The Complete Simon Iff (45 page)

"But here are all these educated people being put out of action by death, imprisonment, financial disaster, ill-health or social discredit, just at that moment. Could the link between them be hostility to a certain Personage who, baffled in one quarter, turns immediately to another? But there is no hostility to that Personage. True, but suppose these people are banded together (informally perhaps) to do something apparently quite innocent which will hamper the plans of that Personage, if we only knew them. Suppose, for example, he didn't want America to have any ships? I don't mean warships only, I mean merchant ships. Suppose he wanted to cut off England from American supplies?"

"But how could he, with the British Navy as it is?"

"He may be thinking ten years ahead. But this is only a plausible guess. Come, look through our names: Take the most prominent people, skipping the small fry."

Iff picked up one of the lists.

"Abbot, died suddenly. Banker in Baltimore. A noted financier of new shipping concerns.

"Abel, bankrupt. Congressman bitterly opposed to La Follette's Seamen's Bill.

"Abercrombie died of typhoid. I don't remember anything of him.

"Albright, Senator, killed in automobile accident. Was always advocating universal military service.

"Alford, navel engineer. Shot by injured husband, one Stenzel.

"Anthony, torpedo instructor to U.S. Navy. Sank with F.N. 131. Cause of accident mysterious.

"Baffin, the 'fighting Parson'. Convicted of arson. Your Demon's a poet, Dolores!

"Barlow, Congressman. Implicated in Hulton frauds and crash. Personal friend of the Secretary of the Navy, and stumped the country constantly in the interests of more ships.

"Bowditch, cotton merchant. Free trade advocate. Shot down in street.

"Brooks, never heard of him. Natural death, I dare say.

"Butler, naval constructor. Caught in the act of adultery and disgraced. The partner of his crime was a Gretel von Bulow, or I'm mistaken. So much for two letters out of twenty-six!"

"But you are picking out the names!"

"Because I can't place the parasites. Most of these people are barnacles on the big ships, or, more politely, destroyer convoys. Their names mean nothing to me."

"I can agree, in any case, on practical grounds. There is certainly somebody at work... let me think!"

"Don't trouble. I know the culprit. It is the ghost of the late lamented James Monroe!"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Dear child, when James Watts noticed the expulsive force of the steam of a kettle, the Monroe Doctrine got T.B. Your 'demon' is trying to keep it alive by the artificial prevention of ship building. Just look at this one name, Carstairs, shot in his office by a man named Schmidt (perhaps!) who claimed to be his natural son. An evident plagiarism from the murder of William Whiteley in London. What did the death of Carstairs mean to shipbuilding? You would have done less harm by torpedoing half the ships in New York Harbour.

"Let me add one fact that you don't know: there have been five attempts on the life of Paul Powys in the last three weeks. It is you that I must thank for showing that the campaign is of such immense scope and ramification. We thought of a financial or political group; I am now certain that we are up against an organization with hundreds of millions of money, and thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of men in its web. Dolores Cass, these statistics of yours will wake up even the White House!"

"This is very exciting. Let's go down right away in the car!"

"We shouldn't get far. I'm going to put the Secret Service on to this. We must get busy. I shall feel easier when it's through."

But no incident ruffled the day. The papers were duly delivered, with an explanation which did not particularly impress. The plot, it appeared, was 'politically unthinkable'. The official's car did have an accident at 42nd Street, where an elderly lady drove into him, luckily without upsetting him, but that was 'conclusively' proved to be the fault of the policeman in charge of the traffic.

Iff heard this story on the telephone with amiable pity. People - most people - could never imagine other people acting differently from themselves. America had an army of fifty thousand men, used mostly for parades, therefore a nation which drilled fifteen million men must be exactly three hundred times as fond of parades as America. Also, just at that moment the U.S. was looking in quite a different direction - as if that were not precisely the reason for an unsuspected enemy to attack her.

Dolores Cass snorted in unison.

"What's to be done?" she said at last.

"What I'm afraid of is that our brother demon may have the sense to leave us alone - flat! Surely he will dare trust the political incapacity, the parochial vision, of Washington! But these plotters are easily scared. It's conscience that makes cowards of us all! Remember the effect on the announcement of Mr. Travis' engagement?"

Dolores Cass boxed his ears, good and hard. It was the sorest point in her life's history.

"Dios mio! what a fool I was!"

"We all have to learn by experience. I only hope (to return to the true subject of our talk) that America's lesson may not cost too much, or come - Too Late! Oh, child, the secret of success in life is to learn from little things! There is not a grain of dust in the whole universe which does not bear witness to the infinite Wisdom of God, and proclaim aloud His Glory. And there is not one trifle in the most common life which should not make us partakers of that Wisdom and Glory, had we but the Wit and the Enthusiasm to comprehend it."

"Then let me contribute a Trifle to our problem. Your clock, which kept perfect time last night - more than we did! - has gained an hour and six minutes since this morning."

Iff walked over to the clock, a man-high affair of carved oak, worked by weights. He threw open the door.

"Very ingenious!"

A needle was attached to one of the weights by a piece of soft wax. Below, on the floor of the clock, was a bomb. The touch of the needle would complete an electrical circuit.

Dolores Cass made a rapid mental calculation.

"That would have gone off at about half past midnight, correct time."

"A warning to all those who go home to bed early." He removed the bomb and the needle, and adjusted the clock.

"This warms the cockles of my heart. He is after me!"

"Aren't you going to inquire how that got there?"

"For shame, Dolores Cass! Will nothing ever teach you the folly of interfering with other people's business? Don't you see even now that this 'demon' of yours is an ass? He's trying to beat an economic law, which puts him in the class of intellect which plays systems at Monte Carlo. Upon that firm conviction let us base our campaign! And never let us forget what I read in the newspaper this morning. It is in Chapter 69, 'The Use of the Mysterious: A master of the art of war has said: I do not dare to be the host; I prefer to be the guest. I do not dare to advance an inch; I prefer to retire a foot'. Let us further take comfort from that passage in Chapter 55, 'The Mysterious Charm: Whatever is contrary to the Tao soon ends'."

"I never could understand all that about accomplishing everything by doing nothing."

"It is quite easy. He will expect me to be pursuing him; I won't; I'll let him pursue me. I will even let him catch me; and he shall think that I am as great an ass as he is. It will all work out to the Appointed End, and our only error can come from a violation of the law of our own natures. We will therefore lay the train by doing the natural thing, getting very drunk at Melonico's. Will you bring Mollie Madison? I should like both of you to meet my good friend Lascelles, of the Royal Navy."

"All right!" She put on her furs. "But how can I help?"

"Oh, do as you like about it!" said Simon Iff, as if huffed.

Dolores was amazed at the curt rudeness of his tone. She chilled instantly, and moved toward the door.

He got up and held it for her with an ironical bow. "Melonico's at seven, then."

"I will be there," she answered coldly. Outside the apartment she stopped suddenly. "There's something behind that," she murmured, and fell a-musing.

III

It was no idle word of Simon Iff that he meant to get very drunk; and therefore, let us hope, he will not have to give an account of it at the Day of Judgement. His behaviour scandalized most of the very high-class guests at that most select of all New York's restaurants. He took the most unpardonable liberties with Mollie Madison, and Lascelles was equally impudent with Dolores, making violent love to her, drinking her health in crazy toasts of doubtful taste, telling stories which would hardly have passed even Mr. Gatt's editorial staff, and roaring with laughter at nothing at all.

Simon Iff supplied the climax by pulling off Mollie's slipper, filling it with champaign, and draining it at a gulp. It was then that the manager came forward and requested the observation of common decency.

The shock sobered them for a while; but then Simon broke into a drunken torrent of boasting. He told everybody what a wonderful man he was, and what a lot of mysteries he had solved, and what mountains he had climbed, and what animals he had shot, and what an important job he was holding down that very minute. Wouldn't everybody be surprised if they knew just what the British Government had sent him to do in America? If they knew what was in a certain paper at the bank, a casus belli, no less? But with whom? Aha - there was the secret! And wouldn't everybody be amazed if they knew just what he knew about a certain subject that he wouldn't mention, not he? The Silent Tomb was a chatterbox compared with him!

The manager came forward again, and remonstrated about the loudness of his voice. This time the old man was angry and rude. He treated the man as a mere servant, said something about 'dirty Dagoes', threw down a hundred dollar bill, and told him to keep the change and buy a treatise on 'How to treat English Gentlemen' with it.

With that he flung drunkenly out of the room, followed by the others, who, though drunk themselves, were sober enough to see that he needed attention. "I'll see you home," said Lascelles, "when we've put the girls in a taxi."

"Home be damned," roard Simon, "the club. I'll play you a thousand up for a million dollars."

This sportsmanlike proposition was not fated to find immediate acceptance. Just outside the door of the dining-room was Mr. Commissioner Teake. "Hello, old boy!" cackled Iff. "Come along to the club!" He put out an unsteady hand. But Teake did not respond. He laid his hand on the magician's shoulder, and spoke low, in a very formal and yet very embarrassed voice. "I'm sorry, Mr. Iff, but I am charged with the duty of arresting you for the murder of two men unknown; this morning, in Hell's Kitchen. Mrs. Travis, I must take you also as an accessory."

Simon toppled into Teake's arms. "Tha's ri', ol' top," he said. "Ish a fair cop. I did it. But don' you forget, they fired first. I shwear it." Teake warned him. Dolores broke into a storm of passionate protest. "Better go quietly," whispered Lascelles in her ear. Mollie Madison had broken into a fit of wild sobbing, and clung to Simon, as if she would tear him from his captors. Two other men stepped forward, and detached her. "We don't want a row here," said Lascelles; "the time to fight is when the case comes up. I'll get bail, if they'll allow it, anyhow."

"Bail be damned," said Simon Iff. "I've got a head bigger than the planet Saturn, and oh! such a lot more rings round it! Lemme sleep it off, tha's all I ask. Come on, Teake, ol' sport, only for God's sake stop at the drug store, and ge' me a bromo-seltzer."

They floundered off to the police wagon. A tall gentleman, who had dined at the next table and watched their antics with apparent disgust, threw off his lethargy, and, entering a fast car which was waiting for him, made all haste to a small house on East 63rd Street, where he asked for Count von Weibheim.

This personage received him at once, without a word of greeting; sitting down at a desk, he opened a notebook by way of asking for news. The man from Melonico's, whose name was Berkeley, told the events of the evening. The contempt of von Weibheim had no effect on him. He was used to that sort of thing. Berkeley was an Englishman of excellent family, and had been intended for the bar. From Oxford he had been sent down, following a disgraceful attempt to cheat in Smalls. His people had got him into the army via the militia, but trouble with money-lenders, and a card scandal, had ended his career. He became a stockbroker, and again lost status through a doubtful transaction, after which he touted for a bucket-shop. This time he overstepped the law, and got himself into prison. When he came out, his father sent him to New York, with a weekly remittance of Twenty Five Pounds, to be forfeited for ever should he communicate with his family or get into prison. A hundred and twenty dollars a week was beggary to a gentleman with the tastes of Mr. Berkeley, and he had eked it out in one shady way or another, until von Weibheim, recognizing in him a great aptness for his particular work, by reason of extreme social amiability and tact coupled with complete unscrupulousness, had given him permanent and highly paid employment as a Spy.

"All well," said von Weibheim coldly as Berkeley finished his story. "You and the gang can get back on the Powys business for the present."

"Aren't we to finish off Iff if a chance comes? Rinsberg is in the Tombs, you know."

"Do not you dare! I have my mind changed. I want Iff alive. Do not ask my orders, but obey them."

"Berkeley nodded, and went away nonchalantly. No sooner had he gone than the Count sent for his butler.

It was a man of some sixty winters who entered the room, bowing profoundly. "Close the door!" ordered von Weibheim. As the old man did so, the Count rose and stood at attention, saluting, with a click of the heels. The old man gravely returned the salute, and then threw himself into an armchair and lighted a cigar. "Well, what is it?" he asked. "You may sit down."

Von Weibheim complied. He repeated Berkeley's story verbatim.

"What is your opinion?" asked the other.

"I humbly think, Prince, that it may suit Mr. Iff very well to be in prison for a while. He discovered the bomb in the clock, I hear. And this morning was a narrow escape. He is an old man, and must love life dearly. He has found a woman, too."