had fallen ever since the talkative Oriental had first tackled him and surveyed his persecutor owlishly. ‘Not that nice old gentleman over there?’ he said. ‘The one with the white hair? Four murders in his house within a month? That ought to be stopped. He’s been told about it, I suppose?’
Since this was the first remark with which the young man had favoured him, the bore jumped to the conclusion that he had inadvertently stumbled on a mental case. It was inconceivable to him that anyone should not have heard of the now famous Misfire Murders, as the Press had starred them, which had filled the New York papers for the past four weeks. The young man spoke.
‘Who is the stormy old petrel?’ he said.
His companion looked at him with some of the delight which a born gossip always feels upon finding an uninformed listener. His heavy red face became animated and he cocked his curious pear-shaped head, which alone betrayed his nationality, alertly on one side.
‘That fine old man, typical of the best type of hard-bitten New Englander,’ he began in a rhetorical whisper, ‘is none other than Judge Crowdy Lobbett. He has been the intended victim of an extraordinary series of crimes. I can’t understand how you’ve missed reading about it all.’
‘Oh, I’ve been away in Nebraska for my health,’ said the young man. ‘He-man stuff, you know,’ he added in his slightly falsetto voice.
He spoke with the utmost gravity, and the old man nodded unsuspectingly and continued.
‘First his secretary, seated in his master’s chair, was shot,’ he said slowly. ‘Then his butler, who was apparently after his master’s Scotch, got poisoned. Then his chauffeur met with a very mysterious accident, and finally a man walking with him down the street got a coping stone on his head.’ He sat back and regarded his companion almost triumphantly. ‘What do you say to that?’ he demanded.
‘Shocking,’ said the young man. ‘Very bad taste on someone’s part. Rotten marksmanship, too,’ he added, after some consideration. ‘I suppose he’s travelling for health now, like me?’
The Turk bent nearer and assumed a more confidential tone.
‘They say,’ he mumbled, in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his voice down, ‘that it was all young Marlowe Lobbett could do to get his father to come to Europe at all. I admire a man like that, a man who’s not afraid of what’s coming to him.’
‘Oh, quite!’ said the young man mildly. ‘The neat piece of modern youthing with the old gentleman is the son you spoke of, I suppose?’
The Turk nodded.
‘That’s right, and the girl sitting on his other side is his daughter. That very black hair gives them a sort of distinction. Funny that the boy should be so big and the girl so small. She takes after her mother, one of the Edwardeses of Tennessee, you know.’
‘When’s the concert going to begin?’
The Turk smiled. He felt he had consummated the acquaintanceship at last.
‘My name is Barber,’ he said. ‘Ali Fergusson Barber—a rather stupid joke of my parents, I have always thought.’
He looked inquiringly at his companion, hoping for a similar exchange of confidence, but he was unrewarded. The young man appeared to have forgotten all about him, and presently to the Oriental’s complete disgust, he drew a small white mouse from the pocket of his jacket and began to fondle it in his hands. Finally he held it out for Mr Barber’s inspection.
‘Rather pretty, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘One of the cabin boys lent it to me. He keeps it to remind him of his brother, Haig. He calls it Haig, after him.’
Mr Barber looked down his immense nose at the little creature, and edged away from it.
The young man said no more, for already a very golden-haired lady with pince-nez was playing the Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody with a certain amount of acid gusto.
Her performance was greeted with only mild enthusiasm, and the Turk overcame his repugnance to the noise sufficiently to lean over and inform the young man that there were several stage stars travelling and no doubt the programme would improve as it went on. For some time, however, his optimism was unrewarded.
At length the fussy, sandy-haired young man who was superintending the performance came forward with the announcement that Satsuma, the world-famous Japanese conjurer, was to perform some of his most celebrated illusions, and the audience’s patience was craved while the stage was made ready for him.
For the first time Mr Barber’s companion seemed to take an intelligent interest in the proceedings and he joined enthusiastically in the applause.
‘I’m potty about conjurers,’ he remarked affably. ‘Haig will like it too, I fancy. I’m most interested to see the effect upon him.’
Mr Barber smiled indulgently.
‘You are making jokes,’ he said naïvely.
The young man shot him a quick glance from behind his spectacles. ‘I do a little conjuring myself,’ he went on confidentially. ‘And I once knew a man who could always produce a few potatoes out of the old topper, or a half bottle of Bass. He once got in some champagne that way, but it wasn’t much of a brand. Hullo! what’s going on up there?’
He peered at the platform with childlike interest.
Several enthusiastic amateurs, aided by an electrician, were engaged in setting up the magician’s apparatus on the small stage. The piano had to be moved to make way for the great ‘disappearing’ cabinet, and the audience watched curiously while the cables were connected and the various gaily-coloured cupboards and boxes were set in position.
The magician himself was directing operations from behind a screen, and at length, when the last scene-shifter had departed, he came forward and bowed ceremoniously.
He was tall for a Japanese, and dark-skinned, with a clever face much too small for him.
Mr Barber nudged the young man at his side.
‘Old Lobbett doesn’t let his troubles damp his interest, does he?’ he rumbled, as he glanced across the room to where the man who had been the subject of so much speculation sat forward in his chair. His keenness and excitement were almost childlike, and after a moment or two, dissatisfied with his view of the stage, he left his seat and walked up to the front row, where he stood watching. Mr Barber’s companion made no comment. He appeared to be engrossed in his small pet mouse, which he held up, apparently with the idea of allowing the little animal to watch the performance.
The magician began with one or two sleight-of-hand tricks, presenting each illusion with a topical patter.
‘Very clever. Very clever,’ murmured Mr Barber in his stentorian undertone. ‘They say those tricks are handed down from generation to generation. I think it’s all done with mirrors myself.’
His acquaintance did not reply. He was sitting bolt upright, staring at the stage through his heavy glasses.
Satsuma produced ducks, goldfish, pigeons, and even a couple of Japanese ladies, with amazing dexterity, and the distressing Mr Barber beat his fat hands together delightedly, while far across the room old Lobbett also was clearly enchanted.
Eventually
