Works of Sax Rohmer Page 31

  Rohscheimer’s mind was a furious chaos. Had the horrors of the night been no more than a dream, after all?

  Sheard, of the Gleaner, pressed forward and grasped both his hands. Rohscheimer became ghastly pale.

  “Mr. Rohscheimer,” said the pressman, “England is proud of you! On such occasions as this, all formality — all formality — is swept away. A great man is great anywhere — at any time, any place, in any garb! I have Mrs. Rohscheimer’s permission, and therefore am honoured to introduce to this apartment the Premier, the Most Honourable the Marquess of Evershed!”

  Trembling wildly, fighting down a desire to laugh, to scream, Rohscheimer stood and looked toward the door.

  The Marquess entered.

  He wore the familiar grey frock-coat, with the red rose in his buttonhole, as made famous by Punch. His massive head he carried very high, looking downward through the pebbles of the gold-rimmed pince-nez.

  “No apologies, Mr. Rohscheimer!” he began, hand raised forensically. “Positively I will listen to no apologies! This entire absence of formality — showing that you had not anticipated my visit — delights me, confirms me in my estimation of your character. For it reveals you as a man actuated by the purest motive which can stir the human heart. I refer to love of country — patriotism.”

  He paused, characteristically thrusting two fingers into his watch-pocket. Sheard wrote furiously. Julius Rohscheimer fought for air.

  “The implied compliment, Mr. Rohscheimer,” continued the Premier, “to myself, is deeply appreciated. I am, of course, aware that the idea of this fund was suggested to its promoters by my speech at Portsmouth regarding England’s danger. The promptitude of the Gleaner newspaper in opening a subscription list is only less admirable than your own in making so munificent a donation.

  “My policy during my present term of office, as you are aware, Mr. Rohscheimer, has been different, wholly different, from that of my immediate predecessor. I have placed the necessity of Britain’s ruling, not only the seas, but the air, in the forefront of my programme — —”

  “Hear, hear!” murmured Sheard.

  “And this substantial support from such men as yourself is very gratifying to me. I cannot recall any incident in recent years which has afforded me such keen pleasure. It is such confirmation of one’s hopes that he acts for the welfare of his fellow-countrymen which purifies and exalts political life. And in another particular where my policy has differed from that of my friends opposite — I refer to my encouragement of foreign immigration — I have been nobly confirmed.

  “Baron Hague, in recognition of the commercial support and protection which our British hospitality has accorded to him, contributes fifty thousand pounds to the further safeguarding of our national, though most catholic, interests. At an early hour this morning, Mr. Rohscheimer, I was aroused by a special messenger from the Gleaner newspaper, who brought me this glorious news of your noble, your magnificent, response to my — to our — appeal. Casting ceremony to the winds, I hastened hither. Mr. Rohscheimer — your hand!”

  At that, Rohscheimer was surrounded.

  “Socially,” Haredale murmured in his ear, “you are made!”

  “Financially,” groaned Rohscheimer, “I’m broke!”

  Mrs. Rohscheimer, in elegant décolletée, appeared among the excited throng. She was anxious for a sight of her husband, whom she was convinced had gone mad. Sheard thrust his way to the financier’s side.

  “Is there anything you would care to say for our next edition?” he enquired, a notebook in his hand. “We’re having a full-page photograph, and — —”

  Crash! Crackle! Crackle! Crackle! A blinding light leapt up.

  “My God! What’s that?”

  “All right,” said Sheard. “Only our photographer doing a flash. If there’s anything you’d like to say, hurry up, because I’m off to interview Baron Hague.”

  “Say that I believe I’ve gone mad!” groaned the financier, clutching his hair, “and that I’m damn sure Hague has!”

  Sheard laughed, treating the words as a witticism, and hurried away. Mrs. Rohscheimer approached and bent over her husband.

  “Have you pains in your head, dear?” she inquired anxiously.

  “No!” snapped Rohscheimer. “I’ve got a pain in my pocket! I’m a ruined man! I’ll be the laughing-stock of the whole money market!”

  Adeler reappeared.

  “Adeler,” said Rohscheimer, “get the rest of the people out of the house! And, Adeler” — he glanced about him— “what did you do with those cards that were on the table, here?”

  Adeler stared.

  “Cards, Mr. Rohscheimer? I saw none.”

  “Who came in here first this morning? Who woke me up?”

  “I.”

  Rohscheimer studied the pale, intellectual face of his secretary with uneasy curiosity.

  “And there were no cards on the table — no cheque-book?”

  “No.”

  “Sure you were first in?”

  “I am not sure, but I think so. I found you fast asleep, at any rate.”

  “Why do you ask, dear?” said Mrs. Rohscheimer in growing anxiety.

  “Just for a lark!” snapped her husband sourly. “I want to make Adeler laugh!”

  Haredale, who, failing Rohscheimer or Mrs. Rohscheimer, did the honours of the house in Park Lane, returned from having conducted the Marquess to his car. He carried a first edition copy of the Gleaner.

  “They’ve managed to get it in, even in this one,” he said. “When did you send the cheque — early last evening?”

  “Don’t talk about it!” implored Rohscheimer.

  “Why?” inquired Haredale curiously. “You must have seen your way to something big before you spent so much money. It was a great idea! You’re certain of a knighthood, if not something bigger. But I wonder you kept it dark from me.”

  “Ah!” said Rohscheimer. “Do you?”

  “Very much. It’s a situation that calls for very delicate handling. Hitherto, because of certain mortgages, the Marquess has not prohibited his daughter visiting here, with the Oppners or Vignoles; but you’ve forced him, now, to recognise you in propria persona. He cannot very well withhold a title; but you’ll have to release the mortgage gracefully.”

  “I’ll do it gracefully,” was the reply. “I’m gettin’ plenty of practice at chuckin’ fortunes away, and smilin’!”

  His attitude puzzled Haredale, who glanced interrogatively at Mrs. Rohscheimer. She shook her head in worried perplexity.

  “Go and get dressed, dear,” said Rohscheimer, with much irritation. “I’m not ill; I’ve only turned patriotic.”

  Mrs. Rohscheimer departing, Haredale lingered.

  “Leave me alone a bit, Haredale,” begged the financier. “I want to get used to bein’ a bloomin’ hero! Send Lawson up in half an hour — and you come too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Haredale left the room.

  As the door closed, Rohscheimer turned and looked fully at the wardrobe.

  From the gap pointed a gleaming tube!

  “Ah!”

  He dropped back in his chair. Nothing moved. The activity of the household stirred reassuringly about him. He stood up, crossed to the wardrobe, and threw wide its doors.

  In the pocket of a hanging coat was thrust a nickelled rod from a patent trousers-stretcher, so that it pointed out into the room.

  Rohscheimer stared — and stared — and stared.

  “My God!” he whispered. “He slipped out directly he got the cheque, and I sat here all night — —”

  CHAPTER IX

  ES-SINDIBAD OF CADOGAN GARDENS

  Upon the night following the ill-omened banquet in Park Lane was held a second dinner party, in Cadogan Gardens. Like veritable gourmets, we must be present.

  It is close upon the dining hour.

  “Zoe is late!” said Lady Vignoles.

  “I think not, dear,” her husband corrected her, consulting his celebrated
chronometer. “They have one minute in which to demonstrate the efficiency of American methods!”

  “Thank you — Greenwich!” smiled her vivacious ladyship, whose husband’s love of punctuality was the only trace of character which six months of marital intimacy had enabled her to discover in him.

  “You know,” said Lord Vignoles to Zimmermann, the famous littérateur of the Ghetto, “she is proud of Yankee smartness. Only natural.” And his light blue eyes followed his wife’s pretty figure as she flitted hospitably amongst her guests. Admiration beamed through his monocle.

  “Lady Vignoles is a staunch American,” agreed the novelist. “I gather that your opinion of that nation differs from hers?”

  “Well, you know,” explained his host, “I don’t seriously contend — that is, when Sheila is about — I don’t contend that their methods aren’t smart. But it seems to me that their smartness is all — just — well, d’you see what I mean? Look at these Pinkerton fellows!”

  “Those who you were telling me called upon you this morning?”

  “Yes. They came over with Oppner to look for this Séverac Bablon.”

  “What is your contention?”

  “Well,” said Vignoles, rather flustered at being thus pinned to the point, “I mean to say — they haven’t caught him!”

  “Neither has Scotland Yard!”

  “No, by Jove, you’re right! Scotland Yard hasn’t!”

  “Do you think it likely that Scotland Yard will?” asked the other.

  But Lord Vignoles, having caught his wife’s eye, was performing a humorous grimace, and, watch in hand, delivering a pantomimic indictment of American unpunctuality. At which moment Miss Oppner was announced, and Lady Vignoles made a pretty moue of triumph.

  Zoe Oppner entered the room, regally carrying her small head crowned with the slightly frizzy mop of chestnut hair, conscious of her fine eyes, her perfect features, and her pretty shoulders, happy in her slim young beauty, and withal wholly unaffected. Therein lay her greatest charm. A beautiful woman, fully aware of her loveliness, she was too sensible to be vain of a gift of the gods — to pride herself upon a heavenly accident.

  “Why, Zoe!” said Lady Vignoles, “what’s become of uncle?”

  “Pa couldn’t get,” announced Zoe composedly; “so I came along without him. Told me to apologise, but didn’t explain. I’ve promised to rejoin him early, so I shall have to quit directly after dinner. The car is coming for me.”

  Lord Vignoles looked amused.

  “Les affaires!” he said resignedly. “These Americans!”

  Dinner was announced.

  The usual air of slightly annoyed surprise crept over the faces of the company at the announcement, so that to the uninitiate it would have seemed that no one was hungry. However, they accepted the inevitable.

  Then Vignoles made a discovery.

  “I say, Sheila,” he exclaimed, “where is your American efficiency? We’re thirteen!”

  His wife made a rapid mental calculation and flushed slightly.

  “Anybody might do it!” she pouted; “and it’s uncle’s fault, anyway!”

  “Why!” exclaimed Zoe Oppner, “you’re surely not going to make a fuss over a silly thing like that!”

  “A lot of people don’t like it,” declared Lady Vignoles hurriedly. “I shouldn’t mind, of course, if it happened at somebody else’s house.”

  Zimmermann strolled up to the group.

  “I gather that we number thirteen?” he said.

  “That is so,” replied Vignoles; “but,” dropping his voice, “I don’t think anyone else has noticed it yet.”

  “A romantic idea occurs to me!” smiled the novelist. “I submit it in all deference — —”

  “Oh, go on, Mr. Zimmermann!” cried Zoe, with sparkling eyes.

  “Why not, upon the precedent of our ancient Arabian friend, Es-Sindibad of the Sea, summon to the feast some chance wayfarer?”

  “Oh, I say!” protested the host mildly. “Do you mean to go outside in Cadogan Gardens and stop anybody that comes along?”

  “Well,” said Zimmermann, “it should, strictly, be some pious person who tarries there to extol Allah! But if we waited for such a traveller I fear the soup would be spoiled! You are a gentleman short, I think? So make it, simply, the first gentleman.”

  “But he might be a tramp or a taxi-driver, or worse!” protested Vignoles.

  “That is true,” agreed the other. “So let us determine upon a criterion of respectability. Shall we say the first man, provided he be agreeable, who wears a dress-suit?”

  “That’s just grand!” cried Zoe Oppner enthusiastically. “It’s too cute for anything! Oh, Jerry, let’s! Make him do it, Sheila!”

  Jerry, otherwise Lord Vignoles, clearly regarded the projected Oriental experiment with no friendly eye.

  “I mean to say — —”

  “That’s settled, Zoe!” said the pretty hostess calmly. “Never mind him! Alexander!”

  The footman addressed came forward.

  “You will step out on the front porch, Alexander, and say to the first gentleman who passes, if he’s in evening dress: ‘Lady Vignoles requests the pleasure of your company at dinner.’ If he says he doesn’t know me, reply that I am quite aware of that! Do you understand?”

  Alexander was shocked.

  “I mean to say, Sheila — —” began his lordship.

  “Did you hear me, Alexander?”

  “I’ve got to stand out in Cadogan Gardens, my lady — —”

  “Shall I repeat it again, slowly?”

  “I heard you, my lady.”

  “Very well. Show the gentleman into the library. You have only five minutes.”

  With an appealing look towards Lord Vignoles, who, having ostentatiously removed and burnished his eyeglass, seemed to experience some difficulty in replacing it, Alexander departed.

  “I claim him!” cried Zoe, as the footman disappeared. “Whoever he is or whatever he’s like, he shall take me in to dinner!”

  “What I mean to say is,” blurted Vignoles, “that it would be all right at a country-house party at Christmas, say — —”

  “It’s going to be all right here, dear!” interrupted his wife, affectionately squeezing his arm. “Why, think of the possibilities! New York would just go crazy on the idea!”

  A silence fell between them as, with Zoe Oppner and the Zimmermanns, they made their way to the library. Only a few minutes elapsed, to their surprise, ere Alexander reappeared. Martyr-like, he had performed his painful duty, and a beatific consciousness of his martyrdom was writ large upon him. In an absolutely toneless voice he announced:

  “Detective-Inspector Pepys!”

  “Here! I mean to say — we can’t have a policeman — —” began Vignoles, but his wife’s little hand was laid upon his lips.

  Zoe Oppner, with brimming eyes, made a brave attempt, and then fled to a distant settee, striving with her handkerchief to stifle her laughter.

  The guest entered.

  From her remote corner Zoe Oppner peeped at him, and her laughter ceased. Lady Vignoles looked pleased; her husband seemed surprised. Zimmermann watched the stranger with a curious expression in his eyes.

  Detective-Inspector Pepys was a tall man of military bearing, bronzed, and wearing a slight beard, trimmed to a point. He was perfectly composed, and came forward with an easy smile upon his handsome face. His clothes fitted him faultlessly. Even Lord Vignoles (a sartorial connoisseur) had to concede that his dress-suit was a success. He looked a wealthy Colonial gentleman.

  “This pleasure is the greater in being unexpected, Lady Vignoles!” he said. “I gather I am thus favoured that I may take the place of an absentee. Shall I hazard a guess? Your party numbered thirteen?”

  His infectious smile, easy acceptance of a bizarre situation, and evident good breeding, bridged a rather difficult interval. Lord Vignoles had had an idea that detective-inspectors were just ordinary plain-clothes policemen, and had dete
rmined, a second before, to assert himself, give the man half-a-sovereign, and put an end to this ridiculous extravaganza. Now he changed his mind. Detective-Inspector Pepys was a revelation.

  Vignoles (to his own surprise) offered his hand.

  “It is very good of you,” he said, rather awkwardly. “You are sure you have no other dinner engagement, Inspector?”

  “None,” replied the latter. “I am, strictly speaking, engaged upon official duty; but bodily nutriment is allowed — even by Scotland Yard!”

  “You don’t mind my presenting you to — the other guests — in your — ah — unofficial capacity — as plain Mr. Pepys? They might — think there was something wrong!”

  He felt vaguely confused, as though he were insulting the visitor by his request, and with the detective’s disconcerting eyes fixed upon his face was more than half ashamed of himself.

  “Not in the least, Lord Vignoles. I should have suggested it had you not done so.”

  The host was resentfully conscious of a subtle sense of inward gratitude for this concession. Of the easy assumption of equality by the detective he experienced no resentment whatever. The circumstances possibly warranted it, and, in any event, it was assumed so quietly and naturally that he accepted it as a matter of course.

  Since Lord Vignoles’ marriage with an American heiress the atmosphere of his establishments had grown very transatlantic; so much so, indeed, that someone had dubbed the house in Cadogan Gardens “The Millionaires’ Meeting House,” and another wit (unknown) had referred to his place in Norfolk as “The Week-end Synagogue.” Furthermore, Lady Vignoles had a weakness for “odd people,” for which reason the presence of a guest hitherto socially unknown occasioned no comment.

  Mr. Pepys having brought in Zoe Oppner, everyone assumed the late arrival to be one of Lady Vignoles’ odd people, and everyone was pleasantly surprised to find him such a charming companion.

  Zoe Oppner, for her part, became so utterly absorbed in his conversation that her cousin grew seriously alarmed. Zoe was notoriously eccentric, and, her cousin did not doubt, even capable of forming an attachment for a policeman.