SOME BAD CHARACTERS
It happened that on the night of the great attempt the inquisitive Mr.
Lane, of 76 Cawdor Street, was considerably exercised in his mind as
to the depleted condition of his humble treasury. With Mr. Lane the
difference between affluence and poverty was a matter of shillings. His
line of business was a humble one. Lead piping and lengths of telephone
wire, an occasional door-mat improvidently left outside whilst the
servant cleaned the hall, these represented the scope and extent of his
prey. Perhaps he reached his zenith when he lifted an overcoat from a
hatstand what time a benevolent old lady was cutting him thick slices
of bread and butter in a basement kitchen.
Mr. Lane had only recently returned from a short stay in Wormwood
Scrubbs Prison. It was over a trifling affair of horsehair abstracted
from railway carriage cushions that compelled Mr. Lane’s retirement for
two months. It was that same affair that brought about his undoing on
the night of the attempt.
For the kudos of the railway theft had nerved him to more ambitious
attempts, and with a depleted exchequer to urge him forward, and the
prestige of his recent achievements to support him, he decided upon
burglary. It was a wild and reckless departure from his regular line,
and he did not stop to consider the disabilities attaching to a change
of profession, nor debate the unpropitious conditions of an already
overstocked labor market. It is reasonable to suppose that Mr. Lane
lacked the necessary qualities of logic and balance to argue any point
to its obvious conclusion, for he was, intellectually, the reverse
of brilliant, and was therefore ill-equipped for introspective or
psychological examination of the circumstances leading to his decision.
Communing with himself, the inquisitive Mr. Lane put the matter tersely
and brutally.
“Lead pipin’s no go unless you’ve got a pal to work with; telephone
wires is so covered up with wood casin’ that it’s worse’n hard work to
pinch two-penn’oth. I’m goin’ to have a cut at Joneses.”
So in the pelting rain he watched “Joneses” from a convenient doorway.
He noted with satisfaction the “workmen” departing one by one; he
observed with joy the going of “Jones” himself; and when, some few
minutes afterwards, the queer-looking old man, whom he suspected as
being a sort of caretaker, came shuffling out, slamming the gate
behind him, and peering left and right, and mumbling to himself as he
squelched through the rain, the watcher regarded the removal of this
final difficulty as being an especial act of Providence.
He waited for another half-hour, because, for some reason or other,
the usually deserted street became annoyingly crowded. First came a
belated coal cart and a miserably bedraggled carman who cried his
wares dolefully. Then a small boy, escaping from the confines of his
domestic circle, came to revel in the downpour and wade ecstatically
but thoroughly through the puddles that had formed on the uneven
surface of the road. Nemesis, in the shape of a shrill-voiced mother,
overtook the boy and sent him whining and expectant to the heavy hand
of maternal authority. With the coast clear Mr. Lane lost no time. In
effecting an entrance to the headquarters of the “Borough Lot,” Mr.
Lane’s method lacked subtlety. He climbed over the gate leading to
the yard, trusting inwardly that he was not observed, but taking his
chance. Had he been an accomplished burglar, with the experience of
any exploits behind him, he would have begun by making a very thorough
inspection of likely windows. Certainly he would never have tried the
“office” door. Being the veriest tyro, and being conscious, moreover,
that his greatest feats had connection with doors carelessly left ajar,
he tried the door, and to his delight it opened.
Again the skilled craftsman would have suspected some sort of
treachery, and might have withdrawn; but Mr. Lane, recognizing in the
fact that the old man had forgotten to fasten the door behind him only
yet another proof of that benevolent Providence which exerts itself for
the express service of men “in luck,” entered boldly. He lit a candle
stump and looked around.
The evidence of that wealth which is the particular possession of
“master-men” was not evident. Indeed, the floor of the passage was
uncarpeted, and the walls bare of picture or ornament. Nor was the
“office,” a little room leading from the “passage,” any more prolific
of result. Such fixtures as there were had apparently been left behind
by the previous tenant, and these were thick with dust.
“Bah!” said the inquisitive Mr. Lane scornfully, and his words echoed
hollowly as in an empty house.
With the barren possibilities of his exploit before him, Mr. Lane’s
spirits fell.
He was of the class, to whom reference has already been made, that
looked in awe and reverence toward the “Borough Lot” in the same spirit
as the youthful curate might regard the consistory of bishops. In his
cups--pewter cups they were with frothing heads a-top--he was wont to
boast that his connection with the “Borough Lot” was both close and
intimate. A rumor that went around to the effect that the “mouthpiece”
who defended him at the closing of the unsatisfactory horsehair episode
had been paid for by the “Borough Lot” he did not trouble to contradict.
If he had known any of them, even by sight, he would not at that moment
have been effecting a burglarious entry into their premises.
Room after room he searched. He found the ill-furnished bedroom of
Connor, and the room where old George slept on an uncleanly mattress.
He found, too, the big room where the “Lot” held their informal
meetings, but nothing portable. Nothing that a man might slip under his
coat, and walk boldly out of the front door with. No little article of
jewelry that your wife might carry to a pawnbroker’s with a long face
and a longer story of a penury that forced you to part with her dear
mother’s last gift. None of these, noted Mr. Lane bitterly, and with
every fresh disappointment he breathed the harder.
For apart from the commercial aspect of this, his burglary, there
was the sickening humiliation of failure. An imaginative man, he had
already invented the story he was to tell to a few select cronies in
sneak-thief division. He had rehearsed mentally a scene where, with
an air of nonchalance, he drew a handful of golden sovereigns from
his pocket and ordered drinks round. And whilst they were sipping
his drinks, smirking respectfully, he would have confided to them
the fact that he had been duly, and with all ceremony, installed a
full-fledged member of the “Borough Lot.” Of the irony of the situation
he was ignorant. A qualified burglar would have completed a systematic
examination of the premises in ten minutes, but Mr. Lane was not so
qualified. In consequence he dawdled from room to room, going back to
this room to make sure, and returning to that room to be absolutely
certain that nothing had been overlooked. Oblivious of the flight of
time, he stood irresolutely in the topmost room of the house when the
real adventure of the evening began. He heard the click of a lock--he
had thoughtfully closed the office door behind him--and a voice, and
his heart leapt into his throat. He heard a voice, a voice hoarse with
rage, and another, and yet another.
Mr. Lane realized, from the stamping of feet on the stairs, that half a
dozen men had come into the house; from their language he gathered they
were annoyed.
Then he heard something that froze his blood and turned his marrow to
water.
It had begun in a rumble of hoarse, undistinguishable words, and ended
in the phrase that caught his ear.
“... he’s sold us, I tell ye! Put spies on us! He led us into the trap,
curse him....”
He heard another voice speaking in a lower tone.
“What are we worth? You’re a fool! What d’ye think we’re worth? Ain’t
we the ‘Borough Lot’? Don’t he know enough to hang two or three of
us.... It’s Connor and his pal the lawyer....”
The “Borough Lot”!
The paralyzing intelligence came to Mr. Lane, and he held on to the
bare mantelshelf for support. Spies! Suppose they discovered him, and
mistook him for a spy! His hair rose at the thought. He knew them
well enough by repute. Overmuch hero-worship had invested them with
qualities for evil which they may or may not have possessed.
There might be a chance of escape. The tumult below continued. Scraps
of angry talk came floating up.
Mr. Lane looked out of the window; the drop into the street was too
long, and there was no sign of rope in the house.
Cautiously he opened the door of the room. The men were in the room
beneath that in which he stood. The staircase that led to the street
must take him past their door.
Mr. Lane was very anxious to leave the house. He had unwittingly
stepped into a hornets’ nest, and wanted to make his escape without
disturbing the inmates. Now was the time--or never. Whilst the angry
argument continued a creaking stair board or so might not attract
attention. But he made no allowance for the gifts of these men--gifts
of sight and hearing. Bat Sands, in the midst of his tirade, saw the
uplifted finger and head-jerk of Goyle. He did not check his flow
of invective, but edged toward the door; then he stopped short, and
flinging the door open, he caught the scared Mr. Lane by the throat,
and dragging him into the room, threw him upon the ground and knelt on
him.
“What are ye doing here?” he whispered fiercely.
Mr. Lane, with protruding eyes, saw the pitiless faces about him, saw
Goyle lift a life-preserver from the table and turn half-round the
better to strike, and fainted.
“Stop that!” growled Bat, with outstretched hand. “The little swine has
fainted. Who is he? Do any of you fellers know him?”
It was the wizened-faced man whom Angel had addressed as Lamby who
furnished the identification.
“He’s a little crook--name of Lane.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Oh, hereabouts. He was in the Scrubbs in my time,” said Lamby.
They regarded the unconscious burglar in perplexity.
“Go through his pockets,” suggested Goyle.
It happened--and this was the most providential happening of the day
from Mr. Lane’s point of view--that when he had decided upon embarking
on his career of high-class crime he had thoughtfully provided himself
with a few homemade instruments. It was the little poker with
flattened end to form a jemmy and the center-bit that was found in his
pocket that in all probability saved Mr. Lane’s life.
Lombroso and other great criminologists have given it out that your
true degenerate has no sense of humor, but on two faces at least there
was a broad grin when the object of the little man’s visit was revealed.
“He came to burgle Connor,” said Bat admiringly. “Here, pass over the
whisky, one of ye!”
He forced a little down the man’s throat, and Mr. Lane blinked and
opened his eyes in a frightened stare.
“Stand up,” commanded Bat, “an’ give an account of yourself, young
feller. What d’ye mean by breaking into----”
“Never mind about that,” Goyle interrupted savagely. “What has he heard
when he was sneaking outside?--that’s the question.”
“Nothin’, gentlemen!” gasped the unfortunate Mr. Lane, “on me word,
gentlemen! I’ve been in trouble like yourselves, an’----”
He realized he had blundered.
“Oh,” said Goyle with ominous calm, “so you’ve been in trouble like us,
have you?”
“I mean----”
“I know what you mean,” hissed the other; “you mean you’ve been
listenin’ to what we’ve been saying, you little skunk, and you’re ready
to bleat to the first copper.”
It might have gone hard with Mr. Lane but for the opportune arrival of
the messenger. Bat went downstairs at the knock, and the rest stood
quietly listening. They expected Connor, and when his voice did not
sound on the stairs they looked at one another questioningly. Bat came
into the room with a yellow envelope in his hand. He passed it to
Goyle. Reading was not an accomplishment of his. Goyle read it with
difficulty.
“Do the best you can,” he read. “I’m lying ‘doggo.’”
“What does that mean?” snarled Goyle, holding the message in his hand
and looking at Bat. “Hidin’, is he--and we’ve got to do the best we
can?”
Bat reached for his overcoat. He did not speak as he struggled into it,
nor until he had buttoned it deliberately.
“It means--git,” he said shortly. “It means run, or else it means time,
an’ worse than time.”
He swung round to the door.
“Connor’s hidin’,” he stopped to say. “When Connor starts hiding the
place is getting hot. There’s nothing against me so far as I know,
except----”
His eyes fell on the form of Mr. Lane. He had raised himself to a
sitting position on the floor, and now, with disheveled hair and
outstretched legs, he sat the picture of despair.
Goyle intercepted the glance.
“What about him?” he asked.
“Leave him,” said Bat; “we’ve got no time for fooling with him.”
A motor-car came buzzing down Cawdor Street, which was unusual. They
heard the grind of its brakes outside the door, and that in itself
was sufficiently alarming. Bat extinguished the light, and cautiously
opened the shutters. He drew back with an oath.
“What’s that?” Goyle whispered.
Bat made no reply, and they heard him open his matchbox.
“What are you doing?” whispered Goyle fiercely.
“Light the lamp,” said the other.
The tinkle of glass followed as he removed the chimney, and in the
yellow light Bat faced the “Borough Lot.”
“U--P spells ‘up,’ an’ that’s what the game is,” he said calmly. He was
searching his pockets as he spoke. “I want a light because there’s one
or two things in my pocket that I’ve got to burn--quick!”
After some fumbling he found a paper. He gave it a swift examination,
then he struck a match and carefully lit the corner.
“It’s the fairest cop,” he went on. “The street’s full of police, and
Angel ain’t playing ‘gamblin’ raids’ this time.”
There was a heavy knock on the door, but nobody moved. Goyle’s face had
gone livid. He knew better than any man there how impossible escape
was. That had been one of the drawbacks to the house--the ease with
which it could be surrounded. He had pointed out the fact to Connor
before.
Again the knock.
“Let ’em open it,” said Bat grimly, and as though the people outside
had heard the invitation, the door crashed in, and there came a patter
as of men running on the stairs.
First to enter the room was Angel. He nodded to Bat coolly, then
stepped aside to allow the policemen to follow.
“I want you,” he said briefly.
“What for?” asked Sands.
“Breaking and entering,” said the detective. “Put out your hands!”
Bat obeyed. As the steel stirrup-shaped irons snapped on his wrists he
asked--
“Have you got Connor?”
Angel smiled.
“Connor lives to fight another day,” he said quietly.
The policemen who attended him were busy with the other occupants of
the room.
“Bit of a field-day for you, Mr. Angel,” said the thin-faced Lamby
pleasantly. “Thought you was goin’ to let us off?”
“Jumping at conclusions hastily is a habit to be deplored,” said Angel
sententiously. Then he saw the panic-stricken Mr. Lane.
“Hullo, what’s this?” he demanded.
Mr. Lane had at that moment the inspiration of his life. Since he was
by fortuitous circumstances involved in this matter, and since it could
make very little difference one way or the other what he said, he
seized the fame that lay to his hand.
“I am one of the ‘Borough Lot,’” he said, and was led out proud and
handcuffed with the knowledge that he had established beyond dispute
his title to consideration as a desperate criminal.
* * * * *
Mr. Spedding was a man who thought quickly. Ideas and plans came to
him as dross and diamonds come to the man at the sorting table, and he
had the faculty of selection. He saw the police system of England as
only the police themselves saw it, and he had an open mind upon Angel’s
action. It was within the bounds of possibility that Angel had acted
with full authority; it was equally possible that Angel was bluffing.
Mr. Spedding had two courses before him, and they were both desperate;
but he must be sure in how, so far, his immediate liberty depended upon
the whim of a deputy-assistant-commissioner of police.
Angel had mentioned a supreme authority. It was characteristic of
Spedding that he should walk into a mine to see how far the fuse had
burned. In other words, he hailed the first cab, and drove to the House
of Commons.
The Right Honorable George Chandler Middleborough, His Majesty’s
Secretary of State for Home Affairs, is a notoriously inaccessible
man; but he makes exceptions, and such an exception he made in favor
of Spedding. For eminent solicitors do not come down to the House at
ten o’clock in the evening to gratify an idle curiosity, or to be shown
over the House, or beg patronage and interest; and when a business
card is marked “most urgent,” and that card stands for a staple
representative of an important profession, the request for an interview
is not easily refused.
Spedding was shown into the minister’s room, and the Home Secretary
rose with a smile. He knew Mr. Spedding by sight, and had once dined in
his company.
“Er--” he began, looking at the card in his hand, “what can I do for
you--at this hour?” he smiled again.
“I have called to see you in the matter of the late--er--Mr. Reale.” He
saw and watched the minister’s face. Beyond looking a little puzzled,
the Home Secretary made no sign.
“Good!” thought Spedding, and breathed with more freedom.
“I’m afraid----” said the minister. He got no further, for Spedding was
at once humility, apology, and embarrassment.
What! had the Home Secretary not received his letter? A letter dealing
with the estate of Reale? You can imagine the distress and vexation
on Mr. Spedding’s face as he spoke of the criminal carelessness of
his clerk, his attitude of helplessness, his recognition of the
absolute impossibility of discussing the matter until the Secretary
had received the letter, and his withdrawal, leaving behind him a
sympathetic minister of State who would have been pleased--would have
been delighted, my dear sir, to have helped Mr. Spedding if he’d
received the letter in time to consider its contents. Mr. Spedding was
an inventive genius, and it might have been in reference to him that
the motherhood of invention was first identified with dire necessity.
Out again in the courtyard, Spedding found a cab that carried him to
his club.
“Angel bluffed!” he reflected with an inward smile. “My friend, you are
risking that nice appointment of yours.”
He smiled again, for it occurred to him that his risk was the greater.
“Two millions!” he murmured. “It is worth it: I could do a great deal
with two millions.”
He got down at his club, and tendered the cabman the legal fare to a
penny.