People say to me sometimes, "Oh, _you_ know Woolman, don't you?" I
acknowledge that I do, and, after the silence that always ensues, I add,
"If you want to say anything against him, please go on." You can almost
hear the sigh of relief that goes up. "I thought he was a friend of
yours," they say cheerfully. "But, of course, if----" and then they
begin.
I think it is time I explained my supposed friendship for Ernest
Merrowby Woolman--confound him.
The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. Andrew had been dining with
me that night; we walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the driver
where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved good-bye to me from the
window, and sat down suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from
beneath him, and found it was an extremely massive (and quite new)
silver cigar-case. He put it in his pocket with the intention of giving
it to the driver when he got out, but quite naturally forgot. Next
morning he found it on his dressing-table. So he put it in his pocket
again, meaning to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the City.
Next morning it was on his dressing-table again.
This went on for some days. After a week or so Andrew saw that it was
hopeless to try to get a cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual
sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately by somebody who had a
morning to spare and was willing to devote it to this special purpose.
He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a small table in the
dining-room to await the occasion; calling also the attention of his
family to it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not otherwise
engaged.
At times he used to say, "I must really take that cigar-case to Scotland
Yard to-morrow."
At other times he would say, "Somebody must really take that cigar-case
to Scotland Yard to-day."
And so the weeks rolled on ...
It was about a year later that I first got mixed up with the thing. I
must have dined with the Andrews several times without noticing the
cigar-case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we wandered out to
join the ladies, and I picked it up carelessly. Well, not exactly
carelessly; it was too heavy for that.
"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you had stood for Parliament and
that your supporters had consoled you with a large piece of plate?
Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How unbusiness-like."
"Oh, _that_?" said Andrew. "Is it still there?"
"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But you haven't explained why
your constituents, who must have seen your name on hundreds of posters,
thought your initials were E. M. W."
Andrew explained.
"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amazement.
"Of course not."
"But, my dear man, this is theft. Stealing by finding, they call it. You
could get"--I looked at him almost with admiration--"you could get two
years for this;" and I weighed the cigar-case in my hand. "I believe
you're the only one of my friends who could be certain of two years," I
went on musingly. "Let's see, there's----"
"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, perhaps I'd better take it
back to Scotland Yard to-morrow."
"And tell them you've kept it for a year? They'd run you in at once. No,
what you want to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. But
how--that's the question. You can't give it away because of the
initials."
"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another cab, or drop it in the
river."
"Andrew, Andrew," I cried, "you're determined to go to prison! Don't you
know from all the humorous articles you've ever read that, if you _try_
to lose anything, then you never can? It's one of the stock remarks one
makes to women in the endeavour to keep them amused. No, you must think
of some more subtle way of disposing of it."
"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more subtly, and he placed it in
my pocket.
"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll take it
for a week and see if I can get rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it
you back and wash my hands of the whole business--except, of course, for
the monthly letter or whatever it is they allow you at the Scrubbs. You
may still count on me for that."
And then the extraordinary thing happened. The next morning I received a
letter from a stranger, asking for some simple information which I could
have given him on a post-card. And so I should have done--or possibly, I
am afraid, have forgotten to answer at all--but for the way that the
letter ended up.
"_Yours very truly_,
_ERNEST M. WOOLMAN._"
The magic initials! It was a chance not to be missed. I wrote
enthusiastically back and asked him to lunch.
He came. I gave him all the information he wanted, and lots more.
Whether he was a pleasant sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was
so very pleasant myself.
He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to dine with him the following
week. A little party at the Savoy--his birthday, you know.
I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party with my little present ... a
massive silver cigar-case ... suitably engraved.
***
So there you are. He clings to me. He seems to have formed the absurd
idea that I am fond of him. A few months after that evening at the Savoy
he was married. I was invited to the wedding--confound him. Of course I
had to live up to my birthday present; the least I could do was an
enormous silver cigar-box (not engraved), which bound me to him still
more strongly.
By that time I realised that I hated him. He was pushing, familiar,
everything that I disliked. All my friends wondered how I had become so
intimate with him ...
Well, now they know. And the original E. M. W., if he has the sense to
read this article, knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby
Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods I shall be glad to give
him any information. Woolman is generally to be found leaving my rooms
at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart detective could easily nab him
as he steps out.