Mr American
Now available as an ebook, ‘Mr American’ is a swashbuckling romp of a novel.Mark Franklin came from the American West to Edwardian England with two long-barrelled .44s in his baggage and a fortune in silver in the bank. Where he had got it and what he was looking for no one could guess, although they wondered – at Scotland Yard, in City offices, in the glittering theatreland of the West End, in the highest circles of Society (even King Edward was puzzled) and in the humble pub at Castle Lancing. Tall dark and dangerous, soft spoken and alone, with London at his feet and a dark shadow in his past, he was a mystery to all of them, rustics and royalty, squires and suffragettes, the women who loved him and the men who feared and hated him. He came from a far frontier in another world, yet he was by no means a stranger… even old General Flashman, who knew men and mischief better than most, never guessed the whole truth about “Mr American”.
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George MacDonald Fraser
MR AMERICAN
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, chaarcters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Previously published in paperback by Collins Harvil 1992 Reprinted four times
First published in Great Britain by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd 1980
Copyright © George MacDonald Fraser 1980
Acknowledgement is due and gratefully given to Peter Newboldt for permission to quote from Sir Henry Newboldt’s “The Fighting Temeraire” and to B. Feldman & Co. Ltd. for permission to quote from “Everybody’s Doing It (Now)” and from “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”; and to Herman Davewski Publishing Co. for permission to quote from “Goodbye Dolly Gray”.
George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780006470182
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007458431 Version: 2016-10-04
Contents
Inspector Griffin came down to the landing-stage on a raw autumn morning to see the Mauretania berthing. It was part of his job; there was always someone from the detective department on hand when the American liners docked, but for Inspector Griffin it was a pleasure, too. He loved the bustle of the wharf at dawn, and the sight of the huge iron ship edging gently into the quay, the busy little tugs, the squealing whistles, the propellor churning the yellow Mersey into dirty foam; he even enjoyed the bite of the wind and the cold drizzle which was causing his colleague, young Constable Murphy, to hunch his collar round his chin as he stamped his feet on the wet flags. To Murphy it was just another tedious chore; he wiped his nose and glowered at the low clouds over the river.
“Won’t be worth their while takin’ off at Doncaster this afternoon,” he observed glumly, and Inspector Griffin understood. Constable Murphy was a flying enthusiast, like most of the population these days; since M. Blériot had come winging ghost-like out of the Channel mist a few weeks before, the first man to fly from France into England in a crazy contraption that looked like an overgrown kite, the country seemed to have gone flying daft, Inspector Griffin reflected. He didn’t like it; perhaps he was getting old and conservative, but the thought that a man could fly in a few minutes across England’s last line of defence – and from France, of all places – made him uneasy. It wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t safe. And what use would the Royal Navy be, if Frogs and Germans and God knew what other breed of foreigners could soar unscathed over their heads?
“Farman an’ Cody’s goin’ to be at Doncaster,” said Murphy, with relish. “First flyin’ meetin’ on British soil, by gum! Wouldn’t I like to be there? Cody flew from London to Manchester the other day, over the railway tracks, special markers they had on the ground to guide him – an’ they say Farman’s been up six hundred feet, an’ can go higher yet.” He shuddered deliciously and wiped his nose again. “Think of it, sir! Just them tiny machines, an’ –”
Females, football and flying, Griffin reflected irritably, that was all these young fellows thought about. The gangways were down, and the first passengers were picking their way gingerly down to the quay, shepherded by the Mauretania’s stewards, but Murphy, who should have been casting a professional eye over them, was plainly miles away in the sky above Doncaster, performing aerobatics with Cody and Farman and his other heroes.
“Cody’s goin’ to become naturalized British, they reckon,” he went on. “If he lives long enough – there was a crash at Paris t’other day, fellow broke his neck, shocking risks they take –”
“Thought you were more interested in Everton,” said Griffin, vainly trying to stem the flood. “Aren’t they playing Liverpool this afternoon?”
