The Amateur

R >> Richard Harding Davis >> The Amateur



The finding of Harry Ashton was so simple that in its very simplicity it
appeared spectacular.

On leaving Mrs. Ashton, Ford engaged rooms at the Hotel Cecil. Before
visiting his rooms he made his way to the American bar. He did not go
there seeking Harry Ashton. His object was entirely self-centred. His
purpose was to drink to himself and to the lights of London. But as
though by appointment, the man he had promised to find was waiting for
him. As Ford entered the room, at a table facing the door sat Ashton.
There was no mistaking him. He wore a mustache, but it was no disguise.
He was the same good-natured, good-looking youth who, in the photograph
from under a Panama hat, had smiled upon the world. With a glad cry Ford
rushed toward him.

"Fancy meeting YOU!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Ashton's good-natured smile did not relax. He merely shook his head.

"Afraid you have made a mistake," he said. The reporter regarded him
blankly. His face showed his disappointment.

"Aren't you Charles W. Garrett, of New York?" he demanded.

"Not me," said Mr. Ashton.

"But," Ford insisted in hurt tones, as though he were being trifled
with, "you have been told you look like him, haven't you?"

Mr. Ashton's good nature was unassailable.

"Sorry," he declared, "never heard of him."

Ford became garrulous, he could not believe two men could look so much
alike. It was a remarkable coincidence. The stranger must certainly
have a drink, the drink intended for his twin. Ashton was bored, but
accepted. He was well acquainted with the easy good-fellowship of his
countrymen. The room in which he sat was a meeting-place for them. He
considered that they were always giving each other drinks, and not only
were they always introducing themselves, but saying, "Shake hands with
my friend, Mr. So-and-So." After five minutes they showed each other
photographs of the children. This one, though as loquacious as the
others, seemed better dressed, more "wise"; he brought to the exile the
atmosphere of his beloved Broadway, so Ashton drank to him pleasantly.

"My name is Sydney Carter," he volunteered.

As a poker-player skims over the cards in his hand, Ford, in his mind's
eye, ran over the value of giving or not giving his right name. He
decided that Ashton would not have heard it and that, if he gave a false
one, there was a chance that later Ashton might find out that he had
done so. Accordingly he said, "Mine is Austin Ford," and seated himself
at Ashton's table. Within ten minutes the man he had promised to
pluck from among the eight million inhabitants of London was smiling
sympathetically at his jests and buying a drink.

On the steamer Ford had rehearsed the story with which, should he meet
Ashton, he would introduce himself. It was one arranged to fit with his
theory that Ashton was a crook. If Ashton were a crook Ford argued
that to at once ingratiate himself in his good graces he also must be
a crook. His plan was to invite Ashton to co-operate with him in some
scheme that was openly dishonest. By so doing he hoped apparently to
place himself at Ashton's mercy. He believed if he could persuade Ashton
he was more of a rascal than Ashton himself, and an exceedingly
stupid rascal, any distrust the bookmaker might feel toward him would
disappear. He made his advances so openly, and apparently showed his
hand so carelessly, that, from being bored, Ashton became puzzled,
then interested; and when Ford insisted he should dine with him, he
considered it so necessary to find out who the youth might be who was
forcing himself upon him that he accepted the invitation.

They adjourned to dress and an hour later, at Ford's suggestion, they
met at the Carlton. There Ford ordered a dinner calculated to lull his
newly made friend into a mood suited to confidence, but which had on
Ashton exactly the opposite effect. Merely for the pleasure of his
company, utter strangers were not in the habit of treating him to
strawberries in February, and vintage champagne; and, in consequence, in
Ford's hospitality he saw only cause for suspicion. If, as he had first
feared, Ford was a New York detective, it was most important he should
know that. No one better than Ashton understood that, at that moment,
his presence in New York meant, for the police, unalloyed satisfaction,
and for himself undisturbed solitude. But Ford was unlike any detective
of his acquaintance; and his acquaintance had been extensive. It
was true Ford was familiar with all the habits of Broadway and the
Tenderloin. Of places with which Ashton was intimate, and of men with
whom Ashton had formerly been well acquainted, he talked glibly. But, if
he were a detective, Ashton considered, they certainly had improved the
class.

The restaurant into which for the first time Ashton had penetrated,
and in which he felt ill at ease, was to Ford, he observed, a matter
of course. Evidently for Ford it held no terrors. He criticised the
service, patronized the head waiters, and grumbled at the food; and
when, on leaving the restaurant, an Englishman and his wife stopped at
their table to greet him, he accepted their welcome to London without
embarrassment.

Ashton, rolling his cigar between his lips, observed the incident with
increasing bewilderment.

"You've got some swell friends," he growled. "I'll bet you never met
THEM at Healey's!"

"I meet all kinds of people in my business," said Ford. "I once sold
that man some mining stock, and the joke of it was," he added, smiling
knowingly, "it turned out to be good."

Ashton decided that the psychological moment had arrived.

"What IS your business?" he asked.

"I'm a company promoter," said Ford easily. "I thought I told you."

"I did not tell you that I was a company promoter, too, did I?" demanded
Ashton.

"No," answered Ford, with apparent surprise. "Are you? That's funny."

Ashton watched for the next move, but the subject seemed in no way to
interest Ford. Instead of following it up he began afresh.

"Have you any money lying idle?" he asked abruptly. "About a thousand
pounds."

Ashton recognized that the mysterious stranger was about to disclose
both himself and whatever object he had in seeking him out. He cast a
quick glance about him.

"I can always find money," he said guardedly. "What's the proposition?"

With pretended nervousness Ford leaned forward and began the story
he had rehearsed. It was a new version of an old swindle and to every
self-respecting confidence man was well known as the "sick engineer"
game. The plot is very simple. The sick engineer is supposed to be a
mining engineer who, as an expert, has examined a gold mine and reported
against it. For his services the company paid him partly in stock. He
falls ill and is at the point of death. While he has been ill much gold
has been found in the mine he examined, and the stock which he considers
worthless is now valuable. Of this, owing to his illness, he is
ignorant. One confidence man acts the part of the sick engineer, and the
other that of a broker who knows the engineer possesses the stock but
has no money with which to purchase it from him. For a share of the
stock he offers to tell the dupe where it and the engineer can be found.
They visit the man, apparently at the point of death, and the dupe gives
him money for his stock. Later the dupe finds the stock is worthless,
and the supposed engineer and the supposed broker divide the money he
paid for it. In telling the story Ford pretended he was the broker and
that he thought in Ashton he had found a dupe who would buy the stock
from the sick engineer.

As the story unfolded and Ashton appreciated the part Ford expected
him to play in it, his emotions were so varied that he was in danger
of apoplexy. Amusement, joy, chagrin, and indignation illuminated his
countenance. His cigar ceased to burn, and with his eyes opened wide he
regarded Ford in pitying wonder.

"Wait!" he commanded. He shook his head uncomprehendingly. "Tell me," he
asked, "do I look as easy as that, or are you just naturally foolish?"

Ford pretended to fall into a state of great alarm.

"I don't understand," he stammered.

"Why, son," exclaimed Ashton kindly, "I was taught that story in the
public schools. I invented it. I stopped using it before you cut
your teeth. Gee!" he exclaimed delightedly. "I knew I had
grown respectable-looking, but I didn't think I was so damned
respectable-looking as that!" He began to laugh silently; so greatly was
he amused that the tears shone in his eyes and his shoulders shook.

"I'm sorry for you, son," he protested, "but that's the funniest thing
that's come my way in two years. And you buying me hot-house grapes,
too, and fancy water! I wish you could see your face," he taunted.

Ford pretended to be greatly chagrined.

"All right," he declared roughly. "The laugh's on me this time, but just
because I lost one trick, don't think I don't know my business. Now that
I'm wise to what YOU are we can work together and--"

The face of young Mr. Ashton became instantly grave. His jaws
snapped like a trap. When he spoke his tone was assured and slightly
contemptuous.

"Not with ME you can't work!" he said.

"Don't think because I fell down on this," Ford began hotly.

"I'm not thinking of you at all," said Ashton. "You're a nice little
fellow all right, but you have sized me up wrong. I am on the 'straight
and narrow' that leads back to little old New York and God's country,
and I am warranted not to run off my trolley."

The words were in the vernacular, but the tone in which the young man
spoke rang so confidently that it brought to Ford a pleasant thrill
of satisfaction. From the first he had found in the personality of the
young man something winning and likable; a shrewd manliness and tolerant
good-humor. His eyes may have shown his sympathy, for, in sudden
confidence, Ashton leaned nearer.

"It's like this," he said. "Several years ago I made a bad break and,
about a year later, they got on to me and I had to cut and run. In a
month the law of limitation lets me loose and I can go back. And you can
bet I'm GOING back. I will be on the bowsprit of the first boat. I've
had all I want of the 'fugitive-from-justice' game, thank you, and I
have taken good care to keep a clean bill of health so that I won't
have to play it again. They've been trying to get me for several
years--especially the Pinkertons. They have chased me all over Europe.
Chased me with all kinds of men; sometimes with women; they've tried
everything except blood-hounds. At first I thought YOU were a 'Pink,'
that's why--"

"I!" interrupted Ford, exploding derisively. "That's GOOD! That's one
on YOU." He ceased laughing and regarded Ashton kindly. "How do you know
I'm not?" he asked.

For an instant the face of the bookmaker grew a shade less red and
his eyes searched those of Ford in a quick agony of suspicion. Ford
continued to smile steadily at him, and Ashton breathed with relief.

"I'll take a chance with you," he said, "and if you are as bad a
detective as you are a sport I needn't worry."

They both laughed, and, with sudden mutual liking, each raised his glass
and nodded.

"But they haven't got me yet," continued Ashton, "and unless they get
me in the next thirty days I'm free. So you needn't think that I'll help
you. It's 'never again' for me. The first time, that was the fault of
the crowd I ran with; the second time, that would be MY fault. And there
ain't going to be any second time."

He shook his head doggedly, and with squared shoulders leaned back in
his chair.

"If it only breaks right for me," he declared, "I'll settle down in one
of those 'Own-your own-homes,' forty-five minutes from Broadway, and
never leave the wife and the baby."

The words almost brought Ford to his feet. He had forgotten the wife and
the baby. He endeavored to explain his surprise by a sudden assumption
of incredulity.

"Fancy you married!" he exclaimed.

"Married!" protested Ashton. "I'm married to the finest little lady
that ever wore skirts, and in thirty-seven days I'll see her again.
Thirty-seven days," he repeated impatiently. "Gee! That's a hell of a
long time!"

Ford studied the young man with increased interest. That he was speaking
sincerely, from the heart, there seemed no possible doubt.

Ashton frowned and his face clouded. "I've not been able to treat her
just right," he volunteered. "If she wrote me, the letters might give
them a clew, and I don't write HER because I don't want her to know
all my troubles until they're over. But I know," he added, "that five
minutes' talk will set it all right. That is, if she still feels about
me the way I feel about her."

The man crushed his cigar in his fingers and threw the pieces on the
floor. "That's what's been the worst!" he exclaimed bitterly. "Not
hearing, not knowing. It's been hell!"

His eyes as he raised them were filled with suffering, deep and genuine.

Ford rose suddenly. "Let's go down to the Savoy for supper," he said.

"Supper!" growled Ashton. "What's the use of supper? Do you suppose cold
chicken and a sardine can keep me from THINKING?"

Ford placed his hand on the other's shoulder.

"You come with me," he said kindly. "I'm going to do you a favor. I'm
going to bring you a piece of luck. Don't ask me any questions," he
commanded hurriedly. "Just take my word for it."

They had sat so late over their cigars that when they reached the
restaurant on the Embankment the supper-room was already partly
filled, and the corridors and lounge were brilliantly lit and gay with
well-dressed women. Ashton regarded the scene with gloomy eyes. Since
he had spoken of his wife he had remained silent, chewing savagely on a
fresh cigar. But Ford was grandly excited. He did not know exactly what
he intended to do. He was prepared to let events direct themselves, but
of two things he was assured: Mrs. Ashton loved her husband, and her
husband loved her. As the god in the car who was to bring them together,
he felt a delightful responsibility.

The young men left the coat-room and came down the short flight of
steps that leads to the wide lounge of the restaurant. Ford slightly in
advance, searching with his eyes for Mrs Ashton, found her seated alone
in the lounge, evidently waiting for him. At the first glance she was
hardly be recognized. Her low-cut dinner gown of black satin that clung
to her like a wet bath robe was the last word of the new fashion; and
since Ford had seen her her blond hair had been arranged by an artist.
Her appearance was smart, elegant, daring. She was easily the prettiest
and most striking-looking woman in the room, and for an instant Ford
stood gazing at her, trying to find in the self-possessed young woman
the deserted wife of the steamer. She did not see Ford. Her eyes were
following the progress down the hall of a woman, and her profile was
toward him.

The thought of the happiness he was about to bring to two young people
gave Ford the sense of a genuine triumph, and when he turned to
Ashton to point out his wife to him he was thrilling with pride and
satisfaction. His triumph received a bewildering shock. Already Ashton
had discovered the presence of Mrs. Ashton. He was standing transfixed,
lost to his surroundings, devouring her with his eyes. And then, to the
amazement of Ford, his eyes filled with fear, doubt, and anger. Swiftly,
with the movement of a man ducking a blow, he turned and sprang up the
stairs and into the coat-room. Ford, bewildered and more conscious of
his surroundings, followed him less quickly, and was in consequence only
in time to see Ashton, dragging his overcoat behind him, disappear into
the court-yard. He seized his own coat and raced in pursuit. As he ran
into the court-yard Ashton, in the Strand, was just closing the door of
a taxicab, but before the chauffeur could free it from the surrounding
traffic, Ford had dragged the door open, and leaped inside. Ashton was
huddled in the corner, panting, his face pale with alarm.

"What the devil ails you?" roared Ford. "Are you trying to shake me?
You've got to come back. You must speak to her."

"Speak to her!" repeated Ashton. His voice was sunk to a whisper. The
look of alarm in his face was confused with one grim and menacing. "Did
you know she was there?" he demanded softly. "Did you take me there,
knowing--?"

"Of course I knew," protested Ford. "She's been looking for you--"

His voice subsided in a squeak of amazement and pain. Ashton's left hand
had shot out and swiftly seized his throat. With the other he pressed an
automatic revolver against Ford's shirt front.

"I know she's been looking for me," the man whispered thickly. "For two
years she's been looking for me. I know all about HER! But, WHO IN HELL
ARE YOU?"

Ford, gasping and gurgling, protested loyally.

"You are wrong!" he cried. "She's been at home waiting for you. She
thinks you have deserted her and your baby. I tell you she loves you,
you fool, she LOVES you!"

The fingers on his throat suddenly relaxed; the flaming eyes of Ashton,
glaring into his, wavered and grew wide with amazement.

"Loves me," he whispered. "WHO loves me?"

"Your wife," protested Ford; "the girl at the Savoy, your wife."

Again the fingers of Ashton pressed deep around his neck.

"That is not my wife," he whispered. His voice was unpleasantly cold and
grim. "That's 'Baby Belle,' with her hair dyed, a detective lady of the
Pinkertons, hired to find me. And YOU know it. Now, who are YOU?"

To permit him to reply Ashton released his hand, but at the same moment,
in a sudden access of fear, dug the revolver deeper into the pit of
Ford's stomach.

"Quick!" he commanded. "Never mind the girl. WHO ARE YOU?"

Ford collapsed against the cushioned corner of the cab. "And she begged
me to find you," he roared, "because she LOVED you, because she wanted
to BELIEVE in you!" He held his arms above his head. "Go ahead and
shoot!" he cried. "You want to know who I am?" he demanded. His voice
rang with rage. "I'm an amateur. Just a natural born fool-amateur! Go on
and shoot!"

The gun in Ashton's hand sank to his knee. Between doubt and laughter
his face was twisted in strange lines. The cab was whirling through a
narrow, unlit street leading to Covent Garden. Opening the door Ashton
called to the chauffeur, and then turned to Ford.

"You get off here!" he commanded. "Maybe you're a 'Pink,' maybe you're
a good fellow. I think you're a good fellow, but I'm not taking any
chances. Get out!"

Ford scrambled to the street, and as the taxicab again butted itself
forward, Ashton leaned far through the window. "Good-by, son," he
called. "Send me a picture-postal card to Paris. For I am off to
Maxim's," he cried, "and you can go to--"

"Not at all!" shouted the amateur detective indignantly. "I'm going back
to take supper with 'Baby Belle'!"