Ransom E-Book

Arthur Somers Roche

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

WARING WAS BORED. The pretty dancer who had, without so much as a by-your-leave, dropped into the chair opposite him, yawned flagrantly in his face.
"M'sieur should have brought his breviary," she said.
"Eh?" Waring started; his eyes twinkled, and he smiled at the dancer. "Mademoiselle will honour me by drinking another glass of wine?"
The little dancer arose from her chair; she shook her scant skirt about her trim legs.
"Zut! M'sieur is as entertaining as a saint's confession!" She shrugged her bare shoulders; a man at the next table eyed her, and she smiled provocatively; Waring watched them glide off together, unresentful at the impertinent moue she made at him over her new-found partner's shoulder. Then he forgot all about her. He sipped his wine, looking about him with vague eyes. It was the usual sort of thing in this sort of place. The same sort of thing that might be found in any of a dozen Montmartre cafes at this hour— midnight. Officers home on leave, bright-eyed Parisiennes, a sprinkling of Russians, English and Americans. It was quieter than before the Great War, and there was less extravagance.

Leseprobe

RANSOM!

Arthur Somers Roche

1883-1935

1916

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383839446

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

WARING WAS BORED. The pretty dancer who had, without so much as a by-your-leave, dropped into the chair opposite him, yawned flagrantly in his face.

"M'sieur should have brought his breviary," she said.

"Eh?" Waring started; his eyes twinkled, and he smiled at the dancer. "Mademoiselle will honour me by drinking another glass of wine?"

The little dancer arose from her chair; she shook her scant skirt about her trim legs.

"Zut! M'sieur is as entertaining as a saint's confession!" She shrugged her bare shoulders; a man at the next table eyed her, and she smiled provocatively; Waring watched them glide off together, unresentful at the impertinent moue she made at him over her new-found partner's shoulder. Then he forgot all about her.

He sipped his wine, looking about him with vague eyes. It was the usual sort of thing in this sort of place. The same sort of thing that might be found in any of a dozen Montmartre cafes at this hour— midnight. Officers home on leave, bright-eyed Parisiennes, a sprinkling of Russians, English and Americans. It was quieter than before the Great War, and there was less extravagance. The fact that the French were not spending their money on such entertainment as this might perhaps be one reason why Waring had attracted the attentions of the little dancer.

Waring wished that he had stayed at his hotel and got a good night's rest against tomorrow's railway journey to Cherbourg. For at least the dozenth time he cursed the breakdown of the Paris express— from the Riviera— that had made him miss connections for Liverpool and the White Star liner that sailed to-morrow morning. Even though it didn't matter that the liner sailing from Cherbourg to-morrow afternoon would land him in New York two days later than his planned sailing, even though by rare good fortune he had secured at the booking-office this afternoon excellent accommodations on the French liner, he was irritated.

He had wanted to sail on a White Star liner; he had wanted to land in New York seven days from now. It was a nuisance that one couldn't do exactly as one wanted. He had not intended to spend a night in Paris; he resented savagely the railway accident that interfered with his intentions.

The little dancer who had so frankly forced her acquaintance upon him and as frankly left him, circled, with her more complaisant friend, close to Waring's table. She lifted one shoulder in affected fright at him. Waring knew that he had been scowling, and at the girl's mockery he grinned infectiously. The dancer felt sorry that she had so early decided that Waring was uninteresting; the grin justified her first opinion: that blue-eyed, red-haired men are by no means dull.

But Waring's grin disappeared quickly. It was a tiresome world, and Paris was not the least tiresome of the places in it. There had been a time, six or eight years ago, when Waring had loved Paris. Well, he loved the city now, but he didn't wish it forced upon him. Paris was like a rare and heady vintage: one must be exactly in the right mood to appreciate it, to desire it.

And Waring was not in the right mood.

He wished that he were; Paris, when one felt right, was so gay. But to-night all the gayety seemed artificial, forced. This was the fourth cabaret he'd been in since leaving the hotel.... He wondered if he were growing old. Thirty-one! Where did middle age begin, anyway? Had he lost his capacity for enjoyment? What meant all this late restlessness?

He caught his waitress' eye. "L'addition," he said.

He paid his check, tipped the waitress and rose from his chair. He faced the entrance and stood, half-straddling his chair, for a moment. Then he sank back into it.

"Bring me coffee— with cognac," he told the waitress.

With a shrug of her shoulders— but incomprehensible, these Americans are!— the waitress departed to fulfil the order.

A moment ago Waring had wondered if he were growing old. Now he knew that he was not— at least not so old but that the sight of a pretty girl stirred his pulses. And she was pretty, this girl who had just entered the cafe. More, she was lovely! The long coat that half-veiled the outlines of her figure could not disguise the supple, delicious youth of her; and beneath the jaunty felt hat tendrils of brown hair, shot with gold, peeped tantalisingly out. Her eyes were dark, but Waring could not tell their exact colour. Her face was oval, with a short, straight nose, perhaps the least bit tilted, with an adorable chin and a sweetly curving mouth. A lovely face, and despite its intense femininity a strong face. And mischievous, too! There was the promise of raillery in those dimples.

Waring was frankly entranced— and bewildered ! So evidently a lady, what on earth was she doing, alone, in a Montmartre restaurant at midnight? It needed no second glance to tell him that she belonged to a class far remote from that of the pretty dancer who had so vainly tried to intrigue him. Waring had not knocked around the world thirty-one years without learning to tell, at a glance, the demi-mondaine. But this girl—

She sat down at a table near him; he heard her order: lithia water. He noted the colour in her cheeks, and now that she was closer, the sparkle in her eyes. They were not so dark as he had thought; the long lashes had created that effect; they were hazel.

Waring found himself looking right into those eyes, with a queer impression similar to that which he had often experienced when staring over the side of a small boat into deep water— one pierces a shadow and thinks that the secrets of the deep are solved, when one discovers that it is another shadow one sees: mystery lurks beyond.

Then he noticed that her colour had risen, and he himself flushed. He had been rude, though unintentionally. He half-lifted his hand to signal the waitress; then he dropped it to the table. Without the slightest flirtatious intention, he did not propose to leave the cafe just yet. From the tables about him sounded hand-clapping. Waring looked toward the low stage at one end of the room. Upon it had just appeared a couple, shabbily attired. They began to dance. It was the usual Apache dance. The woman was slim, graceful, clever. But the man— degrading as Waring thought the dance to be, he yet was forced to involuntary admiration of the man.

A little above the average height,— he would scale within an inch of Waring's five-feet- eleven,— well-built, the man was not only a graceful dancer but was a wonderful actor. He threw himself into the spirit of the dance; he was pantherish, savage, ruthless, barbaric— Waring could not help himself; he found himself applauding.

He ceased clapping his hands as he looked at the girl at the near table. Had he been in any doubt as to her being in a place where she distinctly did not belong, that doubt would have dissolved now. For there was disgust on her face, her face that had been white and that suddenly became crimson. Waring was ashamed that he had applauded. He felt suddenly angry with the young girl. What right had she to come to such a place as this and witness this dance that glorified the baser, animal passions? She ought to be spanked! Serve her jolly well right to blush, to be mortified! If he were her brother, he'd give her a tongue-lashing that—

He ceased wondering just what his fraternal words would be. The dancers had left the stage. A man at a front table had smiled at the danseuse; she had sat down with him. The male dancer was swaggering among the tables, bowing to acquaintances who hailed him as "Raoul the Red."

His red hair, of course! That was the origin of the nickname. Waring conceived a violent dislike for the dancer. Red-haired men ought to be in better business than dancing. He felt that having red hair himself somehow de-classed him.

Then his violent dislike became cold anger. The dancer, bowing, nodding, had reached the table where sat the recently arrived girl. He smirked at her; he twirled the faint indications of a moustache. Waring saw the girl shrink in her chair. The dancer spoke to her and sat down beside her; the girl's eyes appealed to Waring. And Waring walked over to her table.

"Mademoiselle is annoyed?" he asked. He was conscious of a dead silence about him; the orchestra, which had been playing an American rag-time tune, grew still. The dancer leaped to his feet.

"M'sieur intrudes," he stated.

Waring eyed the man coldly. He turned to the girl again.

"Mademoiselle is annoyed?" he asked again.

To his surprise she replied in English.

"Please," she said, "take me out of here."

Waring placed a five-franc piece on the table. "For the waitress," he said.

The dancer picked up the coin— flipped it in the air, caught it, dropped it on the table.

"M'sieur purchases his pleasures cheaply," he said.

His strong white teeth gleamed as he leered. Waring aimed for the exact centre of the smile; he had a large, capable fist and a boxer's eye. The dancer went down with a crash. It was Waring's left hand that had struck him. Waring's right reached for his coat and hat, on a chair by his own table. He got only the hat. A glance at the angry faces about told him that he had done more than strike a nauseous male flirt; he had struck a favourite of the cabaret, a favourite with many friends.

One's skin is more valuable than one's coat. Moreover, there was the girl. Waring seized her by one arm. Rapidly he propelled her to the door. The blow he had just struck "Raoul the Red" awed those in his path. They were content to curse him and afraid to molest him. But behind him— Waring glanced over his shoulder as they reached the door. The dancer was being assisted to his feet; his mouth streamed blood, oaths and threats. He reeled after Waring and the girl, urged on by the cries of his outraged admirers. Waring wondered whether to send the girl on by herself and stand and meet the rush, or continue with her. Which was better for her? Paris, at night, was— as had just been proved— no place for an unescorted young girl. He saw the little dancer who had tried to flirt with him climb upon a chair by the stage; the restaurant was suddenly dark. He did not know that "Raoul the Red" had repulsed the little dancer's affection and that she gloried in the blow that Waring had dealt him. He only knew that there was confusion in the darkness behind him, and that a cabby who might have parleyed with an unescorted girl, delaying her to find out if there might he more in hindrance than in aid of her escape, whipped up his nag the moment they had climbed inside his carriage.

A nasty mess! Why on earth hadn't he controlled himself? A disgraceful cafe brawl that might have led to heaven knew what! But they were out of it, and now that they were safe, that no harm had come to the girl, Waring rejoiced in his skinned knuckles. He had taught one ruffian that a lady may not he insulted with impunity.

The girl was huddled in one corner of the carriage. Waring could hear muffled sobs. The heat of the fight left him as suddenly as it had come; he remembered now how appealing and frightened had been her eyes, how lovely, even in her alarm, she had been. A queer chokiness that had possessed him when he first glimpsed her possessed him again.

"You musn't cry about it," he said. "It's all over. Where do you wish me to take you?"

She named a hotel— a very fashionable and expensive hotel. Waring called the address to the cabby.

"I'd better ride along with you— if you don't mind," he said.

"I— I thank you," she replied. She said no more.

Sulkiness came to Waring. Of course, he didn't expect her to fall on his neck, but after all— he sat up very stiffly in the carriage, looking straight ahead.

More sounds came from the huddled figure beside him. He looked at her suspiciously. Of course, women often got hysteria after scenes like the one they had just passed through, but — this sounded like healthy giggling.

"I don't see anything funny," he said.

"You didn't see yourself— in the light we just passed," she answered. "You look so stern and— and— was that a left hook or a jab that you knocked that man down with?"

"You're American," charged Waring.

"Of course. And I read the sporting pages— when the sisters let me see a New York paper. You're American too."

"How'd you know?" demanded Waring.

"Would a Frenchman— or even an Englishman— have interfered and helped me? No indeed, Mr. Waring."

"Eh?" He was genuinely surprised. "How'd you know my name?"

"I read the society pages too, and look at the pictures— when the sisters let me."

"What sisters? Where are they to-night? How'd they let you out alone? What were you doing in that cafe? Don't you know any better? If I were your brother, I'd—"

"Yes, what would you do, Mr. Waring?"

Waring blushed. He remembered the punishment that he had thought suitable for her a little while ago.

"Well, I'd talk to you," he said feebly.

"How dreadful!" she exclaimed.

Ill-humour never held Waring very long. It was briefer than ever now. Though he could not distinguish her face in the gloom of the cab, he had not forgotten how lovely it was. He laughed; and his laugh was as likable as his grin. Yet he tried to be stern.

"What were your people up to, to let you out alone, anyway? And how'd you happen to go to that restaurant, and how—"

"Well," she said defiantly, "suppose you'd been in a French convent since you were five years old, and spent your vacations there too, except sometimes when girls invited you to their homes? Suppose you'd never been in Paris in your life? Suppose that your uncle, who was your guardian, had telegraphed the sisters to send you to Paris, and that when you got there your uncle was terribly busy and didn't have any time to take you anywhere, and spent all his evenings out? Suppose all that! Wouldn't you be bored and want to go out and see Paris, and finally wouldn't you go ahead and do it?"

"There's merit in your contentions," he said. "But— don't you know that it isn't safe?"

"I do now," she said, "but— I'm glad!"

"Well, so am I!" he laughed. "And perhaps your uncle won't mind my showing you the shops and the Bois and—"

"But we haven't been properly introduced," she said with a mocking primness.

"Oh," he said blankly. "But I can call on your uncle and explain, and—"

"Have him discover that I was out to-night? Indeed, no, Mr. Waring."

Waring pursed his lips. "Well, I have an acquaintance that's fairly wide in Paris. Suppose you tell me your uncle's name— and your own— and I'll see—"

"Do you really want to see me again?" she asked.

In any other woman, almost, Waring would have decided that the question was flirtatious. But somehow there was in this girl's tones a boyish frankness different from anything he had ever experienced. He answered her honestly.

"Indeed I do!"

"Then my uncle's name is Randall— Peter Randall."

"And your own?"

She laughed. "Oh, it'll be much more fun if you don't know my name, if when you come to call, we really are introduced and it isn't a make-believe."

"Oh, I say!" he protested.

But the carriage stopped before her hotel.

"I'll just get out; don't you," she said. "It would look—"

"Very well," said Waring.

He leaned across to open the door on her side. His hand brushed hers. She gripped his hand with firm fingers.

"You are just as nice and brave as you can be, Mr. Waring, and— I'm ever so much obliged."

Then she was gone. Waring laughed tenderly to himself, as the cabby drove him to his Hotel. "Ever so much obliged!" Like a boy! In his room, undressed, he bathed his bruised knuckles with witch-hazel. What a delightful acquaintance } Well worth far more than bruised knuckles! He didn't blame her a bit. Her uncle must be a hard-hearted brute! Well, if he could secure an introduction,— and it would be mighty funny if he couldn't, with his wide circle of friends in Paris,— he would show the girl a good time. After all, he could easily cancel his booking on the French liner. There was no hurry about returning to America.

Poor little girl! All cooped up in a convent, and then denied the delights of Paris by a surly old curmudgeon of an uncle! What treats were in store for her! Mrs. Willy Sinsabaugh was in town, he happened to know. And he and Mrs. Willy had been pals for ever so many years. Mrs. Willy would invite the girl to things, and would chaperon them, and — he chuckled at himself, as he dropped off to sleep. He wasn't so old, after all. Thirty- one marked the real youth of a man, not the beginning of middle age. . . .

Only a very young and enthusiastic person whistles in the midst of shaving; yet Waring attempted— with very fair success—"Listen to the Mocking-bird." A mouthful of lather cut short a roulade. He frowned at himself in the glass and then grinned delightedly. What a pretty girl she was!

He finished shaving, as quickly as possible. The passing of the night had not diminished his enthusiasm. He would cancel his booking, telephone the Embassy and find out what hotel was being accorded Mrs. Willy Sinsabaugh's patronage, call on her, make her do some telephoning among her friends — some one, the friend of a friend of a friend, perhaps, must know Mr. Peter Randall.

He dressed with scrupulous care, yet with rapidity. Downstairs, in the hotel restaurant, he ordered fruit, omelette, coffee and rolls. Awaiting their arrival, he opened his Paris Herald. A headline struck him with almost the effect of a physical blow.

CAREY HAIG KILLS HIMSELF

Prominent New York Broker Discovered in Defalcation and Commits Suicide

Waring read the brief cable from New York that followed. Then he put the paper down and mechanically ate his breakfast. But he tasted nothing. Carey Haig had been his trustee; every cent of the Waring fortune had been in his control. The cable held out little hope that there would be any salvage at all from the wreck.

Waring must go to New York at once, after all. The inchoate plans of last night and the early morning must he abandoned. The girl — Philip Waring had no right to bother with girls just now— not while he was, so far as he knew, practically a pauper. And as he went upstairs to attend to his hasty packing, he thought little of the girl. Tragedy banished romance.

"Poor Carey," he said, over and over again.

Chapter 2

THE MONTANIA had docked. Waring had come down to meet Mrs. Willy Sinsabaugh and her maid; he had helped the vivacious lady through the formalities of the customs, and now the maid and several suit-cases and handbags were in one taxi, while Waring and the pretty young matron were in another.

Mrs. Willy leaned back and sighed.

"There, thank heaven, that's over. Philip Waring, you're a dear, and if I weren't just mad about my husband, I'd kiss you."

"These husbands," growled Waring. "They're always in the way."

"Not to-day," said Mrs. Willy. "The brute! Running off to Chicago the night before I land! I'll make him pay!"

"But it was very important business, Madge," expostulated Waring mildly.

Mrs. Willy laughed. "Just like a man! Defend another man against a woman!"

"And if I didn't defend him?" countered Waring.

"I'd stop this taxi and make you walk," declared Mrs. Willy viciously.

"William Patterson Sinsabaugh is the pink paragon of perfection," announced Waring.

"Exactly," said Mrs. Willy, dimpling.

"You are a great reader of character, Phil — though in the Carey Haig affair you weren't, were you?"

"Oh, Carey was a good fellow," said Waring evasively.

"A good fellow! When he robbed you of — Philip Waring, how can you say such a thing?"

"Well, I don't think Carey was quite himself. He— there's a lot of mystery about that matter, Madge."

"Tell me," she commanded.

He smiled at her. "If I don't, I suppose Mr. Bill Husband will, eh?"

Mrs. Willy nodded. "Mr. Bill Husband tells Airs. William Wife every thing."

"Well, in that case— to tell you the truth, Madge, I'm puzzled about Carey. I've been over his books. Carey killed himself on the twenty-eighth of January- On January first all his investments, personal and trustee, were in the best of shape. He held something like four hundred thousand dollars for me; he'd been trustee during my minority, you know, and after I came of age I let him continue. It was less bother."

Waring continued:

"There was about eight hundred thousand that he held in trust for others— personal property, I mean. Well, on January seventeenth he began selling. By the twenty-fourth he had turned all his trustee investments into cash. And his own personal investments, amounting to a quarter of a million, he had sold also. He held one parcel of real estate for me— that is, collected the rent and all that sort of thing; he couldn't sell that. And there were three or four other bits of property that he didn't realise on— couldn't, I guess. Well, he killed himself on the twenty-eighth. He left a confession on his desk, stating that he had embezzled all the funds left in his care."

"But what had he done with all that cash?" demanded Mrs. Willy.

"That's the point that is so queer," said Waring. "On the twenty-sixth he drew from various banks every cent he had, both his own and the trustee money. It came to almost a million and a half. And that money has disappeared."

"Impossible," ejaculated Mrs. Willy.

"But true," said Waring.

"But can't you tell— find out? Isn't there any way—"

"Oh, I've got detectives looking into the matter," said Waring, "but— I don't look for much."

"But didn't he leave any clue at all?'

"W-e-ll, I don't know that you could call it a clue, exactly. It hasn't led to much."

"What was it?"

"Why, his stenographer— she rushed into his office at the sound of the shot that killed poor Carey— says that he lived for ten seconds or so, and that he repeated over and over the name 'Bergson.'

"And in his papers I found some notes made two days before he died— made on the twenty- sixth. Not much— simply a record of having paid one Simon Bergson $l,400,000."

"Why, almost a million and a half," breathed Mrs. Sinsabaugh. "And this Bergson—"

Waring forestalled her query. "Can't be located."

"But aren't there any other papers that would, maybe, tell—"

"Not a thing. Carey Haig kept fewer personal memoranda than any business man I ever heard of. But perhaps he burned them before he died. Anyway, there's nothing."

"And what are you doing?" demanded Mrs. Willy.

Waring shrugged his shoulders. "Me? Oh, I've got that piece of property that Carey couldn't sell. I'm acting as my own agent, rent-collector and that sort of thing. It brings me in about forty dollars a week."

Mrs. Willy gasped. Forty dollars sometimes paid for one of Mrs. Willy's hats.

"But you can't live on that, Phil! You aren't a slacker, Phil? You aren't lying down, are you? You aren't afraid to work?"

"Oh, no. Bill Husband offered me a job, but—"

"Why didn't you take it?"

Waring's voice grew bitter. "Well, Madge, what good am I? Your husband offered me a job, but— what experience have I had? I wouldn't be worth a fourth the money be offered me, and I'd feel like a beggar taking it."

"But what are you doing?" persisted Mrs. Willy.

"Well, woman, if I must tell you, I'm doing my darnedest to find this Simon Bergson."

"Had any success?"

"Not a bit."

"Expect to?"

"Hope dies hard in the Warings."

Mrs. Willy eyed him speculatively. "I don't know what sort of a business man you'd make, Phil. But I do know one thing about you."

"I entreat you, Mrs. William Wife of old Bill Husband— tell me what you know about me."

"You'd make a dandy husband, Phil."

"Eh?" He grinned his infectious grin. "You aren't thinking— Madge, it isn't possible that you're going to turn Bill Husband loose and—"

"Philip Waring, you're— you're immoral! I — maybe I won't introduce you to her, now."

Waring put his hands up over his head. "Help!" he groaned. "I thought that being a pauper would protect me from—"

"Well, it won't," declared Mrs. Willy decisively. "And your being poor— well, my Bill Husband lost every penny in the panic seven years ago, and look at the old dear now. And he didn't have any business experience or — or anything."

"No, not a thing in the world except a wife who came to him and offered him the hundred thousand that her father had left her."

Mrs. Willy coloured. "Well, he didn't take it."

"And you expect me to take from some woman—"

"Oh, you go ahead too fast," said Mrs. Willy. "She— well, Bill Husband will find something else for you, and this girl— Phil, she's a beauty, and her uncle is immensely rich, — every one says so, anyway,— and she's his only heir— or should I say heiress? Anyway, you're going to meet her— to-morrow night, if I can locate her so soon. She's stopping at the Plutonia, I believe, and— I'll bet you'll discover this Bergson person and get your money back, and— I'm home at last! Oh, Phil, look at old John smile at me. I'm a bad wife and housekeeper, running off for three months at a time."