PAGE 8
The Amateur
by
“My name is Sydney Carter,” he volunteered.
As a poker-player skims over the cards in his hand, Ford, in his mind’s eye, ran over the value of giving or not giving his right name. He decided that Ashton would not have heard it and that, if he gave a false one, there was a chance that later Ashton might find out that he had done so. Accordingly he said, “Mine is Austin Ford,” and seated himself at Ashton’s table. Within ten minutes the man he had promised to pluck from among the eight million inhabitants of London was smiling sympathetically at his jests and buying a drink.
On the steamer Ford had rehearsed the story with which, should he meet Ashton, he would introduce himself. It was one arranged to fit with his theory that Ashton was a crook. If Ashton were a crook Ford argued that to at once ingratiate himself in his good graces he also must be a crook. His plan was to invite Ashton to co-operate with him in some scheme that was openly dishonest. By so doing he hoped apparently to place himself at Ashton’s mercy. He believed if he could persuade Ashton he was more of a rascal than Ashton himself, and an exceedingly stupid rascal, any distrust the bookmaker might feel toward him would disappear. He made his advances so openly, and apparently showed his hand so carelessly, that, from being bored, Ashton became puzzled, then interested; and when Ford insisted he should dine with him, he considered it so necessary to find out who the youth might be who was forcing himself upon him that he accepted the invitation.
They adjourned to dress and an hour later, at Ford’s suggestion, they met at the Carlton. There Ford ordered a dinner calculated to lull his newly made friend into a mood suited to confidence, but which had on Ashton exactly the opposite effect. Merely for the pleasure of his company, utter strangers were not in the habit of treating him to strawberries in February, and vintage champagne; and, in consequence, in Ford’s hospitality he saw only cause for suspicion. If, as he had first feared, Ford was a New York detective, it was most important he should know that. No one better than Ashton understood that, at that moment, his presence in New York meant, for the police, unalloyed satisfaction, and for himself undisturbed solitude. But Ford was unlike any detective of his acquaintance; and his acquaintance had been extensive. It was true Ford was familiar with all the habits of Broadway and the Tenderloin. Of places with which Ashton was intimate, and of men with whom Ashton had formerly been well acquainted, he talked glibly. But, if he were a detective, Ashton considered, they certainly had improved the class.
The restaurant into which for the first time Ashton had penetrated, and in which he felt ill at ease, was to Ford, he observed, a matter of course. Evidently for Ford it held no terrors. He criticised the service, patronized the head waiters, and grumbled at the food; and when, on leaving the restaurant, an Englishman and his wife stopped at their table to greet him, he accepted their welcome to London without embarrassment.
Ashton, rolling his cigar between his lips, observed the incident with increasing bewilderment.
“You’ve got some swell friends,” he growled. “I’ll bet you never met THEM at Healey’s!”
“I meet all kinds of people in my business,” said Ford. “I once sold that man some mining stock, and the joke of it was,” he added, smiling knowingly, “it turned out to be good.”
Ashton decided that the psychological moment had arrived.
“What IS your business?” he asked.
“I’m a company promoter,” said Ford easily. “I thought I told you.”
“I did not tell you that I was a company promoter, too, did I?” demanded Ashton.
“No,” answered Ford, with apparent surprise. “Are you? That’s funny.”
Ashton watched for the next move, but the subject seemed in no way to interest Ford. Instead of following it up he began afresh.