The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

“And now I have some pleasant news for you,” she said. “My mother will be here on Thursday. You will not like her, of course, because you are already prejudiced, but I know she will like you.”

  I knew I should hate her mother, but of course it would not do to say so.

  “Next Thursday?” I inquired. She nodded her head. “I hope she will like me,” I added feeling that it was necessary.

  “She was a Colingraft, you know.”

  “Indeed?” The Colingraft family was one of the oldest and most exclusive in New York. I had a vague recollection of hearing one of my fastidious friends at home say that it must have been a bitter blow to the Colingrafts when, as an expedient, she married the vulgarly rich Jasper Titus, then of St. Paul, Minnesota. It had been a clear case of marrying the money, not the man. Aline’s marriage, therefore, was due to hereditary cold-bloodedness and not to covetousness. “A fine old name, Countess.”

  “Titus suggests titles, therefore it has come to be our family name,” she said, with her satiric smile. “You will like my father. He loves me more than any one else in the world—more than all the world. He is making the great fight for me, Mr. Smart. He would buy off the Count tomorrow if I would permit him to do so. Of late I have been thinking very seriously of suggesting it to him. It would be the simplest way out of our troubles, wouldn’t it? A million is nothing to my father.”

  “Nothing at all, I submit, in view of the fact that it may be the means of saving you from a term in prison for abducting Rosemary?”

  She paled. “Do you really think they would put me in prison?”

  “Unquestionably,” I pronounced emphatically.

  “Oh, dear!” she murmured.

  “But they can’t lock you up until they’ve caught you,” said I reassuringly. “And I will see to it that they do not catch you.”

  “I—I am depending on you entirely, Mr. Smart,” she said anxiously. “Some day I may be in a position to repay you for all the kindness—”

  “Please, please!”

  “—and all the risk you are taking for me,” she completed. “You see, you haven’t the excuse any longer that you don’t know my name and story. You are liable to be arrested yourself for—”

  There came a sharp rapping on the door at this instant—a rather imperative, sinister rapping, if one were to judge by the way we started and the way we looked at each other. We laughed nervously.

  “Goodness! You’d thing Sherlock Holmes himself was at the door,” she cried. “See who it is, please.”

  I went to the door. Poopendyke was there. He was visibly excited.

  “Can you come down at once, Mr. Smart?” he said in a voice not meant to reach the ears of the Countess.

  “What’s up?” I questioned sharply.

  “The jig, I’m afraid,” he whispered sententiously. Poopendyke, being a stenographer, never wasted words. He would have made a fine playwright.

  “Good Lord! Detectives?”

  “No. Count Tarnowsy and a stranger.”

  “Impossible!”

  The Countess, alarmed by our manner, quickly crossed the room.

  “What is it?” she demanded.

  “The Count is downstairs,” I said. “Don’t be alarmed. Nothing can happen. You—”

  She laughed. “Oh, is that all? My dear Mr. Smart, he has come to see you about the frescoes.”

  “But I have insulted him!”

  “Not permanently,” she said. “I know him too well. He is like a leech. He has given you time to reflect and therefore regret your action of the other night. Go down and see him.”

  Poopendyke volunteered further information. “There is also a man down there—a cheap looking person—who says he must see the Countess Tarnowsy at once.”

  “A middle-aged man with the upper button of his waistcoat off?” she asked sharply.

  “I—I can’t say as to the button.”

  “I am expecting one of my lawyers. It must be he. He was to have a button off.”

  “I’ll look him over again,” said Poopendyke.

  “Do. And be careful not to let the Count catch a glimpse of him. That would be fatal.”

  “No danger of that. He went at once to old Conrad’s room.”

  “Good! I had a note from him this morning, Mr. Smart. He is Mr. Bangs of London.”

  “May I inquire, Countess, how you manage to have letters delivered to you here? Isn’t it extremely dangerous to have them go through the mails?”

  “They are all directed to the Schmicks,” she explained.

  “They are passed on to me. Now go and see the Count. Don’t lend him any money.”

  “I shall probably kick him over the cliff,” I said, with a scowl.

  She laid her hand upon my arm. “Be careful,” she said very earnestly, “for my sake.”

  Poopendyke had already started down the stairs. I raised her hand to my lips. Then I rushed away, cursing myself for a fool, an ingrate, a presumptuous bounder.

  My uncalled-for act had brought a swift flush of anger to her cheek. I saw it quite plainly as she lowered her head and drew back into the shadow of the curtain. Bounder! That is what I was for taking advantage of her simple trust in me. Strange to say, she came to the head of the stairs and watched me until I was out of sight in the hall below.

  The Count was waiting for me in the loggia. It was quite warm and he fanned himself lazily with his broad straw hat. As I approached, he tossed his cigarette over the wall and hastened to meet me. There was a quaint diffident smile on his lips.

  “It is good to see you again, old fellow,” he said, with an amiability that surprised me. “I was afraid you might hold a grievance against me. You Americans are queer chaps, you know. Our little tilt of the other evening, you understand. Stupid way for two grown-up men to behave, wasn’t it? Of course, the explanation is simple. We had been drinking. Men do silly things in their cups.”

  Consummate assurance! I had not touched a drop of anything that night.

  “I assure you, Count Tarnowsy, the little tilt, as you are pleased to call it, was of no consequence. I had quite forgotten that it occurred. Sorry you reminded me of it.”

  The irony was wasted. He beamed. “My dear fellow, shall we not shake hands?”

  There was something irresistibly winning about him, as I’ve said before. Something boyish, ingenuous, charming,—what you will,—that went far toward accounting for many things that you who have never seen him may consider incomprehensible.

  A certain wariness took possession of me. I could well afford to temporise. We shook hands with what seemed to be genuine fervour.

  “I suppose you are wondering what brings me here,” he said, as we started toward the entrance to the loggia, his arm through mine. “I do not forget a promise, Mr. Smart. You may remember that I agreed to fetch a man from Munchen to look over your fine old frescoes and to give you an estimate. Well, he is here, the very best man in Europe.”

  “I am sure I am greatly indebted to you, Count,” I said, “but after thinking it over I’ve—”

  “Don’t say that you have already engaged some one to do the work,” he cried, in horror. “My dear fellow, don’t tell me that! You are certain to make a dreadful mistake if you listen to any one but Schwartzmuller. He is the last word in restorations. He is the best bet, as you would say in New York. Any one else will make a botch of the work. You will curse the day you—”

  I checked him. “I have virtually decided to let the whole matter go over until next spring. However, I shall be happy to have Mr. Schwartzmuller’s opinion. We may be able to plan ahead.”

  A look of disappointment flitted across his face. The suggestion of hard old age crept into his features for a second and then disappeared.

  “Delays are dangerous,” he said. “My judgment is that those gorgeous paintings will disintegrate more during the coming winter than in all the years gone by. They are at the critical stage. If not preserved now,—well, I cannot bear to think of the consequences. Ah, her
e is Herr Schwartzmuller.”

  Just inside the door, we came upon a pompous yet servile German who could not by any means have been mistaken for anything but the last word in restoration. I have never seen any one in my life whose appearance suggested a more complete state of rehabilitation. His frock coat was new, it had the unfailing smell of new wool freshly dyed; his shoes were painfully new; his gloves were new; his silk hat was resplendently new; his fat jowl was shaved to a luminous pink; his gorgeous moustache was twisted up at the ends to such a degree that when he smiled the points wavered in front of his eyes, causing him to blink with astonishment. He was undeniably dressed up for the occasion. My critical eye, however, discovered a pair of well-worn striped trousers badly stained, slightly frayed at the bottom and inclined to bag outward at the knee. Perhaps I should have said that he was dressed up from the knee.

  “This is the great Herr Schwartzmuller, of the Imperial galleries in Munchen,” said the Count introducing us.

  The stranger bowed very profoundly and at the same time extracted a business card from the tail pocket of his coat. This he delivered to me with a smile which seemed to invite me to participate in a great and serious secret: the secret of irreproachable standing as an art expert and connoisseur. I confess to a mistaken impression concerning him up to the moment he handed me his clumsy business card. My suspicions had set him down as a confederate of Count Tarnowsy, a spy, a secret agent or whatever you choose to consider one who is employed in furthering a secret purpose. But the business card removed my doubts and misgivings. It stamped him for what he really was: there is no mistaking a German who hands you his business card. He destroys all possible chance for discussion.

  In three languages the card announced that he was “August Schwartzmuller, of the Imperial galleries, Munchen, Zumpe & Schwartzmuller, proprietors. Restorations a specialty.” There was much more, but I did not have time to read all of it. Moreover, the card was a trifle soiled, as if it had been used before. There could be no doubt as to his genuineness. He was an art expert.

  For ten minutes I allowed them to expatiate on the perils of procrastination in the treatment of rare old canvases and pigments, and then, having formulated my plans, blandly inquired what the cost would be. It appears that Herr Schwartzmuller had examined the frescoes no longer than six months before in the interests of a New York gentleman to whom Count Hohendahl had tried to sell them for a lump sum. He was unable to recall the gentleman’s name.

  “I should say not more than one hundred and fifty thousand marks, perhaps less,” said the expert, rolling his calculative eye upward and running it along the vast dome of the hall as if to figure it out in yards and inches.

  The Count was watching me with an eager light in his eyes. He looked away as I shot a quick glance at his face. The whole matter became as clear as day to me. He was to receive a handsome commission if the contract was awarded. No doubt his share would be at least half of the amount stipulated. I had reason to believe that the work could be performed at a profit for less than half the figure mentioned by the German.

  “Nearly forty thousand dollars, in other words,” said I reflectively.

  “They are worth ten times that amount, sir,” said the expert gravely.

  I smiled skeptically. The Count took instant alarm. He realised that I was not such a fool as I looked, perhaps.

  “Hohendahl was once offered two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Smart,” he said.

  “Why didn’t he accept it?” I asked bluntly. “He sold the whole place to me, contents included, for less than half that amount.”

  “It was years ago, before he was in such dire straits,” he explained quickly.

  A terrible suspicion entered my head. I felt myself turn cold. If the frescoes were genuine they were worth all that Schwartzmuller declared; that being the case why should Hohendahl have let them come to me for practically nothing when there were dozens of collectors who would have paid him the full price? I swallowed hard, but managed to control my voice.

  “As a matter of fact, Count Tarnowsy,” I said, resorting to unworthy means, “I have every reason to believe that Hohendahl sold the originals sometime ago, and had them replaced on the ceilings by clever imitations. They are not worth the canvas they are painted on.”

  He started. I intercepted the swift look of apprehension that passed from him to the stolid Schwartzmuller, whose face turned a shade redder.

  “Impossible!” cried Tarnowsy sharply.

  “By no means impossible,” I said calmly, now sure of my ground. “To be perfectly frank with you, I’ve known from the beginning that they are fakes. Your friend, Count Hohendahl, is nobler than you give him credit for being. He confessed to me at the time our transaction took place that the frescoes were very recent reproductions. The originals, I think, are in London or New York.” I saw guilt in the face of Herr Schwartzmuller. His moustaches drooped with the corners of his mouth; he did not seem to be filling out the frock coat quite so completely as when I first beheld him. A shrewd suspicion impelled me to take chances on a direct accusation. I looked straight into the German’s eyes and said: “Now that I come to think of it, I am sure he mentioned the name of Schwartzmuller in connection with the—”

  “It is not true! It is not true!” roared the expert, without waiting for me to finish. “He lied to you, we—the great firm of Zumpe & Schwartzmuller—we could not be tempted with millions to do such a thing.”

  I went a step farther in my deductions. Somehow I had grasped the truth: this pair deliberately hoped to swindle me out of forty thousand dollars. They knew the frescoes were imitations and yet they were urging me to spend a huge sum of money in restoring canvases that had been purposely made to look old and flimsy in order to deceive a more cautious purchaser than I. But, as I say, I went a step farther and Deliberately accused Count Tarnowsy.

  “Moreover, Count Tarnowsy, you are fully aware of all this.”

  “My dear fellow,—”

  “I’ll not waste words. You are a damned scoundrel!”

  He measured the distance with his eye and then sprang swiftly forward, striking blindly at my face.

  I knocked him down!

  Schwartzmuller was near the door, looking over his shoulder as he felt for the great brass knob.

  “Mein Gott!” he bellowed.

  “Stop!” I shouted. “Come back here and take this fellow away with you!”

  Tarnowsy was sitting up, looking about him in a dazed, bewildered manner.

  At that moment, Poopendyke came running down the stairs, attracted by the loud voices. He was followed closely by three or four wide-eyed glaziers who were working on the second floor.

  “In the name of heaven, sir!”

  “I’ve bruised my knuckles horribly,” was all that I said. I seemed to be in a sort of a daze myself. I had never knocked a man down before in my life. It was an amazingly easy thing to do. I could hardly believe that I had done it.

  Tarnowsy struggled to his feet and faced me, quivering with rage. I was dumbfounded to see that he was not covered with blood. But he was of a light, yellowish green. I could scarcely believe my eyes.

  “You shall pay for this!” he cried. The tears rushed to his eyes. “Coward! Beast! To strike a defenceless man!”

  His hand went swiftly to his breast pocket, and an instant later a small revolver flashed into view. It was then that I did another strange and incomprehensible thing. With the utmost coolness I stepped forward and wrested it from his hand. I say strange and incomprehensible for the reason that he was pointing it directly at my breast and yet I had not the slightest sensation of fear. He could have shot me like a dog. I never even thought of that.

  “None of that!” I cried sharply. “Now, will you be good enough to get out of this house—and stay out?”

  “My seconds will call on you—”

  “And they will receive just what you have received. If you or any of your friends presume to trespass on the privacy of these grou
nds of mine, I’ll kick the whole lot of you into the Danube. Hawkes! Either show or lead Count Tarnowsy to the gates. As for you, Mr. Schwartzmuller, I shall expose—”

  But the last word in restorations had departed.

  CHAPTER XIV

  I AM FORCED INTO BEING A HERO

  My humblest apologies, dear reader, if I have led you to suspect that I want to be looked upon as a hero. Far from patting myself on the back or holding my chin a little higher because of the set-to in my baronial halls, I confess to a feeling of shame. In my study, where the efficient Blatchford put arnica and bandages on my swollen knuckles, I solemnly declared in the presence of those who attended the clinic—(my entire establishment was there to see that I had the proper attention and to tell me how happy they were that it wasn’t any worse)—I say, I declared to all of them that I was an unmitigated fool and undeserving of the slightest mead of praise.

  They insisted upon making a hero of me, and might have succeeded, had not the incomparable Britton made the discovery that the Count’s revolver was not loaded! Still, they vociferated, I could not have known that at the time of the encounter, nor was it at all likely that the Count knew it himself.

  I confess to an inward and shameless glory, however, in the realisation that I had been able to punch the head of the man who had lived with and abused that lovely creature upstairs. He had struck her on more than one occasion, I had it from her own lips. Far worse than that, he had kissed her! But of course I had not knocked him down for that. I did it because it was simpler than being knocked down myself.

  The worst feature of the whole unhappy business was the effect it was likely to have upon my commonly pacific nature. Heretofore I had avoided physical encounters, not because I was afraid of the result, but because I hate brutal, unscientific manifestations of strength. Now, to my surprise, I found that it was a ridiculously easy matter to knock a man down and end the squabble in short order, thereby escaping a great deal in the shape of disgusting recriminations, and coming off victorious with nothing more vital in the way of wounds than a couple of bruised knuckles. (No doubt, with practice, one could even avoid having his knuckles barked.)