The Victorian Villains Megapack (55 page)

“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “How can I be sure this sick man’s name is really Murphy, or that he is the fellow that worked at the mine? I guess I’d better have him identified before I give up my money.”

“Don’t be foolish!” growled Herbert. “Of course he’s the man! My brother gave his description i
n the letter, and he fits it to a T. And then he has the certificate. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know,” repeated McAllister hesitatingly. He shook his head and shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. I guess I won’t do it.”

Herbert seemed annoyed.

“Look here,” he demanded of the sick engineer, “are you so awful sick you can’t come over to the company’s offices and be identified?”—adding
sotto voce
to McAllister, “if he does, old Van Vorst will probably buy the stock himself, and we’ll lose our chance.”

The sick man moaned and grumbled. By ’ookey! ’Ere was impudence for yer. Come an’ rob ’im of ’is stock, an’ then demand ’e be identified.

“We’ll take you in our cab. It ain’t far,” urged Herbert, nodding vigorously at Wilkins from behind McAllister.

“Oh, I’ll go!” responded the engineer with sudden alacrity. “Anything to hoblige.”

He hobbled painfully out of bed. The nurse had by this time returned, and was demanding in forcible language that his patient should instantly get back. Seeing that his expostulations had no effect, he assisted Wilkins very ungraciously to get into his clothes. With the aid of a stout
cane the latter tottered to the elevator and was finally ensconced safely in the cab. All this had occupied nearly an hour; twenty minutes more brought them to the New York Life Building.

As McAllister and Herbert assisted their supposed victim into the building, the clubman caught a glimpse of the lean Tomlinson and athletically built Conville standing together behind the pillars of the portico. The elevator whisked them up to the fifth floor so rapidly that the sick man swore loudly that he should never live to come down again. As they turned into the corridor toward the entrance of the office, McAllister saw his confederates emerge from the rear elevator. Things were going well enough, so far. Now for the
coup d’état
!

The boy admitted them at once into the inner sanctum. As before, President Van Vorst sat there calmly smoking a cigar. At his right, in a corner by the window, stood a heavy iron safe.

“Well,” said McAllister briskly, “I’ve brought the stock, and I’ve brought its former owner with it. Do you recognize him?”

“Well, well!” returned the President, stepping forward with great cordiality and clasping Wilkins’s hand in his. “If it isn’t my old engineer, Murphy! How are you, Murphy, old socks? It’s nearly a year, isn’t it, since you were at S
tafford?”

“Yes,” replied Wilkins tremulously, “an’ I’m a very sick man. I’ve got the skyathicer somethin’ hawful.”

McAllister produced the stock from his coat-pocket.

“Do you identify this certificate?” inquired the clubman.

“Of course! Now think of that! I’ve been lookin’ for that thousand shares ever since Murphy left the mine,” said the Colonel with a show of irritation.

“Well, are you ready to pay for it?” demanded McAllister sharply.

The Colonel hesitated, looking from one to the other. Clearly he could not determine just how matters stood.

“Well,” he remarked finally, “I can’t pay for it just this minute, but I’ll go right out and get the money. You see, I didn’t expect you back quite so soon. Who does the stock belong to, anyhow—you, or Murphy?”

“At present it belongs to me,” said the clubman.

As McAllister spoke he stepped in front of the door leading into the directors’ room. From below came faintly the rattle of the street and the clang of electric cars, while in the outer of
fice could be heard the merry tattoo of the typewriters. Could it be possible that in this opulently furnished office, with its rosewood desk and chairs, its Persian rugs and paintings, its plate glass and heavy curtains, he was confronting a crew of swindlers of whom his own valet was an accomplice? It was almost past belief. Yet, as he recalled Wainwright’s vivid description of the fall of Tomlinson, the scene at Rector’s, the advertisement in the
Herald
, and the strange occurrences of the morning, he perceived that there could be no question in the matter. He was facing three common—or rather most uncommon—thieves, all of whom probably had served more than one term in State prison—desperate characters, who would not hesitate to use force, or worse, should it appear necessary. For a moment the clubman lost heart. He might be murdered, and no one be the wiser. Then a vague shadow flickered against the opaque glass of the main door, and McAllister gained new courage. Conville was just outside, with Tomlinson—although the latter could not be regarded as a valuable auxiliary in the event of a hand-to-hand struggle. Was he safe in counting on Wilkins? What if the ex-convict should go back on him? How did the valet know but that, by assisting his master, he was sending himself to State prison? McAllister had a fleeting desire to turn and dart fro
m the room. What business had a middle-aged clubman turning detective, anyway? Then he braced himself, took a good grip of his stout walking-stick, and turned to the Colonel with an assumption of calmness which he was very far from feeling. The noonday sun streamed into the windows and threw into strong relief the muscular figures of the group about him.

“I’m afraid you’ve been deceived in Murphy,” he remarked coolly. “He isn’t an engineer at all; he’s just an ex-convict.”

The Colonel uttered a swift oath and snatched a Colt from an open drawer of the desk. Herbert turned fiercely upon the clubman. Wilkins dropped his crutch.

“What are you giving us!” cried the Colonel.

“I’ll leave it to
him
,” added McAllister. “By the way, his name isn’t Murphy at all—it’s Wilkins—or Welch, if you prefer.”

“What’s this—a plant?” yelled Herbert. “By God, if——”

“Don’t be upset, Mr. Summerdale,” said the clubman. “You might lay down that pistol, Colonel Buncomb. Wilkins is an old friend of mine—in fact he used to work for me.”

The two thieves glared at him, speechless. Wilkins picked up his crutch by the small end, remarking:

“Better go easy there, Buncomb.”

“I think you gen
tlemen had the pleasure of meeting another friend of mine last summer, a Mr. Tomlinson,” continued McAllister. “He’s told me a good deal about you. I am under the impression that he paid for an automobile and a little trip you took on the Riviera. How would you like to turn back the money?”

Buncomb stood in the middle of the room pale and motionless, while the clubman opened the door into the hall and called Tomlinson’s name.

“Yaas, I’m here, McAllister. What do you want?” replied the club bore as his lank figure entered the room. At the sight of Buncomb, Summerdale, and Wilkins he stopped short.

“By Jove!” he drawled, “I’m dashed if it ain’t the Colonel—and Larry!”

“Look here, you—you—chappie!” snarled Buncomb, “clear out of here! And you, too, Tomlinson. Understand?” He waved the revolver threateningly.

“Colonel,” remarked McAllister, “I’m here for just one purpose, and that’s to collect the debt you gentlemen owe my friend Mr. Tomlinson. Wilkins, or Welch, or Murphy, or whatever
you
call him, is ready to turn state’s evidence against you. I promise him immunity. There’s an officer just outside. Shall I call him?”

“Is that straight, Fatty?” cr
ied Summerdale, his face livid with fright and anger. “Are you going to squeal on us?”

“Sure!” replied Wilkins. “I’m through with you, you miserable shell-gamers! The best thing for you is to hopen the old coal-box hover there and count hout what’s left of that ten thousand.”

“Curse you!” hissed Summerdale. “How do we know you won’t have us pinched whether we pay up or not?”

“I reckon we’d better take a chance,” muttered the Colonel, laying down his revolver and dropping on his knees before the safe. The little knob spun around, the lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open, but at the same moment there was a terrific crash of glass behind them.

“Excuse noise,” exclaimed Conville, thrusting his face through the broken pane and covering Buncomb with a long black weapon. “Kindly keep your arms up, Colonel—and you too, Larry. How stout you’ve grown! Thank you! I was peekin’ through the keyhole, and kinder thought this would be a good time to freeze on to what was in the safe without callin’ in an expert.”

The next instant he had unlocked the door with his other hand and snapped the handcuffs on Summerdale’s uplifted wrist. While the detective was doing the same
to the Colonel, McAllister caught sight of Wilkins’s frightened glance, and gave a slight nod toward the door leading into the next room. Like a flash the valet had jumped through and closed and locked the door behind him. Another door banged. Conville sprang into the hall across the fragments of the shattered glass, with McAllister at his heels. They were just in time to see Wilkins leap into the room where the men were testing the fire-escape.

“Let me try it,” said he, and swung himself calmly into the tube. For an instant he delayed his flight, with only his head remaining visible.

“Good-by, Mr. McAllister,” he called over his shoulder, “and thank you kindly. I won’t forget, sir.”

At the same instant Conville bounded through the door and rushed to the window. As he reached the sash Wilkins let go, and plunged downwards. His descent was rapid, his position being discernible from the sagging of the canvas.

Barney started for the elevator in the hope of cutting off the valet’s escape below, but he had miscalculated the force of gravitation. As McAllister reached the window he saw the little bulge that represented Wilkins slide gently to the bottom. There was a cheer from the bystanders as the convict stepped li
ghtly to his feet. Then he turned for an instant, and, looking up at McAllister, waved his hand and disappeared among the crowd.

McALLISTER’S DATA OF ETHICS, by Arthur Train

Taken from
McAllister and His Double
(1905).

I

“Certainly, sir. Your clothes shall be delivered at the Metropole at nine-forty-f
ive to mo
rrow evenin’, sir.”

Pondel’s dapper little clerk tossed a half-dozen bolts of “trouserings” upon the polished table, and smiled graciously at the firm’s best paying customer.

“Here, Bulstead! Take Mr. McAllister’s waist measure—just a matter of precaution,” he added deferentially. “These are somethin’ fine, sir—very fine! When they came in, I says to Mr. Pondel: ‘If only Mr. McAllister could see that woollen! It’s a shame,’ I says, ‘not to save it for ’im!’ An’ Mr. Pondel agreed with me at once. ‘Very good, Wessons,’ says he. ‘Lay aside enough of that Lancaster to make Mr. McAllister a single-breasted sack suit, and if he don’t fancy it I’ll have it made up into somethin’ for myself,’ he says. Ain’t that so, Mr. Pondel?”

The gentleman addressed had graciously sauntered over to congratulate Mr. McAllister upon his selections.

“Ah, very good! Very good indeed! How’s that, Wesso
ns? Yes, I told him to keep that piece for you, sir. Lord Bentwood begged for it almost with the tears in his eyes, as I may say, but I assured him that it was already spoken for.” He patted the cloth with a fat, ring-covered hand. An atmosphere of exclusive opulence emanated from every inch of his sleek, pudgy person—from the broad white forehead over the glinting steel-gray eyes, from the pointed Van Dyke trimmed to resemble that of a certain exalted personage, from his drab waistcoated abdomen begirdled with its heavy chain and dangling seals, down to the gray-gaitered patent leathers. McAllister distrusted, feared, relied upon him.

The clubman wiped his monocle and glanced out through the plate-glass window. Marlborough Square was flooded with the soft sunshine of the autumn afternoon. Hardly a pedestrian violated the eminently aristocratic silence of St. Timothy’s.

“Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure,” he replied, not grudging Pondel the extra two guineas which he very well knew the other invariably charged for these little favors. It were cheap at twice the money to feel so much a gentleman.

“But this is Saturday, and it’s five o’clock now. I don’t see how you can possibly finish all those suits by tomorrow evening. You know I really didn’t intend to o
rder anything but the frock-coat. Perhaps you’d just better let the rest go. I can get them some other time.”

“Not at all, Mr. McAllister; not at all. We are always delighted to serve you by any means in our power. Did Wessons say they would be finished tomorrow? Then tomorrow they shall be, sir. I’ll set my men at work immediately. Pedler! Where’s Pedler? Send him here at once!”

A hollow-eyed, lank, round-shouldered journeyman parted the curtains that concealed the rear of the room, and nervously approached his employer. He blinked at the unaccustomed sunlight, suppressing a cough.

“Did you call me, sir?”

“Yes,” replied Pondel with the severity of one granting an undeserved favor. “This is Mr. McAllister, of whom you have heard us speak so often. I believe you have cut several of the gentleman’s suits. He is to take the Majestic, which sails early Monday morning, and I have promised that his clothes shall be ready tomorrow evening. Can you arrange to stay here tonight and whatever portion of tomorrow is necessary to finish them?”

A worried look passed over the man’s face, and his hand flew to his mouth to strangle another cough.

“Certainly, sir; that is—of course— Yes, sir. May I ask how
many, sir?”

“Only three, I believe. I was sure it could be arranged. Please ask Aggam to assist you. That is all.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.” Pedler hesitated a moment as if about to speak, then turned listlessly and plodded back behind the curtains.

“Very obliging man—Pedler. You see, there will be no difficulty, Mr. McAllister.”

“Well, I don’t see how on earth you’re going to do it!” protested McAllister feebly. He wanted the clothes badly, now that he had seen the material. “It’s mighty good of you to take all this trouble.”

Mr. Pondel made a deprecating gesture.

“We are always glad to serve you, sir!” he repeated, as Wessons escorted the distinguished customer to the door.

“It’s a great privilege to be employed by such a man as Mr. Pondel,” whispered the salesman. “He thinks an enormous lot of you, sir. Very fine man—Mr. Pondel.”

As the hansom jogged rapidly toward the hotel, McAllister reflected painfully upon the enormous sums of money that he annually transferred from his own pockets to those of the lordly tailor. Not that the money made any particular difference. The clubman was well enough fixed, only sometimes the bills were unexpectedly large. The three suits just ordered would average fourteen guineas each. Roughly they would come to two hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus the duty, which he always paid conscientiously. And he was getting off easy at that. He remembered heaps of bills for over two hundred pounds, and that was only the beginning, for he bought most of his clothes right in New York.

Climbing the steps of his hotel, he wondered vaguely how long Pedler and the other fellow would have to work to finish the suits. Of course, they would be paid extra—were probably glad to do it. The chap had a nasty cough, though. Oh, well, that was their business—not his! So long as he put up the money, Pondel could look out for the rest.

However, he felt a distinct sense of relief that his own obligations consisted merely in dressing, dining at the Savoy with Aversly, and then leisurely taking in the Alhambra afterward. Once in his room, he found that the once criminally inclined, but now reformed Wilkins, who had returned to his master’s service under a solemn promise of good behavior, had already laid out his clothes. McAllister rather dreaded dressing, for the place was one of those heavily oppressive apartments characteristic of English hotels. Green marble, yellow plush, and black walnut filled the foreground, background, and middle distance, while a marble-topped table, placed squarely in the centre of the room, offered the only oasis in the desert of upholstery, in the form of a single massive book, bound in brown morocco, and bearing the inscription stamped upon its cover in heavy gilt:

HOTEL METROPOLE

HOLY BIBLE NOT TO BE REMOVED

It fascinated him, recalling the chained hairbrush and comb of the Pacific Coast. There you were offered cleanliness, here godliness, by the proprietors; only the means thereto were not to be taken away. The next comer must have his chance.

As the clubman idly lifted the volume, he suddenly realized that this was the first Bible he had actually touched in over thirty years. The last time he had owned one himself had been at school when he was fifteen years old. Something moved him to carry it to the window. The sun was just dropping over the scarlet chimney-pots of London. Its burnished glare played upon the red gilt edges of the leaves, as McAllister mechanically allowed the book to fall open in his hands. He read these words:

So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter.

The sun sank; the chimneys deadened against the sky-line. When Wilkins, ten minutes later, stole in to see if his master needed his assistance, he found McAllister staring into the darkening west.

II

The bell on St. Timothy’s tolled twelve o’clock as McAllister’s hansom, straight from the Alhambra, clacked into the moonlit silence of Marlborough Square. A soft breath of distant gardens hung on the cool air. The chimneys rose from the house-tops sharp against a pale blue sky glittering with stars. Here and there a yellow window gleamed for a moment under the eaves, then vanished mysteriously. It was a night for lovers,—calm, still, ecstatic,—for hayfields under the harvest moon,—for white, ghostly reaches of the Thames,—for poetry,—for the exquisite enjoyment of earth’s nearest approach to heaven.

The trap above McAllister’s head opened.

“Beg pardon, sir. W’ere did you s’y, sir?”

“I said
Pondel’s
,” replied McAllister, rather sharply. He knew the cabby must think him a lunatic, but he didn’t care. He intended to do the decent thing. Hang it! The fellow could mind his own business.

The hansom crossed the street and reined up in the shadow. All was dark, silent, deserted. Only the brass plate beside the door reflected strangely the moonlight across the way.

“’Ere’s Pondel’s, sir.” The cabby got down and crossed the sidewalk to the door.

“All shut hup!” he commented. “Close at six.”

A dark figure emerged quickly from, a neighboring shadow.

“’Ere! Wot is it you want?” demanded the bobby, accosting the cabman with tentative and potential roughness.

“Gent wants Pondel’s. I dunno w’y. Ax ’im yerself!” responded cabby in an injured tone.

The bobby turned to the hansom.

“This shop’s closed at six o’clock,” he announced. “Wot do you want?”

McAllister felt ten thousand times a fool. The beauty of the night, the odoriferous quiet, the peace of the deserted square, all made his errand seem monstrously idiotic. The universe was wheeling silently across the housetops; respectable men and women were in their beds; only night-hawks, lovers, policemen were abroad. It was as if a worm were raising objection to some cardinal law. Why should he try to upset the order and regularity of the London night, clattering into this slumbering section, startling a respectable somnolent policeman, making an ass of himself before his cabby—because somewhere a fellow was working overtime on his trousers. He imagined that as soon as he had made his explanation the bobby and the driver would collapse with merriment, and hale him to a mad-house. But McAllister set his teeth. He was fighting for a principle. He wouldn’t “welch” now. He clambered out of the hansom.

“I want to find Pondel, because he’s got some fellows working on my clothes, and I don’t propose to have anybody working for me on Sunday. Understand? It’s
Sunday
. I don’t intend to have folks working on my clothes when they ought to be in bed.”

He spoke brokenly, defiantly, catching his breath between words, almost ready to cry; then waited for his auditors to fall upon each other’s necks in
derisive mirth. He forgot, however, that he was in London. The situation was one apposite to American humor, but evoked no sense of amusement in the policeman. He treated McAllister’s explanation with vast respect. Our hero gained confidence. The bobby regretted that the place seemed closed; ventured to express his approval of the clubman’s altruistic effort; dilated upon it to the cabby, who was correspondingly impressed. McAllister, immensely cheered, held forth on the wrongs of labor at some length, and, finding a sympathetic audience, produced cigars. The three proved, as it were, a little group of humanitarians united in a common purpose. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, inexcusably, a man coughed. The sound was muffled, but unmistakable. It came from a point directly beneath their feet. The bobby rapped sharply on the pavement several times.

“Hi there, you!” he called. “Hi there, you in Pondel’s. Come an’ open hup!”

They could hear a dull murmur of conversation, the cough was repeated, a bench dragged across a floor, some fastening was slowly loosed, and a yellow gleam of light shot up through the shadow as a scuttle opened in the sidewalk. A lean, scrawny figure thrust itself upward, sleepily rubbing its eyes, collarless, its shirt open at the breast,
its hair tousled, coughing. McAllister, now confident that he had the support of his companions, addressed the ghost, in whom he recognized Pedler, the journeyman from behind the curtains. The clubman’s face, however, was concealed in shadow from the other.

“You’re working for Pondel, aren’t you?”

The ghost coughed again, and shivered, although the air was warm.

“Yes,” it answered huskily.

“Are you working on some clothes for a gentleman who’s sailing on Monday?”

“Yes,” it repeated.

“Then don’t, any more,” chirped McAllister encouragingly. “Those clothes are for me, and I don’t want you to work any longer. You ought to be in bed.”

“Wotcher givin’ us?” grumbled Pedler. “G’wan! Leave us alone!” He started to descend. But the bobby stepped forward.

“Look ’ere,” he said roughly. “Don’t you understand? It’s just as the gentleman s’ys. You don’t
’ave
to work any more tonight. You can go ’ome.”

“I s’y, wotcher givin’ us?” repeated the other. “I cawn’t go ’ome. Mr. Pondel’s horders is to st’y ’ere until the clothes is finished. M’ybe it’s as you s’y, but I cawn’t go ’ome.”

A
t this juncture a child began to cry drowsily below, and a woman’s voice could be heard striving to comfort it.

“You don’t mean you’ve got a baby down there!” exclaimed McAllister.

“Only little Annie,” replied Pedler. “An’ the old woman.”

“Anyone else?”

“Aggam.”

“Let’s go down,” suggested the bobby. “
I
can make ’em understand.” The ghost descended, dazed, and McAllister, the bobby, and last of all, the cabman, followed down a creaking ladder into a sort of vault under the cellar. A small oil wick gave out a feeble fluctuating light. On one side, cross-legged, sat a shrivelled-up, little old man, his brown beard streaked with gray, stitching. He did not look up, but only worked the faster. A thin woman crouched on a broken chair, holding a little girl in her lap.

“There, there, Annie, don’t cry. The bobby’s not arter
you
. It’s all right, darlin’!”

Strewn about the cement floor lay the bolts of Lancaster which McAllister had selected, together with patterns, scissors, and unfinished garments.

“Excuse the child, sir,” apologized the woman. “She’s just a bit sleepy.”

“Well,” said McAllister, his indignation rising
at the scene, and shame burning in his cheeks, “go right home. I won’t have you working on these clothes any more.” How he wished Pondel was there to get a piece of his mind!

Jim looked wearily at Aggam.