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Good Evans - ebook
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Good Evans - ebook
One of the most prolific writers of the twentieth century, Edgar Wallace was an immensely popular author. The Educated Evans stories combine Wallace’s talent for humor with his hallmark detective story themes. His story of Evans is full of amusing incidents of love and adventure set amidst the bustle and excitement of the racecourse. This continues the life of Evans, Edgar Wallace’s? cockney tipster and „"the wizard of Camden Town"”. Follow the loves, predictions and calamities of this likeable hero of the Turf in the seventeen tales of this book. It is not only race-lovers who will love Evans, but lovers of life itself.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8148-055-0 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,7 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Contents
I. A CHANGE OF PLAN
II. MR. EVANS DOES A BIT OF GAS WORK
III. EDUCATION AND COMBINATIONS
IV. THE OTHER LUBESES
V. MR. EVANS PULLS OFF A REAL COOP
VI. THE NICE MINDED GIRL
VII. THE MUSICAL TIP
VIII. PSYCHOLOGY AND THE TIPSTER
IX. THE SHOWING UP OF EDUCATED EVANS
X. THE SUBCONSCIOUS MIND
XI. MR. EVANS HAS A WELL-SCREWED HEAD
XII. THE TWISTING OF ARTHUR COLLEYBORN
XIII. THE KIDNAPPING OF MR. EVANS
XIV. EDUCATED EVANS DECLARES TO WIN
XV. FOR EVANS' SAKE
XVI. THE PARTICULAR BEAUTY
XVII. THE LAST COOP OF ALLI. A CHANGE OF PLAN
IT was when an excited and vengeful client demanded what the so-and-so and such a thing Mr. Evans meant by sending out three selections for one race, that the educated man laid down his system of ethics.
“Tippin’,” he said, “is ta’tics. You start out to do one thing an’ do another. Bettin’s a battle. You got to change your plans the same as the celebrated Napoleon Bonaparte, him that was killed in the Battle of Waterloo.”
This philosophy he impressed upon a Miss Casey, with disastrous effects. As to Miss Casey...
To sit beside a beautiful lady in the pit of the Lyceum is indeed a privilege. To feel her small hand steal into yours in the excitement and emotion occasioned by Miss Frederick’s acting, is thrilling. Educated Evans had both these experiences. The lady was young. Her face was as fresh and as sweet as a pansy. She had red lips and large grey eyes... presently to be blinded with hot tears at the pitiable plight of Madame X.
Evans returned the grip of her hand and reeled.
“Whatever will you think of me?” she asked penitently as they came out of the theatre.
“My opinion of you,” said Mr. Evans passionately, “is the same as the well-known Henry the Eighth had for the far-famed Joan of Arc.”
“Oh, go on!” said the delighted Miss Casey. They went to a famous corner shop café and Evans blew a dollar on coffee and doughnuts and a box of chocolate tied up with blue ribbon –which was Miss Casey’s favourite colour.
Mr. Evans agreed to meet her in Hyde Park the following evening, and went home walking on air.
A week later Mr. Challoner (“The Miller” to the cognoscenti of Camden Town) called on the educated man. And the real reason for his call was an article in a certain weekly publication. The article was entitled “Fortunes from Tipping,” and the paragraph ran:
“Another turf prophet who has amassed wealth is Mr. Evans, the well-known racing man of Camden Town. Although Mr. Evans lives in unostentatious surroundings, it is no secret that his fortune runs into five figures.”
“Did you supply that information?” asked The Miller sternly.
“It’s publicity or press work,” murmured Evans. “I had a chat with the reporter–met him up West –”
“Five figures!” said The Miller, shocked.
“Ten pun’ nine an’ eleven,” said Evans calmly. “Write that down an’ if it ain’t five figures nothin’ is.”
He had been putting the finishing touch to a neat little sign on the door–an oblong of wood on which was painted the new house title.
No directory of Camden Town would reveal the whereabouts of “Priory Park” but for the fact that on all circulars to clients, old and new, Mr. Evans added more concisely, “Bayham Mews, N.W.”
“You’ve got a nerve,” said The Miller with that reluctant admiration he offered to the successful criminal. “So far as I can remember, your tip was Asterus.”
Educated Evans closed his eyes, a sure sign of offended dignity, and began to search the one drawer of an article which served as desk, counter, dressing-table, stand for duplicator, and occasionally seat. From the litter the drawer contained he produced a hectographed sheet.
“Read,” he said simply.
Detective Inspector Challoner read.
“EDUCATED EVANS!
The World’s Chief Turf Adviser
(Under Royal Patronage)
To all clients I advise a good bet on ASTERUS***
At the same time I am warned by my correspondents that Weissdorn is greatly fancied and that King of Clubs will be on the premises. At the same time what beats Melon will win and Priory Park will run forward.”
“He ran forward,” said Mr. Evans with even greater simplicity.
“Most horses do,” said The Miller, “unless they’re clothes horses.”
“I also give Sprig–what a double!”
“Sprig? You lie in your boots!” said the indignant Miller. “You said that the Prince of Wales had given you Thrown In!”
Evans shook his head.
“Sprig,” he said. “I’ve got documents to prove that me Ten pun’ Special to all and sundried was Sprig–fear nothing.”
The Miller did not argue. Mr. Evans’ Ten Pound Special was his favourite myth. Like Mrs. Harris, there was no such thing.
Once upon a time Mr. Evans had announced his intention of sending out such a startling service, and had offered it for a beggarly quid a nod, but nobody coughed up and the service fell into disuse. For why, argued the regulars who followed Educated Evans to their ruin, pay a Bradbury for a ten pun’ special when you could get his five pound guarantee wire for a dollar–and that on the nod?
“Them Lubeses is givin’ me trouble, Mr. Challoner,” said Evans, shaking his head sadly. “I’ve done me best to educate the woman but she’s like the far-famed horse that could be led to the slaughter but you couldn’t make him think. Never since the days of Mary Queen of Scotch–her that invented the well-known Johnny Walker–has there been a lady like Mrs. Lube–an’ when I call her a lady I expect to be struck down for perjury.”
The Miller lingered on the first step of the ladder by which Mr. Evans reached Priory Park.
“It’s malice an’ libel this time–an’ mind you, Mr. Challoner, I haven’t said a word about her new lodger–but she’s takin’ the name of a young lady in vain–as good a young lady as ever drew the breath of life!”
The Miller came back to the room.
“You interest me strangely,” he said. “Who is the unfortunate female honoured by your attentions at the moment?”
The face of Mr. Evans went pink; his manner grew haughty, almost cold.
“She’s in business down the West End an’ it’s purely planetic.”
“What-ic?” asked the puzzled inspector, and then: “Oh–you mean platonic?”
“It’s spelt both ways,” said Evans, unmoved. “The Germans call it one thing and the French another. The whole proceedings are accordin’ to what you’ve been brought up to. I call it planetic.”
The Miller did not dispute this shameless change of pronunciation but pursued his inquiries.
“I am anxious to know,” he said, “because my experience is that women only get hold of you to twist you–what is she after?”
Evans smiled.
“We got an infinity for one another,” he said. “She’s in lingery.”
“Let us be delicate,” said Mr. Challoner.
“I mean she’s in a lingery department of Snodds and Richersens, the well-known high-class ladies’ underwear and knick-knack shop–see advertisements. I met her the day I brought off All Green–fear nothin’–what a beauty! In fact we was seein’ the well- known Miss Palling Frederickson, the far-famed scream actress at the Lyceum. I lent her a pocket-handkerchief to wipe away her tears.”
“You lent Miss Frederick–?”
“No–Her. Miss Casey. She’s Irish on her father’s side, but her mother’s quite a lady. Them Lubeses see me with her at the cinema and put it around I was adoptin’ her. An’ I’ve had anomalous letters callin’ me body snatcher.”
“From which I gather that she is young,” said The Miller.
“Twenty come the 19th of April,” said Mr. Evans. “And what an education! She knows Romeo and Julia, Switzerland, where all the well-known winter sports go to, hist’ry grammar an’ she can knit ties.”
“Has she got medals for these accomplishments?” asked the sarcastic police officer.
“Cups,” said Evans, and added “She can play the pianner with two fingers.”
Mr. Evans could afford a little light recreation. Since the five-figure episode he had struck a vein of fortune such as comes to few tipsters.
He had not only tipped three winners off the reel, but he had, with unexampled recklessness or courage, backed them. As Mr. Issyheim said when he reluctantly counted out note after note into the trembling hands of the world’s supreme prophet and turf adviser, all the miracles were going against the book.
Mr. Evans had a new suit–or practically so. It was, in hue, violently blue, the trousers were slightly long in the leg, even when painfully braced, but the general effect was distinctly classy. A new white bowler hat and a necktie usually sacred to the officers of the 10th Hussars completed the pleasing picture when, on a bright spring morning, Mr. Evans journeyed by ‘bus to Paddington Station.
A neat little figure awaited him in the booking-hall. Awaited? Nay, came running towards him.
“I’ve bought the tickets!” she said excitedly. “Oh, Mr. Evans, I’ve got so much to tell you!”
He winced at the sight of the briefs–they were first- class; but her next words reassured him.
“I insist upon paying for the tickets, Mr. Evans–I’m rich!”
He smiled tolerantly. Nothing made Mr. Evans smile so tolerantly as somebody else paying.
“They wouldn’t give me special tickets,” she said. “I told them you were a member of the Jockey Club–”
“In a sense,” said Evans hastily, as he hurried her to the platform. “It’s not generally known. I do a lot of secret service work for the old club–that’s why I usually go into the silver ring. Me an’ Lonsdale’s like brothers–good mornin’, me lord!”
He lifted his hat graciously to a hurrying race-goer. The hurrying race-goer nodded and said “Hullo, face!” and passed on.
“Lord Lashells, the far-famed husband of Princess What’s- her-name,” explained Evans casually.
They had a carriage to themselves. The Miller, walking along the platform, paused at the door but thought better of it.
“Now!” said Elsie .Casey as the train started. “What do you think of this?”
She produced from her bag a long envelope. It had been heavily sealed in wax. Pulling out a letter, she handed it triumphantly to Evans. The letter-head ran:
“John Dougherty, Solicitors, Ballyriggan, Co. Wexford.”
“DEAR MISS CASEY,–We have had a communication from Heinz and Heinz, Attorneys, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, of which we hasten to apprise you. By the will of your uncle John Donovan Casey (deceased) the sum of $100,000 and the residue of his estate (proved at $1,757,000) is bequeathed to you...”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
I. A CHANGE OF PLAN
II. MR. EVANS DOES A BIT OF GAS WORK
III. EDUCATION AND COMBINATIONS
IV. THE OTHER LUBESES
V. MR. EVANS PULLS OFF A REAL COOP
VI. THE NICE MINDED GIRL
VII. THE MUSICAL TIP
VIII. PSYCHOLOGY AND THE TIPSTER
IX. THE SHOWING UP OF EDUCATED EVANS
X. THE SUBCONSCIOUS MIND
XI. MR. EVANS HAS A WELL-SCREWED HEAD
XII. THE TWISTING OF ARTHUR COLLEYBORN
XIII. THE KIDNAPPING OF MR. EVANS
XIV. EDUCATED EVANS DECLARES TO WIN
XV. FOR EVANS' SAKE
XVI. THE PARTICULAR BEAUTY
XVII. THE LAST COOP OF ALLI. A CHANGE OF PLAN
IT was when an excited and vengeful client demanded what the so-and-so and such a thing Mr. Evans meant by sending out three selections for one race, that the educated man laid down his system of ethics.
“Tippin’,” he said, “is ta’tics. You start out to do one thing an’ do another. Bettin’s a battle. You got to change your plans the same as the celebrated Napoleon Bonaparte, him that was killed in the Battle of Waterloo.”
This philosophy he impressed upon a Miss Casey, with disastrous effects. As to Miss Casey...
To sit beside a beautiful lady in the pit of the Lyceum is indeed a privilege. To feel her small hand steal into yours in the excitement and emotion occasioned by Miss Frederick’s acting, is thrilling. Educated Evans had both these experiences. The lady was young. Her face was as fresh and as sweet as a pansy. She had red lips and large grey eyes... presently to be blinded with hot tears at the pitiable plight of Madame X.
Evans returned the grip of her hand and reeled.
“Whatever will you think of me?” she asked penitently as they came out of the theatre.
“My opinion of you,” said Mr. Evans passionately, “is the same as the well-known Henry the Eighth had for the far-famed Joan of Arc.”
“Oh, go on!” said the delighted Miss Casey. They went to a famous corner shop café and Evans blew a dollar on coffee and doughnuts and a box of chocolate tied up with blue ribbon –which was Miss Casey’s favourite colour.
Mr. Evans agreed to meet her in Hyde Park the following evening, and went home walking on air.
A week later Mr. Challoner (“The Miller” to the cognoscenti of Camden Town) called on the educated man. And the real reason for his call was an article in a certain weekly publication. The article was entitled “Fortunes from Tipping,” and the paragraph ran:
“Another turf prophet who has amassed wealth is Mr. Evans, the well-known racing man of Camden Town. Although Mr. Evans lives in unostentatious surroundings, it is no secret that his fortune runs into five figures.”
“Did you supply that information?” asked The Miller sternly.
“It’s publicity or press work,” murmured Evans. “I had a chat with the reporter–met him up West –”
“Five figures!” said The Miller, shocked.
“Ten pun’ nine an’ eleven,” said Evans calmly. “Write that down an’ if it ain’t five figures nothin’ is.”
He had been putting the finishing touch to a neat little sign on the door–an oblong of wood on which was painted the new house title.
No directory of Camden Town would reveal the whereabouts of “Priory Park” but for the fact that on all circulars to clients, old and new, Mr. Evans added more concisely, “Bayham Mews, N.W.”
“You’ve got a nerve,” said The Miller with that reluctant admiration he offered to the successful criminal. “So far as I can remember, your tip was Asterus.”
Educated Evans closed his eyes, a sure sign of offended dignity, and began to search the one drawer of an article which served as desk, counter, dressing-table, stand for duplicator, and occasionally seat. From the litter the drawer contained he produced a hectographed sheet.
“Read,” he said simply.
Detective Inspector Challoner read.
“EDUCATED EVANS!
The World’s Chief Turf Adviser
(Under Royal Patronage)
To all clients I advise a good bet on ASTERUS***
At the same time I am warned by my correspondents that Weissdorn is greatly fancied and that King of Clubs will be on the premises. At the same time what beats Melon will win and Priory Park will run forward.”
“He ran forward,” said Mr. Evans with even greater simplicity.
“Most horses do,” said The Miller, “unless they’re clothes horses.”
“I also give Sprig–what a double!”
“Sprig? You lie in your boots!” said the indignant Miller. “You said that the Prince of Wales had given you Thrown In!”
Evans shook his head.
“Sprig,” he said. “I’ve got documents to prove that me Ten pun’ Special to all and sundried was Sprig–fear nothing.”
The Miller did not argue. Mr. Evans’ Ten Pound Special was his favourite myth. Like Mrs. Harris, there was no such thing.
Once upon a time Mr. Evans had announced his intention of sending out such a startling service, and had offered it for a beggarly quid a nod, but nobody coughed up and the service fell into disuse. For why, argued the regulars who followed Educated Evans to their ruin, pay a Bradbury for a ten pun’ special when you could get his five pound guarantee wire for a dollar–and that on the nod?
“Them Lubeses is givin’ me trouble, Mr. Challoner,” said Evans, shaking his head sadly. “I’ve done me best to educate the woman but she’s like the far-famed horse that could be led to the slaughter but you couldn’t make him think. Never since the days of Mary Queen of Scotch–her that invented the well-known Johnny Walker–has there been a lady like Mrs. Lube–an’ when I call her a lady I expect to be struck down for perjury.”
The Miller lingered on the first step of the ladder by which Mr. Evans reached Priory Park.
“It’s malice an’ libel this time–an’ mind you, Mr. Challoner, I haven’t said a word about her new lodger–but she’s takin’ the name of a young lady in vain–as good a young lady as ever drew the breath of life!”
The Miller came back to the room.
“You interest me strangely,” he said. “Who is the unfortunate female honoured by your attentions at the moment?”
The face of Mr. Evans went pink; his manner grew haughty, almost cold.
“She’s in business down the West End an’ it’s purely planetic.”
“What-ic?” asked the puzzled inspector, and then: “Oh–you mean platonic?”
“It’s spelt both ways,” said Evans, unmoved. “The Germans call it one thing and the French another. The whole proceedings are accordin’ to what you’ve been brought up to. I call it planetic.”
The Miller did not dispute this shameless change of pronunciation but pursued his inquiries.
“I am anxious to know,” he said, “because my experience is that women only get hold of you to twist you–what is she after?”
Evans smiled.
“We got an infinity for one another,” he said. “She’s in lingery.”
“Let us be delicate,” said Mr. Challoner.
“I mean she’s in a lingery department of Snodds and Richersens, the well-known high-class ladies’ underwear and knick-knack shop–see advertisements. I met her the day I brought off All Green–fear nothin’–what a beauty! In fact we was seein’ the well- known Miss Palling Frederickson, the far-famed scream actress at the Lyceum. I lent her a pocket-handkerchief to wipe away her tears.”
“You lent Miss Frederick–?”
“No–Her. Miss Casey. She’s Irish on her father’s side, but her mother’s quite a lady. Them Lubeses see me with her at the cinema and put it around I was adoptin’ her. An’ I’ve had anomalous letters callin’ me body snatcher.”
“From which I gather that she is young,” said The Miller.
“Twenty come the 19th of April,” said Mr. Evans. “And what an education! She knows Romeo and Julia, Switzerland, where all the well-known winter sports go to, hist’ry grammar an’ she can knit ties.”
“Has she got medals for these accomplishments?” asked the sarcastic police officer.
“Cups,” said Evans, and added “She can play the pianner with two fingers.”
Mr. Evans could afford a little light recreation. Since the five-figure episode he had struck a vein of fortune such as comes to few tipsters.
He had not only tipped three winners off the reel, but he had, with unexampled recklessness or courage, backed them. As Mr. Issyheim said when he reluctantly counted out note after note into the trembling hands of the world’s supreme prophet and turf adviser, all the miracles were going against the book.
Mr. Evans had a new suit–or practically so. It was, in hue, violently blue, the trousers were slightly long in the leg, even when painfully braced, but the general effect was distinctly classy. A new white bowler hat and a necktie usually sacred to the officers of the 10th Hussars completed the pleasing picture when, on a bright spring morning, Mr. Evans journeyed by ‘bus to Paddington Station.
A neat little figure awaited him in the booking-hall. Awaited? Nay, came running towards him.
“I’ve bought the tickets!” she said excitedly. “Oh, Mr. Evans, I’ve got so much to tell you!”
He winced at the sight of the briefs–they were first- class; but her next words reassured him.
“I insist upon paying for the tickets, Mr. Evans–I’m rich!”
He smiled tolerantly. Nothing made Mr. Evans smile so tolerantly as somebody else paying.
“They wouldn’t give me special tickets,” she said. “I told them you were a member of the Jockey Club–”
“In a sense,” said Evans hastily, as he hurried her to the platform. “It’s not generally known. I do a lot of secret service work for the old club–that’s why I usually go into the silver ring. Me an’ Lonsdale’s like brothers–good mornin’, me lord!”
He lifted his hat graciously to a hurrying race-goer. The hurrying race-goer nodded and said “Hullo, face!” and passed on.
“Lord Lashells, the far-famed husband of Princess What’s- her-name,” explained Evans casually.
They had a carriage to themselves. The Miller, walking along the platform, paused at the door but thought better of it.
“Now!” said Elsie .Casey as the train started. “What do you think of this?”
She produced from her bag a long envelope. It had been heavily sealed in wax. Pulling out a letter, she handed it triumphantly to Evans. The letter-head ran:
“John Dougherty, Solicitors, Ballyriggan, Co. Wexford.”
“DEAR MISS CASEY,–We have had a communication from Heinz and Heinz, Attorneys, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, of which we hasten to apprise you. By the will of your uncle John Donovan Casey (deceased) the sum of $100,000 and the residue of his estate (proved at $1,757,000) is bequeathed to you...”
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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