The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

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.”

  “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 “Re
juvenator” 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.”

  Romney Pringle in 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 him 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 I 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 hiccupped. “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 Plenipotentiary,

  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-tomorrow 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 table, 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.

  Redmile woke up with a start, and Pringle, as if finishing the story, remarked calmly, “So that’s how the affair ended.”

  “Dear me! I’m 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.”