Trent Intervenes

by E. C. Bentley

  ‘I will do anything I can, of course,’ Trent said. ‘But, Somerton, what exactly is the matter with you? You speak of your nerves going wrong; that might mean anything. You certainly don’t look well; but how does it take you?’

  Somerton held up a weary hand. ‘For God’s sake, don’t tell me I don’t look well! I’m sick of hearing that. People I’ve never met come up to me in the street and tell me I look ill, and ask if they can do anything. How does it take me?’ Somerton leaned forward in his chair and stared miserably into Trent’s eyes. ‘I’ll tell you. I believe I’m going out of my mind—dying at the top.’

  Trent showed nothing of the shock he felt. ‘Oh, come!’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re as sane as I am, Somerton. You haven’t said a word yet that wasn’t perfectly rational.’

  ‘All the same, there’s something desperately wrong. I’ll tell you how it began. One evening, about a week ago, Jo suggested we might run over to Mentone and take the mountain railway to Sospel, which we’d never seen, and come back by Nice. We made up a small party in the hotel, to go next day. Well, next morning I was down before the others, and Gaston, the head porter, came up to me and said he had got the timetable I asked for, with the service to Sospel. I was astounded, because I could have taken my dying oath I had never asked him for any timetable, or even thought of doing so.

  ‘I said nothing about this to the others, because, of course, they would have thought I had simply forgotten asking for the timetable; but it kept coming back into my mind all day. Then in the evening, when I was dressing in my room here, there was a knock at the door, and a man came in saying he was the valet. I said I hadn’t rung for the valet, or for anybody. The fellow looked surprised. He said the bell had rung in the valets’ room; and the little blue light over the bedroom door, which goes on when you ring, had been showing when he knocked, and he had only that moment switched it off. I said there must be something wrong with the electrical arrangements, and he went off, looking at me queerly. After what had happened that morning, I didn’t like this. I hadn’t rung, or wanted anything to ring for—but could I have rung all the same? I felt worried; and at dinner Jo asked me what I had got on my mind. Of course, I said there was nothing; and I worried all the more, and slept badly afterwards.

  ‘The next morning, when I was shaving, exactly the same thing happened. The valet knocked, asked what monsieur desired; and do you know, Trent, rather than have him look at me again as if I was crazy, I told him I wanted some cigarettes. That shows you how shaken I was; for I hadn’t the faintest recollection of having rung, and I felt by now that there must be something wrong mentally.

  ‘The following day some of us went down to the front to watch a regatta, and I had a bet with a man on a crew I fancied in a boat race. I lost, and found I was short of money to pay him; so I went on to the Lyonnais where I have a credit, and drew ten milles and some smaller notes. I rejoined our party, and we had a few more bets. When I took out my case to settle what I owed, I found I had twenty milles in it.

  ‘I said nothing about it, I was too much upset. I went back to the bank and asked how much I had drawn. The cashier showed me my cheque—10,500 francs. I said they had given me twenty milles, and produced my case to show him. There were only ten milles in it. The man looked at me exactly as the valet had done. I could have screamed.

  ‘The next day White and I were out for a stroll, and we stopped at Madame Joubin’s stall, as we often did, to buy papers. I got the Times of the day before—Tuesday, February 2nd; it was too early for that day’s issue. When we sat down to look at our papers, I caught sight of the date on the front page of mine, which I hadn’t unfolded. It was the Times for Monday, February 2nd—of last year!

  ‘I said to White, “Here’s a curious thing. Look at the date on my paper.” He took it and said, “Why, what’s wrong with it?” I said, “Can’t you see? It’s a year old.” White stared at me, with that look I had got to dread so much. He only said, “No, it’s yesterday’s paper all right”; and when I looked again, it was so.

  ‘As soon as we got back to the hotel, I told Jo I must see a doctor at once, that for the first time in my life my nerves had gone wrong. I didn’t say anything about mental trouble. She said she was sure it would be wise, that I had been looking queer for some days past; and she sent off for this fellow Cole. Well, you know what I think of him. I told him all that I’ve told you—I’ve never told anyone else until now. He wagged his head and thought a little, then he asked me if I hadn’t been in Monte Carlo about this time last year. I said I always came here at this time. Then Cole said that probably I had done last year all these things which I had done again unconsciously this year, or imagined myself doing this year; that I had got a kink in my memory, or something like that; that I had drawn 20,000 francs one day a year ago, and bought a Times on February 2nd a year ago, and so on. Well, I couldn’t say it wasn’t so; but you can imagine that it didn’t altogether relieve my mind. It’s not a good sign when your memory takes to turning somersaults. Besides, it didn’t explain the timetable incident. Well, Cole said I must take a sedative, which he prescribed, and on no account let myself get tired, and give up smoking and stimulants.’

  Trent, who had listened in silence while Somerton set out all these strange facts, or fancies, in their due order, now crushed out his cigar-butt and spoke. ‘I don’t know anything about it, but I agree it looks as if nerve trouble, in the ordinary sense, hardly covers the facts. And yet, you know, Somerton, you’re not a bit like a mental case, as far as my small experience goes.’

  Somerton uttered an impatient exclamation. ‘That’s just it! I feel absolutely sane—and all the same there’s the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing sometimes. And you haven’t heard the worst, either—the thing that bowled me over this morning. You see, a week ago I sent my wife a birthday present. She is at our flat in Brook Street just now; she hates Monte Carlo. I sent her a small Chinese statuette in white jade—got it at Grangette’s little shop in the Rue de la Scala, and wrote down the name and address for him to send it to.

  ‘This morning I had a letter from Mary thanking me warmly for the present, but at the same time asking whether the address I had sent it to was some sort of joke. Fortunately the people at that address knew where we live now, but even so it had taken three days to reach her. She enclosed the label with the address written on it. Have a look at it, will you?’

  Trent took the paper from Somerton’s quivering hand, and read what follows:

  Mrs J. L. Somerton,

  23, Talford Street,

  London, S.W.7.

  ANGLETERRE.

  ‘I don’t wonder she was puzzled,’ Trent observed, looking up at the other. ‘What is this address?’

  ‘23 Talfourd Street—there ought to be a U after the O—is the house where we lived from the time we were married. We left it in 1912—fourteen years ago.’ Somerton lay back in his chair with closed eyes. ‘I’ve never seen it since, or given it a thought during most of that time. So there you are. A nice thing to be faced with when I was already afraid—’ he left the sentence unfinished and covered his face with his hands.

  Trent looked at him in silence a few moments; then stared again at the label. He rose and took it to the window, where he studied it with his back to the stricken figure in the chair. Then, looking out over the sunlit Escalier des Fleurs, he began to whistle almost inaudibly.

  ‘And you had no thought of this address in your mind when you were giving Grangette his instructions.’

  Somerton looked up irritably. ‘I told you. Why, I had almost forgotten I had ever lived there until I read that label this morning. You see how it fits in with the rest. But to my mind going back to a year ago, without my being conscious of it, is one thing; fourteen years is another.’

  Trent left the window and laid a hand on Somerton’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you lose heart,’ he said. ‘It seems bad, I know, but I believe I may be able to help you. In fact, I am quite confident you can be pu
t right if you’ll leave it to me.’ And Trent, slipping the label into his pocket, took a hasty leave of his friend.

  An hour later Trent found Colonel White in his favourite seat on the veranda, turning the lively pages of The New Yorker.

  ‘I have just been having an interesting talk, Colonel,’ he said without preliminary, leaning back on the railing as he faced the other. ‘I have been to Grangette’s little antique shop—you know the place.’

  Colonel White laid aside his paper. ‘Sure I know it,’ he said. ‘I have done business with Grangette a few times.’

  ‘Yes, I know you have done business with him,’ Trent said with an acrid smile. He drew from a pocket the label which he had taken away from Somerton’s room, and tossed it on the small table at the colonel’s elbow.

  ‘That is a pretty good address, as they go,’ Trent went on. ‘There are only two things wrong with it. The name of the street is spelt the way an American would spell it. It ought to be T-A-L-F-O-U-R-D.’

  The colonel, inspecting the label with languid interest, nodded. ‘Pronounced T-A-L-F-O-R-D,’ he remarked. ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘Also,’ Trent continued, ‘that postal direction, “S.W.7.”, is a little too modern. The post office didn’t begin putting a numeral after the district letters until long after Somerton had left that address. I am not sure when they started doing so, but I know it was during the war.’

  Colonel White sighed. ‘Now isn’t that just too bad?’ he commented.

  ‘I took that label to Grangette,’ Trent went on, ‘and I told him I was making inquiries on behalf of Somerton, and I wanted to know how his packet came to be sent to that address. I said that it was a situation grave. Grangette is not a reliable tool, Colonel. He began to go to pieces at once. He swore Somerton had given him the address; but the next moment he was declaring that he hadn’t meant any harm, and that anyhow there was nothing illegal. So I said that was a matter for the Correctional Court to decide. I think Grangette must have been in trouble before, because as soon as I mentioned the Court he broke down and began to beg to be let off, and told me the whole thing. He even told me how much you paid him to address the packet wrongly. What I should like to know is how you got hold of that address.’

  The colonel smiled amiably. ‘Anything else you would like to know?’ he inquired.

  ‘I can imagine,’ Trent said, ‘how some of this malicious persecution was carried out. It was easy to bribe the porter and the floor-valet to pretend that Somerton had asked for a timetable and that he had rung his bedroom bell. It was easy to pay people to speak sympathetically to him in the street about how ill he was looking. But I don’t see how the trick with the newspaper was done; and that business of changing the banknotes in Somerton’s note-case puzzles me. Not that it matters very much; because the thing is going to stop now, and Somerton is going to be told that all this trouble of his was due to a heartless fraud. What he will do about it is for him to say. Probably he will prosecute you, for Somerton can be a very hard man when he likes.’

  Colonel White rose from his chair and approached Trent. ‘I know he can. I know he can.’ He stared into Trent’s eyes and tapped him lightly on the chest. ‘You don’t have to tell me that. And I can be hard too, when I like. Now, Mr Trent, I am not sorry you have found all this out. I wanted it to be known; it was part of my plan that it should be known. You have speeded matters up by a day or two, that’s all. I had very nearly finished with Somerton, and my intention was to go away suddenly, without a word to him, leaving a letter for him in which I reminded him of certain matters between ourselves. What I am now going to do is this. I shall write you a letter about this heartless fraud of mine—I have no objection to that way of putting it—because since you have found out so much, I should prefer you to know just why I did it. You shall have the letter today and you can show it to Somerton when you’ve read it. But I will tell you one thing now—the way the banknote trick was worked.’ The colonel paused a moment, then asked, ‘Have you got a cigarette?’

  Trent put his hand mechanically to his handkerchief pocket, looked surprised, then searched several other pockets in vain. ‘I’m sorry. I must have mislaid my case somewhere.’

  ‘No,’ Colonel White said. ‘It was in that outside pocket of yours all right. I noticed this afternoon that you carry it there. I’ve got it now. Here it is.’ He held out the case to Trent, who took it with a slightly bewildered air. ‘I took it when I faced right up to you a minute ago, and emphasized my remarks by poking you in the upper vest. That was how I attended to Somerton’s note-case—only with him it was much easier, because he has the reckless habit of carrying his money in his hip-pocket. Now that is all I’m going to say before I leave you, and I don’t suppose we shall meet again.’

  ‘I hope not, most sincerely,’ Trent said. ‘I look forward to reading the explanation of your proceedings; but on the facts, as far as I know them, you seem to be a dangerous and unscrupulous rascal. Do you make a living out of that little accomplishment you were giving me a display of just now?’

  Colonel White shook his head. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘playing off that little accomplishment on our friend Somerton has cost me some thousands of dollars, one way and another. And don’t try to make me lose my temper, Mr Trent—you can’t do it. I am feeling perfectly satisfied. I have done what I came to Monte Carlo to do and I leave for Paris tonight. The Hotel Meurice will find me for the next ten days, in case Somerton should want to start anything; but he won’t. You will receive my letter in the course of the evening.’ The colonel turned away with a slight bend of the head, and, looking more distinguished than ever, faded away into the hotel.

  While Trent was dressing for dinner at his own hotel, two hours later, Colonel White’s letter was brought to him. The neat, clear handwriting covered a number of sheets of Artemare notepaper. There was neither date nor signature, and the document began without preliminary as follows:

  ‘I was born in Islington, London, 38 years ago. My mother, who was an Italian, was a good woman, and brought me up well; but my father was an English pickpocket, as his father was before him, and I took after him, especially in having the right sort of hands. It is not highly thought of as a profession, but my father was at the top of it and made a decent living out of it. He was very seldom caught, I believe; never in the ten years that I remembered him. Before he died I had learnt all he could show me, and he said I was better than he was, but probably that was parental pride.

  ‘I always worked alone, as he did. It is much more difficult than when you work with stalls, and as regards class there is all the difference in the world. I had had a fair education; I could pass anywhere as far as appearance and dress and speaking good English went. I spoke as my father did, it was natural to me; how he got his quiet, unaffected upper-class way of talking I don’t know, I never met another man who could do it without being born to it.

  ‘When I was seventeen I was caught in the act, by a piece of bad luck. I came up before the North London magistrate, Mr Somerton. He was a recent appointment, and he wasn’t popular with the crooks. I knew that, but I was surprised at the way he treated me. As it was my first appearance, I thought I might be bound over, or get off with a month at the very worst. But it was clear from the start that he had taken a dislike to me. When the police had told him that I associated with criminals and was a bad influence, and I said it was a lie, he kept a vicious eye on me, and finally said he could not take a lenient view of this case, and gave me three months.

  ‘Not long after I came out, I came before Somerton again. There had been a jewellers’ window smashed and a lot of stuff taken, and a policeman, a man with whom I had had some unpleasantness, gave evidence. There were three men in it, and he had come up just as they were making off. He gave chase, and they got away, but he swore that he recognized one of them, and that I was that one. Actually I had been nowhere near the place at the time, but I couldn’t prove it, and when I said the cop was trying to frame me because we
were not on good terms, the magistrate got to drumming with his fingers and looking more and more sour. He gave me six months. I didn’t like being punished harshly, on insufficient evidence, for something I never did—a spite sentence—and being treated as if my word against the cop’s wasn’t worth a damn, but the worst was what he said before passing sentence. He need not have said it, it was simply meant to hurt, you could see that by the way he glared at me as he said it. He told me I thought I looked like a gentleman, but what was I but a common thief, who could never enter a decent house or mix with decent people. There was more, but those words were what I never forgot. What I decided Somerton should pay for one day, and what he has paid for, was using his position to insult and browbeat me.

  ‘Every day while I was serving that sentence I was thinking about Mr James Lingard Somerton, and what I would do to him one day. I’m not what you would call a vindictive man in the ordinary way, I think; but all my life when I have got set on a thing I have kept that thing before me and fixed my will on it, and I was very much set on making Somerton pay.

  ‘I knew it was going to be a very long job. I meant it to be. I meant to make good, in the first place. I didn’t mind his telling me I was a thief, because I was, but I objected to his saying I thought I looked like a gentleman, because I knew I looked like a gentleman, and a lot more like a gentleman than Somerton did, or does now. In my business it was necessary to look that way—all first-class dips do. And I wasn’t going to be told I could never mix with decent people, either. That was telling me I didn’t have character enough to become a good citizen—and the consequence was that I got set on becoming just that thing; which was very far from what Somerton intended.