Amiable Charlatan (version 2) — Chapter X - A Broken Partnership

CHAPTER X--A BROKEN PARTNERSHIP

By what certainly seemed to be, at the time, a stroke of evil fortune, I invited Mrs. Bundercombe and Eve to lunch with me at Prince's restaurant a few days after our return from the country.

Mrs. Bundercombe was graciously pleased to accept my invitation; but she did not think it necessary to alter in any way her usual style of dress for the occasion.

We sailed into Prince's, therefore--Eve charming in a lemon-colored foulard dress and a black toque; Mrs. Bundercombe in an Okata dressmaker's conception of a tailor-made gown in some hard, steel-ray material, and a hat whose imperfections were perhaps mercifully hidden by a veil, which, instead of providing a really reasonable excuse for its existence by concealing some portion of Mrs. Bundercombe's features, streamed down behind her nearly to her feet.

The _maitre d'hotel_ who welcomed me and showed to our table found his little flow of small talk arrested by that first glimpse of our companion.

He accepted my orders in a chastened manner, and I noticed his eyes straying every now and then, as though in fearsome fascination, to Mrs. Bundercombe, who was sitting very upright at the table, with her bony fingers stretched out and a good deal of gold showing in her teeth as she talked with Eve in a high nasal voice concerning the absurd food invariably offered in English restaurants.

Then suddenly her flow of language ceased--the bomb-shell fell!

Mrs. Bundercombe's face became unlike anything I have ever seen or dreamed of.

Even Eve's eyes were round and her expression dubious.

I turned my head.

Some three tables away Mr. Bundercombe was lunching with a young lady--a stranger to us all She was not only a stranger to us all but, though she was remarkably good looking, there were indications that she scarcely belonged to our world.

All three of us remained silent for a moment.

Then I coughed and took up the wine list.

"What should you like to drink, Mrs. Bundercombe?"

I asked in attempted unconcern.

Mrs. Bundercombe adjusted her spectacles severely and transferred her regard to me.

I felt somehow as though I were back at school and had been discovered in some ignominious escapade.

"You are aware, Paul," she replied, "that I drink nothing save a glass of hot water after my meal.

The subject of drink does not interest me.

I

appeal to you now as a future member of the family: Fetch Mr. Bundercombe here!"

I shook my head.

"Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, leaning over the table, "your husband during his stay in London plunged freely into the Bohemian life of our city.

I

will answer for it that he did so simply in pursuance of that hobby of which we all know.

I am convinced----" "Paul," Mrs. Bundercombe interrupted, her voice if possible a little more nasal even than usual, "will you fetch Mr. Bundercombe here, or must I rise from my seat in a public place and remove him myself from--from that hussy?"

I appealed to Eve.

"Eve," I begged, "please reason with your stepmother.

There are certain situations in life that can be faced in one way only.

Mrs. Bundercombe will no doubt have a few words to say to her husband on his return.

Let her keep them until then."

"Paul is right!"

Eve declared.

"Do take our advice!"

she continued, turning to her stepmother.

"Let us eat our luncheon quite calmly.

I am perfectly certain dad will have some very good reason to give for his presence here with that young lady."

Mrs. Bundercombe rose to her feet.

I hastened to follow her example.

We stood confronting one another.

"It is either you or I, Paul!"

she insisted.

"Then it had better be myself," I groaned.

I deposited my napkin on the table and made my way toward Mr. Bundercombe.

I smiled pleasantly at him and bowed apologetically toward his companion.

"Sorry," I said under my breath, "but I am afraid Mrs. Bundercombe means to make trouble!"

Mr. Bundercombe looked at me with a gloriously blank expression.

His manner was not without dignity.

"I regret to hear," he replied, "that any person by the name of Mrs. Bundercombe is looking for trouble.

I scarcely see, however, how I am concerned in the matter.

You have the advantage of me, sir!"

I stared at him and stooped a little lower.

"She's tearing mad!"

I whispered.

"You don't want a scene.

Couldn't you make an excuse and slip away?"

Mr. Bundercombe frowned at me.

He glanced at the young lady as though seeking for some explanation.

"Is this young gentleman known to you, Miss Blanche?"

he inquired.

She set down her glass and shook her head.

"Never saw him before in my life!"

she declared.

"What's worrying him?"

"Hitherto," Mr. Bundercombe said, "my somewhat unusual personal appearance has kept me from an adventure of this sort, but I clearly understand that I am now being mistaken for some one else.

Your references to a Mrs. Bundercombe, sir, are Greek to me.

My name is Parker--Mr. Joseph H. Parker."

"Do you mean to keep this up?"

I protested.

Mr. Bundercombe beckoned to the _maitre d'hotel_ who came hastily to his side.

"Do you know this gentleman?"

he asked.

The _maitre d'hotel_ bowed.

"Certainly, sir," he answered, with a questioning glance toward me.

"This is Mr. Walmsley."

"Then will you take Mr. Walmsley back to his place?"

Mr. Bundercombe begged.

"He persists in mistaking me for some one else.

I am not complaining, mind," he added affably; "no complaint whatever!

I am quite sure the young gentleman is genuinely mistaken and does not mean to be in any way offensive.

Only my digestion is not what it should be and these little _contretemps_ in the middle of luncheon are disturbing.

Run away, sir, please!"

he concluded, waving his hand toward me.

The _maitre d'hotel_ looked at me and I looked at the _maitre d'hotel_.

Then I glanced at Mr. Bundercombe, who remained quite unruffled.

Finally I bowed slightly toward the young lady and returned to my place.

"Well?"

Mrs. Bundercombe snapped.

"It seems," I said, "that we were mistaken.

That isn't Mr. Bundercombe at all."

Mrs. Bundercombe's face was a study.

"Is this a jest?"

she demanded severely.

"I wish it were," I replied.

"Anyhow, Mrs. Bundercombe, you must really excuse me, but there is nothing more I can do.

The gentleman whom I addressed insisted upon it that his name was Mr. Joseph H. Parker.

No doubt he was right.

These likenesses are sometimes very deceptive," I added feebly.

Mrs. Bundercombe rose to her feet.

I made no effort to stop her; in fact her action filled me with pleasurable anticipations.

She walked across to the table at which Mr. Bundercombe was seated.

Eve and I both turned in our places to watch.

"Poor daddy!"

Eve murmured under her breath.

"Why couldn't he have chosen a smaller restaurant.

He is going to catch it now!"

"I think I'll back your father," I observed.

"He is quite at his best this morning."

The exact words that passed between Mr. Bundercombe and his wife we, alas!

never knew.

She turned her left shoulder pointedly toward the young woman, whom she had designated as a hussy, and talked steadily for about a minute and a half at Mr. Bundercombe.

The history of what followed was reflected in that gentleman's expressive face.

He appeared to listen, at first in amazement, afterward in annoyance, and finally in downright anger.

When at last he spoke we heard the words distinctly.

"Madam," he said, "I don't know who you are, and I object to being addressed in a public place by ladies who are strangers to me.

Be so good as to return to your seat.

You are mistaking me for some one else.

My name is Joseph H. Parker."

For a lady who had won renown upon the platform as a debater, Mrs. Bundercombe seemed afflicted with considerable difficulty in framing a suitable reply; and while she was still a little incoherent Mr. Bundercombe softly summoned the _maitre d'hotel_.

It may have been my fancy, but I certainly thought I saw a sovereign slipped into the hand of the latter.

"Charles," Mr. Bundercombe confided, "my luncheon is being spoiled by people who mistake me for a gentleman who, I believe, does bear a singular resemblance to me.

My name is Parker!

This lady insists upon addressing me as Mr. Bundercombe.

I do not wish to make a disturbance, but I insist upon it that you conduct this lady to her place and see that I am not disturbed any more."

The _maitre d'hotel's_ attitude was unmistakable.

Within the course of a few seconds Mrs. Bundercombe was restored to us.

I thought it best to ignore the whole matter and plunged at once into a discussion of gastronomic matters.

"I have ordered," I began, "some Maryland chicken."

"Then you can eat it!"

Mrs. Bundercombe snapped.

"Not a mouthful of food do I take in this place with that painted hussy sitting by Joseph's side a few feet away!

Oh, I'll fix him when I get him home!"

She drew a little breath between her teeth, but she was as good as her word.

She refused all food and sat with her arms folded, glaring across at Mr. Bundercombe's table.

My admiration for that man of genius was never greater than on that day.

So far from hurrying over his luncheon, he seemed inclined to prolong it.

There was no lack of conversation between him and his companion.

They even lingered over their coffee and they were still at the table when Eve and I had finished and Mrs. Bundercombe was sipping the hot water, the only thing that passed her lips during the entire meal.

I paid the bill and rose.

Mrs. Bundercombe, after a moment's hesitation, followed us.

"Eve and I thought of going into the Academy for a few minutes," I said tentatively as we reached the entrance hall.

Mrs. Bundercombe plumped herself down on a high-backed chair within a yard of the door.

"I," she announced, "shall wait here for Joseph!"

I realized the futility of any attempt to dissuade her; so we left her there, spent an hour at the Academy and did a little shopping.

On our way back an idea occurred to me.

We reentered the restaurant.

Mrs. Bundercombe was still sitting there in a corner of the hall.

"Thinks he can tire me out, perhaps!"

she remarked in an explanatory manner.

"Well, he just can't--that's all!"

I moved a few steps farther in and glanced down the restaurant.

Then I returned.

"But, my dear Mrs. Bundercombe," I said, "your husband has gone long ago!

He went out the other way.

I am not sure--but I believe we saw him in Bond Street quite three quarters of an hour ago."

"There is another way out?"

Mrs. Bundercombe asked hastily.

"Certainly there is," I told her; "into Jermyn Street."

"Why was I not told?"

she demanded, rising unwillingly to her feet.

"Really," I assured her, "I didn't think of it."

She followed us out.

We all walked down Piccadilly.

"Will you please," she said, "direct me to a tea-shop?"

I pointed one out to her.

She left us without a word of farewell.

Eve and I turned down into the Haymarket.

"Nice example your parents are setting us!"

I remarked.

Eve sighed.

"I wish I knew what dad was up to!"

she murmured.

At that moment we met him.

He came strolling along, his silk hat a little on the back of his head, a cigar in his mouth, his hands grasping his cane behind his back.

"Bundercombe or Parker?"

I inquired as we came to a standstill on the pavement.

He grinned.

"Nasty business, that!"

he remarked cheerfully.

"Why don't you keep to the Ritz or the Berkeley?

Anyway," he added, his tone changing, "I'm glad I met you, Paul.

I want your help in a little matter."

I shook my head.

"Quite out of the question!"

I declared emphatically.

"Don't forget that Paul is an M. P.

, dad!"

Eve said severely.

"You mustn't attempt to bring him into any of your little affairs."

"On this occasion," Mr. Bundercombe expostulated, "I am on the side of the law.

Mr. Cullen, whom I am probably going to see presently, will be my brother-in-arms."

"What do you need me for, then?"

I asked.

"As to absolutely needing you, perhaps I don't," Mr. Bundercombe admitted.

"On the other hand, it's a very interesting little affair, and one in which you could take a hand without compromising yourself."

"What about Eve?"

I inquired.

"Not this time!"

Mr. Bundercombe replied.

"The only risk there is about the affair," he explained, "is that it is just possible there may be a bit of a scrap."

"What's the program?"

I asked.

"To-night, at home, at ten o'clock.

Can you manage it?"

"Rather," I answered; "if Eve doesn't mind.

This is the night you promised to go with your mother to a lecture somewhere, isn't it?"

I reminded her.

She nodded.

"Very well," she consented resignedly, "so long as you don't let him get hurt, dad."

"No fear of that!"

Mr. Bundercombe declared cheerfully.

"If they go for any one they'll go for me.

So long, young people!

At ten o'clock, Paul!"

At precisely the hour agreed upon that evening I presented myself at Mr. Bundercombe's house in Prince's Gardens.

I noticed that the manner of the servant who admitted me was subdued and there was a peculiar gloom about the place.

Very few lights were lit and the farther portion of the house, of which one could catch a glimpse from the little circular hall, seemed entirely deserted.

I was shown at once into Mr. Bundercombe's study upon the ground floor.

Mr. Bundercombe was seated at a writing table, with his face toward the door.

He greeted me with a friendly nod and pointed to a little table upon which stood an abundant display of cigars and cigarettes of all brands.

I helped myself and lit a cigarette.

"May I know something of this evening's program?"

I asked.

"Spoil the whole show?"

Mr. Bundercombe objected earnestly.

"Just play the part of assistant audience and stick this into your pocket, will you?"

He threw toward me a very small revolver that he had produced from a drawer.

"Only the last three chambers are loaded," he remarked.

"You'll have to click three times if you do use it.

I don't think you'll need to, though.

Take a stall and watch the fun.

I'll tell you only this: You remember Bone Stanley, as he was called in those days--the man who was sent to prison for fifteen years for bank robbery and for shooting the manager?

Down Hammersmith way it was.

The fellow was an American."

"I remember it quite well," I assented.

"He was tried for murder and convicted of manslaughter."

Mr. Bundercombe nodded.

"He was released this afternoon.

He'll be here in a few minutes."

"Here!"

I exclaimed.

Mr. Bundercombe nodded but did not offer any further explanation.

Coupled with a certain gravity of expression he had the appearance of a schoolboy for whom a feast was being set out.

"Quite a pleasant little evening we are going to have!"

he promised.

"You wait!"

I frowned a little uneasily.

"You are quite sure you're not letting me in for--" Mr. Bundercombe plunged into the middle of my little protest.

"You're all right, Paul!"

he assured me.

"Cullen's in the house at the present moment and there are two other detectives with him.

They are letting me run this thing simply because I know more about it than they do; and for certain reasons I'm not giving my whole hand away.

Don't you worry, Paul!

You'll be all right this time.

Listen!"

We heard a very feeble ring at the bell.

Mr. Bundercombe nodded.

"That's Stanley," he whispered.

"Sit down!"

A man was shown into the room a moment later.

I leaned forward in my chair so as to see more distinctly the hero of one of the most famous cases that had ever been tried in a criminal court.

Of his renowned good looks there was little left.

He stood there, still tall, with high cheekbones, furtive eyes and long mouth.

He wore good clothes, his linen was irreproachable, and he kept his gloves on.

Nevertheless the stamp of the prison was upon him.

"Mr. Stanley?"

Mr. Bundercombe said.

"Good!

I am glad you were prevailed upon to come."

"I am still wholly in the dark as to what this means!"

the newcomer remarked.

"I'll tell you in a very few sentences," Mr. Bundercombe promised.

"Will you sit down?"

"I prefer to stand," Stanley replied, "until I know exactly in whose house I am and what your interest in me is."

"Very well!"

Mr. Bundercombe agreed.

"Here is my history: My name is Joseph H. Bundercombe.

I am an American manufacturer.

I have made a fortune in manufacturing Bundercombe's Reaping Machines.

You may call it a hobby, if you like, but I have always been interested in criminals and criminal methods--not the lowest type, but men who have pitted their brains against others and robbed them.

"As soon as I arrived in this country I found an interest in inquiring into the identities of American criminals imprisoned over here, with a view to helping any deserving cases.

Your name came before me.

I studied your case.

I became interested in it.

I learned that your time was almost up.

A chance inquiry revealed to me a state of things that I determined to bring before your knowledge."

"You sent me a telegram," Mr. Stanley interrupted, "as I was stepping on the steamer at Southampton.

I have returned to London for your explanation."

"You will probably," Mr. Bundercombe remarked genially, "be thankful all your life that you did.

Now listen!"

"Who is this person?"

Mr. Stanley asked, indicating me.

"He is my prospective son-in-law, Mr. Paul Walmsley," Mr. Bundercombe explained; "a member of Parliament.

I have asked him to be present because I may need a little support, and also because it may help to convince you that I am in earnest.

"Twenty years ago, Mr. Stanley, you came to the conclusion that honest methods were of little use to any one seeking to make a large fortune.

You joined with two other men, Richard Densmore and Philip Harding, in a series of semicriminal conspiracies.

"You pooled all your money--you had the most --and you determined that if you could not make a living honestly you would rob those with less brains than yourself.

When half your capital was gone, this Hammersmith bank robbery was planned and took place.

You were the only one caught and you held your tongue like a man; but, all the same, you were used as a cat's- paw."

"In what way?"