15a The Prince and Betty

by Unknown

“Thousands of promising careers,” he said, “have been ruined by the fatal practise of talking seriously at dinner. But now we might begin.”

  Betty looked at him across the table with shining eyes. It was good to be together again.

  “My explanations won’t take long,” she said. “I ran away from you. And, when you found me, I ran away again.”

  “But I didn’t find you,” objected John. “That was my trouble.”

  “But my aunt told you I was at Peaceful Moments!”

  “On the contrary, I didn’t even know you had an aunt.”

  “Well, she’s not exactly that. She’s my stepfather’s aunt—Mrs. Oakley. I was certain you had gone straight to her, and that she had told you where I was.”

  “The Mrs. Oakley? The—er—philanthropist?”

  “Don’t laugh at her,” said Betty quickly. “She was so good to me!”

  “She passes,” said John decidedly.

  “And now,” said Betty, “it’s your turn.”

  John lighted another cigarette.

  “My story,” he said, “is rather longer. When they threw me out of Mervo—”

  “What!”

  “I’m afraid you don’t keep abreast of European history,” he said. “Haven’t you heard of the great revolution in Mervo and the overthrow of the dynasty? Bloodless, but invigorating. The populace rose against me as one man—except good old General Poineau. He was for me, and Crump was neutral, but apart from them my subjects were unanimous. There’s a republic again in Mervo now.”

  “But why? What had you done?”

  “Well, I abolished the gaming-tables. But, more probably,” he went on quickly, “they saw what a perfect dub I was in every—”

  She interrupted him.

  “Do you mean to say that, just because of me—?”

  “Well,” he said awkwardly, “as a matter of fact what you said did make me think over my position, and, of course, directly I thought over it—oh, well, anyway, I closed down gambling in Mervo, and then—”

  “John!”

  He was aware of a small hand creeping round the table under cover of the cloth. He pressed it swiftly, and, looking round, caught the eye of a hovering waiter, who swooped like a respectful hawk.

  “Did you want anything, sir?”

  “I’ve got it, thanks,” said John.

  The waiter moved away.

  “Well, directly they had fired me, I came over here. I don’t know what I expected to do. I suppose I thought I might find you by chance. I pretty soon saw how hopeless it was, and it struck me that, if I didn’t get some work to do mighty quick, I shouldn’t be much good to anyone except the alienists.”

  “Dear!”

  The waiter stared, but John’s eyes stopped him in mid-swoop.

  “Then I found Smith—”

  “Where is Mr. Smith?”

  “In prison,” said John with a chuckle.

  “In prison!”

  “He resisted and assaulted the police. I’ll tell you about it later. Well, Smith told me of the alterations in Peaceful Moments, and I saw that it was just the thing for me. And it has occupied my mind quite some. To think of you being the writer of those Broster Street articles! You certainly have started something, Betty! Goodness knows where it will end. I hoped to have brought off a coup this afternoon, but the arrival of Sam and his friends just spoiled it.”

  “This afternoon? Yes, why were you there? What were you doing?”

  “I was interviewing the collector of rents and trying to dig his employer’s name out of him. It was Smith’s idea. Smith’s theory was that the owner of the tenements must have some special private reason for lying low, and that he would employ some special fellow, whom he could trust, as a rent-collector. And I’m pretty certain he was right. I cornered the collector, a little, rabbit-faced man named Gooch, and I believe he was on the point of—What’s the matter?”

  Betty’s forehead was wrinkled. Her eyes wore a far-away expression.

  “I’m trying to remember something. I seem to know the name, Gooch. And I seem to associate it with a little, rabbit-faced man. And—quick, tell me some more about him. He’s just hovering about on the edge of my memory. Quick! Push him in!”

  John threw his mind back to the interview in the dark passage, trying to reconstruct it.

  “He’s small,” he said slowly. “His eyes protrude—so do his teeth—He—he—yes, I remember now—he has a curious red mark—”

  “On his right cheek,” said Betty triumphantly.

  “By Jove!” cried John. “You’ve got him?”

  “I remember him perfectly. He was—” She stopped with a little gasp.

  “Yes?”

  “John, he was one of my stepfather’s secretaries,” she said.

  They looked at each other in silence.

  “It can’t be,” said John at length.

  “It can. It is. He must be. He has scores of interests everywhere. He prides himself on it. It’s the most natural thing.”

  John shook his head doubtfully.

  “But why all the fuss? Your stepfather isn’t the man to mind public opinion—”

  “But don’t you see? It’s as Mr. Smith said. The private reason. It’s as clear as daylight. Naturally he would do anything rather than be found out. Don’t you see? Because of Mrs. Oakley.”

  “Because of Mrs. Oakley?”

  “You don’t know her as I do. She is a curious mixture. She’s double-natured. You called her the philanthropist just now. Well, she would be one, if—if she could bear to part with money. Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous. But it’s so. She is mean about money, but she honestly hates to hear of anybody treating poor people badly. If my stepfather were really the owner of those tenements, and she should find it out, she would have nothing more to do with him. It’s true. I know her.”

  The smile passed away from John’s face.

  “By George!” he said. “It certainly begins to hang together.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “I think you are.”

  He sat meditating for a moment.

  “Well?” he said at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what are we to do? Do we go on with this?”

  “Go on with it? I don’t understand.”

  “I mean—well, it has become rather a family matter, you see. Do you feel as—warlike against Mr. Scobell as you did against an unknown lessee?”

  Betty’s eyes sparkled.

  “I don’t think I should feel any different if—if it was you,” she said. “I’ve been spending days and days in those houses, John dear, and I’ve seen such utter squalor and misery, where there needn’t be any at all if only the owner would do his duty, and—and—”

  She stopped. Her eyes were misty.

  “Thumbs down, in fact,” said John, nodding. “I’m with you.”

  As he spoke, two men came down the broad staircase into the grill-room. Betty’s back was towards them, but John saw them, and stared.

  “What are you looking at?” asked Betty.

  “Will you count ten before looking round?”

  “What is it?”

  “Your stepfather has just come in.”

  “What!”

  “He’s sitting at the other side of the room, directly behind you. Count ten!”

  But Betty had twisted round in her chair.

  “Where? Where?”

  “Just where you’re looking. Don’t let him see you.”

  “I don’t— Oh!”

  “Got him?”

  He leaned back in his chair.

  “The plot thickens, eh?” he said. “What is Mr. Scobell doing in New York, I wonder, if he has not come to keep an eye on his interests?”

  Betty had whipped round again. Her face was white with excitement.

  “It’s true,” she whispered. “I was right. Do you see who that is with him? The man?”

  “Do you know him? He’s a stranger to me.”
/>   “It’s Mr. Parker,” said Betty.

  John drew in his breath sharply.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  John laughed quietly. He thought for a moment, then beckoned to the hovering waiter.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Betty.

  “Bring me a small lemon,” said John.

  “Lemon squash, sir?”

  “Not a lemon squash. A plain lemon. The fruit of that name. The common or garden citron, which is sharp to the taste and not pleasant to have handed to one. Also a piece of note paper, a little tissue paper, and an envelope.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Betty again.

  John beamed.

  “Did you ever read the Sherlock Holmes story entitled ‘The Five Orange Pips’? Well, when a man in that story received a mysterious envelope containing five orange pips, it was a sign that he was due to get his. It was all over, as far as he was concerned, except ‘phoning for the undertaker. I propose to treat Mr. Scobell better than that. He shall have a whole lemon.”

  The waiter returned. John wrapped up the lemon carefully, wrote on the note paper the words, “To B. Scobell, Esq., Property Owner, Broster Street, from Prince John of Peaceful Moments, this gift,” and enclosed it in the envelope.

  “Do you see that gentleman at the table by the pillar?” he said. “Give him these. Just say a gentleman sent them.”

  The waiter smiled doubtfully. John added a two-dollar bill to the collection in his hand.

  “You needn’t give him that,” he said.

  The waiter smiled again, but this time not doubtfully.

  “And now,” said John as the messenger ambled off, “perhaps it would be just as well if we retired.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE FINAL ATTEMPT

  Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to John immediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning, when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentleman had called to see him.

  “With or without a black-jack?” enquired John. “Did he give any name?”

  “Sure. Parker’s his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith was here. I loosed him into de odder room.”

  John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at the Knickerbocker was standing at the window.

  “Mr. Parker?”

  The other turned, as the door opened, and looked at him keenly.

  “Are you Mr. Maude?”

  “I am,” said John.

  “I guess you don’t need to be told what I’ve come about?”

  “No.”

  “See here,” said Mr. Parker. “I don’t know how you’ve found things out, but you’ve done it, and we’re through. We quit.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said John. “Would you mind informing Spider Reilly of that fact? It will make life pleasanter for all of us.”

  “Mr. Scobell sent me along here to ask you to come and talk over this thing with him. He’s at the Knickerbocker. I’ve a cab waiting outside. Can you come along?”

  “I’d rather he came here.”

  “And I bet he’d rather come here than be where he is. That little surprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him a stroke of some sort. He’s in bed now, with half-a-dozen doctors working on him.”

  John thought for a moment.

  “Oh,” he said slowly, “if it’s that—very well.”

  He could not help feeling a touch of remorse. He had no reason to be fond of Mr. Scobell, but he was sorry that this should have happened.

  They went out on the street. A taximeter cab was standing by the sidewalk. They got in. Neither spoke. John was thoughtful and preoccupied. Mr. Parker, too, appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He sat with folded arms and lowered head.

  The cab buzzed up Fifth Avenue. Suddenly something, half-seen through the window, brought John to himself with a jerk. It was the great white mass of the Plaza Hotel. The next moment he saw that they were abreast of the park, and for the first time an icy wave of suspicion swept over him.

  “Here, what’s this?” he cried. “Where are you taking me?”

  Mr. Parker’s right hand came swiftly out of ambush, and something gleamed in the sun.

  “Don’t move,” said Mr. Parker. The hard nozzle of a pistol pressed against John’s chest. “Keep that hand still.”

  John dropped his hand. Mr. Parker leaned back, with the pistol resting easily on his knee. The cab began to move more quickly.

  John’s mind was in a whirl. His chief emotion was not fear, but disgust that he should have allowed himself to be trapped, with such absurd ease. He blushed for himself. Mr. Parker’s face was expressionless, but who could say what tumults of silent laughter were not going on inside him? John bit his lip.

  “Well?” he said at last.

  Mr. Parker did not reply.

  “Well?” said John again. “What’s the next move?”

  It flashed across his mind that, unless driven to it by an attack, his captor would do nothing for the moment without running grave risks himself. To shoot now would be to attract attention. The cab would be overtaken at once by bicycle police, and stopped. There would be no escape. No, nothing could happen till they reached open country. At least he would have time to think this matter over in all its bearings.

  Mr. Parker ignored the question. He was sitting in the same attitude of watchfulness, the revolver resting on his knee. He seemed mistrustful of John’s right hand, which was hanging limply at his side. It was from this quarter that he appeared to expect attack. The cab was bowling easily up the broad street, past rows and rows of high houses each looking exactly the same as the last. Occasionally, to the right, through a break in the line of buildings, a glimpse of the river could be seen.

  A faint hope occurred to John that, by talking, he might put the other off his guard for just that instant which was all he asked. He exerted himself to find material for conversation.

  “Tell me,” he said, “what you said about Mr. Scobell, was that true? About his being ill in bed?”

  Mr. Parker did not answer, but a wintry smile flittered across his face.

  “It was not?” said John. “Well, I’m glad of that. I don’t wish Mr. Scobell any harm.”

  Mr. Parker looked at him doubtfully.

  “Say, why are you in this game at all?” he said. “What made you butt in?”

  “One must do something,” said John. “It’s interesting work.”

  “If you’ll quit—”

  John shook his head.

  “I own it’s a tempting proposition, things being as they are, but I won’t give up yet. You never know what may happen.”

  “Well, you can make a mighty near guess this trip.”

  “You can’t do a thing yet, that’s sure,” said John confidently. “If you shot me now, the cab would be stopped, and you would be lynched by the populace. I seem to see them tearing you limb from limb. ‘She loves me!’ Off comes an arm. ‘She loves me not!’ A leg joins the little heap on the ground. That is what would happen, Mr. Parker.”

  The other shrugged his shoulders, and relapsed into silence once more.

  “What are you going to do with me, Mr. Parker?” asked John.

  Mr. Parker did not reply.

  The cab moved swiftly on. Now they had reached the open country. An occasional wooden shack was passed, but that was all. At any moment, John felt, the climax of the drama might be reached, and he got ready. His muscles stiffened for a spring. There was little chance of its being effective, but at least it would be good to put up some kind of a fight. And he had a faint hope that the suddenness of his movement might upset the other’s aim. He was bound to be hit somewhere. That was certain. But quickness might save him to some extent. He braced his leg against the back of the cab. And, as he did so, its smooth speed changed to a series of jarring jumps, each more emphatic than the last. It slowed down, then came to a halt. There was a th
ud, as the chauffeur jumped down. John heard him fumbling in the tool box. Presently the body of the machine was raised slightly as he got to work with the jack. John’s muscles relaxed. He leaned back. Surely something could be made of this new development. But the hand that held the revolver never wavered. He paused, irresolute. And at the moment somebody spoke in the road outside.

  “Had a breakdown?” enquired the voice.

  John recognized it. It was the voice of Kid Brady.

  The Kid, as he had stated that he intended to do, had begun his training for his match with Eddie Wood at White Plains. It was his practise to open a course of training with a little gentle road-work, and it was while jogging along the highway a couple of miles from his training camp, in company with the two thick-necked gentlemen who acted as his sparring partners, that he had come upon the broken-down taxicab.

  If this had happened after his training had begun in real earnest, he would have averted his eyes from the spectacle, however alluring, and continued on his way without a pause. But now, as he had not yet settled down to genuine hard work, he felt justified in turning aside and looking into the matter. The fact that the chauffeur, who seemed to be a taciturn man, lacking the conversational graces, manifestly objected to an audience, deterred him not at all. One cannot have everything in this world, and the Kid and his attendant thick-necks were content to watch the process of mending the tire, without demanding the additional joy of sparkling small talk from the man in charge of the operations.

  “Guy’s had a breakdown, sure,” said the first of the thick-necks.

  “Surest thing you know,” agreed his colleague.

  “Seems to me the tire’s punctured,” said the Kid.

  All three concentrated their gaze on the machine.

  “Kid’s right,” said thick-neck number one. “Guy’s been an’ bust a tire.”

  “Surest thing you know,” said thick-neck number two.

  They observed the perspiring chauffeur in silence for a while.

  “Wonder how he did that, now?” speculated the Kid.

  “Ran over a nail, I guess,” said thick-neck number one.

  “Surest thing you know,” said the other, who, while perhaps somewhat deficient in the matter of original thought, was a most useful fellow to have by one—a sort of Boswell.