“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.