Rogues & Company/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
Dr. Frohlocken sat at breakfast and discoursed on the subject of crimes. It was a subject which invariably put him in a good temper, and the close, slightly strained attention of his audience encouraged him to explain his theories at some length.
"There are no such people as criminals," he declared, adding paradoxically, "and none of us can claim to be anything better. A so-called criminal is merely a person whose buried instincts have got out of control. We are all potential murderers and thieves; even you, my dear lady, may at heart be something very different to what you seem, and as to you, No. 7, who knows what that memory of yours is hiding so carefully."
He chuckled with unusual levity and went on quite unaware of the chill silence which had welcomed his mild pleasantry.
"Hence so-called crimes enter into my domain; criminals, as you call them, interest me. I collect them. I confess that I have sympathy with them, which does not, however, prevent my recognising the necessity for limiting their activities. There was one fellow in particular whom I genuinely admire—a notorious person who has made our idiotic police appear more idiotic than usual—William Brown he was christened, but he had several aliases—Slippery Pill, I think, among others "
"Slippery Bill," Monsieur de Beaulieu corrected hastily.
Dr. Frohlocken appeared delighted.
"Ah, then you remember him?"
"Remember? Certainly not. I mean—, I've heard—through the papers—of course—"
"Well, he's worth remembering," the Doctor resumed appreciatively. "A wonderful impersonator. Dukes, clergymen, detectives, it was all the same to him apparently. And the police have never so much as laid hands on him. However, what can you expect? A man of genius like that pitted against our friend Inspector Smythe? The conclusion is inevitable. At the same time I think—I may say I fear that the object of my admiration has met his match. I have a suspicion that his career is drawing to a close."
Monsieur de Beaulieu leant forward.
"Do you?" he said scarcely above a whisper.
Dr. Frohlocken nodded gravely.
"Sooner or later they all make the same mistake. They play the same part too often. You remember the gentleman who had a fatal boating accident with three heavily insured wives in succession? Now that was overdoing a good idea. Two might have passed, but three was unreasonable—unlikely. You see, they get intoxicated with success. They feel their luck can't fail—and so they blunder—as I fancy Mr. William Brown has done—"
He glanced round, flattered by the intense interest which he had evidently aroused. Monsieur de Beaulieu seemed even unnecessarily moved. His cousin's attitude, though attentive, was more impersonal.
"You surprise me, Doctor," he remarked rather coldly. "I have not heard of any arrest—"
"Not yet, sir. Nevertheless you will do so. Now, I have never seen the man, but I have no doubt that I shall be the means of cutting short a very interesting career—"
Monsieur de Beaulieu, taken unawares, gripped the edge of the table.
"You!" he breathed.
"I think so. It was the similarity of the various cases that struck me. You see, I have been collecting them and their method has always been identical, the impersonation of someone who is well out of the way—or whom nobody is likely to know. The moment the pair were driving out of the grounds the suspicion flashed across my mind. Of course I could not be certain, nevertheless I wired the police in London, who will undoubtedly take steps—"
"You mean—the Count—the so-called Count has been arrested?"
Dr. Frohlocken assented.
"I am expecting news any moment" he said in a tone of mild satisfaction. "The scientific mind, my dear No. 7, works slow, but it works exceeding sure."
The Count de Beaulieu glanced sideways at his companion in nobility and received a gentle pressure on the foot by way of response. No further conversation on the subject was possible, however, for at that moment the bilingual waiter, Jean, made his appearance with the morning's post.
"Une lettre pour Monsieur le Comte—une letter pour Madame la Comtesse."
Jean's French invariably caused the Count a twinge of alarm. This morning it reduced him to a state bordering on panic and the letter, when he saw the envelope, completed the devastation of his nervous system. It bore the printed address of his bankers. He opened it and the first lines told him that the blow had fallen. In polite, but no longer cordial terms, Messrs. Thomas and Blithe begged to inform the Count de Beaulieu that they had received a letter purporting to come from the genuine bearer of the title who was returning from America. Pending enquiries, Messrs. Thomas and Blithe felt it necessary to close the Count de Beaulieu's account. They expressed regrets, but their instructions from the executors of the late Lord Sudleigh's will left them no alternative. The recipient of this intelligence felt the blood slowly recede from his face. He looked up, fearing that the change might have been noticed, and saw that his wife was white to the lips.
"Are you about to faint, both of you?" Dr. Frohlocken enquired with cold professional interest.
The Count, once again admonished under the table, recovered himself. In an instant he had reached his wife's side and had placed his arm protectingly about her.
"Theodora—" he said, "what is the matter? Have you had bad news?"
For a full minute she did not answer. Her fair head rested against his arm and, to his amazement, he felt that she was clinging to him like a frightened child.
"Theodora!" he coaxed, with a long suppressed tenderness.
Her eyes opened and she looked up at him. A wave of wondering surprise seemed to swamp for a moment the underlying fear.
"It's from my—my father," she stammered. "He has forgiven us—he is coming over—to-morrow." But she did not offer him the letter nor did he ask to see it. Knowing that it was written in the French language he had not the slightest desire to reveal his astonishing ignorance of what was supposed to be his own tongue, and he contented himself with a non-committal cough. Dr. Frohlocken gazed from one to the other with alert attention.
"Your reaction to good news, my dear lady," he remarked, "is quite unusual and most interesting. One might almost suppose, judging superficially—"
The Countess rose unsteadily to her feet. She still held her letter tight clenched in her hand, and her eyes sought her husband's with the same look of mute appeal.
"I think—I shall rest a little in the next room," she said faintly. "The shock—you know. Dr. Frohlocken—your arm!"
That gentleman responded with clumsy alacrity, and a moment later the Count and George were alone. The Count continued to stare at the door through which his wife had passed, as though he had seen a vision, and George, who was eminently practical, coughed.
"Wot's up?" he enquired briefly, and with a distressing return to his native intonation.
"Everything's up—U.P.," the Count answered with a short unhappy sight. "Read that!"
He pushed the bankers' letter across the table and George, having glanced over it, nodded.
"Once the real josser had turned up you couldn't expect things to go on as they are," he said. "It's a case of the night express and a visit to the Continong, eh, old bird?"
The "old bird" glanced despairingly about the room.
"Yes, I suppose so. It's all over this time and it can't be helped."
"Wot about your missus? Going to take 'er with you?"
"No." The Count made a movement of despairing resignation. "I shall write to her. I shall tell her the whole truth. Her people will look after her now and—and I dare say the law will set her free. I'm sure I hope so."
"Wot about this friend of 'ers—this 'ere Saunders?" George enquired darkly.
His brother squared his shoulders like a man preparing to meet the attack of a whole army.
"I suppose she'll marry him in the end," he jerked out. "I'd like to kill him first though."
"Why don't you, old bird?"
"Me? Good heavens, do you take me for a murderer?"
George gave an unpleasant chuckle.
"Well, I don't know. You downed that fellow round by Blake's pretty neatly. I don't know whether 'e recovered but—"
"George, for pity's sake don't talk about things of that sort! You know I can't remember them and they are—simply unbearable. Anyhow, this is different. I can't harm a man she's fond of—even though I think he's a scoundrel."
George shook his head.
"You're off colour, Bill dear," he lamented. "You wouldn't 'ave turned a hair over a little job like that a year ago. However, it's love's young dream that's upset you, I suppose. But look 'ere, to get back to business—how much filthy lucre 'ave you got for our little trip?"
The Count started, overwhelmed by this new idea.
"Money? Why, I don't believe I've got £20 in the world. I gave my wife £300 last night."
"Wives is expensive luxuries," George commented gloomily. "Don't you saddle yourself with another, Bill dear."
"I never shall," Monsieur de Beaulieu returned with a tragic glance at the closed door, "even if I had the chance," he added, as a melancholy after-thought.
"And you won't have much chance unless we can raise the wind some'ow," George observed. He was silent a moment, contemplating his brother with a half-amused cunning. Then he slapped his knee. "It's a lifer if you get caught, Bill," he said. "You don't know wot a little lot the beaks 'ave got against you—thirty burglaries, fourteen fraudulent impersonations, twenty forgeries, three cases of manslaughter, not to mention bigamy. Why, an ordinary 'uman life won't be 'alf long enough! You wouldn't like that, would you?"
"I'm sure I shan't care much," was the bitter answer.
"Well, wot about the poor Countess wot you've deluded so? D'yer think it'll be a nice thing for 'er wot's come of a noble French family to see 'er 'usband in the dock, eh?"
George was sinking deeper and deeper in the sloughs of cockneyism, and the unhappy Count winced.
"No, no, I must spare her that," he agreed hoarsely. "Besides—I couldn't face her. She trusted me, you know, and upon my word I'd have made her happier than either that blackguard Count or that Saunders fellow could have done. But the luck's been against me and I must let her go. It would be horrible to see her when she hears that I'm only a common rogue."
"'Old on there! Don't you go calling names. Hours is a honourable profession if you looks on it in the right light. Besides, you're getting washy, brother, and you can keep all that for the beak when you pleads 'extenuating circumstances'. Look 'ere, I've got an idea, old bird." He picked up a copy of the "Bunmouth Daily Chronicle" and pointed out the social paragraph entitled "Latest Arrivals." "See that?"
"See what?"
"If you can't read at your time of life you ought to be ashamed. Listen to this? Mr. John Lancaster, the well-known Australian financier who is travelling over Europe in connection with his recent mysterious loss, has arrived for a few days' rest in Bunmouth! Now, how does that strike you, brother?"
The Count put his hand involuntarily to the back of his head as though perplexed by some vague memory.
"The name sounds familiar," he said hesitatingly. "I seem to have heard it somewhere."
"Of course you have, you Chatham & Dover express, you. Why he's known everywhere and fairly oozes with chink. And I tell you wot, sweet innocent, we leave by the night train and Mr. John Lancaster's cash—goes with us."
The Count recoiled.
"You can't—you won't do it!" he stammered.
"Can't I? I've got a little friend below stairs who'll make it as easy as going to sleep. Just you keep an eye on yours truly and I'll show you the neatest bit of safe-breaking you've ever seen."
The Count drew himself up to his full height.
"George," he said sternly, "you are my brother and I should hate to have to do it, but if you persist in this nefarious plan I shall feel it my duty to warn the manager."
"You!" George gave vent to a snort of contempt. "Why, you 'ave done that sort of thing dozens of times yourself, you old white-washed sepulchre! And if you makes a fuss and tries to queer my crib—" he drew nearer and his voice sank to a snarl—"I'll send for the manager myself and then we'll see who looks funny."
The Count sank down annihilated into the nearest chair.
"I apologise," he murmured. "'Pon my word, it seems I must have had another attack of honesty."
"It'll be over in a minute," George reassured him. "Try a drop of brandy, dear boy."
But at that moment Dr. Frohlocken's dark head appeared between the curtains of the door.
"The Countess is feeling better now," he said mildly. "She would be glad to see you, Count."