MR. STRAUSS “DROPS”
Flash Fred had not left London: he had no intention of leaving
London, if the truth be told. He had certain doubts in his mind which
he had determined to set at rest, certain obscurities on his horizon
which he desired should be dispersed. Flash Fred was a clever man. If
he had not been clever, he would not have lived in the excellent style
he adopted, nor possessed chambers in Jermyn Street and a
motor-brougham to take him to the theatre at night. His working
expenses were heavy, but his profits were vast. He had many irons in
the fire and burnt himself with none of them--which is the art of
success in all walks of life.
On the evening of the day that Larry had made his discovery Flash
Fred, in the seclusion and solitude of his ornate sitting room, had
elaborated a theory which had followed very close upon a discovery he
had made that morning. Men of his temperament and uncertain prospects
suffer from a chronic dissatisfaction. This dissatisfaction is half
the cause of their departure from the straight and narrow path, and is
wholly responsible for their undoing. A hundred pounds a month,
payable yearly, is a handsome income; but the underworld abhor
anything that savours of steadiness, regularity, and system--three
qualities which are so associated with prison life that they carry
with them a kind of taint particularly distressing to the lag-who-was.
Twelve hundred pounds a year for five years is six thousand pounds, or
twenty-four thousand dollars at the present rate of exchange--a
respectable sum; but five years represents a big slice taken out of
the hectic life of men like Flash Fred. Twelve hundred pounds at best
represents only two coups at _trente et quarante_, and can be lost in
three minutes.
Dr. Judd was a collector. It had been reported to Fred that Dr. Judd’s
residence at Chelsea was a veritable treasure-house of paintings and
antique jewellery. Fred had read a newspaper paragraph that Dr. Judd
was the possessor of historical gems worth fifty thousand pounds.
Though Fred had no passion for history, he had an eye to the value of
precious stones. And the theory he had evolved was in the main
arithmetical. If he could get away with ten thousand pounds’ worth of
property in twenty-four hours, he would not only have anticipated his
income for eight or nine years, but he would be saved the fag of
coming to London every twelve months to collect it. Much might happen
in twelve months. It might not always be possible for him to make the
journey, since prison authorities are notoriously difficult to
persuade. Or he might be dead.
To get that movable property would be difficult, because the doctor
was hardly the kind of man to leave his property unguarded. Indeed,
the ordinary methods of effecting an entrance were repugnant to Fred’s
professional feelings. For he gained his livelihood by the cleverness
of his tongue and the lightning adjustment of certain brain cells to
meet emergencies, and to him a jemmy was an instrument of terror,
since it implied work. But there was another method--and once he had
made his get-away, would the doctor dare prosecute?
That afternoon, sauntering aimlessly through Piccadilly Circus at the
midday hour, he had come face to face with a tall, stoutish man, who,
after one glance at him, had attempted to avoid a meeting; but Fred
had caught him by the arm and swung him round.
“Why,” he said, “if it isn’t old No. 278! How are you, Strauss?”
Mr. Strauss’s face twitched nervously.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, sir,” he said.
“Come off it,” demanded Fred vulgarly, and, taking him by the arm, led
him down Lower Regent Street.
“Excuse my not recognizing you,” said Mr. Strauss nervously, “but I
thought at first you were a bull--‘split’ we call them in this
country.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Flash Fred. “And how has the old world been
treating you, hey? Do you remember G Gallery at Portland, in B Block?”
The face of the stout man twitched again. He did not like being
reminded of his prison experience, though in truth he had little
against the prisoner who had occupied the adjoining cell.
“How are you getting on?” he asked. And it happened that that morning
Flash Fred had gone out without any visible diamonds--he carried them
in his hip pocket, for he trusted nobody.
“Bad,” said Fred, which was a lie, but no good crook admits that he is
prosperous. Then suddenly: “Why did you think I was a split, Strauss?”
Strauss looked uncomfortable.
“Oh, I just thought so,” he said awkwardly.
“Are you at the old game?”
Fred looked at the other steadily and saw his eyes shift.
“No, I’m going straight now,” he said.
“A liar you are, and a liar you will always be,” said Fred, quoting
Larry Holt. “I’ll bet you’re on the way to ‘fence’ something.”
Again the man looked round as though seeking a way of escape; and
Fred, who never despised an opportunity, however small, held out a
suggestive palm and said laconically, “Drop!”
“Only a few things,” said Mr. Strauss hurriedly. “Things that were
given to me or wouldn’t be missed--just odds and ends like. A couple
of salt-spoons…” He enumerated his loot.
“Drop!” said Fred again. “I’m hard up and want the money. I’ll take a
share and you shall have the money back--one of these days.”
Mr. Strauss dropped, with a curse.
“Come and have a drink,” said Fred briskly, when the transaction had
been completed to his satisfaction.
“You’ve left me with about three pounds’ worth,” grumbled the man.
“Really, Mr. Grogan, I don’t think you’re fair,” and he looked at the
other suspiciously. “And you don’t look as if you’re hard up either.”
“Appearances are deceptive,” said the cheerful Fred, and led the way
into a private bar. “What are you now--valet or butler?”
“Butler,” replied Strauss, tossing down a dram. “It’s not a bad place,
Mr. Grogan.”
“Call me Fred,” begged Flash Fred.
“It seems a liberty,” said Strauss, and meant it. “I’ve got a butler’s
job with a very nice gentleman,” he said.
“Rich?”
Mr. Strauss nodded.
“Yards of it,” he said briefly. “But what’s the good? He knows I’m a
lag, and he’s very decent to me.”
Fred was eyeing him narrowly.
“You still dope, I see?” he said, and the man flushed.
“Yes,” he said gruffly, “I take a little stimulant now and again.”
“Well,” said Fred, “who is your boss?”
“You wouldn’t know him.” Mr. Strauss shook his head. “He’s a City
gentleman, head of an insurance office.”
“Dr.--Judd?” asked Flash Fred quickly.
“Why, yes,” said the other in surprise. “How did you know?”
They parted soon after, and Flash Fred was a thoughtful man for the
rest of the day, and his plans began to take shape toward the evening.
He dressed himself with care after dark, and strolled Strandwards, for
he numbered amongst his other accomplishments that of an experienced
squire of dames. He had a ready smile for the solitary girl hurrying
homewards, and though the rebuffs were many, such conquests as he had
to his credit added to the pleasures of memory. Between St. Martin’s
Church and the corner of the Strand he drew blank, for such girls as
he saw were unattractive or were escorted. Opposite Morley’s Hotel he
saw a peach.
He caught one glimpse of her under a light-standard and was transfixed
by the rare beauty of her face. She was alone, and Fred swung round
and in two strides had overtaken her.
“Haven’t we met before?” he asked, raising his hat, but asked no more.
Somebody caught him by the collar and jerked him back.
“Fred, I shall really have to be severe with you,” said the hated
voice of Larry Holt, and Fred developed an instant grievance.
“Haven’t you got a home to go to?” he wailed, and continued his
journey to the Strand in a bitter mood, for the romance had been
shaken out of him, and he could still feel the knuckles of the shaker
at the back of his neck.
* * * * *
The girl passed on, unconscious of the fact that Larry Holt had been
behind her. It was not an unusual experience to be spoken to in the
street, and she had grown hardened to that also.
She lived above a tobacconist’s shop in the Charing Cross Road, and
Larry saw her open the side door and go into the dark passage; he
waited for a few minutes, then continued his walk.
This girl had made an extraordinary impression upon him. He told
himself that it was not her delicate beauty, or anything about her
that was feminine, but that it was her genius, her extraordinary
reasoning faculties which attracted him; and, to do him justice, he
believed this. He was not a susceptible man. Beautiful women he had
known, on both sides of the border line which separates the good from
the bad, the honest from the criminal. He had had minor affairs in his
youth, but had come through those fiery dreams unscorched and unmarked
by his experiences.
So he told himself. It was extraordinary that it was necessary to tell
himself anything; but there was the indisputable fact that he spent a
great deal of his spare time in arguing out his attitude of mind
toward Diana Ward. And he had known her something over twenty-four
hours!
Diana Ward was not thinking of Larry as she went into her flat. Her
mind was wholly occupied by the problems which the Stuart case
presented. She felt that, if the missing Clarissa were found, they
would be on the high road to discovering the cause of Stuart’s death
and the reason for this hideous crime.
She slammed the door and went up the dark and narrow stairs slowly.
The upper part of the tobacconist’s was let off in three flats, and
she occupied the highest and the cheapest. The tenants of the other
two were, she knew, spending the week-end in the country. The first
floor was occupied by a bachelor Civil servant, a hearty man whose
parties occasionally kept her awake at night; the second floor by a
newspaper artist and his wife; and she had no reason to complain of
her neighbours.
She had reached the second landing, her foot was on the stairs of the
final two flights, when she stopped. She thought she had heard a
noise, the faint creak of a sound which she had felt rather than
heard. She waited a second, and then smiled at her nervousness. She
had heard these creaks and whispers before on the dark stairs, but had
overcome her timidity to discover that they were purely imaginary.
Nevertheless, she walked up a little more slowly and reached the
landing from whence rose a short flight of stairs to her own
apartments. The landing was a broad one, and as she turned, with one
hand on the banisters, she put out the other in a spirit of bravado as
though she groped for some hidden intruder.
And then her blood turned to water, for her hand had touched the coat
of a man! She screamed, but instantly a hand, a big unwholesome hand,
covered her face, and she was drawn slowly backward. She fought and
struggled with all her might, but the man who held her had almost
superhuman strength, and the arm about her was like a vise. Then,
suddenly, she went limp, and momentarily the arm that held her
relaxed.
“Fainted, have ye?” said a harsh voice, and as a hand came feeling
down for her face, the other arm relaxed a little more.
With a sudden dart the girl broke free, ran up the remaining stairs
and opened and slammed the door. There was a key on the inside and
this she turned with a heart full of gratitude that she had never
locked her bedroom door from the outside. She flew across the room,
stopping only to switch on the lights, pulled out a drawer and took
from its depths a small revolver. Diana Ward came from a stock which
was not easily scared, and, though her heart was pounding painfully,
she ran back at the door and flung it open.
She stood for the space of a few seconds. She heard a stealthy
footstep on the stairs and fired. There was a roar of fear and a
blunder of feet down the stairs. Only for a moment did she hesitate,
and then raced down the stairway in pursuit. She heard the thump of
feet on the landing lower down, heard the rattle of the door, and came
down the last flight to find it open and nobody in sight.
Concealing the revolver in a fold of her dress, she stepped out into
the Charing Cross Road. At this hour there were few pedestrians, and
she looked round for some sign of her assailant. A light motor-van was
driving away, and the only person she saw near at hand was an old
blind man. The iron ferrule of his stick came “tap-tap-tap,” as he
stumbled painfully along.
“Pity the blind,” he wailed; “pity the poor blind!”