AT THE WHISTLERS
No. 46, Curefax Street, West Central, is an establishment which is known
to a select few as “The Whistlers.” Its official title is Pinnock’s
Club. It was founded in the early days of the nineteenth century by one
Charles Pinnock, and in its day was a famous rendezvous.
That it should suffer the vicissitudes peculiar to institutions of the
kind was inevitable, and its reputation rose and fell with the changing
times. It fell under suspicion, and more than once was raided by the
police; though without any result satisfactory to the raiders.
It is indisputable that the habitués of the Whistlers were a curious
collection of people, that it had few, if any, names upon the list of
members of any standing in the social world; yet the club was popular
in a shamefaced way. The golden youth of London delighted to boast,
behind cautious hands, that they had had a night at the Whistlers; some
of them hinted at high play; but the young gentlemen of fortune who had
best reason for knowing the play was high indeed, never spoke of the
matter, realizing, doubtlessly, that the world has little sympathy
with a fool confessed, so that much of the evidence that an interfering
constabulary desired was never forthcoming.
On a night in October the club was enjoying an unusual amount of
patronage. Taxi after taxi set down well-dressed men before the
decorous portals in Curefax Street. Men immaculately dressed, men a
little over dressed, they came in ones and twos, and parties of three,
at short intervals.
Some came out again after a short stay and drove off, but it seemed
that the majority stayed. Just before midnight a taxi-cab drove up and
discharged three passengers.
By accident or design, there is no outside light to the club, and the
nearest electric standard is a few yards along the street, so that a
visitor may arrive or depart in semi-darkness, and a watcher would find
difficulty in identifying a patron.
In this case the chauffeur was evidently unacquainted with the club
premises, and overshot the mark, pulling up within a few yards of the
street lamp.
One of the passengers was tall and soldierly in appearance. He had
a heavy black moustache, and the breadth of his shoulders suggested
great muscular strength. In the light much of his military smartness
vanished, for his face was puffed, and there were little bags under his
eyes. He was followed by a shorter man who looked much younger than he
was, for his hair, eyebrows and a little wisp of moustache were so fair
as to be almost white. His nose and chin were of the character which
for want of a better description may be called “nut-cracker,” and down
his face, from temple to chin, ran a long red scar.
Alphonse Lambaire was the first of these men, a remarkable and a
sinister figure. Whether Lambaire was his real name or not I do not
profess to know: he was English in all else. You might search in vain
the criminal records of Scotland Yard without discovering his name,
save in that section devoted to “suspected persons.” He was a notorious
character.
I give you a crude biography of him because he figures largely in this
story. He was a handsome man, in a heavy unhealthy way, only the great
diamond ring upon his little finger was a departure from the perfect
taste of his ensemble.
The second man was “Whitey”: what his real name was nobody ever
discovered. “Whitey” he was to all; “Mr. Whitey” to the club servants,
and “George Whitey” was the name subscribed to the charge sheet on the
one occasion that the police made an unsuccessful attempt to draw him
into their net.
The third was a boy of eighteen, fresh coloured, handsome, in a girlish
fashion. As he stepped from the cab he staggered slightly and Lambaire
caught his arm.
“Steady, old fellow,” he said. Lambaire’s voice was deep and rich, and
ended in a little chuckle. “Pay that infernal brute. Whitey--pay the
fare on the clock and not a penny more--here, hold up, Sutton my lad.”
The boy made another blunder and laughed foolishly.
“We’ll put him right in a minute, won’t we, major?”
Whitey had a high little voice and spoke rapidly.
“Take his arm, Whitey,” said Lambaire, “a couple of old brandies will
make a new man of you....”
They disappeared through the swing doors of the club, and the hum of
the departing taxi sounded fainter and fainter.
The street was almost deserted for a few minutes, then round the corner
from St. James’s Square came a motor-car. This driver also knew little
of the locality, for he slowed down and came crawling along the street,
peering at such numbers as were visible. He stopped before No. 46 with
a jerk, jumped down from his seat and opened the door.
“This is the place, miss,” he said respectfully, and a girl stepped
out. She was very young and very pretty. She had evidently been
spending the evening at a theatre, for she was dressed in evening
finery, and over her bare shoulders an opera wrap was thrown.
She hesitated a moment, then ascended the two steps that led to the
club, and hesitated again.
Then she came back to the car.
“Shall I ask, miss?”
“If you please, John.”
She stood on the pavement watching the driver as he knocked on the
glass-panelled door.
A servant came and held the door open, regarding the chauffeur with an
unfriendly eye.
“Mr. Sutton--no, we’ve no such member.”
“Tell him he’s here as a guest,” said the girl, and the waiter, looking
over the head of the chauffeur, saw her and frowned.
“He’s not here, madame,” he said.
She came forward.
“He is here--I know he is here.” Her voice was calm, yet she evidently
laboured under some excitement. “You must tell him I want him--at once.”
“He is not here, madame,” said the man doggedly.
There was a spectator to the scene. He had strolled leisurely along
the street, and had come to a standstill in the shadow of the electric
brougham.
“He is here!” She stamped her foot. “In this wretched, wicked club--he
is being robbed--it is wicked--wicked!”
The waiter closed the door in her face.
“Pardon me.”
A young man, clean-shaven, glass in eye, dressed in the neatest of
tweed suits, stood by her, hat in hand.
He had the happiest of smiles and a half-smoked cigarette lay on the
pavement.
“Can I be of any assistance?”
His manner was perfect, respect, deference, apology, all were suggested
by his attitude, and the girl in her distress forgot to be afraid of
this providential stranger.
“My brother--he is there.” She pointed a shaky finger at the bland door
of the club. “He is in bad hands--I have tried....” Her voice failed
her and her eyes were full of tears.
Amber nodded courteously. Without a word he led the way to her car, and
she followed without question. She stepped in as he indicated.
“What is your address?--I will bring your brother.”
With a hand that trembled, she opened a little bag of golden tissue
that hung at her wrist, opened a tiny case and extracted a card.
He took it, read it, and bowed slightly.
“Home,” he said to the driver, and stood watching the tall lights of
the brougham disappear.
He waited, thinking deeply.
This little adventure was after his own heart. He had been the
happiest man in London that day, and was on his way back to the modest
Bloomsbury bed-sitting-room he had hired, when fortune directed his
footsteps in the direction of Curefax Street.
He saw the car vanish from sight round a corner, and went slowly up the
steps of the club.
He pushed open the door, walked into the little hall-way, nodding
carelessly to a stout porter who sat in a little box near the foot of
the stairs.
The man looked at him doubtingly.
“Member, sir?” he asked, and was rewarded by an indignant stare.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the abashed porter. “We’ve got so many members
that it is difficult to remember them.”
“I suppose so,” said Amber coldly. He mounted the stairs with slow
steps; half-way up he turned.
“Is Captain Lawn in the club?”
“No, sir,” said the man.
“Or Mr. Augustus Breet?”
“No, sir, neither of those gentlemen are in.”
Amber nodded and continued on his way. That he had never heard of
either, but that he knew both were out, is a tribute to his powers of
observation. There was a rack in the hall where letters were displayed
for members, and he had taken a brief survey of the board as he passed.
Had there been any necessity, he could have mentioned half a dozen
other members, but the porter’s suspicions were lulled.
The first floor was taken up with dining and writing rooms.
Amber smiled internally.
“This,” he thought, “is where the gulls sign their little cheques--most
thoughtful arrangement.”
He mounted another flight of stairs, walked into a smoking-room where a
number of flashily dressed men were sitting, met their inquiring gaze
with a nod and a smile directed at an occupied corner of the room,
closed the door, and went up yet another and a steeper flight.
Before the polished portals of the room, which he gathered was the
front room of the upper floor, a man sat on guard.
He was short and broad, his face was unmistakably that of a
prize-fighter’s, and he rose and confronted Amber.
“Well, sir?”
The tone was uncompromisingly hostile.
“All right,” said Amber, and made to open the door.
“One moment, sir, you’re not a member.”
Amber stared at the man.
“My fellow,” he said stiffly, “you have a bad memory for faces.”
“I don’t remember yours, anyway.”
The man’s tone was insolent, and Amber saw the end of his enterprise
before ever it had begun.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and laughed quietly.
“I am going into that room,” he said.
“You’re not.”
Amber reached out his hand and grasped the knob of the door, and the
man gripped him by the shoulder.
Only for a second, for the intruder whipped round like a flash.
The door-keeper saw the blow coming and released his hold to throw up a
quick and scientific guard--but too late. A hard fist, driven as by an
arm of steel, caught him under the point of the jaw and he fell back,
missed his balance, and went crashing down the steep stairs--for this
was the top flight and conveniently ladder-like.
Amber turned the door-handle and went in.
The players were on their feet with apprehensive eyes fixed on the
door; the crash of the janitor’s body as it struck the stairs had
brought them up. There had been no time to hide the evidence of play,
and cards were scattered about the floor and on the tables, money and
counters lay in confusion....
For a moment they looked at one another, the calm man in the doorway
and the scowling players at the tables. Then he closed the door softly
behind him and came in. He looked round deliberately for a place to
hang his hat.
Before they could question him the door-keeper was back, his coat off,
the light of battle in his eye.
“Where is he?” he roared. “I’ll learn him....”
His language was violent, but justified in the circumstances.
“Gentlemen,” said Amber, standing with his back to the wall, “you can
have a rough house, and the police in, or you can allow me to stay.”
“Put him out!”
Lambaire was in authority there. His face was puckered and creased with
anger, and he pointed to the trespasser.
“Put him out. George----”
Amber’s hands were in his pockets.
“I shall shoot,” he said quietly, and there was a silence and a move
backward.
Even the pugilistic janitor hesitated.
“I have come for a quiet evening’s amusement,” Amber went on. “I’m
an old member of the club, and I’m treated like a split[1]; most
unfriendly!”
He shook his head reprovingly.
His eyes were wandering from face to face; he knew many who were there,
though they might not know him. He saw the boy, white of face, limp,
and half asleep, sprawling in a chair at Lambaire’s table.
“Sutton,” he said loudly, “Sutton, my buck, wake up and identify your
old friend.”
Gradually the excitement was wearing down. Lambaire jerked his head to
the door-keeper and reluctantly he retired.
“We don’t want any fuss,” said the big man; he scowled at the
imperturbable stranger. “We don’t know you; you’ve forced your way in
here, and if you’re a gentleman you’ll retire.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” said Amber calmly. “I’m one of yourselves.”
He made his way to where the youth half sat, half lay, and shook him.
“I came to see my friend,” he said, “and a jolly nice mess some of you
people have made of him.”
He turned a stern face to the crowd.
“I’m going to take him away,” he said suddenly.
His strength was surprising, for with one arm he lifted the boy to his
feet.
“Stop!”
Lambaire was between him and the door.
“You leave that young fellow here--and clear.”
Amber’s answer was characteristic.
With his disengaged hand, he lifted a chair, swung it once in a circle
round his head, and sent it smashing through the window.
They heard the faint crackle of it as it struck the street below, the
tinkle of falling glass, and then a police whistle.
Lambaire stood back from the door and flung it open.
“You can go,” he said between his teeth. “I shall remember you.”
“If you don’t,” said Amber, with his arm round the boy, “you’ve got a
jolly bad memory.”