The library, whither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs.
Pett, was a large room on the ground floor, looking out on thestreet which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It hadFrench windows, opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in ahigh stone wall with a small gate in it, the general effect ofthese things being to create a resemblance to a country houserather than to one in the centre of the city. Mr. Pett's townresidence was full of these surprises.
In one corner of the room a massive safe had been let into thewall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of thewall-space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts andsizes, which filled the shelves and overflowed into a smallgallery, reached by a short flight of stairs and running alongthe north side of the room over the door.
Jimmy cast a glance at the safe, behind the steel doors of whichhe presumed the test-tube of Partridgite which Willie had carriedfrom the luncheon-table lay hid: then transferred his attentionto the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothingwhich gave promise of whiling away entertainingly the momentswhich must elapse before the return of Ann. Jimmy's tastes inliterature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modernfiction, and Mr. Pett did not appear to possess a single volumethat had been written later than the eighteenth century--andmostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing-desk near thewindow, on which he had caught sight of a standing shelf full ofbooks of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random andopened it.
He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man Pettappeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would neverhave suspected it, to look at him. Jimmy had just resignedhimself, after another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil,when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in therow so unexpected that he had to look again to verify thediscovery.
He had been perfectly right. There it was, in gold letters.
THE LONELY HEARTBYANN CHESTERHe extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Evennow he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair thebenefit of the doubt, and assume that some one else of the samename had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy'scharacter--one of his many defects--that he loathed and scornedminor poetry and considered minor poets, especially whenfeminine, an unnecessary affliction. He declined to believe thatAnn, his Ann, a girl full of the finest traits of character, thegirl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative strangerto break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Crocker, couldalso be capable of writing The Lonely Heart and other poems. Heskimmed through the first one he came across, and shuddered. Itwas pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they filled up pageswith in the magazines when the detective story did not run longenough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters readalone to other long-haired blighters in English suburbandrawing-rooms. It was the sort of stuff which--to be brief--gavehim the Willies. No, it could not be Ann who had written it.
The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There wasan inscription on the title page.
"To my dearest uncle Peter, with love from the author, AnnChester."The room seemed to reel before Jimmy's eyes. He felt as if afriend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as ifsome loved one had smitten him over the back of the head with asandbag. For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotionto Ann wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in someterrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hithertoideal character.
Then his eye fell upon the date on the title page, and a strongspasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he lovedher still. This frightful volume had been published five yearsago.
A wave of pity swept over Jimmy. He did not blame her now. Shehad been a mere child five years ago, scarcely old enough todistinguish right from wrong. You couldn't blame her for writingsentimental verse at that age. Why, at a similar stage in his owncareer he had wanted to be a vaudeville singer. Everything mustbe excused to Youth. It was with a tender glow of affectionateforgiveness that he turned the pages.
As he did so a curious thing happened to him. He began to havethat feeling, which every one has experienced at some time orother, that he had done this very thing before. He was almostconvinced that this was not the first time he had seen that poemon page twenty-seven entitled "A Lament." Why, some of the linesseemed extraordinarily familiar. The people who understood thesethings explained this phenomenon, he believed, by some stuffabout the cells of the brain working simultaneously or something.
Something about cells, anyway. He supposed that that must be it.
But that was not it. The feeling that he had read all this beforegrew instead of vanishing, as is generally the way on theseoccasions. He _had_ read this stuff before. He was certain of it.
But when? And where? And above all why? Surely he had not done itfrom choice.
It was the total impossibility of his having done it from choicethat led his memory in the right direction. There had only been ayear or so in his life when he had been obliged to read thingswhich he would not have read of his own free will, and that hadbeen when he worked on the _Chronicle_. Could it have been thatthey had given him this book of poems to review? Or--?
And then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken allthis time to make the first part of the journey, finished therest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew.
And with the illumination came dismay. Worse than dismay. Horror.
"Gosh!" said Jimmy.
He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their firstmeeting in London that he had seen hair like Ann's before. Themists rolled away and he saw everything clear and stark. He knewwhat had happened at that meeting five years before, to which shehad so mysteriously alluded. He knew what she had meant thatevening on the boat, when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker withhaving cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into beingabout his temples. He could remember that interview now, asclearly as if it had happened five minutes ago instead of fiveyears. He could recall the article for the _Sunday Chronicle_ whichhe had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto withwhich he had written it. He had had a boy's undisciplined senseof humour in those days, the sense of humour which riots like ayoung colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes. He shudderedat the recollection of the things he had hammered out sogleefully on his typewriter down at the _Chronicle_ office. Hefound himself recoiling in disgust from the man he had been, theman who could have done a wanton thing like that withoutcompunction or ruth. He had read extracts from the article to anappreciative colleague. . . .
A great sympathy for Ann welled up in him. No wonder she hatedthe memory of Jimmy Crocker.
It is probable that remorse would have tortured him even further,had he not chanced to turn absently to page forty-six and read apoem entitled "Love's Funeral." It was not a long poem, and hehad finished it inside of two minutes; but by that time a changehad come upon his mood of self-loathing. He no longer felt like aparticularly mean murderer. "Love's Funeral" was like a tonic.
It braced and invigourated him. It was so unspeakably absurd, sopoor in every respect. All things, he now perceived, had workedtogether for good. Ann had admitted on the boat that it was hissatire that had crushed out of her the fondness for this sort ofthing. If that was so, then the part he had played in her lifehad been that of a rescuer. He thought of her as she was now andas she must have been then to have written stuff like this, andhe rejoiced at what he had done. In a manner of speaking the Annof to-day, the glorious creature who went about the placekidnapping Ogdens, was his handiwork. It was he who had destroyedthe minor poetry virus in her.
The refrain of an old song came to him.
"You made me what I am to-day!
I hope you're satisfied!"He was more than satisfied. He was proud of himself.
He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm,somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of hisdeed of kindness. To Ann Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sortof blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his realidentity--or not until he had succeeded by assiduous toil, as hehoped he would, in neutralising that prejudice of the distantpast.
A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the bookquickly back into its place. Ann came in, and shut the doorbehind her.
"Well?" she said eagerly.
Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her andthinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood therepurged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know howher nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Ann who stoodthere, not the author of "The Lonely Heart.""Did you ask her?""Yes. But--"Ann's face fell.
"Oh! She won't let him come back?""She absolutely refused. I did my best.""I know you did."There was a silence.
"Well, this settles it," said Jimmy. "Now you will have to let mehelp you."Ann looked troubled.
"But it's such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you.
Isn't impersonation a criminal offence?""What does it matter? They tell me prisons are excellent placesnowadays. Concerts, picnics--all that sort of thing. I shan'tmind going there. I have a nice singing-voice. I think I will tryto make the glee-club.""I suppose we are breaking the law," said Ann seriously. "I toldJerry that nothing could happen to us except the loss of hisplace to him and being sent to my grandmother to me, but I'mbound to say I said that just to encourage him. Don't you thinkwe ought to know what the penalty is, in case we are caught?""It would enable us to make our plans. If it's a life sentence, Ishouldn't worry about selecting my future career.""You see," explained Ann, "I suppose they would hardly send me toprison, as I'm a relation--though I would far rather go therethan to grandmother's. She lives all alone miles away in thecountry, and is strong on discipline--but they might do all sortsof things to you, in spite of my pleadings. I really think youhad better give up the idea, I'm afraid my enthusiasm carried meaway. I didn't think of all this before.""Never. This thing goes through, or fails over my dead body. Whatare you looking for?"Ann was deep in a bulky volume which stood on a lectern by thewindow.
"Catalogue," she said briefly, turning the pages. "Uncle Peterhas heaps of law books. I'll look up kidnapping. Here we are. LawEncyclopedia. Shelf X. Oh, that's upstairs. I shan't be aminute."She ran to the little staircase, and disappeared. Her voice camefrom the gallery.
"Here we are. I've got it.""Shoot," said Jimmy.
"There's such a lot of it," called the voice from above. "Pagesand pages. I'm just skimming. Wait a moment."A rustling followed from the gallery, then a sneeze.
"This is the dustiest place I was ever in," said the voice. "It'sinches deep everywhere. It's full of cigarette ends, too. I musttell uncle. Oh, here it is. Kidnapping--penalties--""Hush" called Jimmy. "There's some one coming."The door opened.
"Hello," said Ogden, strolling in. "I was looking for you. Didn'tthink you would be here.""Come right in, my little man, and make yourself at home," saidJimmy.
Ogden eyed him with disfavour.
"You're pretty fresh, aren't you?""This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley.""Eh? Who's he?""Oh, a gentleman who knew what was what."Ogden closed the door.
"Well, I know what's what, too. I know what you are for onething." He chuckled. "I've got your number all right.""In what respect?"Another chuckle proceeded from the bulbous boy.
"You think you're smooth, don't you? But I'm onto you, JimmyCrocker. A lot of Jimmy Crocker you are. You're a crook. Get me?
And I know what you're after, at that. You're going to try tokidnap me."From the corner of his eye Jimmy was aware of Ann's startledface, looking over the gallery rail and withdrawn hastily. Nosound came from the heights, but he knew that she was listeningintently.
"What makes you think that?"Ogden lowered himself into the depths of his favourite easychair, and, putting his feet restfully on the writing-desk, metJimmy's gaze with a glassy but knowing eye.
"Got a cigarette?" he said.
"I have not," said Jimmy. "I'm sorry.""So am I.""Returning, with your permission, to our original subject," saidJimmy, "what makes you think that I have come here to kidnapyou?"Ogden yawned.
"I was in the drawing-room after lunch, and that guy LordWisbeach came in and said he wanted to talk to mother privately.
Mother sent me out of the room, so of course I listened at thedoor.""Do you know where little boys go who listen to privateconversations?" said Jimmy severely.
"To the witness-stand generally, I guess. Well, I listened, and Iheard this Lord Wisbeach tell mother that he had only pretendedto recognise you as Jimmy Crocker and that really he had neverseen you before in his life. He said you were a crook and thatthey had got to watch you. Well, I knew then why you had comehere. It was pretty smooth, getting in the way you did. I've gotto hand it to you."Jimmy did not reply. His mind was occupied with the contemplationof this dashing counter-stroke on the part of Gentleman Jack. Hecould hardly refrain from admiring the simple strategy with whichthe latter had circumvented him. There was an artistry about themove which compelled respect.
"Well, now, see here," said Ogden, "you and I have got to gettogether on this proposition. I've been kidnapped twice before,and the only guys that made anything out of it were thekidnappers. It's pretty soft for them. They couldn't have got acent without me, and they never dreamed of giving me a rake-off.
I'm getting good and tired of being kidnapped for other people'sbenefit, and I've made up my mind that the next guy that wants mehas got to come across. See? My proposition is fifty-fifty. Ifyou like it, I'm game to let you go ahead. If you don't like it,then the deal's off, and you'll find that you've a darned poorchance of getting me. When I was kidnapped before, I was just akid, but I can look after myself now. Well, what do you say?"Jimmy found it hard at first to say anything. He had neverproperly understood the possibilities of Ogden's characterbefore. The longer he contemplated him, the more admirable Ann'sscheme appeared. It seemed to him that only a resolute keeper ofa home for dogs would be adequately equipped for dealing withthis remarkable youth.
"This is a commercial age," he said.
"You bet it is," said Ogden. "My middle name is business. Say,are you working this on your own, or are you in with BuckMaginnis and his crowd?""I don't think I know Mr. Maginnis.""He's the guy who kidnapped me the first time. He's a rough-neck.
Smooth Sam Fisher got away with me the second time. Maybe you'rein with Sam?""No.""No, I guess not. I heard that he had married and retired frombusiness. I rather wish you were one of Buck's lot. I like Buck.
When he kidnapped me, I lived with him and he gave me a swelltime. When I left him, a woman came and interviewed me about itfor one of the Sunday papers. Sob stuff. Called the piece 'EvenKidnappers Have Tender Hearts Beneath A Rough Exterior.' I've gotit upstairs in my press-clipping album. It was pretty bad slush.
Buck Maginnis hasn't got any tender heart beneath his roughexterior, but he's a good sort and I liked him. We used to shootcraps. And he taught me to chew. I'd be tickled to death to haveBuck get me again. But, if you're working on your own, all right.
It's all the same to me, provided you meet me on the terms.""You certainly are a fascinating child.""Less of it, less of it. I've troubles enough to bear withouthaving you getting fresh. Well, what about it? Talk figures. If Ilet you take me away, do we divvy up or d............