The Politeness of Princes (The Politeness of Princes [1905]; Shields' and the Cricket Cup [1905]; An International Affair [1905]; The Guardian [1908]; A Corner in Lines [1905]; The Autograph Hunte

by Unknown

  “Heaps,” said Linton. “Why? Want some?”

  “Then get out a piece. I want to dictate a letter.”

  Linton stared.

  “What’s up? Hurt your hand?”

  Dunstable explained.

  “Day collects autographs, you know, and he wants Montagu Watson’s badly. Pining away, and all that sort of thing. Won’t smile until he gets it. I had a shot at it yesterday, and got this.”

  Linton inspected the document.

  “So I can’t send up another myself, you see.”

  “Why worry?”

  “Oh, I’d like to put Day one up. He’s not been bad this term. Come on.”

  “All right. Let her rip.”

  Dunstable let her rip.

  Dear Sir,—I cannot refrain from writing to tell you what an inestimable comfort your novels have been to me during years of sore tribulation and distress–-

  “Look here,” interrupted Linton with decision at this point. “If you think I’m going to shove my name at the end of this rot, you’re making the mistake of a lifetime.”

  “Of course not. You’re a widow who has lost two sons in South Africa. We’ll think of a good name afterwards. Ready?

  “Ever since my darling Charles Herbert and Percy Lionel were taken from me in that dreadful war, I have turned for consolation to the pages of ‘The Soul of Anthony Carrington’ and–-“

  “What, another?” asked Linton.

  “There’s one called ‘Pancakes.’”

  “Sure? Sounds rummy.”

  “That’s all right. You have to get a queer title nowadays if you want to sell a book.”

  “Go on, then. Jam it down.”

  “—and ‘Pancakes.’ I hate to bother you, but if you could send me your autograph I should be more grateful than words can say. Yours admiringly.”

  “What’s a good name? How would Dorothy Maynard do?”

  “You want something more aristocratic. What price Hilda Foulke-Ponsonby?”

  Dunstable made no objection, and Linton signed the letter with a flourish.

  They installed Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby at Spiking’s in the High Street. It was not a very likely address for a lady whose blood was presumably of the bluest, but they could think of none except that obliging stationer who would take in letters for them.

  There was a letter for Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby next day. Whatever his other defects as a correspondent, Mr. Watson was at least prompt with his responses.

  Mr. Montagu Watson presented his compliments, and was deeply grateful for all the kind things Mrs. Foulke-Ponsonby had said about his work in her letter of the 19th inst. He was, however, afraid that he scarcely deserved them. Her opportunities of deriving consolation from “The Soul of Anthony Carrington” had been limited by the fact that that book had only been published ten days before: while, as for “Pancakes,” to which she had referred in such flattering terms, he feared that another author must have the credit of any refreshment her bereaved spirit might have extracted from that volume, for he had written no work of such a name. His own “Pan Wakes” would, he hoped, administer an equal quantity of balm.

  Mr. Secretary Morrison had slept badly on the night before he wrote this letter, and had expended some venom upon its composition.

  “Sold again!” said Dunstable.

  “You’d better chuck it now. It’s no good,” said Linton.

  “I’ll have another shot. Then I’ll try and think of something else.”

  Two days later Mr. Morrison replied to Mr. Edgar Habbesham-Morley, of 3a, Green Street, Park Lane, to the effect that Mr. Montagu Watson was deeply grateful for all the kind things, etc.–-

  3a, Green Street was Dunstable’s home address.

  At this juncture the Watson-Dunstable correspondence ceases, and the relations become more personal.

  On the afternoon of the twenty-third of the month, Mr. Watson, taking a meditative stroll through the wood which formed part of his property, was infuriated by the sight of a boy.

  He was not a man who was fond of boys even in their proper place, and the sight of one in the middle of his wood, prancing lightly about among the nesting pheasants, stirred his never too placid mind to its depths.

  He shouted.

  The apparition paused.

  “Here! Hi! you boy!”

  “Sir?” said the stripling, with a winning smile, lifting his cap with the air of a D’Orsay.

  “What business have you in my wood?”

  “Not business,” corrected the visitor, “pleasure.”

  “Come here!” shrilled the novelist.

  The stranger receded coyly.

  Mr. Watson advanced at the double.

  His quarry dodged behind a tree.

  For five minutes the great man devoted his powerful mind solely to the task of catching his visitor.

  The latter, however, proved as elusive as the point of a half-formed epigram, and at the end of the five minutes he was no longer within sight.

  Mr. Watson went off and addressed his keeper in terms which made that worthy envious for a week.

  “It’s eddication,” he said subsequently to a friend at the “Cowslip Inn.” “You and me couldn’t talk like that. It wants eddication.”

  For the next few days the keeper’s existence was enlivened by visits from what appeared to be a most enthusiastic bird’s-nester. By no other theory could he account for it. Only a boy with a collection to support would run such risks.

  To the keeper’s mind the human boy up to the age of twenty or so had no object in life except to collect eggs. After twenty, of course, he took to poaching. This was a boy of about seventeen.

  On the fifth day he caught him, and conducted him into the presence of Mr. Montagu Watson.

  Mr. Watson was brief and to the point. He recognised his visitor as the boy for whose benefit he had made himself stiff for two days.

  The keeper added further damaging facts.

  “Bin here every day, he ‘as, sir, for the last week. Well, I says to myself, supposition is he’ll come once too often. He’ll come once too often, I says. And then, I says, I’ll cotch him. And I cotched him.”

  The keeper’s narrative style had something of the classic simplicity of Julius Caesar’s.

  Mr. Watson bit his pen.

  “What you boys come for I can’t understand,” he said irritably. “You’re from the school, of course?”

  “Yes,” said the captive.

  “Well, I shall report you to your housemaster. What is your name?”

  “Dunstable.”

  “Your house?”

  “Day’s.”

  “Very good. That is all.”

  Dunstable retired.

  His next appearance in public life was in Mr. Day’s study. Mr. Day had sent for him after preparation. He held a letter in his hand, and he looked annoyed.

  “Come in, Dunstable. I have just received a letter complaining of you. It seems that you have been trespassing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am surprised, Dunstable, that a sensible boy like you should have done such a foolish thing. It seems so objectless. You know how greatly the headmaster dislikes any sort of friction between the school and the neighbours, and yet you deliberately trespass in Mr. Watson’s wood.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “I have had a most indignant letter from him—you may see what he says. You do not deny it?”

  Dunstable ran his eye over the straggling, untidy sentences.

  “No, sir. It’s quite true.”

  “In that case I shall have to punish you severely. You will write me out the Greek numerals ten times, and show them up to me on Tuesday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will do.”

  At the door Dunstable paused.

  “Well, Dunstable?” said Mr. Day.

  “Er—I’m glad you’ve got his autograph after all, sir,” he said.

  Then he closed the door.

  As he was go
ing to bed that night, Dunstable met the housemaster on the stairs.

  “Dunstable,” said Mr. Day.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “On second thoughts, it would be better if, instead of the Greek numerals ten times, you wrote me the first ode of the first book of Horace. The numerals would be a little long, perhaps.”

  PILLINGSHOT, DETECTIVE

  Life at St. Austin’s was rendered somewhat hollow and burdensome for Pillingshot by the fact that he fagged for Scott. Not that Scott was the Beetle-Browed Bully in any way. Far from it. He showed a kindly interest in Pillingshot’s welfare, and sometimes even did his Latin verses for him. But the noblest natures have flaws, and Scott’s was no exception. He was by way of being a humorist, and Pillingshot, with his rather serious outlook on life, was puzzled and inconvenienced by this.

  It was through this defect in Scott’s character that Pillingshot first became a detective.

  He was toasting muffins at the study fire one evening, while Scott, seated on two chairs and five cushions, read “Sherlock Holmes,” when the Prefect laid down his book and fixed him with an earnest eye.

  “Do you know, Pillingshot,” he said, “you’ve got a bright, intelligent face. I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t rather clever. Why do you hide your light under a bushel?”

  Pillingshot grunted.

  “We must find some way of advertising you. Why don’t you go in for a Junior Scholarship?”

  “Too old,” said Pillingshot with satisfaction.

  “Senior, then?”

  “Too young.”

  “I believe by sitting up all night and swotting–-“

  “Here, I say!” said Pillingshot, alarmed.

  “You’ve got no enterprise,” said Scott sadly. “What are those? Muffins? Well, well, I suppose I had better try and peck a bit.”

  He ate four in rapid succession, and resumed his scrutiny of Pillingshot’s countenance.

  “The great thing,” he said, “is to find out your special line. Till then we are working in the dark. Perhaps it’s music? Singing? Sing me a bar or two.”

  Pillingshot wriggled uncomfortably.

  “Left your music at home?” said Scott. “Never mind, then. Perhaps it’s all for the best. What are those? Still muffins? Hand me another. After all, one must keep one’s strength up. You can have one if you like.”

  Pillingshot’s face brightened. He became more affable. He chatted.

  “There’s rather a row on downstairs,” he said. “In the junior day-room.”

  “There always is,” said Scott. “If it grows too loud, I shall get in amongst them with a swagger-stick. I attribute half my success at bringing off late-cuts to the practice I have had in the junior day-room. It keeps the wrist supple.”

  “I don’t mean that sort of row. It’s about Evans.”

  “What about Evans?”

  “He’s lost a sovereign.”

  “Silly young ass.”

  Pillingshot furtively helped himself to another muffin.

  “He thinks some one’s taken it,” he said.

  “What! Stolen it?”

  Pillingshot nodded.

  “What makes him think that?”

  “He doesn’t see how else it could have gone.”

  “Oh, I don’t—By Jove!”

  Scott sat up with some excitement.

  “I’ve got it,” he said. “I knew we should hit on it sooner or later. Here’s a field for your genius. You shall be a detective. Pillingshot, I hand this case over to you. I employ you.”

  Pillingshot gaped.

  “I feel certain that’s your line. I’ve often noticed you walking over to school, looking exactly like a blood-hound. Get to work. As a start you’d better fetch Evans up here and question him.”

  “But, look here–-“

  “Buck up, man, buck up. Don’t you know that every moment is precious?”

  Evans, a small, stout youth, was not disposed to be reticent. The gist of his rambling statement was as follows. Rich uncle. Impecunious nephew. Visit of former to latter. Handsome tip, one sovereign. Impecunious nephew pouches sovereign, and it vanishes.

  “And I call it beastly rot,” concluded Evans volubly. “And if I could find the cad who’s pinched it, I’d jolly well–-“

  “Less of it,” said Scott. “Now, then, Pillingshot, I’ll begin this thing, just to start you off. What makes you think the quid has been stolen, Evans?”

  “Because I jolly well know it has.”

  “What you jolly well know isn’t evidence. We must thresh this thing out. To begin with, where did you last see it?”

  “When I put it in my pocket.”

  “Good. Make a note of that, Pillingshot. Where’s your notebook? Not got one? Here you are then. You can tear out the first few pages, the ones I’ve written on. Ready? Carry on, Evans. When?”

  “When what?”

  “When did you put it in your pocket?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “About five.”

  “Same pair of bags you’re wearing now?”

  “No, my cricket bags. I was playing at the nets when my uncle came.”

  “Ah! Cricket bags? Put it down, Pillingshot. That’s a clue. Work on it. Where are they?”

  “They’ve gone to the wash.”

  “About time, too. I noticed them. How do you know the quid didn’t go to the wash as well?”

  “I turned both the pockets inside out.”

  “Any hole in the pocket?”

  “No.”

  “Well, when did you take off the bags? Did you sleep in them?”

  “I wore ‘em till bed-time, and then shoved them on a chair by the side of the bed. It wasn’t till next morning that I remembered the quid was in them–-“

  “But it wasn’t,” objected Scott.

  “I thought it was. It ought to have been.”

  “He thought it was. That’s a clue, young Pillingshot. Work on it. Well?”

  “Well, when I went to take the quid out of my cricket bags, it wasn’t there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Half-past seven this morning.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “Ten.”

  “Then the theft occurred between the hours of ten and seven-thirty. Mind you, I’m giving you a jolly good leg-up, young Pillingshot. But as it’s your first case I don’t mind. That’ll be all from you, Evans. Pop off.”

  Evans disappeared. Scott turned to the detective.

  “Well, young Pillingshot,” he said, “what do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What steps do you propose to take?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a lot of use, aren’t you? As a start, you’d better examine the scene of the robbery, I should say.”

  Pillingshot reluctantly left the room.

  “Well?” said Scott, when he returned. “Any clues?”

  “No.”

  “You thoroughly examined the scene of the robbery?”

  “I looked under the bed.”

  “Under the bed? What’s the good of that? Did you go over every inch of the strip of carpet leading to the chair with a magnifying-glass?”

  “Hadn’t got a magnifying-glass.”

  “Then you’d better buck up and get one, if you’re going to be a detective. Do you think Sherlock Holmes ever moved a step without his? Not much. Well, anyhow. Did you find any foot-prints or tobacco-ash?”

  “There was a jolly lot of dust about.”

  “Did you preserve a sample?”

  “No.”

  “My word, you’ve a lot to learn. Now, weighing the evidence, does anything strike you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a bright sort of sleuth-hound, aren’t you! It seems to me I’m doing all the work on this case. I’ll have to give you another leg-up. Considering the time when the quid disappeared, I should say that somebody in the do
rmitory must have collared it. How many fellows are there in Evans’ dormitory?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cut along and find out.”

  The detective reluctantly trudged off once more.

  “Well?” said Scott, on his return.

  “Seven,” said Pillingshot. “Counting Evans.”

  “We needn’t count Evans. If he’s ass enough to steal his own quids, he deserves to lose them. Who are the other six?”

  “There’s Trent. He’s prefect.”

  “The Napoleon of Crime. Watch his every move. Yes?”

  “Simms.”

  “A dangerous man. Sinister to the core.”

  “And Green, Berkeley, Hanson, and Daubeny.”

  “Every one of them well known to the police. Why, the place is a perfect Thieves’ Kitchen. Look here, we must act swiftly, young Pillingshot. This is a black business. We’ll take them in alphabetical order. Run and fetch Berkeley.”

  Berkeley, interrupted in a game of Halma, came unwillingly.

  “Now then, Pillingshot, put your questions,” said Scott. “This is a black business, Berkeley. Young Evans has lost a sovereign–-“

  “If you think I’ve taken his beastly quid–-!” said Berkeley warmly.

  “Make a note that, on being questioned, the man Berkeley exhibited suspicious emotion. Go on. Jam it down.”

  Pillingshot reluctantly entered the statement under Berkeley’s indignant gaze.

  “Now then, carry on.”

  “You know, it’s all rot,” protested Pillingshot. “I never said Berkeley had anything to do with it.”

  “Never mind. Ask him what his movements were on the night of the—what was yesterday?—on the night of the sixteenth of July.”

  Pillingshot put the question nervously.

  “I was in bed, of course, you silly ass.”

  “Were you asleep?” inquired Scott.

  “Of course I was.”

  “Then how do you know what you were doing? Pillingshot, make a note of the fact that the man Berkeley’s statement was confused and contradictory. It’s a clue. Work on it. Who’s next? Daubeny. Berkeley, send Daubeny up here.”

  “All right, Pillingshot, you wait,” was Berkeley’s exit speech.

  Daubeny, when examined, exhibited the same suspicious emotion that Berkeley had shown; and Hanson, Simms, and Green behaved in a precisely similar manner.

  “This,” said Scott, “somewhat complicates the case. We must have further clues. You’d better pop off now, Pillingshot. I’ve got a Latin Prose to do. Bring me reports of your progress daily, and don’t overlook the importance of trifles. Why, in ‘Silver Blaze’ it was a burnt match that first put Holmes on the scent.”