The Victorian Villains Megapack (30 page)

“Very well,” said Pringle, rising. “Let me first get the house-keeper out of the way.”

“No larks now,” growled ‘The Toff’; adding peremptorily, “I give you a couple of minutes only—and leave the door open!”

Without replying, Pringle walked to the door, and slipping through, closed and double-locked it behind him before ‘The Toff’ had time to even rise from his chair.

“You white-livered cur! You—you infernal sneak!” vociferated the latter as Pringle crossed the hall.

Being summer-time, the fire-irons were absent from the study. There was no other lethal weapon wherewith to operate. Escape by the window was negatived by the bars.

For the time then ‘The Toff’ was a negligible quantity. Pringle ran down the kitchen-stairs. At the bottom was a gas-bracket, and stretching out his hand he turned on the gas as he passed. Out in the little kitchen there was much clattering of pots and dishes. The housekeeper was engaged in urgent culinary operations against Mr. Honeyby’s return.

“Mrs. Johnson!” he bawled, as a furious knocking sounded from the study.

“Whatever’s the matter, sir?” cried the startled woman.

“Escape of gas! We’ve been looking for it up-stairs! Don’t you smell it out here? You must turn it off at the main!” He rattled off the alarming intelligence in well-simulated excitement.

“Gas it is!” she exclaimed nervously, as the familiar odour greeted her nostrils.

Now the meter, as is customary, resided in the coal-cellar, and as the faithful creature opened the door and stumbled forwards, she suddenly found herself stretched upon the floor, while all became darkness. It almost seemed as if she had received a push from behind, and her head whirling with the unexpected shock, she painfully arose from her rocky bed, and slowly groped towards the door. But for all her pulling and tugging it held fast and never gave an inch. Desisting, as the truth dawned upon her that in some mysterious way she had become a prisoner, she bleated plaintively for help, and began to hammer at the door with a lump of coal.

Up the stairs again, Pringle glanced at the hall-door, then shot the bolts top and bottom, and put the chain up. ‘The Toff’ seemed to be using some of the furniture as a battering-ram. Thunderous blows and the sharp splintering of wood showed that, despite his lack of tools, he was (however clumsily) engaged in the active work of his profession, and the door shivered and rattled ominously beneath the onslaught.

Pringle raced up-stairs, and in breathless haste tore off his clerical garb. Bang, bang, crash! He wished the door were iron. How ‘The Toff’ roused the echoes as he savagely laboured for freedom! And whenever he paused, a feeble diapason ascended from the basement. The study-door would soon give at this rate. Luckily the house stood at the end of the town, or the whole neighbourhood would have been roused by this time. He hunted for his cycling suit. Where could that wretched old woman have stowed it? Curse her officiousness! He almost thought of rushing down and releasing her that she might disclose its whereabouts. Every second was priceless. At last! Where had that button-hook hidden itself now? How stiff the box-cloth seemed—he had never noticed it before. Now the coat. Collar and tie? Yes, indeed, he had nearly forgotten he still wore the clerical tie. No matter, a muffler would hide it all. Cap—that was all! Gloves he could do without for once.

Bang, crash, crack!

With a last look round he turned to leave the room, and faced the window. A little way down the road a figure was approaching. Something about it looked familiar, he thought; seemed to be coming from the direction of the railway-station, too. He stared harder. So it was! There was no doubt about it! Swathed in a Scotch maud, his hand grasping a portmanteau, the Rev. Adolphus Honeyby advanced blithely in the autumn twilight.

Down the stairs Pringle bounded, three at a time. ‘The Toff’ could hear, but not see him as yet. The study-door was already tottering; one hinge had gone, Even as he landed with a thud at the foot of the stairs, “The Toff’s” hand and arm appeared at the back of the door.

“I’d have blown the lock off if it wasn’t for giving the show away,” ‘The Toff’ snarled through his clenched teeth, as loudly as his panting respiration would permit. “I’ll soon be through now, and then we’ll square accounts!” What he said was a trifle more full-flavoured, but this will suffice.

Crash! Bang!! Crack!!!
from the study-door.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat!
was the sudden response from the hall-door. It was Mr. Honeyby knocking! And, startled at the noise, ‘The Toff’ took a momentary respite from his task.

Down to the basement once more, Mrs. Johnson’s pummelling sounded louder away from the more virile efforts of the others. Fiercely ‘The Toff’ resumed his labours. What an uproar! Mr. Honeyby’s curiosity could not stand much more of that. He would be round at the back presently. The bicycle stood by the garden-door. Pringle shook it slightly, and something rattled; the precious contents of the head and handle-bar were safe enough. He opened the door, and wheeled the machine down the back-garden, and out into the little lane behind.

Loud and louder banged the knocker. But as a triumphant crash and clatter of wood-work resounded from the house, Pringle rode into the fast-gathering darkness.

Romney Pringle in THE SUBMARINE BOAT

Tric-trac! Tric-trac!
went the black and white discs as the players moved them over the backgammon board in expressive justification of the French term for the game.
Tric-trac!
They are indeed a nation of poets, reflected Mr Pringle. Was not
Teuf-teuf!
for the motor-car a veritable inspiration? And as he smoked, the not unmusical clatter of the enormous wooden discs filled the atmosphere.

In these days of cookery not entirely based upon air-tights—to use the expressive Americanism for tinned meats—it is no longer necessary for the man who wishes to dine, as distinguished from the mere feeding animal, to furtively seek some restaurant in remote Soho, jealously guarding its secret from his fellows. But Mr Pringle, in his favourite study of human nature, was an occasional visitor to the “Poissonière” in Gerrard Street, and, the better to pursue his researches, had always denied familiarity with the foreign tongues he heard around him. The restaurant was distinctly close—indeed, some might have called it stuffy—and Pringle, though near a ventilator, thoughtfully provided by the management, was fast being lulled into drowsiness, when a man who had taken his seat with a companion at the next table leaned across the intervening gulf and addressed him.

“Nous ne vous dérangeons pas, monsieur?”

Pringle, with a smile of fatuous uncomprehending, bowed, but said never a word.

“Cochon d’Anglais, n’entendez-vous pas?”

“I’m afraid I do not understand,” returned Pringle, shaking his head hopelessly, but still smiling.

“Canaille! Faut-il que je vous tire le nez?”
persisted the Frenchman, as, apparently still sceptical of Pringle’s assurance, he added threats to abuse.

“I have known the English gentleman a long time, and without a doubt he does not understand French,” testified the waiter who had now come forward for orders. Satisfied by this corroboration of Pringle’s innocence, the Frenchman bowed and smiled sweetly to him, and, ordering a bottle of Clos de Vougeot, commenced an earnest conversation with his neighbour.

By the time this little incident had closed, Pringle’s drowsiness had given place to an intense feeling of curiosity. For what purpose could the Frenchman have been so insistent in disbelieving his expressed ignorance of the language? Why, too, had he striven to make Pringle betray himself by resenting the insults showered upon him? In a Parisian restaurant, as he knew, far more trivial affronts had ended in meetings in the Bois de Boulogne. Besides,
cochon
was an actionable term of opprobrium in France. The Frenchman and his companion had seated themselves at the only vacant table, also it was in a corner; Pringle, at the next, was the single person within ear-shot, and the Frenchman’s extraordinary behaviour could only be due to a consuming thirst for privacy. Settling himself in an easy position, Pringle closed his eyes, and while appearing to resume his slumber, strained every nerve to discern the lightest word that passed at the next table. Dressed in the choicest mode of Piccadilly, the Frenchman bore himself with all the intolerable self-consciousness of the
Boulevardier
; but there was no trace of good-natured levity in the dark aquiline features, and the evil glint of the eyes recalled visions of an operatic Mephistopheles. His guest was unmistakably an Englishman of the bank-clerk type, who contributed his share of the conversation in halting Anglo-French, punctuated by nervous laughter as, with agonising pains, he dredged his memory for elusive colloquialisms.

Freely translated, this was what Pringle heard:

“So your people have really decided to take up the submarine, after all?”

“Yes; I am working out the details of some drawings in small-scale.”

“But are they from headquarters?”

“Certainly! Duly initialled and passed by the chief constructor.”

“And you are making——”

“Full working drawings.”

“There will be no code or other secret about them?”

“What I am doing can be understood by any naval architect.”

“Ah, an English one!”

“The measurements of course, are English, but they are easily convertible.”

“You could do that?”

“Too dangerous! Suppose a copy in metric scale were found in my possession! Besides, any draughtsman could reduce them in an hour or two.”

“And when can you let me have it?”

“In about two weeks.”

“Impossible! I shall not be here.”

“Unless something happens to let me get on with it quickly, I don’t see how I can do it even then. I am never sufficiently free from interruption to take tracings; there are far too many eyes upon me. The only chance I have is to spoil the thing as soon as I have the salient points worked out on it, and after I have pretended to destroy it, smuggle it home; then I shall have to take elaborate notes every day and work out the details from them in the evening. It is simply impossible for me to attempt to take a finished drawing out of the yard, and, as it is, I don’t quite see my way to getting the spoilt one out—they look so sharply after spoilt drawings.”

“Two weeks you say, then?”

“Yes; and I shall have to sit up most nights copying the day’s work from my notes to do it.”

“Listen! In a week I must attend at the Ministry of Marine in Paris, but our military
attaché
is my friend. I can trust him; he shall come down to you.”

“What, at Chatham? Do you wish to ruin me?” A smile from the Frenchman. “No; it must be in London, where no one knows me.”

“Admirable! My friend will be better able to meet you.”

“Very well, as soon as I am ready I will telegraph to you.”

“Might not the address of the embassy be remarked by the telegraph officials? Your English post-office is charmingly unsuspicious, but we must not risk anything.”

“Ah, perhaps so. Well, I will come up to London and telegraph to you from here. But your representative—will he be prepared for it?”

“I will warn him to expect it in fourteen days.” He made an entry in his pocket-book. “How will you sign the message?”

“Gustave Zédé,” suggested the Englishman, sniggering for the first and only time.

“Too suggestive. Sign yourself ‘Pauline’, and simply add the time.”

“‘Pauline’, then. Where shall the rendezvous be?”

“The most public place we can find.”

“Public?”

“Certainly. Some place where everyone will be too much occupied with his own affairs to notice you. What say you to your Nelson’s Column? There you can wait in a way we shall agree upon.”

“It would be a difficult thing for me to wear a disguise.”

“All disguises are clumsy unless one is an expert. Listen! You shall be gazing at the statue with one hand in your breast—so.”

“Yes; and I might hold a
Baedeker
in my other hand.”

“Admirable, my friend! You have the true spirit of an artist,” sneered the Frenchman.

“Your representative will advance and say to me, ‘Pauline’, and the exchange can be made without another word.”

“Exchange?”

“I presume your Government is prepared to pay me handsomely for the very heavy risks I am running in this matter,” said the Englishman stiffly.

“Pardon, my friend! How imbecile of me! I am authorised to offer you ten thousand francs.”

A pause, during which the Englishman made a calculation on the back of an envelope.

“That is four hundred pounds,” he remarked, tearing the envelope into carefully minute fragments. “Far too little for such a risk.”

“Permit me to remind you, my friend, that you came in search of me, or rather of those I represent. You have something to sell? Good! But it is customary for the merchant to display his wares first.”

“I pledge myself to give you copies of the working drawings made for the use of the artificers themselves. I have already met you oftener than is prudent. As I say, you offer too little.”

“Should the drawings prove useless to us, we should, of course, return them to your Admiralty, explaining how they came into our possession.” There was an unpleasant smile beneath the Frenchman’s waxed moustache as he spoke. “What sum do you ask?”

“Five hundred pounds in small notes—say, five pounds each.”

“That is—what do you say? Ah, twelve thousand five hundred francs! Impossible! My limit is twelve thousand.”

To this the Englishman at length gave an ungracious consent, and after some adroit compliments beneath which the other sought to bury his implied threat, the pair rose from the table. Either by accident or design, the Frenchman stumbled over the feet of Pringle, who, with his long legs stretching out from under the table, his head bowed and his lips parted, appeared in a profound slumber. Opening his eyes slowly, he feigned a lifelike yawn, stretched his arms, and gazed lazily around, to the entire satisfaction of the Frenchman, who, in the act of parting with his companion, was watching him from the door.

Calling for some coffee, Pringle lighted a cigarette, and reflected with a glow of indignant patriotism upon the sordid transaction he had become privy to. It is seldom that public servants are in this country found ready to betray their trust—with all honour be it recorded of them! But there ever exists the possibility of some under-paid official succumbing to the temptation at the command of the less scrupulous representatives of foreign powers, whose actions in this respect are always ignored officially by their superiors. To Pringle’s somewhat cynical imagination, the sordid huckstering of a dockyard draughtsman with a French naval
attaché
appealed as corroboration of Walpole’s famous principle, and as he walked homewards to Furnival’s Inn, he determined, if possible, to turn his discovery to the mutual advantage of his country and himself—especially the latter.

During the next few days Pringle elaborated a plan of taking up a residence at Chatham, only to reject it as he had done many previous ones. Indeed, so many difficulties presented themselves to every single course of action, that the tenth day after found him strolling down Bond Street in the morning without having taken any further step in the matter. With his characteristic fastidious neatness in personal matters, he was bound for the Piccadilly establishment of the chief and, for West-Enders, the only firm of hatters in London.

“Breton Stret, do you noh?” said a voice suddenly. And Pringle, turning, found himself accosted by a swarthy foreigner.

“Bruton Street,
n’est-ce pas
?” Pringle suggested.

“Mais oui, Brrruten Stret, monsieur!”
was the reply in faint echo of the English syllables.

“Le voila! À droite,”
was Pringle’s glib direction. Politely raising his hat in response to the other’s salute, he was about to resume his walk when he noticed that the Frenchman had been joined by a companion, who appeared to have been making similar inquiries. The latter started and uttered a slight exclamation on meeting Pringle’s eye. The recognition was mutual—it was the French
attaché
! As he hurried down Bond Street, Pringle realised with acutest annoyance that his deception at the restaurant had been unavailing, while he must now abandon all hope of a counter-plot for the honour of his country, to say nothing of his own profit. The port-wine mark on his right cheek was far too conspicuous for the
attaché
not to recognise him by it, and he regretted his neglect to remove it as soon as he had decided to follow up the affair. Forgetful of all beside, he walked on into Piccadilly, and it was not until he found himself more than half-way back to his chambers that he remembered the purpose for which he had set out; but matters of greater moment now claimed his attention, and he endeavoured by the brisk exercise to work off some of the chagrin with which he was consumed. Only as he reached the Inn and turned into the gateway did it occur to him that he had been culpably careless in thus going straight homeward. What if he had been followed? Never in his life had he shown such disregard of ordinary precautions. Glancing back, he just caught a glimpse of a figure which seemed to whip behind the corner of the gateway. He retraced his steps and looked out into Holborn. There, in the very act of retreat, and still but a few feet from the gate, was the
attaché
himself. Cursing the persistence of his own folly, Pringle dived through the arch again, and determined that the Frenchman should discover no more that day he turned nimbly to the left and ran up his own stairway before the pursuer could have time to re-enter the Inn.

The most galling reflection was his absolute impotence in the matter. Through lack of the most elementary foresight he had been fairly run to earth, and could see no way of ridding himself of this unwelcome attention. To transfer his domicile, to tear himself up by the roots as it were, was out of the question; and as he glanced around him, from the soft carpets and luxurious chairs to the warm, distempered walls with their old prints above the dado of dwarf bookcases, he felt that the pang of severance from the refined associations of his chambers would be too acute. Besides, he would inevitably be tracked elsewhere. He would gain nothing by the transfer. One thing at least was absolutely certain—the trouble which the Frenchman was taking to watch him showed the importance he attached to Pringle’s discovery. But this again only increased his disgust with the ill-luck which had met him at the very outset. After all, he had done nothing illegal, however contrary it might be to the code of ethics, so that if it pleased them the entire French legation might continue to watch him till the Day of Judgment, and, consoling himself with this reflection, he philosophically dismissed the matter from his mind.

It was nearing six when he again left the Inn for Pagani’s, the Great Portland Street restaurant which he much affected; instead of proceeding due west, he crossed Holborn intending to bear round by way of the Strand and Regent Street, and so get up an appetite. In Staple Inn he paused a moment in the further archway. The little square, always reposeful amid the stress and turmoil of its environment, seemed doubly so this evening, its eighteenth-century calm so welcome after the raucous thoroughfare. An approaching footfall echoed noisily, and as Pringle moved from the shadow of the narrow wall the newcomer hesitated and stopped, and then made the circuit of the square, scanning the doorways as if in search of a name. The action was not unnatural, and twenty-four hours earlier Pringle would have thought nothing of it, but after the events of the morning he endowed it with a personal interest, and, walking on, he ascended the steps into Southampton Buildings and stopped by a hoarding. As he looked back he was rewarded by the sight of a man stealthily emerging from the archway and making his way up the steps, only to halt as he suddenly came abreast of Pringle. Although his face was unfamiliar, Pringle could only conclude that the man was following him, and all doubt was removed when, having walked along the street and turning about at the entrance to Chancery Lane, he saw the spy had resumed the chase and was now but a few yards back. Pringle, as a philosopher, felt more inclined to laughter than resentment at this ludicrous espionage. In a spirit of mischief, he pursued his way to the Strand at a tortoise-like crawl, halting as if doubtful of his way at every corner, and staring into every shop whose lights still invited customers. Once or twice he even doubled back, and passing quite close to the man, had several opportunities of examining him. He was quite unobtrusive, even respectable-looking; there was nothing of the foreigner about him, and Pringle shrewdly conjectured that the
attaché
, wearied of sentry-go had turned it over to some English servant on whom he could rely.