Gunner Haynes looked at his companion oddly.
“You are expecting Mrs. Maddison, are you? Who is she?”
Connor took up a half-smoked cigar from an ash tray on the table and
lit it.
“A friend of mine,” he said. “What have you done with your pal?”
“Who is Mrs. Maddison?” asked the Gunner again.
Connor tried to appear unconcerned. He had heard that steely tone
before, and it was rather disconcerting.
“She’s the wife of a friend of mine,” he said.
“Sit down,” said the Gunner, “and let’s talk.”
Reluctantly Connor pulled up a chair and sat. As he did so, Gunner
Haynes walked to the door, closed and locked it.
“Let’s talk,” he said again, and sat opposite the gangster.
“Look here, Gunner, I don’t want any trouble with you,” suggested
Connor. “If there’s anything coming, you can take your corner. I don’t
know whether Maddison was making up that story he told me or not, but
if he wasn’t then there’s big money in this. Naturally, I didn’t take
any notice of the yarn he told when were readying him; but after you
got him away Billy--that’s the man who’s working with me--said he’d
seen something in the paper about Maddison’s wedding. I had a chat
with one of the busies who came to fan this place, and he told me that
Maddison’s flat was broken into last night by the man who drove the
car. That tallied with all Maddison told me--and all I knew. This
isn’t the first time I’ve seen a swell playing crook, but I’ve never
had the luck to catch one before. This man will be money for jam.”
“You’re sure it is he, eh?” asked the Gunner, and deceived by the mild
inquiry, Connor went on with greater confidence.
“Sure! I sent a flash fellow up to Maddison’s office to see his
manager--Stiles, I think his name is. There’s a portrait of Maddison
hanging up in the private room, which my fellow saw. He got the name
of the photographer and tried to buy a copy. He couldn’t get that, but
he was told where the picture had appeared in one of these illustrated
weeklies, and he got a copy of that.”
Connor pulled open a drawer of the table and took out a periodical
which had been folded over at a page. He pushed the paper to Gunner
Haynes.
“That’s him all right,” said Connor, with a confident smile. “I’d have
known him with or without his moustache. Maddison went away the day
after he was married. There’s a woman in it somewhere----”
“What a brain you’ve got!” interrupted the Gunner with mock
admiration, and Connor scowled. Any reflection on his mentality
infuriated him. It was his weakness that he believed himself to be the
cleverest of his kind.
“Brain or no brain,” he growled, “there’s the picture, and that’s the
man. I could shop him to-day, and he knows it. Naturally, if I have
ten minutes’ talk with him I shall make him see sense, but if I can’t
get him I thought I’d send a note to his wife. She’s got a bit of
money----”
“What sort of a note?” asked the Gunner, and the man hesitated.
“Billy writes a better hand than me--I read in the paper the other day
that all clever people write bad----”
“And some of the unclever ones, too,” said the Gunner.
He watched the man groping in the drawer, and presently his hand came
out with two or three sheets of paper covered with pencilled writing.
“I wrote it down, and Billy copied it and did the spelling,” said
Connor. “As you’re in on this, Gunner, you’d better see what I’ve
said.”
He pushed the note across, one hand still in the drawer, a fact which
the Gunner did not fail to notice; as he stretched out and took the
paper, his own hand came up and an automatic lay flat on the table,
the barrel pointing to Connor’s diaphragm.
“Take your hand out of the drawer. If there’s any murder to be
committed, I’d prefer to commit it myself,” he said.
Connor’s hand came up with great alacrity.
“I’m surprised at you, Gunner--you wouldn’t trust your best friend.”
“You’re no friend of mine,” said the Gunner.
He found some difficulty in reading the scrawled words. The note ran:
Dear Mrs. Maddison, I should like to give you some information about
your husband. I am afraid he has got into serious trouble, but I can
get him out of it. He has fallen into bad hands through no fault of
his own----
The Gunner read the last sentence aloud and looked up.
“That’s a bit of a smoodge,” said Connor coolly. “Naturally I want to
wrap it up for him so that it looks as though I’m trying to help him.”
“Strategist!” murmured the Gunner, and went on with his reading.
It will be very serious if the police know what I know re robbery at
Taffanny’s, but I think I can get him out of it, though it may cost a
bit of money, which I’m sure you will not mind paying.
Haynes smiled sardonically as he came to this line.
Don’t take this note to the police but bring it with you. If you go to
the police, your husband will be in trouble. Come and see me after
dark.…
Here followed elaborate directions as to how the wharf was to be
reached.
“That’s the letter, is it?” The Gunner pushed the paper across the
table. “I thought you were a specialist, Connor. I’ve never known you
put the black before.”
“This isn’t blackmail,” said Connor indignantly, “this is compensation
for money wasted. Besides, he pretended he was an Australian fellow
called Smith----”
“He pretended nothing of the kind. You jumped at the conclusion that
he was Smith because he was in Lewing’s company the night your crowd
knifed him,” said the Gunner quietly. “It’ll interest you to know that
Smith never arrived in England--he was turned back at Plymouth; he is
now on his way to Australia.”
He took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and lit the long
brown smoke.
“Suppose Mrs. Maddison goes to the police--they’ll catch you for ten
years, Connor.”
Connor smiled uneasily.
“Is that likely----” he began.
There was a tap at the door.
“Open it,” ordered Haynes.
Connor unlocked the door. One of his men was standing outside, and by
his agitation he knew something was wrong.
“The Sparrow’s here, with a lady,” he whispered hoarsely, and watching
him the Gunner saw Connor’s face go gray.
“Do you hear that?” asked Connor breathlessly. “The Sparrow--she’s
brought him.”
He snatched the letter up from the table, made a ball of it and threw
it into the little fire. At that moment they heard the heavy footsteps
of Inspector Bird in the passage.
The big man came in, a benevolent smile upon his large face, and
behind him a pretty girl whom the Gunner had met before.
“Why, Gunner, this is an unexpected pleasure!” rumbled the Sparrow.
“Thirty-eight more of you, and you’d have a regular Ali Baba’s cave!”
Haynes saw that the girl recognized him. He was already on his feet,
and gave her a friendly little nod.
“How are you, Miss Bolford?” he said, and the sharp-eared Connor
heard, as he intended he should hear. The last thing in the world he
wanted was for the blackmailer to reveal the fact that he was
expecting Margaret Maddison.
He saw the look of bewilderment and relief that came into Connor’s
face, and knew that he had taken the hint.
“I didn’t know you were running with this crowd, Gunner,” said the
Sparrow. “Old friend of yours, Miss Bolford.” His finger shot out.
“That’s Connor. You ought to know Connor, Miss Bolford.” And then, to
the discomfited man: “This lady is on a newspaper, and she wants to
get acquainted with all the bad and nearly bad men in London. Raided
last night, weren’t you?”
“They’re always raiding me,” grinned Connor, “and never finding
anything, Mr. Bird.”
The Sparrow’s eyes roved from one to the other.
“How long have the crow and the hawk been living in the same nest?
That’s puzzling me,” he asked. “Coming down in the world, aren’t you,
Gunner? What are you doing here?”
“Slumming,” said Gunner Haynes coolly. “I like now and again to
establish contact with the underworld.”
The detective’s face was wreathed in a sudden smile.
“Hear him?” he asked admiringly. “Quite a classy line of conversation.
There’s nobody like him.”
This was the Gunner’s opportunity. He knew that Bird would keep
occupied the discomfited owner of the wharf. He put on his hat
carefully and moved toward the door.
“I’ll be getting along, Mr. Bird. I presume you don’t wish to see me?”
And then he saw a malignant gleam in Connor’s eye.
“So long, Gunner!” said the man loudly. “If you take my advice, give
up carrying a gat: it will do you no good, and get you a lagging if
you’re ever caught.”
“Carrying a gat, is he?” The Sparrow became instantly alert. “That’s a
silly thing to do, Gunner. Got a license?”
Haynes smiled.
“I don’t carry a license and you can search my clothing for a gat.
You’ve no right to, but you can.”
He spread out his arms and Bird’s hands passed over him quickly. Mary
Bolford watched the deadly byplay and was fascinated.
“No gat there,” said the Sparrow. Then, to Connor: “What’s the idea?”
“I can tell you what the idea is.” The Gunner was at the door. “Our
friend was anxious to do a trade in lethal firearms, and I wasn’t
buying any. The only gun you’re likely to see to-day, Mr. Bird, is in
that table drawer.”
The detective pulled open the drawer near where the man had sat, and
Mary Bolford saw Connor’s face go green, for there at the bottom of
the drawer was a silver-plated revolver.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said the Gunner easily, and strolled out.
Before he passed through the little wicket gate leading to the street
he took off his hat as carefully as he had put it on, and removed from
its interior the automatic he had cached, and slipped it into his
pocket.