Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Musaicum Books
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
R. Austin Freeman's 'Romney Pringle - Complete 12 Book Collection' is a captivating series of mystery novels that follow the adventures of the charming and resourceful gentleman thief, Romney Pringle. The stories are intricately plotted with clever twists and turns that keep the reader guessing until the very end. Freeman's writing style is reminiscent of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction, with a focus on logic, deduction, and attention to detail. Each story is a standalone masterpiece, but when read together, they form a cohesive and engaging series that will leave readers yearning for more. Freeman's attention to detail and meticulous plotting make these novels a true delight for fans of classic detective fiction. R. Austin Freeman, a renowned British author and pioneer of the inverted detective story, was a qualified physician who used his medical knowledge to craft intricate and realistic plots. His fascination with the world of crime and mystery led him to create the enigmatic character of Romney Pringle, whose wit and cunning are unmatched in the genre. Freeman's background in medicine and science adds a unique dimension to his storytelling, making his works both intellectually stimulating and entertaining. I highly recommend 'Romney Pringle - Complete 12 Book Collection' to any reader who enjoys mysteries that challenge the mind and engage the imagination. Freeman's masterful storytelling and unique perspective on crime make this series a must-read for fans of classic detective fiction.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 339
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Romney Pringle - Complete 12 Book Collection
Published by
Books
Table of Contents
The Assyrian Rejuvenator
As six o’clock struck the procession of the un-dined began to stream beneath the electric arcade which graces the entrance to Cristiani’s. The doors swung unceasingly; the mirrors no longer reflected a mere squadron of tables and erect serviettes; a hum of conversation now mingled with the clatter of knives and the popping of corks; and the brisk scurry of waiters’ slippers replaced the stillness of the afternoon.
Although the restaurant had been crowded some time before he arrived, Mr. Romney Pringle had secured his favourite seat opposite the feminine print after Gainsborough, and in the intervals of feeding listened to a selection from Mascagni through a convenient electrophone, price sixpence in the slot. It was a warm night for the time of year, a muggy spell having succeeded a week of biting north-east wind, and as the evening wore on the atmosphere grew somewhat oppressive, more particularly to those who had dined well. Its effects were not very visible on Pringle, whose complexion (a small port-wine mark on his right cheek its only blemish) was of that fairness which imparts to its fortunate possessor the air of youth until long past forty; especially in a man who shaves clean, and habitually goes to bed before two in the morning.
As the smoke from Pringle’s havana wreathed upwards to an extractor, his eye fell, not for the first time, upon a diner at the next table. He was elderly, probably on the wrong side of sixty, but with his erect figure might easily have claimed a few years’ grace, while the retired soldier spoke in his scrupulous neatness, and in the trim of a carefully tended moustache. He had finished his dinner some little time, but remained seated, studying a letter with an intentness more due to its subject than to its length, which Pringle could see was by no means excessive. At last, with a gesture almost equally compounded of weariness and disgust, he rose and was helped into his overcoat by a waiter, who held the door for him in the obsequious manner of his kind.
The languid attention which Pringle at first bestowed on his neighbour had by this time given place to a deeper interest, and as the swing-doors closed behind the old gentleman, he scarcely repressed a start, when he saw lying beneath the vacant table the identical letter which had received such careful study. His first impulse was to run after the old gentleman and restore the paper, but by this time he had disappeared, and the waiter being also invisible, Pringle sat down and read:
The Assyrian Rejuvenator Co., 82, Barbican, E.C. April 5th
Dear Sir—We regret to hear of the failure of the “Rejuvenator” in your hands. This is possibly due to your not having followed the directions for its use sufficiently closely, but I must point out that we do not guarantee its infallible success. As it is an expensive preparation, we do not admit the justice of your contention that our charges are exorbitant. In any case we cannot entertain your request to return the whole or any part of the fees. Should you act upon your threat to take proceedings for the recovery of the same, we must hold your good self responsible for any publicity which may follow your trial of the preparation.
Yours faithfully, Henry Jacobs, Secretary.
Lieut.-Col. Sandstream, 272, Piccadilly, W.
To Pringle this businesslike communication hardly seemed to deserve so much consideration as Colonel Sandstream had given it, but having read and pondered it over afresh, he walked back to his chambers in Furnival’s Inn.
He lived at No. 33, on the left as you enter from Holborn, and anyone who, scaling the stone stairs, reached the second floor, might observe on the entrance to the front set of chambers the legend, “Mr Romney Pringle, Literary Agent.” According to high authority, the reason of being of the literary agent is to act as a buffer between the ravening publisher and his prey. But although a very fine oak bureau with capacious pigeon-holes stood conspicuously in Pringle’s sitting-room, it was tenanted by no rolls of MS, or type-written sheets. Indeed, little or no business appeared to be transacted in the chambers. The buffer was at present idle, if it could be said to have ever worked! It was “resting” to use the theatrical expression.
Mr Pringle was an early riser, and as nine o’clock chimed the next morning from the brass lantern-clock which ticked sedately on a mantel unencumbered by the usual litter of a bachelor’s quarters, he had already spent some time in consideration of last night’s incident, and a further study of the letter had only served thoroughly to arouse his curiosity, and decided him to investigate the affair of the mysterious “Rejuvenator.” Unlocking a cupboard in the bottom of the bureau, he disclosed a regiment of bottles and jars. Sprinkling a few drops from one on to a hare’s-foot, he succeeded, with a little friction, in entirely removing the port-wine mark from his cheek. Then from another phial he saturated a sponge and rubbed it into his eyebrows, which turned in the process from their original yellow to a jetty black. From a box of several, he selected a waxed moustache (that most facile article of disguise), and having attached it with a few drops of spirit-gum, covered his scalp with a black wig, which, as is commonly the case, remained an aggressive fraud in spite of the most assiduous adjustment. Satisfied with the completeness of his disguise, he sallied out in search of the offices of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator,” affecting a military bearing which his slim but tall and straight-backed figure readily enabled him to assume.
“My name is Parkins—Major Parkins,” said Pringle, as he opened the door of a mean-looking room on the second floor of No. 82, Barbican. He addressed an oleaginous-looking gentleman, whose curly locks and beard suggested the winged bulls of Nineveh, and who appeared to be the sole representative of the concern. The latter bowed politely, and handed him a chair.
“I have been asked,” Pringle continued, “by a friend who saw your advertisement to call upon you for some further information.”
“I have been asked,” Pringle continued, “to call upon you for some further information.”
Now the subject of rejuvenation being a delicate one, especially where ladies are concerned, the business of the company was mainly transacted through the post. So seldom, indeed, did a client desire a personal interview, that the Assyrian-looking gentleman jumped to the conclusion that his visitor was interested in quite another matter.
“Ah yes! You refer to “Pelosia”,” he said briskly. “Allow me to read you an extract from the prospectus.”
And before Pringle could reply he proceeded to read from a small leaflet with unctuous elocution:
“Pelosia. The sovereign remedy of Mud has long been used with the greatest success in the celebrated baths of Schwalbach and Franzensbad. The proprietors of Pelosia having noted the beneficial effect which many of the lower animals derive from the consumption of earth with their food, have been led to investigate the internal uses of mud. The success which has crowned the treatment of some of the longest-standing cases of dyspepsia (the disease so characteristic of this neurotic age), has induced them to admit the world at large to its benefits. To thoroughly safeguard the public, the proprietors have secured the sole right to the alluvial deposits of a stream remote from human habitation, and consequently above any suspicion of contamination. Careful analysis has shown that the deposit in this particular locality, consisting of finely divided mineral particles, practically free from organic admixture, is calculated to give the most gratifying results. The proprietors are prepared to quote special terms for public institutions.”
“Many thanks,” said Pringle, as the other momentarily paused for breath; “but I think you are under a slight misapprehension. I called on you with reference to the ‘Assyrian Rejuvenator.’ Have I mistaken the offices?”
“Pray excuse my absurd mistake! I am secretary of the ‘Assyrian Rejuvenator Company,’ who are also the proprietors of ‘Pelosia’.” And in evident concern he regarded Pringle fixedly.
It was not the first time he had known a diffident person to assume an interest in the senility of an absent friend, and he mentally decided that Pringle’s waxed moustache, its blue-blackness speaking loudly of hair-dye, together with the unmistakable wig, were evidence of the decrepitude for which his new customer presumably sought the Company’s assistance.
“Ours, my dear sir,” he resumed, leaning back in his chair, and placing the tips of his fingers in apposition—“Ours is a world-renowned specific for removing the ravages which time effects in the human frame. It is a secret which has been handed down for many generations in the family of the original proprietor. Its success is frequently remarkable, and its absolute failure is impossible. It is not a drug, it is not a cosmetic, yet it contains the properties of both. It is agreeable and soothing to use, and being best administered during the hours of sleep does not interfere with the ordinary avocations of every-day life. The price is so moderate—ten and sixpence, including the Government stamp—that it could only prove remunerative with an enormous sale. If you—ah, on behalf of your friend!—would care to purchase a bottle, I shall be most happy to explain its operation.”
Mr Pringle laid a half sovereign and a sixpence on the table, and the secretary, diving into a large packing-case which stood on one side, extracted a parcel. This contained a cardboard box adorned with a representation of Blake’s preposterous illustration to “The Grave,” in which a centenarian on crutches is hobbling into a species of banker’s strongroom with a rocky top, whereon is seated a youth clothed in nothing, and with an ecstatic expression.
“This,” said Mr. Jacobs impressively, “is the entire apparatus!” And he opened the box, displaying a moderate-sized phial and a spirit-lamp with a little tin dish attached. “On retiring to rest, a teaspoonful of the contents of the bottle is poured into the receptacle above the lamp, which is then lighted, and the preparation being vaporized is inhaled by the patient. It is best to concentrate the thoughts on some object of beauty whilst the delicious aroma sooths the patient to sleep.”
“But how does it act?” inquired the Major a trifle impatiently.
“In this way,” replied the imperturbable secretary. “Remember that the appearance of age is largely due to wrinkles; that is to say, to the skin losing its elasticity and fulness—so true is it that beauty is only skin-deep.” Here he laughed gaily. “The joints grow stiff from loss of their natural tone, the figure stoops, and the vital organs decline their functions from the same cause. In a word, old age is due to a loss of elasticity, and that is the very property which the “Rejuvenator” imparts to the system, if inhaled for a few hours daily.”
Mr Pringle diplomatically succeeded in maintaining his gravity while the merits of the “Rejuvenator” were expounded, and it was not until he had bidden Mr. Jacobs a courteous farewell, and was safely outside the office, that he allowed the fastening of his moustache to be disturbed by an expansive grin.
About nine o’clock the same evening the housekeeper of the Barbican offices was returning from market, her thoughts centred on the savoury piece of fried fish she was carrying home for supper.
“Mrs Smith?” said a man’s voice behind her, as she produced her latch-key.
“My name’s ‘Odges,” she replied unguardedly, dropping the key in her agitation.
“You’re the housekeeper, aren’t you?” said the stranger, picking up the key and handing it to her politely.
“Lor’, sir! You did give me a turn,” she faltered.
“Very sorry, I’m sure. I only want to know where I can find Mr. Jacobs, of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator Company”.”
“Well, sir, he told me I wasn’t to give his address to anyone. Not that I know it either, sir, for I always send the letters to Mr. Weeks.”
“I’ll see you’re not found fault with. I know he won’t mind your telling me.” A sovereign clinked against the latch-key in her palm.
For a second she hesitated, then her eye caught the glint of the gold, and she fell.
“All I know, sir, is that when Mr. Jacobs is away I send the letters—and a rare lot there are—to Mr. Newton Weeks, at the Northumberland Avenue Hotel.”
“Is he one of the firm?”
“I don’t know, sir, but there’s no one comes here but Mr. Jacobs.”
“Thank you very much, and good night,” said the stranger; and he strode down Barbican, leaving Mrs Hodges staring at the coin in her hand as if doubting whether, like fairy gold, it might not disappear even as she gazed.
The next day Mr. Jacobs received a letter at his hotel:
April 7th
Sir—My friend Col. Sandstream informs me he has communicated with the police, and has sworn an information against you in respect of the moneys you have obtained from him, as he alleges, by false pretences. Although I am convinced that his statements are true, a fact which I can more readily grasp after my interview with you today, I give you this warning in order that you may make your escape before it is too late. Do not misunderstand my motives; I have not the slightest desire to save you from the punishment you so richly deserve. I am simply anxious to rescue my old friend from the ridiculous position he will occupy before the world should he prosecute you.
Your obedient servant, Joseph Parkins, Major. Newton Weeks, Esq., Northumberland Avenue Hotel.
Mr Jacobs read this declaration of war with very mixed feelings.
So his visitor of yesterday was the friend of Colonel Sandstream! Obviously come to get up evidence against him. Knowing old dog, that Sandstream! But then how had they run him to earth? That looked as if the police had got their fingers in the pie. Mrs Hodges was discreet. She would never have given the address to any but the police. It was annoying, though, after all his precautions; seemed as if the game was really up at last. Well, it was bound to come some day, and he had been in tighter places before. He could hardly complain; the “Rejuvenator” had been going very well lately. But suppose the whole thing was a plant—a dodge to intimidate him?
He read the letter through again. The writer had been careful to omit his address, but it seemed plausible enough on the face of it. Anyhow, whatever the major’s real motive might be, he couldn’t afford to neglect the warning, and the one clear thing was that London was an unhealthy place for him just at present. He would pack up, so as to be ready for all emergencies, and drive round to Barbican and reconnoitre. Then, if things looked fishy, he could go to Cannon Street and catch the 11.5 Continental. He’d show them that Harry Jacobs wasn’t the man to be bluffed out of his claim!
Mr Jacobs stopped his cab some doors from the “Rejuvenator” office, and was in the act of alighting when he paused, spellbound at the apparition of Pringle. The latter was loitering outside No. 82, and as the cab drew up he ostentatiously consulted a large pocket-book, and glanced several times from its pages to the countenance of his victim as if comparing a description. Attired in a long overcoat, a bowler hat, and wearing thick boots of a constabulary pattern to the nervous imagination of Mr. Jacobs, he afforded startling evidence of the police interest in the establishment; and this idea was confirmed when Pringle, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, drew a paper from the pocket-book and made a movement in his direction. Without waiting for further developments, Mr. Jacobs retreated into the cab and hoarsely whispered through the trap-door, “Cannon Street as hard as you can go!”
Pringle was loitering outside No. 82, and as the cab drew up.
The cabman wrenched the horse’s head round. He had been an interested spectator of the scene, and sympathised with the evident desire of his fare to escape what appeared to be the long arm of the law. At this moment a “crawling” hansom came up, and was promptly hailed by Pringle.
“Follow that cab and don’t lose it on any account!” he cried, as he stood on the step and pointed vigorously after the receding hansom.
While Mr. Jacobs careered down Barbican, his cabman looked back in time to observe this expressive pantomime, and with the instinct of a true sportsman lashed the unfortunate brute into a hand-gallop. But the observant eye of a policeman checked this moderate exhibition of speed just as they were rounding the sharp corner into Aldersgate Street, and had not a lumbering railway van intervened Pringle would have caught him up and brought the farce to an awkward finish. But the van saved the situation. The moment’s respite was all that the chase needed, and in response to the promises of largesse, frantically roared by Mr. Jacobs through the trap-door, he was soon bounding and bumping over the wood pavement with Pringle well in the rear.
Then ensued a mad stampede down Aldersgate Street.
In and out, between the crowded files of vans and ‘buses, the two cabs wound a zig-zag course; the horses slipping and skating over the greasy surface, or ploughing up the mud as their bits skidded them within inches of a collision. In vain did policemen roar to them to stop—the order fell on heedless ears. In vain did officious boys wave intimidating arms, or make futile grabs at the harness of the apparent runaways. Did a cart dart unexpectedly from out a side street, the inevitable disaster failed to come off. Did an obstacle loom dead ahead of them, it melted into thin air as they approached. Triumphantly they piloted the narrowest of straits, and dashed unscathed into St Martin’s-le-Grand.
There was a block in Newgate Street, and the cross traffic was stopped. Mr. Jacobs’ hansom nipped through a temporary gap, grazing the pole of an omnibus, and being lustily anathematised in the process. But Pringle’s cabman, attempting to follow, was imperiously waved back by a policeman.
“No go, I’m afraid, sir!” was the man’s comment, as they crossed into St Paul’s Churchyard after a three minutes’ wait. “I can’t see him nowhere.”
“Never mind,” said Pringle cheerfully. “Go to Charing Cross telegraph office.”
There he sent the following message:
TO MRS HODGES, 82, BARBICAN. CALLED AWAY TO COUNTRY. MR WEEKS WILL TAKE CHARGE OF OFFICE—JACOBS.
About two the same afternoon, Pringle, wearing the wig and moustache of Major Parkins, rang the housekeeper’s bell at 82.
“I’m Mr. Weeks,” he stated, as Mrs Hodges emerged from the bowels of the earth. “Mr Jacobs has had to leave town, and has asked me to take charge of the office.”
“Oh yes, sir! I’ve had a telegram from Mr. Jacobs to say so. You know the way up, I suppose.”
“I think so. But Mr. Jacobs forgot to send me the office key.”
“I’d better lend you mine, then, sir, till you can hear from Mr. Jacobs.” She fumbled in her voluminous pocket. “I hope nothing’s the matter with him?”
“Oh dear no! He found he needed a short holiday, that’s all,” Pringle reassured her, and taking the key from the confiding woman he climbed to the second floor.
Sitting down at the secretarial desk, he sent a quick glance round the office. A poor creature, that Jacobs, he reflected, for all his rascality, or he wouldn’t have been scared so easily. And he drew a piece of wax from his pocket and took a careful impression of the key.
He had not been in possession of the “Rejuvenator” offices for very long before he discovered that Mr. Jacobs’ desire to break out in a fresh place had proved abortive. It will be remembered that on the occasion of his interview with that gentleman, Mr. Jacobs assumed that Pringle’s visit had reference to “Pelosia,” whose virtues he extolled in a leaflet composed in his own very pronounced style. A large package in the office Pringle found to contain many thousands of these effusions, which had apparently been laid aside for some considerable time. From the absence in the daily correspondence of any inquiries thereafter, it was clear that the public had failed to realize the advantages of the internal administration of mud, so that Mr. Jacobs had been forced to stick to the swindle that was already in existence. After all, the latter was a paying concern—eminently so! Besides, the patent-medicine trade is rather overdone.
The price of the “Assyrian Rejuvenator” was such as to render the early cashing of remittances an easy matter. Ten-and-sixpence being a sum for which the average banker demurs to honour a cheque, the payments were usually made in postal orders; and Pringle acquired a larger faith in Carlyle’s opinion of the majority of his fellow-creatures as he cashed the previous day’s takings at the General Post Office on his way up to Barbican each morning. The business was indeed a flourishing one, and his satisfaction was only alloyed by the probability of some legal interference, at the instance of Colonel Sandstream, with the further operations of the Company. But for the present Fortune smiled, and Pringle continued energetically to despatch parcels of the “Rejuvenator” in response to the daily shower of postal orders. In this indeed he had little trouble, for he had found many gross of parcels duly packed and ready for posting.
One day while engaged in the process, which had grown quite a mechanical one by that time, he listened absently to a slow but determined step which ascended the stairs and paused on the landing outside. Above, on the third floor, was an importer of cigars made in Germany, and the visitor evidently delayed the further climb until he had regained his wind. Presently, after a preliminary pant or two, he got under weigh again, but proceeded only as far as the “Rejuvenator” door, to which he gave a peremptory thump, and, opening it, walked in without further ceremony.
There was no need for him to announce himself. Pringle recognized him at first glance, although he had never seen him since the eventful evening at Cristiani’s restaurant.
“I’m Colonel Sandstream!” he growled, looking round him savagely.
“Delighted to see you, sir,” said Pringle with assurance. “Pray be seated,” he added politely.
“Who am I speaking to?”
“My name is Newton Weeks. I am——”
“I don’t want to see you!” interrupted the Colonel testily. “I want to see the secretary of this concern. I’ve no time to waste either.”
“I regret to say that Mr. Jacobs——”
“Ah, yes! That’s the name. Where is he?” again interrupted the old gentleman.
“Mr Jacobs is at present out of town.”
“Well, I’m not going to run after him. When will he be here again?”
“It is quite impossible for me to tell. But I was just now going to say that as the managing director of the company I am also acting as secretary during Mr. Jacobs’ absence.”
“What do you say your name is?” demanded the other, still ignoring the chair which Pringle had offered him.
“Newton Weeks.”
“Newton Weeks,” repeated the Colonel, making a note of the name on the back of an envelope.
“Managing director,” added Pringle suavely.
“Well, Mr. Weeks, if you represent the company—” this with a contemptuous glance from the middle of the room at his surroundings—“I’ve called with reference to a letter you’ve had the impertinence to send me.”
“I’ve called with reference to a letter you’ve had the impertinence to send me.”
“What was the date of it?” inquired Pringle innocently.
“I don’t remember!” snapped the Colonel.
“May I ask what was the subject of the correspondence?”
“Why, this confounded “Rejuvenator” of yours, of course!”
“You see we have a very large amount of correspondence concerning the “Rejuvenator”, and I’m afraid unless you have the letter with you——”
“I’ve lost it or mislaid it somewhere.”
“That is unfortunate! Unless you can remember the contents I fear it will be quite impossible for me to do so.”
“I remember them well enough! I’m not likely to forget them in a hurry. I asked you to return me the money your “Rejuvenator”, as you call it, has cost me, because it’s been quite useless, and in your reply you not only refused absolutely, but hinted that I dare not prosecute you.”
As Pringle made no reply, he continued more savagely: “Would you like to hear my candid opinion of you?”
“We are always pleased to hear the opinion of our clients.”
Pringle’s calmness only appeared to exasperate the Colonel the more.
“Well, sir, you shall have it. I consider that letter the most impudent attempt at blackmail that I have ever heard of!” He ground out the words from between his clenched teeth in a voice of concentrated passion.
“Blackmail!” echoed Pringle, allowing an expression of horror to occupy his countenance.
“Yes, sir! Blackmail!” asseverated the Colonel, nodding his head vigorously.
“Of course,” said Pringle, with a deprecating gesture, “I am aware that some correspondence has passed between us, but I cannot attempt to remember every word of it. At the same time, although you are pleased to put such an unfortunate construction upon it, I am sure there is some misunderstanding in the matter. I must positively decline to admit that there has been any attempt on the part of the company of such a nature as you allege.”
“Oh! so you don’t admit it, don’t you? Perhaps you won’t admit taking pounds and pounds of my money for your absurd concoction, which hasn’t done me the least little bit of good in the world—nor ever will! And perhaps you won’t admit refusing to return me my money? Eh? Perhaps you won’t admit daring me to take proceedings because it would show up what an ass I’ve been! Don’t talk to me, sir! Haugh!”
“I’m really very sorry that this unpleasantness has arisen,” began Pringle, “but——”
“Pleasant or unpleasant, sir, I’m going to stop your little game! I mislaid your letter or I’d have called upon you before this. As you’re the managing director I’m better pleased to see you than your precious secretary. Anyhow, I’ve come to tell you that you’re a set of swindlers! Of swindlers, sir!”
“I can make every allowance for your feelings,” said Pringle, drawing himself up with an air of pained dignity, “but I regret to see a holder of His Majesty’s commission so deficient in self-control.”
“Like your impertinence, sir!” vociferated the veteran. “I’ll let the money go, and I’ll prosecute the pair of you, no matter what it costs me! Yes, you, and your rascally secretary too! I’ll go and swear an information against you this very day!” He bounced out of the room, and explosively snorted downstairs.
Pringle followed in the rear, and reached the outer door in time to hear him exclaim, “Mansion House Police Court,” to the driver of a motor-cab, in which he appropriately clanked and rumbled out of sight.
Returning upstairs, Pringle busied himself in making a bonfire of the last few days’ correspondence. Then, collecting the last batch of postal orders, he proceeded to cash them at the General Post Office, and walked back to Furnival’s Inn. After all, the farce couldn’t have lasted much longer.
Arrived at Furnival’s Inn, Pringle rapidly divested himself of the wig and moustache, and, assuming his official port-wine mark, became once more the unemployed literary agent.
It was now half-past one, and, after lunching lightly at a near restaurant, he lighted a cigar and strolled leisurely eastward.
By the time he reached Barbican three o’clock was reverberating from St Paul’s. He entered the private bar of a tavern nearly opposite, and sat down by a window which commanded a view of No. 82.
As time passed and the quarters continued to strike in rapid succession, Pringle felt constrained to order further refreshment; and he was lighting a third cigar before his patience was rewarded. Happening to glance up at the second floor window, he caught a glimpse of a strange man engaged in taking a momentary survey of the street below.
The march of events had been rapid. He had evidently resigned the secretaryship not a moment too soon!
Not long after the strange face had disappeared from the window, a four-wheeled cab stopped outside the tavern, and an individual wearing a pair of large blue spectacles, and carrying a Gladstone bag, got out and carefully scrutinized the offices of the “Rejuvenator.” Mr. Jacobs, for it was he, did not intend to be caught napping this time.
At length, being satisfied with the normal appearance of the premises, he crossed the road, and to Pringle’s intense amusement, disappeared into the house opposite. The spectator had not long to wait for the next act of the drama.
About ten minutes after Mr. Jacobs’ disappearance, the man who had looked out of the window emerged from the house and beckoned to the waiting cab. As it drew up at the door, a second individual came down the steps, fast-holding Mr. Jacobs by the arm. The latter, in very crestfallen guise, re-entered the vehicle, being closely followed by his captor; and the first man having taken his seat with them, the party adjourned to a destination as to which Pringle had no difficulty in hazarding a guess. Satisfying the barmaid, he sallied into the street. The “Rejuvenator” offices seemed once more to be deserted, and the postman entered in the course of his afternoon round. Pringle walked a few yards up the street and then, crossing as the postman re-appeared, turned back and entered the house boldly. Softly mounting the stairs, he knocked at the door. There was no response. He knocked again more loudly, and finally turned the handle. As he expected, it was locked securely, and, satisfied that the coast was clear, he inserted his own replica of the key and entered. The books tumbled on the floor in confused heaps, the wide-open and empty drawers, and the overturned packing-cases, showed how thoroughly the place had been ransacked in the search for compromising evidence. But Pringle took no further interest in these things. The letter-box was the sole object of his attention. He tore open the batch of newly-delivered letters, and crammed the postal orders into his pockets; then, secreting the correspondence behind a rifled packing-case, he silently locked the door.
As he strolled down the street, on a last visit to the General Post Office, the two detectives passed him on their way back in quest of the “Managing Director.”
The Foreign Office Despatch
“RIEN ne va plus—the ball rolls!”
The silence was only broken by the rattle of the ivory ball over the diamond-shaped studs around the circumference of the disc. Every now and then there was a sharp click, as it struck a partition between two numbers and was viciously jerked on to the studs again.
Round and round the ball went. It was only for a minute, but to the men gathered by the green cloth it seemed a century. Suddenly the noise ceased. The disc continued to revolve, but the ball lay snug in one of the little pens.
The tailleur placed his finger on the capstan and stopped the disc.
“Twelve—rouge—manque—pair” he intoned monotonously. Then he raked the stakes off the spaces painted on the green cloth. The table had won for the eighth time in succession, with payment to hardly a single player. A kind of suppressed groan ran round the board, and the fleeced ones crowded to the bar at the end of the room for consolation.
The life at the marble caravanserais which largely do duty now for clubs was repellent to Mr. Romney Pringle and, doubtless on Pope’s principle that “the proper study of mankind is MAN,” the “Chrysanthemum Club” had many attractions for him. As to the club itself, while election was a process rather more exacting than a mere scrutiny by the hall-porter, the “Chrysanthemum” was not too exclusive; and, although situated in a fashionable street off Piccadilly, the subscription was a nominal one.
As Romney Pringle inhaled his cigarette and watched the last disastrous success of the table, a young man got up from the board and flung himself abruptly into a low chair opposite. Presently a waiter placed on the marble table at his elbow a bottle of Moet and Chandon, to which he applied himself assiduously. There was nothing in his appearance to differentiate him from any of the thousands of well-dressed and well-groomed men who frequent Clubland, but somehow or other, as they sat opposite one another, his eye continually caught that of Pringle, who at length rose and crossed the room. The club was not so large that a member need consider himself insulted did a stranger address bim without a previous introduction, and the other displayed no emotion when Pringle sat down beside him and entered into conversation.
“The table seems to be having all the luck tonight,” he remarked.
“That’s true,” agreed the youth frankly. “I never heard of such luck.”
“Been playing long?” inquired Pringle sympathetically.
“I’m not a member, you know. I was introduced as a visitor for the first time tonight.” Then, growing confidential as the wine circulated in his brain, he continued, “I cashed a check for eighty pounds when 1 began to play, and I staked ten every time.”
“So you lost it all?”
“Lost it all,” the youth echoed gloomily.
“But why not go on? Professor Bond calculates that the chances in favor of the Bank are only thirty-seven to thirty-five.”
“Fact is, my last sovereign went there,” he tapped the bottle. “Think I’d better go now.” And he rose somewhat unsteadily. His libations to Fortune had evidently commenced very early in the evening.
“Try your luck again,” persuaded Pringle. “Allow me the pleasure of helping you to get your revenge,” and he produced a handful of gold from his pocket.
“You’re really very good, but—”
“Not at all! The luck’s sure to turn by this time,” urged the tempter.
“Well, I’ll take eight pounds, and thanks awfully, Mr— Really I don’t know your name; mine’s Redmile.”
“Mine is James,” said Pringle. “Now in and win!”
Once more Redmile took his seat at the green board and watched the play eagerly. The table was no longer winning, and the interest in the game had revived. After a few turns he ventured a sovereign on the pair or even numbers. “Twenty-six” was called, and he was richer by as much more.
Still cautious, he placed three sovereigns below the first column of figures. “Nineteen” was the winning number, and six more sovereigns were added to his three.
“I congratulate you!” whispered Pringle behind him. “Didn’t I say the luck would change?”
“A good guess,” laughed Redmile. “Only let me win enough to redeem that check, and I shall be contented.”
“Try the twelves,” Pringle suggested.
Redmile arranged five sovereigns on the space allotted to the first twelve numbers.
“Thirty-one!” the tailleur called.
Pringle shrugged his shoulders as the money was raked into the bank.
Without looking round, but breathing heavily, Redmile placed a sovereign on rouge, another on impair, and after a second’s hesitation dropped two more on twenty-one. Even as he withdrew his hand the tailleur uttered his parrot-cry “Rien ne va plus,” and, spinning the disc, reversed the ball against it. “Twenty-one—rouge—passe—impair” he droned, as the ball rested.
Redmile had won seventy-two pounds at one stroke! He rose from the table and vigorously shook hands with Pringle.
“I’ve got eighty-two pounds altogether with me, and I must get that check back from the manager,” he said, “Do you mind coming round to my rooms? Only as far as Dover Street, and I’ll give you a check for what you so kindly lent me.”
“With pleasure,” said Pringle, as Redmile, now flushed with success in addition to the wine, darted off to redeem his check.
“I’ve had as much as is good for me or we’d have had another bottle to celebrate the occasion,” he remarked as they strolled down Piccadilly.
“Rather more,” thought Pringle, adding politely, “I should not have noticed it.”
“Perhaps not; but I must have a clear head tomorrow. I’m in the F.O., you know, and we’re very busy just now.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Pringle, much interested. “You must have had a harassing time lately—over this Congo affair, for instance?”
“Yes, harassing isn’t the word to describe it. Come in!”
He drew out his latchkey, and after some ineffectual efforts succeeded in opening the door. Then he insisted on writing the check in spite of all Pringle’s protestations and, opening a box of cigars, put whisky and soda on the table. The fresh air had completed the work of the alcohol. He was evidently becoming very drunk, and laughed insanely when, missing the tumbler, he directed the cascade from a syphon over the table-cloth.
“We’ll just have a nightcap before you go,” he hiccoughed. “Yes, as you were saying, we’ve had a deuce of a time lately. I’m one of Lord Tranmere’s secretaries, and the berth’s not all beer and sk-skittles? Why, you mightn’t think it, but I have to examine every blessed dispatch and telegram that passes between London and Paris every day, Sundays and all; and that means some work just now, I can tell you! Yesterday was no d-day of rest for me.”
He unlocked a despatch-box and held up an official envelope for Pringle to see, The direction was printed in bold letters:
On Her Britannic Majesty’s Service
His Excellency the Right Honble. The Viscount Strathclyde, G.C.B., Her Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador Extraordinary and Plen1potentiary,
Etc. Etc. Etc.
Paris
Foreign Office
“This is the finish to the whole business,” he said. “Rather short and sweet. I only finished dr-drafting it this evening. It will be franked by the Secretary of State in the morning, and I think by this time to-to-morrow the F.O. officials will sleep sounder in both capitals.”
“Will they, indeed!” exclaimed Pringle. “I am delighted to find that diplomacy is not a lost art in England. But, talking of that, I suppose you know the story of the Queen’s Messenger and that affair of the Emperor of Austria’s razors?”
Redmile had never heard of it, and settled himself comfortably to listen. But as the combined result of his potations and the lateness of the hour, his head began to nod, and long before Pringle arrived at the climax of the story a loud snore proclaimed that his audience was asleep.
After waiting a little while to make sure of his host’s unconsciousness, Pringle cautiously reached towards the despatch-box which still lay open on the tabic, and possessed himself of an addressed envelope and several sheets of foolscap embossed with the Foreign Office stamp. He then turned his attention to the waste-paper basket, and after a search, as noiseless as possible, among its rustling contents, found a torn envelope bearing a nearly perfect Foreign Office seal in wax. Placing all the stationery carefully in his pocket, he gave vent to a loud sneeze.
He then turned his attention to the waste-paper nasket.
Redmile woke up with a start, and Pringle, as if finishing the story, remarked calmly, “So that’s how the affair ended.”
“Dear me! Fm awfully sorry,” apologized Redmile thickly. “I’m afraid I’ve been asleep. It must have been that whisky that did it!”
“More likely the prosiness of my story,” Pringle suggested with a smile. “But, anyhow, I must be moving.”
“Come and look me up any time you’re passing,” said the other sleepily.
When he reached Furnival’s Inn Pringle did not trouble to go to bed. He had a hard night’s work before him and the dawn found him still busily engaged.
Drawing up the blinds he admitted the morning light. The Venetian mirror which hung above the mantel had seldom reflected such a scene of confusion as the usually neat room presented. Pringie’s hat crowned one of the two choice pieces of delft which flanked the brass lantern-clock, while his overcoat sprawled limply across the reading-easel. On a table in one corner stood a glass vessel containing a chemical solution. In this, well coated with black-lead, was immersed the seal abstracted from the waste-paper basket, which, with a plate of copper, also hanging in the solution, was connected with the wires of a “Daniell’s” chemical battery; in the course of the night the potent electricity had covered the wax with a deposit of copper sufficiently thick to form a perfect reverse intaglio of the seal. A centre-table was littered with pieces of paper, scrawled over with what appeared to be the attempts of a beginner in the art of writing. A closer inspection would have revealed a series of more or less successful reproductions of Redmile’s handwriting—his check for eight pounds being pinned to a drawing-board and serving Pringle as a copy. With frequent reference to a Blue-book which lay open before him, Pringle penned a communication in a couple of short paragraphs, which he carefully copied onto one of the sheets of foolscap. Then, folding it into the envelope, he sealed it with a neat impression from the copper electrotype.
