The Victorian Villains Megapack

by Arthur Morrison

  Obviously the paragraphs in the Park Lane Review had struck the key-note of Mr. Schillinghammer’s little plot, whilst the details might have been worked up from papers which had come under his notice, most probably in the offices of the ‘Inquiry Agency’, of which he must be a member, if not the principal. As to the address, Pringle was already acquainted with it as a notorious place where letters were received, and he had little difficulty in recognizing it in the fragmentary address of the skeleton.

  The next step was to make sure of the valuable information he had acquired. He had spent all the afternoon over his task. It had now gone six. Mr. Schillinghammer, it is true, had been denied the Marquis when he called, but it was probable that the latter, even if not dining at home, would be returning to dress shortly. He must be interviewed immediately.

  Pringle had never much difficulty in removing the port-wine mark on his cheek with a little spirit, and a smart application of chemicals soon darkened his fair hair. Then, putting on a ‘bowler’ and a light covert-coat, he turned his face westward.

  “Can I see Lord Lundy?”

  The footman was discreetly doubtful, but if Pringle would give his name he would make inquiries.

  “Tell his lordship I have an important message from the German gentleman who called here this morning,” Pringle added, and a few minutes later was following the servant up-stairs.

  He was ushered into a room on the first-floor, half library, half smoking-room, with the solid mahogany door and elegantly-carved mantel of an eighteenth-century London mansion. A tall young man, with a closely-cropped beard, was sitting smoking in an easy-chair. He half rose as the door opened, and, without acknowledging Pringle’s bow, waited until the servant had retired before speaking.

  “I was not expecting you before tomorrow,” he said curtly; “but since you are here, be good enough to state your business briefly, as my time is limited.”

  “I must first tell your lordship that I have no interest in any German you are expecting, beyond being desirous of arresting him.”

  “Arresting him!” exclaimed the Marquis.

  “Yes; I am a member of the Criminal Investigation Department, and have charge of the case of some foreign anarchists who are wanted on the Continent.”

  “May I ask why you trouble to come here then?” inquired the peer, only a trifle less icily.

  “One of those anarchists, Hödel by name, was traced to this street today in company with a man named Eppelstein, who was seen to call here.”

  “Only this. By a gross neglect of duty on the part of the officer who was observing them, Hödel was lost sight of, and in the hope that your lordship will assist the ends of justice, I have come to ask you for some information as to his companion who called here.”

  “Pray sit down. May I ask your name?” and Lord Lundy pushed a box of cigars across the table towards Pringle.

  “My name is Fosterberry,” said Pringle, as he took a chair, respectfully declining the cigars.

  “Well, I should be very glad to help you if I could, but the man who called here this morning didn’t give the name of Hödel.”

  “No; it was his companion, Eppelstein, who came here.”

  “That wasn’t the name either. I didn’t see the man, as I was out at the time, but he left a letter which I found waiting for me this afternoon, and he said he would call again at half-past ten tomorrow morning.”

  “What name did he leave behind?”

  “Schillinghammer.”

  “Schillinghammer? An alias I was unacquainted with. May I ask what his object was in calling here?”

  Lord Lundy coughed and fidgeted in his chair.

  “Pray excuse me,” apologized Pringle. “It is, of course, no business of mine. I merely asked the question, as I presume your lordship is not acquainted with him.”

  “Acquainted with him! I never heard of the scoundrel before today!” exclaimed the peer, as he dealt the table beside him a resounding blow with his fist. Then, his indignation getting the better of his caution, he drew a letter from his pocket, “This is a letter he left for me. It seems as if the blackguard has got hold of some information which I have the best of reasons for wishing to keep private, and he offers not to make any use of it, but to leave the country if I will give him a thousand pounds.”

  “Indeed,” mused Pringle. “This is news to me. I had no idea he did anything in that line. Not but what he is quite capable of it, but he must be getting in rather low water if he has begun to play such a risky game.”

  “All I can say is that he appears to be a professional blackmailer.”

  “May I ask your lordship if you intend to pay?”

  “Well, I need hardly say I don’t like it, but, so far as I can see, I must either allow him to bleed me like this, or I must submit to the loss of a very much larger sum; together with other inconveniences which cannot be estimated quite so easily.”

  As he spoke his eye wandered to the mantelpiece. There, in a silver frame, stood the photograph of a strikingly handsome girl. Across one corner had been scrawled in a bold, almost masculine hand—“à vous, Bernice Petasöhn.”.

  Pringle, who had followed the direction of his glance, took in these details before the marquis, recovering himself with a start, exclaimed almost pettishly—“Can’t you arrest this Schillinghammer, or whatever his name is, when he comes here again tomorrow?”

  “It’s rather unfortunate that he is not wanted. He is well known to both the London and Continental police as an associate of foreign anarchists, but Hödel is the man we are really anxious to arrest.”

  “You can’t possibly arrest the other brute, then?”

  “I’m afraid not. I have no doubt he is as great a scoundrel as Hödel, especially after what your lordship has just told me; but as the German police have not applied for his extradition, we have no grounds for interfering with him. Of course, my lord, if you are ready to proceed against him for attempting to blackmail you, the matter becomes a very simple one, and we shall be—”

  “No, no, no! Publicity is the very thing of all others I want to avoid,” exclaimed the peer hurriedly, adding, “and he knows it too.”

  “Then I’m afraid there’s nothing for it but to pay.”

  Lord Lundy sighed and passed his hand wearily across his brow.

  “You can’t advise anything else?” he asked despondently.

  “The case is really a very clear one,” argued Pringle. “If, as you say, this man is able to do your lordship some substantial injury, which you are naturally anxious to avoid, and if at the same time you are unwilling to avail yourself of the protection of the law, what other course is open to you?”

  The peer drummed an impatient tattoo on the table without speaking for a few minutes. “I thought,” he remarked at length, “of giving him only half what he asks for now, and of sending the remainder to be paid to him personally by a German banker.”

  “A very excellent plan,” agreed Pringle. “You will make certain at any rate that he is safely out of the country. Under the circumstances, I should advise you to give him cash, You see a cheque has obvious disadvantages if you wish to keep the affair private, and if you give him notes and he had any difficulty in passing them, as he might have, your object would be again defeated. I am sorry,” he added, as he arose to go, “that I can be of no service to your lordship in the matter.”

  “Not at all,” exclaimed the marquis, “your advice has been most valuable.” And ringing the bell for the footman, he politely bowed Pringle out.

  About half-past ten the next morning Lord Lundy was sitting in his study. A number of letters lay unopened on the desk, and he held a newspaper in front of him. But he did not read. His eyes were fixed upon the photograph on the mantelpiece. At length, as he continued to gaze, a tear slowly trickled down his cheek, and, as it pattered against the crisp sheet upon his knee, he started an
d, flinging the paper down, moved towards the desk. At this moment the distant rattle of an electric-bell ascended from the hall, and stopping short he turned away, and strode nervously up and down the room.

  “Mr. Schillinghammer, my lord,” the footman said, and ushered that gentleman in according to orders.

  The marquis took up a position on the hearthrug, and Mr. Schillinghammer saluted him with a profound bow, which he supplemented by a sweep of the tall hat as the servant withdrew.

  “I have de honour—” he began, but the peer cut him short.

  “Have the goodness, sir,” he exclaimed, “to dispense with any unnecessary formalities. I have read the letter which you left here yesterday. What is the information you have to sell?” He remained standing, as perforce did Mr. Schillinghammer.

  “Some information which may be useful to Misder Petasöhn.”

  “Then why not take it to Mr. Petasöhn?”

  “It is a madder of commerce. I coom to you. I have someding valuable to sell. You do not buy it. Very well, I go to Misder Petasöhn. I will tell him for noding. Berhaps he pay me after I tell him—berhaps not. But he will be gradeful. I have lived in America. I have been an employé of Misder Petasöhn in his great pig-business. I know the American fader. He is more particular than de English. I will tell Misder Petasöhn your fader killed himself, likewise your two broders. He will not led his daughter marry such a family-man. Dat is all. I coom to you first, den if you do not buy I go on to Misder Petasöhn and tell what I know. And den, my lord, and den, and den—you lose Miss Petasöhn, de great, great heiress!” Here he spread his arms expansively.

  “How did you obtain this valuable information?” inquired Lord Lundy, with difficulty repressing his inclination to kick Mr. Schillinghammer downstairs.

  “I am a brivate inquiry agent! It is my brofession to know everyding about everybody,” and he smiled superciliously.

  “But have you no documents or papers to give me if I consent to pay you? What proofs have you of your statement?”

  The German produced his pocketbook, and extracted from it the bundle of papers and cuttings which Pringle had seen in his possession at the Museum.

  “Here,” said he, “you give me a tousand pounds and dey are yours.”

  He held the bundle towards Lord Lundy, who received it with an air of disgust which he took no pains to conceal, but sitting down at the desk, untied the piece of tape surrounding it, and fastidiously handling the uppermost paper, commenced to read. Tossing it contemptuously aside when he had done, he took up the next slip, and so on, till he had perused the whole budget.

  “Are you aware of the value of this collection of papers’?” he asked, turning suddenly towards Mr. Schillinghammer, and laying his hand upon the scattered heap as he spoke.

  “I have told you what is de brice I ask,” replied the inquiry agent doggedly.

  “You are insolent, sir! These papers are worth at the very most about half-a-crown, and you have the effrontery to ask me to give you a thousand pounds for them!”

  “It is my silence I will sell you—not de pabers. Dey may be worth only half-a-crown, but de newspabers are out of brint, and de oders cost much money to collect. I do not desire to sell de pabers. I will give dem to you if you buy my silence.”

  “You are most generous,” remarked the peer dryly.

  “You say, where are my broofs?” continued Mr. Schillinghammer, without noticing the sarcasm. “You have dem dere beside you in black and white, Every one nearly who ever knew has forgot de matter, and Misder Petasöhn will not believe me if I cannot show him dose pabers. Dere are de accounts of de inquests on your broders and your fader. All died by deir own hand. De Doctor say your broder could not fire by accident de gun. De valet of your older broder say he bought de poison for him to take. Dere is copy of de corresbondence with de Insurance Office which refused to pay your fader’s life-policy because he killed himself. Dese have cost much money and time to get, but I tink Misder Petasöhn will understand dat.”

  “I wonder you are not afraid to let such valuable documents leave your possession for a moment.”

  “Noplesse oplige,” returned Mr. Schillinghammer, with another bow and wave of his hat, adding with a snigger, “Beside, dere is no fire in de grate.”

  Once again did Mr. Schillinghammer narrowly escape a rapid ejectment from the room; but Lord Lundy simply asked, “I consent to your terms, what will you do?”

  “I will return to Germany. I desire to start a business in Hamburg.”

  “But what security have I that you will leave England?”

  “De word of one gentleman to anoder!”

  “I prefer to trust to something more tangible. I will send you the money as soon as I am sure you have actually reached Germany.”

  “But I cannot reach Germany widout de money!” Mr. Schillinghammer expostulated. “I have not de tariff! I have also money owing for rent, and food, and bills! I am a poor, very poor man, but I will not rob my creditors. I am honest!”

  “I will pay you five hundred pounds now, and will send the rest to Germany as soon as I know you have arrived.”

  “No, it will not do,” said the German decisively. “Misder Petasöhn shall help me return to Germany.” And he made towards the door.

  “Stop!” exclaimed the Marquis, taking something from the writing-desk. “See, here are five hundred sovereigns.” He dropped a canvas-bag upon the table with a thud.

  At the very threshold Mr. Schillinghammer paused, and Lord Lundy hastened to pursue his advantage.

  “If you will return to Germany at once, an order shall be sent to a Hamburg banker to pay you another five hundred.”

  Painful was Mr. Schillinghammer’s situation! Impelled in one direction by his innate distrust of his fellow-beings, in another by the sight, or, to be more accurate, by the sound of the specie, he wavered and stood irresolutely fingering the door-handle. At length the irresistible argument of a cash transaction prevailed, as the Marquis had calculated, over every obstacle, and drawn to the table by the magnetic attraction of the gold, Mr. Schillinghammer, oblivious of the pressing claims of his creditors, exclaimed with reckless generosity, “I will be fair wid you. Here are de pabers, my lord. I will start for Hamburg tonight.”

  Seizing the bag, he stuffed it into his coat-pocket. At the door he turned, “I wish your lordship all health and happiness;” and with a final bow and wave of the hat towards the photograph, added, “and her ladyship also!”

  Despite the weightiness of the specie, it was with an elastic step that the blackmailer left the house. The street happened to be almost deserted, except for a four-wheeler which was waiting a few doors off. As Mr. Schillinghammer approached, he observed that a man was standing beside its open door; he was tall and clean-shaven, wore a bowler hat and a covert-coat, also he was shod in an uncompromisingly stout pair of boots: in short, it was Mr. Romney Pringle.

  The German passed on unsuspectingly, but Pringle seized him by the arm.

  “Mr. Schillinghammer, I believe?” And before the latter had regained sufficient presence of mind to deny his identity, Pringle continued—“I am Inspector Fosterberry, of the Criminal Investigation Department, and I arrest you on a warrant for obtaining money by threats and false pretences from the Marquis of Lundy. I must ask you to come with me quietly.”

  He gently but firmly urged Mr. Schillinghammer into the cab, and still grasping his arm, sat down beside him and closed the door. The cabman, who had received his instructions, drove up Clarges Street, and they had traversed Mayfair before Mr. Schillinghammer recovered from the astonishment which, for the moment, had rendered him speechless.

  “Why do you arrest me?” he demanded, after several ineffectual efforts to speak.

  “I have already told you. The warrant has been issued on the sworn information of the Marquis of Lundy.”

  “He is a liar! I a
m a respectable man.”

  “You will have every opportunity of explaining matters; in the meantime you must come with me.”

  “Where are we going? I will not go to de prison.”

  “I am taking you before the sitting magistrate at Marlborough Street police-court.”

  “I will not go! I warn you it is a serious madder. I am a German subject—I will write to de German ambassador! You will be severely punished!” And volubly protesting, he began to struggle violently, and endeavoured to reach the door-handle. But he was muscularly flabby and out of condition, and Pringle had little difficulty in overpowering him. They were crossing Bond Street, and Pringle had reasons of his own for wishing to avoid a scene just there.

  “If you don’t keep still I shall be compelled to handcuff you,” warned Pringle. “What’s this? A revolver! I must take it from you.”

  He had been feeling a hard lump in the breast of Mr. Schillinghammer’s coat, and inserting his free hand, he drew out the bag of sovereigns and placed it in his own pocket. Mr. Schillinghammer’s nerves, although severely tried, were not too shattered to quench all resentment at this high-handed proceeding had not the cab stopped at this moment.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Pringle, putting his head out.

  “’Ere we are, sir,” said the cabman, pointing ahead with his whip. The cab had traversed Regent Street and Argyll Place and was now drawn up at the end of Great Marlborough Street. Pringle stepped on to the pavement, and stared intently in the direction of the police-court a few yards further on, as if waiting for some one to appear. Meanwhile Mr. Schillinghammer, with an agility with which he could hardly have been credited, scrambled through the open window on the off-side of the cab. Alighting, he nearly fell into the arms of a constable who was crossing the road.

  “Hulloa! What’s the little game?” said the man.

  But Mr. Schillinghammer, ignoring the question, dodged round the cab and raced frantically up Argyll Street.