The Victorian Villains Megapack
Page 25
“You are doo kind, Misdare Winder,” sniggered the diamond-merchant, as he retired with the precious handbag.
The clock was nearing five when Pringle descended to the frowsy dining-room and reserved a seat for the table d’hôte. Then lighting a cigarette, he strolled out, and was soon absorbed in an inspection of the shop-windows of Zand Straat. He had not left the hotel very far behind, when Percy Windrush passed him with a jaunty swagger, which kept Israels, delighted with the prospect of a meal at another man’s expense, at a perpetual trot. Still interested in the merchandise displayed in the shops, Pringle contrived to keep the pair in sight until they were safely housed in the Weimar, about the only passable restaurant in all Rotterdam; then boarding a tramcar, he returned northwards, and arriving at the hotel towards six, was assured by the evidence of most of his senses of the actuality of the table d’hôte.
Practically the whole hotel was dining, and the upper floors were quite deserted when he ascended to his room. The vault-like passage with the closing day was darker than ever, and the doorways of all the rooms were sunk in obscurity. Not a sound was to be heard except the distant murmur arising from the ground-floor, and after waiting a few minutes he tried the door of No. 18. As he expected, it was locked, and returning to his own room he took out the key and examined it. The simplicity of the wards augured little complication in any of the locks, and taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his vest-pocket, he selected the most likely-looking one. Once more he attacked No. 18, and after a little manipulation, the skeleton-key shot the bolt, and he entered. Carefully closing the door behind him, and re-locking it, he looked about for the handbag. It was nowhere to be seen! Israels had certainly not taken it out with him. Could he have given it into the custody of the landlord? But the Jew’s suspicious nature had negatived such an obvious precaution, and a very short search disclosed it under the far corner of the bed. As in most bags, especially when of continental make, the lock presented little difficulty to an expert, and a few minutes’ work enabled Pringle to open it, and, having swathed the paste star in the solicitous wrappings of the genuine one, to pocket the latter leaving the paste in its stead. Then he locked the bag and returned it to its hiding-place.
He listened. All was quiet. Unlocking the door, he carefully closed and locked it again, then walked down-stairs without encountering a soul.
Dinner over, he endeavoured to amuse himself with a stroll through the town, but the intolerable dulness of the place drove him back to bed by ten o’clock, and notwithstanding the warmth of the night he soon dropped off to sleep. It seemed to him that he had slept for hours when he awoke with a start as the bed vibrated to a violent concussion. As he sat up his first thought was of the jewel-case. It was safe under the pillow where he had placed it on retiring. The moon had clouded, but there was sufficient light entering by the window for him to see that nothing was amiss in the room. The great clock of St. Lawrence struck one. Another concussion: then a confused bumping and jarring sounded somewhere near. He sprang out of bed, and opening the window looked on to the balcony. The sun-blinds were now hooked back, and he was just in time to see the windows of the next room start and burst open, as the flimsy fastenings gave way under the impact of a heavy weight.
Creeping to the window, Pringle looked in, and dimly discerned the creator of the disturbance in Percy Windrush, who, after a futile attempt to remove his boots, had reeled against the window, and now lay, fully dressed, snoring in a drunken stupor on the floor. Pringle waited and listened. But these vagaries had failed to rouse attention elsewhere, and the nasal solo was undisturbed. Percy had rolled inward as he fell, and Pringle easily effected an entrance. He had only had a single opportunity of closely inspecting Percy before, and that was when the fortunes of the latter were at their zenith; times had changed since then! The younger Windrush was by no means an attractive object as he lay. His features, no doubt pleasing enough at one time, were bloated and drink-sodden, his limbs were flabby, and his waist, a region difficult to define, perilously approached the sixties. His linen was dirty, his clothes of loud cut, and with his swaggering air, proclaimed him the dissipated blackguard he was. Such then was the man against whom he had already pitted his wits and come off victoriously. Like most clever rogues, Percy had the wit to conceive an ingenious scheme, but at the psychological moment, his luck or his courage (which in such cases may be held to be synonymous) had deserted him.
The quarter struck from St. Lawrence. It was dangerous to remain long. Percy’s slumbers were not so comatose that he could not be roused, and even as the clock struck, he turned over and muttered the refrain of some ditty—an item probably from the evening’s entertainment.
A thought exploded in Pringle’s mind. What a brilliant opportunity! It was now or not at all! He hurriedly glanced around. Percy’s ‘hold-all’ lay, collapsed and empty, in a corner where it had been tossed after unpacking. On a table near it stood the small Gladstone. Pringle gently pressed the lock and peeped in. A travelling-flask (empty), a change of linen (Percy had some claims to conventional decency), a panacea against headaches, a pipe, a golf-cap, pyjamas, a Baedeker, a pair of slippers—and that was all!
Strange that they were nowhere visible. But the bag would hardly have been unlocked in that case. Could Percy have gone one better than the Jew, and have handed them to the landlord for safe keeping? One more look round. Pringle tried the drawers in the rickety dressing-table. They were empty of all but dust and fluff; of course no one but a lunatic would have put them there—or a drunkard! Stay, what about his pockets? A wallet would be too large to be concealed very easily. He stepped towards the sleeper. The breath roared stertorously through his nostrils; his lips had ceased to move; and the uncomfortable position in which he lay, with one arm doubled under him, showed his complete and happy oblivion to externals. Pringle tenderly felt the ponderous carcass. The light was dim, and touch was about the only sense available. The coat gaped widely; there was something bulky inside. He cautiously withdrew a bundle from the breast-pocket. The sensation on pressing it, even more than a glance in the faint light, revealed it a letter-case stuffed to bursting with the bank-notes Mr. Israels had paid over that afternoon. A cloud slipped off the moon, and he counted them feverishly. One hundred and four tens, and twenty-three twenties. To seize them, and return the empty wallet to its owner’s pocket was the work of a moment more. For the second time, and still unknown to Percy, had Pringle bested him; he might be forgiven the contemptuous smile with which he regarded his prostrate adversary. The snores still reverberated through the darkness, as he strode over the mountainous body, and out on to the balcony. How to close the windows was the difficulty, but after a little persuasion he succeeded in inducing the crazy bolt to tentatively engage the slot, and so conceal his retreat.
Pringle had slept long and soundly, and the morning had nearly “risen on mid-noon” when his slumbers were rudely disturbed by a torrent of abuse.
“You are a tief! A robber!! A rogue-villain!!!” The voice shrilled in crescendo as fresh terms of reproach in the English language crowded on the memory of the speaker.
As Pringle awoke, his head still dizzy with the profound and dreamless stupor which had crowned the stirring events of last night, he was in some doubt as to the origin of the uproar; but as memory returned he realized that it must be due to his own achievements. It was from the next chamber that the sounds of discord arose, and setting his door ajar, the better to hear, he commenced a leisurely toilet to the accompaniment of an acrimonious duet.
“What d’you want to wake me up for with your infernal row?” growled a deep bass, in farcical contrast to the falsetto of its interlocutor.
“Gij hebt mij bezwendeld! Hets altemaal fopperij!! Ik zal gij voor den vrederegter doen verschijnen!!!” (“You have swindled me! These are rubbish!! I will have you brought before the justice of the peace!!!”) The words culminated in a scream, and were followed by a noise as if the speaker we
re executing a kind of double-shuffle round the room in his agitation.
“What are you talking about, you old fool? What is it you want?”
“De ster diamant!”
“Talk English, will you? Damn you!”
“De stones!—you haf swintled me! Where are de real ones?”
“Here, get out of the room! You’re drunk!”
“Drunk! Gij hebt mij bezwendeld!”
“You’re mad then!” roared the bass with a hail of expletives.
“You are a pig-dog!” returned the falsetto, and to judge from an intermittent bouncing on the floor, he resumed his saltatory exercise.
“Let me see the (adjective) thing.” A pause. “Well, what’s all the fuss about?”
“Dey are paste! Give back my money.”
“Paste be damned!”
“My money! I will call de police!”
“Here, take your money! I’ll sell ’em to a man who knows good stuff when he sees it. Why, where the—” Another pause. Then suddenly the bass thundered, “You infernal Jew, you’ve robbed me!”
“You ’ave robbed me! My money or de police!”
“You dirty little swab, you know you’ve got it!”
“I ’ave it not!”
“Where are the notes then? Didn’t you make me drunk last night at the Weimar? You thought you’d get the stones for nothing, eh? But I’ve got ’em, and by Jingo I’ll stick to them!”
“Dey are paste.”
“They’re good enough for me. You can keep the notes you stole last night.”
“It is you are a tief!”
“You stinking old hound, I’ll wring your infernal neck!”
“Politie—Moord! Moord! Poltcie!” was gasped jerkily as from a body in a state of violent succussion.
Pringle walked calmly down-stairs and settled his bill.
“I rather think two gentlemen are fighting a duel up-stairs,” he remarked in an apprehensive tone.
As he sallied out on his way to the quay, a series of loud shrieks, followed by the crashing of glass and other sounds of destruction, summoned the scandalized proprietor and a posse of waiters to the scene of strife.
Romney Pringle in THE KAILYARD NOVEL
The postman with resounding knock insinuated half-a-dozen packages into the slit in the outer door. He breathed hard, for it was a climb to the second floor, and then with heavy foot clattered down the stone stairs into Furnival’s Inn. As the cataract descended between the two doors Mr. Pringle dropped his newspaper and stretched to his full length with a yawn; then, rolling out of his chair, he opened the inner door and gathered up the harvest of the mail. It was mostly composed of circulars; these he carelessly flung upon the table, and turned to the single letter among them. It was addressed with clerkly precision, Romney Pringle, Esq., Literary Agent, 33 Furnival’s Inn, London, E. C.
Such a mode of address was quite a novelty in Pringle’s experience. Was his inexistent literary agency about to be vivified? And wondering, he opened the envelope.
Chapel Street, Wurzleford, August 25th.
Dear Sir,
Having recent occasion to visit a solicitor in the same block in connection with the affairs of a deceased friend, I made a note of your address, and shortly propose to avail myself of your kind offices in publishing a novel on the temperance question. I intend to call it Drouthy Neebors, as I have adopted the Scotch dialect which appears to be so very popular and, I apprehend, remunerative. Having no practical acquaintance with the same, I think of making a study of it on the spot during my approaching month’s holiday—most likely in the Island of Skye, where I presume the language may be a fair guide to that so much in favour. I shall start as soon as I can find a substitute and, if not unduly troubling you, should be greatly obliged by your inserting the enclosed advertisement for me in the Undenominational Banner. Your kindly doing so may lead to an earlier insertion than I could obtain for it through the local agent and so save me a week’s delay. Thanking you in anticipation, believe me to be your very grateful and obliged,
Adolphus Honeyby (Pastor)
Although “Literary Agent” stared conspicuously from his door, Pringle’s title had never hitherto induced an author, of however aspiring a type, to disturb the privacy of his chambers, and it was with an amused sense of the perfection of his disguise that he lighted a cigarette and sat down to think over Mr. Honeyby’s proposal. Wurzleford Wurzleford? There seemed to be a familiar sound about the name. Surely he had read of it somewhere. He turned to the Society journal that he had been reading when the postman knocked.
Since leaving Sandringham the Maharajah of Satpura has been paying a round of farewell visits prior to his return to India in October. His Highness is well known as the owner of the famous Harabadi diamond, which is said to flash red and violet with every movement of its wearer, and his jewels were the sensation of the various state functions which he attended in native costume last season.
I understand that the Maharajah is expected about the end of next week at Eastlingbury, the magnificent Sussex seat of Lord Wurzleford, and, as a man of wide and liberal culture, his Highness will doubtless be much interested in this ancestral home of one of our oldest noble families.
Mr. Honeyby ought to have no difficulty in getting a locum tenens, thought Pringle, as he laid down the paper. He wondered how would be to—? It was risky, but worth trying! Why let a good thing go a-begging? He had a good mind to take the berth himself! Wurzleford seemed an attractive little place. Well, its attractiveness would certainly not be lessened for him when the Maharajah arrived! At the very least it might prove an agreeable holiday, and any case would lead to a new and probably amusing experience of human nature. Smiling at the ludicrous audacity of the idea, Pringle strolled up to the mantelpiece and interrogated himself in the Venetian mirror. Minus the delible port-wine mark, a pair of pince-nez, blackened hair, and a small strip of easily applied whisker would be sufficient disguise. He thoughtfully lighted another cigarette.
But the necessity of testimonials occurred to him. Why not say had sent the originals with an application he was making for a permanent appointment, and merely show Honeyby the type-written copies? He seemed an innocent old ass, and Pringle would trust to audacity to carry him through. He could write to Wurzleford from any Bloomsbury address, and follow the letter before Honeyby had time to reply. He had little doubt that he could clench matters when it came to a personal interview; especially as Honeyby seemed very anxious to be off. There remained the knotty point of doctrine. Well, the Farringdon Street barrows, the grave of theological literature, could furnish any number of volumes of sermons, and it would be strange if they could not supply in addition a very efficient battery of controversial shot and shell. In the meantime he could get up the foundation of his ‘Undenominational’ opinions from the Encyclopaedia. And taking a volume of the Britannica, he was soon absorbed in its perusal.
Mr. Honeyby’s advertisement duly appeared in the Banner, and was answered by a telegram announcing the application of the ‘Rev. Charles Courtley’, who followed close on the heels of his message. Although surprised at the wonderfully rapid effect of the advertisement, the pastor was disinclined to quarrel with his good luck, and was too eager to be released to waste much time over preliminary inquiries. Indeed, he could think of little but the collection of material for his novel, and fretted to commence it. ‘Mr. Courtley’s’ manner and appearance, to say nothing of his very flattering testimonials, were all that could be desired; his acquaintance with controversial doctrine was profound, and the pastor, innocently wondering how such brilliance had failed to attain a more eminent place in the denomination, had eagerly ratified his engagement.
“Well, I must say, Mr. Courtley, you seem to know so well what will be expected of you, that I really don’t think I need wait over tonight,” remarked Mr. Honeyby towards the end of the interview.
“Not at all—by no means! I’ve often thought of taking to one myself. Some of the church-members live at such a distance, you see. Besides, there is nothing derogatory in it. Lord Wurzleford, for instance, is always riding about, and so are some of the party he has down for the shooting. There is some Indian prince or other with them, I believe.”
“The Maharajah of Satpura?” Pringle suggested.
“Yes, I think that is the name; do you know him?” asked Mr. Honeyby, impressed by the other’s air of refinement.
“No—I only saw it mentioned in the Park Lane Review,” said Pringle simply.
So Mr. Honeyby departed for London, en route for the north, by an even earlier train than he had hoped for.
About an hour afterwards Pringle was resting by the wayside, rather winded by cycling up one of the early undulations of the Downs which may be seen rising nearly everywhere on the Wurzleford horizon. He had followed the public road, here unfenced for some miles, through Eastlingbury Park, and now lay idle on the springy turf. The harebells stirred with a dry rustle in the imperceptible breeze, and all around him rose the music of the clumsy little iron-bells, clanking rhythmically to every movement of the wethers as they crisply mowed the herbage closer than any power of scythe. As Pringle drank in the beauty of the prospect, a cyclist made his appearance in the act of coasting down the hill beyond. Suddenly he swerved from side to side; his course grew more erratic, the zigzags wider: it was clear that he had lost control of the machine. As he shot with increasing momentum down the slope, a white figure mounted the crest behind, and pursued him with wild-waving arms, and shouts which were faintly carried onward by the wind.