A Fool and His Money Part 41

"By no means impossible," I said calmly, now sure of my ground. "To be perfectly frank with you, I've known from the beginning that they are fakes. Your friend, Count Hohendahl, is n.o.bler than you give him credit for being. He confessed to me at the time our transaction took place that the frescoes were very recent reproductions. The originals, I think, are in London or New York." I saw guilt in the face of Herr Schwartzmuller. His moustaches drooped with the corners of his mouth; he did not seem to be filling out the frock coat quite so completely as when I first beheld him. A shrewd suspicion impelled me to take chances on a direct accusation. I looked straight into the German's eyes and said: "Now that I come to think of it, I am sure he mentioned the name of Schwartzmuller in connection with the--"

"It is not true! It is not true!" roared the expert, without waiting for me to finish. "He lied to you, we--the great firm of Zumpe & Schwartzmuller--we could not be tempted with millions to do such a thing."

I went a step farther in my deductions. Somehow I had grasped the truth: this pair deliberately hoped to swindle me out of forty thousand dollars. They knew the frescoes were imitations and yet they were urging me to spend a huge sum of money in restoring canvases that had been purposely made to look old and flimsy in order to deceive a more cautious purchaser than I. But, as I say, I went a step farther and Deliberately accused Count Tarnowsy.

"Moreover, Count Tarnowsy, you are fully aware of all this."

"My dear fellow,--"

"I'll not waste words. You are a d.a.m.ned scoundrel!"

He measured the distance with his eye and then sprang swiftly forward, striking blindly at my face.

I knocked him down!

Schwartzmuller was near the door, looking over his shoulder as he felt for the great bra.s.s k.n.o.b.

"Mein Gott!" he bellowed.

"Stop!" I shouted. "Come back here and take this fellow away with you!"

Tarnowsy was sitting up, looking about him in a dazed, bewildered manner.

At that moment, p.o.o.pend.y.k.e came running down the stairs, attracted by the loud voices. He was followed closely by three or four wide-eyed glaziers who were working on the second floor.

"In the name of heaven, sir!"

"I've bruised my knuckles horribly," was all that I said. I seemed to be in a sort of a daze myself. I had never knocked a man down before in my life. It was an amazingly easy thing to do. I could hardly believe that I had done it.

Tarnowsy struggled to his feet and faced me, quivering with rage. I was dumbfounded to see that he was not covered with blood. But he was of a light, yellowish green. I could scarcely believe my eyes.

"You shall pay for this!" he cried. The tears rushed to his eyes.

"Coward! Beast! To strike a defenceless man!"

His hand went swiftly to his breast pocket, and an instant later a small revolver flashed into view. It was then that I did another strange and incomprehensible thing. With the utmost coolness I stepped forward and wrested it from his hand. I say strange and incomprehensible for the reason that he was pointing it directly at my breast and yet I had not the slightest sensation of fear. He could have shot me like a dog.

I never even thought of that.

"None of that!" I cried sharply. "Now, will you be good enough to get out of this house--and stay out?"

"My seconds will call on you--"

"And they will receive just what you have received. If you or any of your friends presume to trespa.s.s on the privacy of these grounds of mine, I'll kick the whole lot of you into the Danube. Hawkes! Either show or lead Count Tarnowsy to the gates. As for you, Mr.

Schwartzmuller, I shall expose--"

But the last word in restorations had departed.

CHAPTER XIV

I AM FORCED INTO BEING A HERO

My humblest apologies, dear reader, if I have led you to suspect that I want to be looked upon as a hero. Far from patting myself on the back or holding my chin a little higher because of the set-to in my baronial halls, I confess to a feeling of shame. In my study, where the efficient Blatchford put arnica and bandages on my swollen knuckles, I solemnly declared in the presence of those who attended the clinic--(my entire establishment was there to see that I had the proper attention and to tell me how happy they were that it wasn't any worse)--I say, I declared to all of them that I was an unmitigated fool and undeserving of the slightest mead of praise.

They insisted upon making a hero of me, and might have succeeded, had not the incomparable Britton made the discovery that the Count's revolver was not loaded! Still, they vociferated, I could not have known that at the time of the encounter, nor was it at all likely that the Count knew it himself.

I confess to an inward and shameless glory, however, in the realisation that I had been able to punch the head of the man who had lived with and abused that lovely creature upstairs. He had struck her on more than one occasion, I had it from her own lips. Far worse than that, he had kissed her! But of course I had not knocked him down for that.

I did it because it was simpler than being knocked down myself.

The worst feature of the whole unhappy business was the effect it was likely to have upon my commonly pacific nature. Heretofore I had avoided physical encounters, not because I was afraid of the result, but because I hate brutal, unscientific manifestations of strength. Now, to my surprise, I found that it was a ridiculously easy matter to knock a man down and end the squabble in short order, thereby escaping a great deal in the shape of disgusting recriminations, and coming off victorious with nothing more vital in the way of wounds than a couple of bruised knuckles. (No doubt, with practice, one could even avoid having his knuckles barked.)

Was it not probable, therefore, that my habitual tendency to turn away wrath with a soft answer might suffer a more or less sanguinary shock?

Now that I had found out how simple it was, would I not be satisfied to let my good right hand settle disputes for me--with uniform certainty and despatch? Heaven is my witness that I have no desire to be regarded as a bruiser. I hope that it may never fall to my lot to again knock a man down. But if it should be necessary, I also wish to record the hope that the man may be a husband who has mistreated his wife.

In the course of Blatchford's ministrations I was regaled with eloquent descriptions of the manner in which my late adversary took his departure from the castle. He went forth vowing vengeance, calling down upon my head all the maledictions he could lay his tongue to, and darkly threatening to have me driven out of the country. I was not to expect a call from his seconds. He would not submit his friends to the indignities they were sure to encounter at the hands of a barbarian of my type. But, just the same, I would hear from him. I would regret the day, etc., etc.

I had forgotten Mr. Bangs, the lawyer. Sitting alone in my study, late in the afternoon, smoking a solitary pipe of peace, I remembered him: the man with the top b.u.t.ton off. What had become of him? His presence (or, more accurately, his absence) suddenly loomed up before me as the forerunner of an unwelcome invasion of my preserves. He was, no doubt, a sort of advance agent for the t.i.tus family and its immediate ramifications.

Just as I was on the point of starting out to make inquiries concerning him, there came to my ears the sound of tapping on the back of Red Ludwig's portrait. Not until then did it occur to me that I had been waiting for two hours for that simple manifestation of interest and curiosity from the regions above.

I rushed over and rapped resoundingly upon Ludwig's pudgy knee. The next instant there was a click and then the secret door swung open, revealing the eager, concerned face of my neighbour.

"What has happened?" she cried.

I lifted her out of the frame. Her gaze fell upon the bandaged fist.

"Mr. Bangs spoke of a pistol. Don't tell me that he--he shot you!"

I held up my swollen hand rather proudly. It smelled vilely of arnica.

"This wound was self-inflicted, my dear Countess," I said, thrilled by her expression of concern. "I had the exquisite pleasure--and pain--of knocking your former husband down."

"Oh, splendid!" she cried, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Mr.

Bangs was rather hazy about it, and he would not let me risk telephoning. You knocked Maris down?"

"Emphatically," said I.

She mused. "I think it is the first time it has ever happened to him.

How--how did he like it?"

"It appeared to prostrate him."

She smiled understandingly. "I am glad you did it, Mr. Smart."

"If I remember correctly, you once said that he had struck you, Countess."

Her face flushed. "Yes. On three separate occasions he struck me in the face with his open hand. I--I testified to that effect at the trial. Every one seemed to look upon it as a joke. He swore that they were--were love pats."