Читать книгу The Exploits of Captain O'Hagan - Arthur Henry Ward - Страница 9

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O’Hagan entered my rooms with the impressive dignity of a Richelieu; in the very distinction of the man there is something opulent. His refined insouciance surpasses anything of the kind one could imagine.

“Will you do me a trifling service, Raymond?”

“Consider it as done.”

He threw himself into the blue Chesterfield lounge with the native grace no lesser man could hope to imitate. His pose suggested that a rapier hung at his hip and must be taken into consideration. A plumed hat would have struck no discordant note but merely have harmonised with the purple-lined cloak. O’Hagan’s head one might surmise to be from a study by Van Dyck.

“I am running around to Ritzmann’s, the music-publishers, in Berners Street.”

Now, I noted that he carried a full portfolio.

“At last you have decided to enter the field? You do wisely.”

“I am acting on behalf of a friend—a lady.”

“Indeed. What part do I play?”

“Come along. I will explain.”

We walked up Oxford Street to the corner of Berners Street. O’Hagan creates a sensation wherever he appears: I am hardened to this.

“You will reconnoitre, Raymond. You will send in a card—anybody’s card but your own—to Mr. Paul Ritzmann.”

“What!”

“You are representing Messrs. Angelo Morris, of Monte Video! Probably there is no such firm; I invented the name. You are prepared to handle Ritzmann’s dance-catalogue throughout the southern continent. If he declines to do business, no matter; if he is interested, make an appointment at your hotel—the Savoy sounds substantial without being gaudy.”

“What is the object of this mendacity?”

“To learn if there is a second door to Ritzmann’s office; another than that opening on the shop. If there is, come out by it at all costs, and note where it leads you to. I think, and hope, it will open on a corridor communicating with the street. From what I know of Ritzmann I feel confident that there will be such a private entrance. You will note, also, where the other end of this hypothetical passage leads to. Probably it will be to a stair. Finally, you will report respecting the occupant of the suite of offices above—the suite to which this stair should conduct you.”

“I am not confident,” I said; “but I will do my best.”

Three minutes later I was ushered into the Semitic presence of Mr. Paul Ritzmann. Mr. Ritzmann had a corpulent person, a bald head, and an oily smile. He wore diamond rings on his left hand as well as on his right, by which token I knew that he was really rich. A Hebrew of the Ritzmann type buys a diamond ring as soon as he can afford it, and displays it upon his right hand. That is an advertising investment; it signifies that he is ambitious. But when his right hand is full and he begins to adorn his left it implies that his ambition is realised.

He made no plunge at my South American offer. He was very cautious.

“I will give you a ring at the hotel, Mr. Eddington.” (I had sent in the card of Harry Eddington, who at the time was with an expedition looking for the South Pole.) “I dare say we may be able to fix something up.”

“Good morning.”

I made a plunge for a door on the left of his desk.

“This way out, Mr. Eddington,” came after me; but I was in the corridor, and closed the door behind me.

A white hand with extended fingers was painted on the further wall, and, beneath it, the words:

Harris & Harris,

Domestic Employment Agency.

Turning to the right, I passed out into Berners Street.

“It is well,” said O’Hagan, musingly, when I had made my report. “You will now get back to the said corridor, without permitting yourself to be seen from Ritzmann’s shop; you will wait by Ritzmann’s private door, but on the stair side, so that when I come out he won’t notice you. I shall hand you something; you will go up Harris and Harris’s stair like a rocket, concealing, of course, the object referred to, and see about a cook. Then go home.”

One pays for the privilege of O’Hagan’s friendship.

I had not been at my post more than half a minute, when I saw O’Hagan pass in the street and enter the Ritzmann shop. I began to make notes in a note-book to excuse my loitering. Leaving me so engaged, you will please follow the Captain.

To a counter-clerk:

“Kindly inform Mr. Ritzmann,” he said, “that the gentleman he is expecting will see him.”

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Will you take a seat!”

This, the shop staff were decided, was either a distinguished Russian composer or a gentleman of title interested in a new musical comedy for the “Gaiety.”

A moment later:

“Mr. Ritzmann will see you at once, sir. This way, if you please.”

O’Hagan swung grandly office-ward, and entered to find Ritzmann standing to greet him.

The clerk was about to retire.

“My good fellow,” called O’Hagan, “Mr. Ritzmann and I are not to be interrupted upon any account.”

The clerk bowed and retired. Ritzmann stared.

“You say I was expecting you, Mr.——?”

O’Hagan smiled, waving his hand reassuringly.

“Pray be seated, Mr. Ritzmann.”

Mr. Ritzmann accepted the invitation, and O’Hagan sat upon the edge of the desk facing him. O’Hagan was between Mr. Ritzmann and the bell.

“I have decided to place with you for immediate publication a parcel of charming compositions—nine in all.”

Ritzmann’s eyes began to protrude.

“They are these.”

O’Hagan opened the portfolio and set the heap of MSS. on the desk.

With frequent sideway glances at his extraordinary visitor, Mr. Ritzmann began to look at the music.

“Why,” he burst out, suddenly, pushing the whole of it towards the Captain, “all this stuff has been submitted by post, and declined! All but this thing; and Miss Crichton was here only the other day with it. I don’t want the junk, my dear sir! If I’d known that’s what you——”

O’Hagan waved him to silence.

“Of all these things I am fully aware, Mr. Ritzmann; but I thought I had explained that I had selected you to publish these compositions?”

The other clutched the arms of his chair.

“Selected me?”

“That was my expression. Had the music been worthless——”

“It is worthless! Piffle!”

“Had the music been worthless I should not have offered it to you. But each of these nine items is a sound speculation. We shall require nine agreement-forms.”

Ritzmann, staring, rose slowly to his feet.

“Sit down, Mr. Ritzmann.”

Ritzmann moistened his thick lips preparatory to comment.

“Sit down, Mr. Ritzmann.”

He sat down; and his fleshy hands were not quite steady; the diamonds danced and sparkled. He managed to achieve coherent speech:

“This is a damn big bluff! But if you bluff from now——”

“You have royalty-forms in your desk; we shall require nine.”

Ritzmann got on his feet and plunged for the bell. He was hurled back with violence; and his eyes protruded unnaturally at sight of the pistol which pointed at his bald skull.

“Nine forms, Mr. Ritzmann.”

“You must—be mad. You—dare not——”

“There you are in error. I would shoot you without compunction. If I failed to escape I should shoot myself. I have nothing to live for, and I should go to eternity with that one good deed to my credit. I will dictate the titles of the nine pieces and you will fill in the forms.”

Ritzmann’s face grew ashy. He looked a stricken man. The bundle of forms shook and rustled like autumn leaves in a breeze. Unemotionally, O’Hagan read out the titles; shakily, all but illegibly, the publisher wrote them in. Form after form was filled updated and signed. Two, O’Hagan rejected as quite illegible. But at last he was satisfied, and pocketed the nine.

“Ten guineas on account of each,” he said; “that will be a cheque for ninety-four pounds, ten shillings, payable to Miss Pamela Crichton.”

Ritzmann’s face showed that he was contemplating rebellion.

“I shall count ten, Mr. Ritzmann!”

The cheque was drawn up and signed. O’Hagan carefully folded and placed it in his pocket-book.

“Good day,” he said, and backed towards the door.

He opened it and stepped out into the passage. He had not closed it ere with bell and husky voice Ritzmann was summoning assistance.

O’Hagan handed me the pistol. He took out his cigarette-case and selected a cigarette. Before he had found his matchbox I was upstairs and inside Messrs. Harris and Harris’s office. It must have been at about the moment when I was stating my lack of a suitable parlourmaid, that three clerks, rushing out of the shop, intercepted the Captain, as, match in hand, he stood at the street-end of the passage.

They would have seized him; but O’Hagan’s eyes can quell.

“Your dirty hands off! The meaning of this outrage?”

Trembling, grey-faced, Mr. Ritzmann joined the three clerks. A fourth, who had been detailed to that duty, returned from an adjacent corner with a constable.

“Arrest that man! He has robbed me!”

O’Hagan closed his matchbox with a click and fixed his eyes upon the officer.

“Constable,” he said, with dignity, “step into the shop. This is an outrage for which Mr. Ritzmann shall pay. Step inside if you please—all of you.”

The wide-eyed clerks returned to the shop. Ritzmann, never taking his gaze from O’Hagan, but keeping at a safe distance, entered behind the Captain, clutching at the perplexed policeman and whispering: “He has robbed me! He’s got my cheque in his pocket!”

Having entered the shop,—to the excited clerks:

“Return to your duties, good fellows!” ordered O’Hagan. “I am not accustomed to be made an object of vulgar curiosity! Mr. Ritzmann, lead the way to your office. Constable—follow.”

The odd trio entered Ritzmann’s sanctum. O’Hagan closed the door.

“He’s dangerous!” cried the publisher. “He carries a pistol!”

O’Hagan raised his hand.

“The officer, Mr. Ritzmann,” he said, “is prepared to do his duty. But you have not stated your case. Of what am I accused?”

“Of extorting money from me, at the point of a pistol!”

“Officer! You have my permission to look for the weapon!”

The constable ran his hands over O’Hagan.

“Excuse me, sir,” he reported to Mr. Ritzmann, who was now regaining colour and perspiring freely, “but the gentleman hasn’t got any pistol on him!”

“He’s dropped it in the passage!” yelled Ritzmann. “He——”

Again O’Hagan raised the forceful hand.

“One of your clerks can go and look; and would you be good enough to request your manager to join us?”

The necessary instructions were given, and the manager appeared. O’Hagan threw down his bunch of agreements and displayed the cheque.

“Sir,” he said to the manager, “are these in order?”

“He made me do it!” cried Ritzmann hoarsely, “at the point of a pistol!”

A shopman entered to report that there was no pistol in the passage. Ritzmann began to swear.

“Silence!” thundered O’Hagan. “Silence! you contemptible scoundrel!” To the manager: “Are those agreements and this cheque quite regular?”

“Well,” said the manager, glancing deprecatingly at his employer—“I can see nothing irregular about them. They are in your writing, Mr. Ritzmann!”

“He held a pistol to my head!” cried the publisher. “You’re a pack of fools! Fools! Officer! will you do your duty and arrest that thief!”

O’Hagan took a stride towards the speaker.

“Stop him!” quavered Ritzmann, paling. “He——”

“Mr. Ritzmann,” said O’Hagan calmly, “you are a low blackguard! Repenting of your bargain, you invented this cock-and-bull story as a means of evading it! Knowing me to be a man who has led an adventurous life, you thought yourself safe in charging me with carrying arms! I have several witnesses to the fact that you have grossly slandered me. That your charge is absurd—insane—worthy of a ‘penny-dreadful’—renders it none the less slanderous. You will either apologise, here and now, or—there is my card. My solicitor will take charge of the matter in the morning!”

Down on to the desk before the bewildered Ritzmann, O’Hagan cast his card. Like everything appertaining to that remarkable man, his card is impressive, unusual, striking; a battery. Mr. Ritzmann, his manager and the constable, read the following:

	Capt. the Hon. Barnard O’Hagan,
	V.C., D.S.O.
	Junior Guards’ Club.

The constable stood stiffly to attention, and saluted.

“What am I to do, sir?” he asked—of O’Hagan.

“Ring up Gerrard 04385!”

Ritzmann dropped into his chair and sat there with bulging eyes. The constable, amid a surprising silence, took up the telephone and got the desired number.

“Ask if that is the Junior Guards,” directed O’Hagan.

Yes, it was the Junior Guards.

“See if Colonel Sir Gerald Fitz Ayre is in the house.”

The name of that celebrated soldier electrified the Captain’s audience. Fitz Ayre was found and came to the telephone. O’Hagan took the receiver from the now extremely respectful officer.

“That you, Fitz Ayre? Yes; O’Hagan speaking. My confounded eccentricities of costume have got me into hot water again! Will you please describe me to the person who is now coming to the ’phone! Yes. Thank you.”

Ritzmann, summoned imperiously, took the receiver in his trembling hands. But he did not listen to the Colonel’s florid description of O’Hagan’s person; for his mind was otherwise engaged. He knew himself the victim of a tremendous bluff, but, now, he knew the bluffer for one above his reach; he knew, moreover, that he lacked evidence, and that he had been guilty of a slander which might cost him thousands. Pamela Crichton’s music was quite saleable. He would lose nothing by the deal; he would see to that. His course was clear.

“Thanks. Good-bye.”

Ritzmann turned to O’Hagan.

“I apologise, Captain O’Hagan!” he said. “I was mad! Officer—a sovereign for you!”

*****

“May I present my friend, Mr. Lawrence Raymond?” said O’Hagan. “This is Miss Pamela Crichton, the clever composer I spoke about! Isn’t she a picture?”

She was. But she blushed furiously. O’Hagan handed her a bundle of agreements. As she looked through them, her flushed cheeks grew quite pale. When a cheque for ninety guineas was placed in her hands, frankly, I thought she would have swooned.

Old Crichton, hovering about in the dingy background, showed as a man who is dazed beyond comprehension.

“Oh, Captain O’Hagan,” began Pamela, and her pretty eyes were troubled, “how can I thank you! Why have you done this—for me?”

“Because you are you, Pamela!” said O’Hagan. “Because you are so very charming, and because one day you will be so very famous!”

Pamela met his eyes frankly—and was content.

Throughout our brief stay, O’Hagan’s treatment of the girl was worthy of the days of chivalry. Never, for a moment, did he presume upon that superiority of blood which is so real in his eyes, nor upon the service he had done this newsagent’s daughter. When we took our leave he kissed her hand in his astonishing, cavalierly way, tactfully ignoring her sweet confusion, clapped her father patronisingly upon the back—and swung out of the shop, a gentleman full three hundred years behind his time—the only living being who has recovered the Grand Manner.

You would like to meet my friend O’Hagan.