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Part 2 - Peter Burns' Narrative: Chapter 6
I
I give the letter in full. It was written from the s.y. _Mermaid_,
lying in Monaco Harbour.
MY DEAR PETER, Where is Ogden? We have been expecting him every
day. Mrs Ford is worrying herself to death. She keeps asking me if
I have any news, and it is very tiresome to have to keep telling
her that I have not heard from you. Surely, with the opportunities
you must get every day, you can manage to kidnap him. Do be quick.
We are relying on you.--In haste,
CYNTHIA.
I read this brief and business-like communication several times
during the day; and after dinner that night, in order to meditate
upon it in solitude, I left the house and wandered off in the
direction of the village.
I was midway between house and village when I became aware that I
was being followed. The night was dark, and the wind moving in the
tree-tops emphasized the loneliness of the country road. Both time
and place were such as made it peculiarly unpleasant to hear
stealthy footsteps on the road behind me.
Uncertainty in such cases is the unnerving thing. I turned
sharply, and began to walk back on tiptoe in the direction from
which I had come.
I had not been mistaken. A moment later a dark figure loomed up
out of the darkness, and the exclamation which greeted me, as I
made my presence known, showed that I had taken him by surprise.
There was a momentary pause. I expected the man, whoever he might
be, to run, but he held his ground. Indeed, he edged forward.
'Get back!' I said, and allowed my stick to rasp suggestively on
the road before raising it in readiness for any sudden development.
It was as well that he should know it was there.
The hint seemed to wound rather than frighten him.
'Aw, cut out the rough stuff, bo,' he said reproachfully in a
cautious, husky undertone. 'I ain't goin' to start anything.'
I had an impression that I had heard the voice before, but I could
not place it.
'What are you following me for?' I demanded. 'Who are you?'
'Say, I want a talk wit youse. I took a slant at youse under de
lamp-post back dere, an' I seen it was you, so I tagged along.
Say, I'm wise to your game, sport.'
I had identified him by this time. Unless there were two men in
the neighbourhood of Sanstead who hailed from the Bowery, this
must be the man I had seen at the 'Feathers' who had incurred the
disapproval of Miss Benjafield.
'I haven't the faintest idea what you mean,' I said. 'What is my
game?'
His voice became reproachful again.
'Ah chee!' he protested. 'Quit yer kiddin'! What was youse
rubberin' around de house for last night if you wasn't trailin' de
kid?'
'Was it you who ran into me last night?' I asked.
'Gee! I fought it was a tree. I came near takin' de count.'
'I did take it. You seemed in a great hurry.'
'Hell!' said the man simply, and expectorated.
'Say,' he resumed, having delivered this criticism on that
stirring episode, dat's a great kid, dat Nugget. I fought it was a
Black Hand soup explosion when he cut loose. But, say, let's don't
waste time. We gotta get together about dat kid.'
'Certainly, if you wish it. What do you happen to mean?'
'Aw, quit yer kiddin'!' He expectorated again. He seemed to be a
man who could express the whole gamut of emotions by this simple
means. 'I know you!'
'Then you have the advantage of me, though I believe I remember
seeing you before. Weren't you at the "Feathers" one Wednesday
evening, singing something about a dog?'
'Sure. Dat was me.'
'What do you mean by saying that you know me?'
'Aw, quit yer kiddin', Sam!'
There was, it seemed to me, a reluctantly admiring note in his
voice.
'Tell me, who do you think I am?' I asked patiently.
'Ahr ghee! You can't string me, sport. Smooth Sam Fisher, is who
you are, bo. I know you.'
I was too surprised to speak. Verily, some have greatness thrust
upon them.
'I hain't never seen youse, Sam,' he continued, 'but I know it's
you. And I'll tell youse how I doped it out. To begin with, there
ain't but you and your bunch and me and my bunch dat knows de
Little Nugget's on dis side at all. Dey sneaked him out of New
York mighty slick. And I heard that you had come here after him.
So when I runs into a guy dat's trailin' de kid down here, well,
who's it going to be if it ain't youse? And when dat guy talks
like a dude, like they all say you do, well, who's it going to be
if it ain't youse? So quit yer kiddin', Sam, and let's get down to
business.'
'Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr Buck MacGinnis?' I said. I
felt convinced that this could be no other than that celebrity.
'Dat's right. Dere's no need to keep up anyt'ing wit me, Sam.
We're bote on de same trail, so let's get down to it.'
'One moment,' I said. 'Would it surprise you to hear that my name
is Burns, and that I am a master at the school?'
He expectorated admirably.
'Hell, no!' he said. 'Gee, it's just what you would be, Sam. I
always heard youse had been one of dese rah-rah boys oncest. Say,
it's mighty smart of youse to be a perfessor. You're right in on
de ground floor.'
His voice became appealing.
'Say, Sam, don't be a hawg. Let's go fifty-fifty in dis deal. My
bunch and me has come a hell of a number of miles on dis
proposition, and dere ain't no need for us to fall scrappin' over
it. Dere's plenty for all of us. Old man Ford'll cough up enough
for every one, and dere won't be any fuss. Let's sit in togedder
on dis nuggett'ing. It ain't like as if it was an ornery two-by-four
deal. I wouldn't ask youse if it wasn't big enough fir de whole
bunch of us.'
As I said nothing, he proceeded.
'It ain't square, Sam, to take advantage of your having education.
If it was a square fight, and us bote wit de same chance, I
wouldn't say; but you bein' a dude perfessor and gettin' right
into de place like dat ain't right. Say, don't be a hawg, Sam.
Don't swipe it all. Fifty-fifty! Does dat go?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'You had better ask the real Sam. Good
night.'
I walked past him and made for the school gates at my best pace.
He trotted after me, pleading.
'Sam, give us a quarter, then.'
I walked on.
'Sam, don't be a hawg!'
He broke into a run.
'Sam!' His voice lost its pleading tone and rasped menacingly.
'Gee, if I had me canister, youse wouldn't be so flip! Listen
here, you big cheese! You t'ink youse is de only t'ing in sight,
huh? Well, we ain't done yet. You'll see yet. We'll fix you! Youse
had best watch out.'
I stopped and turned on him. 'Look here, you fool,' I cried. 'I
tell you I am not Sam Fisher. Can't you understand that you have
got hold of the wrong man? My name is Burns--_Burns_.'
He expectorated--scornfully this time. He was a man slow by nature
to receive ideas, but slower to rid himself of one that had
contrived to force its way into what he probably called his brain.
He had decided on the evidence that I was Smooth Sam Fisher, and
no denials on my part were going to shake his belief. He looked on
them merely as so many unsportsmanlike quibbles prompted by greed.
'Tell it to Sweeney!' was the form in which he crystallized his
scepticism.
'May be you'll say youse ain't trailin' de Nugget, huh?'
It was a home-thrust. If truth-telling has become a habit, one
gets slowly off the mark when the moment arrives for the prudent
lie. Quite against my will, I hesitated. Observant Mr MacGinnis
perceived my hesitation and expectorated triumphantly.
'Ah ghee!' he remarked. And then with a sudden return to ferocity,
'All right, you Sam, you wait! We'll fix you, and fix you good!
See? Dat goes. You t'ink youse kin put it across us, huh? All
right, you'll get yours. You wait!'
And with these words he slid off into the night. From somewhere in
the murky middle distance came a scornful 'Hawg!' and he was gone,
leaving me with a settled conviction that, while I had frequently
had occasion, since my expedition to Sanstead began, to describe
affairs as complex, their complexity had now reached its height.
With a watchful Pinkerton's man within, and a vengeful gang of
rivals without, Sanstead House seemed likely to become an
unrestful place for a young kidnapper with no previous experience.
The need for swift action had become imperative.
II
White, the butler, looking singularly unlike a detective--which, I
suppose, is how a detective wants to look--was taking the air on
the football field when I left the house next morning for a
before-breakfast stroll. The sight of him filled me with a desire
for first-hand information on the subject of the man Mr MacGinnis
supposed me to be and also of Mr MacGinnis himself. I wanted to be
assured that my friend Buck, despite appearances, was a placid
person whose bark was worse than his bite.
White's manner, at our first conversational exchanges, was
entirely that of the butler. From what I came to know of him
later, I think he took an artistic pride in throwing himself into
whatever role he had to assume.
At the mention of Smooth Sam Fisher, however, his manner peeled
off him like a skin, and he began to talk as himself, a racy and
vigorous self vastly different from the episcopal person he
thought it necessary to be when on duty.
'White,' I said, 'do you know anything of Smooth Sam Fisher?'
He stared at me. I suppose the question, led up to by no previous
remark, was unusual.
'I met a gentleman of the name of Buck MacGinnis--he was our
visitor that night, by the way--and he was full of Sam. Do you
know him?'
'Buck?'
'Either of them.'
'Well, I've never seen Buck, but I know all about him. There's
pepper to Buck.'
'So I should imagine. And Sam?'
'You may take it from me that there's more pepper to Sam's little
finger than there is to Buck's whole body. Sam could make Buck
look like the last run of shad, if it came to a showdown. Buck's
just a common roughneck. Sam's an educated man. He's got brains.'
'So I gathered. Well, I'm glad to hear you speak so well of him,
because that's who I'm supposed to be.'
'How's that?'
'Buck MacGinnis insists that I am Smooth Sam Fisher. Nothing I can
say will shift him.'
White stared. He had very bright humorous brown eyes. Then he
began to laugh.
'Well, what do you know about that?' he exclaimed. 'Wouldn't that
jar you!'
'It would. I may say it did. He called me a hog for wanting to
keep the Little Nugget to myself, and left threatening to "fix
me". What would you say the verb "to fix" signified in Mr
MacGinnis's vocabulary?'
White was still chuckling quietly to himself.
'He's a wonder!' he observed. 'Can you beat it? Taking you for
Smooth Sam!'
'He said he had never seen Smooth Sam. Have you?'
'Lord, yes.'
'Does he look like me?'
'Not a bit.'
'Do you think he's over here in England?'
'Sam? I know he is.'
'Then Buck MacGinnis was right?'
'Dead right, as far as Sam being on the trail goes. Sam's after
the Nugget to get him this time. He's tried often enough before,
but we've been too smart for him. This time he allows he's going
to bring it off.'
'Then why haven't we seen anything of him? Buck MacGinnis seems to
be monopolizing the kidnapping industry in these parts.'
'Oh, Sam'll show up when he feels good and ready. You can take it
from me that Sam knows what he is doing. Sam's a special pet of
mine. I don't give a flip for Buck MacGinnis.'
'I wish I had your cheery disposition! To me Buck MacGinnis seems
a pretty important citizen. I wonder what he meant by "fix"?'
White, however, declined to leave the subject of Buck's more
gifted rival.
'Sam's a college man, you know. That gives him a pull. He has
brains, and can use them.'
'That was one of the points on which Buck MacGinnis reproached me.
He said it was not fair to use my superior education.'
He laughed.
'Buck's got no sense. That's why you find him carrying on like a
porch-climber. It's his only notion of how to behave when he wants
to do a job. And that's why there's only one man to keep your eye
on in this thing of the Little Nugget, and that's Sam. I wish you
could get to know Sam. You'd like him.'
'You seem to look on him as a personal friend. I certainly don't
like Buck.'
'Oh, Buck!' said White scornfully.
We turned towards the house as the sound of the bell came to us
across the field.
'Then you think we may count on Sam's arrival, sooner or later, as
a certainty?' I said.
'Surest thing you know.'
'You will have a busy time.'
'All in the day's work.'
'I suppose I ought to look at it in that way. But I do wish I knew
exactly what Buck meant by "fix".'
White at last condescended to give his mind to the trivial point.
'I guess he'll try to put one over on you with a sand-bag,' he
said carelessly. He seemed to face the prospect with calm.
'A sand-bag, eh?' I said. 'It sounds exciting.'
'And feels it. I know. I've had some.'
I parted from him at the door. As a comforter he had failed to
qualify. He had not eased my mind to the slightest extent.
Content of Part 2 - Peter Burns' Narrative: Chapter 6 [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Nugget]
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