by Otto Penzler
“I see you don’t remember me,” he said, leaning forward, and regarding Pringle steadily.
“No, I must confess you have rather the advantage of me,” said Pringle distantly.
“And yet we have met before. Not so long ago either!”
“I have not the slightest recollection of ever having seen you before this morning,” Pringle asserted tartly. He was nettled at the man’s persistence, and felt inclined to resent the rather familiar manner in which he spoke.
“I must assist your memory then. The first time I had the pleasure of seeing you was last night.”
“I should be glad to know where.”
“Certainly!” Then very slowly and distinctly, “It was under a bridge on the Grand Southern Canal.”
Pringle, in spite of his habitual composure, was unable to repress a slight start.
“I see you have not forgotten the circumstance. The time, I think, was about eleven P.M., wasn’t it? Well, never mind that; the moon enabled me to get a better look at you than you got of me.”
Pringle took refuge in a diplomatic silence, and the other walked across the room, and selecting the most comfortable chair, coolly produced a cigarette-case. Pringle observed, almost sub-consciously, that it was a very neat gold one, with a monogram in one corner worked in diamonds.
“Will you smoke?” asked the man. “No? Well, you’ll excuse me.” And he leisurely kindled a cigarette, taking very detailed stock of Pringle while doing so.
“Now it’s just as well we understood one another,” he continued, as he settled himself in the chair. “My name is of no consequence, though I’m known to my associates as ‘The Toff’; poor souls, they have such a profound respect for education! Now those who know me will tell you I’m not a man whom it pays to trifle with. Who you are, I don’t know exactly, and I don’t know that I very much care—it’s rather an amusing thing, by the way, that no one else seems to be any the wiser! But what I do know”—here he sat straight up, and extended a menacing fist in Pringle’s direction—“and what it’ll be a healthy thing for you to understand, is, that I’m not going to leave here tonight without that stuff!”
“My good man, what on earth are you talking about?” indulgently asked Pringle, who by this time had recovered his imperturbability.
“Now don’t waste time; you don’t look altogether a fool!” “The Toff” drew a revolver from his pocket, and carelessly counted the chambers which were all loaded. “One, two, three, four, five, six! I’ve got six reasons for what I’ve said. Let’s see now—First, you saw me hiding the stuff; second, no one else did; third, it’s not there now; fourth, the Maharajah hasn’t got it; fifth, there’s no news of its having been found by any one else; sixth, and last, therefore you’ve got it!” He checked the several heads of his reasoning, one by one, on the chambers of the revolver as one might tell them on the fingers.
“Very logically reasoned!” remarked Pringle calmly. “But may I inquire how it is you are so positive in all these statements?”
“I’m not the man to let the grass grow under my feet,” said “The Toff” vain-gloriously. “I’ve been making inquiries all the morning, and right up to now! I hear the poor old Maharajah has gone to Scotland Yard for help. But it strikes me the affair will remain a mystery ‘forever and always,’ as the people say hereabouts. And, as I said just now, you seem to be rather a mystery to most people. I spotted you right enough last night, but I wanted to find out all I could about you from your amiable flock before I tackled you in person. Well, I think I have very good grounds for believing you to be an impostor. That’s no concern of mine, of course, but I presume you have your own reasons for coming down here. Now, a word to your principal, and a hint or two judiciously dropped in a few quarters round the place, will soon make it too hot for you, and so your little game, whatever it may be, will be spoiled.”
“But supposing I am unable to help you?”
“I can’t suppose any such thing! I am going to stick to you like tar, my reverend sir, and if you think of doing a bolt”—he glanced at the revolver, and then put it in his pocket—“take my advice and only think of it!”
“Is that all you have to say?” asked Pringle.
“Not quite. Look here now! I’ve been planning this job for the last four months and more, and I’m not going to take all the risk, and let you or any one else collar all the profit. By George, you’ve mistaken your man if you think that! I am willing to even go the length of recognizing you as a partner, and giving you ten per cent. for your trouble in taking charge of the stuff, and bringing it to a place of safety and so on, but now you’ve got to shell out!”
“Very well,” said Pringle, rising. “Let me first get the housekeeper out of the way.”
“No larks now!” growled “The Toff”; adding peremptorily, “I give you a couple of minutes only—and leave the door open!”
Without replying, Pringle walked to the door, and slipping through, closed and double-locked it behind him before “The Toff” had time to even rise from his chair.
“You white-livered cur! You—you infernal sneak!” vociferated the latter as Pringle crossed the hall.
Being summer-time, the fire-irons were absent from the study. There was no other lethal weapon wherewith to operate. Escape by the window was negatived by the bars. For the time then “The Toff” was a negligible quantity. Pringle ran down the kitchen-stairs. At the bottom was a gas-bracket, and stretching out his hand he turned on the gas as he passed. Out in the little kitchen there was much clattering of pots and dishes. The housekeeper was engaged in urgent culinary operations against Mr. Honeyby’s return.
“Mrs. Johnson!” he bawled, as a furious knocking sounded from the study.
“Whatever’s the matter, sir?” cried the startled woman.
“Escape of gas! We’ve been looking for it up-stairs! Don’t you smell it out here? You must turn it off at the main!” He rattled off the alarming intelligence in well-simulated excitement.
“Gas it is!” she exclaimed nervously, as the familiar odour greeted her nostrils.
Now the meter, as is customary, resided in the coal-cellar, and as the faithful creature opened the door and stumbled forwards, she suddenly found herself stretched upon the floor, while all became darkness. It almost seemed as if she had received a push from behind, and her head whirling with the unexpected shock, she painfully arose from her rocky bed, and slowly groped towards the door. But for all her pulling and tugging it held fast and never gave an inch. Desisting, as the truth dawned upon her that in some mysterious way she had become a prisoner, she bleated plaintively for help, and began to hammer at the door with a lump of coal.
Up the stairs again. Pringle glanced at the hall-door, then shot the bolts top and bottom, and put the chain up. “The Toff” seemed to be using some of the furniture as a battering-ram. Thunderous blows and the sharp splintering of wood showed that, despite his lack of tools, he was (however clumsily) engaged in the active work of his profession, and the door shivered and rattled ominously beneath the onslaught.
Pringle raced up-stairs, and in breathless haste tore off his clerical garb. Bang, bang, crash! He wished the door were iron. How “The Toff” roused the echoes as he savagely laboured for freedom! And whenever he paused, a feeble diapason ascended from the basement. The study-door would soon give at this rate. Luckily the house stood at the end of the town, or the whole neighbourhood would have been roused by this time. He hunted for his cycling suit. Where could that wretched old woman have stowed it? Curse her officiousness! He almost thought of rushing down and releasing her that she might disclose its whereabouts. Every second was priceless. At last! Where had that button-hook hidden itself now? How stiff the box-cloth seemed—he had never noticed it before. Now the coat. Collar and tie? Yes, indeed, he had nearly forgotten he still wore the clerical tie. No matter, a muffler would hide it all. Cap—that was all! Gloves he could do without for once.
Bang, crash, crack!
Wi
th a last look round he turned to leave the room, and faced the window. A little way down the road a figure was approaching. Something about it looked familiar, he thought; seemed to be coming from the direction of the railway-station, too. He stared harder. So it was! There was no doubt about it! Swathed in a Scotch maud, his hand grasping a portmanteau, the Rev. Adolphus Honeyby advanced blithely in the autumn twilight.
Down the stairs Pringle bounded, three at a time. “The Toff” could hear, but not see him as yet. The study-door was already tottering; one hinge had gone. Even as he landed with a thud at the foot of the stairs, “The Toff’s” hand and arm appeared at the back of the door.
“I’d have blown the lock off if it wasn’t for giving the show away,” “The Toff” snarled through his clenched teeth, as loudly as his panting respiration would permit. “I’ll soon be through now, and then we’ll square accounts!” What he said was a trifle more full-flavoured, but this will suffice.
Crash! bang!! crack!!! from the study-door.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat! was the sudden response from the hall-door. It was Mr. Honeyby knocking! And, startled at the noise, “The Toff” took a momentary respite from his task.
Down to the basement once more. Mrs. Johnson’s pummelling sounded louder away from the more virile efforts of the others. Fiercely “The Toff” resumed his labours. What an uproar! Mr. Honeyby’s curiosity could not stand much more of that. He would be round at the back presently. The bicycle stood by the garden-door. Pringle shook it slightly, and something rattled; the precious contents of the head and handle-bar were safe enough. He opened the door, and wheeled the machine down the back-garden, and out into the little lane behind.
Loud and louder banged the knocker. But as a triumphant crash and clatter of wood-work resounded from the house, Pringle rode into the fast-gathering darkness.
Villain: Don Q.
The Parole of Gevil-Hay
K. & HESKETH PRICHARD
THE REMARKABLE HESKETH VERNON PRICHARD (later Hesketh-Prichard) (1876–1922) was an adventurer, big-game hunter (said, at one point, to be the best shot in the world), and author. He was rejected for service in World War I as too old (he was thirty-seven) but received a commission and trained snipers, earning a Distinguished Service Order.
At the age of twenty, he decided to eschew his law degree to become a writer, producing his first story, which his mother (Katherine O’Brien Prichard, 1851–1935) edited. They embarked on a writing career together under the noms de plume of H. Heron and E. Heron, finding success with a series of ghost stories about the character Flaxman Low, the first psychic detective of mystery fiction. Curiously, Pearson’s Magazine promoted these tales as true stories. They were collected in 1899 under the title Ghosts: Being the Experiences of Flaxman Low, which is now a famously rare book in first edition.
K. and Hesketh Prichard created Don Q., a grim Spaniard who is not the lovable Robin Hood figure of fable but a charismatic bandit who is vicious toward the rich and evil but (relatively) kind to the poor and good. The stories were collected in The Chronicles of Don Q. (1904) and New Chronicles of Don Q. (1906; published in the United States as Don Q. in the Sierra). The authors also wrote a novel, Don Q.’s Love Story (1909), which served as the basis for the silent film Don Q., Son of Zorro (1925), starring Douglas Fairbanks. On his own, Hesketh Prichard wrote November Joe: The Detective of the Woods (1913), for which he used his background of hunting and outdoor experiences.
“The Parole of Gevil-Hay,” the first Don Q. story, was originally published in the January 1898 issue of Badminton Magazine; it was first collected in The Chronicles of Don Q. (London, Chapman & Hall, 1904).
THE PAROLE OF GEVIL-HAY
K. & Hesketh Prichard
Chapter I
IF YOU TAKE A MAP of Spain and follow the Mediterranean coast, where, across the narrow seas, the mountains of Europe and the mountains of Africa stand up forever one against the other, you will find on the Spanish side the broad line of the Andalusian highlands stretching from Jerez to Almeria and beyond. Here is a wild, houseless country of silent forest and evergreen thicket climbing up towards barren, sun-tortured heights. It is patched with surfaces of smooth rock, and ravines strewn with tumbled boulders; lined by almost untrodden mule tracks, and sparsely dotted with the bottle-shaped chozas of the charcoal-burners and the herdsmen.
The lord of this magnificent desolation was locally, though not officially, acknowledged to be a certain brigand chief, known far and wide as Don Q., an abbreviation of the nickname Quebranta-Huesos, which is, being interpreted, the bone-smasher, a name by which the neophron or bone-breaking vulture goes in those parts. In answer to any question as to where the bandit came from or when he began to harry the countryside, one was told that he had been there always, which, though manifestly untrue, was, nevertheless, as near an approach to historical accuracy as may be found on many a printed page.
For Don Q., though perhaps not endowed with the sempiternal quality, had many other attributes of mysterious greatness. Few had seen him, but all knew him and feared him, and most had felt his power; he had cognizance of what was said or done, or, indeed, even thought of, throughout the length and the breadth of the wild region over which he held sway. He dealt out reward and punishment with the same unsparing hand. If a goatherd pleased him, the fellow was made rich for life; but no man lived to bring him false information twice.
From his hidden abiding-place in the black rock, a hundred feet above the general camp of his followers, he was to the surrounding country as a poised hawk to a covey of partridges.
The stories of his savageries were brought down to the plains by leather-clad mountaineers, and occasional expeditions were sent up against him by those in authority in the towns. But every attempt failed, and the parties of guardias civiles came back fewer in numbers, having built cairns over their dead, leaving them near lonely shrines, amongst the ravens and the big ragged birds of the sierra.
From all this it will be seen that the brigand chief was not a common brand of cut-throat; in fact, he belonged to that highest class known as sequestradores, or robbers who hold to ransom; and, though his methods were considered unpleasant, he carried through most of his affairs with satisfaction to himself, for he was an exceptionally good man of business.
No doubt, if any individual were to set up in the same line of life within twenty miles of a good-sized English or American town, the chances are that his career would end with something of suddenness. But in Spain it is always tomorrow, and the convenience of the system lies in the fact that there is always another tomorrow waiting to take up the deferred responsibilities. If Providence had seen fit to remove that fatal mañana from the Spanish vocabulary and the Spanish mind, the map might be differently coloured to-day.
A party of civiles had just returned from a particularly unlucky excursion into the mountains, and there was, therefore, the less excuse for the foolhardiness of Gevil-Hay, who declined to pay any heed to the warnings of H.B.M.’s consul on the seaboard or the deep hints of his host at the little inn under the mountains, but continued to pursue his journey across the sierra. He could not be brought to see why the will of a hill-thief should stand between him and his desire to wander where he liked.
Gevil-Hay’s obstinacy sprang from a variety of causes. He was in bad health and worse spirits, and he had for the whole period of his manhood governed a small kingdom of wild and treacherous hill-men in the interests of the British Government, backed only by a handful of native police, and, what is more, had governed it with conspicuous success.
Besides, beneath a quiet exterior, Gevil-Hay was as hard to move as the nether millstone. After putting these facts together, it will not be difficult to see that when he started for his long solitary ride across the Boca de Jabili he only did what a man in his condition and with his temperament and experience would be likely to do.
He carried a revolver, it is true, but he found no use for it on a dim evening when something gripped his neck from behind
. Indeed it was only after an interval that he understood vaguely how he came to be the centre of a hustling crowd of silent men who smelt offensively of garlic and leather. They tied him upon his horse and the party set their faces north-east towards the towering bulk of the higher sierra.
But for once in a way the spiders of Don Q. had taken a captive in their net of whom they could make nothing. In the dawn when they got him out of the cane-built hut in which they had passed the latter part of the night, they saw that he was tall and thin and rather stooped, with a statuesque face of extreme pallor. So far he was not so altogether uncommon. But the brigands were accustomed to see character come out strongly in similar circumstances, yet Gevil-Hay asked no questions, he evinced no trace of curiosity as to where they were taking him. He showed nothing but a cold indifference. A man in his position who asked no questions was a man of mark. He puzzled them.
The truth was that Gevil-Hay despised his warnings and took his ill-fortune in the same spirit of fatalism. He had been an Indian Civil servant of good prospects and bad health. In the end the bad health proved the stronger, and his country retired him on a narrow income. He was unemotionally heartbroken. There was a woman somewhere in the past, a woman to whom the man’s lonely heart had clung steadfastly through the years while health slowly and surely deserted him. “Love me little, love me long” has its corresponding lines set deep throughout the character, and if Gevil-Hay was incapable of a passion of love or sorrow, he was not ignorant of the pang of a long renunciation and an enduring regret.
Don Q.’s men were no respecters of persons. The prisoner’s reserve they finally put down to his being poor, probably deadly poor, for poverty is the commonest of all evils in Spain, and they treated him accordingly.