Jonah and Co. (11 page)

I stared at him stupidly.

His coat was torn and he was streaming with sweat. Also his hat was missing, and there was a cut on his cheek.

“You’re hurt,” I cried.

“Right as rain,” he panted. “Tell you ’s we go.” He started to pelt up the street. I ran by his side. “’Bout two minutes after you’d gone – fellow ran up t’ the car in hell of a state – firs’ couln’ make out what matter was – talked too fast – then gathered, you’d sent him – Adèle had been taken ill – lie, of course – see now – never occurred to me at time – told him get on step and guide me – burst off up street – lef’ ri’ lef’ stunt – ’fore knew where I was, cul de sac – pulled up – nex’ second, both doors open and toughest cove ’ve ever seen told me t’ hop it – in bad American – round to t’ left here – course I tumbled at once – dirty work – tried t’ hit him – nothing doing – tried to lock car – couldn’t – hauled out anyhow – no good yelling – ran find you – one ray hope – out of petrol – I never stopped engine – petered out on its own – can on step, I know – but they’ll have to locate trouble – and then decant – left again here… no…wait.” He looked from side to side anxiously. Then he swung round and glanced back. “Gad, I think we’re wrong.” He started back frantically. “No, that’s right. I ’member that café.” We swung round again. Arrived once more at the corner, again he hesitated, twitching his lips nervously and sobbing for want of breath. “These blasted streets,” he jerked out. “I tried to memorise ’em, but –
There they are, Boy! There they are
!”

It was true.

Turning away from us into a street on our left, about forty paces away, was our own blue coupé…

But for the fact that a cart was presenting a momentary obstruction, our quarry would have been gone. As it was, I flung myself on to the running-board as she was gathering speed…

Without a word, I thrust my arm in at the window and switched off the engine. As she slowed up I leapt for the bonnet, whipped it open and felt for the high tension wire. At that moment the engine re-started… For a second whoever was driving fumbled with the gears… As the wheels meshed with a chunk, my fingers found what they sought. The next instant the car lunged forward – and the wire broke.

I fell on my back, certainly, and my hand was bleeding, but I could afford to smile. The gun was spiked.

As I rose to my feet, the car came gently to rest twenty-five paces away.

“All right?” panted Berry by my side.

“Every time,” said I. “And now for it.” I turned to a gaping youth. “
Allez cherche la police
,” I flung at him. “
Vite!
”

As we came up to the car —

“And may I ask,” drawled a voice, “the meaning of this hold-up? I guess you’ll get tired of answering before you’re through, but, as the owner of this vehicle, I’m just curious.”

“Cut it out,” said I shortly. “And just come out of that car. Both of you.”

So far as the speaker’s companion was concerned, my injunction was supererogatory. Even as I spoke, with a scream of agony the latter emerged from the car. Holding him fast by the wrist, Berry had almost broken his arm across the jamb of the door.

“And why?” said the voice imperturbably.

“Because the game’s up.” I opened the door. “Besides, to tell you the truth, we’re rather particular about our cushions. Till now, no one with more than three previous convictions has ever sat on them.”

With narrowed eyes, a very square-faced gentleman regarded me grimly.

“If you hadn’t damaged my car,” he said slowly. “I’d get out and refashion your physiognomy. But I guess I’ll wait for the police.” And, with that, he drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, spat, and then lighted the brand with great deliberation.

I began to think rapidly.

Violence was out of the question. The fellow was far heavier than I, and obviously as hard as nails. Moreover, I felt instinctively that the Queensberry Rules did not mean much to him. As for cunning – well, we were not in the same class. Here was an audacity such as I had not dreamed of. Having lost one throw, the fellow was doubling his stake. Hook having broken in his hand, he had dropped it and picked up Crook.
His game was to bluff the French police
. That was why he was staying in the car – to give the impression of ownership. If he could maintain this impression, make it easy for the police to wash their hands of a dispute between foreigners, so find favour in their eyes, just turn the scale sufficiently to be allowed to proceed “pending the fullest inquiries” – it might go hard with us…

I fancy he read my thoughts, for he took the cigar from his mouth and laughed softly.

“Up against it, aren’t you?” he said.

At last a
gendarme
arrived, and five minutes later we were all on the way to the police-station.

This was not to my gentleman’s taste, but he was too shrewd a knave to press his point. Honesty was his best policy. He did demand hotly that I should be taken in charge, but I had the better of him in French, and after a moment he let that iron go. He fought very hard for the services of a mechanic, but I was determined that the engine should remain out of action, and, calling for volunteers upon the crowd of unlookers, soon satisfied the
gendarme
that to push the car to the station was easy enough.

Holding fast to the accomplice, who, for reasons best known to himself, was adopting an injured air in sulky silence, Berry walked by my side.

“What’s his game?” he muttered. “In the face of our papers, he’s done.”

“He’ll swear they’re his, for a monkey. They’re in the car. Probably read them through, while you were looking for me. And all the details are on the Travelling Pass. But he’s got to get over the photograph.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” said Berry. “I used to think I could bluff, but this – this is beyond me.”

When we arrived at the police-station the chief of the police was summoned, and we told our respective tales.

Our enemy spoke first – shortly, but much to the point. He was returning, he said, to Pau, where he was staying with friends. Finding that he had run out of petrol, while he was passing through Tarbes, he had turned into a side street to refill without obstructing a main thoroughfare. As he was starting again, an assault had been made – an unprovoked assault – seriously damaging the car. Thereupon he had sent for the police. Now, foiled in their enterprise, the thieves, he understood, were actually daring to say that he had assaulted them. One of them – he nodded at Berry – had certainly been roughly handled, but, Mon Dieu, what did they expect? (Here he took out his watch and frowned at the dial.) And now would the police get to work? His friends at Pau would be wondering what had become of him.

I admit that you could have pushed me over.

Upon the question of ownership the rogue said not a word. The whole onus of raising that issue he had thrust on to me. I was to broach the barrel of improbability, and by so doing to taint my whole case…

The police were manifestly impressed.

There was no doubt at all that we were up against it.

The asperity with which the official asked me what we had to say sent my heart into my boots.

I started to tell my story.

The moment I said that the car belonged to us, police and robber stared at me as if bewitched. Then the latter exploded.

It was certainly very well done.

Such fulminations of outraged dignity, such outpourings of righteous indignation, never were witnessed. It took the united sympathy and assurance of the whole personnel of the station, to smooth the ruffian down. After a while, however, he condescended to see the humorous side. The police laughed with him…

Throughout my recital I had to endure the like.

As for the chief of police, he was plainly extremely bored. He listened, patently because it was his duty to let me speak. His cold, indifferent air, the way in which his eyes went straying about the room, were simply maddening.

Desperately endeavouring to keep my temper, I ploughed my way on.

At last —

“Listen,” I said dramatically. “You do not believe me. I do not blame you. My friend has told a good tale. At present it is my word against his. Supposing I bring some evidence?”

“What evidence can you bring?”

“The papers belonging to the car.” I pointed to the usurper. “On his own showing I cannot have seen them. Yet I will tell you their contents. I pray you, send for them. They’re in the left—”

“Wrong, sonny,” said my antagonist, tapping his coat. “I always carry ’em here.” And, with that, he drew out our wallet and flung it upon the desk.

With our Pass in his hands, the chief of the police blinked at me.

“The chassis number?” he said.

“P 1709.”

Up went his eyebrows.

“And on the number-plates?”

“XD 2322.”

The official folded the Pass and shook his head.

“Wrong,” he said shortly.

As I stared at him, frowning —

“Yes, sonny,” said the jeering voice. “An’ don’t go putting it up that you’re J Mansel, ’cause the picture’s against you.”

With the words the truth came to me.

It was Ping – Jonah’s car – that was standing without in the street.
And I had given Pong’s numbers…

With a grin of triumph the impostor rose to his feet. “So that’s that,” he drawled. “Well, I guess I’ll be moving. As for these climbers—”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Berry, in pretty fair French, “but you will do nothing of the sort.” He turned to the chief of the police and inclined his head. “I am a nobleman, and – I should like a chair.”

For a moment the other stared at him; then he sent for a seat. Had I stood in his shoes, I should have done the same. My brother-in-law’s air was irresistible.

Berry sat down carefully.

“I shall not,” he said, “keep you long. This is not my car. It belongs to my cousin, Captain Jonathan Mansel. Look at the Pass, please, and check me. Captain Mansel was born at Guildford, Surrey, is it not so? Good. Now I have given the birthplace.” He shot out an accusing hand. “
Ask that gentleman the date.”

For the second time the tough exploded, but with a difference. This time the wrath was genuine, the passion real. There was something beastly about it. Beside this paroxysm the other outburst had been almost refined.

The official who had been about to speak looked at the fellow curiously, and when, a moment later, the latter stretched out his hand for the Pass, he held up a prohibitive palm.

As the storm died down —

“Good,” said Berry. “The gentleman doesn’t want to. The date is December the fifteenth, 1891.” He sighed profoundly. Then: “You have a
gendarme
here,” he said musingly, “called Jean Laffargue.”

The chief of the police stared.

“Yes,
Monsieur
. He is there, by the door.”

Berry nodded.

“He has a twin brother, hasn’t he?”

“Perfectly,
Monsieur
. He is called
‘François
.’”

“Very likely,” said Berry. “Very likely. I call him
Herbert!
”

“
Monsieur le Comte
,” said Herbert, stepping into the room.

“Ah, Herbert,” said Berry airily, “we meet again.” He nodded at the official. “Just tell this gentleman about this morning, will you? He would, I think, be interested.”

To say that Herbert came up to the scratch is to do scant justice to the testimony which he gave and to the manner in which he gave it. He swore to Berry: he swore to me: and in all honesty he swore to the car. For this, since Ping and Pong were duplicates, he may be forgiven. He described the morning’s incident with a wealth of picturesque detail and an abundance of vivid imagery, while an astute cross-examination only served to adorn the sincerity of his tale.

Finally, in response to his entreaties, police and all, we followed him into the street, where, displaying a histrionic ability which was truly French, he proceeded to reconstruct and rehearse his great adventure with the enthusiasm of a zealot.

Watch in hand, Berry touched the chief of the police upon the shoulder.

“By now,” he said, “I think my cousin may have reached Pau. If you would like to telephone…”

He stopped suddenly to peer right and left into the darkness.

The gentry had disappeared.

Ten minutes later, with a
gendarme
on either step, we picked up an anxious Adèle. Then we filled up with petrol, had my makeshift connection replaced by a new wire, and started for home.

As we passed the scene of our meeting with Herbert—

“Which goes to prove,” said my brother-in-law, “the wisdom of catching at straws. I noticed his likeness to Herbert the moment we entered the room, and, for what it was worth, I kept my eye on him. Then a
gendarme
came in and whispered. I caught the words ‘
votre frère
.’ Laffargue shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the clock. It looked as if his brother was waiting for him to come off duty. I began to wonder whether the two were going to blow my ten francs. During one of the arguments I shot my bolt. I asked him to tell his twin-brother that the Count Blowfly was here and would be glad if he’d wait. He stared rather, but, after a little hesitation, he slipped out of the room. I think my heart stopped beating until he returned. When he looked at me and nodded, I could have screamed with delight…”

For a kilometre or so we sat in silence.

Then —

“It reminds me of poker on board ship,” said I. “Our friend of the square jaw cuts in and, with the luck of an outsider, picks up four kings.”

“That’s it,” said Berry. “And we hold three aces.”

“Exactly,” said I.

“But four kings beat three aces,” said Adèle.

“You’re forgetting Herbert,” said I.

“No, I’m not,” said my wife. “Herbert’s the Ace of Spades.”

“No, sweetheart,” said Berry. “He’s the joker.”

It was early upon the following morning that a letter was brought by hand to our door.

DEAR MRS PLEYDELL,

I’m afraid you must have thought all sorts of things about me after I’d gone yesterday, but I’ve just this moment had a telegram, and I’m so excited I can hardly write. I know my name now. You see, I used to be the Marquis Lecco. Then, when Father died, they said he’d never been the Duke at all, and so I had no name. But now it’s all settled, and they’ve lost their case. And I can sign myself always,