“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 his shoulder, 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 a kiss! I know you! Won’t you say good-bye?”
He waited a moment, listening intently; but Mrs. Grimes scuttled into the passage below without a word, and instantly Blind George supplemented his endearments with a burst of foul abuse, and listened again. 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 of indifference. “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 the table and groped for a chair. “Fust,” he went on, “is there anybody else as can ’ear? Eh? Cracks or crannies or peepholes, eh? ’Cause I come as a pal, 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 leaning forward 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 like listened to.”
“Go on,” she said.
“Ah. Well, fust thing, all bein’ snug, ’ere’s five bob; catch ’old.” He slid his right hand down to her wrist, and with his left pressed the money into hers. “All right, don’t be frightened of it, it won’t ’urt ye! Lord, I bet Dan ’ud do the same for me if I wanted it, though ’e is a bit rough sometimes. I ain’t rich, but I got a few bob by me; an’ if a pal ain’t to ’ave ’em, who is? Eh? Who is?”
He grinned under the white eye so ghastly a counterfeit of friendly good-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 the bloke 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, as you know very well yerself, at the inquest—both the inquests. But did I? Not me. Not a bit of it. That ain’t my way. No; I lay low, an’ said nothing. What arter that? Why, there’s fifty quid reward offered, fifty quid—a fortune to a pore bloke like me. An’ all I got to do is to go and say ‘Dan Ogle’ to earn it—them two words an’ no more. Ain’t that the truth? D’y’ hear, ain’t that the truth?”
He tugged at her wrist to extort an answer, and the woman’s face was drawn with fear. But she made a shift to say, with elaborate carelessness, “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 as comes to do y’ a good turn. You know all about it well enough; an’ you needn’t think as I don’t know too. Blind, ain’t I? Blind from a kid, but not 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 time I was in this ’ere room there was me an’ you an’ Dan an’ two men as is dead now, an’ post-mortalled, an’ inquested an’ buried, wasn’t there? Well, Dan chucked me out. I ain’t bearin’ no malice for that, mind ye—ain’t I just give ye five bob, an’ ain’t I come to do ye a turn? I was chucked out, but ye don’t s’pose I dunno what ’appened arter I was gone, do ye? Eh?”
The room was grown darker, and though the table was moved, the shadow on the floor took its old place, and took its old shape, and grew; but it was no more abhorrent than the shadowy face with its sightless white eye close before hers, and the hand that held her wrist, and by it seemed to feel 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 her hand drop. “It’s a thing I never treat myself to. There’s parties as is afraid 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 the shadow. Then she returned and stood by the chair she had been sitting in. “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 a sudden 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 I was gone; yes. Well, that there visitor was flimped clean, clean as a whistle; but fust—eh?—fust!” Blind George snapped his jaws, and made a quick blow in the air with his stick. “Eh? Eh? Ah, well, never mind! But now I’ll tell you what the job fetched. Eight ’undred an’ odd quid in a leather pocket-book, an’ a silver watch! Eh? I thought that ’ud make ye jump. 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, I can 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 stick in his left hand again, but now point forward, with a little stab toward her breast. “Eh? Eh? Like that, eh? All right—don’t be frightened. I’m a 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, clear over 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 a lot. 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 as anybody—more’n anybody ’cept Dan, p’rhaps a bit more’n what you know yourself; an’ I kep’ it quiet when I might ’a’ made my fortune out of it; 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 I know you’re a bit short, though Dan’s got plenty—got a fortune. Why should you be short, an’ Dan got a fortune? On’y ’cos you want a pal as you 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 I come 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 was still ignorant of the essential thing. So she said, “Knowin’ so much more’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 like me—not for a pal as is doin’ y’ a good turn. Besides, it ain’t you on’y; it’s ’im. ’Ow’ll ’e get on with the stuff? ’E won’t be able to change it, an’ ’e’ll be as short as you, an’ p’rhaps get smugged with it on ’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’n you. Let go my arm, go on.”
But he
gave it another pull—an angry one. “What? What?” he cried. “If Dan knowed as you was keepin’ ’is ol’ pal George from doin’ ’im a good turn, 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 stick menacingly.
But this was a little too much. He was a man, and stronger, but at any rate he was blind. She rose and struggled to twist her arm from his grasp. “If you don’t put down that stick, George,” she said, “if you don’t put it down an’ let go my arm, I’ll give it you same as Bob Kipps got it—s’elp me I will! I’ll give you the chive—I will! Don’t you make me desprit!”
He let go the wrist and laughed. “Whoa, beauty!” he cried; “don’t make a rumpus 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’n you—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—well then I’ll see.”
“Will ye tell ’im, then? ’Ere, tell ’im this. Tell ’im he mustn’t go tryin’ to sell them notes, or ’e’ll be smugged. Tell ’im I can put ’im in the way o’ gettin’ money for ’em—’ard quids, an’ plenty on ’em. Tell ’im that, will ye? Tell ’im I’m a faithful pal, an’ nobody can do it but me. I know things you don’t know about, nor ’im neither. Tell ’im tonight. Will ye tell ’im tonight?”
“‘Ow can I tell ’im tonight? 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 believe in a pal, look at that! If I make a fair deal, man to man, with them notes, 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 all that, paid square, ’ud be more’n I could make playin’ the snitch, if Dan’ll be open to reason. See? You won’t forget, eh?” He took her arm again eagerly, above the elbow. “Know what to say, don’t ye? Best for all 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’t forget!”
Blind George clumped down the black stair, and so reached the street of Blue Gate. At the door he paused, listening till he was satisfied of Musky Mag’s movements above; then he walked a few yards along the dark street, and stopped.
From a black archway across the street a man came skulking out, and over the roadway to Blind George’s side. It was Viney. “Well?” he asked eagerly. “What’s your luck?”
Blind George swore vehemently, but quietly. “Precious little,” he answered. “She dunno where ’e is. I thought at first it was kid, but it ain’t. She ain’t ’eard, an’ she dunno. I couldn’t catch hold o’ the other woman, an’ she got away an’ never spoke. You see ’er again when she came out, didn’t ye? Know ’er?”
“Not me—she kept her shawl tighter about her head than ever. An’ if she hadn’t it ain’t likely I’d know her. What now? Stand watch again? I’m sick of it.”
“So am I, but it’s for good pay, if it comes off. Five minutes might do it. You get back, an’ wait in case I tip the whistle.”
Viney crept growling back to his arch, and Blind George went and listened at Mag’s front door for a few moments more. Then he turned into the one next it, and there waited, invisible, listening still.
Five minutes went, and did not do it, and ten minutes went, and five times ten. Blue Gate lay darkling in evening, and foul shadows moved about it. From one den and another came a drawl and a yaup of drunken singing; a fog from the river dulled the lights at the Highway end, and slowly crept up the narrow way. It was near an hour since Viney and Blind George had parted, when there grew visible, coming through the mist from the Highway, the uncertain figure of a stranger: drifting dubiously from door to door, staring in at one after another, and wandering out toward the gutter to peer ahead in the gloom.
Blind George could hear, as well as another could see, that here was a stranger in doubt, seeking somebody or some house. Soon the man, middle-sized, elderly, a trifle bent, and all dusty with lime, came in turn to the door where he stood; and at once Blind George stepped full against him with an exclamation and many excuses.
“Beg pardon, guv’nor! Pore blind chap! ’Ope I didn’t ’urt ye! Was ye wantin’ anybody in this ’ouse?”
The limy man looked ahead, and reckoned the few remaining doors to the end of Blue Gate. “Well,” he said, “I fancy it’s ’ere or next door. D’ye know a woman o’ the name o’ Mag—Mag Flynn?”
“I’m your bloke, guv’nor. Know ’er? Rather. Up ’ere—I’ll show ye. Lord love ye, she’s an old friend o’ mine. Come on.… I should say you’d be in 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 a slakin’—bed, guv’nor, an’ blinded me blessed self; so I won’t forget the smell o’ lime easy. Ain’t you in the trade, now? Ain’t I right?” He stopped midway on the stairs to repeat the question. “Ain’t I right? Is it 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 the door and pushed it open. “‘Ere y’are,” he sang out. “‘Ere’s a genelman come to see ye, as I found an’ showed the way to. Lord love ye, ’e’d never ’a’ found ye if it wasn’t for me. But I’m a old pal, ain’t I? A faithful 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 his eye and putting his fiddle across his knees; “one o’ the oldest pals she’s got, or ’im either.”
The newcomer looked in a puzzled way from Blind George to the woman, and back 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 the room’s yours, we’ll go an’ talk somewheres else.”
“Get out, George, go along,” said Mag, with some asperity, but more anxiety. “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’ the friendly, 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. He tapped with his stick till he struck the curb, and then crossed the muddy 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 they come out together. If they don’t—well, you must look arter the one as does.”
Chapter 18
On the Cop
When the limy man left Blue Gate he went, first, to the Hole in the Wall, there to make to Captain Kemp some small report on the wharf by the Lea. This did not keep him long, and soon he was on his journey home to the wharf itself, by way of the crooked lanes and the Commercial Road.
He had left Blue Gate an hour and more when Musky Mag emerged from her black stairway, peering fearfully about the street ere she ventured her foot over the step. So she stood for a few seconds, and then, as one chancing a great risk, stepped boldly on the pavement, and, turning her back to the Highway, walked toward Back Lane. This was the nearer end of Blue Gate, and, the corner turne
d, she stopped short, and peeped back. Satisfied that she had no follower, she crossed Back Lane, and taking every corner, as she came to it, with a like precaution, threaded the maze of small, ill-lighted streets that lay in the angle between the great Rope Walk and Commercial Road. This wide road she crossed, and then entered the dark streets beyond, in rear of the George Tavern; and so, keeping to obscure parallel ways, sometimes emerging into the glare of the main road, more commonly slinking in its darker purlieus, but never out of touch with it, she travelled east; following in the main the later course of the limy man, who had left Blue Gate by its opposite end.
The fog, that had dulled the lights in Ratcliff Highway, met her again near Limehouse Basin; but, ere she reached the church, she was clear of it once more. Beyond, the shops grew few, and the lights fewer. For a little while decent houses lined the way: the houses of those last merchants who had no shame to live near the docks and the works that brought their money. At last, amid a cluster of taverns and shops that were all for the sea and them that lived on it, the East India Dock gates stood dim and tall, flanked by vast raking walls, so that one might suppose a Chinese city to seethe within. And away to the left, the dark road that the wall overshadowed was lined on the other side by hedge and ditch, with meadows and fields beyond, that were now no more than a vast murky gulf; so that no stranger peering over the hedge could have guessed aright if he looked on land or on water, or on mere black vacancy.
Here the woman made a last twist: turning down a side street, and coming to a moment’s stand in an archway. This done, she passed through the arch into a path before a row of ill-kept cottages; and so gained the marshy field behind the Accident Hospital, the beginning of the waste called The Cop.
Here the great blackness was before her and about her, and she stumbled and laboured on the invisible ground, groping for pits and ditches, and standing breathless again and again to listen. The way was so hard as to seem longer than it was, and in the darkness she must needs surmount obstacles that in daylight she would have turned. Often a ditch barred her way; and when, after long search, a means of crossing was found, it was commonly a plank to be traversed on hands and knees. There were stagnant pools, too, into which she walked more than once; and twice she suffered a greater shock of terror: first at a scurry of rats, and later at quick footsteps following in the sodden turf—the footsteps, after all, of nothing more terrible than a horse of inquiring disposition, out at grass.
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 218