Flashman And The Tiger

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "I believe I know this chap—but no, it can’t be, surely! Only he’s uncommonly like that old general … oh, what’s-his-name? You know, made such a hash of the Khartoum business, with Gordon … yes, and years ago he won a great name in Russia, and the Mutiny—V.C. and knighthood—it’s on the tip of my tongue—"

"My dear fellow," says the high-pitched poet, "I can’t imagine who your general may be—it can hardly be Lord Roberts, I fancy—but it seems likely that he would choose to sleep in his home or his club, rather than in an alley. Besides," he went on wearily, stooping a little closer—and damned unnerving it was, to feel those two faces peering at me through the gloom, while I tried to sham insensible—"besides, this is a nautical, not a military man; he is not English, but either American or German—probably the latter, since he has certainly studied at a second-rate German university, but undoubtedly he has been in America quite lately. He is known to the police, is currently working as a ship’s steward, or in some equally menial capacity at sea—for I observe that he has declined even from his modest beginnings—and will, unless I am greatly mistaken, be in Hamburg by the beginning of next week—provided he wakes up in time. More than that," says the know-all ignoramus, "I cannot tell you from a superficial examination. Except, of course, for the obvious fact that he found his way here via Piccadilly Circus.

"Well," says the other doubtfully, "I’m sure you’re right, but he looks extremely like old what’s-his-name. But how on earth can you tell so much about him from so brief a scrutiny?"

"You have not forgotten my methods since we last met, surely?" says the conceited ass, who I began to suspect was some kind of maniac. "Very well, apply them. Observe," he went on impatiently, "that the man wears a pea-jacket, with brass buttons, which is seldom seen except on sea-faring men. Add that to the patent fact that he is a German, or German-American—"

"I don’t see," began the bailiff, only to be swept aside.

"The duelling scars, doctor! Observe them, quite plain, close to the ears on either side." He’d sharp eyes, all right, to spot those; a gift to me from Otto Bismarck, years ago. "They are the unfailing trade-mark of the German student, and since they have been inexpertly inflicted—you will note that they are too high—it is not too much to assume that he received them not at Heidelberg or Gottingen, but at some less distinguished academy. This suggests a middle-class beginning from which, obviously, he has descended to at least the fringes of crime."

"How can you tell that?"

"The fine silver flask in his hand was not honestly acquired by such a seedy drunkard as this, surely. It is safe to deduce that its acquisition was only one of many petty pilferings, some of which must inevitably have attracted the attention of the police."

"Of course! Well, I should have noticed that. But how can you say he is a ship’s steward, or that he has been in America, or that he’s going to Hamburg—"

"His appearance, although dissipated, is not entirely unredeemed. Some care has been taken with the moustache and whiskers, no doubt to compensate for the ravages which drink and evil living have stamped on his countenance." I could have struck the arrogant, prying bastard, but I grimly kept on playing possum. "Again, the hands are well kept, and the nails, so he is not a simple focsle hand. What, then, but a steward? The boots, although cracked, are of exceptionally good manufacture—doubtless a gratuity from some first-class passenger. As to his American sojourn, we have established that he drinks bourbon whisky, a taste for which is seldom developed outside the United States. Furthermore, since I noticed from the shipping lists this morning that the liner Brunnhilde has arrived in London from New York, and will leave on Saturday for Hamburg, I think we may reasonably conclude, bearing in mind the other points we have established, that here we have one of her crew, mis-spending his shore leave."

"Amazing!" cries the bailiff. "And, of course, quite simple when you explain it. My dear fellow, your uncanny powers have not deserted you in your absence!"

"I trust they are still equal, at least, to drawing such obvious inferences as these. And now, doctor, I think we have spent long enough over this poor, besotted hulk, who, I fear, would have furnished more interesting material for the meeting of the Inebriation Society than for us. I think you will admit that this pathetic shell has little in common with your distinguished Indian general."

"Unhesitatingly!" cries the other oaf, standing up, and as they sauntered off, leaving me quaking with relief and indignation—drunken ship’s dogsbody from a second-rate German university, indeed!—I heard him ask:

"But how did you know he got here by way of Piccadilly?"