THE FLYMAN
The assailant remained, for a second or two, looking down on his
recumbent victim. He retained his grip upon his weapon, as if
anticipating the possibility of having to strike with it another blow.
But, no, the first had done its work. Mr Holland lay quite still, in
an ugly heap, as men only lie who have been stricken hard. His
assailant touched him with his foot, as if to make quite sure. Mr
Holland did not resent the intrusion of the other's boot; he evinced
no interest in it at all. The man was satisfied.
'That done him.'
It had, for sure. The fellow glanced up and down the street. No one
was in sight. That was a state of things which could hardly be
expected to continue. Time was precious; at any moment a policeman
might appear. Under certain circumstances a policeman is inquisitive.
The man, dropping on one knee, began to handle Mr Holland as if he had
been so much dead meat; indeed, a butcher might have been expected to
finger the carcase of what he had just now killed with greater
ceremony.
'I wonder where he put it.'
He appeared to be searching for something, which, at first, he could
not find. He went quickly through the stricken man's pockets, emptying
each in turn of its contents. He made no bones about putting back what
he took out, but threw everything into an inner pocket in his own
jacket. Watch, money, cigar-case, keys, various odds and ends all went
into the same receptacle. Still he did not appear to light on what he
sought.
'Suppose he never got it? That would be a pretty little game. My
crikey!'
He went through the pockets a second time more methodically; coat,
waistcoat, trousers, nothing was omitted. The result was
disappointing; they all were empty.
'Has he got it in a secret pocket?' Tearing open the waistcoat, he ran
his fingers up and down the lining. 'I can't undress the bloke out
here.' He went carefully over the lining, fingered the trousers. 'I
don't believe he's got it. If he hasn't, then I'm done. It wasn't
worth bashing him for this little lot.' The reference was, possibly,
to what he had transferred to his own jacket. 'If he hasn't got it,
there'll be trouble. Strikes me I'd better take a little trip into the
country. He might think I'd got it and done a bunk. I might get a bit
out of him like that. If he's anything to get. I wish I'd never gone
in for the job. What's that?'
All the while he had never ceased to finger the silent man, submitting
his garments to the minutest possible examination which the position
permitted. Constantly he glanced behind and in front, well knowing
that the risk of intrusion grew greater with every moment. With what
looked very like impertinence, he turned the object of his curiosity
over on to his face. As he did so his eye was caught by something
which was lying on the pavement, and which apparently had hitherto
been covered by the body of the silent man. It was a ring. He snatched
at it.
'Got it, by the living jingo! The whole time the fool was right on top
of it. If I hadn't overed him I might have gone away and thought he'd
never had it after all. That'd been a pretty how-d'ye-do. I suppose he
dropped it when I downed him, and covered it when he fell. He might
have done it on purpose, just to spite me.' He was standing up,
turning the ring over and over between his fingers. 'It's all right,
there's no mistake about that much. This is fair jam, this is. A
thousand quids into my pocket.' Something attracted his attention.
'Hollo!--sounded like a footstep--a copper's, unless I'm wrong!'
Without pausing to look behind he crossed the street, keeping well
within the shadow of the houses, and walking fast, yet not too
quickly, in the direction of Victoria. As he went he disposed of what
had proved so efficient a weapon. It was a narrow bag, about a couple
of inches in diameter, and a little over a foot in length. It was
stuffed with sand. Untying one end, he allowed the contents to dribble
out into the areas of the houses as he passed. Nothing remained but a
strip of canvas. He was cramming this into his pocket as he reached
the corner of a street into which he turned. A constable was standing
on the kerb as if waiting for him to come. His wholly unexpected
appearance might have startled a less skilful practitioner into doing
something rash. But this gentleman had had too many curious
experiences to permit himself to readily lose his wits.
'Good-night, p'liceman. Fine night!' he sang out, moving quickly on,
as if he were hastening on.
'Good-night,' returned the policeman.
He eyed the other as he passed, as if he wondered who he was, yet was
conscious of no legitimate reason why he should stop him to inquire.
The man drew in the morning air between his teeth, as if he desired to
inflate his lungs to the full.
'That was a squeak. It wasn't him I nosed. Who'd have thought that he
was there. If he'd come round the corner a minute or two ago there'd
have probably been fun. Lucky I emptied the bag before I came on him.
Hollo! He's going into Victoria Street. If he uses his eyes he'll spot
my bloke in half a minute from now. I'd better put the steam on.'
He quickened his pace, not breaking into a run, for he was aware that
nothing arouses attention more than the sight of a man running at that
hour in a London street. But for the next ten minutes he moved at a
good five miles an hour, going fair toe-and-heel. Then he slackened,
judging that for the present he was safe; and, moreover, he was blown.
By what at least seemed devious ways he steered for Chelsea, to find
himself, at last, in the King's Road. Thence he made for the river
side, pausing before a house which faced the Thames. The house was an
old one. In front was a piece of ground which was half yard, half
garden. The approach to this was guarded by an iron railing and a
gate. The gate was locked. By it was a rusty bell handle. At this he
tugged. Almost immediately a window on the first floor was opened
about three inches. A voice was heard.
'Who's there?'
'It's me, the Flyman.'
'You've been a devil of a time.'
'Couldn't be no quicker.'
The window was shut again. Presently the front door was opened
instead. A man came out. It was Horace Burton. He sauntered to the
gate.
'Have you got it?'
'You let me in and then I'll tell you.'
'Don't be an idiot! Tell me, have you got it?'
'I sha'n't tell you nothing till I'm inside.'
'You're an ass! Do you think I want to keep you out?' He fumbled with
the lock. 'Confound this key; it's rusty.'
'Your hand ain't steady; that's what's wrong with it.'
'Hang the thing!'
The key dropped with a clatter to the ground.
'You let me have a try at it; perhaps my hand ain't so shaky as
yours.'
The man outside picked up the fallen key, thrusting his hand through
the railings to enable him to do so. Soon the gate was open. When he
had entered he locked it again behind him. The two men went into the
house. When they were in the hall Mr Burton repeated his assertion.
'You've been a devil of a time. Do you think I want to stop up all
night waiting for you?'
'That's all right. I'll tell you all about it when we get upstairs.
Who's there?'
'Old Cox is there, that's who's there; and he looks to me as if he
were going to stop there the rest of his life--hanged if he doesn't.'
Possibly Mr Burton had been quenching his thirst too frequently with
the idea of speeding the heavy hours of his vigil. The result was
obvious in his speech and his appearance. At the foot of the staircase
he stumbled against the bottom stair. The newcomer proffered his
assistance.
'Steady, governor. Let me lend you a hand.'
Mr Burton was at once upon his dignity.
'Don't you touch me. I don't want your hand. Do you think I don't know
my way up my own staircase?'
He ascended it as if in doubt. The Flyman kept close behind in case of
accident. Which fact Mr Burton, when he was half way up, discovered.
Steadying himself against the banister he addressed his too-assiduous
attendant.
'Might I ask you not to tread upon my heels? Might I also ask you to
go down to the bottom of the stairs and wait there till I'm at the
top? There's too much of it.'
'All right, governor. Only don't keep me here too long, that's all.'
'You haven't kept me long? Oh, no! Not more than thirteen hours.'
When he had reached the top Mr Burton threw open the door of a room in
which the gas was lighted. In an arm-chair a gentleman was smoking a
cigar.
'This confounded Flyman thinks that he's the devil knows who. Seems to
think he owns the place. I think I'll have a drink.'
The gentleman in the arm-chair ventured on remonstrance.
'I wouldn't if I were you; at least, not till we've got this business
over.'
'Wouldn't you? Then I would. There's something the matter with this
beastly siphon.'
The matter was that while he directed the nozzle of the siphon in one
direction he held his glass in another. The result was that the liquor
did not go where he intended. So he drank his whisky neat.
While Mr Burton was having his little discussion with the siphon, the
man who had described himself as 'the Flyman' came into the room. He
was rather over the average height, slightly built, with fair hair and
moustache and very pale blue eyes. The eyes were his most peculiar
feature. He was not bad looking, with an agreeable personality; at
first sight, a likeable man, until you caught his eyes, then you
wondered. They were set oddly in his head, so that they seldom seemed
to move. He had a trick of regarding you with a curiously immobile
stare, which, even when he smiled--which was but rarely--seemed to
convey a latent threat. He was dressed like a respectable artisan, and
had such a low-pitched, clear, musical voice that it was with surprise
one observed how peculiar were his notions of his mother tongue.
As soon as he was inside the room Mr Burton repeated his former
inquiry.
'Now, then, have you got it?'
'I have.'
'Then hand it over.'
Mr Burton held out a tremulous hand.
'Half a mo. I've got a word or two to say before we come to that. I
should like you to understand how I did get it. It wasn't for the
asking, I'd have you know.'
The gentleman in the arm-chair interposed. He waved his cigar.
'One moment.'
'Two, if you like, Mr Cox.'
He was a little, paunchy man, with 'Jew' written so large all over him
that one asked oneself why he had been so ungrateful to his
forefathers as to associate himself with such a name as Cox--Thomas
Cox. He got out of his chair, which was much too large for him, so
that he could see the Flyman, who still kept himself modestly in the
background. He punctuated his words by making little dabs in the air
with his cigar.
'What we want is the ruby; that's all we want. We don't want the
schedule of your adventures. We're not interested. You understand?'
'Yes, I understand you, Mr Cox, but it don't go.'
'What do you mean, "it don't go"?'
'I'm not all alone in this. There's three of us in this game.'
'Listen to me. You say you've got the ruby. Very well, hand it over. I
will see you have what Mr Burton promised you. We'll say no more about
it, and there'll be an end of the matter.'
The Flyman's manner became a trifle dogged.
'I don't hand over nothing till you've heard what I've got to say.'
Something in the speaker's manner struck the observant Mr Cox. He
showed signs of perturbation.
'Flyman, you haven't killed him?'
'I don't know whether I have or haven't. I hit, perhaps, a bit harder
than I meant. He was as good as dead when I saw him last; anyhow,
he'll be silly for the rest of his days, or else I'm wrong. I know
what a good downer with a sand bag means. I'm a bit afraid I gave him
an extra good one. I didn't like the looks of him at all.'
'You're a fool! Why did you do it?'
'Because you told me?'
'I told you! What the devil do you mean?'
'You set me on the job--you and Mr Burton together. You said to me
there's a bloke coming out of a certain house at a certain time. He's
got something on him which you're to get. You knew very well I wasn't
going to get it out of him by asking.'
'Did anyone see you?'
'Not while I was at it, so far as I know. But a copper did directly
afterwards. For all I can tell, he's seen me before, and'll know me
again.'
Mr Cox's perturbation visibly increased.
'Did he--did he try to arrest you?'
'He didn't know what had happened then; but he was going straight to
where I'd left the bloke lying. Then, of course, he'd put two and two
together, and think of me.'
'Flyman, you're a fool! Did anybody see you come in here?'
'That's more than I can say. But somebody'll soon know I did come in
here if anything happens to me. I'm not going to be on this lay all on
my own.'
Mr Cox threw his unfinished cigar into the fireplace. It had gone out.
His attention was occupied by matters which rendered smoking
difficult. He stood knawing the finger-nails of his left hand. The
Flyman watched him. Mr Burton seemed to be endeavouring to obtain
sufficient control of his faculties to understand what the
conversation was about. Presently Mr Cox delivered himself of the
result of his cogitation.
'I tell you what, I shouldn't be surprised if a little trip abroad
would do you good.'
'I'm willing.'
'Then I'll see that you have a berth on board a boat I know of, which
leaves the London docks to-morrow for America.'
'I'm game.'
'Now, let's have the ruby.'
'Against the quids?'
'Against the quids. You don't suppose that Mr Burton and I carry a
thousand pounds about with us loose in our pockets?'
'No quids, no ruby.'
'The money shall be handed to you when you're on board the ship.'
'I'll see that the ruby isn't handed to you till it is.'
'Do you think I want to do you?'
'I'm dead sure you do, if you only get a chance. I've done a little
business with you before to-day, Mr Cox. You must think I'm soft. Why,
nothing would suit your book better than to do me out of the pieces
and get me lagged. But if you try that game, I'll see you get a bit of
it. Thank you; I don't trust you, not as far as I can see you, Mr
Cox.'
The gentleman thus flatteringly alluded to laughed, a little
mechanically.
'I'm sorry to hear you talk like that, Flyman. There's no time now to
try to induce you to form a better opinion of me; but you'll discover
that you have done me an injustice before very long. Anyhow, let's see
that you have the ruby.'
Mr Burton chose this moment to awake to the fact that he had a very
definite interest in the discussion which was being carried on. He
banged his glass against the table.
'I'm going to have that ruby! I'm going to have it now!'
'So you shall, when you've given me the thousand pounds.'
'I don't care about the thousand pounds; I'm going to have the ruby!'
'Then, I'm damned if you are!'
'I say I am. Now, then! So you'd better give it to me--before I take
it.'
The speaker staggered towards the Flyman.
'Don't you be silly, Mr Burton, or you might find me nasty; and I
don't want to have to be nasty to you.'
'Give me the ruby; it's mine.'
'That's where you're wrong. Just now it happens to be mine.'
Mr Cox placed himself between the pair.
'Pretend to be sober, Burton, even if you're drunk.'
'I am sober. I don't care that for him.' He tried to snap his fingers,
but the attempt was a disastrous failure. 'I say, I'm going to have
the ruby now, and so I am.'
'Shut it!'
Mr Cox's treatment of the intoxicated gentleman was vigorous and to
the point. He gave him a push which propelled him backwards with such
unexpected force that, before he was able to recover himself, he was
lying on the ground.
There for a time he stayed. The others paid no attention to him
whatever. Mr Cox continued the discussion on his own account.
'Let me see the ruby.'
'Let me see the quids.'
'Look here, Flyman; you say you know me. Well, I know you; I know you
for a windbag and a liar. It's quite likely that all you've been
telling us is humbug, and that you've not been within miles of what we
want. If you've got the ruby, you let me look at it; there'll be no
harm done. I'm not going to buy a pig in a poke, and I'm not going to
steal it.'
'I lay you are not going to steal it; I lay that. There it is. Now,
you can take and look at it.'
Taking a ring from his waistcoat pocket, slipping it on to his little
ringer, he held it out for the other's inspection, eyeing Mr Cox in a
very singular manner as that gentleman bent over to examine it.
'Did you get that from--the person we've been talking about?'
'I did.'
'To-night?'
'To-night. Not an hour ago--as he came out of the house.'
Mr Cox turned to Mr Burton, who was sitting upon the floor.
'Get up, you jackass! Come here and see if this is what we're after.'
Mr Burton's answer was not exactly a response to this peremptory
invitation.
'I'm not feeling--as I ought to feel.'
'So I should think. You'll soon be feeling still less as you ought to
feel, if you don't look out.' He assisted the gentleman on to his
feet. 'Now, then, pull yourself together. Come and see if what the
Flyman's got is your uncle's ring.'
As Mr Burton advanced, the Flyman dropped the hand with the ringed
finger.
'Don't you let him snatch at it, or I'll down him.'
'He won't snatch at it. You needn't be afraid of him.'
'I'm not afraid of him--hardly; only I thought I'd just give you a
little warning, that's all. There you are, Mr Burton; there's what's
worth more to you than you're likely to tell me.'
Mr Burton only bestowed upon the outstretched hand a momentary glance;
he drew back as if what he saw had stung him.
'It's not!'
'What d'ye mean?'
'It's not my uncle's ring.' The fall, or something, had sobered him.
He had become disagreeable instead. He snarled, showing his teeth to
the gums, as if he would have liked to assail the man in front of him
with tooth and nail. 'Curse you, Flyman! what's the game you're
playing?'
'What's the game you think you're playing, that's what I want to
know?'
'That's not my uncle's ring, and you know it's not. Come, out with it!
no tricks here!'
'This is your uncle's ring, and you're trying to kid me that it isn't,
thinking to do me out of what you promised. Don't you try that on, Mr
Burton, or you'll be sorry.'
The two men glared at each other with their faces close together, Mr
Burton meeting the Flyman's threatening glances without flinching. He
turned to Mr Cox.
'Cox, what he's got on his finger is no more my uncle's ring than I
am.'
'You're sure of that?'
'Dead certain. The stone in my uncle's ring was much larger, better
colour, finer altogether. It bore his crest--on that thing there seems
to be a monogram--and inside the gold mount, at the back, his name was
engraved--"George Burton."'
'We can soon settle that part of the question. Flyman, is there a name
inside that ring?'
The Flyman was already looking for himself.
'There's not; there's no name. Is this a plant between you two to do
me out of my fair due?'
'Don't you make any mistake about that, my man. If that's the ring we
want you shall have your thousand right enough. It's worth all that to
us. If it's not, then it's worth nothing, and less than nothing. Don't
let's have any error about this, Burton. You're quite sure that you
recollect what your uncle's ring was like?'
'I'd pick it out among ten thousand. I've seen it hundreds--I should
think, thousands--of times. I wore it myself for a year. It used to
amuse the old man to fool about with it, lending it to all sorts of
people. He lent it to me, and he lent it to Guy. I believe he lent it
to Miss Bewicke; and it was because, when he asked her, she wouldn't
give it him back again that he got his back up.'
'I suppose, Flyman, it was Mr Holland you tackled?'
'It was the bloke you pointed out to me this afternoon--that I do
know. Here, I borrowed these things from off him--took them out of his
pockets.' He produced a miscellaneous collection. 'Here's a cigar-case
with initials on it, "G. H.," and cards inside with a name on them,
"Mr Guy Holland." I should think that that ought to be about good
enough.'
'You're sure that that was the only ring he had about him?'
'I'll swear to it. I ran the rule over him quite half a dozen times.
He only had one ring--there wasn't one upon his hands--and that's it.'
'And you, Burton, are certain it's not your uncle's?'
'As sure as that I'm alive.'
'Then, in that case, we're done.'
The trio looked as if they were.