“I’d like you just to ’ark a moment at ’is door, doctor,” he said presently. “’E’s about doo now. P’r’aps you could ease it for ’im, doctor.”
The doctor agreed, and the two of, them, each with a steaming glass of toddy in hand, adjourned to the outside of Mr. Binny’s door. They stopped, listening, very hushed and sober, at whiles straightening momentarily to imbibe; then again to listening. It came in a little while:
“A-haa, a-haa, a-haa! Humm!”
“Ah!” said the doctor gravely. “Bronchial, without a doubt. Bronchial, Mr. Thiggs. D’you notice the wheeze in it?”
“Ay,” agreed the landlord; and they straightened their backs again, preparatory to a return to the bar-parlour.
This would have inevitably been their next action, but that, in that very moment, there raced into the White Lyon the village policeman, accompanied by a sergeant of police. They wasted no words, but ran straight to the door and hammered upon it with their fists.
“Open, in the king’s name!” roared the sergeant.
But no one hastened to oblige, whereupon the sergeant said:
“In with it!”
And they “inned” with it. But there was no Mr. Jem Binny there, neither had his bed been slept in. The two policemen made a hurried search, and rushed out again, the sergeant shouting to the landlord to see that no one entered the room until he returned.
“It’s the phonygraff!” said the landlord, twenty minutes later, to the doctor, after they had guarded the room together, aided by further refreshment.
They stared gravely at the machine, and then at one another. Afterwards they sat down and waited for a repetition of the noise. But before it came the doctor was called away, and the landlord sat on, keeping guard and waiting, like a fat, expectant child.
“It’s goin’ to do it again!” he said delightedly, as the machine gave a little preliminary clicking.
He leant forward and stared, watchful.
“A-haa, a-haa, a-haa! Humm!” said the phonograph faithfully.
“Ha, La!” roared the landlord, his fat quivering. “Dod!” he whispered huskily, as the laughter eased from him, leaving his eyes full of tears. “Dod, that’s cute—that’s cute! An’ ’e paid ’is week advance like a gentleman!”
The landlord filled his pipe and began to smoke, awaiting the inevitable music which appeared so to charm him. But far away up the line, in a field, near a gate, Jem Binny, dandy Anglo-American cracksman, sat with a badly sprained ankle and an opened gripsack, which displayed to all and any who might choose to be interested nothing more formidable than a collection of varied fossils embedded in the coating of their almost original chalk.
Mr. Binny had ceased all attempts to express himself some hours earlier. He had made his discovery when he took a glance into the grip-sack before burying it. Since that time he had largely lost interest in most things, except a curiosity as to what the other man’s “game” had been.
You see, fossils were a little below his horizon, and he had no conception that an enthusiast might venture into forbidden places in pursuit of his hobby. Neither could he conceive that, having once gotten “a lot o’ muck like that,” the getter thereof might hasten away, pursued by a guilty conscience—especially when that same conscience had been previously stirred into being troublesome by the knowledge that someone else had been there in the quarry, maybe spying upon the luckless fossil hunter.
None of these things did Mr. Binny know, nor would he have been easy to put into the right focus to see these things as the milder sinner saw them. Therefore, Mr. Jem Binny had still a certain curiosity to salt his sudden lack of interest in life. For the rest, he had to get to the station and away to the shelter of London, as by now his “patent cough-producer” would have certainly exceeded its object, and the White Lyon, and all the district around Bartol, would be, to put it mildly, unhealthy.
There had been too many little “affairs” in the neighbourhood for which he would be now considered responsible, and the safe at Lockwood Hall was to have been the last of a glorious series done “under the halibi.” Poor Binny! He never learned—and I doubt whether it would have comforted him if he had—that there had been a third factor in the history of that night, and that the safe at Lockwood Hall had been actually burgled, by a professional, evidently, who had chosen the psychic moment that should fix for ever on to the shoulders of Jem Binny a crime of which he could, for once, plead truthfully innocent—at least, in the act.
Who the third man was, who got the profits whilst the other two shared the pain of this triangular muddle, I do not know. Nor, up to the present, do the police.
THE VICEROY’S PROTÉGÉ, by Guy Boothby
or, A Prince of Swindlers
PREFACE,
by the Right Honourable the Earl of Amberley, for many years Governor of the Colony of New South Wales, and sometime Viceroy of India
After no small amount of deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that it is only fit and proper I should set myself right with the world in the matter of the now famous 18—swindles. For, though I have never been openly accused of complicity in those miserable affairs, yet I cannot rid myself of the remembrance that it was I who introduced the man who perpetrated them to London society, and that in more than one instance I acted, innocently enough, Heaven knows, as his Deus ex machina, in bringing about the very results he was so anxious to achieve. I will first allude, in a few words, to the year in which the crimes took place, and then proceed to describe the events that led to my receiving the confession which has so strangely and unexpectedly come into my hands.
Whatever else may be said on the subject, one thing at least is certain—it will be many years before London forgets that season of festivity. The joyous occasion which made half the sovereigns of Europe our guests for weeks on end, kept foreign princes among us until their faces became as familiar to us as those of our own aristocracy, rendered the houses in our fashionable quarters unobtainable for love or money, filled our hotels to repletion, and produced daily pageants the like of which few of us have ever seen or imagined, can hardly fail to go down to posterity as one of the most notable in English history. Small wonder, therefore, that the wealth, then located in our great metropolis, should have attracted swindlers from all parts of the globe.
That it should have fallen to the lot of one who has always prided himself on steering clear of undesirable acquaintances, to introduce to his friends one of the most notorious adventurers our capital has ever seen, seems like the irony of fate. Perhaps, however, if I begin by showing how cleverly our meeting was contrived, those, who would otherwise feel inclined to censure me, will pause before passing judgment, and will ask themselves whether they would not have walked into the snare as unsuspectingly as I did.
It was during the last year of my term of office as Viceroy, and while I was paying a visit to the Governor of Bombay, that I decided upon making a tour of the northern Provinces, beginning with Peshawur, and winding up with the Maharajah of Malar-Kadir. As the latter potentate is so well known, I need not describe him. His forcible personality, his enlightened rule, and the progress his state has made within the last ten years, are well known to every student of the history of our magnificent Indian Empire.
My stay with him was a pleasant finish to an otherwise monotonous business, for his hospitality has a world-wide reputation. When I arrived he placed his palace, his servants, and his stables at my disposal to use just as I pleased. My time was practically my own. I could be as solitary as a hermit if I so desired; on the other hand, I had but to give the order, and five hundred men would cater for my amusement. It seems therefore the more unfortunate that to this pleasant arrangement I should have to attribute the calamities which it is the purpose of this series of stories to narrate.
On the third morning of my stay I woke early. When I had examined my w
atch I discovered that it wanted an hour of daylight, and, not feeling inclined to go to sleep again, I wondered how I should employ my time until my servant should bring me my chota hazri, or early breakfast. On proceeding to my window I found a perfect morning, the stars still shining, though in the east they were paling before the approach of dawn. It was difficult to realize that in a few hours the earth which now looked so cool and wholesome would be lying, burnt up and quivering, beneath the blazing Indian sun.
I stood and watched the picture presented to me for some minutes, until an overwhelming desire came over me to order a horse and go for a long ride before the sun should make his appearance above the jungle trees. The temptation was more than I could resist, so I crossed the room and, opening the door, woke my servant, who was sleeping in the antechamber. Having bidden him find a groom and have a horse saddled for me, without rousing the household, I returned and commenced my toilet. Then, descending by a private staircase to the great courtyard, I mounted the animal I found awaiting me there, and set off.
Leaving the city behind me I made my way over the new bridge with which His Highness has spanned the river, and, crossing the plain, headed towards the jungle, that rises like a green wall upon the other side. My horse was a waler of exceptional excellence, as every one who knows the Maharajah’s stable will readily understand, and I was just in the humour for a ride. But the coolness was not destined to last long, for, by the time I had left the second village behind me, the stars had given place to the faint grey light of dawn. A soft breeze stirred the palms and rustled the long grass, but its freshness was deceptive; the sun would be up almost before I could look round, and then nothing could save us from a scorching day.
After I had been riding for nearly an hour it struck me that, if I wished to be back in time for breakfast, I had better think of returning. At the time I was standing in the centre of a small plain, surrounded by jungle. Behind me was the path I had followed to reach the place; in front, and to right and left, others leading whither I could not tell. Having no desire to return by the road I had come, I touched up my horse and cantered off in an easterly direction, feeling certain that, even if I had to make a divergence, I should reach the city without very much trouble.
By the time I had put three miles or so behind me the heat had become stifling, the path being completely shut in on either side by the densest jungle I have ever known. For all I could see to the contrary, I might have been a hundred miles from any habitation.
Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when, on turning a corner of the track, I suddenly left the jungle behind me, and found myself standing on the top of a stupendous cliff, looking down upon a lake of blue water. In the centre of this lake was an island, and on the island a house. At the distance I was from it the latter appeared to be built of white marble, as indeed I afterwards found to be the case. Anything, however, more lovely than the effect produced by the blue water, the white building, and the jungle-clad hills upon the other side, can scarcely be imagined. I stood and gazed at it in delighted amazement. Of all the beautiful places I had hitherto seen in India this, I could honestly say, was entitled to rank first. But how it was to benefit me in my present situation I could not for the life of me understand.
Ten minutes later I had discovered a guide, and also a path down the cliff to the shore, where, I was assured, a boat and a man could be obtained to transport me to the palace. I therefore bade my informant precede me, and after some minutes’ anxious scrambling my horse and I reached the water’s edge.
Once there, the boatman was soon brought to light, and, when I had resigned my horse to the care of my guide, I was rowed across to the mysterious residence in question.
On reaching it we drew up at some steps leading to a broad stone esplanade, which, I could see, encircled the entire place. Out of a grove of trees rose the building itself, a confused jumble of Eastern architecture crowned with many towers. With the exception of the vegetation and the blue sky, everything was of a dazzling white, against which the dark green of the palms contrasted with admirable effect.
Springing from the boat I made my way up the steps, imbued with much the same feeling of curiosity as the happy Prince, so familiar to us in our nursery days, must have experienced when he found the enchanted castle in the forest. As I reached the top, to my unqualified astonishment, an English man-servant appeared through a gateway and bowed before me.
“Breakfast is served,” he said, “and my master bids me say that he waits to receive your lordship.”
Though I thought he must be making a mistake, I said nothing, but followed him along the terrace, through a magnificent gateway, on the top of which a peacock was preening himself in the sunlight, through court after court, all built of the same white marble, through a garden in which a fountain was playing to the rustling accompaniment of pipal and pomegranate leaves, to finally enter the verandah of the main building itself.
Drawing aside the curtain which covered a finely-carved doorway, the servant invited me to enter, and as I did so announced “His Excellency the Viceroy.”
The change from the vivid whiteness of the marble outside to the cool semi-European room in which I now found myself was almost disconcerting in its abruptness. Indeed, I had scarcely time to recover my presence of mind before I became aware that my host was standing before me. Another surprise was in store for me. I had expected to find a native, instead of which he proved to be an Englishman.
“I am more indebted than I can say to your Excellency for the honour of this visit,” he began, as he extended his hand. “I can only wish I were better prepared for it.”
“You must not say that,” I answered. “It is I who should apologise. I fear I am an intruder. But to tell you the truth I had lost my way, and it is only by chance that I am here at all. I was foolish to venture out without a guide, and have no one to blame for what has occurred but myself.”
“In that case I must thank the Fates for their kindness to me,” returned my host. “But don’t let me keep you standing. You must be both tired and hungry after your long ride, and breakfast, as you see, is upon the table. Shall we show ourselves sufficiently blind to the conventionalities to sit down to it without further preliminaries?”
Upon my assenting he struck a small gong at his side, and servants, acting under the instructions of the white man who had conducted me to his master’s presence, instantly appeared in answer to it. We took our places at the table, and the meal immediately commenced.
While it was in progress I was permitted an excellent opportunity of studying my host, who sat opposite me, with such light as penetrated the jhilmills falling directly upon his face. I doubt, however, vividly as my memory recalls the scene, whether I can give you an adequate description of the man who has since come to be a sort of nightmare to me.
In height he could not have been more than five feet two. His shoulders were broad, and would have been evidence of considerable strength but for one malformation, which completely spoilt his whole appearance. The poor fellow suffered from curvature of the spine of the worst sort, and the large hump between his shoulders produced a most extraordinary effect. But it is when I endeavour to describe his face that I find myself confronted with the most serious difficulty.
How to make you realize it I hardly know.
To begin with, I do not think I should be overstepping the mark were I to say that it was one of the most beautiful countenances I have ever seen in my fellow men. Its contour was as perfect as that of the bust of the Greek god, Hermes, to whom, all things considered, it is only fit and proper he should bear some resemblance. The forehead was broad, and surmounted with a wealth of dark hair, in colour almost black. His eyes were large and dreamy, the brows almost pencilled in their delicacy; the nose, the most prominent feature of his face, reminded me more of that of the great Napoleon than any other I can recall.
His mouth
was small but firm, his ears as tiny as those of an English beauty, and set in closer to his head than is usual with those organs. But it was his chin that fascinated me most. It was plainly that of a man accustomed to command; that of a man of iron will whom no amount of opposition would deter from his purpose. His hands were small and delicate, and his fingers taper, plainly those of the artist, either a painter or a musician. Altogether he presented a unique appearance, and one that once seen would not be easily forgotten.
During the meal I congratulated him upon the possession of such a beautiful residence, the like of which I had never seen before.
“Unfortunately,” he answered, “the place does not belong to me, but is the property of our mutual host, the Maharajah. His Highness, knowing that I am a scholar and a recluse, is kind enough to permit me the use of this portion of the palace; and the value of such a privilege I must leave you to imagine.”
“You are a student, then?” I said, as I began to understand matters a little more clearly.
“In a perfunctory sort of way,” he replied. “That is to say, I have acquired sufficient knowledge to be aware of my own ignorance.”
I ventured to inquire the subject in which he took most interest. It proved to be china and the native art of India, and on these two topics we conversed for upwards of half an hour. It was evident that he was a consummate master of his subject. This I could the more readily understand when, our meal being finished, he led me into an adjoining room, in which stood the cabinets containing his treasures. Such a collection I had never seen before. Its size and completeness amazed me.
“But surely you have not brought all these specimens together yourself?” I asked in astonishment.
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 167