Luke Maddison had only the most confused memory of what followed his
incautious opening of the door. He had been sitting reading when he
heard a knock, and saw nothing suspicious in the appearance of two men
in green baize aprons and shirt-sleeves.
“Is this Mr. Haynes’s flat?” asked one. “We’ve come to take away the
wardrobe.”
“You’d better return when Mr. Haynes is here,” said Luke, thinking
naturally that the Gunner had given instructions for the removal of a
piece of furniture.
“If we can’t take it away we’d like to measure it,” said the man, who
carried a notebook ostensibly in his hand.
Luke Maddison hesitated. He knew nothing about wardrobes, or indeed of
any of the domestic arrangements of the flat. But there could be no
harm in acceding to this request. He turned his back upon the men for
a second, and after that he remembered nothing distinctly.
His first conscious impression was of having his face roughly cleaned
by a cold, wet sponge. There was a rank smell of tar in the air, and
the room in which he was sitting seemed to be in motion. He thought at
first that this was one of the many illusions he was experiencing, but
when his eyes wandered round the apartment and saw the heavily
timbered ribs of the room, the low ceiling, and the black, tar-painted
floor, he realized that he was not dreaming.
“Am I on a ship?” he asked huskily, and heard a laugh.
He recognized the man who had the sponge in his hand as the artist who
had once before wielded a cosh.
“Was it you in the baize apron? I didn’t recognize you.”
“It wasn’t me this time, guv’nor,” said the man, who seemed
chronically hoarse. “I wouldn’t have drawn blood--you ain’t hurt.
Drink this.”
Luke drank the weak brandy and water that was offered to him, but
would have preferred plain water.
“You’re a regular nuisance to us, you are, guv’nor,” said the man,
dropping the sponge into a pail of water and wiping his hands on a
grimy-looking handkerchief. “Now you take my advice and keep quiet.
There’s a proper bed for you here, and you’ll find a pail of water in
the stern. Nobody’s going to hurt you if you behave yourself.”
“Am I on a ship?” asked Luke again.
“Barge,” was the reply. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The Gunner’s
looking for you, but he won’t find you.”
He turned to his silent companion, and only then was Luke aware that
there was a second man in the cabin--if such a foul place could be
dignified by such a name.
“We oughtn’t to have laid him on the bed. That was the give-away,
Harry,” he said. “It was my fault, but we had to put him somewhere.
You’re stronger than I thought, Maddison.”
Luke chuckled feebly.
“I don’t remember that I put up a fight, did I?”
“Put up a fight?” said the other. “I should say you did! It was when
we got you in the bedroom that you started scrapping. Don’t you
remember?”
Luke remembered nothing.
“The guv’nor’s coming aboard in a minute--we’re moored very near the
wharf. If you’re a sensible man, Mr. Maddison, you’ll do what he asks.
There’ll be no funny business, now we know who you are.”
He looked curiously at Luke.
“A pal of Lewing’s, wasn’t you? That’s a funny game, mixing with a
crowd like that. I’m surprised that a gentleman like you should have
got yourself into that kind of trouble.”
Luke did not reply. The two men went soon after, leaving the smoky
lamp to illuminate the gloom.
A short flight of steps led to a heavy hatchway, which was closed.
There was a kind of washing-place in the stern of the craft. There was
no porthole through which he could see daylight, and a system of
ventilation did not exist. Such air as came was admitted through three
circular holes cut in the hatchway, and he suspected that over this
was a canvas cover, for he could see no light.
Everything of value had been taken from him. His clothes were soiled
with blood--he found his sodden collar in a corner of the cabin; and
his head ached all the time. Nevertheless he was beginning to feel
hungry when the hatchway was pulled back and the legs of a man
appeared on the first step of the ladder.
He discovered now why he had seen no light: there was evidently a
small deck-house above the hatchway, and he caught a glimpse of this
as his visitor was descending. It was Connor, who greeted him with the
air of a friend who had been badly treated.
“You’ve given us a lot of trouble, Mr. Maddison,” he said, unconscious
of repeating the words of his lieutenant, “and when people give me
trouble they have to pay for it. I’ve come to have a little talk with
you. You want to get away to the Continent, don’t you?”
Luke did not answer.
“Don’t be obstinate,” begged Connor, with a friendly grin. “I’m trying
to help you. I’ve fixed up with a boat--the skipper’s a friend of
mine--to take you to Rotterdam in the morning.”
He took something out of his pocket which Luke recognized.
“Here’s your passport--my boys found that when they were rummaging at
the Gunner’s house. You take it from me, Mr. Maddison, I am the best
friend you ever had.”
Luke smiled wryly.
“I gather that this is the trouble I’m going to pay for, isn’t it?” he
asked.
“Spoken like a sensible man,” said Connor. “Yes, it’s going to cost
you a bit, but you can afford it.”
From his inside pocket he brought out a long envelope, and from this
extracted three blank checks.
“I want you to make these out yourself: one for two, one for three,
and one for five thousand. It’ll look better that way, and look much
better if the checks are in your handwriting.”
“May I see them?”
The man passed the checks to him and Luke chuckled again.
“My poor conspirator!” he said mockingly. “I haven’t more than a
hundred pounds in that account--or any other.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you pulling one on me?” he asked.
“I’m telling you the truth,” said Luke, “though I can quite understand
it sounds so strange to you that it seems a lie. This is on my private
account, which is down to nothing--one of the last things I did before
I--before I went away, was to transfer most of the money I had in this
account to my own bank.”
“But you always used the Northern & Southern?” insisted Connor.
He was obviously perturbed by the discovery, as well he might be, for
he had spent that afternoon searching London for the right “kites.”
There is quite a brisk trade in blank check forms, and certain sources
from which they can be obtained. It had taken him some time to track
Luke’s bank, a longer time to get the necessary forms, and his
discomfiture was pardonable.
“Anyway, I’ve got no money,” said Luke, “so your labours are all
wasted.”
“Yes, you have,” interrupted Connor. “Your missus transferred all your
money back to you after you’d left.”
This was news to Luke, but obviously the man was not talking at
random.
“Who told you this?”
“A pal of yours,” said the other coolly.
“Danton Morell?”
Connor nodded.
“It would not have gone back to this account, anyway,” said Luke after
a moment’s thought. “It would be in my own bank.”
Connor understood humanity sufficiently well to realize that his
prisoner was speaking the truth.
“But you’ll sign the checks when I get them, won’t you, Mr. Maddison?”
Luke shook his head.
“I’m not going to threaten you; I want this thing done in a
gentlemanly way,” said Connor earnestly. “You’re a rich man, and a few
hundreds more or less isn’t going to hurt you. Somebody’s got to get
you out of the country, and the Gunner can’t. If you trust me, I’ll
see you right, and I’ll never come to you for another penny--you know
that I can’t put the black on you once you get away from England:
that’s why I’m asking big money now. You’re a business man, Mr.
Maddison, and you’ve got enough sense to see that if I blacked you
after this I should be cutting my own throat. I’ve had a cabin made up
for you for’ard, and I’ll take your word that you won’t try to
escape--and I don’t see why you should either, with the police looking
for you. Is it a deal?”
“You’ll get not a bean out of me,” said Luke defiantly.
Connor looked at him long and thoughtfully.
“All right,” he said; “you can stay here and starve till you change
your mind.”
For a second Luke was tempted to rush at him as he ascended the steps.
A low tackle would bring him down; but Luke was still very weak so he
sat passively till the hatch was pulled tight. Mr. Connor dropped to
the little rowboat which was alongside the barge.
He did not go to his wharf, but rowed to some narrow steps opposite to
where the barge was moored; then making his way to the City, he hailed
a taxi and was driven to Half Moon Street.
Danty was just going out when his visitor arrived, and Mr. Danton
Morell was not in a good mood.
“What was the idea of sending me that address?” he said. “I went down
there this afternoon and nearly ran into Gunner Haynes.”
“Then why the hell did you go?” demanded Connor.
“To see Maddison. I could have persuaded him to part. Maddison isn’t
there. A woman in the building told me that the Gunner had locked up
his flat and gone away. Where is Maddison?”
Connor lit a cigar before he replied.
“I’ve got him--I think I was in a quarter here, wasn’t I, Danty? Well,
I’m in three quarters now, and I’m being generous. You’ve had your
chance and you’ve missed it. What is he worth?”
Danty stifled his rising anger which was provoked by the tone of the
man. There was no sense in getting on the wrong side of Connor, and
the question of distribution might very well wait over for another and
more propitious moment.
“Half a million, I should think. Where is he?”
“Half a million, eh?” Connor ignored the question. “Would he stand a
hundred thousand?”
The other man thought a moment.
“Yes, he’d stand a hundred thousand if he could get it,” he said.
“He said he hadn’t got a bean.”
“He’s got money all right,” said Danty savagely. “It’s all in his own
bank.”
Connor pondered this for a long time.
“That’ll mean ten kites. Can you get them?”
Danty frowned.
“What do you want checks for?”
Connor closed his eyes wearily.
“You’ve been so long out of the con game that you’ve forgotten your
business,” he said offensively. “I want the checks for him to sign,
that’s all. Can you get them?”
Danty thought for a moment.
“I’ve got a check book on that bank,” he said. “I had a small account
there. But they won’t be any good: they’ll be able to trace the checks
to me. But I can get them.”
He went to the telephone and called Margaret’s number. The servant who
replied told him that she was out, which was just the news he wanted.
“When will she be back? It is Mr. Morell speaking.”
He half expected a message to the effect that Mrs. Maddison would not
be in to him at any time.
“Not till after lunch, sir.”
Danty hung up the ’phone.
“Wait here,” he said. “I think I know where I can get all the kites
you want.”
He knew a great deal about Margaret and her domestic habits--he had
been deeper in her confidence than any other man. The butler was
surprised to see him, but took him up to Margaret’s sitting room
without hesitation.
“I didn’t make myself clear, sir. Madam will not be back for another
hour.”
Danty smiled.
“I think you will find she returns a little sooner than that,” he
said, almost gaily. “Anyway, I’ll wait for her.”
The door had hardly closed upon the servant before he was at
Margaret’s desk. It was unlocked, and in one of the side drawers he
knew she invariably kept two check books. They were there, as he had
expected: one half empty, one unused. From the end of the latter he
tore a dozen checks, slipped them in his pocket and closed the desk,
before he rang the bell.
“I don’t think I will wait: I’ll call back in an hour. My business
isn’t so pressing, and I’ve just thought of some calls I had to make.”
Within half an hour of leaving he was back with Connor and laid the
checks before him. Mr. Connor asked no questions, nor was there any
necessity.
“You’re going to make him sign these? Shall I come along with you?”
Connor grinned.
“I don’t think that’s a clever idea,” he said. “You’ll get your
corner, Danty.”
He could not approach the barge in broad daylight, for he knew that he
was under police observation. As soon as it was dark he slipped down
the stream and clambered aboard the craft, carrying with him a basket
of food and a vacuum flask of hot tea. The light which he had left had
burned itself out. Luke was half sleeping on the bed that had been
prepared for him, but the rush of cold, fresh air awakened him.
Connor switched on an electric lamp he was carrying and put it on the
floor, with one or two refills.
“Here’s your food,” he said. “I’m sorry to have kept you so long, but
I hope you’ve got more intelligence now than you had when I left you.
And here are the kites: I’d like you to fill them in in your own
hand.”
Luke reached for the food and ate ravenously. He was feeling hungry,
and his vitality was at its lowest ebb. The hot tea probably revived
him more than the food, and he was almost cheerful when he swept the
last crumbs from his knees.
“Now, what are your kites?” he said. “Oh, checks! You want me to fill
them up and sign them--for what fabulous amount? You can make it a
million if you like, but I can assure you that they will not be
honoured. I think I told you before that all my money is in my wife’s
name.”
“In that case we’ll have a little joke,” said Connor, not taking his
eyes from his prisoner. “You’ll make each of these checks out for ten
thousand, and date ’em a week apart. If you want to stay longer than
ten weeks you can date ’em a month apart; or, if you’d like to get
away in a few days, you can sign one check for a hundred thousand
pounds and you can write a letter to your bank manager telling him the
kite’s got to be honoured.”
Before he had finished, Luke was laughing.
“I’ve got a very keen sense of humour,” he said, “but it doesn’t
strike me as being a joke for a banker to draw checks on a debit
account.”
Connor pulled up a stool and sat down.
“Let’s have this thing right,” he said. “You know me, you know my
name; I’ve put myself in for a ten-year sentence, probably longer. I’d
as soon hang as spend my life in Broadmoor, and that’s just the risk
I’m taking, Mr. Maddison. I’ll plug you and drop you over the side, or
you’ll do as I ask. You’re a sensible man and I’m putting the case to
you. I can’t let you go without the money.” He drew the stool a little
closer. “I’ve been battling for years at this river work and gang
work, and what do you think I’ve got to show for it? The lease of an
old wharf that’s not worth a monkey; about a couple of thousand
planted away in country banks, and the certainty that sooner or later
one of my rats will squeak on me. I’ve got a chance now of getting
away with big money--you’ve got a chance of clearing yourself. I’ll
make a signed statement, giving the facts about the Taffanny smash--is
it a bet?”
It was not the moment for heroics. Luke realized this very definitely.
He had no doubt in his mind that in the last extremity Connor would
keep his word. There would lie the end of all things. It was not a
moment to snap fingers in the face of fate. Connor had put the
situation on a business basis, and this was not the time to consider
the niceties of business etiquette. If he drew a check and it were
presented, he had no doubt in his mind that the check would not be
met; inquiries would be set afoot, and possibly he would be traced.
“I think it is foolish to attempt to put in a check for ten thousand,”
he said. “The amount is so big that, even if I had the money, Stiles
would be suspicious. I’m willing to make a compromise: I’ll give you a
check for five thousand pounds. If that is honoured--which it will not
be--your luck is in, and you had better clear before there are
inquiries. Obviously no bank manager in his senses would pay out a
hundred thousand pounds without communicating with the man who drew
the checks.”
He saw Connor smile.
“That’s the stuff I like to hear,” said the man. “That’s intelligent.
Where are you supposed to be--in Spain, aren’t you?”
Luke frowned.
“I suppose I am. Why?”
“We’ll draw this five thousand, and then you and me will go to Spain
together--I’ll get you away to-night.”
The scheme did not even seem feasible to Luke, but he made no comment.
He wrote and signed the check and handed it to the other.
“And now,” said Luke, “I’d like a little fresh air. This place is
stifling me.”
Connor hesitated.
“Come up on deck, but if there’s any monkey business I may have to do
something I shall be sorry for.”
A few seconds later Luke sat on the edge of the hatchway, sucking in
the cool, sweet air. The hatch was on the well of the barge, and this
was covered with tarpaulin. He could see this by the light of a
flashing electric sign erected on one of the towers that fringed the
river. Opposite was a line of lights which stood for the Thames
Embankment. A fussy little tug was moving slowly against the tide
upstream; he heard the hoot and shriek of a train as it passed across
one of the bridges. The lights of the West End painted the low-lying
clouds a dull orange. The tide was on the turn; he heard the lap of it
against the flat bow of the barge.
For ten minutes he sat in silence, then rose onto the deck and
stretched his cramped limbs.
“If I promised not to leave the barge, or attempt to attract
attention, would you leave the hatch open, Mr. Connor?”
Connor’s laugh was his answer.
“Don’t be silly! That word of honour stuff doesn’t mean anything to
me.”
“I’m glad,” said Luke. “If you had accepted my word it might have been
very embarrassing.”
As he spoke, his hand shot out, and Connor went sprawling onto the
hatch. Before he could recover, Luke had reached the edge of the barge
and without a glance had plunged in and was striking out for
midstream.
He heard no sound but the patter of footsteps on the hollow hatches,
and then a voice giving urgent instructions. Connor must have a
rowboat moored alongside, he decided. The tide had already swept him
clear of the barge; it was running strongly, and there was nothing
nearer to him than a line of moored lighters in the centre of the
river. To make for these, however, would be to invite discovery. He
struck back toward the shore.
As he did so, he saw a shape come round the bow of the barge. Connor
had come in a motor launch. It moved too quickly to be anything else.
There was only one thing to do. He drew a lungful of air and dived
toward the launch, swimming hard against the tide. He seemed to be
under the water for an eternity; his lungs and head were bursting when
he came to the surface, coming up just under the stern of the launch,
so close that the whirling little propeller seemed to touch his hair.
Neither of the two men in the launch had seen him. He just caught the
silhouette of their heads and shoulders peering over the side, and
then he sank again.
He was lamentably weak; his effort could not be long sustained. He had
to come again to the surface, and was relieved to see no sign of the
launch. As he trod water he saw it, making for the lighters in
mid-stream. He was now twenty yards from a barge moored to a wharf,
and striking out he caught the mooring chain and recovered his breath
before he attempted to reach land.
He was too weak to climb up to the barge; the only thing he could do
was to complete his journey to the shore, and with infinite labour he
succeeded at last, wading through mud up to his knees until he came to
the blank face of a warehouse. There seemed no escape here. Looking
back over his shoulder, he saw the launch returning. Somebody was
fanning the water with an electric torch, and escape seemed
impossible.
It was at that moment he heard a hoarse voice hail him from the barge.
“Give us your hand.”
He reached up and found it gripped.
“Catch hold of the top of the pile,” whispered the voice cheerfully,
and groping upward Luke found a hold, and with a superhuman effort and
the assistance of his unknown friend, dragged himself up onto a narrow
strip of wharfage running before the warehouse and scarcely wide
enough for two people to walk abreast.
“They didn’t see you, did they?” whispered the unknown, and before
Luke could reply: “Push round to the left. Follow me--there’s a
watchman here; he’s asleep, but don’t make a row!”
Luke Maddison found himself picking a way across a yard littered with
paving-stones and granite setts. He saw a long shed and the projecting
shafts of vans. Somewhere near at hand were horses for he heard one
kicking in his stall.
He followed stealthily, past a little lighted hut, wherein the night
watchman (as he hoped) was sleeping. After a while they came to a
heavy black gate; the wicket door was unfastened, and through this
they slipped, Luke’s rescuer closing the door softly behind
him--apparently he had a key.
“I saw ’em looking for you, but I thought they was out for Connor’s
lot.”
He swore most foully for a few seconds.
“These river busies are worse than the land busies.”
By the light of a street lamp Luke took stock of his companion: a
sharp, lantern-jawed man of thirty, with a Jewish nose and furtive
eyes that never kept still.
“You’re wet, ain’t you? Come into Connor’s yard: he’ll give you a
change.”
“No, thank you,” said Luke hastily. “I don’t want anything to do with
Connor.”
“You don’t want anything to do with Connor, eh? Well, you’re wise. Got
any money?”
Luke felt in his pockets.
“No,” he said.
The man uttered a grunt of disgust.
“I thought at least I’d get a quid out of it. Where do you live?”
“I don’t know where the devil I do live,” said Luke irritably, and he
heard the thin, whistling laugh of his companion.
“You’re a swell--I thought you was when I first heard you speak. Ever
busted a safe? There’s one in that warehouse and nothing else. They
told me there was a lot of stuff there. I’ve been three days getting
in and out. The only way you can do it is to go through the stone
yard. But I’ll bet there’s some stuff in the safe, Have you ever
busted one?”
“Never,” said Luke, and added: “It’s one of the few things I haven’t
done.”
“What were the busies after you for? Was you doing the lighter?”
The man was under the impression that Luke was a fugitive from the
river police, and he did not undeceive him.
“It’s a pretty hard life,” said the other agreeably.
They were reaching now a more populous centre, and the little man, who
said his name was Tom, stopped.
“You can’t go into the street like this: they’d pinch you in a minute.
You’d better come home with me. But I can’t afford to keep you.”
Luke was led through divers byways to the meanest street he had ever
struck. Although the hour was late, children were playing and
screaming, women stood at the doors gossiping. Nobody took any notice
of Luke and his companion, and presently they passed through a door,
which Tom unlocked, along an evil-smelling passage and up an
uncarpeted flight of stairs.
“Go in there and get your wet clothes off.” Tom opened a door, and
striking a match lit a candle.
The windows were heavily screened with an old piece of horse blanket,
and the furniture of the room consisted of a bed with horrible-looking
bedding, and precious little else.
Tom said he was going to see the landlord. He was gone some time and
when he returned Luke had overcome his repugnance to the soiled linen,
and having stripped and dried himself as well as he could on the one
grimy towel that the room possessed, he had crawled into the bed.
Tom threw down on a chair a pair of trousers and an old shirt, which
had the advantage of being clean.
“That’s all I can get for you,” he said, and picked up Luke’s sodden
suit, eying it with approval.
The boots also came under his scrutiny.
“Silk shirt, eh? I thought you was a swell. I’ll get these dried for
you.”
He disappeared and did not return. Ten minutes later, in spite of his
unsavoury surroundings, Luke was fast asleep. When he woke the sun was
shining through the holes in the blanket. Rising, he put on the shirt
and trousers, feeling uncommonly chilly.
There was noise enough downstairs: the howl of a crying child, a
woman’s strident voice, and the deeper, bullying tone of a man. He
opened the door, went out onto the landing and called. Presently the
owner of the deep voice appeared.
“What’s the matter?”
“Are my clothes dried?” asked Luke politely.
“What clothes?”
The man was interested, and came heavily up the stairs: a big,
unshaven brute, puffy-faced.
“Gave Tom your clothes?” He kissed his hand loudly. “Say good-bye to
’em, old man.”
Luke stared at him aghast.
“Do you mean he’s gone away with them?”
That apparently was what he did mean. He also informed his guest that
he needed half a crown for the night’s lodging.
“And then there’s my trousers and shirt,” he said. “What do I get for
’em?”
He took a long time before he consented to add to the loan an old
jacket and a pair of worn shoes that were two sizes too small. He
could, he thought, “get a bit out of Tom,” from which Luke gathered he
was going to share the proceeds of the stolen clothing. He added to
his other beneficences a cup of tea and a thick slice of bread and
margarine, and with this equipment the banker was turned out into the
street.
Rain was falling heavily. By the time he had reached Lambeth Bridge he
was soaked through. He made for the park, and finding a chair drew it
into the shelter of a big, overhanging tree. For a long time he sat
there, and then he reached a decision. Disgrace and prison seemed a
little less unpleasant prospect than cold and hunger. He decided to go
to the bank.
He did not know the time and asked a man who was hurrying past,
without, however, eliciting the slightest response. He asked another
man, who gruffly told him it was nearly twelve. He would find Stiles
in the office, and Stiles meant comfort and food and decent clothing.
As he came out of the park gates somebody caught him by the arm and
swung him round, and he looked into the unsympathetic face of a man
who was obviously a detective.
“Begging, eh? I saw you speak to those two gentlemen.”
“I asked them the time,” said Luke.
“I dare say,” said the detective, tightening his lips. “Come a little
walk with me.”
Ten minutes later a door closed on Luke Maddison, and he found himself
alone in a clean but very uncomfortable cell of a police station. In
this experience he was not entirely unfortunate, for Connor had been
trailing him, hoping that he might go to some part of the park where
persuasion, peaceful or otherwise, could be attempted.