Luke Maddison sat in his little room in Ginnett Street, his head
upon his hands, his mind a great confusion. Mrs. Fraser had not been
in the shop parlour when he passed through, and was apparently
unconscious of his return. But this was not the fact, he discovered,
when, a quarter of an hour afterwards, she came in with a cup of tea.
He had a feeling that she was well aware of what had happened that
afternoon, although she made no reference to his terrifying adventure
until she seemed at the point of departure.
“Connor says that the only danger is that some of the Lewing mob may
put up a squeal.”
“What is a squeal?” asked Luke, and she smiled amiably and admiringly.
“What a one you are! But perhaps in Australia they don’t have these
expressions.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Do you know what strikes me, Mrs. Fraser?” he said calmly. “That
every person in this street who reads the description will recognize
me? About a hundred people must have seen me walking down Ginnett
Street----”
She shook her head.
“I know everybody in the neighbourhood and what they’re doing,” she
said calmly. “The only man who saw you is old Joe who runs errands for
me. Connor says you ought to cut that beard of yours and get another
suit. I’ll take away the one you’re wearing, if you’ll change.”
“Into what?” he demanded with some asperity.
“There’s a blue suit in the drawer; it came when you were out this
afternoon,” she said, and went away.
For a quarter of an hour he sat and watched his tea growing cold, his
mind vacillating between horror and amusement. He, Luke Maddison, was
a thief, a gangster, an active member of an organization which had
robbed Taffanny’s! He knew Taffanny’s rather well; he had bought
Margaret’s engagement ring over the very glass counter that had been
smashed. He was helpless--the idea of going to the police and
betraying his associates never occurred to him. There was only one
thing to be done and that was to steal away at the first opportunity.
He had written for his check book to be sent to Ronda, and it was a
simple matter to reach Spain. Was it, though?
With a gasp he realized that he had no passport! And without a
passport it was impossible to reach Spain, of all countries, where
every man and woman who passed across the frontier were closely
scrutinized. If he had not dismissed his servant it would be easy to
creep back to his flat one night, pack a bag, and fade away into a
Continental limbo. But probably his solicitor had the key of the flat.
A new hope awakened. Hulbert had an apartment in St. James’s Street.
He was a bachelor and accessible.
Luke dismissed from his mind his experience of the afternoon. That was
something not to be thought of without a shudder--he was whistling
cheerfully when Mrs. Fraser came with a pair of bright, new scissors
to collect the gray tweed suit he had discarded, and to bring him a
pair of brown shoes, so hideously bright that they dazzled him.
“Connor says you’d better leave your moustache,” she suggested.
“Where is Connor? Is he on the premises?”
She shook her head.
“No, he ’phoned me.”
“I didn’t know you had a ’phone,” he said, in surprise.
Mrs. Fraser smiled cryptically.
“We’ve got lots of things here that people don’t know anything about,”
she said.
She came back a little later with a tube of shaving paste, a brand new
lather brush, and a razor which had evidently been purchased recently,
for when he opened the case he found it still inclosed in oil paper.
Shaving was a painful process in spite of this, but apparently the
results were satisfactory, for when the woman brought him some food
later she stood in the doorway and gaped her approval.
“Well, I should never have known you, Mr. Smith,” she said, “and I’ll
bet your best friend wouldn’t know you!”
As to this Luke was perfectly convinced. What an extraordinary change
a moustache made in a man’s appearance! To him it lent a touch of the
sinister--he stood gazing, fascinated, at his reflection in the
mirror.
Mrs. Fraser seemed more inclined to be conversational than she had
been before; asked him if he was married, and before he could answer
announced herself as a widow.
“At least, practically,” she amended the statement. “My husband got a
lifer two years ago.”
She was quite cheerful about this calamity, and Luke gathered that
life had not run any too smoothly for the woman.
“He asked for it,” she said. “Shot a copper and nearly killed him; and
naturally, Connor wouldn’t stand for that. Connor says a gun’s all
right for the heads but not for the unders. Fraser was that
kind--flash! He tried everything----”
“Had he been in prison before?”
She smiled amusedly.
“Why, of course! He did two stretches.”
Luke did not ask what a stretch might be: he had a vague idea that it
meant penal servitude.
“He did one stretch,” said the communicative Mrs. Fraser, “for a
swindle up in Manchester--he and Danty were in it----”
Luke’s jaw dropped.
“Danty?” he said incredulously. “Who is he?”
“He’s a con man--you must have heard of him. I think he’s straight
now, but you can never tell. He lives up west, knows all the swells,
and has got a flat in Half Moon Street. He and Gunner Haynes used to
work together----”
“Gunner Haynes--you know him?” asked Luke quickly.
From her expression and tone he gathered that Haynes was a person of
some importance in the hierarchy of the underworld.
“No, I don’t know him, I’ve only heard of him. But what do they call
Danty now?” She frowned in an effort of memory. “I had it on the tip
of my tongue--a swell name. Danton Morell--that’s it! Connor told me
only the other day about him.”
The room seemed to swim before Luke Maddison’s eyes. Danton Morell--a
confidence man, an ex-convict? It was incredible! And then suddenly he
had the stunning realization that Danty Morell was his wife’s best
friend!
“What is he like in appearance?”
“Danty? I’ve seen him two or three times.…”
She described Morell in her homely language. There was no doubt at all
that this was the man! It was more vitally necessary than ever that he
should escape from this environment and reappear as Luke Maddison.
His vague plans became definite. He could leave the house that night,
seek out Hulbert, and tell him the truth.
At nine o’clock that night he was preparing to leave when an
unexpected difficulty arose. He was just about to turn out the light
when Mrs. Fraser appeared. She closed the door behind her, and from
her manner he gathered that something serious had happened.
“Two of the Lewing crowd are down below,” she said in a low voice. “I
haven’t had a chance to call up Connor; the ’phone is in the parlour,
and they came in before I knew what was happening.”
She had something hidden under her apron, and when she withdrew her
hand he saw that it was a small Browning pistol.
“Put that in your sky,” she said urgently. “You don’t know what these
fellows are after.”
“In my----?” he began, bewildered.
“In your pocket,” she said impatiently. “Do as you’re told.”
Mechanically he took the pistol from her hand and slipped it into his
hip pocket. The one thing he did not wish to challenge was a scene
with two members of the rival gang. It was vital that he should get
away from Ginnett Street with the least possible delay, and if this
pistol helped him it was welcome.
“They want to see you----” she began.
And then a voice came from the foot of the narrow stairs.
“Come on, Smith!”
There was menace in the tone. Mrs. Fraser flung open the door.
“Wait!” she said sharply. “Who do you think you are?”
Luke heard a grumbling voice and the slam of the door which separated
the foot of the stairs from the parlour. And then, at the beckoning
jerk of the woman’s head, he followed her down the stairs.
There were two men in the parlour. One stood with his back to the
fire, the other significantly near the door that gave egress to the
shop. They were respectably dressed. Luke realized that if he had seen
them in the street he would have thought they were decent artisans.
There was certainly nothing sinister in either face. One was tall and
rather stout, the other a slightly built man, who wore as his necktie
the colours of a cavalry regiment.
The big man who stood with his back to the fire lowered his chin to
his breast and looked at Luke from under his eyebrows.
“Is this Smith?” he asked.
“That is Mr. Smith,” said Mrs. Fraser primly.
“What’s the idea of your coming here and pretending you’re somebody
you’re not?” asked the little man by the door with extraordinary
rapidity.
His big companion silenced him.
“You shut up. I’ll do all the talking, Curly,” he said. “You did that
job to-day, didn’t you, Smith?”
“I’ve done many jobs,” said Luke coolly.
“You’re pretending you’re a fellow named Smith whom our governor
brought over from Australia--no, I’m not talking about Lewing: he was
nobody. Swank killed him, and he’s well dead. But you’re not Smith.”
He pointed a finger to the man at the door. “That’s Curly Smith.”
“I’ll say I am!”
The little man was quivering with anger; he spoke with a shrill
cockney whine.
“You’ve been using my name”--he qualified the name with a violent
adjective.
The stout man by the fire rebuked him.
“There are ladies present,” he said, with such solemnity that Luke
almost laughed at the incongruity of the reproach.
“The point is,” said the big man, who, Luke discovered, was named
Verdi, “you was picked up when Lewing was chived, and you got yours
too, and naturally Connor thought you were the man that Lewing was
supposed to meet off the boat in the London Docks. And instead of
going to meet him, Lewing got cold feet, because he thought the Connor
lot were after him for a squeal. But you’re not Smith, and I’ll take
my oath you’ve never been to Australia.”
“Him!” Curly Smith was quivering with contempt. “That feller couldn’t
get a living in Australia!”
He suddenly tugged a newspaper from his side pocket.
“Do you see what you’ve done for me?” he hissed, and thrust the paper
under Luke’s nose.
Luke Maddison read the paragraph which the grimy thumb of the man
stabbed.
In connection with this robbery the police are seeking information
concerning a man named Smith who landed a few weeks ago from the
Orient liner _Pontiac_.
“Do you see what you’ve done?” repeated Smith savagely. “You’ve got
the dicks after me!”
His hand strayed to his trousers pocket.
“Steady your mitt!” growled Verdi. “This bird’s got a gat--what do you
think the old woman went up to see him about?”
Mrs. Fraser flamed at the insult.
“Old, am I, you fat snail! We’ll see what Connor says to that! He’ll
be here in five minutes.”
Verdi glanced uneasily at the door.
“Bluff,” he said. “Anyway, Connor can’t complain if we come round to
make a few inquiries. We’re entitled to a bit of information.”
“Do you want to see me any more?” said Luke, and moved toward the
door.
Curly Smith stood squarely in his way.
“We want to know----” began Verdi.
“You know all you’re likely to know,” said Luke curtly.
He took another step forward, but Smith did not move. Suddenly Luke’s
hand shot up, gripped the little man and swung him across the room. It
was not a moment to compromise or to argue; instinctively he knew he
was taking the right line as he pulled the door wide open.
“Get outside, both of you!” he said.
Verdi shrugged his broad shoulders.
“That’s all right,” he said. “We don’t want any unpleasantness.”
He was smiling when he came abreast of Luke; but Mrs. Fraser had
slipped to the other side of the table, and saw the life preserver he
carried in his right hand.
“Look out!” she cried shrilly.
As the deadly little stick rose, Luke struck for the man’s jaw, and he
went over with a crash against the wooden partition which separated
the shop from the parlour.
For a moment he was stunned, and in that time Luke had jerked the life
preserver from the man’s hand (a leather cord attached to it was
twisted round his wrist) and had dropped it into his pocket.
“Come on, you.” He beckoned Curly Smith, and the little man sidled
nimbly past him.
Verdi was on his feet by now, a little dazed, blinking with his pale
blue eyes at the man who had knocked him down.
“All right,” he said, and went heavily after his companion.
Luke closed the door with some difficulty, for the fall of the man
against the partition had thrown the door out of true. Mrs. Fraser was
very pale and her breath was coming quickly.
“I’ve never known them Lewings to do that before,” she said. “I
wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t start a fire.”
They had taken this course once before, Luke learned to his horror and
amazement--that explained the new annex to the house.
339 Ginnett Street was obviously Connor’s headquarters. The place had
never been raided--for the matter of that, it had never held a
pennyworth of stolen property.
He learned now, in the burst of confidence which apprehension
inspired, that although the rival gang was called Lewing’s, the dead
man had had very little to do with its organization. There had been a
coterie of irresponsible larrikins and shop thieves, and this had been
the nucleus of a more important gang, of which Lewing, at the moment
of his death, was the merest servant.
“He was just a little thief and a nose” (this was an informer, Luke
learned), said Mrs. Fraser. “Why, he was in stir a few days before he
was killed.”
Luke nodded. He remembered the occasion of Lewing’s first visit to
him. He had been in Brixton with Gunner Haynes, and had come in a
fraudulent spirit to collect money on behalf of the Gunner.
“There’s going to be some trouble--the Lewings have never done this
before,” repeated Mrs. Fraser. “I must let Connor know about it--you
going out?”
Luke was going out, and never intended returning. This latter piece of
information he did not pass to his hostess.
“Have you got any money? Oh, that reminds me.” The woman searched in a
leather bag which she carried beneath her apron and produced a small
package of notes. “Connor sent this--it’s fifty,” she said. “It’s only
on account. That stuff has got to be cut four ways, and you’ll get
your share. Connor’s always straight about money. You could trust him
with a million pounds.”
“I don’t want this.”
“Put it in your pocket,” she commanded, and as he did not wish to
prolong the conversation he obeyed. “Have you got any small money?”
“I have plenty,” he said, almost impatiently.
“Small money,” she insisted, and he had reason to be thankful for her
insistence.
He had not, and again she dived her hand under the apron and produced
some silver and coppers.
“If you try to pass fivers in this country you’ll get yourself into
trouble,” she said. And then: “Are you Australian?”
“No,” said Luke.
She was troubled at this, but her face cleared up.
“I expect Connor knows all about it.”
Evidently the word of Connor was something more than law.
She accompanied him to the door of the shop. When she found it was
raining she went back herself to get his mackintosh.
“Watch out for the Lewings,” she warned him, “and keep that gat in
your pocket where you can reach it.”
She fussed over him as a family nurse might and was not satisfied till
he had taken the automatic from his hip and dropped it into the slip
pocket of his waterproof.
Why was a pistol called a gat, he wondered. Probably it was an
abbreviation of gatling, and was obviously an Americanism.
There was nobody in the street, but he took the precaution, on Mrs.
Fraser’s advice, of making a wide detour, and ten minutes later he was
walking across Westminster Bridge.
Parliament was sitting; the clock in the big tower pointed to twenty
minutes to ten.
First he must see Jack Hulbert, that sane young solicitor of his. It
struck him that there was a possibility that Jack might not be alone.
The telephone, of course! He stopped at the first public booth and put
through a call. And here it was he was thankful to Mrs. Fraser for her
coppers.
The voice of Mr. Hulbert’s servant answered him.
“I want to speak to Mr. Hulbert,” he said, and to his horror the reply
came:
“Mr. Hulbert is not in England, sir; he has gone to Berlin for a
holiday and will not be back till next week. Who is it speaking?”
Luke for the moment was speechless; when the question was repeated he
had an inspiration.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Luke Maddison’s flat is occupied--is his
servant there?”
The tone of the man changed.
“Who are you, and why do you want to know that?” he demanded.
Luke rang off without explanation. He might have told the man who he
was, but he was chary of confiding in servants, and it was
particularly undesirable that he should betray his presence in London
to anybody except to Jack.
And then a thought struck him and he called the number of his own
flat. He waited for fully five minutes listening to the faint buzz of
the call, and then the operator said:
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no reply from that number.”
Luke made a slow way to the Mall, and walked slowly toward Buckingham
Palace, oblivious of the rain which was now falling in earnest. There
was only one thing to be done, and by the time he reached the end of
the Mall he had made his plans. He had often remarked jokingly how
easy it was to burgle his flat. Recently there had been erected a new
fire escape at the back of the block in which he had his residence,
and access to the yard where the escape touched earth was by no means
difficult. He could climb the wall from the mews which ran at the back
of the flat; he knew exactly how the window could be forced.