Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories Oscar Wilde (book club reads txt) 📖

his business was. Lord Arthur handed him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given him. When the man saw it he bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front parlour on the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he was called in England, bustled into the room, with a very wine-stained napkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand.

“Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,” said Lord Arthur, bowing, “and I am anxious to have a short interview with you on a matter of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I want you to supply me with an explosive clock.”

“Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,” said the genial little German, laughing. “Don’t look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody, and I remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere’s. I hope her ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I finish my breakfast? There is an excellent pâté, and my friends are kind enough to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at the German Embassy,” and before Lord Arthur had got over his surprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the backroom, sipping the most delicious Marcobrünner out of a pale yellow hock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in the friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.

“Explosive clocks,” said Herr Winckelkopf, “are not very good things for foreign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing the Custom House, the train service is so irregular, that they usually go off before they have reached their proper destination. If, however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with an excellent article, and guarantee that you will he satisfied with the result. May I ask for whom it is intended? If it is for the police, or for anyone connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I cannot do anything for you. The English detectives are really our best friends, and I have always found that by relying on their stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one of them.”

“I assure you,” said Lord Arthur, “that it has nothing to do with the police at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean of Chichester.”

“Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion, Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.”

“I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,” said Lord Arthur, blushing. “The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.”

“It is a purely private matter then?”

“Purely private.”

Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room, returning in a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about the size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an ormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.

Lord Arthur’s face brightened up when he saw it. “That is just what I want,” he cried, “and now tell me how it goes off.”

“Ah! there is my secret,” answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating his invention with a justifiable look of pride; “let me know when you wish it to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.”

“Well, today is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once⁠—”

“That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand for some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off tomorrow.”

“Oh, it will be quite time enough!” said Lord Arthur politely, “if it is delivered tomorrow night or Thursday morning. For the moment of the explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at home at that hour.”

“Friday, at noon,” repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to that effect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near the fireplace.

“And now,” said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, “pray let me know how much I am in your debt.”

“It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make any charge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock will be three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I am only too pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff’s.”

“But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?”

“Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for money; I live entirely for my art.”

Lord Arthur laid down £4, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the little German for his kindness, and, having succeeded in declining an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the following Saturday, left the house and went off to the Park.

For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement, and on Friday at twelve o’clock he drove down to the Buckingham to wait for news. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept posting up telegrams from various parts of the country giving the results of horse-races, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of the weather, and the like, while the tape ticked out wearisome details about an all-night sitting in the House of Commons, and a small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o’clock the evening papers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with the Pall Mall, the St. James’s, the Globe, and the Echo, to the immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to read the reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion House, on the subject of South African Missions, and the advisability of having black Bishops in every province, and for some reason or other had a strong prejudice against the Evening News. None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest allusion to Chichester, and Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must have failed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was quite unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day was full