"No arrest, sir?" The cabbie was obviously interested.
"Not yet." Austin lit another cigar.
"Ah." The cabbie winked knowingly, already Watson to Holmes. "Where to now, sir—the Bank?" He tapped his nose as they did in music-hall acts.
"The Golden Cross Hotel," said Austin clearly so as not to repeat himself.
"Where's that?" asked the cabbie perplexed.
"I don't know," replied Austin. He took a last look at the faces in the shop window. "But find it—and quick."
The cabbie thought a moment longer, then cracked his whip and took Austin down Savile Row into Burlington's Vigo Street, then Regent Street and on into the melee of Piccadilly.
§
A cane was a cane, ebony was quality and silver made it unusual; but to Williams, when silver and ebony were combined with the initials A.B. (they were delicately inscribed amidst a floral pattern on the crook), a cane became something special.
Williams moved the bale of cloth that almost concealed it, took up the object of his desire from the mahogany table and fell in love.
In an instant he could see himself striding down the Mall "of a Sunday/' twirling the shiny beauty, then stopping before some acquaintances listening to the band on the steps of Waterloo Place.
"An' 'ow's young Williams?" one of them might say.
" 'e's as fine as punch," Williams would reply.
"That there's a fine-lookin' object." The speaker would point at the cane.
"An' 'ere it is to view close." Williams would flip the crook in the air for inspection.
"Why, there's even initials 'ere on the—silver is it?"
"Indeed it is, my man." Williams' pride would swell, but he would affect nonchalance.
"A.B." The speaker, if literate, would read out the letters.
"Why, Williams!" The speaker would be impressed, knowing now that the cane was no cheap acquisition, but "tailor-made," as it were—Williams might even use that as a pun. "Why, Williams," the speaker would repeat. "Them's yours!"
Twirling the cane and turning with a grin to continue beyond the music toward Buckingham Palace, Williams would finish: "Arthur Byron's me given names, an' them's the one's I had writ down." Silver would shine, ebony flash, and Williams would walk away with a swagger.
Words dispelled the image.
"Oh—gracious!" Mr. Green had arrived beside Williams, aghast at the discovery.
"Williams, run at once to the Golden Cross and deliver that cane personally to Mr. Warren.... Williams? Do you 'ear?"
Reverie broken, a disconsolate Williams had only the walk to look forward to. Still, he thought, consolation is better than no reward at all. He took his hat and ambled to the door.
"An' be quick about it!" Mr. Green had a good customer and wished to impress.
"Yes, sir." Williams went. The door slammed hard.
§
By the time Williams reached Trafalgar Square, the cane and he had grown accustomed to each other and his stride had indeed acquired a bounce that those of his acquaintance would have envied had they seen him. Beyond the Savoy Palace Hotel, where he took the steps down from the Strand to the Embankment, he, and the cane, had become one. The detour from the more obvious direct route down Northumberland Avenue had been made to test himself against the swells outside the Grand Hotel. One day, he thought, he too would have rooms in the Savoy Palace overlooking the river—like all them toffs. Williams crossed the road and entered Villiers Street. Moments later he was at the entrance of the Golden Cross Hotel.
Had Williams cared not a fig for canes, he would have gone direct to Charing Cross, found the hotel, entered and discovered that no one had heard of Mr. Frederick Albert Warren. A mystery would have turned into an inquiry. But history writes itself; and as Wellington's victory at Waterloo was aided by a French general's whim for a second plate of breakfast strawberries, delaying his start to the battlefield by vital minutes, so Austin unknowingly had gained time to emerge from the thick traffic in the Strand and reach the Golden Cross while Arthur Byron Williams was turning from the river to walk up the slight incline of Savoy Place.
Austin Bidwell's fifty-pound note had been gratefully taken and the signature, F. A. Warren, blotted when, from behind, he heard a quiet voice.
"Them's the wrong initials."
Austin froze. What thought at that moment raced in his head Austin never revealed. He turned slowly to confront—he knew not what.
Williams stood looking at Mr. Green's customer. Austin said nothing.
"On the cane, sir—A.B." He held it up to illustrate the point. "Yon'man F.A."
Austin pursed his lips and swallowed. He'd bought the cane and had it monogrammed in Germany some months before. "Looks new," said Williams. "Well cared for," replied Austin.
"It's a fine piece of work," said Williams, referring to the floral pattern in silver. "The initials is well picked out." He finished scrutinizing the crook.
Austin needed inspiration. The two men looked at each other in silence. The receptionist watched with curiosity.
"The initials represent my uncle's name, Mr. Williams," Austin said coolly.
"Oh?" said the tailor's assistant.
"He has recently passed on," Austin stated softly. Williams immediately took off his black bowler. Austin had found an audience. Even the receptionist had raised a lavender handkerchief as a reflex to the euphemism of death.
"When my true father left this world, my mother's brother was all a young boy could wish for." Austin's imagination was prodigious. "From the great plains of the Midwest, he returned to be at his sister's side in her hour of need...."
"Oh, Mr. Warren, sir," began Williams. The receptionist opened her mouth, eyes already moist. Austin would not be stopped.
"My brother and I," he went on, "were raised by that man." Austin paused. "And all I am today, as I stand before you, I owe to him." There Austin decided to finish. Both Williams and the receptionist (now tearful) shook their heads in sympathy. Austin pointed at the cane in Williams' hand.
"An inheritance," he said.
"I am sorry, sir." Williams spoke with feeling. Austin merely nodded. Williams, Austin noted, continued to grasp the cane tightly.
"Well, 'e 'ad good taste in 'ats as well, sir," said Williams suddenly, "if you don't mind my sayin'." Austin was perplexed only a moment; then, with horror, he was stricken by a realization.
"What?" he managed to say.
"An* you'm lucky to have the same 'ead size," continued Williams.
Austin—heroically—was trying to frown: his names were clearly printed inside the Stetson!
"Personalized property for custom-made wearables," Williams went on, "is an essential, I'm thinkin', but now he's dead perhaps you should change his names to your'n, sir— for safekeepin' like." Williams paused, a glint in his eye. " 'Course, the cane you ain't able to do anythin' about, sir." Austin remembered his discovery about the English—their assumption maintained by his silence. He said nothing, cursing his carelessness. The receptionist continued to watch, enthralled. Tears now abated, she nodded agreement to the young man's obvious sense. Williams stood absolutely still, hands together holding his hat, still clutching Austin's ebony and silver.
"Thank you," Austin said, "for returning my cane."
He took out a coin and gave it to the tailor's assistant.
Williams put his black bowler back on his head and accepted the money, then nodded—but did not move. Austin stared inquiringly. Williams shifted uncomfortably—then smiled.
"Williams—sir."
"Thank you again—Williams."
"Arthur Byron—sir."
No one could say Austin was not quick. He realized immediately how attractive the cane must be to a "Williams, A. B." He smiled back at the youth.
"I shall remember your—promptness—Mr. Williams."
Austin held out his hand for the cane. Silently the exchange took place. Williams didn't actually wince, but he did, Austin observed, depart rather quick
ly.
"Will you be staying long, Mr. Warren, sir?" Emotions stimulated, the receptionist spoke almost as a confidante. Austin spoke only to himself—even his nerves frayed.
"Yes," he said, "I hope so." And took off the white Stetson.
He never wore it again.
TWO trunks and a large portmanteau arrived some weeks later at the Golden Cross. Complying with her instructions, the receptionist paid the carriage fee and had the luggage deposited in Mr. Warren's room. He occasionally came to take tea, but never appeared to use the room for the night. Money had suppressed any questions she was tempted to ask. The generous advance had secured his room for as long as Mr. Warren cared to use it—and for whatever purpose.
The portmanteau had clearly printed on it, GREEN AND SONS, SAVILE ROW, and F. A. WARREN. Embossed in gold against the dark leather, it was very fetching. A day later Mr. Warren arrived and checked that all was in order. Obviously, the receptionist thought, as she watched the attractive young man wave a cheery adieu that brought a blush to her cheeks, it was.
§
Austin had agreed to remain in England alone. There was little that his partners could do as yet, and they had thus both decided upon a European tour. Having landed at Lisbon, in Portugal, Mac and George were now making their way to Spain and France from city to city: San Sebastian to Biarritz; then, after a journey to Bordeaux, the return passage to Southampton.
Austin, meanwhile, enjoyed London. He went to Bath once to take the waters; to Dorchester, in Dorset; then to Weymouth and the great Naval Dockyard at Portland; to Norwich, in Norfolk, to see the meandering streams and flatlands; finally on a late-spring tour of the Southern Counties, Hampshire, Sussex and Kent, which gave him a familiarity with England that he was to cherish for many years to come.
A brief return to London had allowed him to check that Green had delivered at the Golden Cross Hotel. That done, Austin had gone once more to the Savile Row shop.
"Savile Row tailoring at its best, Mr. Green," he had said. The owner had come out to the street, where Austin remained in his brougham. "Duplicate the order—I must have more garments."
At this, Mr. Green changed color rapidly and, taking the advance (once more given in hundred notes), had waved to Frederick Albert Warren until Burlington Vigo Street, at the end of Savile Row, swallowed him up in the noisy horse traffic.
Fourteen days had been prescribed for completion this time, and with much diligence and not a little agitation (although the quality of the clothes was in no way affected), the job was done. Mr. Green awaited his customer with an open bottle of port on the day Austin had stated he would collect, knowing all was well.
§
Mac and George had arrived the night before, and after Austin revealed the success of his first moves in their agreed-upon plan, they treated him to a grand dinner that ended in laughter and good wishes for the morrow and Mr. Warren's appointment in Savile Row. That night they all stayed at the Grosvenor.
Newly built, the hotel was adjacent to Victoria Station, which served all points south—the Channel ports and the Continent. Thus, not only convenient but with the constant traffic of foreigners, it provided for its clientele considerable anonymity.
§
Six five-hundred-pound notes; five one-hundred- and fifty five-pound notes were bound in a roll, deftly secured by a thin cord and placed in the side pocket of Austin's coat. He resettled himself in the corner seat at the table, accepted a cup of coffee from Mac and went on with his story of the tailor and the cane.
George was impatient. "Ready?" he asked.
George looked across at Austin—young, exuberant, with confidence to spare and completely unaware of the nerves that George was unable to conceal. For George, experience created—always—hidden qualms.
Age, George thought. He would have been a lot less excited and far more apprehensive faced with the responsibility of the next hour.
If there was a difference between them, the older Bidwell mused as he heard Austin (ignoring George's question) continue his revelations of Mr. Green's shop to Mac, it was this seeming innocence, coupled with his obvious intelligence, a certain arrogance and infectious enthusiasm. This apparent vulnerability gave exceptional dimension to a personality that became at times magnetic. People listened, trusted, believed. Austin had a natural, rather than assumed, authority which created a power he wielded delicately and with immense charm. It was a quality all three of them shared, but less sensitive than Mac, and less wise than his brother, Austin had it to excess.
The more sober of the two Bidwells waited until Austin paused to laugh at Mac's reaction to his story. George repeated his question.
"I asked if you were ready," he said.
Austin relieved his brother's obvious consternation with a grin.
"Ready—absolument!”
Mac had gone back to The Times, which he was trying to read whilst keeping an eye on all others in the lounge of the hotel.
"Market's on the up," he said, now fully absorbed in the business pages. "U.S. Bonds are doing briskly."
"Mac, be serious; today is make or break. The guy is only a tailor."
Mac looked up. "Exactly," he stated. "That doesn't make it any easier," said George. "I'd say, the reverse."
"Well, at least we'll have clothes enough to share," said Austin brightly. George did not respond. Austin began to feel his brother's concern and spoke out. "Look, maybe we could still get a solicitor to set us up—" George interrupted.
"A solicitor is law, and that means references. You want me to write to Pender in Wheeling Prison, or you, Austin, write to Blanc's Casino? Or you, Mac—you want to write to Irving in New York for a list of avoided convictions?" George paused, his point made.
Mac grinned. "I could write us the best references possible. Give me their signatures and I'll give you letters of introduction, credit, recommendations. Who'd you like?"
George's serious expression caused the two younger men to laugh. For a moment at least, Mac broke the tension which had risen with George's fear that the next hour would see only the failure of carefully laid plans.
"Okay, brother," George went on, unresponsive to the others' levity. "Remember that you may be here at the Grosvenor as Mr. Bidwell, but Mr. Warren resides at the Golden Cross. Keep your cover tight, and no slips—this time."
George was recalling Austin's lighthearted story—his version of the " 'at and cane."
Austin tapped his forehead with two fingers. "How could I forget, George?" he replied, his eyes twinkling. "Mr. Bidwell is just your poor loving kin, but Mr. Warren is about to become our benefactor.''
"Perhaps," George said, apprehensive at his brother's overconfidence. "I know him," replied Austin.
"Then, good luck!" said George. He looked long at Austin. A judge was never more stern.
Austin stood up, adjusted his coat and began to walk across the lounge and through the reception hall to the entrance. Outside, a cab was waiting, fully loaded with the trunks and portmanteaux of Mr. Green's first order—Austin's English wardrobe.
Mac turned his head after the retreating figure. Softly, almost to himself, but still heard by George, who swallowed and then finished his coffee, Mac said, "See you outside the Bank."
§
Austin completed the necessary task—and task it was—of trying on all the suits. The sessions he had had with Mr. Green measuring his figure with practiced accuracy (insisted upon even with the repeat order) ensured that the clothes were a perfect fit.
In Savile Row the cab awaited its fare, pulled over, up onto the pavement, to allow other traffic passage. Austin, having supervised placement of the first and pointed out where, when ready, the second portmanteau was to go, turned to Mr. Green, who ushered him back into the shop.
Inside, Williams was packing this second large, dark leather-covered portmanteau as other assistants handed him the garments. Some clothes Williams hung; others he folded and put into compartments he was then able to close, securing the garm
ents against rough travel. The portmanteau was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship in itself, specially made for Green's, and with wealthy customers was always a complimentary gift of the establishment.
Austin and Green toasted, once to a good journey, a second time to good business and a third to better customer-craftsman relations. The port was excellent.
Williams closed the upright portmanteau, secured the locks
and, with a quick wipe (using an old rag) of the gold lettering—GREEN AND SONS, SAVILE ROW, AND F. A. WARREN—stood back to survey the beauty of the dark leather and imagine an inscription with his own name in gold.
The five-hundred note came to Williams from the hand of Mr. Green, who had accepted it with a bow from his customer, Mr. Warren.
"Williams, give Mr. Warren change."
Mr. Green smiled at his customer, happy that in anticipation of so large a note, he had seen to it that the safe of Green and Sons was today full of smaller bills with which to return the change. Even so, for a tailor's assistant who earned barely sixty-five pounds a year, it was a moment to linger over. Williams stared at the note in awe, before moving into the small office.
The American gentleman leaned against the polished wood counter and smiled back contentedly at Mr. Green, whose own pleasure at the completed transaction was equally apparent. Another satisfied customer, the tailor thought, and what a client this Mr. Warren was; he sipped his port from the elegant glass—part of an heirloom family set.
"Are you going away again, sir?" he asked.
The reply, "Pleasure, not business," started the course Austin had decided upon.
Williams caught only snatches of the conversation that followed, but heard, he remembered later, the words "shooting" and "Lord Clancarty's in Ireland." Mr. Green was cooing with appreciation of his client's acquaintances.
"Then the hacking jacket will be—"
"Perfect," Austin cut in. "As are all the others, Mr. Green."
The Four Hundred Page 7