THE GANG FUND
The news of the girl's escape had been received in another quarter.
Colonel Boundary had sat in his favourite chair and listened without
comment to Pinto's halting explanation.
"Oh, they went out of the window and down a ladder, did they?" said the
colonel sarcastically when the Portuguese had finished, "and you had a
fit on the mat, I suppose? Well, that's a hell of a fine story! And what
did you do? You who were plastered all over with guns? Couldn't you
shoot?"
"Did you shoot when you saw Jack o' Judgment?" said the other sullenly.
"It is no good your telling me what I ought to do."
"Maybe it isn't," said the colonel. "Well, there's nothing to do now,
anyway. The girl's gone, and all your fine plans have come unstuck."
"They weren't my plans," said Pinto indignantly, "it was your scheme
throughout."
The colonel bit off the end of his cigar and contemplated the ceiling
reflectively.
"We can only wait and see what will happen," he said. "The odds are all
in favour of our being raided."
Pinto went pale.
"Yes," said the colonel, talking to himself, "I guess this is our last
day of freedom. Well, Pinto, I hope you can pick oakum."
"Oh, shut up about oakum," growled the other; "it isn't a joke."
"It is not a joke," said the colonel, "and if it is, it is one of those
jokes that make people laugh the most. And do you know the kind of joke
that makes people laugh the most, Pinto? It is when somebody gets hurt;
and we are the people who are going to get hurt."
"Do you think she'll tell the police?"
"It is extremely likely," said the colonel; "in fact, it is extremely
unlikely that she won't tell the police. I am rather glad I'm out of
it."
Pinto leaped up.
"You're out of it!" he shouted. "You're in it up to the neck!"
The colonel shook his head.
"I'm absolutely out of it, Pinto," he said, flicking the ash of his
cigar into the fireplace. "I cannot be identified with this unhappy
affair by so much as a finger-print."
The Portuguese scowled down at him.
"So that's the game, is it? You're going to double-cross us? You're
going to be out of it and we're going to be in it."
"Sit down, you fool. Double-cross you! You are easily scared at a little
leg-pulling. I'm merely pointing out that it is not a matter in which I
am greatly interested. It is a good thing for you I'm not. Who are the
police after? You and Crewe and the rest of the gang? Not on your life!
They're after me. They get the trunk and all the branches come down with
it. Do you see? There's no sense in lopping off a few branches even of
deadwood. It won't be good enough if they connect you with the case,
unless they connect me too. They're after the big horns, they're not
shooting the little bucks. If she tells the police, they're going to
nose around for two or three days, seeing how far they can connect me
with it. And if there's any connection--the slightest, Pinto--why,
they'll pinch you without a doubt, but they'll pinch me too."
The colonel blew a blue ring of smoke into the air and watched it float
to the ceiling.
"The advantage of having a business associate like me is that I'm a sort
of insurance to you little crooks. I am the big fish they're trying to
hook, and their bait isn't the kind of bait that you'd swallow."
"I've burnt all the papers I had," explained Pinto, "and covered my
trail."
"When you burnt your boats and came in with me," said the colonel, "you
burnt everything that was worth burning. I tell you it isn't you they're
trailing. It is me or nothing. Maybe they'll scare you," he said
reflectively, "hoping you'll turn King's evidence. I've got a feeling
that you won't--if I had a feeling the other way about, Pinto, you
wouldn't see the curtain rise at the Orpheum to-night. And now," said
the colonel, "we'll go out."
He rose abruptly, walked into his bedroom, and came out wearing his
broad felt hat. He found Pinto biting his finger-nails nervously and
looking out of the window.
"I don't want to go out," said Pinto.
"Come out," said the colonel. "What's the good of staying here, anyway?
Besides, if they are going to pinch you, I don't want them to pinch you
in my rooms. It would look bad."
They walked downstairs into the street, and a few minutes later were
strolling across the Green Park, the colonel a picture of a contented
bourgeoisie with his half-smoked cigar, and his hands clasped together
under the tails of his alpaca coat.
"I don't see how you can say they've no evidence against you. Suppose
Crotin squeals?"
"He ain't stopped squealing yet," said the colonel philosophically, "but
I don't see what difference it makes. Pinto, you haven't got the hang of
my methods, and I doubt if you ever will. You're a clever, useful
fellow, but if you were allowed to run the gang, you'd have it in gaol
in a month. Take Crotin," he said. "I dare say he's feeling sore, and
maybe this damned Jack o' Judgment person is standing behind him telling
him----" He stopped. "No, he wouldn't either," he said after a moment's
thought, "Jack o' Judgment knows as much about it as I do."
"What are you talking about?" asked the other impatiently.
"Crotin," said the colonel; "he hasn't any evidence against me. You
see, I do not do any business by letters. You fellows have often wanted
me to write to this person and that, but writing is evidence. Do you get
me? And what evidence has Crotin? Absolutely none. I have never written
a line to him in my life. Crewe brought him down to the flat. We gave
him a dinner and put the proposal to him in plain language. There's
nothing he could take before a judge and jury--absolutely nothing."
He took the cigar from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke.
"That's the way I've built the business up--no letters, no documents,
nothing that a lawyer can make head or tail of."
"What about the documents that Hanson talked about?"
The colonel frowned and then laughed.
"They're nothing but records of our transactions, and they're not
evidence. Why, even the police have given up the search for them. By the
way, I haven't done with Crotin," he said after a while.
"He's done with you, I should think," said Pinto grimly.
The colonel nodded.
"I guess so, but he hasn't done with the gang. You can take him on
next."
"I?" said Pinto in affright. "Now look here, colonel, don't you think
it's time we laid low----"
"Laid low!" said the colonel scornfully. "We're either going to get into
trouble or we're not. If we're not going to get into trouble, we might
as well go on. Besides, we want the money. The business has slackened
off, and we haven't had a deal since the Spillsbury affair, and that
won't last very long. We've got to split our loot six ways, Pinto, and
that leaves very little for anybody."
"Where are you going now?" asked the other, as the colonel changed his
direction.
"It just struck me that we might as well go over to the bank and see
how our balance stands. Also, with the exchange going against us, I want
to tell Ferguson to buy dollars."
The handsome premises of the Victoria and City Bank in Victoria Street
were only a stone's throw from the park; and, whatever might be the
views of Ferguson, the manager, as to the colonel's moral character, he
had a considerable respect for him as a financier, and Dan Boundary was
shown immediately into the manager's office.
He was gone some time, whilst Pinto waited impatiently outside. The
colonel never invited other members, even of the inmost council, to
share his knowledge of finances. They all knew roughly the condition of
the exchequer, but really the balance at the Victoria and City was the
colonel's own. It was the practice of the Boundary Gang (as was
subsequently revealed) to share, after each coup, every man taking that
to which he was entitled. The money was split between five, the sixth
share going to what was known as the Gang Account, a common fund upon
which all could draw in moments of necessity.
The Gang Fund was not so described in the books of the bank. It was
known as "Account B." The expenses of operations were usually paid out
of the colonel's private account, and credited to him when the share-out
came. He was absolute master of his own balance, but it required three
signatures to extract a cheque from Account B. One of the objects of the
colonel's visit was to reduce this number to two, the death of Solomon
White having removed one of the signatories.
He returned to Pinto, apparently not too well satisfied.
"There's quite a lot of money in the Gang Account," he said. "I've
struck off Solly's name, and your signature and mine, or mine and
Crewe's, is sufficient now."
"Or mine and Crewe's, I suppose?" suggested Pinto, and the colonel
smiled.
"Oh, no," said he. "I'm not a great believer in the indispensability of
any man, but I'm making the signature of Dan Boundary indispensable
before that account is touched."
They walked back through the park, and the colonel expounded his
philosophy of wrong living.
"The man who runs an honest business and mixes it with a little crooked
work is bound to be caught," he said, "because his mind is concentrated
on the unpaying side of the game. You've got to run a crook business in
an honest way if you want to escape the law and pay big dividends. They
call our system blackmail, but it ain't. A blackmailer asks for
something for nothing, and he's bound to get caught sooner or later. We
offer spot cash for all the things we steal, and that baffles the law.
And we're not the only people in London, or in England, or in the world,
who are pulling bargains by scaring the fellow we buy from. It is done
every day in the City of London; it is done every day by the trusts that
control the little shops in the suburbs; it is done even by the big
proprietary companies that tell a miserable little tradesman that, if he
doesn't stop selling one article, they won't supply him with theirs.
Living, Pinto, is preying. The only mistake a crook ever makes is when
he goes outside of his legitimate business and lets some other
consideration than the piling up of money influence him."
"How do you mean?" asked Pinto wearily. He hated the colonel when he was
in this communicative mood of his.
"Well," said the colonel slowly, "I shouldn't have been so keen to go
after Maisie White if it hadn't been that you were fond of her and
wanted her. That's what I call letting love interfere with business."
"But you said you were afraid of her blabbing. You don't put it on to
me," said the indignant Pinto.
"I was and I wasn't," said the colonel. "I think I almost persuaded
myself that the girl was a danger. Of course, she isn't. Even Solomon
White wasn't a danger."
He stopped dead, and, speaking slowly and pointing his words with a
huge forefinger on the other's chest, he said:
"Bear this fact in mind, Pinto, that I have no malice against Miss
White, and I don't think that she can harm me. As far as I'm concerned,
I will never hurt a hair of her head or do her the slightest harm. I
believe that she has nothing against me, and I give orders to anybody
who's connected with me--in fact, to all of my business associates--that
that girl is not to be interfered with."
Slowly, emphatically, every word emphasised, the colonel spoke, but
Pinto did not smile. He had seen the colonel in this gentle mood before,
and he knew that Maisie White was doomed.