# The Man from Toulouse

Extracted from "Windsor" magazine, Vol. 56, 1922, pp. 427-435. Accompanying illustrations by Henry Coller omitted.
THE MAN FROM TOULOUSE
By EDGAR WALLACE
WHEN Jagg Flower was finishing his sentence in the prison at Toulouse, the authorities allowed him certain books wherewith to improve his mind and direct him to the higher life. One such book he remembers well. It opened thus:
"Il y avait une fois vingt-cinq soldats de plomb; ils étaient tous frères; car c'est de la même vieille cuiller de plomb qu'i'ls étaient issus; c'est avec ce vieux métal qu'on les avait tous fondus."
"This," said Jagg Flower, as he flung the improving book from one end of the cell to the other, "is what makes prison life in France so immensely unpopular with the educated classes." Which was duly reported to the governor.
Because Jagg was on the point of release, that official, who had a kindly feeling for the long-faced bank robber, sent him one evening a bundle of English and American newspapers.
"But this," said Jagg, as he opened the Paris edition of The New York Herald, "is both human and luxurious. Regard you, François! Present to Mister the Governor my felicitations and the renewal of my profound respect."
François, the gaoler, grinned admiringly.
On the second day of his reading John Jalgar Flower reached a paragraph in a London newspaper which made him sit up.
"Kenberry House, which at one time ranked with the stately homes of England, has been acquired by the Marquis of Pelborough, with whose romantic career our readers are familiar. A year ago the Marquis was an insurance clerk in a City office. His uncle. Dr. Josephus Beane, of Pelborough, laid claim to the peerage, which had been extinct since 1714, his claim being admitted and the title revived in his favour. It was a melancholy coincidence that the doctor died on the very day he received a notification that the peerage had been revived in his favour. The present Marquis, being the only relative in the tail male——"
"Great snakes!" breathed Mr. Flower. He occupied the remainder of his sentence developing an idea.
Whatever pretensions Kenberry House had to stateliness had long since vanished. It was one of those residences for which fire had a fatal attraction. Its history was a history of successive conflagrations, and every time it had been rebuilt a little smaller, a little less stately, so that the battlemented towers and the grim big gate with its portcullis, which had impressed the peasantry of the Tudor era, had been replaced by chimney-pots and a very ordinary front door. Kenberry House was now too big to describe as a villa and too small to justify the description of mansion.
But the grounds, those glorious sloping meadowlands that ran down to the bubbling Ken, the old gardens and the ancient elms, remained very much as they had been when Queen Elizabeth, with her passion for sleeping at other people's houses, had rested a night on her way to Fotheringay.
Gwenda had read the description of the place in a newspaper advertisement, and had gone down one Sunday, on her return from the South of France, to inspect the property. She was enchanted. The house was just big enough for Chick. The price which was asked was absurdly small, the property, on the whole, was in a state of good repair.
This was especially the case with the house itself, and it was due to the excellent condition of the paintwork and the interior decorations generally that the Marquis of Pelborough found himself hustled out of London and into his newly-furnished country seat before he quite realised what was happening.
That he was profoundly miserable goes without saying. Not even the arrangement which gave him Mrs. Phibbs to organise his household compensated for the violent disruption of his pleasant life in Doughty Street. He would lose Gwenda, who had been mother and manager to him, for she was to take a room in the flat below. Such of the furniture as was worthy of transference to the stately home was sent down by rail; the remainder was sold.
Chick had a feeling that he was being abandoned, and dare not let himself think of what life would be without daily association with Gwenda Maynard. He could not deny the beauty of his new situation, the quiet and restfulness of his demesne, nor was he wholly unimpressed by the discovery that he was the employer of four gardeners, a groom, and a cowman. He was also over-landlord of two farms, and learnt with interest that, by the terms of an ancient charter granted by the fourth Henry, he might, if he were so disposed, hang, on a gallows which he must erect at his own expense, any "cut-throat, cut purse, or stealer of deer" from Morton Highgate to Down Wood, these marking the limitations of his sovereignty. The only bright spot in the situation was that, the run of her play having ended, Gwenda was free to spend a fortnight as his guest.
"But only a fortnight, Chick. I can't and won't live on your charity."
"It will be dreadful when you are gone, Gwenda," he said plaintively. "Every day something new is turning up. I had a letter from uncle's lawyers this morning, asking me for some leases he signed. He owned a tiny piece of land outside Pelborough, and there's a law case pending about the present rights of the tenant."
"But you haven't any of your uncle's documents, have you?" she asked, in surprise.
Chick nodded.
"There's a huge boxful," he said, a ray of hope shining amidst the darkness of his desolation. "Suppose, Gwenda, you stay down here and help me tabulate the papers? I've never touched them, and this is the second time the lawyers have written."
He explained that when his uncle had died and he had disposed of his property, he had found a trunkful of letters and memoranda mostly dealing with old Dr. Beane's claim to the peerage of Pelborough, and these had been supplemented by another mass which he had found in the doctor's desk and in his old safe.
"I've always meant to sort them out and classify them," he said penitently, "but I was depending upon your assistance, Gwenda."
"I'll help you," said the girl, with a twinkle in her eye, "but it will not take more than a fortnight, Chick, and then——"
"Let's be cheerful," said Chick, brightening up. "We'll start on those papers next Monday."
"We'll start this morning," said the girl, but here Chick struck.
He had not fully explored his property, and he insisted that that day should be devoted to the purpose. She accompanied him on a tour, and it was a day of sheer delight.
They sat under the overhanging alders by the side of the little river which formed one of the boundaries of his property, and then Chick had to go back to the house for a new fishing rod he had bought, and another two hours went whilst they fixed the tackle and taught one another to cast a fly. It was a case of the blind leading the blind, but they landed one speckled beauty late in the afternoon, and Kenberry House assumed a new importance to Chick in consequence.
"Don't go, Gwenda," he said, as she got up.
"It is late, Chick," she warned him, "and we've had no tea."
"I know," said Chick. "Just sit down a minute, Gwenda. There was something I wanted to say to you at Monte Carlo."
"Don't say it. Chick," she said quietly.
She was standing over him, and her hand strayed to his untidy hair.
"But, Gwenda——"
"I know what you were going to tell me, Chick, and I did my best to encourage you to say it," she said. "I was shameless then, but I have been ashamed since. I was just fishing for you, Chick, as you fished for the trout. Oh, I must have been mad!"
He was on his feet now and had dropped his rod, but before he could speak she stopped him.
"We've had a lovely time, you and I, Chick," she said quietly, "a beautiful, ideal time, and we are not going to spoil it. You are little more than a boy—I know you're older than I am, but girls are ever so much older than men of their age—and you have a big future. You must marry in your own class, Chick."
He made a protesting noise.
"I know it sounds hard and horrid and noveletty, but really behind these class marriages there is unanswerable logic. If I married you, what would the world say of me? That I had taken you in hand from the moment you inherited your title and had kept you so close to me that you never had a chance of meeting a nice girl. I don't care very much what they think of me; it's what they think of you that matters. You would be regarded as a helpless fool who had succumbed to the artfulness of a designing actress."
She shook her head, but avoided meeting his eyes.
"No, that little dream is ended, Chick. If I loved you even more than I do, and I don't think that is possible"—her voice shook for a second—"I could never agree."
"But you've made me what I am," he said huskily.
"I stage-managed you, Chick," she said, with a faint smile. "I produced you in the theatrical sense, and you must think of me as your impresario."
Chick stooped and picked up the rod, unscrewed it leisurely, and wound the tackle with exasperating calmness.
"All right, Gwenda," he said, and she felt a twinge of pain that he had taken his rejection so coolly.
Neither of them spoke as they trudged back to the house, to find the resigned Mrs. Phibbs sitting beside the tea-table in Chick's new drawing-room. It was a cheerless evening for the girl. She went up to her room soon after dinner, and he did not see her again that night.
Once, as he was pacing the lawn, he thought he caught a glimpse of her figure by the window of her darkened room, but when he called up, there was no answer.
For Gwenda that night was the most tragic in her life. Deliberately she had thrust away something which was more than life itself to her. She tried to think of him as a boy, but Chick was a man, a sweet and simple man, and her senior by a year, and the realisation that she was putting him out of her life was an agony almost unendurable.
Chick saw the dark shadows under her eyes at breakfast the next morning, and the knowledge that she was suffering added to his own wretchedness.
"We will start on those papers this morning, Gwenda," he said gruffly, and she nodded.
"I don't think I shall be able to help you more than to-day, Chick," she said. "I shall have to go back to London to-morrow."
"To-morrow?" said Chick in consternation, and then dropped his eyes. "Very well," he said.
He was only beginning to understand what the ordeal meant to her. He was being selfish, considering only his own loss. When they were alone in the pretty library which Gwenda had furnished with such care, he came straight to the point.
"My dear," he said, "if you would like to go to-day, I won't press you to stay."
It required an effort on his part to say this, a greater effort to restrain himself when she dropped her head and he saw that she was crying softly.
"Thank you, Chick," she said.
"There is only one question I'd like to ask, Gwenda. If it weren't for this beastly title, if we were back again at Brockley and I was working for my living, would you have said the same?"
She did not speak, and the shake of her head was so gentle that he would not have noticed it had he not been watching her so closely.
"Now let us see these wretched papers," he said. "Poor old Uncle Josephus! What a lot of trouble he has given us!"
For the most part the contents of the boxes were copies of letters and petitions addressed to Parliament. There were, too, records of the Pelboroughs, written in the doctor's minute handwriting, which traced the history of the family back to Philip Beane of Tours.
"Will you see Mr. Flower?" asked Mrs. Phibbs, coming in with a card in her hand.
"Flower?" repeated Chick, frowning. "Is he a reporter?"
A month before, when it had been announced that he had purchased Kenberry House, he had been dogged by newspaper men.
"No. I asked him that," said Mrs. Phibbs.
Chick took the card, but was no wiser, for Mr. John Jalgar Flower had modestly omitted both his profession and his address.
"All right. Show him in here. Do you mind, Gwenda?"
She shook her head.
Into the library came a smartly-dressed man with a keen, intellectual face and a pair of good-humoured eyes. He bowed to the girl, then, his golden teeth showing in an expansive smile, he advanced upon Chick with an open hand.
"Lord Pelborough?"
"That is my name," said Chick. "Won't you sit down, sir?"
"A delightful place," said Mr. Flower ecstatically. "The most beautiful country I have been in. The air is invigorating, the attitude of the natives deferential and even feudalistic. And those wonderful elms along the drive, Lord Pelborough, they must be at least five hundred years old!"
"I shouldn't be surprised, sir," said Chick.
He was wondering whether the newcomer was selling mechanical pianos or electric lighting plants. The last genial soul who had called "travelled" in the latter. There had also been three voluble visitors who had specialised in books, and would have stocked his library if he had given them the chance.
Mr. Flower looked meaningly at the lady, who he thought was Chick's secretary.
"I have a very confidential communication to make to you, my lord," he said.
Gwenda would have risen, but Chick shook his head.
"Unless it is something that a lady should not hear, you need not hesitate to tell me, sir," he said.
"It deals with a matter which is vital to you, my lord," said Mr. Flower, with proper impressiveness.
"I think I'd better go," said the girl, in a low voice.
Again Chick shook his head. "Let us hear all about it, Mr. Flower," he said, leaning back in his chair patiently.
But Jagg Flower was not inclined to say what he had to say before a third person. He said as much. He did not confess that he objected to a witness, but he intimated that the subject was of so painful a character that a lady might feel embarrassed.
"Go on," said Chick shortly.
All the girl's faculties had become suddenly alert. Her instinct told her that the communication was more than ordinarily important to Chick's welfare.
"I don't think I shall be shocked, Mr. Flower," she said quietly, "but if I am I can easily go."
Jagg Flower was puzzled. He could not define the relationship between the two, knowing that the Marquis of Pelborough was not married.
"Very well, then," he said, after a moment's deliberation, "I will tell you."
He laid his hat on the floor and took off his gloves. "I am an adventurer of the world," he began. "In other words, I am a person whose actions have never been strictly conformable to the written law."
"Good gracious!" said Chick, in alarm.
"I tell you this, Lord Pelborough," Mr. Flower went on easily, "because it is perfectly certain that, after I have made my communication, you will institute inquiries as to my character and my identity. Let me tell you that a week ago I came out of prison at Toulouse, where for three years I have been incarcerated. I was in this particular case a victim of a brutal and perjurous system, for at the hour I was supposed to be making an unauthorised entrance into the Crédit Foncier, at Marseilles, I was, in point of fact, robbing an insurance company in Bordeaux. But let that pass.
"Twelve years ago, Lord Pelborough"—he leant forward and his voice was very earnest—"I was working the Middle Eastern States of America with a man who at this moment is in an United States prison"—his utterance was slow and deliberate—"and that man's name was Joseph or, as I happen to know, Josephus Beane, and he was the son of Dr. Josephus Beane of Pelborough."
Chick stared at him. "My uncle was a bachelor."
The other shook his head. "Read these," he said, and took from his pocket an envelope and tossed it on to the table.
Chick extracted two long slips. The first was a certificate of marriage between Josephus Beane, student of medicine, and Agnes Cartwright. The marriage had taken place in Liverpool, and Chick remembered dimly that his uncle had studied medicine at the Liverpool University. The second slip, which was also a copy, was a certificate of birth of "Josephus Pelborough Beane."
"My uncle never told me about his marriage," said Chick steadily.
The other smiled. "He was hardly likely to," he said drily. "The lady he married died in an inebriates' home seven years after. The boy, as Joe has often told me, was brought up by some friends of his mother's. It was one of those marriages which a young man makes in his folly. Joe grew up to hate his father, and I have reason to believe that his father returned the hatred with interest. Joe was an adventurer, but, unlike myself"—he smiled—"a petty adventurer. He was in prison three times in England, and would have been in prison for the rest of his life, if he had not got away to America, where I met him."
"Where is he now?" asked the girl. Her heart was thumping madly, and she found difficulty in breathing.
"In Sing Sing," was the reply.
Chick did not speak for a long time, and when he did the reason for his smile was wholly misunderstood by Mr. Flower.
"So really he is the Marquis," he said.
"And you are Mr. Beane," said Flower courteously.
So far his startling news had not produced the agitation which he had expected.
"And now," he said, "I really must talk to you alone."
Chick nodded, and when the girl rose and left the room, Mr. Flower followed her, closing the door behind her.
"I am a business man, Lord Pelborough," he said, "for I will call you by that title, and you are a business man. There's nobody else in the world, except my poor friend Josephus Beane, who knows your secret."
"My secret?" said Chick, looking up.
"Well, let us say my secret," said Flower good-humouredly. "Let us get down to business. What is this worth to you?"
"I don't quite understand you," said Chick.
"I am going abroad—to Australia, let us say. I am tired of my roving life, and I wish to settle in some pleasant spot. Would ten thousand pounds be an exorbitant sum to ask?"
"I'm afraid I really don't understand you," said Chick. "Do you mean that I should give you ten thousand pounds?"
"Exactly," smiled Mr. Flower.
"For what?" asked Chick.
The man was staggered. "I thought I had made it clear to your lordship," he said gently, "that I am in a position to produce a new Marquis of Pelborough."
"Produce him," said Chick, with a broad smile.
He walked slowly round the desk and came up to the man.
"Produce your Marquis of Pelborough, Mr. Flower," he said, "and I'll give you the ten thousand pounds."
Mr. Flower collapsed on to the chair. "You mean that you want to give up the title?"
"That is what I mean," said Chick.
"To give up this house, these beautiful lands?"
Chick smiled. "They are the property of Chick Beane, my friend," he said almost jovially. "No, I just want to give up the title, and I'm very grateful to you for having called. Sing Sing, I think you said?"
But the man was speechless.
"When you came, I was rather annoyed," said Chick. "I thought you were selling pianos. I hope you weren't offended."
Mr. Flower shook his head helplessly.
"I can't ask you to stay to lunch," said Chick, "because"—he hesitated—"if you don't mind my saying so, it wouldn't be nice for a lady to lunch with a gentleman who has just come out of gaol, would it? But there's an awfully good inn in the village, and there is a telegraph office."
He frowned thoughtfully at the dazed Mr. Flower.
"I suppose prisoners couldn't receive telegrams in Sing Sing?" he asked. "I don't know the ways of American prisons, but you will know. Could I send him a wire telling him he may come along whenever he likes and claim the title?"
At last Mr. Flower found his voice. "He doesn't know," he said hollowly. "You're not going to put that into his hands—an ancient title like the—er—Pelborough marquisate? Remember, Lord Pelborough, that you are responsible to your ancestors."
"Blow my ancestors!" said Chick. "And if I'm responsible, so is he. Will you wire for me and let me know in the morning?"
Mr. Jagg Flower had been in many peculiar and unnerving situations, but he had never paralleled this experience. He walked down the drive, beneath the shade of those ancient elms which he had so admired, like a man in a dream.
Chick dashed into the drawing-room, where the girl was watching the departure of the visitor. Before she knew what was happening he had taken her in his arms.
"It is a miracle, Gwenda, a miracle! Isn't it wonderful?"
"But, Chick," she said in horror, "you're not going to accept this man's bare word? You mustn't do it, Chick!"
She pushed him away.
"Of course I'm going to accept it," chortled Chick. "There is no doubt about it. Those were copies of certificates. I know all about birth and marriage certificates. I used to deal with them when I was working for Leither."
"You're going to allow a gaol-bird to take this title?"
"I'll allow any kind of bird to take it," said Chick, catching her hands. "Don't you see, Gwenda, that the big thing that hurt you has gone? I'm just Chick Beane. Don't you realise what you said to me yesterday?"
Her hands were trembling in his, and he lifted them to his lips.
Presently she drew them back. "Chick, you have to fight for this title," she said. "I am certain there is something wrong. Did he ask you for money?" she asked quickly.
He nodded. "He said he would shut up about it if I paid him ten thousand pounds. Of course the poor fellow didn't know any better."
"Perhaps he did, Chick," she said breathlessly. "Perhaps he knew that I wanted to be the Marchioness of Pelborough!"
Chick was momentarily staggered. "But you don't, Gwenda," he said, in amazement.
She nodded. "Yes, I do. You've got to fight for that title, Chick, just as hard as you've ever fought in the ring, because if you don't want it, I do."
He looked at her steadily. "You're not telling the truth, Gwenda," he said quietly. "You're saying that to spur me on, and I'm not going to be spurred. I think too much of you to believe that a title has any attraction for you. I love you too much to believe that."
Her face was white. The eyes that avoided his were bright with tears. Suddenly she turned and walked quickly from the room. He thought she had gone up to her room, but he was mistaken. She made straight for the library. He came in, and found her sitting at the table in the place where she had been when Mr. Flower had interrupted their search.
"If there are any documents relating to the doctor's marriage, they will be here," she said.
"Do you think that fellow lied?" asked Chick.
She shook her head. "He expected investigations, he told us that," she said, "and he wouldn't have forged these copies. I don't think there is any doubt at all that he spoke the truth. The doctor was married and he did have a son."
Naturally, when they were searching for something else, the first things they discovered were the lost leases. It was not until just on midnight that Gwenda discovered a small locked ledger marked "Accounts of my practice, 1884." She tried to open the lock and failed.
"There won't be anything there, Gwenda," said Chick.
"You never know," said the girl.
She tried to put her thumb-nail between the leaves, and found they were glued together. That determined her. A hasty search of their small stock of tools resulted in the find of a pair of pincers, and the lock was wrenched off.
Gwenda uttered an exclamation of astonishment. The ledger had at one time served the purpose for which it was designed, but the doctor had industriously cut out the centre of the pages, gumming the edges together to give it the appearance of a book, leaving in the middle a deep cavity in which lay a blue envelope, innocent of inscription.
It contained two slips of vellum, and one glance at them made her drop her hands on her lap.
"Oh, Chick!" she said.
"What is it?" asked Chick quickly.
"He did tell the truth! These are the original certificates," she wailed.
"Good egg!" said Chick.
"Don't say that," she said impatiently. "Chick, I could cry!"
There were three other papers in the envelope. The first of these was a letter in the doctor's handwriting, evidently a copy of one he had sent to his son.
It was not pleasant reading, for the old man had not minced his words. The second was a long list of payments, made also in the doctor's hand, "Payments made in re J. Beane," and the size of the total explained why Josephus Beane had died a poor man. To this last a newspaper cutting was pinned. Gwenda did not see it until she had laid the paper down on the table. She took out the pin, rusty with age, and read the cutting, and as she read, Chick saw her face change.
"What is it, Gwenda?"
She did not reply, but, folding the cutting, took an envelope from the stationery rack and enclosed it.
"When is Mr. Flower calling again?" she said softly.
"He promised to come in the morning," said Chick. "What was that cutting, Gwenda?"
"I'll tell you to-morrow," said the girl.
Mr. Jagg Flower had completely recovered from the shock by the next morning. He was a shrewd student of men and women, and he realised that any hope he had of making easy money was centred in the girl. His inquiries as to the nature of her relationship with Chick had not produced very illuminating results, but he felt sure that the appeal must be made to her, if it was to succeed at all, and when he came to Kenberry House the next morning and found the girl and Chick in the library, he made no suggestion that his communication was for Chick's private ear.
"I've been thinking over your proposition, Mr. Flower," said Chick.
"I'm glad to hear that, my lord," replied Mr. Flower, relieved. "You understand that I court the fullest investigations. I have come here prepared to give you the name of the minister who married the parties, the address at which the child was born——"
"They are all on the certificate, aren't they?" said Chick.
"Well, yes, they are," admitted the other, a little disconcerted. "His lordship explained to you, Miss Maynard, my suggestion?"
Gwenda nodded. "He has also explained to me his alternative plan," she said, "namely, that you should produce Josephus Beane, and I quite agree that ten thousand pounds would be a small price to pay for that miracle."
"I don't get you," said the man.
"You see, Mr. Flower," said the girl sweetly, "when poor Mr. Josephus Beane was hanged at Vermont, Virginia, for the murder of a bank manager, he rather upset your plans. I've got the paragraph here. I think it is from the Vermont Observer, and it gives a very full description of the trial. The bank manager was shot at his home when he was disturbing two burglars who had broken into the house. One was Mr. Beane, who was captured. The other was a man who escaped, and for whom there is still a warrant."
"Good morning," said Mr. Flower, accepting the situation. "I seem to be wasting my time here. Good day to your lordship." He nodded smilingly to the dumbfounded Chick. "A beautiful house this, and a lovely country. I'd give anything to own those old elms of yours."
He paused at the door. "I suppose it is no use asking you to defray my out-of-pocket expenses?" Chick could only stare at him.
Two hours after Mr. Flower had taken his unobtrusive departure from the village of Kenberry, there arrived, whilst Chick was at lunch, a thick-set American who claimed an instant audience.
"Sorry to bother you," said the newcomer, wiping his perspiring brow, "but I understand there's a man in this house, or he was seen coming into this house this morning, named—well, never mind his name—he's an American."
"That's true," said Chick. "Mr. Flower."
"Oh, he's given his own name, has he?" said the other, with a smile. "Can I see him?"
"He's been gone some time," said Chick.
"Do you know where he's gone?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. He was staying at 'The Red Lion,' I believe."
"He's not there now," said the detective. "He told the people, when he took his grip away, that he was staying with your lordship. That is twice I've missed him, but the third time pays for all."
"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Chick.
The girl had come from the dining-room, and was an interested listener.
"Friend?" smiled the other. "No, sir. My name's Sullivan. I'm from police headquarters, Vermont, and I've an extradition warrant for him. I arrived at Toulouse Gaol an hour after he'd left. He's wanted for a murder committed twelve years ago—at least, he was one of the two guys that shot Mr. Stizelhouser. We got one, but the other dodged us. We've been after him for twelve years, and I guess we'll get him sooner or later. He's not a friend of yours, I suppose, my lord?"
Chick shook his head. "No," he said. "He was a friend of my cousin's."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1932, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 91 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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