The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  By the first glimpse of day the party sallied forth from the fireside into the street. The wind had fallen, but still charioted a world of troubled clouds; the air bit like frost; and the party, as they stood about the ruins in the rainy twilight of the morning, beat upon their breasts and blew into their hands for warmth. The house had entirely fallen, the walls outward, the roof in; it was a mere heap of rubbish, with here and there a forlorn spear of broken rafter. A sentinel was placed over the ruins to protect the property, and the party adjourned to Tentaillon’s to break their fast at the Doctor’s expense. The bottle circulated somewhat freely; and before they left the table it had begun to snow.

  For three days the snow continued to fall, and the ruins, covered with tarpaulin and watched by sentries, were left undisturbed. The Desprez meanwhile had taken up their abode at Tentaillon’s. Madame spent her time in the kitchen, concocting little delicacies, with the admiring aid of Madame Tentaillon, or sitting by the fire in thoughtful abstraction. The fall of the house affected her wonderfully little; that blow had been parried by another; and in her mind she was continually fighting over again the battle of the trousers. Had she done right? Had she done wrong? And now she would applaud her determination; and anon, with a horrid flush of unavailing penitence, she would regret the trousers. No juncture in her life had so much exercised her judgment. In the meantime the Doctor had become vastly pleased with his situation. Two of the summer boarders still lingered behind the rest, prisoners for lack of a remittance; they were both English, but one of them spoke French pretty fluently, and was, besides, a humorous, agile-minded fellow, with whom the Doctor could reason by the hour, secure of comprehension. Many were the glasses they emptied, many the topics they discussed.

  “Anastasie,” the Doctor said on the third morning, “take an example from your husband, from Jean-Marie! The excitement has done more for the boy than all my tonics, he takes his turn as sentry with positive gusto. As for me, you behold me. I have made friends with the Egyptians; and my Pharaoh is, I swear it, a most agreeable companion. You alone are hipped. About a house—a few dresses? What are they in comparison to the ‘Pharmacopœia’—the labour of years lying buried below stones and sticks in this depressing hamlet? The snow falls; I shake it from my cloak! Imitate me. Our income will be impaired, I grant it, since we must rebuild; but moderation, patience, and philosophy will gather about the hearth. In the meanwhile, the Tentaillons are obliging; the table, with your additions, will pass; only the wine is execrable—well, I shall send for some today. My Pharaoh will be gratified to drink a decent glass; aha! And I shall see if he possesses that acme of organisation—a palate. If he has a palate, he is perfect.”

  “Henri,” she said, shaking her head, “you are a man; you cannot understand my feelings; no woman could shake off the memory of so public a humiliation.”

  The Doctor could not restrain a titter. “Pardon me, darling,” he said; “but really, to the philosophical intelligence, the incident appears so small a trifle. You looked extremely well—”

  “Henri!” she cried.

  “Well, well, I will say no more,” he replied. “Though, to be sure, if you had consented to indue—À propos,” he broke off, “and my trousers! They are lying in the snow—my favourite trousers!” And he dashed in quest of Jean-Marie.

  Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the inn with a spade under one arm and a curious sop of clothing under the other.

  The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands. “They have been!” he said. “Their tense is past. Excellent pantaloons, you are no more! Stay, something in the pocket,” and he produced a piece of paper. “A letter! Ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when I was absorbed in delicate investigations. It is still legible. From poor dear Casimir! It is as well,” he chuckled, “that I have educated him to patience. Poor Casimir and his correspondence—his infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic correspondence!”

  He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow.

  “Bigre!” he cried, with a galvanic start.

  And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor’s cap was on his head in the turn of a hand.

  “Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,” he cried. “It is always late. I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.”

  “Henri! What is wrong?” cried his wife.

  “Ottoman Bonds!” came from the disappearing Doctor; and Anastasie and Jean-Marie were left face to face with the wet trousers. Desprez had gone to Paris, for the second time in seven years; he had gone to Paris with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a country nightcap, and twenty francs in his pocket. The fall of the house was but a secondary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and scarce left his family more petrified.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY

  On the morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere spectre of himself, was brought back in the custody of Casimir. They found Anastasie and the boy sitting together by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged his toilette for a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, waved his hand as he entered, and sank speechless on the nearest chair. Madame turned direct to Casimir.

  “What is wrong?” she cried.

  “Well,” replied Casimir, “what have I told you all along? It has come. It is a clean shave this time; so you may as well bear up and make the best of it. House down, too, eh? Bad luck, upon my soul!”

  “Are we—are we—ruined?” she gasped.

  The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. “Ruined,” he replied, “you are ruined by your sinister husband.”

  Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his eyeglass; then he turned to Jean-Marie. “You hear?” he said. “They are ruined; no more pickings, no more house, no more fat cutlets. It strikes me, my friend, that you had best be packing; the present speculation is about worked out.” And he nodded to him meaningly.

  “Never!” cried Desprez, springing up. “Jean-Marie, if you prefer to leave me, now that I am poor, you can go; you shall receive your hundred francs, if so much remains to me. But if you will consent to stay”—the Doctor wept a little—“Casimir offers me a place—as clerk,” he resumed. “The emoluments are slender, but they will be enough for three. It is too much already to have lost my fortune; must I lose my son?”

  Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word.

  “I don’t like boys who cry,” observed Casimir. “This one is always crying.—Here! You clear out of this for a little; I have business with your master and mistress, and these domestic feelings may be settled after I am gone. March!” and he held the door open.

  Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief.

  By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie.

  “Hey?” said Casimir. “Gone, you see. Took the hint at once.”

  “I do not, I confess,” said Desprez, “I do not seek to excuse his absence. It speaks a want of heart that disappoints me sorely.”

  “Want of manners,” corrected Casimir. “Heart he never had. Why, Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are the most gullible mortal in creation. Your ignorance of human nature and human business is beyond belief. You are swindled by heathen Turks, swindled by vagabond children, swindled right and left, upstairs and downstairs. I think it must be your imagination. I thank my stars I have none.”

  “Pardon me,” replied Desprez, still humbly, but with a return of spirit at sight of a distinction to be drawn; “pardon me, Casimir. You possess, even to an eminent degree, the commercial imagination. It was the lack of that in me—it appears it is my weak point—that has led to these repeated shocks. By the commercial imagination the financier forecasts the destiny of his investments, marks the falling house—”

  “Egad,” interrupted Casimir: “our friend the stable-boy appears to have his share of it.�
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  The Doctor was silenced; and the meal was continued and finished principally to the tune of the brother-in-law’s not very consolatory conversation. He entirely ignored the two young English painters, turning a blind eyeglass to their salutations, and continuing his remarks as if he were alone in the bosom of his family; and with every second word he ripped another stitch out of the air-balloon of Desprez’ vanity. By the time coffee was over the poor Doctor was as limp as a napkin.

  “Let us go and see the ruins,” said Casimir.

  They strolled forth into the street. The fall of the house, like the loss of a front tooth, had quite transformed the village. Through the gap the eye commanded a great stretch of open snowy country, and the place shrank in comparison. It was like a room with an open door. The sentinel stood by the green gate, looking very red and cold, but he had a pleasant word for the Doctor and his wealthy kinsman.

  Casimir looked at the mound of ruins, he tried the quality of the tarpaulin. “H’m,” he said, “I hope the cellar arch has stood. If it has, my good brother, I will give you a good price for the wines.”

  “We shall start digging tomorrow,” said the sentry. “There is no more fear of snow.”

  “My friend,” returned Casimir sententiously, “you had better wait till you get paid.”

  The Doctor winced, and began dragging his offensive brother-in-law towards Tentaillon’s. In the house there would be fewer auditors, and these already in the secret of his fall.

  “Hullo!” cried Casimir, “there goes the stable-boy with his luggage; no, egad, he is taking it into the inn.”

  And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the snowy street and enter Tentaillon’s, staggering under a large hamper.

  The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope.

  “What can he have?” he said. “Let us go and see.” And he hurried on.

  “His luggage, to be sure,” answered Casimir. “He is on the move—thanks to the commercial imagination.”

  “I have not seen that hamper for—for ever so long,” remarked the Doctor.

  “Nor will you see it much longer,” chuckled Casimir, “unless, indeed, we interfere. And by the way, I insist on an examination.”

  “You will not require,” said Desprez, positively with a sob; and, casting a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, he began to run.

  “What the devil is up with him, I wonder?” Casimir reflected; and then, curiosity taking the upper hand, he followed the Doctor’s example and took to his heels.

  The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Marie himself so little and so weary, that it had taken him a great while to bundle it upstairs to the Desprez’ private room; and he had just set it down on the floor in front of Anastasie, when the Doctor arrived, and was closely followed by the man of business. Boy and hamper were both in a most sorry plight; for the one had passed four months underground in a certain cave on the way to Achères, and the other had run about five miles as hard as his legs would carry him, half that distance under a staggering weight.

  “Jean-Marie,” cried the Doctor, in a voice that was only too seraphic to be called hysterical, “is it—? It is!” he cried. “Oh, my son, my son!” And he sat down upon the hamper and sobbed like a little child.

  “You will not go to Paris now,” said Jean-Marie sheepishly.

  “Casimir,” said Desprez, raising his wet face, “do you see that boy, that angel boy? He is the thief; he took the treasure from a man unfit to be entrusted with its use; he brings it back to me when I am sobered and humbled. These, Casimir, are the Fruits of my Teaching, and this moment is the Reward of my Life.”

  “Tiens,” said Casimir.

  1Let it be so, for my tale!

  MR. CLACKWORTHY GOES TO JAIL, by Christopher B. Booth

  Originally published in Detective Story Magazine, Aug. 27, 1921.

  I

  Relaxed comfortably in the depths a big leather chair in the luxurious lobby of the Achmore Hotel, Mr. Amos Clackworthy sighed in deep contentment. He had just finished a meal which exactly suited his epicurean tastes. The Early Bird had shared the same delicious meal, but food could not appease his gnawing appetite for an adventure; it had been some weeks now since the master confidence man had engaged in that always interesting pastime of dollar hunting.

  “Ah, James,” murmured Mr. Clackworthy, “that filet of sole was ambrosia fit for the gods.”

  “Huh!” grunted The Early Bird. “Th’ kinda fish I’m interested in right now is—suckers. Come on, boss; bait th’ hook an’ let’s give some dollar-grabbin’ goof th’ chance t’ nibble.”

  Mr. Clackworthy smiled tolerantly.

  “James,” he complained good-naturedly, “you are certainly a restless soul. It seems that you can never declare a truce with careless bank balances.”

  “Aw, what’s th’ use of havin’ a wise noodle like yours if you don’t use it? When a guy’s got a money-makin’ think-tank, he’s gotta keep it oiled or it’s gonna get rusty.”

  “Unfortunately, James,” and the master confidence man smiled, “I do seem to get a bit rusty at times. Just now, for instance, I have thumbed my list of prospects in vain; I don’t seem to be able to get hold of a single lead. At that I am not sorry, for I am getting terribly behind in my reading.”

  The Early Bird groaned as there arose before him the dismal picture of Mr. Clackworthy sitting in the library of his Sheridan Road apartment for countless hours, nose buried between the covers of some classical volume; he was very jealous of the masters, for they took much of the time which, so James told himself, could be so much more profitably turned to more practical matters.

  However, what further entreaty The Early Bird might have been about to make was abruptly sidetracked as his gaze wandered to the hotel entrance and paused at the sight of an arriving guest.

  “Holy pink elephants!” he exclaimed in Mr. Clackworthy’s ear. “There’s Chicago Charlie! He must be gettin’ up in th’ world, stoppin’ at this swell joint.”

  “One of your erstwhile friends, I presume, James,” responded Mr. Clackworthy. He referred to his coworker’s former days, when The Early Bird was not above burgling a safe or turning his hand to various other violent means of annexing the coin which are frowned upon by the law.

  “Friend!” sputtered The Early Bird. “Boss, of course I forgive you for you don’t know Chicago Charlie, but that is sure an insult. That guy a friend of mine? Ain’tcha ever heard of Chicago Charlie? But then I forgot that you didn’t used t’ pal around with th’ same bunch I did. Honest, boss, I’ve got every respect in th’ world for a square crook; y’ know what I mean. But that goof is so crooked that he’d make a corkscrew look as straight as a yardstick. He’s so crooked he’s gotta read a paper upside down. Alongside Chicago Charlie, Jesse James would’ve got a bid t’ this here Diogenes guy’s party fer honest men.”

  “Your vehemence piques my interest.” Mr. Clackworthy chuckled, casting a glance of interest to the big, heavy-jowled man who had now reached the clerk’s desk and was writing his name in the hotel register. “Suppose you tell me something about him. I judge that he must have—er—nicked you for your roll, as you would say.”

  “I’ve sure got th’ old bowie knife all whetted up for that guy,” said The Early Bird. “Th’ only time I ever beat th’ ponies for a hundred-to-one shot this here Charlie was makin’ book out t’ th’ old Chicago race track. A friend slips me some live dope about a little spindle-legged filly what looked like she was sufferin’ from th’ sleepin’ sickness. So I parks a century into Chicago Charlie’s keepin’. An’ believe me, boss, them was th’ days when a five spot looked as big as th’ State of Kansas.

  “Well, this little mare grasshopper gets t’ th’ home stretch about three train lengths ahead of th’ field, an’ I stands t’ collect ten thousand smackers from Chicago Charlie’s betting emporium. Does I get it? Huh
! I got it all right—in th’ neck. Charlie skips out an’ grabs th’ first rattler for parts unknown! I don’t even get my century back. And I ain’t th’ only guy that was handed th’ doublecross by him. Before he blowed th’ race track that time, he’d been mixed up in a coupla dozen crooked races.”

  “It must have been some years, then, since you have seen him,” remarked Mr. Clackworthy. “It does credit to your memory, James. If I am any judge, this Charlie person has now risen considerably above the level of a crooked bookmaker. He carries himself with that assurance which belongs to a man of affairs.”

  “Well, y’ can lay good odds that he’s with a gang of counterfeiters, or head of a trust what’s got th’ monopoly on stealin’ pennies outta blind men’s cups, or somethin’ like that,” retorted The Early Bird. He was staring at Chicago Charlie’s luggage, his brow wrinkled in deep thought.

  “If he ain’t swiped some goof’s baggage—which wouldn’t surprise me none—he’s changed his moniker,” he said. “See them initials—‘J. H.,’ they says; an’ in th’ days when I knowed him, his name was Charlie Batterson. Yeah; them’s his grips aw’right. He’s pointin’ ’em out t’ th’ bell hop. It says ‘J. M., Swaneetown, Indiana.’”

  Mr. Clackworthy referred to his carefully card-indexed memory.

  “Swaneetown, eh?” he murmured. “If I mistake not, James, that is the name of the town which has enjoyed such a spectacular boom of late. A number of factories have erected large plants there; it is something less than a hundred miles from here, I believe. No doubt, James, Charlie is doing quite well. Humph!”