The Victorian Villains Megapack (27 page)

“Will you de straat or de vest overlook?” inquired the clerk; adding as a possible inducement, “Best for gentlemen de vest.”

Realizing that he was asked to choose between an outlook to the street or the canal, Pringle selected the gentlemanly alternative, and hastened to reply, “The water—vest, vest!”

Following a porter with his bag, he was ushered up to a room on the first floor, at the end of a long and rather dark passage. The window opened on a broad balcony which ran the width of the house, and afforded a picturesque glimpse of the canal. Rather was it a basin, terminating one of the capillary offshoots of the main stream. It was bordered as usual with fine trees, whose branches seemed to form part and parcel of the spars of the craft which thronged the water, except towards the middle, where a fair-way, covered with the ubiquitous green scum, resembled a flat meadow. Pringle stepped to the window, which stood ajar, and leaned over the rail of the balcony. Gazing abstractedly at the shipping, the polished wood-work glistening in the sun which flashed again from innumerable points of bright metal, the calm unbroken by any sight or sound of task, he allowed the restful influence of the scene to steal lazily over him. But the sudden closing of a door near by, and a few words spoken in English broke the spell, and once again focused his thoughts on Percy Windrush.

“So here you are at last! I thought you’d have been here before me.” The voice sounded through the next window, which must have been open, although its wooden sun-blind stood half across the balcony and effectually concealed it.

“Ma tear Mishdare Winder! It is a long, long way to come. I am poor man, and de hotel egspenche is great.”

“Yes, I know all about that. I know you’re the richest poor man in Amsterdam. Have you taken a room here?”

“Noomber eighteen—joost obbosite.”

“Well, never mind the number so long as you are here. Have you brought any money with you?”

“A liddle.”

“That’s all right then. Is it cash as I told you?”

“Yes, goot bank English notes.”

“You old villain! Every one of them ‘known and stopped’, I suppose, that you’ve bought at eighty percent discount, and expect me to take at face-value.” And the speaker gave an audible snort of disgust.

“We are all Hebrew and gendlemen in de stone trade,” was the dignified response.

“So I’ve heard,” Windrush observed acidly. “Well, suppose we come to business. I didn’t invite you here to exchange compliments.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and Pringle stepped gingerly towards the sun-blind. He did not advance too closely, but contented himself with an occasional glance between the hinges, which afforded him a very fair view of the room. Windrush was partially undressing, so as to remove a wash-leather packet which hung next his skin by a cord round the neck. Ripping it open with a pocketknife, he removed several layers of tissue-paper, and finally a mass of cotton wool surrounding a diamond-star. As he held it up towards his companion, Pringle involuntarily grasped his own pocket to satisfy himself of the safety of the facsimile, so accurately did the two match in every particular. As for the Jew, from his gloating gaze, and the fondling gesture with which he handled it, the sight was one to rouse his utmost cupidity.

At length, as the other made no movement, but continued to stare, Percy broke the silence.

“Now then, Israels, what do you say?”

“Dey are very fair stones.”

“Fair! ‘Fair’, do you call them? You don’t see such stones as they are every day, nor yet every year!”

“Dey are goot. I do not call dem de best.”

“Look here, my Amsterdammer! It’s not what you call them, but what I know they are. D’ye see?”

“What do you know they are?”

“I know they’re worth every penny of three thousand pounds!”

Israels dropped the star on the table as if it had burnt him.

“Dree dousand!” he echoed, with an expression of amazement as his huckstering instincts asserted themselves.

“That’s what I said.”

“
Dree ’underd
you mean for surely!”

“I said three thousand and I meant it, and well you know it!”

“You are joking, Misdare Winder, to ask dat.”

“You old fool! I didn’t say I asked three thousand for them, did I?” growled Percy.

“Den what do you ask?” inquired Israels feebly.

“Fifteen hundred,” said Percy with decision.

“To rob me you ’ave called me ’ere!” shrilly cried the Jew.

“Not much!” retorted Percy contemptuously, “Do you think if I wanted to do that I should have chosen this place?”

The Jew made no reply, but glanced uneasily through the window at the canal beyond.

“Look here, now,” continued Percy. “I don’t want any more humbug. You take ’em, or, by crumbs! I’ll get some one who will.”

“It cannot be done,” said the Jew simply.

“Fifteen hundred’s the figure,” repeated Percy, as he leaned forward and clutched the star.

“I ’ave not so much,” protested the Jew.

“All right, I’ll find some one else who has,” said Percy deliberately, and he commenced to wrap the jewel up again.

“Say one dousand,” pleaded Israels.

Percy rose and pointed to the door.

“See,” continued the Jew coaxingly, “I give you twelve ’underd.”

“Fifteen,” replied Percy firmly.

“Say twelve!” and Israels produced a wallet and flourished a handful of crisp paper in Percy’s face.

“No! I tell you for the last time Fifteen! And little enough too!” Percy clenched his ultimatum with a resounding slap on the table.

Loudly protesting that he was a ruined man, Israels reluctantly counted out the notes in front of the inexorable Percy, who affected to be engaged in examining the diamonds, which he held in full view of the other. When the notes lay, a rustling heap, upon the table, Percy pushed the star across to the Jew, who pounced upon it, and after another admiring glance, bundled it into a handbag which he jealously locked.

Percy, with a condescending air, counted the notes over again, whistling carelessly the while, then turning to Israels—

“Well, old stick-in-the-mud!” he said graciously, “I’ll stand you a dinner. Yes, by Jingo! At the Weimar! There’s nothing eatable to be got here. And then we’ll go to the Diergaarden—it’s slow, but it’s the only thing to do in this cursed place.”

“You are doo kind, Misdare Winder,” sniggered the diamond-merchant, as he retired with the precious handbag.

The clock was nearing five when Pringle descended to the frowsy dining-room and reserved a seat for the
table d’hôte.
Then lighting a cigarette, he strolled out, and was soon absorbed in an inspection of the shop-windows of Zand Straat. He had not left the hotel very far behind, when Percy Windrush passed him with a jaunty swagger, which kept Israels, delighted with the prospect of a meal at another man’s expense, at a perpetual trot. Still interested in the merchandise displayed in the shops, Pringle contrived to keep the pair in sight until they were safely housed in the Weimar, about the only passable restaurant in all Rotterdam; then boarding a tramcar, he returned northwards, and arriving at the hotel towards six, was assured by the evidence of most of his senses of the actuality of the
table d’hôte.

Practically the whole hotel was dining, and the upper floors were quite deserted when he ascended to his room. The vault-like passage with the closing day was darker than ever, and the doorways of all the rooms were sunk in obscurity. Not a sound was to be heard except the distant murmur arising from the ground-floor, and after waiting a few minutes he tried the door of No. 18. As he expected, it was locked, and returning to his own room he took out the key and examined it. The simplicity of the wards augured little complication in any of the locks, and taking a bunch of skeleton keys from his vest-pocket, he selected the most likely-looking one. Once more he attacked No. 18, and after a little manipulation, the skeleton-key shot the bolt, and he entered. Carefully closing the door behind him, and re-locking it, he looked about for the handbag. It was nowhere to be seen! Israels had certainly not taken it out with him. Could he have given it into the custody of the landlord? But the Jew’s suspicious nature had negatived such an obvious precaution, and a very short search disclosed it under the far corner of the bed. As in most bags, especially when of continental make, the lock presented little difficulty to an expert, and a few minutes’ work enabled Pringle to open it, and, having swathed the paste star in the solicitous wrappings of the genuine one, to pocket the latter leaving the paste in its stead. Then he locked the bag and returned it to its hiding-place.

He listened. All was quiet. Unlocking the door, he carefully closed and locked it again, then walked down-stairs without encountering a soul.

Dinner over, he endeavoured to amuse himself with a stroll through the town, but the intolerable dulness of the place drove him back to bed by ten o’clock, and notwithstanding the warmth of the night he soon dropped off to sleep. It seemed to him that he had slept for hours when he awoke with a start as the bed vibrated to a violent concussion. As he sat up his first thought was of the jewel-case. It was safe under the pillow where he had placed it on retiring. The moon had clouded, but there was sufficient light entering by the window for him to see that nothing was amiss in the room. The great clock of St. Lawrence struck one. Another concussion: then a confused bumping and jarring sounded somewhere near. He sprang out of bed, and opening the window looked on to the balcony. The sun-blinds were now hooked back, and he was just in time to see the windows of the next room start and burst open, as the flimsy fastenings gave way under the impact of a heavy weight.

Creeping to the window, Pringle looked in, and dimly discerned the creator of the disturbance in Percy Windrush, who, after a futile attempt to remove his boots, had reeled against the window, and now lay, fully dressed, snoring in a drunken stupor on the floor. Pringle waited and listened. But these vagaries had failed to rouse attention elsewhere, and the nasal solo was undisturbed. Percy had rolled inward as he fell, and Pringle easily effected an entrance. He had only had a single opportunity of closely inspecting Percy before, and that was when the fortunes of the latter were at their zenith; times had changed since then! The younger Windrush was by no means an attractive object as he lay. His features, no doubt pleasing enough at one time, were bloated and drink-sodden, his limbs were flabby, and his waist, a region difficult to define, perilously approached the sixties. His linen was dirty, his clothes of loud cut, and with his swaggering air, proclaimed him the dissipated blackguard he was. Such then was the man against whom he had already pitted his wits and come off victoriously. Like most clever rogues, Percy had the wit to conceive an ingenious scheme, but at the psychological moment, his luck or his courage (which in such cases may be held to be synonymous) had deserted him.

The quarter struck from St. Lawrence. It was dangerous to remain long. Percy’s slumbers were not so comatose that he could not be roused, and even as the clock struck, he turned over and muttered the refrain of some ditty—an item probably from the evening’s entertainment.

A thought exploded in Pringle’s mind. What a brilliant opportunity! It was now or not at all! He hurriedly glanced around. Percy’s ‘hold-all’ lay, collapsed and empty, in a corner where it had been tossed after unpacking. On a table near it stood the small Gladstone. Pringle gently pressed the lock and peeped in. A travelling-flask (empty), a change of linen (Percy had some claims to conventional decency), a panacea against headaches, a pipe, a golf-cap, pyjamas, a Baedeker, a pair of slippers—and that was all!

Strange that they were nowhere visible. But the bag would hardly have been unlocked in that case. Could Percy have gone one better than the Jew, and have handed them to the landlord for safe keeping? One more look round. Pringle tried the drawers in the rickety dressing-table. They were empty of all but dust and fluff; of course no one but a lunatic would have put them there—or a drunkard! Stay, what about his pockets? A wallet would be too large to be concealed very easily. He stepped towards the sleeper. The breath roared stertorously through his nostrils; his lips had ceased to move; and the uncomfortable position in which he lay, with one arm doubled under him, showed his complete and happy oblivion to externals. Pringle tenderly felt the ponderous carcass. The light was dim, and touch was about the only sense available. The coat gaped widely; there was something bulky inside. He cautiously withdrew a bundle from the breast-pocket. The sensation on pressing it, even more than a glance in the faint light, revealed it a letter-case stuffed to bursting with the bank-notes Mr. Israels had paid over that afternoon. A cloud slipped off the moon, and he counted them feverishly. One hundred and four tens, and twenty-three twenties. To seize them, and return the empty wallet to its owner’s pocket was the work of a moment more. For the second time, and still unknown to Percy, had Pringle bested him; he might be forgiven the contemptuous smile with which he regarded his prostrate adversary. The snores still reverberated through the darkness, as he strode over the mountainous body, and out on to the balcony. How to close the windows was the difficulty, but after a little persuasion he succeeded in inducing the crazy bolt to tentatively engage the slot, and so conceal his retreat.

Pringle had slept long and soundly, and the morning had nearly “risen on mid-noon” when his slumbers were rudely disturbed by a torrent of abuse.

“You are a tief! A robber!! A rogue-villain!!!” The voice shrilled in
crescendo
as fresh terms of reproach in the English language crowded on the memory of the speaker.

As Pringle awoke, his head still dizzy with the profound and dreamless stupor which had crowned the stirring events of last night, he was in some doubt as to the origin of the uproar; but as memory returned he realized that it must be due to his own achievements. It was from the next chamber that the sounds of discord arose, and setting his door ajar, the better to hear, he commenced a leisurely toilet to the accompaniment of an acrimonious duet.