At the appointed hour Mr. Connor arrived, paid off his taxi short of
the bridge across the Serpentine, and strolled down toward the water.
The night was inclined to be rainy; a high, chill wind was blowing--it
was not a night even for the most romantic of couples to spend on the
brim of the Serpentine.
Mr. Connor was not romantic; he was very much a realist. He could well
understand Margaret Maddison’s reluctance to come to his wharf, and he
blamed himself for the stupidity of such a suggestion. She might have
come accompanied by the police, as the Gunner suggested she would; and
that was exactly the way she would have arrived had she intended
making a fuss.
He found a wooden chair leaning over upon another, and straightening
it, sat down. Here was the promise of an income for life. He could
even bless the Gunner that he had interfered in his affairs at the
most critical moment in the life of Luke Maddison. He looked right and
left; there was nobody in sight. The police, he knew, did not patrol
this path except at rare intervals.
Behind him was a stretch of grass which was separated from the pathway
by a railing less than a foot from the ground. He was meditating upon
all the prospects which his discovery had opened up when a hand
dropped on his shoulder and something cold touched the back of his
neck.
“Shouting means shooting,” said a muffled voice behind him. “Don’t
look round, kid!”
“What’s the idea?” growled Connor, who, to do him Justice, was not so
much frightened as annoyed.
“Stick ’em up, and let’s have a look at you,” said the stranger
laconically. “Now turn,” he said, and Connor obeyed.
His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and had his assailant’s
face been uncovered, he could have been distinguished; but where the
face should be was a black patch.
“Outrage by masked highwayman,” murmured the newcomer, as his
disengaged hand passed quickly across the outside of Connor’s pockets.
“You needn’t have covered up your face, Gunner,” growled Connor. “I’d
know you anywhere.”
The other said nothing; his hand went into the inside pocket of
Connor’s coat and he jerked something free. Connor gripped at his
wrist, but the barrel of the automatic hit him gently under the
chin--not so gently that his teeth did not rattle.
“You came after the passport, did you? I was a can to fall for your
letter. But it’s going to make no difference, Gunner, and you can tell
the woman who sent you here----”
“You talk too much,” said the mask.
He put his hand in Connor’s hip pocket, took out the pistol it
contained and flung it into the dark pond. Connor heard the splash of
the revolver as it hit the surface of the water.
“Probably saved you ten years,” said the hold-up man cheerfully. “If
there’s one thing I like, it is saving people from penal servitude.”
He pushed his hand down into the trousers pocket of his victim and
pulled out a handful of notes.
“Richness beyond the dreams of avarice,” he said, as he transferred
the money to his own pocket. “Saving up to buy a car or something?”
“You’ll know all about this!” threatened Connor. “You don’t think I’m
going to take it lying down, do you?”
He heard a faint laugh, but so far removed from amusement did it sound
that he shuddered.
“What’s to stop me finishing you?” asked the man in the mask. “The
answer is--nothing! I’m telling you, Connor, for your own good, not to
raise a squeal about this little affair.”
“Maddison put you up to this, I suppose--but I’ll get him!” said
Connor between his teeth. “I’m not kidding you----”
“You talk too much,” said the other again, and, gripping his victim by
the shoulder, he spun him round, so rapidly that Connor staggered.
Before he could recover his balance the stranger gave him a violent
push that sent him sprawling into the water. By the time Connor had
recovered, his man had disappeared.
It was not the kind of night to wander about in wet clothes, but they
were nearly dry by the time Connor had made his plans. Now he knew too
well why the Gunner had called that day--he had come for the passport,
but the arrival of Inspector Bird and the girl reporter had made it
impossible to secure the document he wanted.
Connor had half a dozen plans but rejected them all. And then he
remembered the one man in London who could be of assistance to him.
The fact that he was head of a rival gang made little or no difference
to this opportunist. The idea had no sooner settled in his mind than
he took up the ’phone and called Danty Morell’s flat. Here was one of
the widest men in the world, with a brain even more cunning than his
own--a man who had mixed with real swells and had reputedly made
enough money to retire from the crooked game, though he still
maintained nominal direction of the Borough crowd.
Danty was in bed when the call came through and cursing all telephones
went into the passage in his bare feet to take the message. He was not
sufficiently well acquainted with the gangster to recognize his voice
and Connor lost no time in introducing himself.
“What’s the game?” asked Danty suspiciously.
He knew there was bad blood between the two gangs, but so far had kept
clear of offending either by the lukewarmness of his championship or
the vehemence of his enmity.
“It’s a big thing with big money in it. Can you see me right away?”
asked Connor.
For fully a minute Danty considered the possibilities.
“All right, come up,” he said, “but if you start a rough-house here,
you’ll be pinched.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” smiled Connor. “Why should I call you up to
start a rough-house--what’s the matter with the streets? You go on
’em, don’t you?”
“All right, come along,” said Danty at last.
He was not particularly enthusiastic for a meeting, especially as he
was aware that his house from time to time was under observation. He
woke Pi Coles and revealed the identity of the caller. The dumpy
little man shook his head.
“Connor’s mustard,” he said. “I shouldn’t have much to do with him if
I were you, guv’nor.”
From time to time there had been red war between the two gangs but
Danty was so aloof from their operations that he could afford to take
a disinterested view. He never went south of the river until the feuds
had died down, and it was perfectly understood that he was not to be
the object of reprisals.
Danty had dreamed dreams of shaking loose all his old associations and
forgetting that he had ever organized river thefts and drawn a small
but steady income from the proceeds.
He was dressed by the time Connor called. Pi, his servant, who had
spent a quarter of an hour looking out of the window, reported the
man’s arrival in Half Moon Street.
“He’s alone, guv’nor,” he said, and most of Danty’s uneasiness was
removed by this information.
Connor was in a friendly mood--which meant nothing. Friendliness of
mood was part of his stock in trade.
“I’ve got a nerve to call you up, Mr. Morell,” he said, “but something
has happened and I think you’re going to help me. When I say ‘help
me,’” he added carefully, “I mean help yourself. My crowd and yours
are not always matey, but I hope that’s going to make no difference.”
Danty informed him with the greatest politeness that he was superior
to the antagonisms of crowds. With his own hand he pushed forward a
box of cigars, and Mr. Connor lit one carefully and thoughtfully.
“I happen to know a lot about you, Morell--everybody agrees you’re the
widest fellow in London. You know Mr. Maddison, too, don’t you--he
mentioned your name.”
Danty’s eyes opened.
“Maddison?” he said slowly. “Why, do you know him?”
Connor grinned.
“I’m not going to tell you any lies. I didn’t know him till last
night.” Then, abruptly: “How much money has he got?”
The question took Morell’s breath away.
“What am I, an inquiry agent?” he asked sarcastically. “He’s a rich
man, that’s all I can tell you, and you probably know that yourself.”
He might have added that Luke’s wealth was a genuine source of
grievance at that moment.
He was curious to know why the gangster was interested in Luke, and
how he had come to meet him, but for the moment Connor was not
prepared to enlighten him.
“The point is this, Morell: if this fellow’s rich, and we can get big
stuff out of him, are you ready to split two ways?”
Danty did not answer. He certainly had no intention of committing
himself to this man, who might be really friendly but as likely as not
was preparing a trap for him.
“Well, I’m going to tell you,” said Connor, “because you’ve got to
come in, whether you like it or not. If you’re in, there’s only one
way the makings can be split, and that’s two ways.” He chuckled at his
own joke.
“Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell me just what the graft is?”
said Morell.
The other nodded.
“That’s fair,” he said. “Do you remember Lewing being killed, and a
fellow being knifed?”
“I remember,” said Morell.
“Do you know Taffanny’s was robbed two days ago, and a man with a
beard got away with a lot of stuff?”
Danty nodded again.
“Do you know that was the same man--the chap who was in hospital and
the fellow who drove the car? And do you know that man was Mr. Luke
Maddison?”
Danty stared at him, his mouth wide open.
“Forget it!” he said scornfully. “Maddison’s in Spain.”
The other chuckled.
“In Spain, is he? I’ll tell you where he is. He’s hiding up with
Gunner Haynes. And what’s more, his wife knows he’s on the run with
the police after him.”
Luke Maddison a thief, a man badly wanted by the police? The idea was
so fantastical that Danty could not grasp it. And then Connor began to
tell his story. He did not explain the circumstances in which Luke had
revealed his identity; but after his host had heard of the seeming
treachery of Connor’s confederate, he had no difficulty in bridging
over the gap.
“We were holding him to give him a towelling when Gunner Haynes butted
in and got him away. Naturally I didn’t take any notice of the yarn he
told until one of my men found a passport.”
“You wrote to Mrs. Maddison, did you?”
Connor nodded.
“We got a faked letter--I ought to be kicked for not knowing it was a
fake. Anyway, the Gunner caught me in the park and got the passport
away from me.”
Danty began to think quickly. He knew that this story was true, and
that in some amazing way Luke had got himself mixed up in a gang war
and was now hiding from the police. The reason why the passport was so
vital to him he could realize--that had been the real object of his
burglarious entrance into his own flat. Once the passport was in his
possession it was a simple matter for him to melt away to the
Continent, and with his disappearance from London vanished also every
hope of bringing home to him his association with the Taffanny
robbery. And Margaret knew--if not all, at least the vital part--of
Connor’s story.
Here in his hand was the lever. To think, with Danton, was to act. He
went out into the corridor to the telephone and rang up Margaret. She
was certain to be in bed, but he would insist that she answer him.
To his surprise it was her voice which replied.
“Is that Margaret?”
“Who is it speaking?” she asked quickly.
“It’s Danton,” he said. “Listen, Margaret, this is very important--did
a man called Haynes call on you to-night?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t think that is any business----”
“Listen, please,” he pleaded. “Did you give him any money? This is
very important.”
Again the hesitation.
“Did you?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said, “I gave him some money--not for himself----”
She realized her error too late.
“For somebody else?” asked Danty eagerly.
He waited, and then heard the click of the instrument as she hung up
the receiver. He came quickly back to Connor.
“He’s got the passport, and he’s got money, and that means he’ll leave
for the Continent by to-morrow morning’s train. I want you to get a
couple of your gang down at the station to-morrow morning; they’re to
watch at the barrier and head back Maddison if he tries to leave
England.”
He shouted for Pi Coles.
“Bring me my shoes,” he said; and, when the man had gone: “I’m going
to see Mrs. Maddison and get the first instalment of our pension. How
much did you think you’d get from her if she had come over to your
wharf?”
“I reckoned on a thousand,” said Connor, and Morell laughed
thoughtfully.
“If this job is not worth a hundred thousand, it’s worth nothing,” he
said.