“ANTHONY NEWTON was a soldier at sixteen; at twenty-six he was a beggar of favors.” Thus Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875–1932) introduces the young man who finds success as a con man and thief. After his military service, Newton makes every effort to gain honest employment but without luck. He does find that his quick wit and amusing tongue make him a successful scam artist, so he devotes his energies to that endeavor.
Newton is merely one of many rogues created by Wallace. As a populist writer, Wallace found that common people related to his rogues—criminals who were not violent or physically dangerous but whose talents and inclinations led them to the other side of the law. Others include Anthony Smith (The Mixer, 1927), “Elegant” Edward Farthindale (Elegant Edward, 1928), and Four Square Jane (Four Square Jane, 1929). Readers rooted for these and other of Wallace’s numerous literary criminals, who always stole from the wealthy and powerful.
The prolific Wallace reputedly wrote one hundred seventy novels, eighteen stage plays, nine hundred fifty-seven short stories, and elements of numerous screenplays and scenarios, including the first British sound version of The Hound of the Baskervilles; one hundred sixty films, both silent and sound, have been based on his books and stories.
“On Getting an Introduction” was first published in The Brigand (London, Hodder & Stoughton, 1927).
POLITE BRIGANDAGE has its novel aspects and its moments of fascination. Vulgar men, crudely furnished in the matter of ideas, may find profit in violence, but the more subtle and the more delicate nuances of the art of gentle robbery had an especial attraction for one who, in fulfilment of the poet’s ambition, could count the game before the prize.
So it came about that Mr. Newton found himself in an awkward situation. The two near wheels of his car were in a ditch; he with some difficulty had maintained himself at the steering wheel, though the branches of the overhanging hedge were so close to him that he had to twist his head on one side. Nevertheless, he maintained an attitude of supreme dignity as he climbed out of his car, and the eyes that met the girl’s alarmed gaze were full of gentle reproach.
She sat bolt upright at the wheel of her beautiful Daimler, and for a while was speechless.
“You were on the wrong side of the road,” said Tony gently.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she gasped. “I sounded my horn, but these wretched Sussex lanes are so blind…”
“Say no more about it,” said Anthony. He surveyed the ruins of his car gravely.
“I thought you would see me as you came down the hill,” she said in excuse. “I saw you and I sounded my horn.”
“I didn’t hear it,” said Anthony, “but that is beside the question. The fault is entirely mine, but I fear my poor car is completely ruined.”
She got out and stood beside him, the figure of penitence, her eyes fixed upon the drunken wreck.
“If I had not turned immediately into the ditch,” said Anthony, “there would have been a collision. And it is better that I should ruin my car than I should occasion you the slightest apprehension.”
She drew a quick sigh.
“Thank goodness it is only an old car,” she said. “Of course, Daddy will—”
Anthony could not allow the statement to pass unchallenged.
“It looks old now,” he said gently; “it looks even decrepit. It has all the appearance of ruin which old age, alas, brings, but it is not an old car.”
“It is an old model,” she insisted. “Why, that’s about twenty years old—I can tell from the shape of the wing.”
“The wings of my car,” said Anthony, “may be old fashioned. I am an old fashioned man, and I like old fashioned wings. In fact, I insisted upon having those old fashioned wings put on this perfectly new car. You have only to look at the beautiful coach work—the lacquer—”
“You lacquered it yourself,” she accused him. “Anybody can see that that has been newly done.” She touched the paint with her finger, and it left a little black stain. “There,” she said triumphantly, “It has been done with ‘Binko,’ you can see the advertisements in all the papers: ‘Binko dries in two hours.’ ” She touched the paint again and looked at the second stain on her finger. “That means you painted it a fortnight ago,” she said, “it always takes a month to dry.”
Anthony said nothing. He felt that her discovery called for silence. Moreover, he could not, for the moment, think of any appropriate rejoinder.
“Of course,” she went on more warmly, “it was very fine of you to take such a dreadful risk. My father, I know, will be very grateful.”
She looked at the car again.
“You don’t think you could get it up,” she said.
Anthony was very sure he could not restore the equilibrium of his car. He had bought it a week before for thirty pounds. The owner had stuck out for thirty-five, and Anthony had tossed him thirty pounds or forty, and had won. Anthony always won those tosses. He kept a halfpenny in his pocket which had a tail on each side, and since ninety-nine people out of a hundred say “heads” when you flip a coin in the air, it was money for nothing.
“Shall I drive you into Pilbury?” she said.
“Is there anywhere I can find a telephone?” asked Anthony.
“I’ll take you back to the house,” said Jane Mansar suddenly. “It’s quite near, you can telephone from there, and I’d like you to have a talk with father. Of course, we will not allow you to lose by your unselfish action, though I did sound my horn as I came round the corner.”
“I didn’t hear it,” said Anthony gravely.
He climbed in, and she backed the car into a gateway, turned and sped at a reckless pace back the way she had come. She turned violently from the road, missed one of the lodge gates by a fraction of an inch and accelerated up a broad drive to a big white house that showed sketchily between the encircling elms. She braked suddenly and Anthony got out with relief.
Mr. Gerald Mansar was a stout, bald man, whose fiery countenance was relieved by a pure white moustache and bristling white eyebrows. He listened with thunderous calm whilst his pretty daughter told the story of her narrow escape.
“You sounded your horn?” he insisted.
“Yes, father, I am sure I sounded the horn.”
“And you were going, of course, at a reasonable pace,” said Mr. Mansar.
In his early days he had had some practice at the law in the County Courts. Anthony Newton recognised the style and felt it was an appropriate moment to step in.
“You quite understand, Mr. Mansar, that I completely exonerate Miss Mansar from any responsibility,” he interjected. “I am perfectly sure she sounded the horn, though I did not hear it. I am completely satisfied and can vouch for the fact that she was proceeding at a very leisurely pace, and whatever fault there was, was mine.”
Anthony Newton was a very keen student of men, particularly of rich men. He had studied them from many angles, and one of the first lessons he learnt in presenting a claim, was to exonerate these gentlemen from any legal responsibility. The rich hate and loathe the onus of legal responsibility. They will spend extravagant sums in law costs to demonstrate to the satisfaction of themselves and the world that they are not legally responsible for the payment of a boot-black’s fee. The joy of wealth is generosity. There was never a millionaire born who would not prefer to give a thousand than to pay a disputed penny.
Mr. Mansar’s puckered face relaxed.
“I shall certainly not allow you to be the loser, Mr.—”
“Newton is my name.”
“Newton. You are not in the firm of Newton, Boyd, and Wilkins, are you, the rubber people?”
“No,” said Anthony. “I never touch rubber.”
“You are not the pottery Newton, are you?” asked Mr. Mansar hopefully.
“No,” said Anthony gravely, “we have always kept clear of pots.”
After Mr. Mansar had, by cross-examination, discovered that he wasn’t one of the Warwickshire Newtons, or Monmouth Newtons, or a MacNewton of Ayr, or one of those Irish Newtons, or a Newton of Newton Abbot, but was just an ordinary London Newton, his interest momentarily relaxed.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “what shall we do?”
The girl smiled.
“I think at least we ought to ask Mr. Newton to lunch,” she said and the old man, who seemed at a loss as to how the proceedings might reasonably be terminated or developed, brightened up at the suggestion.
“I noticed that you mentioned me by name. Of course, my daughter told you—” he said.
Anthony smiled.
“No, sir,” he replied, “but I know the city rather well and, of course, your residence in this part of the world is as well known as—”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Gerald Mansar. He had no false ideas as to his fame. The man who had engineered the Nigerian oil boom, the Irish linen boom, who floated the Milwaukee paper syndicate for two millions, could have no illusions about his obscurity.
“You are in the city yourself, Mr. Newton?”
“Yes,” admitted Anthony.
He was in the city to the extent of hiring an office on a first floor of a city building; and it was true he had his name painted on the door. It was an office not big enough to swing a cat, as one of his acquaintances had pointed out. Anthony however, did not keep cats. And if he had kept them, he would certainly have never been guilty of such cruelty.
The lunch was not an unpleasant function, for a quite unexpected factor had come into his great scheme. Nobody knew better than Anthony Newton that it was Mr. Mansar himself who every Saturday morning drove the Daimler into Pullington, and when Anthony had purchased his racketty car, spending many hours in the application of “Binko” to endow it with a more youthful complexion, he had not dreamt that the adventure would end so pleasantly. He knew that Mr. Millionaire Mansar had a daughter—he had a vague idea that somebody had told him she was pretty. He did not anticipate when he engineered his accident so carefully, that it would be at her expense.
For, whatever else he was, Anthony Newton was an honest adventurer. He had decided that there was money in honest adventure; he had reached this conclusion after he had made a careful study of the press. There were other adventurers whose names figured conspicuously in the police court reports. They were all ingenious and painstaking men, but their ingenuity and foresight were employed in ways which made no appeal to one who had strict, but not too strict, views on the sacredness of property.
Some of these adventurers had walked into isolated post offices, a mask over their faces and a revolver in their hands and had carried off the contents of the till, amidst the loud protests of postal officials who were on the spot. Others had walked into banks similarly disguised and had drawn out balances which were certainly not due to them.
And Anthony, thinking out the matter, decided that it was quite possible, by the exercise of his mental talent, to secure quite a lot of money without taking the slightest risks.
He wished to know Mr. Mansar. Mr. Mansar, in ordinary circumstances, was unapproachable. To step into his office and demand an interview was almost as futile as stepping up to the stamp counter in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and asking to see the Postmaster-General. Mr. Mansar was surrounded by guards, inner and outer, by secretaries, by heads of departments, by general managers and managing directors, to say nothing of commissionaires, doorkeepers, messengers, and plain clerks.
There are two ways of getting acquainted with the great. One is to discover their hobbies, which is the weakest side of their defence, and the other is to drop in upon them on their holidays. The man you cannot meet in the City of London is very accessible in the Hotel de la Paix.
But apparently Mr. Mansar never took a holiday, and his only hobby was keeping alive an illusion of his profound genius.
Lunch over, and Anthony’s object achieved, there seemed no excuse for his lingering. He awaited, with some confidence, the grave intimation that a car was ready to take him to the station, and that Mr. Mansar would be glad if he would dine with him at his London house on Thursday. Maybe it would be Wednesday. Possibly, thought Anthony, the function might be deferred for a week or two. But the intimation did not come. He was treated as though he had arrived for a permanent stay.
Mr. Mansar showed him the library, and told him to make himself comfortable, pointing out certain books which had amused him (Mr. Mansar) in his moments of leisure.
Anthony Newton cooed and settled himself, not perhaps to read, but to think large and beautiful thoughts of great financial coups which he might engineer with this prince of financiers, of partnerships maybe, certainly of profits.
There was a big window looking out upon a marble terrace and as he read, or pretended to read, Mr. and Miss Mansar paced restlessly along the paved walk. They were talking in a low voice and Anthony, having surrendered all sense of decorum, crept nearer to the window and listened as they passed.
“He is much better looking than the last one,” murmured Jane, and he saw Mr. Mansar nod.
Much better looking than the last one? Anthony scratched his head.
Presently they came back.
“He has a very clever face,” said Jane, and Mr. Mansar grunted.
Anthony had not the slightest doubt as to whom they were talking about. When she said “clever face” he knew it was himself.
They did not return again, and Anthony waited on, a little impatient, a little curious; he had decided that he himself would make a move to go, when Mr. Mansar came into the library and carefully closed the door behind him.
“I want a little talk with you, Mr. Newton,” he said solemnly. “It has occurred to me that you might be of the very greatest service to my firm.”
Anthony cleared his throat. The same thought had occurred to him also.
“Do you know Brussels at all?”
“Intimately,” said Anthony promptly. He had never been to Brussels, but he knew that he could get a working knowledge of the city from any guide book.
Mr. Mansar stroked his chin, pursed his lips, frowned, and then:
“It is providential, your arriving,” he said. “I have a very confidential mission which I have been looking for somebody to undertake. In fact, I thought of going to town this afternoon to find a man for the purpose but, as I say, your arrival has been miraculously providential. I have been discussing it with my daughter, I hope you will forgive that little impertinence,” he said, courteously.
Anthony Newton forgave him there and then.
“My daughter, who is a judge of character, is rather impressed by you.”
It was clear to Anthony now that he had been the subject of the conversation he had overheard. He was tingling with curiosity to discover exactly the nature of the mission which was to be entrusted to him. Mr. Mansar did not keep him waiting long.
“I want you to go by tonight’s train to Brussels. You will arrive on Sunday morning, and remain there until Wednesday morning. Have you sufficient money for your journey?”
“Oh, yes,” said Anthony, airily.
“Good.” Mr. Mansar nodded gravely, as though he had never had any doubt upon the matter. “You will carry with you a sealed envelope, which you will open on Wednesday morning in the presence of my Brussels agent, Monsieur Lament, of the firm of Lament and Lament, the great financiers, of whom you must have heard.”
“Naturally,” said Anthony.
“I want you to keep your mission a secret, tell nobody, you understand?”
Anthony understood perfectly.
“I leave the method of travel to you. There is a train to London in half an hour; here is the letter.”
He took it from his inside pocket. It was addressed to Mr. Anthony Newton, and marked “To be opened in the presence of Monsieur Cecil Lament, 119, Rue Partriele, Brussels.”
“I do not promise you that you will be paid very well or even be paid at all, for undertaking this mission,” said the millionaire. “But I rather fancy this experience will be useful to you in more ways than one.”
Anthony detected a certain significance in this cautious promise and smiled happily.
“I think I’ll go along now, sir,” he said briskly. “When I carry out these missions—and as you may guess, this is not the first time that I have been—entrusted with important errands—I prefer that I should lose no time.”
“I think you’re wise,” said Mr. Mansar soberly.
Anthony hoped to see the girl before he went, but here he was disappointed. It was a very ordinary chauffeur who drove him to the station and, passing the wreckage of his car stranded in the ditch, Anthony did not regret one single penny of his expenditure. Anyway, the car would still sell for the price of old iron.
He reached Brussels in time for breakfast on Sunday morning, and on the Monday he made a call at Monsieur Lament’s office. Monsieur Lament was a short, stout man, with a large and bushy beard, and seemed surprised at the advent of this spruce and mysterious young Englishman.
“From M’sieur Mansar,” he said with respect, even veneration. “M’sieur Mansar did not tell me he was sending anybody. Is it in connection with the Rentes?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” said Anthony discreetly. “In fact, sir, I am, so to speak, under sealed orders.”
Monsieur Lament heard the explanation and nodded.
“I honour your discretion, M’sieur,” he said. “Now is there anything I can do for you while you are in Brussels? Perhaps you would dine with me tonight at my club.”
Anthony was very happy to dine with him at his club, because he had brought with him a grossly insufficient sum to pay his expenses.
Over the dinner that night, Monsieur Lament spoke reverently of the great English financier.
“What a wonderful man,” he said, with an expressive gesture. “You are a friend of his, M’sieur Newton?”
“Not exactly a friend,” said Anthony carefully, “how can one be a friend of a monument? One can only stand at a distance and admire.”
“True, true,” said the thoughtful Monsieur Lament. “He is indeed, a remarkable character. And his daughter—” he kissed the tips of his fingers, “what charm, what intelligence, what beauty!”
“Ah!” said Anthony, “what!”
So charming a companion was he, that Monsieur Lament asked him to lunch with him the next day, and this time the Belgian showed some curiosity as to the object of Anthony’s visit.
“Is it in connection with the Turkish loan?” he asked.
Anthony smiled.
“You will, I am sure, agree with me that I must maintain the utmost secrecy,” he said firmly.
“Naturally! Of course! Certainly!” said Monsieur Lament hastily. “I honour your discretion. But if it is in connection with the Turkish loan, or the Viennese Municipal loan—”
Anthony raised his hand with a gesture of gentle insistence.
Monsieur Lament dissolved into apologies.
Anthony was himself curious and he attended M. Lament’s office on Wednesday morning with a joyous sense of anticipation.
In that rosewood-panelled room standing with his back to the white marble fireplace, he tore the flap of the envelope with fingers that shook, for he realised that he might be at the very crisis of his career; and that his good plan to drop into financial society had succeeded beyond his wildest hope.
To his amazement, the letter was from Jane Mansar, and he read it, open-mouthed.
Dear Mr. Newton:
Daddy wants to hand you over to the police or have you ducked in the pond. I chose this method of giving you a graceful exit from the scene, because I feel that such a man of genius and valour should not be subjected to so ignominious a fate. You are the thirty-fourth person who has secured an introduction to my father by novel, and in some cases, painful, methods. I have been rescued from terrifying tramps (who have been hired by my rescuer) some six times. I have been pushed into the river and rescued twice. Daddy has had three people accidentally wounded by him when he has been shooting rabbits, and at least five who have got into the way of his car when he has been driving between the house and the station.
We do recognize and appreciate the novelty of your method, and I confess that for a moment I was deceived by the artistic wreckage of your poor little car. To make absolutely sure that I was not doing you an injustice, I telephoned the local garage, and found, as I expected, that you had kept the car there for a fortnight before the “accident.” Poor Mr. Newton, better luck next time.
Yours sincerely,
Jane Mansar.
Anthony read the letter three times, and then looked mechanically at the slip of paper which was enclosed. It ran:
To MONSIEUR LAMENT,
Pay Mr. Anthony Newton a sum sufficient to enable him to reach London, and to support him on the journey.
Gerald Mansar.
Monsieur Lament was watching the dazed young man.
“Is it important?” he asked eagerly. “Is it to be communicated to me?”
Anthony was never wholly overcome by the most tremendous circumstances. He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, looked at the slip again.
“I regret that I cannot tell you all that this contains,” he said. “I am leaving immediately for Berlin. From Berlin I go to Vienna, from Vienna to Istanbul; from there I must make a hurried journey to Rome, and from Rome I have to get to Tangier. Then I shall reach Gibraltar in a month’s time, and fly to England.”
He handed the slip to Monsieur Lament.
“Pay Mr. Anthony Newton a sufficient sum to enable him to reach London and support him on the journey.”
Monsieur Lament looked at Anthony. “How much will you require, M’sieur?” he asked respectfully.
“About nine hundred pounds, I think,” said Anthony softly.
Monsieur Lament gave him the money then and there and when Mansar got the account he was justifiably annoyed.
He came into Jane, storming.
“That…that…” he spluttered, “rascal…”
“Which rascal, Daddy, you know so many,” she was half smiling.
“Newton…as you know, I gave Lament an order to pay his expenses to London?”
She nodded.
“Well, he drew nine hundred pounds.”
The girl opened her eyes with joyous amazement.
“He told Lament that he was coming home by way of Berlin, Vienna, Istanbul, and Rome,” groaned Mr. Mansar. “Thank God the trans-Siberian railway isn’t working!” he added. It was the one source of comfort he had.