by Otto Penzler
Anthony Newton was a very keen student of men, particularly of rich men. He had studied them from many angles, and one of the first lessons he learnt in presenting a claim, was to exonerate these gentlemen from any legal responsibility. The rich hate and loathe the onus of legal responsibility. They will spend extravagant sums in law costs to demonstrate to the satisfaction of themselves and the world that they are not legally responsible for the payment of a boot-black’s fee. The joy of wealth is generosity. There was never a millionaire born who would not prefer to give a thousand than to pay a disputed penny.
Mr. Mansar’s puckered face relaxed.
“I shall certainly not allow you to be the loser, Mr.—”
“Newton is my name.”
“Newton. You are not in the firm of Newton, Boyd, and Wilkins, are you, the rubber people?”
“No,” said Anthony. “I never touch rubber.”
“You are not the pottery Newton, are you?” asked Mr. Mansar hopefully.
“No,” said Anthony gravely, “we have always kept clear of pots.”
After Mr. Mansar had, by cross-examination, discovered that he wasn’t one of the Warwickshire Newtons, or Monmouth Newtons, or a MacNewton of Ayr, or one of those Irish Newtons, or a Newton of Newton Abbot, but was just an ordinary London Newton, his interest momentarily relaxed.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “what shall we do?”
The girl smiled.
“I think at least we ought to ask Mr. Newton to lunch,” she said and the old man, who seemed at a loss as to how the proceedings might reasonably be terminated or developed, brightened up at the suggestion.
“I noticed that you mentioned me by name. Of course, my daughter told you—” he said.
Anthony smiled.
“No, sir,” he replied, “but I know the city rather well and, of course, your residence in this part of the world is as well known as—”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Gerald Mansar. He had no false ideas as to his fame. The man who had engineered the Nigerian oil boom, the Irish linen boom, who floated the Milwaukee paper syndicate for two millions, could have no illusions about his obscurity.
“You are in the city yourself, Mr. Newton?”
“Yes,” admitted Anthony.
He was in the city to the extent of hiring an office on a first floor of a city building; and it was true he had his name painted on the door. It was an office not big enough to swing a cat, as one of his acquaintances had pointed out. Anthony however, did not keep cats. And if he had kept them, he would certainly have never been guilty of such cruelty.
The lunch was not an unpleasant function, for a quite unexpected factor had come into his great scheme. Nobody knew better than Anthony Newton that it was Mr. Mansar himself who every Saturday morning drove the Daimler into Pullington, and when Anthony had purchased his racketty car, spending many hours in the application of “Binko” to endow it with a more youthful complexion, he had not dreamt that the adventure would end so pleasantly. He knew that Mr. Millionaire Mansar had a daughter—he had a vague idea that somebody had told him she was pretty. He did not anticipate when he engineered his accident so carefully, that it would be at her expense.
For, whatever else he was, Anthony Newton was an honest adventurer. He had decided that there was money in honest adventure; he had reached this conclusion after he had made a careful study of the press. There were other adventurers whose names figured conspicuously in the police court reports. They were all ingenious and painstaking men, but their ingenuity and foresight were employed in ways which made no appeal to one who had strict, but not too strict, views on the sacredness of property.
Some of these adventurers had walked into isolated post offices, a mask over their faces and a revolver in their hands and had carried off the contents of the till, amidst the loud protests of postal officials who were on the spot. Others had walked into banks similarly disguised and had drawn out balances which were certainly not due to them.
And Anthony, thinking out the matter, decided that it was quite possible, by the exercise of his mental talent, to secure quite a lot of money without taking the slightest risks.
He wished to know Mr. Mansar. Mr. Mansar, in ordinary circumstances, was unapproachable. To step into his office and demand an interview was almost as futile as stepping up to the stamp counter in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and asking to see the Postmaster-General. Mr. Mansar was surrounded by guards, inner and outer, by secretaries, by heads of departments, by general managers and managing directors, to say nothing of commissionaires, doorkeepers, messengers, and plain clerks.
There are two ways of getting acquainted with the great. One is to discover their hobbies, which is the weakest side of their defence, and the other is to drop in upon them on their holidays. The man you cannot meet in the City of London is very accessible in the Hotel de la Paix.
But apparently Mr. Mansar never took a holiday, and his only hobby was keeping alive an illusion of his profound genius.
Lunch over, and Anthony’s object achieved, there seemed no excuse for his lingering. He awaited, with some confidence, the grave intimation that a car was ready to take him to the station, and that Mr. Mansar would be glad if he would dine with him at his London house on Thursday. Maybe it would be Wednesday. Possibly, thought Anthony, the function might be deferred for a week or two. But the intimation did not come. He was treated as though he had arrived for a permanent stay.
Mr. Mansar showed him the library, and told him to make himself comfortable, pointing out certain books which had amused him (Mr. Mansar) in his moments of leisure.
Anthony Newton cooed and settled himself, not perhaps to read, but to think large and beautiful thoughts of great financial coups which he might engineer with this prince of financiers, of partnerships maybe, certainly of profits.
There was a big window looking out upon a marble terrace and as he read, or pretended to read, Mr. and Miss Mansar paced restlessly along the paved walk. They were talking in a low voice and Anthony, having surrendered all sense of decorum, crept nearer to the window and listened as they passed.
“He is much better looking than the last one,” murmured Jane, and he saw Mr. Mansar nod.
Much better looking than the last one? Anthony scratched his head.
Presently they came back.
“He has a very clever face,” said Jane, and Mr. Mansar grunted.
Anthony had not the slightest doubt as to whom they were talking about. When she said “clever face” he knew it was himself.
They did not return again, and Anthony waited on, a little impatient, a little curious; he had decided that he himself would make a move to go, when Mr. Mansar came into the library and carefully closed the door behind him.
“I want a little talk with you, Mr. Newton,” he said solemnly. “It has occurred to me that you might be of the very greatest service to my firm.”
Anthony cleared his throat. The same thought had occurred to him also.
“Do you know Brussels at all?”
“Intimately,” said Anthony promptly. He had never been to Brussels, but he knew that he could get a working knowledge of the city from any guide book.
Mr. Mansar stroked his chin, pursed his lips, frowned, and then:
“It is providential, your arriving,” he said. “I have a very confidential mission which I have been looking for somebody to undertake. In fact, I thought of going to town this afternoon to find a man for the purpose but, as I say, your arrival has been miraculously providential. I have been discussing it with my daughter, I hope you will forgive that little impertinence,” he said, courteously.
Anthony Newton forgave him there and then.
“My daughter, who is a judge of character, is rather impressed by you.”
It was clear to Anthony now that he had been the subject of the conversation he had overheard. He was tingling with curiosity to discover exactly the nature of the mission which was to be entrusted to him. Mr. Mansar did not keep him wai
ting long.
“I want you to go by tonight’s train to Brussels. You will arrive on Sunday morning, and remain there until Wednesday morning. Have you sufficient money for your journey?”
“Oh, yes,” said Anthony, airily.
“Good.” Mr. Mansar nodded gravely, as though he had never had any doubt upon the matter. “You will carry with you a sealed envelope, which you will open on Wednesday morning in the presence of my Brussels agent, Monsieur Lament, of the firm of Lament and Lament, the great financiers, of whom you must have heard.”
“Naturally,” said Anthony.
“I want you to keep your mission a secret, tell nobody, you understand?”
Anthony understood perfectly.
“I leave the method of travel to you. There is a train to London in half an hour; here is the letter.”
He took it from his inside pocket. It was addressed to Mr. Anthony Newton, and marked “To be opened in the presence of Monsieur Cecil Lament, 119, Rue Partriele, Brussels.”
“I do not promise you that you will be paid very well or even be paid at all, for undertaking this mission,” said the millionaire. “But I rather fancy this experience will be useful to you in more ways than one.”
Anthony detected a certain significance in this cautious promise and smiled happily.
“I think I’ll go along now, sir,” he said briskly. “When I carry out these missions—and as you may guess, this is not the first time that I have been—entrusted with important errands—I prefer that I should lose no time.”
“I think you’re wise,” said Mr. Mansar soberly.
Anthony hoped to see the girl before he went, but here he was disappointed. It was a very ordinary chauffeur who drove him to the station and, passing the wreckage of his car stranded in the ditch, Anthony did not regret one single penny of his expenditure. Anyway, the car would still sell for the price of old iron.
He reached Brussels in time for breakfast on Sunday morning, and on the Monday he made a call at Monsieur Lament’s office. Monsieur Lament was a short, stout man, with a large and bushy beard, and seemed surprised at the advent of this spruce and mysterious young Englishman.
“From M’sieur Mansar,” he said with respect, even veneration. “M’sieur Mansar did not tell me he was sending anybody. Is it in connection with the Rentes?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” said Anthony discreetly. “In fact, sir, I am, so to speak, under sealed orders.”
Monsieur Lament heard the explanation and nodded.
“I honour your discretion, M’sieur,” he said. “Now is there anything I can do for you while you are in Brussels? Perhaps you would dine with me tonight at my club.”
Anthony was very happy to dine with him at his club, because he had brought with him a grossly insufficient sum to pay his expenses.
Over the dinner that night, Monsieur Lament spoke reverently of the great English financier.
“What a wonderful man,” he said, with an expressive gesture. “You are a friend of his, M’sieur Newton?”
“Not exactly a friend,” said Anthony carefully, “how can one be a friend of a monument? One can only stand at a distance and admire.”
“True, true,” said the thoughtful Monsieur Lament. “He is indeed, a remarkable character. And his daughter—” he kissed the tips of his fingers, “what charm, what intelligence, what beauty!”
“Ah!” said Anthony, “what!”
So charming a companion was he, that Monsieur Lament asked him to lunch with him the next day, and this time the Belgian showed some curiosity as to the object of Anthony’s visit.
“Is it in connection with the Turkish loan?” he asked.
Anthony smiled.
“You will, I am sure, agree with me that I must maintain the utmost secrecy,” he said firmly.
“Naturally! Of course! Certainly!” said Monsieur Lament hastily. “I honour your discretion. But if it is in connection with the Turkish loan, or the Viennese Municipal loan—”
Anthony raised his hand with a gesture of gentle insistence.
Monsieur Lament dissolved into apologies.
Anthony was himself curious and he attended M. Lament’s office on Wednesday morning with a joyous sense of anticipation.
In that rosewood-panelled room standing with his back to the white marble fireplace, he tore the flap of the envelope with fingers that shook, for he realised that he might be at the very crisis of his career; and that his good plan to drop into financial society had succeeded beyond his wildest hope.
To his amazement, the letter was from Jane Mansar, and he read it, open-mouthed.
Dear Mr. Newton:
Daddy wants to hand you over to the police or have you ducked in the pond. I chose this method of giving you a graceful exit from the scene, because I feel that such a man of genius and valour should not be subjected to so ignominious a fate. You are the thirty-fourth person who has secured an introduction to my father by novel, and in some cases, painful, methods. I have been rescued from terrifying tramps (who have been hired by my rescuer) some six times. I have been pushed into the river and rescued twice. Daddy has had three people accidentally wounded by him when he has been shooting rabbits, and at least five who have got into the way of his car when he has been driving between the house and the station.
We do recognize and appreciate the novelty of your method, and I confess that for a moment I was deceived by the artistic wreckage of your poor little car. To make absolutely sure that I was not doing you an injustice, I telephoned the local garage, and found, as I expected, that you had kept the car there for a fortnight before the “accident.” Poor Mr. Newton, better luck next time.
Yours sincerely,
Jane Mansar.
Anthony read the letter three times, and then looked mechanically at the slip of paper which was enclosed. It ran:
To MONSIEUR LAMENT,
Pay Mr. Anthony Newton a sum sufficient to enable him to reach London, and to support him on the journey.
Gerald Mansar.
Monsieur Lament was watching the dazed young man.
“Is it important?” he asked eagerly. “Is it to be communicated to me?”
Anthony was never wholly overcome by the most tremendous circumstances. He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, looked at the slip again.
“I regret that I cannot tell you all that this contains,” he said. “I am leaving immediately for Berlin. From Berlin I go to Vienna, from Vienna to Istanbul; from there I must make a hurried journey to Rome, and from Rome I have to get to Tangier. Then I shall reach Gibraltar in a month’s time, and fly to England.”
He handed the slip to Monsieur Lament.
“Pay Mr. Anthony Newton a sufficient sum to enable him to reach London and support him on the journey.”
Monsieur Lament looked at Anthony. “How much will you require, M’sieur?” he asked respectfully.
“About nine hundred pounds, I think,” said Anthony softly.
Monsieur Lament gave him the money then and there and when Mansar got the account he was justifiably annoyed.
He came into Jane, storming.
“That…that…” he spluttered, “rascal…”
“Which rascal, Daddy, you know so many,” she was half smiling.
“Newton…as you know, I gave Lament an order to pay his expenses to London?”
She nodded.
“Well, he drew nine hundred pounds.”
The girl opened her eyes with joyous amazement.
“He told Lament that he was coming home by way of Berlin, Vienna, Istanbul, and Rome,” groaned Mr. Mansar. “Thank God the trans-Siberian railway isn’t working!” he added. It was the one source of comfort he had.
Rogues (?): Doctors
The Fifteen Murderers
BEN HECHT
THE REMARKABLE BEN HECHT (1894–1964) was a child prodigy on the violin, giving a concert in Chicago at the age of ten. As a young teenager, he spent his summer vacations in Wisconsin touring as
an acrobat with a small circus. He ran away to Chicago at sixteen, owning and managing an “art theater” before becoming a successful journalist, first as a crime reporter and then as a foreign correspondent.
He was an integral part of the Chicago literary renaissance in the 1920s, writing newspaper columns, short stories, novels, and dramas. Cowriting The Front Page with Charles MacArthur made him famous and wealthy; it has been produced on the stage frequently since it opened in New York in 1928 and has served as the basis for numerous motion pictures under its original title and others, including His Girl Friday.
It is fair to say that Hecht was the most successful screenwriter in Hollywood history, both critically and in terms of the popularity of his films. Among his nearly one hundred screen credits are Underworld (1927), winner of the first Academy Award for Original Screenplay, The Front Page (1931), Scarface (1932), Gunga Din (1939), Wuthering Heights (1939), It’s a Wonderful World (1939), Spellbound (1945), Notorious (1946), and Kiss of Death (1947). Films on which he worked extensively but did not receive screen credit include Stagecoach (1939), Gone With the Wind (1939), Foreign Correspondent (1940), The Thing from Another World (1951), The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1956), and Mutiny on the Bounty (1962).
“The Fifteen Murderers” was first published in the January 16, 1943, issue of Collier’s Magazine. It was first collected in The Collected Stories of Ben Hecht as “The Miracle of the Fifteen Murderers” (New York, Crown, 1945).
THE FIFTEEN MURDERERS
Ben Hecht
THERE IS ALWAYS an aura of mystery to the conclaves of medical men. One may wonder whether the secrecy with which the fraternity surrounds its gatherings is designed to keep the layman from discovering how much it knows or how much it doesn’t know. Either knowledge would be unnerving to that immemorial guinea pig who submits himself to the abracadabras of chemicals, scalpels, and incantations under the delusion he is being cured rather than explored.
