We got the car and drove bravely to the house. We passed two policemen
at the corner of Davies Street, but they were not interested in us. I
must say burglary is easy when one has a large and rich car to do it
from....
Like all Mayfair houses, this had a tradesmen’s entrance; through a
little gate on the right of the few steps to the front door, down some
steps, and into a little area where was the kitchen door and a window.
“Wait in the car,” said the dark young man, and vanished down to the
area. We heard a very faint scratching, one little wicked word, a little
more scratching; and then the lights blazed up through the glass above
the front door, and it was opened. The Armenian stood in the lighted
doorway as though he owned the house. I admired him.
Tarlyon’s first words when we were in the hall of the house were: “Give
me your gun, you charming atrocity.”
The Armenian surrendered his revolver without a word; he only sighed.
Then he marshalled us.
“Very quiet,” he whispered. “And very quick. We must try the upstairs
rooms, to see which is his bedroom. One touch on the door will wake
him, so you must muffle him at once, else he will rouse the servants. In
the meanwhile I will find my sister; then I will take her straight out
of the house, and we will await you in the car. I will blow your horn
twice, to show that I am awaiting you. It will be kind of you, then, to
drive us to Mr. Ritz’s hotel in Piccadilly, where, perhaps, with your
influence, we may get my sister a lodging for the night. But, remember,
keep a tight hold on Achmed Jzzit until I blow the horn--muffle him
straightway and let him not open his mouth, else he will bring the whole
neighbourhood down on us. Let us begin.”
We began with a bit of luck--or so it seemed. Having tiptoed up to the
first landing, the very first door we touched held the lightly sleeping
Pasha. We knew he was there by the howl that followed our touching the
door-knob--indeed, he was a light sleeper, that man of bestial fancies!
But we gave him no time to make a real noise; we leapt into the room; I
switched on the light, Tarlyon leapt on bed and Pasha, I leapt after
Tarlyon, and in a second we held him, making smothered howling noises
under the bedclothes. We had not even had time to see if he was young or
old, but the shape of him suggested that he was older than most people.
His was, however, an active and restless shape. We were very gentle with
him, almost too gentle, for once a distinct howl issued from somewhere
under the sheets.
“Steady,” said George Tarlyon to the restless shape.
“You’ll throttle yourself,” said George Tarlyon.
To prevent him from doing that we, with a sudden and well-concerted
movement, unscrewed his head and muffled him with a handkerchief. We
looked upon his face for the first time.
“You’re a nasty, cruel old man,” said George Tarlyon.
Achmed Jzzit Pasha looked all that the Armenian had said he was, and
more. A fierce old face it was that looked murder at us. His eyes, under
white, bushy eyebrows, were frantic and furious, and never for a second
did he cease to struggle. I thought of that fine old Turkish warrior of
the last century, the man of Plevna, Osman Pasha; this old man is of the
same breed, I thought.
We had so far heard nothing of the Armenian; but that Achmed Jzzit Pasha
realised that we two were only accessories was evident, for not even his
struggling with us concealed the fact that he was listening, listening
intently.
A slight noise, as of a drawer hastily banged, came from the next room.
It was only a small noise, but it had a mighty effect on the old slayer
of men. His eyes simply tore at us, his fat little body heaved
frantically, he bit my finger in trying to howl--he went quite mad, that
violent old Turk. I admonished him severely:
“It’s only little Anaïs packing up to go away with her brother,” I told
him; but that old Turk knew not resignation nor repentance, and still we
had gently to battle with him.
“He’s an infernally long time about it,” grumbled Tarlyon at last--and
at that very moment the horn outside blew twice. We welcomed it.
“Now,” said Tarlyon to the heaving old man, “we are about to release
you. Your girl has flown, so it’s too late for you to make a noise. So
don’t.” And for form’s sake he showed the revolver, though I never saw a
man who looked less likely to use it. “You may not realise it,” he added
severely, “but we have saved your life. After the first shock has worn
off you will thank two disinterested men for having saved you from the
wrath of an Armenian.”
With another sudden and well-concerted movement we let go. The Pasha did
not make a noise. It was evident he realised that it was too late to
make a noise. But in the next few seconds he revealed, for a Turk, an
astonishing knowledge of the baser words and idioms of the English
language. Then he leapt out of bed, a funny little creature in pink
flannel pyjamas, and rushed out of the room. Breathless, we found him in
the next room.
Now I have very little acquaintance with girls’ bedrooms, but a glance
was sufficient to show me that no girl alive could have a bedroom like
that. There was no bed in it, and very little else; just a thing like a
tallboy, but made of steel, or so it looked: and that, if I may say so,
had certainly been ravished....
Then the old man really began to howl, and we hadn’t the heart to stop
him. He howled himself back to the bedroom, and we followed him, looking
and feeling like all the things he said we were.
“But aren’t you Achmed Jzzit Pasha?” I pleaded. But the life had
suddenly gone out of him; he sat on the edge of the bed.
“My name is Wagstaffe,” he said weakly, “and I have the finest
collection of Roman coins in the country. Or rather, I had. My son,
Michael Wagstaffe, has them now--thanks to you two idiots!”
Tarlyon had an idea which took him to the window; I had the same idea,
and followed him. We looked down upon the face of Brook Street, and
behold! it was empty. Never was a Rolls-Royce car with lamps alight so
invisible. We went back to Mr. Wagstaffe on the edge of the bed.
“We are sorry,” I muttered, but he seemed not to hear us. George Tarlyon
is usually a fine upstanding fellow, and some people have thought him
handsome, but now he looked as though he had seen horrid spectres after
dining entirely on _pâté de foie gras_.
Mr. Wagstaffe was whispering, almost to himself: “Two years ago, when I
drove him out of the house, he swore that one day he would steal my
coins. And now he has stolen my coins. I always knew he would keep his
word, for he is a devil. And he always knew that, come what might, I
would not prosecute my son for a thief.... My Roman coins!” And Mr.
Wagstaffe wept.
We explained our position to him. We gave him a brief outline of the
facts. We begged him to understand. We pointed out that if his son
really had been an Armenian and if he had really been Achmed Jzzit Pasha
we had undoubtedly saved his life. I couldn’t help thinking that he
ought to be grateful to us, but I didn’t say that.
He seemed to find a little solace in our discomfiture.
“Ah, he’s a clever boy, Michael,” sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. “He is always on
the lookout for what he calls the Mugs. I gather that you two gentlemen
are Mugs--the same, perhaps, as what are known in America as Guys. But
I, his father, can assure you that he is not an Armenian; nor has he
ever been nearer to Armenia than the Bankruptcy Court, but he has been
there twice. He calls himself the cavalier of the streets, but when he
is up to any of his tricks he disguises himself as an Armenian--the
disguise consisting merely of his saying he is an Armenian. It’s so
simple, he says, for the Mugs believe him at once, on the ground that no
one would say he was an Armenian if he wasn’t. I have only been back
from America a week, and he must have been searching all London for me.
He probably saw me at the theatre this evening, and was going to raid my
house alone when you two intelligent gentlemen got in his way. But he is
not a bad boy really--he’s got ideas, that’s what it is; and also Mugs
have an irresistible fascination for him. Take your case, for instance.
I have no doubt but that he will be ready to return me my coins in
exchange for a cheque--though, of course, that depends on the cheque.
And I can see, gentlemen, that you are eager to show your regret for
breaking into my house and assaulting my person by offering to pay the
cheque yourselves. I thank you; though, indeed, it is the least you can
do, and an infinitely more convenient way of settling the matter than
wearisome arguments in a police-court--provided, of course, that
housebreaking and assault are matters for argument. I have never yet
heard they were....”