An Amiable Charlatan
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E. Phillips Oppenheim >> An Amiable Charlatan
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I made no comment at the time, but curiously enough that afternoon, as we
sat out under the trees at Ranelagh, Eve referred to the subject of her
parent. "Do you notice, Paul," she asked, "how much less we see of dad
lately?"
"He does seem to have been out a good deal," I admitted.
She glanced at me.
"You haven't any idea, I suppose--"
The glance and her tone were quite sufficient for me. I hastened to
disclaim all responsibility for Mr. Bundercombe.
"Your father," I assured her, "has never treated me with less confidence.
Whatever he may be doing at present, he is doing, let me assure you,
entirely on his own responsibility."
"Then I think, if you don't mind, please," she begged, "you must try and
get him to take you into his confidence. Of course," she went on, watching
idly a polo team canter into the field, "I do not wish you to feel that he
is in any way a responsibility. On the other hand, it does seem so queer,
Paul! He has taken to dressing most carefully and he leaves the house
regularly every morning at ten o'clock."
"You've no clew at all as to what he does with himself?" I asked.
"None," she replied, "except that I never saw any one with such
overmanicured nails as his. I never knew him to go to a manicurist in my
life, but he is obviously going to one nearly every day now or he couldn't
keep the polish on. If that helps in any way--"
"It might," I admitted with a sigh.
"There he is!" Eve exclaimed suddenly. "Coming toward us, too! Do please
take this opportunity, Paul, and see if you can find out anything. You
see, a week ago he seemed bored to tears, and now he has just that happy,
contented expression which he wears all the time when he is really engaged
in something outrageous. I will go and talk to your sister. I think she is
over there with Captain Green."
Mr. Bundercombe greeted me heartily and at once directed my attention to a
small tent where cool drinks were being served. I suffered him to lead me
in that direction and placed myself in his hands as regards the selection
of a suitable beverage. We found a small table and sat down. "Haven't seen
much of you lately, sir," I began.
"Huh! That's because I don't spend three parts of my time in milliners'
shops," Mr. Bundercombe replied.
"Where are you spending most of your time?" I asked, determined to take
the bull by the horns.
Mr. Bundercombe set down his glass.
"I've been expecting this," he remarked pleasantly. "Eve's been setting
you on to pump me, eh?"
I nodded.
"That's exactly it," I admitted. "We are due to be married in ten days. We
are neither of us anxious for anything in the way of an unfortunate
incident."
Mr. Bundercombe appeared to view with surprise the advent of a second
tumbler. He reconciled himself to its arrival, however, and handed money
to the attendant.
"I realize the position entirely, my dear fellow," he assured me. "I am
glad you have opened the subject up. I have been bursting to tell you all
about it; but I have hesitated for fear of being misunderstood."
I glanced at his nails.
"Of course," I observed slowly, "the position of an elderly gentleman with
a marriageable daughter and a wife," I went on bravely, "who finances a
young lady interested in manicuring in an establishment in Bond Street is
liable to misinterpretation."
Mr. Bundercombe was a little taken aback. He hid his face for a moment
behind the newly arrived tumbler.
"Kind of observant, aren't you?" he remarked.
"I saw you in Bond Street this morning," I told him, "you and a paper
parcel. You were entering the establishment, I believe, of Mademoiselle
Blanche, whoever she is."
"Small place, London!" Mr. Bundercombe sighed. "Were you--er--alone?"
"I was with Eve," I replied; "but she did not see you and I did not
mention the matter."
"My boy," Mr. Bundercombe decided, "I shall take you wholly into my
confidence. I am engaged in a big affair!" My heart sank.
"I can only pray to Heaven," I said fervently, "that the denouement of
this affair will not take place within the next ten days."
"On the contrary," Mr. Bundercombe answered, leaning back in his chair and
looking at me, with the flat of one hand laid on the table and the palm of
the other on his left knee, "on the contrary," he repeated, "the
denouement is due to-morrow."
"Glad you didn't consider us," I observed gloomily.
Mr. Bundercombe smiled.
"I find myself in this last affair," he remarked airily, "occupying what I
must confess, for me, is a somewhat peculiar position. I am on the side of
the established authorities. I am in the cast-iron position of the man who
falls into line with the law of the land. In other words, you behold in
me, so far as regards this affair, respectability and rectitude
personified. I may even choose to give our friend Mr. Cullen a leg up."
I was relieved to hear it and told him so.
"I presume," I said, "that Mademoiselle Blanche, of Bond Street, is
identical with the young lady who talked to us at Stephano's the other
night?"
"Say, you're becoming perfectly wonderful at the art of deduction!" my
future father-in-law declared. "Same person!"
"She seems quite attractive," I admitted, "with a taste for pink roses, I
think."
Mr. Bundercombe appeared to regard my remark as frivolous. He moved his
chair, however, and brought it closer to mine.
"I dare say you remember," he went on, "how the young lady proposed to me
that night that I should finance a little venture in which she and her
sleepy-eyed friend opposite were interested."
I nodded.
"Yes, I remember that."
"From that," Mr. Bundercombe continued, "she went on to suggest that I
should help her in the ambition of her life, which, it seems, was to take
a single room for manicuring a few clients. In an ordinary way I should
have refused that, too; and, if she had been hard up, begged to be allowed
to oblige her with a trifling loan--and ended the matter in that way. The
reason I didn't was simply because I felt convinced that her desire to
require a single room in the manicure business was somehow associated with
the scheme she had at first suggested. Therefore I temporized. I appeared
to be interested. I asked her in what locality she wished to commence
business. She never hesitated. There was only one place she wanted and
that was the room she's got. Just to test her I took her to see really
slap-up premises in another part of Bond Street. She pretended to look at
them, but never took the slightest interest. It was just one room she
wanted--and one room only.
"I realized that both she and her friend were either too desperately hard
up to engage that room or else they were particularly anxious to do it in
some one else's name. That was quite enough for me. I engaged the room."
I glanced once more at Mr. Bundercombe's nails. "You, at any rate," I
remarked, "have been a faithful customer."
"Paul," Mr. Bundercombe continued, "I am playing a part. I am playing the
part of a silly old fool. It isn't easy sometimes, but I am keeping it up.
I spend a good part of my time in that beastly little parlor, having my
nails done over and over again. The girl is bored to death; and I--though
I flatter myself I don't show it--I guess I'm bored to death too. I've
kept it up all right until now and the job comes off to-morrow. Miss
Blanche is convinced that my interest in her is sentimental and she has
occasionally not been quite so careful as she might have been. I have
picked up here and there certain small details that enable me to form a
very fair idea as to the nature of this venture in which I was invited to
participate. The last few days I have been hesitating whether I should
take you into my confidence or not. As it happens you have forced it. Have
you anything particular to do to-morrow?"
I thought for a moment. "Nothing very much until the late afternoon, when
I go down to the House," I replied.
"Then to-morrow you shall see the end of this thing with me," Mr.
Bundercombe promised. "If luck goes our way you will find we shall have
quite a pleasant few minutes."
Eve put her head in at the tent and we hastened to join her. She drew me a
little on one side.
"I think it's all right," I told her.
"I am so glad," she replied. "And, Paul, hadn't you better drop dad a hint
that Mrs. Bundercombe will be home to-morrow? I think he'd better have the
shine taken off his nails!"
* * * * *
At twelve o'clock the next morning I met Mr. Bundercombe by appointment in
the Burlington Arcade. We strolled slowly round into Bond Street. Mr.
Bundercombe was, for him, unusually serious. He looked about him all the
time with swift, careful glances. As we turned into Bond Street his pace
became slower and slower. Within a yard or two of the spot where I had
first seen him disappear he paused, and under pretense of talking
earnestly to me he looked up and down and across the street with keen,
careful glances.
At last, with a sudden turn he led the way into the passage. Together we
ascended the stairs. On a door almost opposite to us at the end of the
landing was another little brass plate, on which was engraved the name of
Mademoiselle Blanche. Mr. Bundercombe took a latchkey from his pocket and
opened the door, which he carefully closed after him.
"No one here!" I remarked.
"Not yet!" Mr. Bundercombe said, a little grimly. "From now onward you
will be able to understand certain things. Miss Blanche informed me that
to-day she had an invitation to go into the country. It was the only way I
could discover the day in which they were planning to bring off the coup.
If I had been an occasional visitor she might have risked my coming and
finding her away. Since, however, I presented myself every morning at
eleven o'clock she was forced to tell me. You understand as much as that?"
"Perfectly."
"You see where we are then," Mr. Bundercombe continued. "Has any reason
occurred to you for the young lady's unalterable decision that no other
spot in the whole of London would do for her manicure parlor?"
I looked out the window.
"We are next door to Tarteran's," I observed.
Mr. Bundercombe smiled approvingly.
"We are within a few yards," he said, "of the jeweler's shop that contains
more valuable gems than any other establishment in the world. We are at
the present moment within forty yards of a million pounds' worth of
jewels. When you come to reflect upon the character and the past of our
friend Dagger Rodwell, you will understand the significance of that fact."
I was beginning to share Mr. Bundercombe's obvious excitement. I, too, had
the feeling that we were on the brink of an adventure. He made me stand up
against the wall, by the side of the window, so that I could see down into
the street. He himself was farther back in the room.
"Follow my lead closely in everything, Paul!" he directed. "Meantime keep
your eye glued on the pavement. If things turn out as I expect there will
be a gray touring motor car outside Tarteran's shop in the course of a few
minutes. From that car will descend Dagger Rodwell. He will enter
Tarteran's. Watch, then, as though your very life depended upon it!"
I squeezed myself against the wall and looked down upon the never-ending
procession. The street was continually blocked with motor cars and
taxicabs. On the other side of the way streams of people were moving all
the time. I recognized many acquaintances even in those few minutes. And
then suddenly I saw the gray motor car. I held out my hand to Mr.
Bundercombe.
Without the slightest attempt at concealment, the man Mr. Bundercombe had
called Dagger Rodwell alighted from the motor and stood for a moment
looking into the windows of Tarteran's shop before he entered. He was
faultlessly dressed in morning clothes, smoking a cigarette and carrying a
silver-headed cane.
After some hesitation he entered the shop. Mr. Bundercombe drew a little
breath. He had been looking at another part of the street.
"Now things are beginning to move," he observed softly. "Come here, Paul!"
He pulled aside a little curtain behind which was a sort of cubicle--an
easy chair, a manicurist's stool and a table.
"Step inside here," he whispered; "quickly!"
I obeyed him, and in an instant he had entered a similar one. We were
scarcely there before I heard the sound of a key in the door. Through a
chink in the curtain I saw Miss Blanche. She pushed back the latch and
stood for a moment as though listening, her face turned toward the stairs
up which she had come.
If I had had any doubt but that tragedy was afoot that morning it would
have been banished by a glance at her face. She was terribly pale; her
hands were shaking. Rapidly she withdrew the pins from her hat, hung it
upon a peg and smoothed her hair in front of the looking-glass. Then,
though her hands were trembling all the time, she filled a bowl with hot
water and arranged a manicure set on a little table.
Once or twice she stopped to listen. Once, as though drawn by some
fascination she was powerless to resist, she moved to the window and
looked down into the street. Mr. Bundercombe remained motionless and I
followed his example. At the back of my cubicle was a window from which I
could still gain a view of the pavement. The streets were thronged with
people, and I noticed that the motor car, which at first I had missed, was
standing in a side street, almost opposite.
Suddenly I saw the man, for whose reappearance I was so earnestly waiting,
step casually out on to the pavement. He attempted to cross the street and
was quickly lost to sight in a tangle of vehicles. A second later I could
have sworn that I saw him back again at the entrance to the passage below.
Then I heard a shout from the pavement and I distinctly saw him clamber
into the motor car, which shot off as though it had started in fourth
speed. An elderly gentleman, who had rushed from the shop, was halfway
across the street already. There was a chorus of shouts; traffic was
momentarily suspended; a policeman started running down the side street.
Then I turned away from the window. There were sounds closer at hand--a
footstep on the stairs, swift and gentle.
In a moment the door of the little manicure room was opened and closed.
Dagger Rodwell stood there, pale and breathless. Not a word passed between
him and the girl. He dashed into the third of the little cubicles, and it
seemed to me that in less than thirty seconds he reappeared.
The change was marvelous. He was wearing a tweed suit and a gray Homburg
hat. His eyeglass had gone. Even his collar and tie seemed different. He
sat down before the girl and held out his hand. They listened. There was
plenty of commotion in the street--no sound at all on the stairs.
"We've done it!" he muttered. "They're after the car! They'll catch
Dolly!"
"He'll bluff it out!" she whispered.
"Sure! Don't let your hands tremble like that, you little fool! We're
safe, I tell you! Get on with your work."
Now the two were three or four yards away from the cubicle in which I was,
but almost within a couple of feet of Mr. Bundercombe's. From where I was
sitting I saw suddenly a strange thing. I saw Mr. Bundercombe's left arm
shoot out from behind the curtain. In a moment he had the man by the
throat. His other hand traveled over his clothes like lightning.
It was all over almost before I could think. Rodwell was on his feet with
a livid mark on his throat, and Mr. Bundercombe had stepped back with a
little shining revolver in his hand which he was carefully stowing away in
his pocket.
"Sorry to be a trifle hasty, Mr. Rodwell," he said. "I saw the shape of
this little weapon in your pocket and it didn't seem altogether agreeable
to me. We are not great at firearms over this side, you know."
Blanche and Rodwell stared at him. To complete their stupefaction I
stepped out of my cubicle.
"What sort of a game is this?" Rodwell muttered, though he was pale to the
lips. "Blanche----"
He turned toward her with sudden fierceness. She sat there, wringing her
hands.
"Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed feebly. "Mr. Bundercombe!"
"So this is your silly old fool, is it?" Rodwell hissed. "This is the old
fool you could twist round your finger, who found the money for your
manicure parlor, and who was in love with you, eh? What are you, anyway?"
he added, turning furiously upon Mr. Bundercombe. "A cop? Is this why you
were trying to put up to me a few weeks ago?"
Mr. Bundercombe waved aside the accusation.
"Nothing of the sort!" he declared.
"Then what is it you want?" Rodwell demanded. "Is it a share of the swag
you're after?"
Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.
"I am afraid," he sighed, "there will not be any swag."
Rodwells face was the most vicious thing I had ever looked on; yet he kept
his head. Mr. Bundercombe and I were an impossible proposition to an
unarmed man.
"In the first place," Mr. Bundercombe said, "I must congratulate you most
heartily on your scheme. I saw your double bolt across the road and jump
into the car. Everyone's eyes were upon him. They never saw you slip round
into the passage. Your double is, I presume, well supplied with an alibi
and evidences of respectability?"
Rodwell nodded shortly.
"It's his own car and he's an automobile agent," he replied. "He'd been in
the next shop. The people there will be able to swear to him--he gave them
plenty of trouble on purpose."
"And you," Mr. Bundercombe murmured, "have the necklace?"
"I have!" Rodwell snapped. "What about it? I've got to divide with the
girl here. How much do you want?"
"Only the necklace!" Mr. Bundercombe replied.
Mr. Rodwell's geographical description of where he would see Mr.
Bundercombe first is too lurid for print. Mr. Bundercombe, however, only
shook his head, with a gentle smile upon his lips.
"If you're not a cop and you won't stand in, what in the name of glory are
you?" Rodweil spluttered at last.
"I am afraid I must describe myself as a meddler," Mr. Bundercombe
confessed; "an intervener. I stand midway between the law and the
criminal. I sympathize wholly with neither. I admire the skill and courage
you have shown to-day, but I also sympathize with the head of that
establishment whom you have relieved of possibly many thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds. I could not--"
Rodwell made his effort, but Mr. Bundercombe was more than ready.
Intervention on my part was quite unnecessary. Mr. Bundercombe's left arm
shot out like a piston-rod and the unfortunate victim of his blow remained
on the carpet, with his hand to his cheek.
"Quite in order, of course," Mr. Bundercombe remarked, "but absolutely
useless. Boxing was my only sport when I was a young man, to say nothing
of my remarkably athletic young companion. It won't do, Rodwell! You'd
better hand over the jewels. Give them to Miss Blanche and she'll hand
them to me. They're in a morocco case, I think, in your trousers pocket."
Rodwell produced them sullenly.
"It's your fault, you miserable little fool!" he muttered to Blanche. "I
ought to have known better than to have let you into the thing. Fancy
taking him for a mug!"
Mr. Bundercombe smiled a pleased smile.
"Come, come!" he said. "Things are not so bad. You might have been
caught!"
"Aren't you going to give information?" Rodwell asked quickly.
"Not a thought of it!" Mr. Bundercombe assured him, catching the case
Rodwell threw toward him. "I want, so far as possible, to see both sides
happy. Here, Paul; put these in your pocket!" he added, turning to me. "If
you take my advice, Rodwell," he concluded, "you'll stay where you are
until I return. I promise you that Mr. Walmsley and I will return alone,
and that I will give no intimation of your presence here to any person
whatsoever."
Rodwell was puzzled. He rose slowly to his feet, however, and walked
toward the basin at the other end of the apartment.
"All right!" he agreed sullenly. "I shall be here."
Mr. Bundercombe and I descended into the street. I was feeling a little
dazed. Mr. Bundercombe led the way into the Tarteran establishment, which
was still in a state of disorder. He asked to speak to the principal, who
came forward, still looking very perturbed.
"Sorry to hear of this robbery!" Mr. Bundercombe said. "Have they caught
the fellow?"
"They caught the man in the motor car," the manager groaned; "but he had
no jewels on him and my people can't swear to him. He seems to have a very
coherent story."
"Have you communicated with the police?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.
The manager stretched out his hand.
"Four of them are in the place now," he answered, a little despairingly.
"What's the good? The fellow's got away! He's got the finest necklace in
the shop with him, gems worth twenty thousand pounds."
Mr. Bundercombe nodded sympathetically.
"Have you offered a reward yet?"
"We can't do everything in ten minutes!" the manager replied, a little
testily. "We shall offer one, of course."
"What amount are you prepared to go to?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.
The man looked at him eagerly.
"Do you mean, sir--" he began.
Mr. Bundercombe stretched out his hands.
"You may search me!" he interrupted. "I have nothing in the way of jewels
on me. My name is Joseph H. Bundercombe and I have a house in Prince's
Gardens. This is my son-in-law-to-be, Mr. Walmsley, M.P. for
Bedfordshire."
The manager bowed.
"I know you quite well, sir," he said, "and Mr. Walmsley, of course; both
he and many of his relatives are valued clients of ours. But about the
jewels?"
"What reward do you offer?"
"Five hundred pounds," was the prompt reply; "more, if necessary."
Mr. Bundercombe smiled approvingly.
"Circumstances," he explained, "of a peculiar nature, into which I am
quite sure it will suit your purpose not to inquire, have enabled me to
claim the reward and to restore to you the jewels."
The manager gripped him by the arm.
"Come into the office at once!" he begged.
We followed him into a little room at the back of the shop. He was
trembling all over.
"No questions asked?" Mr. Bundercombe insisted.
"Not the shadow of one!" the manager agreed. "I don't care if--pardon me,
sir--if you stole them yourself! The loss of those jewels would do the
firm more harm than I can explain to you."
Mr. Bundercombe turned toward me and I produced the case. The manager
seized it eagerly, opened it, turned on the electric light and closed the
case again with a great sigh of relief. He held out his hand.
"Mr. Bundercombe," he said, "I don't care how you got these. I have been
robbed three times and put the matter into the hands of the police--and
never recovered a single stone! I'd shake hands with the man who stole
them so long as I got them back. How will you have the reward, sir?"
"Notes, if you can manage it," Mr. Bundercombe replied.
The manager went to his safe and counted over notes and gold to the amount
of five hundred pounds, which Mr. Bundercombe buttoned up in his pockets.
"I ask you now, sir," he said, "for your word of honor that you will not
have us followed or make any further inquiries into this affair."
"It is given--freely given!" the manager promised. "When you leave this
establishment I shall turn my back to you. You may hand over the notes to
whosoever you like upon the pavement outside and it won't concern me.
Nor," he added, "shall I tell the police for at least half an hour that I
have the necklace. They deserve a little extra trouble for letting the
fellow get away."
Mr. Bundercombe and I left the shop and ascended the stairs leading to the
manicure parlor. Rodwell, who had bathed his face and made a complete
change of toilet, was pacing up and down the little room. Blanche, too,
was there, still pale and weeping.
"Now," Mr. Bundercombe began, as he carefully closed the door behind him,
"I told you a few minutes ago I was neither on your side nor on the side
of the law. I am about to prove it. I have returned the jewels to
Tarteran's, no questions to be asked, and I've got the reward. There you
are, young lady!" he added, placing the roll of notes and a handful of
gold in her hand. "You have given me a week or so of intense interest and
amusement. There is your reward for it. If you want to divide it with your
friend it's nothing to do with me. Take it and run along. So far as
regards this little establishment the rent is paid for another three
months; but, so far as regards my connection with it, I think I needn't
explain--"
"That you've been fooling me!" the girl interrupted, a faint smile at the
corners of her lips. "Do you know, sometimes I suspected that you weren't
in earnest! And then one day I saw your wife--and I wasn't sure!"
"Good morning!" Mr. Bundercombe said severely. "Come along, Paul!"
CHAPTER XV--LORD PORTHONING'S LESSON
Mr. Bundercombe laid his hand compellingly on my arm. "Who's the
wizened-up little insect, with a snarl on his face?" he inquired of me
earnestly.
My slight impulse of irritation at such a description applied to one of my
wedding guests passed when I looked up and saw the person to whom Mr.
Bundercombe had directed my attention. I recognized the adequacy of the
wording."
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