E-Book, Englisch, Band 11, 280 Seiten
Reihe: Collected Short Stories
White / Allam Collected Short Stories - Book11
1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-4-04-952939-5
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
E-Book, Englisch, Band 11, 280 Seiten
Reihe: Collected Short Stories
ISBN: 978-4-04-952939-5
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
Fred M. White (1859-1935) was a British author known for his prolific output of mystery, adventure, and speculative fiction. He is most famous for his early science fiction disaster novels, particularly 'The Doom of London' series, which depicted catastrophic events befalling the city. White wrote hundreds of short stories and serialized works, which were popular in magazines during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. His works contributed significantly to the development of early science fiction and thriller genres.
Autoren/Hrsg.
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THE APPLE-GREEN PLATE
ILLUSTRATED BY DUDLEY HARDY
Published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol. XLIII, Dec 1915, pp 194-200
FOR scenic purposes the grill-room of Caro's Restaurant consisted of an exceedingly pretty girl in a tailor-made costume and a nice-looking, clean-shaven man in a blue serge suit. There were tables, of course, and red-shaded lamps on little flower-decked tables, a few ubiquitous waiters, and the usual flavour of bygone food. The crowd consisted of other diners, but the man in the blue suit was not in the least concerned with these—indeed, he was ungrateful enough to wonder why the pretty girl with the intelligent grey eyes had seated herself at his table when there were so many places to spare. It was not until the fish was finished that the girl looked up and addressed her companion demurely by name. "I am afraid you are offended with me, Mr. Roscoe," she said.
"Well, no," the man said. "On the whole, I think not. By the way, you are quite sure my name is Roscoe?"
"Of course," the girl smiled. "Mr. Paul Roscoe. Don't you remember that adventure in Norway many years ago, when you saved our party after the fall of the avalanche. I think it was the bravest thing I ever saw. And you were so modest about it, too. You disappeared before any of us could thank you."
"It sounds very nice," Roscoe murmured. "I mean, it's very flattering to one's vanity. I hope you will give me the credit for no desire to pose, but I had quite forgotten all about it. In fact, to tell you the truth, I was not quite sure who I am till you addressed me by name. I suppose there is no doubt whatever that I really am called Roscoe?"
The girl looked up swiftly. But no smile lurked in her companion's eyes—he was cool, but grave.
"Why do you speak so strangely?" she asked.
"Well; I don't mind telling you," Roscoe said. "By the way— Thank you very much. Miss Lucy Lake, of The Daily Telephone. I have never met a lady journalist before. But I like your face, and I think I can trust you. If I don't trust someone, I shall go mad. Now, three days ago, late in the evening, I woke up from a sleep on the Thames Embankment, and since then I have lost my identity. I was dressed as you see me now, I had a few sovereigns and my watch and chain in my pocket, together with a card-case containing some pieces of pasteboard bearing the name 'Paul Roscoe.' For the first time in my life I regretted the fact that it is one of my silly habits not to have an address on my cards. I suppose it is because I change my lodgings so frequently. At any rate, there I was, absolutely alone in London, with no idea of where I lived and where I came from, except that my name was probably Paul Roscoe. But then I might have been anybody else—it might easily have been some other chap's card-case. I gathered I had met with an accident, because, if you look at me closely, you will see that I have a long strip of plaster under my hair, and uncommonly tender the place is. You can imagine what I felt at the time."
"How deeply interesting!" the girl cried. "What did you do then? You did not go to the police, because—"
"Because the police are looking for me," Roscoe smiled, as the girl hesitated. "I am quite aware of that fact. But why they want me, and what I've done, goodness only knows. I don't feel a bit like a criminal, I don't feel as if I had committed any crime. Do I look like a thief?"
"No," Lucy Lake laughed, "you don't."
"Precisely my opinion," Roscoe said. "But don't you think we are getting on rather too fast? Let me go back to the beginning. As a matter of fact, I did not go to the police. I did not feel in the least nervous, because, you see, I had money on me, and I thought that, perhaps, in an hour or two my memory would come back to me. But it did not, and here I am now, feeling like a grown man who was born at the beginning of the week. I can recollect nothing that happened before Monday evening. I walked about till quite late, and then I decided to look for lodgings. But though a man may be well dressed and have money in his pocket, he can't walk into any place at eleven o'clock at night without a portmanteau, even if it happens to be filled with bricks. So I decided to go to one of the Rowton Houses and take a bed-sitting-room there. I knew I could get this for a shilling a night, and that I could obtain my food from the nearest cookshop. You see, the advantage of the Rowton Houses is this—you can go there in rags or in dress-clothes, and nobody is in the least curious. When I woke in the morning, my mind was as blank as ever. But I felt perfectly fit and well, and inclined to let the adventure take its course. I read the papers to see if anybody was interested in the noble family of Roscoe; but no one seemed to be worrying about me till the third day, when I saw a notice issued by Scotland Yard to the effect that one Paul Roscoe had absconded from his lodgings, and that fifty pounds reward was offered to anybody who would give such information as would lead to his—or, rather, my—arrest. This was sufficiently alarming, and none the less so because I had not the remotest notion of what I'd done. Now, do you happen to know?"
"They called it robbery with violence," the girl said.
"Is that a fact?" Roscoe asked blankly. "Then I am mad—Broadmoor is my place. I ought to be locked up. I can only admire your courage in calmly talking to me like this."
"I am a journalist," the girl said. "I have only just joined The Telephone, and I am anxious to make good. To get hold of a really fine story means so much to me. I may tell you that the mysterious disappearance of Paul Roscoe has gripped the popular imagination. Some crimes do."
"Oh, come, I say!" Roscoe protested.
"Well, you see," the girl apologised, "I must for the moment regard you as a case. Robbery with violence has actually been committed, you have disappeared from your lodgings, and the police are looking for you everywhere. I had only a vague idea that you were the Mr. Roscoe I knew; but when I came by blind luck into this restaurant here, and saw you sitting at this table, I was sure of my ground, especially when I saw you had shaved off your moustache. That was a foolish thing to do."
"Do you think so?" Roscoe asked forlornly. "Well, perhaps I was a bit nervous. You see, I had money, and it was easy enough to buy a few necessaries, such as shirts and collars and toothbrush, to say nothing of a safety razor. But I have not made the slightest attempt to hide myself—my presence here proves that. I dare say that's why the police have not picked me up. And, you see, there was always the chance of running up against someone who knew me—yourself, for instance."
"It really is a most remarkable case," Lucy said, with professional enthusiasm. "I am speaking now, of course, as a journalist. As a woman, I sympathise with you deeply, and I feel quite sure there is a hideous mistake somewhere. But had not you anything about you to prove your identity beyond a card-case? I thought all men carried a lot of letters in their pockets."
"Oh, thanks for reminding me," Roscoe exclaimed. "There was a telegram. I dare say, when I got it, it was intelligible enough, but it's so much Greek to me now. As a personal favour, tell me what you make of it."
Roscoe flattened the telegram out on the table. The postmark was Birmingham; it was addressed to one Roscoe at the lodgings which he had, so to speak, evacuated, and ran—•
ARRANGE FOR YOU TO SEE VENDOR TO-NIGHT.
WHATEVER YOU DO, BRING THE GOODS WITH YOU.
WILL MEET YOUR TRAIN. WALTER.
"Now , what do you make of that?" Roscoe asked. "Who the Dickens is Walter, and what is he so anxious for me to take to Birmingham? Did he meet my train by which I did not arrive, and has he communicated with the police? Now, how I got that telegram I have not the remotest idea. And there's another thing—in one of my side coat-pockets is a piece of a broken plate. Now, where on earth did I get a piece of broken plate? Why—oh, why did I put that platter in my pocket?"
Miss Lake's eyes lighted up swiftly. She bent forward eagerly and grasped Roscoe by the arm.
"I hope you did not throw that away?" she whispered.
"Well, I did not," Roscoe said. "Here it is. And, in some vague way, I seem to feel that I am, or was, a judge of old china. You see, this piece has been part of a plate which has been broken and most cleverly mended without the aid of rivets. You can see that by the brown edges of the paste. I should say that the plate had been dropped, and that the shock had detached this fragment without further damaging it. It looks to me like a bit of the famous apple-green which is one of the characteristics of Chinese pottery belonging to the Ming Dynasty. You will see that there is a curious thread of gold running through it— indeed, I should not be surprised to find that this plate at one time had formed part of the famous Middleton dinner service. There was one plate missing in that amazing collection, but I am so misty and confused that I can't work it out anyhow. Now, do you happen to know anything about Oriental china?"
"Absolutely nothing," Lucy Lake admitted. "Now, in return, would you mind answering a question for me? Is the name of Sir Peter Mallison at all familiar to you?"
Roscoe rubbed his forehead vaguely.
...