The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  ‘Wayo, brother-in-law!’ sang out Bill Rann, who remembered the Old Bailey fiction of four years back, and thought it a capital joke.

  ‘Nice sort o’ thing, ain’t it?’ said Jerry Gullen with indignant sarcasm, jerking his thumb toward the new church. ‘The street’s clean ruined. Wot’s the good o’ livin’ ’ere now? Wy, a man mustn’t even do a click, blimy!’

  ‘An’ doncher?’ asked Josh with a grin. Hereat another grin broke wide on Jerry Gullen’s face, and he went his way with a wink and a whistle.

  ‘And so you’re back again, Josh Perrott!’ said old Beveridge, seedier than ever, with the ‘Hard Up’ fresh chalked on the changeless hat. ‘Back again! Pity you couldn’t stay there, isn’t it? Pity we can’t all stay there.’

  Josh looked after the gaunt old figure with much doubt and a vague indignation: for such a view was foreign to his understanding. And as he looked Father Sturt came out of the church, and laid his hand on Josh’s shoulder.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed the vicar, ‘home again without coming to see me! But there, you must have been coming. I hope you haven’t been knocking long? Come in now, at any rate. You’re looking wonderfully well. What a capital thing a holiday is, isn’t it—a good long one?’ Taking Josh by the arm he hauled him, grinning, sheepish and almost blushing, toward the club door. And at that moment Sam Cash came hurrying round Luck Row corner, with his finger through a string, and on that string a bunch of grouse.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Father Sturt, turning back, but without releasing Josh’s arm. ‘Here’s our dear friend, Sam Cash, taking home something for his lunch. Come, Sam, with such a fine lot of birds as that, I’m sure you’ll be proud to tell us where they came from. Eh?’

  For a moment Sam Cash was a trifle puzzled, even offended. Then there fell over his face the mask of utter inexpression which the vicar had learned to know. Said Sam Cash, stolidly: ‘I bin ’avin’ a little shootin’ with a friend.’

  ‘Dear, dear, what a charming friend! And where are his moors? Nowhere about the Bethnal Green Road, I suppose, by the goods depot? Come now, I’m sure Josh Perrott would like to know. You didn’t get any shooting in your little holiday, did you, Josh?’ Josh grinned, delighted, but Sam shuffled uneasily, with a hopeless sidelong glance as in search of a hole wherein to hide. ‘Ah, you see,’ Father Sturt said, ‘he doesn’t want his friend’s hospitality to be abused. Let me see—two, four, six—why there must be nine or ten brace, and all at one shot, too! Sam always makes his bag at one shot, you know, Josh, whatever the game is. Yes, wonderful shooting. And did you shoot the label at the same time, Sam? Come, I should like to look at that label!’

  But the wretched Sam was off at a bolt, faster than a police pursuit would have sent him, while Josh guffawed joyously. To be ‘rotted’ by Father Sturt was the true Jago terror, but to the Jagos looking on it was pure delight. Theft was a piece of the Jago nature; but at least Father Sturt could wither the pride of it by such ridicule as the Jago could understand.

  ‘There—he’s very bashful for a sportsman, isn’t he, Josh?’ the vicar proceeded. ‘But you must come and see the club at once. You shall be a member.’

  Josh spent near an hour in the new buildings. Father Sturt showed him the club, the night shelter, the church, and his own little rooms. He asked, too, much about Josh’s intentions for the future. Of course, Josh was ‘going to look for a job.’ Father Sturt knew he would say that. Every Jago had been going to look for a job ever since the vicar first came to the place. But he professed to take Josh’s word seriously, and offered to try to get him taken on as a plasterer at some of the new County Council buildings. He flattered Josh by reminding him of his command of a regular trade. Josh was a man with opportunities, and he should be above the pitiable expedients of the poor untradesmanlike about him. Indeed, he should leave the Jago altogether, with his family, and start afresh in a new place, a reputable mechanic.

  To these things Josh Perrott listened with fidgety deference, answering only ‘Yus, Father,’ when it seemed to be necessary. In the end he promised to ‘think it over,’ which meant nothing, as the parson well knew. And in the mood in which Josh came away he would gladly have risked another lagging to serve Father Sturt’s convenience; but he would rather have suffered one than take Father Sturt’s advice.

  He made the day a holiday. He had been told that he was in for a little excitement, for it was held that fitting time had arrived for another scrap with Dove Lane; but the affair was not yet moving. Snob Spicer had broken a window with a Dove-Laner’s head, it was true, but nothing had come of it, and etiquette demanded that the next card should be played by Dove Lane. For the present, the Jago was content to take thought for Josh’s ‘friendly lead.’ Such a thing was everybody’s right on return from a lagging, and this one was fixed for a night next week.

  All that day Mr Weech looked out anxiously, but Josh Perrott never passed his way.

  XXXII

  Bill Rann called for Josh early the next morning, and they strolled down Old Jago Street in close communion.

  ‘Are you on for a job?’ asked Bill. ‘’Cos I got one cut an’ dried—a topper, an’ safe as ’ouses.’

  ‘Wot sort o’ job’s this?’

  ‘Wy a bust—unless we can screw it.’

  This meant a breaking-in, with a possibility of a quieter entrance by means of keys. It was unpleasantly suggestive of Josh’s last exploit, but he answered: ‘Awright. Depends, o’ course.’

  ‘O, it’s a good un.’ Bill Rann grinned for no obvious reason, and slapped his leg to express rapturous amusement. ‘It’s a good un—you can take yer davy o’ that. I bin a thinkin’ about it for a fortnight, but it wants two. Damme, it’s nobby!’ And Bill Rann grinned again, and made two taps of a step-dance. ‘Wotjer think,’ he pursued, suddenly serious, ‘wotjer think o’ screwin’ a fence?’

  It was a novel notion, but in Josh’s mind, at first flush, it seemed unsportmanlike. ‘Wot fence?’ asked Josh.

  Bill Rann’s grin burst wide again. He bent low, with outstretched chin, and stuck his elbows out as he answered: ‘Wy, ole Weech!’

  Josh bared his teeth—but with no smile—looking sharply in the other’s upturned face. Bill Rann, bent nearly double, and with hands in pockets, flapped his arms in the manner of wings, chuckled aloud, and, jerking his feet back and forth, went elaborately through the first movement of the gallows-flap. ‘Eh? eh?’ said he. ‘’Ow’s that strike ye, ole cock?’

  Josh answered not, but his parted lips stretched wide, and his tongue-tip passed quickly over them while he thought.

  ‘It’ll be a fair cop for ’im,’ Bill pursued, eagerly. ‘’E’s treated us all pretty mean, one time or other. Wy, I bet ’e owes us fifty quid atween us, wot with all the times ’e’s squeeged us for a bit. It’ll on’y be goin’ to bring away our own stuff!’

  ‘G-r-r-r!’ Josh growled, glaring fiercely; ‘it was ’im as put me away for my laggin’! Bleed’n’ swine!’

  Bill Rann stopped, surprised. ‘Wot—’im?’ he exclaimed. ’Ole Weech narked ye? ’Owjer know that?’

  Josh told the tale of his negotiations in the matter of the Mogul’s watch, and described Weech’s terror at sight of his dash at the shop-door. ‘I’m on,’ said Josh in conclusion. ‘It’s one way o’ payin’ ’im, an’ it’ll bring a bit in. On’y ’e better not show ’isself w’ile I’m abaat! ’E wouldn’t git auf with a punch on the chin, like the bloke at ’Ighbury!’ Josh Perrott ended with a tigerish snarl and a white spot at the curl of each of his nostrils.

  ‘Blimy!’ said Bill Rann; ‘an’ so it was ’im, was it? I often wondered ’oo you meant. Well, flimpin’ ’im’s the best way. Won’t ’e sing a bleed’n’ ’ymn w’en ’e finds ’is stuff weeded!’ Bill flung back his head, and laughed again. ‘But there,—let’s lay it out.’ And the two men fell to the discussion of methods.

  Weech’s back-fence was to be
his undoing. It was the obvious plan. The front shutters were impracticable in such a place as Meakin Street; but the alleys in the rear were a perfect approach. Bill Rann had surveyed the spot attentively, and, after expert consideration, he had selected the wash-house window as the point of entrance. Old boxes and packing-wood littered the yard, and it would be easy to mount a selected box, shift the catch of the little window, and wriggle in, feet first, without noise. True, the door between the wash-house and the other rooms might be fastened, but it could be worked at under cover; and Bill Rann had a belief that there must be a good deal of ‘stuff’ in the wash-house itself. There would be nobody in the house but Weech, because the wretched old woman, who swept the floors and cooked bloaters, was sent away at night; so that every room must be unoccupied but one.

  As for tools, Josh had none, but Bill Rann undertook to provide them; and in the matter of time it was considered that that same night would be as good as any. It would be better than most, in fact, for it was Wednesday, and Bill Rann had observed that Mr Weech went to the bank in High Street, Shoreditch, pretty regularly on Thursday mornings.

  This day also Mr Weech kept a careful watch for Josh Perrott, but saw him not.

  XXXIII

  Hannah Perrott did her best to keep Josh from going out that night. She did not explain her objections, because she did not know precisely what they were, though they were in some sort prompted by his manner; and it was solely because of her constitutional inability to urge them with any persistence that she escaped forcible retort. For Josh was in a savage and self-centred mood.

  ‘Wy, wot’s up?’ asked Bill Rann, when they met, looking doubtfully in his pal’s face. ‘You ain’t bin boozin’, ’ave ye?’

  Josh repelled the question with a snarl. ‘No I ain’t,’ he said. ‘Got the tools?’ There was a thickness in his voice, with a wildness in his eye, that might well explain his partner’s doubt.

  ‘Yus. Come under the light. I couldn’t git no twirls, an’ we sha’n’t want ’em. ’Ere’s a screwdriver, an’ two gimlets, an’ a knife for the winderketch, an’ a little james, an’ a neddy—’

  ‘A neddy!’ Josh cut in, scornfully pointing his thumb at the instrument, which some call life-preserver. ‘A neddy for Weech! G-r-r-r! I might take a neddy to a man!’

  ‘That’s awright,’ Bill replied. ‘But it ’ud frighten ’im pretty well, wouldn’t it? Look ’ere. S’pose we can’t find the oof. W’y shouldn’t we wake up Mr Weech very quiet an’ respeckful, an’ ask ’im t’ ’elp us? ’E’s all alone, an’ I’m sure ’e’ll be glad to ’blige, w’en ’e sees this ’ere neddy, without waitin’ for a tap. W’y, blimy, I b’lieve ’e’d be afraid to sing out any’ow, for fear o’ bringin’ in the coppers to find all the stuff ’e’s bought on the crook! It’s all done, once we’re inside!’

  It was near midnight, and Bill Rann had observed Weech putting up his shutters at eleven. So the two Jagos walked slowly along Meakin Street, on the side opposite Weech’s, with sharp eyes for the windows.

  All was quiet; there was no visible light—none from the skylight over the shop door, none from the window above, none from the garret window above that. They passed on, crossed the road, strolled back, and listened at the door; there was no sound from within. The clock in a distant steeple struck twelve, and was joined at the fourth stroke by the loud bell of St Leonards, hard by; and ere the last mild note had sounded from the farthest clock in the awakened chorus, Josh Perrott and Bill Rann had taken the next turning, and were pushing their way to the alleys behind Weech’s.

  Foul rat-runs, these alleys, not to be traversed by a stranger. Josh and Bill plunged into one narrow archway after another, each of which might have been the private passage of a house, and came at last, stealthy and unseen, into the muddy yard.

  Weech’s back-fence was before them, and black house-backs crowded them round. There were but one or two lights in the windows, and those windows were shut and curtained. The rear of Weech’s house was black and silent as the front. They peered over the fence. The yard was pitch-dark, but faint angular tokens here and there told of heaped boxes and lumber. ‘We won’t tip ’im the whistle this time,’ whispered Bill Rann, with a smothered chuckle. ‘Over!’

  He bent his knee, and Josh straddled from it over the rickety fence with quiet care, and lowered himself gingerly on the other side. ‘Clear ’ere,’ he whispered. ‘Come on.’ Since Bill’s display of the tools Josh had scarce spoken a word. Bill wondered at his taciturnity, but respected it as a business-like quality in the circumstances.

  It was but a matter of four or five yards to the wash-house window, but they bent and felt their way. Josh took up an old lemonade-case as he went, and planted it on the ground below the window, stretching his hand for the knife as he did so. And now he took command and foremost place.

  It was an old shoemaker’s knife, with too long a handle; for there was a skew-joint in the sash, and the knife would not bend. Presently Bill Rann, below, could see that Josh was cutting away the putty from the pane, and in five minutes the pane itself was put into his hand. He stooped, and laid it noiselessly on the soft ground.

  Josh turned the catch and lifted the sash. There was some noise, but not much, as he pushed the frame up evenly, with a thumb at each side. They waited; but it was quite still, and Josh, sitting on the sill, manœuvred his legs, one at a time, through the narrow opening. Then, turning over, he let himself down, and beckoned Bill Rann to follow.

  Bill Rann had a small tin box, with an inch of candle on the inside of one end, so that when the wick was lit the contrivance made a simple but an effective lantern, the light whereof shone in front alone, and could be extinguished at a puff. Now a match was struck, and a quick view taken of the wash-house.

  There was not much about; only cracked and greasy plates, jars, tins, pots and pans, and in a corner a miscellaneous heap, plainly cheap pilferings, covered with a bit of old carpet. The air was offensive with the characteristic smell of Weech’s—the smell of stale pickles.

  ‘There ain’t nothin’ to waste time over ’ere,’ said Josh, aloud. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Shut up, you damn fool!’ exclaimed Bill Rann, in a whisper. ‘D’jer want to wake ’im?’

  ‘Umph! Why not?’ was the reply, still aloud. Bill began to feel that his pal was really drunk. But, silent once more, Josh applied himself to the door of the inner room. It was crank and old, worn and battered at the edges. Josh forced the wedge end of the jemmy through the jamb, splintering the perished wood of the frame, and, with a push, forced the striking-box of the lock off its screws. There was still a bolt at the top; that at the bottom had lost its catch—but this gave as little trouble as the lock. Bill Rann strained the door open from below, the jemmy entered readily, and in a few seconds the top bolt was in like case with the bottom.

  They entered the room behind the shop, and it was innocent and disappointing. A loo table, four horse-hair-covered chairs, a mirror, three coloured wall-texts, two china figures and a cheap walnut sideboard—that was all. The slow step of a policeman without stopped, with a push at the shop-door, to test its fastenings, and then went on; and stronger than ever was the smell of stale pickles.

  To try the shop would be mere waste of time. Weech’s pocket was the till, and there could be no other prize. A door at the side of the room, latched simply, gave on the stairs. ‘Take auf yer boots,’ Bill whispered, unlacing his own, and slinging them across his shoulder by the tied laces.

  But Josh would not, and he said so, with an oath. Bill could not understand him. Could it be drink? Bill wished him a mile away. ‘Awright,’ he whispered, ‘you set down ’ere w’ile I slip upstairs an’ take a peep. I bet the stuffs in the garret. Best on’y one goes, quiet.’

  Josh sat, and Bill, taking his lantern, crept up the stairs noiselessly, save for one creak. He gained the stair-head, listened a moment, tip-toed along the small landing, and was hal
f-way up the steep and narrow garret-stairs, when he heard a sound, and stopped. Somebody was on the lower flight.

  There was a heavy tread, with the kick of a boot against stair or skirting-board; and then came noisy steps along the landing. Josh was coming up in his boots! Bill Rann was at his wits’ end. He backed down the garret-stairs, and met Josh at the foot. ‘Are ye balmy?’ he hissed fiercely, catching Josh by the collar and pulling him into the turn of the stairs. ‘D’ye want another five stretch?’

  A loud creak and a soft thump sounded from behind the door at the other end of the landing; and then a match was struck. ‘Keep back on the stairs,’ Bill whispered. ‘’E’s ’eard you.’ Josh sat on a stair, perfectly still, with his legs drawn up out of sight from the door. Bill blew out his light. He would not venture open intimidation of Weech now, with Josh half muzzy, lest some burst of lunacy brought in the police.

  A soft treading of bare feet, the squeak of a door-handle, a light on the landing, and Aaron Weech stood at his open door in his shirt, candle in hand, his hair rumpled, his head aside, his mouth a little open, his unconscious gaze upward; listening intently. He took a slight step forward. And then Bill Rann’s heart turned over and over.

  For Josh Perrott sprang from the stair, and, his shoulders humped and his face thrust out, walked deliberately across the landing. Weech turned his head quickly; his chin fell on his chest as by jaw-break; there were but dots amid the white of his eyes; his head lay slowly back, as the candle tilted and shot its grease on the floor. The door swung wider as his shoulder struck it, and he screamed, like a rabbit that sees a stoat. Then, with a wrench, he turned, letting drop the candle, and ran shrieking to the window, flung it open, and yelled into the black street. ‘’Elp! ’Elp! P’lice! Murder! Murder! Murder! Murder!’