The Hole in the Wall

by Arthur Morrison

  CHAPTER XVII

  IN BLUE GATE

  In her den at the black stair-top in Blue Gate, Musky Mag lurked,furtive and trembling, after the inquests at the Hole in the Wall. WhereDan Ogle might be hiding she could not guess, and she was torn between ahundred fears and perplexities. Dan had been seen, and could beidentified; of that she was convinced, and more than convinced, sinceshe had heard Mr. Cripps's testimony. Moreover she well remembered atwhat point in her own evidence the police-inspector had handed the noteto the coroner, and she was not too stupid to guess the meaning of that.How could she warn Dan, how help or screen him, how put to act thatsimple fidelity that was the sole virtue remaining in her, all thegreater for the loss of the rest? She had no money; on the other handshe was confident that Dan must have with him the whole pocket-book fullof notes which had cost two lives already, and now seemed like to costthe life she would so gladly buy with her own; for they had not beenfound on Kipps's body, nor in any way spoken of at the inquest. But thenhe might fear to change them. He could scarcely carry a single one tothe receivers who knew him, for his haunts would be watched; more, areward was offered, and no receiver would be above making an extra fiftypounds on the transaction. For to her tortured mind it seemed everymoment more certain that the cry was up, and not the police alone, buteverybody else was on the watch to give the gallows its due. She wasuneasy at having no message. Doubtless he needed her help, as he hadneeded it so often before; doubtless he would come for it if he could,but that would be to put his head in the noose. How could she reach him,and give it? Even if she had known where he lay, to go to him would beto lead the police after her, for she had no doubt that her ownmovements would be watched. She knew that the boat wherein he hadescaped had been found on the opposite side of the river, and she, likeothers, judged from that that he might be lurking in some of thewaterside rookeries of the south bank; the more as it was the commonestdevice of those "wanted" in Ratcliff or Wapping to "go for a change" toRotherhithe or Bankside, and for those in a like predicament on thesouthern shores to come north in the same way. But again, to go insearch of him were but to share with the police whatever luck mightattend the quest. So that Musky Mag feared alike to stay at home and togo abroad; longed to find Dan, and feared it as much; wished to aid him,yet equally dreaded that he should come to her or that she should go tohim. And there was nothing to do, therefore, but to wait and listenanxiously; to listen for voices, or footsteps, even for creaks on thestairs; for a whistle without that might be a signal; for an uproar or asudden hush that might announce the coming of the police into Blue Gate;even for a whisper or a scratching at door or window wherewith thefugitive might approach, fearful lest the police were there before him.But at evening, when the place grew dark, and the thickest of the gloomdrew together, to make a monstrous shadow on the floor, where once shehad fallen over something in the dark--then she went and sat on thestair-head, watching and dozing and waking in terror.

  So went a day and a night, and another day. The corners of the room grewdusk again, and with the afternoon's late light the table flung itsshadow on that same place on the floor; so that she went and moved ittoward the wall.

  As she set it down she started and crouched, for now at last there was astep on the stair--an unfamiliar step. A woman's, it would seem, andstealthy. Musky Mag held by the table, and waited.

  The steps ceased at the landing, and there was a pause. Then, with nowarning knock, the door was pushed open, and a head was thrust in,covered by an old plaid shawl; a glance about the room, and the rest ofthe figure followed, closing the door behind it; and, the shawl beingflung back from over the bonnet, there stood Mrs. Grimes, rusty andbony, slack-faced and sour.

  Mrs. Grimes screwed her red nose at the woman before her, jerked up hercrushed bonnet, and plucked her rusty skirt across her knees with theproper virtuous twitch. Then said Mrs. Grimes: "Where's my brother Dan?"

  For a moment Musky Mag disbelieved eyes and ears together. The visititself, even more than the question, amazed and bewildered her. She hadbeen prepared for any visitor but this. For Mrs. Grimes's relationshipto Dan Ogle was a thing that exemplary lady made as close a secret asshe could, as in truth was very natural. She valued herself on herrespectability; she was the widow of a decent lighterman, of a decentlightering and wharf-working family, and she called herself"house-keeper" (though she might be scarce more than charwoman) at theHole in the Wall. She had never acknowledged her lawless brother whenshe could in any way avoid it, and she had, indeed, bargained that heshould not come near her place of employment, lest he compromise her;and so far from seeking him out in his lodgings, she even had a way offailing to see him in the street. What should she want in Blue Gate atsuch a time as this, asking thus urgently for her brother Dan? What butthe reward? For an instant Mag's fears revived with a jump, though evenas it came she put away the fancy that such might be the design of anysister, however respectable.

  "Where's my brother Dan?" repeated Mrs. Grimes, abruptly.

  "I--I don't know, mum," faltered Mag, husky and dull. "I ain't seen 'imfor--for--some time."

  "O, nonsense. I want 'im particular. I got somethink to tell 'imimportant. If you won't say where 'e is, go an' find 'im."

  "I wish I could, mum, truly. But I can't."

  "Do you mean 'e's left you?" Mrs. Grimes bridled high, and helped itwith a haughty sniff.

  "No, mum, not quite, in your way of speakin', I think, mum. But'e's--'e's just gone away for a bit."

  "Ho. In trouble again, you mean, eh?"

  "O, no, mum, not there," Mag answered readily; for, with her, "trouble"was merely a genteel name for gaol. "Not there--not for a long while."

  "Where then?"

  "That's what I dunno, mum; not at all."

  Mrs. Grimes tightened her lips and glared; plainly she believed none ofthese denials. "P'raps 'e's wanted," she snapped, "an' keepin' out o'the way just now. Is that it?"

  This was what no torture would have made Mag acknowledge; but, with allher vehemence of denial, her discomposure was plain to see. "No, mum,not that," she declared, pleadingly. "Reely 'e ain't, mum--reely 'eain't; not that!"

  "Pooh!" exclaimed Mrs. Grimes, seating herself with a flop. "That's alie, plain enough. 'E's layin' up somewhere, an' you know it. What harmd'ye suppose I'm goin' to do 'im? 'E ain't robbed me--leastways notlately. I got a job for 'im, I tell you--money in 'is pocket. If youwon't tell me, go an' tell 'im; go on. An' I'll wait."

  "It's Gawd's truth, mum, I don't know where 'e is," Mag protestedearnestly. "'Ark! there's someone on the stairs! They'll 'ear. Go away,mum, do. I'll try an' find 'im an' tell 'im--s'elp me I will! Goaway--they're comin'!"

  In truth the footsteps had reached the stair-top, and now, with a thump,the door was thrust open, and Blind George appeared, his fiddle underhis arm, his stick sweeping before him, and his white eye rolling at theceiling.

  "Hullo!" he sung out. "Lady visitors! Or is it on'y one? 'Tain't politeto tell the lady to go away, Mag! Good afternoon, mum, good afternoon!"He nodded and grinned at upper vacancy, as one might at a descendingangel; Mrs. Grimes, meanwhile, close at his elbow, preparing to get awayas soon as he was clear past her. For Blind George's keenness of hearingwas well known, and she had no mind he should guess her identity.

  "Good afternoon, mum!" the blind man repeated. "Havin' tea?" He advancedanother step, and extended his stick. "What!" he added, suddenlyturning. "What! Table gone? What's this? Doin' a guy? Clearin' out?"

  "No, George," Mag answered. "I only moved the table over to the wall.'Ere it is--come an' feel it." She made a quick gesture over hisshoulder, and Mrs. Grimes hurried out on tip-toe.

  But at the first movement Blind George turned sharply. "There she goes,"he said, making for the door. "She don't like me. Timid little darlin'!Hullo, my dear!" he roared down the stairs. "Hullo! you never give me akiss! I know you! Won't you say good-bye?"

  He waited a moment, listening intently; but Mrs. Grimes scuttled intothe passage below without a word, an
d instantly Blind Georgesupplemented his endearments with a burst of foul abuse, and listenedagain. This expedient succeeded no better than the first, and Mrs.Grimes was gone without a sound that might betray her identity.

  Blind George shut the door. "Who was that?" he asked.

  "Oh, nobody partic'lar," Mag answered with an assumption ofindifference. "On'y a woman I know--name o' Jane. What d'you want?"

  "Ah, now you're come to it." Blind George put his fiddle and bow on thetable and groped for a chair. "Fust," he went on, "is there anybody elseas can 'ear? Eh? Cracks or crannies or peepholes, eh? 'Cause I come as apal, to talk private business, I do."

  "It's all right, George; nobody can hear. What is it?"

  "Why," said the blind man, catching her tight by the arm, and leaningforward to whisper; "it's Dan, that's what it is. It's Dan!"

  She was conscious of a catching of the breath and a thump of the heart;and Blind George knew it too, for he felt it through the arm.

  "It's Dan," he repeated. "So now you know if it's what you'd likelistened to."

  "Go on," she said.

  "Ah. Well, fust thing, all bein' snug, 'ere's five bob; catch 'old." Heslid his right hand down to her wrist, and with his left pressed themoney into hers. "All right, don't be frightened of it, it won't 'urtye! Lord, I bet Dan 'ud do the same for me if I wanted it, though 'e isa bit rough sometimes. I ain't rich, but I got a few bob by me; an' if apal ain't to 'ave 'em, who is? Eh? Who is?"

  He grinned under the white eye so ghastly a counterfeit of friendlygood-will that the woman shrank, and pulled at the wrist he held.

  "Lord love ye," he went on, holding tight to the wrist, "I ain't thebloke to round on a pal as is under a cloud. See what I might 'a' done,if I'd 'a' wanted. I might 'a' gone an' let out all sorts o' things, asyou know very well yerself, at the inquest--both the inquests. But didI? Not me. Not a bit of it. _That_ ain't my way. No; I lay low, an' saidnothing. What arter that? Why, there's fifty quid reward offered, fiftyquid--a fortune to a pore bloke like me. An' all I got to do is to goand say 'Dan Ogle' to earn it--them two words an' no more. Ain't thatthe truth? D'y' hear, ain't that the truth?"

  He tugged at her wrist to extort an answer, and the woman's face wasdrawn with fear. But she made a shift to say, with elaboratecarelessness, "Reward? What reward, George? I dunno nothin' about it."

  "Gr-r-r!" he growled, pushing the wrist back, but gripping it still."That ain't 'andsome, not to a pal it ain't; not to a faithful pal ascomes to do y' a good turn. You know all about it well enough; an' youneedn't think as I don't know too. Blind, ain't I? Blind from a kid, butnot a fool! You ought to know that by this time--not a fool. Look'ere!"--with another jerk at the woman's arm--"look 'ere. The last timeI was in this 'ere room there was me an' you an' Dan an' two men as isdead now, an' post-mortalled, an' inquested an' buried, wasn't there?Well, Dan chucked me out. I ain't bearin' no malice for that, mindye--ain't I just give ye five bob, an' ain't I come to do ye a turn? Iwas chucked out, but ye don't s'pose I dunno what 'appened arter I wasgone, do ye? Eh?"

  The room was grown darker, and though the table was moved, the shadow onthe floor took its old place, and took its old shape, and grew; but itwas no more abhorrent than the shadowy face with its sightless white eyeclose before hers, and the hand that held her wrist, and by it seemed tofeel the pulse of her very mind. She struggled to her feet.

  "Let go my wrist," she said. "I'll light a candle. You can go on."

  "Don't light no candle on my account," he said, chuckling, as he let herhand drop. "It's a thing I never treat myself to. There's parties as isafraid o' the dark, they tell me--I'm used to it."

  She lit the candle, and set it where it lighted best the place of theshadow. Then she returned and stood by the chair she had been sittingin. "Go on," she said again. "What's this good turn you want to do me?"

  "Ah," he replied, "that's the pint!" He caught her wrist again with asudden snatch, and drew her forward. "Sit down, my gal, sit down, an'I'll tell ye comfortable. What was I a-sayin'? Oh, what 'appened arter Iwas gone; yes. Well, that there visitor was flimped clean, clean as awhistle; but fust--eh?--fust!" Blind George snapped his jaws, and made aquick blow in the air with his stick. "Eh? Eh? Ah, well, never mind! Butnow I'll tell you what the job fetched. Eight 'undred an' odd quid in aleather pocket-book, an' a silver watch! Eh? I thought that 'ud make yejump. Blind, ain't I? Blind from a kid,--but not a fool!"

  "Well now," he proceeded, "so far all right. If I can tell ye that, Ican pretty well tell ye all the rest, can't I? All about Bob Kipps goin'off to sell the notes, an' Dan watchin' 'im, bein' suspicious, an'catchin' 'im makin' a bolt for the river, an'--eh?" He raised the stickin his left hand again, but now point forward, with a little stab towardher breast. "Eh? Eh? Like that, eh? All right--don't be frightened. I'ma pal, I am. It served that cove right, I say, playin' a trick on a pal.I don't play a trick on a pal. I come 'ere to do 'im a good turn, I do.Don't I?--Well, Dan got away, an' good luck to 'im. 'E got away, clearover the river, with the eight 'undred quid in the leather pocket-book.An' now 'e's a-layin' low an' snug, an' more good luck to 'im, says I,bein' a pal. Ain't that right?"

  Mag shuffled uneasily. "Go on," she said, "if you think you know such alot. You ain't come to that good turn yet that you talk so much about."

  "Right! Now I'll come to it. Now you know I know as much asanybody--more'n anybody 'cept Dan, p'rhaps a bit more'n what you knowyourself; an' I kep' it quiet when I might 'a' made my fortune out ofit; kep' it quiet, bein' a faithful pal. An' bein' a faithful pal an'all I come 'ere with five bob for ye, bein' all I can afford, 'cos Iknow you're a bit short, though Dan's got plenty--got a fortune. Whyshould you be short, an' Dan got a fortune? On'y 'cos you want a pal asyou can trust, like me! That's all. 'E can't come to you 'cos o' showin''isself. _You_ can't go to 'im 'cos of being watched an' follered. So Icome to do ye both a good turn goin' between, one to another. Where is'e?"

  Mag was in some way reassured. She feared and distrusted Blind George,and she was confounded to learn how much he knew: but at least he wasstill ignorant of the essential thing. So she said, "Knowin' so muchmore'n me, I wonder you dunno that too. Any'ow _I_ don't."

  "What? _You_ dunno. Dunno where 'e is?"

  "No, I don't; no more'n you."

  "O, that's all right--all right for anybody else; but not for a pal likeme--not for a pal as is doin' y' a good turn. Besides, it ain't youon'y; it's 'im. 'Ow'll 'e get on with the stuff? 'E won't be able tochange it, an' 'e'll be as short as you, an' p'rhaps get smugged with iton 'im. That 'ud never do; an' I can get it changed. What part o'Rotherhithe is it, eh? I can easy find 'im. Is it Dockhead?"

  "There or anywhere, for all I know. I tell ye, George, I dunno no more'nyou. Let go my arm, go on."

  But he gave it another pull--an angry one. "What? What?" he cried. "IfDan knowed as you was keepin' 'is ol' pal George from doin' 'im a goodturn, what 'ud 'e do, eh? 'E'd give it you, my beauty, wouldn't 'e? Eh?Eh?" He twisted the arm, ground his teeth, and raised his stickmenacingly.

  But this was a little too much. He was a man, and stronger, but at anyrate he was blind. She rose and struggled to twist her arm from hisgrasp. "If you don't put down that stick, George," she said, "if youdon't put it down an' let go my arm, I'll give it you same as Bob Kippsgot it--s'elp me I will! I'll give you the chive--I will! Don't you makeme desprit!"

  He let go the wrist and laughed. "Whoa, beauty!" he cried; "don't make arumpus with a faithful pal! If you won't tell me I s'pose you won't,bein' a woman; whether it's bad for Dan or not, eh?"

  "I tell you I can't, George; I swear solemn I dunno no more'nyou--p'rhaps not so much. 'E ain't bin near nor sent nor nothing,since--since then. That's gospel truth. If I do 'ear from 'im I'll--wellthen I'll see."

  "Will ye tell 'im, then? 'Ere, tell 'im this. Tell 'im he mustn't gotryin' to sell them notes, or 'e'll be smugged. Tell 'im I can put 'imin the way o' gettin' money for 'em--'ard quids, an' plenty on 'em. Tell'im that, will ye? Tell 'im I'm a faithfu
l pal, an' nobody can do it butme. I know things you don't know about, nor 'im neither. Tell 'imto-night. Will ye tell 'im to-night?"

  "'Ow can I tell 'im to-night? I'll tell 'im right enough when I see 'im.I s'pose you want to make your bit out of it, pal or not."

  "There y'are!" he answered quickly. "There y'are! If you won't believein a pal, look at that! If I make a fair deal, man to man, with themnotes, an' get money for 'em instead o' smuggin'--quids instead o'quod--I'll 'ave my proper reg'lars, won't I? An' proper reg'lars on allthat, paid square, 'ud be more'n I could make playin' the snitch, ifDan'll be open to reason. See? You won't forget, eh?" He took her armagain eagerly, above the elbow. "Know what to say, don't ye? Best forall of us. 'E mustn't show them notes to a soul, till 'e sees me. _I'm_a pal. _I_ got the little tip 'ow to do it proper--see? Now you know.Gimme my fiddle. 'Ere we are. Where's the door? All right--don'tforget!"

  Blind George clumped down the black stair, and so reached the street ofBlue Gate. At the door he paused, listening till he was satisfied ofMusky Mag's movements above; then he walked a few yards along the darkstreet, and stopped.

  From a black archway across the street a man came skulking out, and overthe roadway to Blind George's side. It was Viney. "Well?" he askedeagerly. "What's your luck?"

  Blind George swore vehemently, but quietly. "Precious little," heanswered. "She dunno where 'e is. I thought at first it was kid, but itain't. She ain't 'eard, an' she dunno. I couldn't catch hold o' theother woman, an' she got away an' never spoke. You see 'er again whenshe came out, didn't ye? Know 'er?"

  "Not me--she kept her shawl tighter about her head than ever. An' if shehadn't it ain't likely I'd know her. What now? Stand watch again? I'msick of it."

  "So am I, but it's for good pay, if it comes off. Five minutes might doit. You get back, an' wait in case I tip the whistle."

  Viney crept growling back to his arch, and Blind George went andlistened at Mag's front door for a few moments more. Then he turned intothe one next it, and there waited, invisible, listening still.

  Five minutes went, and did not do it, and ten minutes went, and fivetimes ten. Blue Gate lay darkling in evening, and foul shadows movedabout it. From one den and another came a drawl and a yaup of drunkensinging; a fog from the river dulled the lights at the Highway end, andslowly crept up the narrow way. It was near an hour since Viney andBlind George had parted, when there grew visible, coming through themist from the Highway, the uncertain figure of a stranger: driftingdubiously from door to door, staring in at one after another, andwandering out toward the gutter to peer ahead in the gloom.

  Blind George could hear, as well as another could see, that here was astranger in doubt, seeking somebody or some house. Soon the man,middle-sized, elderly, a trifle bent, and all dusty with lime, came inturn to the door where he stood; and at once Blind George stepped fullagainst him with an exclamation and many excuses.

  "Beg pardon, guv'nor! Pore blind chap! 'Ope I didn't 'urt ye! Was yewantin' anybody in this 'ouse?"

  The limy man looked ahead, and reckoned the few remaining doors to theend of Blue Gate. "Well," he said, "I fancy it's 'ere or next door. D'yeknow a woman o' the name o' Mag--Mag Flynn?"

  "I'm your bloke, guv'nor. Know 'er? Rather. Up 'ere--I'll show ye. Lordlove ye, she's an old friend o' mine. Come on.... I should say you'd bein the lime trade, guv'nor, wouldn't you? I smelt it pretty strong, an'I'll never forget the smell o' lime. Why, says you? Why, 'cos o' losin'my blessed sight with lime, when I was a innocent kid. Fell on aslakin'--bed, guv'nor, an' blinded me blessed self; so I won't forgetthe smell o' lime easy. Ain't you in the trade, now? Ain't I right?" Hestopped midway on the stairs to repeat the question. "Ain't I right? Isit yer own business or a firm?"

  "Ah well, I do 'ave to do with lime a good bit," said the stranger,evasively. "But go on, or else let me come past."

  Blind George turned, and reaching the landing, thumped his stick on thedoor and pushed it open. "'Ere y'are," he sang out. "'Ere's a genelmancome to see ye, as I found an' showed the way to. Lord love ye, 'e'dnever 'a' found ye if it wasn't for me. But I'm a old pal, ain't I? Afaithful old pal!"

  He swung his stick till he found a chair, and straightway sat in it,like an invited guest. "Lord love ye, yes," he continued, rolling hiseye and putting his fiddle across his knees; "one o' the oldest palsshe's got, or 'im either."

  The newcomer looked in a puzzled way from Blind George to the woman, andback again. "It's private business I come about," he said, shortly.

  "All right, guv'nor," shouted Blind George, heartily, "Out with it!We're all pals 'ere! Old pals!"

  "You ain't my old pal, anyhow," the limy man observed. "An' if theroom's yours, we'll go an' talk somewheres else."

  "Get out, George, go along," said Mag, with some asperity, but moreanxiety. "You clear out, go on."

  "O, all right, if you're goin' to be unsociable," said the fiddler,rising. "Damme, _I_ don't want to stay--not me. I was on'y doin' thefriendly, that's all; bein' a old pal. But I'm off all right--I'm off.So long!"

  He hugged his fiddle once more, and clumped down into the street. Hetapped with his stick till he struck the curb, and then crossed themuddy roadway; while Viney emerged again from the dark arch to meet him.

  "All right," said Blind George, whispering huskily. "It's business now,I think--business. You come on now. You'll 'ave to foller 'em if theycome out together. If they don't--well, you must look arter the one asdoes."