[*] He is a character in the Second Episode, a fraudulent financier.
Mr. Windlebird’s financial standing, he knew, was above suspicion. Mr. Windlebird had made that clear to him during his visit. There could be no possibility of offending Mr. Windlebird by a paragraph or two about the manners and customs of financiers. Phrases which his kindly host had used during his visit came back to him, and with them inspiration.
Within five minutes he had compiled the following
WE JUST WANT TO KNOW, YOU KNOW
WHO is the eminent financier at present engaged upon one of his biggest deals?
WHETHER the public would not be well-advised to look a little closer into it before investing their money?
IF it is not a fact that this gentleman has bought a first-class ticket to the Argentine in case of accidents?
WHETHER he may not have to use it at any moment?
After that it was easy. Ideas came with a rush. By the end of an hour he had completed a Scandal Page of which Mr. Petheram himself might have been proud, without a suggestion of slipping it into Percy. He felt that he could go to Mr. Pook, and say, “Percy, on your honor as a British book-maker, have I slipped it into you in any way whatsoever?” And Mr. Pook would be compelled to reply, “You have not.”
Miss March read the proofs of the page, and sniffed. But Miss March’s blood was up, and she would have sniffed at anything not directly hostile to Mr. Pook.
A week later Roland sat in the office of ‘Squibs,’ reading a letter. It had been sent from No. 18-A Bream’s Buildings, E.C., but, from Roland’s point of view, it might have come direct from heaven; for its contents, signed by Harrison, Harrison, Harrison & Harrison, Solicitors, were to the effect that a client of theirs had instructed them to approach him with a view to purchasing the paper. He would not find their client disposed to haggle over terms, so, hoped Messrs. Harrison, Harrison, Harrison & Harrison, in the event of Roland being willing to sell, they could speedily bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion.
Any conclusion which had left him free of ‘Squibs’ without actual pecuniary loss would have been satisfactory to Roland. He had conceived a loathing for his property which not even its steadily increasing sales could mitigate. He was around at Messrs. Harrison’s office as soon as a swift taxi could take him there. The lawyers were for spinning the thing out with guarded remarks and cautious preambles, but Roland’s methods of doing business were always rapid.
“This chap,” he said, “this fellow who wants to buy ‘Squibs,’ what’ll he give?”
“That,” began one of the Harrisons ponderously, “would, of course, largely depend–-“
“I’ll take five thousand. Lock, stock, and barrel, including the present staff, an even five thousand. How’s that?”
“Five thousand is a large–-“
“Take it or leave it.”
“My dear sir, you hold a pistol to our heads. However, I think that our client might consent to the sum you mention.”
“Good. Well, directly I get his check, the thing’s his. By the way, who is your client?”
Mr. Harrison coughed.
“His name,” he said, “will be familiar to you. He is the eminent financier, Mr. Geoffrey Windlebird.”
THE DIVERTING EPISODE OF THE EXILED MONARCH
Fifth of a Series of Six Stories [First published in Pictorial Review, September 1916]
The caoutchouc was drawing all London. Slightly more indecent than the Salome dance, a shade less reticent than ragtime, it had driven the tango out of existence. Nor, indeed, did anybody actually caoutchouc, for the national dance of Paranoya contained three hundred and fifteen recognized steps; but everybody tried to. A new revue, “Hullo, Caoutchouc,” had been produced with success. And the pioneer of the dance, the peerless Maraquita, a native Paranoyan, still performed it nightly at the music-hall where she had first broken loose.
The caoutchouc fascinated Roland Bleke. Maraquita fascinated him more. Of all the women to whom he had lost his heart at first sight, Maraquita had made the firmest impression upon him. She was what is sometimes called a fine woman.
She had large, flashing eyes, the physique of a Rugby International forward, and the agility of a cat on hot bricks.
There is a period of about fifty steps somewhere in the middle of the three hundred and fifteen where the patient, abandoning the comparative decorum of the earlier movements, whizzes about till she looks like a salmon-colored whirlwind.
That was the bit that hit Roland.
Night after night he sat in his stage-box, goggling at Maraquita and applauding wildly.
One night an attendant came to his box.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you Mr. Roland Bleke? The Senorita Maraquita wishes to speak to you.”
He held open the door of the box. The possibility of refusal did not appear to occur to him. Behind the scenes at that theater, it was generally recognized that when the Peerless One wanted a thing, she got it—quick.
They were alone.
With no protective footlights between himself and her, Roland came to the conclusion that he had made a mistake. It was not that she was any less beautiful at the very close quarters imposed by the limits of the dressing-room; but he felt that in falling in love with her he had undertaken a contract a little too large for one of his quiet, diffident nature. It crossed his mind that the sort of woman he really liked was the rather small, drooping type. Dynamite would not have made Maraquita droop.
For perhaps a minute and a half Maraquita fixed her compelling eyes on his without uttering a word. Then she broke a painful silence with this leading question:
“You love me, hein?”
Roland nodded feebly.
“When men make love to me, I send them away—so.”
She waved her hand toward the door, and Roland began to feel almost cheerful again. He was to be dismissed with a caution, after all. The woman had a fine, forgiving nature.
“But not you.”
“Not me?”
“No, not you. You are the man I have been waiting for. I read about you in the paper, Senor Bleke. I see your picture in the ‘Daily Mirror!’ I say to myself, ‘What a man!’”
“Those picture-paper photographs always make one look rather weird,” mumbled Roland.
“I see you night after night in your box. Poof! I love you.”
“Thanks awfully,” bleated Roland.
“You would do anything for my sake, hein? I knew you were that kind of man directly I see you. No,” she added, as Roland writhed uneasily in his chair, “do not embrace me. Later, yes, but now, no. Not till the Great Day.”
What the Great Day might be Roland could not even faintly conjecture. He could only hope that it would also be a remote one.
“And now,” said the Senorita, throwing a cloak about her shoulders, “you come away with me to my house. My friends are there awaiting us. They will be glad and proud to meet you.”
After his first inspection of the house and the friends, Roland came to the conclusion that he preferred Maraquita’s room to her company. The former was large and airy, the latter, with one exception, small and hairy.
The exception Maraquita addressed as Bombito. He was a conspicuous figure. He was one of those out-size, hasty-looking men. One suspected him of carrying lethal weapons.
Maraquita presented Roland to the company. The native speech of Paranoya sounded like shorthand, with a blend of Spanish. An expert could evidently squeeze a good deal of it into a minute. Its effect on the company was good. They were manifestly soothed. Even Bombito.
Introductions in detail then took place. This time, for Roland’s benefit, Maraquita spoke in English, and he learned that most of those present were marquises. Before him, so he gathered from Maraquita, stood the very flower of Paranoya’s aristocracy, driven from their native land by the Infamy of 1905. Roland was too polite to inquire what on earth the Infamy of 1905 might be, but its mention had a marked effect on the company. Some scowled, others uttered deep-throated oaths. Bombito did both. Before supper, to which they presently sat down, was over, however, Roland knew a good deal about Paranoya and its history. The conversation conducted by Maraquita—to a ceaseless bouche pleine accompaniment from her friends—bore exclusively upon the subject.