An Amiable Charlatan
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E. Phillips Oppenheim >> An Amiable Charlatan
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"But London is delicious on days like this!" she exclaimed. "What are you
going to do with me, Mr. Walmsley?"
"Take you down to the Archbishop of Canterbury and marry you!" I
threatened.
She shook her head.
"I couldn't be married on a Friday! Let us go and see some pictures
instead."
We went into the National Gallery and wandered round for an hour. She knew
a great deal more about the pictures than I did, and more than once made
me sit down by her side to look at one of her favorite masterpieces.
"I want to go to Bond Street now," she said when we left, "I think it will
be quite all right at this time in the afternoon, and there are some weird
things to be seen there. Do you mind?"
We walked again along Pall Mall. Passing the Carlton she suddenly clutched
at my arm. A little stifled cry escaped her; the color left her cheeks. We
increased our speed. Presently she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Heavens, what an escape!" she exclaimed. "Do you think he saw me?"
"Do you mean the young man who was getting out of the taxicab?"
She nodded.
"One of our victims," she murmured; "daddy's victim, rather. I didn't do a
thing to him."
"I am quite sure he didn't see you," I told her. "He was struggling to
find change."
She sighed once more. The incident seemed to have shaken her.
"The worst of our sort of life is," she confided, "that it must soon come
to an end. We have victims all over the place! One of them is bound to
turn up and be disagreeable sooner or later."
"I should say, then," I remarked, "that the moment is opportune for a
registrar's office and a trip to Abyssinia."
"And leave daddy to face the music alone?" she objected. "It couldn't be
done."
We turned into a tea shop and sat in a remote corner of the place. I had
made up my mind to say no more to her that day, but the opportunity was
irresistible.
There was a little desultory music, a hum of distant conversation, and Eve
herself was thoughtful. I pleaded with her earnestly.
"Eve," I begged, "if only you would listen to me seriously! I simply
cannot bear the thought of the danger you are in all the time. Give it up,
dear, this moment--to-day! We'll lead any sort of life you like. We'll
wander all over Europe--America, if you say the word. I am quite well
enough off to take you anywhere you choose to go and still see that your
father is quite comfortable. You've made such a difference in such a short
time!"
She was certainly quieter and her tone was softer. She avoided looking at
me.
"Perhaps," she said very gently, "this feeling you speak of would pass
away just as quickly."
"There isn't any fear of that!" I assured her. "As I care for you now,
Eve, I must care for you always; and you know it's torture for me to think
of you in trouble--perhaps in disgrace. As my wife you shall be safe.
You'll have me always there to protect you. I should like to take you even
farther afield for a time--to India or Japan, if you like--and then come
back and start life all over again."
"You're rather a dear!" she murmured softly. "I will tell you something at
any rate. I do care for you--a little--better than I've ever cared for any
one else; but I can't decide quite so quickly."
"Give up this adventure to-night!" I begged. "I hate to mention it, Eve,
but if money--I put my checkbook in my pocket to-day. If your father would
only--"
She stopped me firmly.
"After the things you have told me," she said, "I don't think I could bear
to have him take your money to-day. I can't quite do as you wish; but what
you have said shall make a difference, I promise you. I can't say more.
Please drive me home now."
CHAPTER V--MR. SAMUELSON
The moment I opened my paper the next morning the very announcement I had
dreaded to find was there in large type! I read the particulars
breathlessly: DARING BURGLARY IN HAMPSTEAD--LADY LOSES TWO THOUSAND
POUNDS' WORTH OF JEWELRY. The burglary had taken place at the house of a
Mr. and Mrs. Samuelson, in Wood Grove, Hampstead. It appeared that a
dinner party had been given at the house during the evening, which had
engaged the attention of the whole of the staff of four servants, and that
for an hour or so the upper premises were untenanted.
Upon retiring to rest Mrs. Samuelson found that her jewel case and the
whole of her jewelry, except what she was wearing, had been stolen. As no
arrest had yet been made the references to the affair were naturally
guarded. The paragraph even concluded without the usual formula as to the
police having a clew. On the whole, I put the paper down with a slight
feeling of relief. I felt that it might have been worse.
I breakfasted at nine o'clock, after having read the announcement through
again, trying to see whether there was any possible connection between it
and my friends. Then I lit a pipe and sat down to wait until I could ring
up 3771A Gerrard. About ten o'clock, however, my own telephone bell rang,
and I was informed that a gentleman who desired to see me was waiting
below. I told the man to send him up, and in a moment or two there was a
knock at my door. In response to my invitation to enter a short, dark,
Jewish-looking person, with olive complexion, shiny black hair and black
mustache, presented himself. He carried a very immaculate silk hat and was
dressed with great neatness. He had the air, however, of a man who is
suffering from some agitation.
"Mr. Walmsley, I believe?" he asked. "Mr. Paul Walmsley?"
"That is my name."
"Know you by hearsay quite well, sir," my visitor assured me, with a flash
of his white teeth. "Very glad to meet you indeed. I have done business
once or twice with your sister, the Countess of Aynesley--business in
curios. You know my place, I dare say, in St. James Street. My name is
Samuelson." I could scarcely repress a little start, which he was quick to
notice. "Perhaps you've been reading about that affair at my house last
night?" he asked.
"That is precisely what I have been doing," I admitted. "Please sit down,
Mr. Samuelson." I wheeled an easy-chair up for him and placed a box of
cigarettes at his elbow. "Quite a mysterious affair!" I continued. "It is
almost the first burglary I have ever read of in which the police have not
been said to possess a clew."
Mr. Samuelson, who seemed gratified by his reception, lit a cigarette and
crossed his legs, displaying a very nice pair of patent boots, with gray
suede tops.
"It is a very queer affair, indeed," he told me confidentially. "The
police have been taking a lot of trouble about it, and a very intelligent
sort of fellow from Scotland Yard has been in and out of the house ever
since."
"Any clew at all?" I asked.
"Rather hard to say," Mr. Samuelson replied. "You'll be wondering what
I've come to see you about. Well, I'll just explain. Of course there's
always the chance that some one may have entered the house while we were
all at dinner--crept upstairs quietly and got away with the jewel case;
but this Johnny I was telling you about, from Scotland Yard, seems to have
got hold of a theory that has rather knocked me of a heap. Very delicate
matter," Mr. Samuelson continued, "as you will understand when I tell you
that he thinks it may have been one of my guests who was in the show."
"Seems a little far-fetched to me," I remarked; "but one never knows."
"You see," Mr. Samuelson explained, "there's no back exit from my house
without climbing walls and that sort of thing, and it happened to be a
particularly light evening, as you may remember. There are policemen at
both ends of the road, who seem unusually confident that no one carrying a
parcel of any sort passed at anything like the time when the thing was
probably done. This is where the Johnny from Scotland Yard comes in. He
has got the idea into his head that the jewels might have been taken away
in the carriage of one of my guests."
"Well," I remarked, "I should have thought you would have been the best
judge as to the probability of that. You hadn't any strangers with you, I
suppose?"
"Only two," Mr. Samuelson replied. "We were ten, altogether," he went on,
counting upon his fingers--"and a very nice little party too. First of
all my wife and myself. Then Mr. and Mrs. Max Solomon--Solomon, the great
fruiterers in Covent Garden, you know; man worth a quarter of a million of
money and a distant connection of my wife--very distant, worse luck! Then
there was Mr. Sidney Hollingworth, a young man in my office; but he
doesn't count, because he stayed on chatting with me about business after
the others had gone, and he was with us when the theft was discovered.
Then there was my wife's widowed sister, Mrs. Rosenthal. We can leave her
out. That's six. Then there was Alderman Sir Henry Dabbs and his wife. You
may know the name--large portmanteau manufacturers in Spitalfields and
certain to be Lord Mayor before long. His wife was wearing jewelry herself
last night worth, I should say, from twenty to twenty-five thousand
pounds; so my wife's little bit wouldn't do them much good, eh?"
"It certainly doesn't seem like it," I admitted. "So far, your list of
guests seems to have been entirely reputable."
"The only two left," Mr. Samuelson concluded, "are an American gentleman
and his daughter, a Mr. and Miss Parker whom we met on the train coming up
from Brighton--a very delightful gentleman and most popular he was with
all of us. The young lady, too, was perfectly charming. To hear him talk I
should have put him down myself as a man worth all the money he needed,
and more; and the young lady had got that trick of wearing her clothes and
talking as though she were born a princess. Real style, I should have
said--both of them. Still, the fact remains that they came in a motor car
with two men-servants; that it waited for them; and that this detective
from Scotland Yard--Mr. Cullen, I think his name is--has fairly got his
knife into them."
"And now," I remarked, smiling, "you are perhaps coming to the object of
your visit to me?"
"Exactly!" Mr. Samuelson admitted. "The fact of it is that in the course
of conversation your name was mentioned. I forget exactly how it cropped
up, but it did crop up. Mr. Parker, it seems, has the privilege of your
acquaintance--at any rate he claims it. Now if his claim is a just one,
and if you can tell me Mr. Parker is a friend of yours--why, that ends the
matter, so far as I am concerned. I am not going to have my guests worried
and annoyed by detectives for the sake of a handful of jewels. I thank
goodness I can afford to lose them, if they must be lost, and I can
replace them this afternoon without feeling it. Now you know where we are,
Mr. Walmsley. You understand exactly why I have come to see you, eh?"
I pressed another cigarette upon him and lit one myself.
"I do understand, Mr. Samuelson," I told him, "and I appreciate your visit
very much indeed. I am exceedingly glad you came. Mr. Parker told you the
truth. He is a gentleman for whom I have the utmost respect and esteem. I
consider his daughter, too, one of the most charming young ladies I have
ever met. I am planning to give a dinner party, within the course of the
next few evenings, purposely to introduce them to some of my friends with
whom they are as yet unacquainted; and I am hoping that almost immediately
afterward they will be staying with my sister at her place down in
Suffolk."
"With the Countess of Aynesley?" Mr. Samuelson said slowly.
"Certainly!" I agreed. "I am quite sure my sister will be as charmed with
them as I and many other of my friends are."
Mr. Samuelson rose to his feet, brushed the cigarette ash from his
trousers and took up his hat.
"Mr. Walmsley," he said, holding out his hand, "I am glad I came. You have
treated me frankly and in a most gentlemanly manner. I can assure you I
appreciate it. Not under any circumstances would I allow friends of yours
to be irritated by the indiscriminate inquiries of detectives. The jewels
can go hang, sir!"
He shook hands with me and permitted me to show him out, after which he
marched down the corridor, humming gayly to himself, determined to have me
understand that a trifling loss of two thousand pounds' worth of jewelry
was in reality nothing. I stood for some time with my back to the fire,
smoking thoughtfully. Then the telephone bell rang. My gloomier
reflections were at once forgotten. It was Eve who spoke.
"Good morning, Mr. Walmsley!"
"Good morning, Miss Eve!" I replied.
"Are you very busy this morning?" she asked.
"Nothing in the world to do!" I answered promptly.
"Then please come round," she directed, ringing off almost at once.
I was there in ten minutes. The hall porter, who had not yet completed his
morning toilet, conducted me upstairs. In the morning sunlight the whole
appearance of the place seemed shabbier and dirtier than ever. Inside the
sitting room, however, everything was different. My own flowers had
apparently been supplemented by many others. Mr. Parker, as pink-and-white
as usual, looking the very picture of content and good digestion, was
smoking a large cigar and reading a newspaper. Eve was seated at the
writing table, but she swung round at my entrance and held out both her
hands.
"The flowers are lovely!" she murmured. "Do go and sit down--and talk to
daddy while I finish this letter."
I shook hands with Mr. Parker. He laid down the newspaper and smiled at
me.
"A pleasant dinner last night, I trust?" I inquired.
His eyes twinkled.
"Most humorous affair!" he declared. "I wouldn't have missed it for
worlds."
"From a business point of view----" I began dryly.
Mr. Parker shook his head.
"Mr. Samuelson's jewels," he complained, "were like his wines, all sparkle
and outside--no body to them. Two thousand pounds indeed! Why, we shall be
lucky if we clear four hundred!" The man's coolness absolutely took me
aback. For a moment I simply stared at him. "He'll be round to see you
this morning, sometime, about my character," Mr. Parker proceeded.
"He has already paid me a visit," I said grimly. "He was round at ten
o'clock this morning."
"You don't say!" Mr. Parker murmured.
He looked at me hopefully. His expression was like nothing else but the
wistful smile of a fat boy expecting good news.
"Oh, of course I told him the usual thing!" I admitted. "I told him you
were a close personal friend; a sort of amateur millionaire; a person of
the highest respectability--everything you ought to be, in fact. He went
away perfectly satisfied and determined to have nothing to do with the
guest theory."
Mr. Parker patted me on the shoulder.
"My boy," he said, "I knew I could rely on you."
"I propose," I continued, elaborating upon the scheme that had come into
my head on the way, "to do more than this for you. I am asking some
friends to dine to-night whom I wish you and your daughter to meet. You
will then be able to refer to other reputable acquaintances in London
besides myself."
Eve turned round in her chair to listen. Mr. Parker, whose first
expression had been one of unfeigned delight, suddenly paused.
"My boy," he expostulated, "I don't want to take advantage of you. Do you
think it's quite playing the game on your friends to introduce to them two
people like ourselves? You know what it means."
"I know perfectly well," I agreed; "but, as some day or other I'm going to
marry Eve, it seems to me the thing might as well be done."
They were both perfectly silent for several moments. They looked at each
other. There were questions in his face--other things in hers. I strolled
across to the window.
"If you'd like to talk it over," I suggested, "don't mind me. All the same
I insist upon the party."
"It's uncommonly kind of you, sure!" Mr. Parker said thoughtfully. "The
more I think it over, the more I feel impressed by it; but, do you know,
there's something about the proposition I can't quite cotton to! Seems to
me you've some little scheme of your own at the back of your head. You
haven't got it in your mind, have you, that you're sort of putting us on
our honor?"
"I have no ulterior motive at all," I declared mendaciously.
Eve rose to her feet and came across to me. She was wearing a charming
morning gown of some light blue material, with large buttons, tight-
fitting, alluring; and there was a little quiver of her lips, a
provocative gleam in her eyes, which I found perfectly maddening.
"I think we won't come, thank you," she decided.
"Why not?"
"You see," she explained, "I am rather afraid. We might get you into no
end of trouble with some of your most particular friends. There are one or
two people, you know, in London, especially among the Americans, who might
say the unkindest things about us."
"No one, my dear Eve," I assured her stolidly, "shall say anything to me
or to any one else about my future wife."
For a moment her expression was almost hopeless. She shook her head.
"I don't know what to do with him, daddy!" she exclaimed, turning toward
her father in despair.
"I'm afraid you'll have to marry him if he goes on," Mr. Parker declared
gloomily; "that is," he added, as though he had suddenly perceived a ray
of hope about the matter, "unless we should by any chance get into trouble
first."
"Meantime," I ventured, "we will dine at eight o'clock at the Milan."
Mr. Parker groaned.
"At the Milan!" he echoed. "Worse and worse! We shall be recognized for
certain! There's a man lives there whom I did out of a hundred pounds--
just a little variation of the confidence trick. Nothing he can get hold
of, you understand; but he knows very well that I had him. Look here,
Walmsley, be reasonable! Hadn't you better drop this chivalrous scheme of
yours, young fellow?"
"The dinner is a fixture," I replied firmly. "Can I borrow Miss Eve,
please? I want to take her for a motor ride."
"You cannot, sir," Mr. Parker told me. "Eve has a little business of her
own--or, rather, mine--to attend to this morning."
"You are not going to let her run any more risks, are you?"
Mr. Parker frowned at me.
"Look here, young man," he said; "she is my daughter, remember! I am
looking after her for the present. You leave that to me."
Eve touched me on the arm.
"Really, I am busy to-day," she assured me. "I have to do something for
daddy this morning--something quite harmless; and this afternoon I have to
go to my dressmaker's. We'll come at eight o'clock."
"We'll come on this condition," Mr. Parker suddenly determined: "My name
is getting a little too well known, and it isn't my own, anyway. We'll
come as Mr. and Miss Bundercombe or not at all."
"Why on earth Bundercombe?" I demanded.
"For the reason I have just stated," Mr. Parker said obstinately. "Parker
isn't my name at all; and, between you and me, I think I have made it a
bit notorious. Now there is a Mr. Bundercombe and his daughter, who live
out in a far-western State of America, who've never been out of their own
country, and who are never likely to set foot on this side. She's a pretty
little girl--just like Eve might be; and he's a big, handsome fellow--just
like me. So we'll borrow their names if you don't mind."
"You can come without a name at all, so long as you come," was my final
decision as I took my leave.
CHAPTER VI--THE PARTY AT THE MILAN
The dinner party, which I arranged for in the Milan restaurant, was, on
the whole, a great success. My sister played hostess for me and confessed
herself charmed with Eve, as indeed was every one else. Mr. Parker's
stories kept his end of the table in continual bursts of merriment. One
little incident, too, was in its way exceedingly satisfactory. Mr. and
Mrs. Samuelson were being entertained by some friends close at hand, and
they appeared very much gratified at the cordiality of our greeting. I
talked with Mr. Samuelson during the evening, and I felt that, so far as
he was concerned at any rate, not a shadow of suspicion remained in his
mind as to my two guests.
We sat a long time over dinner. Eve was between a cousin of mine--who was
a member of Parliament, a master of foxhounds, and in his way quite a
distinguished person--and the old Earl of Enterdean, my godfather; and
they were both of them obviously her abject slaves. No one seemed in the
least inclined to move and it was nearly eleven o'clock before we passed
into the private room I had engaged, where coffee and some bridge tables
awaited us. We broke up there into little groups. I left Eve talking to my
sister and was on my way to try to get near her father when the Countess
of Enterdean, a perfectly charming old lady who had known me from boyhood,
intercepted me.
"My dear Paul," she said, "I cannot thank you enough for having given us
the opportunity of meeting these most delightful Americans, and I really
must tell you this--I had meant to keep it a secret, but from you I
cannot; I knew all the time that the name of Bundercombe was familiar to
me, and suddenly it came over me like a flash! Directly I asked Mr.
Bundercombe in what part of America his home was, of course it was all
clear to me. What a small world it is! Do you know," she concluded
impressively, "that it was just these two people, Mr. Bundercombe and his
daughter, who were so amazingly kind to Reggie when he was out in the
States on his way to Dicky's ranch!"
I was for a moment absolutely thunderstruck.
"Did you--er--remind Mr. Bundercombe of this?" I asked.
She shook her head. She had the pleased smile of a benevolent conspirator.
"I will tell you why I did not, Paul," she explained. "Reggie is in town--
just for a few days. I have sent him a telephone message and he is wild
with delight. He has only just arrived from Scotland; but I told him Mr.
Bundercombe and his daughter were here, and he is rushing into his clothes
as fast as he can and is coming round. It will be so delightful for him to
meet them again, and I really must try to think myself what I can do to
repay all their kindness to Reggie."
I felt completely at my wit's end! I saw the whole of my little scheme,
which up to now had proved so successful, threatened with instant
destruction. Lady Enterdean passed on, probably to take some one else into
her confidence. I crossed the room to the little group surrounding my
friend, and as soon as I got near him I touched him on the shoulder.
"Just one word with you, Mr. Bundercombe," I begged.
The little circle of men let him through with reluctance. I passed my arm
through his and led him out toward the foyer.
"You seem," I declared bitterly, "to have chosen the most unfortunate
personality! I wish to goodness you had remained Mr. Parker! This infernal
name of yours, Bundercombe, has got us into trouble."
"In what way?" he asked quickly.
"Lady Enterdean has just been to me," I told him. "She has a son who has
been traveling in the States and who was wonderfully entertained by two
people of the name of Bundercombe in the very place you told me to say you
came from."
"Well, that goes all right!" Mr. Parker remarked complacently. "We're
getting the credit for it."
"Precisely," I admitted. "The only trouble is that Lady Enterdean has just
telephoned to her son to come down at once and renew his acquaintance with
you and Eve."
Mr. Parker whistled softly. His face had become a blank.
"My! We do seem to be up against it!" he confessed uneasily.
"The young man," I continued, "will be here in ten minutes--perhaps
sooner--prepared to grasp you both by the hand and exchange
reminiscences."
Mr. Parker shook out a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped
his forehead.
"Kind of warm out here!" he remarked. "I'll just have to talk to Eve for a
minute or two."
He had no sooner left me than I found I was absolutely compelled to devote
myself to one or two of my guests who wished to play bridge, and others of
whom I had seen little at dinner time. I kept looking anxiously round and
at last the blow fell! The door opened and Lord Reginald Sidley was
announced. He looked eagerly round the room.
"Hope you don't mind my butting in, old chap!" he said as he shook hands
with me. "The mater telephoned that old Bundercombe and his daughter were
here, so I just rushed round as quick as I could. Regular bricks they were
to me out West! I don't see them anywhere."
I glanced round the room. Just at that moment a waiter from the restaurant
presented himself. He brought me a card upon a salver.
"The gentleman asked me to give you this, sir," he announced.
I picked it up. On the back of a plain visiting card were a few hasty
words, scrawled in pencil:
"So sorry--but Eve is not feeling quite herself and begged me to take her
home at once quietly. My respects and apologies to you and all your
delightful guests."
I read it out and passed it to Reggie. His face fell.
"If that isn't a sell!" he exclaimed. "Fancy your knowing them! Isn't Miss
Bundercombe a topper!"
"She is certainly one of the most charming young women I ever met in my
life," I admitted.
"I am glad, at any rate," Lady Enterdean declared, "that they have found
their way to London. I shall make a point of calling on them myself
tomorrow. Now, Paul, you must go and play bridge. They are waiting for
you. Don't bother about me --I'll amuse myself quite well strolling round
and talking to my friends." I made up a rubber of bridge, chiefly with the
idea of distracting my thoughts. Presently, while my partner was playing
the hand, I rose and crossed the room to the sideboard for some
cigarettes. I found Lady Enterdean peering about with her lorgnette fixed
to her eyes, apparently searching for something.
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