-Chung. I go... I go....
(Fade in and out horse's hooves)
(Gong.)
NARRATOR. Latees and gentlemans you will agree with me I am sure that honourabel bandit Lo-Chung is a velly, velly clever bandit.
Now, honourabel listeners, it is the next evening. Lo-Chung is sitting beneath his purple canopy listening to the tree bells sighing softly in the wind. His honourabel indigestion is, I regret to say, still not at all good. Latees and gentlernans here is Sang approaching. He bows to Lo-Chung. He looks velly happy.
SANG. Illustrious one, my heart is as a nightingale. The very indifferent bandit Li-Tok has received your message and he has obeyed. But two hours ago your beloved daughter the lovely lady Rosy Pearl passed into our hands.
The men of Li-Tok delivered her at one end of the Valley together with six helmets filled with rubies and pearls and gold taels. At the other end of the Valley at the same time we delivered the physician still in his cage safely into the hands of Li-Tok's spearmen.
LO-CHUNG. It is well. Now, Sang, listen once more to me. Cause this message to be written to Li-Tok. Then wait two days and on the third day let this message written on parchment be rolled round an arrow shaft.
Let one of my best archers steal across the Valley of Flowers by night and shoot this arrow so that it shall fall with the message into the garden of Li-Tok.
SANG. I hear, O Sun and Stars. What is the message?
LO-CHUNG. It is this:
To Li-Tok whose foolishness is greater than that of the hyena dog which chases its own tail, I, Lo-Chung, the greatest, the most ferocious, the cleverest bandit in China, send greetings and deep commiserations. O Li-Tok, take with thee to the shadows the last farewell of Lo-Chung.
O FOOL, MY DAUGHTER HAD NOT THE PLAGUE.
I sent her into the Valley of Flowers because I knew your spearmen would capture her and you would demand ransom from me. I falsely said she had the plague. I told this lie so that thou shouldst exchange her for the physician.
Now Li-Tok within a week there will be but one bandit lord in Northern China and my heart goeth out to thee.
IT WAS THE PHYSICIAN WHO HAD THE PLAGUE.
NARRATOR. Latees and gentlemans, Chinese play she done—she finish. Now unworthy narrator go to office and collect two dollars. Good night, latees and gentlemans.
(Fade in Chinese music.)
(Finish on gong.)
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.