White / Allam Collected Short Stories - Book17

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-632-588812-7
Verlag: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, Band 17, 280 Seiten

Reihe: Collected Short Stories

Collected Short Stories - Book 17 by Fred M. White is a captivating collection of thrilling tales that take readers on a journey through mystery, suspense, and adventure. Each story is crafted with White's signature style, blending atmospheric settings with intricate plots and compelling characters. From high-stakes criminal capers to supernatural encounters, this volume will keep you guessing with every twist and turn. Perfect for fans of classic short fiction, these stories are a treasure trove of intrigue, danger, and surprise. Dive in and experience the timeless charm of Fred M. White's storytelling.

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.

White, Fred M.

Allam, Rafat

Leseproben

AND THIS IS FAME!

Published in The Sunday Times, Perth, Australia, 18 Oct 1931

WHEN Tommy Allnatt, the famous comedian, arrived at the studio of the equally famous painter, Alonzo Paradine, there was no sign of the lunch to which Tommy had been invited; in fact, there was no sign of anybody, not even a servant to answer the bell. Therefore, Tommy was pardonably annoyed.

None the less because the front door gave to a turn of the lock and Tommy found himself free to enter the studio proper. Just like Paradine to forget all about the lunch and give his domestic staff a holiday for the day.

Left to himself. London's leading low comedian—and the greatest practical joker since J. L. Toole—prowled about the studio where the immortal Paradine painted his pictures and entertained the salt of the earth.

But Tommy was not concerned with Paradine's greatness at the moment. He was torn between wolfish hunger and humorous irritability. None the less so because this was not the first time Paradine had played the same trick on his friends. Time he had a lesson. Time to teach him that his absentmindedness was not a paying game. Perhaps an epoch-making practical joke—

The idea shaped as Tommy sat eating caviare and biscuits looted from a Tudor buffet and washed down with a whisky and soda imbibed from a priceless goblet of Venetian glass. As the inner man swung to equilibrium the grin on Tommy's face broadened. The great idea was burgeoning like a flower.

"It would serve him right," he muttered. "Hang me if I don't do it!"

From a huge wardrobe in ebony and ivory inlay Tommy produced certain sartorial properties such as artists keep for their models. A wig and a beard and a pair of spectacles; a suit of rags, complete with rusty boots; and in these Tommy proceeded to array himself. An impromptu make-up completed the picture of honest poverty under a cloud of financial depression. Hastily gathering together half-a-dozen or so of canvasses from a corner of the studio, Tommy crept into the street until he reached the spot he had in mind, and there on a stretch of pavement in view of Chelsea's best and brightest, sat down to do business with all and sundry in search of masterpieces at jumble sale prices. Not that he would sell a single one, and thus, cover the great Paradine with confusion and ridicule.

For some time he had the cold, hard world to himself. In a harsh, commercial age, art seemed to be a drug on the market. Then presently there shuffled into sight a snuffy man whose beady eyes lighted on the array of pictures displayed on the pavement. The little man checked and for some moments stood contemplating the show with his head on one side, like a thrush gloating over a particularly fat snail.

"Dear me!" he piped. "Your own work? What?"

"And for sale, sir," Tommy said meekly.

"Very sad, very sad!" the little man declared. "Clever, very clever. Distinct touches of originality. The later French school. You have studied in Paris?"

"Never had a lesson in my life," Tommy said, truthfully.

"Amazing!" the little man cried. "Amazing! you haven't stolen those sketches by any chance?"

Tommy contrived a sad, disarming smile. The little man hopped around excitedly.

"I apologise!" he wheezed. "I am in a humble way a collector. But my means are limited, very limited. If you care to take fifteen shillings each for those—What, what?"

Tommy shuffled uneasily. The great joke was not developing according to plan. His scheme had been to sit there the best part of the afternoon peddling choice Paradines and being able to boast afterwards that he never secured an offer for one. It was imperative that he should hedge.

"Sir," he said, grandly, "I may be poor, but I have my pride. And the laborer is worthy of his hire. A fiver a head all round and call it a deal."

If Tommy was under the impression that this appreciation of stock would choke off the snuffy old gentleman he was speedily disillusioned. He merely smiled a crafty smile.

"My friend," he wheezed, "before you took up your stand here did it occur to you that a hawker's license was requisite—indeed, imperative?"

"Is that a fact, old bean?" Tommy asked, forgetting himself in face of this startling riposte. "Mean to say—"

"Quite," the little man chuckled. "Show me your license, or the policeman on point duty yonder—"

"All right," Tommy said recklessly. "Take the bally lot at your own price. A quid a piece. Come!"

The snuffy little man produced a roll of notes and counted out six of them into Tommy's shrinking palm. A few moments later the purchaser was rolling away in a taxi and Tommy was after him in another. There was a little delay in getting away, for the driver of the second cab shied openly at Tommy's rags until the sight of a Treasury note calmed his fears.

"I'm fly, gov'nor," he grinned. "Not the first time as I've 'ad a copper in disguise in my keb."

Exactly seventeen minutes later the first cab pulled up in front of a palatial mansion in Park-street, where the little man alighted, and let himself in with a latchkey.

"Well, I'm done!" Tommy groaned dismally.

* * * * *

It was well into the marrow of the afternoon when Tommy, divested of his rags, crept into the smoking room of his club and ordered a whisky and soda. He was grateful to find the room comparatively deserted, save for a group of three discussing art in the big bay window. The big boom of Lucius Farmiloe laying down the law came mistily to Tommy's ears. The great editor of 'Thought' holding his audience in thrall like the Ancient Mariner. It was a way that majestic art critic had.

"These amateur collectors are all alike," he said. "A man like Grimstein thinks he knows everything, because he possesses the money-making instinct. Oh, I grant you his collection of modern art is a fine one, but when those chaps come to rely on their own judgment—well, there!"

"Go on—we'll buy it," a listener said wearily.

"Well, it's like this," Farmiloe went on, "Grimstein 'phoned me about three o'clock to give him a call as he had just got hold of a lot of early Paradines. Bought 'em from a marine store dealer or something like that. All rot, because there are no early Paradines knocking about. I ought to know."

"Course," Gregory of the 'Daily Messenger' agreed. "Paradine was invented and patented by you. Did you go?"

"What do you think? I knew what I was going to find, my boy. Forgeries. Still, if Grimstein was anxious to pay my fee as a professional expert, I was agreeable. So round to Park-street I went without delay."

Tommy Allnatt started. The words 'Park-street' struck on his ears like a bomb. Beyond a doubt Farmiloe was speaking of the snuffy little man who had brought the great joke tumbling in ruins about the comedian's head.

"Well, go on," Gregory said. "The plot intrigues me."

"So I went," Farmiloe resumed. "There were six of those things altogether and it didn't take me long to tell my man just what my opinion of the rubbish was."

"Then they weren't Paradines at all?"

"Naw," Farmiloe snarled in deep contempt. "Not altogether bad stuff and not devoid of feeling, but palpable forgeries. The old chap was mad with me because I refused to be bullied, and we paraded on terms of armed neutrality. Just as if Paradine ever painted a picture I couldn't trace, you chaps."

All of which was pleasant hearing for the unhappy Tommy. He sat there apparently absorbed in a paper whilst he was drinking in every word that the eminent critic was saying. The great Joke had not only fizzled out, but the aftermath promised to make Tommy a figure of fun for many a day to come. And suppose that Grimstein chose to appeal to Caesar himself, represented in this case by Paradine? If he did, what then? The whole story would trickle into the popular press—just the kind of thing the master of pungent paragraphs, one Hannibal Barr, would love to handle in one of his social columns.

And then, as fate would have it. Barr himself appeared just in time to gather what Farmiloe was saying.

"Let's have that all over again," he demanded.

Tommy smothered a groan. Unless some miracle happened, he could see himself the victim of every little street boy in London. But what could he do? Go to Paradine and make a clean breast of it and invoke his aid. But then he had always regarded Paradine as little better than a child in arms in worldly matters, which in point of fact, he was. Or perhaps Farmiloe himself would help. But he didn't want to go to that superior person with his patronising pomposity if there was any other way out. And he didn't want to be laughed at—it is the one thing your practical Joker all over the world most dreads.

Meanwhile the paragraphist was gleaning what promised to be a rich harvest of copy from Farmiloe's story. Tommy could almost see the pungent narrative in print.

"Mean to say the stuff was all junk?" Barr asked when at length Farmiloe had finished. "Impudent forgeries?"

"Looks like it," Farmiloe said. "Lots of that sort of thing going on. Traps to catch flats like Grimstein."

"But I thought he was a...