The Prince and Betty, P. G. Wodehouse [ebook reader for pc TXT] 📗
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «The Prince and Betty, P. G. Wodehouse [ebook reader for pc TXT] 📗». Author P. G. Wodehouse
"What are you looking at?" asked Betty.
"Will you count ten before looking round?"
"What is it?"
"Your stepfather has just come in."
"What!"
"He's sitting at the other side of the room, directly behind you. Count ten!"
But Betty had twisted round in her chair.
"Where? Where?"
"Just where you're looking. Don't let him see you."
"I don't— Oh!"
"Got him?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"The plot thickens, eh?" he said. "What is Mr. Scobell doing in New York, I wonder, if he has not come to keep an eye on his interests?"
Betty had whipped round again. Her face was white with excitement.
"It's true," she whispered. "I was right. Do you see who that is with him? The man?"
"Do you know him? He's a stranger to me."
"It's Mr. Parker," said Betty.
John drew in his breath sharply.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
John laughed quietly. He thought for a moment, then beckoned to the hovering waiter.
"What are you going to do?" asked Betty.
"Bring me a small lemon," said John.
"Lemon squash, sir?"
"Not a lemon squash. A plain lemon. The fruit of that name. The common or garden citron, which is sharp to the taste and not pleasant to have handed to one. Also a piece of note paper, a little tissue paper, and an envelope.
"What are you going to do?" asked Betty again.
John beamed.
"Did you ever read the Sherlock Holmes story entitled 'The Five Orange Pips'? Well, when a man in that story received a mysterious envelope containing five orange pips, it was a sign that he was due to get his. It was all over, as far as he was concerned, except 'phoning for the undertaker. I propose to treat Mr. Scobell better than that. He shall have a whole lemon."
The waiter returned. John wrapped up the lemon carefully, wrote on the note paper the words, "To B. Scobell, Esq., Property Owner, Broster Street, from Prince John of Peaceful Moments, this gift," and enclosed it in the envelope.
"Do you see that gentleman at the table by the pillar?" he said. "Give him these. Just say a gentleman sent them."
The waiter smiled doubtfully. John added a two-dollar bill to the collection in his hand.
"You needn't give him that," he said.
The waiter smiled again, but this time not doubtfully.
"And now," said John as the messenger ambled off, "perhaps it would be just as well if we retired."
CHAPTER XXVIII — THE FINAL ATTEMPT
Proof that his shot had not missed its mark was supplied to John immediately upon his arrival at the office on the following morning, when he was met by Pugsy Maloney with the information that a gentleman had called to see him.
"With or without a black-jack?" enquired John. "Did he give any name?"
"Sure. Parker's his name. He blew in oncst before when Mr. Smith was here. I loosed him into de odder room."
John walked through. The man he had seen with Mr. Scobell at the Knickerbocker was standing at the window.
"Mr. Parker?"
The other turned, as the door opened, and looked at him keenly.
"Are you Mr. Maude?"
"I am," said John.
"I guess you don't need to be told what I've come about?"
"No."
"See here," said Mr. Parker. "I don't know how you've found things out, but you've done it, and we're through. We quit."
"I'm glad of that," said John. "Would you mind informing Spider Reilly of that fact? It will make life pleasanter for all of us."
"Mr. Scobell sent me along here to ask you to come and talk over this thing with him. He's at the Knickerbocker. I've a cab waiting outside. Can you come along?"
"I'd rather he came here."
"And I bet he'd rather come here than be where he is. That little surprise packet of yours last night put him down and out. Gave him a stroke of some sort. He's in bed now, with half-a-dozen doctors working on him."
John thought for a moment.
"Oh," he said slowly, "if it's that—very well."
He could not help feeling a touch of remorse. He had no reason to be fond of Mr. Scobell, but he was sorry that this should have happened.
They went out on the street. A taximeter cab was standing by the sidewalk. They got in. Neither spoke. John was thoughtful and preoccupied. Mr. Parker, too, appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He sat with folded arms and lowered head.
The cab buzzed up Fifth Avenue. Suddenly something, half-seen through the window, brought John to himself with a jerk. It was the great white mass of the Plaza Hotel. The next moment he saw that they were abreast of the park, and for the first time an icy wave of suspicion swept over him.
"Here, what's this?" he cried. "Where are you taking me?"
Mr. Parker's right hand came swiftly out of ambush, and something gleamed in the sun.
"Don't move," said Mr. Parker. The hard nozzle of a pistol pressed against John's chest. "Keep that hand still."
John dropped his hand. Mr. Parker leaned back, with the pistol resting easily on his knee. The cab began to move more quickly.
John's mind was in a whirl. His chief emotion was not fear, but disgust that he should have allowed himself to be trapped, with such absurd ease. He blushed for himself. Mr. Parker's face was expressionless, but who could say what tumults of silent laughter were not going on inside him? John bit his lip.
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