Rogues & Company/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
Not very far from an unfashionable part of London, commonly known as Whitechapel, there is a dirty little street which serves as a means of communication between two larger and more populous thoroughfares. In this region there are many dirty little streets, so that the description would be scarcely adequate were it not added that Herbert—or 'Urbert Street to use the local designation—was by far and away the dirtiest, narrowest and most evil-smelling of them all. In the day time it gave the impression of being wholly deserted—not so much as an urchin enlivened its unsavoury gutters—but towards evening there was a change which altered the whole character of the place. Dark figures slunk out of unlighted doorways and little mysterious groups formed themselves well out of reach of the lamp light—scattering precipitately in all directions as a couple of stalwart constables promenaded down the centre of the narrow roadway. In a word—'Urbert Street had a reputation which put Seven Dials to shame, and successfully saved it from the tender administrations of amateur "slumbers" and "Lady Beneficents" who were rumoured to haunt the more respectable regions. Even the constables hunted in couples, a few unpleasant little incidents having proved that it was unhealthy even for six foot of Yorkshire manhood to appear unchaperoned, and "swells" were naturally unknown. Consequently, the appearance of a tall, well-dressed young man who drove up to the corner in a taxi, would have caused a sensation had the usual habitués been there to witness it. For reasons best known to themselves, however, the inhabitants shunned the light of day and the only living object was a curious looking individual who was leaning up against a lamp- post, staring blankly a-t nothing in particular. The well-dressed young man paid his taximan who, having eyed him and the proffered pound note with equal suspicion, turned his vehicle and drove off with as much speed as was consistent with dignity. His recent "hire" waited a moment and, after referring to a newspaper cutting, made his way slowly down the left side of the street. Evidently he was looking for a number, but numbers had long ago been discarded in a region where the tenants changed their place of residence too often and too suddenly to make an address of any great value. A fruitless wandering brought the unusual visitor back to his starting point. The quaint figure in the check suit was still leaning in the same attitude against the lamp-post and the young man of immaculate appearance, after a moment's hesitation, went up to him and lifted his hat.
"Would you mind telling me which is No. 10?" he asked courteously.
The person thus addressed gave not the slightest sign of having heard. His gaze continued as blank and idiotic as before and the enquirer repeated his question in a louder and more determined key.
"Would you mind telling me which is No. 10?" he said, and supplemented the appeal with a light tap on the shoulder. The check-suited one thereupon slowly brought his eyes down to the level of the speaker's face and as slowly uncrossed his legs and unfolded his arms.
"Now then, young spark!" he drawled, with an indescribable accent which savoured about equally of Whitechapel and New York. "You stop that or you'll find yourself in Queer Street. Can't you let a fellow sleep?"
The young man smiled. "I didn't know you were asleep," he said. "Your eyes were wide open."
"The blighter who goes to sleep with his eyes shut in these parts deserves all that's coming to him," was the sententious answer. "The trick is to look as wide awake as an ol' clothes man even if you're as sleepy as a dormouse. What's your wants, young man?"
The stranger referred to the newspaper cut- ting.
"I want No. 10," he said; "but I can't find any number of any sort. Would you perhaps inform me—"
"Now, don't begin your little yarn all over again," the little man in the check suit interrupted. "If you hadn't landed on a soft hearted little bit of goods like me all that parlez-vouing would have cost you your hat. Say, 'Where's No. 10.—or I'll punch your head till your own loving mother won't know you' and we'll get to business."
The stranger laughed.
"When I've done punching your head you won't know No. 10 from No. 1000," he said genially, "so for both our sakes you'd better hurry up and tell me what I want before it's too late."
The man by the lamp-post rubbed his hands, tilted his brimless hat to the back of his close cropped head and winked.
"That's the spirit!" he said. "My, though! You are a sight!"
"I beg your pardon—?" In accents of some offence.
"In polite language—you're a highly coloured one. No. 10 will fall flat when it sees you." The little man produced a packet of doubtful looking cigars and, selecting one, bit off the end with precision. "I doubt if No. 10 has seen a clean collar this side of 1900," he went on meditatively, "and for friendship's sake I reckon I oughtn't to expose it to the shock. Just put up your coat, will you, and give your hat a tilt and then we'll get along."
The young man obeyed, though somewhat reluctantly, and the results of his alterations appearing to give satisfaction, the curiously assorted pair started down the street in search of No. 10. The check-suited Cicerone sauntered on ahead, his hands in his pockets, the cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his swagger suggesting that what didn't belong to him in 'Urbert Street didn't count for much. The young man followed him with an amateur appearance of rakishness, which in his present company and surroundings was decidedly ineffectual. Half way down the street his new acquaintance glanced over his shoulder.
"What's your game at No. 10?" he asked. "You haven't mistaken it for the Ritz, have you? All the palatial apartments down this avenue have been taken by the nobility months ago."
"I'm not looking for apartments," the young man replied uneasily. "I'm looking for—er—a certain Mrs. Jubbers."
"Wall, I guess you're not the only one whose looking for her," was the cryptic answer. "Old friend, eh?"
"Er—I hope not—I meant—I don't know—not exactly. It's a sort of—er—business affair—"
"Oh, that's all right, Innocent. I don't want to know your secrets. What's your title anyhow? I know Mrs. Jubbers like I know my own mother, and I'd better introduce you as something or other."
The visitor arranged his tie nervously.
"You can call me—er—Harris," he said.
"Couldn't you make it a lord?" his companion suggested. "Mrs. Jubbers is a trifle particular, as you might say."
"I'm afraid I can't oblige—for the present I'm just plain Harris."
"Oh come, it's not as bad as that! Never mind, I'll make you into a Book incog. She won't believe me anyhow. My name's Washington Jones, sometime American Citizen—at present enjoying a rest cure. Kindly step this way, Your Grace."
He pushed open the door of one of the dirtiest dwellings and led the way down a narrow passage with the air of being very much at home. The young man who called himself Harris followed meekly, and a moment later the pair were brought to a halt by a door which was locked on the inside. Washington Jones whistled twice and, after a short delay, the key was turned and the two visitors found themselves in a low-ceilinged room whose atmosphere was at that moment almost opaque with the fumes of bad tobacco.
"My dear Mrs. Jubbers," Washington Jones said loudly and distinctly, "permit me to present an old friend of mine to you,—The Dook of Harrisville—just arrived from the Continong. My dear Dook, this is Mrs. Jubbers, whose ac- quaintance you are so anxious to make."
The newly created "Dook" bowed to a stout slovenly dressed old woman who had loomed out of the clouds of smoke and now advanced upon him with a tottering step. She had only one eye—the other, judging from appearances, had been lost in honourable warfare—but the remaining orb was extraordinarily bright and none too friendly. It flashed over the "Dook's" person with a rapidity that seemed to take in every detail from the pearl scarf-pin downwards.
"Very 'appy to meet 'is Grace," she said with a suspicious leer. "Mr. Jones' friends are always welcome. Take a seat, me lord." She proffered a chair, of whose four legs only three could be safely counted on, and wiped the seat. "We're 'umble folk, your Grace," she mumbled on, "but wery 'onest and wot we 'ave we gladly shares with others. Make yourself at 'ome." During this speech the bright eye had been shooting wireless telegrams at Washington Jones, who winked significantly.
"His Grace has come on vury important business," he said. "Shouldn't be surprised if it was something in your line, Mrs. Jubbers."
The "Dook" coughed again—either out of nervousness or because the atmosphere was getting too much for him.
"Er—yes—I have come on business," he admitted. "In fact, it is such important business that I'm afraid I must ask for a private interview. I'm sure Mr. Jones will understand when I say that the happiness of more than one person hangs in the balance."
The American Citizen raised an eyebrow and waved his hand, expressing thereby both interest and comprehension for the delicacy of the situation.
"Why, sure," he agreed. "Say the word, sir, and yours truly will be gone in the twinkle of an eye."
"Mr. Jones is an old friend," Mrs. Jubbers interposed sharply. "There ain't nothing wot consens me wot 'e cawn't 'ear. Just you sit tight, Mr. Jones."
Mr. Jones obediently "sat tight," though evidently undesirous of seeming to intrude, and the "Dook" fidgeted uneasily.
"Can I rely—er—upon your entire discretion?" he asked at last.
"I am sometimes an American Citizen and always a man of honour," returned Washington Jones. "You can trust me like yourself, sir."
The "Dook's" smile was a trifle rueful.
"As a matter of a fact I came here after having come across this newspaper cutting," he began at last. "If you wouldn't mind glancing over it you will see how I came to know your name."
"You can read out wot it says," Mrs. Jubbers retorted gloomily. "I ain't got no time for making out that sort o' rubbish."
"It's an—er—police-court report," the "Dook" explained with increasing nervousness. "I will quote—er—strictly. 'Henrietta Jubbers, said to be of No. 10, Herbert Street, E.C. and already familiar to the public in connection with the notorious swindler William Brown, was charged yesterday before Mr. James Hawley with drunkenness and disorder—'"
"Look 'ere, young man," Mrs. Jubbers interrupted, her clenched first within an inch of her visitor's nose, "if you're one o' them tee-totlars or Prisoner's Friends you can take yourself off—"
"But I'm not," the "Dook" protested vigorously.
"Well, wot's it got to do with you if I gets 'awled up before the beak? Ain't it enough to 'ave one's fizzical weaknesses mistook by a bloomin' cop wot doesn't know when a lidy 'as a fainting fit, without a lot of busybodies acomin' in afterwards with their notebooks and noospapers? You clear out—you—!"
"But I don't care a brass farthing for all that!" the "Dook" insisted. "It isn't you I have come about. It's the other part of the business. It says here that you are connected with William Brown, and that's why I want to meet you, Mrs. Jubbers."
There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Jubbers was studying her visitor with all the intensity of her one bright eye, and her toothless mouth was pursed up into a very dubious expression.
"Look 'ere, Mr. Dook," she said slowly. "I don't much care for the looks of you—and that's the truth. Fine gents of your sort don't come our way, and when they do we scents mischief. If you're a bloomin' tec you'd better clear out 'fore I calls me friends in the next room—"
"I'm not what you call a 'tec,'" the "Dook" interrupted with despairing firmness. "I'm in a tight and uncomfortable hole and want to get out of it if I can. I'll make this much clear right away—I haven't anything to do with the police and I don't want to have. They're the last people I want to meet at the present moment."
His earnestness, combined with an expression of genuine distress, carried partial conviction. Mr. Washington Jones twisted his features into a non-committal grimace.
"If you take my advice you'll talk out straight, sir," he said. "If you want a house broke or a friend doped you can say so and we shan't be shocked, we've sympathy for those little human weaknesses, haven't we, Mrs. Jubbers?"
Mrs. Jubbers assented with a nod of her untidy head, but the "Dook's" distress appeared to increase.
"I don't want anything of that sort," he said. "I simply want to find out if you know William Brown who I believe goes under the alias of Slippery Bill. I assure you the matter is of the utmost importance to me."
Mrs. Jubbers considered. She was evidently considering very earnestly indeed, for her eye had become positively piercing.
"I don't know wot you mean by 'aliasses'," she said at last, "but I know of a fellow called Slippery Bill. I don't know 'im" she added hastily, "there aren't many who do—and I don't know where 'e is either."
"But you said when you gave evidence that he carried a talisman with him by which he could be identified."
Mrs. Jubbers glanced uneasily about the room.
"'E 'ad something of that sort," she admitted, "a kind of charm—'is Lucky Pig 'e called it. 'E always 'ad it with 'im, so they say. 'E said it kept the cops off."
The "Dook" put his hand in his pocket and drew out a minute object between his finger and thumb.
"Is that it?" he said faintly.
Mrs. Jubbers drew nearer. It was a small gold pig such as ladies have been known to wear on their bracelets, with a curly tail and peculiarly staring eyes—to all appearances a harmless enough ornament. But it caused Mrs. Jubbers to utter a croaking exclamation and the "Dook" was actually trembling.
"That's it," Mrs. Jubbers said emphatically. "I couldn't mistake it. I sawed it once—never you mind where—and I'd know it among a hundred of 'em. I don't believe there's another pig with a look like that in all London."
"Then it's true!" said the "Dook" under his breath.
Mrs. Jubbers and Mr. Washington Jones stared at him. The perspiration had broken out on his forehead and his pleasant face was perfectly colourless.
"Look here," said Mr. Jones, "you'd better make a clean breast of it. What's the matter with you?"
The "Dook" passed his handkerchief over his face.
"That's the matter with me," he said, pointing a trembling finger at the pig which was now lying on the table. "That pig is mine."
"Lor'!" from Mrs. Jubbers.
"Holy Jimjams!" from Mr. Washington Jones.
"Looks nasty for someone," Mrs. Jubbers reflected. Her sinisterly alert eye expressed close mental concentration. "Seems to me," she went on, "if that there pig belongs to you—"
"I don't know that it does—" the "Book" interposed hastily. "I only found it—I mean—it was in my pocket—" he floundered. He was aware that his audience had exchanged a significant glance, and that he had already hopelessly compromised himself. "You see, the terrible position I'm in," he said.
"'Orrible," said Mrs. Jubbers.
"You—" said Washington Jones pointing his finger, "are the French Count who was found on a doctor's doorstep. I know all about you, sir. A case of loss of memory, eh what!"
The "Dook" nodded, conscious that the less he said the better.
"No clue, eh?"
"Except the pig, it seems," Mrs. Jubbers remarked.
She stood with her arms akimbo. Her eyelid had dropped a little over her eye giving her an expression of extraordinary cunning.
"I tell you wot it is," she said. "There's only one man 'oos bound to know what you are or what you aren't and that's Slippery Bill's own brother, Garge. 'E's in the 'ouse at this very moment. I'll go an' ask 'im to come and 'ave a look at you."
"Please don't bother him!" the young man begged, evidently grown anxious to postpone the decisive moment, but Mrs. Jubbers was obdurate.
"'E'll be mighty glad," she said. "'E's been worritting about Bill till I thought 'e'd go off his nut; powerful fond of Bill, is Garge. Now just you wait quietly there whilst I bring 'im along."
The "Dook" waited. There was indeed nothing else for him to do as Mr. Washington Jones was leaning against the door which led out on to the passage and showed not the slightest intention of moving. There was an awkward pause. The visitor began to pace restlessly about the room and the American Citizen watched him through the thickening clouds of tobacco.
"Queer thing that I should have spotted you as a 'Dook'," he said presently. "Of course I notched you a point too high but I've a first rate nose for blue blood. What's your name, Count?"
"Beaulieu," the unhappy nobleman answered, "but don't talk about it. It haunts me."
Mr. Washington Jones gave vent to a sound which might have passed for a laugh.
"Wall, I guess you might be haunted by worse, dear boy," he said. "What price 'Slippery Bill' eh?"
The young man made a gesture of despair but he had no opportunity to give further expression to his feelings for at that moment the door opened. Mrs. Jubbers entered followed by a tall flashily dressed individual whose face, as soon as he perceived the visitor, lit up with a bewilderment and ecstasy which should have been highly flattering but, instead, appeared to cause the supposed Count de Beaulieu considerable alarm. He retreated precipitately before the newcomer's eager advance.
"My dear brother!" the latter said, husky with emotion. "My dear, dear brother!"
It was a touching scene. The Count sank feebly on the unsteady chair whilst his new-found relation bent over him and clasped his hand with emotional fervour.
"And to think that I'd given you up for lawst," Slippery Bill's brother went on brokenly. "To think all the time I was 'alf mad with grief you was lahdy-dahding it as a bloomin' Count! Ain't that enough to wring tears out of a beak? Ain't that tragic?"
"Yes," the prodigal one admitted faintly.
"And you don't seem a bit pleased!" George observed with a gentle note of reproach. "Aren't you glad to see your brother again, Bill?"
The Count looked up.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I thought Mrs. Jubbers had told you—I've lost my memory. I can't remember anybody—not even myself. It was a blow on the head that did it."
"One of those nasty cops," George remarked sympathetically. "And when you came round you found you was a Count. Now ain't that luck."
"Luck!" said Mrs. Jubbers solemnly. "It's genius!"
George nodded.
"You always did land on your feet, Bill," he said. "Fancy you—regular toff with 'caps of dibs. I 'ope you 'ave 'caps of dibs, brother?"
"The Count de Beaulieu has," the prodigal answered heavily. "I haven't." He picked up the Lucky Pig and put it back in his pocket. "Well, there's nothing for it but to go back and own up," he said with a cheerless little laugh.
"Wot?" The exclamation came in the same breath from George and Mrs. Jubbers. Mr. Washington Jones looked mildly amused. Mrs. Jubbers threw up her hands.
"You don't mean to say you are goin' to make a fool of yourself like that!" she said.
"Fool of myself? Why, I can't let things go on as they are. It wouldn't be honest."
The word caused a shout of rude laughter. George lent over the table in an attitude which suggested acute physical suffering.
'"Onest!" he groaned. "Why, Bill, you've never been such an 'orrid thing in your life! Ever since you was a little five year old nipper and pinched those apples off Mother Grumbage you've been up to something or other. Old bird, you don't say that blow 'as spilt you for the profession?"
"It seems so," the Count admitted ruefully. "At any rate I can't go on with this business."
"Gammon and spinach! You sit tight, brother! If you're copped you might as well be copped for being a Count as for that last little affair of yours at Dr. wot-'is name—Frohlocken—"
The Count fairly writhed.
"That's the man who has befriended me," he said. "It's too awful."
"Don't take on!" George pleaded. "The old josser got 'is silver back. I read about it in the pipers. You must 'ave been in a 'urry or lawst your nerve or something, for you chucked it down one of the areas. Besides, why shouldn't you be a Count, bless your 'eart? Don't you remember the time you was the Prince Donowaski and pinched the Duchess' diamonds?"
"No—I can't say I do. But I suppose all that explains why the thing comes so easily to me."
George brought his hand down with a heavy slap on the drooping shoulders.
"Of course it does, you old blighter!" he said. "Why, you've got the manners and the haccent of the 'ighest in the land. Just you stick to it—that's wot I say!"
"I can't!" the Count answered hoarsely. "Even if I wanted to I can't. There's the girl."
"The girl! Oh, my, is there a girl in it too?"
"The Mademoiselle de Melville—my—our—the Count de Beaulieu's fiancée."
George whistled. Mr. Washington Jones screwed up one eye.
"Say, that's a knock-out," he admitted. "I suppose she'll blow on you—she's bound to."
"No, she won't at least she hasn't."
"Hasn't? Speak plain, will you?"
"I mean—" the Count appeared to have some difficulty in controlling his voice. "I mean that she has seen me—and—and well, she thinks I am the Count!"
The three stared at him and then at each other.
"Wall, I reckon I'm done," said Washington Jones.
"'As she 'ad a blow on the 'ead too?" Mrs. Jubbers suggested.
"I can't explain it," the Count said hopelessly. "I can only think that there is some resemblance between the Count and myself and that long absence has weakened her memory. At any rate—there she is and, unless I tell the truth, we shall be married this afternoon by special license."
"Wot about the relations?" Mrs. Jubbers enquired.
"There aren't any. Mine—the Count's are dead and hers—well, to tell the truth she's run away from her people in France in order to marry me—the Count, I mean. That's what's so confoundedly awkward. For the present Dr. Frohlocken has taken her into his protection, but that can't go on."
George shook his head.
"That's luck and genius," he said admiringly. "You go ahead, old bird. You stick to it. It's the best thing you've been in for years."
"But Mademoiselle de Melville—"
"If she's satisfied, wot's the odds? Maybe the real Count is dead and buried and you're quite a nice-looking fellow. Wot's she like?"
For the first time the Count's face lit up with genuine satisfaction.
"She's splendid!" he said simply, but emphatically.
"Well then—sit tight!"
"I can't!"
"If you don't—" said George with his red face very close to his brother's—"if you don't I shall whistle up the cops for you. I won't 'ave a pi-face for a relation. It's a disgraice—I'd never live it down and I won't try."
Monsieur de Beaulieu looked about him. He was not a weak young man, either physically or mentally—the cut of his jaw and the build of his shoulders testified to considerable strength both of body and mind—but he evidently recognised the hopelessness of his situation. He wavered. George grinned.
"After all, a fellow with your reputation don't need to be so mealy," he said.
The Count picked up his hat.
"No, I suppose not," he said in a completely changed tone. "I quite see that under the circumstances my idea of turning over a new leaf, as it were, was absurd. Paradoxically, there's only one way out of this business and that is to stick to it. Anyhow I know now for certain who I am and that's something to be grateful for. I'm much obliged, Mrs. Jubbers. Good-morning!"
He went straight to the door and the American Citizen, after a moment's hesitation, shifted. Both men followed the visitor into the street and there was a moment's awkward silence. The Count looked at his brother with a kind of ironical regret on his handsome face.
"I'm awfully sorry to appear so indifferent," he said, "but you understand how it is. Upon my word,—I was really beginning to believe in myself—in which case things would have been very different—and—in fact it's been rather a shock all round."
George waved his hand.
"Don't you worry, my bantam," he said. "I'm not hurt. Just lend me a quid and all shall be forgotten. Thank you, brother! You are a born nobleman. I shan't lose you again in a hurry!" He laughed uproariously at his own significant joke and the Count hurried down the street as though to escape the sound. At the turning he was overtaken by Mr. Washington Jones. The expression on that gentleman's clean-shaven wizened little face had become startlingly and almost uncannily astute. He pinched the Count's arm and his wink was the last thing in significance.
"Young man," he said, "you're in for a big business and I have my holy doubts as to whether you'll be able to pull it off. If things get too sultry just you drop a line to Washington Jones, U. S. A., at present of No. 10 Herbert Street, and don't you get the jumps if you see me flitting round occasionally. You can take it from me"—and he put his finger solemnly to his nose,—"things aren't always what they seem."
And with that he swaggered off in the opposite direction.