IN THE BAR-PARLOUR
Dan Ogle, blinded and broken, but silent and saving his revenge: Musky
Mag, stricken and pitiable, but faithful even if to death: Henry Viney,
desperate but fearful, and urgently needy: these three skulked at bay in
dark holes by Blue Gate.
Sullen and silent to doggedness, Ogle would give no word to the hospital
doctors of how his injury had befallen; and in three days he would brook
confinement no longer, but rose and broke away, defiant of persuasion,
to grope into the outer world by aid of Mag's arm. Blind George was
about still, but had scarcely been near the Highway except at night,
when, as he had been wont to boast, he was as good as most men with
sound eyes. It was thought that he spent his days over the water, as
would be the way of one feeling the need of temporary caution. It did
not matter: that could rest a bit. Blind George should be paid, and paid
bitter measure; but first the job in hand, first the scheme he had
interrupted; first the money.
Here were doubt and difficulty. Dan Ogle's plan of murder and
comprehensive pillage was gone by the board; he was next to helpless. It
was plain that, whatever plan was followed, Viney must bear the active
part; Dan Ogle raved and cursed to find his partner so unpractised a
ruffian, so cautious and doubtful a confederate.
Mrs. Grimes made the matter harder, and it was plain that the thing must
be either brought to a head or wholly abandoned, if only on her account.
For she had her own idea, with her certain revenge on Captain Nat, and a
contingent reward; furthermore, she saw her brother useless. And things
were brought to a head when she would wait no more, but carried her
intrigue to the police.
Nothing but a sudden move would do now, desperate as it might be; and
the fact screwed Viney to the sticking-place, and gave new vigour to
Ogle's shaken frame. After all, the delay had not been great--no more
than a few days. Captain Nat suspected nothing, and the chances lay that
the notes were still in hand, as they had been when Ogle's sister last
saw them; for he could afford to hold them, and dispose of them at a
later and safer time. The one danger was from this manoeuvre of Mrs.
Grimes: if the police thought well enough of her tale to act without
preliminary inquiry, they might be at the Hole in the Wall with a
search-warrant at any moment. The thing must be done at once--that very
night.
Musky Mag had never left Dan's side a moment since she had brought him
from the hospital; now she was thrust aside, and bidden to keep to
herself. Viney took to pen, ink and paper; and the two men waited
impatiently for midnight.
It was then that Viney, with Ogle at his elbow, awaited the closing of
the Hole in the Wall, hidden in the dark entry, whence Mrs. Grimes had
watched the plain-clothes policeman fishing for information a few hours
earlier. The customers grew noisier as the hour neared; and Captain
Nat's voice was heard enjoining order once or twice, ere at last it was
raised to clear the bar. Then the company came out, straggling and
staggering, wrangling and singing, and melted away into the dark, this
way and that. Mr. Cripps went east, the pale pensioner west, each like a
man who has all night to get home in; and the potman, having fastened
the shutters, took his coat and hat, and went his way also.
There was but one other tavern in sight, and that closed at the same
time as the Hole in the Wall; and since none nearer than Paddy's Goose
remained open till one, Wapping Wall was soon dark and empty. There were
diamond-shaped holes near the top of the shutters at the Hole in the
Wall, and light was visible through these: a sign that Captain Nat was
still engaged in the bar. Presently the light dulled, and then
disappeared: he had extinguished the lamps. Now was the time--while he
was in the bar-parlour. Viney came out from the entry, pulling Ogle by
the arm, and crossed the street. He brought him to the court entrance,
and placed his hand on the end post.
"This is the first post in the court," Viney whispered. "Wait here while
I go. We both know what's to do."
Viney tip-toed to the bar-parlour door, and tapped. There was a heavy
footstep within, and the door was flung open. There stood Captain Nat
with the table-lamp in his hand. "Who's that?" said Captain Nat. "Come
into the light."
Viney took a deep breath. "Me," he answered. "I'll come in; I've got
something to say."
He went in side-foremost, with his back against the door-post, and
Captain Nat turned slowly, each man watching the other. Then the
landlord put the lamp on the table, and shut the door. "Well," he said,
"I'll hear you say it."
There was something odd about Captain Nat's eyes: something new, and
something that Viney did not like. Hard and quiet; not anger, it would
seem, but some-thing indefinable--and worse. Viney braced himself with
another inspiration of breath.
"First," he said, "I'm alone here, but I've left word. There's a friend
o' mine not far off, waiting. He's waiting where he can hear the clock
strike on Shadwell Church, just as you can hear it here; an' if I'm not
back with him, safe an' sound, when it strikes one, he's going to the
police with some papers I've given him, in an envelope."
"Ah! An' what papers?"
"Papers I've written myself. Papers with a sort of private log in
them--not much like the one they showed 'em at Lloyd's--of the loss of
the _Florence_ years enough ago, when a man named Dan Webb was killed.
Papers with the names of most of the men aboard, an' hints as to where
to find some of 'em: Bill Stagg, for instance, A. B. They may not want
to talk, but they can be made."
Captain Nat's fixed look was oddly impassive. "Have you got it on the
papers," he said, in a curiously even voice, as though he recited a
lesson learned by rote; "have you got it on the papers that Dan Webb had
got at the rum, an' was lost through bein' drunk?"
"No, I haven't; an' much good it 'ud do ye if I had. Drunk or sober he
died in that wreck, an' not a man aboard but knew all about that. I've
told you, before, what it is by law: Murder. Murder an' the Rope."
"Ay," said Captain Nat in the same even voice, though the tones grew in
significance as he went on. "Ay, you have; an' you made me pay for the
information. Murder it is, an' the Rope, by the law of England."
"Well, I want none of your money now; I want my own. I'll go back an'
burn those papers--or give 'em to you, if you like--an' you'll never see
me again, if you'll do one thing--not with your money."
"What?"
"Give me my partner's leather pocket-book and my eight hundred and ten
pounds that was in it. That's first an' last of my business here
to-night, an' all I've got to say."
For a moment Captain Nat's impassibility was disturbed, and he looked
sharply at Viney. "Ha!" he said, "what's this? Partner's pocket-book?
Notes? What?"
"I've said it plain, an' you understand me. Time's passing, Cap'en Kemp,
an' you'd better not waste it arguing; one o'clock'll strike before
long. The money I came an' spoke about when they found Marr in the
river; you had it all the time, an' you knew it. That's what I want:
nothing o' yours, but my own money. Give me my own money, an' save your
neck."
Captain Nat compressed his lips, and folded his arms. "There was a woman
knew about this," he said slowly, after a pause, "a woman an' a man.
They each took a try at that money, in different ways. They must be
friends o' yours."
"Time's going, Cap'en Kemp, time's going! Listen to reason, an' give me
what's my own. I want nothing o' yours; nothing but my own. To save you;
and--and that boy. You've got a boy to remember: think o' the boy!"
Captain Nat stood for a little, silent and thoughtful, his eyes directed
absently on Viney, as though he saw him not; and as he stood so the
darkness cleared from his face. Not that moment's darkness only, but all
the hardness of years seemed to abate in the old skipper's features, so
that presently Captain Nat stood transfigured.
"Ay," he said at last, "the boy--I'll think o' the boy, God bless him!
You shall have your money, Viney: though whether it ought to be yours I
don't know. Viney, when you came in I was ready to break you in pieces
with my bare hands--which I could do easy, as you know well enough." He
stretched forth the great knotted hands, and Viney shrank before them.
"I was ready to kill you with my hands, an' would ha' done it, for a
reason I'll tell you of, afterwards. But I've done evil enough, an' I'll
do no more. You shall have your money. Wait here, an' I'll fetch it."
"Now, no--no tricks, you know!" said Viney, a little nervously, as the
old man turned toward the staircase door.
"Tricks?" came the answer. "No. An end of all tricks." And Captain Nat
tramped heavily up the stair.