George and Alfred

The Little Group of serious thinkers in the bar of the Angler's Rest was talking about twins. A gin and tonic had brought the subject up, a friend of his having recently acquired a couple, and the discussion had not proceeded far when it was seen that Mr. Mulliner, the sage of the bar, was smiling as if amused by some memory.

"I was thinking of my brother's sons George and Alfred," he explained. "They were twins."

"Identical?" asked a Scotch on the rocks.

"In every respect."

"Always getting mistaken for each other, I suppose?"

"No doubt they would have been if they had moved in the same circles, but their walks in life kept them widely separated. Alfred was a professional conjurer and spent most of his time in London, while George had gone to seek his fortune in Hollywood, where he was a writer of additional dialog on the staff of Jacob Schnellenhamer, head of the Colossal-Exquisite Corporation."

• • •

The lot of a writer of additional dialog in a Hollywood studio is not an exalted one (Mr. Mulliner continued). He ranks, I believe, just above a script girl and just below the man who works the wind machine--but any pity I might have felt for George for being one of the dregs was mitigated by the fact that I knew his position was only temporary, for on his 30th birthday, which would be occurring very shortly, he would be coming into possession of a large fortune left to him in trust by his godmother.

It was on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht that I met George again after an interval of several years. I had become friendly with Mr. Schnellenhamer on one of his previous visits to England, and (continued on page 182) George and Alfred (continued from page 109) when I ran into him one day in Piccadilly, he told me he was just off to Monte Carlo to discuss some business matters with Sam Glutz of the Perfecto-Wonderful, who was wintering there, and asked me if I would care to come along. I accepted the invitation gratefully, and the first person I saw when I came on board was George.

I found him in excellent spirits, and I was not surprised, for he said he had reached the age of 30 a few days before and would be collecting his legacy directly we arrived in Monaco.

"Your trustee is meeting you there?"

"He lives there. An old boy of the name of Bassinger."

"Well, I certainly congratulate you, George. Have you made any plans?"

"Plenty. And the first is to stop being a yes man."

"I thought you were a writer of additional dialog."

"It's the same thing. I've been saying yes to Schnellenhamer for three years, but no longer. A radical change of policy there's going to be. In the privacy of my chamber, I've been practicing saying no for days. No, Mr. Schnellenhamer!" said George. "No, no, no! You're wrong, Mr. Schnellenhamer. You're quite mistaken, Mr. Schnellenhamer. You're talking through your hat, Mr. Schnellenhamer. Would it be going too far if I told him he ought to have his head examined?"

"A little, I think."

"Perhaps you're right."

"You don't want to hurt his feelings."

"I don't think he has any. Still, I see what you mean."

• • •

We arrived in Monte Carlo after a pleasant voyage, and as soon as we had anchored in Monaco harbor, I went ashore to see the sights, and I was thinking of returning to the yacht when I saw George coming along, seeming to be in a hurry. I hailed him, and to my astonishment he turned out to be not George, but Alfred, the last person I would have expected to find in Monte Carlo. I had always supposed that conjurers never left London except to appear at children's parties in the provinces.

He was delighted to see me. We had always been very close to each other. Many a time, as a boy, he had borrowed my top hat in order to take rabbits out of it, for even then he was acquiring the rudiments of his art and the skill that had enabled him to bill himself as The Great Alfredo. There was genuine affection in his manner as he now produced a hard-boiled egg from my breast pocket.

"But how in the world do you come to be here, Alfred?" I asked.

His explanation was simple.

"I'm appearing at the casino. I have a couple of spots in the revue there, and I don't mind telling you that I'm rolling the customers in the aisles nightly," he said, and I recalled that he had always interspersed his feats with humorous dialog. "How do you happen to be in Monte Carlo? Not on a gambling caper, I trust?"

"I am a guest on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht."

He started at the mention of the name.

"Schnellenhamer? The movie man? The one who's doing the great Bible epic Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?"

"Yes. We are anchored in the harbor."

"Well, well," said Alfred. His air was pensive. My words had apparently started a train of thought. Then he looked at his watch and uttered an exclamation. "Good Lord," he said, "I must rush or I'll be late for rehearsal."

And before I could tell him that his brother George was also on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht, he had bounded off.

• • •

The next day, I saw Mr. Schnellenhamer on deck concluding a conversation with a young man who I presumed to be a reporter, come to interview him. The young man left and Mr. Schnellenhamer jerked a thumb at his retreating back.

"Listen," he said. "Do you know what that fellow's been telling me? You remember I was coming here to meet Sam Glutz? Well, it seems that somebody mugged Sam last night."

"You don't say!"

"Yessir, laid him out cold. Are those the newspapers you've got there? Lemme look. It's probably on the front page."

He was perfectly correct. Even George would have had to say "Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer." The story was there under big headlines. On the previous night, it appeared, Mr. Glutz had been returning from the casino to his hotel, when some person unknown had waylaid him and left him lying in the street in a considerably battered condition. He had been found by a passer-by and taken to the hospital to be stitched together.

"And not a hope of catching the fellow," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.

I pointed out that the papers said that the police had a clue, and he snorted contemptuously.

"Police!"

"At your service," said a voice. "Sergeant Brichoux of the Monaco police force. I have come to see a Mr. Mulliner, who I understand is a member of your entourage."

This surprised me. I was also surprised that he should be speaking English so fluently, but the explanation soon occurred to me. A sergeant of police in a place like Monte Carlo, constantly having to question international spies, heavily veiled adventuresses and the like, would soon pick it up.

"I am Mr. Mulliner," I said.

"Mr. George Mulliner?"

"Oh, George? No, he is my nephew. You want to see him?"

"I do."

"Why?" asked Mr. Schnellenhamer.

"In connection with last night's assault on Mr. Glutz. The police have reason to believe that he can assist them in their inquiries."

"How?"

"They would like him to explain how his wallet came to be lying on the spot where Mr. Glutz was attacked. One feels, does one not, that the fact is significant. Can I see him, if you please," said Sergeant Brichoux, and a sailor was dispatched to find George. He returned with the information that he did not appear to be on board.

"Probably gone for a stroll ashore," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.

"Then, with your permission," said the sergeant, looking more sinister than ever, "I will await his return."

"And I'll go and look for him," I said.

It was imperative, I felt, that George be intercepted and warned of what was waiting for him on the yacht. It was, of course, absurd to suppose that he had been associated in any way with last night's outrage, but if his wallet had been discovered on the scene of the crime, it was obvious that he would have a good deal of explaining to do. As I saw it, he was in the position the hero is always getting into in novels of suspense--forced by circumstances, though innocent, into the role of suspect number one and having a thoroughly sticky time till everything comes right in the last chapter.

It was on a bench near the harbor that I found him. He was sitting with his head between his hands, probably feeling that if he let go of it, it would come in half, for when I spoke his name and he looked up, it was plain to see that he was in the grip of a severe hangover. I am told by those who know that there are six varieties of hangover--the Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie, and his aspect suggested that he had them all.

I was not really surprised. He had told me after dinner on the previous night that he was just off to call on his trustee and collect his inheritance, and it was natural to suppose that after doing so, he would celebrate. But when I asked him if this was so, he uttered one of those hollow, rasping laughs that are so unpleasant.

"Celebrate!" he said. "No, I wasn't celebrating. Shall I tell you what happened last night? I went to Bassinger's hotel and gave my name and asked if he was in, and they told me he had checked out a week (continued on page 200) George and Alfred(continued from page 182) or two ago and had left a letter for me. I took the letter. I opened it. I read it. And having read it . . . Have you ever been slapped in the eye with a wet fish?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"I was once, when I got into an argument with an angler down at Santa Monica, and the sensation last night was very similar. For this letter, this billet-doux from that offspring of unmarried parents, P. P. Bassinger, informed me that he had been gambling for years with the trust money and was deeply sorry to say that there was now no trust money. It had gone. So, he added, had he. By the time I read this, he said, he would be in one of those broad-minded South American countries where they don't believe in extradition. He apologized profusely, but placed the blame on some man he had met in a bar who had given him an infallible system for winning at the tables. And why my godmother gave the trusteeship to someone living in Monte Carlo within easy walking distance of the casino, we shall never know. Just asking for it, is the way it looks to me."

My heart bled for him. By no stretch of optimism could I regard this as his lucky day. All this and Sergeant Brichoux, too. There was a quaver in my voice as I spoke.

"My poor boy!"

"Poor is right."

"It must have been a terrible shock."

"It was."

"What did you do?

"What would you have done? I went out and got pie-eyed. And here's a funny thing. I had the most extraordinary nightmare. Do you ever have nightmares?"

"Sometimes."

"Bad ones?"

"Occasionally."

"I'll bet they aren't as bad as the one I had. I dreamed that I had done a murder. And that dream is still lingering with me. I keep seeing myself engaged in a terrific brawl with someone and laying him out. It's a most unpleasant sensation. Why are you looking at me like a sheep with something on its mind?"

I had to tell him.

"It wasn't a nightmare, George."

He seemed annoyed.

"Don't be an ass. Do you think I don't know a nightmare when I see one?"

"I repeat, it was no nightmare."

He looked at me incredulously, his jaw beginning to droop like a badly set soufflé.

"You don't mean it actually happened?"

"I fear so. The papers have featured it."

"I really slugged somebody?"

"Not just somebody. The president of a motion-picture corporation, which makes your offense virtually lèse-majeste."

"Then how very fortunate," said George, looking on the bright side after a moment of intense thought, "that nobody can possibly know it was me. That certainly takes a weight off my mind. You're still goggling at me like a careworn sheep. Why is that?"

"I was thinking what a pity it was that you should have dropped your wallet--containing your name and address--on the spot of the crime."

"Did I do that?"

"You did."

"Hell's bells!"

"Hell's bells is correct. There's a sergeant of police on board the yacht now, waiting for your return. He has reason to believe that you can assist him in his inquiries."

"Death and despair!"

"You may well say so. There is only one thing to be done. You must escape while there is yet time. Get over the frontier into Italy."

"But my passport's on the yacht."

"I could bring it to you."

"You'd never find it."

"Then I don't know what to suggest. Of course, you might----"

"That's no good."

"Or you could----"

"That's no good, either. No," said George, "this is the end. I'm a rat in a trap. I'm for it. Well-meaning, not to be blamed, the victim of the sort of accident that might have happened to anyone when lit up as I was lit, but, nevertheless, for it. That's life. You come to Monte Carlo to collect a large fortune, all pepped up with the thought that at last you're going to be able to say no to old Schnellenhamer, and what do you get? No fortune, a headache and, to top it all off, the guillotine or whatever they have in these parts. That's life, I repeat. Just a bowl of cherries. You can't win."

Twin! I uttered a cry, electrified. "I have it, George!"

"Well?"

"You want to get on the yacht."

"Well?"

"To secure your passport."

"Well?"

"Then go there."

He gave me a reproachful look. "If," he said, "you think this is the sort of stuff to spring on a man with a morning head who is extremely worried because the bloodhounds of the law are sniffing on his trail, I am afraid I cannot agree with you. On your own showing, that yacht is congested with sergeants of police, polishing the handcuffs and waiting eagerly for my return. I'd look pretty silly sauntering in and saying, 'Well, boys, here I am.'"

"I omitted to mention that you would say you were Alfred."

He blinked. "Alfred?"

"Yes."

"My brother Alfred?"

"Your twin brother Alfred," I said, emphasizing the second word in the sentence, and I saw the light of intelligence creep slowly into his haggard face. "I will go there ahead of you and sow the good seed by telling them that you have a twin brother who is your exact double. Then you make your appearance. Have no fear that your story will not be believed. Alfred is at this moment in Monte Carlo, performing nightly in the revue at the casino and is, I imagine, a familiar figure in local circles. He is probably known to the police--not, I need scarcely say, in any derogatory sense, but because they have caught his act and may even have been asked by him to take a card--any card--and memorize it before returning it to the deck, his aim being to produce it later from the inside of a lemon. There will be no question of the innocent deception failing to succeed. Once on board, it will be a simple matter to make some excuse to go below. An urgent need for bicarbonate of soda suggests itself. And once below, you can find your passport, say a few graceful words of farewell and leave."

"But suppose Schnellenhamer asks me to do conjuring tricks?"

"Most unlikely. He is not one of those men who are avid for entertainment. It is his aim in life to avoid it. He has told me that it is the motion-picture magnate's cross that everybody he meets starts acting at him in the hope of getting on the payroll. He says that on a good morning in Hollywood he has been acted at by a secretary, two book agents, a life-insurance man, a masseur, the man with the Benzedrine, the studio watchman, a shoeshine boy and a barber, all before lunch. No need to worry about him wanting you to entertain him."

"But what would be Alfred's reason for coming aboard?

"Simple. He has heard that Mr. Schnellenhamer has arrived. It would be in the 'Society Jottings' column. He knows that I am with Mr. Schnellenhamer----"

"How?"

"I told him so when I met him yester day. So he has come to see me."

The light of intelligence had now spread over George's face from ear to ear. He chuckled hoarsely.

"Do you know, I really believe it would work."

"Of course it will work. It can't fail. I'll go now and start paving the way. And as your raiment is somewhat disordered, you had better get a change of clothes, and a shave and a wash and brushup would not hurt. Here is some money," I said, and with an encouraging pat on the back, I left him.

• • •

Brichoux was still at his post when I reached the yacht, inflexible determination written on every line of his unattractive face. Mr. Schnellenhamer sat beside him, looking as if he were feeling that what the world needed to make it a sweeter and better place was a complete absence of police sergeants. He had never been fond of policemen since one of them, while giving him a parking ticket, had recited Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech to give him some idea of what he could do in a dramatic role. I proceeded to my mission without delay.

"Any sign of my nephew?" I asked.

"None," said the sergeant.

"He has not been back?"

"He has not."

"Very odd."

"Very suspicious."

An idea struck me.

"I wonder if, by any chance, he has gone to see his brother."

"Has he a brother?"

"Yes. They are twins. His name is Alfred. You have probably seen him, Sergeant. He is playing in the revue at the casino. Does a conjuring act."

"The Great Alfredo?"

"That is his stage name. You have witnessed his performance?"

"I have."

"Amazing, the resemblance between him and George. Even I can hardly tell them apart. Same face, same figure, same way of walking, same-colored hair and eyes. When you meet George, you will be astounded at the resemblance."

"I am looking forward to meeting Mr. George Mulliner."

"Well, Alfred will probably be here this morning to have a chat with me, for he is bound to have read in the paper that I am Mr. Schnellenhamer's guest. Ah, here he comes now," I said, as George appeared on the gangway. "Ah, Alfred."

"Hullo, Uncle."

"So you found your way here?"

"That's right."

"My host, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"How do you do?"

"And Sergeant Brichoux of the Monaco police."

"How do you do? Good morning, Mr. Schnellenhamer, I have been wanting very much to meet you. This is a great pleasure."

I was proud of George. I had been expecting a show of at least some nervousness on his part, for the task he had undertaken was a stern one, but I could see no trace of it. He seemed completely at his ease, and he continued to address himself to Mr. Schnellenhamer without so much as a tremor in his voice.

"I have a proposition I would like to put up to you in connection with your forthcoming Bible epic Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. You have probably realized for yourself that the trouble with all these ancient-history superpictures is that they lack comedy. Colossal scenery, battle sequences of ten thousand a side, more seminude dancing girls than you could shake a stick at, but where are the belly laughs? Take Cleopatra. Was there anything funny in that, except possibly Elizabeth Taylor? Not a thing. And what occurred to me the moment I read your advance publicity was that what Solomon and the Queen of Sheba needs, if it is really to gross grosses, is a comedy conjurer, and I decided to offer my services. You can scarcely require to be told how admirably an act like mine would fit into the scheme of things. There is nothing like a conjurer to keep a monarch amused through the long winter evenings, and King Solomon is bound to have had one at his court. So what happens? The Queen of Sheba arrives. The magnificence of her surroundings stuns her. 'The half was not told unto me,' she says. "You like my little place?' says the king. 'Well, it's a home. But wait, you ain't seen nothing yet. Send for the Great Alfredo.' And on I come. 'Well, folks,' I say, 'a funny thing happened to me on my way to the throne room,' and then I tell a story and then a few gags and then I go into my routine, and I would like just to run through it now. For my first trick----"

I was aghast. Long before the halfway mark of this speech, the awful truth had flashed upon me. It was not George whom I saw before me--through a flickering mist--but Alfred, and I blamed myself bitterly for having been so mad as to mention Mr. Schnellenhamer to him, for I might have known that he would be inflamed by the news that the motion-picture magnate was within his reach and that here was his chance of getting signed up for a lucrative engagement. And George due to appear at any moment! No wonder I reeled and had to support myself on what I believe is called a bollard.

"For my first trick," said Alfred, "I shall require a pound of butter, two bananas and a bowl of goldfish. Excuse me. Won't keep you long."

He went below, presumably in quest of these necessaries, and as he did so, George came up the gangway.

There was none of that breezy self-confidence in George that had so impressed me in Alfred. He was patently suffering from stage fright. His legs wobbled and I could see his Adam's apple going up and down as if pulled by an invisible string. He looked like a nervous speaker at a public banquet who, on rising to his feet to propose the toast of "Our Guests," realizes that he has completely forgotten the story of the two Irishmen, Pat and Mike, with which he had been hoping to convulse his audience.

Nor did I blame him, for Sergeant Brichoux had taken a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and was breathing on them and polishing them on his sleeve, while Mr. Schnellenhamer subjected him to the stony glare that had so often caused employees of his on the Colossal-Exquisite lot to totter off to the commissary to restore themselves with frosted-malted milk shakes. There was an ominous calm in the motion-picture magnate's manner such as one finds in volcanoes just before they erupt and make householders in the neighborhood wish they had settled elsewhere. He was plainly holding himself in with a powerful effort, having decided to toy with my unhappy nephew before unmasking him. For George's opening words had been, "Good morning. I--er--that is to say--I--er--my name is Alfred Mulliner," and I could see that neither on the part of Mr. Schnellenhamer nor of Sergeant Brichoux was there that willing suspension of disbelief which dramatic critics are always writing about.

"Good morning," said the former.

"Nice weather."

"Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"Good for the crops.

"Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"Though bad for the umbrella trade."

"Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"Come along and join the party. Alfred Mulliner did you say the name was?"

"Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"You lie!" thundered Mr. Schnellenhamer, unmasking his batteries with horrifying abruptness. "You're no more Alfred Mulliner than I am, which isn't much. You're George Mulliner, and you're facing a murder rap or the next thing to it. Send for the police," he said to Sergeant Brichoux.

"I am the police," the sergeant reminded him.

"So you are. I was forgetting. Then arrest this man."

"I will do so immediately."

Sergeant Brichoux advanced on George, handcuffs in hand, but before he could adjust them to his wrists, an interruption occurred.

Intent though I had been on the scene taking place on the deck of the yacht, I had been able during these exchanges to observe out of the corner of my eye that a heavily bandaged man of middle age was approaching us along the quay, and he now mounted the gangway and hailed Mr. Schnellenhamer with a feeble "Hi, Jake."

So profuse were his bandages that one would hardly have expected his own mother to have recognized him, but Mr. Schnellenhamer did.

"Sam Glutz!" he cried. "Well, I'll be darned. I thought you were in the hospital."

"They let me out."

"You look like Tutankhamen's mummy, Sam.

"So would you if you'd been belted by a hoodlum like I was. Did you read about it in the papers?"

"Sure. You made the front page."

"Well, that's something. But I wouldn't care to go through an experience like that again. I thought it was the end. My whole past life flashed before me."

"You can't have liked that."

"I didn't."

"Well, you'll be glad to hear, Sam, that we've got the fellow who slugged you."

"You have? Where is he?"

"Right there. Standing by the gentleman with the handcuffs."

George's head had been bowed, but now he happened to raise it, and Mr. Glutz uttered a cry.

"You!"

"That's him. George Mulliner. Used to work for the Colossal-Exquisite, but of course I've fired him. Take him to the cooler, Sergeant."

Every bandage on Mr. Glutz' body rippled like wheat beneath a west wind, and his next words showed that what had caused this was horror and indignation at the program Mr. Schnellenhamer had outlined.

"Over my dead body!" he cried. "Why, that's the splendid young man who saved my life last night."

"What!"

"Sure. The hood was beating the tar out of me when he came galloping up and knocked him for a loop, and after a terrific struggle, the hood called it a day and irised out. Proud and happy to meet you, Mr. Mulliner. I think I heard Jake say he'd fired you. Well, come and work for the Perfecto-Wonderful, and I shall be deeply offended if you don't skin me for a salary beyond the dreams of avarice. I'll pencil you in as vice-president with brevet rank as a cousin by marriage."

I stepped forward. George was still incapable of speech.

"One moment, Mr. Glutz."

"Who are you?"

"George's agent. And there is just one clause in the contract that strikes me as requiring revision. Reflect, Mr. Glutz. Surely cousin by marriage is a poor reward for the man who saved your life?"

Mr. Glutz was visibly affected. Groping among the bandages, he wiped away a tear.

"You're right," he said. "We'll make it brother-in-law. And now let's go and get a bite of lunch. You, too," he said to me and I said I would be delighted. We left the boat in single file--first Mr. Glutz, then myself, then George, who was still dazed. The last thing I saw was Alfred coming on deck with his pound of butter and his two bananas. I seemed to detect on his face a slight touch of chagrin, caused, no doubt, by his inability to locate the bowl of goldfish so necessary to his first trick.