Peter Ruff and the Double Four Read online

  PETER RUFF AND THE DOUBLE FOUR

  By E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CONTENTS

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER

  I INTRODUCING MR. PETER RUFF

  II A NEW CAREER

  III VINCENT CAWDOR, COMMISSION AGENT

  IV THE INDISCRETION OF LETTY SHAW

  V DELILAH FROM STREATHAM

  VI THE LITTLE LADY FROM SERVIA

  VII THE DEMAND OF THE DOUBLE-FOUR

  VIII MRS. BOGNOR'S STAR BOARDER

  IX THE PERFIDY OF MISS BROWN

  X WONDERFUL JOHN DORY

  BOOK TWO

  I RECALLED BY THE DOUBLE-FOUR

  II PRINCE ALBERT'S CARD DEBTS

  III THE AMBASSADOR'S WIFE

  IV THE MAN FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT

  V THE FIRST SHOT

  VI THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST

  VII MAJOR KOSUTH'S MISSION

  VIII THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN

  IX THE GHOSTS OF HAVANA HARBOR

  X THE AFFAIR OF AN ALIEN SOCIETY

  XI THE THIRTEENTH ENCOUNTER

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER I. INTRODUCING MR. PETER RUFF

  There was nothing about the supper party on that particular Sundayevening in November at Daisy Villa, Green Street, Streatham, whichseemed to indicate in any way that one of the most interesting careersconnected with the world history of crime was to owe its very existenceto the disaster which befell that little gathering. The villa was theresidence and also--to his credit--the unmortgaged property of Mr. DavidBarnes, a struggling but fairly prosperous coal merchant of excellentcharacter, some means, and Methodist proclivities. His habit of sittingwithout his coat when carving, although deprecated by his wife anddaughter on account of the genteel aspirations of the latter, was a notunusual one in the neighbourhood; and coupled with the proximity of acold joint of beef, his seat at the head of the table, and a carvingknife and fork grasped in his hands, established clearly the fact ofhis position in the household, which a somewhat weak physiognomy mightotherwise have led the casual observer to doubt. Opposite him, at theother end of the table, sat his wife, Mrs. Barnes, a somewhat voluminouslady with a high colour, a black satin frock, and many ornaments. Onher left the son of the house, eighteen years old, of moderate stature,somewhat pimply, with the fashion of the moment reflected in his pinktie with white spots, drawn through a gold ring, and curving outwards toseek obscurity underneath a dazzling waistcoat. A white tube-rose inhis buttonhole might have been intended as a sort of compliment to theoccasion, or an indication of his intention to take a walk after supperin the fashionable purlieus of the neighbourhood. Facing him sat hissister--a fluffy-haired, blue-eyed young lady, pretty in her way, butchiefly noticeable for a peculiar sort of self-consciousness blendedwith self-satisfaction, and possessed only at a certain period in theirlives by young ladies of her age. It was almost the air of the cat inwhose interior reposes the missing canary, except that in this instancethe canary obviously existed in the person of the young man who sat ather side, introduced formally to the household for the first time. Thatyoung man's name was--at the moment--Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald.

  It seems idle to attempt any description of a person who, in the past,had secured a certain amount of fame under a varying personality; andwho, in the future, was to become more than ever notorious under a farless aristocratic pseudonym than that by which he was at present knownto the inhabitants of Daisy Villa. There are photographs of him in NewYork and Paris, St. Petersburg and Chicago, Vienna and Cape Town, butthere are no two pictures which present to the casual observer theslightest likeness to one another. To allude to him by the name underwhich he had won some part, at least, of the affections of Miss MaudBarnes, Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, as he sat there, a suitor on probationfor her hand, was a young man of modest and genteel appearance. He worea blue serge suit--a little underdressed for the occasion, perhaps; buthis tie and collar were neat; his gold-rimmed spectacles--if a littledisapproved of by Maud on account of the air of steadiness which theyimparted--suggested excellent son-in-lawlike qualities to Mr. and Mrs.Barnes. He had the promise of a fair moustache, but his complexiongenerally was colourless. His features, except for a certain regularity,were undistinguished. His speech was modest and correct. His mannervaried with his company. To-night it had been pronounced, by excellentjudges--genteel.

  The conversation consisted--naturally enough, under thecircumstances--of a course of subtle and judicious pumping, tactfullyprompted, for the most part, by Mrs. Barnes. Such, for instance, as thefollowing:

  "Talking about Marie Corelli's new book reminds me, Mr. Fitzgerald--youroccupation is connected with books, is it not?" his prospectivemother-in-law enquired, artlessly.

  Mr. Fitzgerald bowed assent.

  "I am cashier at Howell & Wilson's in Cheapside," he said. "We sella great many books there--as many, I should think, as any retailestablishment in London."

  "Indeed!" Mrs. Barnes purred. "Very interesting work, I am sure. So niceand intellectual, too; for, of course, you must be looking inside themsometimes."

  "I know the place well," Mr. Adolphus Barnes, Junior, announcedcondescendingly,--"pass it every day on my way to lunch."

  "So much nicer," Mrs. Barnes continued, "than any of the ordinarybusinesses--grocery or drapery, or anything of that sort."

  Miss Maud elevated her eyebrows slightly. Was it likely that she wouldhave looked with eyes of favour upon a young man engaged in any of theseinferior occupations?

  "There's money in books, too," Mr. Barnes declared with suddeninspiration. His prospective son-in-law turned towards himdeferentially.

  "You are right, sir," he admitted. "There is money in them. There'smoney for those who write, and there's money for those who sell. Myoccupation," he continued, with a modest little cough, "brings me ofteninto touch with publishers, travellers and clerks, so I am, as it were,behind the scenes to some extent. I can assure you," he continued,looking from Mr. Barnes to his wife, and finally transfixing Mr.Adolphus--"I can assure you that the money paid by some firms ofpublishers to a few well-known authors--I will mention no names--asadvances against royalties, is something stupendous!"

  "Ah!" Mr. Barnes murmured, solemnly shaking his head.

  "Marie Corelli, I expect, and that Hall Caine," remarked young Adolphus.

  "Seems easy enough to write a book, too," Mrs. Barnes said. "Why, Ideclare that some of those we get from the library--we subscribe to alibrary, Mr. Fitzgerald--are just as simple and straightforward thata child might have written them. No plot whatsoever, no murders ormysteries or anything of that sort--just stories about people likeourselves. I don't see how they can pay people for writing stories aboutpeople just like those one meets every day!"

  "I always say," Maud intervened, "that Spencer means to write a booksome day. He has quite the literary air, hasn't he, mother?"

  "Indeed he has!" Mrs. Barnes declared, with an appreciative glance atthe gold-rimmed spectacles.

  Mr. Fitzgerald modestly disclaimed any literary aspirations.

  "The thing is a gift, after all," he declared, generously. "I can keepaccounts, and earn a fair salary at it, but if I attempted fiction Ishould soon be up a tree."

  Mr. Barnes nodded his approval of such sentiments.

  "Every one to his trade, I say," he remarked. "What sort of salaries dothey pay now in the book trade?" he asked guilelessly.

  "Very fair," Mr. Fitzgerald admitted candidly,--"very fair indeed."

  "When I was
your age," Mr. Barnes said reflectively, "I was getting--letme see--forty-two shillings a week. Pretty good pay, too, for thosedays."

  Mr. Fitzgerald admitted the fact.

  "Of course," he said apologetically, "salaries are a little higher nowall round. Mr. Howell has been very kind to me,--in fact I have had tworaises this year. I am getting four pounds ten now."

  "Four pounds ten per week?" Mrs. Barnes exclaimed, laying down her knifeand fork.

  "Certainly," Mr. Fitzgerald answered. "After Christmas, I have somereason to believe that it may be five pounds."

  Mr. Barnes whistled softly, and looked at the young man with a newrespect.

  "I told you that--Mr.--that Spencer was doing pretty well, Mother," Maudsimpered, looking down at her plate.

  "Any one to support?" her father asked, transferring a pickle from thefork to his mouth.

  "No one," Mr. Fitzgerald answered. "In fact, I may say that I havesome small expectations. I haven't done badly, either, out of the fewinvestments I have made from time to time."

  "Saved a bit of money, eh?" Mr. Barnes enquired genially.

  "I have a matter of four hundred pounds put by," Mr. Fitzgerald admittedmodestly, "besides a few sticks of furniture. I never cared much aboutlodging-house things, so I furnished a couple of rooms myself some timeago."

  Mrs. Barnes rose slowly to her feet.

  "You are quite sure you won't have a small piece more of beef?" sheenquired anxiously.

  "Just a morsel?" Mr. Barnes asked, tapping the joint insinuatingly withhis carving knife.

  "No, I thank you!" Mr. Fitzgerald declared firmly. "I have doneexcellently."

  "Then if you will put the joint on the sideboard, Adolphus," Mrs. Barnesdirected, "Maud and I will change the plates. We always let the girl goout on Sundays, Mr. Fitzgerald," she explained, turning to their guest."It's very awkward, of course, but they seem to expect it."

  "Quite natural, I'm sure," Mr. Fitzgerald murmured, watching Maud'slight movements with admiring eyes. "I like to see ladies interested indomestic work."

  "There's one thing I will say for Maud," her proud mother declared,plumping down a dish of jelly upon the table, "she does know what's whatin keeping house, and even if she hasn't to scrape and save as I didwhen David and I were first married, economy is a great thing whenyou're young. I have always said so, and I stick to it."

  "Quite right, Mother," Mr. Barnes declared.

  "If instead of sitting there," Mrs. Barnes continued in high goodhumour, "you were to get a bottle of that port wine out of thecellarette, we might drink Mr. Fitzgerald's health, being as it's hisfirst visit."

  Mr. Barnes rose to his feet with alacrity. "For a woman with soundideas," he declared, "commend me to your mother!"

  Maud, having finished her duties, resumed her place by the side of theguest of the evening. Their hands met under the tablecloth for a moment.To the girl, the pleasure of such a proceeding was natural enough, butFitzgerald asked himself for the fiftieth time why on earth he, who,notwithstanding his present modest exterior, was a young man of someexperience, should from such primitive love-making derive a rapturewhich nothing else in life afforded him. He was, at that moment, contentwith his future,--a future which he had absolutely and finally decidedupon. He was content with his father-in-law and his mother-in-law, withDaisy Villa, and the prospect of a Daisy Villa for himself,--content,even, with Adolphus! But for Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, these things werenot to be! The awakening was even then at hand.

  The dining room of Daisy Villa fronted the street, and was removed fromit only a few feet. Consequently, the footsteps of passers-by upon theflagged pavement were clearly distinguishable. It was just at the momentwhen Mrs. Barnes was inserting a few fresh almonds into a somewhatprecarious tipsy cake, and Mr. Barnes was engaged with the decanting ofthe port, that two pairs of footsteps, considerably heavier than thoseof the ordinary promenader, paused outside and finally stopped. The gatecreaked. Mr. Barnes looked up.

  "Hullo!" he exclaimed. "What's that? Visitors?"

  They all listened. The front-door bell rang. Adolphus, in response to agesture from his mother, rose sulkily to his feet.

  "Job I hate!" he muttered as he left the room.

  The rest of the family, full of the small curiosity of people of theirclass, were intent upon listening for voices outside. The demeanour ofMr. Spencer Fitzgerald, therefore, escaped their notice. It is doubtful,in any case, whether their perceptions would have been sufficiently keento have enabled them to trace the workings of emotion in the countenanceof a person so magnificently endowed by Providence with the art ofsubterfuge. Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald seemed simply to have stiffened inacute and earnest attention. It was only for a moment that he hesitated.His unfailing inspiration told him the truth!

  His course of action was simple,--he rose to his feet and strolled tothe window.

  "Some people who have lost their way in the fog, perhaps," he remarked."What a night!"

  He laid his hand upon the sash--simultaneously there was a rush ofcold air into the room, a half-angry, half-frightened exclamation fromAdolphus in the passage, a scream from Miss Maud--and no Mr. SpencerFitzgerald! No one had time to be more than blankly astonished. The doorwas opened, and a police inspector, in very nice dark braided uniformand a peaked cap, stood in the doorway.

  Mr. Barnes dropped the port, and Mrs. Barnes, emulating her daughter'sexample, screamed. The inspector, as though conscious of the draught,moved rapidly toward the window.

  "You had a visitor here, Mr. Barnes," he said quickly--"a Mr. SpencerFitzgerald. Where is he?"

  There was no one who could answer! Mr. Barnes was speechless betweenthe shock of the spilt port and the appearance of a couple of uniformedpolicemen in his dining room. John Dory, the detective, he knew wellenough in his private capacity, but in his uniform, and attended bypolicemen, he presented a new and startling appearance! Mrs. Barnes wasin hysterics, and Maud was gazing like a creature turned to stone atthe open window, through which little puffs of fog were already driftinginto the room. Adolphus, with an air of bewilderment, was standing withhis mouth and eyes wider open than they had ever been in his life. Andas for the honoured guest of these admirable inhabitants of Daisy Villa,there was not the slightest doubt but that Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald haddisappeared through the window!

  Fitzgerald's expedition was nearly at an end. Soon he paused, crossedthe road to a block of flats, ascended to the eighth floor by anautomatic lift, and rang the bell at a door which bore simply the numberII. A trim parlourmaid opened it after a few minutes' delay.

  "Is Miss Emerson at home?" he asked.

  "Miss Emerson is in," the maid admitted, with some hesitation, "but I amnot sure that she will see any one to-night."

  "I have a message for her," Fitzgerald said.

  "Will you give me your name, sir, please?" the maid asked.

  An inner door was suddenly opened. A slim girl, looking taller than shereally was by reason of the rug upon which she stood, looked out intothe hall--a girl with masses of brown hair loosely coiled on her head,with pale face and strange eyes. She opened her lips as though to callto her visitor by name, and as suddenly closed them again. There was notmuch expression in her face, but there was enough to show that his visitwas not unwelcome.

  "You!" she exclaimed. "Come in! Please come in at once!"

  Fitzgerald obeyed the invitation of the girl whom he had come to visit.She had retreated a little into the room, but the door was no soonerclosed than she held out her hands.

  "Peter!" she exclaimed. "Peter, you have come to me at last!"

  Her lips were a little parted; her eyes were bright with pleasure; herwhole expression was one of absolute delight. Fitzgerald frowned, asthough he found her welcome a little too enthusiastic for his taste.

  "Violet," he said, "please don't look at me as though I were a prodigalsheep. If you do, I shall be sorry that I came."

  Her hands fell to her side, the pleasure died out of her face--only hereyes still que
stioned him. Fitzgerald carefully laid his hat on a vacantchair.

  "Something has happened?" she said. "Tell me that all that madness isover--that you are yourself again!"

  "So far as regards my engagement with Messrs. Howell & Wilson," he said,despondently, "you are right. As regards--Miss Barnes, there has beenno direct misunderstanding between us, but I am afraid, for the present,that I must consider that--well, in abeyance."

  "That is something!" she exclaimed, drawing a little breath of relief."Sit down, Peter. Will you have something to eat? I finished dinner anhour ago, but--"

  "Thank you," Fitzgerald interrupted, "I supped--extremely well inStreatham!"

  "In Streatham!" she repeated. "Why, how did you get there? The fog isawful."

  "Fogs do not trouble me," Fitzgerald answered. "I walked. I could havedone it as well blindfold. I will take a whisky and soda, if I may."

  She led him to an easy-chair.

  "I will mix it myself," she said.

  Without being remarkably good-looking, she was certainly a pleasantand attractive-looking young woman. Her cheeks were a little pale; herhair--perfectly natural--was a wonderful deep shade of soft brown. Hereyes were long and narrow--almost Oriental in shape--and they seemedin some queer way to match the room; he could have sworn that in thefirelight they flashed green. Her body and limbs, notwithstanding herextreme slightness, were graceful, perhaps, but with the grace of thetigress. She wore a green silk dressing jacket, pulled together with abelt of lizard skin, and her neck was bare. Her skirt was of some thinblack material. She was obviously in deshabille, and yet there wassomething neat and trim about the smaller details of her toilette.

  "Go on, please, Peter," she begged. "You are keeping me in suspense."

  "There isn't much to tell," he answered. "It's over--that's all."

  She drew a sharp breath through her teeth.

  "You are not going to marry that girl--that bourgeois doll inStreatham?"

  Fitzgerald sat up in his chair.

  "Look here," he said, seriously, "don't you call her names. If I'm notgoing to marry her, it isn't my fault. She is the only girl I have everwanted, and probably--most probably--she will be the only one I evershall want. That's honest, isn't it?"

  The girl winced.

  "Yes," she said, "it is honest!"

  "I should have married her," the young man continued, "and I should havebeen happy. I had my eye on a villa--not too near her parents--and I sawmy way to a little increase of salary. I should have taken to gardening,to walks in the Park, with an occasional theatre, and I shouldhave thoroughly enjoyed a fortnight every summer at Skegness orSutton-on-Sea. We should have saved a little money. I should have goneto church regularly, and if possible I should have filled someminor public offices. You may call this bourgeois--it was my idea ofhappiness."

  "Was!" she murmured.

  "Is still," he declared, sharply, "but I shall never attain to it.To-night I had to leave Maud--to leave the supper table of DaisyVilla--through the window!"

  She looked at him in amazement.

  "The police," he explained. "That brute Dory was at the bottom of it."

  "But surely," she murmured, "you told me that you had a bona-fidesituation--"

  "So I had," he declared, "and I was a fool not to be content with it.It was my habit of taking long country walks, and their rotten auditing,which undid me! You understand that this was all before I met Maud?Since the day I spoke to her, I turned over a new leaf. I have left thenight work alone, and I repaid every penny of the firm's money whichthey could ever have possibly found out about. There was only that onelittle affair of mine down at Sudbury."

  "Tell me what you are going to do?" she whispered.

  "I have no alternative," he answered. "The law has kicked me out fromthe respectable places. The law shall pay!"

  She looked at him with glowing eyes.

  "Have you any plans?" she asked, softly.

  "I have," he answered. "I have considered the subject from a good manypoints of view, and I have decided to start in business for myself as aprivate detective."

  She raised her eyebrows.

  "My dear Peter!" she murmured. "Couldn't you be a little more original?"

  "That is only what I am going to call myself," he answered. "I may tellyou that I am going to strike out on somewhat new lines."

  "Please explain," she begged.

  He recrossed his knees and made himself a little more comfortable.

  "The weak part of every great robbery, however successful," he began,"is the great wastage in value which invariably results. For jewelswhich cost--say five thousand pounds, and to procure which the artisthas to risk his life as well as his liberty, he has to considerhimself lucky if he clears eight hundred. For the Hermitage rubies, forinstance, where I nearly had to shoot a man dead, I realized rather lessthan four hundred pounds. It doesn't pay."

  "Go on," she begged.

  "I am not clear," he continued, "how far this class of business willattract me at all, but I do not propose, in any case, to enter into anytransactions on my own account. I shall work for other people, and forcash down. Your experience of life, Violet, has been fairly large. Haveyou not sometimes come into contact with people driven into a situationfrom which they would willingly commit any crime to escape if theydared? It is not with them a question of money at all--it is simply amatter of ignorance. They do not know how to commit a crime. They havehad no experience, and if they attempt it, they know perfectly well thatthey are likely to blunder. A person thoroughly experienced in the waysof criminals--a person of genius like myself--would have, without adoubt, an immense clientele, if only he dared put up his signboard.Literally, I cannot do that. Actually, I mean to do so! I shall bewilling to accept contracts either to help nervous people out of anundesirable crisis; or, on the other hand, to measure my wits againstthe wits of Scotland Yard, and to discover the criminals whom they havefailed to secure. I shall make my own bargains, and I shall be paid incash. I shall take on nothing that I am not certain about."

  "But your clients?" she asked, curiously. "How will you come intocontact with them?"

  He smiled.

  "I am not afraid of business being slack," he said. "The world is fullof fools."

  "You cannot live outside the law, Peter," she objected. "You are clever,I know, but they are not all fools at Scotland Yard."

  "You forget," he reminded her, "that there will be a perfectlylegitimate side to my profession. The other sort of case I shall onlyaccept if I can see my way clear to make a success of it. Needless tosay, I shall have to refuse the majority that are offered to me."

  She came a little nearer to him.

  "In any case," she said, with a little sigh, "you have given up thatfoolish, bourgeois life of yours?"

  He looked down into her face, and his eyes were cold.

  "Violet," he said, "this is no time for misunderstandings. I shouldlike you to know that apart from one young lady, who possesses my wholeaffection--"

  "All of it?" she pleaded.

  "All!" he declared emphatically. "She will doubtless be faithless tome--under the circumstances, I cannot blame her--but so far as I amconcerned, I have no affection whatever for any one else."

  She crept back to her place.

  "I could be so useful to you," she murmured.

  "You could and you shall, if you will be sensible," he answered.

  "Tell me how?" she begged.

  He was silent for a moment.

  "Are you acting now?" he asked.

  "I am understudying Molly," she answered, "and I have a very small partat the Globe."

  He nodded.

  "There is no reason to interfere with that," he said, "in fact, I wishyou to continue your connection with the profession. It brings you intotouch with the class of people among whom I am likely to find clients."

  "Go on, please," she begged.

  "On two conditions--or rather one," he said, "you can, if you like,become my secretary and partne
r--and find the money we shall require tomake a start."

  "Conditions?" she asked.

  "You must understand, once and for all," he said, "that I will not bemade love to, and that I can treat you only as a working; companion. Myname will be Peter Ruff, and yours Miss Brown. You will have to dresslike a secretary, and behave like one. Sometimes there will be plentyof work for you, and sometimes there will be none at all. Sometimes youwill be bored to death, and sometimes there will be excitement. I do notwish to make you vain, but I may add, especially as you are aware of mypersonal feelings toward you, that you are the only person in the worldto whom I would make this offer."

  She sighed gently.

  "Tell me, Peter," she asked, "when do you mean to start this newenterprise?"

  "Not for six months--perhaps a year," he answered. "I must go toParis--perhaps Vienna. I might even have to go to New York. Thereare certain associations with which I must come into touch--certaininformation I must become possessed of."

  "Peter," she said, "I like your scheme, but there is just one thing.Such men as you should be the brains of great enterprises. Don't youunderstand what I mean? It shouldn't be you who does the actual thingwhich brings you within the power of the law. I am not over-scrupulous,you know. I hate wrongdoing, but I have never been able to treat asequal criminals the poor man who steals for a living, and the richfinancier who robs right and left out of sheer greed. I agree with youthat crime is not an absolute thing. The circumstances connected withevery action in life determine its morality or immorality. But, Peter,it isn't worth while to go outside the law!"

  He nodded.

  "You are a sensible girl," he said, "I have always thought that. We'lltalk over my cases together, if they seem to run a little too close tothe line."

  "Very well, Peter," she said, "I accept."