CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.

Cromwell Argus, Volume LX, Issue 3111, 12 May 1930, Page 7

CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES.

HOOD, otherwise Lord Brian Daresby, Sir Montague Gurney, otherwise Little John, and the "Merry Man," otherwise Prosser, were foregathered in Lord Brian's chambers in Half-Moon street in solemn conclave. The triumvirate, known as Robin Hood and Co., had been founded by Lord Brian for the retaliatory purpose of "getting his own back" on certain former friends of his, who had taken advantage of his trusting nature to commit sundry swindles on his person, and, as he tersely put it, had "led him up the garden and left him holding the baby." "We have met together, my beloved 'earers," Lord Brian was saying, "to consider who our next victim shall be. Bring hither the book of words, Prosser, and let us see who we have on the black list." Prosser placed a small ledger on the table. It contained a list of names against each of which a sum of money was entered, representing the amount Lord Brian had "lost" to that particular person. Some names were ruled off in red ink and another amount entered, and this last represented the sum recovered through R. Hood and Co.

"Now, let me see. We haven't dealt with Mr. Lucius Sweet, of Belgrave House, Eaton Square. I perceive that he owes me two thousand." "Good lord, did old Sweet do you down?" asked Monty. "Brother, he did. If ever you see a company prospectus with Lucius Sweet's name on the board of directors, stand back and call the dog immediately. He makes quite a lot of money by his directorates —stinkin' little get-rich-quick companies which prey on country parsons, widows, and retired military men. He also runs a bucketshop. He's a low 'ound, is Mr. Lucius Sweet."

"How did he let you in, Brian?"

"Advised me to sell a bear of Blasted Steel," growled Brian, running red. "He swore I should make five bob a share. The rotten things jumped seven-and-six and I had to find the cover. I afterwards found out that Sweet was a buyer. I think Mr. Lucius Sweet is my sweetie now. What about it, what? Shall we make him cry 'capivi, Binjimin?'" Monty lighted a cigarette. "Don't see why not. I once went to a dance at his place in Eton Square. The place is an absolute treasure house." "A dance? Why on earth should Lucius Sweet give a dance?" "He has a daughter, my lord," said Prosser. "An only child. The mother is dead."

Monty nodded. "That's right. It was her show. She'd just been presented. That was two years ago." "What's she like?" "Top-notcher. Different to her dad. Jolly beautiful girl and any amount of joie de what d'ye call it and verve. I quite fell for her. D'ye remember Peter Mallet at Eton?" "Ra-thar! He and I once did a Robin Hood stunt in Windsor Park after the deer. Jolly nearly got sacked for it, too. What about him?"

"Well, Peter was, and I believe still is, frightfully in love with Connie Sweet. But poor Peter hasn't a bob to bless himself with, but Connie doesn't care a hang. She was willin' to pig it until Peter made his pile. However, old Lucius put his hoof down pretty heavily and made the merry wedding bells sound like the Funeral March Sonata. He banned the banns with a vengeance, cut down Connie's allowance so she shouldn't elope, and swore he'd cut her out of his will if she went against his wishes."

"Dirty dog. And then?" "Peter didn't want to make things miserable for Connie, and he didn't want to see her thrown on a cold heartless world without a bean, so he kept off the grass. The situation is a bit strained now, for Lucius is pressing Connie to marry Lord Doubleday. Connie isn't having any." "I shouldn't think so,' snorted Brian indignantly. "Old Doubleday is about sixty. Very long in the tooth and creaks at the knees. He's a wind sucker." "He's got the shekels, though. Let's get to business. What's the drill?" "What did you mean when you said the place is a treasure house?' "Good lord, he has a special room filled with good whatnots. Glass cases bunged up with gold snuff and pouncet-boxes, gold chains and medallions, precious stones in rummy settings, jewelled gadgets an' all that. He's no collector. He's just a greedy hog. When he shows you anything he tells you how much it is worth." "I know the type. Well, it sounds like music. What do you say, Prosser?"

"Yes, my lord. Very promising." "Half a shake," said Sir Montague. "Lucius doesn't belong to the 'do help-yourself-and-make-yourself-at-home society.' The place is thick with burglar alarms and also there's a watchman on duty every night." "A snag in two places," murmured Brian moodily. For a minute there was silence. Then Prosser said. "Is it an up-to-date house, Sir Montague?' "Oh, very. The kind of house that is run by electricity." Prosser nodded. "That simplifies matters a little. Such an up-to-date house has one weak point." Brian raised a questioning eyebrow. "The electric light supply, my lord. Everything would come from the mains —light, heat, power for vacuum cleaners, et certera. Wireless and electric bells and last, but not least, the current which works the burglar alarms."

"What ho, otherwise pip pip. Disconnect the electric light supply and the house is frozen up, what?" "Paralysed, my lord. Before we go any further I suggest that I make a few —er —inquiries and report later." "Look here," said Monty uneasily. "Have we got to burgle the beastly house?" " 'Fraid so, comrade. This must be a case of 'Locks, bolts and bars soon fly asunder; to rifle, rob and plunder," as the song says." "Oh, curse," muttered Monty. "My nerve ain't what it was. Can't you think of any other way?" "Leave it to Prosser and don't worry. Now what about a 'Steak a la . minute' and a pint of beer at the club. The thought of getting back my two thousand hag given me quite an appetite. Cheeroh, Prosser. Good huntin'."

Prosser made his report liro days later.

"The house is run, my lord, by electricity taken from the main supply. For the burglar alarm there is an auxiliary switch in the hall. The main switch and meter are in a cellar."

"How the deuce did you find this out?" demanded Sir Montague. "I went to the house and said I had come to inspect the meter." Prosser coughed remotely. "A perfectly true statement. The butler did not query it uor did he seem surprised that I was not in uniform. I might add, my lord, that I wore a neat moustache. The butler handed me over to the footman and I was taken to the basement. All the domestic offices are on the ground floor. The basement comprises a wine cellar, a large tiled cellar used as a store room, and a wood and coal cellar at the back. That is where the switch is. I was surprised to find the coal cellar at the rear of the house, for I did not know there was a tradesmen's entrance. But Belgravia Mews, which runs at the back of the house, also serves as a goods entrance, and the footman told me that the coalcellar was actually underneath the garage. He was a communicative chap and he chatted while I pretended to read the meter. But he was called away and I took the liberty of unhooking the chain holding down the iron cover of the coal-shoot which comes up in the mews." "Don't tell me, Prosser, that we've got to slide down a coal-shoot." "No, my lord, but I'm going to." "The devil!" murmured Monty. "Carry on." "On Friday—to-morrow that is—the whole household are going to Mr. Lucius Sweet's country house at Godaiming. One footman —the man I saw —and the watchman will remain on duty. The footman —his name is Beaver —has taken quite a fancy to me." Prosser gazed thoughtfully at his finger tips and continued softly. In order to celehrate the departure of the household we are going to meet at seven o'clock in the Belgrave Arms. By closing time I trust he will not know whether it's Wembley or Good Friday." "And then?"

"I shall prop him up against the tradesman's door —it's let into a high wall just at the side of the garage—ring the bell and hide behind a convenient dust-bin. Friday night is dustbin night."

"I see your ruse-de-guerre," cried Lord Brian. "The watchman will toddle out and let Beaver in—probably be a bit disgruntled at finding him in such an enviable state —and while he is hauling the paralysed footman into the house you'll slide down the coalshoot and disconnect the main switch." "Exactly, my lord." "Will you be able to replace the iron cover?"

"No, Sir Montague. Either you or his lordship will attend to that. Then you will go round to the front door and I shall come up and let you in." "Steady the buffs. What about the watchman in the interim? He'll stagger back into the kitchen or the servants' hall with Beaver and find the place in darkness." "Well, Sir Montague, first he'll examine the fuse-box. Then he'll come down to the cellar to have a look at the switch and —er —I shall be waiting for him."

"Not too much rough stuff, my merry man," warned Brian. "I shall be quite gentle, my lord. A gag and a few turns with a rope will suffice. I shalf lock him in the wine cellar."

For a minute there was silence, then Sir Montague said. "Well, I hope it will be easy as it sounds. Personally, I have my doubts." "You're a despondin' brute, Monty. 1 '

"It's like this, B, Prosser has put in some darn good staff work and it sounds simple. But the easier the scheme appears the more likely there is to be a snag. The jolly old unforseen circumstance can play merry hell with the most perfect plan. It's that which gives me cold feet." "I shall be with the enemy up to the eleventh hour, Sir Montague. If any unforseen circumstance is likely to arise I shall hear of it in good time."

Sir Montague brightened. "Yes. that's so, but I should feel happier if they were going to Giggleswick or somewhere equally remote. Godalming is only just over an hour's run in a quick car. We shall look bright if someone comes barging back for Lucius' pyjamas, what?" "Don't be such a beastly pessimist, Mont."

"I'm gey fashed, ye ken. Before we can replace that iron cover some Robert will happen along and before vou can say blood orange he'll plant his dainty feet down the giddy coal shoot. Then the cat will be among the pigeons." "You are a cove for meeting trouble half way," said Brian fretfully. "Give me some more beer, Prosser. It may be the last I shall taste for a year or two." He took a deep draught and grinned. "I'll tell you one thing, though. If I got jugged I'd believe old Prosser would manage to get me out." "I'd have a good try, Sir Montague." "Stout fellow. Well, here's to R. Hood and Co. Fill up, Brian. Success to crime and may old Sweet's geraniums wither."

At a quarter to eleven on the following night Robin Hood and Little John, with light coats over their dinnerjackets, turned out of Eaton Square and sauntered down a side street. "Here's Belgrave Mews," muttered Brian peering down a narrow, gloomy canon. "Don't linger. And by the same token here's Prosser and the happy, happy, Beaver. My word, he is under trhe weather." Two figures came lurching towards them. At first sight it seemed to be a case of blind leading the blind, for both rolled like a tramp steamer in a heavy swell. The shorter one of the two lifted up his voice in song and proclaimed loudly and untunefully that it was not going to rain "no mo —no mo' . . . ."

"He's damp enough," said Monty. "Decidedly moist not to say malleable." „ - The dissolute pair were swallowed up by the mews. Five minutes later a voice protested indignantly. " 'Ere! wotcher mean comin' home like this? You're sozzled, that's what you are! Sozzled as a h'owl. 'Ere, dont fall h'over. Stan' up, can't yer? "Our friend the night watchman, murmured Brian. "Beer, beer, glorious beer, hiccoughed Beaver. " 'Ere, come on in."

A door slammed. A minute later someone whistled softly the first two bars of "Sweet and Low."

"That's Prosser," whispered Monty with a chuckle. "He's gone down the mine, daddy." "Hang on. I'll nip down and replace the cover. He was back in one minute. "Quo facto, now for the front entrance. This is just before the battle, mother." Six minutes later ihey stood in the dark hall of Belgrave House. "Quick work, Prosser," whispered Brian, putting on gloves and a mask. "Yes, my lord. He was no trouble. We mustn't make a sound though. Which way, Sir Montague?" Sir Montague led the way up the staircase. Suddenly they halted and stood rigid as a raucous voice shouted. " 'Erb! . . . 'Erb! 'Ow much longer are you going to be in that cellar?" "Curse! Who's that, Prosser?"

"I suppose it's Mrs. Nightwatchman, my lord. I didn't know he had a wife. Very unfortunate." "Very unhealthy," whispered Monty "The unforseen circumstance. What did I tell you?"

" Erb . . 'Erb!" "She wants 'Erb. This is cheerful Do we bunk?"

" 'Erb, are you at that port wine again? Come up at once! D'ye 'ear? I can't find no candle anywhere." "The humble candle is unknown," murmured Brian. "That's the worst of these up-to-date establishments. Onward and upward. I'm going to, see this through." "Leaving me in the dark like this," the voice muttered indignantly. "I'm goin' down to the garidge. 'Erb, d'ye 'ear? There's a h'oil lamp there. An' you leave that port wine alone. With Beaver Iyin' drunk, too! The h'idea!" A door banged and there was silence. "Now's our chance. En avant." They reached a broad landing and Prosser switched on a torch and produced a bunch of keys. "I took them from the watchman. Is the room on tlus landing, Sir Montague?" Monty indicated a door. "That's the treasure chamber."

In a few seconds Prosser had found the right key, the lock went back with a click and they entered the room. The windows were shuttered and hung with thick velvet curtains, and as Prosser's torch flashed round the room Brian uttered a low exclamation. Glass cabinets were ranged rouna the room, each one containing a collection of priceless bibelots. "Pity to touch the gold stuff," murmured Brian. "We'd have to melt it down and that's vandalism. Here we are. That is what we want." He stopped at a case containing a collection of jewellery in a more modern style. There were tiaras and pearl necklaces; pendants of emeralds and rubies, brooches and rings. A quick wrench with a small jemmy and the case was open and the contents stowed in a black velvet bag.

"For what we have received . . . What the devil. Prosser switched off the torch and in a second they were behind the window curtains.

"I heard the front door open," whispered Prosser. "Damn!" Monty swore softly. "Another unforseen circumstance." They waited in breathless silence. Then came the sound of soft footsteps and a girl's voice whispered. "The door's open, Peter. That's a bit of luck."

"I say, Connie, isn't it playin* a bit low down. I feel like a thief." "The jewellery is mine. Mine!" the girl whispered emphatically. "Mummy left it to me and I'm going to have it. Darling, we must have it! We can't get married without it. We may have to pawn some of it."

There was a faint noise that sounded suspiciously like a kiss. "You brave darling. Righto. I say, s'posing that watchman Johnnie comes barging up?" "Kerridge? We must risk that. Shut the door. I'm going to switch on the light." There was a short silence broken by a series of clicks. "Hello. What's wrong?" "Hush! Not so loud! Something must be wrong with the light. Strike a match, dear." There was a scratching, a splutter and a dim light. The girl gave a sharp cry. "Peter! They're gone!"

"Gone!" "The case has been broken open! Look! . . . Look!" "Great Scot! . . . Dam'. Sorry, but I burnt my fingers." The room was In darkness again. Then Brian sneezed.

"Peter, was that you?" "No. I'm going to strike another match."

"Please don't," said Brian stepping from behind the curtain. "And please don't be alarmed. Miss Sweet and Peter Mallet, isn't it? How goes it Peter?"

The man gasped. "Who the blazes are you?" "Sorry I can't enlighten you. No names, no pack-drill." "I seem to know your voice." "I'm afraid that must suffice. I'm vox et praeterea nihil, but you may call me Robin Hood. I've Little John and my merry men with me. He whistled a few bars of the Eton Boating Song. "Good lord!" muttered Mallet, "this is amazing." "What are you doing here?" demanded the girl. "Please don't speak so loudly. Mrs. 'Erb is floating around. It's no good my telling you we're here on behalf of The Gaslight and Coke Company because you wouldn't believe me. 'Matter o' fact, we're here on the same stunt as yourselves." "Burglars!" whispered the girl.

"A harsh word. Robin Hood is nicer. I suppose old Doubleday has been making the pace too hot for you an' you've bolted, what?" "How . . . how did you know . . ." stammered the girl. "Just guessed it. Got the licence, Peter?" "I have."

"Well done and jolly good luck to you. Will you hold out your hand, Miss Sweet? Just stick it out. In that velvet bag is just what you came for. We didn't know they were yours. Got it? That's right. Accept it with the heartiest felicitations of Robin Hood and Co. We hope you will be very happy." "Hear, hear," muttered Monty. "The sepulchral voice was Little John's. Now I think we'd better fade away." "I think you're jolly good sportsmen whoever vnu are," growled Mal-

let. "Thanks awfully . . . good God! What's that!" A load crash came from the hall below and a voice roared. "Blue thunder! Kerridge! . . . Beaver! . . .

Where the blazing Henry are you?" "Daddy! . . . It's daddy," the girl gasped. "Peter, he must have followed me!"

"And yet another unforseen circumstance," said Monty gloomily. " 'Pon my sainted Sam, things are piling up." Confused noises drifted up the stairs. "Hells bells!" yelped an angry voice. "It's Mrs. Kerridge! I thought you were a ghost. What are you carrying that smelling lamp about for? Where's your husband? Where's Beaver? Why the devil is the house in darkness? Answer, woman! Answer!"

"Well, give us a chance, do, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Kerridge in shrill indignation. "Oh, my life, what a' h'ev'ning! The lights 'as failed, Beaver's drunk on the kitchen floor, Kerridge 'as disappeared an' I've the spazzums that bad wi' fright ..." "My stars! What a house! Has Miss Constance been here?" "No, she ain't." "Are you sure?" " 'Course I'm sure. No one ain't been."

"That's all right, then. Where's your lunatic husband?" "I told you. 'E's disappeared." "What the Halifax do you mean? Disappeared."

"Well, 'e went down the cellar to look at the light." "If he's down the cellar he hasn't disappeared, has he?" "It ain't no good bawlin' at me, sir. 'E went down the cellar a good twenty minutes ago an' 'e ain't answered me an' he ain't come up an' the lights ain't come on." "It's my firm belief that you're all intoxicated. Here, give me that lamp and come with me." "I ain't goin' down that cellar . . ." "Don't argue, woman." There was a pause and Brian tiptoed to the door and opened it. Then they heard Mr. Sweet bawl: "Kerridge! . . . Kerridge! Why don't you answer? . . . He can't be down there!" "'E is down there!"

"Then we'll go down after him." A wail floated up the stairs. " 'E's prob'ly lyin' murdered . . . 'Erb! Oh, Erb." "Come along, please," murmured Brian. "This way out and don't make a noise. Lead the way, Miss Sweet, and go quickly and quietly." "I ... I don't understand." "Lead the way to the mews. We'll have to lock your father down the cellar. It's our only chance. Don't waste time."

They crept swiftly down the stairs and through the hall to the servants' quarters. A door stood open by the kitchen and strange, angry noises floated up. Brian closed it noiselessly and locked it. They went through the kitchen, where the sounds of snoring rose on the dark air, and a minute later were in the mews.

"Is that your car?" asked Brian. "Would you mind going at once? We can't stand about with our masks on." "You have been bricks," said the girl gratefully. She held up the velvet bag. "We owe this to you." "Toppers!" said Peter Mallet gruffly. "I wish I knew who you were." "Good-bye and good luck." The two-seater chuffed out of the mews and Monty took off his mask with a sigh of relief. "If this is your idea of a quiet evening, Brian, I don't think much of it. I'm dithering."

"It was pretty hectic. Where the deuce has Prosser got to? He followed us down, didn't he?" "How the blazes should I know. It was as black as a bag." "There seems to be a bit of a row going on in the house. 'Ark to the minute gun at sea. Come along! We must fade away quietly. Old Prosser will turn up in his own good time." They had been back in Brian's rooms twenty minutes when Prosser arrived looking his cool, immaculate self.

"Your lordship must not forget," he replied in answer to Brian's questions, "that I had been down a coalshoot. I was decidedly black, so I stayed behind to have a wash. It was quite safe." Brian laughed and Monty said earnestly: "Prosser, you take the biscuit Ton my soul, you do. You must have nerves of phosphor-bronze." "Well, it hasn't been a wasted effort. We've thwarted old Sweet and we've made two people happy. I'm glad the girl got her trinkets. No, it hasn't been wasted."

"No, my lord, said Prosser softly, and from his pocket he took a handful of things which glared and sparkled, and yet another handful. "Praise God Barebones," whispered Brian in astonishment, staring at the glistening heap on the table. Sir Montague said nothing. He just sat rooted in his chair. "I took the liberty of opening another case, my lord. It seemed a pity to come away empty and there was plenty of time. He looked at Sir Montague and smiled. "The unforseen circumstance can sometimes be an advantage, Sir Montague. The arrival of Mr. Lucius Sweet was decidedly unforseen, but his descent into the cellar with Mrs. Kerridge was also unforseen and it saved the situation."

"Prosser," said Monty solemnly, "if Lord Brian ever sacks you I'll take you on at double your screw." "Thanks you, Sir Montague. I'll bear it in mind." His gaze rested affectionately on Brian. "His Lordship has given me notice more than once but I refuse to go." Brian grinned. "Bless him. He's an obstinate beggar—thank heaven!"