The storm that swept on London found at least two people unprepared.
Luke Maddison was cheery. He had been formally forgiven--the marriage
was to be quiet, and only a few guests were to be invited. He had only
a few minutes before arranged his train reservations--no secretary
should perform that sacred duty!
His heart would have sung a gay song even if every thick flake of snow
burned as it touched his face. The flower girl shifted the strap of
her basket from one shoulder to another and gazed with dismay upon the
tumbling white fog that descended upon St. James’s Street, blotting
out every landmark. You could not see from one side of the street to
the other. Almost instantly the ground was thick where the white
flakes lay. But for their asthmatic engines one would not have known
that such things as motor busses were passing.
Snow covered the violets in her basket, soaked into the thin shawl
about her shoulders, and even when she sought shelter in the doorway
of a bank, followed her in gusty showers.
Two men brushed past her into the bank. She offered a bunch of flowers
automatically. The younger of the two did not notice her; the
middle-aged man with the trim moustache gave her a quick, appraising
glance and stopped.
“Hullo, honey--busy?”
She did not reply. He hesitated a moment, and then the door swung open
and the impatient voice of the young man called him inside.
At that moment Luke Maddison came striding down the street, swinging a
light cane. He wore no overcoat and his shoulders already carried a
white blanketting.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl shivering in the doorway,
checked his stride and came up to her.
“My dear, you look cold! My heart keeps me terribly warm--and if you
think I am making love to you, I’m not! I want a flower, and you shall
have a present, and then you and I will drift away and we shall be
dead to one another--born and dead in this freezy moment! Buy a
wreath!”
He took a banknote out of his pocket and dangled it before her eyes
laughingly. And then he had a slight shock.
She was pretty--which flower girls, outside of musical comedy, are
not; her figure was frail, her skin flawless.
Yet she was poorly dressed; bore in her person all the evidence of
penury.
“Here’s a better one.”
He put the note in his pocket and produced another, scribbled a line
or two on the back of it.
“That’s the name and address of my company--if, when you try to change
it, the police say that it is stolen, refer them to me.”
She did not answer, but looked from the note in her cold hands to its
giver. It was for a hundred pounds! When she looked up he was gone.
The swing doors of the bank opened again and the two men came out. She
crumpled the note in her hand, dismayed, exhilarated, and, in one
respect, disappointed. It was then she saw the young man’s face. It
was deathly pale and he was breathing quickly--this was noticeable,
for the weather was cold.
“By God, that was a horrible coincidence, Danty--suppose he’d come
in----”
“Shut up, you fool!”
The elder of the two shot a glance at the flower girl. She was
arranging her violets.
“But if he had---- He said he was going out of town before the
settlement.”
He was trembling violently: the flower girl might have seen that if
she were observant. Danty’s dark eyes roved the streets for a taxi;
they rested momentarily on the flower girl. She was pretty, but at the
moment her face was vacant. More interested in her flowers than in
unintelligible scraps of conversation, he supposed.
“Now see here, Rex, there’s nothing to worry about. You could easily
explain that Margaret…”
His voice sank to an indistinguishable mutter of sound. The girl heard
the word “settlement” used several times, and “carry over” and
“account.” Also “Margaret” was mentioned twice, and “Luke.”
“… fix it, don’t worry!” Danty patted the other on the back. She
decided that she did not like “Danty.” “Here’s a cab!”
The younger man signalled and sprinted out to the taxi. The other went
at a more leisurely pace. He dropped something onto her flowers--a
visiting card.
“Come along about nine and have a drink,” he murmured.
She took the card before his eyes, glanced at the name and
deliberately tore it up.
He was rather annoyed when he joined his companion.
“Mr. Danton Morell, 907 Half Moon Street,” she read. It was a name to
remember.
And then she saw a huge figure loom out of the mist of swirling
flakes, and instinctively knew that he was going to speak to her. Why
she should think this she did not know--he might very well be going
into the bank.
He was big in every way. Until he ranged alongside her, his height did
not seem extraordinary. Till his length was gauged, the breadth of his
shoulders was not remarkable. He stood six feet four in his stockinged
feet. His face was dark and broad and unattractive; he had a short,
bull neck and a deep, rich, husky voice.
He walked slowly, almost lethargically, through the snow, his hands
behind him, his hard felt hat on the back of his head, the ragged
cigar, that was burning unevenly, gripped in his teeth.
The flower girl thought he was going to turn into the bank after all:
instead, he stood squarely before her and looked down at her. The
expression in those slits of eyes was blank. He might have his
attention entirely absorbed by her; he might be trying to remember
something.
And then he spoke huskily.
“_You’re_ no child of the poor!”
There was something so friendly, so good-humoured in his voice, that
she laughed.
“Nor a wrongdoer either,” she said demurely, and his big face folded
into a delighted smile.
“You’re nearly the first that ever gave me the right answer,” he said.
“Now I’ll ask you another: Where in the City of London is that text
carved in stone?”
The flower girl was almost scornful.
“Why, over the entrance of the Old Bailey--‘Protect the Children of
the Poor and Punish the Wrongdoer.’”
He nodded.
“You’ve won a butter cooler, but you can have your pick of the board.
Keepin’ to the general knowledge paper, who and what am I? For the
correct answer you get a pint of peanuts and free admission to the
Zoo.”
She looked at him with a certain demure solemnity that delighted him.
“You are Detective Inspector Horace Bird--you are called ‘The
Sparrow.’”
He doubled forward and his face went purple with silent laughter.
“You’re free of the fair! Now let me do a little bit of classy
detective work, like the well-known Mr. What’s-his-name of Baker
Street. Your name is Mary Bolford, you’re a reporter on the staff of
the _Daily Post-Herald_, and you’re doing a stunt called ‘A day in the
life of a flower girl.’ Don’t deny it! Your editor pointed you out an
hour ago an’ asked me to keep an eye on you. How’s that for deduction?
Come and have some tea and I’ll tell you the story of my life.”
He shifted his cigar to the offside of his face, lifted the strap of
the basket from her shoulder, and together they tramped through the
slush down St. James’s Street. Even in the midst of their own
discomforts, pedestrians turned their heads to look back after the
enormous man with a basket of violets under his arm.
“I bet you’ll suffer for this,” he rumbled. “Wet through--no? I hope
you are wearing warm undies. Why are undies indelicate and sable coats
ladylike? Ask me. It’s one of the mysteries. Good-afternoon, Tom.” He
stopped a man who was trying to pass him quickly, his head bent as
though to avoid the drift of wind-borne snow.
“Good-mornin’, Mr. Bird--cold, isn’t it?”
“It’s colder waitin’ outside the staff entrance of Hoyce & Drake, Tom.
Pretty girl, eh, Tom? I’ll bet your wife wouldn’t think so. Don’t do
it, Tom, or I’ll come along and blind you! So-long!”
“Horrific!” she murmured as the man hurried away.
“I have to be,” he said complacently. “It’s the only language they
understand. What’s that word again--horrific? That’s a good one. Go
straight in, Miss Bolford.”
They turned into the tea shop and Mary Bolford smelt the warmth and
hot-cakeness of the place and sighed luxuriously.
“Order anything you like up to fourpence,” said the Sparrow. “I’ve
only just had lunch, so you’ll excuse me if I stop at the tenth mince
pie.”
He seemed to pay no attention to the rest of the people in the long
tea room, and yet----
“That feller over there in the corner is Sam Larber, the con man.
Times are bad and suckers are scarce. There ought to be a cold weather
fund for confidence men. It takes sunshine to bring out human
foolishness. That girl who’s with him is Lisa Keane--_she’s_ no Sister
of Mercy! See that red-haired young feller who’s hidin’ behind the
newspaper? I got him nine months at the London Sessions for knockin’
off motor cars--‘knockin’ off’ means ‘pinchin’’--excuse my French.”
“What do you think of this?”
She unfolded a piece of crinkly paper and spread it on the marble top
of the tea table.
“I don’t think of hundred-pound notes--I dream of ’em,” he said, and
added, in his inconsequential way: “That’s because he’s goin’ to be
married. I saw him holdin’ it up before your eyes and thought he was
tryin’ to create a good impression. I was a bit hurt. Mr. Maddison
never struck me as bein’ a vamp. And then I suddenly knew what it was
all about.”
She might be a reporter, but she was feminine.
“Whom is he marrying?” she asked.
“A lady. That was her brother who was talkin’ to another gentleman in
the doorway. Danty!--_he’s_ no lady! What Rex loses on the swings he
borrows from the roundabouts. The bookmakers have an insurance on his
life--they hate the idea of anything happenin’ to their annuity. And
when he goes into the City all the sharks file their teeth. He’s easy
money--somebody else’s money. Is that libel or slander?”
“Both--if I printed it,” she smiled.
The waitress came--she drank the hot tea gratefully. Mr. Bird sat
munching cakes with great earnestness. A big plate of confectionery
steadily vanished.
“I’m a big man and have to keep my spirits up,” he explained. “Mince
pies are a kind of dope to me. After I’ve had a dozen I get sort of
intoxicated and all my troubles disappear. After I’ve had twenty I go
mad and tear up the pavement.”
Mercifully he stopped at the seventh.
“What am I to do with this hundred pounds?” she asked. “I feel that I
have obtained money by false pretenses!”
“I saw a couple of good evenin’ dresses at Cecilia et Cie’s,” he said.
“It’s a Modes et Robes shop in Bond Street--and if you ask me why
‘Modes et Robes’ I’ll say ‘desist.’ There was one dress with spangles
on it--wear that an’ you’d get a reputation for fastness that’d get
you the first prize at Brooklands----”
“Who is Danty?”
She was in a new world; had been in it exactly a quarter of an hour.
She went on quickly:
“I know his name--Danton Morell: he gave me his card.”
Mr. Bird nodded.
“He would: he’s that kind of philanthropist. ‘Call round any evenin’
when the servants have gone to the pictures.’ Danty is clever. I’m one
of the few people who know how clever he is. Some day I’ll take a
stick to him and he’ll be in the market for a new head.”
And then he began to talk about people--the shifting population of the
West End. The men and women who came and went; the mild old gentleman
who had a suite at the Cercle Hotel all the year round but spent his
time travelling to and from New York playing cards with the light
hearted and gullible. Of strange men who did nothing for a living and
had no visible means of support yet stayed at the best hotels. He
called them “the once-a-year men.”
“They go after one coup and that keeps ’em. They’re the highest paid
tale tellers in the world. Kiplin’ and what’s-his-name Shaw? They
never get the price that’s paid to these fellers.”
“I suppose you are always getting new experiences?” she said.
Mr. Bird sighed.
“I think I know all that is to be known about the dirty ways of
crooks,” he said.
But he was wrong.
That night he was called to number 342, Brook Street. Assisted by the
white-faced Mr. Danton Morell, he burst open the door of a bedroom,
and there he found Rex Leferre, dead by his own hand. He lay on the
floor, a revolver by his side: the quick-eyed Danty saw the note
scribbled in pencil on small sheets of paper torn from a telephone
message block, and his hand closed over the paper. An hour later
Margaret Leferre, pale and lovely in her silken negligee, read the
message the detective had not seen.
Margaret darling, I have lost. For months I have been gambling. To-day
I took a desperate step on the advice of Luke Maddison. He has led me
to ruin--money is his god. I beg of you not to trust him. He has led
me from one act of folly to another. God bless you.
Rex.
She read the pitiful message again and again. Luke Maddison: the man
she was to marry in a week!