by Otto Penzler
“There’s many a slip, my dear Count, many a slip.”
“Banal.” The Count paused, and then with startling suddenness he asked: “How did you know my name?”
If he thought to catch Blackshirt off his guard he was mistaken, for by this time the prisoner had planned his campaign, though with a sinking heart he realised that even if he were successful in persuading the Count that he was there only for a commonplace burglary, the more he did so the more likely it would be that the Count would have him arrested.
For a brief moment he thought of buying his liberty with his knowledge of the Count’s secret intrigues, but this he dismissed almost as soon as it occurred to him.
“An up-to-date and modern housebreaker plans his attack with as much care and foresight as a field-marshal directing his army. I have been watching this house for the last two or three weeks, so naturally I knew who you were directly you appeared so disconcertingly from behind the portière.”
The Count blew a swirling, eddying smoke-ring into the air, and, watching it, he inquired casually: “And the desk, monsieur—did you expect to find many Bank of England notes there?”
Blackshirt laughed scornfully.
“Scarcely. There are sometimes papers which are more valuable than banknotes.”
He was watching the Count intently, and saw him stiffen up with an infinitesimal start. For a moment his glance rested piercingly upon his unexpected visitor, only to look casually away again, and Blackshirt knew that the Count’s suspicions were now thoroughly aroused, a point to which he had been working.
“Papers!” asked the Count. “What kind of papers?”
“Letters, Count de Rogeri, letters! You are a woman’s man.”
It was a shot in the dark, but it hit home.
“Perhaps, and so——”
“Sometimes letters pass between a man and his mistress. Such letters are valuable.”
“Blackmail!” The Count laughed sneeringly, but Blackshirt detected the note of relief in his voice. His suspicions, roused to a point when they became almost certainties, were suddenly allayed. Even so he meant to take no chances.
“And may I ask whether you were successful?”
Blackshirt became suddenly despondent.
“I regret to say you arrived about five or ten minutes too soon. That pretty desk of yours has an unusually tough lock, and I had been unable to crack it when you made your appearance.”
Still keeping Blackshirt covered, the Count warily crossed to the desk and tried it, and notwithstanding his expressionless face, Blackshirt caught the relief which he could not keep from his eyes.
With the knowledge that he was safe he became instantly more domineering, more the man with the whip-hand. Before he had been merely fencing, not sure of his ground.
“Now we will quit fooling. What is your name?”
“That, Count de Rogeri, is a thing that many would like to know, which many have tried to discover. They have been singularly unsuccessful.”
“Perhaps they did not have you at the wrong end of a revolver, as have I.”
“A forcible argument, I admit. Under the circumstances I suppose it is necessary for me to tell you that my name is Blackshirt.”
“Ah, Blackshirt! I had the pleasure of reading about you in tonight’s paper. Well, well! Supposing you take off that mask! I remember now that the paper stated that you had never been seen without a mask.”
“I regret I must refuse, however much it might be my pleasure to do you the honour, Count de Rogeri, of being the first one of having that privilege.”
The Count thrust his chin a little forward. “You will take that mask off, or——” He patted his revolver significantly. “It would be quite easy for me to look at your face afterwards.”
“That would be murder, and murder is a hanging matter in England.”
The Count chuckled unpleasantly. “Not murder, my dear Blackshirt, but justifiable manslaughter. I have another revolver upstairs. It would be only necessary to put it in your hand to prove my point.”
Blackshirt felt tiny beads of perspiration forcing themselves through his skin, and despair took hold of him. Unfortunately he knew that what the Count had said was only too true. There would be no witnesses to prove that he had been deliberately murdered. In his own mind he believed the Count thoroughly capable of doing what he had threatened. Discovery seemed inevitable. His glance wandered desperately away from the penetrating gaze of his captor.
What was it he had just said to himself? “Discovery seemed inevitable!” Perhaps; but not this evening, for he had just seen a tiny, shapely hand creeping slowly round the edge of the portière and shake a warning to him.
At all costs he must delay the evil moment for unmasking for just a few seconds. Perhaps rescue was at hand, for otherwise why the stealthy attitude of the person behind the curtain?
“Count de Rogeri, I admit defeat. You have got the better of me.”
“Very kind of you to grant me that,” answered the other sarcastically, “but the mask—I am waiting.”
Whoever was behind the curtain was gradually advancing into view, and Blackshirt suddenly thrilled. It was a woman.
“Please give me half a minute,” he asked desperately, “while I explain my circumstances to you. Count de Rogeri, I am rich and wealthy. I move in your own circle. I, too, am a gentleman, and I carry on my midnight adventures for the sake of excitement only.”
The woman was heavily veiled. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed this fact, and saw, too, that she was still steadily moving forward. Another three yards—no, two and a half yards, and she would be behind the Count.
“You would not like to go to prison any more than I. It must be hateful! Think of it, seven years of torture; seven years of damnation, perhaps more, and it will be on your conscience that you have sent me there. Please, please,” he cried, in an agonised voice, “let me go!”
The woman was almost behind the Count now; another step or two, and the scarf which she was holding in both hands would be around her quarry.
“Bah! A coward!” The scorn in his voice was galling, and, acting up to his part, Blackshirt straightened up suddenly as if the moral blow had gone home, glanced despairingly at the revolver, and slumped again into a dejected attitude.
The Count sneered again, and relaxed the tension of the hand which was holding the weapon.
At that moment the mysterious new-comer stretched out her arms and enveloped the Count’s face with a scarf, and simultaneously Blackshirt sprang forward and wrested the revolver from the Count’s grasp. The tables were turned.
“You can let him go,” said Blackshirt to his unknown rescuer, and covered the Count with the pistol.
Trembling with rage and fury, the Count gazed evilly at him.
“Not quite such a coward, eh, Count de Rogeri?” mocked Blackshirt, and the Count realised that his late captive had been acting a part.
“I am sorry I can’t ask you to unmask or anything of that sort,” continued Blackshirt, “but I am afraid it will be necessary for me to request that you sit on one of those chairs, and perhaps my lady friend, as she has evidently come here to rescue me, will kindly tie your arms and legs securely. No, not that scarf. It doesn’t do to leave behind a possible clue. His own silk handkerchief will do quite well, whilst I can supply another one which is absolutely unmarked.”
In another few seconds, Count de Rogeri was trussed hand and foot to one of his own chairs, and gagged by one of his own cushion-covers.
Blackshirt gazed at their joint work admiringly. “I trust that you are perfectly comfortable, Count de Rogeri, for I am afraid you will be under the painful necessity of remaining in the same attitude until your servants awake to release you, and as you are a ladies’ man, and probably sleep late, it would not surprise me if they were not more or less later than the usual household.
“I am sorry that I was not able to unmask, but had I done so I should have felt more like Cinderella, who was chan
ged from the belle of the ballroom, dressed in silks and jewellery, into a poor little scullery-maid. So should I have ceased to be unknown, and doubtless would have spent seven long years in prison through your instrumentality. Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte, or should I say ‘Adieu’?” The next moment Blackshirt and his rescuer disappeared.
In the front, securely hidden from prying eyes by a large elm tree, they stopped.
“Say, I’ll tell the world that that was the cutest piece of play I have ever seen!” said the woman suddenly.
Blackshirt started with delight. “My Lady of the ’Phone!” he muttered involuntarily.
“Say, is that what you call me? Well, now, isn’t that sweet?”
Blackshirt felt his cheeks flushing, and was glad of the protecting darkness.
“You may remove your mask, Mr. Verrell,” continued the other, “and we had best be on our way before any further unpleasant events transpire.”
“And if I do,” he whispered softly, “will you not lift your veil?”
“I should say not!” she answered decisively.
“Oh, won’t you, please?” he pleaded, but she shook her head.
“Then you will ’phone me up?”
“I will.”
“Very often?” he said, catching her hand within his own.
For a moment she left it there, and Blackshirt felt the warmth of her soft fingers stealing into his, even through his gloves; then she withdrew it.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, so softly that it sounded more like the sighing of the wind.
He swayed towards her, and the magic of the moment gripped them both. Shaking in every limb, his arms crept slowly towards and around her, and for one brief moment she stood there, a trembling, palpitating woman. Just then a distant church clock struck the hour of five.
She pushed him away sharply.
“Quick! You go along to the wall and see if the coast is clear, and I will follow you, and you can help me over.”
“Yes, yes, I will do that; but before we go tell me how did you know where I was, and that I was in such an awkward situation?”
“That is my secret,” she answered gaily. “Now go.”
“But you must tell me,” he commanded.
“I will—one day.” And she pushed him forward with her hands, and he knew her answer was final.
He crept towards the wall, and, observing that there was no one near, he leapt lightly over and turned round to assist his Lady of the ’Phone, but she had disappeared. He waited half a minute, but when there was still no sign of her he knew that she intended to remain the mystery that she was.
He tore off the mask from his face, and slipped off his black silk gloves, turned up the collar of his light rainproof, and sprung out his opera hat, which fitted into a special pocket of the coat. This he set rakishly upon his head, and became once again a gentleman of the world as he started home.
“Curse that clock!” he muttered savagely.
—
In the garage at the end of Maddox Gardens a bewildered chauffeur scratched his head and gazed, bewitched, at the car in front of him. “Well, I never!” he muttered, “but I could have swore that I cleaned the car last night!”
Rogue: Anthony Newton
On Getting an Introduction
EDGAR WALLACE
“ANTHONY NEWTON was a soldier at sixteen; at twenty-six he was a beggar of favors.” Thus Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875–1932) introduces the young man who finds success as a con man and thief. After his military service, Newton makes every effort to gain honest employment but without luck. He does find that his quick wit and amusing tongue make him a successful scam artist, so he devotes his energies to that endeavor.
Newton is merely one of many rogues created by Wallace. As a populist writer, Wallace found that common people related to his rogues—criminals who were not violent or physically dangerous but whose talents and inclinations led them to the other side of the law. Others include Anthony Smith (The Mixer, 1927), “Elegant” Edward Farthindale (Elegant Edward, 1928), and Four Square Jane (Four Square Jane, 1929). Readers rooted for these and other of Wallace’s numerous literary criminals, who always stole from the wealthy and powerful.
The prolific Wallace reputedly wrote one hundred seventy novels, eighteen stage plays, nine hundred fifty-seven short stories, and elements of numerous screenplays and scenarios, including the first British sound version of The Hound of the Baskervilles; one hundred sixty films, both silent and sound, have been based on his books and stories.
“On Getting an Introduction” was first published in The Brigand (London, Hodder & Stoughton, 1927).
ON GETTING AN INTRODUCTION
Edgar Wallace
POLITE BRIGANDAGE has its novel aspects and its moments of fascination. Vulgar men, crudely furnished in the matter of ideas, may find profit in violence, but the more subtle and the more delicate nuances of the art of gentle robbery had an especial attraction for one who, in fulfilment of the poet’s ambition, could count the game before the prize.
So it came about that Mr. Newton found himself in an awkward situation. The two near wheels of his car were in a ditch; he with some difficulty had maintained himself at the steering wheel, though the branches of the overhanging hedge were so close to him that he had to twist his head on one side. Nevertheless, he maintained an attitude of supreme dignity as he climbed out of his car, and the eyes that met the girl’s alarmed gaze were full of gentle reproach.
She sat bolt upright at the wheel of her beautiful Daimler, and for a while was speechless.
“You were on the wrong side of the road,” said Tony gently.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she gasped. “I sounded my horn, but these wretched Sussex lanes are so blind…”
“Say no more about it,” said Anthony. He surveyed the ruins of his car gravely.
“I thought you would see me as you came down the hill,” she said in excuse. “I saw you and I sounded my horn.”
“I didn’t hear it,” said Anthony, “but that is beside the question. The fault is entirely mine, but I fear my poor car is completely ruined.”
She got out and stood beside him, the figure of penitence, her eyes fixed upon the drunken wreck.
“If I had not turned immediately into the ditch,” said Anthony, “there would have been a collision. And it is better that I should ruin my car than I should occasion you the slightest apprehension.”
She drew a quick sigh.
“Thank goodness it is only an old car,” she said. “Of course, Daddy will—”
Anthony could not allow the statement to pass unchallenged.
“It looks old now,” he said gently; “it looks even decrepit. It has all the appearance of ruin which old age, alas, brings, but it is not an old car.”
“It is an old model,” she insisted. “Why, that’s about twenty years old—I can tell from the shape of the wing.”
“The wings of my car,” said Anthony, “may be old fashioned. I am an old fashioned man, and I like old fashioned wings. In fact, I insisted upon having those old fashioned wings put on this perfectly new car. You have only to look at the beautiful coach work—the lacquer—”
“You lacquered it yourself,” she accused him. “Anybody can see that that has been newly done.” She touched the paint with her finger, and it left a little black stain. “There,” she said triumphantly, “It has been done with ‘Binko,’ you can see the advertisements in all the papers: ‘Binko dries in two hours.’ ” She touched the paint again and looked at the second stain on her finger. “That means you painted it a fortnight ago,” she said, “it always takes a month to dry.”
Anthony said nothing. He felt that her discovery called for silence. Moreover, he could not, for the moment, think of any appropriate rejoinder.
“Of course,” she went on more warmly, “it was very fine of you to take such a dreadful risk. My father, I know, will be very grateful.”
She looked at the car again.
&
nbsp; “You don’t think you could get it up,” she said.
Anthony was very sure he could not restore the equilibrium of his car. He had bought it a week before for thirty pounds. The owner had stuck out for thirty-five, and Anthony had tossed him thirty pounds or forty, and had won. Anthony always won those tosses. He kept a halfpenny in his pocket which had a tail on each side, and since ninety-nine people out of a hundred say “heads” when you flip a coin in the air, it was money for nothing.
“Shall I drive you into Pilbury?” she said.
“Is there anywhere I can find a telephone?” asked Anthony.
“I’ll take you back to the house,” said Jane Mansar suddenly. “It’s quite near, you can telephone from there, and I’d like you to have a talk with father. Of course, we will not allow you to lose by your unselfish action, though I did sound my horn as I came round the corner.”
“I didn’t hear it,” said Anthony gravely.
He climbed in, and she backed the car into a gateway, turned and sped at a reckless pace back the way she had come. She turned violently from the road, missed one of the lodge gates by a fraction of an inch and accelerated up a broad drive to a big white house that showed sketchily between the encircling elms. She braked suddenly and Anthony got out with relief.
Mr. Gerald Mansar was a stout, bald man, whose fiery countenance was relieved by a pure white moustache and bristling white eyebrows. He listened with thunderous calm whilst his pretty daughter told the story of her narrow escape.
“You sounded your horn?” he insisted.
“Yes, father, I am sure I sounded the horn.”
“And you were going, of course, at a reasonable pace,” said Mr. Mansar.
In his early days he had had some practice at the law in the County Courts. Anthony Newton recognised the style and felt it was an appropriate moment to step in.
“You quite understand, Mr. Mansar, that I completely exonerate Miss Mansar from any responsibility,” he interjected. “I am perfectly sure she sounded the horn, though I did not hear it. I am completely satisfied and can vouch for the fact that she was proceeding at a very leisurely pace, and whatever fault there was, was mine.”
