RGL e-Book Cover©
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
The Bunn-Fortworth Combine, shocked and horrified at the warlike plans of a Republic-hitting gentleman from Pekin, succeed in preventing twenty thousand pounds'-worth of bloodshed in China.
MR. SMILER BUNN put down the volume with which he had been entertaining himself for the past hour and turned to his partner, ex-Lord Fortworth, with a sigh.
"Ah, well, Fortworth," he said resignedly. "There may be men in the world who are capable of getting away with a cargo of these escargots, but I'm not one of 'em. That's what it comes to."
"Escargots?" asked Fortworth, a little drowsily, from behind his cigar. "How do you mean, escargots? What is it—a kind of carrot?" Mr. Bunn shook his head. "Snails. Escargots farcis—for instance, stuffed snails—are given in this book in the list of hors d'oeuvres," he said. "The man who wrote it is chef at the Millenaries' Club. They pay him five thousand a year, and I don't doubt the man's worth the money. But he'll never convince me that snails are anything but bird food."
"Great delicacy in France! " grunted Fortworth.
"Very likely—very likely! " said Smiler good-humouredly. "I should be the last man to stand between any decent, God-fearing Frenchman and his snails—and I don't deny that they might be fond of 'em over there—and know how to cook fish, if fish they can be called. But it would give me the jim-jams to see half a dozen of 'em with a bit of parsley hung round their poor little horns on my plate with a pair of nutcrackers, or whatever they eat 'em with, at the side. No, Fortworth; I'm willing to face any novelty in the world bar insects. I don't deny that I enjoy my food, but let it be something simple—good but simple and nourishing, same as—well, say, a nice capon cooked à la Banquière, for instance."
"Banquière? How's that? I don't quite remember it," said Fortworth, knitting his brows as he strove to recall the method.
Mr. Bunn looked surprised and a little shocked.
"Why, what's the matter?" he said chidingly. "We had it just a month ago."
Fortworth roused himself.
"Very likely. And we've had about two hundred and fifty different dishes—all good—since."
Mr. Bunn looked genuinely uneasy.
"I say, Fortworth," he asked, "you aren't losing interest in things, are you? It don't do to get slovenly about your meals, you know."
"No man on earth can say I'm slovenly about my food," retorted Fortworth with truth. "But at the same time I don't make a god of my stomach."
"Nor me—nor me. I despise a man who is always everlastingly thinking of food," said Smiler. "But if you don't know—by heart—how a dish should be cooked, you don't know whether you're being sharped or not when you order it."
"True," said Fortworth, rather thoughtfully. "But no human being can carry in his head how all dishes should be prepared."
"No man needs to—because half the dishes ain't worth eating, and should on no account be asked for. But the good ones are easy to remember—you can't forget 'em, in fact. And pretty well every good one ever invented is in that book, and I know 'em all by heart. Learned 'em by heart first—and we've tested most of 'em by mouth since."
His partner began to look first astonished—then envious—then incredulous.
"There's three hundred pages in that book and thousands of recipes. Have you got the gall to tell me you know 'em all by heart?"
Mr. Bunn passed him the book.
"If you'll pay me half a crown for every one I give you right, Fortworth, I'll pay you a half-crown for every one I fail at," he said modestly but firmly.
Fortworth opened the book at random, glanced down the page, and his face lighted up.
"I'll have a half-crown on venison braisé à la St. Hubert," he said. "How's it done?"
Mr. Bunn smiled.
"À la St. Hubert?" he repeated. "Give me the money. It's braised pickled venison, larded, finished in brown sauce, flavoured with claret and cinnamon, garnished with stoned prunes, and glazed with meat extract. And a very pretty little dish, too."
"Humph! You win that! "
Fortworth turned a few pages.
"Give me turkey à la Edward the Seventh."
"Any loyal Englishman knows that," replied Smiler promptly. "You stuff the turkey with cooked rice, foie-gras and truffles, braise it, garnish with cucumber cubes and points of asparagus, and serve with curry-flavoured supreme sauce. And a very gentlemanly dish it is, too."
"Humph! That's five shillings I owe you. You're a remarkable man. Flood." Fortworth sat up, touching the bell. "And this is a grand game. Sing Song can bring in the whisky and we'll settle down to it. I'll try you out if it costs me a tenner."
Mr. Bunn was more than willing, and that amiable crook, Sing Song, their Chinese man-servant, having brought the alcoholic support they required, the partners settled down to a severe bout of the new and absorbing game they had unwittingly invented.
By dinner-time Mr. Bunn had won forty-two half-crowns from Fortworth and lost two—one being for a failure to describe the method of cooking aubergines à la Turque, and the other due to his inability to solve the simple little problem of preparing a dish of wild boar à la St. Marc.
And both of them had acquired an appetite that went through the meal which followed like razor-edged battle-axes.
It was during the dreamy cigar-scented hour immediately following that Mr. Bunn, his mind hovering with affectionate reminiscence upon the rather choice lunch they had enjoyed that day at the Astoritz, recalled the lady with the bright bay hair who had been lunching at the next table with a gentleman who might have passed anywhere for Sing Song's elder brother.
He removed his cigar for a moment.
"How did that Chink who was lunching at the Astoritz with the auburn-headed dame strike you, Fortworth?" he asked.
Fortworth looked up rather quickly.
"I took him for a crook, but Henri, the head waiter, told me as we came out that, as a matter of fact, he was a Prince. Prince or a mandarin, or both, if there's any difference. His name's Chi Hi, or Hi-Tiddly-hi-ti, or words to that effect. What about him? He hasn't got money! "
Mr. Bunn pondered.
"How d'you know?"
Fortworth smiled.
"Well, the bay lady is a kind of Society tout for a money-lender named Lazenger, and a man wants all his nerve to stand her a lunch at the Astoritz. It don't look rich, Flood." (It may be mentioned that to the public Mr. Bunn preferred to be known as Wilton Flood, just as the modest cognomen of Henry Black amply satisfied the once-Lord Fortworth.)
"No, Flood." continued the ex-financier. "When you see a man lunching with Mrs. Fay-Lacy you see a man who wouldn't much mind hanging a sandwich board on himself with 'Broke' printed on it—if he had the price of a board."
Smiler nodded.
"Well, there hasn't been much of a boom in the Prince business in China lately. I suppose Chi is over here for what he can get, and doesn't much care who knows it," he mused. "Republic over there, ain't it?"
"So-called," agreed Fortworth tersely.
Sing Song entered with the whisky-and-soda with which the partners were in the habit of dispelling the cloying taste of their liqueurs, and Mr. Bunn questioned him.
"Sing Song, my son, who is Prince Chi Hi when he's at home—if he's got a home?"
Sing Song's beady eyes gleamed a little.
"Velly noble prince, mastel. Velly lich, powerful—one time, befole Lepublic come."
"Lost his job now, I take it, hey?"
"He lost job now allee same allee Loyal Family."
"Moneyed man, Sing?"
"Not got now—Lepublic takee. He tlying bollow money fol gettee Lepublic pullee down, cuttee up, killee Plesident. Bollow hundled thousans evelywhele—millions, p'laps—bollow San Flancisco, New Yolk, all Melican cities, bollow all ovel Eulope, in Palis, Belin, Venna, evelywhele. Now bollow money in Londin."
The partners looked at each other like a pair of old artillerymen who, seated outside some village inn, suddenly hear afar off an unexpected thudding of big guns.
"Pour out the whisky, Sing Song—carefully, mind—and give us the facts about this champion loan-sharp," instructed Mr. Bunn.
Sing Song did so, not without a certain eagerness. He was, in his simple Chinese way, a thrifty man, and it rather depressed him to think of all the money which, in common with most of his fellow-countrymen in England, he knew Chi Hi would shortly be carting back to China. The interest his employers were suddenly exhibiting in the matter cheered him up considerably, for he knew them quite sufficiently well to be aware of the fact that they rarely if ever extended their interest to a man and his money without, ultimately, taking a tolerably large fistful of that man's principal as a sort of quid pro quo.
But Sing Song knew very little more than the plain fact that Chi Hi was on the point of winding up a borrowing tour, the object of which was, he (Sing Song) believed, the financing of an attempt to reestablish the monarchy in China.
The result of the séance was that the ever-ready Chink was abruptly fired down into the Chinese quarter with strict instructions to "get abreast" of the movements of Chi Hi without unnecessary and foolish delay.
For themselves the partners proposed to turn their kind attention to the bay-haired lady, Mrs. Fay-Lacy—in the morning.
FROM a casual and cursory survey—especially cursory—of the announcements of our more prominent money-lenders one would be not wholly unjustified in surmising that they are as plentiful as pebbles upon the seashore; indeed, one might very easily come to the conclusion that it is a matter of some little difficulty to wend one's weary way through life to the impartial grave without succumbing, sooner or later, to the philanthropic blandishments of one or more of the swarming multitudes of would-be helpers of financial lame dogs over the stile... into the field where the bull, temporarily concealed from view, is carefully sharpening his horns to gore the last golden bezant out of the aforesaid lame dog.
But though they be many in name our money-lenders be few in person. Few but effective.
The Father of the Chapel, as one might say—or to put it in good plain, old-fashioned French, the doyen of the many-aliased tribe of moneylenders—undoubtedly was, just then, Mr. Craik Lazenger, a sharp-set old he-wolf whose domestic den consisted of a small, ordinary, raw-looking detached villa in funereally-shrubbed grounds outside Woking. Few borrowers ever had the privilege of meeting Mr. Lazenger personally, for few possessed, or were willing to part with, sufficient security to merit the personal attention of the elderly blood-sucker. It was usually one or more of his hardshell deputies with whom the average loan-seeker dealt, while Mr. Lazenger occupied what leisure he could spare from his bigger investments in superintending the daily wool-harvest from afar off.
He was one of those steely-eyed elders, with short, stiff black-and-white check whiskers and beard grown mainly for the purpose of ambushing a "Beware" mouth and chin. His income was probably as much as a hundred thousand a year, and his personal expenses might have amounted to four pounds a week. He was not a person of extravagant personal tastes, and it was a curious fact that he lived in constant terror of poverty. Occasionally, however, a borrower would come within reach whom Mr. Lazenger considered worthy of his special attention.
Such a borrower was Prince Chi Hi—introduced by the most able of Mr. Lazenger's staff of agents or (as Lord Fortworth put it) touts, Mrs. Fay-Lacy.
For Chi Hi had behind him as security practically as much of China as he could pawn and the Great Powers could spare—providing always that lenders were willing to pay out cold cash on the chance of Chi Hi and Co. uprooting a Republic which already was showing signs of running to seed.
It was a chance upon which Mr. Craik Lazenger did not propose, at first, to spread himself very recklessly, but nevertheless he was willing to discuss matters—via Mrs. Fay-Lacy, to begin with.
These facts represented the patiently acquired sum total of the Bunn-Fortworth Combine's knowledge of affairs two days after they first glanced into the matter.
Most of it had been gleaned by Sing Song from certain obscure friends and compatriots of his, who appeared to reside in, or, at any rate frequented, a weird, old, rat-ridden, many-roomed, mysterious Chinese lodging-house, club, or what-not near the East India Docks.
Encouraged by this moderately fruitful preliminary canter of their saffron-hued satellite, Messrs. Bunn and Fortworth proceeded to get acquainted with Mrs. Fay-Lacy—no difficult matter, since practically every well-dressed dead-head in London knew her, and, failing an ordinary introduction, it was only necessary to take a handful of deeds to her and, in the usual way, naively ask for a stiff third mortgage on an already over-mortgaged morsel of depreciated property.
With the somewhat guarded camaraderie of natural-born money-sleuths the partners (though failing signally to negotiate a loan) and Mrs. Fay-Lacy speedily arrived at the degree of intimacy where an invitation to dine is not misunderstood or taken amiss. And since the bay-haired lady had arrived at the age when even well-preserved beauty is not ashamed to recognise the charm and attraction of a dinner at the Astoritz, it was on the third evening precisely that Mrs. Fay-Lacy dined expensively with the partners there.
It is probable that it would have been money wasted had not a somewhat typically West End incident occurred just at the liqueur stage of the meal.
A red-moustached, gaunt gentleman with extremely glittering eyes, and wearing a dress-suit that obviously had not been built for him, suddenly came up to their table, and without the least preliminary remarked, staring hungrily at Mrs. Fay-Lacy:
"Esme, old girl, I'm right up against it."
And promptly proceeded to prove his words by pitching, in a dead faint, face forward across Mr. Bunn's lap.
"Why—oh, Gerald! " gasped Mrs. Fay-Lacy, and sat where she was, utterly unable to stand, shocked into a bad trembling fit.
"Gerald is it?" said Mr. Bunn blankly, and, with the aid of Fortworth and a herd of startled waiters, got the red-moustached gentleman into a more natural position just as he opened his eyes.
A minute later he had disposed of nearly half a tumbler of costly cognac urged upon him by the partners, and was stiffening up somewhat. Mrs. Fay-Lacy, still white-lipped, introduced him to the partners.
The new-comer, it appeared, was Mr. Gerald Lazenger—son of Craik Lazenger—and it took the partners precisely thirty seconds to perceive that their presence was no longer in very urgent request. It was quite obvious that both Mr. Lazenger and Mrs. Fay-Lacy were keenly desirous of a private conversation.
And so Messrs. Bunn and Fortworth gracefully paid the bill, said farewell, and went.
They waited in the lounge to light their cigars, and as they waited saw Mrs. Fay-Lacy and Lazenger pass out, take a taxi, and depart to an address which, when they overheard it given to the driver, caused them to glance at each other a trifle uneasily.
For the address was that of Mrs. Fay-Lacy's flat, where at that moment the partners knew Sing Song should be actively employed in looking through her papers, with a view to seeing how matters stood between Lazenger senior and Prince Chi Hi.
In the ordinary way the Combine would never have taken an interest in the deal at all, but among the information that the invaluable Sing Song, in some way known only to himself, had corkscrewed from his Celestial friends in the house near the Docks, was the point that one of Prince Chi Hi's gentle Chinese idiosyncrasies was to collect all loans in cash or its equivalent in bar gold. Gold was a thing he understood—cheques not. Soldiers understand gold—but not cheques. And a person who plans shortly to embark upon the enterprise of abolishing even the most rickety of Republics above all things should carry gold in preference to paper or promises, wherewith to pay his murderers their salaries.
At any rate that was Chi Hi's plan—and as he purposed doing by his future warriors so he purposed being done by when drawing from the money-lenders he patronised.
But gold in bulk is heavy stuff, not too easily handled, and much can happen to it in transit—a fact appreciated at its full value by Messrs. Bunn and Fortworth. Hence their anxiety to know as much as possible of the time which Chi Hi would be taking his cash-boxes, safes, money-bags and so forth from the residence of Mr. Craik Lazenger.
"The Chink'll be all right," said .Smiler as they strolled away from the Astoritz. "The man or woman who can surprise him hasn't been born yet. He's got ears like a dog, and the first click of the Fay-Lacy's key in her lock will send Sing under the bed or out of the window and down the ash-lift like a lamplighter. But at the same time we might do worse than slip down to Victoria Street and have a look round about the flat in ease we can lend him a hand."
Fortworth agreed, and they took a taxi to the top of Victoria Street. Mrs. Fay-Lacy's flat was in a huge warren described as residential mansions about half-way along Victoria Street.
It was half-past ten when they arrived, and they "looked round" until half-past eleven, concluding their look round with a look through—the keyhole of Mrs. Fay-Lacy's door.
But beyond the meagre knowledge that somebody in the flat was talking busily they learned nothing, and, becoming rather uncomfortably aware of the fact that they had not enjoyed their customary period of repose after a well-thought-out dinner, they took a taxi home, leaving it to Sing Song to adapt himself to circumstances in any way that seemed to him most suitable and called for.
"Sing Song'll be all right," they said comfortably, took a nightcap or two, and went to bed, without waiting for the arrival of the Chink—who, it may be said, was at that moment lying flat on his stomach under a luxurious Chesterfield in Mrs. Fay-Lacy's small drawing-room, listening attentively to the conversation of the red-moustached Gerald and his hostess.
In justice to Messrs. Bunn and Fortworth it should be explained that worry on behalf of their Chinaman would have been worry wasted. Sing Song had very little idea of how he was going to get out of the flat, and at the moment was giving the point very little consideration. Sufficient for the hour was the Chesterfield thereof, might have been the care-free Chink's motto. And, anyway, he was there because his idol, Mr. Bunn, had instructed him to be there—and that was ample for Sing Song. He had, in common with that seafaring youth, the late Mr. Casabianca, a penchant for doing his duty (when told to by Mr. Bunn), and he was perfectly willing to risk the six months or two years or whatever the award of merit would be in the case of capture. As Mr. Bunn would have said, "Sing Song always was a bit of a fatalist."
He was quite happy and tolerably comfortable where he was. It was improbable that the bay-haired lady or Lazenger junior would look under the Chesterfield unless he sneezed inadvertently. But Sing Song was not given to sneezing inadvertently; he would have been in Dartmoor long before had that been a weakness of his.
He merely lay there listening, his ears spread, as it were, like the nets of the fowler.
At one o'clock Mr. Lazenger departed. Mrs. Kay-Lacy friendlily enough went with him down to the main door the Hat was on the first floor. Her two maids were long since in bed.
She met Sing Song coming down the stairs as she returned. He was smoking a cigarette from the open box on her table, but she did not know it. He stood aside, most politely, for her to pass. She caught a glimpse of his face and paused. The light was dim at that hour.
"Prince Chi Hi—" she said doubtfully.
Sing Song grinned.
"Excuse, madam—not Plince Chi Hi. Anothel gentleman," he explained. "Chinaman allee same look alike to English ladies."
"Oh, pardon! " said Mrs. Fay-Lacy vaguely, and continued up the stairs.
It did not disturb the lady to find the door of her flat slightly ajar; she had left it so herself. Nor did she miss the cigarette; for. as Sing Song had so reasonably reflected, what was one cigarette among so many?
Nor did it occur to the Chink that he had effected his exit with rather considerable judgment and dexterity. Indeed, he thought no more of it as he slid swiftly homewards.
He was too busy thinking out the details of the breakfast of his employers next' morning. The knowledge he had gleaned concerning the Chi Hi affair was quietly tucked away in the back of his head to be left until called for by his master on the following day.
WHEN, after their morning repast had been soundly defeated, Messrs. Bunn and Fortworth cheerily faced their daily task, they began by receiving the report of Sing Song.
Despite the lengthy duration of the period of his retirement under the Fay-Lacy Chesterfield, Sing Song had all the salient points boiled down to the degree of concentration which he knew the partners looked for.
He spoke, and a few minutes later Mr. Bunn summed up as follows:
"Let's get it right, now," he said, in extremely business-like tones. "As far as we can judge from this yellow image's report old Lazenger is going to lend Chi Hi twenty thousand bones—all in gold—and Chi is going down to his place to sign the deeds and fetch away the gold at six o'clock in the evening the day after to-morrow. This Mrs. Fay-Lacy told Gerald Lazenger about it; and Gerald—who has just come out of gaol, where he went for forging his father's name to a cheque—and she mean to have a dash at the gold for themselves—old Tooth-and-Claw Lazenger having treated her pretty harsh, too—and set up housekeeping on it. Well, now, where do we come in, Fortworth? We can't all have the stuff—somebody's got to stand aside."
"That gold is for us," said Fortworth bluntly. "We must live." Smiler nodded.
"We'll cross Chi Hi out for a start," he said. "He only wants the money for more bloodshed and war and foolery in China. What's the good of bloodshed anyway? Waste of money—waste of blood, too. I suppose they wanted a Republic over there, or they wouldn't have had it. Live and let live; somebody over there put the ace on the king, and I don't see why we should be called upon to contribute twenty thousand towards the cost of a joker for Chi Hi to whang down on the ace. Cross Chi off. As for this fainter, Gerald, and his red-headed Esme, cross them off too. It's only a blackguard or a fool who'll rob his father, anyway."
"True," nodded Fortworth. "But who do we get the stuff from—the old man Lazenger, or Chi Hi, or young Lazenger after he's got it from Chi?"
"Well, we shan't get it off the old man—people have been trying that for years and never managed it. We might delay Chi an hour and let Sing Song impersonate him, but it's risky. And I doubt if the Chink could give what you might call a classy impersonation of a Prince, in spite of their faces growing the same shape. Could you come the Prince well enough, Sing?"
Sing Song, admirably aware of his limitations, thought not.
His employers agreed with unflattering conviction.
"You're right. You couldn't sign the deeds, if any—could you, Sing?" said Smiler. "Just pour me out another cognac, my son, and then get on with your work while we go into things."
And in accordance with their quaint custom of liqueuring after all meals, the two smooth old tigers took their cognacs to the big bay window which a late autumn sun was considerately brightening up for them, and settled down to discuss their plan for—preventing bloodshed in China.
That night a forty horse-power khaki-coloured touring car, driven by the able Sing Song and occupied by the partners, slid quietly up the drive of the comfortable house at Purdston, on the Surrey-Hants border, which was the country retreat of the Combine.
Mr. Ferdinand Bloom, their butler and general all-round "Hey, Bill!" apprised by telephone, appeared at the door to receive them.
It was something past ten o'clock and Mr. Bloom was rather tired and a trifle overwrought, having undergone the unpleasant experience of subduing and recovering from a mild intoxication which really required from six to eight hours of tranquil slumber for effective dispersal. His face was slightly swollen on one side.
He silently took the heavy coats and sundries of his employers, and in reply to Smiler's friendly comment that he did not look very "flourishing," mentioned that he had neuralgia.
"That's all right, Bloom, my lad," Mr. Bunn assured him kindly. "Don't you worry about us. You do your best for us and you'll be looked after. You stick to your work and force yourself to forget the neuralgia. Don't think about it. It's a very painful thing is neuralgia, and we understand. You just slip out and get the whisky-and-soda, like a good lad, and look alive. You want to hustle round a bit, Bloomy, and it's astonishing how you'll overlook the neuralgia."
He held his hands out to the cheery glow of the fire that Mr. Bloom had lighted in readiness for them, and turned to Fortworth.
"Not the man Sing Song is," he said, referring to the unhappy Ferdinand. "Too gloomy—and fat—and self-conscious. Not to say selfish. The man's always thinking about himself. He never laughs—and a fat, neuralgic man that never laughs gives me the creeps."
"Who? Bloom? He's got as much neuralgia as a motor tyre and no more. May have a touch of toothache," grunted Fortworth. "He ought to shout 'Hurrah' because it ain't gout."
They lighted cigars, and pensively staring into the fire waited for Mr. Bloom's return with the refreshment.
Duly this arrived and was dealt with. Bloom, looking as happy as a captured missionary cutting firewood for cannibals, was bidden to remain in the room.
A moment later Sing Song came in from the motor-house, and Mr. Bunn began to announce the plan of campaign.
TWO evenings later, at between six and seven o'clock precisely, Mr. Craik Lazenger, with well-concealed reluctance, duly separated himself from the two and three-quarter hundredweight or so of bar gold for which Prince Chi Hi stipulated—a mode of payment which, though cumbersome, suited the moneylender admirably in that he had netted a moderate profit on the gold. It was not the sort of transaction that Mr. Lazenger cared for as a general rule. It savoured too much of the speculative. True, Chi Hi had been able to put up some sixteen thousand pounds'-worth of good European securities, but the remainder of the securities were worthless unless the coup d'état of the aspiring monarch was successful, in which case modest Mr. Lazenger had something like two million pounds' worth of lands, docks, railway, mining, and a dozen other concessions and hefty things of that kind to keep for his very own—all duly approved by cable by an agent of the moneylender in Shanghai.
Blandly smiling, Prince Chi Hi supervised the carrying out of the gold—which had been weighed and packed—to the car he had brought.
The work was done by two impassive Chinamen who had accompanied the Prince, and the gold was checked off by Mrs. Fay-Lacy, who was in attendance upon Craik Lazenger. The metal being stowed away, Chi Hi bade Lazenger an affable farewell and proceeded to stow himself away with it.
Old Lazenger watched the car disappear.
"That's the first Chinese Prince I ever did business with," he said, adding musingly: "I wonder if he will get all that gold safely to China."
Mrs. Fay-Lacy could have told him, but she did not. She fondly hoped that within a few minutes there would be a Chinese Prince on the London road twenty thousand pounds short in his accounts, and a red-moustached gentleman named Gerald speeding it right merrily homeward in a fast car that carried about two and three-quarter hundredweight more cargo than it had left town with.
For out there in the night somewhere Mr. Lazenger junior, the disinherited son of Craik Lazenger, with a friend, was waiting to receive the Prince.
And—although she did not know this—not far from Lazenger junior waited a quartette of peace-seekers who were determined at all costs to prevent precisely twenty thousand pounds'-worth of bloodshed in China.
The house of Lazenger senior was situated in a well-wooded lane which ran off from the main road, and it was when Chi Hi's big hired limousine had travelled about half-way along this lane that the glaring headlights discovered to the driver a fellow touring car half blocking the road. The limousine pulled up.
"Can't you get past?" called a man, who appeared to be working over the engine of the touring car. "sorry. Could you lend me a hand with this valve spring half a second, and I'll get out of the way?"
The limousine driver got down, explained briefly to Chi Hi, went over to the touring car and round to the far side of it, out of the zone of light from his own lamps.
As he did so a sudden whistling hiss from the back of the limousine announced the fact that either a valve had gone wrong or a puncture had happened—two valves, in fact, for the hiss of escaping air suddenly was redoubled.
Chi Hi felt the big car settle down on the deflating tyres and peered out. It was very dark in the lane, and the man who had so swiftly unscrewed the valve caps was not visible.
Then from the offside of the yellow car came a curious, dull little noise, as of a blow, and a sort of choked groan. The two Chinese servants of the Prince were out of the limousine like cats as Chi Hi, his eyes suddenly alive with suspicion, gave an order.
They were biggish, muscular men, but his muscle availed one of them little against the spanner of Gerald Lazenger, who, having finished with the tyres, was awaiting whoever came out of the body of the big car.
The Chinaman dropped heavily. His fellow, who had slid from the seat next to the driver's, leapt like a wolf for the dark figure of Lazenger. He went head down like a man butting, and Lazenger, more by luck than correct judgment, met him with that vicious artifice which in certain circles is described as "giving the knee." And he gave it as though he meant it. With his nose broken and his neck all but dislocated, the unfortunate Chink reeled back into the ditch unconscious.
Then Prince Chi Hi became abruptly aware of a man at the door of the limousine, a man with eyes that gleamed wildly through the slits of a mask, who pressed a magazine pistol hard against his head and growled: "Get out quick! " At the same instant another man appeared at the other door, searching for the boxes under Chi Hi's feet.
The Prince was a stategist rather than a physical fighter. He-could plan war on a large scale wonderfully well—but he was no practical exponent of the arts of attack or defence. He knew that these men wanted the gold and meant having it, and he decided to let them have it. His life was more valuable than the money, which was a flea-bite to some of the sums he had borrowed. He got out nimbly, and swiftly amalgamated himself with the darkness farther down the lane a second or so before the military arrived. The military.
A long, low, powerfully-engined khaki-coloured car, with blinding headlights, shot silently up from the main road, stopped with a shudder two yards from the other cars, and four men in khaki—soldiers—jumped down. The dark steel barrels of their short rifles gave back a sullen reflection of the car lights as they moved. Three carried rifles—the fourth, an officer, had a big Browning pistol.
"Steady, men! Fire if they resist arrest!" barked the officer, in a voice that one would never have recognised as that of Smiler Bunn.
But neither Mr. Lazenger nor his accomplice was in the least desirous of resisting arrest. All they desired to do was to quit that place. It is much easier to knock an unprepared Chinaman on the head with a spanner than it is to outface an officer, a sergeant, and two burly privates, all heavily armed.
There was something very cooling to the ardour of the two Thugs in the fierce white light of the huge acetylenes on the military car, and in the sight of business-like uniforms, brown belts, and drab puttees of the soldiers. A crook may have nerve and to spare to tackle an elderly Chinese Prince, but when the quarry is suddenly transformed into a quartette of big and beefy gentlemen of the Army, that same crook requires to make out a fresh mental balance-sheet of his nerve resources.
At any rate that is what Mr. Gerald Lazenger and his club-wielding friend did, and their figures worked out right first shot. The balance-sheet showed that "nerve in hand" was not enough by five-and-seventy per cent, to balance with "nerve required." The whole process took about one-eighteenth of a second to work out, and so, even as the Tommies began to rush them, Lazenger junior and partner gave up the gold and bolted with a speed and precision beyond all praise or blame.
"Why the blazes didn't Esme drop a hint that the Chinese blackguard might have an escort arriving to see him home?" groaned Gerald, letting out another notch of speed as he fancied he heard footsteps behind him.
At the scene of the conflict the "escort" were working like demons. Sing Song had already turned the car, tearing down half a ton of bank with a front wheel to do it. The other "soldiers" were lugging the neat but heavy boxes from the limousine to their car.
The sergeant—ex-Lord Fortworth, no less—ran round with an electric torch examining the stunned.
"None dead—they'll be all right," he panted.
"Where's the Prince?" asked Colonel Bunn.
"Climbed a tree or something—he ain't here," returned the sergeant, and climbed into the car. "Get in, Bloom—lively now! "
Mr. Bloom scrambled in, and the car shot away down the lane, the soldiers hastily slipping on tweed caps and loud check overcoats as they got out of range of the glaring lights behind.
"Wide open, Sing—and hoot like h—l! " muttered Mr. Bunn, jamming a cap on the head of Sing Song, who was driving.
The Chink opened the throttle and the car leaped forward. In two minutes she was clear of the lane and was booming home to Purdston, her false number flickering whitely, like a rabbit's tail, for all who cared about such things to see and make a note of. They were in and out of Woking by the time Mr. Lazenger and partner, tearing down the lane, stopped suddenly as they saw ahead the lights of the cab in which Mrs. Fay-Lacy was returning to Woking station.
"Over the hedge," grunted Gerald, remembering the cabman, and they left the highway for the woods, circled in the dark, and presently worked round to the main road, their masks removed and with cigars lighted, fondly hoping that they looked like two gentlemen who had merely been for a country stroll.
Without waiting for Mrs. Fay-Lacy they took the next train up to town.
"How about the car?" asked Lazenger's fellow Thug anxiously. They were alone in the carriage, and Lazenger took full advantage of the fact.
"Car!" he bawled, his eyes bloodshot. "What do I care about the car? Let the man we hired it from look after his own car. All I'm worrying about is whether those military guys could identify us." He reflected a moment, scowling. "I guess I shan't risk it, masks or no masks. Canada for me for a year or two, if I can raise the fare."
"Me, too," snarled the other. "And damn all Chinese! "
When Mrs. Fay-Lacy arrived at the battlefield she found Prince Chi Hi, who had screwed up nerve enough to return, rather feebly trying to resuscitate the driver of the limousine—sandbagged—and his two Chinese servants—spannered and knee'd respectively.
The lady was surprised—more surprised than she cared to admit. The gold was gone, obviously, but it looked as though the thieves had forgotten their motor in their hurry. She couldn't understand it at all. But she did what she could, because she had to, and when the cabman had fetched the police, and the victims had more or less regained their senses, she kindly accompanied the still acutely confused Chi Hi to town in the limousine, leaving him at his hotel possessed mainly of a vague idea that if she had not been what she was, and if he had not been what he was, he could have loved her for her kindly aid, and positively determined that when the monarchy was re-established in China he would see that she received the greatly envied Chinese decoration of The Three Brass Balls, The Plume of Feathers, or some other souvenir of that kind.
Then Mrs. Fay-Lacy went hurriedly to her flat.
Gerald was there—and his friend. She did not understand the sudden appearance of the military—and Gerald was unable to enlighten her.
"Something went wrong, that's all I know," growled Mr. Lazenger, "and we've got to get out of the country—quick! Have you got the price of our fares to Canada, Esme?"
Esme had, and by a curious coincidence it was at the exact moment that she handed it over that Mr. Smiler Bunn, down at Purdston, also handed Sing Song and Mr. Bloom their share of the plunder.
"There you are, my lads, there's a quid apiece for you to go on with.
You've been good lads to-night, and if we sell the gold—well, I don't say but what you might get another quid—later on. We'll see how you go on."
He lay back in the armchair with a sigh of content.
"I think I can promise it to you. I'm very pleased with the way you two and Mrs. Bloom knocked up that quick dinner after we got home—very pleased indeed. Now pour me out another drop of Benedictine, Sing Song. That's it. Put the uniforms away carefully, mind, and clean the rifles. Lord knows I hope we shall never use 'em—I'm anti-bloodshed myself—but cleanliness is next to godliness, so always keep your firearms clean, my lads. Now slip it."
They "slipped" it just as Fortworth came in—he had been locking up the specially-constructed secret safe which they had had put in at Purdston.
"All right, sergeant?" asked Smiler playfully.
Fortworth nodded.
"That's good."
Smiler pondered awhile.
"Well," he said at last, "it was as neat a job as we ever pulled off. We done everybody a bit of good, too—the loss of that twenty thousand will save a lot of lives in China."
"Yes," Fortworth grinned. "We've done a bit of good to everybody except Mrs. Fay-Lacy and her Gerald."
"Them! Oh, they're a couple of d—n thieves—deserve all they get," said Smiler.
Which, obviously, was perfectly true.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.