“You might have risked it with that one,” I said at last, handing it
back. “Who offered it?”
“Ah, that’s just it,” said the quick-witted boy; “even a good note
isn’t quite safe from him; it was Peter Hart. You’ll know _him_ I
daresay?”
“Oh, indeed!” I cried with a start, and a thrill of satisfaction. “He
offered this to be changed, did he? Then you needn’t bother going any
further with it. I particularly want to see Peter.”
The pot-boy was quite accustomed to such events, and did not seem
surprised. We entered the shop together, and the boy conducted me to
the box in which sat Peter. I had in my hand the £5 note. Peter had
in his a glass of brandy, which he was in the act of raising with
manifest gusto to his lips. He was transfixed in the act, more by
anger, it seemed to me, than fear.
“This is yours, isn’t it?” I said pleasantly, whereupon he scowled
most malignantly. My “bairns” take pleasantry very badly from me.
“Yes, it’s mine,” he said with an oath at me, which, being quite
undeserved, need not be put down. “What do you want with it? It’s
good enough, isn’t it?”
“I believe so. Where did you get it?”
“What’s that to you?” was the bullying reply.
I folded up the note and put it into my pocket, and then produced my
handcuffs.
“Everything in the world,” I replied. “You must either answer that
to me or put on these before answering it to the Fiscal.”
Slightly disconcerted, but still defiant, he thought for a moment,
and then said—
“Well, I got it from a gentleman—a friend of mine I was a-calling on
this morning.”
“His name?”
“Mr Bannister,” he sullenly responded, after another pause.
“I believe you!” I returned with marked scepticism. “You had better
say no more, for you’ll have to go with me.”
Peter lost his temper, and said he would see me very much altered
first, but he didn’t. He was foolish enough to resist, so I got
another man, and after much kicking and struggling on Peter’s part
we landed him at the Central Office. This resistance on Peter’s part
seemed so utterly unlike him—his usual conduct being cheerful and
polite to an irritating degree—that I rashly considered that for once
I had caught him napping, and that by the merest accident.
At the office I stated all the facts, how I had seen Peter entering
the house of Mr Bannister, and watched him leaving it, and knowing
his character and antecedents had followed him and arrested him
passing a £5 note, for the possession of which he could not properly
account. Peter, on being searched, was found to have in his
possession other £5, in one pound notes, thus clearly proving that
the changing of the large note had been a matter of choice or policy,
not necessity. To the Fiscal, however, he boldly declared that he had
got all the money in way of business from his very good friend Mr
Bannister, and he was put in the cells till I should go over to that
gentleman to make inquiries. What the “business” was for which he had
been paid ten pounds he refused to state, and I concluded that that
business existed only in Peter’s imagination.
When I reached the house and was shown in, the impression I had
formed was strengthened. Everything in the place seemed so stately
and grand that I could not conceive how the possessor could be
beholden to such a crime-stained wretch as Peter Hart. Mr Bannister
at length appeared, and accompanied by his amiable young wife. I
studied their faces closely as they entered, and it struck me that
that of the husband was careworn, fearful, and anxiously watchful in
expression; that of the young wife looked tenderly solicitous, and
somewhat saddened and subdued.
“I have called about rather an awkward business,” I at length said,
not knowing very well how to begin. “My name is James M^cGovan, and I
am connected with the detective staff——”
I would have proceeded to say that I had watched and arrested Peter
as already described, but I was at that juncture interrupted in a
manner altogether unexpected. The gentleman who had an appearance
at once refined and dignified, started back at the mention of my
name, with his face as suddenly changed to a deadly and anguished
expression as if he had been at the moment stabbed to the heart. He
seemed ready to drop to the floor in his pitiable agony, and his wife
saw the change even before my eye had taken it in.
“O Matthew! dearest!” she cried, starting forward, with her own face
flashing almost as white as his own. “What is wrong? What is to
happen to you?”
I scarcely caught his answer, it was so huskily spoken, but it seemed
to me something like—
“The very worst that could happen to me.”
Then the young wife gave a low moan, and fell slowly forward in his
arms. She had fainted, and her very helplessness, I believe, was all
that kept him in his senses.
Mr Bannister rang for a servant, and had his wife removed, and then
with a blanched face turned to me and said—
“Now, sir, I am ready to attend to you. Will you state your business
with me?”
“A man named Peter Hart entered your house this morning, and shortly
after left, having in his possession £10 in bank notes, which he
declared had been given him by you. Is that actually the case?”
I had expected Mr Bannister’s face to lighten up and express
astonishment as I proceeded, but instead it became darker and more
troubled.
“Why do you ask?” he at length answered in a helpless tone.
“Because we know him to be a daring criminal, and suspect that the
money was obtained by robbery, and possibly without your knowledge.”
“Is that all that brought you here?” he demanded, with a look of
intense relief. “Did he make no other statement of any kind?”
“None except that we could refer the matter to you for confirmation
of his statement, and for that purpose I have called.”
“Oh, if that is all,” he readily answered, looking now positively
radiant, “I can readily relieve your anxiety. I did pay him the
money, freely and willingly, for work done.”
“For work done!” I echoed, a good deal staggered, and thoroughly
puzzled. “Have you any objection to say what kind of work it was?”
“I have. It is not necessary to go into details,” he coldly returned.
“You are aware, then, of the character of the man you have employed?”
I continued, with undisguised disappointment.
“I believe him to be a scoundrel,” he faintly and somewhat wearily
answered. “I know nothing of his private character, and care less.”
“Then we are to conclude that we have made a mistake in arresting
him, and that we have no just cause for detaining him?” I pursued,
trying in vain to read in his face the real secret.
“Exactly. You have made a mistake, but it was a natural one on your
part, seeing, as you say, that the man is a professional criminal,”
he dejectedly responded. “By the way,” he added, with more animation,
“I wonder that a man like you does not lay such a rascal by the
heels. Is he too clever for even you?”
“That remains to be seen,” I dryly returned. “He will not be at
liberty a moment longer than I can help.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” said the gentleman, shaking me
warmly by the hand. “When you do get him, and ensure his conviction,
come to me and I will put a £5 note in your hand as an honorarium.”
“Honour among thieves!” was my contemptuous thought. “There is some
bond of villainy between the two, and now this man wishes to get rid
of his leech. I wonder if I could not take them both?”
I left the house, after bidding Mr Bannister a not over-gracious
farewell, and Peter Hart was promptly set at liberty, with much
crowing and exultation on his part. The next day or two I spent
chiefly in trying to guess at the nature of the hold which Peter
exercised over the gentleman. That he was the spider and Mr Bannister
the fly, I felt certain after making some inquiries regarding the
character of the latter. Mr Bannister was spoken of by all as the
soul of honour and goodness. I was more than disappointed at losing
Peter—I was angry; for in leaving he did not scruple to say some
nasty things regarding my capacity, and to hint in a lordly fashion
that any other attempt to interfere with him would be followed by
a letter “from his lawyer.” I replied, in the irritation of the
moment, that I should probably interfere with him before long in such
a way that his lawyer would be powerless to help him or injure us.
I ought not to have spoken so rashly, but then I felt savage, and,
as good luck would have it, the very boldness of the threat added to
my reputation when the spider-devourer had adjusted things nicely
to my hands. Thus many of us live—continually tottering between a
great success and a great failure. To the spider-devourer I now come,
though, of course, I did not at first recognise him in that character.
Not many days after Peter’s release I was accosted at the head of
Leith Walk by a sharp-witted fellow, pretty well known to me, named
Dick M^cQueen. Dick was not a thief, but one who lived chiefly by
billiards and cards. He had been ostler, waiter, boots, groom,
cabdriver, and I know not all what by turns, and was about as keen a
blade as it is possible to become by continually rubbing edges with
others as sharp. He was always poor, and I think was partly supported
by relatives at a distance.
“I believe you said you’d take Peter Hart before long,” he said to
me, after some of that preliminary talk which conjurers and men of
the world use to throw one off his guard.
“Did I?” was my careless reply.
“You’ll never do it single-handed,” he darkly continued, “but if you
could make it worth my while I’m ready to give you the straight tip,
which will book him for twenty years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Twenty years to him is surely worth as many pounds to me?” he
suggestively returned.
“Perhaps, but I’m not in a position to offer anything; indeed, I’d
much rather do the work myself.”
“You can’t, for Peter’s got a gent at his back who’ll stand any
amount of bleeding, and he doesn’t need to put out a hand now. Now,
if you could only help me to find out who that gent is, I believe
he’d stand a poney to get rid of Peter.”