He picked up a paper, glanced at the head-lines, threw it down with a sigh of relief, and lighted a cigarette. At the same moment two policemen in civilian dress were leaving McAllister’s apartments, each having received at the hands of the impassive Frazier a bundle containing a silver-mounted revolver and a large bottle full of an unknown brown fluid.
McAllister’s dinner was a great success. The boys all said afterward that they had never seen Chubby in such good form. Only one incident marred the serenity of the occasion, and that was a mere trifle. Charlie Bush had been staying over Christmas with an ex-Chairman of the Prison Reform Association, and being in a communicative mood insisted on talking about it.
“Only fancy,” he remarked, as he took a gulp of champagne, “he says the prisons of the city are in an abominable condition—that they’re a disgrace to a civilized community.”
Tomlinson paused in lifting his glass. He remembered his host’s opinion, expressed two nights before and desired to show his appreciation of an excellent meal.
“That’s all rot!” he interrupted a little thickly. “’S all politics. The Tombs is a lot better than most second-class hotels on the Continent. Our prisons are all right, I tell you!” His eyes swept the circle militantly.
“Look here, Tomlinson,” remarked McAllister sternly, “don’t be so sure. What do you know about it?”
THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF THE BARON DE VILLE, by Arthur Train
Taken from McAllister and His Double (1905).
I
“I want you,” said Barney Conville, tapping Mr. McAllister lightly upon the shoulder.
The gentleman addressed turned sharply, letting fall his monocle. He certainly had never seen the man before in his life—was sure of it, even during that unfortunate experience the year before, which he had so far successfully concealed from his friends. No, it was simply a case of mistaken identity; and yet the fellow—confound him!—didn’t look like a chap that often was mistaken.
“Come, come, Fatty; no use balkin’. Come along quiet,” continued Barney, with his most persuasive smile. He was a smartly built fellow with a black mustache and an unswerving eye, about two-thirds the size of McAllister, whom he had addressed so familiarly.
“Fatty!” McAllister, bon vivant, clubman, prince of good fellows, started at the word and stared tensely. What infernal luck! That same regrettable resemblance that had landed him in the Tombs over Christmas was again bobbing up to render him miserable. He wished, as he had wished a thousand times, that Wilkins had been sentenced to twenty years instead of one. He had evidently been discharged from prison and was at his old tricks again, with the result that once more his employer was playing the part of Dromio. McAllister had succeeded by judicious bribery and the greatest care in preserving inviolate the history of his incarceration. Had this not been the case one word now to the determined individual with the icy eye would have set the matter straight, but he could not bear to divulge the secret of those horrible thirty-six hours which he, under the name of his burglarious valet, had spent locked in a cell. Maybe he could show the detective he was mistaken without going into that lamentable history. But of course McAllister proceeded by exactly the wrong method.
“Oh,” he laughed nonchalantly, “there it is again! You’ve got me confused with Fatty Welch. We do look alike, to be sure.” He put up his monocle and smiled reassuringly, as if his simple statement would entirely settle the matter.
But Barney only winked sarcastically.
“You show yourself quite familiar with the name of the gentleman I’m lookin’ for.”
McAllister saw that he had made a mistake.
“No more foolin’, now,” continued Barney. “Will you come as you are, or with the nippers?”
The clubman bit his lip with annoyance.
“Look here, hang you!” he exclaimed angrily, dropping his valise, “I’m Mr. McAllister of the Colophon Club. I’m on my way to dine with friends in the country. I’ve got to take this train. Listen! They’re shouting ‘All aboard’ now. I know who you’re after. You’ve got us mixed. Your man’s a professional crook. I can prove my identity to you inside of five minutes, only I haven’t time here. Just jump on the train with me, and if you’re not convinced by the time we reach 125th Street I’ll get off and come back with you.”
“My, but you’re gamer than ever, Fatty,” retorted Barney with admiration. Thoughts of picking up hitherto unsuspected clews flitted through his mind. He had his man “pinched,” why not play him awhile? It seemed not a half bad idea to the Central Office man.
“Well, I’ll humor you this once. Step aboard. No funny business, now. I’ve got my smoke wagon right here. Remember, you’re under arrest.”
They swung aboard just as the train started. As McAllister sank into his seat in the parlor car with Barney beside him he recognized Joe Wainwright directly opposite. Here was an easy chance to prove his identity, and he was just about to lean over and pour forth his sorrows to his friend when he realized with fresh humiliation that should he seize this opportunity to explain the present situation, the whole wretched story of his Christmas in the Tombs would probably be divulged. He would be the laughing-stock of the club, and the fellows would never let him hear the last of it. He hesitated, but Wainwright took the initiative.
“How d’y’, Chubby?” said he, getting up and coming over. “On your way to Blair’s?”
“Yes. Almost missed the confounded train,” replied McAllister, struggling for small talk.
“Who’s your friend?” continued the irrepressible Wainwright. “Kind o’ think I know him. Foreigner, ain’t he? Think he was at Newport last summer.”
“Er—ye—es. Baron de Ville. Picked him up at the club—friend of Pierrepont’s. Takin’ him out to Blair’s—so hospitable, don’cher know.” He stammered horribly, for he found himself sinking deeper and deeper.
“Like to meet him,” remarked Wainwright. “Like all these foreign fellers.”
McAllister groaned. He certainly was in for it now. The 125th Street idea would have to be abandoned.
“Er—Baron”—he strangled over the name—“Baron, I want to present Mr. Joseph Wainwright. He thinks he’s met you in Paris.” Our friend accompanied this with a pronounced wink.
“Glad to meet you, Baron,” said Wainwright, grasping the detective’s hand with effusion. “Newport, I think it was.”
The “Baron” bowed. This was a new complication, but it was all in the day’s work. Of course, the whole thing was plain enough. Fatty Welch was “working” some swell guys who thought he was a real high-roller. Maybe he was going to pull off some kind of a job that very evening. Perhaps this big chap in the swagger flannels was one of the gang. Barney was thinking hard. Well, he’d take the tip and play the hand out.
“It ees a peutifool efening,” said the Baron.
The train plunged into the tunnel.
“Look here,” hissed McAllister in Barney’s ear. “You’ve got to stick this thing out, now, or I’ll be the butt of the town. Remember, we’re going to the Blairs at Scarsdale. You’re the particular friend of a man named Pierrepont—fellow with a glass eye who owns a castle somewhere in France.… Are you satisfied yet?” he added indignantly.
“I’m satisfied you’re Fatty Welch,” Barney replied. “I ain’t on to your game, I admit. Still, I can do the Baron act awhile if it amuses you any.”
The train emerged from the tunnel, and McAllister observed that there were other friends of his on the car, bound evidently for the same destination. Well, anything was better than having that confounded story about the Tombs get around. He had often thought that if it ever did he would go abroad to live. He couldn’t stand ridicule. His dignity was his chief asset. Nothing so effectually, as McAllister well knew, conceals the absence of brains. But could he ever in the wide, wide world work off the detective as a baron? Well, if he failed, he c
ould explain the situation on the basis of a practical joke and save his face in that way. Just at present the Baron was getting along famously with Wainwright. McAllister hoped he wouldn’t overdo it. One thing, thank Heaven, he remembered—Wainwright had flunked his French disgracefully at college and probably wouldn’t dare venture it under the circumstances. There was still a chance that he might convince his captor of his mistake before they reached Scarsdale, and on the strength of this he proposed a cigar. But Wainwright had frozen hard to his Baron and accepted for himself with alacrity, even suggesting a drink on his own account. McAllister’s heart failed him as he thought of having to present the detective to Mrs. Blair and her fashionable guests and—by George, the fellow hadn’t got a dress-suit! They never could get over that. It was bad enough to lug in a stranger—a “copper”—and palm him off as the distinguished friend of a friend, but a feller without any evening clothes—impossible! McAllister wanted to shoot him. Was ever a chap so tied up? And now if the feller wasn’t talking about Paris! Paris! He’d make some awful break, and then— Oh, curse the luck, anyway!
Then it was that McAllister resolved to do something desperate.
II
“I’m perfectly delighted to have the Baron. Why didn’t you bring Pierrepont, too? How d’y’ do, Baron? Let me present you to my husband. Gordon—Baron de Ville. I’ll put you and Mr. McAllister together. We’re just a little crowded. You’ve hardly time to dress—dinner in just nineteen minutes.”
“Zank you! It ees so vera hospitable!” said the Baron, bowing low, and twirling his mustache in the most approved fashion.
“Come on, de Ville.” McAllister slapped his Old-Man-of-the-Sea upon the back good-naturedly. “You can give Mrs. Blair all the risque Paris gossip at dinner.” They followed the second man upstairs. Although an old friend of both Mrs. Blair and her husband, McAllister had never been at the Scarsdale house before. It was new, and massively built. They were debating whether or not to call it Castle Blair. The second man showed them to a room at the extreme end of a wing, and as the servant laid out the clothes McAllister thought the man eyed him rather curiously. Well, confound it, he was getting used to it. Barney lit a cigarette and measured the distance from the window to the ground with a discriminating eye.
“Well,” said the clubman, after the second man had finally retired, “are you satisfied? And what the deuce is going to happen now?”
Barney sank into a Morris chair and thrust his feet comfortably on to the fender.
“Fatty,” said he, as he blew a multitude of tiny rings toward the blaze, “you’re a wizard! Never seen such nerve in my life—and you only out two months! You’ve got the clothes, and, what’s more, you’ve got the real chappie lingo. It’s great! I’m sorry to have to pull in such an artist. I am, honest. An’ now you’ve got to go behind prison bars! It’s sad—positively sad!”
“Look here!” demanded McAllister. “Do you mean to tell me you’re such a bloomin’ ass as to think that I’m a crook, a professional burglar, who’s got an introduction into society—a what-do-you-call-him? Oh, yes—Raffles?”
Barney grinned at his victim, who was just getting into his dress-coat.
“Don’t throw such a chest, Fatty!” he said genially. “I think you’ve got Raffles whipped to a standstill. But you can’t fool me, and you can’t lose me. By the way, what am I goin’ to do for evenin’ clothes?”
“Dunno. Have to stay up here, I guess. You can’t come to dinner in those togs. It would queer everything.”
“I’m goin’, just the same. Not once do I lose sight of you, old chappie, until you’re safely in the cooler at headquarters. Then your swell friends can bail you out!”
It was time for dinner. The little Dresden china clock on the mantel struck the hour softly, politely. McAllister glanced toward the door. The room was the largest of a suite. A small hall intervened between them and the main corridor. His hand trembled as he lit a Philip Morris.
“Come on, then,” he muttered over his shoulder to Barney, and led the way to the door leading into the bath-room, which was next the door into the hall and identical with it in appearance. He held it politely ajar for the detective, with a smile of resignation.
“Apres vous, mon cher Baron!” he murmured.
The Baron acknowledged the courtesy with an appreciative grin and passed in front of McAllister, but had no sooner done so than he received a violent push into the darkness. McAllister quickly pulled and locked the heavy walnut door, then paused, breathless, listening for some sound. He hoped the feller hadn’t fallen and cut his head against the tub. There was a muffled report, and a bullet sang past and buried itself in the enamelled bedstead. Bang! Another whizzed into the china on the washstand.
McAllister dashed for the corridor, closing both the outer and inner means of egress. At the head of the stairs he met Wainwright.
“What the devil are you fellers tryin’ to do, anyway?” asked the latter. “Sounds as if you were throwin’ dumb-bells at each other.”
McAllister lighted another cigarette.
“Oh, the Baron was showing me how they do ‘savate,’ that kind of boxing with their feet, don’cher know!”
Chubby was entirely himself again. An unusual color suffused his ordinarily pink countenance as he joined the guests waiting for dinner. He explained ruefully that the Baron had been suddenly taken with a sharp pain in his head. It was an old trouble, he informed them, and would soon pass off. The nobleman would join the others presently—as soon as he felt able to do so.
There were murmurs of regret from all sides, since Mrs. Blair had lost no time in spreading the knowledge of the distinguished foreigner’s presence at the house.
“Who’s missing besides the Baron?” inquired Blair, counting heads. “Oh, yes, Miss Benson!”
“Oh, we won’t wait for Mildred! It would make her feel so awkward,” responded his wife. “She and the Baron can come in together. Mr. McAllister, I believe I’m to have the pleasure of being taken in by you!”
“Er—ye—es!” muttered Chubby vaguely, for at the moment he was calculating how long it would have taken that other Baron, the famous Trenk, to dig his way out of a porcelain bath-tub. “Too beastly bad about de Ville, but these French fellows, they don’t have the advantage of our athletic sports to keep ’em in condition. Do you know, I hardly ever get off my peck? All due to taking regular exercise.”
The party made their way to the dining-room and were distributed in their various places. As McAllister was pushing in the chair of his hostess his eye fell upon a servant who was performing the same office for a lady opposite. Could it be? He adjusted his monocle. There was no doubt about it. It was Wilkins. And now the detective was locked in the bath-room, and the burglar, his own double, would probably pass him the soup.
“What a jolly mess!” ejaculated the bewildered guest under his breath, sinking into his chair and mechanically bolting a caviare hors-d’œuvre. He drained his sherry and tried to grasp the whole significance of the situation.
“I do hope the Baron is feeling better by this time,” he heard Mrs. Blair remark. He was about to make an appropriately sympathetic reply when Miss Benson came hurriedly into the room, paused at the foot of the table and grasped the back of a chair for support. She had lost all her color, and her hands and voice trembled with excitement.
“It’s gone!” she gasped. “Stolen! My mother’s pearl necklace! I had it on the bureau just before tea! Oh, what shall I do!” She burst into hysterical sobs.
Two or three women gave little shrieks and pushed back their chairs.
“My tiara!” exclaimed one.
“And my diamond sun-burst! I left it right on a book on the dressing-table!” cried another.
There was a general move from the table.
“O Gordon! Do you think there are burglars in the house?” called Mrs. Blair to her husband.
“Heaven knows!” he replied. “There may be. But don’t let’s get excited. Miss Benson may possibly be mistaken, or she may have mislaid the necklace. What do you suggest, McAllister?”
“Well,” replied our hero, keeping a careful eye upon Wilkins, “the first thing is to learn how much is missing. Why don’t these ladies go right upstairs and see if they’ve lost anything? Meanwhile, we’d all better sit down and finish our soup.”
“Good idea!” returned Blair. “I’ll go with them.”
The three hurriedly left the room, and the rest of the guests, with the exception of Miss Benson, seated themselves once more.
Everybody began to talk at once. By George! The Benson pearls stolen! Why, they were worth twenty thousand dollars thirty years ago in Rome. You couldn’t buy them now for love or money. Well, she had better sit down and eat something, anyway—a glass of wine, just to revive her spirits. Miss Benson was finally persuaded by her anxious hostess to sit down and “eat something.” Mrs. Blair was very much upset. How awkward to have such a thing happen at one’s first house party.
The searchers presently returned with the word that apparently nothing else had been taken. This had a beneficial effect on the general appetite.
Meanwhile McAllister had been watching Wilkins. Wilkins had been watching McAllister. Since that Christmas in the Tombs they had not seen each other. The valet was unchanged, save, of course, that his beard was gone. He moved silently from place to place, nothing betraying the agitation he must have felt at the realization that he was discovered. People were all shouting encouragement to Miss Benson. There was a great chatter and confusion. The tearful and hysterical Mildred was making pitiful little dabs at the viands forced upon her. Meanwhile the dinner went on. McAllister’s seat commanded the door, and he could see, through the swinging screen, that there was no exit to the kitchen from the pantry.
Wilkins approached with the fish. As the valet bent forward and passed the dish to his former master McAllister whispered sharply in his ear:
The Victorian Villains Megapack Page 43
