THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR
BY HEARNDEN BALFOUR
_Author of 'A Gentleman from Texas'_
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1928
COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
TO
ALL THE SHAREHOLDERS
IN
NEW BELLS, UNLIMITED
When the enterprising burglar's not a-burgling, not a-burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime, 'pied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, brook a-gurgling,
And to listen to the merry village chime, village chime.
GILBERT AND SULLIVAN
('The Pirates of Penzance')
CONTENTS
I. 'A POLICEMAN'S LOT ...'
II. VIVE LE SPORT
III. FOG
IV. THE MEETING OF THE FRATERNITY
V. 'TWINKLING WILLIAM'
VI. AN ULTIMATUM
VII. 'IF THE FEMININE ELEMENT CROPPED UP IN THIS ...'
VIII. 'MINE'S BEER, TOO'
IX. SIR TOBY IS AMUSED
X. THE FEMININE ELEMENT
XI. JERRY STRIKES OUT ON HER OWN
XII. 'BAKERLOO'
XIII. TO BE LET OR SOLD
XIV. TWINKLING WILLIAM'S DIARY
XV. BOBBY'S THEORY
XVI. NICK REFUSES TO EXPLAIN
XVII. NICK MAKES AN ALLY
XVIII. NICK EXPLAINS HIMSELF
XIX. SIR TOBY IS SURPRISED
XX. MICHAEL IS CONVINCED
XXI. JERRY EXPLAINS HERSELF
XXII. JILL HAS THE LAST WORD
XXIII. MR. ROBERTSON
XXIV. THE TENTH OF JUNE
THE ENTERPRISING BURGLAR
CHAPTER I
'A POLICEMAN'S LOT ...'
It was a bitter November night. Spike Moseley, trudging along the
Embankment, shivered, and cursed under his breath. He was far from
happy. He was cold and tired, and, worst of all, desperately nervous.
As he stumbled along he suddenly checked, listening. Was that a step
behind him? He swung round, his pulses thumping, and stared through the
mist that drifted up from the river. Was it a trick of the darkness,
or had he seen a dark figure take cover in the shadow of that shelter?
Spike waited a moment, his heart in his mouth, and then trudged on.
He was afraid, and fear was a rare emotion in him. Spike had been a
crook all his life, but he had always prided himself on the steadiness
of his nerves. He had been in a score of tight places, and had
extricated himself ably, but this was a different matter. Again he
checked, every nerve taut. He knew, as a wild animal knows, that he was
being followed, and his mouth dried as he listened. But he could hear
nothing, except the far-off wail of a ship's siren, down river.
Spike set his teeth and went on again. Maybe it was only his
imagination; the fancies that come to a sick man. For Spike felt very
sick that night. His head was heavy, and he could hardly drag his feet
along. It had come upon him suddenly. He had been all right an hour
ago. Then, after that pint he'd had in the Four Feathers, he'd begun to
feel queer. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but that was impossible.
He had made up his mind to see this thing through. He had decided to
tell Mr. Strickland what he knew. It was a poor thing to turn copper's
nark, but it seemed the lesser of two evils. Spike turned up his coat
collar and struggled on.
The policeman at the door of Scotland Yard eyed him with disfavour.
'Mr. Strickland about?'
His voice sounded queer. It was oddly difficult to get the words out.
The policeman told him curtly that Mr. Strickland was busy. Spike
fumbled in his pocket, and produced a grimy piece of paper and a stump
of pencil. Laboriously he wrote a few words, folded the note, and gave
it to the policeman.
'For Mr. Strickland,' he explained. 'Tell'm I'll wait by the bridge. 'S
important.' He turned and shambled across the road.
Detective-Inspector Strickland was not in the best of tempers when he
received Spike's communication. He had just been given marching orders,
which meant throwing up a case that was absorbing all his interest. He
knew it to be important--even urgent--but Authority had smiled, and had
given him to understand that he was shying at a mare's nest. Just when
proof seemed to be within his grasp, his Chief had seen fit to send him
abroad.
Spike's note gave him a flash of hope. He had long believed that Spike
could give him the information he wanted. He had tried to get it
before, but without success. If Spike really intended to make a clean
breast of it this time, there was a chance that he might be able to
convince the Chief. He flung on his hat and coat and went out to find
Spike.
The mist had thickened, and as he hurried towards Westminster Bridge
he failed to see a man who was waiting in the shadow of the Embankment
wall. The man saw Strickland, though, and smiled as he crouched below
the balustrade. Then he followed, moving very softly for so big a man.
Spike Moseley was sitting on the steps, his head in his hands, and did
not look up as Strickland approached.
'Well, Spike?'
Moseley raised his head, and stared at Strickland vacantly.
'You wanted to see me?'
A flicker of intelligence lit in his eyes.
'Thash right. Want see yer. Got suthing ... tell yer.'
'Go ahead.'
'Thishyer gang you're after ... preachin' bloody war, they are ... do
it, too. 'S Gawd's truth. Won' stop't anythin'....'
His speech was blurred and indistinct.
'You know 'em?' asked Strickland.
'Know'm a sight too well. But t'-night ... foun' out ... bloke's
name....'
His breath came in gasps.
'Who is he, Spike?' asked Strickland urgently.
'Nev' guess ... kill me, 'e would, 'f 'e knew wot I 'eard ... watch
out, er e'll get you ... an' no jury'd convic' ... man like 'im....'
Spike's head sagged forward into his hands. The words were clotting on
his tongue.
'What's his name?' asked Strickland desperately.
Spike tried to lift his head, but failed. His lips moved, but no words
came. Then he swayed over drunkenly, and Strickland caught him as he
fell.
Spike lay very still. Strickland laid a hand on his heart, and then
straightened himself, his face very grave. For a moment he stood still,
staring down at the huddled body. That message would never be delivered.
The man who had been crouching in the shadow noted the abrupt
silence. He moved away, soft-footed as a cat, and then made his way
back again, tramping heavily along the pavement. When he reached the
top of the steps he checked, and allowed himself to catch sight of
Detective-Inspector Strickland.
'Could y' spare us 'arf a dollar, sir?' he asked huskily. 'It's an
awful night, sir, an' I ain't 'ad no work fer months.'
Strickland looked up sharply. It was hard to see the man clearly in the
mist and the dark. He was a tall chap, a navvy, by the look of him.
'Yes, you can take a message for me,' he said. 'Here's half a crown. Go
over to Scotland Yard'--he pointed across the road--'and ask Inspector
Barrett to come here. Tell him to bring a constable with him, and say I
sent you--Strickland. Hurry!'
'Inspector Barrett. Right y'are, sir,' said the navvy, and set off at a
lumbering trot.
Strickland waited, shivering a little in the bitter wind. He was very
angry; a cold fury that included the Commissioner, and Spike, and the
men Spike had intended to betray. If only Spike had lived to tell
him that name ... if only the Chief could be induced to take this
matter seriously ... if only he himself had not received orders to go
abroad.... Jack Strickland felt it to be a deliberate insult on the
part of the gods.
The arrival of a policeman and a burly man in plain clothes
interrupted his thoughts. In a few words he explained to Inspector
Barrett what had happened.
'Sounds as if he'd been doped,' said Barrett at the conclusion. 'Well,
I'll deal with this if you like. You were on your way home, weren't
you?'
'Yes. If I'm wanted, let me know. By the way, I'm off next week.'
'So you couldn't convince the Chief?'
'No.'
'I'm sorry. I think he's wrong.'
'So do I,' said Strickland, 'but there it is. If only that poor
devil'--he nodded towards Spike--'had been able to tell his story I
might have made 'em believe me. As it is ... oh, hell! Good-night,
Barrett. By the way, where's that navvy I sent to fetch you?'
'He pushed off as soon as he'd delivered your message,' said Barrett.
'At any rate, he wasn't there when I came out. Good-night, Strickland.'
But Inspector Barrett was wrong. The navvy had only just gone, and
was at that moment standing by the statue of Boadicea trying to light
a stumpy cigarette-end and sheltering the flickering match with his
cupped hands. Strickland passed him, unnoticing. The navvy grinned, and
then began to whistle a gay and lilting tune.
Strickland heard it as he made his way home. It was a familiar air, and
as he listened the words suddenly clicked into place.
'When constabulary duty's to be done, to be done,
A policeman's lot is not a happy one!'
For a second Strickland checked in surprise, and swung round. But
there was no one in sight, and with a grin he dismissed the matter and
continued his journey.