A FRIEND IN NEED
Allen was stopping in quiet rooms near Woburn Square, which was
cheaper than boarding at a hotel. He was none too well off, as his
father allowed him nothing. Still, Allen had made sufficient money
to live fairly comfortable, and had not spent much, since his
arrival in England, owing to his residence at "The Arabian Nights."
It had been Allen's intention to escort his father back to Wargrove,
whither Hill consented to go. But, on explaining to Mask his desire
to trace out Butsey by using the address of the Fresh Air People in
Whitechapel, Mask had agreed to take the old man home himself. He
thought that it was just as well Allen should find the boy, who might
know much.
"He didn't steal the wooden hand," said Mask, when he parted from
Allen, "but he is evidently in with the gang."
"What gang, Mr. Mask?"
"That headed by the old gentleman who called on me. Jerry is one of
the gang, and this boy Butsey another. He sent that telegram,
remember. If you can find the lad you may learn much, and perhaps may
get back the hand."
"But what good will that do?" asked Allen, puzzled; "from what my
father said when you read the anonymous letter, he evidently knew that
the hand can be opened. If, as he says, it contains his secret, he
must have opened it himself when he took it home, and before he buried
it."
Mask wrinkled his brows and shook his head. "I confess that I
cannot understand," he remarked hopelessly, "nor will I, until
your father is more frank with me. This is one reason why I am
taking him myself to Wargrove. When I get him there I may induce
him to tell me his secret."
"It must be a very serious secret to make him behave as he does."
Mask sighed. "I repeat that I can't understand. I have known your
father all his life. We were boys together, and I also knew Strode.
But although your father was always foolish, I can't think that he
would do anything likely to bring him within reach of the law."
"He stole the wooden hand, at all events," said Allen grimly.
"Out of sheer terror, I believe, and that makes me think that his
secret, for the preservation of which he robbed the dead, is more
serious than we think. However I'll see what I can learn, and failing
your father, I shall ask Giles Merry."
"Do you think he knows?"
"I fancy so. The parcel with the cross was addressed in his writing,
so it is he who has the hand. He must have given it to the old
scoundrel who called on me, so I think, Mr. Allen, we are justified
in adding Merry to the gang."
"But the hand must have been empty when my father buried it on the
common, so how could Giles know his secret?"
"I can only say that I don't understand," said Mask with a gesture
of hopelessness; "wait till I get your father to speak out. Then we
may learn the truth."
"I dread to hear it," said the son gloomily.
"Well," replied Mask in a comforting tone, "at all events we know
it has nothing to do with this murder. It is your task to learn
who committed that, and you may do so through Butsey."
After this conversation Mr. Mask took Hill back to Wargrove,
whither the old man went willingly enough. He seemed to think
himself absolutely safe, when in the company of his legal adviser
and old friend. Allen returned to his rooms, and sent a message to
Mr. Horace Parkins that he would see him that afternoon. It was
necessary that he should keep faith with his friend Mark Parkins in
South America, and find a capitalist; and Allen thought that
Horace, whom Mark reported shrewd, might know of some South African
millionaire likely to float the mine in Bolivia. As to the search
after Butsey, Allen had not quite made up his mind. He could learn
of Butsey's whereabouts certainly, but if it was some low den where
the lad lived, he did not want to go alone, and thought it might be
necessary to enlist the service of a detective. For his father's
sake, Allen did not wish to do so. But he must have some one to go
with him into the depths of London slums, that was certain. Allen
knew the life of the Naked Lands, and there could more than hold
his own, but he was ignorant of the more terrible life of the
submerged tenth's dens.
It was at three o'clock that Allen appointed the meeting with
Parkins, and at that hour precisely a cab drove up. In a few
minutes Parkins was shown in by the landlady, and proved to be a
giant of over six feet, lean, bright-eyed, and speaking with a
decided American accent. He was smartly dressed in a Bond Street
kit, but looked rather out of place in a frock-coat and silk hat
and patent leather boots.
"Well, I'm glad to see you," said the giant, shaking hands with a
grip which made Allen wince--and he was no weakling. "Mark's been
firing in letters about what a good sort you are, and I was just
crazy to meet you. It isn't easy finding a pal in this rotten
planet of ours, Mr. Hill, but I guess from what Mark says, you fill
the bill, so far as he's concerned, and I hope you'll cotton on to
me, for I'm dog-sick with loneliness in this old city."
Allen laughed at this long speech and placed a chair for his
visitor. "You'd like a drink, I know," he said, ringing the bell.
"Milk only," said Parkins, hitching up the knees of his trousers,
and casting his mighty bulk into the deep chair; "I don't hold with
wine, or whisky, or tea, or coffee, or anything of that sort. My
nerves are my own, I guess, and all I've got to hang on to, for
the making of bargains. I'm not going to play Sally-in-our-Alley
with them. No, sir, I guess not. Give me the cow's brew."
So a glass of milk was brought, and Mr. Parkins was made happy.
"I suppose you don't smoke, then?" said Allen, amused.
"You bet--a pipe." He produced a short clay and filled it. "I'm of
the opinion of that old chap in _Westward Ho_, if you know the
book?"
"I haven't read it for years."
"Y'ought to. I read it every year, same as I do my Bible. Had I my
way, sir," he emphasised with his pipe, "I'd give every English boy
a copy of that glorious book to show him what a man should be."
"You're English, I believe, Mr. Parkins?"
"Born, but not bred so. Fact is, my mother and father didn't go
well in double harness, so mother stopped at home with Mark, and
I lighted out Westward-ho with father. You'd never take me for
Mark's brother?"
"I should think not. You're a big man and he's small: you talk
with a Yankee accent, and he speaks pure English. He's----"
"Different to me in every way. That's a fact. I'm a naturalised
citizen of the U.S.A. and Mark's a Britisher. We've met only once,
twice, and again, Mr. Hill, but get on very well. There's only two
of us alive of the Parkins gang, so I guess we'd best be friendly,
till we marry and rear the next generation. I'm going to hitch up
with an English girl, and Mark--if I can persuade him--will marry
an American dollar heiress. Yes, sir, we'll square accounts with
the motherland that way."
All the time Parkins talked, he pulled at his pipe, and enveloped
himself in a cloud of smoke. But his keen blue eyes were constantly
on Allen's face, and finally he stretched out a huge hand. "I guess
I've taken to you, some," said he, "catch on, and we'll be friends."
"Oh," said Allen, grasping the hand, "I'm sure we shall. I like
Mark."
"Well then, just you like the American side of him, which is
Horace Parkins. I guess we'll drop the misters and get to
business, Hill."
"I'm ready. What do you want to see me about?"
"Well, Mark wrote to me as you'd got a mine of sorts, and wanted a
capitalist. I'm not a millionaire, but I can shell out a few dollars,
if y'think you can get the property cheap."
"Oh, I think so. The Spaniard that owns it wants money and isn't very
sure of its value."
"Tell me about that right along."
Whereupon Hill detailed the story of the Indian and how the mine had
been worked by the Inca kings. He described the locality and the
chances of getting the silver to the coast: also spoke of the labour
required and the number of shares he and Mark intended to divide the
mine into. Horace listened, nodding gravely.
"I see you've figured it out all right, Hill," said Parkins, "and I
guess I'll take a hand in the game. Give me a share and I'll engineer
the buying."
"Good," said Allan, delighted, "we'll divide the mine into three equal
shares. You buy it, and Mark and I will work it."
"Good enough. We won't want any one else to chip in. It's a deal."
They shook hands on this, and then had a long talk about the West
Indies, which Horace, who had never been there, knew chiefly through
the glowing pages of _Westward Ho_. "Though I guess the place has
changed since then," said he, "but the gold and silver's there right
enough, and maybe, if we looked long enough, we'd chance on that
golden Manoa Kingsley talks about."
The talk drifted into more immediate topics, and Allen, much amused at
his gigantic companion's naïve ways of looking at things, asked him
about his life. Thereupon Horace launched out into a wild tale of
doings in Africa. He had been all through the war and had fought
therein. He had been up the Shire River, and all over the lion
country. He made money and lost it, so he said, and finally
managed to find a fortune. It was five o'clock before he ended,
and later he made a remark which made Allen jump: "So I just
thought when I got Mark's letter telling me you were in the old
country and about the mine, that I'd come home and see what kind
of man you were. I'm satisfied--oh yes, you bet. I'll trust you to
the death, for I size up folk uncommon quick, and you?"
"I'll trust you also," said Allen, looking at the man's clear
eyes and responding to his true-hearted grip, "and in fact I
need a friend now, Mr. Parkins."
"Call me Parkins, plain, without the Mister. Well, here I am, ready
to be your pal, while Mark's over the herring-pond. What's up? Do
you want me to cut a throat? Just say the word, and I'll do it.
Anything for a change, for I'm dead sick of this place ever since I
left the _Dunoon Castle_."
It was this speech which made Allen jump. "What, did you come home
in the _Dunoon Castle?_"
"You bet I did, and a fine passage we had."
"Did you know a passenger called Strode?"
Parkins raised his immense bulk slightly, and looked sharply at
the questioner. "Do you mean the man who was murdered?"
"Yes. I suppose you read about the crime in the papers?"
"That's so. Yes, I knew him very well. Better than any one on
board, I guess. We got along finely. Not a man I trusted," added
Parkins musingly, "but a clever sort of chap. Well?"
"Did he ever tell you of his daughter?"
"No. He never spoke of his private relations."
"Well, he has a daughter, Miss Eva Strode. You must have read her name
in the papers when the case was reported."
"I did," said Parkins after a pause; "yes?"
"I'm engaged to her."
Parkins rose and looked astonished. "That's a queer start."
"You'll hear of something queerer if you will answer my questions."
"What sort of questions?"
Allen debated within himself if he should trust Parkins all in all.
It seemed a rash thing to do, and yet there was something about the
man which showed that he would not break faith. Horace was just the
sort of companion Allen needed to search after Butsey in the slums
of Whitechapel. It was no good telling him anything, unless all were
told, and yet Allen hesitated to bring in the name of his father.
Finally he resolved to say as little as he could about him, and
merely detail the broad facts of the murder, and of the theft of the
hand, without mentioning names. "Parkins," he said frankly and with
a keen look, "can I trust you?"
"I guess so," said the big man serenely. "I mean what I say. You
can take my word without oaths, I reckon."
"Very well, then," said Allen with a sudden impulse to make a clean
breast of it; "sit down again and answer a few questions."
Horace dropped down heavily and loaded his pipe. While he was
lighting up, he listened to Allen's questions. But Allen did not
begin before he had explained the purpose of his inquiries.
"I am engaged to Miss Strode," said Allen, "but she refuses to marry
me until I learn who killed her father."
"Very right and just," nodded Parkins.
"Well, I'm trying to hunt out the criminal, and I should like you to
help me."
"I'm with you right along, Hill. Fire away with your questions."
Allen began: "Did Mr. Strode ever tell you he had money?"
"Yes. He made a lot in South Africa and not in the most
respectable way. I don't like talking ill of the dead, and of
the father of the girl you're going to make Mrs. Hill, but if I
am to be truthful----"
"I want you to be, at all costs. The issues are too great for anything
false to be spoken."
"Well then, I heard a lot about Strode in Africa before we steamed
together in the _Dunoon Castle_. He made his money in shady ways."
"Humph!" said Allen, "I'm not surprised, from what I've heard."
"He was an I. D. B. if you want to get to facts."
"What's that?" demanded Allen.
"An illicit diamond buyer."
"Can you explain?"
"I guess so. Strode bought diamonds from any one who had them. If a
Kaffir stole a jewel, and many of them do steal, you bet, Strode
would buy it from him at a small price. He was on this lay for a
long time, but was never caught. And yet I don't know," said
Parkins half to himself, "that brute Jerry Train knew something of
his doings!"
Allen almost leaped from his seat. "Jerry! was he a big red-headed
man--a ruffian?"
"He was a bad lot all through--a horse-thief and I don't know what
else in the way of crime. He made South Africa too hot for him,
and came home steerage in the _Dunoon Castle_. I saw him at times,
as I knew a heap about him, and he thieved from a pal of mine up
Bulawayo way. He seemed to suspect Strode of yanking diamonds out
of the country."
"Did Strode tell you he possessed diamonds?"
"No. He said he'd made money to the extent of forty thousand
pounds."
"Did he carry the money with him?"
Parkins shook his head. "I can't say. I should think he'd have
letters of credit. He'd a pocket-book he was always dipping into,
and talked of his money a lot."
"A blue pocket-book with a crest?"
"That's so. Do you know it?"
"No. But that pocket-book was stolen from the body. At least it
was not found, so it must have been stolen."
"Oh, and I guess Strode was murdered for the sake of the
pocket-book. But see here," said Horace shrewdly, "I've told you a
heap. Now, you cut along and reel out a yarn to me."
The other man needed no second invitation. He laid aside his
pipe and told the story of the crime, suppressing only the
doings of his father. Horace listened and nodded at intervals.
"I don't see clear after all," he said when Allen ended, "sure you've
told me everything?"
The young man looked uneasy. "I've told you what I could."
Parkins rose and stretched out his hand. "What you've told me will
never be repeated. Good-bye."
"What for?" asked Allen, also rising.
"Because you won't trust me. I can't straighten out this business,
unless you do."
"The other thing I might tell isn't my own."
"No go. If it concerns the murder it must be told. I don't work half
knowledge with any one. You can trust me."
Allen hesitated. He wanted to tell all, for he felt sure that
Parkins would help him. But then it seemed terrible to reveal his
father's shame to a stranger. What was he to do?
"See here, I'll tell--you everything, suppressing names."
"Won't do," said the inflexible Parkins; "good-bye."
"Will you give me a few hours to think over the matter?"
"No. If I'm not to be trusted now, I'm not to be trusted at all."
The young man bit his fingers. He couldn't let Parkins go, for he
knew about Strode and Red Jerry, and might aid the case a lot. It was
imperative that the truth should be discovered, else it might be that
his father would be put to open shame. Better, Allen thought, to tell
Parkins and get his aid, than risk the arrest of his father and see
the whole story in the papers. "I'll tell all," he said.
"Good man," growled Parkins, his brow clearing.
When in possession of all the facts, Parkins thought for a moment
and delivered his opinion: "Strode I take it was followed to the Red
Deeps by Jerry Train, and Jerry shot him and stole the pocket-book."
"But the wooden hand?"
"Merry's got it and he's in the gang. Hold on," said Parkins, "I'll
not give a straight opinion till I see this boy. We'll go down and
hunt him up. He'll give the show away."
"But my father?" asked Allen, downcast.
"He's a crank. I don't believe he mixed up in the biznai at all."