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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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A GOOD night's rest and a little careful reflection only served to strengthen Mr. Bunn's belief that when a man's address is known to a group of people who cherish among them an enthusiastic ambition to wipe him practically from off the face of the earth, then the best course for that man to adopt is to change his address, and to change it without sluggishness or languor or permitting the vegetation to flourish under his boots.
This was not the first time Mr. Bunn, in the course of his varied and not always tranquil career, had come to the same conclusion. But, hitherto, he had rarely put his plans into execution with such remarkable speed and precision as that which distinguished his departure from his furnished flat.
"I've got quite enough to do to keep clear of the police—all things considered," he soliloquised, as he sat over his fourth—and last—breakfast cup of coffee one morning, "and if I've got to keep one rye out for them and the other out for Kate the Gun and her gang, then I ought to have eyes of the same build as a blooming little chameleon's—one looking to the right, t'other to the left. No, my lad, your number's up as a certain starter in the Moonlight Flit Stakes, and you'd better be seeing about it."
He rang the bell, and his Chinese valet and house-keeper appeared.
"Sing Song, my son, pack up all my clothes. I'm leaving this flat for good. I'm going to a hotel for a bit. If anybody calls for me tell 'em I've left Europe for a few months."
The Chinaman moved silently into his master's bedroom, and Smiler took up a well-known Sunday paper and proceeded to select from the advertisements an hotel which seemed to guarantee its chef.
"Let's look," he said, turning to the hotel advertisements; "what's this one say —'Renowned for the perfection of its cuisine, its choice wines, and excellent service. Summer luncheons daily in the Fruitarian Restaurant.' H'm—sounds dear, and there's a vegetarian touch about it that doesn't sound very filling. What's this—one of 'em with a restaurant that makes a hobby of its 'renowned Italian and French pastry'; and here's another—more pastry!" Smiler's voice rose gradually, "And this one brags about its band! Lord!" he shouted, "ain't there any hotel in this town that's capable of making a speciality of a good steak and fried potatoes, with a roast duck and green peas beforehand, just to help you to get going!" He dashed that ably-edited Sunday paper down on the floor and made up his mind without its assistance.
"Me for the Grand Trafalgar Hotel," he declared, "I know they've got a grill-room there where you can eat without having music ground into your ears, and renowned Italian pastry—guaranteed made in Italy, I suppose—flung in your face."
He lighted a cigar and went into his bedroom.
"Sing, my son, when you've packed you can clear out for a few days' holiday. I shan't be wanting you in the hotel. You'll be at your old address, I suppose; and once you're out of this place don't come back. You don't know who may be watching—see? When you finish, send my luggage and keys along to the Grand Trafalgar Motel. Got all that?"
The Chinaman repeated his orders correctly, and Smiler, carrying only a handbag with his personal and private papers, left the flat without further words.
Within half an hour he was comfortably installed in his new quarters, and was inspecting the dining-room. The head waiter was hovering round, finding fault with his subordinates. The Grand Trafalgar Hotel was not large, but it was inclined to be good. Smiler knew it, and beckoned the head waiter, to whom he handed a couple of notes.
"That's not because I like you," he said; "it's because I like my dinner. I'm here for a week, and I don't want any parsons or honeymooners sharing my table. If you follow me," he concluded. The head waiter bowed very politely.
"Perfectly, sir—a small table and a good dinner." He ran his eye round the room, "I shall reserve for you, sir, a—"
Here a harsh, irritable voice broke in behind them.
"Where's the head waiter? "
They turned, and Smiler saw a thick-set, middle-aged man, with a short, stiff grey beard, a copper-coloured complexion, and greenish eyes, advancing towards them. The newcomer was well-dressed m a rather ornate style, and had the manner and bearing of a self-made and wealthy man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it—everywhere and at all times. Quite ignoring the patent fact that the head waiter was engaged with Mr. Bunn, the newcomer burst into a Niagara of complaint as to the manner in which he was waited upon and served generally in the dining-room.
"I know a good meal when I see one," he snarled, "and you cook a good meal here, but you serve it like a lot of deaf and paralysed mutes. So what good is it to a man who likes a decent feed now and then? Hey? No good, that's what. Now, I want a change, and I mean to get it. I want a table for two only, and I want a man opposite to me who's got some idea of eating and enjoying his food properly. Understand? I don't want a battery of Americans jammed up next to me, swilling iced water as though their insides—if they've got any—were on fire. I want a man—an eating man—a hog of a man, if you like to put it that way. Understand? There must be one person in the hotel who ain't an utter fool!"
The head waiter bowed low.
"Yes, my lord," he said, and flashed a half-appealing look at Mr. Bunn, "I—er—I believe this gentleman—who has just been making arrangements as to dining properly—might be——" He bowed again, made several vague, aimless movements with his hands—it resembled the phantom of a gesture of introduction—and glided away, leaving the two gentlemen who were so interested in their meals face to face eyeing each other none too civilly, despite the similarity of their gastronomic inclinations. They deliberately looked each Other over from head to foot and back again.
The thick-set man laughed shortly, "Come and have one," he suggested, "and we'll talk things over."
He seemed to be something of a character, and so Smiler—who had found characters profitable as a class—accepted, and they moved off towards the smoking-room.
Within an hour the two, having made each other's acquaintance over a trio of whiskies a-piece, were on excellent terms. Mr. Bunn had learned that his new friend was Baron Fortworth, and the nobleman had acquired the knowledge that his future table companion was Mr. Wilton Flood, a gentleman of reasonable private means, a taste for good living, a leaning towards the Turf, and not too keen or brilliant a mind.
"I admit," said Smiler, "that I'm not one of the brainy ones. I know what I like, and I know what I don't like. I never pay a sovereign where a half is enough. I'm not a pastry-eater, and fruit isn't much in my line. That's the sort of man I am. Solid, honest, and slow. Down at my place in the country I've been called 'Fat-headed Flood.' But that don't worry me."
Lord Fortworth, reaching for the bell, nodded his entire approval.
"Same again? Right. Well, Mr. Flood, you're a man after my own heart. True, you're no gentleman, but neither am I. Never was and never shall be, thank God!" he said piously.
"I'm a millionaire and, though that mayn't be quite so stylish as a gentleman, it's a jolly sight more comfortable—when it comes to digging down into your breeches pocket. Yes, sir, a repeating millionaire—not far short of three or four times over—and I started in life with nothing behind me, except the toe of my old father's boot when he turned me out—'apprenticing me to the wide, wide world,' he called it, I remember."
He took a pull at his whisky, and for a moment seemed to fall into a reverie. Probably he was musing upon those pleasant memories of the past to which he had referred.
Mr. Bunn knew who he was now—even if he himself had not begun to explain.
"Yes, sir, as plain Bill Burgess I was one of the first fifty white men to stake out a claim in the Yukon—and we struck it rich. I was at a village near Fort Worth in Texas—Texas, mind—when we heard of the Klondyke discoveries, and still I got through early. I took my title from the town. Hut I've done a bit of everything. I've poached for seal in the Pribylov Islands; it's as cold as the edge of a razor up there—cuts to the bone, very nearly. I've rotted out shell for pearls in the Japan seas—the nippy little yellow devils shot the tail of my coat off, as you may say, while I was at it; I've prospected for sapphires in the Never-Never, and in the end been content to dig kauri gum instead and let the sapphires go; I've hoicked rubies out of Burma—precious few, though; and what I don't know about Mexican opal you can put in your hollow tooth; I've milled silver ore in America and washed for gold in four countries; finally, I've brewed and sold beer in England, and that beats the lot of 'em—beats 'em all ways—not barring the Klondyke. I've got a head like copper, cram full of alcohol-proof brains, and I've got an appetite like a striped hyena. That's me, Flood, and I'm not ashamed of it. I'm chockful of knowledge and money and experience. Let me see the man who can do me and I'll raise my hat to him," he concluded.
He was looking "Fat-headed Flood" full in the eyes, and had his hat on. But it did not occur to him to raise it. Mr. Bunn smiled rather vacantly.
"Well, Lord Fortworth," he said, "I wish I had half your experience and ability." He shook his head with a sort of humorous resignation, "But I haven't, and there you are! I'm Fat-headed Flood, pure and simple. It's like the old song—You are one of the lads, I'm one of the jays. And, after all, I'm satisfied. How about lunch. It ought to be ready by now."
Lord Fortworth rose.
"If it's not ready," he said grimly, "I'll pull the hotel down."
Fortunately it was.
They lunched solemnly during the next hour, and their friendliness grew into mutual esteem, and from mutual esteem into warm and cordial admiration. Lord Fortworth had the greater knowledge of cookery, but Smiler Bunn had the larger capacity for the results of cookery. They treated lunch as a serious matter, and each appreciated the other for it. And when, finally, they put down their implements and, ordering coffee and Benedictine to be forwarded to them in the smoking-room, strolled leisurely out of the dining-room, they had established what, in happier circumstances, might have been a lifelong friendship, and they took with them the respect of the waiters, the contents of two bottles of Burgundy a-piece, and the satisfaction of knowing that comfortable arm-chairs awaited them.
Fortworth was frankly delighted with his new friend and was inclined to be confidential. This was by no means due to the refreshment of which he had partaken, for he seemed, as he had said, to possess an alcohol-proof brain. Probably it was due to his superb confidence in his ability to take care of himself. And "Fat-headed Flood" looked anything but a dangerous friend to make.
So, before they both dozed gently off over their cigar butts, Smiler learned much concerning Lord Fortworth that interested him—not least of which was the fact that the old miner was awaiting in the hotel the arrival from America of a lady with whom he claimed to be in love.
"A slim little slip of an Irish girl she was when I knew her first out there," he said, "and we lost sight of each other for years. Then, after I'd made my pile, bought my brewery, polished up a bit, and got my title, we came across each other again. About a year ago it was. She'd married a man who struck oil, and when he'd made a million out of it, struck whisky—and made a cemetery affair out of that. She's rising forty now, but she's just as beautiful to me, and she's on the way over here—her boat's due in two days. My town place is being decorated, and when we've coupled up, as I'm figuring we shall, you must come and dine with us—often. But we shall have a good many meals together here first, please God. I've got a present for her that'll touch her heart, too. It is novel and neat. Let me explain.
"In the slim and slender days, when I seemed chiefly to live on a diet of lingering hand-clasps and passionate glances, there was never any money at my end of the village. And so when I heard of a gold strike—so called—in Arizona, and set out straight away for that holiday haunt of the rattlesnake and prairie-dog, I started with no more than one borrowed dollar, and a spare check shirt. I called in to say 'Good-bye' to her, and, after a greeting or two, she asked what I was planning to live on during the journey—it was a five hundred mile walk awaiting me—and I said, lightly enough, not wishing her to worry, 'the recollection of her kisses.' She looked rather serious at that, and then went inside the boarding-house where she worked. Presently she came out with a bulge under her apron, and with a kind of choky laugh that will take me many years to forget, said, 'Well, Willy'—I look like a Willy, don't I? But she meant it, for women think Willy is a pretty name even for a big buck navvy of eighteen stone, if it's a love affair—'Well, Willy, every time you enjoy a kiss take one of these for dessert,' and she brought out a thundering big bunch of bananas she'd looted from the pantry. She was a practical-minded girl. 'It's all I've got,' she said, 'and it's all I can get for you. I'll blame the cat,' she said. Well, I gave her a kiss that must have hurt her, and pulled out—I couldn't have spoken any more just then, nor she—and headed for Arizona with the bunch of bananas slung over my shoulder, and I never saw her again for twenty years. But I haven't forgotten; for I'm not sure those bananas didn't about save my life—I had hard luck the first few days out. And when we get fixed up I've got a little gift for her that'll please her. It will show I've not forgotten what I owe her." Lord Fortworth leaned forward, "What do you think it is, Flood?—what do you think it is?"
Fat-headed Flood shook his head drowsily, but his brain was quivering with eagerness.
"It's a bunch of bananas—full size—and every blame banana is modelled in solid gold!" said Lord Fortworth, "It cost—it cost—never mind what it cost—for it can never be worth what the bunch of bananas that little Irish hired girl stole for me when I was due to starve was worth. No, by God! —you take that from me, Flood!"
It was rather fine, and a little touching. Mr. Bunn was not an emotional or romantic man, but, nevertheless, it was some seconds before he could accustom himself to the thought that, however painful a task it might prove, he must make it his it his duty carefully to "pinch" that bunch of bananas at the very first opportunity that presented itself. After all "Willy" was wealthy enough to buy his sweetheart another bunch—a barrow-load of such bunches if she wanted them.
"It will be ready to-morrow evening," said Lord Fortworth. "The goldsmiths are sending it down here for my approval. You shall see it when it comes."
Smiler expressed his interest and thanks, and shortly after the pair dozed off.
When that night, after a very stiff dinner and a somewhat damp three hours afterwards in the smoking-room, Fat-headed Flood steered himself carefully, but without assistance, along the corridor from the lift to his room, he was humming softly but drowsily to himself two lines from an old refrain that ran :
I'm one of the jays, I'm one of the jays!
My pal's one of the "lads"—I'm one of the jays!
and the refrain appeared to afford him an amount of amusement which the somewhat emaciated humour of the actual verse scarcely seemed to justify.
ON the following morning he was languidly conveying a slight headache down the stairs—he preferred to go down by the stairs rather than in the lift, "for the sake of exercise"—when he heard a sudden roar from a room in the corridor he was just passing. There was a familiar ring about the roar, and Smiler stopped, looking back. The roar was repeated, and then the door of the room flew open, and Lord Fortworth appeared on the threshold with a revolver in his left hand and a black sack of wet waste-paper in his right. At least that is what Mr. Bunn thought it was at first glance. Closer inspection revealed the fact that the sack was really the limp form of a miraculously scared valet.
Lord Fortworth grinned and nodded.
"Morning, Flood!" he said, "Let me just chuck this downstairs and I'll join you!"
The black sack wriggled flaccidly.
"Why, what's wrong?" asked Smiler.
"Oh, this thing's stolen a fiver." He stirred the "thing" up with his foot, "I never agitate myself much about servants' references —I'm a pretty good judge of a face—but, as a test, I usually leave a fiver lying about on the floor of the wardrobe. After engaging a valet, for instance, The note remains half-tucked away in a corner, as though it had fallen out of a pocket. Sooner or later, the man sees it. Some—the cleverer ones—return it, and some—the fools—keep it. Now and again one will hesitate for a month or more before making up his mind to steal it but this—this!"—he shook the valet till the man's teeth rattled violently—"grabbed it the instant he spotted it. That's why I'm going to chuck him downstairs. I wonder I didn't shoot him!" and so saying he dragged his valet to the top the stairs and shoved him over without the slightest hesitation. The man took the flight—about a dozen stairs—like a small balloon filled with wet mud. Fortunately for him, however, the stairs were thickly carpeted. He ricochetted off the sixth step down and landed in a heap. But he did not remain there long. He had hardly touched the floor before he was up again, and had disappeared down the next flight like a hunted cat.
The two students of cookery looked over the banisters and laughed till they gasped.
"Well," said Mr. Bunn, "that chap will be honest forever afterwards. It would do many men in London good to be treated like that."
Lord Fortworth wiped his eyes.
"That's the sort of man I am," he said, "I'll give anybody a church, so to speak, if they ask for it, but Heaven help the thief who takes even a mousetrap from me without asking."
"And quite right, too," agreed Fat-headed Flood cheerily.
"Come in while I brush my hair," said Lord Fortworth, "and we'll go down together."
One would have thought from the natural way in which he spoke that the operation of brushing his hair was one of some magnitude. But so far as Smiler could see the only real difficulty his friend was likely to experience would be in finding enough hair to brush.
But he stepped into the room and took the opportunity of looking round. The thing that caught the eye instantly was a big, glittering ball in a corner, close to the head of the bedstead. It looked like a huge steel cannon ball.
Lord Fortworth followed his glance and laughed.
"That's my safe," he said, "I never move without it. A man of my wealth usually possesses certain things, papers and so on, which it is the best plan to keep always within reach. Mine are in there. The trouble with hotel safes is that the manager has access to them. That safe was built to an idea of my own. I'll explain it to you presently. I don't believe there's a safe-breaker m the world who could bust it."
He soon put down his brushes and made for the door.
"Now for breakfast," he said gaily, and they left the room, Lord Fortworth locking the door behind him.
During the lengthy and rather complex breakfast that followed—it began with grape-fruit and ended with a few drops of rare old brandy—Smiler learned that Lord Fortworth's safe had been built very much to his own idea. It was perfectly round, and the steel was six inches thick. The outer casing of specially hardened steel-armour was polished to such a degree of slippery smoothness that Lord Fortworth, becoming enthusiastic, stated on oath that he had often lain in bed and watched the flies slipping and falling off it.
"I've seen a fly alight on it with all the confidence in the world," said the middle-aged liar, and the instant he set one foot before the other he'd slide a few inches, slip a bit, and then all at once go sprawling. Then he'd fly round a few times, looking it over, and presently he'd alight again. He'd stand there thinking—you could see he was puzzled—and then he'd carefully put one of his front hands to his mouth and spit on it. Then he'd moisten the other and rub 'em together, and start off again. No good—in an inch or so he'd be staggering and sliding and tripping all over the place. He'd try again and again, but it was no use—in the end he'd have to give it up. They all did. Well, a surface that a fly can't stand on will easily turn the tools of most burglars. But the lock's the triumph. For instance, here's the key."
He drew from his pocket a steel disc of about the size of an ordinary man's watch. Protruding from the edge of the disc was a bar four inches in length and about the circumference of an ordinary pencil. On the face of the disc were a number of letters—each letter engraved on a tiny knob.
Lord Fortworth quickly pressed nine of these knobs,and the last two inches of the rod suddenly changed into a tangle of projecting steel spines, each spine twisted or bent into a shape of its own.
"There's the key," he said, with a touch of pride in his voice, "ready for use—after it is inserted in the keyhole. Turn it and the safe opens!" He pulled out the lettered knobs, and the distorted spines straightened out like fingers and folded themselves together, reforming the pencil-like bar. It was a wonderfully intricate and beautifully-made piece of mechanism. Smiler only wished he knew which were the letters to be pressed in order to cause the key to unlock the safe.
"The keyhole itself is a little round hole of the size of a pencil-holder," explained Fortworth, "but without the key it would be useless to a burglar. Even with the key he'd have to know how to work it and which letters to press. Of course, given time, a really crack, scientific burglar could open the safe by force, but he'd require a blacksmith's shop and a laboratory to do it. It's my own idea, this key and lock, and it's a good 'un. Of course, I didn't work it out—I left that to the experts—but the idea of the sort of key is mine."
Mr. Bunn nodded as Fortworth returned the key to his pocket.
And you've got a right to be proud of it," he said, "That valet of yours must have been puzzled when he ran his eye over it first—as I'll bet he did."
Lord Fortworth chuckled.
The conversation turned on valets, and on this subject, as on most, Lord Fortworth had very decided ideas.
"There's only one breed of men in the world that was really created to be valets—and that's the Chinese. I've tried 'em in America. Give me Chinks for valets before any other kind of man. They're quiet, cheap, honest, easily satisfied, and efficient. They never get in your way, and you can kick 'em round the room every time they enter it, if you like. They don't care—they're fatalists. Give 'em a few pence extra, and they'll nearly ask you to kick 'em as often as you like at the price. I've had a lot of trouble with my valets lately, and I'm going to try to get a Chink this time. There must be a few in London."
"There's an agency out Marylebone way, I believe, that can supply every kind of servant from a dumb waiter to a sober butler," said Smiler. "They'll probably have a Chinaman on hand. I've been there for servants myself, and I've seen all sorts there. It's a kind of big registry office."
Lord Fortworth put down his table-napkin and emitted a sigh—it was almost a sob—of satisfaction with his breakfast, and lighted a cigar.
"I'll call there, if you will give me the address," In said presently. "Care to come? You will? Right! I'll have the car round here at three sharp this afternoon. I'll land my Chink if I can, and then we'll take a spin to put an edge on our appetite for dinner, eh?"
He rose carefully.
"See you later, then," he said, and departed to the City, where, he had previously informed Smiler, he had some business to transact.
TEN minutes later Mr. Bunn was in a taxi-cab, which was snorting and hooting its way towards Docks district as rapidly as its driver could send it.
Lord Fortworth wanted a "Chink," and Smiler knew of the very "Chink" for him. He was going to arrange for a meeting between these two if it could be done. There was money in it—perhaps even a bunch of bananas.
It was twelve o'clock before Smiler found his man. Even in modern London—well policed as it is, a Chinaman can step off the kerb, so to speak, and vanish utterly and completely, if he wishes to. Compared with a "Chink," a rat is amateurish and clumsy at the art of vanishing, and a homeless cat is simply an awkward novice.
But Smiler knew the haunts of Sing Song, and moreover the Chinaman was not trying to hide. He was taking a holiday.
Smiler found him in the cellar of a ramshackle old house near the riverside, engaged, with several other simple-minded Celestials, in a little game of fan-tan. Smiler was a personal friend of the cellar-proprietor, or he would never have secured the privilege of entering the den.
"I want you, Sing," he said.
"Coming, master, coming velly quick—inaminit —dam!" and swearing softly as he saw that he had lost his stake—a penny—he followed his employer out.
"Now, Sing Song, my son, listen to me—" began Smiler, when, in consideration of a shilling to the proprietor, they were alone in a private room. Sing Song listened. It was half an hour before he finished listening, but when Smiler's low-voiced lecture came to an end the "Chink" certainly seemed to understand.
THAT afternoon Lord Fortworth entered the registry office with his new friend. Fat-headed Flood, and in his usual uncompromising manner stated briefly but effectively his requirements.
The manager, a lean individual with the grey-green complexion of the habitual dyspeptic, bit the end of his pen.
"We have a Chinaman with magnificent references on our books, but he's practically engaged already. Perhaps it could be arranged."
"I'll pay double commission, if that's what you mean," said Fortworth.
Obviously that was what the dyspeptic meant, for he left the waiting-room and shortly afterwards reappeared with Sing Song.
Lord Fortworth looked him over in silence much as he would look a horse over. Then he looked indifferently at the reference which the Chinaman had produced.
"Who's Huish—Coomber Huish?" he asked.
"His last employer," replied the manager.
"H'm—seems to think a lot of the Chink!" commented the ex-miner, and proceeded to engage Sing Song.
"D'ye know the Grand Trafalgar Hotel?" he asked.
"Yes, me knowing!"
"Well, get along there as soon as you can."
"Yes, can do!"
Sing Song bowed profusely and effaced himself.
"Looks a goodish Chink—for a Chink. Cursed ugly; but what can you expect from a Chink? He'll do, I expect," said his lordship as he settled down with the "Fat-headed" one in his motor.
"We'll soon see, anyhow."
Mr. Flood nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said indifferently, "you'll soon see. He certainly looked like a very capable kind of man.
THAT evening the bunch of gold bananas arrived. Fat-headed Flood was alone in the smoking-room with Lord Fortworth discussing things in general in rather an after-dinner style when the jeweller was announced, and so was privileged to help criticise the curious example of the goldsmith's art which was promptly unveiled before the millionaire. It was certainly an astonishing duplicate of the real thing. Any one might have been forgiven for imagining he was looking at a bunch of real bananas instead of an expensive but uneatable edition issued in the most popular of metals. Even the little irregular brown moles that seem almost essential to the complexion of the purest and best of bananas were there.
"Wonderful imitation!" said Smiler at last, with a sigh, "Never saw anything like it. Feel as though I could eat 'em."
Lord Fortworth rubbed his hands, frankly delighted.
"It's the twin brother to the bunch I carted across the desert in the old days—the twin brother. You can tell your firm I'm more than satisfied. Give me the bill and I'll let you have a cheque."
He scribbled a four-figure cheque, and the goldsmith having departed, he turned to Mr. Bunn.
"Look good, don't they? Feel the weight of 'em," he said.
Smiler did—and nearly broke his wrist in the attempt. Nevertheless he lifted them. He was anxious to get an idea of their weight—for reasons which will be seen later.
"Wonderful! Wonderful!" he said.
Lord Fortworth replaced them in their case and rang for servants to carry the box up to his room, where, after a stringent and wholly satisfactory acid test by their experienced owner, they were deposited in the circular safe. Then he returned to the smoking-room.
At half-past ten, Smiler, mentioning casually that he had to meet a friend, left the hotel.
It might have interested Lord Fortworth to know that the friend he went to meet—as swiftly as a taxi-cab would take him—was a certain bland Chinaman in a weird, draughty, rat-haunted old house that was tucked away by an unused wharf in a riverside slum near the Docks. It was a strictly private interview that the two enjoyed—with much rather clumsy sketching on paper by Mr. Bunn. Eventually the Chinaman seemed to understand what Smiler required, and his visitor left.
He was back in the hotel an hour later and entered the smoking-room just in time to join Lord Fortworth in a final whisky-and-soda before that rugged nobleman retired to bed.
"That 'Chink' I engaged to-day is all right," said Fortworth, "He brought me the fiver to-night; said he'd found it in the wardrobe when he west to brush my clothes. I only put it there a few minutes before dinner. I tell you, a Chink's honest. I've had experience of 'em, and I know. By the way, Flood, Mrs. Vanwelt is arriving in England on the day after to-morrow and she'll be staying here. I'd like you to dine with us that night. I'm going to have my bunch of bananas brought in for dessert and persuade her to take one. It'll be a surprise for her when she finds she's trying to break off a gold proposition instead of the genuine fruit. And she'll appreciate it."
Far-headed Flood nodded and smiled.
"And that'll be my signal for getting out of the room," he said, "For that's what will open up 'love's golden dream' of the past. But I'll be waiting in the smoking-room to congratulate you . Good-night!"
Lord Fortworth patted him on the shoulder.
"You're a man of sense, Flood," he said, "I can see we're going to get on together."
Then they went to bed—at least Fortworth did Smiler, once in his room, put on a dressing-gown, took a cigar and an easy-chair, and waited. Presently there came a tap at the door, and Sing Song, the valet, stole in. His face was as inscrutable at ever, but in his oblique eyes shone a light that betokened news.
"What's up, Sing?" he said softly.
"Master, I know letters to plessee on key. I waiting undlessing him, he takee key from pocket, plessee letters for opening safee, and lookee again at bananas."
Smiler stood up suddenly, "What letters?"
"Nine letters. Effee—oah—all—tee—dullu—oah—all—tee—aizh. Master undelstanding? Effee—oah—all—tee —dullu—oah—all—tee—aizh."
Smiler took a pencil and transferred the sounds to paper. After a few attempts he got the Chinaman's meaning: F—O—R—T—W—O—R—T—H.
"Fortworth! Of course. I ought to have guessed it when I saw him press nine letters. Ah, well, Sing, my son, those crooked eyes of yours see more than most straight 'uns. You've done well, my lad!"
Smiler pondered for a few moments, the Chinaman standing perfectly impassive before him.
Presently Mr. Bunn brought his hand down on his knee like a man who has made up his mind.
"Well, Sing, I've got to trust you with my idea, and so I'll have to give the game away—if you haven't guessed it already. You're not really honest, are you? I mean, you'd be dishonest—thoroughly, disgustingly dishonest—for money, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, master," said Sing easily.
"Very well, then, here's a fiver. I shall be wanting your help in a little matter of dishonesty to-morrow. There's your money. If it comes off I am not saying I shall refuse another fiver."
Sing Song beamed.
"You wanting me kill Lord Foltwith?" He nodded cheerfully, "To-mollow?" he added. Mr. Bunn looked startled.
"No, you mustard-coloured fool! I want you to get hold of a real good kind of drug that'll leave no smell and no taste. And when you've got it, drug Lord Fortworth to-morrow night when he goes to bed—earlier if you can. Let me know when he's thoroughly drugged and I'll come along to the room and borrow that bunch of bananas, that's all. Can you do it?"
Song bowed. "Yes, master."
"Well, go and see about it."
"Yes, master."
The Chinaman went softly out, and Mr. Bunn undressed, climbed into bed, and slept the sleep of the conscienceless.
ON the following evening Lord Fortworth, after the usual elaborate dinner, strolled with Fat-headed Flood into the smoking-room for rest and cigars. He assisted himself to a cigar from his line and settled down to enjoy it. But he had but half-smoked it before he complained of drowsiness.
"It's that extra bottle we had to celebrate the coming of Mrs. Vanwelt, I suppose. I've got a head as heavy as a horse's. I'll get away to bed, I think."
Smiler, sitting taut and expectant, suggested that it would be the sensible thing to do, and the millionaire proceeded to do it. He left his newly-lighted cigar on an ash-tray, and the door had hardly closed behind him before Mr. Bunn had pitched it into the fire. Drugged cigars are much improved by being burnt to ashes.
Within twenty minutes Smiler Bunn was in the millionaire's bedroom, stooping over the safe. Sing Song stood on his left hand, and on his right, Lord Fortworth, comfortably tucked up in bed, slept like a chloroformed man.
Smiler pressed the necessary nine letters of the twenty which the key-disc bore, turned the disc, and pulled. The big curved door swung silently back on invisible hinges.
Besides the bunch of bananas the safe contained nothing but papers. Smiler knew enough of his man to be sure that these papers were not of value to him, whatever they were worth to the ennobled gold-digger. His speciality was not in the line of high finance robbery—at any rate, not yet.
He ignored the papers, and lifted out the golden bananas, which he placed in a stout kit-bag he had brought for the purpose.
Then, whispering to the Chinaman to relock the safe, put the key back in Fortworth's pocket, and to await his return, he left the room.
Outside the hotel he hurried into the nearest taxi-cab, and drove yet again to the house down by the Docks.
Evidently he was expected here, for Chung Loo, the Chinaman who ran the house, led him downstairs to a cellar adjoining that occupied by the fan-tan players.
"Allee ready," he said quietly, and closed and bolted the cellar door, "These velly good men—velly clever."
He indicated two Chinamen who sat idly at a bench which was covered with metal-working tools.
Smiler favoured them with a hard, keen glance which would have been a revelation to Lord Fortworth had he received one of the same kind from him, put his kit-bag on the bench, and opened it.
First he took out an automatic pistol. (He was in a queer quarter, and he knew it. He had heard of men who had entered but never come out of that old ramshackle building, so conveniently placed on the riverside.) He laid the weapon on the table close to his hand. Then he produced its twin, and did the same. The three Chinamen looked impassively at these gentle hints.
Then Smiler brought out the golden bunch of bananas.
"Now, my lads," he said harshly, to the two at the bench, "there's your model. Get on with it. If you've finished in two hours there's twenty pounds a-piece for you. It must be finished in three hours. It's half-past nine now, and I've got to go by half-past twelve. You stand in for fifty quid, anyhow!" he added to the proprietor of the cellar. Then he tapped the repeaters, "And no funny business!" he concluded meaningly.
The Chinamen at the bench fell to work, Smiler and the other watching them.
I was the first time Mr. Bunn had ever seen Chinese metal-workers engaged at their trade, and what he now witnessed surprised him. Their yellow fingers fairly flew. The proprietor of the cellar attended to the melting of the lead himself; but all the really fine work—the moulding, the gilding, and the polishing—was done by the two at the bench.
IT was at twelve o'clock exactly when Mr. Smiler Bunn, carrying a very heavy bag, passed into the lift of the Grand Trafalgar Hotel. Pausing in his own room for a second, in order to take from the bag a genuine gold brick, which he slipped into a drawer, he went quietly down to Lord Fortworth's room.
Sing Song was waiting for him. The millionaire still slept the sleep of the innocent.
Smiler took from his bag a bunch of bananas—pure gold, they resembled, in the soft light of the bedroom.
Mr. Bunn looked thoughtfully at the yellow fruit.
"Well, well, well!" he said admiringly, "Who'd ever believe it? Unless I knew for certain these bananas were gilded lead I'd have sworn they were gold! Now that's what I call art! Open the safe, Sing!"
THE dinner next night was quite a success. Mrs. Vanwelt and Smiler became friends at first sight. She got her surprise quite satisfactorily. But Mr. Bunn could not resist a discreet smile when, in response to the invitation of her old "sweetheart when a boy," she tried to help herself to a banana, and, feeling the weight of the "fruit," exclaimed, "Why, it's as heavy as lead!" Nor could he refrain from a further smile when Lord Fortworth remarked, "All is not lead that glitters. I tested it myself, my dear, and it's twenty-two carat!"
Smiler stood up and moved quietly to the door. The time had arrived when it was a case of "two's company."
Me paused just long enough to see that Mrs. Vanwelt understood her old lover's little surprise, to hear "Willy" say, "Don't you remember the bunch you stole for me in the old days, Kitty?"—and then, with the innate good breeding which (occasionally) distinguished him, he softly closed the door and went thoughtfully down to the smoking-room.
"It's funny," he mused, "how the old proverbs come true—'What the eye don't see the heart don't grieve,' for instance. They're just as happy as if those bananas really were what they think they are. Ah, well—" He sighed and signalled to the waiter.
"Bring me a toothful of that old Cognac," he said, and relapsed into his chair with the air of a man who has done a good day's work.
"I shouldn't be surprised if they ask me to be best man," he thought.
And in the fullness of time they did—and he was. Much, it may be said, to the sorrow of those guests who found themselves unaccountably short of jewellery when they eventually returned home after the festivities.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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